Mighty (Cheerful) Mouse
Katherine Mangu-Ward | August 23, 2006, 10:17am
Scientists have bred a stain of mice that are permanently cheerful, by removing the TREK-1 gene, which realted to seratonin transmission in the brain. The mice "represent the first time depression has been eliminated through genetic alteration of an organism." The head researcher said the mice "acted as if they had been treated with antidepressants for at least three weeks" and speculated that this discovery could open up a new strain of drugs to treat depression.
But why think small, even if we are talking about mice? The debate about genetic engineering too often slips into squabbles about all those frivolous parents who will want blond, blue-eyed sons. Let's talk about this instead--what happens when parents have the option to genetically insure against depression?
Interesting tidbit: One way scientists test mice for depression is to dangle them by their tails. Mice that don't struggle are labeled "depressed."
See a Reason-sponsored debate on human genetic enhancement here.
phord | August 23, 2006, 10:50am | #
Excellent post, John.
Like me, my son is chronically anxious. Which is to say, he inhabits anxiety like it's a time zone, or the weather. He doesn't have to have a real, rational reason to be anxious: when he's in that zone, whatever drifts into his field of perception pulls his anxiety towards it. This morning it was some stupid standardized test, which he can ace, so it's not like he really has anything to worry about, but try telling him that. Tomorrow he might be fine, or it might be some other damn thing he's sweating. *sigh* It's hard to see your child like this. But if I could have ordered up an alternative, would I do it? Absolutely not. I'd rather teach him how to live with his anxieties, to manage them as a part of who he is.
We have a tendency to say, in a situation like this, "I have an anxiety disorder," which has the effect of making the anxiety external to oneself. Not, I am anxious, but I have this thing, this alien will that makes me anxious. I have a disorder, like a trick knee or something, so if I can correct it, what's the problem, right? But in my son -- and in me, too -- this tendency towards anxiety is an inextricable part of personality. For me, at any rate, it has always been the source of my sense of humor (such as it is), my work ethic (ditto), the pleasure I take in music and books, and so on. For good
and ill, I want my (and my son's) bad stuff. The bad stuff makes the good stuff possible. To will it away -- or to contemplate the ability to do so for an unborn child -- is somehow monstrous, like willing a death. (Like, if you say, I wish I was the King of Spain, you are actually wishing your own oblivion, because
you are not the King of Spain, and he's not you, and in saying you want to be him you are wishing the replacement of yourself, not just yourself wearing an ermine robe.)
I have no faith in the state to say anything intelligent about what choices we are all to make for ourselves, and I am saying nothing about what this rather disturbing story means for public policy. But it is worth taking a moment to consider the gravity of what that choice means.
