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<span class="bottom">Otherness - <a style="position: fixed; color:blue;" href = "../">Wor(l)ds</a> </span><span class="bottom"> For The Future.<br>See </span> <a href="index.html">You, the Others</a><span class="bottom"> or go to </span><a href="indexOG.html">the original Text</a>
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<h1>
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Otherness is<br> <del>“Everything, beyond me.”</del><br> “Everything, including me.”
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</h1>
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<p><span class="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>
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<p><span class="dis">Otherness by <i> Daniel L. Everett </i></span></p>
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<p><span class="dis">When I was 26, I moved to the Amazon, from California, in </span><span class="noun">order</span><span class="dis"> to study the </span><span class="noun">language</span><span class="dis"> and </span><span class="noun">culture</span><span class="dis"> of a </span><span class="noun">people</span><span class="dis"> that were believed to be unrelated to any other</span><span class="noun">people</span>.<span class="dis"> I flew in a small missionary</span> <span class="noun">plane</span><span class="dis"> , a bumpy nausea-inducing</span><span class="noun">ride</span><span class="dis">, to meet the Pirahã</span><span class="noun">people</span><span class="dis"> for the first </span><span class="noun">time</span><span class="dis">. My </span><span class="noun">body</span><span class="dis"> was weak; my </span><span class="noun">brain</span><span class="dis"> was taut with </span><span class="noun">anxiety</span><span class="dis"> and </span><span class="noun">anticipation</span><span class="dis">. The Pirahãs are unrelated to any </span><span class="noun">other</span><span class="dis">. They speak a </span><span class="noun">language</span><span class="dis"> that many </span><span class="noun">linguists</span><span class="dis"> had unsuccessfully attempted to understand. My </span><span class="noun">task</span> <span class="dis">would be to understand where little understanding currently existed. This </span><span class="noun">encounter</span><span class="dis"> with these </span><span class="noun">‘others’</span><span class="dis"> so unlike myself, was to be the defining </span><span class="noun">experience</span><span class="dis"> for the rest of my </span><span class="noun">life</span>.</p>
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<p><img src="Imageresearch/piraha.brasil.w.png" alt="Acampamento Pirahã, próximo a Transamazônica. Rio Maici. Foto: Ezequias Hering, 1981"></p>
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<p><span class="dis">One of the greatest </span><span class="noun">challenges</span><span class="dis"> of our </span><span class="noun">species</span><span class="dis"> is </span><span class="noun">alterity</span><span class="dis">,‘</span><span class="noun">otherness</span><span class="dis">.’ All </span><span class="noun">cultures</span><span class="dis"> for </span><span class="noun">reasons</span><span class="dis"> easy enough to understand </span><span class="noun">fear</span><span class="dis"> other </span><span class="noun">cultures</span><span class="dis">. War and conflict have defined </span><span class="noun">humans</span><span class="dis"> for nearly two million </span><span class="noun">years</span><span class="dis">. When we encounter </span><span class="noun">others</span><span class="dis"> unlike </span><span class="noun">ourselves</span><span class="dis">, we frequently become uncomfortable, suspicious. A new </span><span class="noun">neighbor</span><span class="dis"> from another </span><span class="noun">country</span><span class="dis">. A </span><span class="noun">friend</span><span class="dis"> of our</span><span class="noun">child</span><span class="dis"> who has a different </span><span class="noun">color</span><span class="dis">. Someone whose </span><span class="noun">gender</span><span class="dis"> is not a simple binary </span><span class="noun">classification</span><span class="dis">. This is an old </span><span class="noun">problem</span><span class="dis">. Jesus himself fell under suspicion for befriending a </span><span class="noun">woman</span><span class="dis"> thought to be a </span><span class="noun">prostitute</span><span class="dis">, Mary Magdalene. She was unlike the religious </span><span class="noun">people</span><span class="dis"> of Jesus’s </span><span class="noun">day</span><span class="dis">. An ‘</span><span class="noun">other</span><span class="dis">.’</span></p>
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<p><span class="dis">Those unlike</span><span class="noun">ourselves</span><span class="dis"> may eat different </span><span class="noun">food</span><span class="dis">, be unintelligible to us when speaking to those more like themselves, build different-looking </span><span class="noun">homes</span><span class="dis">, or, in the </span><span class="noun">view</span><span class="dis"> of some who most fears </span><span class="noun">otherness</span><span class="dis">, simply live ‘wrongly.’ To some,</span> <span class="noun">others</span><span class="dis"> are not only </span><span class="noun">suspect</span><span class="dis">, but their </span><span class="noun">differences</span><span class="dis"> are morally unacceptable. When I first entered the Amazon as a missionary, this was my </span><span class="noun">belief</span><span class="dis">. Everyone needed Jesus and if they didn’t believe in him, they were deservedly going to eternal </span><span class="noun">torment</span><span class="dis">. In my </span><span class="noun">encounter</span><span class="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><span class="noun">respect</span><span class="dis">, with an ego-centric and ethno-centric </span><span class="noun">view</span><span class="dis"> of my own </span><span class="noun">‘rightness.’</span><span class="dis"> How fortunate for me that this gentle</span> <span class="noun">people</span><span class="dis"> disabused me of so many of my silly </span><span class="noun">beliefs</span><span class="dis">. Though this years-long </span><span class="noun">encounter</span><span class="dis"> with the Pirahãs was to improve my </span><span class="noun">life</span><span class="dis"> globally, it certainly didn’t seem that </span><span class="noun">way</span><span class="dis"> at first.</span></p>
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<span class="dis">During my first </span><span class="noun">day</span><span class="dis"> among the Pirahãs I was taken by a young</span><span class="noun">man</span><span class="dis"> to a </span><span class="noun">fire</span><span class="dis"> by his</span><span class="noun">hut</span><span class="dis">. He pointed at a large </span><span class="noun">rodent</span><span class="dis"> on the </span><span class="noun">fire</span><span class="dis"> with its </span><span class="noun">tongue</span><span class="dis"> still hanging out and a small </span><span class="noun">pool</span><span class="dis"> of </span><span class="noun">blood</span><span class="dis"> at the </span><span class="noun">edge</span><span class="dis"> of the </span><span class="noun">fire</span><span class="dis">. The </span><span class="noun">hair</span><span class="dis"> was burning off of the fresh kill. The young man uttered a then-unintelligible </span><span class="noun">phrase</span><span class="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> <span class="noun">food</span><span class="dis">, you can simply say, “No, I don’t know how to eat it.” No one loses </span><span class="noun">face</span><span class="dis">. It is an easy, polite </span><span class="noun">structure</span><span class="dis"> that allows you to avoid </span><span class="noun">foods</span><span class="dis"> you don’t want. Many other </span><span class="noun">cultures</span><span class="dis">, Western </span><span class="noun">cultures</span><span class="dis"> for example, don’t tend to be this polite. We often simply offer </span><span class="noun">people</span><span class="dis"> things to eat and get offended if they refuse. Unlike among the Pirahãs, there is a more portent </span><span class="noun">pressure</span><span class="dis"> in some Western </span><span class="noun">cultures</span><span class="dis"> for a </span><span class="noun">guest</span><span class="dis"> to eat whatever the </span><span class="noun">host</span><span class="dis"> offers.</span>
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</p>
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<p>
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<p><span class="dis">For almost all of us, we experience the </span><span class="noun">world</span><span class="dis"> first through our </span><span class="noun">mother</span><span class="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><span class="noun">mother</span><span class="dis"> - our </span><span class="noun">father</span><span class="dis">, </span><span class="noun">siblings</span><span class="dis">, and others. But until our first </span><span class="noun">experiences</span><span class="dis"> as </span><span class="noun">individuals</span><span class="dis"> begin outside the </span><span class="noun">home</span><span class="dis">, our </span><span class="noun">values</span><span class="dis">, </span><span class="noun">language</span><span class="dis">, and ways of thinking all result from </span><span class="noun">interactions</span><span class="dis"> with our </span><span class="noun">mother</span><span class="dis"> and the select small </span><span class="noun">group</span><span class="dis"> she is part of. These early apperceptions </span><span class="noun">shape</span><span class="dis"> our subsequent lives. They lead not only to an individual </span><span class="noun">sense</span><span class="dis"> of </span><span class="noun">identity</span><span class="dis"> but also to a conception of what a ‘normal </span><span class="noun">identity’</span><span class="dis"> is. This is all very comfortable. We learn early on that new </span><span class="noun">behavior</span><span class="dis"> and new </span><span class="noun">information</span><span class="dis"> entail effort. Why listen to dissonant </span><span class="noun">jazz</span><span class="dis"> when the steady 4/4 </span><span class="noun">beat</span><span class="dis"> of </span><span class="noun">country</span><span class="dis"> or </span><span class="noun">rock</span><span class="dis"> is familiar? Why eat</span> <span class="noun">haggis</span><span class="dis"> instead of pot roast? Comfort </span><span class="noun">food</span><span class="dis"> is just food that requires no gaining of acquired </span><span class="noun">tastes</span><span class="dis">. Why learn another </span><span class="noun">language</span><span class="dis">? Why make </span><span class="noun">friends</span><span class="dis"> of a different </span><span class="noun">color</span><span class="dis">, a different sexual</span> <span class="noun">orientation</span><span class="dis">, or a different </span><span class="noun">nationality</span><span class="dis">? Why should a </span><span class="noun">professor</span><span class="dis"> make friends with a </span><span class="noun">cowboy</span><span class="dis">? These efforts go against the biological preference for expending as little energy as possible and maintenance of the </span><span class="noun">status quo</span><span class="dis">. The work of learning about </span><span class="noun">otherness</span><span class="dis"> is worthwhile, but this is not always obvious initially.</span></p>
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<p><img src="Imageresearch/everett.cat.w.png" alt="Adult Pirahãs drawing of a cat."></p>
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<p><span class="dis">Linguists recognized long ago that the first </span><span class="noun">rule</span><span class="dis"> of </span><span class="noun">language</span><span class="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><span class="noun">associations</span><span class="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><span class="noun">range</span><span class="dis"> of </span><span class="noun">experiences</span><span class="dis">. The crucial </span><span class="noun">differences</span> <span class="dis">between </span><span class="noun">others</span><span class="dis"> and our in-group are </span><span class="noun">values</span><span class="dis">, </span><span class="noun">language</span><span class="dis">, </span><span class="noun">social roles</span><span class="dis">, and </span><span class="noun">knowledge structures</span><span class="dis">. All else emerges from these, or so I have claimed in my own </span><span class="noun">writings</span><span class="dis">. [^1] Each </span><span class="noun">builds</span><span class="dis"> on the others as we learn them in the </span><span class="noun">context</span><span class="dis"> of familiarity, a </span><span class="noun">society</span><span class="dis"> of </span><span class="noun">intimates</span><span class="dis"> (i.e. our </span><span class="noun">family</span><span class="dis"> or our </span><span class="noun">village</span><span class="dis">. This leads to a <span class="noun">conceptualization of our own </span><span class="noun">identity</span><span class="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 <span class="noun">construction</span><span class="dis"> of our <span class="noun">identity</span><span class="dis"> through the familiar leads us to think of what is not us, not our <span class="noun">family</span><span class="dis">, not our norm. Inevitably, as our </span><span class="noun">experience</span><span class="dis"> expands we meet </span><span class="noun">others</span><span class="dis"> that do not fit neatly into our </span><span class="noun">expectations</span><span class="dis">. These are </span><span class="noun">‘the others.’</span></p>
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<p>
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<span class="dis">In 1990, Columbia University psychologist Peter Gordon accompanied me to several Pirahã </span><span class="noun">villages</span><span class="dis"> in order to conduct a pilot </span><span class="noun">study</span><span class="dis"> of </span><span class="noun">language</span><span class="dis"> learning among Pirahã </span><span class="noun">children</span><span class="dis">. We set up cameras on a </span><span class="noun">hut</span><span class="dis">, in full view, with the </span><span class="noun">permission</span><span class="dis"> of its occupants, and started filming. We both were in the </span><span class="noun">film</span><span class="dis">, talking to the </span><span class="noun">adults</span><span class="dis"> about their </span><span class="noun">beliefs</span><span class="dis"> and children’s </span><span class="noun">behavior</span><span class="dis">. After we were done filming, we noticed something that we had not seen before, because it was happening behind us. A </span><span class="noun">toddler</span><span class="dis">, perhaps a year and half old, was playing with a sharp kitchen </span><span class="noun">knife</span><span class="dis"> with a 30cm blade. He was swinging it nonchalantly, almost stabbing himself in his </span><span class="noun">face</span><span class="dis">, </span><span class="noun">legs</span><span class="dis">, and midsection; occasionally swinging it close to his mother’s </span><span class="noun">face</span><span class="dis"> and back. We initially assumed that the mother didn’t see her toddler’s dangerous</span> <span class="noun">toy</span><span class="dis">. But then, as she was talking to another </span><span class="noun">woman</span><span class="dis">, the camera recorded the baby dropping the </span><span class="noun">knife</span><span class="dis"> and starting to cry. Barely glancing backwards at her </span><span class="noun">child</span><span class="dis">, the </span><span class="noun">mother</span><span class="dis"> casually leaned over, picked the knife up off the </span><span class="noun">ground</span><span class="dis"> and handed it back to the baby, who returned gleefully to his quasi-stabbing of himself. This was a confrontation of </span><span class="noun">values</span><span class="dis"> for Peter and myself, underscoring the </span><span class="noun">otherness</span><span class="dis"> divide between the Pirahãs and us. Wasn’t the Pirahã </span><span class="noun">mother</span><span class="dis"> concerned about her child’s </span><span class="noun">welfare</span><span class="dis">? She was indeed. But to the Pirahãs a cut or non-life-threatening injury is the</span> <span class="noun">price</span><span class="dis"> that occasionally must be paid in order to learn the </span><span class="noun">skills</span><span class="dis"> necessary to survive in the </span><span class="noun">jungle</span><span class="dis"> Would a Dutch mother give her child a sharp knife as a </span><span class="noun">toy</span><span class="dis">, believing that any piercing of the child’s flesh would be compensated for by its contribution to the child’s </span><span class="noun">development</span><span class="dis">? Could she even respect this other (m)otherness - the otherness at the root of our lives?</span>
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</p>
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<p>
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<span class="dis">When I first encountered the Pirahãs, I learned the </span><span class="noun">language</span><span class="dis"> by pointing and giving the </span><span class="noun">name</span><span class="dis"> in English. I would pick up a stick and say, “stick.” The Pirahãs, most of them anyway, would give me the </span><span class="noun">translation</span><span class="dis"> in their </span><span class="noun">language</span><span class="dis">. Then I might let the stick drop to the </span><span class="noun">ground</span><span class="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><span class="noun">responses</span><span class="dis"> and say them back at least three </span><span class="noun">times</span><span class="dis"> to the </span><span class="noun">speaker</span><span class="dis">, making sure I had them right. I was able to follow their </span><span class="noun">translations</span><span class="dis"> and also write down their </span><span class="noun">comments</span><span class="dis">. But the occasional </span><span class="noun">speaker</span><span class="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><span class="noun">head</span><span class="dis">. Talk with a straight </span><span class="noun">head</span><span class="dis">." The Pirahãs wanted me to talk like a </span><span class="noun">person</span><span class="dis">, not like a bizarre </span><span class="noun">foreigner</span><span class="dis">. Like an American </span><span class="noun">tourist</span><span class="dis"> in France, the Pirahãs could not understand why I couldn’t speak their </span><span class="noun">language</span><span class="dis">. Then one day a missionary </span><span class="noun">plane</span><span class="dis"> had brought us some supplies in the </span><span class="noun">jungle</span><span class="dis">. Among those was </span><span class="noun">lettuce</span><span class="dis">. I was so excited to have greens. The Pirahãs eat no greens and think of them as worm </span><span class="noun">food</span><span class="dis">. I was cheerfully eating </span><span class="noun">lettuce</span><span class="dis"> from a bowl when a Pirahã </span><span class="noun">friend</span><span class="dis"> walked up and said, "That’s why you don’t speak Pirahã yet. We don’t eat </span><span class="noun">leaves</span><span class="dis">."</span>
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</p>
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<p><img src="Imageresearch/piraha.annotations.w.png" alt="Daniel Everett's first annotations on Pirahãs spoken language, July 1995"></p>
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<p>
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In other <span class="noun">words</span>, the Pirahã man believed that <span class="noun">language</span> emerges from <span class="noun">culture</span> as well as the <span class="noun">entirety</span> of our <span class="noun">behavior</span> as members of a <span class="noun">society</span>. This is a <span class="noun">belief</span> I have come to as well. They felt we could not learn their <span class="noun">language</span> at native level unless we became also part of their <span class="noun">culture</span>; and native level is what matters to them, there are no <span class="noun">prizes</span> for merely speaking their <span class="noun">language</span> intelligibly. This was against everything I had been taught about <span class="noun">language</span> in <span class="noun">university</span> courses, and it underscored the <span class="noun">gap</span> between them and me. <span class="noun">Languages</span> and <span class="noun">cultures</span> interact symbiotically, each affecting the other. Our <span class="noun">sense</span> of self and of <span class="noun">society</span> emerges from our enveloping <span class="noun">culture</span> and from the <span class="noun">language</span> and accents we hear most during our childhood <span class="noun">development</span>. The <span class="noun">speed</span> of our <span class="noun">conversations</span> and the <span class="noun">structures</span> of our <span class="noun">interactions</span> with others are formed in local <span class="noun">communities</span> of <span class="noun">people</span> like ourselves. The most comfortable <span class="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>.
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</p>
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<p><img src="Imageresearch/goodnight.moon.w.png" alt="Originally published on Van Winkle's (October 2015)
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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.
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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.
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But in some cultures, no such words are spoken.
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Where? And why?
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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:
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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.
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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.
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“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.
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Are their sleeping habits any different?
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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.
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“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.”
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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.
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Are there any other cultures that dispense with these niceties?
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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.
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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.”
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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.”
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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.
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Source: https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/full/10.1111/j.1551-6709.2011.01209.x"></p>
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There are many <span class="noun">ways</span> in which we confront <span class="noun">otherness</span>. <span class="noun">Strangers</span> are not always <span class="noun">people</span>. <span class="noun">Nature</span> is often a <span class="noun">foreigner</span> to most of us and we can learn by submitting ourselves to it. One <span class="noun">reason</span> that I annually read the American Henry David Thoreau’s Walden, my favorite <span class="noun">book</span> in all of American <span class="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 <span class="noun">experiment</span>. Thoreau did not remain at Walden. He returned to take up a fairly boring <span class="noun">life</span> as a handyman in the adjacent <span class="noun">city</span> of Concord, Massachusetts. Yet, the <span class="noun">book</span> he wrote is full brilliant <span class="noun">observations</span> based on the <span class="noun">concepts</span> of American <span class="noun">Transcendentalism</span>: the <span class="noun">idea</span> that <span class="noun">people</span> and <span class="noun">nature</span> are inherently good and that they are best when left alone by <span class="noun">society</span> and its <span class="noun">institutions</span>. <span class="noun">Transcendentalism</span> implies that as we come to know ourselves and remove the otherness of <span class="noun">nature</span> by experiencing it with all our <span class="noun">senses</span>. That our <span class="noun">sense</span> of <span class="noun">oneness</span> with others, as embodied in that very <span class="noun">nature</span>, grows. Thoreau’s <span class="noun">insights</span> into his <span class="noun">lessons</span> from <span class="noun">nature</span> – as the <span class="noun">stranger</span> - teach us about what it means to live as a <span class="noun">human</span>, to be independent, and to occupy a part of the natural <span class="noun">world</span>. Through Thoreau we encounter the <span class="noun">strangeness</span> of a solitary <span class="noun">life</span> in <span class="noun">nature</span>. <span class="noun">Oneness</span> with ourselves and <span class="noun">nature</span> – and the others that are strange to us but are, like us, just part of <span class="noun">nature</span> – requires slow <span class="noun">work</span> of <span class="noun">contemplation</span> and <span class="noun">experience</span> that at once embraces the <span class="noun">otherness</span> of <span class="noun">nature</span>. It demands working towards removing this <span class="noun">sense</span> of <span class="noun">otherness</span> and embracing it as part of the <span class="noun">oneness</span> that we seek with the <span class="noun">world</span> around us.
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O<span class="noun">therness</span>, as I see it, is the <span class="noun">spark</span> of original <span class="noun">thought</span> and greater appreciation of <span class="noun">nature</span>, while the <span class="noun">sense</span> of <span class="noun">oneness</span> is the paradoxical <span class="noun">goal</span> of encounters with <span class="noun">otherness</span>. We need a sense of <span class="noun">oneness</span> of ourselves with <span class="noun">nature</span> to clearly see <span class="noun">otherness</span>, and we need <span class="noun">otherness</span> to build a more encompassing and panoramic <span class="noun">sense</span> of <span class="noun">self and oneness</span> with the <span class="noun">world</span>. Thoreau ignored <span class="noun">society</span> to know himself. Most of us ignore ourselves to be part of <span class="noun">society</span>. Thoreau eloquently expressed the loss that, being carried away by the <span class="noun">demands</span> of others and society, brings us to our <span class="noun">sense</span> of self. We think of <span class="noun">conformity</span> rather than our own unique <span class="noun">identity</span> and so blur who we are as <span class="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 <span class="noun">oneness</span> with the <span class="noun">world</span>, <span class="noun">nature</span>, and the other as part of this <span class="noun">oneness</span> that we can achieve the best individual <span class="noun">life</span>, and thus <span class="noun">society</span>.
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<p><a href="index.island.html">Islands</a></p>
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<p><img src="Imageresearch/piraha.recordings.w.png" alt="Recording of a conversation between Pirahãs and Daniel Everett."></p>
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Thoreau’s <span class="noun">hut</span> Walden stands still as <span class="noun">light</span> in the <span class="noun">heart</span> of the <span class="noun">forest</span>, a small cabin where one can sit and think and read and wonder about the <span class="noun">reasons</span> for living. Jungle <span class="noun">nights</span> were this <span class="noun">light</span> in my <span class="noun">life</span>, as I sat around <span class="noun">campfires</span>, talking in a <span class="noun">language</span> that was so hard for me to learn. Albert Camus said that the biggest <span class="noun">mystery</span> of <span class="noun">philosophy</span> is why not everyone commits <span class="noun">suicide</span> when honestly contemplating the futility of <span class="noun">life</span>. As a possible <span class="noun">answer</span> to his own <span class="noun">question</span>, Camus in his <span class="noun">essay</span> The Myth of Sisyphus, held up poor Sisyphus [^2] as an <span class="noun">example</span> of a good <span class="noun">life</span>. Sisyphus, after all, had an <span class="noun">objective</span>, one that entailed a measurable daily <span class="noun">activity</span> that always ended in the <span class="noun">accomplishment</span> of getting that <span class="noun">rock</span> up the <span class="noun">hill</span>. But Thoreau <span class="noun">perspective</span> rejects Camus’s <span class="noun">analysis</span>. He saw no <span class="noun">reason</span> to count familiarity or predictability of social <span class="noun">life</span>, <span class="noun">foods</span>, or accomplishments as among the <span class="noun">goals</span> of <span class="noun">life</span>. They teach us little and change our <span class="noun">behavior</span> insignificantly. His <span class="noun">example</span> was that we learn most when we insert ourselves as <span class="noun">aliens</span> in new conceptual, cultural, and <span class="noun">social environments</span> (in his case, the <span class="noun">absence</span> of <span class="noun">society</span>). I am convinced that our lives become richer when they are less predictable. This is not to say that our <span class="noun">lives</span> are always predictable in the <span class="noun">absence</span> of the other. <span class="noun">Otherness</span> renders our <span class="noun">expectations</span> less fixed and requires more thinking, planning, and learning.
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The Pirahãs would disagree. They believe that it is <span class="noun">homogeneity</span> that gives us <span class="noun">comfort</span> and keeps us strong physically and psychologically. <span class="noun">Otherness</span> vs. <span class="noun">predictability</span>, which is more desirable? In <span class="noun">essence</span>, we need both even if we’d construct a greater <span class="noun">sense</span> of <span class="noun">oneness</span> that embraces the <span class="noun">unexpected</span>. The two greatest <span class="noun">forces</span> of preserving and constructing <span class="noun">cultures</span> are <span class="noun">imitation</span> and <span class="noun">innovation</span>. When our <span class="noun">environments</span>, culturally and physically, are constant, <span class="noun">innovation</span> is rarely useful. Like biological <span class="noun">mutations</span>, cognitive and cultural <span class="noun">innovations</span> are usually unsuccessful. The <span class="noun">effort</span> to invent will usually isolate us as strange and less successful than those who merely imitate. Failed <span class="noun">innovation</span> in a <span class="noun">society</span> that most values imitation emphasizes our own ‘otherness’ and provides us with little <span class="noun">advantage</span>. As <span class="noun">environments</span> change – such as the <span class="noun">ecology</span> of the Pleistocene that so shaped our Homo ancestors, <span class="noun">climate change</span> today, the shifting <span class="noun">political boundaries</span>, or the <span class="noun">intrusion</span> of others into our <span class="noun">environment</span> – <span class="noun">innovation</span> becomes a more important <span class="noun">force</span>, providing new <span class="noun">solutions</span> to new <span class="noun">problems</span> that <span class="noun">imitation</span> alone is unable to provide. The Pirahãs live in an <span class="noun">environment</span> that has changed little over the <span class="noun">centuries</span>. They value <span class="noun">conformity</span> and <span class="noun">imitation</span> over <span class="noun">innovation</span>. Consequently their <span class="noun">language</span> has changed little over <span class="noun">time</span>. <span class="noun">Records</span> of their <span class="noun">culture</span> and <span class="noun">language</span> from the 18th century show a <span class="noun">people</span> identical to the <span class="noun">people</span> we encounter today, three <span class="noun">centuries</span> later.
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<p><img src="Imageresearch/piraha.result.w.png" alt="Members of the Pirahã tribe use a “one-two-many” system of counting. I ask whether speakers of this innumerate language can appreciate larger numerosities without the benefit of words to encode them. This addresses the classic Whorfian question about whether language can determine thought. Results of numerical tasks with varying cognitive demands show that numerical cognition is clearly affected by the lack of a counting system in the language. Performance with quantities greater than three was remarkably poor, but showed a constant coefficient of variation, which is suggestive of an analog estimation process.
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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>
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In <span class="noun">environments</span> that, especially culturally, change at light <span class="noun">speed</span> we need to learn to think, speak, act differently, and innovate in multiple <span class="noun">areas</span> simultaneously as the <span class="noun">changes</span> we encounter transform our familiar <span class="noun">environment</span> into ‘an other’. Every <span class="noun">day</span> brings <span class="noun">problems</span> that we never faced before. <span class="noun">Diversity</span> of <span class="noun">experiences</span> and <span class="noun">encounters</span> with others inspire new <span class="noun">ways</span> of thinking and new <span class="noun">forms</span> of living. If we all look the same, talk the same, <span class="noun">value</span> the same things, paint the same <span class="noun">pictures</span>, dance the same <span class="noun">dances</span>, and hear the same <span class="noun">music</span> then we are simply <span class="noun">imitators</span> falling behind the <span class="noun">challenges</span> of our <span class="noun">world</span>. This applies to all of us whether we are hunter-gatherers in the Amazon or advertising <span class="noun">agents</span> in New York City. It blinds us to new <span class="noun">forms of beauty</span>. What we see around us, with the <span class="noun">rise</span> of anti-immigration political <span class="noun">movements</span> in Europe and the USA is, at least partially, a fear of <span class="noun">otherness</span>. Our <span class="noun">preference</span> is for <span class="noun">conformity</span> and <span class="noun">imitation</span>; our <span class="noun">fear</span> then itself arises from that <span class="noun">preference</span> in contrast to <span class="noun">otherness</span> and the greater <span class="noun">steps</span> towards an ever more encompassing <span class="noun">oneness</span> of the <span class="noun">type</span> that motivated Thoreau. However, the ultimate <span class="noun">engine</span> of <span class="noun">innovation</span> is <span class="noun">otherness</span> – of <span class="noun">people</span>, <span class="noun">food</span>, <span class="noun">environments</span>, <span class="noun">art</span>, and <span class="noun">culture</span> – it strengthens us and prospers us.
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Our <span class="noun">languages</span> and <span class="noun">cognitive abilities</span> expand as we learn new <span class="noun">vocabularies</span> and new <span class="noun">values</span> by talking to <span class="noun">people</span> and experiencing their <span class="noun">relationships</span> to <span class="noun">nature</span> that are unlike our own. Human <span class="noun">language</span> emerged within the Homo line because it was the only <span class="noun">creature</span> to embrace <span class="noun">otherness</span> as to actively explore for the sake of <span class="noun">exploration</span>; to seek <span class="noun">encounters</span> with <span class="noun">otherness</span>. As Homo erectus sailed to <span class="noun">islands</span> beyond the <span class="noun">horizon</span> it invented <span class="noun">symbols</span> and <span class="noun">language</span> to cope with the greater <span class="noun">need</span> for communal <span class="noun">efforts</span> to expand <span class="noun">experiences</span>. <span class="noun">Language</span> change is an <span class="noun">indication</span> of cultural <span class="noun">change</span> (and cultural <span class="noun">change</span> will change <span class="noun">language</span>). Together, they amplify our species <span class="noun">ability</span> to innovate and survive. All that we are is the <span class="noun">result</span> of our <span class="noun">human embrace</span> of the other, the <span class="noun">love</span> of <span class="noun">alterity</span> that makes us distinct from all other <span class="noun">creatures</span>. <span class="noun">Alterity</span> is one of our greatest <span class="noun">fears</span>. And yet it should be our greatest <span class="noun">treasure</span>.
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