In Mightier Than the Sword, author David S. Reynolds gives a scholarly, in-depth portrayal of the life and times of Harriet Beecher Stowe, the author of the famous and infamous Uncle Tom's Cabin. What a fascinating look into American history by way of work of fiction, turned mythic.
For whatever else one may think of Uncle Tom's Cabin , published in 1850, it did raise popular consciousness about the grisly, perverted, sickening aspects of slavery in the United States - slavery happening in what we now call 'real time'. Up until the advent of this epic novel, slavery was viewed as an economic institution, protected by the laws and force of the U.S. government.
I read Stowe's book as a young idealistic teenager, and other books, by Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, Frederick Douglass and other former slaves. What I was left with, because I am a woman for whom motherhood and family are the highest aspirations, is the brutality and injustice which is inherent in the system of owning humans as chattel. I did not yet make the connection to economics, which is the strongest link in the chain.
Now, with #Occupy Wall Street, and many solidarity occupations in other U.S. cities happening in real time, I can see that 'economics' is still at the heart of human suffering and exploitation.
When Harriet Beecher Stowe began to form the seeds of her famous characters, it was through hearing the stories of morally good black women servants in her kitchen who told the tales of being 'owned' by a master, who then became what they referred to as a 'husband'. Their bodies were co-opted for gratuitous sex, and as slave producing vessels. They did not want this life, but they managed to live and have children they dearly loved. Children for whom they wanted a different life, but who were, often as not, 'sold' away from them when the child reached working age.
So slavery is an economic model. The people who enforced it were protecting the 'investments' and the 'assets' of white business men. One epic novel, written by a housewife and mother of five, read by thousands, maybe millions, was able to turn the hearts of at least part of a nation. The pen vs. the sword, a human story vs. esoteric dogma.
History is fascinating, and right now we are seeing it play out in the form of people taking to the streets, many of whom have not much left to loose. Economics might be framed in any way which benefits the rich and powerful. Human suffering might only be understood on the street.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
Fall Planting
Today I gather up garlic cloves, fat and healthy, to become next years bulbs. I plant them as my teachers down the hill taught me, 2 inches deep, and 6 to 8 inches apart... well, I fudge, and maybe go 5 inches, because this is a bed, not a field. I also plant daffodil bulbs along the outside of the garden fence. Next year this should look very spiffy!
While I plant, between rain showers, I can hear a flock of geese flying south. Ah, I bid them goodbye, and safe travels, just as I say goodnight to the bulbs I've left to winter's storms.
Our actions are like cloves, they take root somehow, and much later when the time is right, they grow into some sort of plant. What kind of plant do I want my today actions to create? Ah, if only I had the recipe for the peace and love clove. And, then I would want the equity clove too. When the sun came back around to longer days, I would have the fat bulb of a new world sprouting in my dirt.
While I plant, between rain showers, I can hear a flock of geese flying south. Ah, I bid them goodbye, and safe travels, just as I say goodnight to the bulbs I've left to winter's storms.
Our actions are like cloves, they take root somehow, and much later when the time is right, they grow into some sort of plant. What kind of plant do I want my today actions to create? Ah, if only I had the recipe for the peace and love clove. And, then I would want the equity clove too. When the sun came back around to longer days, I would have the fat bulb of a new world sprouting in my dirt.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Occupying Portland Solidarity
At 11 am last Thursday, I walked from the light rail stop in downtown Portland, city of my birth, to Tom McCall Waterfront Park. I went to join "Occupy Portland".
At the Park hundreds of people gathered with signs, or just stood. We listened to the organizers in the center of the crowd do a form of public speaking they call "mike check". No megaphones were allowed, so the group, mirroring the same procedure done in New York, spoke a short phrase loudly, which the people nearby repeated as a group. This phrase then echoed out to the farther reaches of the crowd. This allowed that anyone taking the floor would speak with succinct brevity. It also encouraged careful listening on the part of the crowd. It was a nice touch.
I stood at the edge of the gathering, which quickly became the middle within a few minutes. The woman next to me was my first connection to a human story:
Carol: Mid 50's, holding a homemade sign with a picture of an impoverished mother and her children in a dust bowl setting. The caption read: "The New Middle Class". Carol does container planting for a living, is from Beaverton. She and her husband have one adult child who is gay. When asked by a reporter why she was there she answered: "For the next generation."
Julie: 62, from Vancouver. She was raised by parents active in the ACLU. She told the story of having worked in an insurance company in 1969. She attended a feminist meeting during her lunch hour, returning to work exactly on time, only using her allowed hour. When she returned to work she was summarily fired. We spoke of how this is a situation which would never occur today, and no one would take it lying down if it did, yet our rights are slowly eroding, slow enough that the next generation may not even imagine how recently it was that freedom of thought has been legally protected.
Heather had open heart surgery last year, and her insurance did not cover it. Right now she owes the hospital 250, 000.00 and she feels lucky that they have not taken her home.
Aaron- mid 50's. He has a vegan raw food business. He makes wheat-free crackers with sauer kraut, and his sales are booming. He knows all the food activists around, and they are on the edges of this crowd, like "Food Not Bombs" who offers us hummus, carrots and apples as we start to march.
A young woman, maybe 20, standing behind me. She says "I've never seen anything like this in my life. I didn't think there was anything to do, even though things are so bad." She choked up. I hugged her.
Shelly has a husband and 3 young children. She lives in the suburbs and has the normal life of a stay at home mom. She had to make lots of arrangements to come today, not the least of which was that her husband did not understand why it was so important for her to attend this unpermitted 'occupation', in solidarity with the Occupy Wall street movement going on for 3 weeks now in New York. She felt so strongly about the corruption in our country that she risked the negative opinion of her husband of 16 years. She was glowing with a warmth I could feel as she stood near me in the packed crowd. I know we could be great friends.
A march, especially done alone, offers these little snippets of humanity. We felt so powerful standing together, and by the time we walked through the city I think our numbers were at least five thousand.
To know this can happen, in any city of our country, should give solace to anyone who truly believes in a Democracy. Lastly, I want to say that there was no anger that lashed out, the tone was love, and strength. This does not mean there was not sadness and deep frustration with the resolve not to take this corruption lying down any longer, not to remain the slaves of the super rich. The young people danced in the street, and when I left, the core occupation was headed out to camp at a park, no one seemed to know where.
The cold rain began to fall within the hour, and I worried for the activists, who all were so well spoken and dedicated. I worry for them, just as I worry for my country, which is shafting the common people in greater and greater numbers. History tells us that when the wealth becomes concentrated in the hands of a few, and the balance is gone, the delicate scaffolding of a society rocks and shakes, and many things happen that are not predictable.
I feel honored to have spent that afternoon walking with Carol, Aaron, Julie and Shelly. They all represent hard working, play-by-the-rules Americans who want a better world.
At the Park hundreds of people gathered with signs, or just stood. We listened to the organizers in the center of the crowd do a form of public speaking they call "mike check". No megaphones were allowed, so the group, mirroring the same procedure done in New York, spoke a short phrase loudly, which the people nearby repeated as a group. This phrase then echoed out to the farther reaches of the crowd. This allowed that anyone taking the floor would speak with succinct brevity. It also encouraged careful listening on the part of the crowd. It was a nice touch.
I stood at the edge of the gathering, which quickly became the middle within a few minutes. The woman next to me was my first connection to a human story:
Carol: Mid 50's, holding a homemade sign with a picture of an impoverished mother and her children in a dust bowl setting. The caption read: "The New Middle Class". Carol does container planting for a living, is from Beaverton. She and her husband have one adult child who is gay. When asked by a reporter why she was there she answered: "For the next generation."
Julie: 62, from Vancouver. She was raised by parents active in the ACLU. She told the story of having worked in an insurance company in 1969. She attended a feminist meeting during her lunch hour, returning to work exactly on time, only using her allowed hour. When she returned to work she was summarily fired. We spoke of how this is a situation which would never occur today, and no one would take it lying down if it did, yet our rights are slowly eroding, slow enough that the next generation may not even imagine how recently it was that freedom of thought has been legally protected.
Heather had open heart surgery last year, and her insurance did not cover it. Right now she owes the hospital 250, 000.00 and she feels lucky that they have not taken her home.
Aaron- mid 50's. He has a vegan raw food business. He makes wheat-free crackers with sauer kraut, and his sales are booming. He knows all the food activists around, and they are on the edges of this crowd, like "Food Not Bombs" who offers us hummus, carrots and apples as we start to march.
A young woman, maybe 20, standing behind me. She says "I've never seen anything like this in my life. I didn't think there was anything to do, even though things are so bad." She choked up. I hugged her.
Shelly has a husband and 3 young children. She lives in the suburbs and has the normal life of a stay at home mom. She had to make lots of arrangements to come today, not the least of which was that her husband did not understand why it was so important for her to attend this unpermitted 'occupation', in solidarity with the Occupy Wall street movement going on for 3 weeks now in New York. She felt so strongly about the corruption in our country that she risked the negative opinion of her husband of 16 years. She was glowing with a warmth I could feel as she stood near me in the packed crowd. I know we could be great friends.
A march, especially done alone, offers these little snippets of humanity. We felt so powerful standing together, and by the time we walked through the city I think our numbers were at least five thousand.
To know this can happen, in any city of our country, should give solace to anyone who truly believes in a Democracy. Lastly, I want to say that there was no anger that lashed out, the tone was love, and strength. This does not mean there was not sadness and deep frustration with the resolve not to take this corruption lying down any longer, not to remain the slaves of the super rich. The young people danced in the street, and when I left, the core occupation was headed out to camp at a park, no one seemed to know where.
The cold rain began to fall within the hour, and I worried for the activists, who all were so well spoken and dedicated. I worry for them, just as I worry for my country, which is shafting the common people in greater and greater numbers. History tells us that when the wealth becomes concentrated in the hands of a few, and the balance is gone, the delicate scaffolding of a society rocks and shakes, and many things happen that are not predictable.
I feel honored to have spent that afternoon walking with Carol, Aaron, Julie and Shelly. They all represent hard working, play-by-the-rules Americans who want a better world.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
October in My Heart
It was only last week,
sun so hot, I wore only sandals
and my favorite summer dress.
Today I found the big wool sweater,
hauled it out of the drawer,
while the farmer across the road,
plowed under all his strawberries for good.
The pathogens have ended it.
You can still barely detect,
the sweet red berry smell
lingering over the fields.
I will miss
evenings in summer,
walking through those rows with a glass of wine.
Tasting the Bentons against the Hoods, the Shucksans against the Firecrackers
Never the sensation will leave me
of walking up the hill, arms heavy with berries,
so ripe they are dripping red juice,
through the slats of my grandmother's basket.
Farmer Joe,
you have managed to plow before the rain,
working methodically, steadily as I wander into and out of
my housework.
I want to run down and tell you I think it all stinks,
lawsuits against people who dare to grow a little food
Every effort is a risk
For days now the young people
dare to "occupy Wall Street".
Soon it will get colder, and I worry like a mother.
I watch the rain and ponder, putting on the right gear
to walk down the hill for more tomato harvest.
I'll think of those in tents, being kicked around.
I'll send them a red ripe sweet tomato in my thoughts
I'll keep the fires burning
As winter closes in...
sun so hot, I wore only sandals
and my favorite summer dress.
Today I found the big wool sweater,
hauled it out of the drawer,
while the farmer across the road,
plowed under all his strawberries for good.
The pathogens have ended it.
You can still barely detect,
the sweet red berry smell
lingering over the fields.
I will miss
evenings in summer,
walking through those rows with a glass of wine.
Tasting the Bentons against the Hoods, the Shucksans against the Firecrackers
Never the sensation will leave me
of walking up the hill, arms heavy with berries,
so ripe they are dripping red juice,
through the slats of my grandmother's basket.
Farmer Joe,
you have managed to plow before the rain,
working methodically, steadily as I wander into and out of
my housework.
I want to run down and tell you I think it all stinks,
lawsuits against people who dare to grow a little food
Every effort is a risk
For days now the young people
dare to "occupy Wall Street".
Soon it will get colder, and I worry like a mother.
I watch the rain and ponder, putting on the right gear
to walk down the hill for more tomato harvest.
I'll think of those in tents, being kicked around.
I'll send them a red ripe sweet tomato in my thoughts
I'll keep the fires burning
As winter closes in...
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Wilderness
A few nights ago we watched the movie "Monumental: David Brower's Fight for Wild America", released in 2005. It was one of the most inspiring documentaries I have ever seen. It reminded me that there is so much I don't know about the history of the wilderness preservation movement in my country. There have been decades, centuries, of passionate work which happened long before I, this tree-hugger-hippie child, was even born. I call myself that tongue in cheek of course, just to make light of the fact that each generation seems to carry the perspective that we create the world we know.
It is an auspicious time to be celebrating wilderness, as the fall equinox has just passed, the harvest is in full swing, the air smells like warm flowers, ripe fruit, dry grass... what else? Memories?
While I am out blackberry picking other years come back to me. I can hear the school bus coming down the road carrying my boys home. I am out in the patch near the house, picking into my big tupperware bowl. They climb off the bus, and wave to me, maybe walk over and pick up an apple off the ground to eat for snack. We had eight old apple trees which always bore every year in the rich aluvial soil of the Elwha River Valley.
David Brower would be elated to know that the Elwha dams, both of them are in the initial process of removal. Twenty years ago I was involved in testimony concerning the community impacted by those dams, as they were directly above our home, and a failure could have been catastrophic. Yet, the very worst aspect of them was that they destroyed an incredibly large salmon habitat. The Indians were wronged immeasurably by their construction.
It seemed like a long shot that we could secure a government decision to remove them. There was a crack in one of the dams, and it was up for being recertified according to safety standards. It could not be certified to codes, and it could not feasibly be repaired. The time to start the process of lobbying for it's removal was seized. Twenty years later, removal begins. It has taken this long, and I thank those who stayed with the process. Maybe in our lifetime we will see the return of the legendary "Elwha King" salmon. I dream about that fish, even though I only know it through stories my Indian neighbors told me.
I will go out to pick more berries, to make the seedless jam again, remembering when it was for the kids' peanut butter and jelly lunch sandwiches. I can still bring them jam, even though we are all in different homes now. We remember the Elwha, and watch the news unfold. The largest dam removal project ever undertaken, a reason to celebrate the equinox.
It is an auspicious time to be celebrating wilderness, as the fall equinox has just passed, the harvest is in full swing, the air smells like warm flowers, ripe fruit, dry grass... what else? Memories?
While I am out blackberry picking other years come back to me. I can hear the school bus coming down the road carrying my boys home. I am out in the patch near the house, picking into my big tupperware bowl. They climb off the bus, and wave to me, maybe walk over and pick up an apple off the ground to eat for snack. We had eight old apple trees which always bore every year in the rich aluvial soil of the Elwha River Valley.
David Brower would be elated to know that the Elwha dams, both of them are in the initial process of removal. Twenty years ago I was involved in testimony concerning the community impacted by those dams, as they were directly above our home, and a failure could have been catastrophic. Yet, the very worst aspect of them was that they destroyed an incredibly large salmon habitat. The Indians were wronged immeasurably by their construction.
It seemed like a long shot that we could secure a government decision to remove them. There was a crack in one of the dams, and it was up for being recertified according to safety standards. It could not be certified to codes, and it could not feasibly be repaired. The time to start the process of lobbying for it's removal was seized. Twenty years later, removal begins. It has taken this long, and I thank those who stayed with the process. Maybe in our lifetime we will see the return of the legendary "Elwha King" salmon. I dream about that fish, even though I only know it through stories my Indian neighbors told me.
I will go out to pick more berries, to make the seedless jam again, remembering when it was for the kids' peanut butter and jelly lunch sandwiches. I can still bring them jam, even though we are all in different homes now. We remember the Elwha, and watch the news unfold. The largest dam removal project ever undertaken, a reason to celebrate the equinox.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Gravenstein Apples to a Legendary Wedding Dress
This morning I am with my folks. We crunched into cold, freshly cut gravenstein apples for our first part of breakfast. I watched them close their eyes for the first bite, and I could literally see childhood memories flowing out like an aura around them. We had a gravenstein tree in the first house I lived in, from 1956 to 1967. Now that I think of it, that was the first home they purchased with their growing family. They moved in with four children, ( I was 5 months old) and they moved out with Eight.
The apple tree bordered our alley, and was large, but not prolific for some reason. We waited all summer watching those apples form, not picking them green to toss them for sport as kids love to do. That tree has made it into a song my brother Tom wrote called "If You Don't Like the Rain, Go Back to California". It was our island when the backyard flooded during winter rains. It was the site of our Barbie gardens ( our Barbies liked to get dirty). It was the place a kid could climb up and hide when the world became too much.
While Mom ate her apple slices she began to talk, " I remember when I first saw an Apple in California that cost 10 cents. I was so shocked. When we were little we lived around orchards and had all the apples we could eat." I asked about when that time in California was, which took us on a little journey into her young adult life. I could feel the magic of the fruit bringing forth memories which were so strong, at times she had to stop and breath through a sob.
She told of being in San Fransisco after college, living at the YWCA, and then in a rooming house as she worked for the Veteran's Administration. Dad was finishing college at Santa Clara in San Jose, a year behind her in college at that point because of his time serving in WWII. The year was 1947. Mom chokes up when I ask her how she decided to stay in the Bay Area, even though her hometown was Portland. She wanted to be near my Dad, and they would walk the streets of the city on weekends, dreaming of the life they would have after they were married.
Mom's mind shifted to a girlfriend she had who was a co-worker. .....had just gone to a fashion show and saw a gorgeous wedding gown, she told mom she had to see it. It had been the finale of the show, with matching bridesmaid's dresses too. Mom and her friend went to the store together where it was being sold. It cost the huge sum of 138.00. That was the fabulous dress she ended up wearing, and it lies preserved in a cedar chest now. She spoke of wanting to write a note with the dress history and leave with it with the dress in the box. She has been doing this these days, leaving notes on her projects, in 'case'.
Three of her daughter's wore that dress, feeling like princesses. Not every marriage lasted, but wearing the dress was a great thing all by itself. Slipper satin is what the cleaners told me it was made of. I hand repaired the cream colored lace around the sleeves and the bodice, feeling the history in my hands. Kate Middleton's dress resembled it very much, yet Mom's dress is far more elegant. I'm sure you would agree if you saw the two side by side.:)
We went from the taste of old fashioned apples, ones which are rarely grown these days because they don't keep, to a string of memories of my Mom's life when she was in the prime of her youth. I could see her eyes brighten while she recounted the various jobs she had, and all of this before I even existed. The wedding dress was the precursor to my being ushered into the world. Inconceivable, really, to think of how it all happens. How people fall in love, and then make children and then grow old, and watch their grandchildren begin the whole dance again.
I shall make applesauce, and fill their house with the smell of cooking apples. We will eat our memories, breath them in, laugh about the past, and catch a little sob here and there too.
The apple tree bordered our alley, and was large, but not prolific for some reason. We waited all summer watching those apples form, not picking them green to toss them for sport as kids love to do. That tree has made it into a song my brother Tom wrote called "If You Don't Like the Rain, Go Back to California". It was our island when the backyard flooded during winter rains. It was the site of our Barbie gardens ( our Barbies liked to get dirty). It was the place a kid could climb up and hide when the world became too much.
While Mom ate her apple slices she began to talk, " I remember when I first saw an Apple in California that cost 10 cents. I was so shocked. When we were little we lived around orchards and had all the apples we could eat." I asked about when that time in California was, which took us on a little journey into her young adult life. I could feel the magic of the fruit bringing forth memories which were so strong, at times she had to stop and breath through a sob.
She told of being in San Fransisco after college, living at the YWCA, and then in a rooming house as she worked for the Veteran's Administration. Dad was finishing college at Santa Clara in San Jose, a year behind her in college at that point because of his time serving in WWII. The year was 1947. Mom chokes up when I ask her how she decided to stay in the Bay Area, even though her hometown was Portland. She wanted to be near my Dad, and they would walk the streets of the city on weekends, dreaming of the life they would have after they were married.
Mom's mind shifted to a girlfriend she had who was a co-worker. .....had just gone to a fashion show and saw a gorgeous wedding gown, she told mom she had to see it. It had been the finale of the show, with matching bridesmaid's dresses too. Mom and her friend went to the store together where it was being sold. It cost the huge sum of 138.00. That was the fabulous dress she ended up wearing, and it lies preserved in a cedar chest now. She spoke of wanting to write a note with the dress history and leave with it with the dress in the box. She has been doing this these days, leaving notes on her projects, in 'case'.
Three of her daughter's wore that dress, feeling like princesses. Not every marriage lasted, but wearing the dress was a great thing all by itself. Slipper satin is what the cleaners told me it was made of. I hand repaired the cream colored lace around the sleeves and the bodice, feeling the history in my hands. Kate Middleton's dress resembled it very much, yet Mom's dress is far more elegant. I'm sure you would agree if you saw the two side by side.:)
We went from the taste of old fashioned apples, ones which are rarely grown these days because they don't keep, to a string of memories of my Mom's life when she was in the prime of her youth. I could see her eyes brighten while she recounted the various jobs she had, and all of this before I even existed. The wedding dress was the precursor to my being ushered into the world. Inconceivable, really, to think of how it all happens. How people fall in love, and then make children and then grow old, and watch their grandchildren begin the whole dance again.
I shall make applesauce, and fill their house with the smell of cooking apples. We will eat our memories, breath them in, laugh about the past, and catch a little sob here and there too.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Movie Reviews
Sweet Land - 2005
Sweetly inspiring to this wanna be farm wife. No steamy scenes, or violence, it left me feeling peaceful.
I wanted to take it immediately to my parents, and sit with them as we imagined our own great grandparents coming to farm the land and having to somehow learn English in the process.
I have never seen a film which so accurately depicts the shear exhaustion of work by hand at harvest time.
The Grocer's Son - French., subtitles, but worth it. Contemporary and still very French, the life of a family in a rural area, who run a small grocery store. This is a perfect statement on why small business is important to community, and the complex family dynamics are darn real.
Thank goodness for netflix, eh? It has never been so easy to get little Indie films as it is now.
Sweetly inspiring to this wanna be farm wife. No steamy scenes, or violence, it left me feeling peaceful.
I wanted to take it immediately to my parents, and sit with them as we imagined our own great grandparents coming to farm the land and having to somehow learn English in the process.
I have never seen a film which so accurately depicts the shear exhaustion of work by hand at harvest time.
The Grocer's Son - French., subtitles, but worth it. Contemporary and still very French, the life of a family in a rural area, who run a small grocery store. This is a perfect statement on why small business is important to community, and the complex family dynamics are darn real.
Thank goodness for netflix, eh? It has never been so easy to get little Indie films as it is now.
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