The Spanish Cowboy

I was about 16 when I found out about my Spanish heritage. It was enthralling, partly because it made my ethnicity somewhat interesting–being largely of British descent in a place called British Columbia didn’t exactly set me apart from the masses–but mostly because, at least officially, it didn’t really exist.

Where an Irish farmer resides on my genealogical chart, an unknown Spanish farmhand should be.

My poor papa had accidentally let it slip while regaling me with one of his many family anecdotes; the kind that wouldn’t necessarily be captured by recorded history and that he is still passionate about passing on. I latched onto that blunder and he was forced to share the story. It wasn’t until much later that I noted the muted chagrin with which he had told it. It was the small remnants of shame that this tale had once brought to our family.

But teenaged me was oblivious and had pressed on for more details, fascinated like it was juicy gossip.

Some hundred years earlier, George Riseing was rearing a young family with his wife on the Canadian prairies. He made illegal trades with Americans a regular business affair, and often travelled to the border to exchange goods. On one such meeting, he and his associates were stumbled upon by a border patrolman and a fatal shootout occurred.

George was whisked away to an American jail, where he apparently remained for a decade. When he was released back to his land, he found a few more children than he had left behind.

In his absence, my great-great grandmother had taken up with one of his employees and at least two more children. My great-grandmother, Esther, was one of them. When George returned, these new additions were disbursed to various relatives–Esther to an aunt and uncle–and this glitch in my bloodline was nary spoken of for generations.