The Mary Sunshine Gene

Depression is a sane person's reaction to reality.

Randomly slaughtering 32 people and committing suicide is an insane person's reaction to reality.

Sending someone else to randomly slaughter 32 people and commit suicide is Presidential.

You see? I have learned something from the seemingly monotonous progression of the years. Because I remember. That is, after all, what I'm about. And there's something else I've learned about humans, too. It's about genetics, and I flatter myself that I noticed this before the geneticists did, and I'm not even a scientist. Or human, for that matter.

But this is my discovery: the Mary Sunshine Gene. Yep. That's it. That's the gene that allows humans to think that everything is going to be all right, that "nasty, brutish, and short" is something that happens to someone else. Believe me, I've watched these thought processes happen over and over again:

"I know it seems like we're destroying the planet, but ... where's the proof, really? I mean, other than all that science mumbo-jumbo, and who can understand that? And I really want that Hummer ... Or I'm making so much money on oil ... Anyway, someone will think of something before it gets too bad.

"War may seem heartless and wicked, but ... we have to do it for the sake of peace. They are so violent ... Anyway, God will make it all right. Yeah, that's it.

"Gosh, it seems like rich, greedy people are stomping all over everybody else, but ... it's for our own good, probably.

"Democracy seems to be collapsing everywhere in the world, except where we carry it in by force of arms, but ... people are basically good and intelligent, and not fearful or easily led at all, and it's just a matter of working hard to make the Truth known, and everything will be all right."

That's Mary Sunshine, the undue optimism gene, that makes people believe that, overwhelming objective evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, everything will turn out for the best. What I'm not sure of, is why it sometimes fails. Why do sundry youths - or indeed, oldths - vengefully slaughter random populations and then blow themselves away, as well? Are they born without the gene, are they born with a mutation, or can negative nasty nurture overcome nature? Well, I think I have to leave something for the geneticists to figure out.

Suffice to say that the Mary Sunshine Gene is a rather simple species survival mechanism. It keeps humans, who are blessed/cursed with above average intelligence for a life form, from simply curling up and dying as soon as they figure out what they've gotten themselves into. And before they get anyone else into the same predicament by reproducing. I must say that it worked pretty well, from a species point of view. It has only been recently that Mary Sunshine has gone horribly wrong.

So, I'm just sitting up here, having a beer with my two friends, Kurt and Molly, who are recent arrivals. Molly thinks I'm an awful cynic.

"Don't be such an old poop!" she says. "There's still time to turn it around. The People will prevail!"

Kurt just smiles.

"I'll tell you one thing," I say. "It's going to be awful quiet down there, since you two left. Full of sound and fury, sure. Signifying bullshit. No substance. It's my luck that you dropped in here. Have another beer."

"If this isn't nice, I don't know what is," says Kurt.

"Don't mind if I do," says Molly. "You give up too easily! We've got to organize. There's still enough time!"

"There was never enough time," says Kurt. "There was always enough time to do the right thing, but never enough, when you're determined not to."

"Yep," I say. "They're like moths around a candle. No one makes them burn their damn' wings, but they're by-god going to."

"All those eons, and that's the best metaphor you can come up with?" chides Molly. "Moths and candles?"

"I like moths," I say, perhaps a bit defensively.

"I'll never give up," says Molly.

"I know you won't," I sigh. "Which is one reason I love you."

"So, what's it like to be human memory?" asks Kurt.

"Exhilaration beyond limit; pain without end," I reply. "I define schizophrenia, I'm afraid. I wish I were selective memory. I could just remember Einstein and Beethoven and Jesus and you guys and some of the others."

"Don't worry," says Kurt. "It'll be over soon. A hundred years at the outside."

Yes, something to look forward to.