23&ME AND THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS

France… that’s where almost 12% of my DNA calls home. In fact, despite the vast majority of my genetic material indicating centuries of holing up in West Yorkshire and London, that 12% strikes me as a clear indication of why Dijon mustard is my favourite condiment. Plain yellow hamburger mustard is, well, tasteless. I have always loved the French language, and I am more than a few years into my fluency quest. This 12% also means my American wife and American brother-in-law are both more genetically British than me, despite needing to trace their lineages back to the time of the Mayflower before they can find a permanent resident of Great Britain in their family tree.

This has all got me thinking about DNA and how it shapes who we are despite the environment in which we have lived a life. The Iowa Adoption Studies found that adoptees are significantly at risk for alcoholism if their biological parents were alcoholics, regardless of the adoptees’ exposure to alcohol while growing up. Is it possible DNA is our inescapable fate? Could our predilections, tastes, and habits be almost entirely predetermined? An interesting Christmas present from my sister – a 23&Me swab kit – has opened up a Pandora’s box. How much of what makes me tick has nothing at all to do with free will?

I recall my Yorkshire grandfather telling me that an ancestor of his mother’s – the Harrison family – had set out for British Columbia to find glory and who gave his name to numerous landmarks. There are three famous Harrisons of B.C. from the Victorian period. The one that fits the bill of family lore is the Reverend Charles Harrison, an Anglican missionary who hailed from the county next to Yorkshire… Lancashire. He translated parts of The Bible into the Haida language. It was when I saw West Yorkshire listed as the most prominent portion of my genetic results that I was reminded of this half-forgotten, half-imagined family history. Having always been fascinated by the Pacific Northwest of the Americas, I lived in B.C. for a year upon moving to Canada from London. I fell in love with Haida art after being exposed to it while hitchhiking across Vancouver Island and ending up in the surfing Mecca of Tofino. My wife is a lover of photography, and her tastes do not lean towards the iconic and stylistic carvings of the indigenous peoples of Western Canada. Neither does she have an appreciation for my collection of classic blue Wedgwood china memorabilia. A cardboard box that remains in the farthest corner of the closet is often a sign of compromise in a good marriage. Though, I am allowed a small piece of metal art that depicts an orca pod breaking the waves.

Could it be there is a part of Charles Harrison in me? Not just in the biological sense. If I could travel through time to meet him, would we recognise kindred spirits in one another? I am an Anglican, albeit the sort who shows up at the church come Christmas, Ash Wednesday, and Easter. Perhaps Charles found himself closest to God while traversing the Great Bear Rain Forest. And while there, in the wilds, did Charles encounter the whoops and tree knocks of the dreaded Gagíit – or Sasquatch – and think to himself, thank God there are mysteries still left in this world? The fortune Charles Harrison amassed in Canada was surely not of the temporal kind.

As for the French side of me, I do recall my mother’s father – of the Buckwell family – saying that his ancestors crossed the Channel with William the Conqueror. It dawned on me recently that my Gallic genes must surely explain my own deep attachment to Britain. For who could covet a land more than an invader and conqueror?

The Reverend Charles Harrison, his wife, and parishioners.