Playing God

What makes us who are? I look at my friends, and besides taking to heart their personalities—which could so aptly be described as intricately capable of overturning the hardships that attack our everyday lives—I of course notice their personal traits. When I look at Nick, I see arm veins and a frame that makes even me look fat rather than thin (sorry Nick). When I look at Joe, I see a tall guy, cuddling a beer in his arms with a sarcastic smile that wins over even the most blunt-stricken minds. Most of my friends have dark hair and dark eyes which were naturally given to them, and make them who they are.

What if these traits weren’t natural, but chosen by the people who produce you? From the minute you reluctantly leave the womb, your parents generally dictate your every move until you reach a noticeable maturity to maintain a respectable lifestyle. What if they could even dictate your physical traits? I’m not talking about their authority to stop you from getting your lip pierced or dying your hair purple. I talking about them taking away from you your very first possession—your natural looks.

In what could be the most groundbreaking and controversial human study of the 21^st century, it is found that in six months we may be able to choose the physical traits, such as hair and eye color, of our embryos. My ears were negatively graced with the news this morning while I was in a bath towel admiring my personal traits—go figure. But I digress. Despite my supporting spirit for stem-cell research, noting the good that could come from it, I will tell you, my audience, that I flat out disagree with the concept of “building” our children. This is not Build-A-Bear at Willow Grove Mall, nor is this Madden Football for PlayStation where we make superhuman wide receivers. This is life. This is over 2000 years of humans prospering with traits that were given to us by nature (and for those of you who believe—God).

We read history books and are overtaken with passionate abhorrence at the acts of the Nazis, which could be characterized as Satan-driven. The killing of millions of innocent people for the achievement of the Aryan race (which in my opinion is nothing special—I’m sticking to my brunettes). These were times of torturous experiments where human beings were turned into science projects. Did you know they tried harnessing bear sperm with a human being’s eggs to create a superhuman? Yeah... it didn’t work. Did you know they sewed horse legs onto some people? That didn’t work either.

Now, I don’t mean to be boundless here with callous graphics. Don’t get me wrong, I acknowledge that the people who are working vehemently to achieve such a supermodern concept mean good and no evil at all, but in the end it’s all the same. We want to play God. It’s not easy. Remember playing "house" when you were younger? You sipped imaginary tea and said to your friend, "How was your day, honey?" Not once, as a naive eight-year-old whose dreams were flooded with ice cream and Nickelodeon, did you ever say to your friend, "Our house is being foreclosed and I’m getting laid off next week." Maybe I’m wrong, maybe playing God will be easy for these superhuman geniuses that make even Einstein seem like Peter Griffin—okay, maybe not that far. But I have a feeling that things are going to ghastly wrong with this entire concept. It can’t be this easy.

Am I deviating from normal human capacity for being so fervidly overtaken by the news this morning? Am I too detached from progressiveness? I own an iPod, keep a TV in my room, and buy new and unique condoms, so I don’t think detachment from "today" is the case. Now, as I walk across campus with my headphones, I take notice of myself through every window I pass. Every chance I get to see my reflection, I appreciate it. It is who I am. Biologically, I’m a Caucasian male with an olive complexion, brown eyes, and brown hair. But to myself and my friends, I’m a tall guy with longish hair, a comically big nose, and dego greasy skin—and I love every second of it. This is who I am. It’s mine, and mine to keep.

This is who we are. It’s ours, and ours to keep. What we choose to do with it is our choice.

I always told people that my first tattoo will be the name of my first born child and his/her birthday written in cursive on the left side of my chest. Then every child I have after that will follow. The beauty of having kids is the concept of unconditional love no matter how that child is built, and I feel as if that will be deprived with this new finding.

Wake up tomorrow morning, look in the mirror, and decide for yourself.

Yours Truly,
Dave