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I am telling this in the wrong order.

I should have started out by saying who my ancestors were and who I am. That’s how all the Icelandic sagas begin—I know this because I’ve read most of the ones in my mom’s collection. And all the Norse myths too. They always start with “so and so” was related to “so and so” and then “so and so” got in a boat and killed “so and so.” And they end by telling you who “so and so’s” offspring was. In Iceland it’s important to know who you’re related to.

That must be why Mom spends her spare time researching our family tree. She and Dad are constantly trying to find out more about who we’re descended from, what deeds defined their lives, what land they lived on, and how all of this made us into who we are today.

They even know which bones belong to which side of the family. “Our past is written all across your face, Angie,” Mom has often explained. “Your green eyes come from your father’s side, your thin cheekbones are just like your grandma’s, you can thank your Grandpa Thursten for making you so thin—”

“—and your red hair is a freak of nature,” Dad would always interject. They never did explain why I ended up being left-handed, even though they were both righties.

Then they would tell me stories about the “so and so’s” we’re descended from. Inevitably the lecture would end up with a story about Grettir Asmundson, a hero who lived in Iceland many years ago. He was known for being big and mean and for beating up on a few ghosts and undead monsters. He was also an outlaw, but Mom and Dad usually glossed over that part.

Whenever my parents were done their lesson in genetics, Mom would sum it all up with: “If you don’t know your own past, you can’t know who you are.”

So I will begin by saying, I am Angela Laxness, the daughter of Deidre and Jón Laxness of North Dakota. Through my mother’s side of the family, the Asmundsons, I can trace our ancestry back to Grettir the Strong, a famous hero.

It’s a big deal in Iceland.