My DNA tests shed light on why I could never Electric Slide or jump rope Double Dutch

By Regina Lynch-Hudson

I come from a diverse dichotomy of people ¯a combination of the oppressed and the oppressor ¯a complex tapestry of red, brown, white faces. From the Middle Passage to the Trail of Tears we are a paradoxical blend of the human cargo that our European forefathers accumulated and packed onto ships, and herded like cattle to make the journey to Oklahoma … our family-tree branches ending in obscurity.

It’s unsettling to fathom how so much history was robbed, records destroyed, families separated, names wrongly recorded ¯ leaving us barely eye water to cry with. For all African Americans it’s a painful chronology of a hidden heritage — yet, it’s said that to get to where you are going you have to understand where you came from.

In any family, compiling history is a task requiring two life times –and a daunting plight when records are nonexistent. Tracing a black family tree back more than three or four generations is an intimidating project ¯ due to historical, and even inner-family challenges that one will frequently encounter. Successful research requires cooperation from European Americans with the same surname -- an equation that almost always yields denial. When one is a part of a “lost” people whose identity has been robbed –oftentimes, harboring “family secrets” lends some temporary escape from reliving past shame. Some self-ordained family scholars and historians pompously challenge accuracy of information compiled by other family members. Others shackled in their own chains of selfishness guard photos close to their bosom ¯ like buried treasure — stored in trunks to deteriorate and die … just as the histories of our ancestors faded away. Many who reach out to families to trace ancestry, find that perceived value of a photo increases if no one else in the family has a copy. Yet others experience a dysfunctional sense of power or domination by keeping images and information ¯ data that can halt research. Thus, we, the fragile, wounded offspring of an insecure legacy, must accept as much blame as our oppressors — for interrupting flow of information. “If it wasn’t nice to listen to, they’d squelch it,” says my great-aunt Sarah Irene Perkins, the oldest living relative on my mother’s side of the family.

Most of us wade -knee deep in ancestral exploration, but will not dive in full-force because we’re not prepared to face the haunting reality of the brutal truth —when it is unleashed.

For years my family has toyed and tugged at unraveling our mystery. As a publicist who has penned success stories for masses of high achievers and nationally known icons – chronicling the untold stories of my ancestors became vital to me. The euphoria of the project was that it would allow me to humanize ancestors who were the “second-class” of our society — passed over and discriminated against – due to economic despair, parentage, and other status or caste systems that deem one “low man on the totem pole.” In the end, perhaps it would grant me the ability to forgive ‘my’ blue-eyed kinfolk, whose ignorance motivated them to demoralize my ancestors ¯ robbing them of freedom, stripping them of dignity, and instilling a skin-color divide amongst African Americans.

In many ways, reveling in the rituals and rhythms of ancestral research is a spiritual journey — one that heightens rationality. First, one must be willing to sidestep centuries of cultural conditioning that undermines ability to bind with our biological past ¯ detaching us from who we are as a whole.

My story affects 35-million African Americans in the country today — a race of people who live behind a one-dimensional mask that society and the media has molded for us.

The U.S. government and media moves within a narrow spectrum that extends from “one drop of black blood makes someone black” ¯ as if to signify a contamination of sorts. Does one drop of salt in a body of water make it salt water?

Today, genetic DNA testing tilts the established racial hierarchy on its head ¯ allowing African Americans to find out not only where they came from, but their percentage and origin of bloodline. This process, in helping us take an in-depth look of ourselves, forces our oppressors — the media, government, employers — to take a closer look at an ethnicity of people conveniently classified as “black” — recanting societal ideas about racial identity.

Ancestral Genetic DNA testing allows us all to establish a clear picture of our origins.
The process starts with collecting DNA by rubbing a swab along the inside of the cheek. That sample is sent to a genetic testing lab where results are determined. Depending upon choice of lab the process takes six to eight weeks. By tracing one’s "DNA," your direct maternal and paternal ancestry is revealed. The two forms of DNA, passed on in a family from generation to generation ¯ your "birthrights" —include genetic markers on the Y chromosome, passed on by fathers, and mitochondrial DNA, passed on by mothers. Other ethnicity DNA tests reveal overall genetic makeup or ancestral percentages from the following groups: Africans, Europeans, East Asians, and Native Americans.

In my own family, members taking the Genetic DNA testing ranged in age from 44-97, and included my brother, a maternal great-aunt, a maternal uncle, my father, and a paternal great-aunt. As a people that were commonly considered “mulatto” or “mixed blood”, for the most part, my generation carries a driver’s license that states the politically correct term “Black.”

During the 1700s many Scotch-Irish and German immigrants arrived in America ¯settling parts of Pennsylvania, Virginia, and the Carolinas. Nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Western North Carolina ¯ my hometown of Black Mountain was for years, part of the tribal land of the Cherokee Nation.

The families in settlement — irrevocably meshed—oftentimes cousins marrying cousins, not always intentionally, but more so because Slave Masters fathered children by so many black women that the lines of kinship became blurred and impossible to trace. It was a madcap fathering of children —oftentimes from the loins of unwilling slaves, and other times, perhaps compliance led way to special favors or a position in the Master’s “Big House”. Because African slaves and their descendents intermixed with Native Americans in nearby Cherokee, North Carolina — lines of race were further blurred. Due to inaccuracy of early census records in documentation of race, oftentimes ancestors who were tri-racial (White, Cherokee Indian and Black) were listed as being “colored” or “mulatto”. Likewise, ancestors of color were reported as being White – if they looked it. Hence, like most “black” families, the Stepps, Paynes , Burnettes and Lynchs (my ancestors) become one tangled web … impossible to unravel with 100% accuracy … yet, all intertwined in the rural enclave of Black Mountain, North Carolina.

In researching my own heritage, I made some shocking and disheartening discoveries as I turned to modern technology to peel away at the layers of our family history.

My startling DNA test results shed clarity on why I could never dance the electric slide or jump rope Double Dutch. To my surprise, my results revealed that I am 63% European and 37% Sub-Saharan African.

Despite being viscously taunted as a child by kids in the neighborhood (called “high yellow”, “redbone”, and having my long braids pulled) I categorize myself as Black. I’ve endured the same injustices and discriminations as every other African American; only, I encountered it from whites, as well as blacks.

Most likely I belong to Haplogroup U5a1, a lineage most frequent in Europe, according to my mitochondrial DNA test results. Yet, like Halle Berry, Mariah Carey, and Jasmine Guy, I submit to the “one drop rule” — I am a sista. Notwithstanding European lineage, in every competitive arena of my life ¯ in the workforce, on modeling assignments as a young adult, and current competition for contracts — I’ve been deemed simply ‘black.’

My brother, who resembles the reincarnation of an Arab Sheik, revealed findings of 53% European and 47% Sub-Saharan African blood. (Note: There can be variance among siblings. Lots of people assume that the DNA we inherit from both our father and mother blends together ¯ like mixing a red liquid with a white liquid to yield pink. But genetic inheritance works differently. We inherit DNA from both parents. We get one set of the 23 chromosomes from our mothers and we get the matching set of 23 from our fathers. It is random which chromosome of each of their own pairs a mother and father pass on to each child; which is why siblings are not exact clones of one another.)

My father’s test results, similar to my brother’s, showed him to be 51% Sub-Saharan African and 49% European. Others tested were tri-racial. My 97-year old paternal great-aunt’s results showed 76% Sub-Saharan African, 16% European, and 8% Native American. My maternal uncle’s DNA results revealed that he is 48% European, 43% Sub-Saharan African and 9% Native American. An 84-year old maternal great-aunt living in Oklahoma revealed test results of 52% Sub-Saharan African, 33% European, and 15% Native American. By my generation, any trace elements of Native American blood was washed out, or the percentage so low that it was not computed. (Below 3% Native American is within the margin where it may not be detectable.)

According to American Demographics, 113 million Americans have begun to trace their roots, making genealogy the second most popular hobby in the country ¯after gardening.
Using genetic DNA testing, civil rights leader Andrew Young was able to trace his maternal lineage to present-day Sierra Leone and the Mende ethnic group. TV talk-show host Oprah Winfrey’s roots pointed to the Zulu tribe of South Africa — a place where Oprah says she always felt at home.

And that’s what genetic DNA testing is about ¯ finding your way home.

Many of us look into the mirror and are unsure about from whence we came — or who came before us. Defined by the color of our skin, we judge ourselves and each other, by the same standard set forth by our oppressors.

Perhaps my cousin Vera Perkins said it best when she wrote, “my American heritage is not red, not black, not white, but a combination of all. When racial hatred is overcome, we will no longer march to the distant drums of Africa, or to the bagpipes of Scotland, but to the beat of hearts at peace with ourselves, to the beat of hearts happy and free.”

From the standpoint of genetic science, all human beings are seamlessly related to each other in ever expanding fibers of connectivity, rendering all mankind ‘mixed-race’. On register we are black … in reality we are part of one multicolored quilt stitched with overlapping threads.


Meet my ancestors :

John Myra Stepp [1850-1955]
Parental Great-Grandfather

A chocolaty-colored blue-eyed son of a slave and slave owner, as a child he was dubbed “Myra’s John” (taken from his slave mother’s name). When word of Emancipation Proclamation reached North Carolina he took the name John Myra. He set out to make an honest living for himself, as a farmer which brought him 40 cents a day. Among the many jobs he held he was also the neighborhood veterinarian, a skill he learned from a local doctor. He helped build a railroad; helped build tunnels in the area; handled mule carts; and sold animals that were given to him as payment for work. When John Myra’s father (the slave owner) died he left each of his children an acre of land and a horse. The white son failed to register John Myra’s deed — which infuriated John Myra and fueled his willpower to accumulate land on his own. From his sale of animals he eventually purchased land. Once he bought a tract for $85 and later cut it into lots which sold for $500 each. He eventually owned many acres of land and 10 or 11 houses ¯ acreage which family still lives on today in North Carolina. He had a dislike of unclean living, and a strong aversion to tobacco and alcoholic beverages. He rarely ate red meat, and his diet consisted of milk and fruits. He outlived four wives. He was determined to see that all of his children received an education though he had none himself. He was a member of the school committee for the first “colored school” in Black Mountain, on which he served 30 years. At the time of his death he was 105 years old. So fascinating were his achievements despite adversity, that accounts of his life have been featured in the Asheville Citizen Times.


Colonel John Carson [1752-1841]
Parental Great-Great-Great Grandfather

An Irish immigrant, Colonel John Carson became a representative to the Fayetteville convention where the North Carolina delegates ratified the United States Constitution in 1789, and he served in the state's House of Commons. A slave-owner, John Carson operated an 8,000-acre plantation. In 1793 he built a home in Old Fort, North Carolina — and after mass renovation the house was a social center and stagecoach inn ¯ later serving as the seat of county government until the courthouse was built. Reportedly, famous visitors include Andrew Jackson. As a merchant, Colonel Carson traveled the Caribbean to pick up spices, and there he spotted (and purchased) the slave Kadella (later called “Betsy”), said to have been a princess from Barbados. Oral history has it that when Kadella got off the boat wearing pure gold rings and ear-rings in her ears and nose, the gold was “snatched off” ¯ leaving her permanently disfigured. Colonel Carson fathered a daughter by Kadella, my paternal great-great grandmother Sarah Jane Carson. The Colonel built a special house for Kadella across the river from the other slave quarters, where he spared her from hard labor and allowed her to sew and knit. The irony is, Kadella is known for the legendary quilt made as a tribute to Colonel John Carson’s marriage. Today Kadella’s quilt is displayed at The Historic Carson House, a tourism site, open to the public.

William Lynch [1851-1951]
Maternal Great Grandfather

William “Bill” Lynch was the only child of Jonathan King Lynch, a major slave holder and owner of a large farm in Rutherfordton County, North Carolina. His mother, a slave (black and Indian), worked in the kitchen on the plantation. As the slave master’s sole heir, William “Bill” was given 133 3/4 acres of land by his father. My uncle Wallace Lynch (now 70) recalls working his grandfather’s land as a boy. “They turned school out during crop harvesting time,” he remembers. Cotton and many fruits and vegetables were grown on my great-grandfather’s land, including corn, watermelon, sweet potatoes, and sugar cane (for molasses). Watermelons sold for a quarter. Horses were used for plowing and crushing the sugar cane. Pigs and cattle were also raised. Uncle Wallace still has the cow bell from my great-grandfather’s last steer, a jersey cow named “Sue.” Ultimately, the land was willed to Ester King Lynch, William’s son, who used the land to secure a loan. When the loan wasn’t repaid, the land was auctioned off at the court house steps. Over time, among the succession of owners, the land was leased to the government to plant pine trees –and by all accounts, ultimately purchased by Champion Paper Company. My great-great grandfather, slave owner Jonathan King Lynch’s gravesite is located on private property about 200 yards west of Clark Road near the Broad River in Rutherfordton County. The cemetery contains five gravesites with legible headstones. Next to the legible headstones are four graves marked with fieldstones, and west of the readable headstones there are numerous gravesites marked with fieldstones, suspected to be slaves’ gravesites. My great-grandfather died of abdominal Cancer at 100 years of age.

Mary Louisa Stepp Burnette Hayden [1848-1956]

Maternal Great-Great Grandmother and Paternal Great-Great–Aunt (Double Kin)

Had Mary Louisa Stepp been born in 1958 instead of 1848 her legacy could have very well have been that of a physician or president of her own nutritional company. A prolific mid-wife and herbalist, older relatives retain frozen memories of her waist length hair forever twisted into a severe bun —clothed in a black dress with a collar up to her neck, stirring into a boiling pot. Mary Louisa was knowledgeable of medicine and using common mountain plants and herbs to heal ¯ yellow root, cherry bark, rag weed, ginger, and garlic. Today, those same uncles and aunts still recall her horror stories told in a log cabin — tales of bears sticking their paws through a front screened door — paws that “Granny Hayden” would unflinchingly chop off ¯ if given a chance. Though she is remembered to have been barely more than four feet tall, relatives remember her as “a fierce force to reckon with”. According to an 1880 census she married Squire Jones Burnette at the age of 18; he was 33. When Squire was crushed by a falling slate while working in a West Virginia coal mine, Mary Louisa married John Hayden. The daughter of slave master Mott Stepp and an African slave named “Hannah” ¯ elders recall oral narrative of Mary Louisa’s pride in being led off the plantation when her mother learned of Emancipation Proclamation. She died at the age of 98 ¯ never venturing further than 50 miles from where she was born.

Francis Freeman Payne [1848-1892]
Maternal Great-Great Grandmother

Francis’ father was White, and her mother Sallie Freeman was a Cherokee Indian. The wife of George Washington Richard Henry Lee Payne, a proud Western North Carolina blacksmith who donned top hats and bow ties ¯ Francis bore him 8 children. One of those children was my great-grandmother Hattie Othella Payne Burnette, only three months old when her mother died. Hattie’s daughter, my great-aunt Sarah Irene Perkins (one of those tested) says that her mother prayed to see her mother Francis in a dream; and when her face was revealed, it matched the image that her father George Payne produced in a photograph.

Sarah “Sallie” Freeman [1820-1900]
Maternal Great-Great-Great Grandmother

Sarah was manumitted from slavery before the Civil War, and adopted the surname Freeman ¯ a name that her direct male descendents use to this day. (Intermarriages to whites and other races resulted in name changes that brought about the broken trails back to native names and ancestry. “Indian” was not recognized as a race category in the federal census until 1870, and in many cases Native Americans were enumerated as “free persons of color.”) Sallie Freeman, like most non-slaves of the day, took refuge in large farms ¯ her five children hired out to work for farmers. Oral history provides no clues as to why she was released from slavery —but her photograph suggests that she was Cherokee Indian. Cherokee Indians who escaped the Trail of Tears in 1838 were forced to keep their Native American heritage secret. Indians who lived in predominately black or white households blended into their households, and did not identify themselves as Native American. Family lore paints Sallie as an “Indian doctor” who made her rounds to tend her patients on horseback. She had a stroke at her daughter Frances’ funeral in 1892, and never fully recovered.

Regina Lynch-Hudson is chronicling the lives of her ancestors in Eye Water to Cry With: Tales of the Strength of My Ancestors. To contact her concerning how to trace your ancestors: 770.998.9911. www.thewritepublicist.com

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