So…Who Are You Really?

I’ve recently been taking a trip backwards through time; I’ve been researching my family history. It’s weird what you know about your family, what you think you know and what you’re totally wrong about….like my family.

I thought my mom’s family was German.  That’s what I’ve been told for as long as I can remember, and I never thought to question it.  Her maiden name wasn’t particularly Germanic, but lots of names got changed at Ellis Island.  Since her people arrived in the mid 1880s*, I was sure it was the invention of some clerk.  Only it wasn’t.

I called the kids’ Oma last week, she moved here in her 20s from Germany, and announced “Know how I thought I was German?  I’m not.”  I said relishing my discovery.

“Of course not,” she answered, “you’re French.”  My mouth fell open in shock.  How had she known what I only just discovered?  She told me, “You look French.  In fact, you’re Norman French.”

Seriously.  Why had I done research at all?  What took me work she had known instantly.

“What makes you say I’m Norman?” the Norman me asked.

“You act like a Norman.  You talk to everyone.  You’ll say the sky is orange just to be able to debate it.  Your temper and passions flare hot only to quickly disappear and you’re ready to go break bread with people and have a glass of wine with no hard feelings.  You’re so French Norman.”

I just started laughing at this apt description of my personality.  My whole personality was in my genes?

“Now the Computer Guy,” she continued “is more German than I am.  He’s frugal to a fault, stern and serious at work, and has a hard time relaxing from his responsibilities.  He has fun when it’s scheduled, but it’s hard for him to lighten up unless the calendar says so….and don’t try and throw away anything which might some day be useful.  He’s German.”  But that was an easy one….of course he’s German.  We knew that.

So I decided to test her.  What about our friend E?  She knows her; we know her.  She was raised by distant relatives and can be a bit difficult and prickly.  What about her?  Who was she? (I knew, because it was her own history quest which spurred my own.)  “She’s Welsh.” Oma stated without a second thought. “Have you ever known anyone to carry a grudge like E?  That’s a Welshman for you.  They hang onto hurt feelings and grudges like they were family heirlooms.”  Of course she was right.

I grew fascinated by this conversation and began to quiz her about the people we know in common.  She pegged the nation of origin of each and every one.  She didn’t need to ask, she knew them and had seen them and reeled off “Hessian. Italian, but Northern Italy.  Greek.”  Without batting an eye.

“The only one who confuses me is L.” She said. “She’s German/French but if I hadn’t seen her, I’d swear she was Russian.  Nobody can complain like a Russian woman.  It’s like the Olympics of complaining to see two Russian women together, and three of them? Forget it.  Anyone but another Russian would slit their wrists after listening to that mess.”

As Americans, we are raised on the ideal of individual determination.  People are unique and their personalities distinct.  The rest of the world doesn’t think that way, it seems.  National identity, to them, is more than home…..it is the key to understanding not just where they come from but who they actually are and why they react to life the way they do.  Part of it is our uniqueness, but part of it truly is breeding.  It’s a strange thought for this American girl…the idea that my friendly nature is part me, and part the people who have come before me…that my husband’s calm reserve is not just training, but also what made his folks successful survivors in Germany.  I think that’s part of what makes being American exciting.  It’s as if God took all the temperaments in the world, put them in one place, and then shook them up to see what would happen.  The result?  A delightful mess of all kinds of voices learning to sing in harmony with each other.  Pretty cool.

*While my Grandma’s kin got here just over 100 years ago, my Grandpa’s folks were among the original settlers of Jamestown.  Yup, we were here before the Pilgrims landed in Plymouth.  Which makes my still being so easily identifiable as French even more interesting to me.   After 330 years here?  We’re American, but it’s really cool now to know the how and the why of it all.