May
2001
Editorial:
Cabbages and Weeds: The Genius of Taxonomic Hierarchy
By Catherine Clyne
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One of the most compelling arguments for the
extension of some sort of legal protection to animals is the case
of great apes.
Usually focused on chimpanzees, the argument commonly reminds us that
our DNA is nearly 98 percent identical to theirs. (See Davis, p.
16)
The benefit of dwelling on this point is that it is a forceful reminder
that we ourselves are animals, and shames us into realizing that
we
treat even our nearest relatives as mere objects. Add to this the mounting
evidence showing that great apes have a certain capacity for what
we
call rational thought: they can learn to communicate in a human language
using American Sign Language, like Koko the Gorilla and Washoe the
Chimpanzee,
or string together a series of symbols as Kanzi the Chimpanzee does
with researcher Sue Savage-Rumbaugh. Proponents argue that because
these
creatures demonstrate that they have something resembling an intellectual
capacity equivalent to that of a human child or severely retarded
adult,
we have the moral imperative to confer basic rights—similar to
the Universal Declaration of Human Rights—to them. In other words,
they should not be killed, tortured, jailed without due process, experimented
upon, eaten, or rendered homeless by human encroachment.
That great apes should—and must—live their lives unmolested
by humans is without dispute here; indeed, by virtue of simply being
alive every creature should lead such an autonomous existence—what’s
unnatural about the current arrangement is human interference.
What is problematic about the ‘apes first’ argument is that
it appeals to one of our most basic instincts: tribalism, the need to
define and belong to a group of our own kind. We are impressed with
apes because they are so like us, and, for this reason, they are deserving
of at least honorary membership in our club of personhood. But unlike
those scrambling to join a club—a school clique, fraternity, celebrity
cadre, or whatever—great apes are not jockeying for inclusion;
if anything, they most likely have a vague (and not unreasonable) expectation
to live lives that are characteristic of their own kind.
There is a comfort in belonging to be sure, but separation, in its
very nature, requires violence—something is separated from something
else when one group is deemed distinct and, commonly, superior. In the
club of personhood, it is we who are interested in who joins. For what
is a club without a majority that is not “in”? Those within
determine who is without; and only those within enjoy the specialness
of membership—tough luck for everyone else. The egregious outcome
of this worldview is that, as the dominating species, it is the reality
that we have imposed on earth, and comprises the criteria for that slippery
slope of taxonomic hierarchy on top of which we’ve placed ourselves.
Such illusions allow us to separate ourselves from the rest and are
the foundation of the unquestioned belief that we are superior to all
other living beings and thus have the birth-right to do with them as
we please.
Clubs Like Us
Years ago, when I studied German, I was charmed to learn that the
distinction between the ultimate vegetable and the undesirable and
inedible
weed is a negative prefix: “Kraut” meaning cabbage, becomes
“Unkraut”—that which is not cabbage, lowly weeds. In
that part of the world, where cabbage is a national treasure, the infinite
varieties of weedy nuisances are defined in relation to a vegetable
that has little prominence or importance (not to mention reverence)
in the rest of the world. Elsewhere such a distinction might be considered
quaint, if not meaningless.
So it is with our need to divide ourselves from the rest of the animal
universe, separating human from non—the ultimate vegetable from
the weeds. The deeper issue is how narcissistic it is of us to measure
animals in relation to our own cherished traits in the first place.
Whether it’s teaching a chimp rudimentary sign language or making
a dog “shake hands” or measuring rat intelligence, we are
trying to stuff a square peg into a round hole. Instead of acknowledging
the 98 or so percent genetic similarity that we share with chimps (never
mind that we share the majority of our genetic makeup with all other
animals), we separate ourselves out by the one-plus percent difference
between chimps and us.
I don’t know about you, but I’ve always been rather wary of
velvet ropes. You know, the red ones that stretch onto the sidewalk
signaling that some sort of exclusivity’s afoot. Usually a squad
of big beefy guys dressed in dark suits stand as sentinels, determining
who gets in and who doesn’t, unhitching the velvet ropes for those
special folks and intimidating or deriding the riff-raff deemed unfit
to pass through. But what are they guarding? It’s an idea, an illusion
of whatever fits the random criteria for today’s flavor of elite.
Aside from, let’s say, income or looks, there’s no difference
between the people on the inside or outside, except for feelings of
belonging and superiority.
In the bigger picture, what does it matter that Washoe can communicate
with humans? Impressive of course, but in determining who is “worthy”
of not being dominated and abused by humans, rather irrelevant. Here
we are like Adam in Eden, standing on our pedestal, judging the rest
of creation as “like” or “not like” us, and assigning
value accordingly. The bizarre novelty that a horse can stomp out the
correct answer to the equation of two plus two (whether he’s coached
or not) becomes more deserving of our consideration than whether that
horse has the physiology to reproduce or run well. More important to
us, maybe, but to the horse?
It’s Time to Think
Personally, I am fascinated with apes and always have been. Apes
are cool. It is amazing how similar they are to us, their facial expressions,
emotions, gestures, etc. I have admired Jane Goodall’s work with
wild chimpanzees for years and it gives me goosebumps when I see videos
of Washoe engaging in conversations with others. Who isn’t impressed
by all of this?
Some argue that the capacity for rational thought is special, and that
it does set humans apart from other animals. To pooh-pooh and minimize
this distinction is to be disingenuous. However, because we’re
so smart we are the dominant species, and the question of whether or
not we choose to use our intelligence wisely remains to be seen.
In the 17th century, the Italian astronomer Galileo introduced his
theory of heliocentrism, that the earth revolves around the sun. As
a result,
he was thrown out of the Roman Catholic Church. Galileo was not excommunicated
because his theory questioned the existence or supremacy of God; it
was that suddenly, the earth was not the center of the universe, so
we were no longer the center of the universe. Suddenly our central
place
in the world was in question. That’s a tough idea to swallow. It
took 400 years for some people to get used to the idea—just a
few years ago the Pope re-communicated Galileo. After rotting in hell
for
all of this time, Galileo was suddenly beamed up to purgatory or heaven
even. Perhaps one day, we will get used to the idea that we ourselves
are animals and that we share this universe with all sorts of entities
with their own right to exist without our interference; maybe then
we
will become more considerate and extend some of the benefits of our
club to our fellow creatures.
Thanks to Karen Davis for inspiring parts of this editorial.
