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Brandon Kerfoot
Dr. David Clark
English 767
1 December 2009
Dethroning Human Drag:
The Limits of Performative Humanity and Animality
“Identity categories,” writes Judith Bulter in the introduction to “Imitation and Gender
Insubordination,” “tend to be instruments of regulatory regimes” (1514). Exposing gender as a
naturalized performance, Butler cautions her readers against accepting identity categories as
natural extensions of a given body. Animal rights activists and animal studies theorists navigate
similar terrain when they question why we humans are so eager to differentiate ourselves,
uncritically, from our non-human neighbours. Perhaps humanity itself—or at any rate,
humanity’s presumed superiority over animals—is a naturalized performance of its own kind.
Though Butler chooses to concentrate her writing on the human identity categories of male and
female, homosexual and heterosexual, I aim to expand her theories of performativity to include
“the human” and “the animal.” I do not refer here to the physical capacities of an animal or to
Homo sapiens as a biological species; rather, I refer to the drive to declare the thing we too
quickly call “the human” to be supreme among all living and non-living entities by virtue of its
inherent qualities. For if identity categories are indeed, as Butler suggests, instruments of
regulatory regimes, then who (or what) are we regulating? And how do we reconcile this regime
with the glaring contradiction of declaring human superiority over the non-human world while
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inviting pets into our homes and, in some cases, into our families? I aim to show that what we
call “the human” is an anxious performance that naturalizes humanity’s throne atop a hierarchy
of living creatures and that interaction with companion species, which I define as those animals
(almost exclusively pets) with whom humans form intimate relationships and whom humans
paradoxically value above other non-human life, expose the site where this performance begins
to stall.
Challenging the assumption that drag imitates the gender that is proper to the sex opposite
a drag performer, Butler argues that drag “constitutes the mundane way in which genders are
appropriated, theatricalised, worn, and done; it implies that all gendering is a kind of
impersonation and approximation” (1520). The drag performance, then, makes overt the subtle
performances that gendered individuals repeat daily. And if all gender is performed, then there is
no gender that drag imitates; rather, gender is an imitation for which there is no original—it is
perpetually in the process of imitating its own idealized self (1520). The panic of this
performance demonstrates the fragility of identity categories, for if one must incessantly imitate
and perform one’s own identity then that is to say that one recognizes that his or her identity is
always at risk of becoming undone (1521). Yet this performance, Butler maintains, is not
something that one elects to do or that one does knowingly; nevertheless, it is performative in
that it “constitutes as an effect the very subject it appears to express” (1521).
The human, then, may also be an identity category for which there is no original. Again,
my focus here is not on the qualities inherent to bodies; I do not deny that Homo sapiens denotes
a species with its own unique attributes. I do, however, deny that “the human” is natural to Homo
sapiens. Alexandra, a character in Paola Cavalieri’s “The Death of the Animal: A Dialogue on
Perfectionism,” refers to self-consciousness, rationality, and conceptual-linguistic abilities as the
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favoured elements that grant a being admission into “the circle of moral agents” by perfectionists
(14-5). The combination of these three qualities, so far as our observation of other species have
led us to conclude, are characteristics exclusive to Homo sapiens; why is it that they are also the
criteria by which we decide who is morally considerable? Paolo’s text voices an objection to this
arbitrary link. She articulates, through Alexandra, that perfectionism maintains that there exists a
hierarchy in moral status and that beings deserve moral consideration correlating to their degree
of self-consciousness (3). The animal lies at the bottom of this hierarchy as a negative term of
comparison: Theo, Alexandra’s companion, notes that “in our philosophical tradition, the notion
of animality seems to have been created just to serve the metaphysical primacy of human beings”
(3). The human-animal divide, according to Theo, is not the result of humanity’s superior moral
status, but rather humans reiterate the division as a means to claim superior moral standing in the
first place. In the same way that gender imitates its own regulatory ideal to legitimate itself as
proper to a given body, so Homo sapiens must imitate its own idealized qualities—selfconsciousness, rationality, and conceptual-linguistic abilities—to naturalize its superior moral
status as human.
I cannot claim, though, that this human performance exactly duplicates Butler’s theory of
gender performativity, for gender is easily identified by a series of performed markers whereas
humanity draws on the characteristics proper to its body. Female gender, for example, may be
performed by certain styles of clothing (dresses, jewellery, and make-up) and other similarly
feminized traits. While typically somebody with a woman’s body performs this female gender,
such female gender markers are not proper to a woman’s body. The human performance that I
forward, however, draws on self-consciousness, rationality, and conceptual-linguistic abilities—
traits that I have admitted above derive from a human body. My argument that these traits are
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performative, insofar as performative refers to acts that constitute themselves as the effect of the
subject that they create, draw on what Elizabeth Costello calls the “therefore” logic of animal
ethics. J.M. Coetzee’s The Lives of Animals presents Costello, a fiction writer who speaks against
eating animals in a series of lectures and dinner conversations. She is troubled by the line of
logic that takes an observation about the differences between human and animals and derives a
causal, ethical relationship based on this observation: “they [animals] have no consciousness
therefore. Therefore what? Therefore we are free to use them for our own ends? Therefore we
are free to kill them? What is so special about the form of consciousness we recognize that
makes killing the bearer of it a crime while killing an animal goes unpunished?” (44). What is so
special about this form of consciousness, to wager a response to Costello’s question, is that it is
the ideal that humans constantly perform to distinguish themselves from non-human life. Though
consciousness is indeed a quality specific to our human bodies, our constant need to anxiously
highlight this attribute as a means to declare superiority over other living beings illustrates that
we humans know that we have no intrinsic claim to a position of moral superiority.
Costello points to experiments that purport to gage the capacity of non-humans to think
and reason to illustrate that we guard our access to perfectionist (human) traits by denying that
non-human life may share them. Drawing on psychologist Wolfgang Köhler’s The Mentality of
Apes, Costello provides a reading of the test meant to measure Sultan’s (the ape under study)
mental capacity. Köhler keeps Sultan alone in a pen and deprives him of the food that, until now,
has been provided for him. He then suspends a bunch of bananas over the pen three feet above
ground level and places three wooden crates into the pen. The test is to see how Sultan will think.
Costello says,
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But what must one think? One thinks: Why is he starving me? One thinks: What have I
done? Why has he stopped liking me? One thinks: Why does he not want these crates any
more? But none of these is the right thought [...] The right though to think is: How does
one use the crates to reach the bananas? (28).
Costello’s reading reveals that Köhler restricts his experiments to measuring Sultan’s
instrumental thinking. While Sultan may be thinking with so-called human-level consciousness,
this experiment has no way to measure—indeed, to perceive—such thinking; thus this
experiment pushes Sultan to “think the less interesting thought” (29). Costello’s reading supports
Theo’s observation that animality exists to support the primacy of human beings. If humanity’s
moral superiority derives from superior cognitive ability, then Köhler’s experiment supports this
superiority by denying such abilities to the animals he studies: his experiment merely
rearticulates the prior assumption that animal cognitive ability falls in the shadow of humanity’s.
Yet this rearticulation only highlights the fragility of humanity’s assumed moral superiority, for
Butler writes that defending homosexuality as origin depends on the notion of homosexuality as
a failed copy: there is no need to define heterosexuality as such except in the face of
homosexuality (1520). Similarly, I draw on Köhler’s experiment to show that performative
humanity depends on a notion of the animal as irrational, without self-consciousness, and
without conceptual-linguistic ability. That is to say, humanity’s self-proclaimed moral status
relies not only on human performance, but on a performance of animality projected onto animals.
While Köhler’s experiment highlights the projected performativity of animality, I turn to
an instance in which animality is knowingly and wilfully performed to emphasize how it reveals
the performativity of humanity. In her meditation on The Lives of Animals, included in the text
under “Reflections,” Barbara Smuts, psychologist and anthropologist, notes that none of the
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characters mention a personal encounter with an animal (107). Smuts seeks to remedy this
exclusion by meditating on her interaction with baboons while studying them in central Africa.
Striving to comprehend baboon social etiquette, she attempts to naturalize the baboons to her
presence as a detached observer, but the baboons insist on interacting with her as a social being
(109-10). Understanding that she would be unable to study baboon social behaviour with this
detached methodology, Smuts explores the possibility of human-baboon intersubjectivity. She
writes, “Through trial and embarrassing error, I gradually mastered at least the rudiments of
baboon propriety. I learned much through observation, but the deepest lessons came from when I
found myself sharing the being of a baboon because other baboons were treating me like one”
(110). Smuts learns to interact socially with baboons only after setting aside her predisposition
for scientific detachment; that is, only by suspending the presumed significance of the difference
in rational and perceptual-linguistic abilities between her and the baboons she studies does she
begin to interact with baboons and understand their social behaviour. My purpose with this
example is not to suggest that baboons and humans share the same cognitive abilities and
capacity for communication, but rather to show that Smuts removes the “therefore” from her
interaction with non-human life and replaces it with a “but.” The supposition “humans have
superior cognitive abilities therefore this creature cannot interact meaningfully with me”
becomes “baboons and humans have different capacities and customs, but I can still find a way
to communicate with them by opening myself up to their modes of communication.”
What interests me most about Smut’s interaction with baboons is that she explicitly
performs a baboon-ness to “pass” among the troop. She learns, for example, that if she holds her
ground but turns her face away from a male baboon who charges her with his teeth bared, the
attacker will stop short of assaulting her (110). This moment corresponds with Butler’s
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discussion of drag as an imitation of a gender that has no origin. Smuts communicates with
baboons by imitating their gestures, thus demonstrating that communication itself is more the
result of a series of performances than an expression of species’ inherent perceptual-linguistic
abilities. While certainly there exist different levels of linguistic capacity among different forms
of life—humans, for example, use a verbal communication system with the potential to expand
its vocabulary whereas baboons, so far as we can tell, have a finite series of gestures with which
to communicate—Smuts is able to bridge the gap that human performativity is so careful to
maintain. By performing baboon drag, Smuts reveals the performativity of human speech and
baboon muteness. The assumption that humans are rational and can speak and are therefore more
worthy of moral consideration crumbles when Smuts reveals that baboons also communicate
their needs and desires to one another; moreover, her experience indicates that she, a human
being, has the capacity to communicate with another species by suspending the notion that
interspecies communication is impossible and by learning baboon communicative performance
rather than expecting them to adopt hers. By successfully communicating (if nothing else, to a
basic extent) with non-human life, Smuts reveals that the muteness of animals is a notion that
humans project onto animals rather than an expression of their limited capacity.
The projected performativity of animality as mute, therefore, forces us to examine our
treatment and understanding of animals to understand where human and animal performativity
takes place and where it stalls. Alice A. Kuzniar, in Melancholia’s Dog, suggests that “it is not
the dog who cannot speak and must learn our language (sit, down, stay), but we who cannot
speak properly about it” (2). It is in this moment, when a human begins to question the species
divide, that performativity of humanity and of animality gets stage fright. Kuzniar’s project maps
the melancholic desire in art and in literature to cross the species barrier and become closer with
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an animal (11). She suggests that this desire to traverse the species divide marks a coming into
oneself through a “private, deep-seated familiarity, co-situatedness, or what I like to call
intimacy” (110). This self-exploration requires that one opens up oneself to life with a different
species, a process that recognizes a pet as separate from oneself yet, through mutual closeness,
also a part of oneself (110-11). Extimacy, the term Kuzniar coins to describe this closeness,
refers to “that which is exterior to one yet intimately proximate” (8). Kuzniar’s discussion of the
melancholic desire to become close to an animal correlates with a desire to suspend human and
animal performance and engage with an animal on more candid terms. While there still exists a
divide in communicative possibilities between different species, one’s willingness to engage
intimately with a member of another species presupposes that one refrains from highlighting
one’s own perfectionist capacity as a means to create a hierarchical division between oneself and
an animal. Likewise, interspecies intimacy requires that one abstain from assuming immediately
that an animal is incapable of forming this intimate bond with a human. This intimacy takes
place, according to Kuzniar, in the interpersonal space created when “the animal, acknowledged
as a separate subject, looks back and addresses itself to the human subject” (125). That is to say,
human and animal performance fails when we engage in intersubjective interaction with an
animal.
Intersubjective interaction with another species occurs when one interacts daily with what I
have above defined as a companion species. A perfectionist hierarchy depends on a projective
performance of animality in the abstract, and this performance reveals itself as contrived when
one opens up oneself to engagement with an individual of another species. Smuts, who I have
argued exposes the performativity of “the human” and “the animal” with baboon drag, comes to
recognize each of the one hundred forty baboon in the troop as an individual: “each one had a
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particular gait, which allowed me to know who was who, even from a great distance when I
couldn’t see anyone’s face” (111). Her choice of the phrases “who was who” and “anyone’s
face” are particularly telling in that they refer to baboons as human subjects. Strictly speaking, it
is grammatically correct to refer to humans as “who” and animals (and objects) as “that.”
Likewise, the word “anyone” is reserved for subjects (read human subjects) over objects (things).
She also grants the baboons a face, the site of expression and identification in human subjects.
Smuts willingness—perhaps eagerness—to describe the individual baboons in the troop with a
vocabulary reserved for humans illustrates her desire to move beyond the restrictions placed on
human-animal interaction by the human performativity that so anxiously separates the two
groups. And while she describes this interaction as a “joyful intersubjectivity that transcends
species boundaries” (114), I would suggest that her joyful intersubjectivity does not transcend
species boundaries so much as expose the boundary as a performative ideal that does not hold in
real interaction between individuals.
While most humans do not enter into an intersubjective relationship with non-humans by
joining a baboon troop and adapting to a baboon social structure, many humans invite nonhumans into their homes and families, and they find that quotidian interaction with these
companion species stalls human and animal performativity in much the same fashion. In
“Encounters with Companion Species: Entangling Dogs, Baboons, Philosophers, and
Biologists,” Donna Haraway writes that pairs of companion species must learn to live
intersectionally (101), that interaction with companion species marks an ongoing “becoming
with” the non-human (99). Paralleling Smuts, Haraway syntactically denies a rigid boundary
separating humans from non-humans when she opens the essay by referring to interaction with
Smuts, her colleague, as an interaction between companion species (99). Interacting with
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companion species, for Haraway, is an interaction in which we consider the vantage point of the
subject with whom we interact; in the case of pets, to interact responsibly with a companion
animal is to wonder what our pet might be doing or thinking (103). The point is not only to
recognize that a pet may have his or her own perspective, but to risk intersecting our perspective
with his or hers (104). Smuts risks this intersecting gaze, according to Haraway, when she adapts
her behaviour from distanced scientific observer to social subject to engage with the troop of
baboons on its own terms (109). Haraway writes, “To knot companion and species together in
encounter, in regard and respect, is to enter the world of becoming with, where, who, and what
are, are precisely what are at stake” (102). To consider an individual of another species a
companion is to enter a terrain in which our identity as human subjects is at stake, for one cannot
maintain a perfectionist moral claim that disregards an animal’s moral status while at the same
time constructing an intimate relationship with a companion animal. To maintain the relationship
with companion species that Smuts and Haraway forward or to acknowledge and explore the
melancholic desire to become extimate with a member of another species presupposes the
suspension of human and animal performativity.
The suspension of performativity takes place in the particularity of interaction with an
individual of another species; it depends on immediate interaction rather than on abstract notions
of “the animal.” Kennan Ferguson explores the privileged moral position of dogs in “I ♥ My
Dog.” He opens his essay by wondering why some humans are willing to devote considerable
amounts of money and time to a surgical procedure for their pet dogs when the same amount of
money and time applied elsewhere could help humans in third world and/or war-torn countries
(373). If we take seriously the perfectionist claim that humans are more morally considerable
than animals, then there should be no question that we ought to dedicate our resources to helping
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humans rather than dogs, yet humans continue to grant expensive surgeries to their pets (not to
mention the wealth of animal toys and accessories found in pet stores). This phenomenon,
Ferguson maintains, does not indicate that pet owners value the abstract animal above the
abstract human; rather, they value the individual animal over the abstract human (379). Love for
a pet, then, allows a pet owner to choose an individual companion over a distant human (391).
Ferguson’s distinction between proximate and abstract life reveals the plane where
performativity of humanity and animality take place and where it fails. While an overinflated
value of performative perfectionism may allow humans to maintain moral superiority over the
abstract animal, observing intersubjective interaction between individual humans and individual
animals illustrates that this hierarchy only holds in the abstract universe. Love for pets, Ferguson
maintains, shows us that communication is not limited to abstract thoughts or human speech but
in fact takes place “across surprising boundaries” (374). That is to say that perfectionist values,
particularly perceptual-linguistic ability, do not successfully restrain real relationships between
humans and animals. Though many may agree that in general, in the abstract, it is morally
preferable to help a human before helping an animal, love for an individual animal renders moot
this performative ideal. Though humans and dogs live in different worlds that cannot fully
communicate themselves to one another on a common linguistic level, the bonds between
humans and dogs—bonds based on caring, companionship, and affect—remain unimpeded
(375).
Yet a distinction between proximate and abstract life does not fully encapsulate the
capacity of companion species to disrupt the performativity of humanity and of animality, for it
does not describe satisfactorily how some species become favoured as companion species
whereas others fall prey to the performative ideal of “the animal.” Scholarship on companion
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species focuses largely on dogs—and certainly this essay continues in that tradition—without
explaining why dogs gain this moral status. Kuzniar declares that she focuses on dogs because
dogs are “the animal with which human has the closest contact” (5), yet this status remains
unsupported. As Costello’s daughter-in-law Norma indicates, “we eat them [animals] [...] we do
mix with them. We ingest them. We turn their flesh into ours” (Coetzee 40). While Kuzniar
clearly refers to closeness in a figurative sense, in the sense that dogs are the species to which
humans have formed the most intimate bond (7), she does not explore how we can
melancholically desire extimacy with a dog whom we recognize as separate from us while
having no desire to connect meaningfully with the animals that literally become a part of us.
Could Kuzniar have written Melancholia’s Cow? Could Smuts have formed an intersubjective
relationship with a flock of chickens? Ferguson’s theory of proximity also leaves gaps, for the
animals that we eat are more proximate to us than any other. If intimacy with companion species
reveals the performativity of humanity and of animality, then how can performativity feed off of
the animals that we mix with our flesh?
Expanding on the Ferguson’s theory of proximate and abstract life, I suggest that our
immediate experience with non-human life informs our abstract concept of different species and
that the difference between the animals that we eat and those with whom we form intimate bonds
derive from our daily interactions with individuals of those species. In The Open: Man and
Animal, Giorgio Agamben explores the Baron Jakob von Uexküll’s concept of Umwelt to
understand the difference between the human and the animal. Uexküll denies the single,
objective world that science claims to study and instead suggests an “infinite variety of
perceptual worlds that, though they are uncommunicating and reciprocally exclusive, are all
equally perfect and linked together as if in a gigantic musical score” (40). Each perceptual world
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comes from a living being’s Umwelt, the “environment-world” composed of the elements of
interest to the being (40). These elements are called a “carriers of significance” and correspond
to perceptual organs on the being’s body; the being therefore navigates its Umwelt through the
interaction between its perceptual organs and its particular carriers of significance (40-1). The
animal, according to Agamben, is “closed” within its circle of disinhibitors, within its set of
carriers of significance (51). Thus, the animal can only come into relation with something insofar
as something affects it: it exists in a state of captivation in which it cannot move beyond its
perceptual world (51-2). In other words, the animal exists only as a series of immediate
interactions with its environment and cannot form abstract conceptions of its environment and of
other living beings. We humans, on the other hand, are able to suspend ourselves from our circle
of disinhibitors and exist in “the open,” where we have a perceptual distance from our
environment and can therefore conceive of it abstractly.
Our abstract notion of the animal conceived in the open, however, derives from our circle
of disinhibitors, from our perceptual interaction with our environment. This, I would suggest, is
why the animals that we eat and that physically mingle with us do not become companion
species with whom we form intimate bonds. Cattle, for example, enter our circle of disinhibitors
at the dinner table, as meat. Our abstract notion of this species is always already formed by our
interaction with it: to think of cattle does not evoke images of cows grazing in “the wild” but of
livestock on farms. The cow as an abstract notion, then, is not a cow at all but rather steak in the
making. A pet dog, on the other hand, enters a pet owner’s circle of disinhibitors when he or she
invites the dog into his or her home and family. This invitation treats the dog as a subject rather
than a meal; the concept of a dog as companion species therefore derives from intersubjective
interaction between humans and dogs. I am aware that this argument is tautological: the steak
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would not be on the table if cattle were not already considered an animal that one eats and the
dog would not be in a human’s home if it were not already considered a companion species. Yet
I risk evoking this tautology because it reveals that our abstract notion of certain species
anticipates our interaction with them. In the language of performativity, this tautology reveals
that what we consider an effect—that we are justified in eating some animals because they have
no consciousness, are irrational, and are mute—is, in fact, a constituted effect of the
performativity of animality as such. That pet-owners will eat beef (without ever having
interacted with the cow) while finding the prospect of eating their dogs morally atrocious reveals
that our performative ideal of an animal as mute, irrational, and without unconsciousness applies
only to those species that we do not encounter as individuals. This performative ideal begins to
fade away when we form intimate relationships with companion species. My point here is not to
suggest that we imbue companion species with a sense of speech, rationality, and consciousness
(though certainly some pet-owners do) but rather that the distinction becomes trivial—the
performative ideal of animality stalls.
If performative animality takes place in the open, where we gain a perceptual distance from
our environment, then that is to way that our concept of animality—and therefore of humanity—
derives from a wilful distance from the world: humanity as a performative ideal can only
maintain itself through a willed ignorance of how individual human-animal relationships develop
and function. Butler warns us that identity categories tend to be instruments of regulatory
regimes; human performativity is no exception. What we regulate here is genuine interaction
with individual non-human life for fear that it will disrupt our throne atop the hierarchy of moral
beings. Yet, as Alexandra reminds us, “we cannot reject sexism and racism while defending
‘speciesism.’ We cannot put nonhumans in an inferior moral category qua nonhumans”
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(Cavalieri 36). A theory of human performativity reveals to us that we do not put non-humans in
an inferior moral category as non-humans, but rather as “animals,” as a performative ideal. Our
conceptual abilities, in this instance, do indeed grant us superior moral standing in that we
conceptualize human and animal ideals as constitutive effects of our performance of them as
such: we perform ourselves as morally superior and then convince ourselves that it derives from
something intrinsic. But, as Costello articulates, we can see through our children that this
conviction is contrived: “children all over the world consort quite naturally with animals. They
don’t see any dividing line. That is something they have to be taught” (Coetzee 61). Perhaps it is
time for a new lesson.
While I consider theories of animal ethics that claim that if one undergoes a series of
prohibitions (do not eat meat, do not wear leather, etc.) then one will engage morally with
animals to underestimate the complexity of the issue, I find that performative theory lends itself
to discussing how we can engage ethically with non-human life. And while I support the
concrete actions that help to ensure ethical treatment of animals, I consider it equally important
to explore how to think ethically about animals. If our conceptualization of “the animal” comes
from a performativity of animality that can be conceived only outside of our interaction with
animals, then we must be prepared to acknowledge and consider the singularity of our
interactions with animals. If we do not hold that companion species are unworthy of moral
consideration, then it seems that we cannot accept a position of moral superiority over the
idealized animal that we have created solely to ensure this outcome. The first step toward
engaging ethically and meaningfully with animals must be to close the curtain on human and
animal performativity.
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Works Cited
Agamben, Giorgio. The Open: Man and Animal. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2002.
Print.
Butler, Judith. “Imitation and Gender Insubordination.” Inside/Out: Lesbian Theories, Gay
Theories. Ed Diana Fuss. New York: Routledge, 1991. 1514-1525. Print.
Cavalieri, Paola. “The Death of the Animal: A Dialogue on Perfectionism.” The Death of the
Animal: A Dialogue. New York: Columbia University Press, 2009. 1-41. Print.
Coetzee, J.M. The Lives of Animals. New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1999. Print.
Ferguson, Kennan. “I ♥ My Dog.” Political Theory. 32.3 (2004): 373-395. Web Access 27 Nov.
2009.
Haraway, Donna. “Encounters with Companion Species: Entangling Dogs, Baboons,
Philosophers, and Biologists.” Configurations. 14.1 (2008): 97-114. Web Access 10 Nov.
2009.
Kuzniar, Alice A. Melancholia’s Dog. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006. Print.
Smuts, Barbara. Reflections. The Lives of Animals. By J.M. Coetzee. New Jersey: Princeton
University Press, 1999. 107-120. Print.