After my Surprise DNA results in January 2018, I splattered the Internet with my DNA trying to find my biological father. While I did have about 12,000 cousin matches, welcome to being Jewish, none of them were close enough for me to figure out who he could be. I had so many relatives due to endogamy (a new word for me)—it means people marry within their group (no, not necessarily their relatives). The result over many generations of endogamy is Jews have more DNA in common with other Jews than non-Jews do with each other. It can make it difficult to understand through DNA how you might be related to someone.
This was a difficult time. My foundation was toppled. I was raised bi-racial and in a flash, I wasn’t. My mind constantly wondered, who am I. I had a difficult time looking in the mirror, my face was no longer my own. There was a stranger in there and I didn’t know who he was. It didn’t help that my hair went wavy at this time too (I’d always had straight hair and then suddenly I didn’t).
And of course you think about your name. I was raised a Vassar but now that name wasn’t really mine. A name helps define who you are. I think men can have a more difficult time with their NPE status because of this. One fellow NPE commented he, his four sons, and thirteen grandsons were now all walking around with the wrong name.
In September 2018, after months of researching genealogy documents, reading obituaries and newspaper articles, calling possible relatives, and a receiving a couple of closer genetic matches, I was able to piece together who my biological father was. His name is Sam Rubinstein. I was the product of a one-night affair between Sam and my mother. Unfortunately, he passed away in 2007 and his only son was ill with dementia. All but one family member did not wish to have contact with me. The other relatives told me to read about Sam, and his wife Gladys, in the newspaper (oh, and I could find pictures there too.)
I reached out to Ava and she agreed to meet me. As I walked up the path to her home, she opened the door and came out to greet me. She grabbed my hands stopping me and stared. “Your eyes are just like Sam’s,” she squeezed my hands and let go. I held back my tears. Over cookies and tea, she shared the few bits of medical information and stories she knew. The next time I met her she showed me the few photos she had of Sam.
I was grateful for Ava’s kindness and acceptance of me as part of the Rubinstein family. She wanted to show me what a generous man Sam was so she invited me to the Seattle AJC Advocacy in Action Dinner honoring past presidents. Sam was the fourth Seattle AJC president in 1954-1955. (Did I mention Sam was 55 when I was conceived?)
I met Ava at her house and we drove to downtown Seattle together. I found myself on a crisp Monday evening in a room full of politicians, Jewish movers and shakers, and active Jewish community members. I felt out of place. This was not a world I was familiar with. A couple of people approached me and asked if they knew me, telling me I looked very familiar. My heart beat fast in my chest. Ava introduced me as her cousin, this was the first time I was “out” in public as a Rubinstein. I politely responded no, they’d never met me before. “Are you sure?” they pressed. I nodded in response. No one asked how Ava and I were cousins.
The food was amazing! And the AJC, a group I’d never hear of (because I’d had little interaction before with anything Jewish), advocates for many of the same things I do including safeguarding the rights and freedoms of all people. But I felt like I was on the outside looking it. I left the event understanding just how different my life and who I was would’ve been had I grown up with Sam and in the Jewish community.
Ava and I sat in her car in her driveway talking about my upbringing, her life, and Sam. “Kara,” she told me, “you should write your story.” Here I am.
PHOTO: Sam Rubinstein (left) presenting Richard Weisfield with the American Jewish Committee (AJC) Humanitarian Award, Seattle, Washington, July 17, 1971. Photo by Willis Tucker.
