Yet why make that assumption? If we can point to variation as a result of social influences in ourselves, why not in other animals? We know very little in practice about how differences emerge in animals out of their social interactions/experience. Within a large litter of animals, whatever happens to one pup may have repercussions on others: thus, if a scientist alters the hormones of one, there will be effects on the rest. The hormones, in short, are affecting a social system, not an individual (Birke 1986; Moore 1984).
Assuming that animals are “ hardwired, ” driven by some physiological imperative, itself plays back into the very biological determinism that we so criticize. 3 Once animals are seen as hardwired, rather than flexible, then it is easy to extrapolate such assumptions to humans: the suggestion that there is a homosexual brain is one example of this sideways step. Such determinist ideas, moreover, seriously underestimate the complexity of development in any species. Rather, we need to emphasize that animal development is fluid and experiential, instead of “ depicting animals as rigid brain-driven organisms impervious to their surroundings ” (Fausto-Sterling 1993). 4
Animals in Science
One reason, of course, why our understanding of how animals develop behaviorally is limited is that the formal study of animal behavior has operated within a strictly scientific mode. What this has meant is, first, that scientists employ a reductionist approach. It is much more straightforward to design an experiment looking at simple variables (altering hormone levels in an infant animal, for example, then seeing what happens to its adult behavior), than to design one allowing for the interplay of many complex variables. Secondly, it has meant that individuals have been studied largely as exemplars of particular species; within that framework, animals are denied emotions or feelings, as scientists insist on avoiding anthropomorphism (see Rollin 1989). In most studies of animal behavior it is groups that are important. In field studies, the focus is often on the social group and its dynamics; in the laboratory, what usually is studied is animals as representative groups (comparing, say, twenty animals receiving hormone treatment to twenty animals not so treated).
To transform the study of animal behavior (ethology), to make it less reductionist, would require — among other things — creating a firmer dialogue between scientists and others who work with animals — animal trainers, farmers, caretakers. These people often have a deep, intuitive understanding of the animals with whom they work; but it is a knowledge gained from working with individuals, knowing their idiosyncrasies and sustaining a dialogue with those animals, rather than from standing outside and studying animals in groups. (Personally, I suspect that I know at least as much about those species or individuals with whom I live — and therefore interact — as I do about any species I have studied “ scientifically. ” ) This knowledge typically is denied by the formal practice of science — which in turn raises many questions about who constructs knowledge and in what context.
Yet, ironically, it is also developments in ethology that have helped to provide justification for those who wish to challenge the human/animal boundary. Contemporary ethology has two main roots. One strand, particularly in Europe, was part of a natural history tradition, which focused on the lives of wild animals. The other root (more evident in North America) derived from behaviorism, with its emphasis on experimental studies of how animals learn. Behaviorism, in its turn, was a reaction at the end of the nineteenth century against the use of mentalist constructs (which could not, by definition, be studied scientifically; see Rollin 1989). So, for much of this century, experimental studies of animal behavior explicitly denied any kind of “ mind ” to animals (and only begrudgingly, if at all, allowed it to humans). 5
In recent years, however, the tide has turned, and a renewed interest in “ animal minds ” has developed. Cognitive ethology, to give it a name, has revealed a wealth of ways in which nonhuman animals use complex mental concepts, or have consciousness (Griffin 1992); ways in which they might have a moral sense (Davis 1989); ways in which they can “ lie ” and so manipulate the behavior of others (Cheyney and Seyfarth 1990).
The parallel strands of field studies of wild animals and experimental, laboratory studies reflect a deeper tension in the history of biology. On the one hand, biology is partly about natural history, incorporating studies of the behavior and life history of a species. This tradition tends to produce accounts of animals based on description or on small-scale experiments in the wild — accounts that fit reasonably well with “ commonsense ” views of “ naturalistic ” animals (however much those views of what a “ wild ” animal is are themselves constructions). For that reason at least, there is little public opposition to such studies. 6 In this tradition, animals become exemplars of species as molded by natural selection.
On the other hand, biology also has a tradition of experimentalism, which often has been in tension with the naturalistic tradition (in, for example, the history of embryology; see Coleman 1977). Here, animals are only partly exemplars of species (and the contingencies of natural selection are of secondary theoretical importance); more often they are considered to be exemplars of “ animal models ” for human conditions.
In the experimentalist traditions, animals become a tool, part of the apparatus of science. They become the “ analytic animal ” — in other words, they undergo a transformation, through experimental procedures, into data (Lynch 1988). The relationship of the scientist to these “ data ” is, inevitably, different from that of the scientist who observes “ naturalistic ” animals in the wild.
Observing the behavior of wild animals allows them, partly, to be subjects. Primates, particularly, are seen as individual subjects with whom the primatologist may interact (see Haraway 1989a). But for most species, being in the laboratory means to be constituted as objects, as part of the apparatus of science. “ Laboratory animals ” are a collectivity, depersonalized; 7 they are studied en masse. Yet here, too, they serve the function of being the mirror of nature. Research involving rats is justified — to funding agencies and the wider public — on the grounds that they have a physiology similar to our own — the “ animal model ” for cancer, cardiovascular disease, or whatever.
There is undoubtedly considerable public concern about what happens to animals in laboratories. Public opposition seems, moreover, to be growing (Rowan 1989). Partly, this may be a response to efforts by antivivisectionist organizations (their focus on cosmetics testing and its effects on the market is one example). Partly, too, it may reflect a wider antagonism to science (Jasper and Nelkin 1992), based both on emotional reactions to cruelty to animals and on a growing recognition that science is far from being as value free and objective as it would claim to be (see also Keller 1985; Harding 1992).
Whatever its causes, opposition to the use of animals shares two important features with the science that uses them. First, both protagonists rely on “ scientific facts ” to support their case (the corollary of this is that those taking the opposite view must be ill-informed, or not accepting the truth). Secondly, both supporters and opposers of animal research rely on particular — but not identical — ideological constructions of “ the animal. ”
Of course, whatever notion of “ animal ” we use, it is always a construction (just as “ woman ” is a construction). Historically, ideas about animals and their role(s) in relation to (Western) society have inevitably changed as the needs and priorities of human society have changed — in conjunction with the agricultural revolution in Europe, for instance (Thomas 1983). Harriet Ritvo (1987) has described, too, how ideas about animals were developed to mirror the beliefs underpinning British imperialism in the eighteenth to nineteenth centuries. And not only were the ideas being constructed but so were the animals themselves, literally being constructed through selective breeding programs (Russell 1986) to produce, for instance, “ aristocratic ” breeds of horses or dogs.
The debate about animals in science similarly evokes particular constructions of “ laboratory ani
mals. ” Antivivisectionist imagery relies on images of cuddly or cute animals being subjected to potentially painful procedures (such as an injection into the abdomen) or highly emotive ones (such as having electrodes inserted into the brain). 8 These are animals of everyday experience, of commonsense, the cuddly bunny rabbits, just like our pets.
Defenders of research also implicitly rely on this view of animals — for example, the Research Defence Society in Britain produces publicity materials that stress that nearly all experiments are done on rats and mice. Rats are not pets, nor are they the kind of animal that sells wildlife films; as such, they have little emotional currency and do not appeal to us in the way that images of cuddly, pet-like animals do. It is not, on the whole, the idea of experimentation performed on rats and mice that upsets people, but that performed on primates, fluffy rabbits and cats, and dogs — species whose role as complementary to us is assured.
Within science itself, animals are also constructed through specialist breeding programs. Most laboratory strains of purpose-bred animals were developed in the late nineteenth to early twentieth centuries. Breeding stock derived at that time from animals bred by lay “ fanciers ” (e.g., Paterson 1957), who also contributed much knowledge of breeding and inheritance; but science required uniformity 9 — the “ fancy ” varieties were “ less satisfactory ” for lab use (Wright 1922) — so efforts were made to create standardized breeds. In that sense, laboratory animals were literally constructed to fulfill a specific role in science.
Asking Feminist Questions
In this section, I want to explore two related issues: first, how animals are seen in science, and how this might link to the kinds of questions feminists ask about science; and secondly, where women scientists are located in relation to these questions.
The ways in which animals are seen within science and its practice reflect both the wider culture (of which science is part) and the specific approaches of science. The Judeo-Christian tradition teaches us that man ( sic ) has dominion over nature; accordingly, our culture assumes that animals are there for our use and have lower moral standing than people (Passmore 1974).
Science is also quintessentially about the pursuit of objectivity, about the belief that the scientific observer can stand outside nature, as feminists have often noted (e.g., Keller 1985). If nature is “ out there, ” for our use, then we can pretend that we can stand outside it and observe. Feminists have criticized this stance; objectivity is part of the stereotypic masculinity of scientific practice (Keller 1985) and requires what Ruth Hubbard has called “ context stripping. ” Feminist critics, on the contrary, emphasize the inseparability of subjectivity and objectivity in how we know the world (Hubbard 1990).
A corollary of that ideology of objectivity is that it denies feelings, including the possibility of feelings of sympathy toward the object(s) of study — be they nonhumans, the environment generally, or women. This denial is evident in the way that science is written — the use of particular words, the use of the passive voice. These help to create the “ missing agent ” : this is most clearly the scientist, but it may also be the laboratory animal whose life became data. There is no person involved in the passive voice, merely a procedure or perhaps “ an inability to assay ” (in this case, the animal died in vain: it cannot become data if someone messed up the subsequent assay; see Lynch 1988).
The writing, moreover, is itself constructed in ways that diminish the significance of the animal. Gross (1990) suggests that the widespread use of the passive voice in scientific papers “ is a routine means for making physical objects and events the subjects of scientific sentences ” (73). Phrases such as “ the animals were injected ” are typical. Here, the animals are indeed the subject of the verb: but they do not become “ subjects ” in the more philosophical sense. What the passive voice does is to remove the scientist from the sentence, so reducing the emotional impact on the reader of what is done to the animal. 10
Gross (1990) emphasizes the construction of scientific papers as fictionalized, idealized accounts in which “ style . . . is not a window on reality, but the vehicle of an ideology that systematically mis-describes experimental and observational events ” (84). Lynch (1988) similarly contrasts the idealized account of the written records, with what he terms “ laboratory shop talk. ” Conversation, unlike written records, typically makes reference to “ what can go wrong. ” It can also make reference to a more empathic feeling for the animals; Wieder (1980) has described, for example, how scientists working with chimpanzees may make reference to the cognitive abilities of the animals in conversation, but this awareness is lost in written accounts. If the written accounts of science reflect a seemingly objective ideology, conversations among scientists are much more ambivalent. On one hand, scientists may use language clearly reminiscent of the “ air of bravado. ” So what if an animal dies, I was once told, “ there ’ s more where that came from. ” Lynch recalls the crude language and repartee accompanying scientists ’ repeated attempts to inject a rat successfully. Yet, on the other hand, scientists also express feelings about the animals and acknowledge the need for empathy and “ good handling ” (Lynch 1988), even though open discussion of these feelings is not encouraged. Indeed, Arluke (1992) found that even talking about having interviewed scientists who expressed unease met with resistance in scientific circles.
Another topic about which discussion is discouraged within science is culling. Culling, in the laboratory, is routine practice in the management of laboratory breeding stock; without regular culls, the population would become unwieldy. These are issues that receive far less public outcry than, say, the culling of seals, although they have in common the death of the animal. Nor does it evoke outcry in the way that certain experimental procedures do. What seems to matter in terms of public concern is suffering. Little is said about the animals that die because they are superfluous.
Unease about the practices of science does find its way into written accounts — the use of the word “ sacrifice, ” for example, to describe killing (Arluke 1988) — but it is much more evident in conversation. In interviews, scientists are generally at pains to be seen as caring, emphasizing ways in which they draw the line — at particular techniques, at using particular species, or at the use of animals for testing cosmetics, for instance (Birke and Michael 1992a, 1992b). Culling, however, is rarely mentioned by scientists — although it is an issue repeatedly referred to by technicians, the people who have to do it (from unpublished interviews; see also Arluke 1990).
There are two things to note here. First, compassion and caring are attitudes that may be spoken of as desirable in scientific work with animals, even if this is not part of the written discourse of science (nor of its overt ideology in scientific training). These are admissions that — sometimes — scientists do not adhere to the expected certainties, to the distancing expected of them as scientists. Those who care for the animals (technicians or caretakers) are, of course, more able to express concern, often seeing themselves as “ buffers ” between the scientist and the animal — and these caretakers include more women. Interestingly, an article published in 1947 suggested that “ the right technical assistant (preferably female) ” was “ by far the most important feature in the management of any rat colony ” (McGaughey, Thompson, and Chitty 1947, 111).
Secondly, scientists express these feelings by distancing themselves from nefarious “ others. ” It is others — scientists in other countries, the cosmetics industry, other laboratories; other users of animals, such as farmers — who fail to maintain ethical standards. In such a discourse, what the speakers themselves do is relatively unproblematic — not necessarily in the sense of laboratory techniques themselves, but in relation to thinking ethically. What comes across in interviews is that the scientists see themselves as making ethical decisions: it is the “ others ” who fail to do so, or do so poorly.
Otherness is a familiar theme in feminist writing. Zuleyma Tang Halpin suggests, for example,
that concern for animals begins to threaten patriarchal science because it calls into question beliefs about the “ otherness ” of the subject matter of science. For Halpin, compassion and respect for animals are important concerns for feminist critiques of science, concerns that might themselves help to change the face of science. Once the scientist begins to “ feel for his or her research animal, the self versus other duality begins to break down ” (Halpin 1989, 282 – 83).
Ironically, the boundaries of otherness are also being blurred by developments within science itself (see Haraway 1991). Whatever we are born with may potentially be changed: people walk around with machine parts (pacemakers, say), or are attached to machines for periods of time (such as dialysis machines). Surgeons transplant organs from other individuals — even, in the notorious “ ‘ Baby Fae ’ case, ” of a baboon heart transplant from other species. And scientists can now create organisms that contain genes, sections of DNA, from other organisms. 11 What does all this do to our apparent need to think of animals as “ others ” in order to justify our use of them? And what does this do to feminist reliance on keeping ourselves apart from the animal world?
For women in science, taking on the role of scientist means acquiring certain traits that might be stereotyped in our culture as unfeminine. One message, for example, that is implicit in scientific training is that emotions should not “ get in the way ” (Halpin 1989). To become a scientist requires becoming desensitized to emotional involvement with the animals that might be used. But to sympathize with the animals is, on the other hand, considered suspiciously feminine within the culture of science (Birke 1991b). Miriam Rothschild, for example, has described the process she went through in becoming a scientist, noting that other zoologists of her acquaintance feared being dubbed “ unmanly ” if they showed compassion to their animals (Rothschild 1986, 50). There is undoubtedly a premium placed on developing an air of bravado — the kid who doesn ’ t throw up when asked to do a dissection, the student who has what it takes to pith the frog. 12
Animals and Women Feminist The Page 6
