Ecological rhetoric proves to be a difficult beast to wrestle if you want to protect nature. From one side, the more difficult side to argue, folks that want to protect the environment create campaigns (as noted in our readings) that put nature into commodified terms that we understand based on our capitalist system, which one would think is a wise course of action. From another side, big business holds the car keys to that luxury car (most) everyone wants to drive in that big business forces commerce based upon cultural standards of comfort and convenience, which, in all honesty, is what most of us seek--a relaxing place to enjoy life while still feeling that we are doing our part
So big business focuses on that easily absorbable discourse--it's not real, there is no science behind it, the environmentalists (a problematic term to be sure) are crazy tree-hugging vegetarians who want to take away your right to eat a nice steak now and again, we (as big business) are careful to protect your needs (think Wal-Mart, all the negative press they have gotten in the past, but their profits keep soaring), and we are creating new ways to protect the Earth--you just don't see them yet--we can drill in Yellowstone and not disturb the delicate balance of nature and get all the resources... trust us!
The problem is not entirely big business, it's us--consumers. Typically, we want the easiest, most cost-effective way to get what we believe we need. Do you really think the "store brands" of products would even be on the shelf if a lot of people didn't buy them? I think Wal-Mart's new Great Value line is a stroke of genius--new packaging (reminiscent colors and styling of the "generic" brands I grew up seeing in the stores), expanded line of products (it's rare to see a major brand of anything without the Great Value brand right next to it), and Wal-Mart's current media campaign suggesting they are lowering prices because they are cutting costs by protecting the environment (less cardboard in boxes, fuller trucks = less gas, etc.).
In short, the resources of getting their rhetoric out there are, well, there! They have the mountains of money to promote themselves not only as an enhanced shopping experience where one can by whatever they may need but also environmentally aware, not overtly stating we are protecting the environment by doing this and this, but suggesting such and such measures are being taken to lower prices (and, oh, btw, protecting the environment, but we are stating that out right, but you understand, yes?).
So as big business (not just Wal-Mart) suggest they are protecting all these wonderful things around us by actually helping us save money--who wouldn't jump on that wagon?
Thus, as consumers look over the literature pumped out by corporations and governmental agencies, we conclude that the best interests of humanity are at the forefront of thought because we think we see how items in the above picture are being implemented all around us--wind farms go up, water conservation campaigns are direct mailed to us, coal producers run commercials (with trains running through untouched forests) that explain how careful they are and how important coal is, and politicians continually tell us the "environment" is one of their priorities.
But like Herndl and Brown point out in their first paragraph, we've constructed the term environment (among others) based upon science and what we've been told by others, which is not the problem, of course.
Let me divert to this video:
Early in this video, the speaker tries to convince the audience that e-commerce has helped the environment by saving fuel such as that used by UPS (see this). All this may be well and good, but consider if one makes one trip to a store such as Wal-Mart and purchases a month's supply of "stuff" that they will use, gets some entertainment DVDs, etc. That one trip, let's say in Athens, OH, would cost, what ten miles round trip? Now consider the expense of just Netflix to one address for the month, a four DVD plan (I'm not up on my Netflix plans, so sorry) takes the postal service four trips to one's address, not counting the packaging and electricity used to select the films. I'm not suggesting this meandering of logic doesn't have it's flaws, but it needs to be calculated to be sure which is more cost effective. Although I champion UPS and other providers for the apparent measures to save money and lessen their FOOTPRINT on the Earth, our rhetorical appeals that point the reality of the environment are being cast aside because the constant bombardment from billion dollar businesses is a bit more devastating that the lone sniper.
In our society as a whole we conceive of the land in terms of ownership and use. It is a lifeless medium of exchange; it has for most of us, I suspect, no more spirituality than has an automobile, say, or a refrigerator. And our laws confirm us in this view, for we can buy and sell the land, we can exclude each other from it, and in the context of ownership we can use it as we will. Ownership implies use, and use implies consumption. (Momaday 580, my emphasis)
I am not certain how to think of place. One may refer to a place as a place for one's stuff...
Our understanding of place is static. I mean we know a place changes over time, but our memory of it remains somewhat stable and constructed based on how we want to remember it.
The woods I grew up near, similar to Dr. Rouzie's, were always changing, but that change was unnoticeable unless one were very meticulous each time one went to the woods by taking some type of record of it. The overall effect was one of consistency, but, I know, the trees, grass, creek, rocks, etc. were all slightly different each time I went there.
I recall one time I went to the woods down the hill from where I lived after several months of not being there--I noticed the difference immediately. This difference went unnoticed the next day I went because my memory of the woods was consistent with what I saw (or remembered I saw) the day before.
In our hubris (just for you Russ), I think we believe things change solely for and because of us. And when things change outside those confines, we sense some level of displeasure. Let me put it this way, if you owned a home, and someone came to mow your grass without your knowledge and you noticed this once you got home, how might you feel? Let's assume that the job was done expertly, did not do any damage, and actually "looked" better than you had ever done. Yet, you would probably still feel violated because someone changed the landscape. They changed something you were not expecting--your expectation created your displeasure when confronted with reality.
Nevertheless, as Ursula K. Heise and others suggest, we are nomadic--always on the move, "forever on the road" (48). The inclusion of place in this context--the context of our movement--suggests, again, that place is static.
We move within it.
Heise points to numerous examples of American, perhaps Westward, expansion and movement across the land. Some people recognize the romance of moving from place to place and we even envy those that do move from place to place. For Instance:Someone that has lived in Wyoming, Utah, California, New York, Florida, London, and Tokyo garners a certain level of interest, mystery, and intrigue--do they not?
Change.
In reading bell hooks, I simply do not make some of the same connections she does between African Americans and nature. Moreover, I'm at a loss at her comparing (and quite closely) the Native American connection to land to an African American connection to land. Perhaps I'm defensive, but her suggesting that African Americans go back to the South for "spiritual nourishment" has me bewildered (107). Even in her next paragraph (after the quote on 107), she suggests how African American "can restore our relationship to the natural world"--why would one need to restore a relationship (or connection) she's describing them as already having?
Sorry to be critical, but I'm missing something here.
Change.
As I read through Momaday, I realized that I have often heard the phrase, "living off the land," and I realized that living off something also means taking something from it--like a parasite. In fact, humans are a parasite on Earth's body. Momaday writes of his grandfather: "He could not have conceived of living apart from the land" (576). To be sure, it seems he could not leave apart from the land. Deep in Momaday's essay, there is a sense of confusion. Confusion between the "land" and the element of our galaxy: the sun. As we know, the sun is not a part of our planet--yet, it is often portrayed as a part of the landscape, which creates some problems regardless of the fact that we need the sun to survive.
I'm curious what the class thinks of this confusion I perceive. So, post a comment below and let me know!
I don't believe there will ever be, nor can there ever be, environmental justice.
Each one of us has killed millions of lifeforms throughout our lifetime. We continue to do so now. What justice is there in the cessation of another life?
If I understand Toxic Discourse, it is a way of seeing a space, not in a romantic way, but as it is, which is interconnected with all other spaces. Moreover, such spaces are constructed by us; that is, "modified" (Buell 45). Toxic Discourse also questions the science behind thinking causal factors of environmentally influenced health concerns because the longer scientific support is typically not available (Buell 48). But, Toxic Discourse is an elusive concept because it is unstable: taking aspects of other discourses, sciences, and combining them to be fluidic, changing--a whirlpool of words.
I also see Toxic Discourse as a Catch-22 in that we, as humans, are bound by the reality of nature and our interaction with(in) it. This, in some ways, creates a conflict within us as creatures of the Earth.
The belief of connectedness to our places (in our blogs) also is relative to Toxic Discourse in that we see our place as we see it, which may not be how it really is (or was). Buell refers to these "images" as powerful because they (re)connect us with something out of sight (72). Buell and Garrard seem to be thinking in lockstep regarding the image(s) of place, and I believe both are utilizing Garrard's term (and definition of) "ecoporn" for us., which reasserts the romance of said place(s).
Sanders starts his essay, "After the Flood," with a romantic and nostalgic attitude:
It was the power of the place, gathering rain and snowmelt, surging through the valley under sun, under ice, under the bellies of fish, and the curled brown boats of sycamore leaves. You will need a good map of Ohio to find the river I am talking about (3)
This beginning sets this place up as majestic and secluded, but also secret to outsiders unless they know Sanders. And he is gracious enough to let us in on "the river" he's referring to. Then Sanders dutifully takes us back in time to his childhood and his mysterious and fascinating little river. That is until he kills it off by evil politicians and other do-gooders.
His space dies and we are taken on a short, digressive pity party with a slight hope of revival, but even Sanders, like me, "felt a fool" (9).
But please cough up some bills to see this....
Thank you for your support.
Yet, Sanders quickly says to himself, "everything I knew had been swept away" (11). As the loss of his childhood memories of his place are bitten by the cold steel reality of that guardrail, we realize, as he does that "no fate could be more ordinary" (12). In the loss of his place, apparently, Sanders losses his childhood, but takes us to a sermon about his loss of Walden.
Loyalty to place arises from sources deeper than narcissism. It arises from our need to be at home on the earth. We marry ourselves to the creation by knowing and cherishing a particular place [. . .]. If the marriage is deep, divorce is painful. (13)
Obviously, Sanders is attached to place, which makes me wonder why and how our fascination with a place has such an impact on us.
I'm interested, however, in his last section because he attempts to empathize with the numerous peoples Europeans have displaced from their lands, their memories, their childhoods, their traditions. In doing so, he appears to understand a fraction of that pain, that toxicity, but I don't think he, or I, could ever understand that kind of pain.
As I consider Buell and Sanders, I'm left with the conclusion,
The first day at Curu, we were given the basic rules (don't go anywhere by yourself--a rule I broke often and on purpose; be aware of your surroundings (they could change incredibly quickly: weather, animals, etc); treat the animals with respect). Beyond the rules, we were told to enjoy ourselves and what the jungle had to offer.
For many of us, it was our first experience outside the United States and the closest we had come to wild (more or less) animals. In fact, the refuge family (Dona, Adalina, Jose, and Frederico) was careful to remind us of home with their questions about the USA.
After we settled into our cabins (we used two of the three available), we gathered by the main house to walk up to the spider monkeys. Spider monkeys, to me, seemed to be the most fascinating primate we studied because of their hands--they have no thumb, but long spider-like fingers. (all spider monkey pics are mine)
Long and lanky creatures, they have a very strong tail that can acts like a extra hand and can bear their weight. In fact, the inside of their tail (the part that would wrap around something) was so soft, it reminded me of the nose of a horse--velvety and peach fuzzy. I was amazed at how much dexterity they had with their tails and the level of awareness they had of its location in space.
Adalina, the daughter of the Dona and head of the refuge to the outside world, brought along mangos to feed the spider monkeys (pictured at right).
Most of us fed them by tossing it to them (at first), but as our fear died down, we would hand it to them. These spiders were, for the most part, domesticated to humans in the sense that many visitors would feed them and socialize with them, but only for limited times controlled by the staff and Adalina.
Acutely intelligent and playful, the spiders delighted us for a few hours that first day. I thought I might run out of film (I brought 18 roles of 35 mm film and used every role during my entire stay.) This playfulness carried over into their teasing of the largest, and by far the strongest, spider monkey, Bolivar. Bolivar was caged because, well, he was crazy. Although he had mated with several females, the staff was careful to keep him caged because he was known to have fits of rage that frightened the other monkeys and also the staff to such a degree they would dart him just to get him back in the cage. The problem with Bolivar was that he was intelligent enough to occasionally escape from his small cage.
I would think that he was the troop leader and alpha male of the group, even when he was caged. But on occasion, the other, more daring, males in the group would tease him. My favorite picture I've ever taken comes from this type of play:
(Even though Bolivar looks small in his cage (pictured), he was easily a third bigger than any of the other spiders. We can see from the picture, he's fully aware there is nothing he can do except vocalize his disapproval. I just keep saying to myself each time I see this pic, "C'mon! Do something now!")
After our two or three hours with the spider monkeys, we went along the grove line in search for the white faced capuchins. We found them and, once again, I took dozens of pictures, frightened I might not be able to take this shot ever again, I was liberal with my mother's camera.
One story, related to spider monkeys, that I must tell, because I don't think I'll cover it later is that of the beginning of the bus trip to Montezuma. (One aspect of the trip I will cover later, but not this particular part; at least, I don't think.) As we were getting onto the bus, the spider monkeys were curious as to what this large wheeled contraption was that all this similar creatures were getting into was. Our group was in line to get onto the bus, and a spider monkey cut in front of me and was about to get onto the bus. Knowing full well that the locals had some fear of them, I, out of instinct, grabbed its tail and yanked it back. As I pulled, it let out a shriek that made me pause, but not enough to let go and I kept pulling. Then, I stepped onto the bus and took a seat--thinking nothing of it. My colleagues, however, thought I was nuts for grabbing hold of him and even being somewhat aggressive to him. My efforts proved futile though because as soon as I sat down, no one else had the gumption to grab the tail again, and the spider climbed onto the bus. Most of the people on the bus freaked out and exited out the rear door of the bus, running for their lives. I sat quietly and laughed to myself. One of the (armed) guards for the refuge had to finally come corral the rascal before we could be on our way.
Someone asked why I grabbed him. I didn't really think about it until it let out the shriek, then for a moment I thought, "That was a bad idea." Yet, I kept pulling and proceeded onto the bus. Nothing happened to me or anyone else. Perhaps I thought with my 210 pound heavily-muscled frame (I was a Phys Ed major and bodybuilder at the time), the primate would be slightly weaker or my equal in strength. I never tested my strength with one of them, and to be fair, I'm glad.
As I sit here thinking about Greg Garrard "critical approach" in his text, I'm left wondering, does he have one?
As I run down my limited memory of critical approaches (structuralism, reader-response, new historicism, new criticism, etc.), I'm left with thinking that Garrard is speaking as a social critic, green critic, and some post-colonial. That is, a critical stance that takes into account literature (e.g. Silent Spring), cultural indicators of various movements (e.g. the "Green" movement), and some discourse relative to a group that believes its agenda is correct, regardless of whom it affects (e.g. a "Western" mindset and hubris).
After reading the book, I'm left with the impression that Garrard is relying information, making readers think about various ideas from an ecocritical perspective, maybe even consider the bigger picture of our existence. But I don't believe he is really taking a stance--he is cautious, calculated. I think that's fine; yet, I am left thinking, "Ok, now what?"
Further, I'm not convinced (but I think I could be) that Garrard is an ecocritic. I'm content to call him a social critic with a green bent that relates material fairly well to that dynamic. But, of course, I'm not an ecocritic, so maybe I am not sure what one is to begin with.
Nevertheless, I did mark several passages I found useful. The trick, for me, is to figure out what the heck I marked or noted. As you can see, my methods may be a bit dated, but they do work. Kinda.
Certainly, one of Garrard's purposes is to make us, his readers, become more critical of our environment and how our interaction(s) within it affect the present and future (and to some degree, the past). However, I think Garrard does give ecocriticism a mighty big pair of shoes to fill; he writes, "Ecocriticism makes it possible to analyse critically the tropes brought into play in environmental debate, and, more tentatively, to predict which will have a desired effect on a specific audience at a given historical juncture" (14).
Now, I think we can read Garrard in a few different ways. First, the most common I think, is that people should exercise their understanding of the planet and make connections that will better sustain our living sphere. In a (biodegradable) nutshell, be more attentive to what we do to and on Earth and consider the consequences of those actions on the bigger picture.
However, I think a more spartan reading can be made; one that suggests a Marxist or anti-consumerism agenda where population growth decreases, use of nonrenewable resources comes to an end, and we live in the woods and instead of toi--let's just say, use pine cones. I envision Thoreau watching, and taking careful notes about, ants battling it out as he wanders around Walden.
But many of us can't be like Ol' Henry, so we accept the romance (or pastoral) position to make ourselves feel better about throwing the piece of paper on the ground and driving to school every day--the whole 2.4 miles (which was nothing back in the day).
But we are not bad people, we live the life we've been conditioned to live. This romance we tend to have with leaving it all behind and making it on our own out in "da wood" certainly has its appeal, but few of us (beyond Chris McCandless) would dare go out and really LIVE out there. Well, much beyond a weekend; we need our comforts--have we not earned them?
Once we step outside the hubris (a word I've grown rather fond of lately, so forgive me) of our pastoral and/or religious beliefs (and I'm hedging here, I know), then we consider wilderness and the reality of nature. Lions, tigers, and bears, oh my! Garrard uses John Muir to demonstrate that there are many things in nature that can kill us (68). From my view, this observation offers a reality check to how we interact with the globe. Yet, the failing in Muir's assessment and others in the "Wilderness" chapter is that we are part of nature and can do our own tidy bit of damage to other species, even our own. Further, to extend (and flip) this concern, just because we are part of nature does not mean we are not responsible for it. At this point, I see this text's value as helping us build "a more effective rhetoric of transformation" (72).
Because we're all toast anyway in 2012....
Ok, I don't believe that, but lightning, literally, just struck outside my apartment, so I'm a little nervous.
Speaking of apocalyptic discourse, I think it certainly has become common place in our society, most notably, in our politics. But even again, apocalyptic rhetoric (or ecocriticism) forces us to take more responsibility, which is the recurring theme in Garrard's text.
I'm going to digress for a moment and throw a jab or two at Garrard, because I don't like how he's decided to handle Native American (American Indian) cultures or nations. In fact, I think his attempts to include them are naive and ignorant to the reality of that group's experience. Although his attempts may prove fruitful for many readers, the casual and nonchalant nature of his discussion, at times, puts those educated (to some degree) about Native American cultures in an uneasy position. One I find limited.
Nevertheless, Garrard's chapter on "Animals" makes readers consider an animals place in our culture--and ourselves in our own conception of animal. How is this useful? Again, Garrard is pointing to responsibility to each other and fellow dwellers of Earth.
I'm having to come back to this post time and time again because of loss of power or internet access, which is a testament to my (perhaps, our) dependence on technology. I digress. One of the statements Garrard is making is about how humans are the ultimate animals on Earth, and in being such animals, we control other animals. This control sets us up as the group responsible for the Earth's problems.
Many of us know about the island of plastic in the Pacific ocean called the Pacific Gyre (which Google won't show anyone); the same ocean that many animals depend on for food, but because of human trash, they are eating plastic instead of food.
It's a sad scene to be sure.
However, I want to return to the text (odd how I keep digressing from it, no?). Another useful aspect of Garrard's book that we as readers can take away is how we interact (or not) with nature. Consider in recent years (and currently on Discovery Channel) the number of nature shows demonstrating for us (as we sit comfy on our couch) the wonders around us: Blue Planet, Planet Earth, Life. These visual (and auditory) displays set before us, like we are kings, are what Garrard calls "ecoporn" (151). These programs could create a false impression of nature because viewers see what took weeks, or even months, to film compressed, edited, and chopped up (by commercials) in the space of forty-four minutes--the typical time for an hour long episode, minus the wonderful advertisements).
Garrard, I believe, begins to turn his work from an ethos, to logos, and finally to pathos argument, which is where he has been hinting at the entire time and what he has peppered his entire work with. By writing this way, he leads readers to the conclusion that we must look at the reality of our situation, understand how our culture(s) are influencing our global understanding, and gives us some firepower with which to take action. We, as scholars, have the ability to educate others about this balance of nature and culture and how it (among other things) could become a common component of our scholarship. In short, he is giving us another lens to see everything through--the lens of life.
