Alright, so all of you know that I’m pretty fascinated by technology. Some of it is for the better, some of it for the worse. For years I’ve been straddling the fence as to which category the now ubiquitous DNA test falls into. I didn’t want to give up a sample, although I’ve been curious for years about my background. It seems that a lot of Yanks have this curiosity, because many of us have <zero> idea where our ancestors come from, although a family name can be a strong hint.
But still, I didn’t want to give up a sample. It struck me as weird.
Well, a couple of weeks ago I saw a Black Friday ad for a discounted DNA kit. I glanced at it and moved on, but the idea stayed in my head. I was curious, I had an itch. But the sample…
And then I remembered. In 1994 I was ordered to give a genetic sample to Uncle Sam, I was one of the first to do so. How did I forget about that?
The government already had my kit on file! So what if I signed up for a testing service, seriously? The man had me down cold, anyway.
And if one of my family members was a serial killer or something? OK, I thought. They can fry.
I ordered the kit, spat in the bottle and sent it in. Within ten days I had my results.
For decades I’ve listened to my family members talking about certain relatives, and a subject that always entered discussion was my mom’s Grandma, a mixed Native woman. What percentage, the family always wondered, were us great-grandkids? Oral history said 1/16.
Well, as you can see above, the answer probably is 1/16, due to odd percentages from genetic recombination, etc.
The riddle is the Spanish. Where the hell did that come from? Scandinavian? Seriously?
So, I must say that the service did not disappoint. I am as mixed as Dixie the Dog, a purebred, no-bullshit American Mutt.
Technological wonders that can be considered mundane. Not to me, though.
They are still miracles, albeit minor ones.