We tell stories as we remember them. It is not always the same with each retelling of the story, but the story remains consistent in its telling and meaning. The story might be told to illuminate some point, or it might present more questions than answers. Whatever the case, stories are told and passed on through the generations if the young are willing to listen. Often for the listener, stories take on a mythical power. Whatever the case, the storyteller makes his or her best attempt to tell the story as it is remembered. Age plays a role in the storyteller’s telling of the story . . . some of the rough edges are smoothed, details are forgotten, and gaps appear. But the story is told.
Sometimes the myth is better than the reality when it comes to family stories.
Growing up my mother told the story of her early childhood. My mother was born and raised in the mountains of North Carolina. Her father was Francis P. Ireland. Her mother, Frances Elizabeth Kanipe. She was the only child born in this brief marriage. As the story goes, my maternal grandfather was Native American . . . the Cherokee Tribal Nation. He was also a drunk and a womanizer. This would be a major factor in the demise of the marriage . . . especially the womanizing, as my grandmother left the marriage and divorced my grandfather. This took place while my mother was still a young child. She was left with my great-grandmother to be raised on the family farm with several of her uncles. My grandmother moved north to begin a new life promising to reunite with my mother once she got settled.
It never happened.
My great-grandmother and her sons raised my mother. In the meantime, my grandmother remarried. Her second husband was Elmer Francis Deibler . . . a gentle and quiet man. While my mother was growing up in North Carolina, my grandmother started a new family. Into this family were born three children: Alton or Uncle Buddy as I knew him; Aunt Janet; and, Kenneth, or Kenny. I did not call Kenny “uncle” because we were too close in age. We were born two years and four days apart. He was more like an older brother than an “uncle”. The point is that my grandmother never reunited with my mother as a “traditional” family when the opportunity was there. I am not sure my mother ever said why . . . I know my grandmother never did.
The part in the story that was often emphasized was that my maternal grandfather was Native American . . . Cherokee. It seems ol’ Francis P. Ireland was fifty percent Cherokee. At least that is what we were told. According to my mathematics that would have made my mother a quarter Native American. It would have made my siblings and I . . . well, 12.5 percent Native American. Now I may be off in my math, but I never said I was great at math. Whatever the case, the point is that there was Native American blood in the family.
At least that is how the story goes.
Now genealogy is a funny rabbit hole to go exploring. My mother’s maiden name was “Ireland”. What is more “Irish” than “Ireland”? Because of this I never wore green on Saint Patrick’s Day because I assumed that I was Irish . . . after all, my mother’s maiden name was “Ireland”. A few years ago, jumping down the genealogy rabbit hole, I learned that “Ireland” is not Irish at all. Nope . . . it is Scottish! Ever since, I wear green on Saint Patrick’s Day. I don’t like getting pinched. The Scots and Irish are close, but they are different. But really, whose idea was it to have “Ireland” as a surname and it have nothing to do with the “Irish”? That was a tough one to swallow as I loved to brag about my “Irish” roots. Come on! My mother’s maiden name was “Ireland” . . .
On well . . . back to the story of my Native American roots.
Jumping down the rabbit hole I did some exploring and digging about Francis P. Ireland. What did I discover? Not much. Ran into a lot of dead ends. Bits and pieces were found, but nothing substantial that could enhance the story . . . to put some meat on the family skeleton. There was the confirmation of my mother’s birth with her birth record between my grandmother and grandfather. Beyond that, there was not a whole bunch to go on.
I attempted to look at tribal records, but that led nowhere . . . just deeper down the rabbit hole. I asked questions of family members of my great uncles who helped raise my mother on the family farm. Once again, not much information there beyond a diagram of the family tree confirming what I already knew. No real evidence could be found about any Native American blood or connection.
Like many who jump down the genealogy rabbit hole, life comes along and pulls us in other directions. I gave up the chase for information and decided to just embrace the story and myth . . . but, at the same time preface the information as being a “story” that is still being explored for its factuality.
About a year ago, my sister gave me one of those DNA test kits to find out what my real roots are. It was a wonderful, but anxiety inducing gift. I followed the instructions meticulously . . . I spit in the little tube, sealed it, packed it up in the postage box, and shipped it off to be analyzed. Then I waited . . . waited a long time for the results.
Then one day the results came in. The truth of who I am genetically was about to be revealed once and for all. I couldn’t wait! This was the big moment. The truth! This is what I learned about my DNA:
England and Northwester Europe—48%
Scotland—31%
Wales—11%
Sweden and Denmark—5%
Germanic Europe—4%
Mali—1%
Amazing what one can learn from a little spit. I am a smorgasbord of ethnicity pretty much centered in the land of Great Britain—90 percent! There is a little Nordic thrown in there, some German (which I knew and expected more as “Keener” is German), and one percent Mali. That one has piqued my interest as Mali is on the continent of Africa. It probably shouldn’t as Africa is called the Cradle of Humankind and all of us probably have some percentage within us.
Though it was great to see what my genetic make-up was . . . I was crushed. There was not one ounce of Native American blood in me. Not one drop. Shot the family story right out of the water! Crushed the myth.
Though disappointed . . . it is okay. Like my “Irish” roots, I now know my “Native American” roots. They are non-existent. I am not a Cherokee “princess” or in my case, “prince”. For some reason, within the United States, family stories of indigenous ancestry seem to refer to a Cherokee princess. You’ve heard the phrase, “My great-great-great-grandmother was a Cherokee princess.” Sometimes it is true, but more often than not it is more fiction than fact. Most of the stories are myth. Mine was.
As I said, that is okay. It was a good story as it was told. Yet, at the same time, it ripped open a whole new story line about the family. Both my sister and I are curious as to why this story was perpetuated by the family. What was the reason for this version of what happened. What really happened. Inquiring minds—my mind—wants to know. I have my ideas based on what I perceive of the times when the story began. It involves scapegoats, prejudice, and bias . . .
It is a story that my sister and I continue to slowly pursue. It is a story we may never know. It might not be as good as the one we originally heard . . . it might be better. All we know . . . all I know . . . is that the reality of the story blew the myth out of the water. As they used to say on the X Files, “The truth is out there.” I want to know.
So, I dig deeper down the rabbit hole. This is all new to me. I am thankful to those relatives who have shared their discoveries about the family with me. I am thankful for them giving me directions in which to learn more. I am discovering some remarkable stories about the family of which I was born as I climb higher and higher up the family tree. The stories are wonderful, and sometimes mythic in their telling. But they are told as they are known at this time and place . . . as they are remembered . . . as they are shared.
At least with me, my parents did not tell a lot of stories about family . . . or at least I did not ask. But as I have entered into the realm of grandparenting I long for the stories about family that I can share with my children and grandchildren. I want them to know their roots . . . both real and mythic . . . to know the truth. As the adventure begins, there is much to learn.
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