<spanclass="bottom">Otherness - <astyle="position: fixed; color:blue;"href ="../">Wor(l)ds</a></span><spanclass="bottom"> For The Future.<br>See </span><ahref="index.html">You, the Others</a><spanclass="bottom"> or go to </span><ahref="indexOG.html">the original Text</a>
Otherness is<br><del>“Everything, beyond me.”</del><br> “Everything, including me.”
</h1>
<p><spanclass="dida">The nouns, stripped of all context, are just nouns. Otherness presumes at least two terms of comparison. What defines the identity of you and others; of all things, both tangible and intangible, are the correlations between these things themselves. Meanwhile, the ensemble of all these connections continues regenerating the reality in which we live. <br><br> Based on these assumptions, our world is shaped by complex patterns of associations between all the things we encounter day-by-day through life experience, which are dependently inter-connected: nature, people, culture, language and knowledge. Holding the Otherness becomes the only possibility to re-imagine a well-balanced future, that would include space both for individual perspective and small-fragmented realities, which, in turn, could be eventually preserved from a ferocious innovation.</span></p>
<p><spanclass="dis">When I was 26, I moved to the Amazon, from California, in </span><spanclass="noun">order</span><spanclass="dis"> to study the </span><spanclass="noun">language</span><spanclass="dis"> and </span><spanclass="noun">culture</span><spanclass="dis"> of a </span><spanclass="noun">people</span><spanclass="dis"> that were believed to be unrelated to any other</span><spanclass="noun">people</span>.<spanclass="dis"> I flew in a small missionary</span><spanclass="noun">plane</span><spanclass="dis"> , a bumpy nausea-inducing</span><spanclass="noun">ride</span><spanclass="dis">, to meet the Pirahã</span><spanclass="noun">people</span><spanclass="dis"> for the first </span><spanclass="noun">time</span><spanclass="dis">. My </span><spanclass="noun">body</span><spanclass="dis"> was weak; my </span><spanclass="noun">brain</span><spanclass="dis"> was taut with </span><spanclass="noun">anxiety</span><spanclass="dis"> and </span><spanclass="noun">anticipation</span><spanclass="dis">. The Pirahãs are unrelated to any </span><spanclass="noun">other</span><spanclass="dis">. They speak a </span><spanclass="noun">language</span><spanclass="dis"> that many </span><spanclass="noun">linguists</span><spanclass="dis"> had unsuccessfully attempted to understand. My </span><spanclass="noun">task</span><spanclass="dis">would be to understand where little understanding currently existed. This </span><spanclass="noun">encounter</span><spanclass="dis"> with these </span><spanclass="noun">‘others’</span><spanclass="dis"> so unlike myself, was to be the defining </span><spanclass="noun">experience</span><spanclass="dis"> for the rest of my </span><spanclass="noun">life</span>.</p>
<p><imgsrc="Imageresearch/piraha.brasil.w.png"alt="Acampamento Pirahã, próximo a Transamazônica. Rio Maici. Foto: Ezequias Hering, 1981"></p>
<p><spanclass="dis">One of the greatest </span><spanclass="noun">challenges</span><spanclass="dis"> of our </span><spanclass="noun">species</span><spanclass="dis"> is </span><spanclass="noun">alterity</span><spanclass="dis">,‘</span><spanclass="noun">otherness</span><spanclass="dis">.’ All </span><spanclass="noun">cultures</span><spanclass="dis"> for </span><spanclass="noun">reasons</span><spanclass="dis"> easy enough to understand </span><spanclass="noun">fear</span><spanclass="dis"> other </span><spanclass="noun">cultures</span><spanclass="dis">. War and conflict have defined </span><spanclass="noun">humans</span><spanclass="dis"> for nearly two million </span><spanclass="noun">years</span><spanclass="dis">. When we encounter </span><spanclass="noun">others</span><spanclass="dis"> unlike </span><spanclass="noun">ourselves</span><spanclass="dis">, we frequently become uncomfortable, suspicious. A new </span><spanclass="noun">neighbor</span><spanclass="dis"> from another </span><spanclass="noun">country</span><spanclass="dis">. A </span><spanclass="noun">friend</span><spanclass="dis"> of our</span><spanclass="noun">child</span><spanclass="dis"> who has a different </span><spanclass="noun">color</span><spanclass="dis">. Someone whose </span><spanclass="noun">gender</span><spanclass="dis"> is not a simple binary </span><spanclass="noun">classification</span><spanclass="dis">. This is an old </span><spanclass="noun">problem</span><spanclass="dis">. Jesus himself fell under suspicion for befriending a </span><spanclass="noun">woman</span><spanclass="dis"> thought to be a </span><spanclass="noun">prostitute</span><spanclass="dis">, Mary Magdalene. She was unlike the religious </span><spanclass="noun">people</span><spanclass="dis"> of Jesus’s </span><spanclass="noun">day</span><spanclass="dis">. An ‘</span><spanclass="noun">other</span><spanclass="dis">.’</span></p>
<p><spanclass="dis">Those unlike</span><spanclass="noun">ourselves</span><spanclass="dis"> may eat different </span><spanclass="noun">food</span><spanclass="dis">, be unintelligible to us when speaking to those more like themselves, build different-looking </span><spanclass="noun">homes</span><spanclass="dis">, or, in the </span><spanclass="noun">view</span><spanclass="dis"> of some who most fears </span><spanclass="noun">otherness</span><spanclass="dis">, simply live ‘wrongly.’ To some,</span><spanclass="noun">others</span><spanclass="dis"> are not only </span><spanclass="noun">suspect</span><spanclass="dis">, but their </span><spanclass="noun">differences</span><spanclass="dis"> are morally unacceptable. When I first entered the Amazon as a missionary, this was my </span><spanclass="noun">belief</span><spanclass="dis">. Everyone needed Jesus and if they didn’t believe in him, they were deservedly going to eternal </span><spanclass="noun">torment</span><spanclass="dis">. In my </span><spanclass="noun">encounter</span><spanclass="dis"> with the Pirahãs, though I was uneasy, I realize now, ironically, that I was actually the dangerous one, the one who came with insufficient </span><spanclass="noun">respect</span><spanclass="dis">, with an ego-centric and ethno-centric </span><spanclass="noun">view</span><spanclass="dis"> of my own </span><spanclass="noun">‘rightness.’</span><spanclass="dis"> How fortunate for me that this gentle</span><spanclass="noun">people</span><spanclass="dis"> disabused me of so many of my silly </span><spanclass="noun">beliefs</span><spanclass="dis">. Though this years-long </span><spanclass="noun">encounter</span><spanclass="dis"> with the Pirahãs was to improve my </span><spanclass="noun">life</span><spanclass="dis"> globally, it certainly didn’t seem that </span><spanclass="noun">way</span><spanclass="dis"> at first.</span></p>
<spanclass="dis">During my first </span><spanclass="noun">day</span><spanclass="dis"> among the Pirahãs I was taken by a young</span><spanclass="noun">man</span><spanclass="dis"> to a </span><spanclass="noun">fire</span><spanclass="dis"> by his</span><spanclass="noun">hut</span><spanclass="dis">. He pointed at a large </span><spanclass="noun">rodent</span><spanclass="dis"> on the </span><spanclass="noun">fire</span><spanclass="dis"> with its </span><spanclass="noun">tongue</span><spanclass="dis"> still hanging out and a small </span><spanclass="noun">pool</span><spanclass="dis"> of </span><spanclass="noun">blood</span><spanclass="dis"> at the </span><spanclass="noun">edge</span><spanclass="dis"> of the </span><spanclass="noun">fire</span><spanclass="dis">. The </span><spanclass="noun">hair</span><spanclass="dis"> was burning off of the fresh kill. The young man uttered a then-unintelligible </span><spanclass="noun">phrase</span><spanclass="dis">: Gí obáaʔáí kohoáipi gíisai? Later I learned that this meant, “Do you know how to eat this?” And I also learned that if you don’t want any offered</span><spanclass="noun">food</span><spanclass="dis">, you can simply say, “No, I don’t know how to eat it.” No one loses </span><spanclass="noun">face</span><spanclass="dis">. It is an easy, polite </span><spanclass="noun">structure</span><spanclass="dis"> that allows you to avoid </span><spanclass="noun">foods</span><spanclass="dis"> you don’t want. Many other </span><spanclass="noun">cultures</span><spanclass="dis">, Western </span><spanclass="noun">cultures</span><spanclass="dis"> for example, don’t tend to be this polite. We often simply offer </span><spanclass="noun">people</span><spanclass="dis"> things to eat and get offended if they refuse. Unlike among the Pirahãs, there is a more portent </span><spanclass="noun">pressure</span><spanclass="dis"> in some Western </span><spanclass="noun">cultures</span><spanclass="dis"> for a </span><spanclass="noun">guest</span><spanclass="dis"> to eat whatever the </span><spanclass="noun">host</span><spanclass="dis"> offers.</span>
</p>
<p>
<p><spanclass="dis">For almost all of us, we experience the </span><spanclass="noun">world</span><spanclass="dis"> first through our </span><spanclass="noun">mother</span><spanclass="dis">. All that we touch, taste, hear, smell, see, and eventually come to know and understand begins with her and is mediated by her. As we develop of course we notice others close to our </span><spanclass="noun">mother</span><spanclass="dis"> - our </span><spanclass="noun">father</span><spanclass="dis">, </span><spanclass="noun">siblings</span><spanclass="dis">, and others. But until our first </span><spanclass="noun">experiences</span><spanclass="dis"> as </span><spanclass="noun">individuals</span><spanclass="dis"> begin outside the </span><spanclass="noun">home</span><spanclass="dis">, our </span><spanclass="noun">values</span><spanclass="dis">, </span><spanclass="noun">language</span><spanclass="dis">, and ways of thinking all result from </span><spanclass="noun">interactions</span><spanclass="dis"> with our </span><spanclass="noun">mother</span><spanclass="dis"> and the select small </span><spanclass="noun">group</span><spanclass="dis"> she is part of. These early apperceptions </span><spanclass="noun">shape</span><spanclass="dis"> our subsequent lives. They lead not only to an individual </span><spanclass="noun">sense</span><spanclass="dis"> of </span><spanclass="noun">identity</span><spanclass="dis"> but also to a conception of what a ‘normal </span><spanclass="noun">identity’</span><spanclass="dis"> is. This is all very comfortable. We learn early on that new </span><spanclass="noun">behavior</span><spanclass="dis"> and new </span><spanclass="noun">information</span><spanclass="dis"> entail effort. Why listen to dissonant </span><spanclass="noun">jazz</span><spanclass="dis"> when the steady 4/4 </span><spanclass="noun">beat</span><spanclass="dis"> of </span><spanclass="noun">country</span><spanclass="dis"> or </span><spanclass="noun">rock</span><spanclass="dis"> is familiar? Why eat</span><spanclass="noun">haggis</span><spanclass="dis"> instead of pot roast? Comfort </span><spanclass="noun">food</span><spanclass="dis"> is just food that requires no gaining of acquired </span><spanclass="noun">tastes</span><spanclass="dis">. Why learn another </span><spanclass="noun">language</span><spanclass="dis">? Why make </span><spanclass="noun">friends</span><spanclass="dis"> of a different </span><spanclass="noun">color</span><spanclass="dis">, a different sexual</span><spanclass="noun">orientation</span><spanclass="dis">, or a different </span><spanclass="noun">nationality</span><spanclass="dis">? Why should a </span><spanclass="noun">professor</span><spanclass="dis"> make friends with a </span><spanclass="noun">cowboy</span><spanclass="dis">? These efforts go against the biological preference for expending as little energy as possible and maintenance of the </span><spanclass="noun">status quo</span><spanclass="dis">. The work of learning about </span><spanclass="noun">otherness</span><spanclass="dis"> is worthwhile, but this is not always obvious initially.</span></p>
<p><imgsrc="Imageresearch/everett.cat.w.png"alt="Adult Pirahãs drawing of a cat."></p>
<p><spanclass="dis">Linguists recognized long ago that the first </span><spanclass="noun">rule</span><spanclass="dis"> of </span><spanclass="noun">language</span><spanclass="dis"> is that ‘we talk like who we talk with’. And other behavioral scientists have realized that ‘we eat like who we eat with’, ‘we create like who we think with’, and ‘we think like who we think with’. Our earliest </span><spanclass="noun">associations</span><spanclass="dis"> teach us not only how to think, create, talk, and eat, but to evaluate normal or correct thinking, talking, eating, and creating based on our narrow </span><spanclass="noun">range</span><spanclass="dis"> of </span><spanclass="noun">experiences</span><spanclass="dis">. The crucial </span><spanclass="noun">differences</span><spanclass="dis">between </span><spanclass="noun">others</span><spanclass="dis"> and our in-group are </span><spanclass="noun">values</span><spanclass="dis">, </span><spanclass="noun">language</span><spanclass="dis">, </span><spanclass="noun">social roles</span><spanclass="dis">, and </span><spanclass="noun">knowledge structures</span><spanclass="dis">. All else emerges from these, or so I have claimed in my own </span><spanclass="noun">writings</span><spanclass="dis">. [^1] Each </span><spanclass="noun">builds</span><spanclass="dis"> on the others as we learn them in the </span><spanclass="noun">context</span><spanclass="dis"> of familiarity, a </span><spanclass="noun">society</span><spanclass="dis"> of </span><spanclass="noun">intimates</span><spanclass="dis"> (i.e.our </span><spanclass="noun">family</span><spanclass="dis"> or our </span><spanclass="noun">village</span><spanclass="dis">. This leads to a <spanclass="noun">conceptualization of our own </span><spanclass="noun">identity</span><spanclass="dis">. For example, I know in some way that I am Dan. Yet no one, not even ourselves, fully understands what it means to be ourselves. The <spanclass="noun">construction</span><spanclass="dis"> of our <spanclass="noun">identity</span><spanclass="dis"> through the familiar leads us to think of what is not us, not our <spanclass="noun">family</span><spanclass="dis">, not our norm. Inevitably, as our </span><spanclass="noun">experience</span><spanclass="dis"> expands we meet </span><spanclass="noun">others</span><spanclass="dis"> that do not fit neatly into our </span><spanclass="noun">expectations</span><spanclass="dis">. These are </span><spanclass="noun">‘the others.’</span></p>
<p>
<spanclass="dis">In 1990, Columbia University psychologist Peter Gordon accompanied me to several Pirahã </span><spanclass="noun">villages</span><spanclass="dis"> in order to conduct a pilot </span><spanclass="noun">study</span><spanclass="dis"> of </span><spanclass="noun">language</span><spanclass="dis"> learning among Pirahã </span><spanclass="noun">children</span><spanclass="dis">. We set up cameras on a </span><spanclass="noun">hut</span><spanclass="dis">, in full view, with the </span><spanclass="noun">permission</span><spanclass="dis"> of its occupants, and started filming. We both were in the </span><spanclass="noun">film</span><spanclass="dis">, talking to the </span><spanclass="noun">adults</span><spanclass="dis"> about their </span><spanclass="noun">beliefs</span><spanclass="dis"> and children’s </span><spanclass="noun">behavior</span><spanclass="dis">. After we were done filming, we noticed something that we had not seen before, because it was happening behind us. A </span><spanclass="noun">toddler</span><spanclass="dis">, perhaps a year and half old, was playing with a sharp kitchen </span><spanclass="noun">knife</span><spanclass="dis"> with a 30cm blade. He was swinging it nonchalantly, almost stabbing himself in his </span><spanclass="noun">face</span><spanclass="dis">, </span><spanclass="noun">legs</span><spanclass="dis">, and midsection; occasionally swinging it close to his mother’s </span><spanclass="noun">face</span><spanclass="dis"> and back. We initially assumed that the mother didn’t see her toddler’s dangerous</span><spanclass="noun">toy</span><spanclass="dis">. But then, as she was talking to another </span><spanclass="noun">woman</span><spanclass="dis">, the camera recorded the baby dropping the </span><spanclass="noun">knife</span><spanclass="dis"> and starting to cry. Barely glancing backwards at her </span><spanclass="noun">child</span><spanclass="dis">, the </span><spanclass="noun">mother</span><spanclass="dis"> casually leaned over, picked the knife up off the </span><spanclass="noun">ground</span><spanclass="dis"> and handed it back to the baby, who returned gleefully to his quasi-stabbing of himself. This was a confrontation of </span><spanclass="noun">values</span><spanclass="dis"> for Peter and myself, underscoring the </span><spanclass="noun">otherness</span><spanclass="dis"> divide between the Pirahãs and us. Wasn’t the Pirahã </span><spanclass="noun">mother</span><spanclass="dis"> concerned about her child’s </span><spanclass="noun">welfare</span><spanclass="dis">? She was indeed. But to the Pirahãs a cut or non-life-threatening injury is the</span><spanclass="noun">price</span><spanclass="dis"> that occasionally must be paid in order to learn the </span><spanclass="noun">skills</span><spanclass="dis"> necessary to survive in the </span><spanclass="noun">jungle</span><spanclass="dis"> Would a Dutch mother give her child a sharp knife as a </span><spanclass="noun">toy</span><spanclass="dis">, believing that any piercing of the child’s flesh would be compensated for by its contribution to the child’s </span><spanclass="noun">development</span><spanclass="dis">? Could she even respect this other (m)otherness - the otherness at the root of our lives?</span>
</p>
<p>
<spanclass="dis">When I first encountered the Pirahãs, I learned the </span><spanclass="noun">language</span><spanclass="dis"> by pointing and giving the </span><spanclass="noun">name</span><spanclass="dis"> in English. I would pick up a stick and say, “stick.” The Pirahãs, most of them anyway, would give me the </span><spanclass="noun">translation</span><spanclass="dis"> in their </span><spanclass="noun">language</span><spanclass="dis">. Then I might let the stick drop to the </span><spanclass="noun">ground</span><spanclass="dis"> and say, “the stick falls to the ground” or, “I throw the stick away” or, “two sticks drop to the ground,” and so on. I would transcribe the </span><spanclass="noun">responses</span><spanclass="dis"> and say them back at least three </span><spanclass="noun">times</span><spanclass="dis"> to the </span><spanclass="noun">speaker</span><spanclass="dis">, making sure I had them right. I was able to follow their </span><spanclass="noun">translations</span><spanclass="dis"> and also write down their </span><spanclass="noun">comments</span><spanclass="dis">. But the occasional </span><spanclass="noun">speaker</span><spanclass="dis"> would ignore my request and instead say something that turned out to be even more interesting. Ɂaooí Ɂaohoaí sahaɁaí ɁapaitíisoɁabaɁáígio hiahoaáti, which means: "Do not talk with a crooked </span><spanclass="noun">head</span><spanclass="dis">. Talk with a straight </span><spanclass="noun">head</span><spanclass="dis">." The Pirahãs wanted me to talk like a </span><spanclass="noun">person</span><spanclass="dis">, not like a bizarre </span><spanclass="noun">foreigner</span><spanclass="dis">. Like an American </span><spanclass="noun">tourist</span><spanclass="dis"> in France, the Pirahãs could not understand why I couldn’t speak their </span><spanclass="noun">language</span><spanclass="dis">. Then one day a missionary </span><spanclass="noun">plane</span><spanclass="dis"> had brought us some supplies in the </span><spanclass="noun">jungle</span><spanclass="dis">. Among those was </span><spanclass="noun">lettuce</span><spanclass="dis">. I was so excited to have greens. The Pirahãs eat no greens and think of them as worm </span><spanclass="noun">food</span><spanclass="dis">. I was cheerfully eating </span><spanclass="noun">lettuce</span><spanclass="dis"> from a bowl when a Pirahã </span><spanclass="noun">friend</span><spanclass="dis"> walked up and said, "That’s why you don’t speak Pirahã yet. We don’t eat </span><spanclass="noun">leaves</span><spanclass="dis">."</span>
</p>
<p><imgsrc="Imageresearch/piraha.annotations.w.png"alt="Daniel Everett's first annotations on Pirahãs spoken language, July 1995"></p>
<p>
In other <spanclass="noun">words</span>, the Pirahã man believed that <spanclass="noun">language</span> emerges from <spanclass="noun">culture</span> as well as the <spanclass="noun">entirety</span> of our <spanclass="noun">behavior</span> as members of a <spanclass="noun">society</span>. This is a <spanclass="noun">belief</span> I have come to as well. They felt we could not learn their <spanclass="noun">language</span> at native level unless we became also part of their <spanclass="noun">culture</span>; and native level is what matters to them, there are no <spanclass="noun">prizes</span> for merely speaking their <spanclass="noun">language</span> intelligibly. This was against everything I had been taught about <spanclass="noun">language</span> in <spanclass="noun">university</span> courses, and it underscored the <spanclass="noun">gap</span> between them and me. <spanclass="noun">Languages</span> and <spanclass="noun">cultures</span> interact symbiotically, each affecting the other. Our <spanclass="noun">sense</span> of self and of <spanclass="noun">society</span> emerges from our enveloping <spanclass="noun">culture</span> and from the <spanclass="noun">language</span> and accents we hear most during our childhood <spanclass="noun">development</span>. The <spanclass="noun">speed</span> of our <spanclass="noun">conversations</span> and the <spanclass="noun">structures</span> of our <spanclass="noun">interactions</span> with others are formed in local <spanclass="noun">communities</span> of <spanclass="noun">people</span> like ourselves. The most comfortable <spanclass="noun">conversations</span> are with people</span> who sound like you, put their phrases</span> together as you do, and who reach similar conclusions</span>.
The phrase “good night” is ingrained in our cultural lexicon. These two words start out playing an essential role in early childhood by way of soothing and rhythmic classics such as Goodnight Moon and Good Night, Gorilla. They are often the last words we hear our parents whisper to us before we fall asleep.
Among adults, they’re taken for granted as a universal social signifier — a way to wish our friends and family a restful sleep, or a pleasantry upon our departure from a social evening out, no matter where in the world we are.
But in some cultures, no such words are spoken.
Where? And why?
In the language of one remote Amazonian tribe called the Pirahã (pronounced pee-da-HAN), there are no words for “good night.” This anomaly was first noted by linguistics professor Daniel Everett in his fascinating book, Don’t Sleep, There Are Snakes. In fact, the title itself echoes the words used by tribe members before they settle down for sleep. As Everett describes it:
The Pirahãs say different things when they leave my hut at night on their way to bed. Sometimes they just say, “I’m going.” But frequently they use an expression… ”Don’t sleep, there are snakes.” The Pirahãs say this for two reasons. First they believe that by sleeping less they can “harden themselves,” a value they all share. Second, they know that danger is all around them in the jungle and that sleeping soundly can leave them defenseless.
Everett has since referenced a common feature of most languages worldwide, called phatic communication — words used to create sociability and good will. For instance, we say, Hello, how are you? to express our connection and recognition that we’re in a setting in which others exist and are a part of our lives. These phrases serve as pleasantries. The person saying How are you? doesn’t actually want a laundry list of your illnesses or ailments.
“The Pirahã lacks such expressions by and large,” Everett explains, though clearly “Don’t sleep, there are snakes,” while used half literally, is also being spoken half phatically.
Are their sleeping habits any different?
Indeed, their sleep pattern is unlike that in the modernized world. It’s common for tribe members to sleep for just an hour or two and then go about their activities, sleeping again when they get tired.
“During the night it is rare, though not unheard of, for the entire village to be silent,” Everett says. “Usually, there will be some sleeping and some playing, some talking, some laughing all night long. There simply are no culturally defined sleep periods among the Pirahã.”
Which could explain why it wouldn’t make sense to wish someone a good night if he or she were only lying down for a brief rest.
Are there any other cultures that dispense with these niceties?
According to Everett, another isolated Amazon tribe, the Banawa, as well as a handful of others, don’t have the equivalent words for “good night” in their language. And while it may be convenient to assume a lack of civilized sensibility, Everett says this isn’t the case. It’s just not important to them to say such things.
The Pirahã language is different in several other ways as well. “They have no numbers, no fixed color terms, no perfect tense, no words for all, each, every, most or few — terms of quantification believed by some linguists to be among the common building blocks of human cognition.”
Everett told The New Yorker, “I think one of the reasons that we haven’t found other groups like this is because we’ve been told, basically, that it’s not possible.”
To us, “good night” is the only natural thing to say at day’s end, but different cultures and worldviews may require other words. In the case of the Pirahã, they’ve adopted more cautionary pleasantries.
There are many <spanclass="noun">ways</span> in which we confront <spanclass="noun">otherness</span>. <spanclass="noun">Strangers</span> are not always <spanclass="noun">people</span>. <spanclass="noun">Nature</span> is often a <spanclass="noun">foreigner</span> to most of us and we can learn by submitting ourselves to it. One <spanclass="noun">reason</span> that I annually read the American Henry David Thoreau’s Walden, my favorite <spanclass="noun">book</span> in all of American <spanclass="noun">literature</span>, is that Thoreau was so articulately different from me. That is irrelevant to Thoreau’s account of his year alone. His year was a brilliant <spanclass="noun">experiment</span>. Thoreau did not remain at Walden. He returned to take up a fairly boring <spanclass="noun">life</span> as a handyman in the adjacent <spanclass="noun">city</span> of Concord, Massachusetts. Yet, the <spanclass="noun">book</span> he wrote is full brilliant <spanclass="noun">observations</span> based on the <spanclass="noun">concepts</span> of American <spanclass="noun">Transcendentalism</span>: the <spanclass="noun">idea</span> that <spanclass="noun">people</span> and <spanclass="noun">nature</span> are inherently good and that they are best when left alone by <spanclass="noun">society</span> and its <spanclass="noun">institutions</span>. <spanclass="noun">Transcendentalism</span> implies that as we come to know ourselves and remove the otherness of <spanclass="noun">nature</span> by experiencing it with all our <spanclass="noun">senses</span>. That our <spanclass="noun">sense</span> of <spanclass="noun">oneness</span> with others, as embodied in that very <spanclass="noun">nature</span>, grows. Thoreau’s <spanclass="noun">insights</span> into his <spanclass="noun">lessons</span> from <spanclass="noun">nature</span>– as the <spanclass="noun">stranger</span> - teach us about what it means to live as a <spanclass="noun">human</span>, to be independent, and to occupy a part of the natural <spanclass="noun">world</span>. Through Thoreau we encounter the <spanclass="noun">strangeness</span> of a solitary <spanclass="noun">life</span> in <spanclass="noun">nature</span>. <spanclass="noun">Oneness</span> with ourselves and <spanclass="noun">nature</span>– and the others that are strange to us but are, like us, just part of <spanclass="noun">nature</span>– requires slow <spanclass="noun">work</span> of <spanclass="noun">contemplation</span> and <spanclass="noun">experience</span> that at once embraces the <spanclass="noun">otherness</span> of <spanclass="noun">nature</span>. It demands working towards removing this <spanclass="noun">sense</span> of <spanclass="noun">otherness</span> and embracing it as part of the <spanclass="noun">oneness</span> that we seek with the <spanclass="noun">world</span> around us.
</p>
<p>
O<spanclass="noun">therness</span>, as I see it, is the <spanclass="noun">spark</span> of original <spanclass="noun">thought</span> and greater appreciation of <spanclass="noun">nature</span>, while the <spanclass="noun">sense</span> of <spanclass="noun">oneness</span> is the paradoxical <spanclass="noun">goal</span> of encounters with <spanclass="noun">otherness</span>. We need a sense of <spanclass="noun">oneness</span> of ourselves with <spanclass="noun">nature</span> to clearly see <spanclass="noun">otherness</span>, and we need <spanclass="noun">otherness</span> to build a more encompassing and panoramic <spanclass="noun">sense</span> of <spanclass="noun">self and oneness</span> with the <spanclass="noun">world</span>. Thoreau ignored <spanclass="noun">society</span> to know himself. Most of us ignore ourselves to be part of <spanclass="noun">society</span>. Thoreau eloquently expressed the loss that, being carried away by the <spanclass="noun">demands</span> of others and society, brings us to our <spanclass="noun">sense</span> of self. We think of <spanclass="noun">conformity</span> rather than our own unique <spanclass="noun">identity</span> and so blur who we are as <spanclass="noun">individuals</span>. Thoreau captured this well when he exclaimed that, “the one is more important than the million.” That is, it is only as we each individually appreciate our <spanclass="noun">oneness</span> with the <spanclass="noun">world</span>, <spanclass="noun">nature</span>, and the other as part of this <spanclass="noun">oneness</span> that we can achieve the best individual <spanclass="noun">life</span>, and thus <spanclass="noun">society</span>.
<p><imgsrc="Imageresearch/piraha.recordings.w.png"alt="Recording of a conversation between Pirahãs and Daniel Everett."></p>
<p>
Thoreau’s <spanclass="noun">hut</span> Walden stands still as <spanclass="noun">light</span> in the <spanclass="noun">heart</span> of the <spanclass="noun">forest</span>, a small cabin where one can sit and think and read and wonder about the <spanclass="noun">reasons</span> for living. Jungle <spanclass="noun">nights</span> were this <spanclass="noun">light</span> in my <spanclass="noun">life</span>, as I sat around <spanclass="noun">campfires</span>, talking in a <spanclass="noun">language</span> that was so hard for me to learn. Albert Camus said that the biggest <spanclass="noun">mystery</span> of <spanclass="noun">philosophy</span> is why not everyone commits <spanclass="noun">suicide</span> when honestly contemplating the futility of <spanclass="noun">life</span>. As a possible <spanclass="noun">answer</span> to his own <spanclass="noun">question</span>, Camus in his <spanclass="noun">essay</span> The Myth of Sisyphus, held up poor Sisyphus [^2] as an <spanclass="noun">example</span> of a good <spanclass="noun">life</span>. Sisyphus, after all, had an <spanclass="noun">objective</span>, one that entailed a measurable daily <spanclass="noun">activity</span> that always ended in the <spanclass="noun">accomplishment</span> of getting that <spanclass="noun">rock</span> up the <spanclass="noun">hill</span>. But Thoreau <spanclass="noun">perspective</span> rejects Camus’s <spanclass="noun">analysis</span>. He saw no <spanclass="noun">reason</span> to count familiarity or predictability of social <spanclass="noun">life</span>, <spanclass="noun">foods</span>, or accomplishments as among the <spanclass="noun">goals</span> of <spanclass="noun">life</span>. They teach us little and change our <spanclass="noun">behavior</span> insignificantly. His <spanclass="noun">example</span> was that we learn most when we insert ourselves as <spanclass="noun">aliens</span> in new conceptual, cultural, and <spanclass="noun">social environments</span> (in his case, the <spanclass="noun">absence</span> of <spanclass="noun">society</span>). I am convinced that our lives become richer when they are less predictable. This is not to say that our <spanclass="noun">lives</span> are always predictable in the <spanclass="noun">absence</span> of the other. <spanclass="noun">Otherness</span> renders our <spanclass="noun">expectations</span> less fixed and requires more thinking, planning, and learning.
</p>
<p>
The Pirahãs would disagree. They believe that it is <spanclass="noun">homogeneity</span> that gives us <spanclass="noun">comfort</span> and keeps us strong physically and psychologically. <spanclass="noun">Otherness</span> vs. <spanclass="noun">predictability</span>, which is more desirable? In <spanclass="noun">essence</span>, we need both even if we’d construct a greater <spanclass="noun">sense</span> of <spanclass="noun">oneness</span> that embraces the <spanclass="noun">unexpected</span>. The two greatest <spanclass="noun">forces</span> of preserving and constructing <spanclass="noun">cultures</span> are <spanclass="noun">imitation</span> and <spanclass="noun">innovation</span>. When our <spanclass="noun">environments</span>, culturally and physically, are constant, <spanclass="noun">innovation</span> is rarely useful. Like biological <spanclass="noun">mutations</span>, cognitive and cultural <spanclass="noun">innovations</span> are usually unsuccessful. The <spanclass="noun">effort</span> to invent will usually isolate us as strange and less successful than those who merely imitate. Failed <spanclass="noun">innovation</span> in a <spanclass="noun">society</span> that most values imitation emphasizes our own ‘otherness’ and provides us with little <spanclass="noun">advantage</span>. As <spanclass="noun">environments</span> change – such as the <spanclass="noun">ecology</span> of the Pleistocene that so shaped our Homo ancestors, <spanclass="noun">climate change</span> today, the shifting <spanclass="noun">political boundaries</span>, or the <spanclass="noun">intrusion</span> of others into our <spanclass="noun">environment</span>–<spanclass="noun">innovation</span> becomes a more important <spanclass="noun">force</span>, providing new <spanclass="noun">solutions</span> to new <spanclass="noun">problems</span> that <spanclass="noun">imitation</span> alone is unable to provide. The Pirahãs live in an <spanclass="noun">environment</span> that has changed little over the <spanclass="noun">centuries</span>. They value <spanclass="noun">conformity</span> and <spanclass="noun">imitation</span> over <spanclass="noun">innovation</span>. Consequently their <spanclass="noun">language</span> has changed little over <spanclass="noun">time</span>. <spanclass="noun">Records</span> of their <spanclass="noun">culture</span> and <spanclass="noun">language</span> from the 18th century show a <spanclass="noun">people</span> identical to the <spanclass="noun">people</span> we encounter today, three <spanclass="noun">centuries</span> later.
Results of number tasks with Pirahã villagers (n 0 7). Rectangles indicate AA batteries (5.0 cm by 1.4 cm), and circles indicate ground nuts. Center line indicates a stick between the author's example array (below the line) and the participant's attempt to ''make it the same'' (above the line). Tasks A through D required the participant to match the lower array presented by the author using a line of batteries; task E was similar, but involved the unfamiliar task of copying lines drawn on paper; task F was a matching task where the participant saw the numerical display for only about 1 s before it was hidden behind a screen; task G involved putting nuts into a can and withdrawing them one by one; (participants responded after each withdrawal as to whether the can still contained nuts or was empty); task H involved placing candy inside a box with a number of fish drawn on the lid (this was then hidden and brought out again with another box with one more or one less fish on the lid, and participants had to choose which box contained the candy)."></p>
<p>
In <spanclass="noun">environments</span> that, especially culturally, change at light <spanclass="noun">speed</span> we need to learn to think, speak, act differently, and innovate in multiple <spanclass="noun">areas</span> simultaneously as the <spanclass="noun">changes</span> we encounter transform our familiar <spanclass="noun">environment</span> into ‘an other’. Every <spanclass="noun">day</span> brings <spanclass="noun">problems</span> that we never faced before. <spanclass="noun">Diversity</span> of <spanclass="noun">experiences</span> and <spanclass="noun">encounters</span> with others inspire new <spanclass="noun">ways</span> of thinking and new <spanclass="noun">forms</span> of living. If we all look the same, talk the same, <spanclass="noun">value</span> the same things, paint the same <spanclass="noun">pictures</span>, dance the same <spanclass="noun">dances</span>, and hear the same <spanclass="noun">music</span> then we are simply <spanclass="noun">imitators</span> falling behind the <spanclass="noun">challenges</span> of our <spanclass="noun">world</span>. This applies to all of us whether we are hunter-gatherers in the Amazon or advertising <spanclass="noun">agents</span> in New York City. It blinds us to new <spanclass="noun">forms of beauty</span>. What we see around us, with the <spanclass="noun">rise</span> of anti-immigration political <spanclass="noun">movements</span> in Europe and the USA is, at least partially, a fear of <spanclass="noun">otherness</span>. Our <spanclass="noun">preference</span> is for <spanclass="noun">conformity</span> and <spanclass="noun">imitation</span>; our <spanclass="noun">fear</span> then itself arises from that <spanclass="noun">preference</span> in contrast to <spanclass="noun">otherness</span> and the greater <spanclass="noun">steps</span> towards an ever more encompassing <spanclass="noun">oneness</span> of the <spanclass="noun">type</span> that motivated Thoreau. However, the ultimate <spanclass="noun">engine</span> of <spanclass="noun">innovation</span> is <spanclass="noun">otherness</span>– of <spanclass="noun">people</span>, <spanclass="noun">food</span>, <spanclass="noun">environments</span>, <spanclass="noun">art</span>, and <spanclass="noun">culture</span>– it strengthens us and prospers us.
</p>
<p>
Our <spanclass="noun">languages</span> and <spanclass="noun">cognitive abilities</span> expand as we learn new <spanclass="noun">vocabularies</span> and new <spanclass="noun">values</span> by talking to <spanclass="noun">people</span> and experiencing their <spanclass="noun">relationships</span> to <spanclass="noun">nature</span> that are unlike our own. Human <spanclass="noun">language</span> emerged within the Homo line because it was the only <spanclass="noun">creature</span> to embrace <spanclass="noun">otherness</span> as to actively explore for the sake of <spanclass="noun">exploration</span>; to seek <spanclass="noun">encounters</span> with <spanclass="noun">otherness</span>. As Homo erectus sailed to <spanclass="noun">islands</span> beyond the <spanclass="noun">horizon</span> it invented <spanclass="noun">symbols</span> and <spanclass="noun">language</span> to cope with the greater <spanclass="noun">need</span> for communal <spanclass="noun">efforts</span> to expand <spanclass="noun">experiences</span>. <spanclass="noun">Language</span> change is an <spanclass="noun">indication</span> of cultural <spanclass="noun">change</span> (and cultural <spanclass="noun">change</span> will change <spanclass="noun">language</span>). Together, they amplify our species <spanclass="noun">ability</span> to innovate and survive. All that we are is the <spanclass="noun">result</span> of our <spanclass="noun">human embrace</span> of the other, the <spanclass="noun">love</span> of <spanclass="noun">alterity</span> that makes us distinct from all other <spanclass="noun">creatures</span>. <spanclass="noun">Alterity</span> is one of our greatest <spanclass="noun">fears</span>. And yet it should be our greatest <spanclass="noun">treasure</span>.
