You Can Be All You Can Be...Wrong - The Unpleasant Reality Of Genetic Hardwiring

Billy Lewicki was as dumb as a rock, and although his parents hated to admit it, the poor boy had inherited the genes of Great Grandfather Poznan, a man who couldn't put two sticks together to make a fire, was a few bricks short of a load, and had the brains of a dray horse.  He had done all right in his small village in Silesia where no brains were required, just a strong back and a belief in God; but when he came to America and found himself befuddled by the big city, he would always be a fifth wheel, the spanner that always fouled the works, and someone who survived only thanks to the kindness of others.

 

The legend - or rather the sorry tale - of Poznan - had been passed down through three generations more or less in tact which was unusual since it is usually the stories of fame and fortune that get retold and passed on.  Perhaps because it was a cautionary tale (this could happen to you when God deals the cards) or a salutary one (good people take care of the less fortunate) or simply because the missteps, misfortunes, and gross miscalculations of this benighted man were more than enough to rouse those nodding off after Thanksgiving dinner.

In any case, because Billy's parents were a fine, well-to-do, successful couple with money to spare and a solid reputation in their home town and beyond, they refused to take the blame for what they had produced. They loved the boy of course, but as he stumbled and doddered his way through toddlerhood, they could only try to keep him out of sight.  These were the days before 'inclusivity' had become the ethos of the day when boys like Billy were embraced as part of the sparkle of a wonderfully diverse society; and so he was shuffled to the back of the class, never called on to answer the simplest questions.  

'Where is God', Sister Mary Joseph had asked him on the first day of Sunday school, and the boy looked at her blankly and without a scintilla of recognition.  'Why, God is everywhere, Billy.  You should know that', said the nun while privately wondering what kind of Catholic home this boy came from.  Yet Billy's mother, a good Catholic, had started his religious education from birth.  

There was always a crucifix in his room, and pictures of the Sacred Heart of Jesus above his bed.  Grace was said before meals, and the principles of the faith taught to him early and often.  It was simply because nothing took in that Poznan-empty brain of his, pray for us, O Mother of God.  

To be fair the boy was not 'retarded'.  This was the consensus of a variety of specialists from Yale New Haven and Johns Hopkins hospitals.  The boy was simply 'slow', bad luck of the draw, on the asymptote of the bell curve but not off it.  With a little encouragement and support, he might be a fine car mechanic some day, said the lead forensic pediatrician in Baltimore. 

Perhaps taking this metaphor too much to heart, Billy's parents bought him an erector set, the old-fashioned build-'em toys of their era complete with nuts and bolts, screws, hinges, and struts.  But the boy simply dumped the whole kit-and-kaboodle onto the living room floor and couldn't make heads nor tails of the mess.  After he had spent fifteen minutes trying to figure out how to thread a screw into a wingnut, he gave up, cried for a donut, and went to play with the cat. 

After that incident, the Lewickis swallowed their pride, let nature take its course, gave their son all the love in the world but gave up on him being anything.  They shouldn't be criticized for this attitude, however, since the era of recognizing, celebrating, and encouraging even the most limited expressions of ability were far in the future.  Theirs was a simpler time, one which respected the will of God and his infinite wisdom, understood that the world he created was a hodgepodge of variety, some good, some bad, and that not all children were the best and the brightest. 

The Lewickis were not the only family stuck with an apple that fell far from the tree. God did indeed play dice with the universe and even the most trusting and faithful believers in his goodness wondered what perverse sense of humor made him create this mess, this potpourri of unholy diversity.  How the divine DNA of Adam and Eve got twisted, deformed, and tangled over the millennia remained a mystery. 

Bobby Lucca got his mother’s red hair, his father’s oversized lips, Uncle Harry’s long, Roman nose, and Aunt Betty’s ears.  Every Easter when the family got together at Tilly’s for antipasto, lasagna, pork roast and ham pie, the family marveled at how much Bobby looked like just about everyone around the table. 

“Let’s hope it stops right there”, said Lou Lehman, the next door neighbor, referring to Harry Grillo’s temper, Leona Petrucci’s drinking, and Joe Bello’s womanizing.  Lou had seen generations of Luccas come and go, chips off the old block, clones of wayward fathers and flighty mothers, and collages of the second and third cousins who sat in Tilly’s living room, gossiping about their men and how this irresponsible, wayward strain would someday have to peter out.  Lou doubted that the men would ever change, and that as caring and pleasant as the women were, there would always be a succubus in the bunch.

Angie Panto, for example, was an apple from a different orchard, and as much as the Luccas tried to figure out where this nasty, brutish, harridan came from, they came up empty. Genes and heredity being what they are, searching in a more distant past might be revealing.  Bits and pieces of genetic material come down through the generations, get twisted and gnarled and show up in the most unusual places in the most surprising forms.

Of course memories of anyone that far back had been so distorted by telling and retelling that after two generations of false recollections resembled nothing like what they might have been; but she had to have come from somewhere, so the Luccas pinned Angie on ‘The Fat Lady From Silver City’.  In fact, in Lou Lehman’s opinion she was a lot like Tilly’s sister, but no one had ever brought that up.

In any case, everyone knew where Bobby came from, but, given the vagaries of genetic code, they watched him carefully to see how closely his DNA matched that of his parents, aunts, and uncles.  There were early signs of stubbornness and inattention, and later a certain moroseness and funk, all of which traits were unfortunately recognizable.  He got none of the intelligence of his father’s side of the family, and certainly none of the looks and charm of his mother’s; and his personality was just as jumbled and Francis Bacon-looking as his face. 

 

So the Lewickis were not alone.  Had Billy been born a generation later he would have been coddled, primped, and encouraged.  His self-esteem boosted, feeling good about himself, and ready for all comers, he would have been released into the world with optimism, hope, and resolve.  Of course no good whatsoever would have come of that since there is no altering genetic destiny.  You are what you were born with, no matter what anyone else tells you; and the latter-day Billy would have bumbled his way through life no differently than the real Billy. 

In many ways Billy Lewicki was better off than those children born later and sold a bill of goods.  At least he was treated as one of God's little deviances and let it go at that, and not praised for coloring within the lines or managing a few notes of Away In A Manger.  He was the great great grandson of Poznan Lewicki, and so be it.