Talking Chimps
This essay was originally published in The Junction.
The title of an upcoming book caught my attention: Why Chimpanzees Can’t Learn Language and Only Humans Can. A little haughty, I thought. How would a more evolved life-form evaluate our abilities, or more importantly, define our limitations? Would the alien bookshelf include books like, Why Humans with Two Eyes Can’t See Dark Matter and Only We Can with One or, maybe, Why The Diurnal Can’t Reverse Time and We Can?
The soon-to-be-released book is about Project Nim, a controversial 1970s experiment to test whether a chimp raised by a human family could be taught sign language — physiologically chimps can’t speak, notwithstanding the Planet of Apes movies. A number of books and articles were written about the project and anyone interested in the controversy surrounding Project Nim can watch the eponymous 2011 documentary. In this book, Herb Terrace, psychology professor at Columbia University revisits his conclusion that the project failed because chimps just can’t learn words. Their brains have limitations.
Thinking about experiments interlopers from another galaxy might inflict on us was dispiriting. Instead, I considered my experiments using (mostly) sentient beings sharing 99% of a chimp’s DNA. These are concluding soon, given my youngest child graduates from the university later this year. He will soon be released into the world to fend for himself. I do hope he gets a job that won’t feel like the cage Nim was sent to after he graduated from his pampered life on the Upper West Side, first, and then, a country house upstate.
One of the experiments I set up was using a large rectangular hamper. I wanted to test their ability to place their dirty clothes within. For my son, the avid basketball player, getting the clothes inside seemed like an easy task. He claims that he is the top three-point shooter among his friends, which makes me wonder, given the size of the rectangular hamper, why he rarely makes even the dunks. His clothes are all over the floor, some just inches from the hamper. He just can’t hit these shots. I’ve been thinking about running a variant of the popular around-the-world game. He can try a t-shirt toss, socks chuck, and the boxer lob. If I can get his percentage near 25%, I would be up for coach of the year.
I reached high levels of disappointment testing their mechanical acumen. Many of these tasks should not have been beyond the capacity of my subjects. For example, the spring mechanism on the toilet paper holder has been enigmatic. Using it as a shelf seems a lot easier. Similarly, understanding that drawers and cabinets are binary has frustrated my youngest subject. He only understands that they open. I have demonstrated the closing mechanism, including the fast-closing method — the slam — to no avail. He gets combative when admonished after leaving every kitchen cabinet open. Terrace also found his chimp getting aggressive with his adopted family, which is why he moved him out of the Upper West Side to a country house. Without a place in the country, I may have to accept my role as the closer of cabinets.
I tried exposing my subjects to music, mostly rock and jazz. I wanted them to discover the joys of sculpted sound waves. They did, but as they approached their teenage years, they took a liking to rap and hip-hop, genres that I found incomprehensible except for the swearing. It was obvious that their brains were wired differently than mine. A battle over control of our wireless speakers ensued. Their failure to adopt my taste in music seemed like a limitation of their young brains, so I took control. That is, until they got to high-school. Soon, I was overwhelmed by their rap-loving posse. Not wanting to come across as inhospitable, or worse, to their friends, I gave up control of the speakers, but not before setting a volume limit on the digital speakers.
When my daughter headed to college in the midwest, she left the more radical rap fan behind. To my surprise, he was successful teaching his mother the finer points of hip-hop. She now has Drake and Kendrick Lamar on her Spotify playlist. I have found some joy listening in, proving, once and for all, that the limitation had been mine all along.
During my daughter’s recent visit to New York, she claimed she was no longer a rap aficionado. I looked at her, grinning. Then, she said her new love was country music. At that point, I knew my music experiment was a failure. Like Terrace, I may revisit this experiment a few years down the road. Who knows, they may turn nostalgic for the classics of the previous century. Or, maybe, I’ll come to like country music as much as I enjoy the finer points of Joey Bada$$.
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