雨女的世界
走走，停停，看看
前言
Dr. Schreiber 的大名，在化學界如雷貫耳。一周前，哈佛雜誌對其進行了采訪。文章出來以後，被瘋狂轉載。相信很多人讀過了。
有意思的是，昨天看到中文版的。這應該是作者對英文版的翻譯。雖然使用的圖片不同。
我將中英文都放在這裏。
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哈佛教授尋父記
“父親”為什麽虐待自己？被譽為“化學生物學之父”的哈佛化學教授Stuart Schreiber通過DNA測序，不僅找到了自己的親生父親，還發現了外婆的隱秘人生。在知道一切後，他做出了怎樣的選擇？
Stuart L. Schreiber
撰文 | 楊梟
Stuart L. Schreiber（1956-）的名字常常與小分子探針共同出現。他是美國著名的化學生物學家，就職於以自己名字命名的實驗室，致力於應用多向合成與化學遺傳學手段，來研究小分子為基礎的探針、轉錄因子、細胞質固定蛋白等生物化學應用。這些研究為他贏得了包括沃爾夫獎在內的多項大獎。
他還聯合創立了哈佛大學與麻省理工學院名下的Broad研究所。在這所擁有4000人的生物醫學中心裏，他與其他科學家共同研究解人類的基因組，以減輕疾病帶來的痛苦和死亡。他們通過分析有關疾病的DNA變異，為治療提供安全有效的藍圖。
此外，在過去的30年裏，他開辦了六家生物技術公司，並研製出了已經上市的新藥。
用Stuart自己的話說，他是一名“生物醫學領域中真理的追尋者”。
在追尋真理的過程中，Stuart不僅發現了諸多疾病的奧秘，還意外發現了自己家族不為人知的秘密。
這個故事源於一次基因檢測。
2017年，Stuart的哥哥找到他，希望他幫忙分析DNA檢測結果，尤其是與阿爾茲海默症相關的基因，因為這奪走了他們母親的生命。
檢測結果顯示，他與哥哥的Y染色體不同，DNA相似度也隻有25%，而親兄弟的相似度應該達到50%——這意味著，他們隻是同母異父的兄弟。
當麵對這樣一份DNA結果時，Stuart並不怎麽憤怒，而是感到些許寬慰，他找到了自己童年飽受折磨的緣由。
Stuart的父親身材高大、體格強壯，經受過嚴格的軍隊訓練，是位出色的上校。然而就是這樣一位傑出的父親，一直毆打虐待自己的孩子——並非全部的孩子，隻有Stuart。在他的童年記憶中，母親永遠是張開翅膀護住他的天使，無條件地愛他，保護他免遭父親的毒手。
“哭泣寶寶”
“我的親生父親是誰？”
為了回答這個問題，Stuart迅速轉換到科學家的思考模式。他將自己的DNA與匿名數據庫進行比對。美國警方此前通過這種方法，找到了隱匿數十年的金州殺手。
在尋找生父的過程中，Stuart一直稱其為“哭泣寶寶（the crybaby）”。因為在養父的教育下，哭泣被認為是懦弱的表現，而Stuart多年來一直壓抑自己經常想哭的情緒。那麽，是不是自己的生父很愛哭，從而將這種特質遺傳給了自己？
通過比對遺傳信息，Stuart找到了他。
這位神秘人叫Joseph，1955年剛從朝鮮戰爭中退役，是個英俊迷人的年輕單身漢。從各方麵來看，他都是一個善良、慷慨、充滿愛心的人，而且他很愛哭！Stuart猜想，在母親遭受虐待時，Joseph溫柔體貼地安慰了她，從而有了自己。
在比較Joseph和自己的照片時，Stuart意識到他們長得有多麽像——相同的眉毛、眼睛、鼻子、耳朵、下巴，甚至喉結。最驚人的是，他們都在35歲禿了頭！
遺憾的是，Joseph那時已經去世了。但Stuart又擁有了五個同父異母的兄弟姐妹，還多了許多表親。
生物學家的好奇心開始作祟，Stuart用了18個月的時間，確定了150名在世的家庭成員，並搭建了一個擁有2500多名祖先的家譜。他們可以追溯到18世紀早期密西西比沿岸的喬克托族（Choctaw）首領的女兒Emashapa Panyouasas，她是Stuart的曾曾曾曾曾曾曾祖母。
這解釋了為什麽Stuart的17號染色體上會有有關美國原住民的DNA，但也帶來了新的疑惑：Stuart還擁有卡津人（Cajun）的基因，但是在他目前搭建的譜係中，並沒有相關的祖先。
第二個家庭
Stuart從小就知道，自己的外祖父Henry在母親還未出世時就過世了。Stuart很快意識到，亨利並非是母親的生父，母親與自己一樣，生父另有其人，他叫做Deonie。
Deonie是來自密西西比流域的卡津人。卡津人是羅馬天主教法國加拿大人的後裔，在18世紀遭到英國人驅趕，後定居在了路易斯安那州南部肥沃的河口地區。今天的卡津人形成了小型、緊湊、獨立的社區，他們往往在社區內部家庭選擇婚配，因此盡管Deonie未曾做過DNA分析，卻可以容易地找到相關遺傳信息。強大的譜係分析工具也彌補了這一缺失。
Stuart走訪了這些家庭，甚至研究了相關的家庭器具，終於，他拚湊出了一個完整的故事：他的外祖父在殺人後逃亡，過程中結識了性工作者Connie，也就是Stuart的外祖母，從而有了他的母親。
Stuart並未因為外祖父是個殺人凶手而感到難過，這反而激發了他的另一個興趣，他開始迷戀二十世紀中葉密西西比和路易斯安那州的文化。
母親、兩位父親、外祖母、外祖父，他們是否知道真相？母親總是知道自己孩子的父親是誰，那父親呢？
Stuart出生後，他的養父離開了一年，這一年裏，他的母親獨自撫養三個孩子——一個新生兒，另外兩個中還有一個病歪歪的。他的母親曾說，“這是我生命中最糟糕的一年。”一年後，父親回到家裏，帶著一家人來到新駐紮地法國。為了整個家庭的穩定，他決定將這個秘密鎖在櫃中。但是作為一個正直的軍人，Stuart的養父很難隱藏自己的內心，他曾試圖忘記夫妻兩人的齟齬，但是他沒有成功。
“我母親最好的朋友說，她在第一次與母親見麵時，就想知道為什麽我的父親毫無理由地憎恨小兒子，而不是另外兩個孩子。”
至於外祖父，考慮到母親一直以為外祖父是出生前便已經去世的Henry，他猜測母親並不知道Deonie。但是Deonie的家庭，上圖中的Rose和子女都知道Connie的存在。因此，外祖父母本人無疑是知道真相的，但他們也和Stuart的父母一樣，選擇了向孩子保守秘密。
和解
Stuart的養父盡管是個凶巴巴的父親，卻是一位慈祥可愛的爺爺（外公），他對孫輩的愛意會暖化周圍所有人。
Stuart童年悲慘，但是在他成年後，與養父逐漸和解。兩人還曾探討科學，共同發表了研究一篇論文[3]。兩個人都有點別扭，無法對彼此說出“愛”的字眼，隻能有時用擁抱表達愛意。
1993年的父親節，Stuart在養父的工作台留下一封信：
親愛的爸爸，在這個父親節，我想分享我從你那裏學到的東西——誠實，正直，還有就是，隻有追尋我們喜歡的東西我們才能做得好......我愛你。你的兒子。
在接下來的幾個月，Stuart都在冥冥之中期待著父親的回應。他還偷偷向母親打聽，但母親從未聽到父親提及此事。六個月後，Stuart桌子上發現了一個信封，是養父寄給他自己的父親的：
親愛的爸爸，今天是父親節，我想我應該表達一下我對父親的看法。首先，我為你感到驕傲。考慮到你早期的環境，以及你年輕時遇到的困難，在為家人提供一個舒適的家庭方麵，你已經做得很好......愛你的兒子。
此後，父子兩人維持了穩定而親密的關係。在他去世多年後，Stuart在他的私人圖書館裏找到了兩封信，藏在一本書裏。他未曾向任何人表達自己深沉的感情。
Stuart的兩位父親都於1996年過世。
“在知道這一切後，我不再隱藏自己的情緒，我更容易落淚——隻要看到公園裏玩耍的父母與孩子，或者聽說任何有關虐待的故事。”
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以下是英文版原文。上麵的中文版應該是從哈佛這篇文章翻譯過來的。雖然，中文作者選用了不同的照片。
Truth: A Love Story
A scientist discovers his own family’s secrets.
by STUART L. SCHREIBER
JULY-AUGUST 2019
Stuart Schreiber sits “where I go to talk to my mother,” by the memorial paver that he had installed for her at Boston’s Rose Kennedy Greenway.
Photograph by Jim Harrison
There are three sides to every story—yours, mine, and the truth—and no one is lying.
—Anonymous
ON JULY 17, 2017, my world turned upside down when I discovered that the man who raised me was not my biological father. What followed was a challenging path of learning and insight into family truths that ultimately brought great joy and made me a better person.
I am a biomedical truth seeker—looking to gain insights into human biology and our genomes in order to mitigate suffering and death from disease. By analyzing DNA variation in persons with and without disease, my research is providing blueprints for therapeutics that are safe and effective.
Good fortune has offered opportunities to realize my dreams. I’ve run a large lab with many of the best young trainees and scientists in the world during the past four decades at Harvard, and I co-founded the Broad Institute—now a 4,000-person biomedical center seeking “to propel the understanding and treatment of disease.” Following human biology-informed blueprints, my trainees and I are catalyzing the development of new types of medicine in diseases ranging from cancer to malaria. In the past 30 years, I’ve started a half-dozen biotechnology companies that have delivered novel medicines—including ones at Vertex Pharmaceuticals that are closing in on defeating cystic fibrosis. I’ve also been happily married to my true love, Mimi Packman, for 38 years.
These circumstances are highly unlikely. The physical and emotional trauma I experienced as a child and teenager, inflicted by my father, taught me the art of compartmentalization. This skill provided an eraser that enabled immediate removal of unwanted events. Only now do I realize that my mother, my angel and protector, 11 years younger than my father, also excelled at this, and I suspect I learned a great deal from her, albeit subliminally. In the worst of times, such as the beating from my father that left me (literally) broken and hospitalized, my sweet Cajun mother was there for me, flying up the stairs to protect me even when she, too, then suffered the consequences.
I was unaware of many factors about her life and mine—she artfully managed to deflect every effort to inquire, most effectively by responding, “Have I told you how much I love you?”—and it is difficult to know whether such knowledge would have been useful if she could have shared it with me. All I know is that my mother loved me unconditionally, showed that love continuously, did everything she could to give me the life I have enjoyed in adulthood, and is the reason I am where I am today.
Family secrets began to unravel on that summer day in 2017. My older brother, Tommy, with whom I have a close relationship, asked for help analyzing his 23andMe results: we were both seeking insight into our risk alleles for Alzheimer’s, which had taken our mother’s life.
After refreshing our browsers, I knew instantly that my biological father was not the man who raised me. Tommy and I share the 25 percent DNA identity of half siblings, not the expected 50 percent, and our father-contributed Y chromosomes differ. After I struggled to get the words out, my brother responded, immediately and dispassionately, “Well of course, that makes perfect sense.” That only compounded my surprise and bewilderment. But it also instinctively resonated with me. I knew he was right, even though we hadn’t established which of us had the surprise father. I had lived with the sensation of being a family alien for 62 years, yet only at that moment did I realize it was true.
The man who raised me, my father Thomas Schreiber (known to my childhood friends as “The Colonel”) was a brilliant, ethical, yet challenging and complex man. He was also tall and physically imposing, and his army training, rank, piercing blue eyes, and intellect gave him a special aura. I imagined he was an equal-opportunity physical offender toward his family, including Tommy and my dear sister, Renée, only to learn later that his wrath was focused on me. How could I have been unaware of this? When you are told by your father that whatever you experience is entirely the consequence of your actions alone, you are not predisposed to share. Not with your family or even your very best friends, including my best friends who had shared with me their unimaginable cruelties, including family betrayals, rejections, deaths, and familicide. You use your magic eraser. You create your own truths.
An Alien to Oneself
THE SEQUELAE that followed that summer-day discovery comprised three phases: the surreal phase; the unmoored phase; the joyful in-the-hunt-and-discovery phase.
“Who am I? From where do I come? And who is this unknown man living in my body, coursing through my veins?… Would I ever find the truth?”
In the first phase, I was numb: no shock, anger, disappointment—just bewilderment. It was so hard to grasp. Unimaginable. It was hard to think clearly. And yet, a tiny bit of relief. Maybe truth would yield clarity and understanding of my father’s actions. This secondary sensation was the beginning of a wholly unexpected change in my internal being.
The second phase—feeling unmoored—was by far the hardest. Who am I? From where do I come? And who is this unknown man living in my body, coursing through my veins? I would subconsciously shake my hands trying to get him out of me. And worst, with my mother and the father who raised me both deceased, would I ever find the truth, get to the answers I was seeking? When you think you understand your origins, there is no obsessive need to explore and connect; you are satisfied knowing there is an origin and your ancestors and family members can be searched and contacted whenever needed. But when that assumption is taken away, you truly are an alien.
And I wondered: was my mother supported and loved at my conception? This was my central focus—even more than determining the identity of my father. But the latter was the best way to answer the former.
My two older siblings and subsequent DNA analyses proved that my parents were able to conceive a child. This, and other observations of my mother and father as I grew up, made it certain to me that my conception was conjugal rather than “donor-derived,” a term associated with in vitro fertilization methods. Those searching for their sperm-donor fathers go through much of the same emotional turmoil I did, yet there are differences. My biological father was not an anonymous sperm donor, but who was he?
And so I transitioned to my scientist mode, where I have developed some problem-solving skills related to my work. And as I tried to solve the mystery, I realized there were two men living in me: two mysteries to solve, and two new families to discover.
Discovering My First New Family
I’VE BECOME ADEPT at integrating DNA analyses with genealogical tools. My approach is related to the one originally used to deanonymize persons from otherwise anonymous databases, and more recently to identify the Golden State Killer; indeed, a current personal focus is on identifying missing persons with the humanitarian organization DNA Doe Project.
A key feature of this analysis considers both the “recombination” of chromosomes during the making of germ cells (sperm and eggs) and fertilization, which yields a zygote having both maternal and paternal genomes. Each of your chromosomes resulted from an act of conjoining your grandparents, even if they were no longer alive when your parents made the germs cells that gave rise to you. Each individual egg and sperm is unique, having its own genome resulting from the endless number of combinations of conjoining acts. Each of our moms made tens of thousands of eggs and our dads made millions of sperm. Each child results from one unique and specific egg and sperm—so our existences are truly remarkable. We each won the improbable zygote lottery!
This simplified illustration shows how just one pair (of 23) of maternal (pink) and paternal (blue) chromosomes from a mother (solid) and father (stripes)—inherited from their own parents—can be passed down in a single generation. Below the parental chromosomes are the four possible germ cells (gametes) resulting from a single genetic recombination, and the four possible zygotes that can be generated during fertilization from those gametes. (In reality, gametes result from multiple recombination events). The zygotes represent the four possible genetic outcomes for children of the mother and father.
DNA genotyping entails looking at hundreds of thousands of sites in the genome, which provides statistical robustness; the red boxes denote the genotype of just one such site. Now, imagine comparing the genotype of one full sibling—for example, a child resulting from the upper left zygotic pair of chromosomes—at this specific site, to a second full sibling, who would have equal probability of having any one of the same four possible zygotic chromosome pairs. If we look just at the two rectangles, the probability of two full siblings being identical at that locus on both chromosomes is one in four, or 25 percent. The probability of two full siblings being identical at that locus on a single chromosome is four ineight, or 50 percent. The probabilities for half siblings, who share only one parent, on the other hand, are 0 percent and 25 percent, respectively.
Chart courtesy of Stuart Schreiber
Chromosomes in germ cells are mosaic combinations of the parental chromosomes. This remarkable fact of inheritance provides a foundation for relating the amount of DNA identity between any two persons and the number of generations likely separating their last common ancestors—parents for siblings; grandparents for cousins; great-grandparents for second cousins; etc. This, together with the miracle of the Internet, where, for example, obituaries provide a wealth of genealogical information, permits the stitching together of plausible ancestral trees. With additional DNA relatives, the resolution increases until eventually the final tree is a certainty.
Within two months of searching public and private DNA ancestry databases, identifying DNA relatives and the amount of DNA identity, and computing, constructing, and connecting family trees up and down multiple generations, I eventually discovered the identity of my biological father, whom I had code-named “the crybaby” since my latent but previously suppressed ability to cry had been fully unleashed during this period. Crying was not part of my childhood: it was in my child’s mind a sign of weakness and therefore something I would never show my father throughout adolescence. Instead, after receiving a blow, I would respond, “Is that all you’ve got?”
DNA seemingly left no uncertainty about the solution to my puzzle. But where was this man at the time of my conception in early 1955? Was an encounter with my mother even geographically possible?
Newspapers.com revealed this mystery person had lived within walking distance of my mother’s home. (This led to a loud and joyful shriek at five o’clock one morning that startled my poor wife out of her deep sleep!) In 1955, Joseph (“Joe”) was a handsome and charming young bachelor, recently returned from military service at the end of the Korean War. He was by all accounts a kind, generous, and caring man (and he cried easily!)—exactly as I had imagined. In my mind, Joe provided my abused mother with kindness and humanity when she was in great need—and I am the consequence. In comparing a series of paired, age-matched photographs of Joe and me, I realized just how much of a physical clone I am—we share the same eyebrows, eyes, noses, ears, chins, and even Adam’s apples. And we were both bald by age 35!
Identifying my biological father was a key first step in overcoming my sense of being untethered. He had died, but I discovered five new amazing half-siblings and many new cousins. Not knowing my origins had led me to a profound need for connectedness, and given me a voracious appetite for gaining family connections. In the past 18 months I have thus far identified 150 DNA-validated living family members and built a family tree of more than 2,500 ancestors. They go as far back as my maternal great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother, Emashapa Panyouasas, the daughter of the chief of the Choctaw Nation in the Mississippi Gulf Coast in the early eighteenth century.
Emashapa explains a large chunk of Native American DNA on my chromosome 17. But along that path, something puzzling arose that gained clarity only over time. Emashapa, for example, could not possibly have had Hungarian (paternal grandfather) or Irish (paternal grandmother) origins, and any link to Cajuns would seem tenuous at best. Indeed, a sizable subset of my DNA relatives simply made no sense—until I considered that the man described as my mother’s father (my maternal grandfather, Henry, conveniently alleged by my maternal grandmother, Connie, to have died immediately prior to my mother’s birth) was in fact not her biological father.
…and My Second New Family
OPENING MY MIND to the possibility of another false paternity, and applying the skills I had honed from my earlier search, revealed a DNA-guided path to my mother’s actual father, Deonie, and a second new family. Because Deonie was a member of one of the original Mississippi settler families, and there have been decades of inter-family marriages among those settlers, my sleuthing this time was far simpler, even though, like Joe, Deonie had never submitted his saliva for DNA analysis. Formidable DNA and genealogical tools enabled me to bridge this gap.
My first-hand interviews of these new family members, and discoveries of family artifacts, have illuminated my mother’s origins and provided powerful insights about her early life. She was born of prostitution (her mother, Connie) and moonshining (her father, Deonie). That she endured life first in a brothel and then in the Catholic convent to which she was delivered sheds much light on her reticence about describing her childhood in any detail beyond conveying great displeasure with the nuns who raised her and great pleasure in taking refuge in the local library, where a librarian showed kindness and patience, offering my mother a life raft from abuse, much as Joe would provide one later.
Family tree showing family members mentioned in the text.
Chart courtesy of Stuart Schreiber
I’ve learned how my grandfather, the moonshiner, purportedly on the run after killing a man in Mississippi, and my grandmother, the prostitute, came together, in a series of highly improbable circumstances. But without this unlikely event, my mother wouldn’t have existed, nor would Renée, Tommy, and I. (I like to think that I won an even more improbable zygote lottery twice!) These circumstances have triggered a fascination with the early- to mid-twentieth-century Mississippi and Louisiana cultures, which were surprisingly separate and distinct in this period preceding facile travel. It has opened my mind to those cultures and their current variants, and offered helpful life lessons as described later.
My mother created a truth of her childhood by erasing the abuse and mayhem and focusing on the library, and later Joe. She created her truth of our family, keeping paternity to a simpler version. She may have passed through her own surreal and unmoored phases, but compartmentalizing was her megingjörð—her magical belt that gave her the power to reach her joyful phase and achieve her dream of providing love to her children.
I’ve often wondered how my truths would be received by her, but of course this is unknowable, as they were only revealed three years after her passing.
Who Knew What?
IT WILL LIKELY BE IMPOSSIBLE to learn the answers to the big questions remaining in my mind, but inferences lead me to some best guesses. More importantly, these questions are not like those that led to my unmoored phase. I have a deep desire to know these truths, but am comfortable realizing that may not be achievable.
“My mother’s best friend has said she wondered, from her first meeting with my mother, why my father hated his younger son, but not his other two children, for no apparent reason.”
Did my father know I was not his biological son? I am nearly certain he did, although some family members are less so. Several months after my birth in New Jersey, my father left for Kansas for nearly a year, leaving my then-fragile mother alone with her new baby and two other young children, one in struggling health. My mother once confided, “This was the worst year of my life.” My father returned from Kansas to take the family to France, where he was newly stationed. I believe my parents tried to put their past behind them for the good of the family, putting the secret in their figurative lockbox. But his physical actions toward me, often conducted behind a closed door in his den, offer additional clues. My brother has shared his observation that “that only happened to you.” My mother’s best friend has said she wondered, from her first meeting with my mother, why my father hated his younger son, but not his other two children, for no apparent reason. My father was less adept at compartmentalizing. He tried to believe one truth but couldn’t help returning to the one hidden in his lockbox.
Did my mother know? Almost certainly. Every element of my history with my loving protector mom now fits perfectly into the new fact-based narrative.
Did Joe know? Possibly not. Based on all I’ve since learned from my new relatives, his strong family relationships would have demanded sharing—making a secret hard to maintain, and “Grandma K,” the matriarch of the family, would not have tolerated separation from her grandson, born under any circumstances.
What did my mother know about her father? It is unlikely she knew Deonie’s identity, given her mother’s circumstances, but I am nearly certain she was aware of the likelihood that her father was someone other than the man her mother said had died just before her birth. Her use of her magic eraser may have led to her first encounter with a lockbox.
Did Deonie know? Yes, as did his wife, Rose, and his daughters, Delane and Lucille, although the daughters knew only of my mother’s existence. They were unaware that they were all living in close proximity in neighboring towns in Louisiana, where Deonie had for some time been appointed sheriff—and his superior was well known for providing protection and cover for gambling and prostitution. Indeed, my grandmother learned her trade as a prostitute when she was “put to work” by her father at just 14 years of age. Most tellingly, Rose told Delane about my mother after Delane’s classmates teased her about having a secret bastard sister, and Lucille had two uncomfortable encounters with my grandmother Connie, including one as a little girl, when she was with her daddy, Deonie.
But one answer to “What is truth?” is “It depends on whose truth.”
Reconciliation
MY RELATIONSHIP with my father evolved in a satisfying way, especially after it became evident that I might make something of my life. We discussed science and even published together (“Reactions That Proceed with a Combination of Enantiotopic Group and Diastereotopic Face Selectivity Can Deliver Products with Very High Enantiomeric Excess: Experimental Support of a Mathematical Model,”1987). He disapproved of the lack of rigor in the chemical sciences, in which I was trained, relative to his areas of physics and mathematics, yet paradoxically I received my first direct compliment from him in the early 1990s when I described my reasons for transitioning to the even less rigorous biological and medical sciences. Although his parenting skills were lacking, he excelled as a grandparent, showing affection to Renée’s and Tommy’s children that would warm anyone’s heart.
My mother and father, “The Colonel” (right), at the Pentagon, where he was awarded a Certificate of Achievement in October 1961
Photograph courtesy of Stuart Schreiber
My warmth toward him in his later years may best be described by my fear of his dying without either of us having shared the word “love.” I tried, on several occasions, but he deflected even an attempt at an embrace with a forceful handshake and strong extended arm. So on June 20, 1993, I left on his work table (which I had only recently received the privilege of using during my weekend visits) a letter that expressed the words he was unwilling to hear: “Dear Dad, On this Father’s Day, I want to share the things I have learned from you—honesty, integrity, and finding what we enjoy so we can do it well.…I love you. Your son.”
I waited for several months, hoping to hear from him, but to no avail. I queried my mother, only to learn that she knew nothing of the letter and had never heard my father refer to it. Then, maybe six months later on a return visit, while alone, I spotted an envelope on his otherwise pristine desk. A wave of guilt over my curiosity subsided when I read the face of the envelope—June 20, 1943, from my father and addressed to his father, Thomas Joseph Schreiber. The letter inside was easily accessed and its contents confirmed that it was indeed meant for me to see. “Dear Dad, Today being Father’s Day, it is appropriate that I write you how I feel about my dad. First, I am quite proud of you. Considering your early environment, your lack of opportunity, and the difficulties which confronted you in your youth, you have done a fine job in providing a good and comfortable home for your family…Thoughtfully, Tom.”
With this, we achieved a degree of closure about our complicated, but in the end respectful and caring, relationship. Years after his death, I found both letters together, tucked in a book in his private library. He never shared a word about them with either my mother or me.
Both of my fathers passed in the year 1996.
Becoming a Better Person
I HAVE ALREADY NOTED one of the most unanticipated consequences of learning my origins and family truths: my tears flow easily now. I am no longer inclined to hide my emotions, and they are easily triggered—whether by seeing the love of a parent and child walking in a Boston park or by learning of another case of abusive behavior.
I view newly discovered family members as cherished persons with their own deep and remarkable stories, and have become eager to learn about their lives. Many of them (including dear cousin Hay Hay) have embraced me with great warmth and love. These discoveries have yielded endless joy. My wife and I have traveled the globe to meet new relatives and see my ancestors’ homelands—Budapest (paternal grandfather) most recently, with Northern Ireland’s County Tyrone (paternal grandmother) next in the queue. We have received gifts such as Grandma K’s flatware from Northern Ireland (with love from cousin Sharon), and learned many happy details of the father I never knew, including from my inspiring, survivor cousin Pat. I will never know him, but I listen regularly to an audiotape of his voice, lovingly given to me by my new sister Karen—with free-flowing tears every time.
My pilgrimages have included a family reunion in The Kiln, Mississippi, where Deonie was born (and the birthplace of my second cousin, NFL Hall of Famer Brett Favre—who would have imagined!), and a visit to Rotten Bayou, Mississippi, where Deonie’s family members were laid to rest. They also include a visit to Louisiana, my mother’s birthplace, where I met my mother’s previously unknown (to both of us) half-sister Lucille, whose Cajun smile, charm, voice, looks, and ability to radiate love are all those of my mother. Meeting Aunt “Cile” was like seeing my mother again, four years after her death. Lots of tears with that visit! I learned details of the life of my mother’s other half-sister, Aunt Delane, who is now deceased. But her daughter Gigi, and Lucille’s daughter Denise, cousins from my second new family, have become a close and integral part of our lives.
But the changes go beyond my emotions. I am a progressive who in the past would have asserted confidently my open-mindedness and nonjudgmental character. But I was wrong. Meeting my new families in The Kiln (Mississippi), Houma (Louisiana), Eatontown (New Jersey, where I was conceived), and Pécs (Hungary), among many other places, has exposed me in a new way to political and religious realities that, I now realize, were previously easy for me to dismiss. Now they feel different. They feel like my origins, reality, and family. It’s a lot easier to embrace a wider range of beliefs and values. This change is the most difficult for me to articulate—but it feels profoundly different. And I like it. I know I’ve become a better person.
Morris Loeb professor of chemistry Stuart L. Schreiber is a member of the department of chemistry and chemical biology, as well as a co-founder of the Broad Institute of Harvard and MIT, a member of the National Academy of Sciences and National Academy of Medicine, and a recent recipient of the Wolf Prize in Chemistry. Together with his wife, Mimi Packman, he has started a foundation that hopes to provide paths to prosperity for the defenseless when they are most in need of safe zones, kindness, love, and support. He dedicates this article to his mother.
