Links to the Material

• “Carol Gilligan on Women and Moral Development | Big Think” by Big Think (2012)
• “Fifty Shades of Consent: Rape Culture Versus Feminism” by Kelly Oliver (2017)

1. Alison M. Jaggar — “Feminist Ethics”

2. Virginia Held — “The Ethics of Care”

3. Nel Noddings — “The One Caring”

RECEIVING

Caring involves, for the one-caring, a “feeling with” the other. We might want to call this relationship “empathy,” but we should think about what we mean by this term. The Oxford Universal Dictionary defines empathy as “The power of projecting one’s personality into, and so fully understanding, the object of contemplation.” This is, perhaps, a peculiarly rational, western, masculine way of looking at “feeling with.” The notion of “feeling with” that I have outlined does not involve projection but reception. I have called it “engrossment.” I do not “put myself in the other’s shoes,” so to speak, by analyzing his reality as objective data and then asking, “How would I feel in such a situation?” On the contrary, I set aside my temptation to analyze and to plan. I do not project; I receive the other into myself, and I see and feel with the other. I become a duality. I am not thus caused to see or to feel-that is, to exhibit certain behavioral signs interpreted as seeing and feeling-for I am committed to the receptivity that permits me to see and to feel in this way. The seeing and feeling are mine, but only partly and temporarily mine, as on loan to me.

Although receptivity is referred to by mystics, it is not a mystical notion. On the contrary, it refers to a common occurrence, something with which we are all familiar. It does not have to be achieved by meditation, although many persons do enter a receptive state in this way. We are interested here in the reception of persons, however, and we do not receive persons through meditation. Yet a receptive state is required. It can happen by chance when our manipulative efforts are at rest. Suppose, for example, that I am having lunch with a group of colleagues. Among them is one for whom I have never had much regard and for whom I have little professional respect. I do not “care” for him. Somewhere in the light banter of lunch talk, he begins to talk about an experience in the wartime navy and the feelings he had under a particular treatment. He talks about how these feelings impelled him to become a teacher. His expressions are unusually lucid, defenseless. I am touched, not only by sentiment, but by something else. It is as though his eyes and mine have combined to look at the scene he describes. I know that I would have behaved differently in the situation, but this is in itself a matter of indifference. I feel what he says he felt. I have been invaded by this other. Quite simply, I shall never again be completely without regard for him. My professional opinion has not changed, but I am now prepared to care whereas previously I was not.

Mothers quite naturally feel with their infants. We do not project ourselves into our infants and ask, “How would I feel if I were wet to the ribs?” We do this only when the natural impulse fails. Naturally, when an infant cries, we react with the infant and feel that something is wrong. Something is wrong. This is the infant’s feeling, and it is ours. We receive it and share it. We do not begin by trying to interpret the cry, although we may learn to do this. We first respond to the feeling that something is the matter. It is not foolishness to begin talking to our child as we respond to the cry. We say, “I’m here, sweetheart,” and “I hear you, darling,” as we move physically toward the child. And, usually, we comfort first, saying, “There, there. Everything is all right,” before we begin to analyze what is the matter. We do not begin by formulating or solving a problem but by sharing a feeling. Even when we move into the problem identification stage, we try to retain alternating phases of receptivity. We say, “Do you have a pain?” or its equivalent in baby talk. We do not expect, certainly, that the infant will respond verbally, but the question and its tone impel us to attentive quietude. We await an answer of some sort. We watch for a knee to be drawn up, the head to be tossed, a fist to be sucked.

Now it is just nonsense to say that a feeling response to my infant’s cry will “reinforce his crying behavior.” To begin with, I am not sure what is meant by “to reinforce,” and I suspect that, if it has any meaning in the real world, I cannot know what is being reinforced without being inside the one whose behavior is being so affected. But the sort of empathy we are discussing does not first penetrate the other but receives the other. Hence I do not “reinforce.” I receive, I communicate with, I work with. If by “reinforce” we mean simply that the likelihood of the behavior’s being continued is increased, then, in the case we are discussing, the claim is quite simply and demonstrably false.

There is another point to be made here. When we consider reinforcement strategies, we are obviously in a manipulative mode. We want to change the other’s behavior. The mother as one-caring, however, wants first and most importantly to relieve her child’s suffering. But, the philosopher asks, suppose the child is not suffering? Suppose it has merely acquired a bothersome habit of crying at the same hour every night? For that matter, how can you even know that you are actually ”receiving the other”?

How can I know? We must move cautiously here. The entire program I am trying to establish hangs on the answer to this question. If I respond that I cannot be mistaken in a basic act of receptivity, I fall into the trap that has already snared the phenomenologist when he speaks of the infallibility of basic intuitions. He asserts his position and presents it as right by definition. Surely, I do not want to respond in this way. Gently, gently, I must resist my colleague’s efforts to bring me into the standard mode of argumentation. I am not claiming that I know either in my receptivity itself or in my description of it. It is not at bottom a matter of knowledge but one of feeling and sensitivity. Feeling is not all that is involved in caring, but it is essentially involved.

When I receive the other, I am totally with the other. The relation is for the moment exactly as Buber has described it in I and Thou.  The other “fills the firmament.” I do not think the other, and I do not ask myself whether what I am feeling is correct in some way. When I have a sudden, severe pain in my mouth, for example, I may complain of a toothache. I cannot be wrong in responding to what I feel as a pain. It is not a matter of knowledge at all. Later, when the pain has gone and I think back on it, however, I may say, “Well, I guess it was not a toothache after all. It’s gone. Perhaps it was a bit of neuralgia caused by the cold or altitude.” I do not say, “Well, I guess I did not have a pain.” Of course I had a pain. My error, if one occurred, lay in assessing the pain as a toothache. Similarly, I may, in looking back, become aware that there was a failure somewhere in my movement from feeling to assessment. But in the receptive mode itself, I am not thinking the other as object. I am not making claims to knowledge. There can be failures to receive, and we shall discuss such cases, but these are not matters of faulty claims to knowledge.

But am I not making claims to knowledge as I describe the state of one caring in moments of caring? What is offered is not a set of knowledge claims to be tested but an invitation to see things from an alternative perspective. When I describe the one-caring in particular situations, we should not infer that one who behaves or feels differently in similar situations is necessarily one who does not care. To begin with, I am denying the sort of generalizability that would be required to make such a judgment. Situations of relatedness are unique, and it is my purpose to build a picture of one-caring from a collection of concrete and unique situations. There is, I think, a logic of the caring relation, and there is empirical support for much of what I shall say, but the program under construction does not evolve inevitably out of the “logic of the concept, nor out of a catalog of what is known about persons caring. Both require a move to abstraction that tends to destroy the uniqueness of the caring itself. This must be captured in the caring moment-in the one-caring and in the cared-for.

When I care, when I receive the other in the way we have been discussing, there is more than feeling; there is also a motivational shift. My motive energy flows toward the other and perhaps, although not necessarily, toward his ends. I do not relinquish myself; I cannot excuse myself for what I do. But I allow my motive energy to be shared; I put it at the service of the other. It is clear that my vulnerability is potentially increased when I care, for I can be hurt through the other as well as through myself. But my strength and hope are also increased, for if I am weakened, this other, which is part of me, may remain strong and insistent. When this displacement occurs in the extreme form, we sometimes hear parents speak of “living for, their children. Clearly, both parents and children are at risk of losing themselves under such conditions, and I shall say more about this when we discuss the cared-for in detail.

Now, just what is the place of emotion or affect in caring, and how is it related to the motivational shift just described? I have claimed that the one-caring is engrossed in the other. But this engrossment is not completely characterized as emotional feeling. There is a characteristic and appropriate mode of consciousness in caring. When we are in problem solving situations, the characteristic and appropriate mode of consciousness is, usually, one of rational objectivity. It is a thinking mode that moves the self toward the object. It swarms over the object, assimilates it. When this mode breaks down under pressure, we respond emotionally. Suppose that I am trying to open a window that is stuck. As I push, one side goes up and the other side goes down. I move very carefully trying to prevent this lopsided movement. No luck. I examine the parts of the window. I hypothesize. I may examine a window that is working properly in the hope of understanding its mechanism. I experiment. Then, suddenly, I deteriorate. I beat and curse the window. Consciousness has entered a mode in which it meets its objects with emotion. Jean-Paul Sartre calls this a “degradation of consciousness,” 2 a condition in which the higher consciousness of rationality gives way to the lower, nonreflective consciousness of emotion. At least his use of “degradation” leads us to infer a movement from higher to lower. In the case I have described, “degradation” seems to be the right word, for my beating and cursing the window seem indicators of an attempt to influence the window as though it had an obstinate will. But, perhaps, in most cases, it would be more fruitful to think in terms of a movement from appropriate and/ or effective to inappropriate and/ or ineffective, for there is an appropriate change in modes even in problem solving. We can switch from an assimilatory mode to a receptive-intuitive mode which, by a process we do not understand well, allows us to receive the object, to put ourselves quietly into its presence. We enter a feeling mode, but it is not necessarily an emotional mode. In such a mode, we receive what is there as nearly as possible without evaluation or assessment. We are in the world of relation, having stepped out of the instrumental world; we have either not yet established goals or we have suspended striving for those already established. We are not attempting to transform the world, but we are allowing ourselves to be transformed. This is, clearly, not a degradation of consciousness, although it may be accompanied by an observable change in energy pattern.

It is a lateral move of some sort. We mentioned earlier Mozart hearing music, Gauss being seized by mathematics, and Miro having his hand guided when he painted. An affective-receptive mode of this kind cannot be thought of as a “degradation” of consciousness. Indeed, emotion may be absent or, at least, the one-receiving may be unaware of it. But it is, clearly, qualitatively different from the analytic-objective mode in which we impose structure on the world. It is a precreative mode characterized by outer quietude and inner voices and images, by absorption and sensory concentration. The one so engrossed is listening, looking, feeling.

The receptive mode seems to be an essential component of intellectual work. We do not pass into it under stress, and this is further evidence that it is not a degradation of consciousness. Indeed, we must settle ourselves, clear our minds, reduce the racket around us in order to enter it. If we are unable to do this, we may remain in an unproductive assimilative mode. Sometimes, for example, mathematics students get “stuck” in an analytic mode. They persist in trying to force a particular structure upon an unyielding problem. They are usually tense, frowning-on the edge of a genuine degradation. Then, the teacher may say, “Wait. Just sit still for a minute. Stop thinking and just look at the problem.” Humor, patience, and quiet enter. The student may say, “What kind of mathematics teacher would tell a person to ‘stop thinking’?” Teacher and student receive each other. Then the student relaxes and receives the problem. Often the result is quite remarkable. Over and over, I have heard students say, as they looked at what was in front of them, “For goodness sake! Why didn’t I see that before?”

The receptive or relational mode seems to be essential to living fully as a person. In caring, a permanent or untimely move from feeling and affective engrossment to abstract problem solving would be a “degradation,” a movement from the appropriate to something qualitatively different and less appropriate. Again, this is not to say that a lateral or temporary move into objective thinking is necessarily a “degradation.” What seems to be crucial is that we retain the ability to move back and forth and to invest the appropriate mode with dominance. When we give over control to the inappropriate mode, we may properly speak of a degradation of consciousness; in the one case we become irrational and in the other unfeeling and unseeing.

THINKING AND FEELING: TURNING POINTS

The receptive mode is at the heart of human existence. By “existence” or “existing,” I mean more than merely living or subsisting. When existentialist philosophers refer to “existence,” they mean to include an awareness of and commitment to what we are doing, what we are living, and I am using the term in this way. Existence involves, then, living with heightened awareness. A receptive mode may be both reflexive and reflective; that is, instead of receiving the world or the other, I may receive myself, and I may direct my attention to that which I have already received. It is in this subjective-receptive mode that I see clearly what I have received from the other, and then I must decide whether to proceed in a state of truth or to deny what I have received and talk myself into feeling comfortable with the denial.

Instrumental thinking may, of course, enhance caring; that is, I may use my reasoning powers to figure out what to do once I have committed myself to doing something. But clearly, rationality (in its objective form) does not of necessity mark either the initial impulse or the action that is undertaken. If I care enough, I may do something wild and desperate in behalf of the other – something that has only the tiniest probability of success, and that only in my own subjective view. Hence, in caring, my rational powers are not diminished but they are enrolled in the service of my engrossment in the other. What I will do is subordinate to my commitment to do something.

I have suggested that we can make lateral moves-that is, moves which are neither up nor down-in modes of consciousness. Clearly we cannot remain perpetually in the receptive mode. Mozart moved to the piano, to pen and paper. Gauss produced proofs. Miró perfected what his hand sketched out. And we, in caring, must respond: we express ourselves, we make plans, we execute. But there, are, properly, turning points. As we convert what we have received from the other into a problem, something to be solved, we move away from the other. We clean up his reality, strip it of complex and bothersome qualities, in order to think it. The other’s reality becomes data, stuff to be analyzed, studied, interpreted. All this is to be expected and is entirely appropriate, provided that we see the essential turning points and move back to the concrete and the personal. Thus we keep our objective thinking tied to a relational stake at the heart of caring. When we fail to do this, we can climb into clouds of abstraction, moving rapidly away from the caring situation into a domain of objective and impersonal problems where we are free to impose structure as we will. If I do not turn away from my abstractions, I lose the one cared-for. Indeed, I lose myself as one-caring, for I now care about a problem instead of a person.

As an ethical theory develops out of this analysis of caring, we shall consider a process of concretization that is the inverse of abstraction, and we shall explore the possibility that this process is one preferred by women faced with moral dilemmas. Instead of proceeding deductively from principles superimposed on situations, women seek to “fill out” hypothetical situations in a defensible move toward concretization. Suppose, for example, that we are considering appropriate punishment for one who has committed a particular crime. The traditional approach, that of the father, is to ask under what principle the case falls. But the mother may wish to ask more about the culprit and his victims. She may begin by thinking, “What if this were my child?” Neither position is fairly put forth and examined by merely identifying its first move but, clearly, the approaches are different: The first moves immediately to abstraction where its thinking can take place clearly and logically in isolation from the complicating factors of particular persons, places, and circumstances; the second moves to concretization where its feeling can be modified by the introduction of facts, the feelings of others, and personal histories. The father might sacrifice his own child in fulfilling a principle; the mother might sacrifice any principle to preserve her child. This is far too simplistic to be considered a summary or definitive description of positions, but it is indicative and instructive. It underscores the sort of difference that places the present approach in opposition to traditional ethics.

GUILT AND COURAGE

The one-caring is in a unique position with respect to the caring. I can be aware of myself caring, and I can think about and doubt my caring. If the cared-for receives my caring and completes it, I may never turn inward (except in wonder) to examine my own state or to question it. I care, and that means that my consciousness is turned to the cared-for. I have little need to reflect on this consciousness, and I may be but dimly aware of a euphoria, ranging from a mild “all’s well” to ecstasy, that accompanies my activity with the cared-for.

But if the cared-for does not complete my caring by receiving and acknowledging it, I may examine myself and ask, “Do I really care?” In some cases, an affirmative answer comes through clearly and honestly. I do care. I shall always care. The situation may be such that I just have to wait for my caring to be completed in the other and, if it never is, I see clearly that the attempt to care will nonetheless go on. This is a source of wonder when I see it. However, a negative answer may come through. If it does, I may accept it honestly and study it, or I may reject it in horror and begin to talk myself out of it. Let’s say that I have the courage to accept it. My caring for this other has turned into “cares and burdens.” When I see this, I know that I have become the object of my own “caring.” I need my pity, compassion, and sympathy. “Wallowing in selfpity” is not a bad thing if I intend to help myself as I would another. So, perhaps, I dwell on my troubles for a while, let them lead and chase themselves into an enhanced state of despair at which I draw back sheepishly and say, “Well, now, it is not that bad.” Then I can climb out. I recognize that I do not care at this time, that I am weary, but I recognize, also, that this mood may pass. It may be that I must still do certain things in behalf of the cared-for. I resolve to do them as though I care. This is very dangerous, and I must monitor the situation in a way that is completely unnecessary when I do care. I am not really prepared to care. I am in a deliberate state of neutrality, waiting and watching. I run a dreadful risk in this decision for, if the potential cared-for turns on me and says, “You don’t really care!” I may become stricken with guilt. I do not really care, and yet I “care” enough to be bothered by this accusation.

What I care about is crucial at this point. If I care about the other, if I am stricken by his belief that I do not care-that is, if I am stricken as he is by disappointment and desperation-then I do care, and things will mend naturally. But if this accusation strikes me as a threat, as a reprimand that triggers no sympathy for the other but only a massive resistance, I will feel guilt. Here am I, one who cared, who does not now care, and the other sees it. I can summon reason to my defense: Look at this other! What has he done to encourage or to appreciate me? What a mess he is. How I have tried. . . . I can go on and on and guilt comes right along like my shadow.

Can I avoid this? Can I be free of guilt? I do not think it is possible. Paul Tillich describes the anxiety of guilt as ontological. It transcends the subjective and objective. It is a constant threat in caring. In caring, I am turned both outward (toward the other) and inward (my engrossment may  be reflected upon); when caring fails, I feel its loss. I want to care, but I do not. I feel that I ought to behave as though I care, but I do not want to do this. Of someone in this kind of situation, Tillich says:

“A profound ambiguity between good and evil permeates everything he does, because it permeates his personal being as such. Non-being is mixed with being in his moral self-affirmation as it is in his spiritual and ontic self-affirmation. The awareness of this ambiguity is the feeling of guilt.”

Contrary to many of the messages from some schools of modern psychology, we cannot be free of this guilt. There is something to be said for ”not wasting time on guilt,” if by this we mean suffering guilt and letting our guilt color all we do in the world. Clearly, if that which has induced guilt can be partially remedied by action, then it makes sense to act. This does not mean to avoid. We might, of course, refuse the guilt and engage in frenetic activity to avoid looking at it, but I am not suggesting this. I am saying what we all know, that some action which may remove the reason for the other’s accusation will tend to alleviate the guilt. In such cases we act out of regard for our own ethical or, perhaps, psychical selves, but the reaction of the other may enable us to recover the caring that has lapsed. Caring is, by its nature, filled out in the other.

There are, however, occasions upon which no action can relieve guilt. These are not necessarily situations in which caring has lapsed. There are situations in which caring is sustained but something has gone wrong. Something terrible has happened. In caring we risk guilt, either through accidents while caring is sustained or through the lapse of caring. In the former case, nothing can undo what has been done. Atonement is not required, because forgiveness was freely given at the outset. To be free of the guilt, the one-caring would do anything for the cared-for. Yet this “anything” would be a mockery, because there is nothing that could restore what has been lost to the cared-for. So here is this reality, this thing of which I can never be free. Courage requires that I accept it. I do not dwell on it so that it cripples me and provides an excuse (which I can never have) for my lapsed projects. But I accept it. When it comes to me I accept it as mine-that-1-would-not-have-chosen but mine nonetheless. I live it through as often as it comes to me. There is a double requirement of courage in caring: I must have the courage to accept that which I have had a hand in, and I must have the courage to go on caring. Might it not be easier to escape to the world of principles and abstractions? These cared-fors under whose gaze I fall– whose real eyes look into mine-are related to me. I can be hurt through them and by them. Intermittently, they are I and I they. The possibilities for both pain and joy are increased in my world, but I need courage to grasp the possibilities.

The question raised by mistaken psychologies, “Why should I feel guilty?” suggests that I may reject the possibility-and, of course, I may, if I am willing to reject my self, that part of my finite self which is embedded in an infinite that I cannot entirely grasp. But I do know, if I look with open eyes upon it, that any movement out of a stagnant self-as-it-is risks this guilt which is existential, which accompanies an awareness of lived experience. It is a risk I always run when I care.

The risk of guilt is present in all caring. But its likelihood is greater in caring that is sustained over time. Here we experience the “ups and downs” of close contact in normal living. Not all caring is sustained over lengthy periods. When we care for a stranger in immediate need, we care for the interval of need and, afterward, forget. A stranger needs to use our telephone, or we stop to help a stranded motorist. There is no demand in these cases that we care either intensely or for a prolonged period of time. There is a temporal aspect to caring. From the view of the one-caring, the engrossment characteristic of caring and the typical motivational shift must span the interval whether that be, properly, a few moments or a lifetime. Martin Buber says: “Love is responsibility of an I for a Thou:* in this consists what cannot consist in any feeling.” Caring, too, although it is not necessarily accompanied by love, is partly responsibility for the other-for the cared-for. As we care, we hear the “I ought”-direct and primitive-and the potential for suffering guilt is ever present. What “I ought” to respond to, I may ignore or reject; what I decide to do in genuine response to the other and to the internal “I ought” may go awry, bringing pain to the cared-for and guilt to me.

To spare ourselves guilt, we may prefer to define our caring in terms of conformity and/ or regard to principle. If the other does not respond, we are still quite safe from criticism. We are righteous. We act in obedience to some great principle-! must defend my country! I must execute the law! I must be fair!– and from the potential cared-for we avert our eyes. We do not care for him any longer.

WOMEN AND CARING

We have already noted that women often define themselves as both persons and moral agents in terms of their capacity to care. When we move from natural caring to an ethic of caring, we shall consider the deep psychological structures that may be responsible for this mode of definition. Here I wish to concentrate on the caring itself-on particular examples of feminine courage in relating and remaining related and on the typical differences between men and women in their search for the ethical in human relationships.

We may find the sorts of examples and contrasts we seek in legend, Biblical accounts, biography, and fiction. I shall do no more than sample the possibilities here. The legend of Ceres, for example, can be interpreted beautifully to illustrate the attitude and conflicts of one-caring.’ Recall that Ceres was the goddess who cared for the earth. It was she who made the fields fertile and watched over the maturation and harvest of crops. She had a daughter, Proserpine, whom she dearly loved. One day, Pluto, god of the underworld, crazed by love from Cupid’s arrow, snatched Proserpine from her play and abducted her to his underground kingdom. Ceres searched the world for her daughter without success and was grief-stricken. Next something happens in the legend that is especially instructive for the one-caring: Ceres, in all her misery, is approached by an old man, Celeus, and his little girl. They respond to her grief and invite her to visit their cottage; indeed, they respond by weeping with her. Ceres is moved by this show of compassion and accompanies them. Here is a concrete illustration of the power of the cared-for in contributing to the caring relation. Ceres knows that she is the one-caring, that she has the power to confer good or ill on these passersby. But, in her misery, she needs the active response of the cared-for to maintain herself as one-caring. Typical of one-caring who would be one-caring, she answers Celeus by saying: “Lead on, . .. I cannot resist that appeal.”

Arriving at the cottage, Ceres finds a little boy very ill, probably dying. She is received, however, by the child’s mother, Metanira, and moved to pity, Ceres cures the child with a kiss. Later, when Ceres tries to make the child immortal by tempering his body in flaming ashes, Metanira snatches the child fearfully from her. Ceres chides the mother for depriving her son of immortality but, still, she assures Metanira that he will nevertheless be “great and useful.” The boy, Triptolemus, will someday teach humankind the secrets of agriculture as revealed to him by Ceres. Here, then, is a second facet of the ideal for one-caring. The cared-for shall be blessed not with riches, luck, and power but with the great gift of usefulness. The conversation between Ceres intending immortality for Triptolemus and Metanira afraid to risk her son in the flames is illustrative, again, of the feminine striving for an attainable ideal. It stands in bold contrast to the story we shall consider next-that of Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son to divine command.

Eventually, Ceres finds the place where Proserpine was swallowed up by the earth, but she mistakenly supposes that the earth itself did this terrible thing. She is stricken by a double grief. Not only has she lost her beloved Proserpine but another cared-for, her fruitful earth, has turned against her. Now Ceres does not fly into a destructive rage and visit the earth with lightning, fire and flood. She merely ceases to care; she withdraws as one-caring, and the earth dries up in mud and weeds and brambles. Ceres, the one-caring, has nothing to sustain her in caring. Here, we see foreshadowed the power of the cared-for in maintaining the caring relationship.

Finally, Ceres learns the truth and entreats Jove to intercede on her behalf with Pluto. As you may recall, Pluto, in fear of losing his kingdom entirely, agrees to return Proserpine but induces her to eat some pomegranate seeds so that she will be unable to spend more than half of each year with her mother. When Proserpine returns each spring, Ceres bestows great fruitfulness on the earth and, when she leaves each fall, Ceres is overcome by grief and allows winter to settle on the earth.

This story is widely understood as an allegory of the seasons, of sleeping grain and awakening fruitfulness, but it may be interpreted also as a fable of caring and being cared-for. It illustrates the vulnerability of the one-caring, her reception of the proximate stranger, her generosity upon being herself received, and the munificent displacement of motivation that occurs when she is sustained as one-caring.

Now, someone is sure to point out that, in contrast to the legend of one-caring as the pinnacle of feminine sensibility, feminine skullduggery lies at the root of the problem described in the legend. It was, after all, Venus who prompted her son, Cupid, to shoot Pluto with the arrow of love. I am not denying the reality of this dark side of feminine character, but I am rejecting it in my quest for the ethical. I am not, after all, suggesting a will to power but rather a commitment to care as the guide to an ethical ideal.

This commitment to care and to define oneself in terms of the capacity to care represent a feminine alternative to Kohlberg’s “stage six” morality. At stage six, the moral thinker transcends particular moral principles by appealing to a highest principle-one that allows a rearrangement of the hierarchy in order to give proper place-value to human love, loyalty, and the relief of suffering. But women, as ones-caring, are not so much concerned with the rearrangement of priorities among principles; they are concerned, rather, with maintaining and enhancing caring. They do not abstract away from the concrete situation those elements that allow a formulation of deductive argument; rather, they remain in the situation as sensitive, receptive, and responsible agents. As a result of this caring orientation, they are perceived by Kohlberg as “being stuck” at stage three-that stage in which the moral agent wants to be a “good boy or girl.” The desire to be good, however, to be one-caring in response to these cared-fors here and now, provides a sound and lovely alternative foundation for ethical behavior. Like Ceres, the one-caring will not turn from the real human beings who address her. Her caring is the foundation of-and not a mere manifestation of-her morality.

In contrast to the story of Ceres, who could not abandon her child even for the sake of her beloved Earth, we may consider Abraham. In obedience to God, Abraham traveled with his son, Isaac, to Moriah, there to offer him as a sacrifice: “And they came to the place which God had told him of; and Abraham built an altar there, and laid the wood in order, and bound Isaac his son, and laid him on the altar upon the wood. And Abraham stretched forth his hand, and took the knife to slay his son.”

Kierkegaard interprets Abraham’s action as supra-ethical, that is, as the action of an individual who is justified by his connection to God, the absolute. For him, as for us, the individual is higher than the universal, but for him that “higher” status is derived from “absolute duty toward God.” Hence a paradox is produced. Out of duty to God, we may be required to do to our neighbor what is ethically forbidden. The ethical is, for Kierkegaard, the universal, and the individual directly obedient to God is superior to the universal. He says: “In the story of Abraham we find such a paradox. His relation to Isaac, ethically expressed, is this, that the father should love the son. This ethical relation is reduced to a relative position in contrast with the absolute relation to God.”

But for the mother, for us, this is horrendous. Our relation to our children is not governed first by the ethical but by natural caring. We love not because we are required to love but because our natural relatedness gives natural birth to love. It is this love, this natural caring, that makes the ethical possible. For us, then, Abraham’s decision is not only ethically unjustified but it is in basest violation of the supra-ethical-of caring. The one-caring can only describe his act-‘ ‘You would kill your own son!” -and refuse him forgiveness. Abraham’s obedience fled for protection under the skirts of an unseeable God. Under the gaze of an abstract and untouchable God, he would destroy this touchable child whose real eyes were turned upon him in trust, and love, and fear. I suspect no woman could have written either Genesis or Fear and Trembling, but perhaps I should speak only for myself on that. The one-caring, male or female, does not seek security in abstractions cast either as principles or entities. She remains responsible here and now for this cared-for and this situation and for the forseeable futures projected by herself and the cared-for.

Now, of course, the scholar may argue that I have interpreted the story too literally, and even that Kierkegaard did so in an agony of faith against ethical reason. He will point out that, on another interpretation, God used Abraham and Isaac to teach His people that human sacrifice was unacceptable to Him and, henceforth, forbidden. This interpretation will not satisfy the mother. The mother in Abraham’s position would respond to the fear and trust of her child-not to the voice of abstraction. The Mother-as-God would not use a parent and child so fearfully and painfully to teach a welcome lesson to her other children. The Mother-God must respond caringly to Abraham as cared-for and to Isaac as cared-for, and she must preserve Abraham as one-caring in relation to Isaac.

Everything that is built on this sacrificial impulse is anathema to woman. Here, says woman, is my child. I will not sacrifice him for God, or for the greatest good, or for these ten others. Let us find some other way.

The devotion to “something beyond” that is revealed in traditional, masculine ethics is often devotion to deity, but sometimes it is devotion to principle. Recall the story of Manlius, a Roman commander who laid down harsh laws for the conduct of his legions. One of the first to disobey a rule about leaving camp to engage in individual combat was his own son. In compliance with the rules, Manlius ordered the execution of his son. A principle had been violated; for this violation, X must be executed. That “X” was replaced by “my son” gave Manlius no release from obedience to the principle. Why, then, did he not think concretely before establishing the rule? Why do men so often lay out their own clear paths to tragedy? The one-caring would want to think carefully about the establishment of rules and even more carefully about the prescription of penalties. Indeed, she would prefer to establish a climate of cooperative “we-ness” so that rules and penalties might be kept to a minimum. For her, the hypothetical is filled with real persons, and, thus, her rules are tempered a priori with thoughts of those in her inner circle. A stranger might, then, be spared death because she would not visit death upon her own child. She does not, in whatever personal agony, inflict death upon her child in devotion to either principle or abstract entity.

History, legend, and biography might profitably be reinterpreted in light of feminine experience. Both men and women may participate in the “feminine” as I am developing it, but women have suffered acutely from its lack of explication. They have felt and suffered and held fast, but they have-as a result-been accused of deficiency in abstract reasoning, of capricious behavior, of emotional reaction. Even in parenting, perhaps especially in parenting, the typical differences between concrete and abstract, between here-and-now and here-and-after, between flesh– and blood and spirit, stand out in life and literature. In Robert Frost’s “Home Burial,” the conflict between man and woman in the loss of their child is dramatic. He tries to relieve his grief by speaking of ordinary things; she is convinced because of this that he feels no grief. He makes matters worse by saying:

“What was it brought you up to think it the thing To take your mother-loss of a first child so inconsolably-in the face of love. You’d think his memory might be satisfied-“

What is the man doing here? He is not callous, and he has not escaped suffering, but he has not met his wife on the level of feeling. He accuses her of thinking “it the thing” to grieve deeply; he speaks of “motherloss” and “first child,” but he avoids the child’s name and any concrete reference to him. He speaks of “his memory” but not of the small, warm body his wife nurtured. It is this difference in language and direction of reference that forms the difference between an ethic of caring and an ethic of principle.

Examples appear in real life as well as in poetry and fiction. Pearl Buck describes the difference in her own parents.

The fascinating thing about Andrew and Carie was that from the two of them we always got entirely different stories about the same incident. They never saw the same things or felt the same way about anything, and it was as though they had not gone to the same place or seen the same people.

Andrew was spirit-all heaven and abstraction; Carie was completely human. He was a preacher, a missionary in China, and cared for the souls of his parishioners. Carie cared for them as persons, ministering to their bodies and earthly minds. She had no preconceived notion of what her children should be; she did not cast them in the image of a catechism-produced God. Rather, she loved their warm bodies, cherished their laughter and childish pranks, nurtured their earthly courage and compassion for each other. The greatest joy in her life came through her children, and her greatest suffering was incurred by their loss. When Andrew was seventy years old, some time after Carie had died, he wrote the story of his life. The record fit into twenty-five pages. His daughter remarks:

“It was the story of his soul, his unchanging soul. Once he mentioned the fact of his marriage to Carie, his wife. Once he listed the children he had had with her, but in the listing he forgot entirely a little son who lived to be five years old and was Carie’s favorite child, and he made no comment on any of them.”

Yet all of her life Carie was made to feel spiritually inferior to her husband and, as she lay near death, he expressed concern about her soul!

Today we are asked to believe that women’s “lack of experience in the world” keeps them at an inferior stage in moral development. I am suggesting, to the contrary, that a powerful and coherent ethic and, indeed, a different sort of world may be built on the natural caring so familiar to women.

CIRCLES AND CHAINS

We find ourselves at the center of concentric circles of caring. In the inner, intimate circle, we care because we love. In particularly trying situations we may act out of ethical sense even here. After all, sometimes we are tired, the other has behaved abominably, and our love is frayed. Then we remind ourselves of the other’s location in our system of circles: He is (was) my friend; she is my child; he is my father. The engrossment remains, although its color changes, and we may vacillate between the once natural caring for other to growing concern for ourselves.

As we move outward in the circles, we encounter those for whom we have personal regard. Here, as in the more intimate circles, we are guided in what we do by at least three considerations: how we feel, what the other expects of us, and what the situational relationship requires of us. Persons in these circles do not, in the usual course of events, require from us what our families naturally demand, and the situations in which we find ourselves have, usually, their own rules of conduct. We are comfortable in these circles if we are in compliance with the rules of the game. Again, these rules do not compel us, but they have an instrumental force that is easily recognized. I listen with a certain ready appreciation to colleagues, and I respond in a polite, acceptable fashion. But I must not forget that the rules are only aids to smooth passage through unproblematic events. They protect and insulate me. They are a reflection of someone’s sense of relatedness institutionalized in our culture. But they do not put me in touch; they do not guarantee the relation itself. Thus rules will not be decisive for us in critical situations, but they will be acknowledged as economies of a sort. As such they will be even less important than the “illuminative maxims” described by Joseph Fletcher. For us, the destructive role of rules and principles must be clarified and acknowledged.

Beyond the circles of proximate others are those I have not yet encountered. Some of these are linked to the inner circle by personal or formal relations. Out there is a young man who will be my daughter’s husband; I am prepared to acknowledge the transitivity of my love. He enters my life with potential love. Out there, also, are future students; they are linked formally to those I already care for and they, too, enter my life potentially cared-for. Chains of caring are established, some linking unknown individuals to those already anchored in the inner circles and some forming whole new circles of potential caring. I am “prepared to care” through recognition of these chains.

But what of the stranger, one who comes to me without the bonds established in my chains of caring? Is there any sense in which I can be prepared to care for him? I can remain receptive. As in the beginning, I may recognize the internal “I must,” that natural imperative that arises as I receive the other, but this becomes more and more difficult as my world grows more complex. I may be bombarded with stimuli that arouse the “I must,” and I learn to reduce the load. As we have seen, a standard fashion of controlling what comes in is to rely on situational rules. These protect me. What, under normal circumstances, I must do for a colleague is different from what I must do for my child. I may come to rely almost completely on external rules and, if I do, I become detached from the very heart of morality: the sensibility that calls forth caring. In an important sense, the stranger has an enormous claim on me, because I do not know where he fits, what requests he has a formal right to make, or what personal needs he will pass on to me. I can meet him only in a state of wary anticipation and rusty grace, for my original innocent grace is gone and, aware of my finiteness, I fear a request I cannot meet without hardship. Indeed, the caring person, one who in this way is prepared to care, dreads the proximate stranger, for she cannot easily reject the claim he has on her. She would prefer that the stray cat not appear at the back door-or the stray teenager at the front. But if either presents himself, he must be received not by formula but as individual.

The strain on one who would care can be great. Literature is filled with descriptions of encounters of this sort: the legitimate dread of the onecaring and the ultimate acceptance or rejection of the internal “I must.”

One thinks of John Steinbeck’s Carl Tiflin and Mr. Gitana in The Red Pony. In defiance of a loud and insistent “I must,” Tiflin diminishes his ethical ideal and turns the old man away. In contrast, Robert Frost has the farm wife, Mary, express the one-caring as she accepts the “hired man” into her home:

“Yes, what else but home? It all depends on what you mean by home. Of course he’s nothing to us, any more Than was the hound that came a stranger to us Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail. Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in.”

Both imperatives expressed here, the “have to’s” of the one-caring and the cared-for, are internal imperatives. An observer can see alternatives clearly, but the “I must” suggests itself as binding upon the one in whom it occurs. We are both free and bound in our circles and chains.

ASYMMETRY AND RECIPROCITY IN CARING

Clearly, the cared-for depends upon the one-caring. But the one-caring is also oddly dependent upon the cared-for. If the demands of the cared-for become too great or if they are delivered ungraciously, the one-caring may become resentful and, pushed hard enough, may withdraw her caring. Each of us is dependent upon the other in caring and moral relationships. The very goodness I seek, the perfection of ethical self is, thus, partly dependent on you, the other. And this peculiar dependence holds beyond caring relationships into antagonistic and adversarial relations. If you are unscrupulous enough, you can deprive me not only of life and fortune but of the ethical ideal for which I am striving. You can push me to betray my principles, deny my loves, sacrifice my ethical self. How hard it is for you to do this depends upon the strength of my commitment to the ethical ideal, but that you can do it is scarcely questionable. You may recall the denial and betrayal of Orwell’s Winston Smith in Nineteen Eighty-Four when he was threatened by that which he feared most in Room 101. With the caged rats against his face, he cried out to betray the one he loved: “Do it to Julia! Do it to Julia! Not me! Julia! I don’t care what you do to her. Tear her face off, strip her to the bones. Not me! Julia! Not me!”

In all we discuss here, we shall be reminded of our fundamental relatedness, of our dependence upon each other. We are both free-that which I do, I do-and bound-I might do far better if you reach out to help me and far, far worse if you abuse, taunt, or ignore me. As we build an ethic on caring and as we examine education under its guidance, we shall see that the greatest obligation of educators, inside and outside formal schooling, is to nurture the ethical ideals of those with whom they come in contact.

THE ETHICAL IDEAL AND THE ETHICAL SELF

What is this “ethical ideal” I have referred to? When I reflect on the way I am in genuine caring relationships and caring situations-the natural quality of my engrossment, the shift of my energies toward the other and his projects-! form a picture of myself. This picture is incomplete so long as I see myself only as the one-caring. But as I reflect also on the way I am as cared-for, I see clearly my own longing to be received, understood, and accepted. There are cases in which I am not received, and many in which I fail to receive the other, but a picture of goodness begins to form. I see that when I am as I need the other to be toward me, I am the way I want to be-that is, I am closest to goodness when I accept and affirm the internal “I must.” Now it is certainly true that the “I must” can be rejected and, of course, it can grow quieter under the stress of living. I can talk myself out of the “I must,” detach myself from feeling and try to think my way to an ethical life. But this is just what I must not do if I value my ethical self.

This “goodness” to which I have referred is an assessment of the state of natural caring. I am not arguing that what is is of necessity good. I am arguing that natural caring-some degree of which each of us has been dependent upon for our continued existence-is the natural state that we inevitably identify as “good.” This goodness is felt, and it guides our thinking implicitly. Our picture of ourselves as ethical inevitably involves a consideration of this goodness.

The ethical self is an active relation between my actual self and a vision of my ideal self as one-caring and cared-for. It is born of the fundamental recognition of relatedness; that which connects me naturally to the other, reconnects me through the other to myself. As I care for others and am cared for by them, I become able to care for myself. The characteristic “I must” arises in connection with this other in me, this ideal self, and I respond to it. It is this caring that sustains me when caring for the other fails, and it is this caring that enables me to surpass my actual uncaring self in the direction of caring.

As my receiving the other enables the “I must” to arise with respect to the other, so receiving the vision of what I might be enables the “I must” to arise with respect to the ethical self. I see what I might be, and I see also that this vision of what I might be is the genuine product of caring. My acceptance and affirmation of this caring for self will not tell me exactly what to do, of course. Neither does caring in and of itself tell me what to do in behalf of the other. But as caring for another engrosses me in the other and redirects my motivational energy, so caring for my ethical self commits me to struggle toward the other through clouds of doubt, aversion, and apathy.

There are many problems that need to be explored in connection with the ethical ideal and its construction. As I shall use the expression, it refers to a personal construct, although there is a sense in which groups, too, may have an ethical ideal. I shall require that the ethical ideal be-in a way I must describe-realistic, attainable. It is constrained by what I have been and done and not fully described by what I am striving to be and do. If, for example, I have been jealous once, my ethical ideal reflects the image of a once-jealous woman striving to remain only-once jealous. An ethical ideal that is not constrained cannot be diminished but only discarded and replaced.

We may now anticipate two questions with which we shall wrestle a bit later. In response to the question why I should behave morally toward one about whom I do not care, we shall see that interest in, caring for, my ethical self induces the characteristic “I must.” This interest in ethical self is not merely self-interest, although interest in the physical self is surely involved in the development of caring for the ethical self. If I did not care for my physical well-being, I would be unable to appreciate the efforts of those who care for me. I would have no vision of my own needs, fears, and desires by which to interpret the plight of the other and evaluate the accompanying “I must.” Indeed, the “I must” might be pathologically afflicted in the absence of normal self-interest. But, clearly, interest in the ethical self surpasses self-interest. Caring for others does not arise out of it, but it arises out of caring for others.

Am I, then, suggesting that the answer to the question, “Why should I behave morally?” is “Because I am or want to be a moral person”? Roughly, this is the answer and can be the only one, but I shall try to show how this interest in moral behavior arises out of our natural impulse to care. At every level, in every situation, there are decisions to be made, and we are free to affirm or to reject the impulse to care. But our relatedness, our apprehension of happiness or misery in others, comes through immediately. We may reject what we feel, what we see clearly, but at the risk of separation not only from others but from our ideal selves.

It seems to me that a large part of the anguish that existentialist philosophers associate with our apprehension of freedom springs from our awareness of obligation and the endless claims that can be, and will be, made upon us. We feel that we are, on the one hand, free to decide; we know, on the other hand, that we are irrevocably linked to intimate others. This linkage, this fundamental relatedness, is at the very heart of our being. Thus I am totally free to reject the impulse to care, but I enslave myself to a particularly unhappy task when I make this choice.

As I chop away at the chains that bind me to loved others, asserting my freedom, I move into a wilderness of strangers and loneliness, leaving behind all who cared for me and even, perhaps, my own self. I am not naturally alone. I am naturally in a relation from which I derive nourishment and guidance. When I am alone, either because I have detached myself or because circumstances have wrenched me free, I seek first and most naturally to reestablish my relatedness. My very individuality is defined in a set of relations. This is my basic reality.

RULES AND CONFLICTS

How can I meet the endless demands of caring? Here, interestingly, standards of behavior, of custom, come to my rescue. While we often suppose that rules of behavior are laid down for the benefit of the cared-for-that is, for others-it is clear that rules of behavior make it easier for

those-who-would-care to fulfill the minimum requirements of caring. So long as I behave according to the general rules of the group I find myself in (and so long as those rules are not somehow offensive themselves), I am not likely to hurt those around me. But as we noted earlier, if I behave consistently and automatically by rule, I cannot be said to care. My interest seems to be focused on obtaining credit for caring. I want to be considered a “polite” person. Thus while the rules are instituted for the sake of gentle and pleasant interpersonal relations, and they are an enormous boon to the one-caring whose energies are, after all, finite, I must know when to abandon rules and receive the cared-for directly. The rules of general conduct are accepted by one who is prepared to care out of regard for others but also in recognition of their time and energy saving usefulness.

I am also aided in meeting the burdens of caring by the reciprocal efforts of the cared-for. When my infant wriggles with delight as I bathe or feed him, I am aware of no burden but only a special delight of my own. Similarly, when I spend time in dialogue with my students, I am rewarded not only with appreciation but also with all sorts of information and insights. I could as easily, and properly, say, “I am receiving” as, “I am giving.” Thus, many of the “demands” of caring are not felt as demands. They are, rather, the occasions that offer most of what makes life worth living. This, of course, does not surprise us. Caring, when it is the result of easy obedience to the natural impulse and to the state of engrossment already established, is not burdensome. But when we move beyond the natural circles of caring, we may begin to feel burdened. And even within the inner circle, conflicts of caring may arise. They are of several kinds.

In a very common-and sometimes deceptively simple-dilemma, we fall into conflict over the needs or wants of two different persons for whom we care. Consider Ms. Brown, who has promised to attend the symphony with her husband, and then their child comes down with an illness. Sometimes the decision is easy: the child is obviously too ill to leave, or the child is hardly ill at all and happily engaged in some activity. But often the dilemma is real, and we struggle with it. There is fever and, while there is no clear danger, the child keeps asking, “Mother, must you go?” The solution to this sort of conflict cannot be codified. Slogans such as “Put your husband (child) first!” are quite useless. There are times when he must come first; there are times when he cannot.

Is this problem a “moral” problem? In the important sense that it involves the needs and wants of others in relation or in conflict with our own, it certainly is and, without doubt, it is a problem of caring. When Ms. Brown looks at her child, she feels the immediate impulse to stay at home. The “I must” tells her to respond to the child’s expressed need. When she looks at her husband and listens to him, she adds thinking to feeling; she, too, hates to miss the evening and “waste the tickets.” She sees disappointment in his eyes and wants to respond to that. There is no probability calculus that will solve this problem for her. After analysis and argument, and perhaps a period of watchfulness to see if the child’s anxiety eases, she has to decide. When she decides, if she cares, she decides not by formula, nor by a process of strict “rational decision making.” There is, as we have noted before, a turning point. She turns away from the abstract formulation of the problem and looks again at the persons for whom she cares. Perhaps her child is still anxious and irritable; she receives his pain clearly. Perhaps her husband is merely annoyed, not hurt; perhaps, at some deeper level, he too wants only support for his best self. If she sees this, having received both persons, she decides to stay with the child. If the child is sound asleep one-half hour after the decision-and we all know how likely this is-her decision is not thereby proved wrong, for this is not the sort of decision that can properly be labeled “right” or “wrong” according to the outcome. It is right or wrong according to how faithfully it was rooted in caring-that is, in a genuine response to the perceived needs of the others.

Another sort of conflict arises when the cared-for wants something that we cannot, in good faith, give him or help him to attain. Conflicts of this sort range from situations involving a child’s desire for a strawberry sundae just before dinner to suggestions or commands that we find deeply wrong. Again, as thoughtful persons committed to rational deliberation, we talk to ourselves. We examine the implicit rules by which we usually operate. We ask ourselves whether the rule is a guideline, a useful and dependable aid to generally acceptable behavior, or whether it is an imperative never to be violated by us.

Again, after analysis-sometimes brief, sometimes long and agonizing-we tum back to the persons and the concrete situations. In the case of the child who is begging for a sundae, we may properly refuse him under many circumstances. But, then, there are times when the situation (as well as the child) just begs for an infraction of the rule. Perhaps the child needs to know that he is more important than the rule. We do not have to say this to him. We might just say, “Well, I wasn’t planning much of a dinner anyway-let’s do it!” When we care, the humor, the harmless desires, the tendency toward playfulness of the cared-for enter us. We see the desired sundae with our own eyes and with the child’s. If our own view reveals nothing very important and even seems a bit stuffy, we turn to the child with eyes brightened and refreshed with delight. Interestingly, when we interact in this way with a child, he is not likely to become spoiled. Rather, when we have to say no, he is likely to believe that our reasons are worth his attention. We shall discuss situations of this sort more fully when we consider the cared-for and his role in caring. But suppose the situation is more serious. Suppose the cared-for wants us to participate in some activity we regard as wrong. Clearly, if an openminded analysis leaves our evaluation unchanged, we cannot participate. What sort of thinking does the one-caring do in such a situation? Must she turn away from persons and toward some principle?

Let’s consider an example. Professor A receives a research proposal from graduate student B. B proposes to do research that requires deceiving the subjects involved in the research. A would not, herself, propose such research. She is prepared to care for these subjects and fears possible bad effects on them. But she knows B and cares for him. She can feel the anxiety with which B approaches her: the pride in a well-written proposal, the fear that months will have been wasted, the eagerness to get on with the job. Proximity, as we have seen, is powerful in caring. A is in direct contact with B, but she is not in direct contact with the still-to-bechosen subjects. She cannot be sure that they would be hurt by the experiment. Perhaps it is harmless. Perhaps there is no other way to answer the question B has raised. What should A do?

There are several approaches to problems of this sort. A might put her feelings about the research aside and concentrate on the possible outcomes. What adverse effects might occur? How likely are they? How significant is the question that guides the experiment? This is a rationalapproach that leads A to consider “average subjects,” probabilities, and utilities. Thinking of this sort can be valuable, because some great utility may be discovered and, if it is, its consideration may induce a change in A’s attitudes. But we see that, while this sounds plausible, if great utility

were embedded in the question, A probably would have seen it at the outset. This approach, unless it is moderated by frequent “turnings,” might easily lead A beyond rational thinking to mere rationalization. If, however, A takes the view of one-caring, she will attempt to visualize concrete subjects. Instead of “average subjects” she will consider real persons about whom she cares. And she will look at the situation from two perspectives: How might C, a known and loved other, react to the proposed deception? How do I feel about C’s being thus deceived? This kind of thinking keeps A in contact with the particular, the concrete, the personal. It can be decisive, but we note that A’s thinking did not proceed from a principle nor will it, of necessity, lead to one, although it might. The dangers that A perceives during her reflection may be so great, and her own revulsion so strong, that she will be led to propose guidelines for the control of all research that requires deception. But this need not be the case. The one-caring is wary of rules and principles. She formulates and holds them loosely, tentatively, as economies of a sort, but she insists upon holding closely to the concrete. She wants to maintain and to exercise her receptivity. Further, she sees the potential weakness in her own form of thinking: When she substitutes the concrete “C” for “subject” in B’s research, she opens the channels to her own feeling. But to get an accurate picture of the effects on the cared-for, C must be a legitimate substitution (someone to whom this could actually happen), and A must evaluate C’s reactions realistically. Clearly, there is danger in this concretization, also, and the one-caring is unwilling to formulate principles on the basis of her concrete experience.

We have been looking at the conflicts of caring, and we have seen that conflict may arise between the perceived need of one person and the desire of another; between what the cared-for wants and what we see as his best interest; between the wants of the cared-for and the welfare of persons yet unknown. We may even find ourselves in conflict between two persons for whom we care and whose interests and beliefs are incompatible. Sometimes, the conflict cannot be resolved and must simply be lived. A host of examples comes to mind. Consider parents during a civil war whose sons choose opposite sides; they are, themselves, neutral. Consider the woman who lives next door to a known Mafia mobster. She knows what the man is in the larger world, what effects his activities have on unknown, potential cared-fors. But she has also seen his tenderness to his own children, his respectability in neighborhood matters, his kindness as a neighbor. And then someone comes to the door and asks for information that she can give. What should she do? The answer is by no means clear to me. Many of us would, in great relief, turn to a principle, but I am not going to suggest that. I am not suggesting, either, that we embrace a code of family or tribe to which we adhere rigidly; such a move would, clearly, be even less consonant with caring than an adherence to principle in a larger world. Nor am I suggesting that crimes not be reported when they involve persons we know and care for. I am suggesting, rather, that rules cannot guide us infallibly in situations of conflict, and I am suggesting strongly that we have no ethical responsibility to cooperate with law or government when it attempts to involve us in unethical procedures. Spying, infiltration, entrapment, betrayal are all anathema to one-caring, and she cannot justify them on the basis of principle. The suggestion that she should participate in such activities is met by a firm, ”This I will not do,” delivered not in obedience to a principle but in faithfulness to the fundamental relatedness that induces caring. Is the one-caring, then, a capricious and unprincipled character who is swayed this way and that by intensity, proximity, and the conditions of the moment? As our picture unfolds more completely, we shall see that moral life based on caring is coherent, although it may defy description in terms of systematic consistency. It is swayed, but not determined, by intensity, proximity, and temporal conditions. The one-caring is dependable, not capricious. Her principles are guides to behavior, and she sees clearly that their function is largely to simplify situations, to prevent hundreds of similar questions from arising. She sees, also, that they may be of little use if a serious question actually arises.

This is enormously tricky, and perhaps we should consider another example. Suppose the one-caring has decided that she will not steal. She has come to this general rule or principle after more deliberation than I can record here, and the decision is firm. Once she has made the decision, temptation does not arise. Stealing is beneath her; it does not befit the picture she has formed of her ethical self. But, while the decision is firm and clear-and simplifies life greatly-it is not ultimate, not absolute, and the one-caring knows this. The chances are excellent that the onecaring, in the kinds of situations those of us participating in this dialogue are likely to face, will never steal. But, related as she is by the basic bonds of life, she will not place principle where it cannot possibly hold. It is too fragile to stay her hand in the presence of, say, a hungry child, a hungry friend, a hungry stranger. Thus, while the one-caring may lead a life described by others as “highly principled,” she is herself peculiarly wary of principles. She will not easily be distracted from the dynamic and complex events of concrete life by promises of abstract simplicity and permanence. Indeed, as we shall see, she might prefer to explain her abstinence from stealing without reference to a principle at all.

The example we just considered is one that may easily win virtually universal assent. Decisions of the sort may be reached not only by one caring but by the sophisticated moral thinker using principles deductively. Perhaps another example should be considered. Suppose that I give my son permission to stay home from school in order to do something both of us consider worthwhile. I must write a note explaining his absence. If I do not say that he was ill, he will be punished with detention. The school has such a rule because it is dependent on state funds, and those funds are withheld for absences other than those due to illness or death. The school thus prefers to hear that my son was ill. I prefer to say that he was because not saying it will cause my son to be punished. So I may choose to lie regularly in order to meet my son as one-caring rather than as one conforming to principle. I do not attempt to justify my behavior on the grounds that the absence rule is foolish and unfair, because my behavior is not primarily constrained by rules. I do not need that excuse. One who does argue thus is obliged, I think, to fight the rule-to get it changed-or to live in some deceit. I do not have this problem. I can brush off the whole debate as foolishness and remain faithful to the ideal of one-caring.

I shall leave this result in its stark, and perhaps shocking, form. My male colleague may insist that I must justify my actions-in particular, that I must justify telling a lie. But need I do this, and what will I be admitting if I engage in such an attempt? If I attempt to justify every disobedience or rejection of principle, I tacitly acknowledge that principles are paramount in ethical life. He will have won his main case. So I shall be content with the observation that there has been no violation of caring. Indeed, if he pushes me, I shall turn the argument about and ask how he might justify hurting his son by telling the truth. I know the form his argument will take. It will put principle over person, and we shall be at loggerheads.

The form of moral decision making that I have suggested is, perhaps, more powerfully illustrated in a story told of Pablo Casals’s younger brother, Enrique. When he was young and faced with the prospect of fighting in the Spanish army, he confessed to his mother that he did not want to kill or to risk being killed. ”Then run away,” advised his mother. Now, one might also arrive at this decision through a chain of reasoning on principles but, clearly, in reasoning on principles one might just as plausibly arrive at the opposite decision. The one-caring, in the absence of imminent danger to loved ones, can make only one decision. In arguing from principles, one often suppresses the basic feeling or longing that prompts the justification. One is led to suppose that reason produces the decision. This is the ultimate and tragic dishonesty, and it is the one that we shall try to avoid by insisting upon a clear-eyed inspection of our feelings, longings, fears, hopes, dreams.

Now, this entire book is about caring and so, in an important sense, about the one-caring. In this chapter, I have concentrated on the inner dynamics of caring: on the constitutive engrossment and receptivity, on the consequent displacement of motivational energy, on the circles and chains that reflect and sustain the caring, and on the conflicts of caring. We have discussed what it means to care genuinely about self and how caring for the ethical self sustains us through periods of lapsed caring, and we have hinted at the role caring plays in ethical behavior. But caring is a relationship that contains another, the cared-for, and we have already suggested that the one-caring and the cared-for are reciprocally dependent. We shall not leave the one-caring but shall look at the relationship next through the eyes of the cared-for.

3. Further Reading: Kathryn MacKay — “Feminism and Feminist Ethics”

Editor’s Notes

In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, early feminist writers, including Mary Wollstonecraft (1759–1797), John Stuart Mill (1806–1873), Sojourner Truth (1797–1883), and Elizabeth Cady Stanton (1815–1902), began to address topics related to the political, economic, and educational status of women and “women’s morality” (Tong and Williams 2018). This was partly motivated by a growing awareness of the real inequalities between men and women, including legal and social restrictions and prohibitions. These authors argued that disparities in educational opportunities and the restrictions across race and gender of roles and responsibilities open to women prevented women from fully developing as people and citizens (Wollstonecraft [1792] 2004). This was First Wave feminism, and it accomplished significant progress on emancipation and enfranchisement for women and visible minorities in the West.

In the twentieth century, Betty Friedan (1921–2006) reported similar phenomena among her white university-educated peers in the 1950s United States, who had returned to the home to be full-time housewives. Friedan wrote that this group of women appeared to suffer a sort of stunting, an erosion of their abilities, and a freezing of personal, intellectual, and moral development into a childlike and immature state (Friedan [1963] 1997). It should be noted, though, that this was not the experience of black women in the US, who often worked outside the home, frequently in the employ of white women, nor the experience of working-class women across races (Collins 1989). However, women found significant commonalities among themselves in the disparity of political and employment rights compared to men in their social groups (Thompson 2002). Around the same time in France, Simone de Beauvoir (1908–1986) published her seminal work examining the situation of women in French society, describing women’s second-class status as founded upon the social and political interpretations of biological differences between male and female (de Beauvoir [1949] 2014).

The work of de Beauvoir, Friedan, and many others spurred Second Wave feminism among women in Europe and North America, as they began to examine anew the cultural, political, and moral positions that women occupied. Second Wave feminists focused their efforts on such issues as reproductive rights, domestic and sexual violence, paid maternity leave, and equal pay in the workplace.

While issues surrounding women’s political and moral development had long been a concern to feminists of the First and Second waves, it was around the end of the Second Wave and the beginning of the current Third Wave (roughly around the late 1980s and early 1990s) that writers began to think about the need for a specifically feminist ethics. Up to this point, moral theories (like deontology or consequentialism) had largely ignored or remained unaware of the specific perspective and experiences of women, privileging the experiences and perspectives of the “universal” or “neutral” position. Feminists, however, pointed out that this “universal” perspective was a specifically white male perspective.

Alison Jaggar wrote that one problem with traditional ethics at the time was (and potentially still is) that it views the moral issues that arise in the so-called private world — the realm in which women do housework and take care of children, the ill or infirm, and the elderly — as trivial. In its formulation of the “neutral” perspective, traditional ethics was charged with favouring “male” ways of moral reasoning that emphasized rules, rights, universality, and impartiality over “female” ways of moral reasoning that emphasize relationships, responsibilities, particularity, and partiality. Additionally, Jaggar points out that traditional ethics had under-rated culturally feminine traits like “interdependence, community, connection, sharing, emotion, body, trust, absence of hierarchy, nature, immanence, process, joy, peace, and life” (Jaggar 1992, 363–364).

Thus, an ethics that paid particular attention to these traditionally undervalued virtues, principles, values, perspectives, and ways of knowing was required to provide a full understanding of human experiences and moral life. In the Third Wave, feminists began to criticize and discuss the various shortcomings of the Second Wave, including its marginalization of the voices and perspectives of women of oppressed races, ethnicities, sexual identities, and socioeconomic positions (Combahee River Collective 1977; Mohanty, Torres, and Russo 1991). A feminist ethic that paid attention to these different identities and perspectives became centrally important to taking women’s lives and experiences seriously and central to eliminating oppression of women, sexual minorities, and other oppressed groups. Thus, Jaggar framed feminist ethics as the creation of a gendered ethics that aims to eliminate or at least ameliorate the oppression of any group of people, but most particularly women.

 

Figure 17.1: “Betty Friedan, half-length portrait, facing right” by Fred Palumbo (1960), via Library of Congress, is in the public domain.

The Ethics of Care

Care ethics, as it has become known, is an early feminist ethic that arose out of reactions to popular psychoanalytical accounts of male and female development in the mid-twentieth century and the questioning of women’s roles in society. This ethic began from observational studies in psychology and later became a positive normative account of moral behaviour. The early formulations of care ethics were criticized by both feminist theorists and philosophers working in other moral traditions. The objections to these early formulations are important and have led to useful and interesting developments. Care ethics has advanced as a normative theory, but has perhaps made its strongest contribution as a meta-ethic, a position from which to begin our moral reasoning, rather than as a tool to use in sorting out particular moral cases or dilemmas.

Early Formulation

In her psychological analysis of women’s moral decision-making in the 1980s, In a Different Voice, Carol Gilligan claimed that she found a difference in the way men and women perceived moral problems. While men focused on justice and rights, women were more likely to think about relationships in making moral decisions. In examining the question of abortion, Gilligan wrote:

[W]omen’s construction of the moral problem as a problem of care and responsibility in relationships rather than as one of rights and rules ties the development of their moral thinking to changes in their understanding of responsibility and relationships….Thus the logic underlying an ethic of care is a psychological logic of relationships, which contrasts with the formal logic of fairness that informs the justice approach. (Gilligan 1982, 73)

For Gilligan, this ethic of care particular to women develops in three stages. First, a woman exhibits a focus on caring for the self in order to ensure survival, which is accompanied by a transitional phase in which this mode of thinking about the self as primary is criticized as selfish. Following this critical phase, a new understanding of the connections between one’s self and others leads to the development of a concept of responsibility. Gilligan wrote that this concept of responsibility is fused with a “maternal morality,” which is focused on ensuring care for the dependent and unequal people in one’s circle. At this stage, the Good is defined in terms of caring for others. However, Gilligan continues, too much of a focus on others in this second stage of moral development leads to an imbalance of attention, which means that a woman must reconsider the balance between self-sacrifice and the kinds of care included in conventional ideas of feminine goodness. The third phase, then, is one which balances the self with others and focuses on relationships and a new understanding of the connections between the self and others. The central insight in this ethic of care, Gilligan writes, is that the self and others are interdependent (Gilligan 1982).

A few years after Gilligan, Nel Noddings published Caring: A Feminine Approach to Ethics and Moral Education, which provided a deeper analysis into the people — the care provider and the care receiver — and the processes involved in caring. In this book, Noddings argued that morality requires a person to have two emotions. The first of these emotions is a sentiment of “natural care.” Noddings describes this care as pre-ethical; the care-taking that a mother engages in for her child, or a maternal animal for her offspring are equally examples of this natural care. As Gilligan also argued, Noddings says that concern for others, or recognition of others’ concern for us, gives rise to a conflict between responding to the needs of others and taking care of our own needs. This conflict gives rise, in turn, to the opportunity for “ethical caring,” or responding to the recognition that another has needs and that we are in a position to meet these needs, and further acknowledging that this situation makes a moral claim on us. However, in many cases, we can recognize and respond to another’s needs by way of natural care, a disposition to care for the other that arises spontaneously in us, rather than by way of ethical care, which one would only act from if natural care has failed. In this way, natural care is preferable to ethical care on Noddings’ account (Noddings 1984).

Objections

A number of objections have been raised to Gilligan’s and Noddings’ formulations of care ethics within psychology, moral theory, and feminist thought. Of those raised by feminists, the most powerful objections focus on the potential for care ethics to “essentialize” the caring relationship. This objection says that care ethics may reduce the relationship of care to essential features linked to a “woman’s nature” in a way that calls upon and reinforces gender-based stereotypes (e.g. women are more sensitive and caring than men). These objections stress that even if women are (for social, cultural, biological, or interconnected reasons) better at providing or giving care than are men, it may still be “epistemically, ethically, and politically imprudent to associate women with the value of care” (Tong and Williams 2018). The worry is that intimately linking women with caring may “promote the view that women are in charge of caring or, worse, that because women can care, they should care no matter the cost to themselves” (Tong and Williams 2018; emphasis added).

From a Marxist-inspired feminist perspective, Sandra Lee Bartky (1935–2016) expands on this worry in her 1990 book, Femininity and Domination. Bartky argues that, rather than providing women with a valued and esteemed role in a man’s world, women’s activities in “building men’s egos and binding men’s wounds” ultimately disempower women (Tong and Williams 2018). She claims that the kind of affective labour (work that significantly involves one having or showing certain emotions) undertaken by women in providing care for a family, and in some service-oriented occupations, causes them to disconnect from their own basic emotions and feelings. In service occupations, such as being a flight attendant, Bartky says the employee must force their own feelings into the background and be nice (for example), regardless of the behaviour of the client in front of them. This kind of emotional labour risks blurring the distinction between “real” feelings of wanting to be friendly and nice and “inauthentic” feelings generated by the employment obligation to be friendly and nice.

In the home, something similar happens. Bartky writes that many wives and mothers say that the experience of caring for their husbands and children, even when difficult, provides their lives with fulfillment and meaning. The more they care, the more they view themselves as the glue of the family that holds everything together for everyone else (Tong and Williams 2018). But, and importantly for Bartky, such subjective feelings of empowerment are not the same as actually having power. A lack of power in the family means that a woman is obligated to take on these caring roles and, like the flight attendant, to force her own feelings down when they do not match with the expected behaviour of a good wife or mother. So, like in employment situations, the required emotional work within the family risks blurring the distinction between a woman’s real feelings of care and satisfaction with feelings generated by her sense of obligation and of what it means to properly perform her role.

In employment and in the household, a woman’s emotional exploitation is linked closely to her economic and material oppression. Marxist-inspired feminists, such as Ann Ferguson, have argued that economic disadvantage within the household is analogous to capitalist exploitation of labourers. Ferguson analyses the “sexual division of labor” within a household, in which women are responsible for producing four main categories of goods: children, household maintenance, care (of children and of men), and sex (Ferguson 1991). Women and girls are taught to take pride and satisfaction in the production of these goods, while men learn that these are women’s work and, therefore, not their responsibility. At the same time, the production of these goods is disvalued, and the desire to do this work is connected to the idea of “being a woman.” Thus, the labour that goes into the production of these things goes largely unrecognized.

Bartky argues that in providing this care to her husband or children, a woman is exploited in such a way that her family benefits and has their interests advanced while she suffers damage to her own interests. In a similar vein, Sheila Mullet argues that when material conditions of oppression appear within a household, they prevent real relationships of care from forming. She argues that a woman is not in a position to truly care for someone if she is economically, socially, or psychologically forced to do so (Mullet 1988). Thus, real caring cannot occur under conditions characterized by domination and subordination. Only if women are fully equal to men can women take on the emotional work of care without fearing that men will take advantage of their labour.

Responses and Developments

Care ethics has continued to advance in recent years, in part by responding to the objections of various feminist and non-feminist thinkers. Care ethics made an important and valuable contribution in identifying that people are necessarily interconnected beings. The importance of care for morality and personal development gave rise to theories incorporating relational and intersectional conceptions of various ethical values, which will be discussed below.

A number of authors, such as Virginia Held and Eva Feder Kittay, have continued to develop care ethics into both a moral theory and a kind of meta-ethical framework, from which ethical obligations can be derived and in which certain moral principles and values may be grounded. There are three foundational theoretical commitments in the ethics of care that have been established amongst care theorists at this point (Sander-Staudt 2017):

1. Persons are understood to have varying degrees of dependence and interdependence (which will be discussed further in the following section, “Relational Theory”). This perspective in care ethics contrasts with deontological and consequentialist moral theories that often view persons as having independent interests.
2. Care ethics holds that anyone who is particularly vulnerable to one’s choices and their outcomes deserves extra consideration when making decisions.
3. The contextual details of situations must be part of the decision-making process, in order to safeguard and promote the actual interests of those concerned.

Further, in keeping with some of Noddings’ early views, Held and Kittay have argued that the principle of justice can be grounded in care. Held has said that while care can exist without justice, as it may do within unjust family relationships, justice cannot exist without care. In order for an inkling of justice to take shape in our minds, we must first express concern for the condition of another, and this is an expression of care. So, care is “deeply fundamental,” perhaps an ethical proto-value, motivating any further moral sentiment (Held 2005, 17; Tong and Williams 2018).

In criticising Rawlsian formulations of justice as fairness, Kittay has argued that relationships of dependency characterized by care are such a fundamental part of human life that any theory of justice that leaves these out cannot achieve a just or fair society. Given that each person will experience dependency upon someone who takes on the responsibility to care for them in prolonged and significant episodes throughout one’s life, such relationships and the shift in power, labour, and interests that happen within them must be attended to by any theory attempting to form a fair distribution of benefits and goods in society. An ethic of care, thus, must be central to formulations of justice (Kittay 1997).

Furthermore, Held sees care ethics as a normative moral theory, something that can provide robust tools for determining morally good outcomes in specific dilemmas or challenges. By denying the appeal to universal moral principles, valuing emotional responses, and looking at the specific relationships that we have with those “particular others for whom we take responsibility,” Held argues that care ethics can provide answers about what we ought to do in specific scenarios (Held 2005, 10).

However, even moral theorists who do not explicitly subscribe to an ethics of care may recognize the meta-ethical contribution it makes to our understanding of human interaction and moral life. The first of the three theoretical commitments of care ethics — that humans are essentially social and interconnected beings with varying degrees of independence and not the sort of entities that pop into existence entirely able to support themselves or fully develop in the absence of social relationships characterized by interdependence and care — has had significant influence on the development of relational theories of identity and agency, as we shall see below. Thus, the meta-ethical notions grounding care ethics have become ingrained in feminist understandings of moral psychology, personal autonomy, rights, and responsibility.

Relational Theory

A meta-ethics of care provides the background for a group of ideas sometimes called “relational theory.” Here, relational autonomy and relational identity will be discussed specifically. Natalie Stoljar writes that the term “relational” makes a meta-physical claim, which denies a notion of “atomistic” personhood, “emphasizing instead that agents are socially and historically embedded, not metaphysically isolated, and are, moreover, shaped by factors such as race and class” (Stoljar 2015). Thus, the insights provided by early formulations of care ethics provide a portion of the meta-physical and meta-ethical starting point for seeing persons as always and unavoidably interconnected. In other words, insights from care ethics provide foundational building-block concepts for an interpretation of reality and what our moral theories should take into account. Thus, interpersonal and social-group relations are an important feature of the world and must accordingly form an important part of our moral theorizing.

Autonomy

When referring to autonomy, Stoljar writes that the term “relational” may serve to deny that autonomy requires self-sufficiency, as it had traditionally been formulated. In most pre-feminist formulations of autonomy, especially following the development by various scholars of Immanuel Kant’s theory, a model of cool and detached reasoning, unconcerned with personal or familial commitments, became a requirement of independent decision-making. However, this way of thinking about autonomy is problematic because, under such requirements, one must either acknowledge that no person fully meets the criteria, or willfully ignore that any person’s ability to be independent is facilitated by the ongoing care provided to them by others. If we move away from this idea of what autonomy means, and acknowledge that relationships of care and interdependence are valuable and morally significant, then as Stoljar argues, any useful theory of autonomy must at least “be ‘relational’ in the sense that it must acknowledge that autonomy is compatible with the agent standing in and valuing significant family and other social relationships” (Stoljar 2015).

In response, many theorists working on questions of agency, decision theory, and ethics, among other areas, have adopted an account of autonomy that is relational (Christman 1991; Westlund 2009; Benson 1991). Relational theories of autonomy generally start with the minimal acknowledgment that we begin as non-autonomous beings, as infants, and develop into autonomous beings gradually as we learn various skill sets and gain specific abilities central to making our own decisions, from the mundane to the momentous. Many relational theories of autonomy also take into account that our autonomy is impacted by the process of socialisation (Benson 1991; Meyers 1987) or may be suspended at various times in our lives. For example, we may become gravely ill and become comparatively much more dependent upon others for the duration of the illness. We may also become less autonomous as we enter into the later decades of life. Autonomy, thus, may be something that is a matter of degrees or stages of life (Meyers 1987; Friedman 1997). Relational theories of autonomy can account for these facts of human existence, attending to the importance of our close relationships in facilitating decision-making and the achievement of a good and satisfying life.

Identity

Relational identity is another theoretical perspective on human development and experience that is meta-ethically informed by care and recognition of intersectionality: the intersecting identities people hold. Intersectionality was conceptualized by Kimberlé Crenshaw, reflecting the reality of black women’s identities as being formed within the hierarchical power structures of both gender and race (as well as class, sexual orientation, ability, and so on) (Crenshaw 1989; 1991). In political or social movements oriented around “single-axis” issues (e.g. exclusively race or exclusively gender), Crenshaw argued that people with more than one of these identities were further marginalized. Crenshaw’s work is politically important and important to a feminist ethic that seeks, as Jaggar said, to theorize for all oppressed people and especially women. The acceptance of intersectionality has led to a recognition that persons are complex and may simultaneously experience realms of their identity that are privileged while other realms of their identity are oppressed. A feminist ethic must begin from the recognition of these intersecting dynamics of power within and among individual women and social groups.

As such, Françoise Baylis and Margaret Urban Walker have separately argued that the formation of the self and personal identity are ongoing social processes, happening with other people and the systems around us. Baylis writes that, since persons are interdependent beings, a person’s identity, “including her traits, desires, beliefs, values, emotions, intentions, memories, actions, and experiences,” is informed by her relationships, which have varying degrees and kinds of intimacy and interdependence (Baylis 2011, 109). A person’s public and private interactions help structure her perception of herself and define her place in the world.

For relational identity theorists, a person is importantly constituted by the relationships and interactions they have. Baylis writes that one’s identity exists in the “negotiated spaces between my biology and psychology and that of others,” forming a “balance between self-ascription and ascription by others” (Baylis 2011, 110). Certain parts of yourself may feel like they were created by you or perhaps were “always there,” in the sense that you might not be able to easily identify the source of influence that shaped them, but all parts of you are (in)formed by interactions with the social and political world. This way of conceptualizing identity pays attention to the fact that, as infants, we enter a world already full of meaning. The particular meanings attached to our bodies (e.g., skin colour, biological sex, or physical ability) and certain personal characteristics (e.g., gender expression or sexual identity) precede us in space and time. As Walker writes, women and men in situations of oppression or subordination may find themselves subject to socially normative narratives about their identities, which are coercive and disadvantaging (Walker 1997). These narratives exist in the world into which a person is born and grows up, impacting many aspects of their identity formation and expression. The recognition that we only ever exist within such narratives and interpersonal relationships of various kinds, thus, forms the backdrop for relational theories of identity formation and maintenance.

Figure 17.2: “Kimberlé Crenshaw” by Mohamed Badarne (2018), via Flickr, is used under a CC BY-SA 2.0 license.

Conclusion

The development of feminist ethics stemmed from the recognition that the experiences and perspectives of some groups in society — including people of a minority race or ethnicity, people with disability status, people from lower socioeconomic levels, and women, as well as people whose identities cut across these groupings in various ways — had been ignored or devalued by mainstream or traditional ethics and has since been attempting to remedy this in conjunction with other anti-oppression movements. In a meta-ethics of care, the interdependence of human beings is taken as an enabling and necessary feature of life, rather than as something to be shaken off to achieve the greatest independence of thought or feeling. By acknowledging that “independence” is only a relative state, and that we are all, to various degrees at different stages of life, dependent on others for care and survival, feminist ethicists have achieved a revision in the way that important moral concepts, such as autonomy and personal identity, are conceived. That much caring labour is yet under- or de-valued, that its performance often still falls to women within households and disproportionately to minority-group women in the workforce, and that women still face economic disadvantages as compared to men within their social and cultural groups, remains a challenge for feminist ethicists and political philosophers.

Unless otherwise noted, “Feminism and Feminist Ethics” by Kathryn MacKay (2019) in Introduction to Philosophy: Ethics [edited by George Matthews and Christina Hendricks and produced with support from the Rebus Community] is used and adapted under a CC BY 4.0 license.

Bibliography

Bartky, Sandra L. 1990. Femininity and Domination: Studies in the Phenomenology of Oppression. New York: Routledge.

Baylis, Françoise. 2011. “The Self in Situ: A Relational Account of Personal Identity.” In Being Relational: Reflections on Relational Theory and Health Law, eds. Jocelyn G. Downie and Jennifer Llewellyn, 109-131. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press.

de Beauvoir, Simone. (1949) 2015. The Second Sex, trans. Constance Borde. London: Vintage Books.

Benson, Paul. 1991. “Autonomy and Oppressive Socialisation.” Social Theory and Practice 17(3): 385-408.

Christman, John. 1991. “Autonomy and Personal History.” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 21(1): 1-24.

Collins, Patricia Hill. 1989. “The Social Construction of Black Feminist Thought.” Signs 14(4): 745-773.

Combahee River Collective. 1977. “The Combahee River Collective Statement.” https://combaheerivercollective.weebly.com/the-combahee-river-collective-statement.html.

Crenshaw, Kimberlé. 1989. “Demarginalizing the Intersection of Race and Sex: A Black Feminist Critique of Antidiscrimination Doctrine, Feminist Theory and Antiracist Politics.” University of Chicago Legal Forum 1989(1): 139-167.

Crenshaw, Kimberlé. 1991. “Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence against Women of Color.” Stanford Law Review (43)6: 1241-1299.

Ferguson, Ann. 1991. Sexual Democracy: Women, Oppression, and Revolution. Boulder, CO: Westview Press.

Friedan, Betty. (1963) 1997. The Feminine Mystique. New York/London: W.W. Norton & Company.

Friedman, Marilyn. 1997. “Autonomy and Social Relationships: Rethinking the Feminist Critique.” In Feminists Rethink the Self, ed. Diana T. Meyers, 40-61.

Gilligan, Carol. 1982. In A Different Voice: Psychological Theory and Women’s Development. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Held, Virginia. 2005. The Ethics of Care: Personal, Political, and Global. Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press.

Jaggar, Alison M. 1992. “Feminist Ethics.” In Encyclopedia of Ethics, eds. Lawrence Becker and Charlotte Becker. New York: Garland Press.

Kittay, Eva Feder. 1997. “Human Dependency and Rawlsian Equality.” In Feminists Rethink the Self, ed. Diana T. Meyers, 219-266.

Meyers, Diana T., ed. 1997. Feminists Rethink the Self. Boulder, CO: Westview Press.

Meyers, Diana T. 1987. “Personal Autonomy and the Paradox of Feminine Socialization.” Journal of Philosophy 84(11): 619-628.

Mohanty, Chandra Talpade, Lourdes Torres, and Ann Russo. 1991. Third World Women and the Politics of Feminism. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press.

Mullet, Sheila. 1988. “Shifting Perspectives: A New Approach to Ethics.” In Feminist Perspectives: Philosophical Essays on Method and Morals, eds. Lorraine Code, Sheila Mullet, and Christine Overall. Toronto/London: University of Toronto Press.

Noddings, Nel. 1984. Caring: A Feminine Approach to Ethics and Moral Education. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

Sander-Staudt, Maureen. 2017. “Care Ethics.” In Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy. September 2019. http://www.iep.utm.edu/care-eth/.

Stoljar, Natalie. 2015. “Feminist Perspectives on Autonomy.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, ed. Edward N. Zalta. https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/fall2015/entries/feminism-autonomy/.

Thompson, Becky. 2002. “Multiracial Feminism: Recasting the Chronology of Second Wave Feminism.” Feminist Studies 28(2): 336-360.

Tong, Rosemary and Nancy Williams. 2018. “Feminist Ethics.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, ed. Edward N. Zalta. https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/win2018/entries/feminism-ethics/.

Walker, Margaret Urban. 1997. “Picking Up Pieces: Lives, Stories, and Integrity.” In Feminists Rethink the Self, ed. Diana T. Meyers, 62-84.

Westlund, Andrea. 2009. “Rethinking Relational Autonomy.” Hypatia 24(4): 26-49.

Wollstonecraft, Mary. (1792) 2004. A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, ed. Miriam Brody. London/New York: Penguin.

Further Reading

Bubeck, Diemut E. 1995. Care, Gender, and Justice. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

Firestone, Shulamith. (1970) 2015. The Dialectics of Sex: The Case for Feminist Revolution. London: Verso Books.

hooks, bell. 2000. Feminism is for Everybody: Passionate Politics. Cambridge, MA: South End Press.

Kittay, Eva Feder. 1999. Love’s Labor: Essays on Women, Equality and Dependency. New York: Routledge.

Lorde, Audre. (1984) 2007. Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches. Berkeley, CA: Crossing Press.

Mackenzie, Catriona and Natalie Stoljar. 2000. Relational Autonomy: Feminist Perspectives on Autonomy, Agency, and the Social Self. New York: Oxford University Press.

Mill, John Stuart. 1869. The Subjection of Women, 2nd ed. London: Longmans, Green, Reader & Dyer.

Slote, Michael. 2007. The Ethics of Care and Empathy. London/New York: Routledge.

Stanton, Elizabeth Cady. (1898) 1993. Eighty Years and More: Reminiscences 1815-1897. Boston: Northeastern University Press.

Steinem, Gloria. 1995. Outrageous Acts and Everyday Rebellions, 2nd ed. New York: H. Holt.

Truth, Sojourner. “The Words of Truth,” ed. Mary G. Butler. Heritage Battle Creek: A Journal of Local History 8.

Discussion Questions

Thought Experiments

Further Reading

• Caring: A Relational Approach to Ethics and Moral Education by Nel Noddings (2013) (via the TRU Library)
• The Ethics of Care: Personal, Political, and Global by Virginia Held (2006) (via the TRU Library)
• “Colonialism and Its Others: Considerations on Rights and Care Discourses” by Uma Narayan (1995) (via the TRU Library)
• Chapter 7 “Reconstructing Black Masculinity” in Black Looks: Race and Representation by Bell Hooks (1992) (via the TRU Library)
• “Feminism and Feminist Ethics” by Kathryn MacKay (2019)

Feminism and Feminist Ethics

Bibliography

Big Think. 2012. “Carol Gilligan on Women and Moral Development | Big Think.” YouTube. April 23, 2012. Video, 6:30. https://youtu.be/2W_9MozRoKE?si=Q6dGXH98FVuiw-iL/

Held, Virgina. 2006. The Ethics of Care: Personal, Political, and Global. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Hooks, Bell. 1992. Black Looks: Race and Representation. Toronto: Between The Lines.

Oliver, Kelly. 2017. “Fifty Shades of Consent: Rape Culture Versus Feminism.” The Feminist Wire. https://thefeministwire.com/2017/05/fifty-shades-consent-rape-culture-versus-feminism/.

Narayan, Uma. 1995. “Colonialism and Its Others: Considerations on Rights and Care Discourses.” Hypatia 10, no. 2 (Spring): 133–40. https://www.jstor.org/stable/3810285.

Noddings, Nel. 2013. Caring: A Relational Approach to Ethics and Moral Education. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2013. Accessed July 27, 2024. ProQuest Ebook Central.

How to Cite This Page

Aiken, Hunter. 2024. “Feminist Care Ethics.” In Introduction to Ethics, edited by Jenna Woodrow, Hunter Aiken, and Calum McCracken. Kamloops, BC: TRU Open Press. https://introductiontoethics.pressbooks.tru.ca/chapter/feminist-care-ethics/.