When I was a little noodle, I was known as the "animal whisperer" of my family. I imagine some of you may have been given such a monicker as well. This idea and archetype has always fascinated me. I remember hearing from my father and other family members about how there must be "something about me" or perhaps that the animals "just know", but I've never found these too convincing; I didn't see any immediate mechanisms behind which these rationales could make any sense. On the one hand, I could feel special in my 'unique ability', which otherwise felt like my natural, non-special state. On the other hand, I could buy into the idea that animals have these super-human senses that allow them to understand clearly the intent of me, a Human. Both were commonly thrown around, but I was not able to sit cleanly with either.
As I grew up as an autistic person, I naturally had a difficult time understanding the people around me: my family, friends, peers, and bullies. Understandably, they had just as difficult a time understanding me. There was a perpetual and perplexing mystery of mutual understanding which twisted itself into a cruel game, one in which I was always the loser by nature of me being me. Aside from the rare instance of a genuine close friend or relative who got the privilege of glimpsing under the curtain of my many masks, one group in particular stood out in my ability to communicate with greater mutual clarity: animals. Where in the presence of Humans I always found endless discomfort, quite the opposite arose from time spent with just about any other non-Human creature, regardless of species.
I've always had immense fascination and love for the other beings of this planet. One of my earliest and most distant memories is that of being deeply upset with other children near a tree at school who were stepping on bugs out of disgust–or perhaps fear. I always imagined how unfair that must be to be stripped of both dignity and life at the irrational whims of another. I often tried to appeal with a simple, relational plea, "Imagine if a giant squashed you and your home with no concern or remorse." However, this never merited any response or change of heart. After all, it's just a bug, isn't it? Why should we put any care or thought into carelessly taking the life of such a small and insignificant creature? Look at us! We're Humans! We practically own the Earth. We wield it, weave it, and bend it to our will in much the same way we have historically with one another. Yet still, we fall prey to the larger forces of nature at play: earthquakes, hurricanes, tornadoes, droughts, floods... These equally foul and beautiful forces were yet another hyperfixation of mine growing up. I could play devil's advocate and say that Humans are a part of this natural order all the same, free to squash bugs as they please, and if that's how you prefer to operate, I won't try to stop you. It's quite natural. Humans are hunter-gatherers after all, but I find it ironic that Humans have the audacity to build storm shelters and flood walls all the same. Once the proverbial giant comes stepping near our abodes, we suddenly start to care a good bit about protecting our dignity and life. It feels great to be the giant... not so much to be the bug.
I learned far too early by necessity to bury any reasoning behind this empathy for other creatures, largely due to environmental factors. Such kindness clearly had no place in the "civil" Human world, and it clearly had no place in my "average" and "well-adjusted" family. However, the seed of this trait still grew and developed in ways I would not come to fully understand until much later. In the wake of me distancing myself from my core, many fouler facets would emerge and writhe about in my mind. These have a place in my writing, but I will save them for a more fitting topic at a more appropriate time. I am, however, reminded of the one late family member whom with I shared this trait of kindness toward other creatures. My father would often call her "crazy" for one reason or another.
Due to factors such as autism and emotional isolation from my family and peers, I did not learn many of the social skills and mannerisms common to Humans; many of them didn't even come naturally to me. As I would live and learn and grow in this confusing arrangement, I found myself naturally adopting the mannerisms of other creatures, both real and fictional. These modes of expression remained well hidden most of the time due to my natural anxiety around socializing. There were occasional instances among family and friends where these gestures would bleed through in simple but subtle ways: building nests and dens in my bed, the way I'd walk or run, the way I'd eat my food. These were often called out with a tone I, to this day, cannot ascribe a word to. I often took note of the tone these behaviors would produce from others, forcing me further into hiding. Never were my most comfortable states welcome among the civilized Humans. I would do all in my power to be the best Human I could be, the best person I could be, but all attempts fell flat. The game could never be won by such an unadjusted child.
Regardless of the many pains and trials I'd face during my upbringing, my "semi-feral" nature became deeply ingrained, even when heavily masked under peacoats and button-down shirts. Beneath the exoskeleton I had built, a highly vulnerable creature resided uncomfortably. I was the strongest advocate for animals within the family, and I was the one who the animals would turn to for comfort. They did not fear me, and I did not fear them. Whenever I needed escape, I could always turn to them for peace without judgement or fear. Things would remain this way to this day, but everything that led to this would become a point of interest within my mind. Why? What was it that made me so appealing to them? Moreover, what was it that made their ways so appealing to me? Deeper answers, answers for another writing, remained at the center, but it was the layers beyond that center which intrigued me the most.
After moving out for the first time in early 2023, I was provided with a peace I had not yet known in the chaos of my family. Many days were spent sitting at the kitchen table and looking out the window, watching birds come and go from the feeder on the balcony. Sometimes I would sit on the balcony to journal or vape, and the birds would still come and go from the feeder. Most of the time, they'd immediately flee upon seeing me. Understandable. Sometimes, they'd cautiously land on the feeder: eyeing me down, picking at seeds here and there, occasionally glancing my way. I learned something subtle about the way the birds navigated around me which reminded me a lot of myself. I would keep my glance downward or away from them, frequently at my journal. Even if I wasn't looking, I could tell when one fluttered up. They'd beep and chirp questioningly at my presence. I came to find they were, much like me, averse to the direct gaze. With no sudden movements, sounds, or intense eye contact, they were far more content existing in close proximity to me. I felt, in that moment, a great deal of empathy for these birds. I saw myself in their pressing discomfort. I saw myself in their fear of being seen. What a privilege it was to share that space with them.
There are obviously limitations to being the so-called "animal whisperer", but it was in the introspective times after moving that I came to understand what it was which allowed me to become one. Much of what Humans refer to simply as "behaviors" in animals are in fact communication. Typically, when Humans think of communication, they think of a variety of ideas: language, speaking, writing, perhaps even the arts. However, growing up, I quickly learned that Humans draw strange and strict boundaries around what constitutes "communication" and what constitutes "behavior". When Humans make facial expressions or use non-verbal cues which I have forever struggled to interpret, I am told I have a "deficiency" in my "communication skills". Fair enough. However, when a dog growls or bares its teeth, we are told that this is a "behavior", often an unwanted one. What came into question for me is why Humans have drawn a strange and abstract line around the sacred "communication", leaving the often undesirable "behavior" outside of its golden walls. When we do it, it's communication. When animals do it, it's behavior. This is ridiculous. It is all communication and behavior because communication is a behavior of all living beings, and the language through which these so-called "behaviors" manifest is Emotional Honesty.
Having trouble interpreting the ways in which Humans subtly communicate has always been a burden to my social life. That, combined with my propensity to stim and have meltdowns, meant that I, not unlike the animals, was prone to exhibiting "undesirable behaviors". How unfortunate that I naturally be so uncivilized! However, this provided me with the opportunity to see through the guise of Human social norms; it provided me with an opportunity to understand the more... informal manners of communicating. Indeed, I found that I, not unlike the animals, communicated most effectively via Emotional Honesty because, to one degree or another, I was bound to it. When I am excited or overjoyed, I sometimes cannot help but stim and make interesting sounds. When I am frustrated, it feels most appropriate to quietly growl. The fact that such things have been conditioned in my mind to be shameful is, itself, a shame, and I often pity those who bind themselves up in social norms just to be viewed as civilized. Though, if that's how they wish to conduct themselves, I am not going to fault them. However, losing one's self in the binds of normalcy restricts one's ability to communicate in a broader sense. In gaining the ability to more quickly communicate with fellow Humans via novel and covert modes of conveyance, we can equally lose the mirror of the past which once constructed us, if we so choose. The ways in which animals behave are not alien and outside the walls of our sophisticated communication; they are reflections of the foundation upon which that sophistication rests.
If you search, you will find that this subtle and primal communication exists all around you. Even something as simple as a spider or a fly fleeing from the might of a shoe wielded by a frightened–or disgusted–Human can invoke a clear message from the receiver to the recipient of that might. Even running in fear is clear communication of one's internal state. If you search hard enough, you may even see it in yourself. It is nearing 5AM where I am. I can hear the robins sing through the screen door of the balcony. Working nights, and thereby living by a nightly schedule, offers me the unique opportunity to enjoy the early-morning birdsong. How odd of these small creatures to all, before dawn, call out in a song spanning miles: an event larger than me. They communicate to me that the world is waking to a new day.
-Turasna
