The View From A Branch Of My Family Tree
I cry at the sound of bagpipes. They’re pretty much the most cacophonic instrument around, so much so that they make a lot of people’s eyes water, but in my case, they bring tears of joy…or longing…or something else I can’t put my finger on. Years ago, at Hogmanay in Edinburgh, I heard a band of fifty bagpipes (some of them from Canada), and I thought my heart would burst from my rib cage and ooze Scottish pride all over the pavement. It’s been almost a century since anyone in my family lived in Scotland. I don’t drink whisky, I don’t eat haggis, and the thought of an itchy wool kilt makes me cringe. In every way that matters, I feel Canadian (and proudly so), but somewhere in my cells, there lingers a hint of the old country, and the squeak and squawk of a bagpipe makes it light up.
What is it about our genealogical roots that’s so fascinating? Why should our lives be coloured by the experiences of people from centuries ago, in another place, in very different circumstances? Why do we swoon to find out we’re genetically linked to someone important, be it a hero or a scoundrel? There are entire industries built on our desire to dig through the past, along with television shows and tourist destinations. Why, even after several lifetimes of change, do I still get misty over something as strange as the whine of bagpipes? Is this some sort of bizarre muscle memory, or a set of semi-dormant genes?
I wonder if our human compulsion to look behind us like this is what makes us different from other species. Animals show signs of using tools, having language, forming communities, even making art, just like we do. Do they also look around and think things like “Great grandpa monkey swung from that tree over there.” or “Long, long ago, we gazelles grazed in a field far, far away”? Does the existence of elephant graveyards suggest a recognition of those who have gone before? Do other species identify with and draw strength from their ancestors the way we do?
And what of the possibility of life on other planets? Do interstellar travellers tell their offspring about how life was back when they lived on planet X? Do they dig around their archives to find the name of the flying saucer that brought them where they are today?
For me, it used to be just about curiosity. I have an unusual family name that isn’t easily traced, and until I started digging, I didn’t know much about my people’s journey to Canada. Having names and dates, a general geography, made me feel more connected, somehow. It was nice to know.
These days, however, I scrounge for something bigger- for evidence of resilience. The record keepers of yore didn’t collect a ton of details about the trials my kin faced, the disappointments, the dangers, and the general fragility of life, but I’ve learned to read between the lines. It was hard for them. How could it not be? There were wars, disease, famine, difficult journeys, and untold losses. Human stories aren’t written without conflict, and those of my family were, I’m sure, no exception.
But here we are, with front row seats to our own vintage of awful. I find reassurance in the fact that those who came before me managed to make it through whatever awfulness presented itself to them at the time. I don’t know all the details of their lives, but I do know that they weren’t all sunshine and roses, and I know that I exist because they persisted. My ancestors managed to fumble over all of this without the aid of modern communication tools, medicine, or human rights laws.
Every cell in my body, every breath that I take is in some sense a result of them hanging in there while unspeakable things went on. I can hope that their survival didn’t hinge on doing wrong to others, but I suspect that sometimes it did. I try to gather all the chances they gave me, be thankful that I’m here at all to bear witness to the good, the bad, and the ugly of the modern world, and vow that I will try to do better, and not simply live through it.