Small Tales 3: Declension
Theorists who reject dominance and anthropocentrism may style themselves and their positions as biocentric, ecocentric, zoocentric, or simply antianthropocentric, but all have a common starting point: they see no reason why moral considerability should begin and end with humans. Instead, it should extend to animals, to ecosystems, even to biochemical processes, not merely as an addendum to humanism, but as an alternative. 5 The arguments are many and varied, but underlying them all is a sobering “ truth ” : traditional attitudes of dominance have led us to the wholesale slaughter of billions of animals, and have led the world to the brink of ecological disaster. There is no time for half measures; if we do not completely reverse our ways, we are doomed.
In these ethics, animals (or ecosystems or processes, depending on one ’ s choice of theories) receive at least prima facie equal consideration with humans in any decision-making situation. However, the actual outcome of a given situation or dilemma will depend, in part, on whether the ethical position is one that can be broadly characterized as individualist or as holistic . Individualist ethics, as the term implies, focus on the duties and responsibilities we have toward individuals — for example, individual animals — while holistic ethics emphasize duties and responsibilities toward all of nature. Either approach might seem to promise “ improved ” story lines vis- à -vis animals, but perhaps surprisingly, this is often not the case. Let me briefly explore three popular theories to expose some of the complexity of nonanthropocentrism, and to illuminate another set of curious tales about animals.
Animal liberation.
Although theorists such as Carol Adams, Marti Kheel, and Andr é e Collard have attempted to base animal liberation philosophies on ecofeminist principles, 6 the animal liberation mainstream still insistently treats humans as paradigmatic beings. From the time of Aristotle, there has been an ethical imperative to treat like beings and situations alike; animals therefore have equal moral considerability with humans to the extent that they are considered to be like humans — that is, to feel pain and pleasure as humans do, to have wants and desires, to be able to act intentionally and so on. Thus Peter Singer, a utilitarian, draws the line between humans and animals at the point at which animals cease to experience pain in the ways humans do; in practical terms, this means excluding invertebrates from moral consideration (171 – 74). Tom Regan, a rights theorist, distinguishes between mammals and nonmammals, and even within that category would withhold full rights from young nonhuman mammals, because they lack the intellectual sophistication to be (in his words) “ subjects-of-a-life ” (367). Under these theories, if I wanted to drain the frog pond because I consider it a breeding ground for mosquitos and blackflies (a source of displeasure for humans), I would be within my rights to do so. As a sentient adult mammal, my interests would override those of the insects and frogs in the pond. In fact, the insects would be morally negligible to both Singer and Regan, and Regan would only reluctantly give “ the benefit of the doubt ” to frogs, not letting them die “ unnecessarily ” (367).
There is an even gloomier side to these animal liberation theories: because they grow out of classic ethical theories, they cannot help but share those theories ’ worldviews. Ethics has been a field of inquiry concerned with checking humans ’ bad impulses, that is, with imposing restraints on our self-interest. The picture of human nature painted by most traditional ethical theories is a somber one: we are cruel, competitive, and self-serving. We agree to ethical restraints only because others promise to do the same, a sort of moral protection racket.
What does all of this say about the world? First, it imagines a state of nature in which both humans and animals are opposed to each other, a competitive free-for-all in which the meanest survive. There is no room in this narrative for kindness, affection, delight, wonder, respect, generosity, or love. And, in fact, these ethical theories operate only when there is a conflict: neither rights theories nor utility theories have any application whatsoever until two or more beings — characteristically a human and an animal — come into conflict with each other. 7 Second, nothing happened prior to the ethical conflict; it has no context. The social, ecological, historic, economic, and political factors that made the conflict possible are rendered invisible; as Marti Kheel observes, we are simply “ given truncated stories and then asked what we think the ending should be ” (From Heroic to Holistic Ethics, 249). Third, the narrative of animal liberation theories imagines winners and losers. Since everyone, human and animal alike, is in struggle, and since, in the absence of conflict, there would be no story for these theories to tell, when they do tell a story, someone wins and someone loses. Someone has a “ better ” right than someone else, whose wants are thus thwarted. Someone ’ s desired action will increase the good of the whole, usually at someone else ’ s expense. Fourth, animal rights theories are premised on abstract individualism, the notion that rights-bearing entities are interchangeable, with no room for positionality, particularity, historicity, or in fact anything that makes a real individual in the world. And finally, there is little reason for optimism. These theories pay little heed to the actual power imbalances that exist between animals and humans; their worldviews are rooted in mythic beliefs that people (and animals) have fallen from grace. Some versions of the fall from grace are religious, others secular, but all follow an essentially similar, declensionist line: once there was a time when humans lived in harmony with all nature; a turning point came (the serpent and the apple, or encounters with other, unknown humans, or agriculture); life has been harsh ever since, and without some near-magical redemption, it will continue its downslide. Thus, even though we should have no quarrel with animal liberation theories to the extent that they produce desirable results (opposition to meat-eating, fur, vivisection, etc.), we should be aware, and somewhat wary, of the whole-world story they tell.
The land ethic.
Another popular theory that tells a story about animals is “ the land ethic, ” a characteristically holistic approach that encourages humans to stop imagining ourselves as superior beings morally entitled to dominate nature, and instead to see ourselves as simple citizens of a biotic community, no more or less privileged than a frog, a tree, or a river. The important unit of moral consideration is “ the land, ” the entire community of beings and processes. Aldo Leopold, whose work has formed the basis of much subsequent holistic theorizing, believed that all action could be judged according to a single moral principle: “ A thing is good when it tends to preserve the integrity, stability and beauty of the biotic community. It is wrong when it tends otherwise ” (224). Generally stated, then, the land ethic takes no notice of individuals except insofar as their presence or absence affects the community.
Although it avoids the crude “ good animal/bad animal ” fantasy of anthropocentric positions, the land ethic continues to distinguish between classes of animals. For domestic animals, the outcome of the story is predetermined: they will be meat. For wild animals, a degree of chance is possible: although, as land ethic proponent Baird Callicott observes, “ the most fundamental fact of life in the biotic community is eating . . . and being eaten ” (57), wild animals may exercise their own cunning, luck, and strength to effectively coauthor their life stories.
Most significantly, however, the land ethic does not allow for the consideration of particularly situated individuals: everything exists as a specimen, a representative of a type, and is judged as such. An individual life has no value — unless, of course, that individual is among the last of its kind. And while conflicts between individuals may arise, they are irrelevant unless their resolution will affect “ the land. ”
Deep ecology.
The ethical position of deep ecology, another holistic approach, is based on the principle of self-realization articulated by Norwegian philosopher Arne Naess. Where Western humans go wrong, Naess claims, is in imagining the human self in individualist terms. Instead self should be seen as Self, a continuous
identity shared by all natural beings, processes, and forces. We are not merely a part of the land, or of a particular ecosystem, but a part of all things: we are, in fact, all things. Just as my arm has no identity apart from the rest of my body, the individual self has no existence apart from the larger Self. When we recognize and accept that ontological position, we also realize that we as humans are personally diminished by anything that diminishes diversity and complexity in the world, or that hinders a part of it from realizing its full potential. We are all intimately and irrevocably connected; the bell that tolls for the frog tolls for me.
Ethical Narratives
I have, of course, been telling a story of my own, and the expectations of narratives should now bring me to the end, since I have already given you a beginning and a middle. And, typically, the end of my story should be an upbeat one: having demonstrated some of the shortcomings of other theories — “ bad theories, ” if you insist — I should now offer you a good one, the theory that will solve our problems and allow us to claim victory. Sorry. At the risk of seeming disingenuous, I will tell you instead that I am an ecofeminist, and that in the feminist tradition, we eschew the creation of “ grand theories, ” metanarratives to govern all actors in all situations at all times.
Shall we just tell stories then, simply chronicle the events of our lives, and leave the meaning-making to others? I think not, in part because I doubt it would be possible for us to do so. The point I have been attempting to make up until now is that we make meaning as much by accident as by design. Just as theorizing is a form of storytelling, so too is storytelling a form of theorizing. Our theories reflect our beliefs — our stories — about how the world works; our stories about how the world works lead us, consciously or not, to the creation of theory, as we repeat and revise them.
In the introduction, I told you a story, a first-person narrative of an encounter with nature. “ Let us assume, ” I said, “ that this is the whole story: frogs are born, reproduce, and die. Humans enter the natural world, observe it, and move on, taking whatever moral lessons we find. ” There was more to this narrative, of course, although this was indeed the core I chose to emphasize to illustrate my subsequent points. 8 The narrative itself included a brief mention of my “ role ” — a naturalist — and the expectations this imposes on me. It told you that I restrained my impulse to startle the frogs because of that role expectation, and that I expected a reward, namely a performance by the frogs; it also mentioned that I restrained another impulse (to stretch out and watch the frogs) because of my self-interest (not being scratched by raspberry canes). And it told you that ultimately I will forget the frogs, that they will cease to have consequence for me, because frogs, in my life, do not matter. Embedded in this seemingly innocuous account of a few moments on a spring day, then, was a fairly complex and textured description of an ethical approach to the natural world.
If neither grand theories nor innocent narratives are possible, what is left? What we can strive for, I think, are what feminist legal critics Fineman and Thomasden call “ theories of the middle ground ” (xi – xii). Such theories would mediate between the “ stories ” — that is, the material facts and circumstances of human/animal coexistence — and the grand realizations that environmental ethics have humanist biases and that relationships between humans and animals have been driven by power inequalities. Once we recognize that narratives and the social circumstances they reflect don ’ t come out of thin air, we can start to develop a theory that will illuminate their origins, and that will help restore some balance between humans and animals.
My contribution to this effort is a beginning theory about the kind of narratives we might construct to take into account the realities of animals ’ lives. Your contribution — well, it ’ s implied, but I ’ ll leave the execution up to you. But before I begin, I want to discuss some of the attempts that have been made recently to blend environmental ethics with narrative.
Deep ecology barely acknowledges the existence of animals as animals, or, indeed, of any creature as an embodied individual. As ecofeminist Val Plumwood (1991, 1993) has argued, it is a philosophy of mind, an abstraction that renders our daily existence inconsequential. In this respect, it makes possible stories about animals that are just as discouraging as those spun out by any other ethical theory. Like the land ethic, deep ecology takes notice of particular specimens of animal, that is, those that are rare or endangered, but only because their disappearance would make the world less diverse and complex, and thus diminish the Self. One could, of course, extend the idea of self-realization to animals, and attempt to argue that hunting an animal, or killing it for food, prevents it from realizing its full potential, but deep ecology seems unconcerned with such matters. In fact, Naess supports so-called “ wildlife management ” ( Ecology, Community, and Lifestyle ) while Americans Bill Devall and George Sessions go so far as to suggest that hunting can help develop a “ sense of place and intuitive understanding of the connections between humans and nonhumans, with a respect for the principle of biocentric equality ” (188). And in this country, at least, deep ecologists are notoriously contemptuous of domestic animals, condemning them as human artifacts having negative impact on diversity. In short, from a deep ecology perspective, both humans and their animal creations are quintessentially bad animals, embodied forms to be scorned and rejected in pursuit of union with abstract “ nature. ”
Storytelling is by definition an act done in community. When I tell you, or my students, or my friends the story of the frog pond, or stories like it, I am engaging in a form of ethical discourse, modeling, as it were, my beliefs about human/nature relationships. My stories shape others ’ stories; their stories shape mine. Imagine, then, the power of conscious narrative, of myths and tales intentionally constructed and repeated that would inform and instruct us in “ proper ” attitudes toward nature. This is not so different from the type of storytelling that has emerged from feminism over the past twenty years. We have told each other our stories, have discerned the patterns that emerge from them, have chosen the patterns that seem best suited to a liberated future, and have repeated those again and again, with appropriate modifications and variations, until a relatively clear “ feminist ethos ” of caring, relationship, compassion, and attentiveness has been called into existence. 9
Both Cheney and Warren take a holistic approach to ethics, and so it is perhaps predictable that they would fail to see how these narratives obliterate the lived experience of particular animals. And it is true that such narratives may have been appropriate in a particular culture at a particular time where food alternatives were scarce. But it is equally true that they are not appropriate in Western culture now, nor are they appropriate as models of a narrative form in which the natural world has a right of coauthorship. In contemporary America, the deer and the hunter are not cohabitants of a balanced ecosystem: they are carefully manipulated components of a closely monitored management unit. 10 The “ animal master ” has been replaced by state and federal fish and wildlife agencies. The hunter is not one of a number of natural predators: he is the only predator, his position secured by the intentional elimination of his competitors. And most significantly, the deer is not necessary food for the hunter; a healthy vegetarian diet based on simple, regionally appropriate agriculture is within reach of virtually everyone in the lower forty-eight states.
It is no wonder, then, that ecofeminists would advocate a similar approach to the creation of a new environmental ethos. For Karen Warren, first-person narratives can “ give voice to a felt sensitivity often lacking in traditional ethical discourse, namely, a sensitivity to conceiving of oneself as fundamentally ‘ in relationship with ’ others ” ; they can express “ a variety of ethical attitudes and behaviors often overlooked or underplayed in mainstream Western ethics ” ; and they can suggest “ what counts as an appropriate solution to an ethical situation ” (135 – 36). These consciously chosen narratives, Jim Cheney suggests, rightfully extend out
to include “ not just the human community but also the land, one ’ s community in a larger sense. ” What we want, he says,
. . . is language that grows out of experience and articulates it, language intermediate between self, culture, and world, their intersection, carrying knowledge of both, knowledge charged with valuation and instruction. This is language in which, in Paul Shepard ’ s words, “ the clues to the meaning of life [are] embodied in natural things, where everyday life [is] inextricable from spiritual significance and encounter. ” (Nature and the Theorizing of Difference, 9)
Both Warren and Cheney (and Shepard as well) find examples of such narratives in Native American myth and ritual. But look, for a moment, at the examples they choose. Warren recounts a Sioux child ’ s introduction to hunting, wherein the boy learned to
. . . shoot your four-legged brother in his hind area, slowing it down but not killing it. . . . look into his eyes. The eyes are where all the suffering is. Then, take your knife and cut the four-legged under his chin, here . . . and as you do, ask your brother, the four-legged, for forgiveness . . . Offer also a prayer of thanks to your four-legged kin for offering his body to you just now . . . And promise the four-legged that you will put yourself back into the earth when you die, to become nourishment . . . (145 – 46)
Cheney, for his part, cites Tom Jay ’ s discussion of the role played by salmon among Indians of the Pacific Northwest:
. . . salmon were not merely food. To them, salmon were people who lived in houses far away under the sea. . . . When the salmon people travelled, they donned their salmon disguises and these they left behind perhaps in the way we leave flowers or food when visiting friends. To the Indians, the salmon were a resource in the deep sense, great generous beings whose gifts gave life. . . . The Indians understood that salmon ’ s gift involved them in an ethical system that resounded in every corner of their locale. The aboriginal landscape was a democracy of spirits where everyone listened, careful not to offend the resource they were a working part of. (Jay, 112)
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