Borderless

This blog entry has been spinning in my head since Isabelle Delobel and Olivier Schoenfelder stepped out onto the ice in Vancouver for compulsory dance. I asked Mike, “Who is this?” (by which I meant, what country are these fine athletes representing?) and I offered, “France? They look French.”


The utterance of this gave me pause.


That’s borderline, if not completely, stereotyping territory I was chatting myself into. YIKES.

What does it mean to look “French”?

Part of me felt bad for saying such a thing.
Now that I have confided that, excuse me while I type with uncensored abandonment, possibly not P.C. nor P or C, and most likely to exclude other letters of the alphabet too, for that matter. :)



It’s pretty common for people to “place” another person’s heritage or nationality through appearances.

When I look at my husband, for example, I see his Danish ancestry. I also see clues of other ethnicities long concealed through the assortments of adoptions in his family tree.

(Maybe next time you see Mike,
you’d like to take a guess or two)

And me. What do I see when I look at myself?
Well. Oddly.

Nothing.

Essentially my pedigree breaks down into four European (surprised?) “mother” countries. None, aside from my pastey skin, leave a trace on my face.

Not only do people mispronounce my maiden name, they misplace it.

Italian? Greek? Hispanic?

No. No. No.

Probably doesn’t help my name is Angela. Sorry about that.
Very misleading.

After researching, whether general history or family history, you learn “French”, “German”, “etceteran” doesn’t mean, well, anything. Germany’s borders have been settled, invaded, drawn and redrawn.
Names tend to live longer than borders, and, often, bloodlines.
With that said,
I have been watching Who Do You Think You Are? on NBC. I can’t get pass the opening credits without crying. Mike thinks it is hilarious/endearing.
I’ll try to explain why I cry with as few words as possible: I’m happy.
More words? I’m happy to see people feel the way I have felt all my life. My earliest memories are asking my parents and grandparents about their childhoods. It made me content to learn that life existed before me, and I was a part of it. Most people won’t understand this concept until they have children- once they have a part of them, a tender part, alive outside and besides themselves. It is truly startling.

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints gives a name to the phenomenon that compels people to learn about their forebears. We call it the Spirit of Elijah. A desire of unity.

And it has no borders.