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Shapiro - Inheritance: a memoir of genealogy, paternity, and love

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Shapiro Inheritance: a memoir of genealogy, paternity, and love
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Inheritance: a memoir of genealogy, paternity, and love: summary, description and annotation

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The acclaimed and beloved author of Hourglass now gives us a new memoir about identity, paternity, and family secrets--a real-time exploration of the staggering discovery she made last year about her father, and her struggle to piece together the hidden the story of her own life--;In the spring of 2016, through a genealogy website to which she had whimsically submitted her DNA, Dani Shapiro received the astonishing news that her beloved deceased father was not her biological father. Over the course of a single day, her entire history--the life she had lived--crumbled beneath her. In just a few hours of Internet sleuthing, she was able to piece together the story of her conception and, remarkably, find a YouTube video of her biological father--his face and mannerisms eerily similar to her own. [This] is a book about secrets--secrets within families, kept out of shame or self-protectiveness; secrets we keep from one another in the name of love. It is the story of a womans urgent quest to unlock the story of her own identity, a story that had been scrupulously hidden from her for more than fifty years. It is a book about the extraordinary moment we live in, a moment in which science and technology have outpaced not only medical ethics but also the capacities of the human heart to contend with the consequences of what we discover. Dani Shapiros memoir unfolds at a breakneck pace--part mystery, part real-time investigation, part rumination on the ineffable combination of memory, history, biology, and experience that makes us who we are. A haunting interrogation of the meaning of kinship and identity, written with stunning intensity and precision--Dani Shapiros most intimate and compelling work yet.--Dust jacket.

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ALSO BY DANI SHAPIRO Hourglass Still Writing The Perils and Pleasures of a - photo 1
ALSO BY DANI SHAPIRO

Hourglass

Still Writing: The Perils and Pleasures of a Creative Life

Devotion: A Memoir

Black & White

Family History: A Novel

Slow Motion: A True Story

Picturing the Wreck

Fugitive Blue

Playing with Fire

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A KNOPF Copyright 2019 by Dani - photo 2

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK

PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

Copyright 2019 by Dani Shapiro

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.

www.aaknopf.com

Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Shapiro, Dani, author.

Title: Inheritance : a memoir of genealogy, paternity, and love / Dani Shapiro.

Description: First edition. | New York : Alfred A. Knopf, 2019.

Identifiers: LCCN 2018024082 (print) | LCCN 2018050939 (ebook) | ISBN 9781524732721 (ebook) | ISBN 9781524732714 (hardcover)

Subjects: LCSH : Shapiro, Dani. | Women novelists, AmericanBiography. | Novelists, American20th centuryBiography. | Jewish womenUnited StatesBiography. | BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Literary. | BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Cultural Heritage. | BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs.

Classification: LCC PS 3569. H 3387 (ebook) | LCC PS 3569. H 3387 Z 46 2019 (print) | DDC 818/.5403 [ B ]dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018024082

Ebook ISBN9781524732721

Cover photograph by Diana Weymar

Cover design by Carol Devine Carson

v5.4

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Contents

This book is for my father.

Authors Note

This is a work of nonfiction. In some cases, names and identifying details have been changed in order to respect and protect the privacy of others, and to keep a promise I made from the very start.

I shall never get you put together entirely,

Pieced, glued, and properly jointed.

Sylvia Plath, The Colossus

If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself.

George Orwell, 1984

Part One
1
When I was a girl I would sneak down the hall late at night once my parents - photo 3

When I was a girl I would sneak down the hall late at night once my parents were asleep. I would lock myself in the bathroom, climb onto the Formica counter, and get as close as possible to the mirror until I was nose to nose with my own reflection. This wasnt an exercise in the simple self-absorption of childhood. The stakes felt high. Who knows how long I kneeled there, staring into my own eyes. I was looking for something I couldnt possibly have articulatedbut I always knew it when I saw it. If I waited long enough, my face would begin to morph. I was eight, ten, thirteen. Cheeks, eyes, chin, and foreheadmy features softened and shape-shifted until finally I was able to see another face, a different face, what seemed to me a truer face just beneath my own.


Now it is early morning and Im in a small hotel bathroom three thousand miles from home. Im fifty-four years old, and its a long time since I was that girl. But here I am again, staring and staring at my reflection. A stranger stares back at me.

The coordinates: Im in San FranciscoJapantown, to be precisejust off a long flight. The facts: Im a woman, a wife, a mother, a writer, a teacher. Im a daughter. I blink. The stranger in the mirror blinks too. A daughter. Over the course of a single day and night, the familiar has vanished. Familiar: belonging to a family. On the other side of the thin wall I hear my husband crack open a newspaper. The floor seems to sway. Or perhaps its my body trembling. I dont know what a nervous breakdown would feel like, but I wonder if Im having one. I trace my fingers across the planes of my cheekbones, down my neck, across my clavicle, as if to be certain I still exist. Im hit by a wave of dizziness and grip the bathroom counter. In the weeks and months to come, I will become well acquainted with this sensation. It will come over me on street corners and curbs, in airports, train stations. Ill take it as a sign to slow down. Take a breath. Feel the fact of my own body. Youre still you, I tell myself, again and again and again.

2
Twenty-four hours earlier I was in my home office trying to get organized for - photo 4

Twenty-four hours earlier, I was in my home office trying to get organized for a trip to the West Coast when I heard Michaels feet pounding up the stairs. It was ten-thirty in the evening, and we had to leave before dawn to get to the Hartford airport for an early flight. I had made a packing list. Im a list maker, and there were a million things to do. Bras. Panties. Jeans skirt. Striped top. Sweater/jacket? (Check weather in SF.) I was good at reading the sound of my husbands footsteps. These sounded urgent, though I couldnt tell whether they were good urgent or bad urgent. Whatever it was, we didnt have time for it. Skin stuff. Brush/comb. Headphones. He burst through my office door, open laptop in hand.

Susie sent her results, he said.

Susie was my much-older half sister, my fathers daughter from an early marriage. We werent close, and hadnt spoken in a couple of years, but I had recently written to ask if she had ever done genetic testing. It was the kind of thing I had never even considered, but I had recalled Susie once mentioning that she wanted to know if she was at risk for any hereditary diseases. A New York City psychoanalyst, she had always been on the cutting edge of all things medical. My email had reached her at the TED conference in Banff. She had written back right away that she had indeed done genetic testing and would look to see if she had her results with her on her computer.

Our father had died in a car accident many years earlier, when I was twenty-three, and Susie thirty-eight. Through him, we were part of a large Orthodox Jewish clan. It was a family history I was proud of and I loved. Our grandfather had been a founder of Lincoln Square Synagogue, one of the countrys most respected Orthodox institutions. Our uncle had been president of the Orthodox Union. Our grandparents had been pillars of the observant Jewish community both in America and in Israel. Though as a grown woman I was not remotely religious, I had a powerful, nearly romantic sense of my family and its past.


The previous winter, Michael had become curious about his own origins. He knew far less about the generations preceding him than I did about mine. His mother had Alzheimers and recently had fallen and broken her hip. The combination of her injury and memory loss had precipitated a steep and rapid decline. His father was frail but mentally sharp. Michaels sudden interest in genealogy was surprising to me, but I understood it. He was hoping to learn more about his ancestral roots while his dad was still around. Perhaps hed even enlarge his sense of family by connecting to third or fourth cousins.

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