Anthropomorphism: The Human Lens
Anthropomorphism: The Human Lens
By Jenica Amalita
The other day, a sparrow spoke to me. It gracefully flitted to perch on my window’s grill. It tried penetrating the glass, looking at me watching it. When it found itself unable to enter my room, it began hopping about, trying to coax my surrender. Right before I gave in, though, it gave up and flew off after casting a reproachful glance my way.
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Anthropomorphism is the ascription of human characteristics to animals or deities. A speaking bear, a singing horse, a whistling wind, a nurturing tree, an angry goldfinch, and a narcissistic beetle are all anthropomorphized. This isn’t to say that a bear can’t speak; a bear simply doesn’t speak the way a human would. And that isn’t to say that a goldfinch might not get angry; there is every possibility it can. The only impossibility is the human’s ability to completely understand an animal, reptile, bird, or any organism found in the natural uncivilized world.
What separates the human from the bestial and the natural is our ability to make meaning, our tendency to suppress instinct in favor of perceived rationality, our need to remain individual while being integrated into a community, our desire to constantly innovate, and our bend—conscious or unconscious—toward consuming knowledge in every possible form. Understanding what ‘human’ is depends entirely on what it isn’t. This is where anthropomorphism steps in.
Anthropomorphism allows us to contrast our way of life with those of other life forms to understand both what makes us human and what makes them animal, plant, or force of nature. While typically popular in fantasy, children’s literature, and speculative fiction, anthropomorphism is entrenched in our everyday lives to the extent that we no longer recognize it. Without realizing it, many of our actions—from dressing up a pet and calling a bird smart for imitating human speech, to naming plants and criticizing the weather—are all anthropomorphic responses.
Often misconstrued as empathy or imagination, anthropomorphism is a method through which humans learn to understand themselves in relation to their immediate surroundings. While it comes with the benefit of people becoming more sensitized to the natural world—learning to respect other species, trying to preserve forests and wildlife, or developing an ecocentric attitude—anthropomorphism prioritizes the human view. Even ecocentrism, which advocates that humans are only a component of an overarching ecological complexity, is simply a shift from keeping humans separate to placing them within the environment.
Anthropomorphism, in ascribing human values to nonhuman entities, establishes a humaneness by which other organisms are not bound, even though everything that makes us human is a result of our species-centric characteristics. Through anthropomorphism, we impose these characteristics on other lifeforms, expecting them to conform to our expectations. While the action can be light and fun, it brings about a very important question: why are humans justified in their attempts to suppress the instinctual behavior of other species for their own gratification?
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The other day, a sparrow perched on the grill of my window. Being able to see through the glass into my room, it tried entering my quarters. Noticing my presence, it hopped about the grill, looking for ways to penetrate the invisible wall. When it found no way in, it flew away.
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Anthropomorphism changes how a story is told. Anything that explains who we are and how we function piques our human interest, but it is also what becomes detrimental to those who fall outside its limits.
When we think of a fox, we may think of it in scientific terms or culture-specific anthropomorphized terms. Scientifically, a fox can be described for its ecological value—its physical features, such as color of fur and size, the regions it usually occupies, or its position in the food pyramid. Anthropomorphically, a fox can be seen as sly, manipulative, and selfish, or as wise, friendly, and adaptable. If a fox were to be asked, however, there is a possibility it would disagree with our perceptions of it.
When the world lacked modern scientific techniques to characterize the natural world, anthropomorphism helped establish boundaries between human and non-human. It also helped define human interactions: anthropomorphism sought to aid humans in making objective and rational choices in light of various inhuman vices that could corrupt the human sense. Because nature was deemed lesser than humans, it argued that storytellers could use examples of nature to ensure humans gain wisdom to navigate their complex social sphere.
With the advent of science and ecological awareness, new ways of categorizing the natural world required anthropomorphism to evolve to remain relevant. Anthropomorphism now serves to ensure humans don’t lose touch with the natural world, while also ensuring the knowledge we procure helps us continue to dominate it.
Anthropomorphism is useful to the extent that we rely on it to bridge the gap between us and others and to see other forms of life as valuable and unique. However, it may result in the continued imposition of human standards on forms that are biologically unequipped to live that way. It can also further a fantastical view that the natural world will voluntarily subject itself to the human way of life. Every aspect of its existence is regulated by humans. Nature’s freedom to roam wild is restricted to the territory that humans deem wild. A tree is allowed to grow as much as it wants, provided the human is given the right to trim its crown.
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The other day, a sparrow saw my window’s grill and perched on it. Hearing the flutter of wings, I pulled aside the curtains and saw it looking at me. I was afraid the sudden change in scenery would startle the bird, but it only peered closer. It tried coming into the room and moved its head from side to side when it found it couldn’t. I watched, curious, wanting to let it in, but also afraid that it wouldn’t be able to survive in the wild if I domesticated it. It hopped about the grill, looking at me the entire time. After a few seconds, it flew away. But I continued watching the empty air, wondering what would have happened if I had let the sparrow in.
