June 6 - Leaving Normandy behind

 40 years ago, I thought my ancestors were German (last name Gearhart seemed to confirm this), Scottish, English, and Swedish. I carried some of the guilt of the Germans, especially during history classes. I learned the language, and assumed a war-like nature was just part of being German. I hated to lose. My great-grandmother was a Gustafson, and her parents immigrated from a town near Gothenburg, Sweden.  Much of the information was murky. That was then.

Now my DNA has 0% Scottish and 1% English, which is disappointing as I love Shakespeare and especially the Scottish play. About 60% of the strands come from Norway and Sweden, and one Norwegian ancestor has the same face, eye, and nose shape of my youngest. Hmm, Viking perhaps?

 I’ve always related to St. Paddy’s Day and wouldn’t you know it but there’s 12% Irish, from the troubled part of the country. Protestants near Belfast, and one ancestor who may have been shipped to a Scotland prison. The rest? More Vikings: Iceland, Faroe Islands, and the beaches of Normandy to Oostende, Belgium. Depending upon the century, the last 14% might be Norman, Belgian, or French. The Pieter Gerhardt who immigrated from Rotterdam in 1754 was not the German one I found in the National Archives but a Belgian or Norman.

All of this is to say, or to ask, how much of our DNA dictates our ethnicity and culture? I do know this: my family is extremely competitive. When my babies were toddlers, dolls and musical instruments were thrown out of the crib in favor of the balls. Ball girls. Nature or nurture?

Before DNA analysis, my genealogical research in the Mormon Temple in Salt Lake City (last century) traced back to Rollo, a Scandinavian and first King of Normandy in the early 900’s. He died there in 930, establishing a permanent stronghold for the Vikings. His legend as a famous warrior survives. My love of athletic competition, plus my lifelong love of the water and boats, makes sense. What would I discover when I visited Rouen? Would I feel I’d found my “home”?

The second largest town in Medieval France, Rouen has the checkered history of any commercial river town near the mouth of a large river delta, in this case, the Seine. Many battles continued after Rollo, especially between the English and the Normans. Joan of Arc was burned at the stake here, contrasting with wonderful engineering feats in the Gros Horlage clock and the construction of the lovely cathedral. Monet loved painting the church during different times of the day and last night the light was incredible on the newly-cleaned facade. The reflection was so bright I squinted behind my sunglasses.

A funeral rite was in progress, complete with flags and pomp. A simple wooden casket emerged from a van, and several mourners followed it into the church. This morning, the facade in shadow, I could better see the lacey scrollwork of the master craftsmen from the past. On the spire, workmen were blasting years of dirt off of the copper as the scaffolding rattled.

When I arrived a few days ago, I didn’t notice the artwork in the train station. When I walked straight up the rue Jeanne d’Arc and into the lobby today, I saw two huge Impressionist paintings on the left. On the right, six realistic paintings of warring peoples: Vikings and ancients, weapons not blurred like Monet’s lilies but sharper and darker.  Here we have it: 150 years of Impressionism juxtaposed with a thousand years of warring. And me in the middle, waiting for the arrivals and departures board to reveal on which platform the train to Paris would pause for ten minutes, unloading and loading unsuspecting commuters and tourists. The soaring ceilings of Gare Rouen Rive-Droite illuminated what has been and what is. 

I loved this town, but I didn’t find the story I’m looking for, a tale that I could twist into an historical fiction. Still, many elements yearn to be dramatized and surely, most certainly, Joan of Arc needs a resurrection in a contemporary work. Shops flourish beneath the wings of the contemporary church erected in her honor. 

It’s embarrassing to admit, but when I arrived three days ago I sat on the very stone where she perished, resting after carrying my bags down a long staircase. When I went looking for her monument this morning before leaving town, I was shocked to learn I’d been there before. 

Isn’t that the feeling we’re supposed to experience when we’ve found our homeland? As much as I wanted to adopt first Bayeux then Rouen, I didn’t feel that deep connection to place I expected/hoped for. And yet, I’m already planning my return. Surely the descendant of a king (boy, is my blue blood diluted!) needs to dig a little deeper. 

Meanwhile, men in replica Army uniforms are descending on a different Normandy today, looking to be a part of the 80th anniversary of D-Day. President Biden and a living King Charles will speechify about the victory of the Allies. Bombs will drop in Ukraine and in the contested ancient holy lands today, and I will turn my back on the opportunity to celebrate the turning point of World War II. I’m looking for something else, a world beyond war, to celebrate. 

May all of the victims of these conflicts rest in peace, and may the rest of us force peace as a priority.