Things great and small

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Just click on the title “Things great and small.”

As you likely know, Resonance Women’s Chorus, home to my major volunteer gig these days, just finished up the season with its marvelous concert on climate change. After being immersed in this earth-ish topic for months, it’s been fun to find myself stretched through other layers of reality by a handful of articles I've encountered—outward to this incomprehensibly vast cosmos of ours and inward to microscopic realms that touch on our very identity. Not trivial matters, but definitely fun.

(Before I get all wonky, check out these gorgeous roses I spotted on a walk the other day. If nothing else, they're testimony to two happy facts: it's spring and I'm out walking again. Hooray!)

So, as a hint of this perspective stretching I mentioned, I offer these few tidbits for your consideration. 

First, the microscopic: 

The first set of articles I read had to do with the relatively recent development of a new technique in the field of genetics. Not long ago, two geneticists developed a technique called CRISPR-Cas9, which gives scientists the ability to remove and add genetic material at will, altering an organism's genome—sperm, eggs, embryos—in a way that will be passed on to future generations. Here’s a video explaining it, if you're curious. The technique has already been used in rats, monkeys, and a few other species. Folks are pretty certain that it would work in humans. Genetic manipulation that is limited to non-germ cells (e.g., in GMO foods, gene therapy) already raises some ethical concerns. But this is about changes that will be transmitted to subsequent generations. Still unknown are how precise such changes can be (might I clip too much, insert too little?), how specific (what if I alter surrounding genes in the process?), and what the side effects might be (will eliminating, say, a gene that predisposes allergies also damage part of the natural immune response?).  

Aside from these technical issues, CRISPR raises huge ethical concerns—even theological ones. It could have great benefits in curing diseases, preventing birth defects, and so on. But it could also be used in questionable ways, like to engineer offspring sex, physical characteristics, intelligence, etc. Recently, a number of people working in the field called for a moratorium on this research in humans until these issues can be addressed. In the words of one scientist, “It raises the most fundamental of issues about how we are going to view our humanity in the future and whether we are going to take the dramatic step of modifying our own germline and in a sense take control of our genetic destiny.” Another comments, “I personally think we are just not smart enough—and won’t be for a very long time—to feel comfortable about the consequences of changing heredity, even in a single individual.”

Yet, just the other day I saw an article about scientists who had attempted to perform this research in human embryos. The experiment failed in most cases—the embryos died or the DNA was not altered as planned. In other cases, the results were as feared: in some, the DNA interrupted the process, resulting in some changed and some unchanged DNA. In other cases, non-target segments of the DNA were altered, a phenomenon some have called “collateral damage.” So the experiment basically confirmed that the scientists who had issued the warning were right. Still, this research also highlighted the possibility—even the high likelihood—that others will try again.

The questions this raises are just mind-boggling. What is identity? What does “I” mean if my DNA, the “building block” of my distinctive genetic makeup can be altered? And what does it mean to be a human being if the core features of human existence might be subject to alteration? If these techniques get perfected, who decides what traits are worthy of continuing and which are not? It is impossible not to hear the echo of early 20th century programs of eugenics in these questions.

But in a different microscopic domain, another story seems to bring good news: I wrote here before about scientists’ conclusion that viruses make up over 8% of our DNA. These viruses are evolutionary hitchhikers, organisms that infected our long-ago ancestors and that gradually became incorporated into our very genes. Now, that’s mind stretching enough by itself—nearly 1/10 of our DNA consists of viruses! But even more astounding is what these viruses do for us. In that earlier post, I noted that they may be responsible for the evolution of the placenta (the placenta! We’re talking here about the very beginning of our individual selves). And now, last week, I also learned that some such viruses—endogenous retroviruses—may “come alive” during the earliest stages of embryonic development. Retroviruses are not usually our friends—think HIV—but in this case, these endogenous retroviruses may actually serve to immunize the embryo against other viruses. 

Now, this is good news, but it still challenges any simplistic notions we might hold about ourselves as individual, self-contained, unitary beings. Just think about it … microscopic viruses—viruses!—stow-aways from pre-human history may be responsible for the placenta that supported our individual prenatal life and for our immunity to viruses that might otherwise have done us in. So don't you wonder wonder, where does the “I” in this process end and the “they” begin?

To leap from the microscopic to the telescopic ...

Two other recent stories escorted me back into my recurrent fascination with the cosmic. This past week was the 25^th anniversary of the launch of the Hubble telescope, which, as you likely know, has rewritten our understanding of the universe—and illustrated the book. The Internet was full of Hubble photo gems this week. In case you missed them, I’ll paste in a few, and you can click here for more and here for even more.  

                                                                                  

Hubble had some struggles from its earliest days (I’m tempted to say it was star crossed, but that seems too easy), with a microscopic flaw in the mirror that caused blurry views of even nearby objects. But with some clever fixes over the years by astronauts turned telescope experts, Hubble has taught us more about the cosmos than we ever knew there was to learn. As you may know from previous posts, I’m a totally amateur but enthusiastic observer of things astrophysical, so I’ve been paying attention to Hubble’s discoveries for years. This anniversary provided a delightful visual memoir of Hubble’s life so far, and I’m hoping for more.

And then, just today, I came across a short story about another recent Hubble-fueled finding: out there in the universe, there are “runaway galaxies,” and with Hubble's help, we’re starting to understand them. Scientists have known for some time about runaway “rogue” planets, which have either been ejected from their orbits around stars or somehow never belonged to a star system. They’ve also suggested the existence of runaway galaxies that are moving so fast they sail free from the “local cluster” of galaxies whose gravity generally holds galaxies together in a group. And now Hubble has spotted a runaway galaxy and tracked its trajectory as it veers away from its orbit and heads off into … somewhere. I love that the universe is so unruly.

So, I find this stuff fascinating in its own right. But this week, with my thoughts shifting from the issue of climate change—which is global, but local, in the planetary sense—to matters larger and smaller, I realized that both directions of my drift these recent days—the microscopic and cosmic—raise very similar questions: Who are we? What counts as human if much of our substance is actually other organisms? Who do we become  if we alter the genome that defines who we "naturally" are? Where is our place in a universe whose early beginnings over 13 billion years ago is just now coming into sight and whose extent, some would argue, is infinite? And that remains stubbornly errant.

If I drift back from the vast, cosmic question to this smallish, ordinary planet, I wonder at our arrogance to think we matter at all. If I move the other way, to the microscopic, I wonder if we realize how tentative and ephemeral our existence is. Either way, I'm struck by the astonishing improbability of it all. Which cycles me back to earlier musings on this very question, shared here many blogs ago.

I float in these dilemmas for a while, and then go about my business as if none of these questions mattered, as if they hadn't come to mind. Until they do again.

I wonder what that means. 

© Janis Bohan, 2010-2015. Use of this content is welcome with attribution and a link to the post. 

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North Carolina and the meaning of truth

Lecture module alert (A new feature of this blog, a warning that I worry that I have stepped into my beloved teaching mode. This means I feel an irresistible urge to think through the nuances of a topic out loud. To add context and examples. To be sure it makes sense. Please don't decide not to read this ... it's pretty interesting. And please excuse me if I launch into discussions about stuff you already know and if I get sort of wordy. I can’t help it.)


Ideas are always products of their times. They grow according to the elements of the soil they where they sprout. Of course we like to believe that our ideas are exceptions to this. Our "truth" isn't tied to time and place. We have it right, and others are simply wrong. But really, what we “know” is always shaped by the world around us. Our point of view always depends on where we stand. As philosopher Donna Haraway said, “There is no view from nowhere.” 

So, thinking about this (as I have been recently) leads me to reflect on how easy it is to see someone else’s ideas, ideas that grew in different soil, as wrongheaded, ill informed, absurd. But when I do that, I miss the point that those folks likely think that my ideas are wrong-headed, ill informed, and absurd.

You’re probably wondering what this has to do with North Carolina. OK, I’ll explain.

This train of thought came to mind as I read some recent news about North Carolina. The state of NC is considering paying reparations to victims of state-legislated, forced sterilization in the early twentieth century (in some cases, as late as the 1970s). In fact, sterilization programs were being pursued in more than 30 other states at the same time. This took me back to my years teaching the history of psychology. That may seem like a stretch, but stick with me a minute.

Most of us haven’t heard much (if anything) about this nation’s foray into eugenics. (In case that word isn’t in your everyday vocabulary, eugenics refers to programs intended to improve the species through selective breeding.) One form of eugenics involves encouraging the “right” sort of reproduction among people (or animals or plants). Think animal breeding and plant genetics, designer dogs and seedless watermelons. A very recent example of human eugenics was the “Nobel Prize winners’ sperm bank.” (If you’re thinking of signing up, it’s too late.)

Another form of eugenics aims to ensure that some people, the “wrong” people don’t reproduce. We see this in laws that prohibit marriage between close relatives or between members of different races. We saw its most extreme form in Hitler’s efforts to eliminate groups he saw as “inferior”: Jews, Gypsies, gay men, people with disabilities.

To get back to the North Carolina story, eugenics was widespread public policy in the US in the early twentieth century. Much of the push for eugenics came from wealthy and powerful people. Its supporters included Alexander Graham Bell, Winston Churchill, John Kellogg (of Kellogg’s corn flakes fame), Theodore Roosevelt, and Margaret Sanger, the “mother” of birth control and founder of Planned Parenthood. Not surprisingly, the advocates of eugenics were quite clear about who the “fit” people were—people like them. And the “unfit” folks who should be prevented from reproducing were people unlike them: non-white, non-educated, poor, foreign born, people with disabilities.

Winners of the Fittest Family contest,
Topeka KS

During the heyday of eugenics in the early 1900s, government-sponsored programs encouraged reproduction among the “fit.” Others discouraged, prohibited, or physically prevented reproduction among those were “unfit.” These included national contests to select the “fittest family” as well as programs supporting the sterilization of “unfit” people. University courses and textbooks about eugenics appeared around the country. Widespread public support resulted in the passage of legislation mandating sterilizations for those shown to be unfit. Like the ones in North Carolina.

Psychology played a major role in the eugenics movement (here’s where I came in). Early versions of IQ tests were designed to identify people with limited mental ability—children who wouldn’t benefit from traditional schooling, army recruits who shouldn’t be given advanced assignments, immigrants who shouldn’t be admitted to the country. IQ tests were often used to identify people as “feebleminded,” which meant they were unfit and should be sterilized.

It’s not hard to see the racism, classism, and abelism in these ideas. It’s hard not to see the advocates of eugenics as purely self-serving. But it’s too easy to write these people off as cruel, thoughtless, or at best misguided. There are lessons for us here, too. I’m not saying that eugenics is a good idea just because it fit the context of that time. (In fact, I think it's a very bad idea, whatever the times.) Actually, I’m not really talking about eugenics at all. I’m just saying that ideas—including our own ideas—are products of the soil they grow in.

In one of my all-time favorite books, The Day the Universe Changed, James Burke recounts people asking him, “How could medieval Europeans have possibly thought the sun circled the earth?” Burke replies, “What would it have looked like if the sun had been circling the earth?” The answer, of course, is that “It would look exactly the same. … We see what we want to see, according to what we believe at the time.”

So, when I get to thinking this way, I start wondering: What are we thinking as a culture that will look absurd or horrendous to people 50 or 100 years from now? Of course, we can’t really know—we’re still in the soil. But it’s fun to speculate. I hope we’ll see today’s resurgent anti-immigrant movement as wrongheaded, ill informed, absurd. And the idea that “preemptive war” is justifiable in any moral code. And the belief that some people should be barred from the right to marry as they choose. But I suspect that there will be even grander ideas than these that will bite the dust.

Just as important, I wonder: What ideas am I spouting that will be considered crazy in 50 or 100 years? Maybe the very idea that ideas are shaped by their times will seem absurd. In that case, this discussion will have proven itself!

This is an interesting exercise, wondering about the future of your own certainties. Give it a try. But keep in mind that we’re doomed to limited success. We can’t see our viewpoint when we’re standing on it.