I took a DNA test, and I’m not who I thought I was
I’ve always thought of myself as coming from Irish roots. I never questioned it. My family are Doyles. Doyles were Irish. So, my roots were in Ireland. Except they’re not.
But let’s wind back a bit.
My wife has always believed that her family were immigrants for a few reasons. The eldest daughters have always been called Letsy, an uncommon name with a Spanish origin meaning “joy.” Sue’s dark colouring and the fact that people regularly remark that our daughter Alex looks Spanish or Portuguese made sense if her family had roots in Spain or possibly Portugal.
Then there’s Jeremiah Shirbird — anglicised from “Sherberg?” — her distant relative and a watchmaker with distinctly Jewish features. Around 1880, Jeremiah lived and worked in London’s East End. It was a vibrant Jewish community where Jews had settled from many parts of Europe. Many were expelled from Portugal in the fifteenth century and came to London, so we imagined there might be some connection to her family history. To find an answer, Sue suggested we test our DNA.
I didn’t expect to find out much I didn’t already know about my family. Andrew Doyle is the name on my birth certificate. My Dad was John Doyle, and his father was Francis Joseph Pious Doyle. Further back, I can’t say for sure, but I’ve always thought of myself as coming from Irish roots.
Sue and I spat in our tubes, stuck on our respective labels, sent our spit to Ancestry, and waited. When we got the results, something happened that affected me in ways I can’t explain.
Sue was surprised to find no mention of Portuguese or Jewish ancestry when she logged in to see her results. It wasn’t the result she’d expected. Her markers were from southern England, mainly around Kent and London, plus a smattering of Irish.
On the other hand, mine were extraordinary, with 64% coming from England and 24% Ashkenazi Jew. Only 3% of me is Irish. In fact, Sue’s more Irish than I am in percentage terms.
24% indicates Jewishness from a grandparent. So, I compared my results with those of my brother from the same mother, and he has no Jewish markers, meaning mine must’ve come from my Dad’s side of the family.
Only the daughter of my other brother from the same father has taken a DNA test, and she has no Jewishness. So I’m left wondering, where does mine come from?
Being 24% Jewish is a puzzle. Maybe my mother met a travelling salesman? I don’t know, but she did that at least once, which led to one of my brothers. Being 24% Jewish doesn’t bother me, but what does is not being more than 3% Irish.
My mental picture of myself has always been Irish. I’ve spent time in parts of Ireland where Doyles are common. After Brexit, I researched whether my grandfather Francis Joseph Pious Doyle was born in Ireland, hoping he might’ve made getting an Irish passport possible. Sadly, he was born in Carlisle in the north-west of England. Still, maybe, I thought, my dad’s dad’s dad was probably Irish; therefore, my roots were too. But, according to my DNA results, they weren’t.
I’m no more Irish than Guinness brewed in Baltimore.
While Sue took her DNA test looking for answers, I was left with questions. Who am I? Where are the bits of me that make me, me, from?
All I know right now is that I took a DNA test, and I’m not who I thought I was.