Margotlog: Musing on Losing the Elephants
I was standing in the shadows of my kitchen, looking out into blazing summer heat. What I saw instead of backyard summer green was the death of elephants. Hundreds of them. I saw the Babar I'd loved as a child, gunned down in rampant slaughter. I saw his children nudging his prone body and his face with his huge ears, bloodied from hacked-off tusks. A wave of nausea and hatred against my tribe paralyzed me, and kept me staring from darkness into rampant sun. Eventually I turned and wrote a check to African Conservation. I had to do something from my northern state, halfway across the world, to try and save the Elephants. It was the mid-1990s, the beginning of my environmental conscience.
It's very difficult to write about the whole-sale slaughter of one of the earth's most magnificent animals. Over the years, my outrage and sorrow have taken me toward many other gross indignities against life on earth. Dangers from pesticides and herbicides--read increased autism if one lives within a mile of most U.S. farms, read loss of one third of the nation's colonies of bees--create fear and extra efforts for my little plot of soil and beyond. Lower and lower numbers of many birds--read loss of habitat to increased population, human numbers growing at 227,000 per day. Threats against drinking water and pristine native habitats from fracking and the transport via pipelines or rail cars of oil. And then there are the extreme disasters like the British Petroleum oil rig spew that has turned some of the Gulf of Mexico into a death trap for every kind of creature from tuna fry to sea birds to dolphins, not to mention humans who try to make a living from the sea.
It's hard to write about whole-sale slaughter because over the years, I've become deadened myself to the outrage and stupidity, the whole-sale greed and convenient ignorance of so much of the world, including many neighbors in parts of the United States. Our news comes to us piecemeal. It takes concentration and stitching together of separate facts, it takes time to let these facts percolate into reality before outrage and determination are aroused.
Recently I saw a documentary about 1964: Mississippi Freedom Summer, commemorating that enormous sweep of mostly white young people into Mississippi to live with black people there who were denied the right to vote. What struck me was the danger, but even more how those who being denied had to overcome enormous fear and centuries of submission. It took an outside force, young blacks and whites often from the north, to help stand by them, to build up hope.
I want to build hope that we can help save the Elephants, the bees, the endangered birds. For Elephants, many efforts have already been tried and for a time succeeded--adding rangers to the various national parks in African where most Elephants live; creating a global signatory of nations agreeing to ban the sale of ivory, supporting skilled NGO's like TRAFFIC which keep track of Elephants and what happens to them and the ivory which is so often the reason they are killed.
As Elizabeth Kolbert's recent commentary in The New Yorker outlines (7/7/2014) the United States plus the British and Chinese have pledged large grants and the outlawing of ivory. But I think much much more needs to be done. Here are some ideas:
* Since the primary sales of ivory occur in Thailand, we need to pressure the Thai government to put real teeth into forbidding the sale of ivory products. We need to fund these efforts, and probably as important, educate school children in Thailand about the magnificent animals who are being killed to bring bracelets to Thai shops.
* Coloring books, posters, school curriculum - all about Elephants in Africa. We need to rouse children to love these big animals the way I loved Babar and his family, years ago in Charleston, South Carolina, before I even saw an elephant. We need to give rewards to those shops that proudly display "NO IVORY SALES" in their windows. We need to educate tourists against buying ivory and encourage them to protest any sale they encounter.
* We need an international, political effort, perhaps a Peace Corps for the Elephants, to educate and protect the animals and to arouse the countries where Elephants roam and ivory is sold to act in their defense.
I want to believe this is possible. I want to believe that my monthly contributions to the World Wildlife Fund's endeavors for Elephants will make a difference. I hope you who read this will contact your legislators and urge that the US institute immediately the planned efforts to protect the elephants. I urge all of us to remain involved, submit ideas, protest and lobby. In our lifetimes, there have been astonishing environmental successes in our lifetimes - notably outlawing DDT. There can be more. As they say in the ballparks, MAKE NOISE.
Monday, July 7, 2014
Monday, June 30, 2014
Margotlog: The Achievement Gap
Margotlog: The Achievement Gap
Growing up in South Carolina, I had no trouble identifying segregation. Blacks sat at the back of the city bus, whites in front. In dime stores, blacks were not allowed to sit at lunch counters. Super markets were for whites; small corner groceries for blacks. Because of slavery, Charleston didn't have sharp demarcations between where blacks and whites lived. The small houses which used to shelter slaves remained behind the mansions of former masters. Sometimes the small houses were inhabited by contemporary blacks. Neighbors, yet divided by wealth.
As a child, born of parents from the north who knew nothing first hand about racism, I was naïve and accepting. In other words, I hadn't imbibed racism in my mother's-milk. Yet even I knew, walking to my white girls private school, that the black granny swinging in the dirt yard and the small brown children hanging off the third-floor porches were poorer than my family. They wore torn, dirty clothes. Brown men in baggy trousers and slouch hats hung around corners, trading gossip. Even I sensed there was something terribly wrong with this--they weren't working. Later when I rode the city bus by myself, the cruelty of my whiteness made me very ashamed--black women who'd worked all day in whites' houses had to walk past empty seats, carrying heavy shopping bags, to find a seat in back.
Over many years living in Minnesota, I've come to think about racism as a very different kind of problem. Subtle and off-hand, it starts with an ignorance of black culture so deep-seated, so apparently innocuous and unquestioned as to appear nonexistent. A few years ago, I had a smart, white, masters-in-education student who had grown up in northern Minnesota, She quietly but intently refused to believe that she harbored any racism at all. "How often do you interact with black people? How much have you read about slavery and race in America? What black writers or educators, musicians or inventors can you name?" I knew she'd heard of at least two black politicians--Barack Obama and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
It took nearly the entire course for her to acknowledge that she had white privilege (even though her family was poor) and that she took many things for granted which most blacks did not dare assume.
I'm not saying it's impossible for well-meaning whites and blacks in Minnesota to reach across the racial divide and work together for the common good. But I know, whatever their success, they remain in very different relations to civil power and authority--differences sharpened by centuries of oppression and yes ignorance. It's the rare white person in Minnesota whose mother or grandmother was forced to be demeaned on a city bus. It's not so rare for an African-American who lives here now to have that experience as part of their personal family history.
Recently I talked with a black graduate student whom I'll call Emily. Emily works in a Twin Cities school system--she's an aide in an elementary classroom. This year, Emily had health problems, as did several of her white cohorts, yet Emily was the only one who had to bring a doctor's order to obtain a school release for a doctor's appointment. "You people," said her supervisor, "often don't know how to follow regulations." The white teachers were not treated this way. Emily filed a grievance. "I had corroboration," she said. So far nothing has been done to correct the supervisor who so blatantly singled her out.
Another graduate student has recently written about teachers in the Twin Cities who have quietly, often with not much support from their districts, become effective educators of both white and black students. Interviewing these educators off school grounds, Andrea (not her real name) discovered several characteristics the teachers share: The most important is that they don't demean or give up on black students. They hold them accountable, but when they don't measure up, do not resort to labeling them racially inferior. Such teachers continue to let all their students know, no matter what race or culture, that they as teachers and human beings are concerned and care about them. This means, they recognize their students' potential, despite their immediate behavior.
Often black culture stymies white Minnesotans because black culture is more vocal, confrontative, "signifying," than most Minnesotan whites are comfortable with.
A good example comes from a northern suburban middle-school. Here teachers are being coached to "sing/talk/sign" (my words) their black students through daily transitions. For instance, as two students, Jake and Tammy, are making their way to their desks, teachers will say something like "There they go, ok Jake, let's see the bottoms of those shoes go faster. And Tammy, she's getting closer, there she goes, swishing past Patsy, and ok, she's sitting."
Andrea's interviews also indicate the importance of empathy in working with students from different cultures. Teachers who have their own experiences of rejection, struggle, fear of failure have a far better chance of helping students whose race and culture differ from Minnesota's predominately white population. Ultimately, chances are, if students find encouragement in their teachers they are more likely to try and succeed. Education is, after all, a social, communal bus where we all get to take the first available seat.
Growing up in South Carolina, I had no trouble identifying segregation. Blacks sat at the back of the city bus, whites in front. In dime stores, blacks were not allowed to sit at lunch counters. Super markets were for whites; small corner groceries for blacks. Because of slavery, Charleston didn't have sharp demarcations between where blacks and whites lived. The small houses which used to shelter slaves remained behind the mansions of former masters. Sometimes the small houses were inhabited by contemporary blacks. Neighbors, yet divided by wealth.
As a child, born of parents from the north who knew nothing first hand about racism, I was naïve and accepting. In other words, I hadn't imbibed racism in my mother's-milk. Yet even I knew, walking to my white girls private school, that the black granny swinging in the dirt yard and the small brown children hanging off the third-floor porches were poorer than my family. They wore torn, dirty clothes. Brown men in baggy trousers and slouch hats hung around corners, trading gossip. Even I sensed there was something terribly wrong with this--they weren't working. Later when I rode the city bus by myself, the cruelty of my whiteness made me very ashamed--black women who'd worked all day in whites' houses had to walk past empty seats, carrying heavy shopping bags, to find a seat in back.
Over many years living in Minnesota, I've come to think about racism as a very different kind of problem. Subtle and off-hand, it starts with an ignorance of black culture so deep-seated, so apparently innocuous and unquestioned as to appear nonexistent. A few years ago, I had a smart, white, masters-in-education student who had grown up in northern Minnesota, She quietly but intently refused to believe that she harbored any racism at all. "How often do you interact with black people? How much have you read about slavery and race in America? What black writers or educators, musicians or inventors can you name?" I knew she'd heard of at least two black politicians--Barack Obama and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
It took nearly the entire course for her to acknowledge that she had white privilege (even though her family was poor) and that she took many things for granted which most blacks did not dare assume.
I'm not saying it's impossible for well-meaning whites and blacks in Minnesota to reach across the racial divide and work together for the common good. But I know, whatever their success, they remain in very different relations to civil power and authority--differences sharpened by centuries of oppression and yes ignorance. It's the rare white person in Minnesota whose mother or grandmother was forced to be demeaned on a city bus. It's not so rare for an African-American who lives here now to have that experience as part of their personal family history.
Recently I talked with a black graduate student whom I'll call Emily. Emily works in a Twin Cities school system--she's an aide in an elementary classroom. This year, Emily had health problems, as did several of her white cohorts, yet Emily was the only one who had to bring a doctor's order to obtain a school release for a doctor's appointment. "You people," said her supervisor, "often don't know how to follow regulations." The white teachers were not treated this way. Emily filed a grievance. "I had corroboration," she said. So far nothing has been done to correct the supervisor who so blatantly singled her out.
Another graduate student has recently written about teachers in the Twin Cities who have quietly, often with not much support from their districts, become effective educators of both white and black students. Interviewing these educators off school grounds, Andrea (not her real name) discovered several characteristics the teachers share: The most important is that they don't demean or give up on black students. They hold them accountable, but when they don't measure up, do not resort to labeling them racially inferior. Such teachers continue to let all their students know, no matter what race or culture, that they as teachers and human beings are concerned and care about them. This means, they recognize their students' potential, despite their immediate behavior.
Often black culture stymies white Minnesotans because black culture is more vocal, confrontative, "signifying," than most Minnesotan whites are comfortable with.
A good example comes from a northern suburban middle-school. Here teachers are being coached to "sing/talk/sign" (my words) their black students through daily transitions. For instance, as two students, Jake and Tammy, are making their way to their desks, teachers will say something like "There they go, ok Jake, let's see the bottoms of those shoes go faster. And Tammy, she's getting closer, there she goes, swishing past Patsy, and ok, she's sitting."
Andrea's interviews also indicate the importance of empathy in working with students from different cultures. Teachers who have their own experiences of rejection, struggle, fear of failure have a far better chance of helping students whose race and culture differ from Minnesota's predominately white population. Ultimately, chances are, if students find encouragement in their teachers they are more likely to try and succeed. Education is, after all, a social, communal bus where we all get to take the first available seat.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Margotlog: Otricoli in a Distant Mirror
Margotlog: Otricoli in a Distant Mirror
Standing before my huge bathroom mirror, I look beyond my raised arm and find Otricoli, a memory so vivid as to be painted on the opposite wall. "What an odd name," I said, the first time Pat and Giangi showed me around the Roman ruins below the Umbrian hill town. "What does it mean?"
Giangi, grizzled mariner who had returned from filming in Australia, shrugged one of those quintessential Italian shrugs--shoulders raised, hands spreading, ready to capture whatever inspiration hits. "Forse, a name for the two-handled Roman jugs?" Forse, perhaps. My Italia, acquired through frequent trips and reburbished just before leaving home, works fine when he talks slowly, but if he speeds up, I an lost.
On that first visit years ago, before they'd renovated a single room in their hill top tower, I gathered unconnected impressions--helter-skelter carpentry in the ceilingless tower, narrow streets with only a hint of sky above, and a look-out point reached by wide stone stairs. Only later when I spent spend five nights with Pat did I get a sense of the place from gate to gate. She and Giangi had finished the tower sufficiently to include a bath and tiny kitchen at one end of her lofty studio, and a tiny third-floor bedroom and bath tucked under the eaves. When we stood on the top-floor terrace and stared down into the sweeping Tiber Valley, I grasped the setting's beauty. The original residents had moved up from the river to escape the barbarians, but I found their escape point far more commanding and breath-taking than the Roman ruins below.
Pat had brought back a Turkish cat Anusha, from an archaeological dig where she drew every object unearthed. Anusha stared down at us from the rafters--orange, black and white face with gleaming green eyes.
At night out of my third-floor widow twinkled the distant lights of Rome. We lingered over lunches, two women trying to tell each other our entire stories in five days. Mornings I wrote and Pat painted in her studio. A magic haze of effort and serenity hung over us. Gone was the huge shadow of the rest of our lives, hanging just out of reach, ready to smother us.
There were many other happy times. Once at Christmas, with Giangi in residence, I slept at the lowest level facing Pat's enormous collection of antique dolls and stuffed animals which she'd brought from her childhood in Savannah, Illinois. She baked one of her grandmother's extraordinary cakes--more trouble in one slice than I'd devote to meals for a month. We ate in the second-floor kitchen overlooking the narrow street--the neighbor's windows almost close enough to touch. In the holiday atmosphere, we talked about my buying a tiny pied-a-terre in town.
Later as Giangi and I sat before a functioning antique fireplace framed in stone, he talked about being a boy during the war. As he rode his bicycle along a rural road, American and British planes straffed him. He rolled into a ditch and survived without thinking much of it. Now years later he was plagued by nightmares. His constant travels perhaps an escape from what Italy presented in his dreams.
It is probably ten years since I've been in Otricoli. Pat and I still meet in Venice or Florence, still enjoy each other's company. We are full of opinions on everything from cell-phone use to our art forms, her painting, my writing. We discuss the U.S. and Italy. She is far more vehement politically than I am. I am more in search of little hints that will roll open, once more, a scene from Otricoli--perhaps La Contessa is serving us tea in 100-degree July heat. Near 90, she is dressed in a long-sleeved cotton blouse and navy cotton skirt. In the cool grandeur of her drawing room, cluttered with mementoes, she too talks about the war, her hunger and that of her first child, and how they eventually went to live with a farm family, who fed them sorghum.
La Contessa is long gone, and Giangi is not well. It is not so easy to be with Pat in Otricoli. Her life has become complicated.
And so I remember the charm of our early days, hanging over ancient stones and glimpsing the Tiber on its way to Rome between banks flecked with green.
Standing before my huge bathroom mirror, I look beyond my raised arm and find Otricoli, a memory so vivid as to be painted on the opposite wall. "What an odd name," I said, the first time Pat and Giangi showed me around the Roman ruins below the Umbrian hill town. "What does it mean?"
Giangi, grizzled mariner who had returned from filming in Australia, shrugged one of those quintessential Italian shrugs--shoulders raised, hands spreading, ready to capture whatever inspiration hits. "Forse, a name for the two-handled Roman jugs?" Forse, perhaps. My Italia, acquired through frequent trips and reburbished just before leaving home, works fine when he talks slowly, but if he speeds up, I an lost.
On that first visit years ago, before they'd renovated a single room in their hill top tower, I gathered unconnected impressions--helter-skelter carpentry in the ceilingless tower, narrow streets with only a hint of sky above, and a look-out point reached by wide stone stairs. Only later when I spent spend five nights with Pat did I get a sense of the place from gate to gate. She and Giangi had finished the tower sufficiently to include a bath and tiny kitchen at one end of her lofty studio, and a tiny third-floor bedroom and bath tucked under the eaves. When we stood on the top-floor terrace and stared down into the sweeping Tiber Valley, I grasped the setting's beauty. The original residents had moved up from the river to escape the barbarians, but I found their escape point far more commanding and breath-taking than the Roman ruins below.
Pat had brought back a Turkish cat Anusha, from an archaeological dig where she drew every object unearthed. Anusha stared down at us from the rafters--orange, black and white face with gleaming green eyes.
At night out of my third-floor widow twinkled the distant lights of Rome. We lingered over lunches, two women trying to tell each other our entire stories in five days. Mornings I wrote and Pat painted in her studio. A magic haze of effort and serenity hung over us. Gone was the huge shadow of the rest of our lives, hanging just out of reach, ready to smother us.
There were many other happy times. Once at Christmas, with Giangi in residence, I slept at the lowest level facing Pat's enormous collection of antique dolls and stuffed animals which she'd brought from her childhood in Savannah, Illinois. She baked one of her grandmother's extraordinary cakes--more trouble in one slice than I'd devote to meals for a month. We ate in the second-floor kitchen overlooking the narrow street--the neighbor's windows almost close enough to touch. In the holiday atmosphere, we talked about my buying a tiny pied-a-terre in town.
Later as Giangi and I sat before a functioning antique fireplace framed in stone, he talked about being a boy during the war. As he rode his bicycle along a rural road, American and British planes straffed him. He rolled into a ditch and survived without thinking much of it. Now years later he was plagued by nightmares. His constant travels perhaps an escape from what Italy presented in his dreams.
It is probably ten years since I've been in Otricoli. Pat and I still meet in Venice or Florence, still enjoy each other's company. We are full of opinions on everything from cell-phone use to our art forms, her painting, my writing. We discuss the U.S. and Italy. She is far more vehement politically than I am. I am more in search of little hints that will roll open, once more, a scene from Otricoli--perhaps La Contessa is serving us tea in 100-degree July heat. Near 90, she is dressed in a long-sleeved cotton blouse and navy cotton skirt. In the cool grandeur of her drawing room, cluttered with mementoes, she too talks about the war, her hunger and that of her first child, and how they eventually went to live with a farm family, who fed them sorghum.
La Contessa is long gone, and Giangi is not well. It is not so easy to be with Pat in Otricoli. Her life has become complicated.
And so I remember the charm of our early days, hanging over ancient stones and glimpsing the Tiber on its way to Rome between banks flecked with green.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Margotlog: Alone with Cats, or a Dog
Margotlog: Alone with Cats, or a Dog
There are three of them. Three tails and twelve paws to our none and four. When I'm rushing to respond to other humans by phone, written comment, physical interaction, the three of them are a blur and minor rumble--tails around my legs, faces meowing for food. But when I'm alone with them, I descend to their level. I'm lying on the hardwood floor under the dining room table, a position I've taken many times with Julia, Tilly, Maggie.
Right now, Julia, the black and white Kitler, has wrapped herself around a chair leg and it beating the shit out of it with her back claws. Where did she learn this? None of the others, raised in hot-house environments, act like this. But Julia was a single mom at a young age. Out in the wild, she must have caught birds, even squirrels, and clawed them to death. Her pupils dilate. She is incredibly fast. If I don't wiggle and dangle the prey-string, she comes after it with her claws..
Lying on the floor like this, I've often studied the underside of the table with its frame and brackets. There's a secret passage in the middle, like a drawer with neither front nor back. When Tilly was little and mischievous, I'd draw a string from one end to the other and tantalize her. She batted at it. Better yet, when the back of the small baby grand piano was up, she leapt to its top, and from there to the curtain rods, miles above her tiny body. We watched her peek down at us. Tilly: the kitten whose foster mother kept her and her brothers in the basement where they lived on the furnace pipes, safe from grabbing children, Tilly can't leap like that anymore, but she is still and always NOT a lap cat.
My daughter has gotten another dog to go with her huge, fluffy, hundred-pound Pyrennes. The new dog, Fritzer, is a tiny Pomeranian, all thirteen pounds, but like his enormous brother Winston, Fritzie is also very fluffy, front and back, like a dame with a cinched waist and a deck, fore and aft. Now my daughter's ménage includes two dogs and two cats, one so aged that it sleeps on a heating pad and rarely greets company. This is a lot of critter action. She thrives on it, single mom that she is.
As does my neighbor, also single, who fosters puppies, along with her usual two terriers. All are high strung. Recently this neighbor, about the same age as my daughter, took a "rescue" trip to Kentucky or was it Missouri? The goal: to bring back a van-load of neglected dogs. I've heard other Minnesotans say most of the rescue dogs in our neck of the woods come from the south. Pets are not part of the family there. They are kept to prevent nuisance mice or to use for hunting or dog fighting. No pet "owner" bothers to spay or neuter them. When the inevitable occurs the babies are drowned in a rock-weighted sack or simply go wild.
How different it is from making intimates of our pets, indulging them, talking to them, giving in to them, and sometimes treating them like equals.
There are three of them. Three tails and twelve paws to our none and four. When I'm rushing to respond to other humans by phone, written comment, physical interaction, the three of them are a blur and minor rumble--tails around my legs, faces meowing for food. But when I'm alone with them, I descend to their level. I'm lying on the hardwood floor under the dining room table, a position I've taken many times with Julia, Tilly, Maggie.
Right now, Julia, the black and white Kitler, has wrapped herself around a chair leg and it beating the shit out of it with her back claws. Where did she learn this? None of the others, raised in hot-house environments, act like this. But Julia was a single mom at a young age. Out in the wild, she must have caught birds, even squirrels, and clawed them to death. Her pupils dilate. She is incredibly fast. If I don't wiggle and dangle the prey-string, she comes after it with her claws..
Lying on the floor like this, I've often studied the underside of the table with its frame and brackets. There's a secret passage in the middle, like a drawer with neither front nor back. When Tilly was little and mischievous, I'd draw a string from one end to the other and tantalize her. She batted at it. Better yet, when the back of the small baby grand piano was up, she leapt to its top, and from there to the curtain rods, miles above her tiny body. We watched her peek down at us. Tilly: the kitten whose foster mother kept her and her brothers in the basement where they lived on the furnace pipes, safe from grabbing children, Tilly can't leap like that anymore, but she is still and always NOT a lap cat.
My daughter has gotten another dog to go with her huge, fluffy, hundred-pound Pyrennes. The new dog, Fritzer, is a tiny Pomeranian, all thirteen pounds, but like his enormous brother Winston, Fritzie is also very fluffy, front and back, like a dame with a cinched waist and a deck, fore and aft. Now my daughter's ménage includes two dogs and two cats, one so aged that it sleeps on a heating pad and rarely greets company. This is a lot of critter action. She thrives on it, single mom that she is.
As does my neighbor, also single, who fosters puppies, along with her usual two terriers. All are high strung. Recently this neighbor, about the same age as my daughter, took a "rescue" trip to Kentucky or was it Missouri? The goal: to bring back a van-load of neglected dogs. I've heard other Minnesotans say most of the rescue dogs in our neck of the woods come from the south. Pets are not part of the family there. They are kept to prevent nuisance mice or to use for hunting or dog fighting. No pet "owner" bothers to spay or neuter them. When the inevitable occurs the babies are drowned in a rock-weighted sack or simply go wild.
How different it is from making intimates of our pets, indulging them, talking to them, giving in to them, and sometimes treating them like equals.
Monday, June 9, 2014
Margotlog: Oil and Water: Minnesota Sandpiper Project
Margotlog: Oil and Water: Minnesota Sandpiper Project
Two things in recent StarTribune articles sent mini-shock waves through my thoughts: first that Enbridge Energy in Calgary wants to add another pipeline to carry oil from the North Dakota tar sands under and near iconic Minnesota bogs and lakes and parks -- think Lake Itasca. The pipeline already there skirts Lake Itasca by what looks like only a few miles.
The second item of note, from the same area, came in today's paper - Fargo, N. Dakota, and Moorhead, MN, on either side of the Red River of the North, could soon be in the middle of a huge flood-control project that would flood hundreds if not thousands of farm land acres, especially to the west of Fargo. Flooding spreads pesticide residue and disrupts all kinds of life systems. No surprise: farmers in the area are up in arms.
Oil and water do not mix.
Flooding along the Red River suggests flooding further east in the bogs and wetlands where thousands of already endangered waterfowl nest, or rest, to and from summer and winter grounds. Many prairie and water birds once swarming through western MN and eastern ND in the hundreds of thousands have already been reduced due to draining of land for farming, pesticide damage and other predation.
Every time I hear the "Big Oil" wants to put down probes in a watery environment, I think the British Petroleum disaster in the Gulf of Mexico. Not only did this kill thousands of dolphins, fish and water birds, but many more have been dying slow deaths, damaged by oil residue. Most recently, the StarTribune published an article about tuna in the Gulf whose eggs now show malformations. This means that for decades to come, tuna fisheries will find slim pickings. No doubt all kinds of other creatures are likely damaged "in the egg."
Oil damage does not go away. It is very difficult to reverse.
Of course, the bottom line is our own inordinate appetite for fuel. Yes, President Obama has set higher standards for retiring coal plants, for reducing electrical energy use. But this oil from North Dakota will probably fuel cars/trucks/planes.
We are going so fast we forget to notice the consequences until "But Oil" does a nasty and we're all shocked and appalled.
Here's something we can do: The Minnesota Public Utilities Comission is the ultimate permitting authority for PROJECT SANDPIPER. (Innocuous name for such a nasty business, especially when we consider that a big oil leak would no doubt kill many many sandpipers.)
I just called Tracy Smetana at the Public Utilities Commission who kindly told me that there are two ways to be involved:
1st: email sanpiperdocketing.puc@state.mn.us and ask to be put on their email list for updating on the project.
2nd: Once the assessment is completed--by the MN PUblic Utilities Commission, the MN Commerce Dept, and US Army Corps of Engineers--there will be A PUBLIC COMMENT PERIOD.
3rd. Go on line and let the Minnesota Public Utilities Commission know that you oppose the additional pipeline and why.
Help keep Oil and precious wetlands and water going their separate ways.
Two things in recent StarTribune articles sent mini-shock waves through my thoughts: first that Enbridge Energy in Calgary wants to add another pipeline to carry oil from the North Dakota tar sands under and near iconic Minnesota bogs and lakes and parks -- think Lake Itasca. The pipeline already there skirts Lake Itasca by what looks like only a few miles.
The second item of note, from the same area, came in today's paper - Fargo, N. Dakota, and Moorhead, MN, on either side of the Red River of the North, could soon be in the middle of a huge flood-control project that would flood hundreds if not thousands of farm land acres, especially to the west of Fargo. Flooding spreads pesticide residue and disrupts all kinds of life systems. No surprise: farmers in the area are up in arms.
Oil and water do not mix.
Flooding along the Red River suggests flooding further east in the bogs and wetlands where thousands of already endangered waterfowl nest, or rest, to and from summer and winter grounds. Many prairie and water birds once swarming through western MN and eastern ND in the hundreds of thousands have already been reduced due to draining of land for farming, pesticide damage and other predation.
Every time I hear the "Big Oil" wants to put down probes in a watery environment, I think the British Petroleum disaster in the Gulf of Mexico. Not only did this kill thousands of dolphins, fish and water birds, but many more have been dying slow deaths, damaged by oil residue. Most recently, the StarTribune published an article about tuna in the Gulf whose eggs now show malformations. This means that for decades to come, tuna fisheries will find slim pickings. No doubt all kinds of other creatures are likely damaged "in the egg."
Oil damage does not go away. It is very difficult to reverse.
Of course, the bottom line is our own inordinate appetite for fuel. Yes, President Obama has set higher standards for retiring coal plants, for reducing electrical energy use. But this oil from North Dakota will probably fuel cars/trucks/planes.
We are going so fast we forget to notice the consequences until "But Oil" does a nasty and we're all shocked and appalled.
Here's something we can do: The Minnesota Public Utilities Comission is the ultimate permitting authority for PROJECT SANDPIPER. (Innocuous name for such a nasty business, especially when we consider that a big oil leak would no doubt kill many many sandpipers.)
I just called Tracy Smetana at the Public Utilities Commission who kindly told me that there are two ways to be involved:
1st: email sanpiperdocketing.puc@state.mn.us and ask to be put on their email list for updating on the project.
2nd: Once the assessment is completed--by the MN PUblic Utilities Commission, the MN Commerce Dept, and US Army Corps of Engineers--there will be A PUBLIC COMMENT PERIOD.
3rd. Go on line and let the Minnesota Public Utilities Commission know that you oppose the additional pipeline and why.
Help keep Oil and precious wetlands and water going their separate ways.
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Margotlog: Trout Lilies and Bakken Tar Sands Oil
Margotlog: Trout Lilies and Bakken Tar Sands Oil
I had a job to do this evening while it was light. Cleaning up a mess, a pile of stems and their roots clogged with dirt, pulled up from a patch of Trout Lilies.
I will not tell you where they are, these lovely trout lilies, native to Minnesota and impossible to transplant. I know because I've tried. I won't tell you because they are rare, not in some places, but here, along a St. Paul alley half a mile from my house within walking distance, which is where I found them one early spring years ago.
Trout because their long low leaves are flecked with dark shadows, like water running over rocks in a trout stream. The white flowers with back-curved petals bend low yet are perky with a shape like a jester's cap.
What a charm, the first years of their discovery and spring return. Because they die back completely. Now, for instance, it is almost impossible to perceive they grew there. The first time I saw them, I knew they were rare because I had never seen them in the neighborhood before.
The Moyles' book of Northland Wild Flowers lists them as abundant in Nerstrand Big Woods Park near Northfield, along with their even rarer kin, the Minnesota Trout Lily. They grow, write the Moyles, along the margins of streams, where perhaps once trout swam. It's possible the alley margin where I see them was once a stream. Over 300 years ago what is now Ayd Mill Road was a river which has been diverted underground, yet the high banks on either side of Ayd Mill Road, and even the "Mill" itself, suggest a river to turn a water wheel.
It puffs me up with unnecessary pride to know these small local secrets--of trout lilies and hidden water--and to keep these secrets except now when I tell you. And it infuriated and horrified me when about five years ago, someone on the other side of the alley discarded slabs of concrete in the trout lily bed. I moved some, but the ground was scarred, which opened the way to noxious weeds. This spring when I visited the trout lilies, I saw how starved out they were getting from these huge spiny weeds. I vowed after the next big rain, I would pull the weeds. Which I did, and left a pile of broken stems and clods of roots along the alley. This evening I cleaned that up.
On my way back across Ayd Mill Road and the railroad tracks that run beside the road, I was stopped by a huge line of ominous black tanker cars. The train slowly clunked by, car after car as I memorized the messages on the cars: Chemical Spill, call 800-424-9300. I stopped counting at 75.
Possibly the cars were empty, returning to the Bakken oil fields in North Dakota for refills. Slowly it occurred to me how close the tracks are to the houses I pass on my way to the lilies. How close in fact the tracks are to my own house, three blocks away. There have been terrible oil fires and contamination of rivers and ground water from overturned oil cars just like these.
These cars, in fact the whole business of digging up tar sands and leeching oil out of it, are analogous to the slabs of used concrete someone threw on the trout lilies. They are a disaster.
I will call our Congresswoman Betty McCollum and our city council person, and urge that these trains be rerouted away from homes and families. But the truth is, there is no safe place for such trains. The practice itself is so damaging environmentally that it's only because it has flooded N. Dakota with jobs and because we all use far too much oil that we tolerate it at all.
Trout lilies--persistent even in their secret spot until some careless remodeler turned their small slice of land into a dump.
Note: As I return home and begin writing this message, our lights flicker and go out. The darkness is intense. I am in an island of darkness with no help, Sometimes, even if only for a few minutes, I feel alone and endangered. Until I remember that the lilies wait underground. Perhaps our humanity and good sense must wait too.
I had a job to do this evening while it was light. Cleaning up a mess, a pile of stems and their roots clogged with dirt, pulled up from a patch of Trout Lilies.
I will not tell you where they are, these lovely trout lilies, native to Minnesota and impossible to transplant. I know because I've tried. I won't tell you because they are rare, not in some places, but here, along a St. Paul alley half a mile from my house within walking distance, which is where I found them one early spring years ago.
Trout because their long low leaves are flecked with dark shadows, like water running over rocks in a trout stream. The white flowers with back-curved petals bend low yet are perky with a shape like a jester's cap.
What a charm, the first years of their discovery and spring return. Because they die back completely. Now, for instance, it is almost impossible to perceive they grew there. The first time I saw them, I knew they were rare because I had never seen them in the neighborhood before.
The Moyles' book of Northland Wild Flowers lists them as abundant in Nerstrand Big Woods Park near Northfield, along with their even rarer kin, the Minnesota Trout Lily. They grow, write the Moyles, along the margins of streams, where perhaps once trout swam. It's possible the alley margin where I see them was once a stream. Over 300 years ago what is now Ayd Mill Road was a river which has been diverted underground, yet the high banks on either side of Ayd Mill Road, and even the "Mill" itself, suggest a river to turn a water wheel.
It puffs me up with unnecessary pride to know these small local secrets--of trout lilies and hidden water--and to keep these secrets except now when I tell you. And it infuriated and horrified me when about five years ago, someone on the other side of the alley discarded slabs of concrete in the trout lily bed. I moved some, but the ground was scarred, which opened the way to noxious weeds. This spring when I visited the trout lilies, I saw how starved out they were getting from these huge spiny weeds. I vowed after the next big rain, I would pull the weeds. Which I did, and left a pile of broken stems and clods of roots along the alley. This evening I cleaned that up.
On my way back across Ayd Mill Road and the railroad tracks that run beside the road, I was stopped by a huge line of ominous black tanker cars. The train slowly clunked by, car after car as I memorized the messages on the cars: Chemical Spill, call 800-424-9300. I stopped counting at 75.
Possibly the cars were empty, returning to the Bakken oil fields in North Dakota for refills. Slowly it occurred to me how close the tracks are to the houses I pass on my way to the lilies. How close in fact the tracks are to my own house, three blocks away. There have been terrible oil fires and contamination of rivers and ground water from overturned oil cars just like these.
These cars, in fact the whole business of digging up tar sands and leeching oil out of it, are analogous to the slabs of used concrete someone threw on the trout lilies. They are a disaster.
I will call our Congresswoman Betty McCollum and our city council person, and urge that these trains be rerouted away from homes and families. But the truth is, there is no safe place for such trains. The practice itself is so damaging environmentally that it's only because it has flooded N. Dakota with jobs and because we all use far too much oil that we tolerate it at all.
Trout lilies--persistent even in their secret spot until some careless remodeler turned their small slice of land into a dump.
Note: As I return home and begin writing this message, our lights flicker and go out. The darkness is intense. I am in an island of darkness with no help, Sometimes, even if only for a few minutes, I feel alone and endangered. Until I remember that the lilies wait underground. Perhaps our humanity and good sense must wait too.
Monday, May 26, 2014
Margotlog: The Upper Room
Margotlog: The Upper Room
It was first my daughter's when we moved into this tall St. Paul house. One of two rooms on the third floor, it was the one facing south. And until the locust and olive trees grew tall enough for shade, it was flooded with morning light, even in winter. She wanted pink carpeting and blue fleur de lis wall paper--a feminine, girly look, for a teen in the interesting, challenging process of growing up.
Initially, given the divorce agreement that split her time between her dad in Minneapolis and our blended family in St. Paul, she spent only half her time in this lovely room, with postcards of moon and sun from Nuremberg above the door, winking and blinking in deep night sky. Midway through high school, she tired of shuttling back and forth and made this room her permanent abode.
For six more years through college, the room absorbed her sweet smell: eyelet pillows on the bed, a dream-catcher I'd commissioned from a Minnesota Native American artist hanging on the door to catch her bad dreams and let them melt in morning light.
The pink carpet, blue fleur de lis wallpaper, and dream catcher are still there, but I can no longer sniff her presence on the air. Slowly over the twenty years since she left, I've positioned my own mementoes along one wall.
There is a photograph of my great-grandfather from Sicily, the soldier turned Protestant minister who was forced from a chapel outside Palermo. Ruffians burned missals, shattered windows and cracked the organ. Leonardo D'Anna--his first name passed on to my father, and his last to my operatic sister. The man himself I never met, yet I see above the huge walrus moustache of the era, a "lead on, oh kindly light" in his eyes. They were blue, inherited by his grand-daughter Eleonora, named after Eleonora Duse, the great Italian soprano. My Eleonora, the last of her tribe, who died two Februaries ago at age 94.
There is a photograph of our family in New York when I was five, wearing heavy bangs and long bob, sitting beside my sister with pale eyes and curls. We were 5 and 3, sitting on a table in a famous New York seafood restaurant which my mother had bragged about. Our parents, Maxine and Leonard, sit at the table across from his paternal cousins, Lena and Eda.
My parents' beauty, those many years ago, takes my breath away. Their faces unlined, their hair well coiffed, and my father, smirking below his rimless glasses, full of pride and self-confidence. He is the apple of every female eye. My mother, shy and subdued, yet covered in a quiet sheen of loveliness. Not yet dashed aside by marital argument and bringing up daughters "on a professor's salary."
There are other photographs but today they don't speak to me. Instead I notice a copy of H. G. Adler's Panorama, a quiet yet damning memoir of the Holocaust--hard to read because of the author's elisions but unmistakably, a work of genius. Many other books line the shelves, but few others claim my attention like this one. I believe it was either lost or repressed for years until it came to light and was reprinted. Perhaps I've made this up. Yet, that something like this happened feels authentic since until this century the book was not well known in the United States.
Also on the shelves sits an "upside-down" doll from my South Carolina childhood. The face and dress that are currently "up" belong to a blond, vacant-eyed white lady. Under her skirt wait the face and plainer dress of "a colored lady." The weight of prejudice, barely conscious as I used to slip these two--mirror images of each other, but now so obvious--racist, joined under their skirts. In my South Carolina childhood, racism against black men often took violent, jeering forms, but its formula among colored and white women was more subdued. Out of necessity, perhaps, because white women and their children depended on black women to work their stoves and laundry tubs, to clean their toilets, even raise their children. There is a sickening fondness for "Mammy," in some closets of white culture, the Mammies who were shuttled to shacks along Low-Country roads, who sat toothless in their old age, sucking their gums as they rocked back and forth, staring at the passing traffic.
This too is a strong memory, not that I was raised by a woman of color, but I noticed the exhaustion of those maids and cooks who mounted the steps of a city bus in the days of segregation, carrying heavy shopping bags, and making their way to the back. The color of my skin weighed like a judgment of shame. I was so ashamed of what my white race made these tired brown women do. And I was proud when the ones, namely Rosa Parks and those she inspired in Montgomery, Alabama, boycotted their segregated buses.
This shame has entered my bloodstream and made me attentive to the burden racism puts on African Americans. When I teach these students in Minnesota schools, I tell them this memory and read them my poem "No More Back of the Bus" (published in my poetry collection, "Between the Houses," from the Laurel Poetry Collective via Amazon). The poem helps ease the students' mistrust of me. Helps me reach through history to encourage and empathize, acknowledge what my kind of people owe their kind of people. I cannot forget, or pretend that just because "kids" of color act up, they are deficient, or not open to learning. We who are complicit must work against what has hurt us all.
.
It was first my daughter's when we moved into this tall St. Paul house. One of two rooms on the third floor, it was the one facing south. And until the locust and olive trees grew tall enough for shade, it was flooded with morning light, even in winter. She wanted pink carpeting and blue fleur de lis wall paper--a feminine, girly look, for a teen in the interesting, challenging process of growing up.
Initially, given the divorce agreement that split her time between her dad in Minneapolis and our blended family in St. Paul, she spent only half her time in this lovely room, with postcards of moon and sun from Nuremberg above the door, winking and blinking in deep night sky. Midway through high school, she tired of shuttling back and forth and made this room her permanent abode.
For six more years through college, the room absorbed her sweet smell: eyelet pillows on the bed, a dream-catcher I'd commissioned from a Minnesota Native American artist hanging on the door to catch her bad dreams and let them melt in morning light.
The pink carpet, blue fleur de lis wallpaper, and dream catcher are still there, but I can no longer sniff her presence on the air. Slowly over the twenty years since she left, I've positioned my own mementoes along one wall.
There is a photograph of my great-grandfather from Sicily, the soldier turned Protestant minister who was forced from a chapel outside Palermo. Ruffians burned missals, shattered windows and cracked the organ. Leonardo D'Anna--his first name passed on to my father, and his last to my operatic sister. The man himself I never met, yet I see above the huge walrus moustache of the era, a "lead on, oh kindly light" in his eyes. They were blue, inherited by his grand-daughter Eleonora, named after Eleonora Duse, the great Italian soprano. My Eleonora, the last of her tribe, who died two Februaries ago at age 94.
There is a photograph of our family in New York when I was five, wearing heavy bangs and long bob, sitting beside my sister with pale eyes and curls. We were 5 and 3, sitting on a table in a famous New York seafood restaurant which my mother had bragged about. Our parents, Maxine and Leonard, sit at the table across from his paternal cousins, Lena and Eda.
My parents' beauty, those many years ago, takes my breath away. Their faces unlined, their hair well coiffed, and my father, smirking below his rimless glasses, full of pride and self-confidence. He is the apple of every female eye. My mother, shy and subdued, yet covered in a quiet sheen of loveliness. Not yet dashed aside by marital argument and bringing up daughters "on a professor's salary."
There are other photographs but today they don't speak to me. Instead I notice a copy of H. G. Adler's Panorama, a quiet yet damning memoir of the Holocaust--hard to read because of the author's elisions but unmistakably, a work of genius. Many other books line the shelves, but few others claim my attention like this one. I believe it was either lost or repressed for years until it came to light and was reprinted. Perhaps I've made this up. Yet, that something like this happened feels authentic since until this century the book was not well known in the United States.
Also on the shelves sits an "upside-down" doll from my South Carolina childhood. The face and dress that are currently "up" belong to a blond, vacant-eyed white lady. Under her skirt wait the face and plainer dress of "a colored lady." The weight of prejudice, barely conscious as I used to slip these two--mirror images of each other, but now so obvious--racist, joined under their skirts. In my South Carolina childhood, racism against black men often took violent, jeering forms, but its formula among colored and white women was more subdued. Out of necessity, perhaps, because white women and their children depended on black women to work their stoves and laundry tubs, to clean their toilets, even raise their children. There is a sickening fondness for "Mammy," in some closets of white culture, the Mammies who were shuttled to shacks along Low-Country roads, who sat toothless in their old age, sucking their gums as they rocked back and forth, staring at the passing traffic.
This too is a strong memory, not that I was raised by a woman of color, but I noticed the exhaustion of those maids and cooks who mounted the steps of a city bus in the days of segregation, carrying heavy shopping bags, and making their way to the back. The color of my skin weighed like a judgment of shame. I was so ashamed of what my white race made these tired brown women do. And I was proud when the ones, namely Rosa Parks and those she inspired in Montgomery, Alabama, boycotted their segregated buses.
This shame has entered my bloodstream and made me attentive to the burden racism puts on African Americans. When I teach these students in Minnesota schools, I tell them this memory and read them my poem "No More Back of the Bus" (published in my poetry collection, "Between the Houses," from the Laurel Poetry Collective via Amazon). The poem helps ease the students' mistrust of me. Helps me reach through history to encourage and empathize, acknowledge what my kind of people owe their kind of people. I cannot forget, or pretend that just because "kids" of color act up, they are deficient, or not open to learning. We who are complicit must work against what has hurt us all.
.
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