Weekly Photo Challenge: Heritage

I don’t really have one.

Photo Challenge from May 17th.  Not sure why I am getting so bad about participating lately, these are good challenges.  It might be because to speak of my heritage I am uncomfortable because of all the secrets and lies that still exist about everything.

My mother always told us we were “mutts” when we asked “what we were.”  I never really thought about it or cared, now the media labels everyone and you have to wear your label proudly.  They’re nuts in my opinion.  No one should care what they are genetically but should all venture to be children of God, again in my opinion.  When we did a project for school for “geography” the teacher asked us all our nationalities.  I told her I didn’t know mine.  My mother told me to tell her I was an American and that’s all she needs to know.  Can you imagine a teacher asking all the kids this question in modern liberal America?  LMAO!

We are a mostly white family and most of my friends were mostly white as well.  When I think back to our neighborhoods, white basically, we were not welcome in them.  Not hated but shunned because we were different in oh so many ways.  There might be something different about the races and nationalities.  I know there is somewhat with certain tendencies you do see in certain people.  With my own children my oldest looked more Native American and acted it.  Very quiet and calm of nature.  Stoic in the true description, even to this day.  My other son born was fairer and louder and way more aggressive.  I thought of him as the “Aryan” and yes that is said to be funny.  They were different in looks and temperament.

My mother is such a strange person anyway and made cracks to me when I was older when she first told me about her dad, whose pictures I saw hidden as a teen, that were then taken and destroyed.  “Didn’t you know I was a “passer?”  I asked her what that was and she told me.  Didn’t phase me, still doesn’t but I learned one important thing in life.  It does not matter what you are, it only matters what other people think you are.

My mother said she was never allowed to see pictures of her dad, but when I described them she said that has to be him because of how people spoke of him.  He left when she was young and died in California of tuberculosis soon after his 30th birthday.  My grandmother, from Jewish ancestry that married into Christianity,  had a shotgun wedding as a teen to a dark man with a fro and she had hidden pictures of them together when they were young, teens.  I only recently found out that his mother, my great-grandmother could have had various children with different fathers and that she had lost two of her first babies to severe malnourishment or what they called marasmus on their death certificates.  Starvation due to extenuating circumstances of her husband always running off and they didn’t have welfare or social services at the start of the 20th century.  These are the circumstances that Welfare was originally designed for.

Supposedly both my dad’s parents were part Native American but who really knows anymore?  I don’t think of Gram Goldie or Grandfather Drew as my grandparents.  Met them a couple of times, they didn’t give a darn about any of us kids our entire lives.  I would love to get DNA testing but hear it’s not all that accurate plus expensive.  I really would love to do this if only to open yet another Pandora’s Box of unanswered questions to add to those swirling around in my head.

My heritage is an unGodly mix of secrets and adults to busy or selfish to care.  A recipe for disaster and destruction, a pattern that is far too common but explains why the world is in the state it is in.

 

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