DNA surprises

By Tracey Ciccone Edelist

It took some imagination to see my dad in me. We look nothing alike, so I had to go beyond the obvious to find similarities: crooked teeth, hidden skin tags and blemishes, a propensity to worry, maybe cheekbones and chins—he hides his under a beard so it’s hard to say. I share more physical similarities with my blue-eyed, blonde-haired stepmother who has been my mom since my birth mother left one day when I was barely a toddler. We used to look at each other and smile conspiratorially when strangers commented on how much I looked like Mom.

I worked hard to see those bits of Dad in me, so when my eldest child did a consumer DNA test “for fun” and uncovered my birth mother’s secret about my paternity, I didn’t know who I was looking at in the mirror anymore. Within a few hours, we’d found photos online of women, sisters of the suspected DNA father, who looked like me and my children. Then I found a black and white photo of him from 1975. I would have been four. It’s a close-up shot. He’s sitting in the driver’s seat of a car wearing a wide-lapelled winter coat and ‘70s patterned scarf, smiling for the camera, his arm resting on the open window. I saw my eyes, my forehead, my face shape, my lips, my skin tone. That photo, and those of his sisters, my aunts, made it hard to deny what the DNA test had revealed.

The first time I caught my reflection in the mirror after looking at their photos, I jumped, and then I stared, unbelieving. I saw him and his sisters looking back at me, their features superimposed on my own. I had spent so long convincing myself my cheekbones came from my dad, so many years establishing that untrue story of who I was, and now, there were these unknown people who looked like me, presenting themselves uninvited in my face, pushing Dad away from it. For months, every time I saw myself in the mirror, and every time I looked at my young adult children, I felt an electric shock of disbelief zap through me, wrenching me into a surreal world that didn’t make any sense. I no longer knew who we were, who I was, except that I was now half Italian.

It took quite some time for my brain to adjust, for my synapses to rewire to incorporate this new information, to rebuild my identity from scratch. I began to write to help me process everything, to get the intrusive, persistent thoughts out of my brain and onto the page. The story below is a short piece of creative non-fiction that represents an unsettling that follows these DNA discoveries. The woman seeks refuge in nature. It grounds her, but the turmoil underneath remains and breaks through.

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By Gwen Lee

Nothing has changed and everything has changed. That’s the refrain often heard from NPEs*  when they talk about their discoveries.

Nothing has changed. My husband still loves me. My children are still my children and they still love me. I haven’t lost my job. In fact, none of my co-workers even knows about my new status.  I still go grocery shopping every Saturday. I haven’t had to skip any meals. I still enjoy the hobbies that I’ve enjoyed for many years. The sun rises every morning and sets in the evening, painting the sky with those beautiful colored sunsets I enjoy so much. The ocean waves still meet the sand at our beautiful beaches. So, how bad can this development be? Why do I find myself dissolving into tears every day?

Learning that you’re an NPE affects everyone differently. However, I’d bet that the vast majority of NPEs find themselves confronted with changes of some sort. What changed for me?

The earth shifted on its axis. Fortunately, this was only a temporary change. It would greatly trouble me to think that I was responsible for a permanent change in the way the world turned. How could I explain that to inquiring minds? However, that was the how I felt initially.  My world turned upside down. There was confusion, which gave way to a realization that loaded me onto my emotional roller coaster, which eventually dropped me off at a place of curiosity.

My feelings about who I was underwent a big change. Suddenly I started asking myself, “Who am I, really?” I could look in the mirror and still see the same hair, the green eyes, the glasses, and the extra pounds I was always trying to lose. So I knew that people who knew me would look at me and think nothing had changed. They, of course, wouldn’t know what I was feeling inside. Maybe they made a trip to the snack bar and missed the curve ball that was pitched to me. (I swung and missed.) It felt as if my whole life had been a lie. I, simply, was not the person I’d always thought I was. I started ticking off my personality traits and physical characteristics on my fingers, examining each one to determine if it might have come from my biological father, whom I had never met.

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For months after I received the surprise DNA test results that revealed a not parent expected (NPE) event, I was obsessed with research into all things regarding a deceased Black man named Paul Keith Meeres, my biological father.

During the Vietnam War, I was more likely to identify with draft dodgers and conscientious objectors than someone who had actually served in the military, so it was a surprise to find out that Paul Meeres was a Marine in 1943 in World War Two.

Ancestry.com’s extensive records cited his rise in rank from private to sergeant and back to private on the muster rolls, and I was curious about the reason for this military inconsistency. I’d already received his death certificate, so I used it when looking for answers and requesting information from the National Archives.

Discharge papers arrived with a picture of Paul Meeres on his first day of muster. It was sad seeing a photograph of my biofather as a teenager going off to war. He looked so young. I was relieved to learn he was honorably discharged because I was learning about some of his self-destructive behaviors and feared that they might be the cause for a demotion in rank. Unfortunately, there was no information about the demotion. I would need personnel records to obtain that information.

On a beautiful warm day in September 2018, I was in Dumbo, Brooklyn, sightseeing with out-of-town friends. The change in military rank continued to trouble me as I wandered through photography exhibits under the Brooklyn Bridge. Separated from my friends for a moment, I stumbled upon an exhibit by the Marines. I asked Sergeant Bryan Nygaard if he knew how a demotion in rank happens. He asked where my father had been stationed.

When I told him Camp Lejeune and Montford Point, he said with an air of admiration, “Oh, he was a Montford Point Marine!”

He told me that in 1943 the first cohort of Blacks were allowed in the Marines, and that there could have been any number of reasons someone got demoted; racism could be one of them. He gave me his card and said to contact him if I had any further questions.

As I walked away from the Marine exhibit wondering why Sgt. Nygaard seemed so impressed with where my father had been stationed, my first cousin, whom I found on 23andMe.com, called me. She had a close relationship with Paul Meeres, who was her uncle. After we spoke, she texted me a photo of him in the Marines while he was stationed in Japan.

“My mother believed in me, and because of that, I believe in myself. And I really can’t think of a greater gift that a parent can give their child.” Those words ended my eulogy, so I stepped down from the podium and solemnly returned to my seat. Later, as I mingled among the crowd, quite a few people praised my remarks.  While kind words are standard at funerals, their comments seemed heartfelt and genuine. I thanked them, adding that praising my mother came easy because of my strong, life-long bond with her, a bond that would be her legacy forever.

“Forever” lasted 16 years, ending the day my mother reached up from the grave and wrought emotional ruin on the living, particularly me.

I distinctly remember being 11-years-old when my dad heartlessly embarrassed me at a school event. Being at odds with my father was commonplace during my childhood and peaked during my teenage and college years, after which I largely eliminated him from my life. As a child, I recognized fundamental differences between myself and my dad. I looked nothing like him. He was athletic, I was not. I excelled academically, whereas he had struggled as a student. The list goes on. When I returned home after the embarrassing school event with tears in my eyes, I bluntly howled at my mom, “How is he my dad when I’m nothing like him and he’s nothing like me?” “He’s your dad, just try to forgive him,” she replied. Over the next quarter century, I asked her some version of that question on dozens of occasions, sometimes in a calm voice, sometimes in harsh tones through gritted teeth. She always responded with some version of that same answer. For some reason I just accepted her words rather than taking my question toward a logical conclusion, probably because I never realized that trusting your mother was fraught with risk.

This year I turn 48, the age my father was when he died of pancreatic cancer. So I had a genetic test. I wanted to know if there was a reason to worry I might get—or have—cancer. I already know I have risk factors: an immediate family member who died before the age of 50, and I have Ashkenazi Jewish heritage on both sides.

A desire to foresee my fate, to know my destiny, opened a Pandora’s box. In order to get a genetic test, I was required to receive counseling first, to understand how genes work, what risk factors I may have, to decide whether I really want to know if something deleterious is waiting for me.

In our session, the counselor talked me through genes and inheritance. On a piece of paper, she drew a genogram, a family tree with symbols depicting gender and relationships, known cancers, and deaths.

“In anthropology, we call that a kinship chart,” I told her. As an anthropologist, I was familiar with these models. Kinship diagrams show relationships. For anthropologists who go to live in foreign cultures, it’s a tool to reduce confusion between common names in the community of study. It’s a way to map a community, as relationships between people impart more meaning and contextual information than does an individual.

My genogram only had ten symbols on it. Ten known family members, five of whom were deceased. The genetic counselor wrote the words “limited info” on the paper depicting my family. “That was quick,” she said. “You don’t have a lot to go over because you don’t have a lot of family.”

A 2019 PEW Research Center survey found that 27% of home DNA test users discover unknown close relatives, meaning a person could accidentally learn they are not biologically linked to those to whom they thought they were related. DNA tests can have devastating emotional consequences when people learn they have no genetic connection to their kin.

But I was in the inverse situation: my genetic test results impacted biological relatives to whom I had no actual connection.

My father had estranged himself from his family of origin when he was in his early thirties. He cut off all contact with his mother and two younger brothers by the time I was eight. (His father had died by then, due to heart-related issues, as far as I know.) I don’t know why he did it, but as an adult reflecting back, I think disconnecting was what my father felt he had to do to survive.

Forty years later and 26 years after my father’s death, I had the test and learned one copy of my ATM gene has a pathogenic mutation, an alteration with sufficient evidence to be classified as capable of causing disease.

I used to think in paragraphs, sort of dream in sentences, always in love with the way words work. In high school, Mr. Riley taught us how to string sounds together regardless of meaning. I fell in love with lilting Ls, rolling Rs, phrases like “cinnamon vanilla turquoise.” I loved speeches in the movies, and in real life, where every word packs a punch to create sentences that change the world. Annie Dillard, Joan Didion, Julio Cotazar, and David Foster Wallace served as totems while I prayed for guidance at the keyboard. Essays were a voice for me, a way to process events, both traumatic or hilarious, and create a record of my life in a world where I often felt unheard. Screenplays were a way to create images and dialogue where written words were not enough. I was getting support from people I admired. I was getting paid for pieces about all the stupid thoughts in my head about the events in my life. People asked about a book. I was looped into pitch meetings. It wasn’t always positive; hearing “no” always stung, but it meant I was putting myself out there.

And then a man called my husband, and my husband called me, to say: my whole life has been a lie. There was a convoluted story about a group of Christians in the late 1970s, betrayal, secrets, heartbreak. The man explained he was sure that I was his daughter; the man who raised me was, in fact, not my father.
As one might imagine, drama ensued. Everything stopped inside me. Paragraphs and word play were replaced with whispered phone calls, difficult emails, awkward conversations, countless questions, a million tears. Try as I might, I don’t feel like there is anything to write about because everything to write about is loaded. Secrets and shame are the throughline. My lost identity is the lede. My book proposal for a memoir about the relationship between mothers and daughters? Null and void. My mom said please don’t put this on Facebook. My dad said please just wait before putting pen to paper about any of this.

I radiate a warm glow in the photo—a farmer’s tan from hours of playing outside in the Texas sun. A neighborhood friend had documented the moment via disposable camera. It’s hard to remember what occasion we were marking—an eleventh birthday party, perhaps, or the end of the school year. Whatever the event, my smile is wide, genuine, and my brown eyes are scrunched into happy almonds in a heart-shaped face.

This photo never meant anything special to me then, but now I wonder how could I—how could my family –not have questioned my true heritage? I’m 34 years old and I’ve just discovered by way of an at-home DNA test that I’m 25% Japanese. This revelation launches me into a frenetic investigation— activating an old Ancestry.com account, sending cryptic text messages to my parents and brother, and diagramming possibilities on the back of a napkin.

After all, my maiden name sounds like a type of sausage and Mom is a freckled redhead, clearly the offspring of Scottish-Irish farmers. Growing up, I’d never been questioned about my whiteness, although there were comments that I tended to tan in a more olive tone than did my younger brother. Since we played outside for 6 hours a day in the southern heat, no one thought twice about it.

After hours of frantic speculation, I get a text message from my mother, with whom I have shared the surprising ethnic breakdown. She says, “Can I call you later?” It’s on this phone call that she shares the truth—there was an ex-boyfriend who was half-Japanese just before she and Dad got married. She’s Googled him to find an obituary from 2012. He’s survived by a brother, a wife, and his Japanese mother. Mom sends me the link.

The need for information consumes me. Through the names and locations in the obituary, I

I was born William Joseph Olson in Sioux Falls, South Dakota on September 27, 1979, when my mother was only 20 years old. Because she’d been intimate with two men, she couldn’t be certain who my father was. One of the men, Brent, had been her senior prom date, and the other, Howard, was eleven years older—a man she saw when he was home on leave from the military. Her father despised him, and though she prayed he wasn’t my father, she suspected he was, thinking she remembered the night I was conceived: Christmas Eve 1978.

Howard had already been married and had a daughter, but my mother believed he was divorced at the time she became involved with him. A dental technician, he was the older brother of my mother’s close friend Alice from high school. During his visits to Lennox, he’d take my mom out on dates, usually to the races. When he wasn’t drunk, my mother says, he was a great guy.

When it came time for my mother to fill in the birth certificate, she chose to leave the father’s name blank. That decision profoundly influenced my life and my self image.

As a poor single woman, she needed state assistance, but the state required her to provide the name of the person who might be my father. She named Brent, but a DNA test ruled him out. That could only mean the man my grandfather despised—Howard—was my father.

Two years ago, I discovered a birth father I knew nothing about after taking a 23andMe DNA test for fun. I hired a genealogist to locate him and, against her expert advice, went to his home to meet him when he ignored my phone calls. This man’s interest eventually overcame his denial and we began a relationship as father and daughter. With him came aunts, an uncle, cousins, a brother, sister-in-law, and a nephew—instant family! As I met each of them, in turn they welcomed me with the typical Scottish declaration, “Welcome to the clan!” 23andMe had reported I was 50% Scottish, and now it was official.

With a major life cycle transition, there’s usually an official event: a wedding shower, baby shower, baby naming, a birthday party—a welcoming of a new stage or a new person, with all the accompanying pomp and circumstance of tradition. Interestingly, my official welcome to the clan occurred over the Jewish New Year— Rosh Hashana—also a time of new beginnings and discovery. The very nature of a new year is a beginning, albeit symbolic if not psychological.

When we have a difficult year, we can’t wait for the official ending and symbolic beginning of the next revolution around the sun—almost as if beginning again acts as a type of psychological barrier, representing an end to the difficulty. Yin and yang depict the necessary opposites of light and dark forces inherent to all aspects of creation—the seasons, cycle of life, to name a few. A new beginning occurs on the heels of something ending. When I took the 23andMe test, I had no way of knowing the loss at 22 years old of the father who raised me would be the ending to this new beginning.