To Gotham City with Love, a 23andMe Prospective

About two months ago, my parents each spit into small plastic vials and had them shipped off to a lab where they were examined and processed. I was surprised that my mother, self-proclaimed queen of “Big Brother is watching,” agreed to have her saliva mailed to an uncertain location filled with questionable people but curiosity prevailed in the end, as it often does.

My mother received her results first, and we were not surprised to find that she is of mostly European descent. Despite an ounce of Ashkenazi Jew, a tablespoon of Native American, and a dash of undisclosed, her blue eyes shone with knowing confirmation upon reading her genetic fortune cookie. “It is possible that one of your grandparents or great-grandparents was Native American,” the test displayed in blue New Times Roman. My mother combed her blonde hair from her eyes, “okay,” she said.

My father received his results second, after voicing his cynicism to the entire program. We were also not surprised to find that he was, in fact, “Asian.” “There are probably six or seven templates,” he said to me over the phone, “and there is some guy just rifling through them and he decided that this one seemed okay to send.” “It is possible that one of your grandparents or great-grandparents was Sicilian,” the test displayed in coral Verdana. “That could be anyone,” he said, “how much did you pay for this?”

Despite an adopted grandfather and a few missing holes, my family’s tree is already detailed. My father did not need a DNA test to tell him he was Asian, nor did my mother need to confirm that she was English. 23andMe, however, did make a charming Christmas present for my parents, sort of like a nice pair of wool socks.

Affordable, commercialized genetic services are less than a decade old, but the concept of identity is an ancient notion; one that lingers and transforms the paths of so many Earth people.

“We who are born of the ocean can never seek solace in rivers, their flowing runs on like our longing,” – Kamau Brathwaite|South

I should write a thousand words of the motherless Ophelia or Ellison’s Invisible Man, but a different set of characters has popped into my mind.

“A penguin is a bird that cannot fly. I am a man. I have a name… Oswald Cobblepot!”

1992 Oswald Cobblepot is, by far, my favorite Batman villain. Aside from his grotesque appearance (thanks, Danny Devito+Tim Burton), fantastical umbrella-gadgets, and general wickedness, Cobblepot possesses a trait crucial to many comic book supervillains; he’s just trying to figure out where he came from.

Cobblepot was a strange-looking child. With a large nose, webbed fingers, and a pelvic tilt that transformed his walk into a waddle, he resembled that of a penguin, hence the name. Ostracised by his high-society parents, Cobblepot was cast into Gotham’s sewers, where he found refuge in the city’s winged wildlife.

Fast forward thirty years later, and Cobblepot blackmails his way out of the sewers and into the open air of Gotham City. He truly just wants to know why his parents cast him aside, or maybe his intentions are more severe. That is neither right here nor over there.

As Oswald rummages through piles of documents and birth certificates, another awakening occurs across town. In a matter of hours, zombie-like Selina Kyle transforms her vintage black leather trench coat into a BDSM suit tailored to her 110-pound frame and vacuum sealed to her torso. Gone is the withdrawn persona of the powerless secretary. Are people still saying yas queen? #yasqueen

“He could see plainly that she was not herself. That is, he could not see that she was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the world.” – Kate Chopin|The Awakening 

A hyperbole of feminist rage, Catwoman flips and whips through Gotham like a hurricane; a terrifying, seductive wrath of a womanly justice – a theme missing from the 2004 version of Catwoman, the musical (just kidding).

“Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars but in ourselves, that we are underlings. ” – Shakespeare|Julius Caesar

Oswald Cobblepot soon discovers that his parents are deceased, and while he never has a chance to ask them why they threw him away, he now has a name. Up until this point in the film, he refers to himself as “Penguin,” even though he claims to despise the title. While Oswald dug through piles of documents to locate the name he was given at birth, Selina Kyle names herself. That is the difference between the integrity of the two characters; the ability to choose one’s destiny or succumb to it.

Had we spent the extra money my parents could have received a comprehensive analysis of their health risks, wellness, etc, but the initial ancestry service was still an interesting (but broad) look into their genetic makeup.

Fifty years ago, people had to travel and track down documents to form a family tree. DNA and lineage was a puzzle that some had the ability to figure out faster than others. Today, we can spit into a vial to determine where we come from, but will that bring us closer to figuring out who we are?

I’m not quite sure.

It isn’t the continent, country, or even the state that determines our human path. It isn’t the hospital you were born in, and it isn’t your uncle in Estonia that just reached out to you on Facebook. It is your decision. You can allow the world to call you Oswald Cobblepot or you can rub Crisco on your legs and slip into a tight-fitting leather catsuit. Anyways, shout out to Michelle Pfeiffer…