References
Bentham, J. 1789. The Principles of Morals and Legislation . London: Methuen.
Dworkin, Ronald M. 1993. Life ’ s Dominion . New York: Knopf.
Frey, R. G. 1983. Rights, Killing & Suffering . Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Glendon, Mary Ann. 1991. Rights Talk . New York: Macmillan.
MacKinnon, Catharine A. 1989. Toward a Feminist Theory of the State . Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
Regan, Tom. 1983. The Case for Animal Rights . Berkeley: University of California.
Singer, Peter. 1991. Animal Liberation . 2d ed. New York: New York Review of Books. Originally published in 1976.
Singer, Peter, and Helga Kuhse. 1985. Should the Baby Live? New York: Oxford University Press.
Tribe, Laurence. 1990. Abortion: The Clash of Absolutes . New York: W. W. Norton.
Wenz, Peter S. 1992. Abortion Rights as Religious Freedom . Philadelphia: Temple University Press.
Part 2
Alternative Stories
7
Linda Vance
Beyond Just-So Stories: Narrative, Animals, and Ethics
Introduction
A naturalist does not toss stones into a pond to make the frogs “ do something. ” Even if it ’ s only a vernal pond, only a silted puddle lined with rotting oak leaves and pine needles. Even though it ’ s little more than a depression where runoff hesitates before soaking in or moving on. But I ’ m restless, impatient as the runoff, eager to be on my way, and my hand twitches greedily. I ’ m hungering to pick up a stone, turn it casually over in my fingers, and almost accidentally lob it into the deepest part of the pond.
I was drawn here by the absurd croaking. Rounding a corner of the road that meanders through the woodland park behind my home, I was greeted by a cacophonous chorus of grunts, groans, cackles, squawks, and caws. Could it be ducks, I wondered, as I approached the sound, a flock of ducks stopping on the way to a yet more northern pond? Or geese, perhaps? Or could I have stumbled onto a grand assembly of the Raven People? When I found the source, this tentative pond, I realized it was frogs, newly active in the warming spring day, not yet confident in their vocal abilities. And as soon as I came close, of course, the sound stopped. The rounded brown heads I had only just noticed bobbed quickly below the surface; on the far edge of the pond, I saw slim bronze bodies slip easily down the smooth muddy bank from the forest. Straining to peer beneath the surface, I could see them swim for the cover of the last slab of surface ice hovering precariously near the inlet. And then nothing: no sound, no movement.
So now I ’ m standing here alone beside the pond, on the margin of a thicket of raspberry canes, a thorny discouragement of my other desire, which is to lie down and watch the frogs at their face level. They are holding absolutely silent. I stand a while longer, scanning the leaves on the far bank for some errant croaker, imagining that if I can at least classify its species, I will be content. But there are no fugitive frogs, and my gaze wanders, climbing the pine tree up to the sky beyond. Faded muslin spring clouds drift across the chambray blue sky, now obscuring the sun, now revealing it. When the sun appears, it sparks the fernheads to brilliance, illuminates the mosses on the rocks and tree trunks, brings green to the world like a sneeze, sudden and unfamiliar. New Englanders in the springtime are connoisseurs of green, but language fails us: we can merely blink or wince at the apparition, saying “ Green, ” “ Oh, look, green, ” breathlessly, over and over, like an invocation, or an exhalation of hope, of trust in the air to come.
At the far end of the pond, a narrow channel draws the water slowly downward, and from somewhere along its lengths, just out of my range of vision, I hear a loud, grating croak. Have I missed the show? Have the frogs moved stealthily away from me, slinking across the muddied bottom one by one, as fluid as the water surrounding them? Is this my reward for restraint? But no. The first one may have been a scout, foolishly sounding an all clear, or maybe she simply goaded the others to bravery, but in any case a half dozen voices now rise to meet hers, then a dozen, then a score more, all absolutely out of time and out of harmony, like members of an orchestra who are inexplicably tuning their instruments each to a different key.
Let us assume that this is the whole story: Frogs are born, live, reproduce, and die. Humans enter the natural world, observe it, and move on, taking whatever moral lessons we find. So what is the lesson of the frog pond? That life is ephemeral, of course, although this is not a moral favored by people all too aware of mortality. I could stretch the story of the frogs out for a better one. Oh, the pond will dry up in a few weeks, I could tell you, but the runoff canals will remain wet through the summer, will be home to aquatic plants and black fly larvae, will be a watering spot for the deer and raccoons. That ’ s a more popular moral: to everything there is a season. Or I could call on process models of ecosystems, describing to you the flow of energy that is the matrix of all life, the field in which a frog, or a human watcher, is only a momentary apparition. Everything flows, I ’ ll tell you, and you will nod.
The problem with moral tales, of course, is that they require us to depart from the particular, and to chase after the general, universalizable truth. The frogs are effectively gone, then, long before the pond dries up; they disappear as soon as I impose a narrative on them. But the point of most human narrative, of course, is to illuminate the human experience, so it should come as no surprise that narratives about animals and nature tend to be human centered, or to exist for human edification.
If this human centeredness were only a curious feature of nature writing, an increasingly popular genre but a minor one nonetheless, it might not be cause for concern. But unfortunately, story-making is not so limited. One of the major contributions of postmodernism thus far has been to challenge us to recognize that all human knowledge is essentially narrative, just story in the making. We do not so much discover the natural world as we construct it; this is true whether we are nature writers or ecologists, environmental lawyers or ethicists, historians or geographers. We impose our cultural and descriptive narratives on the world like templates, text creating text. 1
So if it is a feature of all these story-making activities that nature ’ s particularity, and especially animals ’ particularity, is obscured, then there is cause for concern among all of us who care for animals as individual entities and not abstractions. In this essay I touch lightly on narratives from ecology and history, but my main focus, given my own cultural and disciplinary leanings, is on the narratives imposed on animals by ethics. In the next section, “ Ethics Constructs the Animal, ” I hope to make evident that even the best-intentioned ethical narratives have “ silenced ” animals just as surely as similar ones have silenced women. This is a story in itself, and a discouraging one at that. But the following section, “ Ethical Narratives, ” will, I hope, gather energy toward a “ happy ending, ” exploring the potential of distinctly feminist ethical narratives for bringing voice to animals and the natural world. After all, until recently, women have been denied the chance to be the artisans who created the templates. But times have changed. So sharpen your carving tools. Put on your aprons. Clear a space. There will be work to do.
Ethics Constructs the Animal
They ’ ll get their chorus right soon enough, I suppose, and I, passing by, will cease to hear them, their well-practiced songs fading to the commonplace of background noise. Then one day the sound will have gone, will have shrunk and disappeared like the ephemeral pond that brought it to life. Perhaps I will note these facts, that the croaking has stopped, that the pond has shriveled, that a tiny ecosystem has vanished, that this small corner of the woods, the park, is less diverse than it was. Perhaps I will wonder about the frogs themselves, will worry whether they ’ ve found a new habitat. Or perhaps I will simply dismiss all thoughts of frogs from my mind. After all, it ’ s a Hobbesian life for frogs in spring ponds: nasty, brutish, and short, just enough time to learn your song before you cease to sing it.
/> Historian William Cronon, looking specifically at U.S. environmental history, has observed that there are three cherished narratives that students of the past impose on nature. In one version of American history, the narrative is an upbeat one of linear progress, the taming of wild nature and the triumph of humans. In a second version, the story line is similar but unfolds in a more dialectical manner: progress is periodically interrupted or set back when Nature rises on her haunches and challenges the human usurpers. Nonetheless, humans meet the challenge and become more heroic in so doing. The third story is a sad tale of declension: nature was fine until human populations began to alter it; now human acts have brought us, and the natural world, to the brink of destruction. In fact, in this version, it is precisely the first narrative, the tale of progress, that lured humans into a downward slide in the first place. What all these versions of history have in common is that they order facts and events along a temporal line with a fixed starting and ending point, which, not incidentally, are opposite from each other. In the first and second versions, things start off bad and get good; in the third version, they start good and get bad. This is a critical feature of narrative, Cronon reminds us, whether of history or anything else. Stories, at least in American Anglo culture, have a telos or direction, with one event leading to another. To “ work, ” a narrative needs to show change from its beginning point to its end point.
It isn ’ t hard to guess which version of the past is most popular in the historical profession these days, since it ’ s the same one that seems to hold sway on our collective American consciousness: human hubris has led us to make a mess of the planet, and we need to act fast to correct it. This is also, of course, the starting point for most environmental philosophers and ethicists, because the expectations of narrative structure govern our meaning-making efforts, too. We know how we want our stories to end: whatever our particular ethical persuasion, we all believe it will lead to “ better ” interactions between humans and the nonhuman world. By definition, then, our current interactions must be judged as potentially or demonstrably harmful. We are fallen humanity, with only a few visionaries to point the way to salvation.
Most ethical theories about animals reflect one of three ideological positions, each corresponding to one of these narratives: (1) humans have a right to exploit animals, and therefore either minimal or no obligations toward them; (2) humans have a right to exploit animals, but only to the extent that such exploitation will provide the greatest (human) benefit in the long run; and (3) humans have no right to exploit animals or to dominate nature, since we are merely a component part of nature, and to ignore that fact will lead us to our doom.
The first position has prevailed in Western culture for centuries, and in some ways hardly needs restating. 2 In contemporary times, it reflects the “ progress ” narrative: we have been put on earth for a purpose — that is, to subdue nature — and we are moving steadily toward achieving that end. Nature, in this story, is hostile and unyielding: it deserves to be tamed.
The second position is the anthropocentric utilitarian imperative toward nature; as a maxim, it might be characterized as “ Dominate Wisely! ” This stance is rapidly gaining most-favored-position status in environmental policymaking. Briefly characterized, it is the “ dialectic ” narrative, the “ progress ” story with some struggle, mistakes, failure, and redoubled effort thrown in to make the journey more intriguing. Here nature is a “ worthy antagonist of civilization, ” requiring us to scope out the probable consequences of our actions, and to always watch out for trouble stirring at our flank.
The nondominance position is conceptually and practically the most far-reaching, and takes many forms. Sometimes characterized as ecocentric or biocentric (as, for example, with deep ecology and the land ethic) or zoocentric (as with animal liberation), or simply antianthropocentric (as with ecofeminism), nondominance positions are supported by a declensionist narrative, which moves nonhuman nature into a “ noble victim ” role.
These are the grand themes, the “ big stories. ” Ethics also spins out lesser narratives, stories that operate within, and are influenced by, these larger spheres. Let me pursue this theme for awhile, examining how the three ideological positions and their supporting narratives shape the smaller stories we tell about humans and animals, and thus construct our interactions.
Small Tales 1: Progress
In dominationist fantasies, animals are good or bad, depending on whether they function usefully as instruments to human ends and/or property. Like women in masculinist fantasies, animals are seen as having no individuality, no significant life-plan, no preferences, and, ultimately, no real concerns. It is true, of course, that both our legal and ethical systems contain certain norms that govern the treatment of animals, but even haphazard scrutiny reveals the core assumption that animals are mere objects. For example, traditional Western ethical positions about animals are reflected in laws that categorize animals by the circumstances under which they may be killed: either they may never be killed, or they may be killed at specific times, or they may be killed when they behave in a specific way, or they may be killed at random. Songbirds, for instance, may never be killed; so-called game animals may be killed during prescribed seasons; predators like wolves, bears, mountain lions, and coyotes may be killed either during a designated season or when they “ deserve it, ” that is, when they have become a threat to crops or livestock; and animals that are the property of humans (livestock, household pets, and lab animals) or which are a nuisance (rodents), or are simply abundant and “ inconsequential ” (frogs, mice, insects) may be killed at any time. 3 In the process of setting these limits on the killing of animals, laws (and by implication traditionalist ethics) construct a number of story lines about them: besides “ good animals ” and “ bad animals, ” there can be too few, too many, or “ just enough ” animals; animals that count because they are beautiful or useful; and animals that don ’ t count because they are useful. But the central story line behind all these is that animals are the individual or public property of humans, and their fate is ours to decide. We are on the road to progress; they had best stay out of it if they can ’ t be of use.
Small Tales 2: Dialectics
Most contemporary environmental ethicists operate in opposition to the belief that nature is ours to exploit as we will; that belief is, in fact, the point of departure for most ethics, the “ bad ” situation that will be transformed into a “ good ” one if we will merely subscribe to the “ right ” ethical approach. In mainstream ethical circles, and in most environmental policymaking, the “ right ” approach is some variant on anthropocentric utilitarianism, wherein the alternatives to be chosen are those that will provide the greatest pleasure for the greatest number of humans. To the extent that this differs from a straight dominance approach, it does so because it recognizes some autonomy in nature: by the simple fact that nature is not endlessly bountiful and productive, it resists human domination, and must therefore be approached with some respect. Still, this is not so much because nature ’ s essential otherness is recognized; instead, it is because failure to do so will imperil existing and future generations of humans.
Anthropocentric utilitarianism can justify both exploitative and protectionist practices in regards to animals. Some utilitarians, like Theodore Vitali, take the position that if meat consumption, or hunting, or vivisection, or extermination of predators will yield the greatest pleasure for the greatest number of humans, then their effects on animals are irrelevant. But it is also possible to argue for animal protection from a human-centered perspective. For example, one can oppose meat eating on the basis of its ill effects on human health, or on the human environment, or, for that matter, upon human spirit. We can say that hunting is wrong because it is a form of violence, which should be checked, rather than encouraged, if we hope for a truly peaceful society. We can make similar arguments about vivisection: that it does not in fact yield cures to human diseases; that the moral harm do
ne to humans by treating fellow creatures callously outweighs the good; that the money involved would be better spent on prevention, etc. The problem with such arguments, however, is that they are merely factual and thus open to challenge on factual grounds, with moral issues taking a back seat. 4
Anthropocentric utilitarianism shares a number of fantasies about animals with strict dominance. Once again, animals are characterized as “ good animals ” (those that increase human pleasure) vs. “ bad animals ” (those that increase human pain); there is an idea that there can be too few, too many, or just enough animals to serve human ends now and in the future; some animals are held to count for more than other animals in the satisfaction of human desires; and some animals are held not to count at all. Indeed, the only real difference between dominance theories and anthropocentric utilitarian theories is that the latter acknowledge the world does not consist of ever-expanding resources.
In anthropocentric narratives, then, humans are fallible. Greedy, or lacking foresight, or merely succumbing to temptation, we can make mistakes. Animals, therefore, are more than objects that can be used and discarded at will. They have symbolic significance as well, as markers in the human game of progress. Sometimes we make the wrong move with them and lose our turn, as is the case when human folly or error leads to a species ’ extinction; sometimes we land on a square that allows us to advance a number of places, as is the case when genetic engineering yields a “ new and improved ” lab rat. But in either case, animals are merely stepping stones on our way to our goals, and while our forward march may not always go smoothly (because of our mistakes, often pointed out to us by those animals), in the end, we will succeed.
Animals and Women Feminist The Page 22
