Who Says You Can't Go Home Again?

A couple days ago, the NY Times ran this piece on how black Americans are increasingly using advances in DNA testing to trace family lineages all the way back to Africa where specific regions and tribes of origin – to an extent - can be identified. The technique is far from refined at this point, but apparently it beats the hell out of spending twelve years of your life in musty library stacks reviewing plantation records and ship manifests, or wandering through the wilds of Africa in search of people “who kinda look like you.” Now, for the price of a couple hundred dollars, and a slight loss of tissue between your cheek and gum, you can establish a connection to the motherland.

In typically earnest NY Times fashion, the article details the benefits and limitations of the procedure, as well as the fairly predictable feelings it inspires in its participants: pride and relief at filling in the missing piece of their heritage, anger and remorse over the treatment of their ancestors, and so on. Out of all this, the most interesting anecdote, to my way of thinking, is the following:

“One African-American, upon confirming a match with a white man whose ancestors had owned his, told him he owed reparations and could start by paying for the test, said Bennett Greenspan, chief executive of Family Tree DNA, which offers tests for $129 and up.”

I can only imagine what the reaction was when the man answered the phone and the guy at the other end told him he owed reparations. But the fact that he added, “you can start by paying for the test” is priceless. Man (reaching for checkbook) “Of course. Will that be 129 bucks in 1855 dollars or 129 bucks in 2005 dollars? Oh, and by any chance do you accept Confederate money?”

I say screw the $129 bucks for DNA testing. Tonight I’m going to scan the white pages for anyone with the last name “Flint” and ring the number:

Me: “Hello, is this the Flint residence”?

Them: (with reticence): “Um, yes, it is.”

Me: “Are you white?”

Them: “What!?”

Me: “Sir, are you white, by any chance?”

Them: “Yes, I’m white!”

Me: “You owe me reparations and you can start by paying for this phone call.”

With 140 years of interest, I should be living high on the hog. I wonder what 40 acres and a mule goes for in San Francisco these days.