Class of 2009: The Earth is Hiring

The author Paul Hawken gave a speech at the University of Portland’s graduation ceremony last month, which beautifully sums up my thoughts on finishing my bachelor's in what some are calling the “worst year ever to graduate.” I highly recommend reading the entire thing, but here are the parts that really struck me (emphasis mine):

There is invisible writing on the back of the diploma you will receive, and in case you didn't bring lemon juice to decode it, I can tell you what it says: You are Brilliant, and the Earth is Hiring. The earth couldn't afford to send recruiters or limos to your school. It sent you rain, sunsets, ripe cherries, night blooming jasmine, and that unbelievably cute person you are dating. Take the hint. And here's the deal: Forget that this task of planet-saving is not possible in the time required. Don't be put off by people who know what is not possible. Do what needs to be done, and check to see if it was impossible only after you are done.

When asked if I am pessimistic or optimistic about the future, my answer is always the same: If you look at the science about what is happening on earth and aren't pessimistic, you don't understand the data. But if you meet the people who are working to restore this earth and the lives of the poor, and you aren't optimistic, you haven't got a pulse.
...

This is the largest movement the world has ever seen. Rather than control, it seeks connection. Rather than dominance, it strives to disperse concentrations of power. Like Mercy Corps, it works behind the scenes and gets the job done. Large as it is, no one knows the true size of this movement. It provides hope, support, and meaning to billions of people in the world. Its clout resides in idea, not in force. It is made up of teachers, children, peasants, businesspeople, rappers, organic farmers, nuns, artists, government workers, fisherfolk, engineers, students, incorrigible writers, weeping Muslims, concerned mothers, poets, doctors without borders, grieving Christians, street musicians, the President of the United States of America, and as the writer David James Duncan would say, the Creator, the One who loves us all in such a huge way.

Before I read this speech, I knew I wasn’t going to take the typical career trajectory that most college graduates shoot for, even if they don’t make it. I just can’t see myself getting much joy out of – or helping many other people by – finding a 9-5 job in something I’m marginally interested in, going into debt buying a house and starting a family, and doing pretty much the same thing for the rest of my life. I know this is a route many people find great satisfaction in, but I think I’ve always known it’s not me, even if I temporarily allowed myself to believe, like most college students, that my degree would privilege me to this kind of future. The American Dream. Take it or leave it.
But now it seems that even if I’d wanted to do all that, this status quo – working purely for personal gain, keeping to our private family groups, expecting the next generation to fix the problems we create along the way – is no longer what we can expect maintain as a species. I think this is what Hawken is really saying, but in a nicer way: Wake up and smell the coffee, kids. The times, they really are a-changin’ now (with apologies to Bob Dylan).

Not too long ago, after returning from India and realizing the long stretch of time (yes, six months can seem like an eternity) before graduation, and waking up to hear news of the economy’s death throes every morning, it was a little tough to actually get out of bed and go to class. I actually felt sorry for myself: What, oh what, will I do with my seemingly useless journalism degree? How will I ever find a job and not disappoint my family and everyone who has sacrificed to put me through college?
Luckily, in the intervening time, I’ve gained a little perspective. That is, things are never as bad as the media would like you to believe – and a journalism student of all people should know this. As Hawken says, “We are the only species on the planet without full employment. Brilliant.” No kidding. In fact the situation’s gotten so bad, the best and brightest graduates this year appear to be steering away from Wall Street and financial jobs, applying their efforts toward endeavors that actually generate something for society other than cash – becoming doctors, scientists, and researchers, people who can bail us out of the jam we’re currently in. That was according to a New York Times article I read but can’t seem to find now.
It’s almost ironic: for decades, we’ve had a brain drain, similar to what countries like India are going through. There, smart kids succeed by going to study engineering and medicine at Western schools, then they never come home to apply those skills where they’re needed the most. In this country, those who are passionate about social justice, the environment and helping the needy go almost by default to the “developing” world. Every time I tell somebody about what I care about these days, they suggest I join the Peace Corps. As if there’s no poverty or need in this country. Sunita Rao, my India mentor, is on a Fulbright visit to the US, and she observes what she calls a “poverty of hope” – a problem just as severe as her country’s financial burden.
Here are a few facts I unearthed while writing my thesis: The percentage of farmers under 35 dropped from 15% in 1954 to 7.8% in 1997. Today, less than 1% of Americans work as farmers, a number so insignificant that the US Census threw out farming as a distinct employment category. In 2002, 77% of farm workers surveyed were foreign-born, and 53% lacked authorization to work in the U.S. Farm family members accounted for 69% of farm labor in 1998, but the average age of farm owners was 54.3, indicating that the next generation of family farmers is quite smaller than the one currently at retirement age.
So here we have two sides of the same problem: Too many people who want to participate in the second-tier level of the economy, activities like finance that are not directly related to survivability, and too few people focused on providing the very basics like food. Although we rank ourselves superior to the “third world,” our society is, in the words of S. S. Wilson, “overdeveloped.” Which way to turn?

A couple of months ago, I quit sending applications and resumes to floundering newspapers in my area, stopped gazing hopelessly at job listings (and the cost of rent) in cities like Portland and Seattle. I started looking into doing things that, as my father woefully points out every time I speak to him, I could have done without a college degree. And I started getting very, very excited. Willing Workers on Organic Farms (WWOOF), which connects people with internships and volunteer positions with farms around the world, is a wonderful program, as is its Canadian equivalent, SOIL Apprenticeships. After contacting several sites, I found one that fit my interests up on Vancouver Island, BC. I start later this month. Although I wish I had found a way to do this in my own country, have no doubt that I will return triumphant, a practical education under my belt, pitchfork in hand. And I have to say, Dad, that I’m not sure I could have done this without my liberal arts degree: Nothing else could have made me this idealistic. Or maybe it was just that darn trip to India. Either way, I’m excited and hopeful about the future. This could be the best year ever to graduate.

Oregon Local Foods part 2: What’s for dinner?

Cassava root. Salmonberry. Black Republican cherries.
Never heard of them? There’s probably a reason for that – they are all edible plants native to the Willamette Valley here in Oregon. At one time, native Oregonians (from the Kalapooia and other tribes) ate cassava like we eat French fries today. Berry bushes in hundreds of varieties provided a wild harvest to anyone who knew how to tell a delicious snack from a bellyache. The black Republican cherry tree was introduced as a commercial crop in 1860, producing a plum-like fruit that was known throughout the Northwest.
Today, the cassava is protected as one of the few remaining indigenous plants in the area, our berry diet is limited to the two or three varieties that accompany peanut butter in sandwiches, and the words “black Republican” only bring to mind awful jokes.
But the irony is more immediate than that. Faced with a food culture that has been completely commodified, stripped of all regional identity and packed into neat little boxes (salmon burger, anyone?), chefs and food aficionados around the Willamette Valley are scratching wildly, looking for dishes that we can claim and incorporate into a distinctive local cuisine. I feel their pain – the lack of “American” food, leave alone Oregonian or Pacific Northwestern food is something I’ve long failed to understand. Once, a friend and I brainstormed an entire afternoon trying to think of something to cook for Saudi Arabian friends coming over for an authentic American dinner. We ended up making enchiladas. Close enough –as long as our guests never find their way south of the border.
It’s not that we don’t have material to work with in this region. Heirlooms like the black Republicans, including apple, pear and nut trees, as well as a varieties of beans, vegetables and berries, have been cultivated here since the first white settlers set up camp. The sense of local pride that has evolved around these crops is revealed in some of their names: Gramma Walters bean; Oregon Champion gooseberry. Because they are for one reason or another not commercially viable (delicate fruit, short shelf life, inconsistent production), many are in danger of extinction. Today, only a few, very old black Republican trees survive in the Eugene area and nowhere else, according to a book compiled by Gary Paul Nabhan, a well known ecologist and localization writer. The loss of heirloom varieties would be a blow to local agriculture, not just for cultural reasons but also because locally adapted crops tend to be hardier, better suited to the climate and soil conditions and thus less likely to need chemical inputs to thrive.
Anyway, anyone trying to establish a regional cuisine in Oregon has my full support, especially given some of the difficulties involved. Salmon is no longer an obvious choice for any of the Pacific Northwest. Gary Nabhan splits North America into distinct bioregions based on indigenous food traditions, and names this corner of the continent Salmon Nation. I support the idea behind this effort, but wish we could move beyond this beleaguered fish for its basis. One species is limited as a basis for an entire cuisine, and nobody with an ounce of ecological awareness would (or should) be caught dead eating anything but wild-caught salmon, whose numbers are swiftly dwindling anyway. In addition, any food trend that might eventually filter its way down to the masses (ie broke college students who find cooking an enjoyable form of productive procrastination) must be affordable, but most restaurants that attempt to differentiate their fare from that of Seattle or Portland tend to be in the price range of middle-aged urbanites with real jobs. In this economy, that leaves out roughly half of the population. (Really, though: the poverty rate in the Eugene area is higher than the state average, and Oregon is now has the second-highest unemployment rate in the nation.) Although the efforts of local chefs to get us to eat seasonally and locally with braised lamb in wild mushroom sauce are admirable, they aren’t the American’s South’s cornbread and grits. That is, you won’t see many of us switching from ramen-based diets anytime soon. As I mentioned in the previous post, the industrial food system has gotten most people used to food made from two or three major plants plus meat. It’s cheap and childishly easy to prepare (or pick up at the drive-thru window). Some serious re-education is in order before we can even think about preparing regionally based foods.
That said, I do see some adventurous farmers and blogger/cooks in the area making steps in these directions, first making the food available and then showing people that it’s not rocket science to put it together. Farmers near Corvallis are making serious efforts to reintroduce bean and grain production in the Willamette Valley; one Eugene-based blog has a recipe for black bean brownies. Is that the smell of synergy baking?
I’m not suggesting that Oregon farmers abandon all commodity crops for fields of waving cassava and garbanzos. After all, grass seed production generates $1.6 billion in economic activity in the state, and how else would every suburban home be able to cultivate an overwatered green monoculture without these farmers? Plus, other forms of agriculture are just way too much work, and since there simply aren’t enough illegal immigrants to go around, who will do it? On the other hand, small, organic farms have been shown to provide more ecosystem-like benefits while being more productive per acre than huge operations. And aren’t we facing something like a global food crisis? Wouldn’t it make more sense to give up just a few of those acres for diversified food production rooted in local traditions that we can all take pride in?
It’s all too confusing for me. I think I’ll just head to the kitchen to see if I can make black bean brownies that look as good as the picture on that blog. I only wish I had some black Republican cherry ice cream to put on top of them.

Academia, meet Blogosphere

As I sit at my laptop after a long, hard, weekend of procrastination, trying to decide whether it’s justifiable to write a blog post rather than work on my environmental studies thesis, I am suddenly struck with a brilliant idea. Why not break down my thesis, which examines food system localization as a route to sustainability in the Eugene area, into blog-able chunks that would help me develop my ideas and keep this space from looking completely dead?
I’ve worked around the issue of food policy for a while, and I think most citizens are now aware that our system of growing, processing, distributing of food is convoluted, irrational, and above all, unsustainable. It’s detrimental to the environment and our bodies, a path to almost certain disaster.
But it wasn’t always that way. Just prior to the industrial revolution and continuing through the middle part of the last century, farmers actually grew crops that people could eat (not acre upon acre of cow food) and sold them in local markets. Most housewives kept gardens. People knew how to cook and enjoyed tastier, more nutritious food.
The idea for my thesis topic came out of my work on food-related issues in India and a question I’ve been working around in my head since returning: is it really possible to recreate a localized food system like we used to have here and that “developing” countries like India still enjoy? How do we incorporate current food distribution and consumption modes – Walmart superstores, Taco Bell, processed cheese – into that model? Obviously, we’re not going back to a 19th century ideal here, where everybody lives on their five acres, grows their own food, and knows what to do with it. There’s not enough land to go around and most people aren’t interested in getting their hands dirty (farmers currently make up less than 1% of the entire U.S. labor force). Still, there’s an interest in at least mimicking this model, and the proliferation of farmers’ markets, restaurants advertising locally grown ingredients, and general public awareness about food issues says something. The question is, even if all of us give up Italian noodles and Australian wine, can individual locales – counties, states, regions – really feed the people who live there?
It depends on the place. Luckily for me, the Willamette Valley (the area between the Cascades and the Coast range in Oregon) has at least the potential to feed its own population. We have an abundance of small, organic farms and some systems in place to get that food to local consumers. Unluckily, no matter how progressive we like to think ourselves to be, we’re no different from the rest of America. We (especially college students) shop at Safeway, enjoy the occasional Dairy Queen stop, and indulge ourselves with January strawberries. And there’s good economic reason for those decisions. Yes, there’s a strong backing for local foods, but it’s still a niche market, with produce available only at high-end grocery stores and natural food marts with reputations (founded and unfounded) for being expense. Also, there are the frightening prospects of bulk bins and soy cheese to drive away most mainstream food buyers.
If the underlying goal in revamping our food system is to achieve greater sustainability – a slippery concept, but to summarize four pages of my thesis, the ability to continue on the current course for many generations to come – we might have to reexamine if local is actually better. For example, let’s take wheat, which almost everyone buys in some form or another. Soft white, the kind used to make pastas and tortillas, is grown in huge quantities in the Willamette Valley, and with a better system to store and process the grains, we could be enjoying a completely local supply. But, because of the global wheat commodity market, it’s a lot easier to sell that wheat at top dollar to a distributor who will ship it to Asia or Europe, which is what currently happens to 100% of the wheat grown in the Valley. Buy a bag of noodles anywhere in Oregon, and there’s only a miniscule chance the wheat came from anywhere within a 100-mile radius.
Is this a bad thing? It depends what you value. A network of small, independently run grain mills and storage facilities in the Willamette Valley might sound perfectly utopian, but is it really more efficient? It would probably require complicating the already dizzying web of producers, distributors, processors and retailers even further, involving huge amounts of effort and organization. Compared to this, a system in which all the wheat grown goes to a central location, is processed and re-distributed to where it’s most needed (ie where the price is right) sounds almost logical.
So that’s my thesis topic in a (lengthy) nutshell. Stay tuned for next week, when I’ll sniff out where food is being grown in my vicinity and who is actually eating it.

West Lawn: Death and Commerce in the American Landscape

[Note: This is an essay I wrote for my Contemporary American Landscapes class, in which we were assigned to take the bus to a random place in Eugene and write about what we found. It turned out a bit more morbid than I would have expected, but the results were interesting nonetheless.]


Any landscape architect wishing to achieve the stately, respectable, American appearance of West Lawn Memorial Park on Danebo Road can easily do so by mimicking the following design strategies. First, plant Douglas fir in a long, neat line near the busy road and wait sixty years for them to fatten. Clear the rest of the land and put in rows uniform headstones, and throw in a couple of American flags and a fake waterfall for ambiance. Then, be sure the cemetery is situated in a sprawling, industrial end of town, across the street from such barbed-wired establishments as Bad Bitch Choppers and Pacific Metals. It will easily be the most attractive enterprise in the area by simple process of elimination.
West Lawn’s unexpectedly dignified appearance is what first drew me in as I wandered up Danebo from West 11th last weekend. West Eugene is notorious for its sketchiness, and I’d arrived at its most distant fringe: the bus stop just past Wal-Mart, realm of speeding semis and disaffected young men in black hoodies. In this setting, West Lawn Memorial Park appeared a peaceful refuge. I paused for a moment on the narrow shoulder to appreciate the neat daffodil bed around the large sign at the entrance. Looking down, I noticed something misshapen and feathery by my feet. A dead bird. I didn’t know it yet, but that’s the closest encounter I would have with my own mortality at this thoroughly modern American cemetery.
“Cemetery,” of course, isn’t the term the West Lawn proprietors would prefer. The sign out front advertises “funerals, cremations, and memorial park,” dignifiedly refusing to allude to the unpleasantness of death with more descriptive words. This is a safe place, it seems to announce. We’re sorry you have to come here, but we do welcome your business.
It’s a Sunday – prime grave-visiting day – but there are only two cars in the West Lawn parking lot and they might as well belong to the former drivers belowground. The place is deserted. However, it’s not entirely unpleasant, either: The “park” lives up to its promise of shady trees, green lawns and inviting benches. Only a sign warning of a security camera in the parking lot reminds me that this is not a public space. At the top of the upward-sloping pavement is a red brick building with a slanted roof and generic stained-glass window. Though it at first appears to be a church, this is in fact a non-religious “Chapel of Memories” attached to the West Lawn office, part of the one-stop-shopping funeral package offered by the business.
I wander toward the waterfall nestled in a grove of trees between the parking lot and the grassy hillside of burial plots. Another sign tells me I’ve entered the Memorial Garden. A walkway meanders among shrubbery and shiny granite markers, most of which are blank, unwritten pages in the West Lawn death ledger. One is freshly engraved: “Teresa Morales, 1940-2009. Mamá siempre estarás en nuestro corazón,” it reads, the inscription accented by carved roses. I move on, drawn to the sound of the waterfall, which almost manages to drown out the hum of traffic on Danebo. Peering inside the water, I spot a plastic koi fish on a pole, disfigured by a healthy growth of algae.
The Memorial Garden is not disorderly but lacks cohesion, its elements holding in common only their newness, like displays at a home and garden show. Next to the small pool is a wood gazebo with a bench inside, and next to that a stone box that looks like a chest of drawers (I later learn its name: "columbarium". The units inside are known as "niches" and can store the ashes of one to two people.) A little farther down the circular path is another stone box and cardboard sign: Private Mausoleum. Available for purchase.
Memory and sales just became too closely tied for my tastes. I exit the garden for the wide open space of the cemetery proper. A cold wind sweeps over the grass, fluttering plastic flowers and miniature flags. In the distance, I can make out the roof of a Target store. Stenciled wooden signs demarcate sections of the graveyard in a fashion reminiscent of a Disneyland parking lot. Only here, instead of leaving your car in "Goofy," you can abandon your carcass in "David" or "Peace." For children, there's "Baby Circle," watched over by a statue of a marble angel kissing a fawn. One segment has bushes cut into a strange funnel shape; another is shaped into a mound with a single tree growing in the center. Is it the tree of life? A symbol of the lone individual reaching toward heaven?
I’m stirred from my ponderings by a blue Pontiac that drives up suddenly, a white-haired woman at the wheel. Disregarding the parking lot, she takes advantage of the cemetery's paved lanes and pulls up to a point near the headstone of her choice. It takes her less than three minutes to exchange the flowers and get back in her car.

What does the landscape of West Lawn reveal about Eugenians, living and dead? As J.B. Jackson, the great American landscape critic, has pointed out, Americans – and Europeans before us – have a long tradition of collecting populations of the deceased and placing them under the ground. Traditionally, those with higher social status were buried closer to the church, but in general we prefer to hide away these groupings of bodies, behind a glade of trees or outside of town somewhere. In these locations, plots tend to be rectangular, like the squared-off spaces – houses, fields – in which their occupants spent their lives.
Landscape truly is history made visible, as Jackson said, and this modern graveyard reflects changes in American habits and values over the past hundred or so years. It’s egalitarian, yes – now everyone can be buried near a church. Of course, that church can’t be a real one in the sense of being affiliated with a religious institution. That would narrow the customer base.
So religion, which once was integral to culture, has been reduced to a representation in this landscape. Death is a business here, made abstract by the mingling of cash with the respectable facade of the cemetery. Walking through, I don’t feel morbid, just curious. Who would want to be buried in this place? My best theory is that few actually chose this end. Perhaps these dead are all relations of the country’s transitory class, people who came here to seek their fortune and moved on long ago, choosing an economical site on cheap West Eugene land for a quick and easy burial. The lack of family plots may be evidence of this theory. Or maybe these discrete, nearly identical units are simply indicators of a society that simultaneously values individuality and conformity, where a membership to any community is a burden but standing out comes at a cost. By becoming conspicuous consumers – of fancy caskets, a “niche” near the waterfall, dozens of flowers – even in death, we make that passing less threatening for ourselves and easier for loved ones to bear.
Judging by the abundance of blank plots and markers in West Lawn, its owners are at least subconsciously counting on the next generation of dead sharing the values of those already in the ground. They’re not the only ones, though; we all depend on the eventuality of these slots becoming filled. Babies are born each day, newcomers fill apartment complexes and suburbs. We always need more space.
I watch the lady in the Pontiac drive off and turn to leave as well. As I do, I notice a backhoe in the next field over, pouring out a cloud of black smoke that stands out against the grey sky. It doesn’t take long for me to figure out what it’s doing over there in that far corner of the hedged-in lawn. Shovelful after shovelful, a new grave is quietly being dug.

Food in Washington: Two important new developments

John Adams did it. Eleanor Roosevelt did it. The Clintons even had a few pots of it on the White House roof. Now, though, the Obamas are promoting the plants in a bigger way than ever before: a 1100 square foot vegetable garden just outside their back door.

A class of third-graders helped Michelle Obama break ground for the new garden on March 20th, creating an oasis of potential food in the otherwise immaculate house lawn (I commend her budget-minded use of free child labor). The entire Obama family plans on pitching in to keep the organic garden going through the growing season.
Why vegetables and why now? The plan didn't come from thin air - food policy activists have lobbied the president for months to set this example for Americans, although Ms. Obama has cites her motivations as desire to increase the freshness of the produce her family consumes. Of course, there' s more to it than that. Home gardens like this one are a simple, direct way to localize the food system and have the added benefit of educating the neighbors about diet and maybe even food politics. Although the idea is gaining momentum among the general public, it still has elite and/or west-coast-hippie-weirdo connotations, fears that will likely be alleviated by the sight of the Obamas getting their hands dirty and eating arugula.
The plan is not without historical precedent. Sixty years ago, Victory Gardens – as popularized by Eleanor Roosevelt – were incredibly successful in alleviating hunger and freeing up cash to fight a war. Today, hunger is still a concern, the underlying cause being that suddenly none of us have any more cash. The article about the presidential garden in the New York Times noted that the total cost of seeds, mulch and other supplies was $200 – a start-up cost that will be greatly reduced in future years.

This development demonstrates that the Obamas and others in Washington clearly have food system sustainability on their minds, even if they may not point directly to it for political reasons. That’s why I was surprised to get an email this week that cried out alarmingly from my inbox with the subject heading “Government may forbid organic farming!”
Well, it grabs your attention way more than “A House bill that is still in committee proposes reorganizing the FDA and placing greater surveillance on food production and processing,” but that’s really what the email was about. The scare was focused on H.R. 875, which is similar to another proposed bill, H.R. 759. The bills were written in response to the peanut scare and other recent food safety problems. H.R. 875, the “Food Safety Modernization Act of 2009” seems to be overkill, creating a Food Safety Administration under the Department of Health and allowing the FDA to mandate recalls (currently they can only “recommend” them, which they recently did for the salmonella-tainted peanuts). However, it says nothing specific about organics and in no way bans private vegetable gardens or seed saving, as the Ron Paul diehards who probably inspired the email I received are proclaiming.
Still, any legislation that requires small, organic farmers to undergo more inspections and fill out more paperwork will certainly hurt those businesses. Here’s what Oregon Representative Peter Defazio has to say on the matter:
“I am certainly mindful of the impact on small farmers this bill could have. My district is home to many wonderful specialty crops with small-scale producers, and I have been a backyard gardener for years. Routine inspections of farms would still remain under the jurisdiction of states. FDA officials will not be showing up on farms to inspect it on a regular basis. There is no language in the bill that would penalize or shut down backyard farmers.” (From a form email response to one I sent him.)

That pretty much resolved my qualms, though I still question why there is no legislation, at least none that I’ve heard of, that actually addresses the underlying problem of our industrialized food system that led to the peanut problem and countless other food safety issues over the years. One need only recall the name “Peanut Corporation of America” to be reminded of the enormous scale and complexity of the processing pathways that typically lead from the peanut field to a package of Nut Butters at the corner store. It wasn’t the “Peanut Company of Alabama” or the “Nut Processing Cooperative of Skippy County” that was running the rat-infested, leaky factory. We should know by now that having a huge, centralized processing facility run by a single entity makes it impossible to track and monitor food processing - be it for tomatoes, beef, spinach or Mr. Peanut. The system is simply too vast humans to control it. And the Ron Paulians, of all people, should recognize that.

Despite the false starts, there are good signs here that food policy is moving in the right direction in this country at last. If the Obamas have a vegetable garden and people are at least recognizing that the FDA is dysfunctional, it’s a good start. Get out there and play in the dirt, lawmakers, and let’s see what else we can uproot and change.

NPR Picture Show: Isolated exurban communities and cement deserts

There are two great things about Over: The American Landscape at the Tipping Point. One: Pictures? On National Public Radio’s website? Fret all you want about journalism dying; there really are some “old” media outlets embracing the idea of multimedia content, and doing it with quality. It makes sense for NPR to embrace slideshows as a way of presenting information – for those of us who spend way too much time reading (thanks, humanities courses!) it’s always nice to be presented ideas in a different way, be it audible or visual. If I was an NPR nerd before, now I’m a full-on fanatic. And I'm not alone.
Of course, the other reason I was inspired by this Picture Show in particular was because of the straightforward, frightening way it presents a particular aspect of this country: urban sprawl, freeways, aqueducts, and other features of our indulgent lifestyles. Aeriel photography provides a viewpoint that is just unfamiliar enough to provoke a whole new way of understanding the homogenized, isolated places that some of us live in. At the same time, as a Westerner, I found the images of expensive developments built on the shoreline and subdivision after subdivision depressingly familiar. The photographs also provide a sense of cause and effect – an image of a three-quarter-mile long freeway intersection is followed a few slides later by an oil tanker, part of what the caption calls the “unseen network” that fuels our personal transportation.
Even more shocking than those photos, however, are the images of the places that oil and freeways can take you to. A suburb stuck randomly in Utah farmland. A community (if we can call it that, although it doesn’t look very communal) called “Harborwalk” built on a Texas wetland, complete with artificial beaches. The places that future archeologists will uncover, shake their heads and ask, “What were they thinking?”

Art exhibition review: "Juxtaposed"

Not the Same:
“Juxtaposed” at the Maude Kerns Art Center

Machine parts and moss.
Alarm and absurdity.
Substance and empty space.
What do the above items have in common? Nothing – that’s the point. They’re juxtaposed, internally conflicted. Or are they?
This is not a question ripe for answering, but for a visual aid, visit the Maude Kerns Art Center between now and March 20th and take in its main exhibit, “Juxtaposed.” The sculptures and installations on display are from six artists – three of them local to Eugene – who are fond of consciously positioning unlike objects and ideas side by side. Each unique, provocative piece on display explores the tensions that tend to make viewers most uncomfortable, encouraging comparisons that are sometimes humorous, sometimes disturbing.

The Maude Kerns itself is a bit of an anomaly among Eugene's art galleries. Housed in an old church in a residential district, the non-profit Art Center has a folksiness and approachability that defies the cold glass exteriors of downtown’s art halls. With classes and lectures happening regularly and studios just next door, the venue prides itself in its ability to engage the whole community in art.
The journey through “Juxtaposed” may start from any of three entrances – another quirky feature of the converted building is the lack of a definitive main door. Visitors wandering in from the street side, however, will first confront Gerrit Van Ness’ installation “Campaign Trail,” a cynical take on the American elections process. The piece invokes the game of Candyland with lollipops, bright colors, and giant walking feet following a path – one made of dollar signs. Van Ness’ other works in the exhibit take jabs at Wal-Mart, bureaucracy and hypocrisy in general. Each piece functions as a 3-D, pop-art political cartoon, though most lack the biting cleverness that can be found in the editorial pages. And with the Bush Era over and an economic crises at hand, Van Ness’ lingering outrage over stolen votes and corporate profits feels a bit passé.
Better to enter the exhibition from the other end, where “Judging the Heart,” a site-specific installation by artist Mike Walsh, compares ancient and modern-day conflicts in the Middle East. The four boxes, or “Gates,” contain representational artifacts of ancient Egypt as well as modern-day maps of the region. Faces of soldiers are stenciled, ghostlike, on the glass, and the last box houses an image of George Bush. However, this political reference, in contrast to that made by Van Ness, speaks poignantly to the endlessness of war and the difficulty of measuring morality. Vertical ladders between the boxes possibly indicate an exit route in each stage of history.
The two pieces by James O’Keefe also approach serious subjects – nothingness and insanity – but do so with interactive whimsy, social commentary lurking just beneath the surface. “Psychological Storage Unit” is the quintessential impractical business model: Insert a quarter in the slot, the ramshackle cart instructs with stenciled lettering, and then write your psychological hang-up of choice on no more than three sheets of paper. Return for the problem later or just leave it behind. Psychoses already packed away are evidenced by the dozens of boxes, drawers and containers stacked on the cart, with labels like “illusions,” “violent thoughts,” and “panic attacks.” Metamorphosed by their kooky setting, these conditions become infinitely less frightening.
Here’s a juxtaposition: Next to O’Keefe’s fanciful construction is John Paul Gardner’s modernistic installation “Boundary.” A single set of parallel red fishing lines beam across the stage at the end of the room, creating a tension between movement and solid walls. “Range 1-4,” Gardener’s series of drawings also on display, capture the same effect with less drama.
Also working with the idea of flatness and dimensionality is Afrikaner sculptor Andries Fourie. His piece “The Carrion Eaters” is plantlike in form, with metal plates bearing silkscreened images – including a human heart, carnivores, a slingshot and a windmill – reaching out on solid vines. “Talking to Mr. Bhengu About Cattle” employs another metal plate along with a wood frame, a meat grinder, and a water faucet. This and Fourie’s third work on display, a frayed jacket hung with metal keys, defy interpretation. Perhaps the juxtaposition invoked here is that between logic and artistic inspiration.
The artist with the most work on display in this exhibition is Jud Turner, whose found object sculptures incorporate the contradictions between nature and technology; past and present. Witness a tree growing out of jumbled engine parts, a zeppelin strung from clouds and a machine that incorporates a human femur. Turner’s Artist Statement is almost as interesting as his art, describing how an exploration of quantum physics led to his fascination with dichotomies. “I have many ideas for sculptures roaming around in my imagination,” it reads, “but only those that operate on multiple levels of meaning and visual satisfaction are featured in the physical world.”

Visual satisfaction may, at times, take precedence over meaning in “Juxtaposed,” but the artists do aptly define and explore the theme, each making a unique contribution to the well-executed exhibit. By placing together objects and ideas of unequal stature, they demystify one while bringing new meaning to the other. Ultimately, out of disorder comes order, these reactions creating a sense of the grand congruency of the universe.

Environmentalism: East vs West

[Note: This is half of a two-part Oregon Voice article comparing approaches to environmentalism on the East and West coasts of the US. A fellow student from New Jersey is writing the other half, so it should be an interesting final product (I believe they're looking at printing next month, so look for it on oregonvoice.com) This article is also in draft form, so feedback is appreciated!]


West Coast: Keeping the Green in our Wallets

I believe the ideals of environmentalism on the west coast are best embodied by my father, an old-school conservative who grasps better than a lot of eco-conscious Generation Y-ers these days what it means to reduce, reuse and recycle. Raised by a depression-generation single mother and with decades as a small business owner behind him, the man knows how to cut corners. Yes, it’s admirable, but if you’re not careful, this frugality can deliver some unpleasant surprises.
I learned this lesson the hard way one family vacation in Hawaii a few years ago. Having forgotten to pack my own, I asked dad if I could borrow some floss. Instead of the customary plastic case containing a spool, he handed me single, suspicious-looking waxy strand. However, it was generously long, for which I give him credit. I accepted the offering, ran it between my molars and deposited it in the wastebasket as usual.
An hour later, it was his turn to perform the ritual pre-bed hygiene. He went into the bathroom. Then he came back out. With admirable coolness, he asked, “Hey, where’d you put that floss?”
“What floss?” I asked.
“The floss I gave you earlier.”
“Um, threw it away,” I said, a little confused. He looked at me with an expression of mixed disappointment for having lost his floss and dismay at my carelessness.
“Tuula,” he sighed. “That was my only piece.”

Safe in the bathroom wastebasket – where even my father wouldn’t delve – that floss was spared from the mango-fiber and pineapple-strand hell that was sure to have lain ahead during those fourteen days in the tropics.
Of course, the frayed and gummy quality of his floss over the course of that trip would never have fazed my dad. For him, stretching consumer goods beyond their reasonable lifespan is not just a way of life, it’s an ongoing little game he plays with our throw-away society. There’s nothing he enjoys more than plucking something out a discard pile, brushing it off, and using it for the next twenty years. The wobbly, undersized bicycle he rides came from a gulley near his house. He drags his firewood in off the beach. If he does come across something new, he ensures it’s darn well expired before he disposes of it himself – writing on every square inch of a used envelope and wearing t-shirts until they’re more hole than fabric.
It would be nice to believe that this thriftiness goes beyond penny-pinching and is based in a more deeply rooted conservationist ethic. But if such a philosophy does exist, it is buried under a strong aversion to environmental and social “do-gooders” that defines my father’s political views. Instead – perhaps out of a simple desire to save funds – Pop has invented his own form of environmentalism, one that rejects the entire concept of consumables.

These days, recycling the items we use in our daily lives falls under the self-righteous headings of “sustainability” or being “green” – terms that would be nice to write off on east-coast yuppies but that we’re culpable for perpetrating as well. Worse, we’ve allowed marketers to convince us to attempt to buy our way out of our multiple, converging environmental disasters with such things as hybrid cars and organic cotton clothing sold at Wal-Mart. After all, in this era of plenty, one of the luxuries we’ve earned ourselves is the ability to throw things away and purchase newer, better, greener versions. A classic example of this are the well intentioned “light bulb exchange” campaigns that you see cropping up form time to time. Sure, it sounds nice to get a free fluorescent bulb, which will save who knows how many megawatts of electricity, but do we have to throw away thousands of perfectly good “old” bulbs in order to make the transition?
So, in this context of this hip(ocritical) eco-friendliness, can west-coasters keep our cool and rationally discern between what’s good for the earth and what simply makes us feel good? The west coast in general, and Oregon in particular, has a good reputation for not only rejecting the pretentious but also enacting legislation that helps make it easier to reduce our collective footprint (which is itself a slippery concept, but we’ll run with it). Oregon was the first state to create a bottle deposit system, providing broke college students and the homeless in 11 states now the opportunity to regain some of their beer money. Its somewhat controversial land-use system – in which urban growth boundaries are strictly enforced and land designated as agricultural must remain that way – has also been heralded by environmentalists. And of course, one can’t discuss green policies without tipping a hat to Portland, where happy citizens bike, recycle and build energy-efficient structures with an air of smugness that should itself be monitored by the EPA.
Oregon’s neighbors generate a good amount of eco-friendly smug themselves. California was the first state to place emissions caps on new vehicles lower than those imposed by the federal government and is generally ahead of its east-coast counterparts in environmental leadership. Washington gained attention this winter for refusing to put salt on Seattle’s roads, irritating commuters around Puget Sound but probably generating a lot of gratitude among those who live in its waters.

Of course, good ol’ dad scoffs at all of the above schemes, and maybe he’s right to do so. But at some point, the priority needs to be placed not only on protecting consumers from themselves, but also on protecting the earth from our resource-gobbling, polluting habits. The west coast does a reasonably good job of doing so, even if we’re sometimes given to “greenwashing.” One thing’s for sure, though – you won’t find many east coast yuppie environmentalists reusing floss.

The digital age has arrived: A eulogy for broadcast

Television is dead. Long live television!

As of this morning, my TV doesn’t work anymore. I didn’t do anything to provoke this, and it’s not as if I wasn’t warned. The FCC set this date months ago for the final tradition to 100% digital broadcasting, and I, as usual, am behind the curve.
Considering that my rabbit ears were on their last legs, delivering a snowy and erratic signal to my screen, and that I only actually employed them once a week for Sunday night Desperate Housewives, this doesn’t have a huge impact on my life. My roommate and I will continue to watch previous seasons of Lost online and The L Word on DVD. Instead of investing $70 for the converter box that will allow us to receive the new digital signals, I’ll spend a few bucks on one of those cool cables that lets you put your computer screen on the television screen. When Sunday nights roll around, the wireless connection had better not go out.
But there are qualities about watching TV the old-fashioned way I’ll miss, and it’s not just the fun of trying to squint out what the ever-devious Housewives are up to in that suburban blizzard of static. The first thing is the inflexibility of it. DH is a big deal in my group of friends, and on Sunday evenings, there’s usually about eight of us squeezed into my living room. We tease and nag each other before turning on the TV at 9 to watch the same thing happening among older and more beautiful people on screen. How will I get everyone to shut up at 8:59 if they know we can now actually roll the show whenever we want? Come to think of it, how will I get them there in the first place? It won’t be too long until we’re all calling each other saying “You know, I just have too much homework, how does Monday night work for you?” Monday turns into Tuesday, then Wednesday, and then another week goes by without this important social event.
Another thing I like about broadcast television is ads. Yes, I usually mute them, but I live in a happy bubble of forward-thinking, largely unmaterialistic (mostly because we’re poor) people. How will I be reminded that people actually buy – no, wrap their entire lives around having – crap made by Lexus and Adidas if the television isn’t there to remind me that I should be too? I might grow large-headed without that constant sense of brand inadequacy.
So, TV, it’s sad to see you turned into no more than a very bulky laptop screen. Those rabbit ears are cute, but they’ll be out by the dumpster as soon as one of us gets around to getting rid of them, and some slightly less useless item will take their place on top of the stereo speaker. Perhaps my leftover New Year’s party hat or a kitchen appliance that I don’t have room for on the counter. I have no use for digital signals. Sorry, FCC, you may just have to change your name to Federal Internet Commission.

Down with grass!

In the summer of 2008, farmer Harry MacCormack did something on his land that hasn’t been done in the Willamette Valley for over twenty years. In this small act, unbeknownst to most of his neighbors in nearby Corvallis, Oregon, he may have sparked a revolution that could transform the state’s economic structure and create a model for sustainable communities across the country.

So what was MacCormack up to on his farm last summer? He was growing beans. As food and fuel prices rise around the world and Oregon residents scramble for ways to reduce their demands on our fragile environment and economy, farmers are moving toward a solution that may seem simple in hindsight. Instead of devoting 80% of cropland acres to grass seed, an inedible crop of which very little actually stays in the region, farmers led by MacCormack are beginning a movement to use the valley’s fertile lands for growing food. Beans, grains, and other staples used to be primary crops in the region until suburban lawns and golf courses made grass seed a hot commodity. Today, this cash crop is as popular as ever, but increased problems with field burning and chemical use has farmers searching for alternatives.

MacCormack’s experimental planting, known by the coalition of farmers, distributors and retailers he works with as the “Bean and Grain Project,” could be the alternative. But the initiative is not without its detractors: some environmentalists say that attempting to grow certain crops in Oregon would require even more chemicals and energy than it would in their native environments. Many farmers simply cannot afford to switch from grass seed to less profitable crops. And eco-conscious as they may be, most food buyers in the region are used to the low prices allowed by importing beans and grains from countries where standards of living are lower.

Read more about the bean and grain project here: http://www.mudcitypress.com/beanandgrain.html

Why writers should not hate artists

I sip coffee from my white ceramic mug at Cafe Roma near campus, waiting for my group members to arrive. I’m uncharacteristically early, and pass the time by eavesdropping on the born-again Christians in passionate conversation at the table next to me.

A couple of minutes later, the two I was waiting for arrive, and we begin on the task at hand. One of my final journalism classes is a course on “Writing for the Arts,” and we’re assigned to interview four different artists in class. The person my group happens to be interviewing has a frustratingly visual website, with a two-sentence bio of the artist and an abundance of photos. We’re word-bound people. We can’t compile our list of hard-hitting questions without some more background information.

“Exploring the intrinsic value of timeless knowledge,” I read aloud off a photo caption. The girl next to me, wearing absurdly large frameless glasses over her small round face, sighs with frustration.

“I hate artists,” she growls. I laugh a little in sympathy; the statement I’d just read is exactly the type of vague language that has been excised from any good journalism student’s lexicon through years of writing classes. But I haven’t been brainwashed to the point of intolerance for those who still find words like these useful. After all, aren’t writers also artists? Shouldn’t we show some solidarity? Sure, our medium is words, sentences and metaphors, but we face the same challenge that artists do of expressing the formless and wordless dimensions of human thought. Not only that, but we are compensated for our work on the same crappy pay scale.

I pose the question to my two peers. The large-glasses girl scoffs. “I’m no artist,” she claims. The guy across the table is on my side, but doesn’t appear to have ever considered the question before. I decide not to pursue the topic and we move on with our work.

Still, the question lingers in the back of my mind, and I begin wondering what gave me the idea that I was an artist in the first place. My roommate, Willa, happens to be a “real” artist, a surprisingly grounded and practical person who consistently amazes me with her productivity. I guess that’s why I’ve put so much consideration into my status as an artist: Our household is so overflowing with paintings, sketches, and shelf upon shelf of ceramic pots that I have to justify my relative invisibility. When visitors come and swoon over our walls, I point at my laptop and closet full of journals indignantly, protesting, “It’s all in there, I’m creative too!”

It so happens that the evening after the group meeting at Roma, Willa invites me to a special lecture put on by the art department on campus. I’ve always been an art appreciator, and I need an excuse not to write an essay for English class, so I go.

The lecture is by an artist visiting from New York, Shinique Smith, who specializes in sculptures featuring cord-bounded bundles of used clothing. As I settle into my seat in the lecture hall full of pink-haired, thrift-store chic artsy types, I realize I’ve never been to an event quite like this before. I’ve interviewed a couple of artists and had many more informal conversations with them, but the people I spoke with were always “translating” their ideas to me, a layperson unversed in the complexities of art. The artist speaking tonight is here simply to explain her work to a group of art students. They speak the same language.

This becomes apparent during the Q&A section at the end of the lecture. People ask Smith why she has worked for so many years with bundled clothing, and she answers simply that she hasn’t explored the extent of the medium yet. One student wants to know what Smith does first when she gets up in the morning, and they chat about that. Meanwhile, the journalist inside me is screaming. What kind of an answer is “haven’t explored the extent of the medium”? Who cares what she does when she gets up in the morning? What are the wider social implications of her work? Does she really think all that bunched up fabric does anyone any good?

I restrain myself with the simple fact that nobody else seems bothered by this, and that the work itself is interesting and beautiful. Without being told, I sense the quiet restraint in the sculpture and the hint of human form beneath it.

On the walk home, I begin to understand why writing about the arts is so difficult: art was never really meant to be put into words, especially not a news format. The challenge to the arts writer is creating an idea of the artist’s meaning by holding up and examining inexpressible concepts related to love, hate and everything in between. In this context, words become like clumsy sticks used to pick up diamonds, and we’re constantly, carefully testing our (not to mention our editor’s) tolerance for vagueness and obscurity. The reader, on the other hand, is looking for quick, descriptive news stories that come to some concrete point. Artists seem to specialize in dangling their point just out of your mental reach.

Before signing up for Writing for the Arts, I wanted to take an investigative reporting course but ended up not being able to make the commute to Portland, where it was to be held. I considered Writing for the Arts an acceptable, if less exciting and challenging, substitute.

So these past four weeks, instead of chasing criminals and sleuthing after lying politicians (and it’s a good time to be in Portland for that type of thing), I’ve been spending my time getting as introverted and broody as my artsy friends. I drink too much coffee and play out mental car chases with the purpose of art being my elusive prey. (Ok, the too much coffee thing is not new.) As I do so, I’m rooting out my own preconceived notions about what constitutes an “important” story.

Conclusion: I may never find success in transforming bundles of clothing into crisp, descriptive and readable news stories, but one thing is for sure: This is a tough class. And writers who think they are not artists may as well quit while they're ahead.

The death of mainstream media?

The Eugene Weekly this week ran a blurb about UO School of Journalism Dean Tim Gleason's cry for help for dying newspapers around the state and country. Apparently, he spoke on the subject at a recent City Club meeting. Someone then questioned him about the need to actually support the advertising-driven, PR-clogged mainstream media. The statistic that 75% of news stories come from press releases was mentioned. Gleason made some indignant response about the public benefitting from the close ties between public relations (ie advertisers) and newspapers, they just don't realize it. The Weekly's position was, well, if nobody wants to read that drivel any more, why should anybody pay reporters to produce it?
A logical argument. But I've been writing a lot of those "My Goals in Journalism" essays lately, part of several journalism internship applications (yes, it seems I'm addicted to the temporal, cold-water-plunge thrill of intern gigs), and I have a few cents to contribute to this discussion.
Yes, the state of mainstream media in this country is pretty sorry. Even a person who hasn't spent the past four years scrutinizing media outlets will probably admit that a lot of the stories we see on television and in magazines and newspapers are shallow, blatantly pro-[insert disliked industry here], and generally useless. In the meantime, we have security camera footage of the Airbus crashing into the Hudson, and anyone with a blog and access to a computer can have a readership. (Hi, readership! Thanks for supporting this 100% PR-free blog!). And this is just the beginning - once every grandma has a video phone, we'll all be silmultaneous consumers and producers of media content. So, you may ask, why keep journalists around?
Well, hate to say it, but a lot of us are better at it than you. Grandma might have seen Mrs. Plum get murdered with the brass candlestick in the drawing room, but she probably doesn't know how to scour the microfilm at the library to get Mrs. Plum's complete criminal history and shed more light on the situation. I'm talking about the good reporting that does still happen, the other 25% (and shrinking) of stories. Yes, it may be more efficient to have a whole army of citizen reporters working through online media providers, providing egalatarian, user-picked content, but that doesn't make it better. As the Weekly pointed out, "The most popular, widely read article online of any newspaper in the Northwest in recent years was a story about a man who died after having sex with a horse." Sometimes, the newspaper's primary purpose isn't to give readers the content they want to see but the content they need to see.
Not to say that the current state of affairs doesn't need fixing - a lot of fixing. If people aren't reading those important stories, it's probably a sign that the storytelling has not been adequate. And this whole selling out thing needs to end, somehow. I, for one, feel that the integrity of my Journalism degree (which I will recieve, godwilling, this June) has been compromised by the fact that I share it with Public Relations and Advertising students coming out of the same school. Not that these fields are not legitimate and can't be put to good use (check out greenwashingindex.com). It's just that, in most professional applications, they stand for everything news reporters should stand against. Twisting of the facts for profit. Hiding other certain facts to make your employer look better. When you think about it, these degree programs should be placed as far away as possible from the true Journalism programs. Like, in the business school.

The last few weeks: some concluding thoughts

After the MUWCI camp, the last couple of weeks of my internship seemed to rush by like a speeding bus. Suddenly, there were a dozen procrastinated projects to wrap up and I plunged into work like never before.
There’s another reason for this sudden intensification of work – I was also avoiding the deep thinking that should come with the conclusion of what’s been billed as a life-changing experience. Has my life changed? If so, how? What am I taking home? Do I even want to go home? Will my tick bites ever heal? These are some of the questions that have been swarming around in my head.
My internship with Vanastree officially ended with the month of November, and my plan had been to take off for a whirlwind tour of India before flying home on December 18th. As the end of November neared, however, I did do enough reflection to realize that I was probably happiest and more at peace than I’ve ever been in my life at Sunita’s farm and was in no hurry to leave. After a short trip to the ancient ruins surrounding the city of Hampi to the North, I came back in early December to pack my bags and participate in a Vanastree picnic.
Because Vanastree’s collective base is so scattered among the countless villages in Uttara Kannada district, many of the women don’t know members outside their own seed groups. Also, because domestic life is so labor intensive here, most don’t take even a day’s holiday very often. This “field trip” was an opportunity to air everyone out and give them a chance to get to know one another. It was also my opportunity to see the women I’ve gotten to know over the last few weeks one last time, and be introduced to many others I hadn’t met yet.
On the day of the picnic, the eighty or so women met up in Sirsi and piled into two busses. I sat in front of the first one, perched on the engine box between the driver and the two front seat passengers (the idea of a seat is often a very loose one here). Looking behind me, I saw for the first time the visible range of people my little NGO includes. Women close to my age sat next to wizened grandmothers. A few had come in crisp silk saris, while others’ saris were a little threadbare but still scrubbed meticulously clean. Some wore the more casual kurta (long shirt) and baggy pants as I did. All were chatting happily, the scent of coconut oil and jasmine flowers from their hair wafting around the bus.
The first stop was an apiary (bee farm) close to Sirsi. Keeping bees is an easy way to ensure good crop pollination while of course harvesting delicious honey, and we were hoping that by showing the women this place a few more of them would put bee boxes in their home gardens. We all stood in a huge circle, introduced ourselves, and then watched in awe as the beekeeper dismantled one of his bee boxes, containing a very active colony of rock bees, one of several native bee species here. The workers are the only ones with stingers, and they were all out gathering pollen, so we were able to examine the perfect octagonal cells in peace. Some contained tiny bee larvae.
After the demo, we sampled some honey and bombarded the beekeeper with questions. Then it was back to the bus and a short drive to the picnic site.
We pulled up to a beautiful spot by the river, shaded by huge trees. Everybody went down to the water to cool their feet. Out in the water near the opposite shore, there was a little shrine on a circular cement platform, and it didn’t take long for everyone to hike up their saris and wade out to it. One by one, they circled the Shiva linga counterclockwise, bowed down, and sat in the shade of the thatched roof, water rushing all around.
Before lunch we gathered under one of the trees and Manorama addressed a few words to the crowd. Then there was an unexpected “Word from the Intern”. She turned the floor over to me.
I paused an awkwardly long time. What could I say? There was too much to express, a large amount of it difficult to put into words. Despite the unstructured nature of the collective, I felt like they were all my overseers, the heart and soul of the organization that I had tried hard to be of service to. Had I accomplished what I came to do? Sunita had said that it had been helpful to have me around, but there are so many things outside of our control. If I had learned anything, it was the value of the self-sustaining, food secure system in place here. And it’s the small farmers and home gardeners, not interns, who are responsible for that.
After a deep breath, the words that came to my mouth were of thanks. Each of the stories of these women has been more inspiring than the rest, the final touch being that now they were here relaxing by the water as if none of their difficulties had ever transpired. And here I was, a complete outsider, as much a part of the group as someone from the other side of the planet could hope to be.
I’m sure I didn’t put all that too elegantly as a I stammered in front of eighty sets of expectant eyes, but I hope the message came through. Then came the Q&A. How did you like the food? (Delicious.) Did we try to feed you too much? (Yes, but I liked it.) What’s the biggest difference between the US and India?
Uhhh.
Stuck again. The constant noise, I wanted to say. The unimaginably huge population. The complete absence of Wal-Mart and overweight families. These are not useful comparisons. I tried to think bigger picture. Finally, I had it.
“A little thing known as ‘adjust’,” I said. Shortly into my stay, Sunita and I had been walking to the office, recovering from a harrowingly crowded tempo (private bus) ride when she explained “adjust” to me. Imagine you have one orange and there are twelve people. Indian politeness says that you should share the orange, and everybody will get a piece, no matter how small. You adjust. Same with the seats on the tempo or any other problem arising from the conflict between too many people and too few resources. “We’ll adjust” might as well be India’s unofficial slogan, the way people here take into stride situations that I find awkward or downright uncomfortable.
I think this idea is more than just a response to an allocation problem. It’s a way of approaching life that many from Eastern cultures share. Though it might be a gross generalization, people in the west are characteristically individualistic. It’s hard to solve problems or get much done because there’s always somebody’s ego in the way, some need that has to be taken into account. “We’ll adjust” smoothes over all those issues. It’s the opposite of “me first”. It’s the reason collectives like Vanastree work so well – everybody sharing what they have. I doubt things would run so well back home, where everything is personal property and seed companies place top priority on patenting effective seeds.

I enjoyed the rest of my stay a bit easier after that, having put into words the fascination with this Indian cultural aspect that had been forming in my head over the past three months. I went to Kerala, which was beautiful and fascinating, and stopped back at Sirsi on my way to Mumbai to catch my plane home. Mushtaq drove me to the train station in Hubli, recreating backwards the journey I’d made on my very first day in India.
As we left Sirsi behind us, I tried to think more on the way about what has changed about my approach to the country. Maybe I’d grown accustomed to a few things – the potholed road, for instance, and the monkeys scampering just out of reach of the van’s tires. I started to think I’d gotten used to the way things look here. But as we headed north, out of the jungley lushness of the Malnad and into the drier Deccan, where ox-drawn carts are commonplace and the locals wear colorful clothes and jewelry quite different from anything found in Sirsi, I found myself staring just as I did in September. India is full of surprises, I thought for the thousandth time since arriving. I could probably spend years here and still not get enough of the brilliant green rice paddies, the chaotic streets, the temples like islands of serenity in the sea of constantly active people. I leaned back in my seat, read again the pink-lettered “SMILE” on Mushtaq’s side mirror, and grinned as I stared at the scenery whizzing past.

Field Notes blog

My fame and recognition as a blogger continues to grow: Here's a post I wrote for IE3's blog Field Notes. IE3 is the organization that coordinated my internship with Vanastree.

http://ie3global.ous.edu/blog/ (Go to Dec 8)

Next: National Geographic.

Really though, I have to give credit to IE3 for putting me in touch with Vanastree and making this whole adventure possible. IE3 is really an awesome organization for getting students to spend time abroad for worthwhile causes. Thanks especially to Natanya Desai for seeing me through the entire process, from application to getting home again.

Oregon Voice essay published!

Due to my excellent connections at the prestigious Oregon Voice magazine, I managed to get an article published in their first issue this year. "Development versus disorder in the land of holy cows" is about losing my way and re-affirming my affection for developing nations on the winding and thoroughly confusing roads of Sirsi town.
Check it out: oregonvoice.com

Favorite posts?

As a writer, sometimes the most difficult part of the job is knowing what parts of your work suck and which are actually interesting and/or entertaining. I’ve been scrolling fruitlessly through my 45-page word document of blog posts from the past three months, looking for some choice bits to evolve into essays to submit to Glimpse. Progress is slow: My eyes tend to glaze over in the sea of words and I start wondering if there’s anything to eat. It all looks the same to me.
So I’m asking for your help, if you happen to have kept up with my rambling stories here: leave a comment or send me an email with a little feedback regarding which posts you enjoyed and which allowed your stomach to distract you. I’ll take three or four “good” ones and polish them up for some potential clips. Thanks. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think there are some overripe bananas in the kitchen.

The attack of the 11th-graders!

This past week I had the pleasure of spending eight days with a gang of eleven 16-18 year olds, most of whom were coming to rural India (and for some, rural anywhere) for the first time.
And no, the word “pleasure” is not used sarcastically. Sure, I’d forgotten this particular age group’s ability to entertain themselves with fart noises and terrible renditions of Jay-Z hits, but overall I was impressed with their inquisitiveness, willingness to try new things, and the many small signs that they may one day becoming functional adults in the strange and high-pressure environment they’re growing up in.
The “kids” are students at Mahindra United World College of India, Mahindra being the name of the auto manufacturer that funded the school. There are United World Colleges in several nations, and their mission is to bring together small but diverse groups of students for 11th and 12th grades. Their standards tend to be high but they incorporate innovative teaching strategies and try to give students a sense of social responsibility with their educations. Every term, they go on a “project week”, visiting an NGO in another part of the country for a little outside-the-classroom learning (the only useful kind, in my opinion). The 200 students split up into groups based on which location they choose, and the NGO is given free reign over the program for the entire week.
This is the third project week that Vanastree has hosted. Still, Sunita and I were more than a bit nervous as we waited for the van full of expectant students and one teacher to arrive last Saturday. MUWCI (which they pronounce “mew-key”) is located near Pune, a big city with all the amenities. Here in Karkolli village, where Sunita’s farm and many of the Vanastree women live, there are no bags of Lay’s, no cold bottles of Coke, no showers, and, on that particular morning and for several hours at a time in the last few days, no electricity (although there are several hydroelectric dams in Karnataka, most of the power goes off to Bangalore and when there are shortages, the utilities know it’s the rural people they can cut off without fear of retribution). We weren’t sure what to expect and had no idea what they were expecting, either. Last year, the students had been confused as to the purpose of their visit and seemed in constant need of junk-food fixes. The week ahead was packed with activities and it seemed everyone would either have to sink or swim.
The van finally came, and 11 tired teens, fresh off the overnight train from school, trudged up the stairs to the terrace above the guest room. We served them fresh lemonade and snacks and made our introductions, then heard theirs: All first-years (11th grade) save one second-year. Two were from Malaysia, two from Germany, four from India, one each from Nepal, Mongolia and Hong Kong. If you boiled down the entire University of Oregon student body, it probably still wouldn’t be as diverse as this group. Suddenly, it became clear to me that while they might be here to learn from me (well, mostly from Sunita), I would probably learn more from them.
In the week that followed, we removed invasive weeds from a nearby temple, talked to Manorama and a couple other Vanastree women about their livelihoods, went on hikes and saw snakes, a scorpion and a million birds. Then we moved to Mathigatta, where I did my first homestay in September, on the way stopping at Yana, a beautiful natural rock formation. More treks and a little agroforestry lesson for the students. On the way, I got too many tick bites to count, gained an appreciation for wildlife watching, and had some good conversations with students.
Like most high-achieving 11th graders, many of the MUWCI students were preoccupied with college and getting the right education to “succeed” in the world. In anticipation of this, our program included a little talk by me about my internship, how I got it, what I’ve been doing for three months, etc. At the end, most of the questions focused on the facts that I am earning credit for this and that my degree actually requires me to get some hands-on experience outside the classroom. For some, it's a new concept.
Answering the questions, I started to get some sort of grasp on the background most of these students have. In most countries in the East (India, China, Malaysia, etc.), learning is extremely textbook-based and competitive. While I hesitate to praise the United States’ education system in any way, I now can appreciate that we do give some priority to critical thinking, discussion, and learning by doing. I never thought I’d see the benefit in writing all those boring essays in English or dissecting formaldehyde-soaked frogs in biology, but when compared with memorizing facts out of a book to regurgitate them on a test later on, it almost sounds like fun. The level of competition these students have to face is also unimaginable to me. Because there are so many students, most vying for coveted scholarships to schools in the West, a difference of one percentage point could leave you “stuck” in your home country, facing the same painful type of education if you think you can stomach going on for a Bachelor’s. At least at the higher levels, one can assume that the rules will be relaxed a bit - many of the students gave battle stories of being hit with rulers or sticks and even kicked for misbehaving. My worst memory of punishment is being made to sit "on the wall" during recess for singing "99 bottles of beer on the wall" on the bus and being the only one brave enough to admit it.
While watching birds one early evening toward the end of the week, I found myself talking to the “Malaysians” (perhaps on diversity overload, the students have a perhaps insensitive but cute way of referring to each other by nationality), Daniel and Roshan. They described a problem that, in my mind, the final nail in the coffin of formalized education: standardized tests in Malaysia. According to my sources, who should know, the government contorts the test results to hide schools that are underperforming. If you do well on a test in a school that is already doing well, you might actually end up with a score lower than that of a student who didn’t to so well but happened to attend a school that needed a “boost”. According to the Malaysians, this is not a problem unique to their country, as many developing nations are vying to make themselves look better. Luckily, MUWCI ignores standardized test results, probably for this very reason, and instead interviews applicants personally and asks them to debate each other on various subjects.
But coming to a school like MUWCI doesn’t end the treadmill of competition for motivated students like Daniel and Roshan. The light at the end of the tunnel is just becoming visible: a western university, preferably Oxford or Ivy League. While countries at the forefront of the industrialization race, like India, tend to have fairly good schools, there’s an extra bit of incentive for students to head to the US or Europe: liberal arts. I have to admit that I suddenly understand their drive. In comparison to the Eastern system, schools like mine offer unlimited sets of opportunities, socially and academically. Students are given the opportunity not just to gain an education but also to discover new things about themselves. And in their own quests for diversity, the west’s universities offer thousands of scholarships, many full-ride, to students from far-flung places. Their countries of origin, then, lose all their smartest students, leaving them with a massive brain drain that is expected to soon have real economic impacts. Think of all the engineers and doctors you know that are Indian, and imagine if the top 5% of students in every high school in the US left the country, never to return (or even send remittances), and you’ll get some idea of the problem.

Faced with all this information, I had no basis upon which to either encourage the students to seek a higher education (not that they needed encouragement) or convince them to try to give their home countries a second chance by studying or working there. The global system requires a degree, earning a degree worth anything requires heading west.
However, I don’t think there's much to justify paying top dollar for reputedly "good" schools, so I explained the state university system to them as an alternative. I think that fact that I don’t come from Harvard and yet seem fairly intelligent helped my argument – most seemed to assume that state universities are only for those who don’t know or can’t afford better. It seems that Princeton, Oxford, Cornell and the rest have a death grip on the world’s degree market, one built entirely on reputation and not much else. I don’t plan on letting a location on my diploma influence what I can and can’t do in the future, and I don’t see much reason for anyone else to, either. So perhaps through my conversations with eleven brave and open-minded students, I put one small hatchet-mark in the coffin of higher education.

How is India?

I get asked this question a lot, usually by people back home, but sometimes by people who I talk to on the bus or other random places. I’ve worked up a series of answers, none of which are useful in conversation, at which time I usually answer “great”, trying not to be sarcastic and add something like “How is it for you?”

How is India?
India is like having a considerate but awkward boyfriend who refills your water glass before leaving the cafeteria table and always saves a seat for you on the bus, then takes half an hour to work up the nerve to start a conversation.

India is wildly entertaining, especially when being introduced to children. The best story is when I met one little boy, who, upon hearing my name, looked up at me carefully, the wheels in his head turning rapidly. The first thing everyone wants to know is where I’m from, and he thought he could figure this out on his own, even though he’d never met a “foreign” before.
“China?” He asked.
I think his thought process was something like “Ok, blonde hair, blue eyes, tall – oh, what the hell, they all look the same to me.”

India is a devoted friend you met five minutes earlier, the young Muslim woman who stands in the rain on the side of a busy road waving goodbye as the bus pulls away, a flashy sliver of pink showing under her black burqa.

India is the 19th century American west – seemingly lawless, incredibly entrepreneurial, where women are treated as ladies in public and servants at home. Only here there’s no opportunity to start afresh. Where you’re from, what your parents do, and what religion you follow are the main criteria by which you are always assessed and categorized.

India is completely fearless. While in Bangalore, I walked to a mall “up the street” from where we were staying. Turns out it was up the street, through a construction site (unbarricaded, of course), and down a busy overpass. No sidewalks. While I was walking on the overpass, cars whizzing by my elbow at top speed, a little girl ran up next to me and started doing cartwheels to earn a few rupees. I paid her off to avoid what seemed likely to be a grisly accident, although she acted as if she might as well be doing tricks on my front lawn.

India is a 24-hour soundtrack. In the city, there’s the constant background of horns from the nearest road – the rickshaw’s low buzz, short blasts from trucks, high-pitched honks from motorcycles, musical tones from tricked-out cars, feeble dings from bikes – over which crows call out, kids shout, telephones ring, clothes are scrubbed and, invariably, someone is drilling concrete or hammering. On the farm, cicadas, songbirds, owls, crickets and frogs replace the horns, with monkey calls and shouts from the neighbors occasionally chiming in.

India is paparazzi with camera phones. Apparently, the sight of a foreign is so thrilling to some people (mostly 15-20 year old boys) that they must take a photo. Somewhere, five or six Indian guys now have a picture of an angry white woman flipping them off to show all their friends.

India is dirty. Not just in a trash sense, although you can find it just about everywhere in layers of various thicknesses, but in a dusty, grimy sense. At first I thought Sunita was just obsessed with baths and sweeping the floor but then I realized every time you step onto a road or open a window you’re being assaulted by the dirt that seems to fly everywhere. Although Sirsi has plenty of paved roads there always seem to be strips of bare ground in between, constantly stirred up by the flow of human, auto and animal traffic. There are no emissions standards for vehicles, which creates another dirt factor when you think about all the exhaust going into your lungs and onto your clothes (which must be washed after one wearing).

India is a good review of economics 101. For example, this morning I laid in bed, unwilling to go out into the damp, chilly air, and calculated how much I would pay for a hot, fresh cup of Sumatran roast from my favorite Eugene coffee shop. The result came out somewhere between $15-$20, which I then converted into an opportunity cost of four pints of good Oregon microbrew or 3.7 calzones from the Dough co.

Tick Season: My war with the wildlife continues

I never thought I’d say this, but I miss the leeches. Now that the monsoons have passed, the weather has dried out, and a new pest is ruining my walks around the farm. Unlike leeches, however, these menaces attack without notice, only inflicting real pain approximately twelve hours later.
I liked the leeches because they’re so blatant, like a tank rolling through your village. With a little practice, you can feel their cold, slimy approach on your feet and become an expert at flicking them away before they do any real harm. If they do bite, you get an unreasonable amount of blood that is sure to elicit sympathy from anyone with you. Within a few days, the wound simply heals over with a bit of itching.
Ticks are like secret agents. They’re the jungle’s contract killers, moving without detection. You can happily frolic in the grass without consequence for hours, and only know you’ve been attacked when you find the red bumps on your stomach and thighs (for some reason, this area of the body is like veal to a tick). Even then, it’s easy to mistake the bite for that of the mosquito (nighttime air raiders). Only when you spot the pinprick-sized culprit just under your skin do you know you’ve been hit, and then there’s nothing you can do but claw at it like a junkie and wait for the itch to start.
A quick Wikipedia search proves my position: “According to Pliny the Elder, ticks are ‘the foulest and nastiest creatures that be.’” Although, like the other creatures that attack in the jungle, all they want is a little blood, some ticks can hang around for days on your skin, happily growing fat. Some people have allergic reactions and form welts around a bite. Luckily I just have the normal reaction of intense itching that lasts weeks.
I miss the leeches. They have personality, inching along frantically, feeling blindly with their little heads for a warm place to attach. When they do manage to bite and fill up with blood, they drop off after about twenty minutes. Then they’re even more comical, barely able to move, engorged and happy. Jungle kids play with them like other kids play with earthworms. And of course there are the medicinal applications; medieval as they may be, ticks have no such usefulness.
Ticks are just hateful. And there’s no time when this fact becomes more apparent than at three in the morning when the itch comes. You wake up scratching, and continue until your now fully-alert brain says it’s probably best to stop, although the bites demand otherwise. So you quit, throwing your hands above the covers, telling yourself it will pass.
It doesn’t pass. The itching turns to burning. The ticks demand your attention. And so you give it to them, turning on the light, removing all your clothes, and slowly picking at each bite until the culprit is gone. By then, you’re wide awake and angry as heck, without a leech to burn or a mosquito to satisfyingly squash against the wall.
I now declare jihad on ticks.

A random cultural note: Kanglish

“Kanglish” is what I’ve been calling the interesting Kannada (local language of Karnataka) version of English that many have been using to communicate with me. It’s similar to “Hinglish”, the popular term for Hindi English. The following is a short glossary, which I’ll hopefully be adding to as I hear more.


Kanglish (and some Hinglish)

tank (n.) – A lake. “Behind the trees is a large tank. Many fishes.”

tanks (intj.) – Thanks. (“Tanks for coming.”)

homely (adj.) – Comfortable, at home. “Please make yourself homely.”

foreign (n) – A non-Indian person. (“Foreign! Foreign!”; used as a rallying cry to bring forth a hoard of schoolchildren to watch me walk down the street.)

adjust (v) – What you do when 13 people and two kids need to be transported in an 8-person car, when the scheduled power cuts are extended from 7 am to 2 pm and 7 pm to midnight every day, when there are two cups of rice and ten people, or when you’re holding a meeting in which only half the participants share a common language. (“We’ll adjust”; a common saying.)

suiting shirting (n, v) – Dressy western clothes, or the act of putting them on. (“Silks, saris, suitings shirtings sold here!”)

snap (n) – Photo. (“May we have a snap with you?”; Usually coming from a bold mother of six who will then herd the entire family, including cousins and passers-by into the shot and make her husband take the photo.)

Britisher (n) – Person from the United Kingdom, usually in the historical (colonial) sense. (“The Britishers built a huge fort on that hill.”) However, there are also the upper-class Indians who are more British than the Britishers, speaking with English accents that are simply, well, top-drawer. When they open their mouths, I expect them to excuse themselves for afternoon tea with the Queen before heading off for a jolly hunt.

tube light (n) – Somebody who is a bit slow to catch on, like a fluorescent bulb. (“That George W is a bit of a tube light, isn’t he?”)