Today, I saw myself in my daughter’s face, in her cheek’s up-sweep. I long to see myself in her. Is that narcissistic? 1
Alignment of our intrinsic sense of who we are with the genetic material from which we are formed is not something we frequently consider.
Until we must. When a genetic test proved beyond doubt that writer Dani Shapiro was not related to the father who raised her, she undergoes a disintegration of identity, an investigation of truth, and a reconstruction of self.
I woke up one morning and life was as I had always known it to be. There were certain things I thought I could count on. I looked at my hand, for example, and I knew it was my hand. My foot was my foot. My face, my face. My history, my history. After all, it’s impossible to know the future, but we can be reasonably sure about the past. By the time I went to bed that night, my entire history—the life I had lived—had crumbled beneath me, like the buried ruins of an ancient forgotten city.
In Inheritance, Shapiro demands to know “If my father was not my father, who was he? If my father was not my father, who was I?”1
Unable to ask either of her deceased parents the truth, Shapiro traces records at a fertility clinic, interviews family and community members, and ultimately finds her biological father and relatives.2
Throughout history, great philosophical minds have grappled with the nation of identity. What makes a person a person? What combination of memory, history, imagination, experience, subjectivity, genetic substances and that ineffable thing called a soul makes us who we are? Is who we are the same as who we believe ourselves to be?
After a lifetime of anchoring herself in the genetic makeup she imagined she had, Shapiro felt firmly connected to a Jewish heritage and tradition. She felt disconnected to this community once she learned her lineage was not her lineage.3
C.S. Lewis once wrote about the physical nature of grief. Shapiro’s physical self feels the repercussions of her mental confusion: “My mind and body seem to be disconnected.”
My body wasn’t the body I had believed it to be for fifty-four years. My face wasn’t my face. That’s what it felt like. If my body wasn’t my body and my face wasn’t my face, who was I? […] I had dinner with my best friend … I’ll stand in her living room, tears streaming down my face and ask: ‘Do you still see me as the same person?’
And yet, in the midst of tremendous uncertainty and upheaval, Shapiro finds profound empathy for her father. Did he know? Was he told? Was he lied to? What might he have felt if he did know? Is this empathy her way of connecting to someone from whom she felt abruptly severed? 4
The question that Shapiro barely asks, but inevitably answers, is: Why did it matter?
Why did it matter so much? After all, my parents were long dead. I had survived them. I had built a life. I had a family of my own. Whatever their secrets they were now buried, lost to history. My latest book was the first of my memoirs that had nothing to do with my parents.
It turns out that it is possible to live an entire life—even an examined life, to the degree that I had relentlessly examined mine—and still not know the truth of oneself.
The lingering postscript of Inheritance is not its answers, but its questions. Shapiro abides in her examined life without all possible knowledge. We all do. We don’t entirely know who we are. We never will.
It’s a process, not an arrival. We sculpt and mould this knowledge to define who we are, but we must consider that who we are isn’t static. And thus, it isn’t knowable.
Shapiro’s writing is divine, direct (you will swear she’s talking to you), curious, and brave. Accompany Inheritances with Mark Strand’s reflection of time, space, poetry, and being. Strand, a favorite of Shapiro’s and mine, posits existence is a function of place and being.
The crumbling of our personal narrative can happen instantly and can change everything. “And then I remembered…,” Joan Didion wrote when she suddenly lost her husband. “Life as you know it is over,” wrote Didion when she lost her daughter.
Throughout life, we will be called to reconstruct our self. Assembling what we believe to be who we are. Moreover, we will be asked to move forward in this new self.
Thankfully, Shapiro shows us how.