The contrast between my daughters’ situations couldn’t be starker, and the juxtaposition of these brushes with DNA in the family this January has prompted compelling thought. Now the essence of her unique humanity was part of a police line-up. She had made admirable progress from a psychological break to a sane and sober person in the months between her arrest and her guilty plea, but the taking of the DNA sample knocked her sideways. DNA was a synonym for justice.įor my daughter, the state took something so personal from her that it felt like a violation. DNA was the basis for overturning many wrongful convictions, as well as for tracking the culprits responsible for cases long gone cold. Now it was cutting-edge proof of innocence or guilt. Suddenly, DNA was no longer that obscure double-helix-thing that most of us didn’t really get in biology class. As part of her plea deal-she did do what they said, after all, even if she barely remembers it-she was required to surrender a DNA sample that the government will keep on file. She has given me permission to write about the terrible night when, in an alcohol-induced blackout, she attacked the police officers who she thought were abducting her, and fought so hard that she damaged the backseat of their vehicle. In a different light, another one of my daughters got into some trouble with the law last summer. Your DNA is like a blueprint of your soul, which is another sacred thing that is not like anyone else’s in the world. But I imagine that results like these would make you wonder if someone high in the branches of the family tree was adopted, or if some great-great-grandmother had an amorous tryst of which she never spoke. Does this change her life in any way? I don’t know her well enough to find out.
Apparently, she has ancestors from other European nations, as well as some Jewish blood that she knew nothing about until now. She sent her tube off in the mail and discovered that less than half of her DNA hails from Denmark. The DNA’s revelation may surprise us: I know a woman who thought she was of pure Danish heritage all her life. I am curious to see if the results from the two competitors match each other. She has sent her samples off for analysis, and the results are certain to fascinate. Because my daughter hoped so much for this gift, she received one company’s kit from her parents and another brand from her fiancé. In six weeks or so, you receive a report detailing the percentages of the various ethnicities and nationalities revealed therein. The instructions direct you to spit into a tube and then mail your specimen to the testing facility. One of my daughters expressed a Christmas wish for the popular kit that promises the answers to the riddles of your heredity. The craze to know the secrets held by your DNA has hit home.
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