A peculiar type of privilege I acknowledge is the ability to trace my family line back 10 generations or more.

The Taylors (father’s family) appear to have emigrated to this continent almost 380 years ago: my 9th great grandfather Robert Taylor (also my father’s name) traveled from Devon, England in 1646 landed in Massachusetts and died 2 years later in Connecticut. His descendants eventually moved to western New York and Pennsylvania, where many of the Taylors still live (around Bradford, PA). My paternal grandmother’s family settled in the same area in the mid-19th century. The Daltons escaped the Irish potato famine to establish farms in the rocky rises of the Allegheny valley.

The other side of my family has called the coastal region of northeastern North Carolina home for centuries. Tristram Hardison, my mother’s 7th paternal grandfather, emigrated from the York, England area in the 1650s, arriving in Maine and starting his family there. His grandson Jasper traveled down the coast as a teenager, and established a new family settlement in the Albemarle Sound region of North Carolina in the early 18th century. My mother’s maternal line, the Bass family, I just discovered, has an even longer history in that region. Captain John William Basse (my 10th great-grandfather), born in London, England in 1616, was brought to the Jamestown Settlement area by his father when he was 3 years old. A native tribal rebellion, when John was only 6, killed many of the European settlers in that region while his parents were traveling back to England on business, and he survived as an orphan adopted by the Nansemond indigenous tribe. He eventually married a Nansemond tribal leader’s daughter, and their progeny now populates much of south-eastern North America. A well-written account of this amazing story, penned by a distant cousin, follows:

https://southernrootsandbranches.wordpress.com/2013/08/03/john-basse-a-story-of-the-new-world/

My curiosity around this family history began many years ago, inspired by a desire to address my experience of family trauma. In my genealogical research I gathered work done by other relatives and, over many years, have charted an extensive map of relationships on Ancestry.com ( https://www.ancestry.com/family-tree/tree/17940327?cfpid=581378941 ). Though incomplete and with many errors I’m still correcting, this tree has helped me reflect on the stories that give me my foundation. And I know that having access to these stories carries immense privilege. I know of many dear friends whose ancestors were forcibly brought to this continent, and thus do not have the same paper trial I have access to. (A disturbing fact of my family story: many of my ancestors recorded wealth included ownership of enslaved people of African descent). And others have their lineage cloaked in sealed adoption records. So I am grateful that many strong branches of my tree are available to explore.

My journey through these generations has helped to give context to present-day trauma. I have found that families share pain in paths influenced by both nature and nurture. We escaped persecution (political / religious), we sought wealth, we faced war and violence, we endured poverty; my family survived. But not without scars that our DNA transferred forward generationally, and not without imbedded behaviors that have been imprinted upon each member.

So today, I offer reverence and respect to a special survivor: my 10th great-grandfather John Basse – who came to this continent as an infant on his mother’s hip, who was raised by indigenous North Americans, who married a tribal princess, and whose descendants have endured for over 400 years on this continent.

Scars and strength.

 

We should have a great fewer disputes in the world if words were taken for what they are, the signs of our ideas only, and not for things themselves. – John Locke (1632 – 1704; English philosopher, physician, and influential Enlightenment thinker, from “An Essay Concerning Human Understanding”)

I noticed this afternoon that my hand felt less encumbered than usual.  The three rings that I usually wear were removed this morning as I constructed our Sunday morning breakfast – sticky biscuit dough doesn’t agree with these bands on my fingers.  When I noticed that these meaningful symbols were absent I quickly rushed back to the kitchen counter where I stowed them, replacing them in their proper spots.

The thick titanium band, the earliest of the rings in my possession, is on my right hand’s middle finger.  It symbolizes the commitment my now husband and I covenanted with one another years before our union could be legalized in marriage.  Let’s call it an engagement ring.

A white gold wedding band is on my left hand’s ring finger, the traditional place for the symbol of union and fidelity with another.  A third, thinner gold band circles the index finger of the same hand (it seems to fit best there).  This ring has no connection to my relationship to my husband; it is the replacement band my father purchased for himself after losing the original placed on his hand at his own wedding.

The loss of my father’s first ring is part of a long, complicated (and sad) family narrative.  But, in the lingering wake of dad’s death several years ago, my mother recently decided I should take possession of this small replacement band.

Three rings, three simple bands, three separate stories of relationships.

I’m thinking of other symbols as I enter this third week of Advent.  Symbols of gathering light and unity are embedded in the advent wreath that I just placed in the hospital chapel’s vestibule.  This display is flanked by a Kwanzaa candelabra on one side, and a nativity scene on the other.  A menorah is just across the small gathering space (the only place I could find and electrical outlet!).  They are all symbols of this season that have some connection to cultural and religious ideals.

With this diversity of religious displays I hoped each year that the “war on Christmas” would be averted.  Yet when I dropped off a small LED menorah at the information desk I was met with the defensive comments of a volunteer.  She wanted to make sure that this decoration didn’t tip the scales toward secularism.  She was somewhat reassured that the multitude of Christmas trees, Santas, red and green garland, and yes, at least one manger scene, would give her Christianity the upper hand.  She seemed satisfied that Christmas’ pervasive symbols would balance out the electric blue lights of the annual Jewish observance.

With credit to John Locke, I know that my rings are symbols of relationships (mine and my father’s) — and not the relationships themselves.  And the trees, candles, colors, songs that erupt every December— they all point to truths and deeper meanings.  But all these symbols seem destined to be pawns in our struggle for understanding.

It isn’t Dad’s replacement ring on my hand that contains meaning.  Meaning is found in the story of loss and recovery, and in the relationships between father/husband, mother/wife, and son that are woven into the family’s story.  Similarly, December’s decorative wars aren’t really about the number of mangers vs. menorahs.  It is about deeply imbedded human experiences.  It is my volunteer colleague feeling the threat of change and irrelevance (likely stoking her “war on Christmas” reaction).  And it is about the religious experience of having Mystery, Wonder, and Community break into our lives.

I’m enjoying having a complicated relationship narrative displayed on my fingers.  And I’m enjoying the complicated cacophony of the chapel vestibule display.  I only hope my information desk colleague can share the same joy in the dissonance.