There is this prevalent idea, one that sites like Ancestry.com promote, that by knowing our personal histories we can move forward with a clearer picture of ourselves.

When my mother was thirty-nine, her parents sat her down. It's difficult for me to imagine her being seated like a child before her parents on a sunny afternoon, shifting uncertainly on an old sofa. Waiting, wondering; having not a clue what it was all about, not knowing how her concept of her history was about to experience irrevocable change. My mother (who morally objects to the term 'mother' and adamantly prefers "Mom") is a…