Inheritance...

can come in many forms.

The Punnett square does not lie—genetics are biography and destiny.

I could only have blue eyes, and my children have the same hue. The color, rare in the world’s population, always made me feel special. Ten percent of the world’s population and 27 percent of the people living in the United States can flash those baby blues.

Sure, science has also shown that blue-eyed people have weaker eyesight. Blue-eyed people are more likely to have UV damage, cataracts, and macular degeneration and require corrective lenses.

But, hey, our eyes are pretty!

And according to By Gary Heiting, OD, and Adam Debrowski,

“From this we can conclude that all blue-eyed individuals are linked to the same ancestor,” said Eiberg. “They have all inherited the same switch at exactly the same spot in their DNA.” ¹

So, one motherfucker is responsible for my biology? And that one ancestor, like 10,000 years ago in Europe, had a genetic mutation that both of my parents carried on through the legacy of Social Darwinism and subjugation to me, a baby born in 1973 in Syracuse, NY.

But eye color is one of many pieces of my ancestors’ gifts.

I have a laugh that is both cacophonous and silly. It seems to be part maternal and paternal. I recognize it in my youngest when I hear her giggle down the hall.

I should be taller. Somewhere, the DNA of a leprechaun presented because at 5’ 5’', I am nowhere between the height of my parents, at 5’8” and 6’4”. Maybe it was my mother’s alcohol consumption or secondhand smoke, but I didn’t get the tall gene.

I have “man-hands” that resemble my maternal Great-Grandmother's evidenced in the picture where she is holding me. Friendly people call them piano fingers, but I am not musically inclined. My seventh-grade violin teacher informed me that I had a rhythm problem, encouraging me to quit the instrument and give his ears a break. I remember trying to play the Love Boat Theme only to sound like a cat in heat.

My hair is unruly with Irish waves and occasional ringlets. At two, I am pictured with a white Afro. My hair has never behaved.

Impulsivity and recklessness have never looked good on me. My parents, on the other hand, reveled in those habits. Married nine times collectively, they often lived their lives on whims and prayers. Always seeking validation, requiring another person to contain them, and never wanting to be alone.

When my father died dramatically in July of 2023, he was engaged to his potential sixth wife, a woman who did not seem to be his type. Hey, maybe that marriage would have been successful.

My parents were not completely problematic. My mother was smart with money. My father was intellectual. They both enjoyed listening to live music and kicking up their heels. They showed me how to play and be silly. I went on memorable adventures with both of them, but always separately. I never had a concept of them together.

I am confident, however, that I share a gene with them that gets alerted when a sip of alcohol is drunk. We all love a cold beer but can’t seem to stop at just one. Unfortunately, alcohol intolerance does not look good mixed with our DNA.

My father quit drinking long before I had a concept of him.

My mother continues.

I am trying to live without it. I am attempting to accept my biology so that I can recognize its gifts and limitations.

My mother has already given me my inheritance. It is invested in my kids’ education and my retirement account. I appreciate the funds and her generosity. I acknowledge her apologies and I accept her limitations.

My father died without a will.

He was not a good planner. He had won the cancer trophy and probably believed he had plenty of time to figure out what his few possessions would be worth to his heirs. He had a small bank account (how much I was never told), a twice-mortgaged house in need of repairs, two Harleys (in need of a mechanic), a truck, and two boats, one of which he jumped off before he drowned in that muddy-bottomed Central New York lake.

However, he was not without any plan because he intentionally purchased a life insurance plan for his grandson and great-granddaughter. He was sure to leave them something. My children were not considered. In my kitchen, I listened as my sister informed my former sister-in-law that her son was a beneficiary. At the time of the insurance policy’s purchase, my father had no relationship with my children. I had broken up with him after many attempts at a relationship. I guess my kids deserved nothing in his view, which is ironic because I never felt like he had fully claimed me as his child.

Estrangement has its price.

Growing up, he had a minimal financial part in my life. He bought me a pair of Timberland boots once, a Simon Says Game, the co-pay for my braces, and inconsistent and inadequate child support. He was always tight with money, crying poor, except when it came to buying motorcycles or supporting his new wives’ children. My sister and I were the first, the O.G., but we were an afterthought in his subsequent life with women named Marion, Linda, Denise, and some red-haired lady he married but I never met. I didn’t expect anything, but it was still stung to recognize that we were nothing to him.

Nothing but DNA.

Well, that is not entirely true. I do enjoy an inheritance from the late and great Terence Patrick Doddy, Sr. While attempting to help my sister with an estate sale, she suggested that I take his Ninja Air Fryer. It did not sell in the sale, so I did receive something from him by default.

A double basket, hardly used amazingly good Ninja Air Fryer reminds me of his existence every time I reheat leftovers, cook French fries, or some other treat. It is awesome and when it dies my final connection with him will be gone. I joke with my family to treat my inheritance well. They better not break my inheritance.

An air fryer is the sum of his life for me.

Every time I use and fully enjoy the Ninja Air Fryer, I chuckle with inappropriate death humor. It is the best of appliances, heating frozen chicken meatballs or leftover pizza is a breeze. With two baskets and settings for each preparing two things at once is perfect. I even air-fried corn on the cob this summer. I could make a commercial for the fucking appliance!

It cleans relatively easily and has made a small part of my life convenient, something my father failed to do. Nothing was easy with him. I never felt comfortable with him. And, the worse part of my discomfort was that I called him Dad. The title never fit his description. I pretended for my grandmother, my aunt, my sister, my cousin, and myself. I wanted to lessen the drama and the discomfort of the encounters with him for everyone.

I wanted everyone to be pleased with me.

I also wanted a father.

I got an Air Fryer.

The papers I was served from the surrogate court declare the bank’s foreclosure of his property. His estate, abandoned without sibling discussion, will not be our problem. I don’t need money. I have made a life for myself despite him. What hurts is the realization that he never gave me much in life or death.

But, I did get an Air Fryer.

1. https://www.allaboutvision.com/conditions/eye-color-blue.htm