But, I knew what Robyn meant. She had been adopted by a white, middle- class, Baptist family when she was an infant and raised in a Minneapolis suburb filled with other white, middle-class families. Her only Asian friend was another Korean adoptee in her Sunday school class who was also raised by a white middle-class family. She attended a Lutheran private college founded by Norwegian settlers in the northern plains of Minnesota where, her friends were white, her professors were white, and her boyfriends were white. Several years have passed and she is now engaged to a white mechanic from a small town so typically middle-class-white-Americana that he could have walked straight out of a Bruce Springsteen tune. Every aspect of Robyn’s cultural reality was, and still is, influenced by the typical white, middle-class suburban American experience. DNA and country of origin may beg to differ, but my friend Robyn is as white as they come.

Robyn is not the only American whose DNA doesn’t match her cultural reality. Many Americans are quickly learning about their own genetic and cultural complexities thanks to a new, astoundingly popular hobby called recreational genealogy. Armed with mail-in genetic testing kits and easily accessible family tree websites, recreational genealogists mine for the treasures of their past. For a nominal monthly fee, history buffs are invited into website communities where they can research their ancestry, post and compare family trees, and blog nostalgic of times long past and relatives long dead. For a larger fee, the more scientifically-minded genealogists can have their DNA analyzed to reveal their racial make-up.

And what are these recreational genealogists learning? Generally, they’ve learned a lesson that has been obvious to Robyn since she was a child: we are not necessarily what we are made of. “Just for the fun of it” DNA tests and family trees have divulged a history of widespread racial crossbreeding. Many have found that, despite their lily-white skin, the sanctioned rape of countless enslaved African Americans is not just the blight of our communal history, but also the very real experience of their foremothers. Others have learned they are descendants of a frisky bunch who were willing to test racial taboos in the bedroom if not in the Public Square: 80% African, 25 % Hispanic, 15 % Native American, or 35% European. No matter how the numbers break down, one thing is certain: the only place you’ll find a room full of purebreds is at a dog show.

These genetic discoveries beg several questions of social significance. Just how much of a minority does one have to be in order to qualify for a scholarship or a coveted affirmative action position? Who is allowed to reap the spoils of tribal casinos? Should racial make up of potential parents factor into the adoption of a minority child? Did Bill beat Barack to be our first black president?

And then there is immigration. The debate is framed in fear and colored by threats of a culture in jeopardy. But the DNA results of recreational genealogists could alter the whole picture. Perhaps it is naive to think that the Oath Takers and Proud Boys might take a different approach to immigration if they understood that their DNA, the most personal aspect of their physical being, was linked to the DNA of the brown faces staring at them from across the fence. Perhaps.

The anti-immigration side of the debate promises that if we don’t close the nation’s borders our daughters are doomed to be raped and our sons destined to be gunned down in drug wars all while our youngest tikes learn to sing “Feliz Navidad”. This contingency forgets, or is unwilling to admit, that the culture we cling to is sculpted as each new generation of immigrants assimilates into general society where necessary and maintains beloved traditions when possible.

But those of us honest about our history can look at our own DNA and recognize that we are built from the blood of the desperate refugee, the optimistic immigrant, and the unwilling enslaved. We can see, calculated in percentages on a piece of paper, that we are built from the genes of very individuals who created this culture. When we truly understand that our own DNA flies in the face of the fear mongering, those who cry wolf on behalf of our supposedly endangered culture are silenced.

And then the debate changes. When we admit that our own DNA proves our culture is constructed, not demolished, by immigrants, the debate becomes purely administrative. We could begin a constructive discussion about population control, about the number of immigrants we can feasibly sustain, and about responsible reproduction on the part of those already living here. We can be honest about the amount of social aid we are willing to pay for on behalf of immigrants and we can calculate the financial and ethical costs (or benefits) of closing our borders. With fear gone, the arms of discussion are opened wide.

Collective change in mentality often begins at the grassroots level and this trend in recreational genealogy sparks pivotal personal questions about the importance of family history and the nature of personal identity. Families who welcomed foreign-born adoptees into their lives illustrate the significance (or lack there of) of DNA. These families will likely attest: ethnicity should be a cherished aspect of identity, but should not define identity. A tattoo of the Korean flag and her biological mother’s name sits proudly on Robyn’s upper arm. It is an enduring reminder of the culture from which she was removed and a respectful nod to the country that (and woman who) bore her. Still, it was the loving family that took her in 30 years ago, not her DNA, which nourished her body and fostered her dreams. She may be genetically predisposed to intelligence, but it is the American school system that honed her mental abilities. She may have grown hard-skinned and brazen as she deflected the ” low information voter” calls of “slant-eye” and “chink,” but she also grew generous, sincere, honest, and dependable under the moral tutelage of those who cared for her with no regard for her race.

And so it is with all who immigrate here. Assimilation simply happens. Culture and experience override DNA to shape identity. The children of those who could speak no English chat with the ease of the English-speaking talking heads on TV. Cultural garb and social norms are replaced by American standards. Now they will wear blue jeans and listen to indie rock and talk too loudly on their cell phones while riding the bus. They will participate in American style capitalism, purchasing goods, and consuming beyond their means. They will pay taxes. And when generations have passed and the ways of their ancestors are a distant memory, they will practice religions and traditions that hold forgotten meaning – but only on the holidays. They will recall the story of their ancestors who moved their family to America – even if only because a grandchild writing a school report has asked them.

As a realist and a child of at one time immigrants myself, I recognize how important it is to acknowledge our freedoms. I am also aware this word “freedom” has mutated into something scripted, something colloquial and almost mundane, something that bobs back and forth between political parties and religious zealots so frequently that we have developed an aversion to the term. Our senses so dulled to the surface we forget what relevance lies beneath. Yet what we are immersed in, here in America every single day, is more satiating and sustaining than any one single word — however meaningful — can possibly describe. We should be eternally thankful for our founding fathers who created this complicated unprecedented, literally revolutionary plan; a balance of powers and a representative democracy.

Perhaps one day, we will all choose to sit at our home computers on a quiet night and download the results of a DNA test we will have purchased and be shocked at the results. We may marvel at the fact that our cultural identity and our DNA may not be close as we thought to an exact match. And on that quiet night in front of the computer screen I hope that we remember that it is in our democratic participation that we preserve our freedoms and that is what makes us, in turn, truly American.