Unlike so many Americans with African roots, Barack Obama is lucky to know which country his family hails from.  It’d be like knowing merely that you were European…  Italian?  Portugese.  Belgian?  Finnish! Scottish?  Not many of us would be comfortable with such vague information.

When I was in 5th grade, a relative of my father’s - perhaps a 2nd cousin, we were not at all a close family - sent us a request for information; she was doing a family genealogy. I was very intrigued, and offered to help her.  Sadly, she broke my heart by sending me a very condescending letter. What she didn’t know was that, 14 years later, I would solve the mystery that ended up stumping her.   At the time of publication, her volume left a mystery:  was the “John Harrington” on the neighboring lot indeed the father, the next link to the past?  At this point, due to a lack of paperwork proof, that strain of the Harrington tale “ended”.

For myself, I wondered why no one tried to start from the other end - to start where Harringtons started and see if they could find evidence bringing a John Harrington to that town in that time…

I forgot all about that thought until, at age 25, newly arrived in Ireland, my brand-new map in my hand, I became transfixed (without a thought in my head) with a little island off the coast of County Cork:  Bere Island. Nearly a week later, having gone to a music festival and traveled around a bit, I claimed Dublin as my own town.  Told a new friend about my neat and mysterious experience with Bere Island, to which he said, “Well sure, that’s where the Harringtons are!”  and proceeded to bring out his phone book, which actually included the professions of at least some of the listings.  The first one he showed me was (first name?) Harrington, ferryman. For a small island, there were lots of Harringtons.  I knew that, though there were lots of Harringtons in England, that my family was Irish.  Several visits to England had never brought any feeling of familiarity, had solved no personal mysteries. Discovering the Irish connection really did. (More about that later in a later post!)

It was like my cells recognized their own roots.  So….  Intuitive - or genetic?  Who cares, really?  It was a deeply confirming experience.  As far as I’m concerned, it’s like the question about the chicken and the egg.  It’s irrelevant really, which came first:  What’s important is the connection between them.  And that’s what you get when you know your roots.