DNA

 

What’s in my blood is 

not what’s in my heart

 

           My DNA results say that I am 95% British and most likely completely descended from the very earliest settlers of Massachusetts, Maine, North Carolina and Virginia, from both sides of my family, mother and father.

            Most likely these ancestors of mine were escaping something difficult for them, not knowing at all what they were going to become here in this land, now called the United States of America.  Several even came over on the very Mayflower of Thanksgiving fame. I always wanted to believe that they were brave.  But, perhaps it is true.  They were selfish.  They left oppression to worship freely, to spread the gospel unfettered by rules set forth by the queen, the king.  They were not perfect.  They wanted to do the right thing before God as they conceived God.  They didn’t have everything figured out.

            My ancestors have taken land from Native peoples. Some tried to work with them. Some were successful some were not. They were afraid and unsure of their ways.  Some of them tried to save the natives from their “savageness” when they believed the world was about to end. They feared them and fought them for land… to survive. Some tried to escape their anger.  Some did not survive. Most times there was no mercy for the white men.  Certainly they did not understand what they were doing.

            My ancestors profited from trading with the natives and unknowingly stripped the land of its animal inhabitants. The fur was so valuable to them, more valuable than money.  It’s how they developed businesses and trade here in the new land.

            They took down trees and built homes on land they were deeded by their homeland far away.  They took these opportunities to better their own lives. With them, they brought guns, alcohol and diseases, that wiped out entire nations of native people.  They did not know what they were doing and their understanding was limited.

            My ancestors enslaved human beings to work the land for their own benefit. They fought for their own well being above others, with their own unclear thinking about race and about religion.  Some were Confederate soldiers, or their wives or mothers.  They were white, educated and privileged.  Later, they hired black men to work in their fields and black women to help in their homes. My mother always said they loved the  “help” like family.  It was accepted even though it was wrong.

            I don’t know for sure what my ancestors really believed. I wish I had heard in their own words what they had to say surrounding all of these issues. But, alas, all I hear are whispers from the grave.

            What’s in my blood is not what’s in my heart. It’s such a paradox of ideas.  What’s in my heart comes from my family as well as from my own experiences growing up.  It comes from how my parents lived within our community.  I must confess that I lived a sheltered, white privileged suburban childhood. I was not afraid and I never thought twice about forming new relationships. 

            My parents encouraged me to engage in friendships with people who were different from us. I loved and grew and learned about differences and similarities from the loving relationships that were formed during. I learned acceptance and I learned love from all of these encounters. But I never felt the sting of being on the other side.  I was the one that received the good.

            When I went to college and decided to major in Spanish.  My parents supported my desire to travel and experience the world from Mexico to Europe, and primarily Spain.  During those travels, they provided me with the resources so that I could explore and experience immersion in different culture and language without judgment or jealousy.  I developed a wonderfully loving relationship with a family that nurtured me and loved me as their own daughter.  These relationships continue and are alive today.

            When I became a teacher, I had students of many different faiths, skin colors, languages and socio-economic status.  I thought and claimed that I wasn’t there to “save” them, I was there to “help” them and their families survive in an English speaking country that was sometimes hostile to their being here. But what was the difference? I would never truly be in their shoes.  In trying to help them, did I subconsciously put myself above them in some way? 

             I cannot recall even one truly difficult relationship working with families of all types throughout my teaching career.  I reveled in the days we celebrated Dr. Martin Luther King’s birthday and we recalled his “I have a dream” speech.  In front of me was a school assembly full of multicultural children, sitting side by side, learning and playing together. Working in a very mixed school culturally was enlightening and rewarding.  It certainly shaped my feelings about differences we have, as well as all of the wonderful similarities we experience and share together.

            As I write this, again, I am distraught with myself. I find that I am continuing to justify my position.  My bloodline is responsible, but not me. I’m making excuses and saying that I am not responsible for any of the hatred that exists between races, between people.  My bloodline is responsible, but not me.  But oh! I am.  I am responsible because my blood is in me.  It is the living part of me that keeps me alive.  I don’t know what to do with all of the muddled feelings that I have. I want to love everyone.  I want to love like Jesus, but this love I am not able to manifest of my own volition.  When Jesus’ blood was shed, it was shed for me too, whatever history brings to the table.

            I do know that I don’t know.  I will never completely understand the “others”.  I will never be on the other side…can never be.  Maybe we, as “whites” and “privileged”, deserve to be uncomfortable with this.  I pray that we never allow hate to continue and turn itself around.  I do not want to be a white supremacist. I do not want to be a racist.  In spite of the potential for hate, I still strive to be an ally, a friend, and a supporter. 

            I will always be the privileged “white girl” from the suburbs and I cannot change that.  My forefathers and mothers were Puritans and Colonists who came across the sea to start a new life.  With their own problems and ways of thinking our great country was built…in spite of their shortcomings. We cannot change history. All I have is a glimmer of what my family thought, but that doesn’t really matter now. The damage has been done.

            Today I am waving my own personal flag of surrender.  I know I can never make amends for my people.  At the same time, I cannot bear the weight of all of this on my own weak shoulders.  I cannot make progress nor move into the future and work towards change while looking back and living in the past.

            I am truly sorry…sorry that this is such a difficult time between races and religions, men and women.  I am sorry that I don’t understand differences that relate to sexuality, gender and gender identity.  I am sorry that we fight one another on a daily basis regarding these issues even still.  I am sorry for what I’ve said unknowingly that has hurtful. I am sorry I don’t and never will completely understand. I reach out with open hands and an open heart to work for a better way to do life together. Will you work with me? Will you allow me to enter into a tentative place of understanding? Can we find a place of love and respect for one another? Will you help me be the ally, supporter, a friend?  I offer myself to the world and know, without a doubt that I will fall short in spite of my desires.

            I ask for forgiveness, forgiveness for the unimaginable.

            “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do…” –Luke 23:34