Childhood Memories: The Luck of the Irish

Years ago, when my brother was little, good things just seemed to happen to him. (He once won a Beetlejuice contest, and we all got a free trip to Hollywood, though my parents going hunting for celebrity headstones was a real downer).

I remember expecting to be picked up in a limousine, but an old man who reminded me of Alfred from the Batman show came for us in a Lincoln, holding up a sign that said Brooks. (Our name was Booker, which I never liked because kids would replace the k with a g.)

Yes, Kel (then Kelly) was lucky, and I got so sick of my parents saying he had “the luck of the Irish,” to which I would exclaim, “He’s not Irish!”

Years later, Mom and Dad would send their spit via to have their DNA tested, and as it turned out, he was Irish, but then, so was I.

I am so glad my mom got to do that before she passed away, even though Dad got on her nerves with all his lamenting that she didn’t have any Jewish blood (which he thought “prestigious”).

However, Dad was thrilled when he discovered he was one-third Scandinavian, or “Viking” (as he calls it). I’d considered getting him one of those horned helmets, though I could’ve sworn he was French, being so passive.

Although DNA tells us where we came from (or where our ancestors came from), what we’re made of, and sometimes, where we’ve been (outer space in Scott Kelly’s case, for example), it doesn’t tell us where we’re going.

That is the story we get to write.

One thought on “Childhood Memories: The Luck of the Irish

  1. Pingback: Summer Writing Mini-Workshop: Drawing from the Well | Sarah Lea Stories

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