Growing up I had a “friend.” Friend in quotes because looking back, the relationship was far from a healthy one.
Anyway, this girl was half Italian and half Norwegian, and so over the top proud of that. Wanting to be connected to her, wanting to be liked, I wished so much that I was at least part Italian and Norwegian, too. My parents really didn’t know. “I think I remember some Norwegian, maybe?” That was not good enough for me. It wasn’t good enough for my friend, either.
Also, my adoptive father was half Italian, so I felt left out of my own family not being those things. I felt like an outcast. (If I, who am often mistaken for my adoptive parents’ biological child because of our resemblance, feel like an outcast, how much more must transracial and transcultural adoptees feel?)
Fast forward 40 years and decades of scientific advancement – spit in a test tube now and you can find out just “what you are” down to percentages. It turns out I’m 23% Norwegian! (and a touch Italian somewhere). And my ancestry addicted aunt has traced us back to Eric the Red.
TAKE THAT, mean snobby friend! 😉 I feel vindicated.
It’s a bitter, bitter-sweet victory though.