I Am Cantankerous But I Come By It Honestly

Everyone is curious about who they are and where they came from. Because he is adopted, the little man's curiosity is perhaps stronger than most. He will sit for hours staring at the picture book full of images of himself as a baby being held by foster moms and various orphanage workers. “You’re my favorite mom” he once told me, but then, after a brief thought he added, “but, to be fair, I don’t really know any of the others.”

It was this same curiosity, and a few comments from kids at school, that prompted the little man’s recent question, “Am I from the Good Korea or Bad Korea?” As the little man and I had a long conversation about good and bad, I realized, I’ve spent most of my life trying to figure this out for myself. Am I good or bad, and what does that even mean?

In 7th grade, the girl took a personality test at school and wanted me to take it too. I didn’t really want to but she was unrelenting, “Are you animated, adventurous, analytical, or adaptable?” “Huh” I answered uncertainly, “I guess I’m analytical?”

She continued, “Are you convincing, competitive, considerate, or controlled?” I didn’t think any of those words really describe me so I said, “What about cantankerous? Is that on there? Because I’d like to pick ‘cantankerous.’” “No,” she said, “And what is ‘cantankerous’ anyway?” I shook my head, gave her a disapproving look, and jokingly said, “And you want to be a writer…”

It was obvious I wasn’t going to cooperate so she gave up and told me where she fell on the personality test instead. She was a Choleric and she took this new found label very seriously, “This means I am confident, tenacious, self-reliant and resourceful. But at the same time I can be bossy, unaffectionate, and domineering. Oh and apparently I lord things over people. I didn’t even know that about myself,” she added very matter-of-factly.

I convinced her that she, in fact, did not lord things over people and told her that she probably shouldn’t take this test so seriously.

Figuring out who you are is not easy, especially when you’re a kid. I grew up in Utah and was inundated with other people’s stories about their pioneer heritage. I didn’t have a pioneer heritage and at times this left me feeling like I wasn’t as good a Mormon as those who did. Every Pioneer Day I sat in primary and jealously listened to people tell stories about their ancestors’ blisters, hunger, and loss of life and limb as they crossed the plains. All the while I pouted because my dad was a convert who was born in Missouruh. That’s right — I just said, “Missour-uh.” Having been born in Missouri, my dad always says Missour-uh with the schwa and not Missour-ee. So naturally I grew up saying it the same way. When people asked me about it I would say, “That is how my dad pronounces it and he is actually from Missouruh, so I think he would know.” Usually that was the end of it. But eventually I learned the ugly truth behind this particular pronunciation.

One day I was eating lunch at the BYU museum cafe with a friend. My friend invited another friend (a cute little bobble-headed sophomore) to sit with us. I introduced myself and I asked her where she was from. She told me she was from Missour-ee. I was confused, “You know my dad is from Missour-uh and he always says Missour-uh, so if you’re from Missour-uh shouldn’t you say Missour-uh? Not Missour-ee?” She snorted. “Yeah. If you’re white trash.” I had to bite my lip to stop myself from calling her a word that starts with a “b” and ends with an “itch.” I couldn’t wait to get home and tell my dad the horrible thing this girl had said about him and his family. So I hurried home, burst into the kitchen and with much disdain, told my story to my mom and dad. Upon conclusion, I could tell my mom was appropriately offended, but my dad seemed unphased. I turned to my dad and exclaimed, “Dad?! She totally called all our relatives white trash!” He looked at me and said, “And?” I was dumbfounded. “Well,” he continued, “It’s true. All of them were white trash. Every. Single. ONE.” At which point my mom protested, “Hey! Speak for yourself! I had relatives with white collar jobs!” “Look,” he said indignantly, “just because the chicken inspector wore a white coat doesn’t mean he had a white collar job.”

At this point I realized I needed to learn more about my ancestry, so the next semester I took an intro to genealogy class. The first day of class the teacher asked all of us to stand and list one famous person we were related to. Of course there were the token people who were either related to Charlemagne (but really who isn’t?) or had already traced their genealogy back to Adam (though I suspect they took a liberty or two). But much to my dismay most of the class was related to either a prophet or famous pioneer.

Perhaps I was overwhelmingly frustrated at being forced to not only listen to, but participate in what I saw as a “let’s share things no one else really cares about” activity. Or perhaps I was just feeling particularly cantankerous, but when it came to be my turn I stood up and said, “Seeing as how this is an ‘intro to genealogy class’ I feel I can safely admit I don’t really know much about my ancestors. However, I do know that my dad’s relatives are from Missouruh.” Pronounced proudly with the white trash ‘uh,’ “I’m positive my relatives were NOT pioneers. In fact, I’m pretty sure they were murderers and thieves. All of which leads me to deduce that my relatives were probably chasing all of your relatives out of the state with pitchforks and torches. So, in this way, I like to think my ancestors were paramount in the church’s westward migration.” Insert brief dramatic pause, “And that is about as famous as I’m gonna get.”

Over the years I have learned that, pioneers or not, I come from a long line of amazing and fascinating people. My mom once said, “If my Kentucky relatives weren’t in the court records, I probably wouldn’t have a record of them at all.” Because the truth is my ancestors sold liquor to minors, stole hogs, sold their vote and got women pregnant that they never intended to marry. They murdered and were murdered in return, but there are other stories too.

My fourth great-grandfather, Robert Jones, was born in 1810. He was the son of a very wealthy slaveholder. He was privately educated, became a schoolteacher, and preached part time at the local Baptist church. Sometime before his 39th birthday he began to speak out against slavery and became a follower of Reverend John Fee. In fact, Reverend Fee tells a story of how Robert was once beaten when they were traveling together. Because of Robert’s abolitionist stand, his father wrote him out of his will. As a 63 year old man, in 1873, he was fined $13.00 (about $250 today) for carrying a concealed weapon. Did I mention this all happened in Kentucky? Let that sink in for a minute. He was fined…for carrying a concealed weapon… in the 1800s… in Kentucky. Robert died in 1880 and though he had been born very wealthy, he died never having owned more than $200.00 worth of taxable property.

I’m a liberal Mormon female. As such, I have a lot of thoughts and opinions that, while not outside the teachings of the Church, do not always mesh with the culture around me. Robert Jones was persecuted for his beliefs but continued to vocalize his convictions. Now, when I find myself sitting quietly in the corner not voicing my opinion, I try to find the courage, like Robert, to stand up and defend what I think is right.

Samuel Isaacs was another outspoken ancestor of mine. In 1826 he was asked to take leave of his congregation at the Clover Bottom Baptist Church for a time because he had said something blasphemous. Before leaving he stood up in front of the congregation, turned around, dropped trou, and announced, “I have as good a rump and butt as ever swam in the river.”

This story really leaves me wanting. I want to know what upsetting thing he said that resulted in banishment. I also want to know why, though I’m sure we’ve all felt the inclination at some point (no, just me?), he actually showed his bare derriere to an entire congregation. Perhaps he wanted them all to know what they would be missing? Whatever the reason Samuel had moxy and that is admirable.

Of course, there are plenty of strong women in my ancestry also. In 1824 (a time when women weren’t usually legally assertive and had few rights) my ancestor Amelia Clements had her husband sign a prenuptial agreement. It stated:

William Hardin will give up any rights to the estate of Amelia Clement he might otherwise receive through marriage in favor of the heirs of her body. It is also understood that if they have any disagreements he will submit to her decisions about her property and her children [they were children from a previous marriage] during her lifetime and to the decisions of her brother in law, William Oldham, after her death.

I see Amelia as a strong woman who, I imagine, had a desire to raise strong children. Because of their experiences with Amelia, her children, raised their own children in a way they may not have without her influence. I see my own mother as a strong woman who is also quirky and outspoken. Perhaps this trait was passed down to her from generation to generation.

I’m not sure who I love more: Amelia, who I see as an early suffragette; Robert who, like St. Francis of Assisi, stood up to his father and lost a fortune because of it; or Samuel, who mooned an entire congregation of Baptists. Well, okay… I think it might be Samuel.

In the process of getting to know my ancestors, I realized that however strong or tenuous my connection to a so-called pioneer heritage, I do have my own stories. While these stories don’t make me a good or a better Mormon, they do help me figure out who I am. These stories have become a part of who I am and how I was raised.

Unlike me, my husband, Mr., is from solid pioneer stock. I am not exaggerating when I say, the Daughters of the Utah Pioneers Museum is littered with artifacts and stories relating to his history. I love to pass the stories of my amazing ancestors down to my children, so obviously, I believe my children deserve to have Mr.’s stories also.

Not too long ago I acquired a picture that has been in Mr.’s family forever. It is of the capstone being placed on the Salt Lake City Temple. It was taken by Charles Savage in 1892 and I love it. I think it originally belonged to Mr.’s great grandfather, George, and since his family arrived in Salt Lake valley with the early pioneers I assume (but can not say for sure) it was purchased shortly after it was taken.

I can not tell you how much I love this picture. I like to imagine that George was there when they placed the capstone and is somewhere in the picture. Maybe he is one of the men sitting on the telephone wire, or the roof of the nearby building. I imagine him meeting Charles Savage, looking at this picture and saying “Hey! That’s me! I’m gonna have to buy that!” Though according to my dramaturg friend he would have actually said, “Egads! That would be me you’ve captured in this photograph. I must purchase it!”

I love that my photograph is over 120 years old and is still in beautiful condition. I love that it has a description and date written in Charles Savage’s own hand. But most of all I love that this picture is a piece of church history combined with family history.

When I first learned of Mr.’s pioneer heritage I was relieved to think that my children would have stories to share on Pioneer Day. I didn’t want them to have the distaste toward 24th of July the way I did. However, while my children’s pioneer heritage is of value, the gun toting, rump showing ancestors I bring to the table aren’t too shabby either. I have my family stories and my husband has his. My children are fortunate enough to own them all.

After taking that personality test, the girl was making the mistake (that many of us do early on in life) of taking the results as gospel truth. She let these results define her much like I let my lack of pioneer ancestry define me. In his own quest for an identity our family stories will give the little man roots. I hope all my children will use the stories of their ancestors like roadmaps to guide them and give them perspective on their journey. I want them to learn, like I have, not to make our ancestors into something they weren’t. I want them to see the value in who these people were, faults and all.

In turn, I record my own stories and leave them as evidence of who I am, faults and all. I like to think that some day one of my descendants will read one of my stories, laugh, and think, “Wow! Grandma’s life was crazy!” Though according to my dramaturg friend they might actually say, “Totes cray cray lols!!!!!”