Relative Something

Growing up, I had no clue about my family’s ethnic origins. I’m pretty sure my father responded with “American” when I brought up the question. Today, since it’s St. Patrick’s Day, everybody is a little bit Irish, aren’t they? I’ve never really identified with the occasion, but I probably should.

Even after my many sporadic plunges into my family ancestry, I’m still not convinced about the ultimate origin of the “Hays” name. When a second cousin enlisted the help of professionals, they pointed to a pretty focused area of the counties of southern Ireland, yet the result from my DNA hint at the surrounding region excluding Ireland.

At this point, I’m more inclined to cling to what I know and claim my obvious Canadian heritage.

Cyndie occasionally shares a wonderful recollection of her earliest query about her family ethnicity. The simplified version from so many kids where it gets described as half of one nationality and half of another led her to ask her father, by way of a written note slipped under the bathroom door, “What am I half of?”

She was shocked when the answer came back, “Half-wit.”

I am half my mom and half my dad; a quarter of each of my grandparents. Sometimes I feel a little like a half-wit.

On March 17th, I’m possibly a little Irish.

Don’t tell my DNA.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

.

.