Made to Measure

Dunedin, New Zealand, 2004

10.00 a.m.

Walt arrived wearing a hoodie and old jeans, making jokes about returning to the scene of the crime. He said things weren't going so well and it was possible that he'd hit rock bottom. Or, put another way, he had resorted to dressing like a teenager and asking scientists for help. He was borderline single, pretty much homeless and his income stream best described as weird. Not that he was blaming the study, exactly, but (he said, looking directly at me) he would be grateful if I could be of assistance. Walt felt he'd become swamped by the whole thing, caught up in a Titanic-like confusion. And now that the boat had actually gone down, he could really get the full picture, being, as it were, somewhat at sea.

I suggested that he sit down, and closed the door of my office. I had been reading his notes and formed something of a picture. Of course I already knew he was thirty-five because all our study members are that age. I recognised his stature as being slightly below average (0.7 standard deviations below mean). I also knew Walt experienced some dental issues but nothing concerning. While reading his notes I found myself intrigued by all the contradictions and margins of error. And now that Walt had arrived, I understood the anxiety in his eyes. I also recognised the way he neatly folded his hoodie, placing it beside his chair. But I was not prepared for his smile: disarmingly sweet and so trusting that I was lost for words. I felt disarmed. Reluctant to continue. Of course this is not unknown: our study is at the coalface of humanity and can be confronting. But as human development scientists, we must be prepared for anything that might come our way. Including Walter Lewis Colson.

Study members are our lifeblood. The beating heart of our research. I am constantly amazed by their generosity of spirit, forbearance, their sheer commitment. After thirty-five years we still have over a thousand members. Imagine! They keep returning every five years — sometimes from around the globe — to our university at the bottom of the world, always willing to endure another gruelling day of tests. We cover only their travel costs, and our study members expect nothing more. They know they are giving to something greater and more enduring than their themselves, to a project of which they will never benefit. That's what makes our study unique. Every study member knows they will leave the world a better place.

You might like to think of the Dunedin Study as a vast store of human development data. A pantry of information from which scientists around the world can help themselves. All from a small city in the furtherest part of New Zealand. A city built with Presbyterian thrift and bluestone, hunched among the hills of a deep harbour. Gales sweeping from Antartica and skies glorious with seabirds. Our story begins in 1975 with an academic stacking chairs in a church hall (it is used for Sunday School on weekends). Another week of assessments is about to begin. Over the coming months they will see every child born three years prior in the local hospital, all one thousand and thirty-seven. What began as an interest in difficult birth experiences has quickly become so much more. Now the assistants are beginning to arrive, mostly science students and sociology graduates, along with a strong-armed nurse. Every heater is turned on high, the hall starting to thaw as observation stations are assembled. Cognitive puzzles and games. A reading corner. Scales and stereoscopes. Apparatus for measuring co-ordination.

And now the arrival of Walter Colson with his mother. Small for his age (I am reading his notes) there is a hectic flush to the pale face that suggests trouble. On this point, the observers are entirely correct. Walt’s mother is observed to be emotionally absent, distracted by the magazines and morning tea. The idea of engaging with her child simply does not occur to her. This is Walter’s first encounter with our study and he will continue to be tested throughout school, every two or three years, after which he — along with every other study member — will return to Dunedin every five years.

This is what makes our study unique: our retention rate is unrivalled! And why is this significant? Because the study members who disappear from a longitudinal study are often the most valuable, the oddballs and weirdos (I am speaking colloquially, you understand). We even make home visits where necessary, including, if need be, a prison cell. And because our study is multi-disciplinary, our observations cover absolutely everything from dental plaque to tax returns. We believe no other population has been so closely tested, all without adverse harm.