A couple weeks ago I was thinking about how weird it is that we, as humans, are born to parents (some good, some bad, some in between, I suppose) who all have interests, and in turn, we become interested or end up knowing a lot about their interests because they’re in our lives and we’re kind of surrounded by them. Granted, this isn’t always the case. But it typically is. Even if you aren’t particularly interested in your parents lives or hobbies or whatnot, you still end up hearing a lot about their favorite subjects, and then begrudgingly become somewhat knowledgeable about said subjects.
If I wasn’t born to my parents, I doubt that I would care about analyzing why people act a certain way or how a person’s childhood can effect how they grow emotionally. I doubt that I would like to write or even read. Create or decorate. Would I like to sing or listen to the bands I like now? Would I know that TCM stands for Turner Classic Movies and that there is not one Thin Man movie, but like, 6 or 7?! Would I like to dance and laugh at people trying to be serious? Could I spot a “good cut” in a movie scene? Would I make collages of all my favorite things and then admire them over and over? Would I still like animals more than people?
Perhaps. But probably not. I would be different because my parents would be different–have different jobs, hobbies, senses of humor, religions, struggles, incomes, etc. I like all the things that make up me. I’d like to think that we can see the best in our parents and the things that they like, we take and make them our own.
Or maybe not. Just a thought.
Also, don’t get all nature vs. nurture on me.