Monday, February 17, 2014

Farewell Rihanna

Believe it or not, my mother's maternal family were early English settlers on the tropical island of Barbados. In fact, a genealogy search conducted by an uncle indicates that our ancestors were residents of Barbados for approximately 10 generations. They did not arrive in the US until the early 20th century. That makes me, for all intent and purposes, an island girl. Which explains more about me then you could ever imagine...I love blue water, white sand, and palm trees more than most, I would suppose. In fact my "happy place" is a small hut right on the beach of a secluded island surrounded by blue water. (That vision helped me survive more than one horrible dental appointment) But I also envisioned myself with a few drops of DNA from the local African population. I always used that idea to explain the things about me that were less Caucasian and more exotic. In fact, I so romanticized the concept of an African heritage that I was certain that I must be related to Rihanna, Barbados' legendary and fabulous songstress. So deep was my belief in my African heritage that I set out to prove the truth once and for all. This past Christmas, one of the gifts that I gave each of my children was a DNA test kit from a California company called 23andme. They were, for a bit, advertising like crazy and I thought this would be an interesting gift idea for my kids. After all, it might help them understand the things about themselves that were less Caucasian and more exotic. And because my children have two different birth fathers, any genetic component that they shared would surely have been contributed by me, their mother. On Christmas Day, the kits were opened and each of them dutifully contributed their own spit and mouth swabs to the self-addressed return boxes. All we had to do at that point, was wait a few weeks, and it would all be made clear. I would be officially related to Rihanna and each of my children would find their places on the Barbadian Olympic bobsled team! So exciting would the story be that Ron Howard, the Hollywood movie director formerly known as Opie, would surely turn it into an academy aware winning film. My former soccer mom life was about to turn into the greatest .Pygmalion stories of all time. Move over, My Fair Lady - Rihanna's cousin is about to take the stage - NOT! After about 6 long weeks, the results were posted to their 23andme.com accounts. I was completely deflated - not one single drop of Sub-Saharan DNA. Not even a drip; nada, zip, nothing! I am as Caucasian as one white woman could possibly be. My hopes for a Rihanna family reunion are squashed and my children's chances for Olympic greatness is not to be. In fact, I don't even know who I am anymore and I am not sure how any of this is even possible. If many of the African-American people in this country can trace their ancestry to plantation owners, how the heck is it possible that, after 10 generations, not one of my ancestors found the time to mix and mingle with a local Barbadian? Really? I am crushed! Farewell Rihanna - it was a lovely family reunion while it lasted; however, I'm still hoping that our ancestors might have known each other in some way. There is at least that remaining possibility. And as far as my exotic qualities are concerned, now I'm pretty sure that they were just a figment of my wild imagination.

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