Sunday, May 20, 2018

Nature, Wisdom, Spirit, Mother

[Cross-posted to By Common Consent]

This is an expanded and re-written version of a Mother's Day sermon I gave in church last week, on May 13, 2018. Please see the note attached at the conclusion of the post.

I'm pretty certain that ever since I became old enough to wonder about matters theological, I hadn't been all that enthused by the Mormon idea of Mother in Heaven. The Christian message which consistently spoke (and still speaks) most strongly to me was Pauline, Augustinian, and Lutheran; I took (and still take) seriously the omniscience and omnipresence of God presented through the Biblical tradition, and saw His relationship with us as profoundly grace-centered and not at all humanist. This left little room in my thinking for the discourse about Heavenly Mother that I was most familiar with, which seemed rooted in deeply literal and humanist presumptions about God's identity, sexuality, and relationships. "In the heav’ns are parents single?/ No, the thought makes reason stare! / Truth is reason; truth eternal / Tells me I’ve a mother there"--to a great many of my fellow Mormons, for many years, the claim made in this old hymn seems both persuasive and obvious. But it wasn't for me.

I write all that in the past tense, though, because not too long ago I read an essay which made me realize that maybe, just maybe, I've actually been thinking about, and perhaps even worshiping, Mother in Heaven all along. But let me work around to that.

Over the past two years, a large number of the trees which once lined the run-off beside the street in front of our home were affected by a blight, and were removed by the city. Last summer, they were replaced with saplings--many of which, I noticed over our long dry winter, got snapped off. Maybe the wind did it, but more likely it was stupid kids wandering along the street. And yet today all of them, even those that were left stubby and close to the ground, are growing. Rain finally came to this part of Kansas, and growth has too.

One of the most common themes in our sacrament meetings is "gratitude," and this is something I'm grateful for: the abundance of the natural world all around us, the rhythm of growth that returns, again and again, even in the face of all the harm we do to creation. It's an abundance we are invited, despite all our environmental crimes, to contribute to and benefit from, and by so doing learn from as well. That's something else to be grateful for: the satisfaction--and the often humbling learning which precedes that feeling of satisfaction--of being a part of nature's cycle of renewal and bounty. I grew up working in gardens, bailing hay, tromping through alfalfa fields, milking cows by hand, and the productive interplay of us human beings with the growing, gracious things that fill our stomachs with food and our minds with beauty is something that, even as an academic, attends much of my thinking. If you're looking for a romantic agrarian, someone who enjoys weeding the tomato plants and contemplating the meaning of the soil as I turn it over with a spade, you've got one right here. 

The week before I was assigned to speak, we sang in church one of my favorite hymns: "All Creatures of our God and King." The fourth verse, in particular, caught by eye:

Dear Mother Earth, who day by day
Unfoldest blessings on our way,
Alleluia! Alleluia!
The flowers and fruits that in thee grow,
Let them His glory also show.
Alleluia! Alleluia!
Alleluia! O praise Him! Alleluia!

The lyrics of this hymn are a slightly changed version of those composed by William H. Draper, who in the early 1900s translated St. Francis of Assisi’s poem "Canticle of the Sun," which was written around 1224, and inspired by the 148th Psalm. Here's a translation of the relevant passage from the poem:

Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Mother Earth,
who sustains us and governs us and who produces
varied fruits with colored flowers and herbs.

Draper was inspired to see in that poem a hymn something he wanted to his congregation to be able to hear and sing for a Whitsunday service--Whitsunday being an old English liturgical term for the Day of Pentecost, the day, seven weeks after Easter, that the Christian world celebrates the blessing of Holy Ghost which comes to surround and sustain Jesus's disciples and all who come into His community. There is a reason, I think, why this particular work by St. Francis spoke to Draper as he made plans for this holy day--specifically, the association between the manifold gifts of the spirit, and the diverse fecundity of the natural world, which Francis placed all together in his poem as a family: Brother Sun, Sister Moon, Brother Wind, Sister Water, Brother Fire. Note, though, that his "Nature" is not only a sibling; she is also a "Mother," by which and through which the governing, productive rule of life--the fruit and herbs we consume from the world, and the flowers by which it is decorated--is sustained.

Where did this idea come from, that the natural world, the world we work in and are sustained and enlightened by, is both feminine and maternal? If you turn to non-Christian history and mythology, there are plenty of ancient examples: Durga in Hinduism, Gaia from the Greeks. But these deities often are understood as embodying the wildness of the natural world, and are indifferent to, or often hostile towards, actual human beings. What of the image of nature as something which mothers us, feeds and teaches and overseas and loves us, and to which we owe the respect that we do to a mother?

The earliest example of a "Mother Nature" that I know of came from the pen of the French cleric Alain de Lille, who wrote, perhaps 60 years before St. Francis's "Canticle," a Latin work of theology titled (in translation) The Plaint of Nature. There is much in this work of prose and verse which audiences today might find strange or offensive--but it also gave the Christian world, for the first time we have record of, the idea of Nature as a ruling, feminine figure:

O child of God, the mother of Creation, bond of the universe and its stable, who by your reins guide the universe, unite all things in a stable and harmonious bond and wed heaven to earth in a union of peace; who, working on the pure idea of Divine Wisdom, mold the species of all created things...

In the words of James Sheridan, translator of The Plaint, Nature comes to declare that "it was God's will that by a mutually related circle of birth and death, transitory things should be given stability by instability, endlessness by endings, eternity by temporariness, and that the series of things should ever be knit by successive renewals of birth." The idea of an immanent order, always linked, always disciplining, always rewarding.

I learned about Alain de Lille's Plaint from a long essay by Wendell Berry, the poet, novelist, critic, farmer, and agrarian, who once famously declared “I’d rather rely on Mother Nature’s wisdom than man’s cleverness.” Contained in his latest collection, The Art of Loading Brush, "The Presence of Nature in the Natural World" is a deep dive into the depictions of nature in the history of English literature, and its influence on consequent writings about conservation and farming. His study is often a tendentious one (he doesn't like industrial agriculture, or tractors, for that matter), but it is revealing nonetheless. His aim to remind his readers that observers of the natural world have consistently recognized that there is an order to it, a miraculous rhythm that follows a mysterious logic which we can learn from, but never master.

Berry is a Christian, a man who knows the Bible very well, but who sometimes has a problem with the conventionality of Christianity in America. He is drawn to those who seem to him to respect the mystery, the glory, the stern wonder of creation, rather than those who want to explain it all in some tidy ideological or theological package. Thomas Merton, a French Catholic who settled in a monastery in Kentucky, where Berry also lives, wrote a prose poem about the “Hagia Sophia” or “divine wisdom,” an ancient Christian idea found in 1 Corinthians 2:7 ( “But we speak the wisdom of God in a mystery, even the hidden wisdom, which God ordained before the world unto our glory”) which Alain de Lille associated with the "mother of Creation," and Francis of Assisi with "Sister Mother Earth": "There is," Merton wrote, "in all visible things an invisible fecundity, a dimmed light, a meek namelessness, a hidden wholeness. This mysterious Unity and Integrity is Wisdom, the Mother of all, Natura naturans."

In the centuries between Alain de Lille of the 12th century and Berry and Merton of the 20th, many other authors strove to capture the order, surprise, and wisdom of nature--and again and again, their intuition of such took feminine and maternal forms. Geoffrey Chaucer's poem The Parlement of Foules presents Mother Nature as the "vicar of the almighty Lord" who "hot, cold, heavy, light, moist, and dry / Hath knit by even numbers of accord," bringing a wise balance to the renewing, reproducing processes of of nature. Edmund Spenser's Two Cantos of Mutabilitie, which were appended to The Faerie Queene, also gives us the "great dame Nature / With goodly Port and gracious Majesty / Being far greater and more tall of Stature / Than any of the Gods or Powers on high," who, when confronted with the challenge of Mutability, imposes a larger, deeper, unseeable order upon the changeableness of creation. John Milton’s allegorical poem Comus presents us with Nature ("the Lady") wisely resisting those that would indulge in nature’s bounty, instead insisting on "Temperance" so that "Nature’s full blessings would be well dispensed in...even proportion."

This only scratches the surface of this one linguistic, poetic tradition (Berry goes on to consider the realization of Nature, and its wise discipline, in the works of Pope, Wordsworth, and Ezra Pound as well), but the themes, I think, are clear. For many Christian artists and thinkers, to take seriously God's creation is to take seriously the idea that some part of God, or something suitably God-like, overseas it, blesses it, makes it meaningful and a source of bounty and wisdom to those who tend to it, and issues a reproach to those who do not. Is this Mormon doctrine, or even Christian, for that matter? Not directly. But the more that I think about it, the less I can read any of revelations of Joseph Smith dealing with the natural world, with their insistence upon bounty, respect, patience, and humble and equitable use--see Doctrine and Covenants 49:18-21, D&C 59:15-21, or D&C 104:14-18--without imaging a distinctly maternal, a loving but also wise and watchful, eye behind them. It is the same loving (but unsentimental) eye I think sometimes I can see through, when I look upon our often frustrating, but just as often rewarding, front yard flower and strawberry patch, when it is weeded and well-watered and flourishing. In it, I sometimes see something more than my work--I see labor in the soil made meaningful. Guided, one might say, to becoming a part of the abiding spiritual rhythms of the natural world.

I realize that if this is an argument for Mother in Heaven, it is a distinctly panentheistic one, with some feminine element of the divine being made manifest through (though not necessarily being identical to) God's creation. I'm happy with that accusation, though. I think it is necessary, if one insists upon doing theology, to be willing to consider such categories, or else one is going to be stuck with a terribly reductive literalism (case in point: the plain comment by Mormon apostle Erastus Snow in March 1878 that "I must believe that deity consists of man and woman" and that we Mormons worship a "Godhead composing two parts, male and female" causing a minor hermaphroditic freak-out in the footnotes to the BYU Studies article cited above).

In the same way that we Christian believers need to be willing to think expansively about we mean when we talk about the Holy Ghost in the connection with Pentecost--remember that in the Fifth of Smith's early Lectures on Faith the Holy Spirit, which in Biblical history begins with the idea of the ruach Elohim or the Breath of God, was identified with the mind of God the Father--we similarly need to think expansively about Heavenly Mother. Might She be that title which we could give (and maybe, through Mother Nature, always have given) to that part of God which is invested in creation, in the wise, tutelary, fecund impulse which governs nature and those of use who live off of and through its creative rewards? No scriptural account that I consider at all inspired says so, in so many words. But lately, I find I'm persuaded that it makes sense.

In the Mother's Day service where I gave the original version of this sermon, the Primary children sang two songs: "Mother Dear" and "My Heavenly Father Loves Me." Both wonderful, sweet songs. And yet, the association they make together--one song about the love one has for mothers, the other about an appreciation for creation--can be achieved much more directly, I thought, by just one song, one of the wisest Primary tunes of all:

I often go walking in meadows of clover,
And I gather armfuls of blossoms of blue.
I gather the blossoms the whole meadow over;
Dear mother, all flowers remind me of you.

O mother, I give you my love with each flower
To give forth sweet fragrance a whole lifetime through;

[And this, right here, I think, is the key verse, the one that really brings it all home:]

For if I love blossoms and meadows and walking,
I learned how to love them, dear mother, from you.

Blossoms and meadows and walking. Which mother did that teaching, do you suppose? The child's, presumably. But also...maybe, another One as well? Some patient mothering spirit or thought, some sehnsucht that calls to us, without us knowing why or how, helping us see something meaningful, something orderly, in every spring surprise, in every growing and good thing. In the Book of Mormon, Alma claimed that "the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it...denote there is a God." He didn't know the half of it, perhaps. Paying attention to, and learning to be properly grateful for the other Half, the Half that we've always known, and named Mother Nature, and yet not always fully seen, may be one of our tasks today. It is one that I long thought I'd dismissed--but yet, I think now that I've been looking for Her all along.

PLEASE NOTE: It has been pointed out to me that the initial premise behind this whole post--seeing Heavenly Mother in and through the concept of Mother Nature--was originally suggested to me by another Mormon blogger, Cynthia Lee, and in writing it, I had completely forgotten her contribution. For that I want to apologize, fully and sincerely. Moreover, the fact that I did that, and probably have done so many times before, particularly in regards to matters involving women in the church, is not only a terrible--and likely much too frequent--mark on my character, but it is reflective of so much casual, oblivious sexism in the way both theological speculation and ordinary practice is performed in the Mormon church. I first thought to take the whole post down, but other female bloggers I know have suggested leaving it up, as an opportunity for conversation and learning. I am one of the first in need of that, and I am grateful for their understanding.

Saturday, May 19, 2018

Songs of '78: "Sultans of Swing"

Dire Straits is one of those bands that crept into my consciousness, with me only realizing years afterward that I'd been listening to them for a long time. "Sultans of Swing" is a great example of this. ("Brothers in Arms" is another.) It's a fine, sharp, groovy song, almost as much jazz-fusion as rock and roll, which is characteristic of so much of Mark Knopfler remarkable guitar playing; it's the sort of intricate, unfolding, clever composition which rewards re-listening. Maybe that's why it took it so long after its release as a single on May 19, 1978--the first release off their first album, Dire Straits, which didn't appear until October of that year, and didn't make it to the United States until "Sultans" caught on and started getting radio play later in 1979--to finally get some recognition. But that's been Knopfler's fate from the beginning, hasn't it? He's the pop musician's pop musician: playing with everyone, adding his quiet, unexpected turns of phrasing and layers of sound to recordings across a dozen genres (I didn't truly and fully become of Knopfler fanatic until I heard his magisterial recording of the old folk broadside "Lily of the West" with The Chieftains), doing lovely, incredible work in his own unobtrusive way. Somebody should have seen it coming right from the start of his cool playing, with his smart lyrics floating above the chords. Well, lots of people probably did; I had to figure it out later. But that's the thing about 1978; there was so much more going on than most of us could have realized at the time. "Sultans" was a part of that, for certain.

Wednesday, May 16, 2018

Songs of '78:"Life's Been Good"

I've never smoked, never consumed any kind of alcoholic beverage, never taken any drug that wasn't an over-the-counter painkiller or something prescribed by a doctor. I've been married to the same woman for 25 years this August, and I was a virgin when she and I married. The only time I've ever been arrested was when I participated in a political at an old nuclear weapons testing site on Native American land. My preferred way of staying up late is binging stuff on Netflix. Plus, I'm a Mormon. So, in other words, I really can't relate whatsoever to the whole romantic rock and roll lifestyle. Some people for whom all of the above applies can perhaps can pull it off nonetheless, but not me, and I certainly couldn't as a kid just beginning to absorb these rock and roll legends in the late 1970s. But that doesn't matter, not for me, not for anyone--because we can just listen to Joe Walsh's ridiculous, wonderful, "Life's Been Good," and we can understand the whole thing just fine.

He first contributed the song to a film soundtrack that disappeared almost as soon as it was released, then stuck it on his album But Seriously, Folks, which hit the shelves 40 years ago today. The version on the album was over 8 minutes in length; it was cut to 4 1/2 minutes for single release release, but this rambling, self-referential rock and roll anthem--maybe the greatest of all time, though later this year there will be at least one more serious contender--deserves to be heard in all its stoned glory. Like right here.

Thursday, May 10, 2018

Songs from '78: "Miss You"

This is the big one, folks--or at least, the beginning of the biggest, the first single from the band and the album that looms larger in my mind than almost anything else I associate with listening to rock music on AM radio as prepubescent kid in 1978. It's not hard to find praise for Some Girls; it is often labeled the final great Rolling Stones album, and maybe even their greatest ever (an opinion I concur with). And "Miss You" is a terrific song, making use of Jagger's preternaturally tired and lecherous vocals, Ron Wood's guitar meshing with Keith Richards, and Bill Wyman and Charlie Watt's providing an almost-but-not-quite disco beat. After "Miss You" came a host of other great songs, and I'm not sure I'm going to be able to avoid talking about how they hit me, and continue to hit me, over four decades of time. Thus far I've only highlighted one single by each artist, and I'd like to stick with that--but I don't think I can with the Stones.

Why? Why wasn't I, the good Mormon boy, as freaked out by music from the Rolling Stones as I was by Van Halen or Rush (don't worry; we'll be getting to them later)? I suppose it was pretty simple: there was no easy or obvious hook upon which a Christian kid like me, taught to be suspicious of possible Satanism, could have hung this iteration of the Rolling Stones when I first heard them (yes, I hear you all shouting about Their Satanic Majesties Request and "Sympathy for the Devil," but I didn't connect those with the Stones until sometime later), and anyway, I was just too young to appreciate how creepy the Stones's lyrics here and elsewhere really were. At the same time, their melodies, their riffs, their energy (even when it was coiled and louche like it is here) was able to capture my still-forming pop music sensibilities. These guys have something going on, is what I suppose I thought about at the time. I knew little about the history of rock and roll, and I probably didn't start to piece together the story of the Rolling Stones and the Beatles and all the rest for quite a while. Still, there I was, listening to KJRB 790 and getting my kicks from these songs that had such--though I wouldn't have used these terms back then even if I'd known them--bluesy, sexual, and ass-kicking power to them. And that power endures. I like the early Stones, sure, and I actually have a lot of fondness for some of their early 90s work, like Voodoo Lounge, which was the point, nearly 25 years ago, when I suppose you could say that Jagger and Richards came to an agreement that they were just going to consistently play the best damn Rolling Stones Tribute Show imaginable for the rest of their lives, and you have to admit: its worked really well for them so far. But 40 years ago, the power of the Stones was still fresh enough, and challenging enough, I think, to set a kid's mind on fire with their tunes. They did me, that's for certain.

Sunday, May 06, 2018

Songs from '78: "Runnin' with the Devil"

No tricks here, folks: Van Halen's second single, "Runnin' with the Devil," released 40 years ago today off of their debut album, Van Halen, was the first heavy metal/hard rock song I can remember hearing, and it scared the crap out of little 10-year-old me. Why? At one point or another in those early radio-listening days of mine, I heard the Rolling Stones, Journey, Cheap Trick, and more; why were these power chords and guitar pyrotechnics so unnerving? Heck, I'd probably already heard Van Halen's blistering cover of "You Really Got Me" by the time I heard this song, and despite Eddie Van Halen's amazing fingerwork, I probably didn't even put it together in my head that they were the same band. Why not? Duh--because the "Runnin' with the Devil" people were obviously Satanists, that's why. 

I mean, of course they aren't. But while my Mormon home and Mormon parents were never as freaked out by rock music as many other conservative Protestant and Catholic families were (it was Dungeons and Dragons, rather than stuff on the radio, that caused the most contention over church standards in my teen-age years), still, it was pretty clear to only-barely-adolescent me that long-haired men with no or open shirts singing about "the Devil" were obviously working for Beelzebub. The fact that the lyrics to the song itself provided no evidence for such whatsoever was, of course, something that I only realized years later.

When, exactly? Maybe four or so years later, by which time anyone who paid any attention to "Entertainment Tonight" or read People magazine or were one of the early adopters of MTV--which I probably first watched at a summer debate camp which included staying in dorm rooms which had cable television--already knew that there were tensions in the band (I have no way of proving it, but I swear my memory tells me that some Boy Scout on a campout around 1983 or so told me and a bunch of others that Sammy Hagar was auditioning to replace David Lee Roth--all this before 1984 was even out!). I don't know--maybe just I figured that any band which could record such a rocking, wonderful, and (from the perspective of today) ridiculously crude version of "Pretty Woman" can't be all bad. Going back and appreciating the power of those late 70s songs made me feel like a mighty grown-up 14-year-old. I don't feel the same today, obviously...but "Runnin' with the Devil" still rocks.

Monday, April 30, 2018

Songs from '78: "Cocaine"

More cheating. Eric Clapton's version of "Cocaine," a deliriously ambiguous rock song by J.J. Cale--a song that Clapton has insisted is "cleverly anti-cocaine"--appeared in 1977 on his tremendous album Slowhand. It wasn't released as a single, but got a lot of airplay (mostly on FM stations) all the same; and it was the B-side of "Lay Down Sally," a county blues tune that slow climbed up the charts through 1978, peaking in April, forty years ago this month, so plenty of people flipped the single over and gave "Cocaine" a listen. It finally got a proper release and made it onto the radio with a live version recorded at Budokan (everyone was going there, apparently!) that appeared on Just One Night. That was the version which I became familiar with, when I picked up the Clapton collection Timepieces a couple of years later which for the longest time was the only Clapton album I owned. But whenever I first heard it, and whenever it made it onto the radio, it is a song that utterly belongs to the seemingly exhausted, yet still furiously burning, rock world of the late 1970s. Just check out this wonderful, drunken performance; note how everyone in the audience knows all the words. Or, at least, they know when to shout "cocaine!"--which is all that really matters, of course.

Saturday, April 28, 2018

Songs from '78: "I Want You To Want Me" and "Surrender"

I'm cheating here (not for the first time, nor for the last). As much as possible, I'm focusing on just one single, memorable pop and rock track each from artists who released albums that got stuck in my head in 1978. But my memory of what I heard on the radio 40 years ago isn't perfect, sometimes mixing up dates, or sticking something that I learned later back into a context that it was, actually, historically, absent from. That latter circumstance is the case here.

Am I saying I didn't know the music of Cheap Trick? Heaven forbid; they were all over rock radio--I couldn't have avoided them if I wanted to. The thing is, though, it wasn't until years later--specifically with their ballad "The Flame," which for complicated reasons I found myself listening to over and over again late at night in my missionary apartment in the winter of 1988-1989 on my Walkman cassette player with my securely earphones on--that I somehow suddenly put it together: "oh, hey, so THEY were the Live in Budokan guys!" Since I was in South Korea at the time--not that far away!--somehow the realization made my old memories all the more memorable. And so, the association in my head with Cheap Trick's triumph in Japan with my early listening in 1978 was made.

It's not entirely wrong, to be sure. Cheap Trick did record their tremendous live album at Budokan on two nights, April 28th and 30th, in 1978 (though it wasn't released in the U.S. until early the following year). And "I Want You To Want Me," a successful single they'd released the previous year from their second studio album, In Color,  really was completely eclipsed in American radio (and my head!), by the live version they eventually released as well. So maybe my mental reconstruction of when I heard what and in which order isn't perfect...but this bit of blistering, jamming power pop pretty much is, and that's all that really matters.

And while it was never released as a single, the live version of "Surrender," the studio version of which came out as a single in June of 1978, was pretty awesome as well.

Sunday, April 22, 2018

Songs from '78: "King Tut"

Yes, my focus here is on all the great pop and rock that laid foundation for my radio addiction, 40 years ago. But why not include a joke song like Steve Martin's "King Tut"? 1) It was one of the biggest hits of the whole year (not surprising given that some major city radio stations played the song constantly when the traveling exhibit Treasures of Tutankhamun was in the are). 2) It was included as a track on Martin's A Wild and Crazy Guy, a Grammy-winning double-platinum comedy album that is easily one of the greatest stand-up sets ever recorded. 3) It's still the 70s, people; I can do my best to recollect all the excellent music of the era, but still, I can't change the decade it was part of.

Anyway, I have no idea when I first heard this. I wouldn't be surprised if I learned the song from other kids on the elementary school playground, even before I heard it on the radio. (I didn't discover Dr. Demento until sometime in the mid-1980s.) Where would those kids have heard it, seeing as they likely weren't buying comedy albums in the 5th grade? From their older siblings, no doubt, who may have caught the world premier of the song on Saturday Night Live, April 22, 1978:

Oh, incidentally, Steve Martin's achievement wasn't the only cultural breakthrough which made the episode of SNL broadcast exactly 40 years ago tonight one of the most important in the show's entire history: that show also saw a couple of numbers done by a brand new musical outfit, a cool little duo who called themselves, for the very first time, "The Blues Brothers." (And yes, that is Paul Shaffer introducing them. Sorry for the quality of the clips, but you've got to accept what YouTube offers.)

Monday, April 09, 2018

What Wendell Berry's Brush Teaches Us About Capitalism, Community, and "Inevitability"

[Cross-posted to Front Porch Republic]

The Art of Loading Brush: New Agrarian Writings, the latest collection of writings by Wendell Berry, isn't a perfect book, nor the perfect expression of his powerful vision of what constitutes a good life or a good community. In particular the final, essentially autobiographical stories in the book don't really work, I think, as persuasive pieces of writing. But a man of such enormous accomplishments, and of such influence on behalf of localist truths, doesn't need to hit it out of the park every time, especially not at age 83. And in any case, each of the three lengthy critical essays which form the first part of this collection are worth the price of the book alone, so you should pick it up, right now.

In particular, when you read the book, pay close attention to the first essay, "Thoughts of Limits in a Prodigal Age." There is a principle taught therein which may be, I think, crucial to anyone engaged in any kind of effort on behalf of localism today--as well as a lesson echoed in unexpected ways all around us. Consider two examples:

First, a response from the Republican majority in the Kansas state legislature to the recent arguments about gun violence and America's schools. Their proposal: encourage teachers to carry guns to defend themselves and their students from mass shooters (and make sure that the identity of armed teachers is kept secret). Problem: the last time the Kansas legislature attempted this, in 2013, the insurance companies which underwrite the security of Kansas's public schools said they would not be able to justify renewing policies at existing rates if such a bill became law. The proposed solution, in 2018: simply make it illegal for those companies which insure Kansas schools from adjusting their policies as a consequence of gun ownership.

Second, the demands of striking school teachers in West Virginia. In response to legitimate complaints about abysmally low pay and poor teaching conditions, and facing the prospect of a teacher walkout, the legislature offered to use state budget surpluses (when they existed) to better fund public education. The teachers, recognizing the unreliability of such funding promises, engaged in a wildcat strike--defying their own union leaders--that shut down all the public schools in the state for nearly two weeks. The state government caved, agreeing to all the teachers' demands. Initially, some in the legislature warned darkly that paying for teachers' raises would jeopardize other state programs like Medicaid; the governor, however, looking at the polls, said "there’s not a chance on this planet that’s going to be the case."

What do these two ostensibly very different cases--the usually conservative cause of gun rights in the first, the usually liberal cause of public education in the second--have in common? Both present, though probably not on first glance, a challenge to what Berry calls in this essay the reigning doctrine of "inevitability," which is "an economic and technological determinism, as heartless as it is ignorant" (p. 51). It is the assumption that, of course, in the insurance marketplace, in the budgeting process--in anything related to the presumably inevitable logic of the capitalist economy, really--there is always a (presumably) "natural" way that things are going to have to work, and no amount of political grandstanding can ever make a difference. Except, of course, for those times when, as a people's awarenesses expand and their preferences become refined, it does.

Do not think for a moment that Berry is advocating either an ignorance of nor an obliviousness to the laws of nature. On the contrary, tending to the fundamental limits and characteristics of one's land has been central to his work over the decades; he mentions it in his introduction to this collection (agrarianism, he writes, must be characterized by "an informed and conscientious submission to nature, or to Nature, and her laws of conservation, frugality, fullness or completeness, and diversity"--p. 8), and reiterates it in this essay (responsible thinking "has to confront everywhere the limits of both nature and human nature, limits imposed by the ecosphere and ecosystems, limits of human intelligence, human cultures, and the capacities of human persons," all of which must be positively contrasted to "fantasies of limitlessness"--p. 53). All of that may sound like a recognition of inevitability...and it is, in a sense. But Berry's main intention in this essay to show that in our "prodigal age" we have submitted, not to the limits of nature and place, but to artificial limits, constructed limits, limits of process and economic possibility, rather than authentic limits of place. It has been an act of collective (though admittedly, on an individual level, often empowering) ignorance. His name for this ignorance? "Industrialism," which is expressed in the form of a logical determinism which overrules "any need for actual knowledge and actual thought" (p. 51). More:

From its beginnings, industrialism has depended on a general willingness to ignore everything that does not serve the cheapest possible production of merchandise and , therefore, the highest possible profit....[Yet] we must acknowledge real needs that have continued through the years to be real, though unacknowledged: the need to see and respect and inescapable dependence even of our present economy, as of our lives, upon nature and the natural world, and upon the need, just as important, to see and respect our inescapable dependence upon the economies--of farming, ranching, forestry, fishing, and mining--by which the goods of nature are made serviceable to human good (p. 36).

Berry's decision to hang this act of grand intellectual substitution on industrialism is of a piece with the strongly reactionary tone which these essays occasionally take. (In the collection's second essay, "Leaving the Future Behind: A Letter to a Scientific Friends," a grouchy complaint about all those who would use invoke "science" superficially to support their preferred causes, he casually wonders if the possibility of achieving "a reasonably coherent, reasonably self-sufficient and self-determining local economy" for the long term wasn't gravely harmed by the advent of "oceanic navigation" by which humans "traveled the globe"--pp. 83-84). But such contrariness aside, he has a point. For Berry, the industrial process is essentially about turning the productivity of places and persons into economic units--"We have...been turning our country into an economy as fast as possible, and we have been doing so by an unaccounted squandering of its actual, its natural and cultural, wealth" (p. 23)--and is the complete opposite of the localist and agrarian sensibility, which he presents as understanding wealth in association with "the freedom and independence that come with dependence on a parcel of land, however small, that one owns and is owned by or has at least the use of" (p. 47).

That kind of wealth is not measured primarily by profit, but by "provision," a concept Berry turns to repeatedly in this essay. He writes of the "need to provide: to be living a responsible life, which is to say a responsible economic life" (p. 35). All of this comes together, when one looks at the essay as a whole: the work of farming, ranching, mining, lumbering, artisnal manufacturing, etc., are all 1) intimately dependent upon an appreciation of the natural environments within which they are conducted, as well as 2) directly related to the provisioning of human beings. Engaging in such work thus allows for a sense of fulfillment and wealth in the way an industrial economic mindset does not, since the latter turns upon price and productivity, and not upon the--in Berry's view--moral priority of responsibly providing for, or collectively participating in providing for, oneself and one's place (places being defined both naturally and in terms of human community), by patiently bringing needed goods out of the bounteous, demanding, natural world.

When the industrial world--and the expanded reach, access to resources, and opportunities for monetary wealth and excess consumption which it undeniably brought to far more human beings than had ever previously ever been the case in human history--caused many to subject agriculture (as well as many other of the fundamental tasks Berry associates with the agrarian mindset) to the model of economic profit rather than community provision, the moral achievement of the agrarian economic conception was put in jeopardy. The real heart of the essay, then, comes when Berry gives us an analysis of, and mourns the loss of, one form this conception took: namely, the Burley Tobacco Growers Co-operative Association, an arrangement among tobacco growers in Berry's home state which began in 1921, took new life--and, in Berry's view, best performed its careful balancing act--under the New Deal's Federal Tobacco Program beginning in 1941, and was strongly associated with the Berry family through its entire existence until the end of the Program--and thus the end, in Berry's view, of the Association's essential role--in 2004. For a time, Berry writes, the Association "did preserve a sort of balance between industrialism and agrarianism," one which "prevented their inherent difference and opposition from becoming absolute" (p. 47).

How does Berry think the Association managed this feat? You might say they did it by recognizing one inevitability, and democratically working out a way to incorporate it into a system of provision, rather than allowing it to be co-opted by another, more harmful inevitability.

The first inevitability is endemic to commercial agriculture: overproduction. Specifically, since "farmers individually and collectively do not know, and cannot learn ahead of time, the extent either of public need or market demand....[t]hey tend logically, and almost by nature, towards overproduction." Why? Because either "the market is good and they are encouraged," or "the market is bad and they are desperate" (p. 40). Continual surplus production is, of course, bankrupting to any commercial enterprise, farming--and other forms of work characteristic of the agrarian worldview as well--in particular. Before industrialism, with all its benefits and harms, things were different:

The traditional home economies of subsistence, while they lasted, gave farmers...hope of surviving hard times. This was true especially when the chief energy source was the sun, and the dependence on purchased supplies was minimal. As farming became less and less subsistent and more and more commercial, it was exposed ever more nakedly to the vagaries and predation of an economy fundamentally alien to it. When farming is large in scale, is highly specialized, and all needs and supplies are purchased, the farmer's exposure to "the economy" is total (pp. 40-41).

But industrial capitalism, for good and for ill, had by the early decades of the 20th century utterly transformed the responsible agrarian economies of America's past, making markets abstract and global. So how to deal with already constant, and now technologically-increased and market-intensified, push towards overproduction? Not through simply subsidizing farmers in their overproducing practices (according to Berry, his father referred to "direct subsidy payments" as an "abominable form of regimentation"--p. 45). On the contrary, rather than "allowing" farmers to lock themselves into a rat-race of subsidized overproductivity, the independence of the farmer would be achieved through carefully calculated, democratically ratified, and strictly imposed limits.

As Berry thoughtfully, and movingly, describes the Association's careful work, each year every participating farm was allotted, on the basis of their past history of production, a certain acreage they would be allowed to farm. On that limited acreage, tobacco would be produced that would be sold at agreed upon price--"fair prices, fairly determined...with minimal help from the government." The point was not to subsidize farmers without concern for the consequences of their work, but rather to make use of their work in a controlled way, so as to achieve real "parity," which Berry describes as the overall goal of the program. With all (or nearly all) tobacco farmers participating, the Association could obliged buyers to "bid a penny a pound above the support price"; when such buyers, or enough such buyers, could not be found, government assistance would take the form of a loan to the farmer, to cover their losses on that particular crop, which the Federal Tobacco Program would take, and which would be bought and stored by the Association, to be resold later and which, in the meantime, would affect the calculations for allotted acreage for the coming year. And so the program continued for decades--it made no one rich, but it maintained a way of life, even enabled that life to flourish. In 1940, over a third for the farmers in the Association were tenant farmers; by 1970, so many had become farm owners, thus solidifying their place in their communities, that tenant farming described less than 10 percent of participants (pp. 44-46).

So what happened? Well, many things, not the least of which was the growing social and medical consensus against tobacco use in the America (which Berry himself agrees with; while he defends the benefits which the controlled management of the crop brought to the world he grew up and developed his agrarian convictions within, he makes no defense of the crop itself). But perhaps more important was the individualizing temptation of industrialism. When "industrializing members" pushed the Association in 1971 to permit "the lease and transfer of production quotas away from the farms to which they had been assigned," this allowed for the "accumulation of allotments...into very large acreages dependent more upon extensive technology and migrant labor," and thus ultimately a "reduced agrariansim" (pp. 47-48). In other words, the siren song of growth--of profit!

And why shouldn't people be free to seek profits, to choose to maximize their holdings, minimize their costs, and grow their position, both economically and otherwise? Who is to say that some of these farmers might have tired, as the years went by, of the rewarding but limited and labor-intensive world of work that they'd been guaranteed a place in, and wanted to buy their way out? Or perhaps, more simply, they had a large family, or children with diverse interests, and they believed they needed greater incomes--rather than mere "parity" with their neighbors--to satisfy their needs and hopes? That's all part of the American dream of freedom, isn't it?

Berry, predictably, is unconvinced. "To limit production as a way of assuring an equitable return to producers is assuredly and abridgement of freedom. But freedom for what?" (p. 41).

The tobacco farmers of Kentucky and elsewhere, close to a century ago, realized (as did many thousands of other late 19th-century and early 20th-century populists, socialists, and radical reformers) that their agrarian way of life required resisting the supposed "inevitability" of the industrial economy, and developing a plan which stipulated different rules, different priorities, and different ends. Those ends may have been based on a deeper, more natural "inevitability"--but still, in so articulating them, and enforcing them, they presumed some real independence on the part of those farmers, sufficient to choose to support a way of life that they agreed among themselves to be valuable and virtuous. No, they couldn't guarantee themselves that they could maintain that way of life and at the same time enjoy the profitable "freedom" promised by the industrial economy (though such results would only come to those farmers which survived long enough to buy out all their fellows, of course). But they could choose to value their community, their culture, and accept the costs of doing so--and even, as human creativity demonstrates, distribute those costs fairly, and allow for some genuine flourishing along the way.

There is much in this essay I haven't touched upon. (The way Berry connects all of the above to a contempt for rural people, and the combined decision of American business and America's government to get rid of as many farmers as possible, in the name of efficiency, is worth pondering--and his anger at politicians both Republican and Democratic is pleasantly splenetic.) But it's warning about the false, paralyzing inevitability of industrialism and the global economy is, I think, vital. Because, you know, you can actually fully fund public education without cutting social programs, if the community democratically decides to so--it just has to accept that it will require that new taxes be levied. And you can find a way to allow guns in the public schools if the community really prefers that--it just has to accept that additional insurance costs, to avoid unfairness, be borne by the people as a whole (which, again, will probably mean more taxes). As Berry documents at length, it simply isn't true what President Bill Clinton claimed, that "the increasing productivity of agriculture" made inevitable "the shrinking of the farm sector" (pp. 49-50). The success--for several decades, anyway--of the Burley Tobacco Growers Co-operative Association proves that. No, that was a choice--one that followed the assumptions made by thousands of individuals, to be sure, but also assumptions which were enabled by powerful interests, interests which found the agrarian ideal useless and irrelevant in an industrial age.

In the end, Berry's mournful story teaches us that it is not utopian, not ridiculous, to insist upon a different economy than a profit-driven capitalism, a different community than one separated by an industrially determined notion of individual freedom from a sustainable and local engagement with the land. It will take time to do,  it will be complicated, it will probably not last forever, it will not satisfy everyone, and in the meantime it will have costs. But to take those caveats as proof that a thing cannot be done, that the economic and technological logic of growth is simply and always inevitable is to blind oneself a deeper set of possibilities: the possibility of taking collective responsibility for one's place, emphasizing provision over profit, prioritizing public goods and public safety over corporate balance-sheets, and working out, one bit at a time, in Berry's words, "a harmonious balance among a diversity of interests." When it is done right, he concludes, for however long it lasts, "it is a grand masterpiece to behold" (p. 56).

Saturday, April 07, 2018

Songs from '78: "Roxanne"

"Roxanne," The Police's "signature tune according to their bassist, Andy Summers--and he's right; the only song of theirs which might challenge that judgment is, of course, "Every Breath You Take"--as released as a single in the UK today, 40 years ago. It was the second record they'd ever released, and the first with the line-up and look that made them famous (Summers on lead guitar, and Sting with spiky blonde hair), but it didn't fair any better than their first release did. In fact it got no airplay at all until they released their first album Outlandos d'Amour in the United States and toured in support of it the following year; "Roxanne" got some airplay on American radio, made a slight climb up the American charts, which prompted a re-release in the UK, and it became a top ten hit there. Better songs and much greater success lay in their future, but it was this song that really got them on their way.

Like "Because the Night," this song was too punk (although honestly, it's a jangly, guitar-heavy, reggae love song; the punkishness was all in the performers' attitudes, not in the music they made) for it to have made it onto the rock stations which formed my foundational music sensibility. I suppose I must have tracked it down sometime in very early 80s, as the hits from their later, pre-Synchronicity albums--and, in particular, as Sting's nascent fan club, which I freely admit I was a fully committed member of--increasingly turned The Police into The Band That Punks and Intellectuals Could Both Rock Too. In any case, though, once I heard it, it retroactively became part of my 1978 romance. Few songs could deserve it more.

Tuesday, March 20, 2018

Songs from '78: "With a Little Luck"

Did I know who The Beatles were in 1978? I'm not sure. I have a vague recollection of having seen Yellow Submarine on television at some point as a child (I remember being frightened by it, but oddly it provided what later became one of my favorite Beatles songs), but I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be until I was into my teen-age years and more familiar with the pop music world I started imbibing early on that I could actually place who "Paul McCartney" was. And by then, of course, his band Wings was history.

But they weren't on this day, 40 years ago. After a couple of massively successful albums and tours, Wings was down to a core of three musicians: Paul, his wife Linda, and lead guitarist Denny Laine, which were the only three to last through all the personnel changes in the band's 10-year run anyway. In the spring of 1978 they came out with London Town, which turned out to be their final successful album. It is moody (but never heavy), and full of deft synthesizer work. The album's first single, which went on to be a #1 Billboard chart hit in the U.S., was released today: "With a Little Luck." The original single released was the 5-minute long album version, and I can remember being captivated by its meandering, reflective, quietly insistent melody. Unfortunately, when they cut a video, they went with the truncated version:

So really, listen to the whole thing, and think about McCartney's often unjustly maligned or forgotten triumphs of the 70s. This is a great, groovy, mellow love song, and who ever really gets tired of those?

Friday, March 16, 2018

Learning from The Left Behind

[Cross-posted to Front Porch Republic]

Robert Wuthnow's new book, The Left Behind: Decline and Rage in Rural America, is the best book I've read on the rural-urban divide in the United States in years. It may, in fact, be the best book I've ever read on the topic, and I've read a lot of them. That's not to say that Wuthnow's analysis of the socio-economic or demographic or cultural situation which faces that 20% (or less) of the American population which lives, broadly speaking, in "the country" as opposed to "the city" (or its suburbs, or its exurbs) is groundbreaking; on the contrary, most of his conclusions are simply careful elaborations of sociological data that he and others have addressed before. But in this short book, Wuthnow, a much-published sociologist who has long taught at Princeton University, demonstrates his strength as a listener and as a synthesizer of those things he and his many researchers have heard and learned over the years. It is 164 quick pages that every would-be pundit, or really everyone at all interested in the social divides which the election of Donald Trump made clear, ought to read.

Of course, reading it doesn't guarantee comprehension. This was clearly demonstrated in a recent Vox interview with Wuthnow by Sean Illing, who again and again showed his inability to comprehend the possibility that the views of the people he'd just finished reading about, the people Wuthnow and others had interviewed at length, deserve to be taken seriously or at least on their own terms. (Wuthnow's best response to Illing, one no doubt quietly expressed, came in reply to Illing's incredulity that he should be expected to treat with respect some farm woman complaining--without, it must be said, any supportive evidence or context--that "the government" is going to prevent her from spanking her children when they misbehave. "It’s an interesting question," Wuthnow is recorded as saying. "What does it mean for us to take that seriously? I guess my point is that she takes it seriously, even if we don’t or shouldn’t" [italics added].)

Illing's reaction is similar to that which has all-too-frequently emerge from the overwhelmingly urban scholars and activists which have found the urban-rural divide a cause for concern in America over the decades. It was on display in Thomas Frank's celebrated but blinkered What's the Matter with Kansas?--a book that Wuthnow gives qualified praise to, but also criticizes as having been guided by a thesis more relevant to blue-collar urban workers in conservative states rather than actual country people, a criticism that he extends to Arlie Hochschild's Strangers in Their Own Land  as well (pp. 2-5, 137), and other displays of that same attitude can be found all the way back through the 20th century, to H.L. Mencken and others. The fact is, being able to speak sympathetically (but not defensively!) about those whose lives have been mostly excluded from the global urbanization which industrialization and finance capitalism has increasingly made the social baseline of the whole human race--in the American case, the 30 millions people who live in towns with a population of 25,000 or less--is just plain difficult. I think Wuthnow pulls it off, though, and that alone, completely aside from what can be learned from those whose voices he captures and interprets, makes The Left Behind a book worth reading with an open mind.

Why is Wuthnow's ear so open to and respectful of what the hundreds of people that he and his graduate assistants have interviewed over the past ten years (an ongoing project that has resulted in a series of sometimes dense but always rewarding sociological and historical studies, including Remaking the Heartland, Red State Religion, and Small-Town America)? The easy answer, and probably the most accurate, is that he, unlike so many other of these commenters, has both personal memories of and an abiding, rueful fondness for the rural small-town world, particularly that version of it which emerged on the Great Plains, where he is originally from. A native Kansan, born in the 1940s, he has no illusions about the poverty and struggles which characterize those who inherited, like Laura Ingalls Wilder (whom he credits in Remaking the Heartland with having played a central role in updating the Jeffersonian vision of finding authenticity through "living in a region of farms and small towns"--Remaking, p. 69), the usually hopeless dream of achieving some kind of republican independence and self-sufficient agrarian virtue in such an unforgiving rural environment. Scattered through his books, you will find references to farmers he has known who have committed suicide, to young men who were desperate tried to hide the fact that they lived in dugouts without electricity or running water, to families who have fallen into division and anger--or fallen apart entirely--in the face of the pressures of working on a farm. Wuthnow does not sugar-coat the often circumscribed lives of those he has listened to so closely, nor has he listened to them uncritically. But neither has he dismissed out of hand the paradoxical complement to all of the above: that much, perhaps most, of America's rural population feels pride and even a degree of confidence in their choice of a farming vocation, in their embrace of small-town life, their connection to the land. And that paradox, that ambivalence, is one he is both fascinated by and, obviously, attracted to.

That the present moment is internalized and responded to in paradoxical ways is one of the most important lessons one can learn from those whose lives are presented in The Left Behind. While Wuthnow uses the popular language of "rage" to talk about the Tea Party and rural America's support for the manifestly unqualified Donald Trump, the truth, he frequently insists, is more nuanced, inconsistent, and complex--it is something which, according to Wuthnow, "even the people we talked to found it hard to understand" (p. 56). It is "a mixture of fear and anger," a frustration at what they feel to be a fracturing of "the social expectations, relationships, and obligations that constitute the moral communities they take for granted" (p. 6). It is a "sense of loss, a feeling of grief," one made more perplexing by the fact that for the most part the residents of rural America, far from existing in a media bubble of denial, recognize that they are " many of these changes" (p. 56). After discussing declining and aging populations, the departure of job-providing businesses, demographic change, the global economy, environmental limitations, making due with declining standards of living, opioid addiction and meth labs and more, Wuthnow observes:

These are the difficulties that add to the sense of small towns being beleaguered. The problems are too big to handle alone, even though communities would like to be self-sufficient. Citizens want more and often contribute less in terms of volunteer time. Getting things done is less a function of local control. Rural communities have never been fully in charge of their own destinies, but the people who live them now have reason to feel they are even less in control than in the past....A farmer in Gulfdale offered an apt summary of the situation. "It just want to have more freedom," he said, "but I don't know how to get that." (pp. 91, 105)

What kind of freedom do these rural people mean? This is Wuthnow at his most insightful: rural America, he asserts, has constructed over the decades a communitarian attitude through which "a sense of boundedness," of actual spatial as well as conceptual identitarian and moral limits, affects how they view and find value in everything else (p. 43). This is not to say, in his view, that rural people are necessarily mired in racist nostalgia (though over 90% of rural Americans identify themselves as white Caucasians) or are psychological throwbacks to some independent, agrarian world (one of the most common laments which Wuthnow documents in The Left Behind is the absence in most small towns of the expertise needed to write successful federal grant applications, and in Remaking the Heartland, he shows in great detail how the people of western Kansas, far from being yeomen farmers on whom industrial agriculture was imposed against their will, had instead aggressively sought government contracts from the beginning, and had built corporations and co-ops to import Mexican workers to maximize profits from the sugar beet harvest long before IBP and its environmentally destructive meatpacking plants arrived). On the contrary, Wuthnow, on my reading at least, thinks there is no obvious reason to see the farmers and small-townspeople of the American countryside as any less subject to the individualizing impulses of modern life than anyone else. If we are to trust in his interviewing and research, it would seem that most rural schoolteachers want their students to pursue personal excellence and transcend their local environments (p. 61), and most rural residents seem to like big cities, appreciating their existence as the places their children and grandchild find work and where they can travel to enjoy amenities which they don't have in their financially strapped and culturally isolated small towns (p. 100). So it is probably not the case that the American countryside--obvious exceptions like Amish and Mennonite communities aside--harbors some non-liberal, non-individualistic, frugal and communal and pious perspective on freedom which the rest of America has lost. For the most part, it doesn't.

But what it does have, instead, is actual, tangible, limits. In a small town (and for Wuthnow, and the people he interviewed, everything comes back to the small town; genuinely isolated country living, conducted without any regular contact with or participation in the some town or county seat or some other central place, is rare to the point of non-existent), there a boundedness to where one shops, where one works, where one sends one's children to school, and who one sees in all of those places. While the history of rural places, particularly on the Great Plains, is actually filled with upheavals and frequent relocations, the small size of these places, and their distance from other, larger places, has inculcated a strong emphasis on the familiar among those who live there. (Elsewhere, Wuthnow had observed that since "a small town seldom covers more than a few square miles....residents not only live in close proximity to one another but also share a common visual horizon....It is a circumscribed space with a name and an identity"--Small-Town America, pp. 52-53.) Again and again, in these interviews, the attachment rural and small-town people have to their places is expressed in terms of their attachment to this church, this festival, this cohort of friends (and enemies), this stretch of road, this celebrated event, this historical grievance, this smell, this pastoral scene. Their fear, Wuthnow thinks, is primarily one of losing connection to that particularity, that almost literally spatial positioning within a universe bounded by fields and forests and roads that lead into the distance and the people who farm and lumber and drive upon them.

This collective emphasis upon routines, repetitiveness, and "co-presence" (Wuthnow quotes sociologist Randall Collins on this point--p. 39), is, of course, a famous source of angst and rebellion, one which has provided a narrative for artistic escape for hundreds of years. Generally speaking, those people who want to leave, and can leave, do. After all, being in one's own place, owning one's own particularity and one's own network of relationships and stable references, is exactly what those who long to breathe city air (remember: "die Stadtluft macht frei"!) often want to get away from, and the tension which that repetitiveness, that familial weight, brings into the lives of otherwise mostly modernized, mostly connected American individuals is a perfect recipe for an inferiority complex (one that, please note, Wuthnow observes rural people regularly acknowledging). But for all those cross-feelings, there are those who remain. And it is they who find instead themselves, willingly or otherwise--and many small-town residents, Wuthnow emphasizes, initially were definitely otherwise--taking solace in, and in turn contributing to, a moral conception of community that, above all, prizes the "the shared notion that what the community represents is right" (p. 78). Freedom to act is treasured--but the actions which are worth treasuring are those which arise from the bounded context one inherited and knows.

Such communitarian convictions can and do arise in any lived environment, of course--urban neighborhoods and suburbs as well as farming villages. The difference, though, is that the former two are seem by many rural dwellers as inextricably connected to the speed, bigness, and changeableness which characterizes modern urban life. And all those things--bigness, and the variety and unpredictability and factionalism which it accommodates--undermine the conceit widely shared in small farming towns: the idea that their town is a particular kind of moral community, within the bounds of which one can safely assume that everyone, whether rich or poor or (most commonly) just cobbling together a lower middle-class life, was connected together, that "everyone was the same" (p. 100).

Do rural people know this conceit, like any social conceit, when one looks at it closely, isn't actually true? Of course they do; Wuthnow shows repeatedly that unavoidable deviations from the white Christian heterosexual conservative norm are recognized, and often--not always, perhaps not even usually, but often--tolerated. (Many interviews suggest that actual farmers, as opposed to those who are part of the service economy around them, are "far more informed than the average town-person in this regard"--p. 102.) But it is a conceit that makes possible a particular conception of freedom, authenticity, and community, all of which have both deep historical roots and real theoretical and moral value. And so it is in their collective self-interest to hold to it--with the result that often even the most self-critical small-town people feel a deep resistance to anything which threatens their bounded, routinized environment. Which then becomes self-reinforcing...and, as Wuthnow concludes, "you do not question what you do not see." The fact that many rural people either literally do not see (because of their circumscribed environment) or otherwise are inclined to deny the local challenge of (because of their moral attachment to the rewards and virtues that their place has provided them with) that which is foreign to their bounded world--and in most small rural towns in America, that usually means non-whites, sexual minorities, intellectuals, liberals, religious dissidents, and non-Christians--has a predictable result: when small-town people learn (accurately or otherwise) that the federal government is favoring the interests of "people who live in cities and don't look like you," it is easy to believe (p. 161). The result is an unreflective anti-urban and anti-diversity bigotry which is hard to name as such, because it begins not with a personal animosity towards different person, but with challenge to the supposedly self-sufficient and always longed-for boundaries and expectations of the rural world. That's not an excuse for such; Wuthnow is pretty explicit in pointing our how paranoid and pointless (and, unfortunately, predictable) most of the confused frustration he documented was. But it is an explanation, and that's a crucial first step.

Unlike many, Wuthnow grants the legitimacy--if not the accuracy--of those explanations. He recognizes the appeal of that sense of stability and boundedness, that social entrenchment in the land--after all, for a great many rural residents, it is a moral order that works. As such someone who left that ordered environment world but still recognizes its relevance, he has hope that that the gap between those who leave and those who are left behind can be bridged. (Don't forget that there is plenty which those whose life was shaped by urban or suburban realities either don't see or tend to deny about the land whose bounty they survive off of as well.) True, he suspects the political polarization which has been mapped onto the rural-urban divide has taken such deep roots that is it ridiculous to hope for a cultural breakdown which could change things overnight (he baldly comments that "the chances of Democrats winning local elections in counties that have been Republican for generations are nil," which, actually, is more than I would say--p. 164). Equally ridiculous, one must conclude after reading Wuthnow's many writings on America's rural world, is to have any hope for some radical re-examination of how we have socially and economically thought about the landed resources at the heart of so many of America's small towns. Wuthnow is a good, conventional, Hillary Clinton-supporting Eastern academic; he doesn't appear to think much of the Populists (not any more than most of the farmers he interviewed did), accepts the arrival of agribusiness and school consolidation as necessary to the survival into the 21st century of those few rural, small-town environments which still endure, and the idea of him even asking farmers about agrarian, socialist, or distributist alternatives to their work, much less pushing them to hope for such, is plain silly. I think that's unfortunate, myself (Wuthnow's analysis of his interviewees' comments, in my view, would have been much improved by the selective use of some Marxist categories). But that does not mean we can't learn what he clearly regards as the most important lesson of his research: that the people who long for the small-town life, who are willing to remain behind on the farm or nearby it, really want that life to endure.

Throughout the history of rural America, Wuthnow makes clear, you have seen old patterns give way, and local elites accept a change necessary for their town's survival (even if they never truly own up to the political backtracking and revising of self-conceits which accepting such changes always entails). The constant snort from actual (or, often, just self-styling) rural folk about how the political class in Washington D.C. lacks "common sense" is, I suspect, wearying to all the metropolitans and philosophical liberals who read this (which is, I suspect, just about everyone, whether we came from rural environments or not). But whether the federal government has such common sense or not, the evidence is that rural America does. When faced with their own local imperatives, "adapting to new conditions" (p. 164) is what they have always done. In actual fact, America's small towns and farms no longer--if they ever did--pose that strong of an alternative to an individualized, capitalized, metropolitan nation. But so long as there is some way for those who love those places to hold onto their bounded horizons--even if it means learning to write that next federal grant, or hoping to catch some of that next wave of immigrants, or continuing to push for the expansion of Medicare--the historical evidence is that they'll do so, or at least eventually come around to supporting those who will do so.

That doesn't answer any questions about the long-term future of agriculture, health care, immigration, or the Constitution itself, of course, much less how any one political party can effectively build connections across the rural-urban divide so as to address any of the above. The basic social, economic, and political conditions of our mostly urbanized polity--of which rural America nonetheless remains an enduring part--need serious, perhaps radical, critique and change. But in the meantime, Wuthnow reminds us, that however slow the small towns of rural America may appear to act, or however stubbornly they tend to vote, they really are, and should be accepted as, a legitimate part of the national conversation, one that can make a case for itself on its own terms. They may not be the terms that more than 80% of us would choose given the chance--but they are terms which reflect a worthy perspective nonetheless.

Thursday, March 08, 2018

Songs from '78: "Because the Night"

Forty years and one week ago, the Patti Smith Group's groundbreaking rock-punk-folk album Easter began its march into the pop charts, led by its best song "Because the Night." I didn't hear it on the radio--at least, not then. The songs of 1978 which got stuck in my head in my tenth year were rock songs, to be sure, and as I've noted already, the influence of punk is clear in how it was undermining the progressive rock sensibility of the day and cross-pollinating with all sorts of rock and roll spin-offs, including disco and hard rock. But my gateway drug, an old Spokane, WA, AM radio station named KJRB which at the time was all pop and rock, didn't play Smith (or The Ramones for that matter). Still, I heard it eventually, I'm not sure when--and when I did, I suspect I knew exactly the moment it was a part of.

It's a strangely, angrily beautiful song, actually; a Bruce Springsteen composition (don't worry, he's going to show up later--as will The Ramones, for that matter) that he knew he couldn't sing right. His producer gave it to Smith--whose group was recording in the studio next door--and she reworked it and stuck it on her new album. The rest is history. Thanks Bruce!

Sunday, March 04, 2018

On Supporting Bike Paths Which I Hardly Ever Use (a Reprise)

[In May of 2016, when the Woodchuck Bicycle Boulevard was officially opened here in Wichita--that's where the photo was from--I wrote a reflection about my involvement in promoting the construction of bicycle-friendly streets, through the construction of bike lanes, the redesigning of roads to accommodate designated bike paths, and so forth. Alex Pemberton of the Yellowbrick Street Team, a local tactical urbanist group, recently saw that old post and asked if he could print it on their blog. After I updated and edited it some, he did so here. I'm including the updated version below.]

The past few years have been good ones for bicycling in Wichita. Thanks to the efforts of many good people over a long period of time, several long-developed and much-improved bike paths, trails, lanes, and shared boulevards have been introduced: beginning with downtown lanes along 1st and 2nd Street, there is the Redbud TrailPrairie SunsetChisholm Creek Park, and over on the west side of the city where I live, the Woodchuck Bicycle Boulevard, have all followed. (That's me at the ribbon-cutting ceremony for the Woodchuck, in the green shorts second from the left; being a member of Wichita's Bicycle-Pedestrian Advisory Board has its privileges, I guess.) More bikeway and path projects are on the way.

It's great to see so much of this slow-yet-steady development coming to fruition, and it's even better knowing the multiple other bicycling projects--re-purposing an old railroad bridge to get through the I-235/US-54 interchange, which otherwise blocks almost all north-south bicycle and pedestrian traffic on the west side of the city, is the big one, but there are many others--are slowly moving forward as well.

We're not fooling ourselves, of course; Wichita--like so many other Midwestern, Southern, and Great Plains cities--is profoundly automobile-centric. While there are a multitude of ways to measure such relatively underreported matters as bicycle commuting and other alternative transportation choices, a recent study by the U.S. Census, the American Community Survey which was completed five years ago, showed Wichita as having increased its number of bicycle commuters over the previous decade…from .2% of the workforce, to a whopping .3%. While bike and pedestrian counts, as well as anecdotal observations, point to continued recent increases in bicycle commuting in Wichita (the League of American Bicyclists pegged us at .5% in 2016), still, the facts are pretty stark. Attempting to find political support and funding and public spaces which can provide actual, practical logistical possibilities for  bicycle-friendly developments in light of those realities is a humbling prospect.

Still, we do our best. The turnout for ribbon-cutting events and other announcements of improvements and openings have been impressive, and it's always great to see large numbers of colorfully decked-out, serious cyclists heading out on these paths, calling attention to every step the city takes forward. I always have a pretty good view of those packs of cyclists as they head down these paths--because I'm hardly ever part of them, or ever on any of these paths, myself.

Cycling on the Street
Why not? Part of the reason--the main part, really--is, again, simply logistical. The bare-bones network of bike trails, lanes, and boulevards that Wichita has been able to slowly knit together over the years doesn't provide me with anything like a direct route to where I usually need to go--whether to work or running errands around the part of the city where we live.

But another part of the reason is simply a function of how I understand myself as a cyclist. While I still idly dream of someday getting my physical act together--as so many of my friends have--and actually doing some real riding (a century ride, perhaps, or even Bike Across Kansas), the fact is I own no bicycling gear (save my helmet, which itself is an old one that I've duct-taped together), and have never toured. I'm an urban commuter cyclist, and always have been--which means I always ride on the road.

Is that dangerous? Well, sure, but so is driving. That's a facetious answer, I know, but I don't know any better one to give. Yes, I've had a few close calls with an unthinking or angry or aggressive motorist over the years (more than a few, to tell the truth), and there are plenty of times and situations where I choose to get off the main road and onto a side street or sidewalk. But by and large, I simply expect everyone to recognize that bicycles can legally share the road with cars, and by and large they do. (Though my Idaho stop still regularly pisses some drivers off.)

True, by taking to the public streets rather than adjusting my route to take advantage of the bike paths I and so many others have pushed for over the years, I suppose I'm making it one person easier for cynics and cranks to complain that they never see anyone making use of these paths, so how can the city council possibly justify putting a single additional financial drop in the city's (otherwise resoundingly empty) bicycle bucket? But by being out on the streets, I see my presence as contributing to a different kind of impression.

The Cyclist One Lane Over
If you live in a place which, for any number of mutually reinforcing socio-economic or political reasons, has a culture shaped at least in part by broad concerns with health, the environment, and sustainability, then the presence of MAMILs ("Middle-Aged Men In Lycra") all over parks and bikeways, getting their exercise and traveling wherever they need to go, is to be expected. But absent that culture, when you're building whatever sort of bike-friendly resources you can a little at a time, such individuals greatly stand out--and to the extent that they pour themselves into maximizing the use of distinct bike paths and trails, they still stand out, but perhaps also stand out as something distant and separate.

But the cyclist who is dressed pretty much just like you, whose bike is right beside your car at the intersection, just one lane over: that's a difference which is not separate, but is readily and immediately present. The public nature of such cycling arguably invites a sort of democratic reflection and richness which may not be available in other ways.

That's not to say that there isn't good reason to harness the democratic support of a dedicated cycling elite to push forward changes in public spaces that add to the overall ambiance of life in the city. (A city without any bike paths whatsoever is far less likely to recognize the benefits which encouraging cycling can bring than one with bike paths whose use is greatly limited--which is basically true of pretty much every public amenity imaginable.) It's just that, as I make practical decisions about my regular biking routines, I've had more than enough experiences to convince me that, in a small way, getting out on Central or Maple Avenue is shaping Wichita's democratic culture a little as well.

Of course, the most recent experience I had with that shaping was someone shouting curses from their car window at me. But surely, that at least means someone was paying attention to their lived environment rather than their phone, right? It seems to me that, when it comes to matters of city structure, you have to think about short-term goals and long-term change simultaneously.

In the long run, someone who gets annoyed that he has to deal with some guy on a bicycle cutting him off as we negotiate road construction together could well turn into a someone who will carry that annoyance into opposing any kind of alternative transportation development, and into voting down any such funding options he can. But then again, he could also become someone who at least is conscious of the fact that bicycle commuting is a choice some people make.

In a city like Wichita, honestly, that may be half the battle right there.