My friend informed me that I have a rather special heritage. I never really thought about it, but I suppose I should remind myself (and therefore, my readers) of why I should be held in high regard, esteem, company, et al.
I am a descendant of the Tudors. That's right. Royalty.
The maternal line of my family has, for ages, set the standard for elitism. I can't help liking nice things, dammit. It's soaked in through centuries. Also: all the women in my family marry beneath them, in a Protestant guilt effort to dispel all the bad things we have been responsible for. It's a running joke. By now, our bloodline has been so watered down by healthy American males that we have lost many of our horrid recessive traits and have probably gotten better looking as the years went on. No matter. Michael and my father and my maternal grandfather are all wonderful representatives of the 'common' man. I do hope you know I being completely and utterly sarcastic. You don't? Well.
The most important ancestor I can claim is Bloody Mary. If you do nothing to read about her fascinating history, and her relation to Henry the 8th (I am, I am), then do read about her trial and execution. It shows how stubborn Scottish women can be, and it a wonderful ghost story to tell your children. It should shock them fairly well. (Three bloody whacks, resulting in the death of a dog and a good amount of blood sprayed absolutely everywhere! Plus, the sawing of a neck while Mary is still alive...) Anyway. My Tudor line does not die out with Mary, Queen of Scots, but continues on through the ages in bits and peices and lands with the Mayflower and the Revolution. It is true. My grandmother is a DAR. She went to a nice all girls' school in the twenties, and I was offered a legacy scholarship there, as well. I didn't go; I was focused on finding a blue collar grease monkey to take me to the prom.
My grandmother's family also owned the Beloit Ironworks. It was the first factory in the USA where workers demonstrated and got a credit union. This means absolutely nothing. I am positive that my great-great-grandfather had nothing good to say about the arrangement. I am, however, married to the son of a steel mill worker. Irony.
I am absolutely ashamed of much of my heritage. I was lucky enough to have the Protestant Guilt beat into my poor, horse-faced genes. On any given day, I'll be much happier to share with you the Willa Cather existence of my father's people--people of the grain and harvest, of the deadly North Dakota winters, of the depressive Germanic method in raising children. That's such an American heritage, I think, rather than this expansive genetic stew resulting in blonde hair and hyperextended joints. But in any case, I must try and channel this royal bearing more often. I am hoping it will assist me in my goal to take over the world and retire by forty.
Now, bow and worship me. I'm as royal as frickin' Princess Di.
