Tag Archives: bio

The God Gene: Why Some of Us Just Don’t Get Religion?

In this new book, Dean Hamer discusses possible genetic components of “a personality trait known as self-transcendence, originally identified by Washington University psychiatrist Robert Cloninger. Cloninger found that spiritual people tend to share a set of characteristics, such as feeling connected to the world and a willingness to accept things that cannot be objectively demonstrated. … Hamer confirmed what earlier studies had found: heredity is partly responsible for whether a person is self-transcendent or not.” (quoted from a review on Amazon)

The book has been attacked on various grounds; I won’t bother to attack or defend since I have not yet read it. But the theory that religious feeling (or spirituality) may be genetically determined would explain something that otherwise puzzles me greatly: why do many intelligent people believe in god?

A number of religious people have been part of my life, including some who, while not following any organized religion, believe in or crave some sort of “spirituality.” I try – I really do! – to be respectful of their beliefs, because I respect these folks personally for other reasons.

But, frankly, I just don’t get it. I don’t feel a need for god or spirituality. I can feel connected to the world, and delight in its many wonders, without needing to thank anybody. I have my own strong moral compass that tells me how to treat people and the world, without reference to any scripture. I have no belief in a spiritual world I can’t see, and don’t feel the lack of that belief. Some people are born color-blind; I guess I was born god-blind.

Religions have an explanation for people like me: we haven’t been exposed to, or have refused to accept, the word of god – we haven’t seen the light (as I said: god-blind).

Until now, I’ve been groping for a way to explain them. “Opiate of the masses” only covers the ignorant and easily-led, and assumes complete bad faith on the part of every spiritual leader who ever lived. I can’t go that far. So I’ve had to assume that people whom I know to be intelligent in every other way are just dumb in this particular area, or victims of a traditional upbringing. Which, of course, is no explanation.

I therefore like the idea that the need for religion may have a genetic component. This would explain why some people feel this need strongly, and others not at all. The desire for this feeling of self-transcendence is independent of any specific religion, and even of the question as to whether there is a god. There may or may not be something “beyond” what science will ever be able to explain; for genetic reasons, some of us care a lot about being in touch with whatever it may be, and others don’t. In either case, we can’t help it – we were born that way.

 

Meeting Cat Stevens

Everyone’s had their brush with fame, or at least with famous people. My personal biggest to date occurred in Bangladesh in 1976 or ’77, when Cat Stevens came to give a lot of money to UNICEF, and to visit some of the projects he was funding in various parts of Bangladesh. (I guess this was just before he officially converted to Islam.)

There wasn’t a lot going on in Dhaka in those days, and a famous person even landing in the country was huge news. It happened that a friend of the family, part of our usual weekend music group, was a huge Cat Stevens fan. He learned Stevens’ travel schedule, and showed up at the airport every time Stevens and his entourage of one (his lead guitarist) passed through. Eventually, our friend managed to invite them over for an evening.

The result was a private concert, for about 30 of us, at someone’s house in Dhaka. I was already familiar with many of the songs, and was surprised that the two of them alone sounded just like they did on the albums, without benefit of the rest of the band or any studio mixing. Cat Stevens also looked just like his album covers, with the long curly hair and beard. He did sing one song I hadn’t heard before,”My Lady d’Arbanville.”

I don’t know if anyone got any pictures with him, but I definitely didn’t, so all I have is the memory and the story to tell. And there you have it.

Side Effects

I have for a couple of years been under treatment for glaucoma – just eyedrops, but the first ones that I tried for 6 months didn’t work, so now I’m using a new kind. This is a beta blocker which, the doctor mentioned, could adversely affect my athletic performance – not a big problem!

Another potential side effect, according to the information sheet in the package, is that the drops could make my irises darker. That would be hard to notice – my eyes are already dark brown.

People assume that blonde hair perforce means blue eyes. When Rossella was born with big brown eyes, some people looked me straight in the face and said “Brown eyes! She must have got those from her father.” Actually, my eyes are darker than Enrico’s.

The side effect I have noticed is that my eyelashes have become thicker and longer. Not darker, alas – I still need mascara, but it’s a lot more effective now. Cool.

The Bride’s Bouquet

A year after we met, Enrico and I attended the wedding of two high school friends of mine (I was a bridesmaid). At the end, I stood among the other unmarried women while the bouquet was thrown. I wasn’t particularly keen to catch it, and am no good at catching things, so I didn’t even raise my arms. I looked up, watching the trajectory, as the bouquet arced high and then fell – straight down into my startled face (good thing I wear glasses). It bounced off and into my hands, and so I “caught” the bouquet.

I took the accidental and unsought catch as a sign that, whenever I did get married, there would be something unusual and surprising about the circumstances. Turned out I was right about that, too. But that’s another story.

That Italian Shoe Thing

My daughter has a shoe fetish, sympathizing whole-heartedly with Carrie Bradshaw‘s need for Manolo Blahniks. Ross herself owns about six pairs of sports shoes – not to run in, but because they’re fashionable (who would actually jog in Pradas?). She also owns various stylish flats, and of course riding boots. She still fondly remembers shoes she owned when she was small, such as the pink and white sneakers with cat faces and, more recently, the pink Converse All-Stars with Spongebob Squarepants laces. At least the pearly violet Fornarinas with the clunky heels didn’t last too long; she outgrew them and gave them away to a friend’s daughter, who stands in awe of Ross’ fashion sense.

I undoubtedly owned some shoes as a child, but I couldn’t tell you anything about them. Whenever possible, I went barefoot, even on the blistering-hot sidewalks in Bangkok. Yes, they were literally blistering hot, at least for novices. When Julianne moved into the big house up the soi (lane) from us, I offered to show her the neighborhood, including the pool next door that we were entitled to use. “Should I put my shoes on?” she asked (in Thailand, no one wears shoes in the house). “Oh, no, it’s only around the corner.” By the time we got there, the soles of her feet were covered in blisters. I guess mine were too callused to feel the heat.

I also went barefoot at my aunt’s place out in the country in Texas, where the hazards were bull nettles and cowflops. If you had to step in something, cowflops were preferable to bull nettles.

Anyway, growing up in the tropics, I didn’t need much shoeing, and to this day am most comfortable in sandals, or no shoes at all. But, having moved to colder climates, I had to come to terms with closed shoes much of the year.

This wasn’t a huge problem in high school and college, where I could usually get away with sneakers (as we used to call sports shoes). Sneakers were even cool. I remember how impressed we all were with the first running shoes we ever saw (Adidas) in Delhi, around 1979.

But now I live in Italy, where an adult wearing sports shoes outside of an actual sporting event (aside from the odd – very odd – jogger) is immediately marked as an American tourist.

I ignored this for years in Milan, didn’t much care what people thought. My sole concession was to buy a pair of leather shoes for the winter – Timberland hiking boots, but at least they’re black, and a bit more elegant than the classic clumpy boot. I love those boots, and was looking forward to getting back into them this winter.

However, I’ve found that, while hiking boots still have their place around the stables, they aren’t good enough for downtown Lecco. This is a small town where everyone knows, or at least notes, everyone else, and I don’t want to disgrace my family. Well, unless it’s raining.

Which brings me, kicking and screaming, into the world of fashion. It’s hard in Italy to buy the simple “classic” shoe styles that I like and find comfortable; all you’ll see in the shops are this season’s trends. For the last few years, the trend has been extremely pointy. In fashion, what goes around comes around – again and again and again. At school, rooting around backstage in the costume trunks, we once found a pair of very old, very pointy shoes. We took turns clomping around in them and had a good laugh. “Cockroach stompers!” – so pointy that you could easily reach into a corner to stomp a cockroach. That’s what’s in the shop windows in Italy (and on my daughter’s feet) these days.

Fortunately, I had bought a couple of pairs of semi-respectable shoes a few years ago, when square toes were in fashion. I don’t like square toes much more than pointy ones, but at least they don’t pinch my toes together and make my feet look even longer than they already are.

I don’t wear high heels, either. I love the look, but lack the balance. My favorite shoes, and the most comfortable heels I own, are cowboy boots, which Sue and I bought after an epic six-hour search all over Dallas (Sue is the only person with whom I could have survived and actually enjoyed this). They’re dancing boots, mid-calf height, black, with fringe. They’re some comfortable that I used to travel in them, though they’re very noisy on hard flooring – people would turn around in airports to stare.

I will say for Italian shoes that they’re very well-made and comfortable. Other shoes you have to “break in,” which really means that they’re breaking you in – you first develop blisters, and then calluses, where they rub. With Italian shoes, I simply put them on and start walking, and have never gotten a blister.