Down the Rabbit Hole, Part One

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.

 

Changes with the Teller

“The story of my family. . .changes with the teller.”

(Jennifer Haigh)

One of the things that I appreciate about American Indian storytellers is that they preface their stories with a statement: “This is the truth as I know it at this time.”  I think that this is a statement all of us should make when making a statement when it comes to telling stories . . . especially when it comes to family.  There are lots of versions of my family’s story . . . primarily because each of involved in the story see and understand it from our own perspective.  Rarely have any of us agreed on the so-called “official” version . . . and, we probably never will.

In graduate school I had the opportunity, unbeknownst to the class at the time, to take part in an experiment about observation.  A person came into the classroom prior to the professor’s entrance, created a scene that involved the professor threatening to call the campus police, and then left.  Those of us in the class were shocked at what we were witnessing.  Then the professor turned to the class and asked, “What just happened?”  Of course, in the retelling of the experience, each class member had different observations about what had happened . . . some were close to each other, others were quite different . . . but, somewhere in all of those stories was the truth.  It depends upon who is telling the story.

So, it goes with family stories.

Over the years, whenever my family has gathered and told “family” stories, I have been aghast at how wrong those stories have been . . . especially when I am not the one telling the story.  In the past, I found it my role to correct the stories . . . to get the facts straight . . . to make it right.  The result?  Most often it ended up with someone being offended because he or she was embarrassed because he or she was corrected.  Feelings were hurt.  I was called a pompous ass . . .

. . . and, I was.  The fact is, we can only tell a story from our own experiences . . . from our own place within the story . . . and, rarely are those places the same for each individual.  Thus, the story is different when seen through different eyes.  What I saw, experienced, and know is my personal view of that situation in that time and place.  Same goes for everyone else.  To expect anything else is wrong.  My goodness, look at how many books are written about history . . . here in Montana, there are thousands of books written about the Battle of Little Big Horn . . . which is the official story?

The official story is the one that is shared because it is the “truth as I know it” at this time and place in the journey.  It may not be the same as someone else’s story, but it is as relevant, truthful, and meaningful as the story I told . . . at least to that person because that is how he or she understands that part of his or her life.  Who am I to poop on that person’s experience?

“The story of my family . . . changes with the teller,” writes Jennifer Haigh.  And, she is right.  I can only speak for myself whenever I tell a story.  I cannot speak for my brothers or sister . . . for my wife or children . . . for my friends . . . or anyone else.  I can only ask that they accept my story as I understand it, as I must accept their understanding of the story as they tell it.  Combined the stories create a whole . . . actually, more than a whole.  Together it creates an understanding of who we are in the bigger picture of family . . . and, of life.  It helps us to understand.  To see my experience through the eyes of someone else opens me to more of myself and helps me to understand how others see me.  I cannot do that if I insist that mine is the only story.

So, this is the truth as I know it right now . . . in this time and place.  With age I have come to appreciate those times when family and friends gather, tell stories, laugh and cry . . . I have come to understand myself better . . . I have come to understand them better.  And, besides, sometimes their stories are better than mine.  Within them all is the truth . . . you just have to listen.

Facebook Envy

 

It has been said that “the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence” . . . or at least most of us think it is.  Erma Bombeck said that the reason the grass is green on the other side of the fence is because the yard is over the septic tank.  A recent study by researchers at Utah Valley University state that this is especially true when it comes to looking over all of the friends posts on Facebook—the grass might look greener, but the reality is often quite different.

The unwritten rule of Facebook (and probably just about any other social networking site) is that people don’t post pictures about the parts of their lives that suck.  No, they post only the best pictures and activities of their lives . . . they sell an impression—a positive one at that.  Facebook is about impressions and managing other people’s impressions—at least that is what the study concluded.  Other research has shown that Facebook users carefully cultivate impressions about themselves that highlight positive attributes and associations, while downplaying or excluding undesirable traits (ah, yes, the American pastime of denial).  What you see is not always what you get:

No big deal . . . right?  Everyone does it.  No blood, no foul . . . or so we thought.  The researchers from Utah Valley University were curious as to how these exaggerated and awesome profiles might impact the self-perceptions of regular Facebook users.  To find out they had 425 undergraduates complete a survey about their use of the social network site and their outlook on life.  The results?  Grass envy . . . the grass looked greener on the other side of the Facebook post than the side they were sitting on.  This led these individuals to believe that their friends lived happier and more exciting lives than they did, and that life itself was unfair.  Then to make matters worse . . . those with the greater number of “friends” had even a greater sense of those feelings.  It didn’t matter if these were close and personal acquaintances or someone you talked to once in fifth grade . . . the more “friends” the greater the sense of “boy does my life suck!”  The researchers stated that the tipping point was around 354 so-called “friends”.

Impressions are important, especially first impressions.  All of us have had that pounded into our heads since we were little kids.  But, my parents taught me that you can’t believe everything that you see . . . first impressions are not always the reality . . . especially in this day and age of Photo Shop.   You’ve got to take them with a grain of salt.  Thus it is that I don’t believe every post and picture I see on Facebook, especially when I know the poster personally.  So far, I have avoided getting a case of Facebook envy.

I primarily use Facebook as a portal to share information—not information about myself, but of things I am interested in and a part of.  I administer three Facebook pages besides my personal page.  One is for the church I serve as a pastor on which I place daily devotions, post calendar events, and the weekly e-newsletter.  Another is for the partnership of the United Church of Christ and the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) in Montana as a place for discussion about the partnership we have entered into.  It is filled with information, devotions, and occasional questions for discussion.  And, the last is on for the regional service area that I work for at the university . . . it has articles and information about upcoming workshops for educators.  On my personal page I post my photographs, links to my blog, and cartoons that make me laugh.  On none of the pages do I glorify my personal life . . . mainly because it is pretty ho-hum most of the time . . . pretty mundane.  If anything I have ever posted (outside of living in the great state of Montana) has created envy in you to the point that you think that life is unfair, well, I apologize.  It wasn’t my intention to create Facebook envy in others.

I have also avoided getting Facebook envy thanks to the fact that I don’t even know close to 354 people to invite to be “friends” on my Facebook page.  At last count, I have exactly 95 friends and probably more of half them haven’t spoken to me since asking me to “friend” them.  But I guess it is nice of them to care enough to keep up with whatever is happening in my life.  That is another reason I use Facebook . . . to keep up with others.  Primarily it is to keep up with my family and a couple of close friends.  Everyone else is just icing on the cake, I guess.  But I am a long, long way from being on the nexus of Facebook envy with 354 friends.  Heck, that would be over half of the town I live in.  I know for a fact that the majority of people in town don’t even know I exist!

The researchers did offer a couple of “tips” to avoid getting Facebook envy.  First, they recommended that you stay at or below an average of five hours a week on Facebook.  It seems the longer you stay on Facebook the more apt you are to believe everything that you read.  Second, they recommended that you restrict your group of “friends” to only include those people who are real friends and family . . . no one should have every Tom, Dick, or Harry off the street on their list of friends.  If you want to keep up with the world that is what Twitter is for, and in only 140 characters.

Facebook is a wonderful tool when used correctly . . . but, on the other hand, when it is used to mislead and misrepresent, it becomes something else.  It is tool for facilitating civic and political participation, networking for personal improvement with others of a like-mind, and sharing information.  It also has some great jokes, pictures, and posts that can make us think and laugh.  Don’t get caught up in the myth-making that can happen when everyone is attempting to put out only the best impressions.  The truth is usually a whole lot different than what any of us perceive.  In the meantime, if you want to friend me on Facebook . . .