In the past two months I have talked with many people who have a keen interest in whether the Senate will decide to ban therapeutic cloning. At a conference at a Philadelphia hospital, a large number of people, their bodies racked with tremors from Parkinson's disease, gathered to hear me speak about the ethics of stem cell research. A few weeks earlier I had spoken to another group, many of whom were breathing with the assistance of oxygen tanks because they have a genetic disease, Alpha-1 antitrypsin deficiency, that destroys their lungs and livers. Earlier still I met with a group of parents whose children are paralyzed as a result of spinal cord injuries.
At each meeting I told the audience there was a good chance that the government would criminalize research that might find answers to their ailments if it required using cloned human embryos, on the grounds that research using such embryos is unethical. The audience members were incredulous. And well they should have been. A bizarre alliance of antiabortion religious zealots and technophobic neoconservatives along with a smattering of scientifically befuddled antibiotech progressives is pushing hard to insure that the Senate accords more moral concern to cloned embryos in dishes than it does to kids who can't walk and grandmothers who can't hold a fork or breathe.
Perhaps it should come as no surprise that George W. Bush and the House of Representatives have already taken the position that any research requiring the destruction of an embryo, cloned or otherwise, is wrong. This view derives from the belief, held by many in the Republican camp, that personhood begins at conception, that embryos are people and that killing them to help other people is simply wrong. Although this view about the moral status of embryos does not square with what is known about them--science has shown that embryos require more than genes in order to develop, that not all embryos have the capacity to become a person and that not all conception begins a life--it at least has the virtue of moral clarity.
But aside from those who see embryos as tiny people, such clarity of moral vision is absent among cloning opponents. Consider the views of Leon Kass, William Kristol, Charles Krauthammer and Francis Fukuyama. Each says he opposes research involving the cloning of human embryos. Each has been pushing furiously in the media and in policy circles to make the case that nothing could be more morally heinous than harvesting stem cells from such embryos. And each says that his repugnance at the idea of cloning research has nothing to do with a religiously based view of what an embryo is.
The core of the case against cloning for cures is that it involves the creation, to quote the latest in a landslide of moral fulminations from Krauthammer, "of a human embryo for the sole purpose of using it for its parts...it will sanction the creation of an entire industry of embryo manufacture whose explicit purpose is...dismemberment for research." Sounds like a very grim business indeed--and some progressives, notably Jeremy Rifkin and Norman Mailer, have sounded a similar alarm as they have joined the anticloning crusade.
From the secular viewpoint, which Krauthammer and like-minded cloning opponents claim to hold, there is no evidence for the position that embryonic clones are persons or even potential persons. As a simple fact of science, embryos that reside in dishes are going nowhere. The potential to become anything requires a suitable environment. Talk of "dismemberment," which implicitly confers moral status on embryos, betrays the sort of faith-based thinking that Krauthammer says he wants to eschew. Equally ill-informed is the notion that equivalent medical benefits can be derived from research on adult stem cells; cloned embryonic stem cells have unique properties that cannot be duplicated.
The idea that women could be transformed into commercial egg farms also troubles Krauthammer, as well as some feminists and the Christian Medical Association. The CMA estimates that to make embryonic stem-cell cloning work, more than a billion eggs would have to be harvested. But fortunately for those hoping for cures, the CMA is wrong: Needed now for cloned embryonic stem-cell research are thousands of eggs, not billions. While cloning people is a long shot, cloning embryos is not, and it should be possible to get the research done either by paying women for their eggs or asking those who suffer from a disease, or who know someone they care about who has a disease, to donate them. Women are already selling and donating eggs to others who are trying to have babies. Women and men are also donating their kidneys, their bone marrow and portions of their livers to help others, at far greater risk to themselves than egg donation entails. And there is no reason that embryo splitting, the technique used today in animals, could not provide the requisite embryo and cloned stem-cell lines to treat all in need without a big increase in voluntary egg donation from women.
In addition to conjuring up the frightening but unrealistic image of women toiling in Dickensian embryo-cloning factories, those like Krauthammer, who would leave so many senior citizens unable to move their own bodies, offer two other moral thoughts. If we don't draw the line at cloning for cures, there will soon enough be a clone moving into your neighborhood; and besides, it is selfish and arrogant to seek to alter our own genetic makeup to live longer.
The reality is that cloning has a terrible track record in making embryos that can become fetuses, much less anything born alive. The most recent review of cloning research shows an 85 percent failure rate in getting cow embryos to develop into animals. And of those clones born alive, a significant percentage, more than a third, have serious life-threatening health problems. Cloned embryos have far less potential than embryos created the old-fashioned way, or even frozen embryos, of becoming anything except a ball of cells that can be tricked into becoming other cells that can cure diseases. Where Krauthammer sees cloned embryos as persons drawn and quartered for their organs, in reality there exists merely a construct of a cell that has no potential to become anything if it is kept safely in a dish and almost no potential to develop even if it is put into a womb. Indeed, current work on primate cloning has been so unproductive, which is to say none made to date, that there is a growing sentiment in scientific circles that human cloning for reproduction is impossible. The chance of anyone cloning a full-fledged human is almost nil, but in any case there is no reason that it cannot be stopped simply by banning the transfer of these embryos into wombs.
But should we really be manipulating our genes to try to cure diseases and live longer? Kass and Fukuyama, in various magazine pieces and books, say no--that it is selfish and arrogant indulgence at its worst. Humanity is not meant to play with its genes simply to live longer and better.
Now, it can be dangerous to try to change genes. One young man is dead because of an experiment in gene therapy at my medical school. But the idea that genes are the defining essence of who we are and therefore cannot be touched or manipulated recalls the rantings of Gen. Jack D. Ripper in Doctor Strangelove, who wanted to preserve the integrity of his precious bodily fluids. There's nothing inherently morally wrong with trying to engineer cells, genes and even cloned embryos to repair diseases and terminal illnesses. Coming from those who type on computers, wear glasses, inject themselves with insulin, have had an organ transplant, who walk with crutches or artificial joints or who have used in vitro fertilization or neonatal intensive care to create their children, talk of the inviolate essence of human nature and repugnance at the "manufactured" posthuman is at best disingenuous.
The debate over human cloning and stem cell research has not been one of this nation's finest moral hours. Pseudoscience, ideology and plain fearmongering have been much in evidence. If the discussions were merely academic, this would be merely unfortunate. They are not. The flimsy case against cloning for cures is being brought to the White House, the Senate and the American people as if the opponents hold the moral high ground. They don't. The sick and the dying do. The Senate must keep its moral priorities firmly in mind as the vote on banning therapeutic cloning draws close.
When Donna Brazile learned in late May that the Justice Department might sue three Florida counties over voting rights violations that disfranchised minority citizens in the 2000 presidential election, the woman who managed Al Gore's presidential campaign called her sister in Florida's Seminole County. In one of the milder examples of the harassment suffered by thousands of African-American and Latino voters in the disputed election, Brazile's sister had been forced to produce three forms of identification--instead of the one required under Florida law--before she could cast her ballot.
Informed that the Feds were riding to the rescue eighteen months after the fact, Brazile's sister asked, "What took 'em so long?" When the Justice Department finishes its tepid intervention, the question likely to be asked is, Why did they bother?
When it comes to missing signs of serious trouble, failing to respond to clear threats and then botching the cleanup of the mess, the Justice Department's response to the 2000 election crisis has been at least as inept as the much-criticized terrorist-tracking performance of the FBI and the CIA. Although it is charged with enforcing Voting Rights Act protections, Justice was nowhere to be found when its presence could have made a difference--not just for Florida but for a nation that had its presidential election settled by a 5-to-4 decision of the US Supreme Court.
Immediately after the November 7, 2000, election, minority voters who had never committed crimes complained of having had their names removed from voting rolls in a purge of "ex-felons," of being denied translation services required by law, of seriously flawed ballots, of polling places that lacked adequate resources and competent personnel, and of harassment by poll workers and law-enforcement officials [see Gregory Palast, "Florida's 'Disappeared Voters,'" February 5, 2001, and John Lantigua, "How the GOP Gamed the System in Florida," April 30, 2001]. But after newspaper analyses uncovered evidence of disproportional disfranchisement of minority voters, and even after a US Commission on Civil Rights review condemned Florida's Governor, Jeb Bush, and its Secretary of State, Katherine Harris, for running an election marked by "injustice, ineptitude and inefficiency," another year passed before Assistant Attorney General Ralph Boyd told the Senate Judiciary Committee in May that the civil rights division was preparing to act.
"Act" is a generous characterization. Eleven thousand election-related complaints have been whittled down to five potential lawsuits--targeting three Florida counties, along with St. Louis and Nashville. The Florida suits focus on the failure of Miami-Dade, Orange and Osceola county officials to provide Spanish- and Creole-language assistance to voters. Issues of accessibility for the disabled and flawed registration procedures are also likely to be addressed. And, encouragingly, Boyd told the Judiciary Committee that his department would examine the purging of eligible voters from election rolls in a process overseen by Harris's office.
But don't expect to see Harris--now a Congressional candidate--in court anytime soon. Boyd wants to settle his suits before they are filed, through negotiations with local officials. That will bring limited reform to three of Florida's sixty-seven counties and perhaps a bit more restraint on the part of the Republican-controlled Secretary of State's office. There is no real evidence, however, that John Ashcroft's Justice Department is going to call anyone in Florida--least of all the President's brother or his political allies--to account for the widespread disfranchisement of minority voters.
Justice Department attorneys continue to limit the scope of an investigation that should be examining the collapse of voting rights protections in all Florida counties, from Palm Beach in the south to Duval in the north and Gadsden in the west--where as many as one in eight ballots cast by minority voters was discarded. In addition, Jeb Bush and the Florida legislature continue to reject needed reforms and to stall the allocation of sufficient funds to bring voting machinery in predominantly minority precincts up to par with equipment in predominantly white precincts. And the US House and Senate remain deadlocked over legislation that would promote and fund reforms in other states--like Illinois, which had a higher rate of ballot spoilage than Florida. Until the Justice Department and state and federal legislators get serious about making real reforms, the 2002 and 2004 elections won't be any more fair or functional than the flawed election of 2000.
Jeff Chester writes: Public interest advocates claim a victory in their fight against the seemingly invincible media-consolidation juggernaut. Ernest Hollings, the octogenarian "junior" senator from South Carolina and Democratic chairman of the Senate Commerce Committee, answered the advocates' call for an investigation of the Administration's latest media maneuvers and dealt the White House one of its few defeats in the media policy realm. Hollings forced the Bush team to abandon a plan that would have radically restructured the merger review process. Hatched in secret over several months with the input of industry-connected "advisers," the Administration plan, put into place in March, removed all media-, communications-, Internet- and software-related mergers from FTC purview. Traditionally, the Justice Department and FTC have shared jurisdiction over media- and Internet-related mergers, but Bush officials and industry lobbyists, arguing for a more "efficient" review process, wanted to turn these matters over to the DOJ exclusively. In light of the rubber-stamp support for media deregulation at the FCC, there was great concern over the removal of the FTC from merger oversight. Unlike the DOJ, the FTC is bipartisan by law, and it also brings a consumer focus to the antitrust review process. Fortunately, the back-room DOJ-FTC deal was terminated in late May, after Senator Hollings threatened to cut the budget of both agencies. Hollings also took the initiative to insure that FCC chairman Mike Powell takes a more honest look at the impact of media consolidation on our democracy. Joined by Senators Herb Kohl and Mike DeWine, Hollings requested that the FCC study "concentration in the television programming marketplace and its impact on program diversity." Powell has told public interest groups that they must "prove or lose" critical safeguards on media ownership. Now he'll have to provide evidence that media monopoly encourages diverse voices and quality programming.
MOST FASCINATING JOKE OF THE WEEK
From the Sun, New York City's new right-wing paper: "The evening's honorary chairman was Peggy Noonan, who brought the house down with her anecdotes, including a hilarious joke about Vice President Gore, President Bush, Queen Elizabeth II, Prime Minister Blair and Secretary of State Powell. I'll give you the punch line at another time." Readers are invited to concoct a joke using the above personages, with punch line.
NEWS OF THE WEAK IN REVIEW
Two-thirds of Americans, commie sympathizers? Asked in a nationwide survey, commissioned by Columbia Law School, whether the Constitution includes "the following statement about the proper role of government: 'From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs,'" 35 percent answered "yes" and 34 percent "don't know." Further rampant radicalism: 60 percent said (correctly) that the President may not suspend the Bill of Rights "in time of war or...national emergency."
When the Kansas Board of Education voted in 1999 to remove the teaching of evolution from the state's science curriculum, most thinking Americans groaned about the growing influence of the antirational religious right. But Stephen Jay Gould, the nation's most prominent evolutionary biologist, refused to write off Kansas--or reason. He hopped a plane for the Midwest and delivered a series of speeches in which he declared, "To teach biology without evolution is like teaching English without grammar."
With its decision, Gould argued, "the board transported its jurisdiction to a never-never land where a Dorothy of the new millennium might exclaim, 'They still call it Kansas, but I don't think we're in the real world anymore.'" The reference to The Wizard of Oz took Gould from behind the lectern and into the thick of the public debate. That was where Gould, who died May 20 at age 60, was at his best. A paleontologist who studied the land snails of Bermuda, and a historian of science whose last book was a 1,400-page dissection of Darwinism and the evolution of evolutionary theory, the Harvard professor was secure in his academic place. But he believed that scientists also had a place in the popular discourse of the day.
Science for the People was the name Gould, Richard Lewontin and their allies gave to the magazine and the movement they forged in a post-1960s burst of optimism about the prospects of linking scientific insights and social activism. With his unique talent for explaining complex ideas through eminently comprehensible references to baseball, choral music and the shrinking size of Hershey's chocolate bars, Gould took on the yahoos who attempted to use pseudoscience to justify race, class and gender discrimination. His 1982 book, The Mismeasure of Man, gave antiracist campaigners the tools they needed to prevail in the bitter debates over inherited intelligence and IQ testing.
In the mid-1990s, when conservatives embraced sociologist Charles Murray's book The Bell Curve, which claimed that race and class differences were largely caused by genetic factors, Gould charged into the battle anew. His review of The Bell Curve for The New Yorker savaged the book for advancing racially charged theories with "no compelling data to support its anachronistic social Darwinism." As for right-wing politicos who promoted The Bell Curve, Gould wrote, "I can only conclude that [the book's] success in gaining attention must reflect the depressing temper of our time--a historical moment of unprecedented ungenerosity, when a mood for slashing social programs can be powerfully abetted by an argument that beneficiaries cannot be helped, owing to inborn cognitive limits expressed by low IQ scores."
"What made Steve different was that he didn't make a cartoon out of science. He didn't talk down to people," recalled Lewontin, his Harvard colleague and comrade. "He communicated about science in a way that did not try to hide the complexities of the issues and that did not shy away from the political side of these issues. Steve's great talent was his ability to make sense of an issue at precisely the point when people needed that insight."
Did you know that the mere act of asking what kind of warning members of the Bush Administration may have received about a 9/11-like attack is just clever hype by that sneaky liberal media conspiracy? So goes the argument of the regular National Review seat on Communist News Network liberal media program, Reliable Sources. Recently, host (and Washington Post media reporter) Howard Kurtz decided to fill the chair not with his favorite guest/source, NR editor Rich Lowry, or the much-invited NR Online editor, Jonah Goldberg, but with the relatively obscure NR managing editor, Jay Nordlinger. Nordlinger explained, "The story is surprisingly slight," blown up by a liberal media fearing Bush was getting "a free ride." Give the man points for consistency. The Bush White House's exploitation of 9/11 to fatten Republican coffers via the sale of the President's photo that fateful day--scurrying from safe location to safe location--was also, in Nordlinger's view, "another almost nonstory."
Nordlinger's complaint echoed the even stronger contention of another Kurtz favorite, Andrew Sullivan. The world-famous gaycatholictorygapmodel took the amazing position that potential warnings about a terrorist threat that would kill thousands and land us in Afghanistan was "not a story" at all. Sounding like a Karl Rove/Mary Matalin love child, Sullivan contended, "The real story here is the press and the Democrats' need for a story about the war to change the climate of support for the President."
But Sullivan at least deserves our admiration for expertly spinning Kurtz regarding The New York Times Magazine's decision to cut him loose. Echoing Sullivan's PR campaign--and with a supportive quote from, uh, Rich Lowry--Kurtz framed the story entirely as one of Times executive editor Howell Raines avenging Sullivan's obsessive attacks on the paper's liberal bias. OK, perhaps the standards for a Post writer tweaking the Times top dog are not those of, say, Robert Caro on Robert Moses, but where's the evidence that Raines was even involved? The paper had plenty of reasons to lose Sullivan even if his stupendously narcissistic website never existed. Sullivan's Times work may have been better disciplined than his "TRB" columns in the notsoliberal New Republic (before he was replaced by editor Peter Beinart) and certainly than the nonsense he posts online, but it still must have embarrassed the Newspaper of Record. As (now Times Book Review columnist) Judith Shulevitz pointed out in a critique of his "dangerously misleading" paean to testosterone, Sullivan was permitted to "mix up his subjective reactions with laboratory work." Stanford neurobiologist Robert Sapolsky told Shulevitz at the time, Sullivan "is entitled to his fairly nonscientific opinion, but I'm astonished at the New York Times." The Andrew Sullivan Principles of Pre-Emptive Sexual Disclosure also embarrassed the magazine when he used its pages to out as gay two Clinton Cabinet members and liberal Democrats like Rosie O'Donnell. (I imagine he came to regret this invasion of privacy when his own life became tabloid fare.) Meanwhile, Sullivan's McCarthyite London Sunday Times column about September 11--in which he waxed hysterical about the alleged danger of a pro-terrorist "Fifth Column" located in the very city that suffered the attack--should have been enough to put off any discerning editor forever. Yet the myth of his martyrdom continues. Sullivan's website carries the vainglorious moniker "unfit to print." For once, he's right.
* * *
Sorry, I know enough can be more than enough, but this quote of Sully's is irresistible: "I ignored Geoffrey Nunberg's piece in The American Prospect in April, debunking the notion of liberal media bias by numbers, because it so flew in the face of what I knew that I figured something had to be wrong." When a conservative pundit "knows" something to be true, don't go hassling him with contrary evidence. It so happens that linguist Geoffrey Nunberg did the necessary heavy lifting to disprove perhaps the one contention in Bernard Goldberg's book Bias the so-called liberal media felt compelled--perhaps out of misplaced generosity--to accept: that the media tend to label conservatives as such more frequently than alleged liberals. Tom Goldstein bought into it in Columbia Journalism Review. So did Jonathan Chait in TNR. Howard Kurtz and Jeff Greenfield let it go unchallenged on Communist News Network. Meanwhile, Goldberg admits to "knowing," Sullivan style, happily ignorant of any relevant data beyond his own biases. He did no research, he says, because he did not want his book "to be written from a social scientist point of view."
Unfortunately for Bernie, Nunberg discovered that alleged liberals are actually labeled as such by mainstream journalists more frequently than are conservatives. This is true for politicians, for actors, for lawyers, for everyone--even institutions like think tanks and pressure groups. The reasons for this are open to speculation, but Nunberg has the numbers. A weblogger named Edward Boyd ran his own set of numbers that came out differently, but Nunberg effectively disposed of Boyd's (honest) errors in a follow-up article for TAP Online. In a truly bizarre Village Voice column, Nat Hentoff recently sought to ally himself with the pixilated Goldberg but felt a need to add the qualifier, "The merits of Goldberg's book aside..." Actually, it's no qualifier at all. Goldberg's worthless book has only one merit, which was to inspire my own forthcoming book refuting it. (Hentoff mischaracterizes that, too.) Meanwhile, the merits of Hentoff's column aside, it's a great column.
* * *
Speaking of ex-leftists, what's up with Christopher Hitchens calling Todd Gitlin and me "incurable liberals"? Since when is liberalism treated as something akin to a disease in this, America's oldest continuously published liberal magazine? Here's hoping my old friend gets some treatment for his worsening case of incurable Horowitzism. (Or is it Sullivanism? Hentoffism? Is there a Doctor of Philosophy in the house?)
Meanwhile, I've got a new weblog with more of this kind of thing at www.altercation.msnbc.com. Check it every day, or the terrorists win...
Greens running against Democrats, and maybe giving Republicans the edge? Anyone who thinks we'll have to wait till the Bush-Gore rematch in 2004 to get into that can of worms had better look at Minnesota this year. Here's Senator Paul Wellstone bidding for a third term, with the tiny Democratic majority in the Senate as the stake. Writing in The Nation, John Nichols sets the bar even higher. "His race," Nichols wrote tremulously this spring, "is being read as a measure of the potency of progressive politics in America."
Wellstone's opponent is Norm Coleman, former mayor of St. Paul and enjoying all the endorsements and swag the RNC can throw in his direction. The odds are against Wellstone. Coleman is a lot tougher than the senile Rudy Boschwitz, whom Wellstone beat in 1996, and many Minnesotans aren't enchanted about his breach of a pledge that year to hold himself to two terms.
But ignoring Wellstone's dubious future, liberals are now screaming about "the spoiler," who takes the form of Ed McGaa, a Sioux born on the Pine Ridge Reservation, a Marine Corps vet of the wars in both Korea and Vietnam, an attorney and author of numerous books on Native American religion. The Minnesota Green Party picked him as its candidate on May 18 at a convention of some 600, a lively affair in which real politics actually took place in the form of debates, resolutions, nomination fights and the kindred impedimenta of democracy.
Aghast progressives are claiming that even a handful of votes for McGaa could cost Wellstone the race. Remember, in 2000 Ralph Nader got 127,000 in Minnesota, more than 5 percent. Some national Greens, like Winona LaDuke, Nader's vice-presidential running mate, didn't want a Green to run. Some timid Greens in Minnesota are already having second thoughts, backstabbing McGaa.
For his part, McGaa confronts the "you're just helping the Republicans" charge forthrightly: "Let's just let the cards fall where they're at," he recently told Ruth Conniff of The Progressive. "It will be a shame if the Republicans get in. On that I have to agree with you. I'm not enamored by George Bush's policies." But McGaa says he'll probably get a slice of Jesse Ventura's Independent Party vote too: "So you Wellstone people can just calm down."
McGaa's own amiable stance contrasts markedly with liberal Democratic hysteria. Wellstone is now being pitched as the last bulwark against fascism, whose defeat would lead swiftly to back-alley abortions, with the entire government in the permanent grip of the Bush Republicans.
A sense of perspective, please. Start with Wellstone. This was the guy, remember, who promised back in 1991 that he'd go to Washington with his chief role as Senator being to work "with a lot of people around the country--progressive grassroots people, social-action activists--to extend the limits of what's considered politically realistic."
So what happened? Steve Perry, a journalist with a truly Minnesotan regard for gentility and good manners, wrote in Mother Jones last year the following bleak assessment: "10 years after he took his Senate seat, Wellstone has disappeared from the national consciousness. He never emerged as the left's national spokesman for reforms in health care, campaign finance, or anything else."
Early on, Wellstone took a dive on the biggest organizing issue for reformers in 1993. He abandoned his support for single-payer health insurance in the face of blandishments from Hillary Clinton.
No need to go overboard here. As with all liberal senators, Wellstone has had some lousy votes (yes to an early crime bill, no on recognition of Vietnam) and some honorable ones. He denounced the Gulf War in 1991 but in 2001 endorsed Ashcroft's war on terror, when Russell Feingold was the only senator to vote no. Wellstone has been good on Colombia but, in common with ninety-eight other senators, craven on Israel. (McGaa has spoken up for justice for Palestinians and is now being denounced as an anti-Semite for his pains. Imagine, a Sioux having the nerve to find something in common with Palestinians!)
So one can dig and delve in Wellstone's senatorial career across twelve years and find grounds for reproach and applause, but one thing is plain enough; he's not shifted the political idiom one centimeter to the left, even within his own party, let alone on the overall national stage. In the Clinton years, when he could have tried to build a national coalition against the policies of the Democratic Leadership Council, he mostly opted for a compliant insider role.
You don't have to be in the Senate as long as Bobby Byrd to put together an impressive résumé. There are examples of heroic one-term stints. Look at what Jim Abourezk of South Dakota achieved in his one term, between 1972 and 1978. Within a year of getting into the Senate he was taking on the oil cartel. In one of the most astounding efforts of that decade, he pushed a bill to break up the oil companies to within three votes of passage in the Senate.
Abourezk and Howard Metzenbaum of Ohio thwarted one boondoggle after another by all-night sentry duty on the floor of the Senate in final sessions, when the barons of pork tried to smuggle through such treats as a $3 billion handout to the airline industry, which Abourezk killed. He and Phil Burton managed an epoch-making expansion of Redwood National Park. Abourezk worked with radical public interest groups and was a lone, brave voice on Palestinian issues.
The suggestion that progressive politics will now stand or fall in sync with Wellstone's future is offensive. Suppose he were to lose of his own accord, without a Green Party third candidate? Would it then be appropriate to sound the death knell of progressive politics in America? Of course not. Even the most ardent Wellstone supporters acknowledge that Minnesota's Democratic-Farmer-Labor Party is moribund. Hence Ventura's triumph. The Greens have every right to hold Wellstone accountable, and if they have the capacity to send him into retirement, then it will be a verdict on Wellstone's failures rather than some supposed Green irresponsibility.
Ward Connerly, figurehead for California's anti-affirmative action Proposition 209, is up to more mischief. This time it's a push to prevent California's public agencies from classifying "any individual by race, ethnicity, color or national origin in the operation of public education, public contracting or public employment." Classification is defined as any "act of separating, sorting or organizing by race, ethnicity, color or national origin including, but not limited to, inquiring, profiling, or collecting such data on government forms."
Shrewdly titled the Racial Privacy Initiative, it sounds like a plan to protect us from the manipulative purview of Big Brother, or perhaps an act to prohibit police profiling or to protect medical records from being misused or to prevent consumer credit and employment histories from being revealed in ways that discriminate against minorities. "Racial privacy" beguiles with the promise of removing race and all its contentiousness from public view, keeping its secrets in a vault for only the rightful owner to know. A kind of "don't ask, don't tell" stance of racial revelation.
In fact, the proposed enactment contains a series of crucial exceptions that quickly turn such rosily "color-blind" expectations completely upside down. First, in a blatant concession to Big Brother writ large, there is an exemption for police. Sociologists Troy Duster and Andy Barlow have worried that this exemption will allow police alone to collect racial data: "What about the concern of many citizens that police practices need to be monitored for racial profiling? The racial privacy initiative would not allow such data to be kept."
Similarly, while permitting racial and ethnic classification of "medical research subjects and patients," the initiative bars the collection of data for population-based surveys that are the cornerstone of public health administration. And while there is a superficially charitable exemption for the Department of Fair Employment and Housing, that much of a given is rather severely constrained in that the department "shall not impute a race, color, ethnicity or national origin to any individual." In any event, this particular exemption "shall expire ten years after the effective date of this measure."
In fact, the Racial Privacy Initiative is not about protecting data from being misused; instead it effectively eliminates data collection at all. If enacted, it would continue a trend begun by Ronald Reagan and pursued by every Republican administration since: limiting the accountability of public institutions by making vital public information unavailable. In such a world, there can be no easy way to know whether Native American women are being sterilized at higher rates in public hospitals than other groups. One would not be able to determine whether public schools were tracking black students into remedial classes and white students into advanced placement. Documentation of ghettoization and other patterns of residential segregation would be magically wiped from census data.
With no impartial public archive of such data, the burden of compiling such statistics would fall either upon independent academics who would have to find funding for their studies on a project-by-project basis; or upon a cacophony of competing interest groups--a competition that no doubt will be more than skewed by better-funded conservative think tanks like the Manhattan Institute and the American Enterprise Institute.
Indeed, this initiative is not about "privacy" as most laypeople think of it. It is actually about privatizing racially based behavior. And privatized racism has been a dream of the far right since the first whites-only private schools sprang up in the wake of Brown v. Board of Education. Segregation is "private choice," a "social" problem, not a legal one, according to this logic. You can't force people to love you. Suing over discrimination is victimology. As long as the government doesn't force you to drink out of a separate water fountain or go to a separate school, then that is the limit of equal opportunity.
Eliminating official knowledge of race and ethnicity in the public sphere at first sounds like part of the same enterprise as eliminating Jim Crow laws. (Indeed, many California voters seem as confused about the meaning of the initiative as they were about Prop 209, which sounded to many as though it would lead to more inclusion rather than less.) In fact, however, "racial privacy" accomplishes little more than institutionalizing an official stance of denial and, in the process, eviscerates essential civil rights enforcement mechanisms. Californians may as well put those three little moral idiots, Hear-no-evil, See-no-evil and Speak-no-evil, in charge of remediation for discrimination.
In what has been one of the most effective manuevers of the right in recent years, defenders of the initiative have co-opted a good deal of the vocabulary of the civil rights community in a blizzard of definitional inversions. Ward Connerly insists that this measure will keep the state from "profiling" its citizens. If one accepts that to most Americans "profiling" connotes the unethical use of data to discriminate (as in Driving While Black), this conflation with the neutral act of data collection itself is tremendously misleading. By the same token, the name of Connerly's group, the American Civil Rights Coalition, would seem to imply a greater measure of protection for civil rights rather than lesser. I do worry that such studied reversals of terms will come to overtake the discourse as much as the term "quota" has displaced any public understanding of the actual meaning of affirmative action.
The publicly collected statistics we take for granted today show undisputed racial and ethnic disparities in every realm of American life. Any proposition that this gap is either not worth documenting--or, even more insidiously, is aggravated by the gathering of such knowledge--consigns us to a world in which "intelligence" is the exclusive preserve of unrestrained police surveillance. The collective ignorance with which we will be left will quite literally keep us from ever speaking truth to power.
Henry James could not resist giving the hero of his 1877 novel The American the allegorical name "Newman," but he went out of his way to describe him as a muscular Christian, to deflect the suggestion that Newman might be Jewish, as the name would otherwise imply. He is, as an American, a New Man, who has come to the Old World on a cultural pilgrimage in 1868, having made his fortune manufacturing washtubs; and James has a bit of fun at his hero's expense by inflicting him with an aesthetic headache in the Louvre, where his story begins. "I know very little about pictures or how they are painted," Newman concedes; and as evidence, James has him ordering, as if buying shirts, half a dozen copies of assorted Old Masters from a pretty young copyist who thinks he is crazy, since, as she puts it, "I paint like a cat."
By a delicious historical coincidence, another New Man, this time unequivocally Jewish--the Abstract Expressionist Barnett Newman--visits the Louvre for the first time in 1968, exactly a century later. By contrast with his fellow noble savage, this Newman has had the benefit of reading Clement Greenberg and working through Surrealism. So he is able to tell his somewhat patronizing guide, the French critic Pierre Schneider, to see Uccello's The Battle of San Romano as a modern painting, a flat painting, and to explain why Mantegna's Saint Sebastian bleeds no more than a piece of wood despite being pierced with arrows. He sees Géricault's Raft of the Medusa as tipped up like one of Cézanne's tables. "It has the kind of modern space you wouldn't expect with that kind of rhetoric." And in general the new New Man is able to show European aesthetes a thing or two about how to talk about the Old Masters, and incidentally how to look at his own work, which so many of his contemporaries found intractable. In Rembrandt, for example, Newman sees "all that brown, with a streak of light coming down the middle...as in my own painting."
"All that brown, with a streak of light coming down the middle" could be taken as a description of the first of Newman's paintings with which the artist felt he could identify himself, done exactly two decades earlier than the Louvre visit, and retroactively titled by him Onement 1. Most would have described it as a messy brown painting with an uneven red stripe down the middle, and nobody but Newman himself would have tolerated a comparison with Rembrandt. But Newman told Pierre Schneider, "I feel related to this, to the past. If I am talking to anyone, I am talking to Michelangelo. The great guys are concerned with the same problems." We must not allow it to go unnoticed that Newman counted himself as among the great guys, though it is something of a hoot to imagine trying to convince Henry James, were he resurrected, that the works that make up the wonderful Newman exhibition at the Philadelphia Museum of Art (until July 7, when they travel to the Tate Modern) are concerned with the same issues as the Louvre masterworks that gave his protagonist Newman a headache and eyestrain. Even critics otherwise sympathetic to advanced painting in the 1950s were made apoplectic by Newman's huge, minimally inflected canvases--fields of monochromatic paint with a vertical stripe or two--and they have provoked vandalism from the time of his first solo show at the Betty Parsons Gallery in 1950. As we shall see, Newman thought he had resolved the problems that concerned the great guys who preceded him. They had been struggling to make beautiful pictures, whereas he considered himself as having transcended beauty and picturing alike. His achievement was to capture the sublime in painting.
Newman regarded Onement 1 as marking a breakthrough for his work, and a new beginning. The installation in Philadelphia dramatizes this by framing the piece by means of a doorway leading from one gallery into another. While standing in a gallery hung with pictures done by Newman before the breakthrough, one glimpses a new order of painting in the room beyond. Like all the great first generation of Abstract Expressionists, Newman seems to have passed abruptly from mediocrity to mastery with the invention of a new style--like the flung paint of Pollock, the heavy brush-strokes of de Kooning, Kline's timberlike black sweeps against white, Rothko's translucent rectangles of floating color. The pre-Onement paintings may seem somehow to point toward it, in the sense that there is in most of them a bandlike element that aspires, one might say, to become the commanding vertical streak. But in them, the streak (or band, or bar) shares space with other elements, splotches and squiggles and smears that are tentative and uninspired. The vertical streak alone survives a kind of Darwinian struggle for existence, to become the exclusive and definitive element in Newman's vision, from Onement 1 onward. The basic format of Newman's work for the remainder of his career is that of one or more vertical bands, which run from the top to the bottom of the panel, in colors that contrast with a more or less undifferentiated surrounding field. Sometimes the bands will be of differing widths in the same painting, and sometimes, again, they will differ from one another in hue. But there will no longer be the variety of forms he used in the pre-Onement period of his work. It is as if he understood that with Onement 1, he had entered a newfound land rich enough in expressive possibilities that he need seek for nothing further by way of elementary forms. Onement 1 is planted like a flag at the threshold, and when one crosses over it, one is in a very different world from that marked by the uncertain pictures that preceded it.
I have followed Newman in respecting a distinction between pictures and paintings. Onement 1 was a painting, whereas what he had done before were merely pictures. How are we to understand the difference? My own sense is that a picture creates an illusory space, within which various objects are represented. The viewer, as it were, looks through the surface of a picture, as if through a window, into a virtual space, in which various objects are deployed and composed: the Virgin and Child surrounded by saints in an adoration; stripes surrounded by squiggles in an abstraction. In the Renaissance, a picture was regarded as transparent, so to speak, the way the front of the stage is, through which we see men and women caught up in actions that we know are not occurring in the space we ourselves occupy. In a painting, by contrast, the surface is opaque, like a wall. We are not supposed to see through it. We stand in a real relationship with it, rather than in an illusory relationship with what it represents. I expect that this is the distinction Newman is eager to make. His paintings are objects in their own right. A picture represents something other than itself; a painting presents itself. A picture mediates between a viewer and an object in pictorial space; a painting is an object to which the viewer relates without mediation. An early work that externally resembles Onement 1 is Moment, done in 1946. A widish yellow stripe bisects a brownish space. Newman said of it, "The streak was always going through an atmosphere; I was trying to create a world around it." The streak in Onement 1 is not in an atmosphere of its own, namely pictorial space. It is on the surface and in the same space as we are. Painting and viewer coexist in the same reality.
At the same time, a painting is not just so much pigment laid across a surface. It has, or we might say it embodies, a meaning. Newman did not give Onement 1 a title when it was first exhibited, but it is reasonable to suppose that the meaning the work embodied was somehow connected with this strange and exalted term. In general, the suffix "-ment" is attached to a verb like "atone" or "endow" or "command," where it designates a state--the state of atoning, for example--or a product. So what does "onement" mean? My own sense is that it means the condition of being one, as in the incantation "God is one." It refers, one might say, to the oneness of God. And this might help us better understand the difference between a picture and a painting. Since Newman thinks of himself and Michelangelo as concerned with the same kinds of problems, consider the Sistine ceiling, where Michelangelo produces a number of pictures of God. Great as these are, they are constrained by the limitation that pictures can show only what is visible, and decisions have to be made regarding what God looks like. How would one picture the fact that God is one? Since Onement 1 is not a picture, it does not inherit the limitations inherent in picturing. The catalogue text says that Onement 1 represents nothing but itself and that it is about itself as a painting. I can't believe, though, that what Newman regarded in such momentous terms was simply a painting about painting. It is about something that can be said but cannot be shown, at least not pictorially. Abstract painting is not without content. Rather, it enables the presentation of content without pictorial limits. That is why, from the beginning, abstraction was believed by its inventors to be invested with a spiritual reality. It was as though Newman had hit upon a way of being a painter without violating the Second Commandment, which prohibits images.
Kant wrote in the Critique of Judgment that "perhaps the most sublime passage in Jewish Law is the commandment Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven or on earth, or under the earth," etc. This commandment alone can explain the enthusiasm that the Jewish people felt for their religion when compared with that of other peoples, or can explain the pride that Islam inspires. But this in effect prohibited Jews from being artists, since, until Modernism, there was no way of being a painter without making pictures and hence violating the prohibition against images! Paintings that are not pictures would have been a contradiction in terms. But this in effect ruled out the possibility of making paintings that were sublime, an aesthetic category to which Kant dedicated a fascinating and extended analysis. And while one cannot be certain how important the possibility of Jewish art was to Newman, there can be little question not only that the sublime figured centrally in his conception of his art but that it was part of what made the difference in his mind between American and European art. Indeed, sublimity figured prominently in the way the Abstract Expressionists conceived of their difference from European artists. Robert Motherwell characterized American painting as "plastic, mysterious, and sublime," adding, "No Parisian is a sublime painter." In the same year that Newman broke through with Onement 1, he published an important article, "The Sublime Is Now," in the avant-garde magazine Tiger's Eye. And my sense is that in his view, there could not be a sublime picture--that sublimity became available to visual artists only when they stopped making pictures and started making paintings.
Peter Schjeldahl recently dismissed the sublime as a hopelessly jumbled philosophical notion that has had more than two centuries to start meaning something cogent and has not succeeded yet. But the term had definite cogency in the eighteenth century, when philosophers of art were seeking an aesthetics of nature that went beyond the concept of beauty. Beauty for them meant taste and form, whereas the sublime concerned feeling and formlessness. Kant wrote that "nature excites the ideas of the sublime in its chaos or in its wildest and most irregular disorder and desolation, provided size and might are perceived," and he cited, as illustrations,
Bold overhanging and as it were threatening rocks; clouds piled up in the sky, moving with lightning flashes and thunder peals; volcanoes in all their violence of destruction; hurricanes with their track of devastation; the boundless ocean in a state of tumult; the lofty waterfall of a mighty river, these exhibit our faculty of resistance as insignificantly small in comparison with their might.
Since Kant was constrained to think of art in terms of pictures as mimetic representations, there was no way in which painting could be sublime. It could only consist in pictures of sublime natural things, like waterfalls or volcanoes. While these might indeed be sublime, pictures of them could at most be beautiful. Kant does consider architecture capable of producing the feeling of sublimity. He cites Saint Peter's Basilica as a case in point because it makes us feel small and insignificant relative to its scale.
What recommended the sublime to Newman is that it meant a liberation from beauty, and hence a liberation from an essentially European aesthetic in favor of an American one. The European artist, Newman wrote,
has been continually involved in the moral struggle between notions of beauty and the desire for the sublime.... The impulse of modern art was this desire to destroy beauty. Meanwhile, I believe that here in America, some of us, free from the weight of European culture, are finding the answer, by denying that art has any concern with the problem of beauty and where to find it. The question that now arises is how can we be creating an art that is sublime?
There can be little doubt that in Newman's sense of his own achievement, he had solved this problem with Onement 1. It is certainly not a beautiful painting, and one would miss its point entirely if one supposed that sooner or later, through close looking, the painting would disclose its beauty as a reward. There was a standing argument, often enlisted in defense of Modernism, that the reason we were unable to see modern art as beautiful was because it was difficult. Roger Fry had written, early in the twentieth century, that "every new work of creative design is ugly until it becomes beautiful; that we usually apply the word beautiful to those works of art in which familiarity has enabled us to grasp the unity easily, and that we find ugly those works in which we still perceive only by an effort." Newman's response to this would have been that he had achieved a liberation from what feminism would later call the beauty trap. He had achieved something grander and more exalted, a new art for new men and women.
Newman used the term "sublime" in the title of his Vir Heroicus Sublimis (1950-51). It is a tremendous canvas, nearly eight feet high and eighteen feet wide, a vast cascade of red paint punctuated by five vertical stripes of varying widths, set at varying intervals. Newman discussed this work (which the critic for The New Republic called asinine) in an interview with the British art critic David Sylvester in 1965.
One thing that I am involved in about painting is that the painting should give a man a sense of place: that he knows he's there, so he's aware of himself. In that sense he related to me when I made the painting because in that sense I was there. Standing in front of my paintings you had a sense of your own scale. The onlooker in front of my painting knows that he's there. To me, the sense of place not only has a mystery but has that sense of metaphysical fact.
Newman studied philosophy at City College, and Kant sprang to his lips almost as a reflex when he discussed art. But it is difficult not to invoke the central idea of Martin Heidegger's philosophy in connection with his comment to Sylvester. Heidegger speaks of human beings as Dasein, as "being there," and it is part of the intended experience of Newman's paintings that our thereness is implied by the scale of the paintings themselves. In his 1950 exhibition at the Betty Parsons Gallery, he put up a notice that while there is a tendency to look at large paintings from a distance, these works were intended to be seen from close up. One should feel oneself there, in relationship to the work, like someone standing by a waterfall. The title of the painting meant, he told Sylvester, "that man can be or is sublime in his relation to his sense of being aware." The paintings, one might say, are about us as self-aware beings.
A high point of the Philadelphia show is Newman's The Stations of the Cross, a series of fourteen paintings that is certainly one of the masterpieces of twentieth-century art. As a spiritual testament, it bears comparison with the Rothko Chapel in Houston. I have the most vivid recollection of being quite overcome when I first experienced The Stations of the Cross in the Guggenheim Museum in 1966. Newman used as subtitle the Hebrew words Lema Sabachthani--Christ's human cry on the Cross. The means could not be more simple: black and white paint on raw canvas, which he used as a third color. The fourteen paintings do not map onto corresponding points on the road to Calvary. But Newman seems to use black to represent a profound change of state.
The first several paintings have black as well as white stripes (or "zips," as he came to call them, referring perhaps to the sound that masking tape makes when it is pulled away). Black entirely disappears in the Ninth Station, in which a stripe of white paint runs up the left edge, and two thin parallel white stripes are placed near the right edge. The rest is raw canvas. The Tenth and Eleventh stations resemble it, through the fact that they too are composed of white stripes placed on raw canvas. Then, all at once, Twelfth Station is dramatically black, as is the Thirteenth Station. And then, in the Fourteenth Station, black again abruptly disappears. There is a strip of raw canvas at the left, and the rest is white, as if Christ yielded up the ghost as St. Matthew narrates it. The work demonstrates how it is possible for essentially abstract paintings to create a religious narrative.
No one today, I suppose, would hold painting in the same exalted state that seemed possible in the 1950s. Newman became a hero to the younger generation of the 1960s, when the history of art that he climaxed gave way to a very different era. He triumphed over his savage critics, as great artists always do; and all who are interested in the spiritual ambitions of painting at its most sublime owe themselves a trip to Philadelphia to see one of the last of the great guys in this thoughtful and inspired exhibition, the first to be devoted to his work in more than thirty years.
British folk-rocker Billy Bragg has to be the only popular musician who could score some airtime with a song about the global justice movement. The first single from Bragg's England, Half English (Elektra), "NPWA" (No Power Without Accountability), is destined to become an enduring anthem for anticorporate organizers everywhere. Just before leaving England to tour the United States in April, Bragg took a few minutes to talk with Nation assistant literary editor Hillary Frey about globalization, Woody Guthrie, the duty of a political songwriter and, perhaps most important, why the AFL-CIO should be sponsoring free rock concerts. A longer version of this interview appears on The Nation's website (www.thenation.com).
HF: I've read that you were politicized during the Thatcher years in England. How did that happen, and how did your politics find their way into your music?
BB: When Margaret Thatcher was first elected, in 1979, I didn't vote. Perhaps that was the arrogance of youth.... It was at the height of punk, and I was titularly an anarchist. Although, frankly, that was more of a T-shirt than a developed idea. Her second term, between 1983 and 1987, really brought my political education. By then, Thatcher had started to chip away at the idea of the welfare state and what that stands for--free healthcare, free education, decent affordable housing for ordinary people.
Then, the 1984 Miners' Strike [which protested pit closures and paltry pay increases for workers] was the real politicization for me. I started doing gigs outside of London in the coal fields and found that I was able to articulate what I believed in so that these people who we were doing benefits for--the miners--didn't think I was just some pop star from London trying to enhance my career by doing a few fashionable benefits. I began to define myself by something other than the standard "Blowin' in the Wind" sort of politics, which aren't that hard to articulate.
HF: You were in New York City when the World Economic Forum [WEF] met, and I heard you speak about the groups organizing demonstrations. I recall a comment to the effect of, "If you really want to be doing something active and participatory you would organize your local McDonald's." What are your opinions on the tactics of the global justice movement?
BB: I feel very strongly that the movement is a positive thing. The fact that it hasn't yet defined itself in a clear ideological way doesn't mean that it won't eventually. I feel very much on the activists' side. However, I don't believe you can change the world by smashing up fast-food joints.
My approach is perhaps a little more traditional left; I believe that if you want to change the world, as I said, you should be organizing fast-food joints. To me, that is a positive way of changing the world. It's a lot slower, and it won't get you on CNN. But the sort of campaigns that I've worked with in the USA--Justice for Janitors, living-wage initiatives in LA and cities like that--have all been rooted in labor organizing.
HF: How did your relationship with the labor movement evolve?
BB: I made a very strong bond with the labor movement in England during the Thatcher years, particularly during the Miners' Strike. And those bonds have stood me in good stead when coming to a country like the United States, where not only are the politics very different from the ideological politics of my own country, but I'm a foreigner. As an internationalist I support UNITE, who are trying to end sweatshop labor in the clothing industry; we're doing that in the UK as well. That is the sort of internationalist angle prevalent in the global justice movement too, and it's something that I can support across borders.
HF: I was surprised to see that your tours are actually sponsored by a union.
BB: I've just come off a tour actually, that was sponsored by the GMB, which is one of our general unions.
HF: I can't imagine a union being involved in a concert here in the United States.
BB: I know! In 1992 I participated in a concert in Central Park marking the eightieth birthday of Woody Guthrie that was sponsored by one of the big soft-drink companies. Now why could it not have been sponsored by the AFL-CIO? Why couldn't the AFL-CIO say, "This is what we do, we put on free gigs." This is what unions do--bring people together. The unions have been doing this in the UK for a while, and certainly all over continental Europe. I've been doing gigs in Italy and France organized by the big unions there for the last two decades.
How do you explain to young people what unions are for--do you wait until they're in trouble? Do you wait till they're in a dead-end job? Wait till they're fired? Or do you get in before with some positive ideas of what a union is?
HF: Speaking of Woody Guthrie... A few years back you recorded, with the band Wilco, Mermaid Avenue Vols. I and II--two records comprising songs written around unrecorded Woody Guthrie lyrics. How did you get to be the lucky one rooting around in the Guthrie archives and recording his words?
BB: Woody Guthrie is the father of my tradition--the political singer/songwriter tradition. I've tried to answer the question of why [Woody's daughter] Nora chose to give me the great honor of being the first one in her father's archives.... I guess Nora saw something in my experience that she thought chimed in with Woody's. Who writes about unions in the United States and the song gets on the charts? All of the postwar singer/songwriters have grown up in a nonideological atmosphere. Their influences have been single issues like the civil rights movement, Vietnam, campaigning for the environment. There's not been that whole ideological struggle really going on in the USA.
HF: Is it harder to write political music now than it was when you started?
BB: It's much more difficult to do this now, without Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan and the Berlin wall and apartheid--these things were shorthand for struggles that went on across the world. Now I don't miss any of those things; I have absolutely no nostalgia for the 1980s whatsoever, and I never want to see any of those things again. But the job of the political singer/songwriter is perhaps more challenging because, with a subject like identity, which I deal with on England, Half English, it's personal--it means different things to different people.
HF: But it's clear there is plenty happening now to respond to. The single from your new record, "NPWA" (No Power Without Accountability), strikes me as a paean to the global justice movement.
BB: The job of the singer/songwriter is to try to reflect the world around him, and obviously the global justice movement has been the big cause célèbre since Seattle. When I was in New York in February, there was stuff I saw going on the like of nothing I've ever seen on the left before.
I went to a Methodist Church where activists were speaking about how they were going to organize the demonstrations [around the WEF] two days later. They asked me to sing a couple of songs so I sang "NPWA"--and then they wanted me to sing the "Internationale," and that really touched me, because we do have a strong tradition on the left, and one of the things we have to gain from the demise of the Stalinism of the Soviet Union and the Berlin wall is that we have an opportunity to create a leftist idea outside the shadow of totalitarianism. And there, in New York, among very radical young people, I thought, "OK--this isn't really so different from what I know. It's just a different approach to get to the same place." And the fact that I've been doing this for twenty years and people are still interested--I feel fortunate. I figure I must be hitting some bases.
England, Half English is available now from Elektra Records.
A young man of 16, visiting his cousins in Calcutta in a house in a "middle-middle-class area," has just published his first poem. This not-yet-poet from Bombay is the narrator of Amit Chaudhuri's short story "Portrait of an Artist." The artist in the story is not the visiting youth, however, but an older man, the English tutor who comes each week to instruct the cousins. This man is respectfully called mastermoshai.
Mastermoshai has already been shown the narrator's poem. (One of the cousins reports that the teacher was "very impressed.") On a Saturday morning, the budding poet meets mastermoshai. He has a "very Bengali face" with "spectacles that belonged to his face as much as his eyes did" and "teeth that jutted out from under his lip, making his face belong to the preorthodontal days." The cousins, and also the narrator, wait for mastermoshai to say something about the poem. When two literary men meet in Bengal, they do not indulge in small talk but instead "straightaway enter realms of the abstract and articulate," we are advised. Fittingly, mastermoshai's first question to the poet, in a Bengali-inflected English, is, "Are you profoundly influenced by Eliot?"
"It was mastermoshai who first spoke to me of Baudelaire," the narrator says, and there are other discoveries in this induction into the literary life. When the older man takes the poet to an editor's house in another part of Calcutta, Chaudhuri's portrait of the artist shades into a portrait of private homes and of the city as a whole. In Calcutta, our poet discovers, clerks and accountants nurture an intellectual or literary life, not only in English but also Bengali. The city appears provincial, but it also reveals, like Joyce's Dublin, its particularity.
The literary passions that this city with a colonial past breeds are already obsolete elsewhere. Yet they inspire a romance that is real and productive. That is what the young poet feels after the years have passed. By then, mastermoshai has faded into the oblivion of insanity. His interest in Eliot and Baudelaire is seen by the narrator as a "transitional" time during which, after the early losses of his life, mastermoshai had returned to his "youthful enthusiasms." You realize that the story is not so much about the space of literature, which like the city itself offers surprises that serve as a refuge from the general claustrophobia and madness. Instead, it is about the patient and sometimes crazy, and mostly anonymous, striving in the former colonies--and also about the tribute we need to pay to mentors in a literary culture that functions without the trappings of creative writing programs and, in the case of the poor, even ordinary colleges and schools.
Chaudhuri's other stories in this debut collection, Real Time, also concern themselves with the conditions under which art is born or the circumstances in which artists live. The book's closing story is about Mohanji, a gentle and gifted singer trained in classical Hindustani music. He makes a living by teaching affluent housewives in Bombay how to sing devotional bhajans and ghazals. Mohanji's life now is "a round of middle-aged women" in Bombay's affluent districts like Cuffe Parade and Malabar Hill. At night, he takes the fast train back to his home in a ghetto in distant Dadar.
Lately, Mohanji has been feeling ill. He believes he has an ulcer. He also suffers from tension. This tension comes "from constantly having to lie to the ladies he taught--white lies, flattery--and from not having a choice in the matter."
Mohanji's student Mrs. Chatterjee does not always have the time to practice. But, she would like to sing. She tells her teacher that she wishes she could sing like him. Mohanji is "always surprised" that the rich had desires for "what couldn't be theirs." He is also amused that "it wasn't enough for Mrs. Chatterjee that she, in one sense, possessed him; she must possess his gift as well."
This sudden sharpness on Mohanji's part, like his illness, reveals a malaise. The gentleness in the guru, a quality to which Mrs. Chatterjee had grown so accustomed, is now shown to be the result of great restraint and even artistic discipline. The story's presentation of Mohanji's speech and his silence ushers us into the domain of criticism.
We get a clue here to Chaudhuri's own art. He belongs to a very small group of Indian writers in English who are as good critics as they are storytellers. This skill at criticism is not a result of close reading--though that ability is in fine evidence in The Picador Book of Indian Literature, which Chaudhuri has edited--but of a serious search for a reading public. Chaudhuri's writing, both critical and fictional, subtly demonstrates for this public (which is yet unborn) its most responsible function.
There is a great need for such acts in India. Recently, at a literary festival in Delhi, I heard a well-known writer telling her audience that there were only two literary critics in Punjabi in the whole country. But this wasn't the worst. She said that one of the two critics was a university professor who was interested only in promoting the female students who were doing their doctorates under him. The other was a man in Chandigarh who wrote exclusively about other writers from his own Jat caste. The writer said, "Since I am neither a pretty face nor a Jat, I am ignored."
I thought about the Punjabi writer, and about Chaudhuri, who was also there at the festival, when I was awakened past midnight in my hotel room in Delhi by a call from London. It was someone from the BBC. Earlier that day, V.S. Naipaul had been rude to another writer. Now the BBC wanted to know if I believed that "Naipaul had lost it."
I wasn't able to provide gossip. But, as I lay awake in bed after the call, I remember wondering whether I hadn't made a mistake thinking that the problem of building a critical culture was India's alone. Did Britain, for example, have a vibrant literary public sphere? Why then was the BBC not rousing people from sleep to ask about the solitude of a writer working in Punjabi, a language that is used by millions, and endowed with a rich literary past, but now possessing no critics?
Fifteen short stories and a reminiscence-in-verse make up Real Time. Not all the pieces are as strong as the ones mentioned above. A few of the short stories, like the one in the voice of a humiliated demon from the Ramayana, are clever sketches but call for a more extended treatment in order to be satisfying. There is a first-person account of a housewife who is writing a memoir--a story meant to mock the Indian writing scene, where, it seems, a new writer is born every day. But Chaudhuri's wit is suited to a more muted, or perhaps just more nuanced, register, and here the mockery falls flat.
"Words, silences," a story about two male friends who are meeting each other after a long time, contains a hint of a half-understood homosexual exchange between them in their boyhood. But the story, in its reticence, offers too little, the author's silence acting like a silencing of its own. A couple of other stories in the autobiographical mode work better, recalling the lyricism and humor of Chaudhuri's earlier fiction. His first three novels, published in a single volume in the United States under the title Freedom Song, won a Los Angeles Times book award in 2000. That year Chaudhuri also published a novel, A New World, about an expatriate Indian's return to Calcutta after his divorce.
A real gem in the present collection is the title story "Real Time," which along with the account of Mohanji was first published in the British magazine Granta. This elegantly crafted story recounts an executive's visit to a house in Calcutta where a shraddha, or memorial ceremony, is being held. The ceremony is for a young married woman who has committed suicide by jumping from the third-floor balcony of her parents' house.
The visitor and his wife--the latter is related to the family--have been able to find the house only with some difficulty. They have bought tuberoses on the way, having bargained the price down from sixteen to fourteen rupees. The rituals of mourning are not clear in the case of a suicide. The narrative supplies very little conventional pathos, and yet pathos is present in the story, always in tension with other quotidian details that intrude upon the consciousness of the narrator. The visitor spots an acquaintance and they fall into a conversation about "the recent changes in their companies," their own children and even "a brief disagreement about whether civil engineering had a future as a career today."
Death produces a great absence, but here, in the story, the absence has more to do with the fact that the visiting couple know very little about the suicide. They had learned of the death from an item in the newspaper. Grief remains remote. More than death, it is this distance that produces a blankness, which, however, slowly gets filled with ordinariness, and even trivia. The narrative is so precise that it is with a tiny jolt that the reader realizes that this inconsequential ordinariness is what we usually call life.
Jacques Derrida has written that the Moroccan Abdelkebir Khatibi does not speak of his mother tongue "without a trembling that can be heard," a "discreet tremor of language that undersigns the poetic resonance of his entire work." The same can be said of Chaudhuri. In his prose, history always happens elsewhere. It is like an earthquake in the heart of the earth. What the writing registers is only the shock and the falling buildings.
In early 1993, a short while after the demolition of the Babri Mosque in Ayodhya and the riots that had followed, Chaudhuri wrote a travel essay about this return to India from Oxford. In that essay, he described how the metal nameplates in the house where his father had lived in Bombay were now all blank. This had been done to protect the Muslims living in the building. "Small, accidental sensations, too small to be called incidents," he wrote, "told me I was now living in a slightly altered world."
The trip on which Chaudhuri discovered the small detail of blank metal nameplates sowed the seed for his novel Freedom Song. While reading his earlier novels, I had been struck by the way in which Chaudhuri's evocative, Proustian sentences accumulated visual details. I thought of Bengali cinema, the moment of its modernity and the movement of the camera recording the texture of middle-class life. But there was also an aural element to this writing. It was punctuated with delicate pauses that made the prose musical. The sentences were marked by spaces of silence and filled with near-poetry.
It was only when reading Freedom Song, however, that I got a more vivid sense of Chaudhuri's unique and flawed aesthetic. The rise of Hindu fundamentalism and the changes ushered in by market liberalization provide the immediate occasion for the novelist to examine the changes that affect a small group of relatives and friends. These changes are not overwhelming; they are subtle variations on a more settled routine. The technique works because it saves history from the banality of a slogan. At the same time, it also carries the danger of slipping into a mannerism. Both the strength and, on occasion, the weakness are present in the stories of Real Time.
In recent weeks, hundreds have died in India in religious riots orchestrated by the Hindu right in retaliation for the burning alive of fifty-eight Hindus in a train. These events have challenged the democratic credentials of the Indian nation-state. But they also pose a question for intellectuals and artists, and this is the question of seeking a powerful and imaginative response to the carnage.
What is our response in "real time"? And how does this time find breath in our writing? Chaudhuri, in his attention to the imaginative use of language, makes the search for the answers a process of magical discovery. Let me end with a passage from Freedom Song that captures the inertness but also the dynamism of the life that Chaudhuri sees unfolding around him:
It was afternoon. And in a small lane, in front of a pavement, with the movement of a wrist, something like a curve began to appear, it was not clear what pattern was forming, then the letter D appeared upon a wall of a two-storey house, in black paint, and then U, and N, until DUNKEL had been formed, in the English language, which seemed to blazon itself for its curious purpose; then it began again, and I and M and F began to appear in another corner. Afternoon; no one saw them; it was too hot; on the main road cars went past, up and down; a few people rested; they had eaten; beggars dozed, blind to the heat and shadows, their heads bent to the stomach.
In the past two decades, Richard Rodriguez has offered us a gamut of anecdotes, mostly about himself in action in an environment that is not always attuned to his own inner life. These anecdotes have taken the form of a trilogy that started in 1983 with the classic Hunger of Memory, continued in 1993 with Days of Obligation and concludes now with his new book Brown: The Last Discovery of America. This isn't a trilogy about history. It isn't about sociology or politics either, at least in their most primary senses. Instead, it is a sustained meditation on Latino life in the United States, filled with labyrinthine reflections on philosophy and morality.
Rodriguez embraces subjectivity wholeheartedly. His tool, his astonishing device, is the essay, and his model, I believe, is Montaigne, the father of the personal essay and a genius at taking even an insect tempted by a candle flame as an excuse to meditate on the meaning of life, death and everything in between. Not that Montaigne is Rodriguez's only touchstone. In Brown he chants to Alexis de Tocqueville and James Baldwin as well. And in the previous installments of his trilogy, particularly owing to his subject matter, he has emerged as something of a successor to Octavio Paz.
The other trunk of this genealogical tree I'm shaping is V.S. Naipaul, or at least he appears that to me, a counterpoint, as I reread Rodriguez's oeuvre. They have much in common: They explore a culture through its nuances and not, as it were, through its high-profile iconography; they are meticulous littérateurs, intelligent, incessantly curious; and, more important, everywhere they go they retain, to their honor, the position of the outsider looking in. Rodriguez, in particular, has been a Mexican-American but not a Chicano--that is, he has rejected the invitation to be a full part of the community that shaped him. Instead, he uses himself as a looking glass to reflect, from the outside, on who Mexicans are, in and beyond politics. This, predictably, has helped fill large reservoirs of animosity against him. I don't know of any other Latino author who generates so much anger. Chicanos love to hate him as much as they hate to love him.
Why this is so isn't difficult to understand: He is customarily critical of programs and policies that are seen as benefactors to the community, for example, bilingual education and affirmative action, which, in his eyes, have only balkanized families, neighborhoods and cities. In Hunger of Memory he portrayed himself as a Scholarship Boy who benefited from racial profiling. He reached a succinct conclusion: Not race but individual talent should be considered in a person's application for school or work--not one's skin color, last name or country of origin, only aptitude. Naipaul too can play the devil: His journeys through India and the Arab world, even through the lands of El Dorado, are unsettling when one considers his rabid opinions on the "uncivilized" natives. But Naipaul delivers these opinions with admirable grace and, through that, makes his readers rethink the colonial galaxy, revisit old ideas. In that sense, Naipaul and Rodriguez are authors who force upon us the necessity to sharpen our own ideas. We read them, we agree and disagree with them, so as to fine-tune our own conception of who we are. They are of the kind of writer who first infuriates, then unsettles us. What they never do is leave the reader unchanged. For that alone, one ought to be grateful.
Apparently, the trilogy came into being after Rodriguez's agent, as the author himself puts it in "Hispanic," the fifth chapter of Brown, "encouraged from me a book that answers a simple question: What do Hispanics mean to the life of America? He asked me that question several years ago in a French restaurant on East Fifty-seventh Street, as I watched a waiter approach our table holding before him a shimmering îles flottantes."
The image of îles flottantes is a fitting one, I believe, since the Latino mosaic on this side of the border (Rodriguez often prefers to use the term "Hispanic" in his pages) might be seen as nothing if not an archipelago of self-sufficient subcultures: Cuban, Puerto Rican, Mexican, Salvadoran, Nicaraguan, Dominican... and the whole Bolivarian range of possibilities. Are these islands of identity interconnected? How do they relate to one another? To what extent are a Brazilian in Tallahassee and a Mexicano in Portland, Oregon, kindred spirits?
Judging by his answer, Rodriguez might have been asked the wrong question. Or else, he might have chosen to respond impractically. For the question that runs through the three installments is, How did Hispanics become brown? His belief is that brown, as a color, is the sine qua non of Latinos, and he exercises it as a metaphor of mixture. "Brown as impurity," he reasons. "I write of a color that is not a singular color, not a strict recipe, not an expected result, but a color produced by careless desire, even by accident." It is the color of mestizaje, i.e., the miscegenation that shaped the Americas from 1492 onward, as they were forced, in spite of themselves, into modern times. It is the juxtaposition of white European and dark aboriginal, of Hernán Cortés and his mistress and translator, La Malinche. And it is also the so-called raza cósmica that Mexican philosopher José Vasconcelos talked about in the early twentieth century, a master race that, capitalizing on its own impurity, would rise to conquer the hemisphere, if not the entire globe.
But have Hispanics really become brown on the Technicolor screen of America? Rodriguez is mistaken, I'm afraid. The gestation of race in the Caribbean, from Venezuela to Mexico and the Dominican Republic, has a different tint, since African slaves were brought in to replace Indians for the hard labor in mines and fields, and their arrival gave birth to other racial mixtures, among them those termed "mulattoes" and "zambos." Argentina, on the other hand, had a minuscule aboriginal population when the Spanish viceroys and missionaries arrived. The gauchos, a sort of cowboy, are at the core of its national mythology, as can be seen in the works of Domingo Faustino Sarmiento, José Hernández and Jorge Luis Borges. "Brown," in Rodriguez's conception, might be the color of Mexicans in East LA, but surely not of Cubans in Miami. Some Latinos might have become brown, but not all. And then again, what does "brown" really mean? Rodriguez embraces it as a metaphor of impurity. Mestizos are crossbreeds, they are impure, and impurity is beautiful. But the term "brown" has specific political connotations as well. It is, to a large extent, a byproduct of the civil rights era, the era of César Chávez and the Young Lords, coined in reaction to the black-and-white polarity that played out in Washington policy corridors and the media: Brown is between white and black, a third option in the kaleidoscope of race. A preferred term in the Southwest was La Raza, but "brown" also found its way into manifestoes, political speeches, legal documents and newspaper reports.
Rodriguez isn't into the Chicano movement, though. My gut instinct is that he feels little empathy toward the 1960s in general, let alone toward the Mexican-American upheaval. His views on la hispanicidad in America are defined by his Mexican ancestry and by his residence in San Francisco, where he has made his home for years. He is disconnected from the Caribbean component of Latinos, and, from the reaction I see in readers on the East Coast, the Caribbean Latinos are also uninvolved with him.
Furthermore, Rodriguez limits himself to the concept of miscegenation, but only at the racial level. What about promiscuity in language, for example? Promiscuity might be a strong word, but it surely carries the right message. Rodriguez's English is still the Queen's English: overpolished, uncorrupted, stainless. How is it that he embraces mestizaje but has little to say about Spanglish, that disgustingly gorgeous mix of Spanish and English that is neither one nor the other? Isn't that in-betweenness what America is about today? On the issue of language, I have a side comment: I find it appalling that Rodriguez's volumes are not available in Spanish to Mexicans and other Latinos. Years ago, a small Iberian press, Megazul, released Hambre de memoria in a stilted, unapologetically Castilian translation. That, clearly, was the wrong chord to touch, when the author's resonance is closer to San Antonio than to San Sebastián. How much longer need Mexicans wait to read the work en español mexicano of a canonical figure, whose lifelong quest has been to understand Mexicans beyond the pale? The question brings us back to Paz and his "The Pachuco and Other Extremes," the first chapter in his masterpiece The Labyrinth of Solitude, released in 1950. It has angered Chicanos for decades, and with good reason: This is an essay that distorts Mexican life north of the border. Paz approached the pachuco--a social type of Mexican youth in Los Angeles in the 1940s who fashioned a specific lingo, and idiosyncrasies that Elvis Presley appropriated obliquely--as a deterioration of the Mexican psyche. In his work, Rodriguez has established a sort of colloquy with Paz, though not a direct address. He embraces Paz's cosmopolitanism, his openness, and perceives him as a Europeanized intellectual invaluable in the quest to freshen up Mexican elite culture. But he refuses to confront Paz's anti-Chicanismo, and in general Paz's negative views on Latinos in the United States. Once, for instance, when asked what he thought about Spanglish, Paz responded that it was neither good nor bad, "it is simply an aberration." In any case, reading both authors on US-Mexican relations is an unpredictable, enlightening catechism, filled with detours. While Mexicans might not like to hear what Rodriguez has to say about them and about himself (he has talked of "hating Mexico"), at least they will be acquainted with his opinions.
All this is to say that Rodriguez's response to "What do Hispanics mean to the life of America?" is partial at best. The trilogy shows a mind engaged, but its subject is almost unmovable. Hunger of Memory was an autobiographical meditation set in the United States as the country was about to enter the Reagan era. It denounced a stagnant society, interested in the politics of compassion more than in the politics of equality, a society with little patience for Mexicans. Days of Obligation was also about los Estados Unidos as the first Bush presidency was approaching its end. By then the Reagan mirage was officially over. We were about to enter another house of mirrors under the tutelage of Bill Clinton. And this third installment of the trilogy arrives in bookstores at a time when the melting pot, la sopa de culturas, is boiling again, with xenophobia against Arabs at a height, and Latinos, already the largest minority according to the latest US Census data--35.3 million strong by late 2000, if one counts only those officially registered--are still on the fringes, fragmented, compartmentalized, more a sum of parts than a whole.
These changes are visible only through inference in the trilogy; Rodriguez seldom makes use of political facts. He lives in a dreamlike zone, a universe of ideas and sensations and paradox. Somewhere in Brown he announces:
A few weeks ago, in the newspaper (another day in the multicultural nation), a small item: Riot in a Southern California high school. Hispanic students protest, then smash windows, because African-American students get four weeks for Black History month, whereas Hispanics get one. The more interesting protest would be for Hispanic students to demand to be included in Black History month. The more interesting remedy would be for Hispanic History week to include African history.
This sums up Rodriguez's approach: a micromanagement of identity delivered periodically from the same viewpoint. Or has the viewpoint changed? It is possible to see a growing maturity by reading the trilogy chronologically. He started as an antisegregationist, a man interested in assimilation of Mexicans into the larger landscape of America. His feelings toward Mexico and toward his homosexuality were tortured at the time. These became clear, or at least clearer, in the second installment, in which a picture of a San Francisco desolated by AIDS and an argument with the author's own mexicanidad as personified by his father, among other changes, were evident. Assimilation was still a priority, but by the 1990s Rodriguez had ceased to be interested in such issues and was more attracted to his own condition as a public gay Latino.
Brown is again about assimilation, but from a perspective that asserts America is a country shaped by so many interbred layers of ethnicity that nothing is pure anymore. At one point, he describes the conversation of a couple of girls one afternoon on Fillmore Street. He renders them and their dialogue thus: "Two girls. Perhaps sixteen. White. Anglo, whatever. Tottering on their silly shoes. Talking of boys. The one girl saying to the other: ...His complexion is so cool, this sort of light--well, not that light." And Rodriguez ends: "I realized my book will never be equal to the play of the young." This need to capture what surrounds him is always evident, although it isn't always successful, because he is an intellectual obsessed with his own stream of consciousness rather than in catching the pulse of the nation. But I've managed to explain the continuity of themes in Rodriguez's three volumes only tangentially.
There is another take, summed up in three catchwords: class, ethnicity and race. He appears to encourage this reading. The first installment is about a low-income family whose child moves up in the hierarchy; the second about the awakening to across-the-border roots; and the third about "a tragic noun, a synonym for conflict and isolation," race. But Rodriguez is quick to add:
race is not such a terrible word for me. Maybe because I am skeptical by nature. Maybe because my nature is already mixed. The word race encourages me to remember the influence of eroticism on history. For that is what race memorializes. Within any discussion of race, there lurks the possibility of romance.
So is this what the trilogy is about, finally? The endeavor strikes me as rather mercurial. Because Rodriguez works extensively through metaphor and hyperbole, future generations will read into his books what they please, depending on the context. I still like Hunger of Memory the best. Days of Obligation strikes me as a collection of disparate essays without a true core. And Brown is a book that is not fully embracing, not least because it refuses to recognize the complexity of Latinos in the United States. In it Rodriguez describes his namesake, Richard Nixon, as "the dark father of Hispanicity." "Surviving Chicanos (one still meets them) scorn the term Hispanic," Rodriguez argues, "in part because it was Richard Nixon who drafted the noun and who made the adjective uniform." A similar reference was invoked in an Op-Ed piece by him in the New York Times, in which he declared George W. Bush the first Hispanic President of the United States, the way Bill Clinton was the first black President. Is this true? The argument developed is not always clear-cut: It twists and turns, as we have by now come to expect. I've learned to respect and admire Rodriguez. When I was a newly arrived immigrant in New York City, I stumbled upon an essay of his and then read his first book. I was mesmerized by the prose but found myself in strong disagreement with its tenets, and we have corresponded about that in the intervening years.
At any rate, where will Rodriguez go from here, now that the trilogy is finished? Might he finally take a long journey overseas? Is his vision of America finally complete? Not quite, I say, for the country is changing rapidly. Mestizaje, he argues, is no longer the domain of Latinos alone. We are all brown: dirty and impure. "This is not the same as saying 'the poor shall inherit the earth' but is possibly related," Rodriguez states. "The poor shall overrun the earth. Or the brown shall." This is a statement for the history books. In his view, America is about to become América--everyone in it a Hispanic, if not physically, at least metaphorically. "American history books I read as a boy were all about winning and losing," Rodriguez states in "Peter's Avocado," the last of the nine essays in Brown. And with a typical twist, continues, "One side won; the other side lost.... [But] the stories that interested me were stories that seemed to lead off the page: A South Carolina farmer married one of his slaves. The farmer died. The ex-slave inherited her husband's chairs, horses, rugs, slaves. And then what happened? Did it, in fact, happen?"
Sister, they say heed the hymn in your heart.
You've learned you've an odd rhythm in your heart.
You and I versus our brothers: pitched war.
The four of us in the swim of your heart.
I saw a bird chasing moths trace spirals
in the air, how you love him in your heart!
The wind blows an apple, an acorn down.
Let's revise: follow each whim in your heart.
In the west, weft ascends warp. In the east,
weft treads warp. Silk Route wisdom in your heart.
Knowledge an ocean shaped by desire,
who defines the idiom: in your heart
of hearts? How many hearts do we have? When
one breaks song soothes like a balm in the heart.
Who'll play dub to your syncopated lub?
Endeavor, love, 'gainst tedium in the heart.
The hated math teacher played, "Less is more,"
with my name. Whence the harem in your heart?
I enjoyed Matt Bivens's April 15 "Fighting for America's Energy Independence," which is important in getting the vision and possibilities of renewable energy sources to the public. I have one small correction. Bivens says, "The Union of Concerned Scientists says 100 square miles in Nevada could produce enough solar electricity to power the nation." The actual land area is more like 10,000 square miles (a square 100 miles on a side) and the photovoltaic panels cover only half that land. My explanation of the calculation of that number is in the July 30, 1999, Science. Since then our energy use has grown, and the area is now almost 12,000 square miles (110 miles on a side)--still not a large area, when compared with the 45,000 square miles of land we've covered with paved roads.
It is interesting to note, given the Freedom car announcement, that if you wanted to supply hydrogen for 200 million fuel-cell vehicles (current US fleet), you would need an area of only 3,600 square miles. This is not necessarily the way we should do it, but it is important to note that we have the technologies in hand to utilize the solar resource, should we wish to exploit it.
JOHN A. TURNER
National Renewable Energy Laboratory
Matt Bivens's implicit assumption that so-called renewable energies have negligible external costs in relation to nuclear power is an often repeated canard. According to an exhaustive study by the European Union, the externalities of nuclear power are comparable to those of wind- or solar-generated electricity. The study calculates external costs on a euros-per-megawatt-hour basis for several means of generating electricity and finds that the basic premise of Bivens's article cannot be supported in Europe. Naturally, nuclear power also has the tremendous advantage of not being beholden to the weather and being able to provide a reliable base load, night and day, 24/7, 365 days a year. Many US nuclear power plants routinely operate continuously for more than a year without a glitch (see www.externe.info).
Simply put, to produce relatively small, unreliable amounts of electricity, renewable energies must consume large amounts of materials (some toxic, like selenium or cadmium for solar panels), land, natural resources and person-power. Nuclear power produces abundant power from small amounts of material, at small external costs, even when one accounts for the vanishingly small probability of accidents and the cost of waste disposal.
Matt Bivens does not mention battery-powered vehicles, which have zero pollution and are now available as fleet vehicles (e.g., buses, trucks, rental cars). One company, Electric Fuel Corp. (www.electric-fuel.com), has demonstrated an electric bus using zinc/air batteries, which will power a loaded, air-conditioned bus over a full day's bus route.
While the battery-powered (electric) bus is now available, a vehicle will not be powered by a hydrogen fuel cell in the near future. The current hydrogen fuel cell is many times the cost of an internal-combustion engine, and it is likely that the hydrogen fuel will be generated on board the vehicle from an oil derivative (e.g., methane), which will emit the greenhouse gas carbon dioxide. It is high time that someone recognized the high cost and limited usefulness of the hydrogen fuel cell and the availability (today) of a zero-emission (all-electric) fleet vehicle (see the MIT January/February Technology Review).
Matt Bivens leaves out the single most effective method of reducing dependence on fossil fuels: increased taxes on all types of fossil fuels (with tax rebates/credits for low-income households). History shows that the only truly effective way to reduce consumption of any good is to raise its price. Increased fossil fuel taxes will get all businesses and consumers to look hard for energy efficiency and alternative sources of energy. Look at the gasoline tax in Europe and then look at the types of cars people drive. Taxes on fuels will drive innovations in efficiency and alternative sources of energy more directly and efficiently than subsidies. Increased taxes will also reflect the true environmental costs of fossil fuels, something the "market" does not do now.
Here in Florida (one of the most pesticide-polluted states in the nation) it is almost impossible to produce your own electricity with photovoltaic cells because it is too expensive. FP&L, the bandits making electricity, using a very polluting plant, don't want it to happen. Until March 18 you couldn't have a system because it was prohibited, prohibitive and you couldn't connect to the grid. Now you can, but it takes an investment of about $40,000. We subsidize the polluters while the program that offered about $16,000 back to people installing a solar system will not be renewed.
Florida's governor, like his brother, is not an environmentalist. The only reason he doesn't want drilling along the coast of Florida is that it would be bad for tourism. I hope they will drill along the coast, as close as possible to the pristine beaches. Maybe then people will wake up and abandon their SUVs (Stupid Ugly Vehicles) and start thinking about the legacy they're leaving their kids. (I just exchanged a minivan for a Toyota hybrid.)
Like most of the country, we are having a drought, but no one wants to force new constructions to install water caption from roofs with cisterns. My roof will collect 90,000 gallons of water a year, more than my wife and I need, with enough left over to irrigate our fruit trees. The stuff we do to our earth is crazy. Future generations will curse us all the way to hell, with good reasons.
Matt Bivens's article is a "breath of fresh air." With Texas leading the way in windpower plants, and several states following, I am anxious to see the results of the two wind plants that are on the drawing board here in Illinois. To a citizen in a small community of 15,000-plus residents, this seems like a logical and safe way for our state, and our country, to get our energy. The obvious worry is of the reliability of wind to keep the turbines going, but with the billions upon billions the government spends on slowly killing us all, I think we should take a chance on it.
Your cover graphic perfectly illustrates the behavior of most Americans regarding energy consumption/consumer habits. They're addicts. It says that the masses of Americans indulge in an orgy of consumption while engaging in a level of collective denial that would delight a totalitarian regime. Every day I see them: overweight Americans (usually alone) sucking on cigarettes and gobbling Big Macs while they careen down the ever-expanding highways in their gas-guzzling, pollution-belching SUVs. They're often waving American flags--their statement to the world that they are somehow entitled to binge on the world's finite resources.
As Bivens points out, we have the knowledge to take another path, of energy independence, a much cleaner environment, a more sustainable economy, lives saved, other countries not exploited, wars averted--but one of reduced profits for the few in power. There's knowledge but lack of will. And such is the denial of the addict who lies, cheats, exploits and is hellbent on self-destruction. Such is the tragedy of the America that is unfolding in the twenty-first century.
Please follow the advice of Boro Malinovic, and check out the Externe research project he cites. There you'll read: "A major EU-funded research study undertaken over the past 10 years has proven that the cost of producing electricity from coal or oil would double and the cost of electricity from gas would increase by 30 percent if external costs such as damage to the environment and to health were taken into account."
So, this study backs up a key assertion
of my article: Renewables are already cost-competitive, provided the market gets the prices right. Unfortunately, our market doesn't get the prices right, and instead subsidizes oil, gas and coal with billions of dollars of tax breaks and pork funding out of Washington, and less directly, by shifting to you and me the financial burden for illnesses and property destruction caused by pollution.
The text then asserts that "nuclear power involves relatively low external costs due to its low influence on global warming and its low probability of accidents in the EU power plants. Wind and hydro energy present the lowest external costs." In other words: Even if you use a very forgiving methodology that assumes no nuclear accidents, wind power still beats nuclear power. Malinovic and Externe are too boosterish in arguing the low probability of nuclear accidents. After all, we have repeatedly heard since 9/11 that terrorists may hit our nuclear plants. And a Chernobyl comes with a helluva price tag.
Even without acts of malice, our fleet of reactors is aging poorly. Perhaps Malinovic and Externe are unaware of the spate of nozzle cracks at reactors across America that have the NRC frightened; or of the six-inch hole discovered in the reactor vessel head at Ohio's Davis Beese nuclear power plant, where boric acid had eaten through the reactor roof. Yes, in March Ohio was three-eighths of an inch from a chain of possibilities ranging from bad to meltdown. A "vanishingly small probability of accidents"? Then let the nuclear industry buy its insurance on the open market like the rest of us instead of wheedling it out of the government like a bunch of Soviet-era factory directors.
Malinovic worries about solar power's "large amounts" of toxics, like cadmium and selenium. Irresponsible nonsense. (Whenever a nuclear-power booster frets about "solar-power-generated toxic waste," hold on to your wallet.)
George Douglas of the Energy Department's National Renewable Energy Laboratory (NREL) puts that into perspective. Even if we got a whopping 20 percent of our energy from solar power, he says, we would still come nowhere near to using as much cadmium for that as we do now in cell phone and digital videocamera batteries. In fact, cadmium we now toss away in the form of dead or obsolete rechargeable batteries can instead be recycled into solar panels--where it will sit, inert and safe, for the thirty-year life of the panel. Bottom line: Toxics are already out in the world, and dealt with routinely at levels many times that produced by solar power production. Malinovic is welcome to pursue his concern about cadmium proliferation and launch a campaign to mandate background checks and five-day waiting periods for purchasing cell phones. Perhaps next he will tackle a far scarier menace: the highly toxic and occasionally explosive mix of sulfuric acid--which eats through skin and clothing--with lead dioxide plates and molded polypropylene, otherwise known as the car battery, an institution that will dwarf, for all time, all hazardous-material disposal problems associated with solar power.
Josh Bruns is hopeful for wind but worried about its being an
intermittent power source. This is a drawback for both wind and solar
power. But as John Turner of NREL observes, we could use solar-generated
electricity to zap water and create hydrogen--which is another way of
saying we are technologically prepared to store electricity. The
hydrogen generated by wind farms at night could be poured into fuel
cells by day, and the fuel cells could churn out electricity for
everything from cars to factories. (I gratefully accept Turner's
correction and update of the figure I cited from the UCS.) It's also
worth noting that we have a grid that mixes electricity generated from
all sorts of sources. So as the EPA has observed, a kilowatt-hour of
solar PV capacity at work represents somewhere from 1,300 to 5,000
pounds of CO
Bill King says there are zinc/air battery-powered buses on the road, and that's a fine thing. But he is incorrect in asserting there are no fuel-cell vehicles; in fact, fuel-cell-powered buses are everywhere, from California to Chicago to Vancouver. (The January/February Technology Review has tons of articles about the rise of the fuel cell; nothing about zinc/air batteries.) The municipal bus is a very specific animal, however: It doesn't go fast, it has lots of room for monster engine structures, and no one minds plugging it in for several hours overnight. The real test will be personal autos, and the industry and science consensus is that fuel cells are the next step. King is correct in noting the debate over where the hydrogen comes from. Will it be made from water by wind-powered electrolysis? Someday, yes, but later is better than sooner for the oil-and-gas oligarchy. Will it in the meantime be made from hydrocarbons like methane and natural gas? Probably, because, again, that suits the oil companies. Will this happen at a factory--with resulting hydrogen pumped to filling stations and then to cars--or will it happen on board the car itself, with methane or natural gas pumped into the tank and then "re-formed" to hydrogen? Either way, harvesting hydrogen from natural gas or methane creates carbon dioxide pollution. But it creates far less than burning gasoline in internal combustion engines, it doesn't create other automobile exhaust pollutants, and it's still a huge step toward the wind-and-sun-fueled emission-free car.
I appreciate the ire of Jean Renoux and Glenn Reed and the tax argument of John Mattar. It's good to be pissed off about these things. We are paying extra for the privilege of being made sick; we should demand a refund. But where I part ways with the left is in condemning SUVs, or thinking of ways to make people do what we want by taxing them. There's a much more positive argument to make: Charge the oil and gas companies and nuclear power utilities the full cost of their revenue-generating activities. Let them pay for at least some of the asthma hospital bills, the catastrophic nuclear accident insurance, the cleaning up of uranium mine tailings and for honest-to-goodness post-9/11 security along pipelines, at refineries and at reactor facilities. Phase those charges in at the right pace, and you'll see a pretty smooth market-driven, job-creating transition to a twenty-first-century, clean, terrorist-proof energy infrastructure.