Chapter 1: The Ghosts of the Spanish

Ever since I did that wretched DNA test I've wondered what ghosts would haunt me. Of course the majority of my make-up is what you'd expect: British and Irish. Gets a little interesting with Finns and then Portuguese and Spaniards thrown into the mix, so I got the chance to research. I immediately lost myself in Gaudí's architecture. I painted a birdhouse after the fashion of Casa Batlló, the House of Bones. Because why not? Dry bones and living flesh, a bone house and new lives; it is a dichotomy that makes sense to me.

But then. Then the DNA test began filling in one country after another that made little sense to me. Ghana. Liberia. Sierra Leone. Nigeria. Before I could even ask myself the question, I'd already answered it for myself: I knew exactly how that DNA entered my ancestry, and it wasn't consensually. The Spaniards and Portuguese were heavily involved in the kidnapping and sale of enslaved people, as were the British until it was fully outlawed in Britain in 1838 (35 years earlier than the U.S.). My West African ancestors had not had a choice in whether they wished to participate in the chaos and agony that eventually led to my life.

I'm now faced with a choice: I'm white. It's obvious. Do I pursue more information about these ancestors as a way to honour them and give them a respect they weren't afforded in life? Or is that just white guilt? Is it both? Does it matter? Can it still be good?

Perhaps it's my birdhouse painted like the house of bones, but I desperately want it to be Casa Batlló for the new generation of winged children.