Rooted in Silence: A Family’s Hidden Legacy of Migration, Adoption and Identity

Preface

I am publishing a four-part series to highlight our 250th anniversary, Each article stands alone, but together they will tell a larger story about our American experiment and reinforce the themes of American democracy, especially in the midst of the damage to our country as described in The Trump Files.

Here is the list of four blog posts whiich will be published here over the next four days.

1. Wolf Blitzer’s Powerful Reminder of American Citizenship
2. The Birthday That Should Have United America
3. What Skyler Fusaro Might Say About the 250th Anniversary of Our Country
4. Rooted in Silence: My Family’s Legacy of Immigration, Adoption and Identity

This is the fourth post. Enjoy.

Rooted in Silence: A Family’s Hidden Legacy of Migration, Adoption and Identity

This story began with a simple question that led to a profound journey of discovery. In exploring my father’s veiled past, I uncovered a story that transcends one individual’s life and touches universal themes: identity, belonging, secrecy, and love. This is a tribute to my father, the woman who became my grandmother through adoption, my mother through her marriage to my father, and the generations before and after who carried the silent legacy forward. I am not only a grandfather, but just recently became a great grandfather with the birth of Mary Zella Rose Wilson (Rosemary) on July 2, 2026.

A whispered connection

For much of my life, I believed my father’s story was like many others—biologically rooted, shaped by tradition. He and his brother, my uncle, were central figures in our family narrative. Yet, subtle hints from cousins suggested a more complex truth. These whispers lingered until I was 60 years old, when I finally asked my aunt Bertha Hassard the question that had long haunted me.

“Was my father adopted?

“Yes,” she said simply.  “He and my husband, George were both adopted.  They also adopted a third child, Wilfred Fransician. When Wilfred decided to join his biological family during his teenage years.

The Irish Grandmother

My aunt’s answer opened the door to a quietly intricate story. My adoptive grandmother was born in Ireland and immigrated to Boston around 1900, one of millions who crossed the Atlantic in search of a better life. Her name is Margaret McEntee. There were ten children in her family. One of her sisters also emigrated to the Boston area. Like so many Irish immigrants beforehand, a homeland marked by hardship, she carried with her little more than hope and determination.

An American Story

Her story is, in many ways, an American story. With the exception of Native peoples, every American family begins somewhere else. Whether our ancestors arrived centuries ago on sailing ships, slave ships from Africa, passed through Ellis Island, crossed the Rio Grande, legally or not, or came by air in more recent times, each family has a migration story.

America has always been a nation shaped by people who left one home to build another. The American people believe and welcome migrants. Unfortunately, the current administration has engineered an abandonment and deportation machine that has turned immigration around. Hundreds of thousands of primarily brown-skined people have rounded, many by the use of force. They are sent to concentration-type detention crntetz. They often are held in bleak and inhumane condition, sometimes for months and deported, often to places they’ve never been to.

Nearly 70% have never committed a crime. This will change, but it will take a continuous effort by all of us, as well as the democratic institutions and members of Congress, such as Jon Ossoff to create bilateral legislation to end this cruel, inhumane, illegal plan of deportation by the present administration. Along with local leaders, Ossoff successfully pressured the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) to abandon plans to convert a massive warehouse in Social Circle, Georgia, into a mega-detention center.

Indeed, immigration is at the heart of our national story. Jeremy Robbins, Executive Director of the American Immigration Council, writes: “Families still arrive carrying hope, even as many face policies that separate parents from children, confine individuals in detention, and make the search for safety feel uncertain and fraught. Here, our ideals are tested in real time.

That decision would echo through generations.

John Russell Hassard passed his name to my father, but with the names reversed: Russell John Hassard. Years later, I inherited the family tradition. Although my birth certificate reads John, like many New Englanders I became known simply as Jack. It is a small linguistic inheritance, shared by generations of Irish Americans—John Fitzgerald Kennedy was “Jack” Kennedy to the nation. My name was passed on to my son, John Russell Hassard. He kept the name John.

Names are remarkable things. They carry history even when history itself remains hidden. For years I believed the Hassard name represented an unbroken biological lineage stretching back through Ireland. Only much later did I discover that the legacy I inherited was not one of blood alone but of choice. My grandmother’s decision to adopt my father and two other boys transformed the meaning of our family name. It became not simply an inheritance but a gift.

The photos below, (Figures 1-3) include pictures of my mother and father, my grandmother “Nana,” and my two uncles, George and Wilfred.

Acts of Courage

Looking back, I realize that my family’s story rests on two acts of courage. The first was immigration—the willingness to leave one world behind in search of another. The second was adoption—the willingness to make a family not through biology but through love. Without either decision, I would not be here to tell this story.

My aunt’s answer opened the door to a quietly intricate story. My adoptive grandmother was born in Ireland and immigrated to Boston around 1900, part of a wave of Irish seeking new beginnings. There, she met an older Irishman, John Russell Hassard. Together, they adopted three children, including my father, all when they were babies. In my dad’s case, he was a ward of the state of Massachusetts, after his birth parents decided not to keep him. I’m not sure about my uncles who were adopted. Below you see a table that shows five members of the Hassard household in 1920 in Dedham, MA. The three boys they adopted are listed with their birth names. Their names were changed by their adoptive parents.

My grandfather, John Russell Hassard, passed his name on to my father, reversing the order: Russell John Hassard. I, in turn, bear the name Jack, a familiar New England variation of John. Through names, a quiet legacy was passed down, concealing deeper truths beneath the surface My grandfather’s name was passed on to my son, John Russell Hassard.

I used Ancestry.com and U.S. Census records to find who the biological parents were. They lived in the Boston area, as did my father and his family. There was never any contact between my dad’s adoptive family, and his biological parents. I found out later, that my dad had a biological younger sister. They never met.

The Silence Within

My father never spoke of his adoption. This wasn’t denial; it was reverence. He adored his adoptive mother. Her love and care shaped him more profoundly than biology could. My aunt told me he was a ward of the state, abandoned by his birth parents. At some point, they had a daughter—his biological sister.

My sister Claire once overheard that sister’s name in a hushed conversation. That moment, like a faint echo, reminded us of a family we would never fully know. The silence, rather than erasing the past, became a protective veil.

Discovery Through DNA

Decades later, digital tools offered answers my father never sought. On Ancestry.com, I traced both his adoptive and biological lineages. The result is shown in geneological chart 1. I named it the Russell Hassard Biological Chart, showing three generations discovered through Ancestry.com research. My father’s biologal name is DeYoung. The names and connections appear in the chart, but chose not to pursue them beyond two generations.

What mattered most was the woman who raised him. She chose him. Through her choice, she shaped not just his life, but mine, my children’s, and generations to come. At time, on July 7, 2026, my grandparents, had nine grandchildren, 38 great grandchildren, >40 great great grandchildren. Their courage being an immigrant to this country, finding each other and then deciding to adopt not one, but three young boys. They loved and raised them to be remarkable human beings. One became my father; the other two became my uncles.

While exploring, I also traced my adoptive grandmother’s ancestry. She had ten siblings. To my surprise, I connected with a present-day relative. Through our correspondence, we unearthed new stories, proving that even silence leaves behind traces.

Adoption Then and Now

In the early 1900s, adoption was common yet secretive. Economic hardship, immigration, and war left many children without families. Older couples and those without children often adopted quietly. Records were sparse, and adoption was rarely discussed. If you are interested in exploring adoption in the U.S. you could consult this article on the origins of adoption in the U.S.

My father’s era was one of quiet truths. Adoption wasn’t denied—it simply wasn’t acknowledged. His silence, I believe, was an act of love. He honored his adoptive mother by building a family not through blood, but through devotion. In doing so, he taught me the true meaning of kinship. There is much research on adoption. I can report that my father adored his mother. She died in 1959, when I was a sophomore at Bridgewater State. My sister Claire, who was nine then, told me that dad cried for three days. No wonder. He realized that his life would have very different, and if it wasn’t for his adoptive parents, he wouldn’t be who he was then.

I Wouldn’t Be Here Except for Her.

I owe my existence to a choice made long ago by a woman from Ireland. Her decision to adopt a child gave life to generations. This story is for her, for my father, for my mother Margaret Hearn Hassard, and for my sisters Anne Larison, Patty Bolles, Mary Diaz, and Claire McLellan. Each of us carries her legacy.

In telling this story, I honor the quiet resilience, chosen love, and unspoken courage that define so many adoptive families. These are the stories that shape who we are.

Conclusion

The narrative of “Rooted in Silence” delves into a family’s hidden legacy surrounding migration, adoption, and identity. It begins with a quest to uncover the author’s father’s adoption story, revealing connections to Irish immigrant heritage through his adoptive grandmother, Margaret McEntee. The author learns that both his father and uncle were adopted, marking a transformation of family identity that transcended biological ties. This exploration highlights the significance of adoption and immigration in shaping personal and collective histories. Through DNA tracing, the author embraces the complexities of family, honoring the love and choices that define kinship across generations.

Appendix

Geneological charts

Acknowledgements.

Ancestry.com. I’ve used Ancestry.com for more than 15 years, and used to build two trees that trace our families.

 

Footnotes

1. “My father’s biological parents are Sydney W. DeYoung, 1887-1964 and Elsie Ida Hall, 1892-1959. Sydney’s parents immigrated to Boston from Ireland circa 1880. They had one son, Sydney in 1887. My dad’s biological parents also had a daughter who lived in the Boston area.”