Growing up in middle-class, white suburbia, I longed for the chance to break out of the mold I was genetically thrust into. I wanted to be free. I wanted to know my roots and see that they were dirty. So I searched.

Lo and behold, what did I find, but that my wanderlust, god complex, and immediate gratification issues were simply my genetic heritage!

I am a great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter of Henry Morgan, a.k.a. Captain Henry Morgan, a.k.a. Pirate Morgan, a.k.a. Captain Blood.

He would be quick to correct you that he was never a pirate, but a sanctioned Privateer. He never once stole from those who paid his salary (at least that they were aware). He carried out his orders and did what was to be done. Damn the Jesuits, use them as human shields. Sack the Spaniards, take the booty, then return to England to receive your pay (with a stop in Jamaica to celebrate), meet up with your cousin-cum-wife, Mary, and enjoy the fruits of being a gentleman in a Gentleman's Age.

I can only hope that somewhere, my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandda is looking up at me with admiration in his eyes and envy in his heart.