What do a tube of spit, a tree, and the U.S. flag have in common?

July 2024

Photo by Stephanie McCabe on Unsplash

With the start of the presidential debates, last week’s Fourth of July celebrations, and the November elections looming around the corner, it’s hard not to ponder over the current state of our nation or be apprehensive about its future. Perhaps to assuage my rising anxiety about something I have very little control over, my mind wanders to contemplate who I am as an American. (Though I’m partial to the term estadounidense, United Statesian, I’ll stick to the popular yet ambiguous term “American” as it is used in the U.S.)

A year after my mother died, and a few weeks after my mother-in-law was unexpectedly diagnosed with stage 4 metastatic pancreatic cancer, I spit into a clear vial to send off for genetic testing. At 48 years old, I didn’t need a father anymore, but I did want to know of any hereditary health predispositions I could be proactive about.

Wait and see had never seemed to me a great plan of action, but when the results came back devoid of anything actionable, my immediate plan was to keep all my organs, continue my routine check-ups, eat a healthy diet, and exercise regularly. That is, change nothing and wait and see. 

Things took a turn when my close friend Leigh heard I’d become a member of one of the largest personal genomics networks. She was eager to sort through my DNA matches and do some sleuthing to construct my family tree. “I’m going to find your Dad,” she told me. “What if you have half-siblings? Your boys could have cousins. Another grandma or grandpa, even.” My ambivalence morphed into a familiar yearning from an old wound. It gnawed at me in the same way, but this time, I desired familial connection for my kids.

By the time I was born, my mother had already left her family in England and renounced her British citizenship. She held a French passport and a Green Card, was fond of the United States, and had no intention of living anywhere else other than Hawaii and Spain. Aside from a handful of short visits from relatives, it was always just me, my mom, and my two brothers (technically, they are half-brothers). My family tree was very small, unnaturally lopsided, and one of my most dreaded assignments in elementary school. “Yes, I’m finished. I don’t know anyone else,” I’d say, looking at my shoes, referring to all the spaces I’d left blank. And no, I didn’t want to invent family members to add to my tree. My teachers were well-intentioned, but presentations like these only accentuated my deficiencies and brought me shame.

Photo by gudaba on Adobe Stock

Unsurprisingly, my mom was no more able to teach me pieces of Americana than she was able to notice that I was “less American” than my peers. As a kid, the most “American” thing about me may have been my small, blue, U.S. passport. Ironic really, since most of my friends didn’t even have a passport, and why would they unless they were going to leave the country? But I don’t remember ever not having a passport, and it was the one concrete connection I had to the United States. 

Moving between Hawaii and Spain and growing up on either side of the continental U.S., I felt a sense of belonging to both, though I knew I didn’t fully belong in either. In Spain, I was American and in the U.S. I wasn’t American enough. Too frequently, well-known idioms went over my head, as did many references to pop culture, or to significant U.S. historical events. The running joke was that I “must’ve been in Spain” and was “first generation.” As if to say my ignorance or differences weren’t really my fault. 

“Your Dad is alive! I just had an hour-long conversation with your cousin. She’s a sweet southern lady, who said she’d reach out to your aunt——your Dad’s sister!” Leigh had surfaced from one of her rabbit holes to tell me the news. She’d been hard at work with my family tree, which was now massive and multigenerational, boasting 1,500 DNA relatives on my father’s side. I tinkered with the sort function, selecting lists by “shared DNA segments” and “strength of relationship.” My favorite was a map view, which displayed my relatives as little red dots, all across the continent, with large conglomerates in Arkansas and Texas. 

Did my newfound ancestral history in the U.S. make me more American? As far as my DNA is concerned, some might say it does. 

But based on my upbringing, probably not. How could DNA relatives I don’t know at all——whether in list, map, or a freakishly lopsided tree form——make me any more or less American? 

As I think about all the ways we can define what it means to be an American (or even estadounidense), I don’t feel the need to be any more American. It’s ok that I’ll never have mayo in my fridge, never watch the Wizard of Oz, and will continue to miss cultural references. None of that, nor any of my many other differences, makes me less American. 

But it does remind me that on both an individual and a national level, when we highlight differences and deficiencies, we lose the opportunity to connect, unify, and grow stronger together.

Amidst the current noise of divisive political parties and polarizing views on a variety of social issues, I long for an America that can truly celebrate our differences, care for our most vulnerable, let its people live safely and love freely, find solutions to national problems, and be a place of inspiration and opportunity for all. Last week we united to celebrate our nation, painted the skies with vibrant colors, filled the air with incessant celebratory bangs, and rejoiced together. Even with its problems, we love America. I remain hopeful that through our shared ideals of democracy, freedom, liberty, equality, justice, and opportunity we can bridge the divides, find unity, and work together for the greater good of all. As much as we love our independence, we need to nurture our interdependence. In the meantime, I’ll do my best to go forth with compassion, an open mind, and a helping hand——to be the best American and fellow human I can be. ❤️❤️

Photo by Steve Leisher on Unsplash

Photo by Claudio Schwarz on Unsplash

What are some of the ways you cultivate connection or foster interdependence?

I’d love to hear your thoughts! Until then, I wish you moments of great clarity so that you may see past the daily clutter, quiet the noise, and savor what truly matters to you. Thank you for reading!

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July's little joy

This month I’ve been thinking about Kintsugi, the ancient Japanese art of repairing broken ceramics and the philosophy behind it that accepts the transience and fragility of life and embraces imperfection. Rather than trying to conceal the damage, all three methods of repair honor the cracks, accentuating its history and beauty. In the makienaoshi method, gold lacquer is used to replace what’s missing, while in yobitsugi repair, additional pieces from other pottery are used, breathing new life into the vessel.

Photo credit: sketchplanations

Kintsugi is a gentle reminder that, with time, we can fix our own brokenness, piece by piece, and reconstruct ourselves into beautiful imperfection. Our fragility and strength, history, resilience, and especially our sparkling scars, make each of us beautifully unique and whole.

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Response from June’s Newsletter Question

What are the actions or simple joys that help you find purpose or meaning in life?

“I sometimes feel that I have given 100% to my children that I have lost a bit of myself. To think of the next phase in life fills me with hope as I strive for ikigai” —Liz

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Coming Soon! I'm adding a new section on my Substack page that will feature a photo and an accompanying 300 word (or less!) memoir morsel.

ICYMI

Newsletters: June: Seasons of life, May: What's on the other side of fear?

Joy snacking: Concrete joy, Espresso, Squirrels

Other posts: "I quietly hoard memoirs”