Gattaca Essay

Thomas Jefferson once wrote that all men are created equal. Of course, by saying this, he meant equal in the sense that no one person mattered more than another. Little did he know, over two hundred fifty years later, people would take this thought differently. It no longer pertained to a person's meaning in the world and to society. Now, it seemed to mean that all men must be created perfect. Unfortunately, I was not.

I was born in December 2017, just at the start of the whole concept of "godchildren" and valids versus invalids. My parents had not even heard of such things until my mother went to the hospital for her first pregnancy checkup. The craze for "designer babies" plunged into our world as we knew it like a tidal wave shortly after my third birthday. I was diagnosed with a rare x-linked disorder called Rett Syndrome around then. The doctors said I was lucky because my symptoms progressed slowly; but I knew better when I looked out my bedroom window every afternoon and saw all the other little girls playing hopscotch and jump rope.

By the time I was thirteen, my legs seemed to grow further away from my control and I was forced to use a wheelchair. I was an awkward young girl – thin and pale, with red hair you could spot from a mile away and black eyes that other kids teased me about, saying I looked like a rat. I tried to fit in by trying to make friends with valids, but they would ignore me. I even tried to focus on school in hope of impressing my teachers, therefore feeling some sort of belonging, but the best grades always went to the valids, who were genetically chosen to be smarter than me. People treated me like I was helpless – excluding me, assuming I couldn't do anything and that I would never understand. But I did. For a short time, I dreamed I could become a psychologist. I figured I could help people feel wanted, like I was not. That all changed soon after.

I was fifteen years old when my parents, tears in their eyes, told me that I wouldn't live much longer. I could accept the fact that I wouldn't be able to help people like I had planned, but I couldn't accept death. So what if I wasn't a beautiful teenage girl with long, wavy hair and sparkling eyes? All I wanted my entire life was for people to accept me as me, not just look at me and exclude me as the invalid. I would kill someone just for the opportunity that once – just once – I could at least feel like I belonged in this world of perfection. Deep down, though, I know in my heart that this dream, just like my psychology one, would never come true as long as I was invalid.