Six million years ago, it
happened. Not that God wasn’t happy with
all He had created, but He wanted more than what His wonderful Earth displayed
for him. The continents, the seas, the
palm trees, the multicellular life were not enough. He wanted a unique creature
that could change its environment, would be self-aware, and social, and could
create abstract ideas, and would speak. So He made it happen.
Perched in a tree in sub-Saharan
Africa rested an ancestor common to apes and humans who sported 24 pairs of
chromosomes in its small, hairy, speechless body. It spent each day with its group searching
for food, avoiding predators, and making babies. The genes on its chromosomes dictated
precisely what it could do. And that is
all this primate could do until He saw this opportunity. He created a mutation which we now call a
Robertsonian translocation. This change in genetic hardware is not uncommon,
happening without negative effect in 1 in 1000 births, but this one was special
because it caused a fusing of two chromosomes, reducing the number of the
chromosomes of its offspring to 23 pairs.
Fewer chromosomes do not indicate
less complexity as demonstrated by the chicken who has 78 chromosomes or the
butterfly who has 268 chromosomes. With
fewer chromosomes, this creature could now do more. The effect of gene mutation SRGAP2 was not
immediate; it took millions of years yet only in the blink of His eye in His universe. But through adaptation and
genetic drift, the viable offspring behaved differently than the others. They walked. Their brains grew. They began to
change their environment. They became
self-aware. Their brains grew more. They communed socially. Their brains grew more. They created ideas and solved problems. And eventually, they spoke.
The genetic changes were
small. Still sharing 98% of the same
genetic code, they were still very similar to the others. The others became gorillas, and orangutans
and chimpanzees. But now genetically isolated, these new creatures congregated
only with others of their own kind. And
their numbers grew. Their fossils were
left in the Earth and when discovered were given names like Toumai, Karabo, and Lucy. They became human.
Last month, it happened again.
This year’s regular staff outing
promised to be fun. Everyone looked
forward to a day at the zoo. I had
organized this trip because of my experience as a college intern at the Ape
House at the National Zoo. Fifteen staff
members and their families followed me through the proud gate of the Asheboro
Zoo to explore the animals exhibited in this expansive park. We strolled past zebras and giraffes, stopping
to enjoy the lions and laugh at the seals, all very well cared for by attentive
zookeepers who took time to answer questions from our large group.
Ahead lay the chimpanzee exhibit
and we could already hear the cacophony of primitive chatter echoing among the
natural rocks that served as a fence to keep these apes contained. As I turned the corner I witnessed one large
chimp flinging himself repeatedly at the enormous glass window wall that
allowed us some safety while we watched.
The agitated chimp commanded our attention as he occasionally tossed a
small stick or rock over the window at our group.
“Perseus is pretty distressed right
now,” the attendant explained. “He is assuming
the dominant role in the group.”
As the new leader of our group, I
knew how he felt. So I carefully approached the window. Slowly crouching as I walked, I avoided eye
contact and kept my face downward, eventually sliding up against the glass with
my back turned toward Perseus. I was the
portrait of submissiveness.
While the other chimps watched Perseus,
he displayed again, rushing the glass boisterously and brashly banging it with
his fists. The window vibrated with a
thud. I did not move. He did it again. I held my spot, peeking at him but still
avoiding eye contact.
While my staff watched their
fearless leader embarrass himself, Perseus did something that shocked us
all. He stopped his alarming behavior
and inching toward me, sat facing me less than a foot from the glass. His brown eyes studied me. He pursed his lips. And then he gestured with his hands.
“Was that sign language?” I asked
the attendant. “Can he sign?”
“Yes,” she replied calmly. “He is
the only one who has been able to learn sign language.”
Amazed, I turned my body slowly,
facing Perseus now and looking at him but still averting my gaze so as not to
stare. He gestured again.
“What did he say?” I asked the attendant shyly, my heart racing.
I turned more, now gazing into his
brown eyes, grateful to get a glimpse into the soul of this thoughtful creature. Perseus could change his environment and be
social. He was self–aware. With language, he could create abstract ideas. And he could speak?
Perseus gestured to me again. I could not believe what I was seeing.
“What did he say?” I asked again,
trying to remain calm.
The attendant paused. “He says ‘I like you.
You can stay.’”
I grinned, careful not to show my teeth which would be threatening to a chimpanzee. My skin tingled and my eyes welled with tears. Acceptance! Looking directly into Perseus’
eyes, I gestured back the only sign I know.
“Thank you”.
Our group was speechless. Until a phone rang. It was my daughter calling, sad that she was missing the outing.
“What are you doing?” she asked
Christa, who answered the call.
“Watching your father talk to a
chimp.”
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