In the grocery store I stood, freckled and lanky beside my mother. Our cart was stopped mid aisle, parked next to that of another woman — someone I didn’t recognize. She was chatting with my mom about this and that, cold wafting from the nearby freezers surrounding us. I was stubbornly shy, only willing to make eye contact with the bags of frozen fruit carefully arranged in front of me. I glanced upward for a moment, and with a tight-lipped, friendly smile, the woman told me I looked just like my mother. “Mini me,” Ma added, glancing in my direction. I can recall many similar comments being made, especially when I was younger, and it’s funny to think about because now, I don’t find that my mother and I look very similar to each other at all.
In retrospect, this woman’s assessment of my appearance may have been related to the fact that she was someone unfamiliar to me, unknowing of my character, unaware of pastimes or some other relevant information that one could comment on in a spontaneous interaction in the freezer aisle. She was, however, aware of my mother, and thus knew me in some way: by association. I suppose it’s simple to connect someone to their parents, an aspect of one’s identity that’s not too hidden.
Drawing us together through our looks resembled an attempt to acknowledge our relationship. Maybe, all those years ago, when that lady said “you look just like your mom,” what she meant was, “you and your mom seem close,” or something like that.
I think I grew up feeling comfortable with this connection, reassured that I had a part of me stable enough to be pointed out in conversation, stable because it depended on other people, namely my parents. The possibility that we could have similar appearances shaped the way I viewed myself. Although I adore my mom and am proud of strangers connecting me to her, regardless of how accurate their judgments may be, I’m curious about other ways that I’ve become the person I am — ways that are not attributed directly to the people that raised me.
It’s potentially empowering to look into how I may shape myself through my own whims and adventures rather than being only a product of my environment, like a little sheep to what was purportedly always ahead of me. Mannerisms, behaviors and physical appearance — fundamental traits — aren’t always a challenge to link back to their origins; for the most part, I got those from my parents. Other characteristics are harder to trace.
The emerging scientific field of epigenetics was something I encountered some time back while slogging through AP Biology. Epigenetics studies genetic changes that occur through stress, relationships and experiences. Many processes can make up these changes, like methylation and acetylation, to name a few, but for brevity’s sake I don’t want to dwell on the scientific vocabulary. As a fairly new science, there is much that is yet to be discovered, but the general idea of epigenetics can be applied to our curiosity about the factors and experiences that make us different from our family, shaping our personality and habits. It’s possible that the decisions we make and the things we do contribute to who we are genetically and who we’re becoming.
So, I’ve started pondering this: If I share enough DNA with my mom for strangers to notice in the grocery store, how much of our similarities in behavior and identity — the things beyond complexion and hair color — am I bound to have? And how much of that destiny will I break?
Here, there’s nature versus nurture, as it relates to one’s physiological history of self. It’s not black and white, though, as there are other notable contributors, like behavior and proximity. In the case of a close friendship, for example, after spending almost every waking moment together for years, it’s clear that friends begin to share movements and phrases, even dressing the same.
As epigenetics has become more popular, so has the concept of generational trauma, or how some would describe feeling the effects of the traumatic experiences of their ancestors. Symptoms of struggle may persist through the years, imprinting from parents to their children and even their grandchildren after, an ostensibly irrevocable legacy.
On that note, I don’t wish to unpack my life’s story — that would be an arduous and fruitless undertaking. But it feels unfair, and it’s frustrating to think that what’s totally out of one’s control, what happened years and generations ago, can have such an impact on our very beings. Certainly, it can be difficult in the extreme to break away from a personal identity you are bound to have.
But the science isn’t clear on epigenetics; there’s plenty of skepticism. This was discussed on the Blindboy podcast, which featured Aoife McLysaght, a geneticist and professor at Trinity College in Dublin, as a guest. The host asks McLysaght if a “trauma big enough can impact the DNA in your body.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” McLysaght replied.
The idea of epigenetics is connected to the concept that memories of trauma last in the body with enough permanence to be passed down through generations. However, according to McLysaght, the bodily mechanism required for trauma to be passed on in this way is complicated. McLysaght went on to explain that the genetic material that would be replicated cannot carry memories. Thus, the body wouldn’t necessarily transmit genetic code to a developing embryo that was altered based on parental experience. In terms of epigenetics, a traumatized mother doesn’t necessitate a traumatized baby.
McLysaght added that a history of family trauma, like other experiences, does leave a lasting impact during a child’s development. Reasonably, one can pick up anxiety from being exposed extensively to an anxious person, but it’s simply the aforementioned behavioral learning, not genetics. Our propensity to imitate can simply be a reanimation of past experiences or it can permeate deeper to influence our very sense of self. That’s what lasts.
There’s some hope to be found in this idea of behavior, I think. Pain and trauma don’t have to be what roots us. They can be something we grapple with, sure, but with time, with new experiences and efforts, we can change the narrative of generations.
I feel like I’ve spent my life picking up little pieces, scattered about the path I’ve taken and the choices I’ve made, with each person I meet and each place I go building who I am. The way I see it, the relationships I have with others comprise a part of my identity. I don’t believe that everything happens for a reason, and it feels wrong to think that what has become is what was always meant to be — that discredits intent. All things considered, from an only somewhat scientific stance, genetics are less of what defines an identity but rather the starting point from which identities are built.
Within the gaps of what is far from an exact science, there arises the potential for people to use genetics as an excuse, blaming genetics for the way they are. This mindset evades building on one’s character or seeking self-improvements, creating a sort of helplessness. Some traits could be inappropriately explained by biological disposition, rather than connected to choice or exertion. Taking initiative and responsibility for one’s own actions may prove useful in many situations, but it could also be nice to label the weight of our choices as a product of fate rather than the result of our decisions. It’s coming to be that yapping about genetics may be just as indeterminate as leaving everything to chance.
It’s not necessary to anticipate or embody a predisposition to discontentment or distress, or an inability to conquer the challenges over the course of one’s life. We are not necessarily what — or who — came before us, destined to bear the weight of the past or give to our children the ill consequences of a memory that pains us now. There’s much to hold onto, things to keep close, things that aren’t from genes or parents.
As far as I know, I am the product of both my own explorations and my inheritances, which I do not find to be particularly dreadful. There may not be genes to blame for my personality or my psyche. And still, now that I’m older, I am left feeling that my relationship with my mom has had a big part in making me who I am, more so than any genetic code could. So it is.
Statement Columnist Evelyn Bodeur can be reached at enbrod@umich.edu.