Showcase: Do You Know Your Ancestry? + No One Is Merely Shadow + Summer Of 1985

Edited By Molly Ovenden

It is very human to desire a connection to our ancestors, to know from whom and where we come. Even for entertainment, we crave origin stories of comic book heroes and villains. Not everything about our pasts fills us with nostalgic, dreamy, good ol’ days thoughts. But looking back at our ancestors and the impact of those who grew up with us helps us understand ourselves.

For some, knowing our fathers or grandfathers fills us with joy – for others, sadness or anger. Others might never have had the chance to know them. I want to invite you to explore father figures in your past through the words of three writers.

Our first piece by Vic Howard considers many stages of a family history research journey and deciphering DNA that makes us human. I have Swedish heritage from both my parents, but I’ve not done tests. This piece has sparked curiosity to explore my own roots.

Do You Know Your Ancestry

I researched my family history many years ago. I didn’t go far back in time, because one soon ends up at the point where every other male is called Samuel and every other female is a Sarah; and being born without a silver spoon, most are either agricultural labourers (Ag Labs) or domestic servants.

Being born as the youngest of the youngest of a large family that broke up as WWII started and, with my grandfather being buried on my first birthday, there were many questions I needed answers to. It was an interesting exercise and gave me several lifelong friends I found I was related to but whom my own family had no idea existed. Remarkably, several older cousins reacted as though I was being too inquisitive. Instead of seeing my quest as a journey of personal discovery, they felt it was  rather more as a search through wardrobes looking for skeletons. It was that sort of family.

I have now reached the age bingo callers call “two fat ladies,” and find I am now the oldest survivor. There’s a lot to be said for dying young and famous, rather than wrinkled and skint, but that’s life. If, by the age of 38, you haven’t written nine symphonies, a classic bestseller or won a Nobel Prize, you end up like the rest of us, waiting for inspiration.

Oh for a Muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention!

I could definitely use one of those.

I did my Family History Research (FHR) long before the internet and the many helpful and expensive websites that have appeared to make research easy but less fun. I then forgot all about FHR for many years but gradually became aware of something called DNA research, or deoxyribonucleic acid to those who like long words.

My first impression was that having the test was likely to lead to being accused of a cold case murder or at least finding myself related to the murderer. I have a bad memory but am pretty sure that I am not guilty. I am also pretty sure the milkman was not my father and the likelihood of me having any undiscovered brothers or sisters was also low; despite my father having spent four war years in Glasgow.

DNA research gradually became popular among the FHR community and there were discoveries of babies having been exchanged in the maternity unit; of long lost, and parted identical twins being reunited in old age and of discoveries of adoption long kept secret. Not to mention the discovery that some fathers were not who they thought they were.

Progress was also made in extracting DNA from ancient samples. Mummies whose remains had been stored and forgotten in museums suddenly became attractive again. I decided it was time to do something about discovering my own origins. There were several companies offering the service, so I chose one at random, received a test kit, returned my sample and waited.

To look at, I am quite similar to my mother in facial shape and colouring. My father and sister both had fair skin and, in my sister’s case, beautiful red hair that was thought to stem from our Irish grandmother. Several cousins and uncles also had red hair and freckles. As I got older, I often thought I looked in some old photos remarkably like Vladimir Kryuchkov’s wife. Could I perhaps have Slavic blood? Mother and her parents came from near King’s Lynn and the ports by the Wash. Mmmm!

My paternal grandfather’s brothers and sisters were all born in a caravan as it wandered south through East Anglia. Their father had been a tinker or pot-mender, which I thought slightly better than an Ag Lab, but where the Howard roots lay, I have no idea.  Howard is one of the most prominent noble family names in England, and the Earl Marshal of England, (the Duke of Norfolk since 1483) who organises coronations and funerals of royalty, happens to be a Howard. Illusions of grandeur? I was once wandering around a Jacobean House in north Norfolk when I was mistaken for Judge Beasley. Perhaps I should search the attic for hidden ermine and coronets…

The DNA results eventually turned up, and I found I was really quite English 26%, with a large bit of Irish 16.3%, Scottish and Welsh 38%, and traces of Britany, Dutch, Danish, French and German. Not a jot of Slavic in me. The Scottish/Welsh needs clarifying but MyHeritage wants more money for that information and I’m not THAT curious!

The archaeologist DNA researchers discovered 84 strains of DNA that no longer exist in the world today, due to isolation. There are still traces of Neanderthal DNA in modern humans: about 2% in those Homo Sapiens who had wandered out of Africa, but no Neanderthal DNA has been found in Africa. Neanderthals originated outside of Africa and interbred with Homo Sapiens who were settled in Europe.

The discussion as to whether Homo Sapiens and Neanderthals were separate species is ongoing, due to the fact that interbreeding seems to have been so common. Eventually, however, Homo Sapiens surpassed Neanderthal abilities, despite having a smaller brain and the Neanderthals died out after having survived for several hundred thousand years.

Homo Sapiens is now in the process of creating its superior replacement in the form of Artificial Intelligence. Will that be the end of DNA?

(c) Vic Howard, 2026 

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In spite of research, our fullest origin stories may remain cloaked in mystery. While it’s true that nature and literal DNA have much to answer for with regard to who we become, the next piece considers nurture and our experiences. Andrea Cunha invites us to look at where we have been, who has (or, has not) been present and the role of forgiveness.

No One Is Merely Shadow

April mornings aren’t quite so grey anymore; there’s more light, more colour, and warmth, however bashful. I walk the streets of the UK and my mind wanders back to Brazil. Time doesn’t stand still here, it’s always in motion, but spring is showing its face: yellow flowers are popping up everywhere, and trees cloaked in white or pink adorn the paths. It’s not like Brazil… But there is beauty nonetheless.

Then, a simple, almost inevitable thought strikes me: I left Brazil, but Brazil never left me.

Amidst this scenery, a memory surfaces. Someone from my past. It’s curious how some connections feel so intense at the start, almost effortless and perfect. But time, time always reveals the truth.

When we are let down, we tend to rub out the good qualities and shine a light only on the flaws. As if the other person ceased to be whole. But no one is just light or just shadow. We all carry both sides.

And it makes me wonder: do we choose who we are? Or does life with its absences, its aches, its crooked paths, choose for us?

If someone lacked structure, care, a good example –  does it  justify their failings? Or does it merely explain them?

I remember my father’s words: “Happiness isn’t a constant; it’s merely a state of mind. It’s here today. Tomorrow, perhaps not.”

We all carry something. A void. An old hurt. A frustration that can shape who we become. But what does truly define us and, what we do with it?

There are those who become bitter. There are those who wound the world, trying to give back what they received. There are those who fall silent and carry it all in secret. And there are those who, despite being weary, still try. They try to be better, try to start over, try to find some balance… Perhaps even that elusive happiness.

And so, I go back to that person.

Yesterday, what I felt was anger. But today, perhaps spring has touched something inside me. I’ve started to look at their story through a different lens.

A childhood marked by absence. No father present. No mother’s nurture. A life of scarcity, of limitations, of missed opportunities.

And when he finally could choose, he tried to live out everything he never had. He wanted to feel valued. He wanted to belong. He wanted to exist intensely.

But, in the middle of it all, he lost his way. In the excesses, the impulsive choices, the drifting away from everything that actually mattered.

Even so, he has his virtues too.

But nowadays, hardly anyone sees that. Everyone sees only his mistakes.

And I ask myself: is that fair?

Yes, mistakes must be remembered, so we don’t repeat what destroys us. But does that wipe out everything else?

I still believe it doesn’t.

Perhaps not everyone deserves endless chances. But I do believe every human being deserves, at the very least, to be seen as a whole.

And in the end, I choose to move on. Forgive? Perhaps. But judge? Not any more.

(c) Andrea Cunha, 2026

Connect: Linked In @andrea-souza-da-cunha

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Sometimes memories hold us tightly, preventing us from remembering the good, fun, lightheartedness of the days of yore. I wonder if there’s  someone you might choose to forgive so you, like Andrea’s narrator, can move on, too?

Our third piece is a poem. It made me smile, brining back memories of my dad’s favourite summer drink – Budweiser and tomato juice. Johannah Simon paints a vivid picture of reminiscing a child’s relationship with Dad.

Summer Of 1985

summer-scorched hands finding a frozen pewter beer stein
hidden in the freezer’s arctic terrain
moving to the fridge to find my next quarry
spying the six-pack of Old Style buried under bundles of sweetcorn
cornsilk tassels tickle my hands as I grab a single can
tilting the mug for an expert pour
not a drop claimed by the counter
sucking a little foam off the top so it doesn’t slosh
ferrying the beer from the house to the backyard
terrycloth romper roughly rubbing against chaffed thighs
struggling to run in flipflops to the garden
not a drop claimed by the lawn
Dad takes a break from weeding
gives me the first real sip as my reward
tastes better than the foam
bites better than Tab
better than Shirly Temples
beer in his hand, he’s relaxed
we squint at one another under the relentless sun
laugh about summer squash and snow peas
he asks me what I’m reading this summer
asks if I’ve read his favorite, Count of Monte Cristo
lying, I say no, hungry to continue the conversation
he shares tiny fragments of the plot from his memory
while he talks, I sip his attention
tastes better than the beer

(c) Johannah Simon, 2026

Connect: Instagram: JohannahCanWrite,  BlueSky: @Johannah Website: https://thewritingtype.com

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I have found myself staring off as I read these pieces, remembering: my dad’s mantra to remember the good; family choosing to forgive, letting ‘water run under the bridge.’ It’s fascinating to ponder who lived before us. Someday, we might be pondered by those who come after us. In our third Nostalgic Showcase, I look forward to continuing this conversation with you.

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