Hand and Foot

Hand and Foot

I have come to a chastening realization: I have been unfair to feet. In my enthusiasm to hymn hands I have neglected feet (I have even been known to deplore them).[1] Worse, I may have been prejudiced against feet (may God forgive me). For feet were there first and made hands possible. Actually, this is not quite right: our arboreal ancestors had hand-like feet, as do our tree-dwelling contemporary cousins (e.g., chimpanzees). They had an opposable big toe that enabled them to grip branches. This turned into the foot we know today with its unopposable big toe (foot thumb). The hand developed from the foot (leg hand) of our ancestors up there in the trees. The human hand is a modified leg appendage. There is really no sharp distinction between hands and feet; the two are biologically homologous. The main distinction is their proximity to the ground—hence the prejudice against feet (chimps have no such prejudice). Feet easily get dirty and tread on stuff (shudder). There is more kinship than contrast. Hands are arm feet and feet are leg hands. There is a broader natural kind to which they both belong. Thus, if there is going to be a cult of the hand, there ought to be a cult of the foot. There, I said it: the foot should be revered too! I know there will be resistance to this seismic cultural shift, and some may protest blasphemy—the hand is holy, the foot lowly! Still, upon deeper consideration the foot is a worthy object of worship or at least grudging respect. It is a magnificent work of nature, deserving of artistic appreciation (the Foot of Venus).

Why do I say this? For two reasons, one etiological, the other functional. Etiologically, both hands and feet evolved from fins, specifically those of lobe-finned fish, ancestors of everything we love and cherish, which flourished 400 million years ago. These fins, which are unlike standard radial fins, were skeletally structured so as to permit transition into feet that were made for walking. They enabled locomotion on land. Our hands also evolved from these fleshy fins and hence are as fishy as feet. The fin deserves special mention in the annals of both hand cults and foot cults. We owe it all to fish fins (Jesus’s disciples were fishermen). But the functional reason is the most striking feature of feet: they permit walking, ambulation, getting around on dry land. Fins get their owners around in water; feet do the same on land. That is a momentous evolutionary breakthrough, making everything else about terrestrial animals possible. If the central feature of the hand is gripping, the central feature of the foot is walking; indeed, we grip what we walk to. The bipedal stance is bi-functional: the feet get you there, the hands grip what you find. It is a case of biological division of labor. Our arboreal ancestors were all hands, and many animals are all feet (no hands); we are both hands and feet—grippers and travelers. We have trudged everywhere and got our hands on (and into) everything; the two appendages have worked together to make us what we are. Our feet were made for walking, and our hands were made for grasping. We are prehensive and locomotive. Both capacities stem from swimming. It would be hard to privilege one over the other in an account of our species success. And, as said, both derive from the same thing: the fins of fish. We are land (or tree) fish equipped with repurposed fins. A religion of one will include a religion of the other. The science tells us so.

But our culture is biased: the hand is held in high esteem, rightly so, but the foot gets no respect. Ethically speaking, this isn’t right, is it? People extol the beauty of the hand (including its erotic appeal), but the foot is ignored or deplored (save for the errant foot fetishist—who turns out to be onto something). When Christ washes the feet of the prostitute, he attends to the meanest part of her; washing her hands would be no big deal. We wash our hands all the time, but we leave our feet to take care of themselves for the most part. We have hand pride but not foot pride. Only in sport does the foot receive its due: football and running races, in particular. In these the feet occupy center stage, along with the legs; we marvel at their power and precision. Also, dance: here the feet are arguably more admired than the hands—think of Fred Astaire. The foot gets some recognition, but nothing like the hand. I now think we should make more of a fuss of feet. We shouldn’t be embarrassed by our feet; we should celebrate them. Can we regard them as objects of beauty? Does James Bond have handsome elegant feet? Not easy, but can’t we at least make the effort? I therefore recommend adding a cult of the foot to the cult of the hand; chief among its precepts is that the foot has been unfairly treated, underestimated, unjustly despised. It deserves a more Christian treatment—blessed are the meek and humble, the dirty and spurned. We must revise our ignorant attitudes.[2]

[1] See my Prehension: The Hand and the Emergence of Humanity and The Meaning of Disgust.

[2] Let me contrast the wings and feet of birds. The wings of birds are their essence, as hands as the essence of humans, but the feet of birds are not held in contempt or even mild revulsion. They are even held in high esteem in some cases (e.g., eagles). They too evolved originally from fins (via limbs) and play a vital role in avian life. I am impressed by the nimble feet of my parakeets and not at all put off by them. We should think of human feet the same way. The lowest part of us deserves a distinguished place at high table (the noble lord Foot).