In the vast ocean of empathy, there lies a final frontier that challenges our understanding of ourselves and our place in the natural world. This is the story of our struggle to see ourselves as animals, and the consequences that follow.
Imagine the serene beauty of a North Atlantic right whale and her calf gracefully navigating the waters of Massachusetts Bay. Their synchronized movements, a dance of survival, remind us of the innate bond between mammal mothers and their young. Yet, beneath this peaceful scene lies a stark contrast.
As the whale and her calf seek food and safety, the waters around them hum with a different logic. Tankers and container ships, guided by distant executives, rush through the bay on fixed routes, their speed measured in profits and delays. The seasonal speed limits, meant to protect these majestic creatures, are often ignored, a testament to our collective demand for rapid shipping and instant gratification.
This conflict highlights a deeper issue: our inherent belief in human exceptionalism. We, as a species, have long held the conviction that we are morally superior to all other life forms, entitling us to claim space, resources, and survival rights above all else. This belief shapes our actions, from what we eat and how we raise it, to the habitats we destroy for development, and the emissions we release into the atmosphere.
But what if we've misread our place in the cosmos? What if, instead of commanding the natural world, we are merely kin, interconnected equals among other beings and systems? This older, living worldview, embraced by cultures like the Māori of Aotearoa and the Lakota, offers a different perspective—one that values reciprocity and kinship with the natural world.
In a world where extending compassion to other humans can be met with resistance, embracing this alternative view may seem naive. Yet, as psychologist Erik Erikson noted, our tendency towards pseudospeciation—dividing the world into "us" and "not us"—often justifies mistreatment. It grants us psychological distance, a permission slip to degrade those we deem inferior.
Charles Darwin, in his lesser-known work, "The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals," argued that human feelings and their outward signs are evolutionary continuities shared with other animals. This idea, later pushed aside by behaviorism and the taboo against "anthropomorphism," has regained prominence with the rise of ethology and cognitive neuroscience.
Primatologist Frans de Waal built upon Darwin's insights, coining the term "anthropodenial" to describe our blindness to human-like traits in other animals and animal-like traits in ourselves. Why are we so unwilling to acknowledge our animal nature? Perhaps because it challenges our self-concept and forces us to question our place in the world.
As a professor of writing, I often teach Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery," a chilling tale of a small town's annual ritual, where a random draw determines who will be stoned to death. The horror lies not only in the act but in the town's acceptance, a reminder that sometimes our old ways of thinking must change, especially when they contribute to the Earth's sixth mass extinction.
Proponents of exceptionalism argue that humans hold a unique moral status, pointing to our abstract reasoning, language, and cumulative culture as proof. But the counterargument is simple: exceptionalism confuses evolutionary difference with superiority. Uniqueness does not equate to higher moral rank. If it did, the bioluminescent lantern fish or the ancient honey mushroom might be our superiors.
So, what would it mean to live differently, recognizing the intelligence of the living world? How would we build, farm, and move across the planet if kinship, not conquest, was our guiding principle? While reporting on Florida panthers and wildlife corridors, I learned that many people, even those who don't consider themselves environmentalists, act out of a sense of stewardship, leaving gaps in fences and borders for wildlife passage.
Tides are turning in some places. The Wallis Annenberg wildlife crossing over Los Angeles's US Route 101 and Utah's Parleys canyon overpass are proof that strategic compassion works. Yet, progress is often met with resistance, as seen in Utah's recent move to prevent personhood from being granted to any plant, animal, or ecosystem.
Despite these challenges, the "rights of nature" movement, led by Indigenous communities, has made meaningful strides. Court rulings, treaties, and a restoried public imagination show that adopting a more-than-human ethic is not naive; it's a reality that's gaining influence.
As I began writing this piece, Jane Goodall's passing served as a poignant reminder of her lifelong message: peace requires humility, and we are not above the rest of life. Her words, a call to action, challenge us to treat other beings with the same consideration and kindness we show to humans.
Policy may be contested, but we can still make thoughtful choices in our daily lives. Swapping lawns for native plants, supporting wildlife corridors, and adopting more plant-based diets are small steps that collectively make a difference. Each action, taken with sincerity, broadens the circle of consideration and lessens suffering in the world.
The whale asks for more space, the river asks for standing, and the tern asks for habitat and room. We can give it. It's not too late to make a change.
