Risin Above Your Raising

I first read the phrase in a biography about Hank Williams. He was raised in the back country of Alabama in the 1930s. Hank was raised poor, uneducated and in a caste system that understood its place in American society. He and his kind knew where they stood among the classes. Any inkling or hankering one might have about moving out of that socio-economic strait jacket was quickly dismissed by those around them.

Nothing much has changed since then. In small towns everywhere, the elders still grouse about ‘the cities’ as if that deep dark metropolis was some far off distant black hole where young people go to be swallowed up by the evils of modern day society. The hometown lament usually goes something like: “They go off to get an education then return thinking they’re ‘much better and smarter than the rest of us.”

That age-old lament doesn’t have to be open, flagrant, or oppressive. It can and often is a subtle reminder that there are those who have and then there are the rest of us. It’s understood that the twain shall never meet, cross or intermix. Dog whistles are cloaked in terms such as ‘sticking with your own kind, thinking you’re better than the rest of us, and who do you think you are?’

It belies the truth that in America as elsewhere around the world, we live in a class society. As much as people would like to pretend that there are no classes in this country, the fact remains that many people see themselves in one class of some sort; be it middle class, upper middle class or upper class. Any talk about moving up recognizes the challenge to this reality of our modern day society.

My own family background proves fertile to this point. It was rural, agrarian and steeped in the traditions of the Catholic Faith. My Mother, grandparents and relatives all held to the same dictum; that they were put on earth with a role to play and that role had been spelled out long before they came along. Their parents, grandparents and other elders of the tribe had followed the same pathway to adulthood. They were all expected to do the same. There was never any question about what role they would play in their small, sheltered existence here on earth.

Those few isolated examples of town folk who left for the ‘cities’ were seldom addressed unless they returned and sought refuge in the simpler way of life. Others who left and never returned were seldom if ever talked about. It was if they never existed in the first place. There was and still exists to some extent a fear among the elders that evolution among the younger set is their own abandonment. It’s as if those who never left home envy and fear those who ventured forth outside of their comfort zone. Thus the dismissive term: ‘Risin above your raising.’

The reality is that we all are building on the basic structure our elders imparted to us. We are standing on their accomplishments so that we might see even farther into the distance and discover things they were only able to imagine.

What the term masks is the exploration of potential. I tried to examine that principle in one of my first novels ‘Love in the A Shau.’ I continued that exploration of class mobility with my ‘Debris’ trilogy. It’s a message I try to impart on my grandchildren whenever I can.

Many of us find something we are reasonably good at where we can earn a living and we leave it at that. But that isn’t potential. That is simply today’s reality which doesn’t take us to the next level; whatever that might be. There is tremendous potential in all of us but we must first allow ourselves the freedom to try to find it even if it means failing all or most of the time. Nothing ventured seals the outcome even before you start. Continued effort raises the hopes that success is only another effort away.

Moving beyond what was expected of us as young people, no matter our present age, offers hope for reaching that potential and the satisfaction of knowing we did ‘rise above our raising.’

DNA and Me

My DNA results are back and it’s left me as clueless as before. A few years ago Sharon spent considerable time working on our respective ancestries. She was able to trace her elders back to Germany and a few strains for me back to France. She felt satisfied with her findings and hopes to do more research in the future.

My new DNA results from Ancestry.com (ancestryDNA) did spread out my forefathers further along than France where Sharon had uncovered some rumblings of a past for me. My new Ancestry DNA found that 58% of my relatives came from Europe West (defined as Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium and Luxembourg). Further along, another 19% came from the Iberian Peninsula and finally 18% from Great Britain. If I was hoping for old real estate or land holdings in France still in my name, it wasn’t there.

I guess if you go back far enough one can probably find traces of their past beyond recorded time. At least there seemed to be no traces of Neanderthal in my past. What did intrigue me was under the title of ‘Migrations.’ That was listed as Saint Lawrence River French Settlers. Ever the dramatist that seemed like a great back water for me to follow. Who cares about relatives coming over in a steamer trunk or over the Bearings Straits, I had French fur traders, Indian fighters and adventurers to stir up my imagination.

In the past, I’ve never been a big fan of Genealogy or family trees. I tend to dismiss those infamous tall tales handed down through the ranks of relatives about the ‘good old days.’ The past is the past and can’t be changed. Or so I thought.

Perhaps this laissez-faire attitude comes from my own upbringing. Being raised in a single parent household we never recognized the absence of my father. So it was hardly an incentive for me to care about my own ancestry. Today we’d probably categorize ours as a dysfunctional family. But it didn’t seem that way to my sister and me at the time. We were poor (maybe lower middle class is a better moniker) but so were many of our friends. We had a place to call home and went to good schools so little else mattered.

Therefore, it was with only mild interest that I watched my wife begin her search for our respective family trees. Sharon very quickly became immersed in the search and began tabulating ancestors on both sides of our family. Thus far she has researched more than 152 individuals. She was able to go back to the 1600s in Germany. The oldest person she’s found was Pierre Helle who was born in 1676. France, Germany, and Canada seem to be the favorite countries of origin.

As she clicked along, some fascinating facts began to emerge.

For example, there has always been a ‘George’ Schumacher for at least eight generations back on her side of the family. Her descendants came from a small village in Germany, no surprise there. One distant relative served in the Illinois Infantry Regiment, Company E, Unit 31.

My mother’s roots followed a much similar lineage. Her grandparents also go back to another part of Germany. There was a grandfather who fought in the Civil War. He went in as a private and came out the same. But he did survive. Our assumption is that he probably got his farmland in Sterns County from the government for his time in the service. That seemed to happen to a lot of returning veterans. Most of my distant relatives come from Sterns County or nearby.

Another relative was rumored to have had thirty kids although that hasn’t been confirmed. Now that’s a shame because it would have been a reality TV series, guaranteed.

The real mystery begins with my father; no surprise there. As far back as I can remember there was never any mention of his ever being alive. Growing up, there were no pictures of him in our home nor any references to him at extended family gatherings. It was as if he never existed.

I was too young to understand the significance of his absence in my life. The only comment I ever got from my Aunts was that it was OK not having a father and (hint hint) I was probably better off that way. My Uncles had nothing to say…about anything.

Growing up, I always sensed a kind of animosity on my aunt’s part toward my sister and me. I could never figure that one out. Now with age and this research it’s become a little clearer. Doesn’t hurt any less but it’s more explainable. As time passed, I became aware of real families with a father and a mother…just like in the chapter books at school.

Photo Credit: Jerry Hoffman

Back in the early fifties on Randolph Avenue, it was just the three of us: my mother, my sister, and I. We were each dealing with life on different levels. My sister has a lot of memories of that period growing up in Saint Paul. I have practically none. I’m not sure what that says or means but it remains a fact.

I vaguely remembered that my father’s lineage was French Canadian. Beyond that… little else. He had been married once before. There was a lot of confusion about whether or not there had been a divorce or annulment with his first marriage. He married my mother but we’re not sure when. The reasons for their separation and subsequent divorce had been clouded by denial, mis-statements, and confusion. About the time my Mother decided to come clean, the fog of aging and miles traveled made any clear recollection of times past just a guessing game on her part.

My Parents' Wedding Day

Thirteen years after my mother’s death, Sharon finally began making some headway on un-wrapping the mystery of my father. It’s been one long and arduous journey fraught with poor records, incorrect dates, family lies, and purposeful misstatements to protect the innocent…or so they thought.

Stumbling back in time, we found out that the core of my ancestors settled in Quebec, Canada. Their descendants came from France. Now I’m inclined to imagine them as French settlers or fur traders plying the waters of Canada in their long boats.

One of my grandfathers was a ‘wagon loader.’ Laugh as you might, today he’d probably be working for UPS in logistics and making a nice income. Back in my college years, I used to load and unload trucks in the dead of winter. Now I know where those deft skills came from.

The French nuns at the little French school in downtown Saint Paul had a huge impact on my life even if I didn’t know it at the time. When the school was built back in the 1873, it was meant for the children of second and third generation French settlers.

By the time my sister and I started school there, it was a cosmopolitan smorgasbord of ethnic groups. There were Irish, Italian, German, Spanish and oriental students. Almost all of them lived along the fringe of the downtown loop. Unlike all of our white counterparts where we lived in Highland Park, it made for some interesting playground banter.

Turns out, I love Cajun music and French cinema; especially romantic comedies. I love the gentility and flow of the French language. I loved Paris two summers ago and want to return there soon. Something French must have rubbed off on me. I tried to explain that in a past blog entitled A Catholic Education.

It turns out there was a critical junction or fork in my ancestral road. The road split and one branch was named Lacombe and the other LaTulippe. The plot of flowers was on my grandmother’s side. I never knew her but she must have been a wise woman to have chosen Lacombe. At least I didn’t have to defend myself in grade school from some bully mocking my name.

Another interesting fact was the evolution of the name LaComb. If you go far enough back there used to be an ‘e’ at the end of Lacombe. At another point, the ‘c’ became capitalized.

I was surprised to see on my birth certificate that my name was spelled: Dennis. When I asked my mother why it had been changed she had a simple explanation. She said that in first grade, the French nuns informed her that the proper spelling of my name was Denis. Mom knew better than to mess with the French nuns.

That’s OK; I’ve grown quite accustomed to Denis…and besides it’s not too flowery.

Seeds out of the Ground

During one of their heart-to-heart sessions recently, Sharon’s mother asked Sharon if she was ever embarrassed by her rural upbringing. I thought it a strange question since Sharon has always embraced her life growing up on the farm. Anyone who knows Sharon understands that her rural heritage brings nothing but pride to her. It seemed a strange question to me until I realized that not all children share the same pride that Sharon does in being a farmer’s child. Some of them move away from their roots, physically and mentally, only to realize later that the green grass on the horizon isn’t always so emerald. Funny how sometimes in our youth we can’t wait to shed the cloak of our pedigree only to end up embracing it as we get older.

Still some folks don’t see it that way. This came to mind recently when a dear colleague of mine decided to leave town. We’d worked together in television for over 35 years before she decided to move from Minnesota to points west. I’m going to miss her a lot. She was a confidant and able translator of most things female. She helped me understand the feminine psychic and was invaluable in helping me craft female characters for my novels. Now her husband has tired of Minnesota winters and decided to pack it in. They’re going to put down roots elsewhere. I certainly wish her well and will be curious how it goes for her.

Dorm for Mass General Hospital, Boston MA

I knew another woman who left the Twin Cities a long time ago. She was born and raised in a small Minnesota town. In college she couldn’t wait to escape the confines of her college campus for a career out east in Boston. Even Saint Paul and Minneapolis were too small for her worldly ambitions. While still an East Coast ex-pat today, she now proudly claims her small town upbringing on her Facebook page, has old classmates as Facebook friends and even flew back for her 50^th high school class reunion.

Maryland Center for Public Broadcasting

The draw of ‘back home’ is strange and mysterious and yet ever present for many of us. In 1977, I was working at the Maryland Center for Public Broadcasting. It was, without a doubt, one of the premier public television stations in the country at the time. I had a great job, a nice house, wonderful friends there and a son just born. Yet I couldn’t wait to return to my Minnesota roots after an absence of five years. Go figure.

I’ve commented in past blogs on my amazement how important one’s upbringing is to so many people. While stationed at the Presidio of San Francisco I would sit around the barracks and listen to my bunk mates lament their being away from their home turf.

One missed being awaken each morning by the L train shaking him out of his bed. Another couldn’t wait to get back to the south side of Chicago just so he could hang out on his favorite street corner again. Our confederate Johnny Reb still didn’t trust Yankees even in the Golden State. He couldn’t wait to get back to Mississippi where they got things ‘right.’

Even with a great part-time job working at an art theater, easy living on base, a great MOS in journalism and adventures many a weekend in that city by the bay, I still missed my Minnesota roots. I wasn’t ready to return home just then but I knew I would once my thirst for new experiences and adventures had subsided.

Aerial view of Palm Springs, CA

Palm Springs is like a modern-day version of the fur trappers rendezvous. In Palm Springs everyone is from someplace else. I’m always taken aback when asked where I’m from and when I say Minnesota the other party may occasionally respond ‘Min-es-o-ta’ in their best Fargo imitation. I then calmly respond “No, I said Minnesota” and nothing more because it’s usually in polite company. Those are words uttered by the untraveled and uninitiated. Most of us got it a long time ago.

I’ve also referenced the interesting twists and turns of friendships in this regional melting pot in another blog entitled Like Snowflakes come and gone. Like many other resort towns such as Key West and Las Vegas a lot of the residents are transients in passing. They spend the winters away from home but like homing pigeons always leave in the spring.

For many, the siren call of our youth is a powerful magnet always calling us back home.