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Severance Magazine
Tag:

NPE

    DNA surprisesEssays, Fiction, Poetry

    What Changed?

    by bkjax August 6, 2023

    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.

    My sense of my family and my place in it changed. I realized I had a lot to learn about my family history. I also wanted to learn as much as I could about my “new” family—the family of my bio dad.

    I started dealing with this change by telling my close family members about my discovery. That meant phone calls to my sister and each of the two brothers I grew up with. It also called for conversations with my two sons and their wives. I left it up to them when and if they chose to tell my grandchildren. I knew I was imparting sensitive information but I felt as if this discovery directly affected them and their children. There was never any doubt in my mind about telling them. My family members all assured me that this news changed nothing about their feelings toward me.

    I also knew now that the man that I grew up believing was my father, was not my father. That was another change. My birth certificate father was the only one of the three key players who was still alive. My mother and bio father had both passed. I’m a fairly strong believer that people do have a “right to know.” However, after wrestling with the decision for a bit, I chose not to share what I had learned with my birth certificate father. He and my mother had divorced when I was five years old, and I didn’t have a particularly close relationship with him.  The reason for my decision not to tell him was that he was in the throes of dementia and very near the end of his life. If my mother had still been alive I know I would have had a lot more to grapple with. Was that a bit of luck for me? Maybe, but it also meant I would always have a lot of unanswered questions.

    I’d been doing a lot of research since I got my DNA results and made my discovery. I’d also gotten some help from people who’d been doing this kind of research far longer than I had. A big change for me was that I now knew that instead of being the youngest of four siblings I was smack dab in the middle of seven siblings. The siblings that I grew up with were half, even though I’d never thought of them as halves instead of wholes. Now with six siblings, I still didn’t have any whole siblings.

    I’d been successful in establishing communication with two cousins on my bio dad’s side. I gave all my contact information to one of these cousins and asked him to pass it along to my three “new” siblings, all half-sisters. He told me he did but he also advised me not to expect anything from them. They could not come to term with their father’s “indiscretion.” One sister did, eventually come around to reaching out to me. We live quite a distance from each other but we’ve become acquainted by texting and talking on the phone. I feel grateful for her kindness and friendship.

    I like to think another change I’ve undergone is that I have become more understanding and empathetic toward people who are going through their own personal crises. I have learned a lot, not just about genealogy and DNA, but also about the turbulence of that emotional roller coaster that people find themselves on when they’re faced with this sort of life-changing event.

    I’m still working on making my way through all these changes. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll ever feel as if I have processed all the changes. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over the feeling that there was likely no relationship involved in the circumstances of my conception. I still have some work to do.

    My NPE status is never far from the forefront of my mind. So, while I’m sitting watching one of those beautiful sunsets or doing some of the crocheting that I have always enjoyed doing, I’m often thinking about the ways my life has changed and working on strategies to avoid stepping onto that roller coaster.

    *NPE: not parent expected, or nonparental event

    Gwen Lee is a mother and grandmother of four. She and her husband, Don, have been married for 51 years. Lee has lived in Southern California her whole life, and she retired in 2020 from her profession as an administrative assistant. She enjoys reading and crafting, particularly crochet. Her email address is gwenlee84@gmail.com.

    August 6, 2023 0 comments
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  • ArticlesDNA SurprisesNPEs/MPEs

    Autonomy, DNA Surprises, and Barbie: What’s the Connection?

    by bkjax July 31, 2023
    July 31, 2023

    By Kara Rubinstein Deyerin Without having your whole story, you cannot have autonomy. Autonomy and decision-making go hand-in-hand. Autonomy, the ability to act independently and make choices based on one’s own judgment, relies on having a comprehensive understanding of the context and factors at play. If you do not know your true origin story, your ability to exercise true autonomy becomes limited or compromised. A fragmented or partial view of who you are may lead to misinterpretations, ill-informed decisions, and potential consequences that could have been avoided if you’d had the truth. Barbie is a perfect example of how lack of information about the fundamental building blocks of your life and who you are can lead to an identity crisis when you discover the truth. Note to the reader: if you haven’t seen the movie, know that there are spoilers here. I highly recommend you see the movie and then read this article. Even if you don’t come back to read this, go see the movie. Barbie lives in a world based on a fundamental lie—the belief that the Barbies have solved women’s equality problems in the real world. Because Barbie is a female president, doctor, physicist, and more, she believes women in the real world have this level of power too. How Barbie sees her world and herself and how she interacts with her friends and Ken is based on this being true. When she learns the real world is very different, it throws her relationships and her sense of identity into disarray. People often have a difficult time understanding what the big deal is when someone has a DNA surprise and they discover that one or both of their parents aren’t genetically related to them. “What’s the big deal? You’re still you?” they’re often asked. The Barbie movie is a perfect example of “what’s the big deal.” Once Barbie’s fundamental truth about who she is toppled, she has an existential crisis. She’s forced to confront the fundamental purpose, meaning, and essence of her life and her own existence. Perhaps through Barbie you can understand the aftershocks caused by a DNA surprise: how one sees oneself and their place in the world is no longer the same. Five years ago, after spitting in a tube, I learned I wasn’t genetically related to the man I thought was my father. I’d wanted to learn where in Africa his family came from. What I discovered was I had zero African DNA and was half Jewish instead. Everything about my life and who I was had been based on a lie. Enter an existential crisis that at times I still revisit. Click on image to read more.

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  • Short Takes: People, News & Research

    Contribute to New Research about NPEs

    by bkjax April 28, 2023
    April 28, 2023

    Contribute to IRB-approved research about people who receive surprising not-parent-expected findings on ancestral DNA tests.

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  • Micro-MemoirsSpeak Out

    A Double NPE

    by bkjax April 12, 2023
    April 12, 2023
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  • Micro-MemoirsSpeak Out

    The Lies We’re Told

    by bkjax April 7, 2023
    April 7, 2023
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  • Essays, Fiction, PoetryNPEs

    Clear as Fog

    by bkjax March 7, 2023
    March 7, 2023

    By Michelle Tullier “Are we related to anybody famous?” I asked my mother when I was about twelve years old. I didn’t like that the answer was “No,” so I repeated the question until she walked over to our encyclopedia set and took down the volume for the letter L. Her finger made a quick skim of the index, and she flipped to the page covering Louisiana. “Him. We’re related to him,” my mother said. I grabbed the book eagerly and saw an image identified as the 17th-century French explorer René-Robert Cavelier de La Salle who canoed the lower Mississippi River and claimed its fertile basin land for France. Something didn’t feel right. If we were related to someone as important as the founder of Louisiana, why hadn’t I ever heard about him? Why hadn’t we made a family trip to walk in his footsteps? I wanted to believe that man was my ancestor. I had longed to be related to someone who was not just a celebrity but a person of import and impact. In high school when I learned about Simone de Beauvoir in philosophy class, I daydreamed about being related to her—a possibility, I thought, given my French heritage, though I knew few specifics of that lineage. Seemed every time I asked about family history my mother swooped in like a defensive back making an interception to save the game, and I didn’t understand what game she was playing. Decades later, I ordered an Ancestry.com DNA kit just for kicks. I hoped the results would shed light on my French ethnicity, hand me a long list of not-too-distant relatives, and, perhaps, reveal a notable person in my family tree. When the results came back, my ethnicity breakdown seemed odd, showing more Irish and English than I would have expected. Disappointed by the ethnicity results, but not suspecting anything untoward, I turned to the people matches. I did not recognize any surnames, but that didn’t concern me either. Most were third or fourth cousins, or even more distant. I was very busy at the time that I saw my results, juggling a demanding job and parenting a teenager. I told myself that someday I would take time to build a family tree and figure it all out. Two years later, that someday had still not come, but I was having an unhurried lunch at my desk, so I took a few moments to log back into Ancestry. I was heading to Ireland on a work-related trip and happened to remember those ethnicity results, so I thought it would be interesting to revisit them before the trip. I logged in and was met with a red dot on the bell-shaped notifications icon. The bell tolled for me, so I clicked there rather than going straight to the ethnicity page. The message said I had new DNA matches to explore. Anticipating screen after screen of unrecognizable names stretched out to Saturn’s seventh ring, I rolled my eyes. But I still had half a turkey sandwich to eat, so what the heck, I would take a look. The first match was displayed as initials only, with the statement “Predicted relationship: Close Family.” The match was made at a confidence level classified as “Extremely High.” I pictured long strands of genetic matter strutting amongst puffed up DNA coils, double helixes cocked, so proud of the match they’d made for me. I saw that this person’s profile was administered by someone who listed their first and last name in full. I recognized the last name as that of close family friends when I was a child, and I realized the initials of the person I was matched with were those of a son in that family, who was around my age. There is a technique in photography called bokeh, from the Japanese word boke, which means “blur” or “haze.” Taking a bokeh photo makes the primary object of focus sharp and clear, while surrounding or more distant objects are blurred. There is good bokeh—Isn’t that a striking close-up of a pink camellia with the green leaves softly blurred behind it? And there is bad bokeh—What is that jarring mess of shapes and shadows, ruining a perfectly nice picture of a flower? I didn’t know if what I was seeing in that moment of discovery was good or bad bokeh. The books that lined the wall several feet across from my desk, arranged by topic and by rainbow colors within each grouping, streamed like melted Neapolitan ice cream. The files stacked on the credenza a few feet to my left blurred. The cell phone resting on my desk was barely visible through the fog. The keyboard below my fingers was, well, maybe not even there anymore. Click image to read more.

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  • Essays, Fiction, PoetryNPEs

    Kintsukuroi

    by bkjax March 3, 2023
    March 3, 2023

    By Matthew Jackson Our assignment was to find an ugly coffee mug. One we hated, or at least had an indifference to, and then smash it to pieces. Then we were supposed to record our thoughts and feelings as we smashed this cup. But this isn’t about my take on that assignment. Not exactly. One of the other members of the writing group talked about a ceramic bowl she’d had for a long time. Over time, the bowl became cracked, but she still used it. Until the day that she found a piece of the bowl in her salad. She knew it was time to stop using it. So, it sat, unused. Then along came this writing assignment. What better way to dispose of this cracked, useless bowl than to smash it and then write about it. So she took the bowl, placed it in a box, and destroyed it. She posted pictures of the smashed bowl and talked about it. And it bothered me. I didn’t know why at first. Would I have thrown away this broken bowl? I will admit that sometimes I find myself holding onto things like that without reason. Sometimes I do get rid of stuff that I don’t use, or can’t use, and it makes me feel, well, better? Maybe? Maybe a bit better that I have more room or less clutter. But the bowl bothered me. Couldn’t it have been repaired? Did she try to glue it and it didn’t work? Why the fuck did I care? It was her bowl, not mine. And it was just a fucking bowl. Then I remembered reading about a way some ceramics are repaired. Not just in a functional way, but as art. If something is broken, the pieces are carefully gathered up and put back together by a special process. It’s Japanese, and not just an art, but a philosophy. Kintsukuroi, sometimes called Kintsugi, is more than 500 years old. Kintsugi means “golden joinery,” and Kintsukuroi means “golden repair.” Kintsukuroi is the art of repairing cracked and damaged pottery with gold dusted lacquer. The process is used to accentuate the damage and show the beauty in the flaws, the breaks. To show that there is beauty even in broken things. Especially in broken things. There is no attempt to restore it back to original. No attempt to hide the damage. It becomes whole again, but with bright golden lines where once there were cracks. And it goes even deeper. Wabi-Sabi is the Japanese philosophy of embracing the imperfect, the flawed. It is the belief that nothing stays the same forever, and we must accept that. We must see the beauty in things that are used, worn, broken. Sometimes, ceramics are even broken on purpose, in the belief that Kintsukuroi is the way to bring out its true beauty. All of us struggle. That’s one of the reasons some of us are taking a writing course/support group for NPEs. I don’t think I’m out of line by saying that every person in the group has cracks. For fuck’s sake, I’m shattered. And I’m not even sure I believe it’s possible to fix me. But maybe there’s a way to mend some of my cracks. Maybe there is someone out there that would look at a broken, heavily used Matt, gather up the pieces, pull out some lacquer, and start gluing. Maybe that’s why the bowl bothered me. It represented a need. It, like me, like all of us, needed someone to embrace its cracks, its flaws, its breaks, and to mend it back together. Not like new. But with shining, golden seams that make it whole where once it was broken.

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  • Short TakesShort Takes: People, News & Research

    Retreat Provides Community for People Who Have Experienced DNA Surprises

    by bkjax February 22, 2023
    February 22, 2023

    Two women in the DNA surprise community are offering a healing retreat for people who have experienced DNA surprises, May 4-7 in Tucson, Arizona. The inaugural DNA Surprise Retreat was created to increase community and support for people who have uncovered shocking information about their families after taking a DNA test. Co-founder Alexis Hourselt, host of the DNA Surprises podcast, experienced her DNA surprise (also known as an NPE or non-paternal event) in 2021 when she learned that the man who raised her is not her biological father. In addition, she discovered that she is white and African American instead of white and Mexican, as she’d once believed. “My DNA surprise caused a complete upheaval of my identity,” says Hourselt. “I was navigating these new family relationships, feeling betrayed by my raised parents, and discovering an entirely new part of myself. It was very isolating, but this is actually quite common.” DNA surprise facts It’s estimated that 1 in 20 people have misattributed parentage. 82 percent of DNA test takers learned the identity of at least one genetic relative. It’s estimated that 3 percent of adoptees do not know they are adopted. After Hourselt met co-founder Debbie Olson, owner of DNA Surprise Network, at a retreat for adoptees, donor-conceived people, and NPEs, they decided to create a retreat specifically for people who have experienced DNA surprises. “The DNA surprise experience is so unique,” says Olson, who experienced her DNA surprise in 2019 when she learned that her estranged father was alive after being told he died. “We’re excited about increasing opportunities for people who have been through these shocking events to come together and heal.” About DNA Surprise Retreat The DNA Surprise Retreat is for adults experiencing the grief and shock that can only be felt following a DNA discovery. The four-day event offers expert-led sessions and community for NPEs, conceived people, and adoptees who have experienced a DNA surprise. The retreat will feature six sessions led by experts on trauma, grief, self-compassion, and more. All meals are included. Attendees can opt to stay on site at a local retreat center or register for the retreat-only portion. Hourselt and Olson hope to continue offering DNA surprise retreats in the future. “No one imagines that their world will be turned upside down when they send off a DNA test kit,” said Hourselt. “People need to know that they aren’t alone and there is help.”

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  • Essays, Fiction, PoetryFiction

    The Accident

    by bkjax November 22, 2022
    November 22, 2022

    By Lisa Franklin Maybe she was at the stove, stewing plums in a pot, the sweet fruit scenting the kitchen, Mason jars lined up on the table awaiting the warm jam. The boys were at school, her husband at work, the only peace she ever got. They weren’t home to hear the shriek of metal, to see her lift her head or watch her pull back the curtain or answer the door to the stranger. Maybe the accident had already happened, maybe she was still shaken when she saw him standing there as if he already owned her. His dark skin, his suit, his tie. So different from her husband with his hard hat and coveralls. What was he selling? Someone was always knocking to offer something: vacuum cleaners, encyclopedias. No, it was nothing she could touch or hold. They sat, he on the couch, the middle cushion, she in the chair across from him. She remembers this now, months later, as her hand cups her belly. She was aware then of her thighs beneath her skirt and the angle of her legs, of how her feet rested in her high heels. But, no, she was merely a woman in pedal pushers and sneakers. It was how he looked at her that made her feel as if she wore a strand of pearls at her neck, perfume in the soft spot pulsing at the base of her throat. She watched his smooth hands as he set the briefcase on his knees, heard the latches snap open. She felt herself sinking beneath the soft brown puddle of his gaze, into the tight embrace of her chair. She had never seen anyone with such beautiful skin, the color of polished burl. “Can I get you something? Water? Coffee?” He did not look up from his papers. He did not smile. Or maybe he did, but only with one corner of his mouth. “No. Thank you. I have what I need.” His voice, deep and unfamiliar, vibrated through her bones. She had taken him away from his spiel, he was annoyed. She felt scolded. He cleared his throat, adjusted the knot in his tie, started again, his words like waves pounding, pouring over her, one and then the next. She heard the sound but not the meaning. She understood he wanted something from her. He made a motion toward her, toward the rug.

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  • Micro-MemoirsSpeak Out

    My NPE Story

    by bkjax November 9, 2022
    November 9, 2022

    By Kelly Vela I was born September 14, 1956, the third daughter to my mom and dad. My parents were married in 1947 when my mother became pregnant with my sister. They moved to Los Angeles County and in 1951 they had another daughter who  was born with a hole in her heart and only lived for 9 months. Her death sent my mother into a depression which she couldn’t seem to kick. I was never close to relatives or my dad. My sister was 9 years older than I, so we weren’t very close, even as we got older. I never felt a bond with my dad or my sister, but I never had any reason to think my dad was not my dad. When I was about 6 years old, my mom became friends with a man next door. She would spend weekends with him and visit him during the week at his home. This affair went on until my parents divorced after 17 years. My parents had been married for 32 years. My dad, who was a functioning alcoholic, never knew about the affair. I was 23 went they split and my mother moved in with the neighbor. My sister sided with my dad, with whom she was close, and I sided with my mom, who always treated me special. My sister developed a strained relationship with our mother. They didn’t get along at all and fought since my sister was in her teens. I was the very quiet kid who never got into trouble. I just developed an eating disorder. I didn’t marry until I was 37, probably because I saw the dysfunction in our family. By that time, my sister was on her third marriage, my mom married the neighbor, and my dad married a woman I never knew. He stayed married to her until he passed away in 1997. My mother stayed married to the neighbor until she passed away in November 2021. So mom and dad are gone, and my sister and I do not speak at all, even though we live two miles from each other. It is just me and husband, happy enjoying life, no more drama. In January 2022, we decided to spit in a cup and see exactly what our nationality and ancestry is—much English and how much Spanish. When the results came back in February, I was super excited, curious to see what I am. I’d heard rumors we were related to the Prince of Wales. I saw the relatives on my mom’s side of the family, but none on   my dad’s side. I contacted my cousins on his side and ask if they saw me in their tree. They didn’t. And my sister appeared as a half sibling. I couldn’t understand how this could happen. I didn’t know DNA could screw up. I spent months checking my DNA relatives every day on 23&Me and Ancestry; I knew somebody was going to show sooner or later.  I noticed that I had some Greek heritage, but my cousins had none. I’m not the brightest bulb in the box, and by June I was still trying to figure out where everybody was. I was ready to hire a genealogist to help me. My husband and I were on vacation in June, but I was still searching on both DNA sites. I started opening trees that belonged to relatives I’d never heard of and looked at their pictures.  I started seeing a pattern in. I came across one photo from about 1944, a man in his military uniform. The photo was labeled “Johnny.”  I stared at the black and white photo, and  the hairs on my arms stood up. I had no idea who this man was but I could see myself in him. I snagged the picture and put it next to a picture of me. I sent it to my cousins and asked if they thought  the man and I look alike. “Yes, they said. “who is this?” I had no idea.   no idea.

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  • Essays, Fiction, PoetryNPEs

    The Sting Subsides as Time Goes On

    by bkjax July 1, 2022
    July 1, 2022

    I think about you almost daily, but it doesn’t sting as much anymore. I am so grateful for that because I don’t think that people are meant to hold onto that much pain for too long. “You are your father’s daughter…” the Disney song played on my radio. Yes—yes, I am. The man who raised me will always be my dad. I cling to my maiden name like it’s made out of gold. Pictures. Stories. Tattoos. I cling to them all. “You can sit in the suck while still looking forward to the future.” My therapist chirps and I wrote it on my phone notes. For once we’re not talking just about you. The passing of time does help. Still, those same phone notes have a list of things I want from you—bare minimum bullet points that I hold close to my chest. When I mention them—those closest to me re-affirming, “No, it’s not stupid to want that.”—that helps. Each small acknowledgment helps. You’re the part of my story that almost broke me. The part only those closest to me know. However I came into this world, half of my genes are yours. Still, I only whisper your name to those I trust wouldn’t “out” you. (I am so scared to out you.) I apparently have your nose and your hustle. I, too, can work a room and make strangers into friends. I’m hurt. I’m embarrassed and self-conscious (though I did nothing wrong). I’d never expect anyone to replace my dad, but to know you exist and that your life won’t change because I also exist is a pain I cannot explain. A friend put into words what I couldn’t: “You expected his life to change too.” Yes, unmet expectations perhaps hurt the most. I could corner you, rant and rave and ask about my list. Or calmly “make” you admit X, Y and Z. But I will not force myself into your life (no matter how much I want to). The person who is coming to rescue me is me. (Which is so hard to tell my inner child who apparently was still waiting for someone to come.) And everyone, all well-meaning, have their opinions on what I should do or how I should act. But they’re not the ones whose world crashed, and they weren’t left putting the pieces back together. They’re not the ones whose hearts break at nearly 1 a.m. in the bathroom, tears falling, wanting to scream into the ether that, “It’s not fucking fair.”  Some days I’m glad it happened. Other days I wish it never did. Always I don’t understand how you could see photos of my growing boy (genetically, your grandson) and not want to rush to know him. If roles were reversed, I’d have been on the first flight. As time goes on though, so many wonderful people restore my faith in humanity.

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  • Essays, Fiction, PoetryNPEs

    Golden Hour Family

    by bkjax June 23, 2022
    June 23, 2022

    NPE: Non-Paternal Event  (noun) A genealogical term used to describe the disconnect that occurs in familial lineage when a person, as an adult, discovers at least one parent is not biologically related. (noun) a qualifying term used by people who have experienced the unexpected discovery of a genealogical disconnect between themselves and at least one parent.As in: “When I found out my parents used a sperm donor, I realized I am an NPE.”  MPE: Misattributed Parentage Event  A social term used to describe the myriad DNA-discoveries that can occur, including Late-Disocvery Adoption, Donor Conception, and Non-Paternal Event. As in: “I found out that as a teenagerI had fathered a childr; when this person reached out to me, I realized I am a part of the MPE community.”  Genetic Mirroring A term or phrase used to describe the powerful experience of seeing similar physical traits in a relative. “Without genetic mirroring, I’ll never understand where my green eyes came from.”  Facebook:  (noun) Modern society’s downfall. See also ‘social media,” “Twitter,” “Instagram,” “Discord.” It was a lovely photo, an innocuous post. A group of dark-haired adults sitting around a table, smiling at the camera, golden hour sunset glowing from a side door. Colorful Fiesta pottery suggests a delicious meal is imminent. Wood side-paneling screams “Montana cabin,” and I swear there are golden-retriever puppies asleep on the floor.  “It’s a truly amazing feeling when I can see all my siblings at one time again. The nostalgia hits hard and the old and new memories made are truly a blessing.”  For a split-second, it is no big deal. I scroll social media quickly these days, tired of its mundanity, confused by the chaos, embarrassed to be addicted to it anyway. I stop at this one, caught off guard by the golden hues. My heart leaps into my throat, and my breath quickens. I feel angry and sad at the same time. I think I am being ridiculous and try to move along to more important posts like parenting memes and Tik-Tok tips. But my thumb is out of my control, bringing the handsome family back to me again and again.  They are my handsome family; I was not invited to dinner. 

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  • ArticlesDNA Surprises

    Q&A with podcaster Alexis Hourselt

    by bkjax May 3, 2022
    May 3, 2022

    Please tell us a little about yourself — what was your life like before you DNA surprise? I grew up a military brat, mostly in Arizona. I lived in Tucson with my husband and two children and still do. I love the desert. Before my DNA surprise I would say I was part of a close-knit family—my parents live a few minutes away and my sisters are here too. My dad is Mexican and my mom is of European descent, so I grew up ambiguously biracial. My days were filled as a working mom, wife, friend, sister, and daughter. Can you summarize as much of your personal story of how your DNA surprise came about? I bought an AncestryDNA test in June 2021 as part of a Prime Day deal. I had zero suspicions about my dad—I was always told my parents were married after I was born. I look like my sisters. About a month later I got my results. I was first struck by my ethnicity breakdown—I was not Mexican at all, but African American. There was zero latinx in my results. Then I clicked on my matches and to my utter shock/horror I matched with a man I’d never seen before, my biological father. When you tested, you had a parent child match. What was that experience like and what resulted? It was really confusing because my bio dad didn’t have his name in his account – it was a username, so I had no idea who he really was (not that I knew him, anyway). I was way too afraid to contact him, so I called my mom and asked if she knew. She didn’t based on the username. I spent the next few days putting all of my internet sleuthing skills to work until I was able to identify him. I found him on Facebook and lurked everything I could find. I found an old podcast he appeared on just to listen to his voice. It was all very surreal. A few days into my journey my newfound sister contacted me and that really got the ball rolling in terms of building a relationship with my family. You said at one point your mother apologized. That’s often not the case. How did this affect your relationship? My situation, like so many of ours, is very nuanced. Both of my parents knew the truth about my paternity—or so they thought. They believed they were protecting me from someone, but that person is not my biological father. So, while I disagree with their choice to keep a secret from me, I do understand the initial decision. That empathy made it easier for my mother to apologize and for me to be open to receiving it. I do appreciate the apology but I am still processing everything. It’s not an overnight process but I hope our relationship can normalize. You said growing up you didn’t relate to your Mexican heritage. Were you raised in that culture and still didn’t feel connected to it? Yes and no. My parents didn’t deeply immerse me in Mexican culture, but I live in the southwest so it’s everywhere. Whenever we visited family in Texas I saw much of that Mexican side as well. I went to schools in predominantly Mexican areas, at times. I just never felt a real connection despite how hard I tried. I always felt like an imposter but I attributed it to being mixed race. You talk about discovering you were Black. You said in the episode about your own story “It was like I knew but I didn’t know.” Can you talk about that and what you meant?  I’ve always loved, respected, and admired black culture. From music to television to movies to fashion, what’s not to love? As an adult, I became deeply invested in anti racism. So much of who I am aligns with being black, but it never occurred to me that I was. So it’s like I always knew on some level, while never considering that it might actually be true.

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  • Essays, Fiction, PoetryNPEs

    The Bounce Back

    by bkjax April 15, 2022
    April 15, 2022

    I made an NPE discovery a little over a year ago and I continue to tell myself that, “The bounce back is going to be epic.” When your whole world shatters and time and space stop making sense, you need something to hold onto as you sit in the suck and hope better days are coming. And better days do come. But then so do bad days. And medium days. The bounce back isn’t as dramatic as you picture; it’s quieter and more sustainable; comprised of hard work and clinging to sanity. It’s small victories and painful boundaries being set by others and yourself. It’s f-cking hard, not epic. It looks like going to bed at a normal time after reading no less than three devotional and one prayer app. It’s praying. So. Much. Praying. It’s talking about the same thing repeatedly until you apologize to your friends and thank them for their continued patience. It’s panic attacks at the idea of being social when you used to be an extrovert. It’s a smaller, more sustainable friendship circle. It’s breaking down multiple times because nothing goes as planned.

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  • ArticlesNPEs/MPEs

    I Just Found Out I’m Jewish, But Am I Jewish?

    by bkjax March 10, 2022
    March 10, 2022

    First, if you feel called to read this essay, then you belong here. Welcome. Do you belong in the Jewish community? Are you a part of this religion, culture, and peoplehood? Are you actually technically Jewish at all? To give a very Jewish answer: yes, no, maybe. It depends. But this journey of exploration and curiosity—of questioning and wrestling—is absolutely yours for the taking. So welcome. Welcome, welcome, welcome. Not everyone along the way will greet you with such open arms, so I want to make sure that mine are stretched extra wide. An NPE* discovery is complicated enough, but when compounded by an ethnicity discovery—a Jewish ethnicity discovery especially—the complications are magnified. And Jewish identity is complicated enough, even for people who were raised Jewish. DNA testing may be new, but the question of “who counts as a Jew” is as old as Judaism itself. Judaism is an ethnicity, as you may have just learned unexpectedly, but it’s also a culture, a spiritual practice, a community, a set of laws, a set of holy days, and unendingly more. How many of those boxes must a person tick in order to be counted among the tribe? The answer remains: it depends. There’s a beloved aphorism: for every two Jews, you get three opinions. Judaism is far more concerned with asking questions than it is with answering them. So if you came to this article asking “Am I Jewish?” be forewarned: you won’t get a clear answer. But you will, I hope, get a solid footing for the start of your journey, should you choose to embark. The Rabbinic Answer Let’s start with the answer you’d be most likely to get if you googled “Am I Jewish?” Or, let’s say you told a rabbi: “I just found out that I’m biologically half Jewish because the dad that I thought was my dad isn’t my dad and my DNA isn’t what I thought it was—what does that mean?” First, the rabbi would probably respond the same way most people do: a polite “please slow down because I don’t believe what I’m hearing,” or something of that ilk. Then, the rabbi would likely say that, according to halakha (Jewish law), you must be born to a Jewish mother or have entered the faith through conversion. For an NPE, then, this sounds like a resounding no: you are not, by law, a Jew. A reform or reconstructionist rabbi (these are the more socially progressive and halakhically creative of the four main Jewish denominations: learn more here) would tell you that patrilineal Jews count, but only if they’re raised Jewish—so you’re still out of luck.

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  • Micro-MemoirsSpeak Out

    My Father, The Pizza Man

    by bkjax February 17, 2022
    February 17, 2022
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  • Essays, Fiction, PoetryNPEs

    The Truth About Cockroaches

    by bkjax December 14, 2021
    December 14, 2021

    From a very young age, I was always deathly terrified of cockroaches—these slimy, dark creatures that live in the smallest and darkest crevices where nothing else could ever imagine existing. I think this fear originated from being allowed to watch horror movies with my older brother before the age of 5. My mom told me that if I started to believe any of the movies were real, she wouldn’t let me watch them anymore. She assured me that the events in these films were just fiction, even though a lot of the scenes felt very realistic. If I started to have nightmares or be afraid because of the movie, I would not be permitted to stay up late and hang out with my older and cooler brother. I simply hid my terror about the many scenes that elicited fear. That’s how I continued to hide my feelings for the rest of my life, stuffing them below the surface so no one could access them and use them against me. I specifically remember watching a particular episode from the 1980s series “Creepshow” in which a cruel germaphobe is killed in his apartment by a swarm of cockroaches. I don’t remember all the details, but I was terrified by the scene in which hundreds of bugs crawl out of his mouth and over his eyes. I was convinced that these filthy, awful creatures would find me and bury me too. In the southeast, we make up special names for these creatures so they don’t sound so grotesque. In coastal North Carolina, they’re referred to as water bugs to differentiate the larger insects from the smaller bugs. The large cockroaches usually thrive in conditions with more rain and humidity and typically are more present when the seasons change to cooler weather as they search for warmer environments indoors. This important distinction is made so people will know that this type of cockroach exists through no fault of theirs. The other kind—the smaller variety—may signal to others that there’s an infestation due to less than ideal conditions, such as uncleanliness. As an adult, I find this differentiation ridiculous; it seems to reflect the way that our society silently judges others for their simple existence today. Because why would an infestation be anyone’s fault? This seems to place blame on being dirty or being poor or having no ability to rid yourself of the infestation. In the picturesque city of Charleston, South Carolina, a true representation of the genteel south, these disgusting creatures are referred to as Palmetto bugs. I still remember the first time I saw one. I squealed in a panic while my then-boyfriend calmly explained that the Palmetto Bug is the other state bird of South Carolina, a true beacon of the city—a flowery term to describe a very ugly insect in hopes of accepting its indigenous right to exist in a city that barely stays above water. Strangely enough, I’m not that afraid of spiders or other insects. I have a healthy fear of snakes, but an irrational fear of cockroaches, especially the large ones. Regardless of what they’re called, my fear of them continued to grow. Whenever I saw one, I broke out in goosebumps all over while silently trembling and desperately trying to escape the room. What is it about the creatures that live in the dark that make them so terrifying? Is it the idea that they live in a place of darkness or is it the darkness they bring with them that’s frightening? Maybe it’s the darkness that morphs them into these ugly creatures. Or is it that they live in the dark because they are terrible and are unworthy of living in the light?

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    A New Guide for NPEs & MPEs

    by bkjax December 10, 2021
    December 10, 2021

    Everyone who’s had a DNA surprise will recognize themselves in the pages of Leeanne R. Hay’s NPE* A Story Guide for Unexpected Discoveries. Hay, a freelance journalist who’s earned certificates from the University of Florida College of Social Work, has crafted a memoir/guidebook hybrid, drawing substantially from her own NPE story and those of others to illustrate common experiences and issues that arise when family secrets are revealed and individuals learn that the families in which they were raised may not be their families of origin. In 2017, on a whim, Hay purchased a DNA test, the results of which were shocking. Not only did she learn that the man who raised her was not her father, she discovered at the same time that her biological father was a man she’d known and loved since she was a child. And there began a quest to learn as much as she could about her origins, her ethnicity, and how such a monumental secret could have been kept from her. She felt rage toward her mother, by then deceased, bewilderment about her ethnic identity, and, soon, an overpowering sense of anger and helplessness. If you’ve had a DNA surprise, these feelings likely will be all too familiar, and Hay offers the much-needed comfort that comes from knowing that you’re not the only one whose ever had these experiences and emotions or the only one who doesn’t know which way to turn. She offers gentle guidance about the range of situations and complications that may arise, from how to communicate an NPE discovery to others, how to use DNA to search for family, how to communicate with new relatives, and how to contemplate and make a name change, as well as the steps needed to move forward. She addresses the emotional pitfalls, including isolation, loss, and grief, and the repercussions for others who are affected by an MPE’s discovery. In addition to noting helpful resources, Hay also advises readers about the need to carefully assess resources to determine if they are truly helpful, expert-based, and reputable.

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  • Essays, Fiction, PoetryNPEs

    A New Question

    by bkjax September 15, 2021
    September 15, 2021

    The Girl’s Mother left The Girl’s Father when there were just two young boys—before The Girl existed. She left the alcohol and physical abuse. She actually divorced him, though none of her children were aware of that until 83 years later, when a granddaughter stumbled upon the records online. The Girl’s Mother built a small home for herself and her sons. Life was good and she was happy. She had a boyfriend, though no one remains to speak of him, and she was happy for the first time in years. She was as kind as the day is long, plus some, and deserved every happiness. The Girl’s Father had been raised by a harsh and demanding mother, thereby creating a son of similar demeanor. One day post-divorce, The Girl’s Mother opened the door to her ex-husband and his angry mother. The angry woman said, “You will take him back and you will make it work.” Wanting to do right by her sons, The Girl’s Mother allowed The Girl’s Father to move back in. Best guess is that until that day she’d had as long as two years of happiness, free of this alcoholic anchor. The Girl had been born during one of her father’s many temporary stretches of sobriety, and he loved her from the start. The Girl had given him back his family. Many years later, he told The Girl that on the day she was born, he went to the home of her mother’s boyfriend and told him that she would never be his now—that HE had won. This was the first The Girl had heard of a separation and a boyfriend. The Girl grows. There are now two older brothers, a younger brother, and a younger sister. The older siblings like to point out her differences—her different-colored hair, her build, her personality. What they don’t know is she already feels different—odd. She doesn’t feel like she belongs. She is her father’s favorite but her mother’s attention isn’t as easily obtained. Years later, when he is a grown up with children of his own, one brother acknowledges that The Girl’s Mother raised her with a higher level of indifference. He tells her that he has doubted her place in the family and always assumed she was adopted. As if she hasn’t felt this disconnect her entire life.

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  • DNA surprisesEssays, Fiction, PoetryNPEs

    The Congressional Gold Medal

    by bkjax June 1, 2021
    June 1, 2021

    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.

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Recommended Reading

The Lost Family: How DNA is Upending Who We Are, by Libby Copeland. Check our News & Reviews section for a review of this excellent book about the impact on the culture of direct-to-consumer DNA testing.

What Happens When Parents Wait to Tell a Child He’s Adopted

“A new study suggests that learning about one’s adoption after a certain age could lead to lower life satisfaction in the future.”

Janine Vance Searches for the Truth About Korean Adoptees

“Imagine for a minute that you don’t know who your mother is. Now imagine that you are that mother, and you don’t know what became of your daughter.”

Who’s Your Daddy? The Twisty History of Paternity Testing

“Salon talks to author Nara B. Milanich about why in the politics of paternity and science, context is everything.”

What Separation from Parents Does to Children: ‘The Effect is Catastrophic”

“This is what happens inside children when they are forcibly separated from their parents.”

Truth: A Love Story

“A scientist discovers his own family’s secret.”

Dear Therapist: The Child My Daughter Put Up for Adoption is Now Rejecting Her

“She thought that her daughter would want to meet her one day. Twenty-five years later, that’s not true.”

I’m Adopted and Pro-Choice. Stop Using My Story for the Anti-Abortion Agenda. Stephanie Drenka’s essay for the Huffington Post looks at the way adoptees have made unwilling participants in conversations about abortion.

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