Back in my hometown, the Imperial City, they’ve instituted military checkpoints around one violence-ravaged neighborhood. Upon approaching the area, you’re stopped, asked your reason for needing to be in the area, and turned around if they don’t like your answer.
Brilliant. Has no one heard of root causes? We need jobs and economic alternatives to deal with crime and violence, not police intimidation, people.
I was at the Goldman Environmental Awards (the Oscars of environmental defenders) on Monday night, a slightly less awe-inspiring lineup than in previous years, it seemed to me, EXCEPT FOR Luis Yanza and Pablo Fajardo, the legal team fighting behemoth Chevron for its poisoning of Ecuadorian Amazon. Their integrity and courage is undeniable.
Majora Carter–co-founder/leader of the Green For All campaign alongside my boss Van Jones—was an Olympic torch bearer during the San Francisco leg yesterday. We figured she’d have something up her sleeve in terms of making her feelings known with regard to Tibet (and Darfur). We just didn’t realize it would be literally up her sleeve, where Majora had stashed a Tibetan flag.
Last night over a post-torch dinner with her, she described her bizarre day: despite (her kidnappers’) orders not to communicate with the outside world, she managed to hide her husband’s cellphone in her underpants (hers was too big), and from the back of the bus in which the torchbearers were shuttled around, to whisper haphazard info to the outside world about her location. “Can you see any streetsigns?” we were asking on our end. “Do you see the water?”
The route of the “Houdini torch,” as it came to be known, entirely circumvented the picturesque planned itinerary along the Embarcadero, instead heading up Van Ness and down to the Marina, from where they took it onto the highway—yes, the highway— towards the Golden Gate. But just a short way up the cleared expanse of concrete, they aborted the course towards the bridge, shoved the torch into the bus, and sped it off to San Francisco airport.
Majora, for her part, had her moment of glory at some random Civic Center-y corner—Sutter?, Pine?, Gough?—some street name I get confused with so many others down in those parts. She had spent an hour and a half feeling out her torchmate about his stance on politics in general (he felt we should focus our attention more on problems at home, apparently was the gist of it), and she ultimately confided in him shortly before their turn came up that she planned to pull out the Tibetan flag as soon as she had the torch in hand. And was he cool with that? He told her he “knew her heart.” He’d be cool.
And, as has now been liberally broadcast, she did just what she said she’d do, but didn’t get far. The Chinese officials snapped the offending flag away and had both her arms behind her back in a matter of seconds, as she insisted that she was exercising her constitutional right to free speech in support of human rights internationally. For a moment she wondered if she was going to be arrested by the Chinese. Then the SFPD just forcibly deposited her on the other side of the barrier they formed, into the people, and barred her from further contact with the torchbearing elite. And that was that.
Our experience of the day, out to support her while also displaying pro-Tibet and/or “save Darfur” signage, was nearly as bizarre and uncomfortable. We weren’t there to be hating on Chinese folks, or Chinese-Americans. Just as many or most of us in this country don’t support the Bush administration’s warfare, torture practices, and imperialist foreign policy, many or most of them don’t support their government’s actions. But the scene on the streets yesterday was ugly. Ugly, ugly. I understand a lot of the Chinese folks were bussed in to show some pride for China; they were greeted with real nastiness by the protestors.
Then there were the tourists and the local sleepwalkers who came out just to see the torch go by. And honestly—I sympathized with them too. I happen to have a huge soft spot where the Olympics are concerned. Ever since I was a little girl I’ve loved the idea that all the countries of the world come together and bring forth their talents—particularly when underdog countries take home gold medals. I know it’s not as simple as that, I know—but still, when the national anthem of Senegal or Uruguay or Jamaica plays and the people of that country are in the world’s spotlight as Number One, I get (ridiculously) sentimental. So shoot me.
And as the day progressed, and we realized there was no way we’d get to see or cheer Majora on, our little crowd felt sicker and sicker to our stomachs. Mahfam in particular, upset by the barbs, started calling out “I love you—I just love Tibetans too!” as she walked by people with Chinese flags.
In the end, the shirt I’d chosen to wear seemed particularly appropriate. We’d been told not to wear any Green For All-branded stuff in support of Majora, and I didn’t have anything related to Tibet or Darfur, and so I went with a T-shirt that my friend Uta sent me from Berlin. I saw lots of folks trying to figure it out (either that, or they were checking out my rack.)
It reads: “Liebe will riskiert werden,” which translates, more or less, to “love wants to be risked.” IMHO, that’s what we all really need: the anti-hate, the anti-fear.
Just back from a conference on the environment. Sort of.
This was like no green event I’ve attended, and I’ve been to my fair share of them: the sprawling Green Festivals, brainy Bioneers, well-intentioned SVN sustainable business gatherings, crunchy Harmony Festivals…Burning Man 007…
So what made it different?
Well, for starters, it took place in Memphis, Tennessee, not California or upstate New York.
And it didn’t have “green” or “sustainable” in its name. It was called The Dream Reborn.
And we didn’t get eco-bags stuffed full of flyers and “eco-friendly” trinkets that got dumped into hotel trashcans.
There was gospel singing, and praise for God. Mmn-hmm. Let me hear you say it now.*
And, get this: Global warming—and scary statistics about ice melts, water levels, storm forces, disease vectors and endangered species—were hardly mentioned.
And: thank the gods!—there was hardly a pair of Teva’s to be seen. Instead, people had style.
It wasn’t the typical green event crowd. The ratio was perhaps 1:6 whites to people of color. We Euro-Americans were a few raw nuts folded in a rich brown batter.
And the speakers? There was no Al, Arnold, or Amory. Neither the James** nor the Julias*** made appearances. No one from the covers of green Vanity Fairs was given top billing.
The participants didn’t even identify as “environmentalists,” just as ordinary people who drink water, eat food, and breathe air.
Come to think of it, “conference” felt like the wrong word, though the event took place at the Convention Center, and there were plenaries and workshops and fancy receptions, and everyone had badges hanging around their necks.
As one fine speaker said, it was more like a family reunion, where you can sit down with any given perfect stranger, and after a few moments of talking, discover how you’re connected, and experience that eerie recognition of the traits you have in common.
So what WAS this thing?
The Dream Reborn, held on the 40th anniversary of Dr. King’s assassination, marked the launch of the U.S. civil rights and human rights movement of the 21st century.
The new Dream: to engage those people lacking dignified jobs in work that heals the planet and that not only creates a pathway out of poverty, but leads to The Good Life, the American Dream.
Because it’s going to take a significant amount of work (and sacrifice!, on the part of some of us—but that’s another conference… and mostly for a different crowd) for us to pull back from the brink of catastrophic climate change. And there are lots of people in this country, poor brown and black ones in particular, who really need and want work that they can feel good about.
At the end of an intensely productive day sharing strategies and models and diagrams and messaging and leverage points and technical assistance and business cards…, when the Hot 8 Brass Band of New Orleans rolled in, some half of the thousand of us kicked up our heels and clapped and snapped and snaked and ground and clowned around…and when our procession left the Convention Center for the streets, the sheen of our smiles lit the night, and our chant “GREEN FOR ALL! GREEN FOR ALL!,” it carried.
It’s carrying still.
..
.. ..
*Note: I do believe that there is a powerful, beautiful and creative force greater than myself that includes myself.
not a post about how many germs live in the keypad of your fax machine.
Not long ago I interviewed the Chief Environmental Officer (would that all CEO’s in the world could—poof!—be converted not just in title but in spirit as well…) for the City of Chicago, a guy named Sadhu Johnston.
The inspiring interview was part of my research for Van Jones’ forthcoming book on the opportunity within the green economy to lift people out of poverty at the same time we’re healing the planet, by mindfully creating and providing training for “green-collar” jobs.
Sadhu mentioned that one of Chicago’s plans is to have the greenest street (in the, um, world, is what he sed—not surprising given the list of green superlatives the City has already claimed, like largest LEED-certified building in the world, or most urban green roofs in the US…) and that photocatalytic cement will play a major role.
Now, I flat out don’t believe that technology will Save us. Neither one platinum bullet, nor an array of complementary technologies. Instead I believe, with ardor, that our mandate is to make major behavioral changes—such as becoming more local, community-reliant as opposed to self-reliant, and respectful of the imperative for diversity (to survive in the local sustainable community, we need one of everything—baker, seamstress, veterinarian, plumber—or better, two of everything, like on the Ark, in case one falls ill).
But this photocatalytic cement that Sadhu described sounded like some cool shit. He said it will filter the air 8 feet above the ground, drawing out pollutants and making it much cleaner for a pedestrian walking along there (providing, I guess, that said pedestrian is less than 8 feet tall), and is so reflective that at night streetlights require much less wattage.
So I looked it up. I found this article in WIRED (from 2005: color me behind the times! *Blush *)–which explains that the cement is coated with a thin layer of titanium dioxide. So “UV rays hitting the titanium dioxide trigger a catalytic reaction that destroys the molecules of pollutants, including nitrogen oxides, which are emitted in the burning of fossil fuels and create smog.”
The NYTimes also ran a piece (11/06!) on the famous Jubilee Church in Rome, built by Richard Meier, that was coated in the miracle substance—shown in the photo.
Now the EU is investing millions in its research and development. Ten years of testing there have shown that covering 15% of visible urban surfaces with it would enable about 50% reduction in pollution. First Europe, then … Chicago?! Will wonders never cease.
Thanks to Sadhu I’m envisioning brilliant white cities of the future staying cool and clean, every surface in sight coated, and working hard.
Shouting out & Appreciating my host in Calistoga last weekend.
I lost something–maybe on
a half-light hike…
in a scruffy tuft of sage
or in an ochre artery
in the beds of rock?
Maybe I dropped it
for raptors to capture,
or in the chatter
where two creeks converge?
Maybe it got caught
by the spiderwebs of spanish moss
or smooth red-skinned madrones?
Or was snapped up
by a flapping goose,
honking in happy pride?
In any case, I lost my heart,
which at the time was full.
Please advise if found.
My friend Tony runs a neato project collecting portraits of folks answering the question Why Do You Do What You Do? This week he’s got my portrait up there, to be followed in the coming weeks by other campmates of ours from BM07. You can also post your own portrait with your answer to the question. Check it out!
I have taken a certain amount of pride in being tatless. Nearly one in four U.S. adults between 18 and 50 has one or more tattoos, according to the American Academy of Dermatology. Among my age group I’m certain it’s distinctly over half, since we were in our impressionable late teens and 20s during the tattoo boom of the 90s.
Nowadays it’s tattoo removal that’s hot, a procedure that’s costlier and more involved—although apparently recent developments have improved its effectiveness.
Infamously, there’s Johnny Depp’s “Wino Forever,” which—before its retooling— commemorated his romance with the Petaluma-born Ms. Ryder, of shoplifting fame. (Vanessa Paradis and France: well done.)
I took pride in being tatless not because I dislike tattoos—many people I love wear beautiful ones… I think of M’s Escherlike wreath of cranes, birdclan member B’s saturated wings, the red star on S’s wrist, and the blacklight-reflective cuttlefish wrapped around B’s thigh and torso… And of course tats are no pet rocks—for thousands of years before the 1990s people have been adorning and marking their bodies with ink.
But I felt proud just cuz I hadn’t ever felt compelled to get one to get one, and was here, distinctly past the halfway mark of this first decade in the new millennium, as a 30-something with a trampstampless and butterflyfree body.
And then somebody did something nasty to me, which left a small scar about the size of a nickel. After regaining my balance in the wake of that experience, I decided I wanted a tattoo to cover the scar. Something that would remind me of my beautiful transformation.
I was drawn to science and mathematics, to symbols, then to sacred geometry. An intricate geometric figure with mystical meanings spoke to me. I changed the wallpaper on my laptop to the figure so I could stare at it every day for months and imagine it on me.
I had made up my mind. I started asking folks where they got work done. And then out of the blue my tatless friend Caroline told me she was getting a tattoo to honor a heroic rescue operation her brother had been part of. She had a solid recommendation for an artist.
Both of us went in for a consultation with the dude—Scott at Black Heart Tattoo. When he saw my drawing, and the area where it was headed, Scott shook his head and sent me to Mike. To the drawing, Mike said no problem. When he heard I was a virgin and saw where I wanted it, though, he raised his eyebrows. We set a date anyway.
About five hours ago I was lying under a bright light and his steady gloved hands, getting zapped with ink over an area about the size of a hockey puck. I couldn’t really see him working. I had to Just Trust that he would get the fiddly pattern right.
Caroline sat by my side. Just one spot was especially sensitive, and hurt more. Caroline squeezed my hand and said “that was the scar.” I think she also said “that was the last of it,” but I can’t be certain, since I was under the influence of a little something I’d had for the pain, and amped from the endorphins that my besieged body was releasing.
Mike did a brilliant job. I’m thrilled. Mine, this body. I’ve marked it as such.
