When I sent in a saliva swab to have my DNA tested, I expected more than just a certificate identifying my maternal ancestry as belonging to haplogroup HV. I hoped to learn I'm linked to someone who'd get me tickets to Paul Simon concerts or a discount at Zabar's.
Turns out there are no perks, no haplogroup HV parties, picnics where we drink beer and sing under a large sign, reading, "Haplogroup HV," not even a newsletter. How silly I was to anticipate I'd become connected with others in my haplogroup, that we'd plan a gathering or, if that wasn't possible, convene in a chat room and compare notes on whether we all burn easily, have mitral valve prolapse, love dark chocolate and hate marzipan.
Unhappy that the test was such a non-event, I e-mailed the DNA people to complain. It may be that we're the complaining haplogroup. Do I have any famous relatives?" I asked, hoping this would lead to invitations to the inauguration or season tickets to Yankee games. "As far as digging up famous relatives," was the response, "I do not see any current publications to famous samples for haplogroup HV or those that match the CRS in the first region".
If there was anything surprising, it was being told, "We know that your deep ancestral roots trace back to Europe, which rules out Native American, Semitic, Asian, or more recent African ancestry on this direct maternal line."
When my son finds out, he'll squawk about all those years in Hebrew school.