Topic 7: On Choosing One's Ancestors

Carol:

Meet the Family

Some names sound like they were concocted for “bodice ripper” romance novels: Indiana Czarina Malone, her mother Czarina Catarina Wilson, and her grandmother Kittie Fox Malone. Other names are deeply rooted in the Bibles tucked into steamer trunks carried on passenger ships and covered wagons: Daniel Sheldon and his children Jacob, Ruth, Esther, Seth, Mary, and Tryphena (“A woman who labours in the Lord” Romans 6:12). Other names link generations of fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, bring confusion to the genealogists: Edward Solomon Scott, his grandfather Solomon Aldrich whose uncle, grandfather and great-grandfather born in 1730 were all named Solomon Aldrich. These are the ancestors I didn’t choose who have been occupying my days the last several months, the everyday people who don’t show up in history books. Now I did have some famous ancestors, or so I thought.

General Winfield Scott, well I was sure he was a great uncle of my father Ed Scott. And although I couldn’t remember what he did in which war—look up “War with Mexico”—I retained one fact. He got so fat he couldn’t ride a horse anymore before he retired from his stellar military career in the 1800’s. And since we were related to General Winfield Scott, we had to be related to Major Winfield Scott (1837-1910), the founder of Scottsdale, Arizona. How many Winfield Scotts can there be? Turns out they weren’t related to each other, and they weren’t related to me.

Jonathan Edwards (1703-1758) was another famous ”relative.” When we first studied “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God” in high school English, I turned to one of my classmates and whispered, “He was one of my grandmother Edwards’ ancestors, and I’ll bet he wouldn’t like how we turned out.” But of Timothy Edwards’ 12 children, Jonathan was the only male. The closest name and date in my family tree is John Edwards (1698-17840, who was followed by 7 more John Edwards in the 18th century.

John Muir? Not sure how I got that one into my head. We don’t have any family named Muir, but I became fascinated with him during 5th grade when we were studying the history of the national parks. What caught my attention had nothing to do with the wilderness or Yosemite but with his incredible imagination for inventing unusual machines, a mechanized book holder and a clock that would grab the sleeper and pull him out of bed. When I shared my research with my mother, I was sure she said, “Oh, John Muir was one of our relatives.” And it did make sense to my 10 year old mind because my grandpa Fike was an inventor too of sorts. We have a photo of the boat he designed and built in the late 1920’s, which my mother later told me could only go backwards.

I have had to let go of my made-up memories of these famous non-ancestors. Frankly, the only one I miss is John Muir. He looks pretty dour in his photos, but when I took an environmental ethics class several years ago, I was deeply moved by his writings about nature,his spiritual connection to the wilderness, a complete juxtaposition from the mechanical inventions of his youth:

“Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.” (source: Our National Parks , 1901, page 56 quoted on the Sierra Club website)

Now, there’s the man I’d chose to be my ancestor

(http://web.pacific.edu/x30277.xml)

Megan:

I think every little girl goes through a phase where she imagines herself to be a secretly adopted princess, and that the parents who raised her are not her own. I did not have much of a chance to engage in this fantasy, as I only ever needed to look in the mirror to establish my parentage – at least on my mother’s side. When I was a child, and I would go somewhere with my mother, people would ask if I was her daughter. She’d lean down and grab my chin and hold my face next to hers and say, “Isn’t it obvious?”

I hated that.

When I was older, in high school and college, friends and students of hers would stop me on the street and say, “Are you Carol’s daughter?” I hated that too – not because I have anything against my mother, but because I really wanted to be independent. I cut off my hair and dyed it green, purple, orange, blue … I was in the teenage-angst phase where I wanted to be an artist, and that meant I should look weird and troubled. No one in my family understood me – I assumed – because I didn’t understand myself.

If I could have chosen my ancestors then, I would have looked for writers and artists to explain my creative impulses. My heroes at the time were Anais Nin, Hemingway and Kurt Vonnegut. As I learned more about their personal lives, Vonnegut was the only one from whom I’d have be proud to be descended. It wasn’t until I was older that I recognized that my family is already full of writers and artists – my uncles are published authors and established cartoonists and painters. My brother is an amazing musician and writer. My mother … well, you’ve seen what she can do.

I’m sure that everyone, at some point in their life, given the opportunity, would choose different ancestors than the ones they have, to suit a mood or to reflect a version of their imagined selves. But that would also mean living a different life, and choosing a different self.