The nearest I usually get to achieving a golden summer glow is when my pervasive freckles nearly merge together, so it was no shock to me when an online genealogy test revealed that I am three-quarters Irish. I am also 15 per cent of Scottish descent with a smattering of Viking glory from roots in Norway, Iceland and northwest Europe, which summarises my fair complexion in an email from Ancestry DNA.
The DNA testing kit was purchased amid the manic online shopping frenzy instigated by the pandemic. Among the roller skates, watercolour paints, the ill-advised and oddly named “drying bonnet” and the unparalleled staple, the acupressure Shakti map, it pelted advertisements at me. The get sat on my desk remained unopened for 18 months till a therapy session reignited an interest in my heritage.
A feeling of not having a connection to this world and its inhabitants has plagued me – less like a strong desire to return home via an extraterrestrial spacecraft, but more akin to the emotional detachment and alienation linked with depression and hopelessness, coupled with a constantly re-playing “why are any of us here anyway?” mental loop, which often blocks the appreciation of the here and now. Interestingly, identifying myself as a constituent of Earth’s ecosystem provided me some solace, which sparked my curiosity whether exploring my origins and recognising my lineage could do the same. Thus I provided the required saliva sample, secured it in the purposely provided biohazard bag and dispatched it for analysis.
[Having your DNA analysed can unearth disconcerting insights]
Aside from reaffirming that I’m as Irish as an ancient bog body, the results were somewhat underwhelming, largely due to my reluctance to spend more on a monthly subscription to delve into deeper details such as a third cousin in Wyoming or which of my parents I inherited my caffeine intolerance from. I had been holding out for the discovery of unknown close family members, drawn from a classic Irish trait: cryptic stories and embarrassment. Who among those from humble country upbringings doesn’t secretly suspect the existence of considerable numbers of close kinfolk we may never lay eyes on? I suppose relying on these hidden relatives to happily provide their own saliva sample for analysis is rather optimistic.
A mate queried if I harboured concerns over potential homicide conviction upon learning my genetic data is logged somewhere. Funnily enough, it’s quite the reverse; knowing a single strand of hair or rebel cigarette end could be my downfall does not exactly fuel my criminal intent. A separate mate voiced their reluctance to voluntarily aid corporate profits through DNA sharing, which throws into question just how much private data we part with daily. I’ve always adopted a somewhat apathetic and deliberately oblivious stance on tracking implications, justifying that the direct impact on me is negligible and there’s limited time to fret over supposed revelations from my grocery preferences as I receive a €2 discount on my peanut butter.
My motivation? I yearned to identify any distinctive qualities behind my father’s dark iris colour and olive-toned skin. Indeed, I’m an ideal candidate for data collectors.
This lackadaisical approach towards data capture is likely linked to my proclivity for nihilism. I realise I should be more concerned about facilitating corporates to enhance their mechanisms for manipulation and society prediction. An area I reside near showcases graffiti cautioning against blindly entering a cashless society where every financial decision is monitored. While I comprehend their view, my inquisitiveness won me over; I was keen on unveiling secret familial ties or anything relatively unique related to my father’s brunette eyes or his sallow complexion. Evidently, I’m a data-capture enthusiast’s dream come true.
The most exciting component of my genetic examination was procured through acquiring the “Traits” package, wherein I got access to various attributes dictated by my genes. The report estimated my strong probability of detecting asparagus in my urine, detesting coriander flavour and insignificant dependence on caffeine–all of which are accurate. Unfortunately, the findings didn’t cease there. Learning my dancing inefficiency, limited musical abilities and an inbuilt distaste for spicy food are part of my genetic heritage seemed discourteous. Thankfully, the possibility of sporting a monobrow is slim. Well, genetics isn’t all bad after all.