Genes

My father loved horse racing. Nothing gave him a bigger thrill than a day at Churchill Downs or Keeneland or Ellis Park. The scent of horse liniment wafting through the air as a line of horses pranced into the paddock for saddling before each race hypnotized him. Add that to a beer in one hand, the Racing Form in the other, the whispers of expectation erupting from the crowd into a roar as the thoroughbreds bolted away from the clanging bell when the starting gates flew open, and his day was filled with joy. When he lost money, he never complained. When he won, he never bragged. The gambling didn’t drive him to the track as much as the science of breeding and the notion of its importance.

Breeding is one major factor when translated into a term horse racing experts call “Class” or sometimes “Heart” as a synonym. Theoretically, the better bred a horse is the more competitive it will be in a race, and the more value it has. It is an almost mystical term that rises above athletic ability. For example, if I were to put two horses in a race and all other things being equal, including their speed, the horse with the best bloodlines would theoretically end up finishing first every time.

At its most basic level, we’re talking about equine eugenics. Eugenics developed as the study of how to arrange reproduction within a human population to increase the occurrence of heritable characteristics regarded as desirable. While it may prove valuable to study horse breeding, it has proved unscientific and disastrous among humans. Think of how the Nazis perverted it to murder eight million jews. Think of how European immigrants used it to enslave blacks and slaughter Native Americans. It simply does not work when a species has free will to make choices that perpetuate “class” and “heart” by race and color or when circumstances intervene at random to alter completely a person’s environment and lifestyle.

I have some personal knowledge regarding the influence of genes. My daughter researches our heritage by examining DNA and ancestral lineage. Recently she discovered that through my grandmother’s line on my father’s side of the family we are descended from a Scottish lord and his wife, who was herself a notorious witch back in the day. Piecing this together with my cousin Rosemary’s research, which concludes we came from a line of whisky-riddled Irish Presbyterian ministers through my grandfather’s line on my father’s side, I was able to establish a basis for my noble arrogance that tends to rear its drunken head when bourbon becomes available

What shocked me most came from my daughter’s discovery through DNA analysis of my mother’s side of the family. I could boast of royal—as in monarchial—ancestors as well. It turns out I was descended from Marie Antoinette. Parsing this bit of information led me to understand why I’m overweight and seem to have no discipline when it comes to shedding my excess pounds. I’ve inherited a problem from Cousin Marie. I’m cursed with a love of cake. It isn’t my fault. There is now scientific proof available that I will eat almost any kind of cake almost anyone will bake, and as much as possible. Butter, Pound, Carrot, Red Velvet, Foam, various Sponge cakes—genoise, biscuit, angel food, chiffon—and any cake containing the word Chocolate in the title.

Dieting is senseless because of my royal genes and alcohol abstinence is impossible thanks to my ministerial ones. I hope my daughter continues her important study. Now that my quick temper, procrastination, stubbornness, inability at math, and lack of coordination on the dance floor can be attributed to bad genes, I feel no guilt for my shortcomings. She just needs to discover who I can blame. However, I’m not sure where my love of expensive cigars and my disgust for all rock and roll after the year 1978 (excluding Annie Lennox) comes from. That seems more like common sense than breeding.