Mom’s Coolest Eyes
My mom has the coolest eyes you will ever see. Resembling somewhere between the ocean surrounding a Caribbean island and the “share” button on a Google Doc., her eyes, and thus her genes, spell out very clearly that the OCA2 promoter should not produce melanin in her iris. My dad, albeit with significantly less cool eyes that look more similar to a cloudy day, has fallen victim to the same mutation. Recessively inherited, our eyes are unique, a marking of an increased susceptibility to certain forms of ocular disease but still cool enough to warrant the stares of people on busy New York City streets. To us, on a less scientific note, they represent a shared upbringing: a shared hatred of honey mustard, a shared memory of my sister lighting her hair on fire on her birthday (she was fine), and a shared need to question the unknown.
Growing up at 10 West Deerhaven, where bears would lazily trek across my lawn and the rocks probably had diamonds in them if you hit them just the right way, it was not long before a lab coat and microscope were placed on my Amazon wishlist. My sister would accompany me on my missions, hiking and hiding with me to get a closer look (because every scientist needs a lab partner). More often than not, she was left holding the snacks or carrying my samples back up the hill. But when my microscope finally came, I’d let her look at what we found (sometimes).
Not long after would come the train rides to Kean University, my dad happily (and sleepily) waking up with me for 5 AM breakfasts before my two hour commute. He makes me waffles and asks me about my research, nodding and pretending to understand. I tell him about using RT-PCR to move from the 5’ to the 3’ end of mRNA coding for CAHS1 and about electron microscopes too expensive to be asked for on an Amazon wishlist. He hands me my lunch (6 chicken nuggets) and reminds me to say goodbye to my brother before I leave.
Then would come the bus rides, taking the (totally strenuous) trip into New York City to intern at Columbia University Medical Center. I work with researchers to help determine the genetic basis of epilepsy by studying population models and using CRISPR-Cas9 technology to create petri-dish brains with the mutation of interest. I might get lost in the city or forget which subway to take. My dad may have to come rescue me, joking about how I can microinject in the perfect spot but get lost in a city with numbered streets.
Then would come the car rides, mom in the passenger seat as I drive us to the New York Psychoanalytic Institute to attend lectures on the gut microbiome and the link to autism-spectrum disorders. She shoves the microphone into my hands when I whisper a question to her, encouraging me to speak up in a room full of psychoanalysts who got their degrees long before I was born. I speak, voice quivering, and get a response as if I were no different.
Then would come the walks into our kitchen, sitting with my mother analyzing psychological statistics to aid in making treatment more efficient in her clinic. I laugh at her when she misspells words and she laughs at me for not knowing the difference between affective disorders and mood disorders (trick question: they’re the same).
Living in a household of explorers comes with its challenges: sometimes we neglect to dust and sometimes we forget to order groceries until there is only a stale box of pasta in our cupboard. But my absent-minded family of best friends, with eyes like Cu(C7H5O2)2 and CoCl2, cracking open rocks and insisting that CRISPR cuts are just like deleting sections of code on a computer, are always up for an adventure.