Really? You couldn’t be bothered to say “Homo sappyens?” Jeezus, some people.
Not a chance. They happen once every seven years somewhere in the world for 2 minutes. You can’t even detect a partial eclipse with the naked eye without knowing about it beforehand. The odds a solar eclipse affected our species’ DNA is approximately zero, unless you count retina cancer.
Now there’s your answer. I once waited in line at a McDonalds where the ice cream machine had malfunctioned. It was partially disassembled, and a big chunk of soft serve was hanging out of the front, slowly melting like a glacier. It got longer and longer, creeping ever so slowly toward the floor, like a sugary icicle. I thought for sure it was seconds away from dropping and going SPLAT on the tile.
My gaze was transfixed to this frozen dessert appendage. Soon, my brother caught sight of it and was equally mesmerized. A minute passed, and the icy dagger had grown well beyond the bounds of anyone’s original estimate of a breaking point. Before I knew it, two dozen customers and employees stood still, eyes fixed to the melting miracle. Longer and longer, thinner and thinner. Two minutes go by. No one breathes.
The glob of goodness was attached to the main body by a spider-silk tether, it seemed. Suddenly the growth began to accelerate. The cream swelled near the bottom. A gasp went up from the crowd! Faster and faster it grew and stretched, higher and higher went the pitch of our collective “aaaaahhhhHHHHH!!!”
SNAP! PLOP! SPLASH! The daily confection reached its physical limit, snapped at the neck, and a pint impacted the tile. We all went on with our lives after that. Some of us went to college, others had babies. Someone got arrested, another became a long haul truck driver who ships peaches out of…get this…Utah.
We shared something that day, for in that brief moment in time, we were white or black, Republican or Democrat, servant or free, no more. We felt something. We saw something. And we know others saw it too.
THAT’S why people cry at an eclipse.