Humans: The Authors of History

Aesop's fable, The Man and the Lion, goes like this: A man and a lion traveled together through the forest. They soon began to boast of their respective superiority to each other in strength and prowess. As they were disputing, they passed a statue carved in stone, which represented "a Lion strangled by a Man." The traveler pointed to it and said: "See there! How strong we are, and how we prevail over even the king of beasts." The Lion replied: "This statue was made by one of you men. If we Lions knew how to erect statues, you would see the Man placed under the paw of the Lion."

Aesop, a slave who lived in the middle of the sixth centry BC in Ancient Greece understood then what we seem to keep forgetting now: the victors are the ones who write history.

I have been a contributor to KQED Radio (the San Francisco Bay Area's National Public Radio station) for several years now, specifically for a program called "Perspectives." I'm thrilled to announce that an editorial I recently submitted was accepted, and it will air on December 26th and again on December 29th. I will post it on my website (and it will be on KQED's website) after it airs, but I wanted to share the written work with you now. Consider it an extension of Aesop's fable.

REWRITING HISTORY
When we began “domesticating” animals about 10,000 years ago, we created a division between ourselves and the rest of the natural world and began a reign of human supremacy that continues to this day. In a desperate (and successful) attempt to deny our own animal-ness, we have denigrated and exploited non-human animals for so many centuries that now the most insulting thing you could someone is “an animal.”

We, the victors, the authors of this history, depict animals as savage, vicious, and violent and humans as civilized, intelligent, and compassionate. If the animals were the tellers of this tale, it would be an entirely different story. If our worth was measured by how fast we could run, by how adeptly we could climb, by how well we could hear, we would fall quite short when compared to the rest of the animal kingdom.

Despite the high esteem with which we regard our species, in our treatment of others – both human and non-human – we might do well to take some cues from our animal brethren. Though we humans possess many fine qualities, with just a cursory examination of our own history, we may find that it would actually be a compliment to be called “an animal.”

If we knew them at all, we would aspire to attain the grace and dignity of those we have most severely subjugated. We would seek to have the sense of humor of the goats; the protective nature of the hens and the sassiness of the roosters. We would desire the gentle strength of the cattle, the wisdom and serenity of the donkeys. We would appreciate the need for community as do the sheep and choose our companions as carefully as do the rabbits. We would strive to have the commitment to family of the geese, the self-confidence of the cats, the adaptability of the ducks. We would seek to possess the sensitivity of the turkeys, the intelligence, loyalty, and affection of the dogs – and the pigs.

With just a small dose of humility, we might learn from the animals what we need to become better people."

One Culture's Traditions....

In her haunting 1948 short story “The Lottery,” about the annual selection of a sacrificial victim in a small American town, Shirley Jackson sheds light on humanity’s tendency to cling blindly to meaningless rituals and participate in pointless violence.

In my many years as an animal advocate, I’ve heard many excuses for our use and abuse of animals, but I’m often taken aback by the one that concludes that certain practices are justifiable because they’re embedded in the “culture” and sanctified by “tradition,” as if that’s all the reason we need to justify our behavior. And yet, what doesn’t fall into these categories?

Nobody wants to see themselves as contributing to cruelty, but participating in cultural customs? Carrying out tradition? That doesn’t sound so bad. To shroud our violence against animals in the sanctity of “tradition” is to romanticize our exploitation of them.

And yet our reliance upon the “tradition” argument is not without hypocrisy. We’re outraged to hear about dog fights and “cock” fights, but we enjoy hamburgers and hot dogs on our visit to the circus. We judge those who eat rabbits, buffalo, or deer, but we gleefully dine on turkeys, chickens, and ducks. We’re shocked to hear that people eat horses, goats, and whales, we scorn those who eat cats and dogs, yet we relish our lamb, veal, and ribs.

To the animals, it’s all the same. They want to live. If they have wings, they want to fly. If they have legs, they want to walk. If they have offspring, they want to nurture them. To humans who perceive animals as ours to possess, their lives are ours – to end. Their bodies are ours to consume. Their offspring are not their own. To the animals, it’s all the same. A Korean dog wants to live and resists death as much as an American pig.

“There’s always been a lottery,” one of the townspeople in Jackson’s story declares when he hears that a neighboring village has given up this empty, violent ritual. We justify our use of animals in a similar way, but just because we always have doesn’t mean we always have to. After all, one culture’s “traditions” are another culture’s “taboos.” It’s all relative to us, but to the animals, it’s all the same.