Preface

In this class, we have always joked about the “Science with a capital S,” or the “History with a capital H,” and, funnily enough, Eric Paul Roorda’s “Ocean with a capital O.” Throughout this essay, I decided to take a queue from Roorda and Steve Mentz by deterritorializating my language and stepping away from the terracentric, and thus, “Ocean” is capitalized as Roorda does in his writings. Ironically enough, Google said that the word was grammatically incorrect. But what does Google know, for it has yet to interact with the environment in the same way that humans do.

Introduction

Humans have long tried to dominate and police the land, and all that dwells on it: this includes people, animals, and even going so far as to draw imaginary lines that create “borders.” These so-called “borders” prohibit people from entering territories, goods from being exchanged, and even languages from being spoken. However, there is one thing that humans will never be able to control: the ocean. The Ocean has prevailed boundaries in a physical and metaphorical sense for generations. You can’t draw lines on constantly moving water, and no matter how hard one might try, there will always be resistance from the ocean. Humans tend to see themselves as separate from nature, even above nature. But the truth is, humans are hybrid beings themselves, just like mermaids. They are neither nature nor non-nature. They are a culmination of all things that nature provided and humans innovated. Eric Paul Roorda’s “Introduction” to The Ocean Reader: Theory, Culture, Politics highlights the concept of terracentrism and the Ocean’s overlooked history; meanwhile, Emilija Škarnulytė’s short film Sirenomelia visually explores the relationship and faded boundaries between human and nature. Human attempts to control and define the Ocean reveal a persistent terracentrism that denies its history and autonomy, as Roorda argues in The Ocean Reader and Škarnulytė illustrates in Sirenomelia. Together, these works suggest that the Ocean—and, by extension, nature—ultimately transcends human boundaries and categorizations, challenging us to reconsider where we draw the line between human and nonhuman worlds and to recognize our limited authority over environments we cannot fully control. 

Terracentrism and the Ocean’s Resistance

Roorda’s introduction to The Ocean Reader critiques terracentrism, the human tendency to privilege land over the sea, despite its equal place in our environment. The central idea behind The Ocean Reader is to claim a spot for the Ocean in the “vast realm of World History” (Roorda 3), as humans have pushed it to be a footnote in the historical record kept by humans. Perhaps it is the fact that the Ocean is so vast that humans cannot conquer it, which makes the Ocean so “undesirable” in the eyes of humans. For generations, humans have refused to see the Ocean as a place, seeing it as a void lacking a history, as Roorda writes in his introduction (1). Additionally, he says, “Because the Ocean can’t be plowed, paved, or shaped in ways the eye is able to discern, [the Ocean] has seemed to be a constant, while the land has changed drastically over the centuries” (1). This points to the disproportionate relationship that modern humans have developed with the land. The language that Roorda uses to describe this relationship is interesting, as well. His choice of words to describe the relationship: plowed, paved, or shaped, is innately industrial. They are things that humans do to the land, but in this case, it just can’t be applied to the Ocean as it is an unchanging, unwavering force. While humans take and colonize and poison it, the land ultimately suffers and receives nothing good in return. However, where the land and sea share similarities in context with the way humans interact with them is greed. The rise of industrialism and capitalism has tainted the land and Ocean with greed, as Roorda writes, “Humans interact with that system in many ways […] They study it, find inspiration in it, play on it, and fight over it” (3). What fuels the human desire to conquer is the same for the land as it is for the Ocean: greed. But, as mentioned before, the Ocean is an unchanging and unwavering force. Its borders against the coastline are politicized because humans cannot govern and colonize the waters as they do with land. Therefore, the Ocean resists human categorization and control, undermining terracentric assumptions.  Roorda’s insistence on recognizing the Ocean as a place with history also challenges the way humans construct narratives of progress. Land-based history often emphasizes conquest, settlement, and industrial development, but the Ocean resists these frameworks. Because it cannot be permanently altered in the same visible ways as land, the Ocean becomes a site of continuity rather than rupture. This continuity is unsettling for the human-centered historical accounts, which rely on evidence of change and domination to mark significance. By positioning the Ocean as a historical actor, Roorda forces readers to reconsider what counts as history and whose stories are included in it. Roorda’s framing of the Ocean as both a site of greed and inspiration highlights its paradoxical role in human life. On one hand, the Ocean is exploited for resources, trade, and power; on the other, it inspires art, exploration, and wonder. This duality reflects the broader tension between human desire to control and the Ocean’s refusal to be controlled. By acknowledging this tension, Roorda invites readers to see the Ocean not as a void but as a dynamic force that shapes human history even as it resists human categorization.

Nature’s Autonomy in Sirenomelia

In a similar way that details the relationship between humans and nature, Škarnulytė’s short film Sirenomelia visually demonstrates nature’s independence from human intervention through the use of sound, visuals, and the complete lack of human interaction throughout the entire 6-minute film. In her film, viewers are introduced to a lone mermaid venturing through an abandoned submarine base. The film is eerily silent, with only the electronic, artificial “bloops” coming from the submarine. In this post-human world, there is only this singular mermaid, who is, interestingly, wearing a scuba mask: something that one might presume mermaids don’t need to have. This then begs the question: is she not fully mermaid? Was she human before, and did she become something else after years of war and desecration of the land and Oceans? This mermaid is already a hybrid being, but she also represents a blending of two realms: the “human” realm and the “nature” realm. So, beyond being a hybrid being of fish and human, she then represents a further enmeshment of humans being a part of nature. In the post-human realm of Sirenomelia, it is clear that humans no longer have a place in the environment; they came and went, leaving nature to prevail. This mermaid now represents something that came from human intervention, due to the human-like mask she uses instead of purely being a marine creature. Instead of communicating that humans and nature are completely separate entities, Škarnulytė uses her mermaid to communicate that humans were never meant to be separate from nature; they were always a part of it. But, because they were consumed by greed as discussed in the Ocean’s neglect in the historical record and focus on terracentrism, they eventually ceased to exist. Now, hybrid beings like the mermaid govern the Ocean that humans once tried to take control of. What makes this imagery so compelling is the way Škarnulytė positions the mermaid as both a survivor and a product of human failure. The scuba mask becomes a symbol of adaptation, a reminder that even in a post-human world, traces of human technology remain embedded in nature. Yet, rather than signifying dominance, the mask signifies dependence: the mermaid’s survival is tied to a human artifact, but she uses it in a way that transcends its original purpose. This inversion of meaning highlights how human creations, once designed for control, can be reabsorbed into nature’s systems and repurposed for survival. The silence of the film also plays a crucial role in reinforcing the Ocean’s autonomy. By stripping away human voices, dialogue, or even recognizable human sounds, Škarnulytė creates a soundscape that feels alien yet natural. The electronic “bloops” of the submarine are artificial, but they fade into the background, becoming part of the Ocean’s rhythm rather than dominating it. This auditory choice underscores the futility of human attempts to impose order on the Ocean: even the remnants of technology are swallowed by its vastness, transformed into echoes rather than commands. The post-human setting of Sirenomelia dramatizes what happens when greed and terracentrism sever that entanglement: humans disappear, leaving behind hybrid beings who embody the interconnectedness that humans once denied. In this way, Škarnulytė’s film not only critiques human exploitation of the Ocean but also imagines a future where nature reclaims authority, and where survival depends on embracing hybridity rather than resisting it.

Hybridity and Transformation as Challenges to Human Categories

The figure of the mermaid swimming peacefully throughout the submarine base in Sirenomelia embodies hybridity, complicating human attempts to categorize nature, thus reinforcing Roorda’s claim that the ocean resists fixed definitions. The mermaid’s hybrid body in Sirenomelia blurs boundaries between species and environments. Not only is she a half-human, half-fish being, but she is also a blend between the land and ocean that has become overused and exploited by humans. Her purely “nature” body meshed with the pairing of a distinctly human scuba-diving mask communicates the human penetration of the land and environment. Humans are innately nature, but their destruction and greed have left a permanent mark on the land, not now, it has bled onto the hybrid bodies of the mermaids in the post-human environment of Sirenomelia. Her mask presents an image of mutation, which suggests ongoing transformation beyond human control. This shows the futility of humans trying to govern and control the environment—no matter what we do, there are ways nature will prevail. One day, humans will cease to exist, and they will no longer do harm to the environment. Just as Roorda argues that the Ocean cannot be “plowed, paved, or shaped” (1) into human categories, Škarnulytė’s mermaid resists classification as either human or nature; this hybridity destabilizes terracentric assumptions and highlights the Ocean as a space of fluid identities and histories. By foregrounding transformation and hybridity, both texts emphasize that the Ocean is not just a static backdrop before the dynamic force of human authority, but it demands new ways of thinking about boundaries. This hybridity also forces us to confront the uncomfortable truth that humans themselves are hybrid beings. Just like the mermaid, humans are neither fully separate from nature nor entirely outside of it. They are a culmination of what nature provides—air, water, food, ecosystems—and what human innovation creates—technology, infrastructure, and culture. The mermaid’s mask becomes a metaphor for this entanglement: a human artifact fused with a natural body, symbolizing how human existence is always dependent on and intertwined with the environment. In this way, Sirenomelia does not simply depict a fantastical creature, but rather holds up a mirror to humanity, reminding us that our identities are inseparable from the natural world we often claim to dominate. Furthermore, the mermaid’s hybridity destabilizes the very categories humans rely on to assert authority. If she is both human and nature, then the boundary between the two collapses, exposing the artificiality of terracentric assumptions. This collapse demands a new way of thinking about boundaries—one that acknowledges fluidity, transformation, and interconnectedness rather than rigid separation. By presenting hybridity as both a survival strategy and a critique of human greed, Škarnulytė and Roorda together argue that the Ocean is not a passive backdrop but an active force that reshapes human history and identity.

Rethinking Boundaries Between Human and Nature

Together, Roorda and Škarnulytė challenge us to reconsider how we define and separate humans from nature. Humans have a natural tendency to place themselves in a separate category from nature, even going so far as viewing themselves above nature. They position themselves in a way that strips care and respect from the environment in the name of  humans being the “superior species.” But, as Roorda and Škarnulytė point out in their works, humans are just as much nature as they are non-nature. They are hybrid beings, despite their attempts to distance themselves from the environment. As Roorda points out, the ocean is a historical place beyond human shaping, and he decides to deviate from the conventional approach of lowercasing “ocean” to capitalizing “Ocean,” as I have done throughout this essay as well. He writes, “To capitalize Ocean is to challenge the conventional wisdom that the seas can be taken for granted. They cannot” (3–4). By adhering to this approach, humans can attempt to lean back on their vision as “superior” beings and instead lean towards a more ocean-centric approach that invites their hybrid state. Additionally, Škarnulytė’s mermaid complicates definitions of “nature” and “human,” as she is both and takes up space in both environments. Both works highlight the complexities and futility of rigid boundaries, urging recognition of interconnectivity and humility in the face of environments that we cannot dominate. This recognition of hybridity is crucial because it forces us to confront the false binary humans have created between themselves and the environment. By insisting on separation, humans have justified exploitation, pollution, and domination of the natural world. Yet Roorda’s capitalization of “Ocean” and Škarnulytė’s depiction of the mermaid both remind us that humans are not outside of nature but deeply entangled within it. The Ocean, with its vast history and resistance to human shaping, becomes a symbol of continuity that humans cannot erase. The mermaid, with her hybrid body and human-like mask, becomes a symbol of transformation that humans cannot fully define. Both figures destabilize the illusion of superiority and instead invite us to see ourselves as part of a larger, interconnected system.  The act of capitalizing “Ocean” is more than a stylistic choice—it is a political and ethical statement. It demands that readers treat the Ocean as a proper noun, a subject with agency, history, and significance equal to land. In doing so, Roorda challenges terracentric assumptions and insists that the Ocean deserves recognition in the same way humans recognize nations, cities, or landmarks. This shift in language mirrors Škarnulytė’s artistic shift in representation: by centering a mermaid in a post-human world, she forces viewers to acknowledge that categories like “human” and “nature” are porous and unstable. Both choices—capitalization and hybridity—work to dismantle the hierarchies humans have built to elevate themselves above the environment. If humans are hybrid beings, then their survival depends on embracing that hybridity rather than denying it. The Ocean cannot be conquered, and nature cannot be endlessly exploited without consequence. By foregrounding hybridity, Roorda and Škarnulytė remind us that the boundaries we cling to are illusions, and that our future depends on recognizing interconnectivity. In this sense, both works are not only critiques of human arrogance but also invitations to imagine a more sustainable and respectful way of living—one that honors the Ocean as a historical force and embraces hybridity as the truth of human existence.

Conclusion: “We’re all mermaids already…”

Philosopher Timothy Morton once said, “We’re all mermaids already, we just don’t know it yet.” What Morton might be pointing to is the hybrid nature humans have within the environment—they are simultaneously a part of nature, and their own entity as well. They have separated themselves from nature and, by extension, the Ocean by policing the lands and (attempting to) politicize the borders and coastlines of the Ocean, but it resists human control, both conceptually and visually, as shown in Roorda’s theory and Škarnulytė’s artistic short film. These works remind us that human authority is, ultimately, limited, and that by acknowledging the ocean’s autonomy, we may reshape our relationship with nature and the environment. By confronting our attraction towards terracentrism and embracing the ocean’s independence, we open ourselves to the more ethical, sustainable ways of engaging with the world. We may also recognize that we are mermaids—neither wholly separate from nor above nature, but a culmination of what nature provides and what human innovation creates. Recognizing this hybridity forces us to confront our limited authority over environments we cannot fully control and to reimagine our place within the natural world.