It seemed like a pretty simple question from my son...

"Mom, who are my people?"



It was pretty easy to answer when he was young, "They're Irish immigrants, son. They came over during the potato famine."



As he got older he kept asking the same question in different ways, "...But WHO are my people?" and "Who ARE my people?" and "Who are MY people?"



Each time he asked, I had to dig a little deeper, search a little further, ask more questions of the living and I even had to seek help from the nonliving because I realized I didn't really know the answer to that question.



His simple question became my quest. I sought an answer and found a mystery. Who are my people? Extraordinarily ordinary, mysterious folks.