A Trace of My Ancestors

When I was a child I was often entertained by the silly games played by my mother and her brother, who lived with us. They were reenactments of games they played as children, based on events and the people around them. One game was cowboys and Indians in which they were the Indians. “It’s in our blood,” they said. Really? I wanted to believe them. I did believe them. Then I grew up and wasn’t so sure. As an adult  I found that asking them, or one of their sisters, prompted a spontaneous lapse into the game that left me confused.

Sometimes I have believed and I passed the story on to my children, who loved the idea, but mostly I have been skeptical. Then recently I have been looking up my family tree and discovered a great-great-grandmother whose name was Mahala. An online search of the name showed that it was popular in Reformation era England, but more importantly, it was common among native American women in the late 19th century. I had to know, so I took an ethnicity-based DNA test, and guess what? It’s only a trace, but it’s the only non-European trace I have and I’m holding on to it. I have Native American ancestors! How cool is that?