DNA

A few years ago, my wife got me an Ancestry subscription.

She says it was so I could discover where I came from.

I know where I came from. Archbold Hospital.

I think she just wanted to make sure that she hadn’t reproduced with a flat-headed Neanderthal.

I don’t know if you have done one of these tests but they send you a bunch of instructions and a little glass vial. You’re supposed to spit into this little vial and then put it in the mail.

That didn’t sound real scientific to me. Forget all the stuff you see on Grey’s Anatomy or CSI where they use blood and various other bodily fluids to catch the killer. This was spit.

I didn’t have to swab my cheek or stick one of those plastic sword things up my nose and tickle my brain like they did when I got a COVID test.

I swear that the last time I got tested for the virus, the nurse stuck that thing so far up my nose that I had some brain damage.

I still can’t remember my home telephone number.

No, this test is a little more primitive. No swabs up the nose or scrubbed against your cheek. Nope, this one was high tech.

I just had to spit into the little glass vial, seal it up and mail it.

I was a little skeptical about how accurate this spit thing would be. I mean, what if I had Chinese for lunch? Would the test come back claiming that one of my ancestors was a Cantonese plumber?

Or if I happened to eat some collard greens and fatback for lunch, would they claim my ancestors were a bunch of dirt poor sharecroppers?

They were but I don’t need to be reminded of it.

I took the little vial from my packet and marveled at how small it was. It might be a little tough getting my spit in that little thing.

I was right.

In my first attempt, I dribbled spit all down my hand.

My second attempt wasn’t much better. I drooled on my shirt.

This was embarrassing. Maybe my ancestors were all Neanderthals. I’m sure if you went back in time and asked one of my caveman relatives to spit into a tiny vial, he would probably look at you and say, “Gronk!” which means “you want me to spit in that little thing” in Neanderthalese.

Somehow I managed to get some spit in the vial on my third attempt. Thank goodness, too, because it was starting to get a little tough to work up enough spit.

I sealed up my little vial of dry spit in the envelope and mailed it off.
Now all I had to do was wait. And wonder.

Would they discover that one of my ancestors was one of the great kings of Persia or maybe I was the great great great great grandson of one of our nation’s founding fathers?

It would be cool to be able to tell people that I am a direct descendant of Thomas Jefferson.

The results of the test came back a few weeks later.

I was not a descendant of a great king or even a mediocre founding father. It didn’t have to be Thomas Jefferson but maybe I could be related to somebody like Gouverneur Morris.

He was the guy who came up with the phrase ‘We the People’ that kicks off the Constitution.

I opened up the envelope. There was no mention of Jefferson or even that Morris guy.

Instead of the ancestry people telling me about my famous relatives, it told me what I already knew.

My people came from France and Germany, with a little Irish tossed in. If any of them were famous, my test didn’t mention it.

I was hoping for more information than just what countries my distant relatives inhabited. Maybe the revelation that I was 75th in line to the British throne. Or maybe the surprising discovery that one of my relatives invented Velcro or two-sided tape or something like that.

Nope. My ancestors were a clan of under achievers.

No famous scientists, Nobel Prize winners or even a D-List celebrity like Steven Seagall. Certainly there had to be somebody rich or famous in my lineage.

Nope. I am apparently the descendant of a long line of poor mediocre Europeans.

They did nothing spectacular in their lives. Well, except creating me.

Now scientists say that they can take a little of my DNA and tell me if I am going to develop prostate cancer or a cold sore.

I’m not so sure how I feel about that. Do I really want to know that I will die at the age of 97 from a nasty case of anal cancer?

Nah, that’s okay, doc. I would
prefer that my eventual demise be a surprise.

Not a surprise like “Oh, look! That meteorite is heading straight for us!”
No, something more like my doctor calling me in to his office to tell me I have less than a week to live. And would I please clear up my bill before I meet the Grim Reaper.

It’s been a while since I got my test back and I still get emails from the Ancestry people telling me they have found one of my long-lost relatives.

I rarely open them. I don’t want to find out one of my relatives is a one-legged pool cleaner in Las Vegas. I’m already depressed that I’m not related to Princess Diana. Why do I need to know that my relatives are just a bunch of ordinary people who never signed the Constitution, never was President of the United States or even graduated high school.

No, when you guys find out that I have famous relatives like Barbra Streisand or that guy who yells ‘Score!’ during all those foreign soccer games, give me a call.

Until then, if anyone asks me what my Ancestry test showed, I’m going to just tell them that Adolf Hitler is my uncle, on my mother’s side, twice removed.

Hey, if I can’t be famous, at least I can be notorious.