Enough With the 'Slut Gene' Already: Behaviors Ain't Traits

crossposted from Wired:

Earlier this week, WBUR's Here and Now ran a a taped interview with me about "Beautiful Brains," my recent National Geographic article on teen brain and behavior. (You can listen to the interview here.) It's only six minutes long, but nicely edited to highlight, from a high-altitude evolutionary point of view, what distinguishes adolescence, when we peak in our pursuits of risk, novelty, and same-age peers even as our brains consolidate gains while remaining especially plastic. Not, as researcher Jay Giedd likes to say, a defective adult brain, but a nicely tuned teen brain. The show also squeezes in some Shakespeare, some fast driving, and a bit of Steve Jobs. Not bad for six minutes.

A couple of the write-ups about the show, however, carry headlines that make a mistake too often made about behavioral genetics:

Reckless Teen Behavior May Be Evolutionary Advantage | Here & Now

Know a risky teenager? Evolutionarily speaking, that's good behavior | PRI.ORG

I don't want to beat up too badly on these press releases; doubtless they were written quickly, and in any case the headlines are the worst of it. But perhaps because they were written quickly, they offer a teachable moment by embedding a common misconception. They mistake behaviors for traits.

Click to read more ...

The Beautiful Teen Brain (National Geographic, cover story, Oct 2011)

Beautiful Brains

Moody. Impulsive. Maddening. Why do teenagers act the way they do? Viewed through the eyes of evolution, their most exasperating traits may be the key to success as adults.

By David Dobbs

Photograph by Kitra Cahana

Although you know your teenager takes some chances, it can be a shock to hear about them.

One fine May morning not long ago my oldest son, 17 at the time, phoned to tell me that he had just spent a couple hours at the state police barracks. Apparently he had been driving "a little fast." What, I asked, was "a little fast"? Turns out this product of my genes and loving care, the boy-man I had swaddled, coddled, cooed at, and then pushed and pulled to the brink of manhood, had been flying down the highway at 113 miles an hour.

"That's more than a little fast," I said.

He agreed. In fact, he sounded somber and contrite. He did not object when I told him he'd have to pay the fines and probably for a lawyer. He did not argue when I pointed out that if anything happens at that speed—a dog in the road, a blown tire, a sneeze—he dies. He was in fact almost irritatingly reasonable. He even proffered that the cop did the right thing in stopping him, for, as he put it, "We can't all go around doing 113."

He did, however, object to one thing. He didn't like it that one of the several citations he received was for reckless driving.

"Well," I huffed, sensing an opportunity to finally yell at him, "what would you call it?"

"It's just not accurate," he said calmly. " 'Reckless' sounds like you're not paying attention. But I was. I made a deliberate point of doing this on an empty stretch of dry interstate, in broad daylight, with good sight lines and no traffic. I mean, I wasn't just gunning the thing. I was driving.

"I guess that's what I want you to know. If it makes you feel any better, I was really focused."

Actually, it did make me feel better. That bothered me, for I didn't understand why. Now I do.

Get the rest at National Geographic