Love and Genes Can Beat Poverty -Study

Wed May 26, 6:15 AM ET Add Science - Reuters to My Yahoo!



LONDON (Reuters) - Love and genes can overcome even the most abject poverty, according to a study into the effects of environmental factors on child development.



The study of 1,116 mothers and their five-year-old same-sex twins in poor households in England and Wales found that poverty did not have to be a life sentence and the right combination of parental care and genetics could triumph over adversity.


"Children in our study experienced more than just poverty as measured by family income level, Julia Kim-Cohen of the Institute of Psychiatry at King's College in London wrote in the May issue of the journal Child Development.


"Living in the poorest neighborhoods, their homes were rated as being overcrowded, damp or in disrepair," she added.


The study differentiated between twins sharing all the same genes and those sharing only half.


It showed that genetic makeup does play a role in the ability of children to rise above their poverty and not suffer behavioral or cognitive setbacks, but it was not the whole answer.


"The warmth, mental stimulation and interest that parents pay toward their young children can make a big difference in their children's lives," Kim-Cohen said.


Fellow researcher Terrie Moffitt said they only studied mothers because in many of the poorest households the father was absent, so trying to look at both parents in families where the father was still present would have skewed the study.


"The main point of the research is that neither genes nor poverty can determine a child's fate," Kim-Cohen said.



.... fascinating... just how many mothers with five-year old twins living in poverty are there in England and Wales? (around 1,600, i guess)

The Essay I’ll Never Send

I am not a genius. In fact, I’m far from it. I’m even, dare I say it, a drama kid. I hope you’re sitting down for this one. For most of my life I’ve been labeled as “gifted” by teachers and administrators because of what I think is one of the greatest stunts ever pulled. You see, my brother is an intelligent bastard. I say this in the most admiring, caring, little-sister way. Because my brother’s impeccable ability to not only grasp information, but to use this knowledge to his advantage in argument (which is one of his greatest hobbies) not only accidentally labeled me as one of his kind (simply because we are of the same kin), but supported this suspicion (for my brother would fight to the death if I were considered incapable in any way by anyone other than himself.)
My parents are smart cookies. And I guess, scientifically, hereditarily, logically, they produced smart offspring. But like I said, I’m really not as intelligent as everyone thinks I am. But here I am, selling myself to you like so many others, wrapped up neat and clean in a little package ready to be opened. I am who you are looking for: Driven, Motivated, Determined, and Redundant. It is in this twisted form of prostitution that we all await your Judgment, the way we have been taught to await it; with the knowledge that your decision will significantly alter our futures.
Well-- let –me--tell -- you Mr. Undergraduate Admissions Honcho, as well qualified and perceptive as you may be, this is one future you can’t change. Because I’ve got one thing that you really can’t see on a transcript, or even on paper for that matter. I’ve got the thing that separates the gifted in life from the gifted on paper. I’ve got It. I can feel it in my veins, pumping through my blood; I can see it in my reflection; I can hear it in my head. I’ve got that one indescribable, incomparable, irreplaceable quality that no one can actually put their finger on. And I have every intention of being famous. I’ll win a Nobel Peace Prize, or an Academy Award-- or maybe both. You’re kids will know my name- your kids’ kids will know my name. And I will do great things in the world- you can bet on it. How’s that for Gifted?

I have a tendency to frighten people. Not intentionally, of course. And not in the Oh-my-god-look-at-that-thing-growing-out-of-her-head sort of way, but rather in the Oh-good-god-what’s-wrong-with-her sense. You see, I’m a rather excitable person, and in my mere 5-foot-1 frame, I can easily be mistaken for a rampant dwarf. While most people would consider this flamboyancy a negative trait, I find it to be the single most enhancing aspect of my life. I don’t use the term “enhancing” loosely; I mean it in the very sense of the word. I mean that I derive more pleasure from a plastic spoon than most do from a full-length feature film. I often talk to myself in my own quirky banter, pausing only to nod hello to a friend or say “excusez-moi” to an imposing trashcan. And yes, though it earns me awkward stares and muffled giggles, it never seems to make me think twice about myself-- because that’s who I am.
So, who am I? I must be pretty safe in my own skin to be able to receive such reactions. The answer is nonexistent, largely because I really don’t know who I am quite yet, nor who I’m going to be for that matter; but this makes more sense for a 16-year-old someone than for a 40-year-old someone pushing mid-life crisis. In an age where catharsis is as close by as your nearest plastic surgeon, “finding yourself” has become a staple in everyone’s diet. But what I’ve found after years of Oprah and MTV is that we are not just made up of a conglomeration of places and people and experiences, we are made of clay: malleable and ever-mutating clay. This mutability has created some of the most brilliant minds and the most innovative people- the ones who took advantage of their constantly changing personas. I guess that’s where the acceptance should be; not of who you are, but of the truth that you might not be the same person tomorrow. And maybe that’s what makes life so exciting; that you can get to know yourself a little bit more everyday, and just when you think you know who you are, you can surprise yourself. It keeps life from getting boring- and that’s one thing I refuse to be: boring.
So I continue to walk with myself, not ignoring the varied reactions from passers-by but rather acknowledging them with a smile. I’m just getting to know myself before everything changes; it’s only a matter of time.

June On The West Coast
by Bright Eyes

Album : Letting off the Happiness



I spent a week drinking the sunlight of Winnetka, California
Where they understand the weight of human hearts
You see, sorrow gets too heavy and joy it tends to hold you
With the fear that it eventually departs
And the truth is I’ve been dreaming of some tired tranquil place
Where the weather won’t get trapped inside my bones
And if all the years of searching find one sympathetic face
Then it's there I'll plant these seeds and make my home
I spent a day dreaming of dying in Mesa, Arizona
Where all the green of life had turned to ash
And I felt I was on fire, with the things I could have told you
I just assumed that you eventually would ask
And I wouldn’t have to bring up my so badly broken heart
And all those months I just wanted to sleep
And though spring, it did come slowly, I guess it did its part
My heart has thawed and continues to beat
And I visited my brother on the outskirts of Olympia
Where the forest and the water become one
And we talked about our childhood
like a dream we were convinced of
That perfect, peaceful street that we came from
And I know he heard me strumming all those sad and simple chords
As I sat inside my room so long ago
And it hurts that he’s still shaking from those secrets that were told
By a car closed up too tight and a heart turned cold
And I went to San Diego, and the birthplace of the summer
And watched the ocean dance under the moon
There was a girl I knew there, one more potential lover
I guess that something’s gotta happen soon
Cause I know I can’t keep living in this dead or dying dream
As I walked along the beach and drank with her
I thought about my true love, the one I really need
With eyes that burn so bright, they make me pure
They make me pure, they make me pure
I long to be with you
They make me pure, they make me pure
I long to be with you

When I was fourteen, I slept alone on a North Dakota football field under the cold stars on an early spring night. Fall progresses early in the Red River Valley, and I happened to hit a night when frost formed in the grass. A skunk trailed a plume of steam across the forty-yard line near moonrise. I tucked the top of my sleeping bag over my head and was just dozing off when the skunk walked onto me with simple authority.
Its ripe odor must have dissipated in the frozen earth of its winterlong hibernation, because it didn't smell all that bad, or perhaps it was just that I took shallow breaths in numb surprise. I felt him—her, whatever—pause on the side of my hip and turn around twice before evidently deciding I was a good place to sleep. At the back of my knees, on the quilting of my sleeping bag, it trod out a spot for itself and then, with a serene little groan, curled up and lay perfectly still. That made two of us. I was wildly awake, trying to forget the sharpness and number of skunk teeth, trying not to think of the high percentage of skunks with rabies, or the reason that on camping trips my father always kept a hatchet underneath his pillow.
Inside the bag, I felt as if I might smother. Carefully, making only the slightest of rustles, I drew the bag away from my face and took a deep breath of the night air, enriched with skunk, but clear and watery and cold. It wasn't so bad, and the skunk didn't stir at all, so I watched the moon—caught that night in an envelope of silk, a mist—pass over my sleeping field of teenage guts and glory. The grass in spring that has lain beneath the snow harbors a sere dust both old and fresh. I smelled that newness beneath the rank tone of my bag-mate—the stiff fragrance of damp earth and the thick pungency of newly manured fields a mile or two away—along with my sleeping bag's smell, slightly mildewed, forever smoky. The skunk settled even closer and began to breathe rapidly; its feet jerked a little like a dog's. I sank against the earth, and fell asleep too.
Of what easily tipped cans, what molten sludge, what dogs in yards on chains, what leftover macaroni casseroles, what cellar holes, crawl spaces, burrows taken from meek woodchucks, of what miracles of garbage did my skunk dream? Or did it, since we can't be sure, dream the plot of Moby-Dick, how to properly age parmesan, or how to restore the brick-walled, tumbledown creamery that was its home? We don't know about the dreams of any other biota, and even much about our own. If dreams are an actual dimension, as some assert, then the usual rules of life by which we abide do not apply. In that place, skunks may certainly dream themselves into the vests of stockbrokers. Perhaps that night the skunk and I dreamed each other's thoughts or are still dreaming them. To paraphrase the problem of the Chinese sage, I may be a woman who has dreamed herself a skunk, or a skunk still dreaming that she is a woman.
Skunks don't mind each other's vile perfume. Obviously, they find each other more than tolerable. And even I, who have been in the presence of a direct skunk hit, wouldn't classify their weapon as mere smell. It is more on the order of a reality-enhancing experience. It's not so pleasant as standing in a grove of old-growth red cedars, or on a lyrical moonshed plain, or watching trout rise to the shadow of your hand on the placid surface of an alpine lake. When the skunk lets go, you're surrounded by skunk presence: inhabited, owned, involved with something you can only describe as powerfully there.
I woke at dawn, stunned into that sprayed state of being. The dog that had approached me was rolling in the grass, half-addled, sprayed too. The skunk was gone. I abandoned my sleeping bag and started home. Up Eighth Street, past the tiny blue and pink houses, past my grade school, past all the addresses where I had baby-sat, I walked in my own strange wind. The streets were wide and empty; I met no one—not a dog, not a squirrel, not even an early robin. Perhaps they had all scattered before me, blocks away. I had gone out to sleep on the football field because I was afflicted with a sadness I had to dramatize. Mood swings had begun, hormones, feverish and brutal. They were nothing to me now. My emotions had seemed vast, dark, and sickeningly private. But they were minor, mere wisps, compared to skunk.

~ Louise Erdrich

Jill's mom brought me back an English-Tagalog translation book from the Phillipines and it is the coolest thing. i can say all sorts of things like...

"kailangang aregluhing panibago ang karburador."

"the carburetor needs readjusting"


and

"Walang bagong aklat si Pedro"

"Pedro does not have a new book."