All this nonsense going around today about names is sickening. We’ve got lots of Mexican-Americans here, plus millions of African- Americans. Then there are the Polish-Americans, English Americans and Native Americans. I would venture to say that 99 and 99/100 percent of the so-called African- English-Polish-Americans have never been to any of those countries.
Going back as far in my ancestry as I can go, my great-great-great-greatgreat great-great-great-greatgreat grandfather came from Norway. Then he migrated sometime to England. It’s been passed down through my Cornett family history that our ancient ancestor came to England with the Vikings in the year 1026. (And the name has always been spelled ‘Cornett’ and don’t let anyone tell you any diff erent. I have some records of a ‘Cornett’ in the year 986.)
On my mother’s side, her great-great-grandfather came from Ireland in 1798. Mom’s grandfather and my great-grandfather, Eli Lucas, was a full-blooded Cherokee Indian. I know this to be a fact because he told me so.
So that makes me a Norwegian Irish-English-Native American. I’ve never been to Norway, Ireland or England. (I went to Iceland for five days in 1966, but that doesn’t count.) Those countries would not claim me as one of their long-lost descendants.
So, according to my way of thinking, what am I? I’m a plain old Kentucky-Hillbilly- American, and I’m proud of it. I’ve got a bachelor’s degree and a master’s degree. Am I supposed to put these letters after my name — BA-MBAKHA?
I’m really just a plain, old ‘American.’ I was born here, I grew up here, I’ll die here, and I’ll be buried here in the Veteran’s Cemetery on Pine Mountain.
By that time, I’ll be in my heavenly home.