Roots: Racines: Origins

Part of who were are is where we came from. We can see the rivers of familiarity run through our children and grandchildren, in mannerisms, body shapes, eyes and smiles. They say ‘Oh he has my Dad’s build’ or ‘ she’s the spitting image of ’. Whether it’s a compliment or becomes an unwelcome insecurity is in the eye of the beholder. We may not see it. The journey of our blood from generation to generation is a mysterious one.

Our grandfather had bright red hair. He was aptly nicknamed ‘Red’. His hair came with milk white skin and ice blue eyes, sensitive to the sun and heat, a shade-lover. He married my grandmother, a Venetian muse, with her fine bone structure, slight frame and black curly hair. Her father was very dark, a piano player in music halls. He used to blacken his eyebrows before he performed. My sister carries the red flame. She is more a beautiful auburn. Some of my cousins came out with freckles, strawberry-blond hair and sea-coloured eyes. My brother is brunette with a ginger beard. There is no end to the variegations of how the fiery flame flickers through the family.

I am naturally dark, like a black foal. I have red tints in my hair when the sun shines on it. That was as much as I got. My daughter is as fair as a daisy. She sports green eyes and golden blond hair down to her waist. Her father’s genes managed to pull a magic trick. People stare when they see us together, genuinely surprised. They question, eyebrows raised, “Is she your daughter? Where did she get her colouring?”

Genealogy is now more easily trackable. People have DNA tests to find out exactly what they have rollicking and rolling around in their veins. There’s a desire to understand the texture of what we are made of. Apparently humans as we know them turned up about 150 thousand years ago. Each generation lasted about 20 years with the exception of recent history. This gives us approximately 7,500 generations to the present-day you. That’s a lot of opportunity for mythical, cultural, blood in-fusion.

Our family tree grows from a co-mingling of English, French and central Asian roots. My blood stirs in me often. Especially when a native speaks French in a deep baritone voice like amber, I listen to Vanessa Paradis, or step foot in the mountains. Sun-drenched family holidays at my grandparents’ house in the south of France are richly imprinted. Olive trees, picnicking on pebble beaches, scents of lavender and pine, meaningful conversation, passionate music, herbalism, philosophy and deep flavoursome food like most cultural heritage cannot really be translated. It’s where souls meet. It’s also where I read a huge amount of books. My love of literature was truly fed and watered. Graham Greene ‘ My Family and Other Animals’ and ‘The Charmed Circle’ by Dorothea J. Snow were highlights. I munched through the series of the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I lived in wonder. Books and stories lived and breathed through our holidays, lingering in our imaginations through the days and nights. My daughter now has the same love.

Image by Danielle Akehurst