“Today you are You, that is truer than true.
There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”

–Dr. Seuss (1904–1991; American Children’s author and illustrator who used humor and rhyme to convey timeless lessons on individuality, kindness, and resilience; the quote is from his 1959 book Happy Birthday to You!)

How totally presumptuous of me to assume that you think you know who I am. But if you’re one of my faithful followers–or if you’re just an occasional reader–you probably know more about me than you care to know or than I care for you to know. Be that as it may, whatever you’ve read in my posts is all true, even if exaggerated occasionally, hoping to make you think or laugh. And, yes, sometimes I tell the truth slant so that I don’t razzle dazzle you with reality:

Tell all the truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind — (Emily Dickinson)

The reality is this: I know who I am. But growing up as a kid, my siblings tried to teasingly convince me otherwise by telling me that I was adopted.

“You don’t look like us.”

“You don’t act like us.”

“You don’t talk like us.”

“You don’t walk like us.”

“Yep. You’re adopted. Brentford Lee Murdock.”

Imagine that. Making me doubt my own genetics. The nerve! How dare they tell me that I was adopted in one breath, and then without batting an eye, tell me in the next breath what they insisted was my real surname: Murdock! Well, their teasing never bothered me one bit, not one slightest chromosome. The way they walked, the way they talked, the way they acted, and the way they looked, I was glad to know that they were no kin of mine. None. Not one gene whatsoever. OMG! Did I just say that? How utterly nasty of me, if not downright, vicious. Well. They teased me then. I tease them now. Touché.

Candidly, I think they were just downright jealous because I was not only the youngest, but I was also the only one born in a hospital, one named after a Saint, no less. They were born in a coal-camp house. Not me. I was fancy-schmancy from birth, and, unlike theirs, my birth certificate is fancy, too. My goodness. I pulled it out just a few minutes ago. It’s gorgeous, gloatingly so. 8 inches x 12 inches. Parchment. Real, feel-good parchment. Enclosed in a smooth, velvety envelope. It even has my cute little newborn footprints on the back, labeled Left and Right. Beside my left footprint is my mother’s left thumb print. Beside my right footprint is my mother’s right thumbprint.

Adopted? Right. I could have extracted that certificate in a moment’s notice, proving my identity to my teasing sibs, because I knew exactly where my parents kept it. I never bothered. Some things just aren’t worth the bother, you know. When you know who you are, you know who you are. And believe me: I am who I am, and I have always known who I am, and I’m sticking with it. Besides, time was on my side and proved it for me without my having to do one single, solitary thing. As I got older and older, and balder and balder, I started to look more and more like my father. Today, I could nearly pass for his twin when he was my age. But so be it. I still don’t act like them. I still don’t talk like them. So you can rest assured: whenever it’s convenient for me to do so–in times of family disputes and in times of family disagreements–I simply look at them ever so innocently and I remind them, ever so teasingly:

“You are not going to drag me into your petty little family battles.

“I’ll have absolutely no part of it whatsoever. No part whatsoever.

“Have you forgotten? I haven’t. I’m adopted. I’m a Murdock.”

Without a doubt, I’ve always known how to use being adopted to my advantage.

However, it always struck me as rather unusual that I exhibit the exact same physical traits as my adoptive parents and my adoptive siblings.

My mother always boasted of her English ancestry, and when she really wanted to appear hoity-toity, she chronicled her French Huguenot ancestry. A close examination shows all of us–the whole family, including me as the adoptee–having fair complexion, blue eyes, and brown hair, consistent with my mother’s lineage as well as my father’s since he was also English mixed with German and Dutch. His father was exceedingly tall–6′ 4″–which he attributed to his being part German. His mother, on the other hand, was exceedingly short–4′ 8″–which he attributed to her being Dutch. Say whaaat? Unless I’m mistaken, the Neanderthals Netherlands boasts some of the tallest people in the world. Be that as it may, two of my sisters are short, and I’m certain that they blame their Grandma Kendrick.

Personally, as an outsider, I’m not certain that I give any more credence to all that malarkey than I do their ridiculous claim that I’m adopted. Besides, it doesn’t matter. They’re no kin of mine whatsoever. But with their mixed lineage–oh, I forgot to factor in Irish on one side or the other or both–they could have given me any number of surnames since 75-80% of Americans around the time that I was born came from the same stock. Aside from Murdock, my last name could just as easily have been Butterworth, McGinnis, LaFleur, or Freitag. Or maybe even Vanderpoop. I’ll have to try those on, one by one, with Brentford Lee affixed to the front, before I decide whether any one of them sounds better or affords more advantages than Brentford Lee Murdock.

This is all such fun that maybe I’ll stick with being adopted and be done with my identity once and forever.

But first I have to tell you what I’ve gone and done to celebrate my 77th birthday on November 20. I can’t believe I did it, but I did! And I can’t believe that I’m telling you what I did, but I am. I trust you. I know that you won’t tell another living soul. I decided that once and for all, I would prove to the clan that I got stuck with that I AM adopted. I’ll show them that they need to be careful about what they say because what’s spoken becomes reality.

Anyway, I ordered myself one of those highfalutin DNA tests to prove who I am! It shipped out from Salt Lake City. Then, it stopped in Bridgeport, NJ. I know all the details because I felt compelled to track its journey since, in a way, its journey will be tracking mine. Tracking is part of the fun of ordering anything online, including a kit that might tell me who I am. I confess, though. Waiting for it to arrive in Edinburg made me so antsy that I felt like my pants were on fire!

At last, it arrived, and I opened it ever so carefully. I followed the detailed directions ever so precisely. I wanted to make sure that someone somewhere had enough saliva from my swabbed cheeks so that they could sequence every strand and map every marker of my identity.

I am pleased to say that I swabbed the good swab, I sent my whoever-I-am-DNA back to Salt Lake City, and I have been notified that it’s better than good! My sample met the “high standards” required for DNA testing. Oh. My. I love being validated in high places.

The next steps are fantabulous:

● Extract the genetic information from my sample. Ouch! I hope that doesn’t hurt.

● Isolate, purify, and copy my DNA. Please say it ain’t so. Please say it ain’t so. One Brentford Lee Mudock at a time is quite enough for this world.

● Transform my DNA into a blueprint for discovery. Go for it! Find my bluebloods and make them come out of their closets, even if they don’t want to come out.

● Dig deep into my ancestral roots that span across continents. My God! I thought I was done with weeding.

● Weave a family tree. Woo hoo! While they’re at it, maybe they’ll weave me a hairpiece, too.

● Update me as my landscape unfolds. Hmmm. I guess these DNA folks like gardening as much as I do.

In about eight weeks, I’ll get a report with all of that information and more. Voila! My jeans genes will be transparent for all to see.

Here’s where it starts to get funny. Chances are beyond good that I will never explore my DNA report when it arrives.

It’s not that I’m afraid of what I might find out. I’m not. And I really don’t think that the results would change anything anyway. All right. Perhaps it might validate the outlandish claim that one of my no-kin-of-mine-whatsoever relatives made about being descended from John the Baptist. For all I know about them, they might be descended from Queen Elizabeth I, Brian Boru, Rembrandt, or even John Calvin himself! La-di-da. But why would I care? Like they’ve always reminded me, “You’re’ adopted.” And like I’ve always retorted with all the civility they don’t deserve, “You’re no kin of mine. Not one chromo, Bro.”

Besides. I know who I am, and I am anchored strong to my identity.

I’m a vital part of the universe, rooted in Nature and connected to Her. I draw lessons from everything in Nature, seeing the world around me as resilient metaphors for growth, transformation, and stability in life. Nothing can ever take that away.

I’m dedicated to personal growth and to declaring and maintaining my authenticity. I have always been the real thing, and I will continue to be. I embrace self-examination and transformation, and I am open to change. Nothing can take that away.

I’m creative in all that I do, whether it’s in writing, cooking, or gardening. I bring a thoughtful, personal touch to all that I do, and I like to think that I can weave philosophical insights into anything and see truths in everything. Nothing can take that away.

I’m comfortable with both tradition and innovation. I value the old and the new, and I am committed to learning from the past while seeing potential in the future. Nothing can take that away.

I’m strengthened by community and my connections with others. Although I am introspective, I cherish my relationships. I celebrate ideas, value honesty, empathy, and the bonds that tie me to all others. Nothing can take that away.

I’m passionate about intellectual curiosity and lifelong learning. I believe that education transforms lives, and I believe that an education is the best investment that anyone can ever make in themselves or in others. Nothing can take that away.

I’m anchored to the world around me. While I am at home right here on my mountaintop sanctuary in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, I am confident that my appreciation of place would make me feel equally at home anywhere in the world. What I find, I’ll make mine. Nothing can take that away.

I’m an integral part of a spiritual tradition that is open and deep, that is inclusive, that respects universal truths, and that leads me to see my interconnectedness with all living things. I kneel before the wisdom of the ages. Nothing can take that away.

Above all else, I’m a man of heart—generous in spirit, passionate in purpose, compassionate by nature, and unwaveringly true to who I am, with just enough mischief to keep life, and those around me, delightfully off-balance. Nothing can take that away.

Nothing–absolutely nothing–that I know now or that I might come to know in the future–can ever undo my identity anchors. That’s why my DNA report will remain sealed, as far as I know right now.

It does occur to me, however, that one thing might push me over the edge enough to make me want to know my genetic past.

The next time that I have a sibling spat, I might open the report so that I can prove to them–and them only–that I am none other than the illustrious and inimitable Brentford Lee McGinnis LaFleur Kendrick Freitag Murdock Vanderpoop.