A few years ago, they began creeping out of cupboards, or probably more likely rolltop desks. More than one began worrying about what the inlaws would say. Others greeted the results with interest and celebration.

The report was folded small and stuck in one of the tiny drawers in the desk that locked. The prodigious volume of genealogical effort – you know the one- he referred to it as seminal, was locked away. It now rested in the shadowed bookcase beyond eyes that prise out the question marks penciled in.
It wasn’t just that his great-great-grandfather wasn’t who the records said he was – he’d been nothing but a political hack anyway. Nor was it the six percent of American Indian nobody in the family knew about, maybe from the mysterious Tabitha.
No, it was the damming seven percent that proved him to be a mongrel that threatened his membership in the Mayflower Club and the Sons. In the old days, it would have been a brand on his forehead that banned him from polite society in his state. He took the damning report, walked to the fireplace, and burnt it.

On the other side of town:

Thomas laughed. He loved the newfound diversity: Europe, Africa, the Americas, and the Pacific. The twenty percent English, now that was a surprise! Maybe from the mysterious Tabitha? He could hardly wait to share with the rest of the family. They were going to be surprised at which famous American politician was in their genealogy.

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