In the future, not even your DNA will be sacred
It started simply enough. Janet invited you over for a dinner and a couple of glasses of Savvy B with the girls. In between talking about your Bachelorette brackets and plans to dismantle the apparatus of the patriarchy, you all decided it would be a bit of fun to send your DNA off to one of those genealogy companies.
‘Wouldn’t it be a laugh!’ said Britt.
‘I can’t wait to send my spit to a stranger on the internet!’ said Chanel.
But you politely declined. You, dear reader, the one with the holier-than-thou Angel of Privacy on your shoulder, you resisted the urge to spit in an envelope and sell that last, unchangeable part of your biological identity to a tech giant in Utah.
You quietly sipped your sauvignon and watched as the girls swabbed their slimes. That was four to six weeks ago and you haven’t looked back.
But I have terrible news for you.
It doesn’t matter if you sent off a kit to find out exactly how much of a special snowflake you are. You can probably be identified in a DNA database anyway.
According to research published last week by Columbia University scientist Yaniv Erlich, more than half of the American population (60 percent) with European ancestry are now identifiable through a third cousin or closer relative on consumer DNA registries like AncestryDNA and 23andme.
And that figure is growing. Thanks to Middle America’s desire to volunteer their biological samples for a certificate of genealogical authenticity, Erlich (who is now Chief Science Officer at genealogy website MyHeritage) says these sites ‘could implicate nearly any US-individual of European-descent in the near future.’
And ‘implicate’ is right. In April this year, police credited a consumer DNA database with helping them to dramatically narrow down their search for the Golden State Killer, leading to an arrest 40 years after the serial rapist and murderer started his crime spree.
So the stakes are high.
Millions of people have already filled the DNA filing cabinets at these companies. Some of them do it to screen for potential disease risks. Some, to find long-lost family members. And some people no doubt just want to find an easy way to finish the stupid history project Mrs. Wilson assigned them in the 10th grade.
Whatever the reason, the industry is booming — Ancestry alone says it has DNA tested more than 10 million people.
But you’re the one who’s going to pay for it. Now you can be identified thanks to some dipshit’s spit kit.
The genealogy sites themselves are keen to reassure customers that privacy is their No. 1 priority.
Ancestry says its ‘highest priority is protecting our customers’ privacy and being good stewards of their data’ and that it offers customers options to opt in or out of ‘match viewability.’ It also says it challenges legal requests for DNA matching, and does not provide data to law enforcement ‘unless compelled to by valid legal process.’ MyHeritage and 23andMe did not immediately respond to requests for comment.
But being identifiable through your DNA, even when you haven’t shared it, could be a grim sign of where the future is heading.
Those things that once made us human are becoming easier to quantify, track and replicate. Our voices can be perfectly recreated by computers, our mannerisms can be copied by artificial intelligence. Cameras on the street track our faces, speakers in our homes listen to our conversations, even our fingerprints are no longer just stored on our fingers. And soon, the very substance of our physical selves, our DNA, will be looked after by someone else.
No thought of the potential of a data breach. No thought of a potential future where insurance companies scan your DNA without your knowledge to adjust your premiums, or your employer looks for potential health risks, or the police search for markers of pre-crime (Minority Report was a documentary, right?).
When I think about the future machinery of the biometric surveillance state, as I often do when I’m having a glass of wine with Janet and the girls, I feel like I’m the only one who’s paranoid about protecting my DNA. I wail at my friends, John Proctor-like, when they ask me why I won’t spit in an envelope.
‘Because it is my DNA! Because I cannot have another in my life! I have given you my soul, and my passwords and my fingerprints; leave me my DNA!’
But it’s no use.
In the future, when I’m trying to outrun the DNA Police in the dark sewers of New Biometrica, it won’t be my fault.
‘It wasn’t me!’ I’ll yell. ‘It was my third cousin!’
But they won’t care.