Henry Louis Gates, Jr. has released an ancestral deluge. The
prolific Harvard professor’s pastime of probing into slavery’s past has
unleashed a floodgate of copycat genealogy shows, web sites, and DNA testing facilities,
all in the name of “finding your roots”, in other words, “who’s the daddy of
your daddy’s daddy’s daddy?” While I
enjoy the dramatic buildup of these superbly produced programs, I am dismayed
by this new fascination with the past.
Once only “regular” people had their roots traced, now celebrities
“discover” their humble or exalted beginnings in the U.S. or in some humble
village oceans away. People with Southern roots seem surprised that slavery was
a big part of their past. Others are amazed to find that their immigrant or
slave ancestors endured unimaginable hardships only to die in poverty or
obscurity. Sharing in the disappointing aspirations of these long dead
ancestors presumably brings “closure”, but to what?
Digging up the well-guarded secrets of our predecessors is
the new and acceptable way of tomb raiding, for information far less valuable
than most people think. It was once considered impolite to answer back your
parents or question your grandparents too closely about their personal lives-
now it’s en vogue. It will soon be passé not to know who your 8th
great-grandfather used to buy butter from.
Death, in my view, was the final threshold. If nothing else,
you could at least expect to take your pent up attitudes, hopes, and dreams to
the great beyond. The grave was the one place you could expect to have your
darkest fears and most absurd behaviors protected- that’s what Death does - hold
you and your secrets for eternity. The acronym R.I.P. will soon stand for Ripe
for Indiscreet Probing.
But now, thanks to insatiable curiosity or perhaps boredom
or insecurity, flocks of individuals are recklessly hoisting up information
without thought as to what the purpose of withholding that info actually was. Remember
Pandora’s Box.
I feel for the 15th century forebear who had that
illegitimate child, thinking that within a few decades the scandal would be
forgotten, only to now have news of their indiscretion blasted across the globe
for millions to witness.
But then I am amazed at the meticulous record keeping of medieval
churches and 19th century immigrant records. Why are we still
hanging on to those records anyway? Was the intention to forever link us to our
roots? Or that one day the prying eyes of any stranger could piece together our
ancestry at will? It seems to me that most people fleeing their native
countries wouldn’t willingly want to be traced back anywhere.
I can’t help but muse that all the time spent traveling to
far away continents finding distant cousins might be better spent treating
estranged local relatives to a “reconciliation” barbeque or helping some kid
with no living family get to college.
Questioning the wisdom of this ancestor fever may seem like
sour grapes, but no less so than discovering a hole filled with money in your
backyard. In every great adventure flick, every treasure find is always
followed by an indescribable terror.
I am perplexed and dismayed by this assault on the past.
It’s a portal to worlds that we can’t possibly understand. If we have
difficulty understanding the mentality of the 1950’s, how can we presume to
probe the mind of someone dead for centuries?
I, for one, have no real desire to experience some mediocre
“aha” moment after sifting through moth eaten diaries only to find out some
relative of mine from centuries past shared my disdain for licorice: (slaps
hand to forehead “Ohhh, so that’s why I hate licorice!”)
Let sleeping dogs lie. Let well enough alone. Let the dead
bury the dead. What’s done is done. If
it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
The past is in the
tomb, tomorrow’s in the womb, that’s why today is called the Present. J
