“Over 99.9 percent of the human genome (which means the complete set of genetic material in a person) is exactly the same across the species and around the world. All human variation, from height to hair color to freckles, comes down to just the 0.1 percent of our genetic makeup that differs. It’s a small world after all.” — Buzzy Jackson in “Shaking the Family Tree”
I’ve been doing genealogy research on and off (mostly off) since about 1999, when I first got online at home. Before that, I knew very little about my heritage. I basically knew my grandparents’ names and the names of two great-grandparents. My heritage was a big, yawning gap. I had an urge to learn more, to try to understand where I came from — what made me who I am.
When I was a kid, I tried a couple of times to ask my paternal grandparents, Acey and Winnie Stephens, where our family came from. I remember one time when I was trying to collect information for a homework assignment. My dainty little Grandma started to answer, “Well, honey, on my side we’re English and Irish and ….” My Grandpa, a blustery old cowboy, interrupted. “Those people were rapists and murderers! Don’t you tell people about them. You tell people you come from Bohemian royalty!”
I was mystified. I didn’t figure out what Bohemians were until I was in my twenties. (Mostly Czechoslovakian.) I still don’t know why my Grandpa thought the Brits were rapists and murderers. But through genealogy, I’ve learned that my Grandpa’s mother’s maiden name was Frances Zalud, which is probably where any royalty is hiding. I’ve also learned that he had a grandmother (Anna Martha Thoresen) who immigrated from Norway to Nebraska around 1864, a great-grandfather (William Harrison Stephens Sr.) who died in the San Francisco Gold Rush in 1850, a Dutch great-great-grandmother (Sarah “Sally” Smith Randall) whose ancestors settled Manhattan (AKA New Amsterdam), and a sixth great-grandfather (John Randall) who came from England to the colony of Rhode Island around 1666 — more than a hundred years before the Declaration of Independence was signed.
These are just a few of the threads that tie my Grandpa and me to the past. They give me context, pride, a feeling of belonging. Not that my heritage is any better than anyone else’s. Royalty or not, I believe we all have a heritage to be proud of — ancestors who lived and struggled and raised children and crossed continents and sometimes oceans. And if you go back far enough, we’re all related.
I’ve been reading “Shaking the Family Tree: Blue Bloods, Black Sheep, and Other Obsessions of an Accidental Genealogist” by Buzzy Jackson. Part memoir, part how-to, it’s a fun and fascinating romp through her family history journey.
“Those clever geneticists have been able to trace the origins of human beings back to two genetically specific human beings who lived tens of thousands of years ago [in eastern Africa]. Allow me to introduce your ancient ancestors: Y-Chromosomal Adam and Mitochondrial Eve … the oldest known ancestors of everyone on earth.”
It makes you wonder: Can’t we all just get along?
