Rainy Days and Mondays (or Saturdays)

Today was our first taste of the rainy season in California. I suppose we'll have a wet Christmas rather than a white one! The unexpected dreariness was an appropriate background to the departure of our friends, who are renouncing the traveling lifestyle in favor of a permanent residence. Though we've only known them since August, they were our constant companions and travel guides. Unfortunately, this is the curse and the blessing of a rambling lifestyle - meeting new friends only to have to let them go (at least for the moment). Ted's brother is here with us to celebrate Christmas - a bright spot in this otherwise cloudy day.
Since rainy days provide plenty of time for reading, I was able to finish The Genius Factory by David Plotz, an intriguing book that proves the old adage that truth is stranger than fiction. Plotz attempts to investigate the lives of over 200 children who were born as a result of the Nobel Prize sperm bank, otherwise known as the Repository for Germianl Choice, which was founded by aging millionaire named Robert Graham in 1980. Graham's dream was to produce a race of intelligent children who would be capable of solving the pressing problems of the modern world. Because he believed intelligence was hereditary, he set out to collect the sperm of Nobel prize winners, which he planned to market to Mensa women. Unfortunately for Graham, sperm banks were not taken seriously in his day and most Nobel prize winners were not interested in donating sperm. He scoured medical and law school campuses in hopes of adding more sperm to the fledgling bank. Though the bank eventually succeeded in producing 200 children, it closed in 1999, and never followed up on any of its genius offspring. David Plotz attempts to connect the dots in order to prove once and for all whether or not intelligence is indeed inherited.
Plotz's research uncovers more questions than answers, however, and of course covers the basic argument of nature versus nurture, though in an intriguing and provocative new way. One of the donor children asks himself how much of himself he owes to his donor father and how much he owes to his upbringing. Has school always been easier to him because his father was supposedly a genius, or was it because his mother always enrolled him in enrichment activities? Was Molly a chemistry whiz and dancer because of her father or because her mother adored ballet? In other words, what exactly do we owe to our genes? An intriguing question, as an increasing amount of ailments and afflictions are blamed on our genetic codes. At what point do we take responsibility for our own actions and attributes? Will we soon have a new legal defense that "my genes made me do it"? Will we also then say, "I know it was a brilliant piano recital. Piano playing is in my genes!"?
Perhaps you all can ponder on this connundrum as well, and let me know what you think. I will spend the rest of this rainy day working on my scrapbook and thinking about what I owe to my genes and upbringing, and what I owe to my own determination. Until tomorrow . . .
By: Rebecca
Photo By: Ted (Taken in Big Sur)