Words by Tamara Salt // photo by Patrick Hawlik
I’ll admit it: I was not the kind of person who thought much about my family history. The most I knew was that we had a tendency to burn toast and misplace our keys, and that Great-Aunt Doris once claimed we were “descended from royalty,” though she also once tried to pay for groceries with a library card.
I always thought those who obsessed over their family trees were either retired or starring in their own personal historical drama. Not me. I was too busy worrying about things like whether I was drinking enough water or if my neighbours could hear me singing loudly and badly in the shower.
But then one random Sunday afternoon, fueled by boredom, rain, and an alarming amount of iced coffee, I fell down a rabbit hole on one of those ancestry websites (yes, I’m that white chic). I told myself I’d just have a quick look—maybe confirm or debunk Great-Aunt Doris’s royal claims—and then go back to my to-do list, which, let’s be honest, was mostly just “do laundry” written in different ways.
And there it was: my family coat of arms. A real, actual crest—like knights and castles and banners kind of thing. I stared at it on my laptop screen, half expecting it to start glowing and summon me to a secret society. There were lions and stripes and a bird that, at first glance, appeared to be holding a spoon (or was it a sword? A ladle?). The whole thing looked like something out of a medieval drama, the kind I usually binge-watch and say, I would have been terrible at living in that time period.
It was… surprisingly moving. Somewhere out there, generations ago, someone in my family had this designed to represent who we were. There were symbols I didn’t fully understand (yet), but I felt this weird, warm connection to people I’d never met. People who, like me, probably also burnt their toast or lost their keys, or maybe they were the kind who would’ve been far more capable in battle, but still—I felt linked to them. Suddenly, I wanted to know everything: what the colours meant, why there was a bird holding what looked like a utensil, and how I could display this crest without seeming like I was starting my own monarchy (of which I am very much opposed, thank you).
So I did what any sensible person would do: I fell deeper into the rabbit hole. I googled. I scrolled forums. I even—brace yourself—joined a Facebook group dedicated to surname histories. I learned that the colours on my family crest weren’t just random choices; they symbolised things like loyalty, strength, and generosity. (Generosity! I liked that one. I decided to ignore the part about “warlike bravery” because, frankly, I faint at the sight of blood.) The bird turned out to be a heraldic symbol too—representing vigilance and resourcefulness. And no, it wasn’t holding a spoon. It was a floppy sword. But I still think of it as a spoon because that feels more on-brand for my family: ready for battle, but also, ready for soup.
That’s where the idea hit me. It was the perfect artwork for my home. A reminder of those who came before me. As awkward and sensitive as I am, there are countless generations before me who share my nose, my idiosyncrasies, and hopefully, my sense of justice (I’ll get back to you on that after more digging). I had my family coat of arms professionally printed so that I can display it in my home. Not for anyone else, but for me. As a reminder that I am just one piece of the puzzle, one tiny link in a very long chain of odd, hopeful, probably-toast-burning people.
I chose a simple black frame. No gold embellishments, no velvet matting—just clean, minimal, and quietly meaningful. It hangs above my desk now, where I can glance at it when I’m stuck on a piece of writing, or when I need to remind myself that I’m part of something bigger. I expected it to feel a little silly, but it doesn’t. It feels grounding. Comforting, even. Like I have invisible backup.
It’s funny—something that started as procrastination became a way to feel more connected. Learning about my family history didn’t change who I am, but it reminded me I’m part of a bigger story. A story that started long before me and will (hopefully) continue long after. And if that story happens to involve a slightly wonky bird with a spoon? I’m here for it.
Since then, I’ve found myself wondering about the people behind the crest. Who first commissioned it? Did they imagine someone like me, centuries later, staring at it on a glowing screen with a cup of coffee in hand? (Probably not. I’m guessing they were more concerned about defending a castle or negotiating land rights or whatever people did back then.) Still, I like to think they’d be pleased to know their efforts weren’t forgotten. That their colours and symbols still mean something, even if that meaning has shifted with time.
I’ve also started to collect little pieces of family lore. The kind of stories that don’t make it onto a formal crest, but that feel just as important. The cousin who was a jazz musician. The great-grandmother who made the best lemon cake in the southern hemisphere. The uncle who taught himself to paint at fifty. None of these achievements come with a coat of arms, but they’re part of the tapestry too. Ordinary people, living ordinary lives—and somehow, that feels extraordinary.
So if you ever find yourself with an afternoon to kill, I recommend it. Follow the breadcrumbs. Look up your surname. Find out if you’ve got a family crest, or if there’s a bird somewhere out there with a spoon that represents you. You don’t have to get it printed and framed, but take a moment to think about the people who came before you. The ones who made your existence possible. The ones who might have passed down more than just a nose or a chin, but a streak of kindness, or courage, or a love of soup.
I used to think family history was something for other people—people with a grand story to uncover. Now I see it differently. Family history is for all of us. Because we’re all part of something bigger. And whether or not you’ve got a crest, or a coat of arms, or even a slightly dubious claim to royalty via Great-Aunt Doris, you’re connected to that bigger story too.
And that’s worth hanging on your wall.
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