After two years of working with genealogical DNA, in May of 2018 I got the first ‘really good’ match for my father, a first cousin on his paternal line. It didn’t take long to pop the many previously unassigned matches into one ‘pot’ and, quick as that, I had the answer I’d been seeking. For many years I’d suspected that my father was not the biological son of either of my grandmother’s two husbands and now I had the  proof. Over time, I was able to build a large tree for my biological paternal grandfather, a tree that included family lines in Suffolk and Middlesex and Devon. Names like Boyden and Frowde and Hollett and Goymer became familiar to me. In a clinical sort of way.

This month I’ve been conducting a clean up of my family tree, correcting minor errors and adding a few new faces. And it occurs to me that while learning the facts of my biological roots is satisfying to my detective soul, it does not make a bit of difference to my understanding and appreciation of family. Although I am not a Gent by DNA, I am by a lifetime of being part of that clan. Their names and places and occupations are known to me in a way that the Boydens never will be. Is it that nature versus nurture argument? Genetic inheritance and biological disposition as against the influence of external factors like exposure and experience and learning?

I think so.