Edward, the Emperor, and The Cherry Tree

I began forming an opinion about America long before I knew how the government functioned or what a country was.  As a child in public school I learned about that iconic moment in George Washington's childhood when, after cutting down his father's favorite cherry tree, he freely admitted his wrongdoing, his compulsive truth-telling words being branded into my young conscience:  "I cannot tell a lie."  

That began to form the foundation in me for believing America to be above reproach, always and naturally walking the high road of moral rectitude.  We were, after all, "one nation under God" which meant in my young mind that we, as a nation, were mindful of "God's ways", whatever those might be. As the "father" of this nation, somehow I believed George Washington's moral genes were passed on to all of us by sheer force of citizenship.

Has that iconic story colored our rose-colored glasses so much that we cannot see clearly beyond them? Isn't it time to peel away the gloss of that legend and see with clarity what we have become?

When the news of Edward Snowden's revelations of the National Security Agency's vast and seemingly limitless snooping first made the headlines, I was rattled but I wasn't surprised. Somewhere along the line my perception of this country lost the shine of my earlier impressions. I saw the underhanded maneuvers of political parties to derail legislation, and heard the double-speak -- and downright lies -- of our elected officials regarding the atrocities of war.  Year after year I slowly allowed the bits of the unthinkable to be thought, and yet tried to maintain a general sense of realism rather than falling into cynicism. (The trap of cynicism, as I see it, is that we become disempowered by our hopelessness and bitterness. I believe our national story isn't over, and we can still direct the outcome of the chapters ahead of us.)  This is the tension I hold for America:  I love my country, and I am embarassed by what it has become.   

As the swirl and fury of Snowden's leaks continued to rise and Snowden's safety and fate were in the balance, it occurred to me that his actions were playing out the theme of the great children's story, The Emperor's New Clothes. (We have Hans Christan Andersen to thank for the version we're most familiar with, but apparently the gist of the story predates him.)  In that story, all the townsfolk are hoodwinked into going along with the grand deception that the Emperor's new outfit, spun of a fine, invisible cloth.  The tailors have convinced the Emperor that anyone not fit for their position, or who is stupid or incompetent, will not be able to see the fabric.  And so the Grand Deception begins.  Everyone goes along with the story, for fear of being singled out as the dumb one.  And then the child, not influenced by the stakes and not conditioned to "go along", blurts out what everyone fears is true, but no one has the guts to say.  "The Emperor isn't wearing any clothes!  He's naked!"

By exposing the privacy-violating practices of the NSA, Snowden risked saying what perhaps many feared to be true, but would not say:  America has lost sight of the high ideals of democracy, and freely cuts corners on the constitutional protections promised us. This isn't a partisan issue:  the whole enterprise of American politics and our resulting government have been weakened by insidious rationalizations and dangerous assumptions of our squeaky-clean, God-given role on the global stage.

I, for one, support clemency for Edward Snowden. The situation is complex, and there are legitimate charges (e.g., theft of information) against him. But it could be said he risked his life to reveal what is eating away at the foundation of our democracy.  Years from now I hope we will remember him as a hero for the ideals of a free society.

******

I strongly recommend this editorial in the New York Times favoring clemency for Edward Snowden.
http://www.nytimes.com/2014/01/02/opinion/edward-snowden-whistle-blower.html?_r=0

An Open Letter to Monsanto

Dear Monsanto:

I remember our first meeting very well. It was my second trip to Disneyland (but the first that I remembered) in December of 1967.  I was 10 years old.

There was a new ride in Tomorrowland that year called “Adventure Thru Inner Space”. At 10 years old I wasn’t tracking a lot of details, but what I remember are the building’s shiny silver exterior, the clean colors of blue, black and white inside, the crisp and smart “sciency” feeling of the place.  After being amazingly reduced in size by the great shrinking microscope, there we were – side by side with snowflakes and water molecules. Later, when exiting the ride (and, thankfully, returned to normal size!) we were told, “This is Monsanto."  We saw posters with thumb-nail descriptions of Monsanto’s forward-leaning research and development as the conveyor noodled its way to the final platform.  It all felt very new, very exciting.  The name “Monsanto” was fixed in my mind with associations of science and the thrilling horizon of “Tomorrow”.

So, what happened?  You’ve really changed since I first met you.

Or have you?

In recent years I kept hearing the name “Monsanto”, until at some point I made the connection that the Monsanto of that cool ride at Disneyland decades ago was the same Monsanto I was hearing about in the news.

I’m aware that there are plenty of people trying to get your attention, like dogs barking their heads off trying to awaken those who are sleeping while the house is on fire.  I won’t do that here.  But I do wonder: what does it take for a company (or the individuals who work there) to recognize when a long-range project starts to go bad, or when there are increasing numbers of unintended consequences that can’t seem to be righted?  What keeps them from saying “Uh-oh!”, and then doing something about it? 

I honestly don’t fault companies for wanting to make a profit – that’s what companies do! – but where do the hidden costs of unintended consequences enter into the equation? How can the categories of loss and gain be widened to include the scope of impact on nature, on people's lives, on economic stability?

Recently I had a fantasy about Monsanto that I want to share with you.  Mind you, from a business perspective I have no idea what would be entailed in turning a company around:  to reverse practices or eliminate products from production, or to set about solving the very problems a company’s ventures inadvertently caused. 

But here it is:  there is a beautiful phrase in the biblical prophet Isaiah’s message, about “turning swords into plowshares”.  The image is powerful, because the notion is to use the very materials that had been used for war and transform them into implements for farming, a more peaceable endeavor. So in this daydream, I envision the whole enterprise of Monsanto being turned around to supporting and enhancing the subtle processes of nature without trying to change them, thereby becoming an aid to and partner with farmers around the world. Once again, I don't have a clue what this New Monsanto would look like: do you?

I certainly don't wish you any harm, Monsanto:  but more than that, I wish no harm to the marvelous workings of sun and rain, of seed and flower, of water and soil.  Good luck!

Sincerely yours,

Chela Sloper

Bend, Oregon

The Sky

I never thought it would happen. I've converted to being a Central Oregonian. 

When I left Portland six years ago, I loved the green, the gardens and flowers. I didn't mind the rain, and loved the cool closeness of all the foliage, the damp, fragrant earth. The Willamette River was a big plus -- an adequate body of water -- after growing up with the Pacific Ocean to my west and the San Francisco Bay to my east. The water was important.

But last weekend as I drove across the shortcut through Boring and Damascus, the foliage seemed to close in a little. It was a little ... too ... close.

Portland in June is teeming with life -- flowers everywhere in every color, dogs on leash, in arm, behind the wheel. Hummingbirds generously making their darting appearances. The trees in full leaf. Birds singing, chirping, flapping, gliding.

But I missed the sky.

I couldn't believe it! Six years! 

I don't even know if that's "six short years" or "six long years". 

Yes, it all was still very lovely, very green, very verdant, but it was too close.

And then, on my trip home, rounding the wide bend some distance north of Madras, the vista exploded before me (as it has on every other trip home). But this time it was like catching wind, like that first desperate in-breath a newborn baby takes, or when a drowning person is able to breathe again, or the involuntary gasp when you see something arrestingly beautiful. The sky opened up like an invisible parachute, the expanse extending from Smith Rock in the east to the colorful characters comprising the Cascades. And something else opened up in me.

Bend, Oregon is now my HOME.


(Written June 14, 2013.)