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Writer's pictureShary Gentry

Chasing My Own Tale


I was born "Shary Dow Taylor," but I should have been born "Dyan Crabb Jennings." 


My paternal great-grandfather, the son of Hiram Jennings and Matilda Taylor, was given his mother's last name; my maternal grandfather was born a Crabb and not a Dow; and my parents gave their second-born twin daughter the girl name they had selected during the pregnancy when they thought they were having only one child. I was the firstborn twin.


I don't know to what extent the theory that the sequence in which children are born within their families shapes their thoughts and behaviors applies when the first child comes just four minutes before the second, but I have become the stereotypical overachiever with respect to solving mysteries. 


Naturally, I am not a detective, but as a student of linguistics at Dartmouth College I enjoyed analyzing languages and how they change over time. It was fascinating to postulate reasons for the differences in pronunciation and spelling between British English and American English and look into how Latin turned into Italian or French.


As a teacher, I worked hard to find strategies for how to reach my students in the Fourth Ward of Houston, rural North Carolina, Research Triangle Park, and suburban Texas. My job required empathy, patience, and creativity.


My most fulfilling detective work has come as a parent tasked with translating the language of my son, who is on the autism spectrum. Persistence helped me see that "Ashley" meant a "nutty bar" because Ashley from school resembled Little Debbie and that "hot potato" meant a Subway sandwich, which also gets sliced and stuffed.


A close second for rewarding detective work, however, comes from genealogy, as it also helps me better understand family members. The first question I sought to answer when I tested with Ancestry was to find out if my grandfather was really the biological child of David and Jean Dow or if he was the child of one of his three much-older sisters, most likely the middle one, Isabel. Jean was a month shy of 48 when Bob was born, while Isabel was 22 and childless. 


My theory was that Isabel gave up little Bob so she could stay in school. Isabel was also the only sister who continued her education beyond high school: she studied at Carnegie Tech, which would become Carnegie Mellon, and The University of Southern California. 


Her husband even thought she was Bob's mother, though he never said that out loud until both Isabel and Bob had died and after he had been drinking. Other family members debated which Dow woman was mom, carefully and in a whisper, often while looking at dates on tombstones. 


Years later, I found the 1920 census which showed that Robert Crabb, a foster child, was living with David and Jean Dow. I went on to find Bob's birth parents using DNA. (DNA also showed me that I am an identical twin. While growing up, we had thought we were fraternal.) 


What was the motive behind poor Scottish immigrants taking in little Bob, and why was it so important to keep this secret from him and other family members? A genealogy professor told me that I will likely never know and even discouraged me from looking for answers unless I stumble upon a diary, but I know I won't stop looking.


I also want to know more about Chief Redbird Aaron "Totsuwha--Chief Red Bird" Brock, who may be my seventh great-grandfather. There are several scholarly articles about him, and no one knows for certain who his father was and whether he was really Native American or tried to pass. I may never find out: far better genealogists and scholars have researched these questions to no avail.


Were there others in my family who had autism and intellectual disabilities like my son and, if so, were they hidden away in basements or in institutions, or were they taught family trades which gave them jobs and a purpose?


If I can break through the brick wall of who was the father of Joel Books, my second great-grandfather on my mom's side, I will be elated. Old Mennonite records records are sometimes sparse on details.


Am I really a quarter Southern Italian, or am I actually part Albanian? The Ancestry test shows me as Italian, while My Heritage shows me as Balkan. Language may be a clue here: my grandmother was an Albanese. That name means "from Albania." Language barriers may thwart my efforts to solve this mystery.


Rumor has it I am related to President Zachary Taylor, but I have no clue how or even where to begin looking for answers.


As I continue to dig, I would like to share my enthusiasm with others who also love family history. The connections and the process are just as important to me as the product.

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