The Power of Ancestors

I recently visited the cemeteries and grave sites of my family.  Each soul is sacred and with each grave stone there is a story.  Taken together they represent my ancestral identity.  I do not inhabit this world alone; my family was assigned to me without my consent.  My ancestral identity surrounds me, and there is no escaping their presence.

At Holyrood Cemetery lies my father’s father, Grandpa Pat, who told his story in the language of a spirited Irish immigrant.  He was a Kerryman, born in the 19th century, and well schooled in the history of his countrymen.  Grandpa had grown up in a turbulent time.  Ireland was fighting for its independence and this struggle came to define his life like no other.

He came to America because there was no life to be had for him in Ireland.  He left in 1910 and would not return again until 1961.  But it can be said that Grandpa never really left the “Old Country.”  His heart and soul always remained rooted in this ancient land.  To my brothers and sisters and me, he passed on the stories that helped to shape our identities as Irish Americans.

Grandpa played a game with me when we’d come over for our Sunday visit.  He’d call to me from his favorite chair in a haze of pipe smoke,  “Patrick Joseph Moriarty, tell me, boy, where do you stand?”  it was important to him that I learn early the importance of having my life stand for something.

Down the road from Holyrood is another, older cemetery: Calvary.  It is the last resting place of my mother’s family, the McCoys.  For whatever reasons their ancestral stories were never been passed on, and Mother knew next to nothing about her family.  So where my dad had a rich history on which to draw my mother had nothing to help identify her in time and space.

Born during the the First World War, Mother had been

• ravaged by the depression,
• shattered by the death of her only brother, 
• absorbed by the Second World War, and
• widowed at age 45 with five children to raise alone. 

Mother was dealt a hard hand in life, and she played it mostly alone.  She was never able to draw upon the ancient wisdom of her Scots-Irish ancestry because it was never passed on to her.

Mother hated her given name, Jesse, and instead went by her middle name, Theresa.  Recently my nephew Jack’s wife, Katie, uncovered a few chapters of the story of my mother’s family.  Her father Jack was very likely a relation to one of the founding families of Texas. The McCoys were early settlers who fought in the war for Texas independence.  Indeed, Jesse McCoy, whom we might surmise was Mother’s namesake, was martyred at the Alamo.

Jesse McCoy (1804–1836) was one of the “Glorious 32,” a volunteer from Gonzales, Texas who, alongside Davy Crockett, Daniel Boone and Jim Travis, gave his life at the Alamo.

I wonder if Mother had known the story behind her name whether she could have accessed its power.  Mother was a pioneering and courageous woman who never fully appreciated, embraced or grew into her courage.  Somewhere in Mom’s DNA the story of the Alamo was written.  Had she known about her namesake, would the hand of young Jesse have been there to support her?  Could she have drawn strength from her ancestral story?

Then it occurs to me there is no reason we can’t claim as ancestors whomever we might need at any given time in our lives.  If I need the strength to persist in unbearable times, I can claim Abraham Lincoln.  If I need to let go of my suffering, Buddha can be my forebear.  If I need the courage to press for change, then I call Susan B. Anthony my great grandmother.  The blood of all of them can flow in my veins, and yours.  So choose who you need, imagine them as ancestors, and let them give you strength, support, courage, and even love.

It all begins with knowing their story.

Just a thought…

Pat and Marsha

Copyright © 2018 Patrick J. Moriarty. All Rights Reserved.

Would you like to submit a post to Just A Thought?  To learn more, please click here.