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Among the writers I know, Lewis Hyde’s The Gift is almost always required reading. It is a treatise on the differences between gift-giving cultures (mostly tribal and now disappeared) and the commodity-driven cultures born of the Industrial Revolution (still predominant and thriving stunningly in the glut of digital information).
Tribal societies grew and prospered through giving gifts, which is a notion barely recognized in commodity-driven societies. The notion of the gift is that it is proffered freely and openly, and that the giver does not expect to have it returned exactly as it left him, if ever. Indeed, the ideal gift goes from the initial recipient to another and on to another, growing in emotional value for the givers and the recipients, if not in economic value.
With commodities, each item has a financial value, and without the agreement to exchange the item for something of equal value (money, for example) there is no exchange. The item remains the same as it has always been, hardly an acquirer of added feeling. Sitting on a shelf, it has no emotional value of any kind, and when sold, it is no gift, because it has not been given.
This is admittedly a crude explanation of Hyde’s fine essay. In its first 145 pages, he gives numerous examples of these two ways of running a society. There is even a chapter on the subject of usury that is the only piece of writing about the subject that I’ve found even remotely interesting (although, of course, there is Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice, which isn’t bad.)
The second half of Hyde’s book is an attempt to point out how the making of art is the greatest gift of all. He does this through a description of the lives and work of two poets: Walt Whitman, who was the ultimate spokesman for the gift, and Ezra Pound, who eschewed the gift finally, in favor of imposed governmental order.
Walt Whitman’s poetry, Hyde explains, is the very essence of the kind of gift that an artist receives at birth, and the artist’s adding to that gift his or her own acquired craft as a creative spirit. Hyde also shows how Whitman’s very life was an exercise in gift giving, especially in the quite moving descriptions of Whitman’s care for and love of severely wounded Union soldiers during the Civil War.
Ezra Pound recognizes the erratic and anarchistic ways in which art first emerges from the soul, something every artist experiences. But he feels that the work can only be perfected by a constant effort of what he calls “the will toward order.” The will that Pound so admired had much effect upon his life, especially when, smitten by Mussolini and the fascists, he broadcast diatribes in English on Italian radio against Jews, democracies and the American government. He was an American citizen, and this took place during the Second World War. So the troops, much less the American government, were not amused.
It is a curse upon every artist to have to deal with being ignored by the public, and most artists are indeed so disdained. I whine about it every day, at least to myself. Sometimes, when especially down, I let my friends know…loudly. I used to worry about this, and to think that I was most probably a fool for wanting to write. I write anyway because the process gives me such joy that I cannot bear to miss more than one day.
But in 1983, when I first read The Gift, I realized that being ignored made my writing flourish in an important way. “To convert an idea into a commodity,” Hyde wrote, “means, broadly speaking, to establish a boundary of some sort so that the idea cannot move from person to person without a toll or fee.” If this is so, the fee is a barrier to what the act of writing can actually produce. It stunts the writing. The fee is a fine.
I spent decades in business selling things, while at the same time writing at lunchtime and at night. Being paid for my services was thus so ingrained in my thinking that the idea of giving my written work away was laughable to me. As Samuel Johnson once said, “No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money.”
But very little money ever came to me from all those words. Everyone I know who writes has labored in the desert of not being published. Some have perished in that dry landscape. Others continue wandering there, and I encounter them all the time. You become especially lost if you have bought traditional publishing’s idea that only through the marketplace does respectability as a writer become possible. So, corporatized publishing companies, a constant eye on sales figures, the literary agent’s assurances of no-possible-advance/no-publication, and all the attendant fees paid to all these entities come into play, leaving most writers to go on wandering.
Hyde writes about several authors and their perceptions of the gift they have been given, which they wish to pass along. One of them, the novelist and mariner Joseph Conrad, puts it this way in his famous preface to the novel The Nigger of The Narcissus:
The artist appeals…to that in us which is a gift and not an acquisition — and, therefore, more permanently enduring. He speaks to our capacity for delight and wonder, to the sense of mystery surrounding our lives; to our sense of pity, and beauty, and pain; to the latent feeling of fellowship with all creation…
Hyde gives us a summation of this process in a wonderful paragraph from The Gift:
The artist’s gift refines the materials of perception or intuition that have been bestowed upon him; to put it another way, if the artist is gifted, the gift increases in its passage through the self. The artist makes something higher than what he has been given, and this, the finished work, is the third gift, the one offered to the world in general.
Incidentally, Hyde does feel that there can be an understanding between these two poles of activity, in which the gift and the commodity can accommodate one another. The chapter on usury interested me as much as it did because Hyde talks about how usury under certain circumstances can be the way in which a commodity can become a kind of gift.
For myself, re-reading this book after a 10 year hiatus from business, during which I’ve written three novels and three story collections for very little money, was a welcome gift that allowed me to justify to myself all those nights I spent dreaming things up and writing them down.
Terence Clarke’s new novel The Notorious Dream of Jesús Lázaro will be published later this year.
In San Francisco, a child pulls a carrot from the ground. Thus the result of the kind of education that may save the world.
Because of drastically reduced government investment, the prestige that should be enjoyed by public primary schools has been humbled by their physical surroundings. The use of asphalt in the outdoor facilities is the usual. Perhaps at one time, your neighborhood school had a lot of trees and other greenery on its property. But such things need sustained care, and that care requires a constant flow of funds, while asphalt is more or less a one-time fix. Given the reduced level of support by so many state legislatures, scarce government monies that could be used for a school’s outdoor environment – and the teaching of science – are shunted away to other things. This results in learning facilities that often resemble the cellblocks at Guantanamo.
This need not be so, if Arden Bucklin-Sporer and Rachel Pringle have anything to say about it.
When her kids were little, San Francisco’s Bucklin-Sporer wished to change the environment on the grounds of their school.
“It was a very direct experience. My children were in a public school near our home…Alice Fong Yu…a Chinese immersion school. It was 1997, and my youngest was 5. The school was new. A wonderful place, really, except it had a schoolyard that was a single blank piece of asphalt, edge to edge, surrounded by a cyclone fence.” She describes the pupils as running around like caged animals. There was ample room for what Bucklin-Sporer calls “the alpha kids” to play as strenuously as they wished. But the play structure, intended for climbing, swinging and other full-body exercise, was a dismal construction with a single slide – made of plastic – and numerous faculty monitors forcing the kids to get in line, to go up the structure in one direction and to come down in another. “Even the kindergarteners were tired of this routine after about 15 minutes.”
Despite the hardtop surface and what Bucklin-Sporer describes as the “Macdonald’s-like” play structure, was this playground otherwise a nice place? “There were benches along the cyclone fence or backed up against the building, and you’d see all these kids, many, many of them, sitting shoulder to shoulder.” Bucklin-Sporer thought that giving children the opportunity to interact face-to-face should be one of the important tasks of fruitful social development, and that side-by-side regimentation was the very antithesis of that. “A little like chickens in a roost,” she says.
One of the things that Bucklin-Sporer also noticed when she saw this arrangement was ”a strange empty lot” just beyond the school grounds, from which a large sand dune arose. The lot was not being used for anything, and there are so few such empty plots of land in San Francisco that this one provided her with the kernel of an idea. “It was obviously being cared for by someone,” she says. A few oak trees and some Italian stone pines had been planted. There were eucalyptus trees as well, and Bucklin-Sporer met a woman from the San Francisco Zoo one day, collecting leaves from these trees to feed the koalas at the zoo. “I’d even see meadowlarks up there…and who sees meadowlarks in the middle of a big city?”
Sadly, the dune was a repository of dead cats as well, of old batteries, rusted car doors and other industrial detritus left there by thoughtless citizens. Bucklin-Sporer nonetheless realized what a gem this sand dune could become, were there to be a garden on it. Best of all, she learned that the lot was owned by the school district. “The place had tremendous potential. It was half a city block in size, and there was even a water faucet up there.” The Alice Fong Yu pupils would participate. In fact, with proper guidance, they could be the ones building the garden. Not only would the garden soften the experience of being outside during school hours; it would also be a most natural and appropriate venue for the study of science.
Bucklin-Sporer asked the school principal – “a very forward-thinking woman named Liana Szeto, an unusual blend of steely resolve and openness to new ideas” – if it would be possible to start “a little project up there”, as she put it. She thought she would be able to get the parent association at the school to donate some money toward the making of such a garden…she figured she would need about 500 dollars. “We would build a funky little chicken wire fence to protect it. We’d build some raised beds and fill them with dirt for planting. Have a couple parent workdays…you know, parents and kids pushing wheelbarrows around, mulching stuff.”
How long did it take? “No time flat.”
This was a small project intended for use only by the pupils of Alice Fong Yu. At this point, it was by no means clear what educational purpose the garden would ultimately serve. “As we had not engaged in any planning (who knew?) there was no vision on how the new garden was going to be used. There was no notion of the teachers’ using the garden for teaching themselves.” But right away, the output of vegetables, fruits and other green items from the garden was phenomenal. “So much food!” Bucklin-Sporer says. ”Greens. Root vegetables. Lettuce. Carrots. Some of these pupils had never seen a carrot in the ground before. They were amazed.”
In these early moments, the garden was entirely extra-curricular. But Bucklin-Sporer realized that the two endeavors – classroom lessons and the garden – could be aligned with each other, for the greater benefit of the students themselves and their education in science.
Once having constructed the garden at Alice Fong Yu, a big surprise for Bucklin-Sporer came with the support of the teachers. Although they may not have realized initially how much of the science curriculum could be taught in a garden, they recognized the enthusiasm for the garden exhibited by their pupils. “They had great forbearance, and eventually they recognized the potential for hands-on science. We loved our teachers.” Because it was a Chinese-immersion school, most of the teachers were Chinese, although the students came from many ethnic backgrounds. The teachers were very dedicated professionals, and even the care with which they dressed for work was impressive. “The women would wear high-heels even up in the garden. (Laughter) I would kid them about aerating the soil.”
With all this, Bucklin-Sporer still was not prepared for the level of community that the garden provided to the pupils, teachers and parents alike. The garden became the venue for end-of-the-year school parties, school music events and other presentations. It was, she says, a golden time and a great deal of fun.
But early on, the garden was not an integral part of the science curriculum, and the principal, Liana Szeto, though enthused, wished to know what else could be done with it. “I wanted something that would affect the science teaching curriculum directly,” Bucklin-Sporer explains. “I’m not a teacher though, and I didn’t know how to do it.” So she began working with the teachers at the school. She studied what was being done in the classroom. “I have a pretty good understanding of rudimentary botany, for example, natural history…the various kinds of science that are being taught at the primary level. I began thinking of all that and how it could be applied to the garden itself.”
Did the teachers mind being asked about what they were teaching? “Not at all. In fact they loved it, and embraced the idea of having a partner to teach the kids science. At that time, I was that partner, and the teachers were quite willing to venture out into the garden with me, and to use it as an outdoor classroom.”
Bucklin-Sporer also knew that the idea of a garden on school grounds had ample precedent. The history of gardens especially in rural American schools in the 19th century is a rich one. World War II’s Victory gardens provided significant examples of what can be done by individual citizens on a local level. She was also aware of other school gardens here and there in San Francisco schools.
“Five or six of them. So I began reaching out to those schools. We had a little conference. We tried getting something bigger going. But at that time, there just wasn’t the enthusiasm, particularly among the teachers at other schools. There were 75 primary schools in the San Francisco system, but not many of their teachers were gardeners themselves. So, system-wide, not much was happening.”
But indeed two series of events took place at that time to mark a real and positive advance.
“A little organization called the San Francisco Green Schoolyard Alliance was forming. It had started as the board of the Tule Elk Park Child Development Center, a public school in San Francisco’s Marina district. Nan McGuire, a local community advocate, was the head of the board at the time, and had spearheaded their effort to do a big renovation of their playground space, from the worst cracked asphalt nightmare to a lush and very beautiful garden. It was done entirely with privately raised money and with a very dynamic principal named Lynne Juarez. It was beautiful, but it cost $400,000, and once it was in place and grandly successful, the board asked, ‘OK, that’s fine, but what do we do now?’”
It was then, in 2003, that Bucklin-Sporer and the Tule Elk Park board learned about Proposition A. Basically intended to upgrade the physical plants of the primary schools, to fundamentally improve access for physically challenged students, to modernize retrograde structures and so on, the proposition would soon be on the San Francisco ballot. With others from the San Francisco Green Schoolyard Alliance, Bucklin-Sporer began speaking with members of the San Francisco Unified School District about the proposition, asking whether some of the Prop. A monies could possibly be set aside for the greening of primary schools. They argued that, as long as asphalt was being dug up to be replaced with more friendly access for those who needed it and a more humane environment for all students, why not provide some real greenery?
“They were interested, but they had no idea really what a green schoolyard was.”
Then began the effort, over several months, to teach the school board about the concept. Nan McGuire, Bucklin-Sporer and a Berkeley writer named Sharon Danks, among others, began tirelessly attending school board meetings. (Danks is the author of Asphalt to Eco-systems: Design Ideas for Schoolyard Transformation and a thorough-going advocate of schoolyard greening.) They explained that changing a school playground into a greened schoolyard involved digging up some of the asphalt on the school grounds to expose the earth, planting that area, providing a soft-scape rather than a hard one, sometimes building wooden beds for food crops, planting native borders, installing bird baths, planting trees. Everything, in other words, that would make the schoolyard a far more livable place.
The board liked what it saw, and told the green schoolyard people that indeed there would be money in the bond to be used for such projects, although it would be a miniscule amount, less than 1% of the monies that would be raised overall. And of course, as with all such bond measures, there was a big “if”: the bond had to be passed by the voters.
Basically, though, this was good news to the green schoolyard people, even though the funds were to represent so small a percentage of the total. The tiny piece of the pie was at first dismaying to them…until they learned that the less-than-1% would be about 5 million dollars.
Proposition A passed. It would take three years for the greening of multiple schoolyards to get underway. Since then, two more school bond propositions have been placed on the ballot (one in 2006, the other in 2011) and both have passed. The same less-than-1% formula has applied in those bonds, just as small a percentage as previously. But taken altogether, the three propositions amounted to 14 million dollars for greening.
“We were amazed,” Bucklin-Sporer says. “It was enough money for us to fulfill a dream, of putting gardens in every San Francisco public primary school.”
It was at this point that Arden Bucklin-Sporer met a young woman who was applying for a position at Alice Fong Yu as a garden educator, whose name was Rachel Pringle.
“I had recently moved to California, for an internship with the Golden Gate National Parks Conservancy,” Pringle says, “and a friend of mine had told me that she had heard of a paid part-time position opening up at a school in San Francisco.”
Pringle already had the idea of greening in her blood, having grown up on a farm on the east coast. Her youth in the outdoors provided some of the most formative moments in her life: the farm itself, summer camp, traveling with her parents, camping in the mountains. “I got a masters degree in conservation biology from the University of Pennsylvania. I had realized that environmental education could potentially have a great deal of influence in the schools. It could be powerful.”
Pringle’s friend told her that the contact at Alice Fong Yu was a woman named Arden Bucklin-Sporer. For Pringle, the job sounded like the perfect mix for her interests in biology, conservation, agriculture, farming and environmental work…all things with which she had grown up and that had fueled her entire education.
She got the job, and became the new garden educator at Alice Fong Yu.
Meanwhile, Bucklin-Sporer left Alice Fong Yu, to found and head a new organization called Preparing the Ground, which brought together the growing number of garden educators from around the district to share ideas and best practices, as well as to inform the district about how to manage the growing number of gardens. Eventually, Preparing the Ground and San Francisco Green Schoolyard Alliance (SFGSA) merged under the Alliance’s name, and Bucklin-Sporer was its first Executive Director.
Pringle stayed at Alice Fong Yu school for four years. But she wished to learn about non-profit organizations as well, and how they are run. She wanted to foster her own broader professional skills. “I knew that the garden concept at Alice Fong Yu could work for one school. But I wanted to see if it could work for many schools.”
Pringle was Bucklin-Sporer’s first hire at San Francisco Green Schoolyard Alliance, as a program manager. It was a desk job in education, rather than what Bucklin-Sporer calls “the boots-on-the-ground idea” that is the norm in green schoolyard education. But it was an important desk job because of what was to come.
After the final Prop A bond was passed in 2011, San Francisco Green Schoolyard Alliance realized that the work of designing and creating green schoolyards was actually finished. They had succeeded in that primary task. But now there was an even more compelling one. They wished to activate those new schoolyards as actual outdoor classrooms.
In 2012, SFGSA became an independent non-profit organization called Education Outside. Committed to advancing the teaching of science outdoors in public schools, it is this organization that, hand in hand with the San Francisco Unified School District and its teachers, allies the school gardens with the standards-based science curriculum mandated by the state of California. Bucklin-Sporer remembers how, in the earliest efforts of the Green Schoolyard Alliance, they were told by teachers that they would welcome a garden in their schools, but not if they had to maintain the garden themselves. There were few active gardeners among the teachers. They would need help, they said.
Starting in 2007 with a staff of two (Bucklin-Sporer as Executive Director and Pringle as Program Manager) the organization now employs 35 people, and its signature program is The Corps for Education Outside.
“Post-bond arrangements had to be made,” Bucklin-Sporer explains.
“We were setting up the organizations and offices to support the district-wide surge of green schoolyards. And all the while, we dreamed of having this great corps of young people that would go out into the public schools and teach all the kids about science…show them the environment, teach them about the natural world, assist them in becoming eco-literate and environmentally responsible. Really, it was to help them develop a deep and endearing bond with the natural world. To love it!”
The passion in this dream is self-evident. But when Education Outside explained the idea to philanthropic organizations, principals and teachers, they took pains to describe it in systematic terms that demonstrated that the greening of public schools was far more than just a dream. The Corps for Education Outside would be established as an integral part of the science-teaching curriculum in the San Francisco public schools. They would be the help that so many of the teachers in the district had said that they needed. Education Outside thought of them as a Teach-Environmental-Education-for-America corps. “These Corps members would be college-educated individuals, from everywhere in the country, trained in educational standards, behavior management, land restorative practices, horticulture, leadership,” Bucklin-Sporer says. They would be paid $25,000 a year, with benefits, and would be expected to fulfill a two-year commitment.
This 2014-2015 school year, Education Outside will employ 26 Corps members, and Pringle is in charge of them. As the senior director of programs, she handles the finding and hiring of Corps members, and their training. She is also the initial contact for schools that wish to have an outdoor science curriculum, and she places the trained Corps members in those schools.
In 2008, Arden Bucklin-Sporer was seated at her desk at Education Outside, when the phone rang. An editor from Timber Press in Portland, Oregon was on the other end of the line, and explained that she had heard about the green schoolyard movement, had read about it, and was wondering whether there was any thought about writing a book.
“I looked over at Rachel and said, ‘Hey Rache, you want to write a book?’ and she said, ‘Yeah, let’s do it!’ That’s how long it took us to agree on the project.”
The book was published in 2010, and How To Grow A School Garden: A Complete Guide for Parents and Teachers is the most compendious, detailed and practical guide to the greening of a schoolyard that exists. It begins with a thoughtful appraisal of why green schoolyards are necessary to a child’s complete educational experience. Following chapters cover everything from design ideas for the schoolyard, to budgeting, fundraising, how to keep the garden healthy, planting, harvesting and cooking in the garden, and year-round garden lessons and activities. The most useful chapter, titled “Developing Your School Garden Program”, details the process through which a school or a school district can set up such a program efficiently, thus saving the participants from the trial and error difficulties through which the Green Schoolyard Alliance innovators had to go.
One of the real pleasures of this book lies in the quality of the writing. Neither Bucklin-Sporer nor Pringle are professional writers. But the ease of style in this book makes the reading of what could have been a dry science education tome into a real pleasure. The book is also amply illustrated with photos from several San Francisco schools, examples for educators of California state content standards, a list of resources (with an emphasis on California organizations, but with many others located around the U.S.) and even a chapter devoted to garden recipes.
Lori Shelton is the senior project manager for the bond program at the San Francisco Unified School District. As such, she manages the green schoolyard portion of the funds that came from the three school bond propositions. “I make sure that projects be created for the greening of the schools, and that they be maintained per the desires of the voters of San Francisco.”
Asked to assess the effects of the green schoolyard concept so far, Shelton is unequivocally upbeat. “It’s hugely successful, in large part because of the efforts of people like Arden and Rachel and the other advocates for this kind of education. After the 2003 bond was implemented, the voters said ‘This is a great idea, and we want to continue it.’ So the 2006 and 2011 bond votes speak volumes about where this program has taken us.”
Shelton does offer a cautionary note for the future, which has to do with the sustainability of the various green schoolyard projects once they are completed.
“It’s going to be up to the individual schools to put together teams and to develop ideas of how to sustain the green schoolyards over time. Sustainability in this case means basic maintenance. Things age. They break down. If we want to continue saying that we’re a success, we’re going to have to provide for appropriate maintenance. It’s critical.”
Asked her opinion of what is most important about Education Outside and the San Francisco Unified School District model, Bucklin-Sporer is succinct.
“Two things. This is an incredibly well thought out program that adds a lot of educational value for not a lot of money per pupil to every school. Also, it is a do-gooder, save-the-world kind of an idea. Our Corps members are learning a lot, they’re doing good and they’re appreciated. They’re like pied pipers to the kids in the school. They’re adding great value to so many of those kids’ lives, and that’s inspiring to me.”
Asked the same question, Pringle talks about innovation in teaching.
“A garden is dynamic, a dynamic teaching tool. We think these outdoor classes are critical to elementary education. There are many individual schools around the country that have green schoolyards. But we’d like to be known for having pioneered a whole new phase of green education in schools, in which such schoolyards are in every school.”
As the school garden movement has gained momentum, noted writer/storyteller Beatrice Bowles has written about ways in which gardens inspire an appreciation for nature and for science, in children who live in cities. (Bowles was for some years a member of the board of the Tule Elk Park Child Development Center.)
“Now more than ever, as spaces for children to explore and appreciate nature are shrinking, school gardens create real oases in the urban hardscape. In these gardens, children experience nature’s beauty, learn nature’s laws, and improve their own health by growing their own fresh food. Education Outdoors’ school gardens are the best I have seen anywhere.”
At this writing in 2014, 43 primary schools in San Francisco have been implemented with green schoolyards, and 30 more are in the pipeline. The goal is to have all 75 San Francisco public primary schools greened, by the end of school year 2017.
On a recent St. Patrick’s Day, a Latino friend whose family has lived in Arizona and California since before 1848, asked me “What immigration problem?” He leaned far over the cappuccino on the café table between us, shook his head slowly and then looked up at me once more, a smile on his face. “Are they talking about all these gringos that have been showing up around here?”
He refers to California — where we both live — and the Southwest as “Occupied Northern Mexico.”
Recently the nation has been in the throes of a debate about immigration. The immigrants being identified by the right wing of the Republican Party as threatening to the American consciousness and economy are mostly Central Americans, more specifically Mexicans. They are uneducated, we hear. They take jobs that should be reserved for American citizens. They don’t speak English. They got here illegally, and are coming in droves.
In their Pulitzer Prize-winning book Gotham: A History of New York City to 1898, Edwin G. Burroughs and Mike Wallace write about the 1842 founding of a new political party in New York — called the American Republican Party — the main platform of which was anti-immigration:
What tied these disparate groups [merchants, professionals, editors and shopkeepers] together was a shared Protestant culture, a nostalgic belief that New York City had been a far better place just after the Revolution, and the conviction that the evils now afflicting it — rising rates of crime, pauperism and immorality — were foreign imports. The party wanted to extend the naturalization period to twenty-one years.
The particular group that offended the party then was the Catholic Irish. In the previous four years, about 60,000 of them had immigrated to the United States — almost all of them to New York City — to escape the economic and religious policies of the Protestant British government toward the Irish in their own, now long-occupied, country. The problem was far worsened by the Irish Potato Famine of following years, during which one-fourth of the population of Ireland left that country, most of them coming to the United States.
By the 1980s, the Irish in the United States had for the most part transformed themselves. In The Columbia Guide to Irish American History, Timothy J. Meagher writes, “The achievements of Irish Catholics now did not merely surpass Irish Protestants but carried Irish Catholics finally into the highest reaches of the American economic hierarchy … They appeared to have made it everywhere.”
The Irish, of course, are no angels. One need only read about the Civil War draft riots in New York City in 1863, during which Irish gangs took the opportunity to lynch many black people whose release from slavery, they felt, was the cause of the draft that was forcing their boys into the war. Also, a look at the history of the desegregation of public schools requires the telling of how Boston Roxbury Irish attacked yellow school buses taking black kids to white schools in 1974. There are many such stories.
Nonetheless, things had changed, and as it was with the Irish, the current hate-ridden xenophobia about illegal immigration will prove to be ill-advised.
Central American immigrants do not particularly want to leave their homeland. But as with the Irish, local economic conditions, issues of personal safety, and an atmosphere, in their countries, of government indifference to their plight, make travel to the United States a necessity. Surprisingly, the values that the Republicans say they espouse — the importance of family, daily prayer, a belief in hard work, insistent religious comportment — are indeed espoused by a great many Central Americans entering the United States. One would think that these are the kinds of people that the Republicans want.
But the Republican right wing’s flailing for power seems more a clear effort to bring about radical social re-engineering (getting rid of Planned Parenthood, for example, dismantling women’s rights, re-demonizing gay people, destroying what is a balanced –and popular– national health plan and imposing Christian sentiments on what is basically a pluralistic, democratically-elected, secular government), and less an embracing of democracy and its ideals. It voices its pious nostrums in order to wrest that power to its party’s agenda, while the Central American immigrants are here simply to practice their version of the American dream, which has always been the democratic ideal in this country.
Because of that, I believe, these new immigrants will formulate much of the history of this country in the 21st century, as the Irish Americans did in the 20th.
The stories in Terence Clarke’s collection Little Bridget and The Flames of Hell tell of the Irish in contemporary San Francisco.
The news a year ago that the Chilean government exhumed Pablo Neruda’s remains, to determine whether or not his death was caused by poisoning, brought a new, but not surprising, twist to Neruda’s life, even forty years after his demise.
Neruda died just days after his friend Salvador Allende, the democratically elected president of Chile, was murdered in the 1973 coup that brought General Augusto Pinochet to power. Neruda had been in poor health for some years, and it was assumed that he died of natural causes that perhaps were worsened by the emotional trial of losing such a close compatriot and friend.
But Neruda was no stranger himself to extreme punishment for his political views, and rumors have circulated since his death that he too was murdered while in hospital after Allende’s death, also on direct orders from Pinochet. The current ongoing government inquiry aims to determine whether Neruda indeed died on his own, or was assassinated.
Neruda was almost killed in 1949, when he was already a world-famous poet and a senator in the Chilean congress. Having been elected as a Communist, he had then been asked by Gabriel González Videla, the leftist candidate for president in the 1946 elections, to become his campaign chairman, while maintaining his seat in Congress. Neruda agreed and, bringing the Communist vote to the leftist coalition supporting González Videla, he helped ensure González Videla’s victory.
Once in office, however, González Videla abandoned the very supporters that got him elected. He not only failed to enact the policies for which he won office, he actively turned against them. The ongoing Cold War between western democracies and the Soviet Union brought great pressure upon González Videla, causing him, essentially, to betray his own electorate. He became the trinket of and enforcer for the Chilean wealthy and the U.S. (especially American mining and other corporate interests in Chile.) Disgruntled national figures like Pablo Neruda were basically marginalized.
Pablo Neruda was an extremely colorful, humorous and celebratory man who was not about to take such treatment without a response. He wrote an inflammatory article for a Venezuelan publication, in which he denounced González Videla’s presidency. On January 6, 1948, he stood up on the floor of Congress and delivered a stem-winder of a speech in which he accused the president of political betrayal, cowardice and even genocide against his own people. González Videla had re-opened a concentration camp that had been used by an earlier president to incarcerate homosexuals. Located in the appropriately named coastal town of Pisagua (Pisswater), the camp was famous for its miserable, even murderous conditions. In his speech, Neruda gave the names of all 628 prisoners being held there, many of them miners from the Atacama Desert region that had elected Neruda. (This region later became world-famous for the 2010 rescue of miners who had been trapped underground for 68 days.)
Within weeks of this speech, González Videla got the Chilean Supreme Court to strip Neruda of his senator-ship. His home in Santiago was set ablaze, causing him and his second wife Delia del Carril to go into hiding. In March 1949, after a year spent in isolation in various safe-houses around the country, Neruda had to run for his life. He escaped from Chile into Argentina, on horseback – escorted by a group of local trackers – through the high reaches of the Andes Mountains. It was the beginning of winter, and during this harrowing crossing, Neruda came close to death on a couple of terrifying occasions. He did make it to Argentina, however, and eventually was re-united with Delia in Paris.
On April 25, 1949, at the World Congress of Peace Forces at the Salle Pleyel in Paris, Neruda was introduced to an astonished audience. Everyone – including Gabriel González Videla – had assumed that he was dead. Amused by the opportunity to put that rumor to rest, Neruda reveled in the introduction he was given, by none other than Pablo Picasso. The audience erupted in sustained, noisy applause.
Now, there is controversy about the exhumation of Neruda’s remains. All the principal players in the 1973 military coup are dead, and democracy has returned to full strength in Chile. So, some commentators say that there is little good to be served in bringing up those murderous times yet once more. But there is at least one thing that will be served quite well. Ultimately, history seeks the truth. If Pablo Neruda died of illness, it leaves Augusto Pinochet innocent of at least one gruesome crime. If Neruda was assassinated, Pinochet’s legacy will be darkened even more than it already is…and appropriately so.
Incidentally, I first learned of Pablo Neruda’s escape when I began researching his life for a novel I planned to write about him. For me, the challenge lay in how to write a novel from the point of view of one of the greatest imaginative minds of the 20th century. This was either extreme hubris on my part or plain nuttiness. But I wanted to present Neruda’s vivid, unruly imagination, and to show how it could both exacerbate and ameliorate the extreme danger in which he and the others found themselves, deep in the disastrous mountains. That was the plan. That’s what the novel would describe.
Pablo Neruda won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1971. His fame now is greater than ever.
Terence Clarke is doing the research for a new novel titled The Splendid City, in which Pablo Neruda is the main character. The novel is an imagining of Neruda’s 1949 escape from Chile. This piece appeared originally in Huffington Post.
Liberal democracies did not simply spring from a void. According to Timothy Ferris in his compendious and very informative book The Science of Liberty: Democracy, Reason and the Laws of Nature, democracies came along as the natural result of the scientific inquiry that so informed The Enlightenment and later eye-opening intellectual movements.
Over the past few centuries, two transformations — one scientific, the other democratic — have altered the thinking and the wellbeing of the human species. The scientific revolution is still gathering momentum, but has already revealed more about the universe than had been learned in all prior history… The democratic revolution has spread freedom and equal rights to nearly half the world’s inhabitants, making democracy the preference of informed peoples everywhere.
Early in the book, Ferris draws the distinction between deductive and inductive reasoning. Deduction, he writes, “reasons from first principles and [rejects] any precept about which [one] could conjure any doubt.” Induction is “an approach that starts with observation and adduces hypotheses from them.” So, in the first system of thought, one can believe that God is great and that all observable phenomena in the universe derive from that August Figure’s consciousness.
In the second system, a scientist looks at a hitherto unobserved form of light, shares his observations with other scientists and the resulting lively debate results in something like the Big Bang theory or quantum mechanics. Ferris points out how “this is the opposite of starting with a deeply held faith and accumulating evidence to support it,” (i.e. deductive reasoning). “Scientists have a story of discovery to tell,” (i.e. inductive reasoning) “…dogmatists, a story of obedience to authority.”
The Science of Liberty is a primer on the history of science and liberal democracies since The Enlightenment. Ferris includes many short biographies of individuals who either were scientists, or who supported scientific inquiry on the part of others. So we get revealing brief lives of such as Galileo, Thomas Jefferson, Francis Bacon, Thomas Edison, David Hume, Queen Elizabeth I of England, Winston Churchill, Nikola Tesla, Thomas Paine and many, many others.
To support his arguments for scientific inquiry as the natural birthplace of liberal democracies (and vice versa), Ferris also gives us detailed views of a couple of dictatorial governments and their “scientific” efforts. To read the chapter titled “Totalitarian Antiscience” is to receive a fundamental lesson in the dangerous stupidity of such leaders as Adolph Hitler, Joseph Stalin and Mao Zedong. We learn of the totalitarian, ideologically-driven practices of science among such stellar and murderous non-entities as the Germans Robert Ritter, “whose data were employed by the SS to dispatch Gypsies to Auschwitz,” and Ernst Wenzler, “who coordinated a pediatric euthanasia program that killed thousands of children”.
The Soviet Union gave us Trofim Denisovich Lysenko, who fathered the collectivist agriculture polices that resulted in many millions of deaths across Stalin’s intellectually suffocated territories. Mao Zedong’s politically prescribed and nutty scientific certitudes caused The Great Leap Forward, and even worse famines and numberless deaths.
It’s no surprise that leaders like these so hate spirited scientific debate and liberal argument. Those practices dispute the crackbrain truisms and outright falsehoods that they use to keep them in power.
One of my favorite chapters in the The Science of Liberty — sadly for me — is titled “Academic Antiscience.”
Once the liberal democracies had prevailed against fascism and communism — vanquishing, with the considerable help of their scientific and technological prowess, the two most dangerously illiberal forces to have arisen in modern times — you might think that academics would have investigated the relationship between science and liberalism. But instead, academic discourse took a radical turn from which it has not yet fully recovered.
Ferris goes on to describe how “radical academics began challenging science itself, claiming that it was just ‘one among many truth games,’ and could not obtain objective knowledge because there was no objective reality.” Ferris gives a history of the development of such thought, mentioning scholars like Martin Heidegger, Jacques Derrida and Paul de Man. The “deconstruction” movement in literary criticism comes in for special attention from Ferris.
I myself gave up on Derrida and the others long ago because they seem simply unable to write clearly. Their language is gibberish obfuscation. It is glutted with so much jarring, barely readable clumsiness that it seems to me an effort at some sort of un-understandable oracular self-importance intended to keep the poor reader out, rather than to bring him or her in. Very often I wonder if Professor So-and-So has ever read the Shakespeare play about which he is writing, since the professor’s language is so torturously illegible in its logic and irredeemably boring in its flow. Shakespeare, a great comic writer and a master of irony, would be doubling over in laughter at the striving foolishness of such writing.
I scuttled an academic career in English Literature years ago because of the language that it seemed to me I would have to learn in order to be taken seriously by my academic colleagues. Timothy Ferris has dispelled any second thoughts I may have had about it with his revelation that “Derrida got the term ‘deconstruction’ from Heidegger (who got it from a Nazi journal edited by Herman Göring’s cousin).”
It was an awakening for me to learn just how influentially damaging this movement has been, both to the pursuit of science in universities, as well as the study of the arts in those institutions. For me, much of literary criticism these days is academic anti-language, and Ferris’s spirited attack on its use in scientific as well as literary studies is refreshing, to say the least.
Researched in amazing detail, and vividly well written, The Science of Liberty is a book that anyone interested in science, history, modern politics and the future of creativity should read.
(This piece first appeared in Huffington Post.)
“Excuse me,” the man said. He stood across from me in an elevator of the building in which I was working, at 8th and 34th in Manhattan. “I think you are not American.”
His accent was Hispanic.
A large smile appeared. “For one, you say things like ‘Good morning’ and ‘How are you?'” I had seen him many times on the elevator in the few months since I had moved into my office, but we had not spoken.
“Aren’t you talking more about someone who isn’t from New York?” I said.
“Could be, and I am from Cuba.”
“Yes, and you say ‘Good morning’ now and then. I’ve heard it.”
“Occasionally, even though I’ve lived in New York almost all my life.”
“Well, you’re right,” I said. “I’m from California.”
“Ah, that explains it.” The man’s grin exposed many perfectly aligned teeth.
“Your seeming so foreign.”
I lived in Manhattan for two years during the late 1990s, and felt—the whole time—that I was little more than a tourist. I was aware of John Updike’s remark that “the true New Yorker secretly believes that people living anywhere else have to be, in some sense, kidding.” Now that I was living in New York, I understood how accurate his observation was. There is no town in the world like this one. Sure, San Francisco has its rattling cable cars and Golden Gate. Paris its Louvre and that famous revolution. London its now-sapped British empirical glory. Dublin its James Joyce. Istanbul the Straits of Bosporus.
But hey! None of those is New York.
I came back to San Francisco and sat on my experiences of New York for 10 years, thinking that surely I’d be kidding myself if I attempted to write anything about the place. To do so, I thought I would have to have lived there all my life. I worried that the city is too enormous and too varied to be understood by anyone, without his having walked its streets since birth. But then I learned that almost half of New York’s population was born not only somewhere else, but in a language other than English. Hundreds of places somewhere else. I figured, if they can live here and not be kidding, so could I… and moreover, I had the ability to describe the experience.
Almost all the stories I’ve written about New York feature characters who are from elsewhere, almost all of them speaking English as a second language. But as was the case when I lived in Manhattan, these people in my stories are citizens of New York City in essential ways, the fact of their exotic birthplace being one of the most important. The languages alone in New York City (perhaps every language in the world is spoken in those few square miles by somebody) exemplify its ethnic and cultural madness…a very good thing, in my view. Those of our citizens who decry ethnic diversity, and who grasp desperately at the idea that the United States is an English-speaking, Christian nation whose white people are its political and cultural arbiters, clearly have not enjoyed a couple days in Manhattan. Of course, with such ideas as theirs, those few days might be terrifying for them. But for those who realize that the United States is, as touted, a nation of immigrants from every continent, New York is the city where you can find the resultant burst of extraordinary world fruition.
Two books helped me immensely, although neither had much to do with flights of fictional fantasy in contemporary New York. Eric W. Sanderson’s Mannahatta: A Natural History of New York City contains everything you ever wanted to know about Manhattan as it was on September 12, 1609, the day that Henry Hudson dropped anchor off the island. The geological history of the island, how it once lay on the ocean floor, then was part of a vast mountain range, finally the sea-level vestige of that mountain range, and many other iterations along the way, are all included in this book. As well, the book tells how the verdant natural settings of the island have been changed by the influx of human beings since that day in 1609.
Gotham: A History of New York City to 1898 by Edwin G. Burroughs and Mike Wallace is THE history of what those humans did in New York up to the end of the 19th century. Overall it is my favorite book of history ever, and I had the pleasure of reading it while I was living in New York. That allowed me to go to places and surround myself in my imagination with occurrences that are so vividly portrayed in Gotham.
Both these volumes are fueled by the juggernauts of geology and history that made New York what it is today. For my fictional purposes, both presented the fluid, immense noise and excitement of New York, whether it be an island propelled by a tectonic plate into the east coast of what would become the American continent, or an explosively imagined settlement where much of the history of the American continent would be determined, written…and written about.
For a writer of fiction, one of the beauties of living in San Francisco, as I now do, is that San Francisco is a small, sophisticated city holding—barring the next earthquake—to the edge of the west coast. It has fine music, great opera, a ton of writers, wonderful art and terrific food. In my case, because of its relative quiet, it also provides a place of one’s own in which to think calmly about New York.
(Terence Clarke’s story collection New York will be published in book form next year. This piece first appeared in Huffington Post.)
Critics, ever in the back seat, have yet written marvelously about the graphic arts. When I first read E. H. Gombrich’s The Story of Art, I thought that being an art historian would be something to which I could aspire. The book is still a must for anyone who knows little about the history of Western art and wants to know a lot more. At the time, I knew almost nothing about that history, having survived university without ever taking the time to go to the school’s art museum.
The trouble was that, by the time I did read Gombrich, I was in my mid-20s and married to an artist who had insisted that I read his book, maybe to make myself less embarrassing at art openings. I had also written a couple of unpublished novels. Those agonizingly arrived-at works nonetheless had convinced me that, really, I would be happier making my own art. The only disappointment was that my art would be made of the ever un-beautiful, gracelessly utilitarian typewriter script with which I had to work. The tools—and the talent—that resulted in Velásquez’s portrait of Juan de Pareja were not to be mine.
I was able eventually to read sufficient criticism and history—John Ruskin, Robert Hughes, Kenneth Clark and others—to have serviceable enough knowledge to write about art. But it required my own imaginative powers to express how I truly felt about what I was viewing. I simply did not have the technical chops to explain how a painting works, either in terms of its shapes or the materials and tools used to make it. In the time-honored phrase, I knew what I liked.
The Mexicans interested me tremendously. For one, they weren’t Europeans, a single fact that goes a long way to explaining why they are so special. The unique mixture in Mexico of the vernal, myth-fueled sensitivities of the indigenous peoples and the crazy otherworldly enthusiasms of the Spanish conquistador artists made for something entirely unique. When I saw the great Rivera murals in the National Palace in Mexico City and the heart-chilling Orozco depictions of The Conquest at the then-orphanage in Guadalajara, I realized a more earth-bound pagan-animist consciousness than what I had read about in so much of western European, heaven-touring art. Diego Rivera’s earth-mothers and colossal Indian cityscapes and Jose Clemente Orozco’s flame-wrapped, man-angel swirling into the Guadalajara universe struck my heart.
I recently completed a novel in which I created a fictional Mexican artist whose work has the same combination of fruitful grit and celestial transformation of these and so many other Mexican artists. He comes to San Francisco, California and determines to paint murals across the entirety of the outside of the Cathedral of Saint Mary in that city (which actually exists, at the corner of Gough and Geary Streets). The local archbishop thinks the artist and his ideas crackpot, and therein lies the tale. Jesús Lázaro is the artist, and The Notorious Dream of Jesús Lázaro is the book I’ve written about him.
When I started it, I knew that I would have to describe Jesús’s fictional art. What I had always thought necessary in writing about actual art became, precisely, the task at hand. But while the Mona Lisa has qualities that are abundantly evident, in my case the paintings I describe do not exist at all. So my writing took on all the responsibility of providing for the reader’s emotional response. The reader of my book can only imagine the painting, and I have to give him/her the words that bring that imagining to flower.
That’s difficult enough when you’re presenting some sort of social scene, which is the basic stuff of almost all fiction. But describing an entire individual piece of art that is so ephemeral as to not be there at all is a different task. Luckily for me, it was a lot of fun, which lightened the burden considerably. But nonetheless, I would love to see Jesús Lázaro’s paintings, wherever they may be, to see if I got them right.
(The Notorious Dream of Jesús Lázaro was published in May 2015. This piece originally appeared in Huffington Post.)
If, like me, you live on Russian Hill in San Francisco, or if you care for fine and adventurous writing, Ben Tarnoff’s The Bohemians: Mark Twain and The San Francisco Writers Who Reinvented American Literature is for you. Mark Twain lived and wrote in San Francisco for a few years in the 1860s, and he formed close friendships with a few other writers in this city. San Francisco was far from the action of The Civil War, but was seeing meteoric growth because of it. The Gold Rush had more or less played out, but the city was becoming a manufacturing and shipping hub, and there was an unusual number of newspapers and magazines, all of which needed typesetters and writers.
Twain and Bret Harte were men with both these talents, and in San Francisco they formed, with the poets Ina Coolbrith and Charles Warren Stoddard, a literary group that became known as The Bohemians. The West in general, and California (and San Francisco) in particular, were the home of a remarkable literary boom that was fueled principally by these four people. Its signature style – particularly in the work of Twain and Harte – was notable for its use of western slang, a kind of swagger and drawl that at first was more a spoken style than a formal written one. The tall tales of the far west used that slang to great popular amusement. Twain and Harte wrote the finest examples of it…in Twain’s case “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County” published in 1865, and in Harte’s “The Luck of Roaring Camp” in 1868. Both men became celebrities, and were lionized nationwide once they were recognized by east coast publishers like William Dean Howells, who held themselves as the arbiters of literary taste in the United States at the time.
Twain’s career went on to become legend, while with time those of the other three writers faded. The Bohemians shows nonetheless that the four of them wrote in ways that opened an entirely new American writing that was freed of the restraints imposed on it by its until-then adherence to straitened European standards of decorum. You could now write about the wilds of America out west, and do it in the language of the west. It was a revolutionary moment in American letters.
Writing about the beginnings of this literary flourish, Tarnoff says this: “The Far West offered a possible path forward. On the frontier, the rudiments of a new kind of writing were beginning to take shape. It would succeed only on its own terms, not by slavish emulation of New England or the wholesale adoption of Atlantic tastes, but by discovering the value of its local materials, by broadening its vision to see what was hiding in plain sight.”
Writers are often pictured as solitary individuals wrestling with their own thoughts in isolation and worry. When they are in the actual act of writing, this is usually true. But as so often happens, the collaborative exchange of ideas and feelings between writers is equally important to what they eventually put on the page. Tarnoff writes with great feeling about the friendship that these four writers shared in rough and tumble San Francisco, and the eventual breakdown of that friendship as Twains’s star rose and those of the others faded. Bret Harte was an invaluable editor to Twain, Stoddard and Coolbrith, while Twain helped his friends with advice, affection and, occasionally, money. Ina Coolbrith’s home on Russian Hill was the scene of many conversations, cups of tea, and the sharing of ideas and inspirations. Emblematic of the affection that these writers had for each other, at least during their time together in San Francisco, is a remark that Ina Coolbrith made to Charles Warren Stoddard: “The friendship between us has been more to me than the love of any man.”
Many other compelling characters figure in this fine book. The wealthy San Francisco society woman Jesse Benton Frémont was instrumental to the beginnings of the Bohemian flowering, as was a Unitarian preacher named Thomas Starr King, a riveting public speaker whose 1864 funeral was attended by 20,000 San Franciscans. Artemus Ward, a famous comedian and best-selling author, was on tour, and befriended Mark Twain in San Francisco. His influence was instrumental to Twain’s own development as a comic writer and, above all, a major public figure.
Terence Clarke’s new novel The Notorious Dream of Jesús Lázaro, about an artist in San Francisco, will be published later this year. This piece first appeared in Huffington Post.