Just to be clear from the onset, I must confess a preference for underdogs. I love to watch nervous audience members stump distinguished scientists with tough questions. When I watch the Olympics, I secretly root for discus throwers from Lithuania and tennis players from Togo. Thus, on this special day, an incredibly special day, this celebration of Darwin's 200th birthday, I am reminded of the forgotten.
Let us pity the young, white, and well-behaved Alfred Russell Wallace. Science is a brutally competitive arena of politics and egos. But not little Alfred. He was in awe of Darwin's wide range of knowledge. After all, in the mid-1800's, following his magic carpet ride on the Beagle, Darwin was king of the red carpet. He was writing about the volcanoes of Tahiti, forests of Tierra del Fuego, and iguanas of the Galapagos Islands (the Bo Jackson of the intellectual elite). With such deep wisdom, Alfred didn't hesitate to send Darwin a manuscript in the hope, just the hope, that he might be given feedback on his blasphemous idea. It was heresy to suggest that something other than God was responsible for life and death and in a nutshell, Alfred told Darwin that environmental stress might explain why some insect and animal species outlive others. Darwin was petrified (maybe?). Alfred had stumbled upon the same ideas that Darwin had been scribbling away at for nearly 20 years. To avoid being scooped, exactly one year after this correspondence, Darwin wrote the book that would change the world. The awkwardly titled, On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favored Races in the Struggle for Life. Now other people had written about evolution but what nobody seemed to grasp was how evolution worked. Darwin nailed it. Then again, so did Alfred.













