I am one of many, lesser-known Steve Smiths. I have been investigated for drug trafficking and beating my wife. On each occasion I calmly told the police they had the wrong Steve Smith. Fortunately, they believed me and found the other Steve Smith. True story. I have been approached for my autograph but had to report to the elderly fan that I am not Red Green, the Canadian comedian who is also Steve Smith. I had to assure my five-year-old son in 1996 that I was not the British high jumper who just took the bronze medal in the Olympics. I have never played basketball for Michigan State or in the NBA for that matter. And the Steve Smith who retired from the Carolina Panthers of the NFL? Also, not me.
I am intrigued by our ancestors and their struggle to survive: their hopes and fears, their plight and flight. Something more than DNA passes from one generation to the next. Something more than property and wealth; or poverty and subjugation, contributes to the story of humankind. There is within each of us the hope and fear of our ancestors, the spirit that drove them to an early grave or long life in search of freedom and happiness. And that’s what compels me to write. What was their story? What is our story? How does the story end? Or does it?