Genomics

This might come as a shock to you, brace yourself—I'm a little bit of a geek. Not a nerd exactly, as they tend to be more academically inclined than I am, whereas I just get super-passionate about something for a while. The more irrelevant it is to my daily life, the more I seem to enjoy immersion in the topic. Lately, that topic has been DNA.

If you and I are FaceBook friends, you probably already know a little bit about this already.

I’ve had my DNA tested twice.  For the first test, I signed up for The Genographic Project to slake my curiosity about my family heritage.  For the second, I used Color Genomics service to find genetic mutations that are linked to cancers and other diseases. (Read More)  Just to end the suspense: “No mutations were identified.”  Woo hoo! Light me up a cigarette, pass me some red meat, and let me slather on some aluminum-based deodorant. Hoo yeah, that felt good.

Kidding.

Anthropology and Human Migrations
In addition to my personal family heritage, I also have a lingering interest in Anthropology that evolved into an interest in understanding the waves of people migrating out of Africa into Asia and Europe, and finally into Australia (about 50,000 years ago) and the New World at the end of the Pleistocene (about 12,000 years ago).

*Breathe Amy *

To make a very long story short, early migrations washed proto-humans in, stranding them in human tide pools for hundreds of thousands of years.  This left the early humans (likely Homo heidelbergensis) to become Neanderthals and Denisovans, and other yet-to-be-discovered species.  Then waves of modern humans emerged from Africa, starting about 60,000 years ago, and flooded them out.

Sitting in Anthropology 101 back in ‘99, our professor told us of two theories behind the extinction of Neanderthals: 

1. War: Modern humans, equipped with their superior numbers and intellect, actively fought and killed the Neanderthals and/or passively out-competed them for resources. 
2. Love: Modern humans interbred with the Neanderthals and overwhelmed their phenotype through greater numbers. 

Although War was the generally accepted theory, he favored the Love theory.

About ten years later, DNA evidence would prove him right, at least partially. Neanderthal numbers had already been declining at the end of the Pleistocene, but modern humans and Neanderthals co-existed for around 20,000-30,000 years before the last of the Neanderthals disappeared around 40,000 years ago. Today, traces of Neanderthal DNA live on in almost all people of European descent. My results show that 1.1 percent of my DNA is Neanderthal in origin. They weren't wiped out, they were absorbed. Ah, la'more.

"Dad, what are we?"

My Family Heritage
As a kid, I'd often ask my dad, “What are we?” The story goes that our family began from a soldier in Lafayette's army, (I'm unclear as to whether the soldier was  French or American) and a Native American woman. In the 200ish years since that time, his heritage came to also include Scotch-Irish, (whatever that means) and English on his father's side, and German from his mother. She was born from immigrant parents.

On the other side of my family bramble, my mom had no idea about her heritage. She had never met her father, so other than “some French” heritage from her mother, she had no clue from whence she came.

Aside from our music, American culture basically consists of a penchant for being overweight consumers fast food, lattes, and Ikea shelving. This always bothered me. I want to know what pockets of the world have vestiges of my roots. Where did I come from? Who are my people? What are our stories? How am I connected?

I ordered my DNA testing kit for my birthday last year. With dancing feet, I opened it, and read and re-read the directions. I registered my kit online, then swabbed my cheek, packaged it back up, and dropped it in the mailbox. Like Raphie from A Christmas Story, I checked my electronic mailbox daily for updates. Unlike Raphie, my decoded genome did not tell me to drink my Ovaltine. The results were fascinating and surprising. My dad’s family story was vindicated (see the 2% Native American) and the mystery of my mother’s revealed.

Here is a snapshot:

What surprised me the most was how blobby and undefined the regions are. There are no crisp lines delineating heritage of particular countries. Apparently, you can't put borders on love.  Check out the "Southern Europe" region:  that's a big part of the map.  Humm, looks somewhat similar to many of the Roman Empire maps...

Also, check out the Siberian Region. These people were roaming this gigantic polar region sharing DNA long enough to create distinct markers unique to this population. That then somehow came to comprise 5% of my DNA—have Eurasian Inuit DNA? Sweet!

I just found out that it is likely that my Siberian and Native American markers originated from the same woman who married the soldier of my family's lore. DNA was extracted from a baby who was determined to be of the Clovis people.  They are thought to be among the first to cross the landbridge to North America during the ice age.  The child's DNA shows Siberian markers and DNA common to 80% of Native American tribes.  (The article.)

My ancestors were there, walking across a land bridge that would be swallowed by the rising seas into a land where no other humans lived. There they lived for almost 13,000 years until a woman fell in love with a European soldier, married, and raised a family.

I can also see a map my maternal ancestors took out of Africa as revealed through mitochondrial DNA, which is only passed through mothers. So freaking cool. The deep paternal roots are only available on the Y chromosome so my brother would need to do the test to find our migratory paths of our paternal line.

What was also interesting is that I could compare my results with a genetic breakdown of average people who are from those areas. Over half of my DNA markers originated in Great Britain and Ireland. But, it shows that average British natives only have a slightly higher percentage of genetic markers that originated in Britain. Contained in their DNA, is physical evidence of the historical mixing during the era of the Roman Empire and the later the settlements (and invasions) by Saxons, Vikings, and Normans (and others) during the Early Middle Ages appropriately coined the Migration Period.

Learning about history is so much more engaging knowing that my ancestors were living (surviving) and raising their families during these times.

It also shows me just how ridiculous racism is. Aside from some remote tribes in deep forgotten parts of the world, there are no pure races. The angriest KKK members, or other rampaging terrorist cells, likely share lineage with groups they persecute. If Hitler's DNA is similar to the average German native today, at least 5% of his DNA was of Jewish origin.  In fact, we're all a little more closely related than we should be—several times during our prehistory we experienced what scientists call a "population bottleneck" meaning we narrowly avoided extinction and barely maintained a minimum viable population.

We are all one big inbred family.

The other thing that struck me is the incredible luck involved with any of us being here. Each one of the seven billion of us descended from an unbroken line from the first life form on earth. Every one of our ancestors survived every cataclysmal event, disease, random accident, act of violence, predation, floods, fires, giant dinosaur feet… We are the result of an unbroken line extending back 3.8 billion years and all of that is still with us, written in 3.3 billion base pairs that comprise the human genome.

There are no lines.
Our very existence is a miracle.
We are all interconnected through time and space and love.

***
Sources and Further Reading:

DNA traces Native Americans’ ancestry to Siberia - PBS Newshour

The Human Genome Project - Genome.Gov

National Geographic Genographic Project

Genghis Khan Effect - Nature.Com

Close Calls: Three Times When Humanity Barely Escaped Extinction - Gizmoto

Human Journey - Featuring Mitochondrial Even and Y Chromosome Adam - National Geographic

Why are we the only human species still alive?  - BBC Earth

Sequencing Neanderthal DNA - Smithsonian


Books:

What's in Your Genes?: From the Color of Your Eyes to the Length of Your Life, a Revealing Look at Your Genetic Traits, by Katie McKissick
An exceptionally informative, yet-FUN-to-read book.  She explains what DNA is and how it functions in clear language with pencil illustrations at just the right moments in the text.  She explains base pairs, RNA, mDNA, protein construction and how your genetics are responsible for everything from your eye color to your hairy asscrack.

Saxons, Vikings, and Celts: The Genetic Roots of Britain and Ireland, by Bryan Sykes
A bit of a slog at times as Bryan talks DNA collection procedures, but he makes some interesting points and gives a good overall picture of the genetic composition of Britain and Ireland.

The Sea Wolves: A History of the Vikings  by Lars Brownsworth
Although it could benefit from better organization, the book is fun to read as well as informative.

The Normans: From Raiders to Kings by Lars Brownsworth
A highly readable history of the Normans movements to Britain, which includes their relationship to the Vikings and some of the major players from the Sea Wolves book.

Flash Fiction: The New Neighbor

The last TinHouse Plotto contest loser for your reading enjoyment.  The week 3 of 5 prompt:

The New Neighbor

The morning dawned gray and John awoke to the sound of the empty apartment downstairs being ransacked. He looked out his foggy window. A woman with dark hair was unloading things from a hatchback Pinto. He shook his head clear and opened the door. He hesitated, smoothed his couch-head hair, then trotted down the stairs.

“Hi, I'm John. I live upstairs. Need a hand?”

She flinched.

Oops, I startled her.

“Fuck, you startled me.“

He met her gaze and it was his turn to be startled.

I know her.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

"I dunno, do you? Look, I got a lot stuff to unload and I need to get that shithole clean before that cat piss smell sinks into my stuff.”

“You have a mouth on you.”

“Yep.”

“You're so familiar to me...”

“Whatever. I got shit to do, so help or fuck off.”

He took a step back, tripped and fell sprawling.

He whispered, “Lyanna? Is that you?”

“I'm Jo,” she said loudly and offered her hand.

He accepted and she turned it into a painful wrist lock.  She leaned in, “How the fuck do you know that name, Creeper?”

She stood over him, her blue eyes expectant. He noticed that she shifted her weight, freeing her right knee for a drop to his vulnerable ballsack.

“No, no, sorry. You just remind me of a character from a book I read,” he lied.

He hadn’t read it—he wrote it. His Lyanna is a strong, foul-mouthed woman, with dark hair, blue eyes, and a panther tattoo on the back of her neck. His Lyanna was raised in an abusive family in the slums of Chicago. His Lyanna grew up to be an undercover cop, using that abrasive personality to blend in with what she thought of as her kind, allowing her to ferret out drug dealers and sex traffickers. His Lyanna saves a group of boys and girls trapped in a shipping container. His Lyanna dies in a brutal retaliatory murder. His Lyanna lies in the musty grave of his reject trunk because his Lyanna was too “one-dimensional” in a storyline that was “too predictable.”

How could this be? It couldn’t. Coincidence; gotta be. People have doppelgangers, so why can’t fictitious characters? Overactive imagination. Apologize idiot…out loud…words!

"Sorry. I'm an idiot. Obviously. Didn't mean to creep you out, Jo. I'm a writer. I guess we tend to be creepy."

She dropped his wrist and stepped back. He got up.

“That’s OK. I'm feeling edgy. I hate moving. This isn't exactly a step up for me.”

She’s lying; she's exactly where she wants to be.

"Have I read anything of yours?”

"Unlikely; unless you're the poor bastard that has to read publishing house slush piles.”

She laughed. She fished a hair tie from her pocket and tied her hair back.

She said, “I'd better get back to to it.”

She leaned into her car to retrieve a pile of books from her hatchback. Her ponytail slid to one side and a panther snarled at him.

Flash Fiction: The New Girl

This was the week two writing prompt for the Plotto contest, put on by Tin House Publishing.  Being due a few days prior to Halloween, I couldn't help but shoot for spooky--ooooh!  The story ended up over 2,000 words (500 word limit on submissions) and after brutal cutting, I could only pare off 500 words. In this situation, sometimes an amputation of the beginning, middle, or end can save the story, but there was no part I could take without killing the story.  So I just kicked dirt over the whole thing and never submitted it. Enjoy!

She stepped from the coach clutching her bag to her chest. She missed the proffered hand from the coachman and landed on the quartz gravel with an ungainly thump. Eyes wide, she righted herself and smoothed her hair and clothes.

The coachman untied her small trunk and placed it on the ground.

“Good day Miss,” he rumbled to someone several feet over her head.

With a snap of the reigns, the coach jerked to life and rumbled away. She watched until it dissolved into the fog.

A fountain bubbled merrily as she dragged her trunk through the gravel. A house emerged from the fog. At the door of the house was a sturdy woman of later years. She looked to have been made of the same stone as the house.

She collected herself and said, “Hello ma’am, my name is Helen. I’m fourteen now and the orphanage says it’s time--.”

The woman turned and began walking away. Helen fell silent and stood there unsure of what to do. The woman snapped, “Abigail, come.”

Scrambling after her she said, “Sorry, Ma’am. My name is Helen, I come from--”

The woman waved off her talking and led her to a small stone cottage.

“These are your quarters. Leave your things and make your way to the kitchen at once.”

“Ma’am.”

The cottage was steeped in the must of neglect. Cobwebs adorned every corner, and a dead rat scented the air. There were two windows with broken shutters. It was colder inside than out.

Helen crumpled to her knees and laid her head on her trunk and sobbed.  Tears rolled down her rounded cheeks.

The crunch of gravel carried through the window as the old woman left.

Helen sniffed and stood erect eyeing her surroundings. She spent a few moments tidying, and when it suited her, she left to find the kitchen.

She stepped out and noticed a worn path from the other cottages leading to the back of the house. She followed and found the servant’s entrance. There were many servants of every age and gender, hustling about. No one met her eye. She found her way to the kitchen where a rotund woman labored to prepare the servant’s next meal.

“It’s about time you’ve arrived. Fetch me four chickens. Abigail will show you.”

A girl of about 10 years, with the darkest, most hollow eyes, turned from her washing.

They left in silence and walked again along the path towards the animal keep. Once away from the house, the little girl said, “This place is rotten. You shouldn't be here.”

“Oh, it's not so bad. I’m Helen. What’s your name, it's not really Abigail is it?”

“You don't know, the master will be home soon. Then you will know."

"He couldn't be worse than that horrid old woman.”

The girl's eyes widened in fear as she looked left and right.  She spoke in a harsh whisper, “Sshhh!  You musn't cross Ms. Trount. Yes, he is.”

At the chicken run, the girl deftly caught a chicken and cradled it in her arm. She brought it clucking to the chopping block. She grabbed it by the head flipped it onto the block and swiftly relieved it of its head. The hatchet stuck in the wood awaiting the next chicken. She grabbed the legs of the headless chicken and turned it upside down over a metal pail. The wings and feet worked less and less as the blood drained into the bucket. When it was no longer thrashing, she handed it to Helen to finish the bleeding.  She repeated the process three more times and then the girls sat to pluck and clean them together. The organs were tossed into the bucket with the blood.

They carried the chickens and the blood back to the house.

Many long hours later, Helen fell into her filthy bed. She spread her arms wide and slipped into a deep sleep.

The morning dawned gray and she decided to do something about the state of her quarters. She started by repairing the shutters.  She opened her door to return the tools and was surprised to see the dark-eyed girl little girl with her hand lifted as if to knock.

"You startled me.  You shouldn't be skulking about."

"I've been sent to fetch you to work."

“Tell me your name. If you refuse, I shall be forced to call you chicken.”

Their eyes met and for a moment a ghost of a smile appeared on her wan face.

“Danielle.”

“Danielle, that's a lovely name.”

“Shhh, we're too close to the house. We're not allowed to speak; the master has excellent hearing and our chatter vexes him.”

“He's here?”

“Last night.”

The tenor of the household servants was electric with fear. Helen labored silently during the day in the house and stole moments outside with Danielle where the girls could speak freely.

She glimpsed the master only rarely, only when she accompanied Ms. Trount in serving the rare guests to the house. The rooms were staggering in number and sometimes, when shorthanded by sickness, she would be required to take on extra duties. There were many women who lived here. They all looked different from one another but something was also the same about them too. They all looked young yet old, they never spoke, and drifted about in long revealing dresses. Their eyes burned when they saw Helen, but none of them touched her.

Ms. Trount touched her though. Often. With a rod that she kept on her person at all times.

Time was eternal here.  Each day brought the same labors, the same food, the same hot sting of Ms. Trout's rod on the backs of her legs, her neck, hands, shins.  The one change was the growing frequency in which she was seeing the master. He was always courteous, speaking to her in soft purring tones as he inquired about her. She remained silent, as she had learned from experience that any words would reach Ms. Trount’s ears and draw a sound thrashing.

She was working in a room when she felt a draft and turned to find him behind her, a lock of her hair in wound around one of the master’s fingers. She continued to work and tried not to be distracted by the stirring feeling that his presence aroused in her.

Helen retreated to her cottage, closed the shutters, barred her door, and flopped on her bed. A deep sigh escaped her. She had planned to bathe, but instead fell asleep on her covers.

Her sleeping mind swam through liquid dreams.  She woke with a languid smile. Her field of vision clarified and the master's face loomed above her own. The stirrings threatened to consume her.

“You're perfect, my dear. You will make a nice addition to my collection,” he purred.

“Yes.”

She lifted a finger to his finely shaped cheek and wrapped her hand around the back of his neck and drew him near. His kisses were cool on her neck. She moaned, and hot pain flashed through her.

She gasped.

She laughed.

“Ah-ah, that’s quite enough now,“ she said playfully.

His eyes burned as he pulled her tighter.

“Now, now let's not be rude. When a lady says, no…” He pulled her to him, ravenous.

“Oh, how I love this game. Your kind are so easy. Look at me--I’m a plump and sweet. I’m so frightened...and tasty.”

He drank greedily a few seconds more, then pulled away with a gasp. He clutched at his stomach.

“Oh, that took longer than normal. I feel a bit woozy. But better than you, I'd wager.  There’s just something about me that doesn’t agree with your kind.” She wagged a finger at him. “Naughty old man. How old are you, I wonder? No, it matters not.”

He flashed her an angry look and tried to lunge for her. He fell to the floor instead.

“Ah, ah, Master. What's wrong? Feeling a little sick?” She laughed, “I hope it hurts, I hope all the pain you've visited on the innocent is coming right back to you. Although, I think that's lofty wish, don't you?”

“Well, it's been fun. Really. A few loose ends to tie up and I'll leave your horrid manor forever.”

He cried out in pain and reached for her. She stepped on his chest and left.

She threw the front doors wide as she entered the manor house. Ms. Trount rose to her full height wielding her rod, Danielle cowered below.

“Bursting through the front door--really! Abigail, you shall feel my…” she raised her rod and Helen caught it in her hand. She ripped it away and laid it fast across her stony cheek and neck. Ms. Trount fell, clutching her bloodied face. Helen gave her back a savage lash, then broke the instrument over her knee, and threw it at her.

“Danielle, come let us gather your belongings. You're free now.”

“I don't have any.”

The house erupted into a cacophony of wailing and misery as some of the women had become aged crones, some mad from their experience, piles of dust revealed the great age of others.

“Right then, let us be away,” Helen held out her hand to Danielle who slid her small fingers into her palm.

They crossed the threshold together.