Hostis Humani Generis

These are just some things I've been thinkin on for a while about how I experience my own gender and how it relates to crust punk. Mostly drawing on my experiences being nonbinary and having hyperhidrosis.

Any feedback welcome :)

Femininity can be described as the behavioural and performative component of the cisheteropatriarchal conception of womanhood and it is deeply tied with heterosexuality. It is the unwritten set of rules, behaviours, expectations, and others, which women, and people that are maliciously ore ignorantly misread as women, are expected to conform to in order to correctly be a woman. How we speak, how we dress, how we act, how we carry ourselves; all of these things and more are under constant scrutiny and are policed so that we are, at all times, supposed to be a woman correctly.

It's then the right of those of us who don't sit so comfortably in this stifling box to reject this femininity, and for some, womanhood entirely, and to find as many ways to rebel against it as we can. In a world where our bodies are so closely watched and where ridiculous standards are expected of us, there's relief, joy, and power in being ale to just let our bodies do what they do.

And one of the most upsetting (to cishet and class society_ things our bodies do is smell.

We're bombarded with propaganda every day telling us we need to Smell Good™ at all times in order to be socially accepted. For people cisheteropatriarchal society shoves into the box labelled "woman", it comes with even stronger expectations that we must smell perfect, like roses and lavender, at all times in order to be appealing and sexually available to men.

A few times recently, I’ve run across discussions about animal sex that are wrong in interesting ways.  I don’t want to derail those conversations, and I certainly don’t want to call out anybody in particular, so I’m branching off here- but the most recent one was in the notes about the discovery (original paper) that most alligator sex is between two males.

Anyway, a not-uncommon element of these discussions is for somebody to frame animal homosexuality as ‘confusion’, particularly with simpler animals.  The idea behind this isn’t too tricky: it proposes that the animal’s sexual instinct is functionally oriented towards (or intended for) heterosexual coupling and reproduction, but that the perceptions and processing power of the animal’s brain are too limited to reliably distinguish between the sexes.  As a result, simpler animals of the same sex may occasionally copulate with one another by accident, as one of the failure modes along the way to biological reproduction.

If you are a card-carrying member of the Tumblrati, the word ‘heteronormative’ might well be in your brain already, and fast approaching your tongue.  You might be building an argument about how sexuality has social as well as reproductive functions, that a lack of human imagination doesn’t prevent evolution from building towards homosexuality for its own reasons, and anyway human sociolinguistic concepts are a lousy fit for animal behavior.  These are pretty good arguments, but I’m asking you to pause that line of thought briefly; it’s not where I’m going.

Animals confound us in an interesting way: their agency is without question, but their sapience is limited, and we struggle to imagine ‘what it’s like to be an alligator’ for that reason.  What is it like, after all, to be conscious but not self-aware?  So when we ask ourselves why an animal does what it does, we tend to use evolution as a way to paper over that gap, and say “well, the alligators must be having sex in order to reproduce and succeed as organisms.”  Persistently, in odd and elaborate ways, we make this assumption that animals are themselves pursuing adaptive fitness in a way that’s much more direct than humans do, as if natural selection were a motive for animal behavior and not just an explanation for it.

This is the deeper and more interesting error that I’m trying to chew on.  The ‘mistake’ theory of animal homosexuality assumes that animals are motivated to pursue biological reproduction, not because of what we know about them as individuals or as a species, but because of what we know about the forces that produced them.  This assumption gets silently made in the case of alligator sex in part because we often make this assumption, it’s nearly our default way of thinking about these things.  

I’m very sympathetic to this error!  Biology and especially anatomy is our go-to example of purpose in nature; questions like “what are your lungs for?” have obvious (if surprisingly sophisticated) answers.  Behavioral instincts are a little more complicated, but it’s still kind of the same thing- we can cogently talk about the reasons why we shiver when we’re cold, for example.  And every time we have this conversation, natural selection is looking over our shoulder waggling its eyebrows at us.  This kind of language can be very, very misleading, inviting a slip from “we <are born with an involuntary reflex to> shiver in the cold because it helps us survive,” to “we <agentically prefer or choose to> shiver in the cold because it helps us survive.”  It’s practically designed to trip us up like this.

I think this happened in our language because of the theological fights around evolution in the early days of its discovery.  You know how it was- Darwin, the monkey trials, all that nonsense.  Natural selection accounts for biological diversity and the seeming-purpose of natural forms in a way that requires no conscious designer (or Designer), and so what might have been a purely scientific discovery also ended up blowing a hole in the social and religious functions that that sense of purpose provided- and was called upon, in some ways, to fill that hole again.  Evolution got smooshed into a sort of theological shape, and now we have the sort of culture where the phrase “evolutionary imperative” feels like it makes sense to us instead of being an obvious contradiction in terms.

That theological shape comes back again and again when we try to speak poetically about natural selection, because it’s always lurking very shallowly under the surface.  In these failure modes, we talk about natural selection in almost filial terms, a generative entity that hangs out in a workshop occasionally holding up new animals for our perusal; it’s hiding behind Kipling’s ‘gods of the copybook headings’, NRx’s ‘gnon’, Scott’s ‘Goddess of Cancer,’ and so many others.  I did it a little bit myself, not three paragraphs ago!  I called evolution “a force that produced them,” like it was some sort of creator-deity sculpting gay alligators out of clay.  Like “what evolution wants” is something that a person can talk about…

Metaphors and language are hard, but I’ve been trying to think a lot lately about how to build a story about evolution in my head that doesn’t have this problem.  Something passive, you know?  Something that doesn’t have the property of being a designer, doesn’t tempt us into treating ourselves and the organisms sharing our world as if we were all agents of some Lovecraftian entity.

I’m not entirely satisfied with my answer just yet, but for now, I’m trying to let evolution be a labyrinth.  It’s filled with twisting corridors and strange rooms, dead ends and loops, and terrible, deadly traps.  It’s unfathomably large, and mostly empty- even though trillions and trillions of us have explored this maze, we’ve only really seen a small part of it, and out beyond the edges of our knowledge, there’s still mile after endless mile of quiet, dark corridors that have never known a footfall.  

It’s not a comforting place, and even though we were born here, it’s not really home; it’s not something built for us, or one that’s especially concerned with our wellbeing.  But the thing about this labyrinth is that most of the rooms have prisoners in them, strange and unfamiliar beings held in stasis and waiting for the door to open so they can spring into life and begin their own wandering.  And this is a treasure of a kind, if you want to see it that way; not wooden chests full of gold coins, perhaps, but something new and beautiful all the same.  And if that’s not reason enough to explore the maze, to go out beyond the relative safety of the room you were born in- then, well, there’s always the rumors that there’s a real exit, hidden somewhere among the twisting corridors.

It’s… not bad, I guess?  The metaphor has its uses.  

I think it does a decent job of capturing and illuminating lots of our moral intuitions; bioconservatism (and to a lesser extent, social conservatism) as a refusal to explore the maze, rejecting the insane dangers of exploration and the questionable rewards of the search and instead preferring to stay at home in the room where we were born– still trapped in the labyrinth, but at least alive, at least for a while.  It shadows that position with the correct amount of irony, reminding us that human existence follows from a four-billion-year history of discovery, adaptation, and mutation by nonhuman organisms; it reminds us that the discovery of human beings came at a terrible cost for those who came before us.  And importantly, it allows any given organism to be a thing-in-itself.  Sure, life originates in certain places and certain patterns according to the latent shape of the labyrinth (though my metaphor isn’t very good at describing that shape…), but it’s free to act as it prefers, and live or die by those choices.

My hope, anyway, is that by dwelling on this metaphor, and stepping back from all the talk about creators and purposes and imperatives, you’ll find it easier to see what ought to have been fairly obvious to us: alligators have gay sex because they think the other alligators are sexy, and they want to have sex about it.