Conclusion: Cyborgs for Earthly Survival

CONCLUSION

CYBORGS FOR EARTHLY SURVIVAL

The concluding scene of the SciFi Channel’s revival of the short-lived 70’s TV series Battlestar Galactica shows a line of defeated but indomitable human beings, shouldering packs and trudging slowly but determinedly into a wilderness, away from their spaceships, their computers, their technologies. The scene visually tropes an earlier one, in which these spacefaring refugees from a nuked planet observe a primitive hominid family group moving single file across the plain in much the same way, unknowingly the objects of a technologically mediated, curious vision of alien kindred.

What could prompt such a dramatic and counterintuitive conclusion to a narrative of remnant humanity’s exodus from ruin, led by a faithless Moses and a dying Miriam, whose existence had depended so intimately for so long on the technologies now being decisively repudiated? What message lies in this conclusion for us, as we ponder the various possibilities, both frightening and liberatory, of the posthuman future?

The complexity of the narrative universe of Battlestar Galactica belies such a simplistic ending. For these human beings, the posthuman future has already arrived, and with a vengeance—literally. The opening scene of the series gives us a question posed by a sexy blonde machine to a middle aged, befuddled soldier/diplomat: “are you alive?” she asks. Yes, is the stuttered answer, but the machine doesn’t care, or perhaps, does not believe this answer—after all, this must have been the very question put to it, in the years that sowed the seeds of the conflict that would shortly destroy not only this man, but his whole civilization as well, in a retributive genocidal impulse.

The problem goes far beyond the pragmatic difficulties caused by the fact that “the Cylons look like us now.” The problem, in short, is that the Cylons are us: down to our very blood. And not just “us” in biological facsimile, but in nature. Violent, retributive, obsessive, sinful, human nature.

This is where the story begins: with an ontological confusion, a question of humanness not simply in terms of status but fundamental nature, and a question of what constitutes the difference between person and machine, when machines can also think and feel. The only difference seems to be, frankly, that the machines are determined to kill the humans. One can only speculate why; but, after all, machines made in imago hominis are likely to be pretty dangerously untrustworthy.

Things get more complicated when it turns out you can have sex with those machines, and get them pregnant. Beyond begging the question of the definition of species, interbreeding produces a more obvious hybrid, a child who is simultaneously threat and promise. Named for a goddess and literally a savior, this miracle child becomes blood sisters with the dying Miriam and saves the prophet’s life; revived, the leader of the human remnant rescinds the savior’s imminent execution but fakes a death to remove her from her Cylon mother’s care—machines can’t be trusted.

Things get more complicated still when it turns out that the Cylons themselves are a stratified society: Cylon fighters are bred like animals, “toasters” take orders from “skin jobs,” and everyone alike is conveyed through space by sentient ships piloted by those whom the Cylons themselves refer to as hybrids—human brains hardwired into their ships, simultaneously pilot and vehicle.

But things only get really weird when it turns out that there really are angels walking among us.

How to make sense of this strange, unsystematic, non-taxonomy of unclassifiable creatures, none of them natural, and all of them, somehow, kin? There’s no certain path through this wilderness, no telos, no heaven, and no real Earth; the only thing certain, in this narrative, is that it has all happened before, and it will all happen again. The final, looming question is, simply, will it happen the same way? Or will we, somehow, construct a path through the wilderness that aims toward making that new world a liveable world, in which anthropoids, humans, Cylons, hybrids, and angels alike, dwell?

the ultimate Others: dare we love them?

I've been horrified by the promos for the new horror movie Orphan I've caught during commercial breaks in The Daily Show (but not for the reasons the movie makers would prefer). I've been thinking for a couple weeks now that I needed to blog about how awful it is that a storyline trading on the neurotic xenophobia that runs unchecked in our society already (in, for example, expressions of racism and anti-immigrant sentiment) is being once again proclaimed as justifiable through that marvelous engine of capitalism known as the Box Office, but as it turns out, I don't have to, because someone much more qualified and eloquent has done so.

from K's blog: "Dr. Aronson recounts the numerous phone calls and emails that she has received from families whose adopted children have merely seen the trailer for this movie. One child asked her parent, ‘Is this what I am? Is this what other people think about me?’ and that kid was 5 years old."

Check out the rest of K's thoughts here, and follow the link to the NPR story as well.

fish are friends (not food?)

If you've got a toddler living in your house, you recognize that line. Finding Nemo's character Bruce the Shark's 12-step program for "nice sharks, not mindless eating machines" begins with a pledge that concludes with the mantra: "fish are friends, not food." Nemo is Clare's current TV obsession; so Bruce the Shark's fish-friendly mantra has been repeated about three times a day for the past week during Clare's mid-winter break. (Don't worry, we've done other stuff too--fingerpainting, trips to the playground, a quick jaunt out to Princeton to say goodbye to friends moving overseas, that sort of thing. It's not all glassy-eyed TV coma around here.) She's a mimicry machine these days and so of course, not only is Bruce repeating his mantra three times a day, Clare wants to remind me too: fish are friends, not food.

We also made a short little shopping trip and picked up Eric Carle's Mister Seahorse for Clare. It's a beautiful book, with a cute little story about (of course) Mr. Seahorse and other various fish for whom the "daddies" are the primary nurturers of their offspring. [pause for tangential children's book critique: while I love the role reversal that is the theme of the book, the Mr. and Mrs. names for all the fish pairs irk me a bit, and when Mr. Bullhead tells Mr. Seahorse proudly that his eggs have hatched and he is now "babysitting," I can't help but hear echoes of a friend's anecdote about the absurdity of calling a daddy's care of his own kids "babysitting."] Mr. Seahorse, who keeps the seahorse eggs in his pouch; Mr. Kurtus, who sticks them on his head; Mr. Pipe, who keeps them on his belly; and Mr. Tilapia, who carries them in his mouth.

On this week's menu: pecan-crusted tilapia.

I'm not sure Clare will eat it. She might refuse on toddler-intuited principle. And hell, even my vegetarian baby sister will eat fish occasionally. (Pesky-vegetarian.) (Just kidding, mei-mei. You are a delightful vegetarian who makes a kick-butt curried butternut squash bisque.)

But the problem's worse than whether or not I can convince my toddler to ignore her Nemo-indoctrination and eat her fish, because the real issue to decide beforehand is whether or not I should. Aside from the fact that my Shoprite-bargain frozen tilapia fillets hail from China rather than sustainably managed US farms, (damn! should've known), the prior philosophical dilemma of how we define food and how to eat well are raised.

This is an ongoing negotiation for me. Not convinced yet that vegetarianism is mandated, I try to at least consume meat responsibly; this means, basically, eating less meat, and whenever possible, taking into account the practices that provide our meat. (These two things are mutually reinforcing, since free-range/organic/sustainable meat is more expensive.)

Fish are friends, not food: it's a curious mantra when you get down to it, the opposition of "friends" and "food" as categories. It reminds me of one of Mary Warren's seven multileveled criteria for personhood, specific personal relationship. She argues that even if you don't consider cats (for example) as "persons" categorically speaking, you're pretty likely to consider your own cat a "person," or something like a person, because you have a relationship with that specific cat. Now this makes sense, but by itself, the logic is inadequate. The big loophole of course is that we could turn it around and say, "I don't know you personally therefore you are not a person"--leading to a great rationalization for, say, killing people in a war. Just for example. We have a word for this of course: dehumanization. (Warren's proposal balances this criterion with several others, so this is not a criticism of her proposal as a whole.)

Fish are friends, not food: what kind of relationship is necessary with another creature to preclude categorizing it as 'food'? Pretty much everyone will stop short of human cannibalism; pretty much everyone would refuse to eat their own pet; pretty much everyone would refuse to eat other animals of the same kind as their pet. This is true even in places in China where dog is an acceptable meat for some dishes; I learned in Changsha that there is a particular breed of dog for eating, and it is not a dog one would keep as a pet--it has its own distinct ontological category. I wonder if people who keep aquariums feel queasy about eating fish. I bet most of them, like dog-eaters, accommodate by drawing more specific ontological boundaries.

What will I tell Clare? Will she connect the pecan-crusted tilapia fillet on her plate to Nemo and Mr. Tilapia, the good daddy fish with his mouth full of baby fish eggs? Or will there be an obvious and distinct ontological boundary provided, courtesy of the rounded edge of her plate--separating food from the rest of the natural world--to prevent her from making that connection?

The truth is, "there is no way to eat and not to kill, no way to eat and not to become-with other mortal beings to whom we are accountable, no way to pretend innocence or transcendence or a final peace" (D. Haraway, When Species Meet, 295). But this admission is no blank check, as if by acknowledging that we live via the practice of consuming our others, we put ourselves beyond redemption and therefore accountability. It matters how we eat, by what lives and in what we ways we sustain ourselves. Recognizing that the category of "food" overlaps with the categories of other creatures with whom we have relationship (acknowledged or not, functional or dysfunctional, personal or not, sustainable or unsustainable) is part of what it must mean to well, and not blindly. Bruce reassures us: "I am a nice shark, not a mindless eatin' machine." We too can at least aspire to be more than mindless eating machines. That fillet in my freezer is a fish: once a living, swimming creature with physical needs and competencies and intents, different from my own, but no less vital from the fish's point of view. Perhaps that fish once carried his baby fish eggs in his mouth, like Mr. Tilapia of Eric Carle's story. If Clare can make that connection, how can I deny it? Certainly not without distorting reality for the sake of maintaining a false purity of boundaries in pursuit of the innocence Donna Haraway assures me does not exist--and which, in the end, if she learns anything from me, she will dismantle as an adult. Maybe it's too difficult a truth for a toddler to understand, that killing and eating cannot be hygienically separated...and yet, Nemo's mommy gets eaten, as do all his siblings, at the very beginning of that Disney narrative; and Bruce the Shark's mantra is bookended by Nigel the pelican's dry comment, "Fish gotta swim, birds gotta eat."

a note from The Wife

hi hon,

don't forget 1) eggs and 2) milk and the dry cleaning.

maybe pick up some italian for dinner tonight?

and a bottle of wine while you're at it (hint)

Oh, and BTW,
STOP USING ME AS YOUR ALL-PURPOSE EXCUSE FOR VIOLENT BEHAVIOR ALL THE TIME!

love you, kiss kiss
The Wife

A Time to Embrace: a quick & dirty review

In keeping with the non-demanding nature of this blog, I am not intending this to be an academic-level sort of review. I'm sure that there will be plenty of those in the proper venues and if you want them you can go find them. No one made me read this book, and no one's making me review it either, and this is my blog, and all that means is, I can do this in whatever way I want.

I read this book because 1) Dr. Johnson is on my dissertation committee, and 2) it's about gays and the church. Although the book seems to be mainly directed toward a "mainline" denominational audience, and perhaps even more specifically, Presbyterians, I found that Dr. Johnson met his goal in making it useful for other possible church audiences as well. What I really mean by that is that I think CofCer's should read this book, and sadly, since our religious reading seems limited to Max Lucado and pop Christian stuff from God knows where, most CofCer's will never know this book even exists. Which of course would be the real reason I'm talking about it here. Hopefully the small handful of readers that I like to believe is out there (a fond dream aided and abetted by the free services of statcounter.com) will be intrigued enough to click here and get a copy.

And so, on to the reviewing.

First, it's a sort of dauntingly thorough task that Johnson sets himself. Not only does he want to speak broadly enough in a religious sense for his analysis to be useful cross-denominationally, but the subtitle is, "Same-Gender Relationships in Religion, Law, and Politics," clueing us in that not only is he tackling the theological and ecclesial issues, but the broader societal issues of gay marriage vs. civil unions, etc., as well. He can do this because in another life, apparently, he used to be a lawyer. Thus the book consists of two parts: Part One, Religion, and Part Two, Law and Politics. While I found Part Two extremely informative and clarifying in a number of important ways, I will be concentrating on Part One in what follows.

Johnson is admirably straightforward about his own convictions, stating on page 3 of the introduction, "I argue that same-gender unions should be consecrated within our religious communities, validated within our legal systems, and welcomed within the framework of our democratic polity." (Those of you who disagree, I dare you to stop reading now. It won't make you more pure or righteous. It just makes you closed-minded.) Of course, anyone daring to write about an issue which is currently threatening not only the ecclesial unity of various denominations (Episcopal, Methodist, Presbyterians, you name it) but also (as Johnson argues) the democratic fabric of our nation, should go ahead and say up front where they stand. But what makes this particularly admirable from Johnson is that he accomplishes successfully the goal he sets for himself: "Even though the stance I take here is one of advocacy for gay couples, I try to positively engage people from across the spectrum."

In fact, one of the most important contributions of the book, IMO, is that he provides a seven-fold typology of current theological stances regarding same-gender relationships, offering not only a practical way of breaking down the harmful either-or, pro- or anti-, rhetoric of the heated (non)discussion now current, but a fair description of each stance, written in a way in which proponents of each category will easily recognize themselves. This kind of respect for the integrity of each stance is invaluable in a contentious debate where demonization and caricature are the rule of the day. Personally, I was able not only to say, "hey, that's me," but "hey, there's Brent," and "hey, there's my dad," and "hey, there's Mom." (And need I add that we were all different categories? Indeed.)

Johnson's seven theological stances are as follows (my paraphrase, based on the descriptions found on pages 40 and 108):

1. prohibition: same-gender attraction is a perversion; repentance of gay identity and behavior necessary; solution=return to heterosexuality
2. toleration: same-gender orientatation is a tragic burden; repentance of gay behavior, "hate the sin, love the sinner"; solution=acceptance of the necessity of life-long celibacy
3. accommodation: same-gender attraction is tragic burden but like all fallen states open to traces of God's grace; gay and lesbian relationships may be "disobedient in form" but "obedient in substance" if monogamous; solution=encourage gay monogamy as lesser of evils & believe nothing is beyond God's redemptive reach
4. legitimation: same-gender attraction is no worse than any other sinful condition; gays/lesbians' status in the church therefore no different from any other person; solution=equal treatment, including possibility of ordination
5. celebration: same-gender attraction is an essential quality of gay personhood; gays/lesbians should recognize the goodness of their sexuality; solution=repent of internalization of societal homophobia
6. liberation: same-gender attraction, like human sexuality in general, is socially constructed; the binary categories male or female are oppressive in multiple ways; solution=acknowledge the complexity of human sexuality
7. consecration: human sexuality, including same-gender attraction, is ambiguous; sin is not located in orientation or single behaviors, but in the overall ordering of one's relationships; solution=consecrate human sexuality through the context of marriage

In reading the book I resonated most strongly with Johnson's description of the liberationist stance, although I am in agreement with his conclusions on the desirability of the church's consecration of gay relationships. But what I found even more helpful than having a handy label for myself is that I could trace the evolution of my theological thinking on this topic through the categories listed.

Johnson approaches the task of Part One from a theological framework of "the three-part story [of God's relationship to the world] of creation, reconciliation, and redemption" (41). This three-part story provides the analytic framework for examining each of the seven theological viewpoints identified. What is most helpful about this strategy is that it brings to light the differences in theological emphasis between the seven viewpoints: some emphasize creation as the theological locus, others reconciliation or redemption. These differences generally remain implicit or go completely unrecognized during the heat of theological battle, but they are fundamentally significant in that they constitute the reason why 1) everyone is talking past each other, and 2) people can disagree vehemently without either party being necessarily "unfaithful."

Of more interest to the CofC reader, perhaps, will be that Johnson does engage the biblical text thoroughly and knowledgeably, and even provides a separate index for scripture references (326-330). Of course, most CofC readers will disagree with Johnson's biblical hermeneutic, making this an exercise in listening to the voice of the Other for the CofC audience--all the more reason to read it, say I.

Finally, Johnson offers a theological definition of marriage as a "means of grace" which provides the proper context for three basic human needs: companionship, commitment, and community (110). Despite the fact that they all begin with C, these are not arbitrary choices fueled by a predestined conclusion; rather, Johnson spends a great deal of time in the biblical text (Genesis, Leviticus, Song of Songs, parts of Pauline corpus, to name a few), demonstrating how these aspects of human life are acknowledged and provided for by God. Finding that marriage is ultimately about transformation, Johnson concludes that marriage is not "an order of creation," but an "order of redemption" (153); and thus the search for a suitable companion is one defined by this ultimate purpose of redemptive transformation. This means that the suitable companion for a gay person is a gay partner: one who can fulfill the redemptive aspect of relationship within the committed context of marriage. Such a relationship requires and deserves the recognition of the community, and this forms the basis of Johnson's advocacy of the consecrationist position. He is then able to say, in all seriousness, that the consecrationist position he advocates is quite as theologically conservative as is the prohibitionist position, in that it upholds the Christian view of marriage without compromise.

What little criticism I have to offer is this: in his conclusion, Johnson notes, "The main argument made against gay couples is that their love violates certain biblical prohibitions...By and large, these biblical prohibitions were directed at protecting male gender identity in a world in which male superiority over women was sacrosanct; thus they are ill-suited to guide moral or political action in the present day" (225). Do I disagree with this? Not at all--I think he's right on. But what this statement misses, which I find glaringly obvious, is that most Christians who read the biblical prohibitions in Leviticus as universally binding also read the prohibitions in 1 Tim 2:12 as universally binding...and thus Johnson's easy assumption that all will agree that "male superiority over women" is a principle "ill-suited to guide moral action" is not warranted in all contexts--and specifically, not something which can be so blithely assumed in a Church of Christ context.

Why should you bother reading it? Especially if you know that you disagree with the conclusions Johnson tells you at the outset that he's reached? Because even if you disagree, you will recognize your own stance in this book, treated respectfully and engaged with honestly. In return, you will have the chance to learn about what other people might possibly think about gays and why they think the way they do. At the end, if nothing you've read has changed your mind, you will at least have some better understanding of why your neighbor, your daughter, your gay cousin, your non-CofC friend or that lone liberal (or conservative) elder who disagrees with you. And that can only be a gain, for everyone.

commenting on the weather

In American culture, commenting on the weather is basically meaningless conversation. It's not about the content--it's about the motivation: phatic communication, in which the only purpose is to demonstrate a willingness to talk, a openness to communication, a desire to be friendly and polite. It could be about anything, and because of that, it's really not about anything at all. Hence, the weather. Locally, it's been, "thank God it's finally spring!" as the initiation for every casual conversation. (Except in CRW, where it's "when the hell will they turn on the AC?")

Of course this is all very normal. In fact, it's the only instance I can think of in which American culture and Chinese culture completely coincide, the phatic function of commenting on the weather.

But why? Why is it that talk of the weather is always actually talk of something else? Why isn't commenting on the weather really about the weather? I suspect that it's because we're fish-in-the-water, so to speak, in our open air ocean, swimming along oblivious to that which envelops us, sustains us, comfortably and unfailingly and unobtrusively.

This is my conjecture about why (some) people don't believe in global warming. Like fish in the water, it's hard to think about how the elements that sustain our lives could somehow go wrong, fail us, not be there for us, because they always have been there and we've never had to think about them before. Weather is supposed to be the backdrop for real life, and backdrops are supposed to be unnoticed. So now, we've got smart people who've spent years studying something minutely and in detail that most of us only comment on in order to get some small talk going, telling us that we've got to stop taking some things for granted; and we don't want to listen because it means recognizing that security is an illusion and the future is not guaranteed.

A couple nights ago, I had a horrible dream about the end of the world. The world was drowning because the ice caps had melted and no one had ever done anything about global warming. We all knew about it. As we were all drowning, floating past one another and losing each other in the huge Noah's flood sans Noah, we all shouted mournfully to each other, "global warming..." It sounds silly, but I woke up shaken, because Clare was in this dream, and in the dream, we were all going to die. There was nowhere safe. Now, I know that I had this dream because I read Kim Stanley Robinson's Forty Signs of Rain. Not "typical" SF (that is to say, not futuristic), but written with the same clarity and coherence of the Mars trilogy and with the same brisk and effective characterization. What's frightening about the novel is that it's not apocalyptic. Robinson sets the novel in an ever-shifting present and it reads like it's describing tomorrow--a future so present that it's in fact now. And it's about the daily grind: the lab work of scientists hard at work on biotech because that's what gets funded, the reality of daily political compromises, the inevitable failure of well-intentioned people to persuade others that they're right. And at the end of the novel, a storm hits DC with devestating impact reminiscent of Katrina...and Robinson published in 2004. Reading Forty Signs a couple days after reading Feminarian's posts on New Orleans, the prophetic quality of Robinson's scenario struck me with the kind of sick force that only gets worked out in a nightmare, because we can't bear to realize the precariousness of existence directly.

I think this is particularly hard for Christians because our belief in a loving, benevolent, providential God somehow translates into an inability to acknowledge that life is precarious. That through human effort it can become more so--or less so. God functions as a guarantee that these things that are too huge and horrible to contemplate or imagine just won't happen. God is good, and he is the Guarantor against Global Warming. Well, that's just crap. Look around. Shit happens all the time.

So, the point is, we have to stop giving in to the impulse to bury our heads in the sand like some kind of chicken ostrich (for those of you who haven't read it, that's an allusion to a particularly charming mixed metaphor from the novel), simply because it's more comfy not to pay any attention to all the really smart people who's spent years trying to determine if there's really a problem. They're telling us that there is. It's not a conspiracy. Why would we even suspect that it was? What would be the point? When people studying rivers in the NE and people studying penguin populations in Antarctica come to a convergence of conclusions with regard to climate shift, it's not because they've been exchanging emails containing collegial hints at how to hoax the public. Give me a break. You get in an airplane and let some anonymous pilot take your life into his hands, and you trust him; why don't you extend the same epistemic courtesy to these people?

Objections I've heard that sound plausible--sure, we've only been keeping records for a fraction of the time that we need to study in order to detect "for sure" patterns of climate change. Well, too bad Mr. Australopithicus had survival on his mind and didn't bother with commenting on the weather for posterity. But my point about epistemic humility holds here. Why would I--an expert in one small corner of academia--take it on myself to judge the interpretation of data in a field unfamiliar to me? Why wouldn't I instead trust people who've spent years training themselves to do just that? I couldn't even interpret my own ultrasound, for crying out loud!

All right, this started out a really reasonable post with a faint promise of becoming a nicely structured essay and devolved into sheer ranting. It must be the heat. But trust me, that's not really a comment on the weather.

on being savonarola

So, the Wild at Heart discussion over at KB's blog, and the related discussion here, prompt me to wonder--not about societally assigned gender roles, really, since I've been reading other stimulating material lately on that topic--but about the ethics of the disposal of books.

See, I own a lot of books. I also married into a lot of books. A lot plus a lot, is, well, a whole lot. So many that Clare's first word, and I assure you that now she most definitely means it, is "book." BooKKKK. Booooooooook! Book-ook. B-gook. Book!

Our books are important to us. They are for work and for play and for comfort and for personal betterment. They are advisors, friends, lullabies, nostalgia. But lurking among their ranks are traitors: books from the past which betray my former self, back before I started, you know, thinking about stuff. Shameful books. False friends and bad advisors. Books that keep me awake at night and remind me of aspects of my past I'd rather forget.

Brent used to turn the spines backwards on books he preferred to pretend weren't infiltrating our bookshelves (oddly, he has the same habit with old evangelical T-shirts; he still wears them--but inside out). Now, quite a lot of our books are boxed and in storage (displaced by the small but disproportionately powerful presence of Clare). Most of the shameful titles are therefore now safely tucked away out of sight in the perpetually damp storage space provided for use--at the tenant's own risk--in the basement: Book Hell. Our multiple copies of James Dobson's marriage book, all wedding gifts, are down there. Transforming Your Workplace for Christ--a random title I picked up at an estate sale for use as a resource of example text for a Christianity in Culture final exam a couple years ago, is down there. The Purpose-Driven Life, and workbook, are down there. Who Stole Feminism, which I wrote a book review of my first semester at Harding, is down there...back before I was a feminist.

I'd like to get rid of these books, I think. But how?

There's a dilemma in getting rid of the traitorous books of one's shameful past. What, exactly, can you do with them? You can't give them away to people you know--unless you want to try explaining 1) why you no longer want to be associated with that book and 2) why you think it's just perfect for them... Perhaps, then, you can sell it: at the annual PTS book sale, enormous and anonymous, or half.com. But then you think, wait. How can it be okay to give away a harmful book? And even worse, to make someone pay you for that harmful book?

Of course, there's always the bonfire option. But Fahrenheit 451 is not on my list of traitorous books.

big feet

I've heard about this quiz before but never bothered to take till now. Find out how big my ecological feet are...and yours too.