The evolutionary upside of same-sex sex among primates

This article by Michael Johnson in The Washington Post, January 18, 2026 ticked my fancy. Perhaps it will resonate with you as well?

Photo by Marvin Joseph/The Washington Post

As animals go about their lives ― eating, fighting, having babies ― they don’t always follow the script laid out for them by Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution. Not every behavior furthers the cause of survival in a way that is obvious to humans.

One mystery that has long puzzled biologists is why animals of the same gender engage in sex that cannot produce offspring.

Now scientists report evidence that in nonhuman primates, same-gender sexual behavior plays an important role in the survival of individuals within certain species, helping them navigate harsh climates, predators, food scarcity, and complex social structures.

A study, published last week in the journal Nature Ecology & Evolution, offers new insight into the process of natural selection, the core mechanism behind evolution. The idea is that when random mutations in the genetic code benefit an individual, they persist and are passed onto offspring.

But this raises what scientists have called a Darwinian paradox: Genes linked to same-sex behavior have not vanished from nonhuman primates even though they don’t result in offspring.

Vincent Savolainen, one of the authors of the paper and the director of the Georgina Mace Center for the Living Planet at Imperial College London, said young animals might engage in same-sex behavior “to practice having sex,” in preparation for mating later in their lives.

Same-sex behavior may also bond individuals in a group of nonhuman primates, leaving them more inclined to trust each other when signaling the presence of predators and to defend one another.

Savolainen, who spent eight years studying rhesus macaques on the Puerto Rican island of Cayo Santiago, said that same-sex behavior may ultimately improve the survival of individuals, allowing them to form the alliances that help them to rise in a group’s hierarchy.

The researchers at Imperial College London analyzed data on 491 nonhuman primate species, finding evidence of same-sex behavior in 59 species, 23 of which showed repeated occurrence of the behavior. They found that both males and females engage in same-sex relations.

“One of the aims of this study was to show how widespread” same-sex relations are in nature, Savolainen said. A 2023 study in Nature Communications reported that same-sex sexual behavior has been found in 261 mammal species, about 4 percent of the total. The behavior has been observed in animal species including humpback whales, elephants, giraffes, and even in a Seychelles giant tortoise.

Savolainen said the results of his team’s study show that same-sex relations must be taken into account to understand how a particular animal society works.

“Feeding, fighting, looking after your offspring, reproductive sex and same-sex sexual behavior is a repertoire of behavior that makes these complex societies function,” he said.

The researchers focused their study on mounting and other sexual behaviors that involved the genitals as opposed to practices such as grooming. Their work analyzed data from dozens of other studies of same-sex sexual behavior, as well as data on climate and predation.

The scientists used the data to evaluate three evolutionary theories that attempt to explain the prevalence of same-sex relations in nonhuman primates. The first is that the behavior is influenced by extreme climates, scarcity of resources, and predators; the second, that it is more likely to occur among sexually dimorphic species,meaning those with greater differences between males and females in terms of body size, lifespan and other factors; and finally, that it is driven by social complexity.

They found that same-sex relations were more likely in species that live in harsh, dry environments and in those that have distinct differences between males and females in size and appearance. Same-sex relations, they discovered, are also more likely in species that have social hierarchies.

They also looked at conditions that influence opposite-sex sexual relations among species and found that these are less likely in places under environmental stress.

Marlene Zuk, an evolutionary biologist at the University of Minnesota, said the new paper’s systematic approach makes an important contribution to a discussion that is anything but new.

“Basically, this is the nature-nurture controversy,” Zuk said. “Let’s cut to the chase, this is what people really want to know: Is homosexuality caused by your genes or is it caused by the way you grew up, or your environment, or however you want to put it?”

The nature-nurture argument has haunted discussions about same-sex attraction in humans for years, with researchers at one time hunting for a single “gay gene” before determining that one does not exist.

For a while, Zuk said, “I became the go-to person for every zoo that had gay penguins.” (Penguin sexuality has struck a nerve with some Americans as evidenced by frequent efforts to ban the award-winning children’s book “And Tango Makes Three” about two male penguins raising a baby chick).

Julia Monk, an assistant professor in New York University’s department of environmental studies, called the new study an advance that takes a refreshing approach by shifting away from the notion of “same-sex behavior as some conundrum that needs to be solved and really trying to understand the specific environmental and social factors that might drive the prevalence of same-sex behavior in primates.”

Julie Teichroeb, an associate professor of anthropology at the University of Toronto at Scarborough in Canada, praised the care and analysis taken by Savolainen and his colleagues and said that research has shown that the “Darwinian paradox” no longer makes sense.

“The idea is that mating behavior is costly in terms of time and energy and then if you’re directing that behavior towards same-sex mates, you don’t have the potential for offspring,” Teichroeb said. “But the fact that that time and energy can go to building really strong alliances with same-sex individuals ― that might allow you to compete better for food or even to defend a group of different-sex mates that you can then mate with.

“It’s only an evolutionary paradox if you never engage in different-sex sexual behavior,” she said.

Savolainen said his team hopes to build on this study by focusing on macaques and delving into the ways they may benefit later in life from same-sex relations.

“That’s a big thing,” he said, “because it would definitely be a complete reversal of this Darwinian paradox to show that the more same-sex you do, the more babies you may have in the end.”

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Speakeasy takes on: JOB

Playwright Max Wolf Friedlich mines Chekov the moment the lights come up in JOB. A young woman stands firm, pointing a gun at a middle-aged man. Will it go off in Act Two? Since this taut ninety-minute thriller has no act two—and I’m not a spoiler—you’ll have to find out for yourself.

Dennis Trainor Jr. and Josephine Moshiri Elwood in JOB. Photo by Benjamin Rose Photography.

What I will reveal is that Jane, the young woman brandishing the gun, is the most intriguing theatrical character I’ve encountered in a long time. She’s crazy and impulsive, well-heeled and well-educated, articulate and babbling, confusing and confused, yet her extremes are so finely wrought she’s never caricature. She is simultaneously a complete individual while representing the full spectrum of Millennial attitude and angst. Her perspectives on being human in a digital world enthralled me. Jane‘s an amazingly conceived character, beautifully brought to life by Josephine Moshiri Elwood, despite being decked out in the ugliest pair of pants ever to grace a stage.

Here’s the plot that matters. Jane works as a content moderator for an unnamed internet behemoth in San Francisco in 2020. She spends her days watching and flagging objectionable content to spare the rest of us the trauma. Unfortunately, her own trauma boils over and she has a very public breakdown at her job, which is, of course, videoed and uploaded and, of course, goes viral. The ever-sensitive behemoth does not sack her. Rather, it sends her for a psychological evaluation with a middle-aged male therapist. The object of her gun barrel in the opening salvo.

The play takes place in real time as their appointment proceeds.

Aside from Jane, the play, or at least this production, is fraught with problems. Dennis Trainor, Jr. does an admirable job portraying Loyd, the therapist. Unfortunately, Loyd is not nearly as interesting as his wily patient. For starters, he’s inappropriate as a therapist from the opening moment by how he deals with the gun. The character only grows less convincing over time, sharing more with this first-time client than any therapist would ever do. In every way that Jane is well-tuned, Loyd is tone deaf; a cardboard hippie all grown up, complete with paunch and greying beard. If the Boomer was as well-conceived as the Millennial, what sparks could fly!

The special effects are also odd. Blinking lights and weird noises reorient our pair into other voices, other rooms. I’m a pretty attentive audience member, but the point of these distractions eluded me. Why does the playwright keeps taking us out of the ongoing action with bits that never coalesce or contribute? Beats me.

And then there’s the set. The script is clear that the set be a therapist office, San Francisco, 2020, even to the point of adding that it is to be a literal, not liminal, space. Speakeasy is true to his requirement. One glance and it’s clear we’re eavesdropping in a therapist’s office. The problem with this, for me, is that since I don’t buy Loyd as a legitimate therapist from the opening gambit, therefore I don’t buy that this is a ‘realistic’ conversation between patient and therapist, therefore I see no need for such a literal set.

In fact, I want the liminal space that the playwright’s notes prohibit. I want Loyd to be unburdened from his ‘profession.’ I want him to be the Boomer equivalent of Jane, so full of his era’s inconsistencies that he can be both individual and representative. Given the big reveal at the end (which I will not reveal) there are myriad ways Jane could connive an encounter with Loyd. Making him a therapist is, frankly, too easy.

So, given all my misgivings, should you go to see JOB? Absolutely! Jane is so incredibly written and convincingly performed, she alone is worth overlooking all other shortcomings.

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Year One of Trump 2.0

Photo courtesy of People.com

We’ve had a full year of Trump 2.0. What’s left to say about the man who’s dominated our news cycle every damn day for over a decade? We all know that he’s mean spirited and thin-skinned; that Roy Cohn’s star acolyte is a Gold-medal Olympian in the trifecta of deflect, deny, distract; that all policy decisions are made to maximize personal enrichment; that constant chaos is a form of control; that the surest way of knowing what he’s up to is to ricochet the accusations he hurls at other back at him; that he’s the only US President whose leadership style is rooted in dividing rather than uniting us.

These characteristics—I’m hard-pressed to call them qualities—suggest to me a way of understanding our current American dilemma that I’ve not found in any media. That our republic, inefficient as it is with it’s supposed checks and balances, fragile as it is depending on the vagaries of an informed electorate, is premised on the naïve assumption that those participating in it, and those leading it, believe in its founding principles. With President Trump trampling the Constitution and ignoring the rule of law, we’ve entered new territory. The demolition of democracy from within.

The United States has survived more violent times. The so-called chaos in our cities that Trump deploys National Guard troops to combat is a trifle compared to the actual urban riots of the 1960’s. The challenge for many of our residents to satisfy basic human needs is great, though hardly as severe or widespread as during the Great Depression. The culture wars of left vs. right are ludicrous, but they’re hate-lite compared to the division over slavery that drove our nation into Civil War. Are we prepared to take up arms over DEI?

I came of age during the 1960’s. I witnessed Newark and Detroit and Watts and Kent State on the nightly news. I was weaned on my parent’s Depression tales, when my mother’s extended family merged to include four adults and seven children under one roof, and my father boasted of eating oatmeal seven days a week. I have no direct connection to the Civil War, beyond the innate understanding that it was fought over the fundamental premise of our nation—that all men are created equal. Yet I believe the threats we face today are more serious than those of the past because those were all, essentially, fights about people wanting to get in; to participate and benefit from the bounty of the American dream.

Today, we face the dissolution of our system of government by the officials we elected to run it.

Shame on us for electing them. Shame on them for lying through their oath to uphold the Constitution.

History is littered with factions that sought to carve an outsized share of the American dream by denying it to others. The Trail of Tears. The Antebellum South. The Haymarket Riots. Japanese Internment Camps. The hoses of Birmingham. Yet I believe the most appropriate start date for our current malaise is 1980: the election of Ronald Reagan and the beginning of a national morality based on one thing and one thing only: money. Once a society is reduced to a collection of transactions, it’s easy to lose our common humanity, to demonize the other, to be driven by fear. What have we learned from our forty-five-year nosedive from hostile takeovers through the anti-government Tea Party to aggressively deporting folks whose residency status varies (though their skin is always dark)? We’ve learned that our form of government does not insulate us from those who want to tear it down.

If James Madison and his Constitution-writing cronies had the clairvoyance to anticipate Donald Trump and his cronies, what would have they conceived differently? Would it matter if voting was mandatory? If states had a right to opt-out? If the legislative purse strings were more tightly bound? Probably not. Because, just like it’s easier for criminals to circumvent a law than it is for lawmakers to anticipate the loopholes, there’s always some tsunami of circumstances that can drown a society.

The odds of having a legitimate election in 2028—or perhaps even 2026—are unacceptably long for a functioning democracy to accept. First, the electorate has to stand up, pay attention, and vote our conscience. The elections need to be legitimate. The elected need to honor their oaths. Then we need to crank our laws and our Constitution into a shape that will never enable Trump 2.0 to come again.

The alternative might well be…Trump 3.0.

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Population Conundrum

I stand at my kitchen sink and watch Fred, my nine-year-old neighbor, play football in the backyard. He wears a helmet. He throws the ball. He catches the ball. He gets tackled. He exhibits fierce concentration as he plays all aspects of the game. In his head. Because, you see, Fred plays football by himself.

Pass/Catch Training Football is advertised as, “Composite Fatherless Bounce Back Youtb Football”

We live in the city. A dense neighborhood of 2- and 3- family houses with narrow driveways and tiny yards. I know many neighbors. But no other children close to Fred’s age. School age children in Cambridge are scarce (only 7% of the population), as children are in many American cities. A function of high-cost real estate, aging population, reduced birth-rates, and the societal perception that children should grow up in the country—or at least the suburbs.

From a city-planning perspective, the lack of children in Cambridge is considered a problem. Cambridge wants more children.

China’s population is plateauing, so China has abandoned it’s one-child policy. It wants more Chinese.

South Korea has the lowest birth-rate in the world. It wants more South Koreans.

Beleaguered groups often strive to have more children, for cultural continuation. Native Americans want more Native Americans. Mennonites want more Mennonites. Hasidic Jews want more Hasidic Jews. But these days, even bountiful populations seek to increase and multiply. “I want more babies in the United States of America,” shouted JD Vance in his first address as Vice-President.

Back in 1968, The Population Bomb proclaimed catastrophe for a planet with a mere 3.6 billion people. Yet, somehow, 58 years later we support more than twice that population, with proportionately better nutrition. Who knows the ultimate limit to human population the planet can sustain? Many already believe we’ve passed that dubious milestone. Others project it into some near or distant future. Most die-hard have-a-lot-of-baby people don’t even consider the issue.

What we do know is that at some point Mother Nature is going to stop accommodating these pesky humans tampering with her chosen rhythms and we’re going to get cut back to size. Should we try to curtail our own growth, or let the vicissitudes of nature deal with us how and when she likes?

In the aggregate, most people believe we should stabilize, if not reduce, the world’s population. They also believe that their particular tribe needs to grow. Therein lies the population conundrum. Reduce them; increase us.

The only form of population control found to be fully effective is actually quite simple. Educate girls. Across time and continents when women get educated, they gain agency, they gain a modicum of control, and they have fewer children. Neither draconian laws against child-bearing, nor incentives to increase it have altered that reality that educated women have fewer babies.

Of course, given the rightward political tack on planet Earth in 2026, only a contrarian would bet on more female empowerment. But that’s another subject.

In this moment, watching Fred literally contort himself to the ground as both running back and opposing safety, I can only imagine he wishes for another—maybe even two or three—football loving nine-year-old’s in the neighborhood.

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A Bit of New Year’s Humor

The December 22, 2025 issuer of The New Yorker features excerpts from the journal that longtime contributor Calvin Tomkins wrote during his 99th year. (Mr. Tomkins turned 100 on December 17, 2025). Some of his entries relive moments of his past; some address the feebleness of existing for 100 years; some are simply funny. Here’s my favorite, from August 24:

Photo courtesy of X

I dreamed that Trump died and went to heaven, where he immediately set about changing things. He fired a hundred or more of the busier angels, and flew into a rage when they paid no attention to him. St. Benedict, the Angel of Explanation, took him by the arm. “There are no jobs up here,” he said, “so you can’t really fire people.” Trump fired St. Benedict on the spot and began to work on a financial system that allotted seventeen percent of Heaven’s assets to Trump. The problem was that money was unknown in Heaven. It took him awhile to realize this, and when he tried to will it into existence several angels patted his left arm so sympathetically that it dropped off. Having only one arm was a handicap, and Trump took to raising high his remaining arm and shouting, “Fight!”

After many more failures, Trump gave up on Heaven and decided to return to Earth. The angels agreed to help him do this, but nobody on Earth did. “Never again,” the people said, “He’s a really sore loser.”

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Woman on Bus

AI generated image

Late December afternoon. Dark descending too early upon night. Sitting on a crowded 73 bus, antsy to be home. To be warm.

I look up. See a woman sitting opposite. Chestnut skin, red tints glowing through her brown surface. Large features. Almond eyes. Strong, Roman nose. Longish black hair, middle parted, hanging straight on either side. Tying head to shoulders. Framing her face in place.

Late 20’s. Maybe 30’s. Statuesque. A woman who was never cute. Likely a gawky little girl. An awkward teen. It takes time to grow into such noble features.

Today she looks good, proud. A decade from now she’ll be formidable.

My lips spread into a wide smile. So many good things do I see transpiring for her. She looks up, catches my stare, forms a half smile herself. Then we both look away.

I want to say, “You’re beautiful.” Loud enough to be heard above the bustle of the bus.

But, of course, I do not. I am an aging white man at the quarter point of 21st century America. I am fully aware of the propriety, the constraints, of what am I am allowed to say and what is verboten. I am, in some part, responsible for our caution. Knowing how easily the most innocent comment spirals into misunderstanding.

I sit silent through the rest of the ride. Steal an occasional glance at the striking woman. Dream what it could be like to live in a world where a stranger can say, “You’re beautiful,” and both parties simply be elevated by that appreciation. Maybe next year…

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My Day at Prison

Image courtesy of NBC Boston

I go to prison, MCI Norfolk, about once a month. I have business there, assisting inmates with life sentences to prepare for their parole hearings, their sole chance of see the light of day free of bars. I love the work and I’m good at it, even if I‘m not particularly correct in my terminology. Although I appreciate the humanity in the term, ‘incarcerated person,’ the harsher term, ‘inmate’ more accurately reflects the reality of life inside.

I’m always anxious when I go to prison. I don’t sleep well the night before. I wear the same outfit, which I’ve learned does not set off any detectors. I get to the train early. (God forbid they should build prisons near subway lines, even though most of the inhabitants are inner-city folk.) I pocket extra quarters for the waiting room lockers, because sometimes the guards want you to retrieve stuff already stashed. And sometimes not. I am super polite to every prison official. And no matter how long it takes to process my paperwork and review my ID and infra-red stamp my hand and check the bottom of my feet and the inner lining of my waistband, I remain patient. But I don’t really breath until I’ve stood in the vestibule that separates inside from out, and the big metal outer door closes and the big metal inner door opens and I know for sure I’ll be able to see my guys.

Last week the process was super smooth. As I waited to be processed I noticed the other folks in line. Another rangy white guy, who turned out to be a BU professor teaching a course in Astronomy. Interesting subject for men forbidden to see the stars. A middle-age mom-looking woman. And a curvaceous Hispanic woman in a clingy white pants suit. Clearly, she never received the training we got on prison attire. No denim, no rivets, no open-toed shoes, no bling. This babe was a total fox, even to my aging gay eyes.

The professor and I got bumped up and proceeded to the visitor building, where “Aaron,” my client. was already waiting.

This was an unusual visit for me because it was 100% social. Aaron’s already had his parole hearing and is awaiting his decision. I came to visit just because it’s his birthday, and the sweet man has not a soul in the world to celebrate. No family, not a friend outside the walls.

Because I’m considered a paralegal, we get to sit in a private room, though I can see the main room through the glass door. Suddenly the middle-aged woman is wearing a robe and the gorgeous Hispanic woman’s holding a flower. Yes, Aaron confirms, it’s a wedding. The groom arrives, the C.O.’s are witnesses, as Aaron explains why women marry inmates. “Many of these women have been treated bad outside. We treat them well. We write. We call every day. We are always happy to see them.” Aaron explains that conjugal visits are not allowed, but the bride and groom definitely hug and kiss.

Aaron leaves and “Benjy” arrives. Benjy’s hearing was more than a year ago, and though he received parole, one snafu after another has left him here, still. The misjustice of this could be the subject of another, less sunny post, but today we’re all about good cheer and wedded bliss. I watch the bride insert money into various vending machines scattered across the visiting room, accumulating Cokes and Chee-tos and Hostess cakes for the wedding feast. Benjy got married while incarcerated, in this same room. The marriage lasted ten years, but fell apart when he was last denied parole. “She wasn’t willing to wait any longer,” he explains.

Aerial view of MCI Norfolk. Image courtesy of WGBH.

Commuter trains to Norfolk only run every two hours during the day, so I have to monitor my time carefully, or add another two hours to my stay. A visitor can’t enter/exit MCI Norfolk around noon, because of ‘count.’ You can’t do it between 2:30 or 3:15 either, as that’s shift change. I arrived at 12:30 pm today and hope to be gone by 2:30, time to walk to the 3:30 train in the center of town.

At 2:20 the C. O. knocks on our door to inform us that the prison is in lock down, so I’m there until who knows when. I shrug because the 5:30 or 7:30 train will have plenty of seats. Benjy carries on: he’s great company and hasn’t any place to go either.

Surprisingly, the C.O. returns at 3:10. Lockdown is lifted. Shift change is about to start. I can leave: NOW! Quick handshake to Benjy. Nod to the couple noodling chips in the corner. Thanks to the C.O. and I skedaddle back through the big metal doors, retrieve my phone and paraphernalia from my locker, walk double time into town, and, lucky me – catch the 3:30 to South Station. Norfolk Depot is no place to loiter into a cold December evening.

I glide home over the rails and think about the men stuck back in Norfolk for another night. They did terrible things. Most of them, many years ago. How is it useful for these guys to stay locked up so many years later? And how happy can the bride and groom be when visiting hours end and they too must part?

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Black Nativity: Everything You Expect + a Few Surprises

Black Nativity

By Langston Hughes

Directed by Voncelle Ross

Emerson Paramount Center

December 5-21, 2025

In 1961, as if in anticipation of Black Power, Langston Hughes wrote a Christmas pageant unlike any of that time, telling the familiar birth of Jesus story with a cast of Black actors, portraying that story from the strengths of Black artistry. The singing was Gospel rather than hymnal. The dancing was tribal, rooted. And the Biblical narratives were translated into 20th century eloquence, with a decidedly Black slant.

Miss Elma Lewis, grand doyenne of Boston, founder of The Elma Lewis School of Fine Arts, as well as NCAAA (National Center of Afro-American Artists), staged Black Nativity to Boston in 1970. The pageant has been performed every holiday season since.

As an aging white guy with takes no comfort from either the religious or commercial aspects of Christmas, there wasn’t much drawing me to Black Nativity. But as a Boston theater maven, I figured any production that’s endured 55 years deserves attendance. And from the perspective that, “this is something everyone should experience,” I recommend Black Nativity.

The singing is glorious. Simply glorious. And there’s plenty of it. Twenty musical numbers in all. Every traditional carol is rendered in a unique way; you mine new meaning from “Away in a Manger” and “O Come All Ye Faithful.” Yet there are many more songs that were fresh to me, and all are uplifting.

The costumes are very effective: simple white robes, with dazzling gold bodices. The percussionists are terrific. The dancing, to be honest, is less impressive, though the main dance feat, of Mary giving birth, is a gripping choreography that was powerfully manifested at the performance I attended (Black Nativity has rotating cast for many roles). The narration is lyrical; the more Langston Hughes strays from scripture and speaks in authentic voice, the more I appreciated the storytelling.

There were two big-time surprises (for me) in the production. First, after Mary’s incredible birth dance, she and Joseph come forward with a babe in a cradle. A live baby! I was captivated, and enchanted. When the babe fussed just a bit, Mary lifted him up and nursed him. Turns out, the woman playing Mary that night has a four-month-old baby, who now has a stage credit.

The second surprise came late. I figured that the three strong-voiced men who lead many of the musical numbers would be the wise men. Oh, no. The wise men were new actors descended straight out of RuPaul, swishing their way across the stage in sparkly, flamboyant robes that they toss about with drag enthusiasm. They create a striking contrast to the overall placidity of the pageant. But they’re fun!

The most disappointing aspect of the show is the venue. Emerson Paramount Main Stage is simply too big to fill for a three-week run. I saw the show on a freezing cold Thursday night, when the audience of maybe 150 scarcely populated the place. For many years Black Nativity was performed at Tremont Temple, and it would resonate better in a smaller theater or church.

In 2025, Black Nativity is hardly the radical theatrical was in 1961. It is now a period piece. But one worth preserving, and seeing. So prove me wrong – go buy tickets and sell out the Emerson Paramount this weekend.

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What We Assume in a Name

Ten years ago, I showed up at Bruce’s apartment in Atlanta. I was surprised to discover my couchsurfing host was African American. Yet, when I had a medical appointment with a guy named Kevin last week, I fully anticipated he’d be Asian-American.

Why is it that I’m surprised when an African-American man has a Scottish first name, but not when an Asian-American answers to an Irish one? The reason, I suppose, is due to our presumptions around name origins, and our expectations of how close people hold to monikers that reflect their own ancestral traditions.

The origins of people’s first names generally fall into three categories.

First, there are names so common they’ve lost geographic specificity. John, Bob, Steve…and Paul… are so ubiquitous that they don’t reveal anything about the person’s familial tree. Scratch the surface, of course, and that notion proves false. The most common first names in the USA are rooted in Anglo-Saxon and Biblical tradition. According to the Social Security Administration, the ten most popular boy’s names in 2024 were: Liam, Noah, Oliver, Theodore, James, Henry, Mateo, Elijah, Lucas, and William. More than half of them have Biblical origin; more than half maintain a primarily association with the British Isles (though several are rooted in Greek or early German). Despite their Anglo-Biblical bent, these names are so broadly distributed in American society, we don’t conjure much specificity before a first-time encounter with a John or a Jim.

Second are the names of recognizable origin that have leaked beyond their native geography. Many Irish names fall into this category. Sean, Colin, Liam are all Irish, yet it’s not unusual to meet guys with those names of divergent ancestry. When I meet an Otto, my mind registers, “Scandinavian,” while Salvador clicks, “Italian.” Still, those names aren’t stuck in one track.

Finally, there are the names that are stuck in a track. Akeem or D’Andre brings an African-American to mind, while Grosvenor or Archibald is full-on English. This also applies to linguistic variations of Biblical names. Pablo evokes more preconceptions than Paul; Pierre more than Peter.

Our presumptions about given names certainly play a part in our preconceptions, but how closely people align their children’s names with ancestry is an equally important component. I know Asian-American immigrants named Daniel, Robert, and Will. It is so common for Asian immigrants to take on traditional American names when they land on these shores, keeping a traditional Chinese or Korean name is the rarity. In a different vein, immigrants from Africa and the Middle East are much inclined to bestow historic names on their children. When I’m about to meet a Devonte or an Abdul, I have a stronger image in my head than when anticipating meeting a George or a Fred.

Am I being prejudiced? Certainly someone can accuse me of that, though every single one of us creates pictures in our heads before we meet anyone. The picture is based on the information we have at hand. Stereotype? For sure. But stereotypes don’t come from nowhere. Given little information, we tend to render our fellow man in broad strokes. The challenge is to see him as an individual, when we finally meet.

So it’s really no surprise that I imagined Kevin might be Asian-American. Our country is full of medical professionals who’ve adopted names easy to many American ears. But how in the world did Bruce get his name? “My mother gave all of us simple, British names,” he told me. “She did not want people to make assumptions about us, or our race, before they even saw us.” Whether you think Bruce’s mother’s concern is valuable or misplaced, I have to admit, her objective was achieved. I’ll always remember my first and only Black Bruce as a distinct individual.

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Fleeting Fashions Leave an Ugly Footprint

Kendrick Lamar and dancers at Super Bowl. Photo courtesy NPR.

I caught Kendrick Lamar’s halftime show at the Super Bowl last year. I saw a guy in jeans and a jacket, with backup dancers wearing red, white and blue shirts.

Apparently, I missed a lot. Lamar’s $1200 jeans, design from Celine, triggered a five thousand percent bump in internet searches for “flared jeans.” Meanwhile, Uniglo boasted that the white T-shirts the back-ups wore were their U AIRism Cotton Oversized T-shirts. They retail for $20. Though to me, they look just like the ones at Target that come in a package of three for ten bucks.

Clearly, I know nothing of fashion, or the power of media persuasion. This comes as no surprise to anyone who knows me. Paul Fallon’s fashion look is easy to describe. All solid colors. Shorts until Thanksgiving. Skechers Vigor 3.0 on my feet. A hat on my head. Multiple pairs of gloves. Nothing new.

Like most people, my fashion attributes are tied to fundamental parts of my identity. First, I am color blind, so solid colors are easier to coordinate than stripes or patterns. My primary mode of travel is bicycle, and shorts are more accommodating than long pants. Shoes are the bulkiest item to stuff into a pannier, so I found one comfortable shoe that accommodates my wide feet and I wear it everywhere. No matter where I go, I never pack a second pair. I’m balding, so a hat is imperative. The coldest part of any cyclist is his hands, thus a variety of gloves for all conditions. Finally, since I’m the same size I was in college and possess both a big closet and severe eco-frugality, I have clothes from thirty, forty, even fifty years ago that still fit. So why buy anything new?

I’m a poor prospect for as $20 T-shirt, and would never even look at a $1200 pair of jeans. But for some reason, I savor The New Yorker fashion issues. Recently, Lauren Collins’ September 22, 2025 article about Uniqlo made my head spin at the tentacles the world of so-called fashion spreads across our planet.

Ms. Collins writes, “Uniglo is the universal donor of fashion, intended to go with any lifestyle or aesthetic.” The clothes seem innocuous enough to support that statement; they strike me as basic and bland. but we really ought to tack an additional phrase to that assertion, …any lifestyle or aesthetic rooted in consumption. Our world is so consumed with consuming stuff that we take constant consumption as a given.

The ten-page Uniqlo spread, like so much of fashion, is mostly puff. The Japanese company in bald pursuit of global dominance in selling clothes is compared to Ikea in its ubiquity. The article applauds the company for designing for real-size humans, and explains how it only produces clothing in colors that complement a full range of skin ones. A kumbaya spirit cloaks the entire enterprise.

There is one paragraph, however, that reveals the underbelly of all this bonhomie. “The ecological implications of manufacturing at this scale are staggering…more than a decade ago, when the company had less than half the stores it has now, it boasted of producing six hundred million items a year.” These days, Uniqlo won’t even publish that number, so it must be truly damning.

According to Vogue, Americans buy, on average, 53 garments every year. Some estimates go as high as 68 per year. Either number is ridiculously high, given that we buy twice as many clothes annually as we did in 2000, and wear most items no more than three times. The world is awash in clothes, and Uniqlo’s pretty self-portrait as a company that is both sustainable and on a march of ever-expansion is both disingenuous and impossible.

My closet.

I understand that fashion is one way in which we humans differentiate ourselves (even if that assertion contradicts Uniqlo’s uniformity). My own threadbare preppy look, however drab, accurately reflects how I choose to present myself to the world. But why are most people’s presentation so fleeting?:How many people who purchased $1200 Kendrick-Lamar-wanna-be jeans (or the many lesser priced knockoffs that flooded the market post-Super Bowl) are still parading our city streets?

I didn’t have to succumb to the trend, because I already have a pair of flair-bottom Lucky jeans circa 1970-something, pre-worn, a little tattered. Who knew my wardrobe was so cool?

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