The term ‘collateral damage’ used to be only associated with a military operation when civilians were unintentionally killed. Now of course, it is recognized in almost every facet of our society where there are negative unintended consequences–divorces, unemployment, reductions in the work force–that severely impact other family members.
When I opened my 23and Me account in late March to delete my data, I didn’t realize those results would bring negative fallout to others I loved. I have waited a week to continue my story because I wanted to give my niece a bit more time to process what she discovered when she signed in to look at our match–not aunt and niece but listed as first cousins because my sister is not my full sister.
When I initially called my sister to report the odd DNA distribution, I was annoyed that Natica, her 50 year-old daughter, was listed incorrectly as my cousin. Of course, as soon as we got off the phone, Jean called Tika, which prompted her to check her 23and Me account.
Tika messaged me the next day. “I have never matched to my father’s side of the family and none of my paternal DNA matches seem to be connected to dad. I never thought too much about it… until now. Roy asked my mother if there were any secrets she needed to get off her chest before going to the grave (in jest really) and she said she had a few. She then precedes to say she slept with 2 men while she and my dad were separated (10 months) prior to having me. I told her pregnancy is 40 weeks which is technically 10 months. She said if you had asked her last week if there was any doubt, she would have said ‘no’. But after what you discovered….So now, I might understand the conversation I have had with my 2 first cousins a few years ago on my dad’s side where we could not figure out why we have no family connection. My dad isn’t my father either.”
I apologized for opening this emotional earthquake in her life. She may never have looked if I hadn’t hit that button.
My mother and my sister both had children that were not the child of the man they were married to, yet passed them off as his child. I feel like I should have a dramatic musical riff play in the background, but in reality there is just silence. I don’t even think there is a country song about this.
If that is an odd genetic trait or characteristic, it skipped my niece and me, thankfully.
My niece is still picking up pieces and trying to tie threads together from the information she is collecting, and the new relatives she is talking to. She requested a leave of absence from work to deal with shifting core emotional supports.
“It’s only been two days and I feel like everything has changed. My brother isn’t my brother. My mom isn’t your sister. My dad wasn’t my dad. Grandpa wasn’t your dad. Can this even be real?”
The good thing about being a mom, or the older adult, is the need is to protect the young. Airlines always say to put your oxygen mask on first before helping your children, but most parents on a flight would fasten their child’s mask first. Almost every one. I was struggling here though, because both our masks are metaphorically tangled in the overhead compartment.
“It’s going to take time to process this. And time to investigate and find whatever information we can. Neither of us know of anyone else who has gone through this in quite the same way, so at least we can be support for each other.”
I try to reassure her, though I feel her sense of loss is overwhelming.
“I’ve had so many people ask me, “Why does this matter at this point? Why don’t you just let it go, and move on.” But the answer is, it’s impossible to do that. At least for me, and it seems for you. I think you and I should not look at this so much like we have to erase the board for one side of our family–wipe off everything that was our ‘dad’. But think of it as adding a third column–Mom, Dad, and Father and we try to add more to our lives instead of focusing on the lies, secrets, and questions that are going to be unanswered. At the end of this Paula Abdul dance shuffle of ‘two steps forward and one step back’, we have to hope to end up steps ahead.”
She agrees.
Still, I caution her, “I think if either of us gets an urge to wear spandex and a crop top and head to a seedy bar, we need to tap that down and call each other for support. Like a small AA meeting, or just A’?
“Didn’t adulterers have to wear that letter on their clothes a long time ago?”
“Well they did in the Hawthorne novel. Hester Prynne had to wear a big scarlet letter on her dress, but that isn’t historically accurate. The book as a allegory…” I stop because no one, least of all my niece, wants to hear my English Literature degree diatribe, at this or probably any time.
“But,” I continue, “the point of why they wore it, and why there were so many secrets –like the ones that are impacting our lives right now– is that everyone was, and is, afraid of public judgement, and maybe shame. In the book at least, Hester eventually is known by many as a woman of quiet grace and kindness, so that one act didn’t define her.”
I am almost feeling a little bit proud of myself for coming up with what I think for a moment is positive reflection using literature. But then Tika asks, “So what letter would we wear as the child of someone who had to wear a scarlet letter?”
I imagine the “B” that used to denote a child born out of wedlock. What is it if you are born in wedlock but not to the parties involved? B to the 2nd power? A “B” now on the chest would translate to a connotation to Boston College or the Baltimore Ravens. Would it just be a scarlet shirt, maybe a fading ombre to a light blush?
I finally answer her truthfully, ” I don’t know sweets. Maybe after all this time, we get to add another letter to the alphabet. Let’s hope it’s pretty in cursive.”
