How Do You Solve a Problem Like Montalvo?

“It’s like walking into a sit-com,” said Gaby, who both works and frequents The Poet’s Passage, where I write. “All the familiar characters are there. Marc is writing, Johann is reading or napping, Carlos is being a pirate. It’s wonderfully normal and predictable.”

That could be true. For example, a gentleman in white tights, white face, and a red nose has just greeted me—silently—by offering his hand and then posing in still life for several seconds. So if you’re a clown, or a writer, or a pirate—well, where else do you go?

Which may have been why it wasn’t surprising, somehow, when Lady, the owner of the café, told me the news, “Montalvo’s in jail.”

“What,” I said, “what did he do?”

“He stole a parrot!”

“Yeah, from the parrot guy, who works down by the cruise ships, when they come in. You know, he has five or six parrots, and he charges twenty bucks for a picture of the parrots resting on your arms and shoulders. Good business….”

“Montalvo stole one of that guy’s parrots?!”

“Yeah, and then he went running into La Perla, where he lives, and the cops were chasing after him, and now he’s in prison in Bayamón….” 

“Wow—didn’t think the police went into La Perla…”

“Well, they usually don’t,” said Lady, “but they did for Montalvo!”

My friend Sonia once described La Perla as a modern medieval city; medieval because it sprang up without planning between the walls of Old San Juan and the sea. It’s a hodgepodge of streets, alleys, walkways and once ramshackle wood houses that sheltered the poor but honest people who worked in Old San Juan. Now? Well, it’s rumored to be a haven for drug dealers. The only time the police go into La Perla, in general, is when they can do it essentially as the Army went into Iraq: shock and awe.

“So what are we going to do about Montalvo,” I asked Lady.

“His mother called me—and she doesn’t want me to bail him out. He’s 21 years old, and she wants him to learn his lesson. So she told me—no bail.”

Montalvo, you see, has worked for the café seven times, and has also been fired from the café seven times. At the time of his arrest, he was in the fired phase, and thus had no money.

“So why did he steal the parrot,” I asked.

“It was his mother’s birthday, and he didn’t have anything to give her!”

“So he stole the parrot!”

“Well, for his mother….” said Lady defensively, and then she started to laugh.

“I just have this picture of Montalvo running like crazy with the parrot on his shoulder, and the cops with their billy-clubs chasing after him, like the Keystone Cops….”

OK—so his mother didn’t want him out on bail. The plan then became to visit on Saturday, possibly with a cake with a metal file in it.

That was until yesterday.

“Eight whole fucking days, and not one fucking person called to find out how I was! I was in there over a fucking week, and who calls? So today, I call all the missed calls, and guess what? They all wanted something—not one of them was calling about me! So fuck all of them!”

He’s angry, and also buzz-cut—prison apparently takes after the army that way. We talk him down.

“Well, I was high, up to my tits,” he said. “And the thing was, the parrot came to me! I mean, the guy was texting or screwing around with his phone—he wasn’t even paying attention to his birds! And then the parrot jumped on my lap! So there I am, patting this bird and really getting into him and he’s looking at me with these intense eyes, and the next thing I know, I’m walking—fucking WALKING, not running—away with the bird. I mean, I even stopped and took selfies of me and the bird! I mean, look.”

He handed over the phone….

“It’s sort of a twist on the Monty Python routine,” I said.  “’I ain’t stealing the parrot, it was restin’ on my shoulder….’”

We passed the phone around.

“The bird looks great,” I said, “but Jesus, Montalvo, you look stoned!”

“…to my tits,” he repeated.

“And what kind of bird was it,” I said. “Gorgeous color….”

“That’s the thing,” said Montalvo, “of all the fucking birds, I had to go steal the most expensive one: a Blue Macaw. I mean, there are like 3,000 of them in the entire world, and there’s a list of everyone who owns one. So what the hell was I going to do with a Blue Macaw in La Perla? I didn’t have a cage, I didn’t have anything to feed it, I didn’t have any money to buy it food….”

“Champagne taste,” I told him.

“So how much was the bird worth,” I asked.

“That’s the thing—I had to go steal a 25,000 dollar bird!”

“What!”

“Yeah, 25,000 fucking dollars.

“Yeah, the cops were telling me ‘if you had stolen one of the $500 dollar birds, your bail would have been a lot less’ and they were right,’ he said. And went on to say, “you know, I’m really glad they arrested me, because if not, the dealers in La Perla would have killed me and fed me to the sharks….”

Justice outside the walls of the city is a little different.

“Do you have any experience representing parrot rustlers,” I asked Kayla. Because, guess what? It’s four PM, and Montalvo has his preliminary hearing in court at 8:30 the next morning. And Montalvo, with the twelve dollars in his pocket?

Right—it’s now Adventures in Paternity, or Fatherhood 101, or maybe a sort of alternative to the old TV show, “This Is Your Life”—all the people who weren’t in your life. Because I’m now feeling quite father-like.

“He’s a basically good kid,” I told Kayla, who’s a lawyer. “So I haven’t told him what my father told my brother….”

“What was that,” she said.

“Montalvo, you are going to HAVE to be honest, because you are too goddamned STUPID to be a criminal!”

“Did he wince,” said Kayla.

“Well, he looked down at the floor,” I told her. “So I guess that’s a wince.”

Guess what? Lawyers drink coffee, which is really good news, since Lady looked up and realized with a start: that wasn’t a customer, that was the cavalry coming over the hill.

The moment comes.

“How are we doing this,” I ask her. The lawyer has been getting Montalvo’s side of the story. But there’s a problem—he’s not a criminal lawyer, and he’s not sure that he’s up to the job. So he wants to consult his partner—who is a criminal lawyer.

“Half and half,” said Lady. “That’s how we always do it, right?”

Who knows how much it’ll be, but what are we going to do? The judge told him, the day she set bail, that if convicted, Montalvo could face eight years in jail.

“I’m gonna go out and find that parrot guy,” said Lady. “What if he dropped the charges? We’ll tell him that Montalvo’s the future national poet of Puerto Rico, he’s 21, he was stoned.”

“Up to my tits,” said Montalvo, who apparently likes the phrase.

“I’d go with an animal activist defense,” said Jessica, who had drifted by, kissed Montalvo, rubbed his buzz cut. “The bird was clearly abused and was attracted to Montalvo’s energy.”

“He was probably attracted to Montalvo’s dope fumes,” I said, “since we now know that Montalvo…”

“Up to…”

I cut him off.

“Do you have a tie?” I asked Montalvo. It’s now several hours later, and it occurred to me—what was he going to wear to court? So there Montalvo was, in my apartment, rummaging for shoes to wear.

“Too bad the shoes aren’t black,” I told him. “Otherwise, with the white shirt, black pants, and a tie, you make a perfect Mormon missionary!”

So we tied his tie for him, loosened it, and sent him on his way. I tell Raf that Montalvo is one stupid kid, but what could I do?

“Look at it this way,” he said, “at least you never had to change his diaper….”

The View From the Fence

Right—time to get straight down to work and settle once and for all the vexing question of the death penalty.

I’ve never particularly bought into the standard liberal line, you see, nor do I do well with the standard Puerto Rican line. Why? Because if you ask about the death penalty here on the island, you will almost certainly be told: “only God can take a life.”

Guys? Can we just call it a theocracy and stop the pretense of separation of church and state?

I felt, for most of my life, that there were some crimes so unspeakably heinous that a nice, swift execution was the best thing to do. Consider these savory characters, who come to you from Wikipedia’s article on Sister Helen Prejean:

In addition to Sonnier, the account is based on the inmate Robert Lee Willie who, with his friend Joseph Jesse Vaccaro, raped and killed 18-year-old Faith Hathaway on May 28, 1980, eight days later kidnapping a Madisonville couple from alongside the Tchefuncte River in Louisiana and driving them to Alabama. They raped the 16-year-old girl, Debbie Morris (née Cuevas), who would later become the author of her book Forgiving the Dead Man Walking[4] and then stabbed and shot her boyfriend, 20-year-old Mark Brewster, leaving him tied to a tree paralyzed from the waist down.

You’ll have guessed—Sister Helen Prejean is the author of Dead Man Walking, and very likely you’ll have seen the movie. So it won’t be news to you—as it was to me—that Sister Helen wrote Dead Man about her experiences with guys on death row. She champions the abolition of the death penalty as ardently as the pope champions priestly celibacy.

Here’s my problem—I follow all the rules (well, mostly) and as a consequence am expected to fork over 20% or so of my annual salary to the government. That money goes to support guys who haven’t followed the rules, but who have committed crimes that often have devastated the lives of innocent people. These people are rotting in prison, doing nobody any good. Oh, and they don’t even want to be there. 

I know—that’s not the way I’m supposed to think. But that 30 grand we spend annually because “only God can take a life?” I’d really like to put that money to work beefing up education, treating PTSD in our veterans, or supporting opera companies. And those guys on death row? Well, couldn’t they be doing something?

Am I arguing for the return of the chain gang?

Look, it makes more sense than what we’re doing now….

OK—let’s back this car up.

One of the things about a blogger’s life is that you have to go sifting around, looking for things to write about, and then things get tied together in ways that you don’t expect. Because I had been watching—for reasons I no longer remember—a remarkable video of an interview with Stephen Levine, who for many years worked with dying people. And one of the stories he told was of an angry, bitter woman—a woman who had driven everyone away.

It was a problem—the woman was so negative, so hostile, that the nurses had to force themselves to work with her. But it was hardly just the nurses; her own daughters were estranged from her, and wanted nothing to do with her, even though she was dying.

One daughter, however, took on the challenge: could she go and sit down at her mother’s deathbed and, with an open heart, accept her mother as she was.  Could she wish her well? Could she—if not forgive—at least move away from what Levine calls a “business model” of human relationships? You give me love and nurturing and I’ll give you love back. You hurt me and I’m outta here….

So the daughter—a Zen Buddhist, and she’d have to be—sat and let her mother into her heart, without expecting or asking or even wanting her mother to change. Which was fortunate, since on the day of the mother’s death, she looked at her child and said, “I hope you have the most miserable life ever!”

Levine’s point? The daughter had done what she did for herself, not for her mother. The daughter didn’t want to carry the anger, the bitterness around forever. And so she had endured abuse up until the very end—in order to free herself of it.

As you’ll see in the clip below, Dead Man Walking became an opera as well, and I can tell you that because, in my nightly forage for carbohydrates, I found myself eating jellybeans and watching—who else?—Joyce DiDonato.

I might as well confess it—I am electronically stalking DiDonato. How bad has the obsession become? Well, fully as bad as last year’s obsession with Martha Argerich, and to tell you how bad that was, I give you the fact that the computer has not put a red squiggle under Argerich. The computer, you see, not only knows perfectly well who she is, but is totally bored with it.

Oh—another fact. I’m so desperate for any new video of Didonato that I watched an interview of her in French. And when was the last time I spoke French? Well, let’s see, I graduated from High School in ’74….

So there I was, looking at Joyce Didonato and Jake Heggie talking about their upcoming—well, as of two years ago—Carnegie Hall recital. And you know what? I am not going to introduce the computer to Heggie, because I don’t like him.

OK—be fair, I’m envious because, besides being handsome, intelligent, way-talented, and having his opera Dead Man Walking presented over 40 times in five continents—I mean, how much stuff can one have in life—he’s also a friend of Joyce DiDonato.

But here’s where I’m at: if I were the relative, the father of a murdered child, how would I react? Impossible to say—but here’s what I’d hope.

I hope—like the daughter of the bitter mother—that I’d forgive, that I’d say no to the hatred and the desire for vengeance. But on a societal level?

Damn, still haven’t figured it out….

An Excellent Guy

On an island where the seriously screwy tends to be treated, well, seriously, even this situation has 3.6 million people scratching their heads.

Simply put, James Tuller, who had been chief of the New York City Police Department Transportation Bureau and who for four months had been acting as the designated chief of the Puerto Rico Police Department turned out…

…to be cheating on his taxes.

Or maybe not—who knows? But Tuller has been married since 1996, and yet for four years he filed as a single person. So that presented a bit of a challenge, since those pesky senators in charge of approving his nomination were insisting on seeing the tax returns. So what did Tuller do?

Well, he had a couple of strategies—the first of which was to stall. And though it’s true that we tend to move a bit more slowly than those goose-stepping Germans, stalling is a tactic that only works so long.

So the next thing to do was to run up to New York and amend his tax returns. But it turned out—curious, this—that there was a little difference between what he had to pay as a single person versus a married person. Oh, and there were penalties, as well. Nevertheless, he forked over $30,000 to the State of New York. (according to one report, he took five days off work to go up to New York to settle these trifles and get the silly paperwork…)

Did that make the senators happy? By no means. Intent on picking every nit, the senators demanded that Tuller pay the IRS as well. Then they’d see about the nomination—no promises.

So that led to the next problem, which was that Tuller didn’t have the dough, despite making close to 200,000 bucks a year. He was willing, though, to agree to a payment plan. But the senators still balked at assuring him of his nomination. So on Monday night, after 121 days on the job, this excellent though somewhat forgetful public servant made the decision: he would retire his name for consideration.

This has left even members of the governor’s own party wondering what in the world went wrong.  Part of it, of course, was that there was a scramble to find a police superintendent in the first place, since Tuller’s predecessor had up and left one day, all but flipping the bird at the governor as he rode to the airport. And it came at a rather poor time, since the senate was not in session, and it was Christmas.

Ah, Christmas—which in Puerto Rico generally begins the day after Thanksgiving Day and continues until at least the end of January—Fiestas de la Calle de San Sebastián—after the octavitas. So really, it’s only been a couple of months since any of us have had time to trouble ourselves about inessentials like appointing a police chief.

Well, it’s all a little troubling, since we also don’t have a secretary of justice, since that guy got into a little trouble when he went to the police station with his friend. His friend, you see, had been drinking at a party—well, that’s what you do at parties, isn’t it? And look, you gotta get home, don’t you? Does everybody have to be so unreasonable?

Right, so everything would have been fine if only the friend hadn’t pulled out his cell phone while driving—a crime in Puerto Rico. And of course, there had to be that nosy cop, who pulled the friend over, and noted the strong smell of alcohol.

So the papers had a field day with the Secretary of Justice, who had done what any friend would do: gone to the aid of his friend to the police headquarters, to ensure that everything was handled correctly. What harm could there be in that?

So it’s all a bit dampening, especially for the governor, who had to come out in today’s print version of El Nuevo Día as saying, “entiendo, por la información pública que ha surgido….” Or, “I understand, from the public information that has surfaced…” The Gov, apparently, is a regular guy like you or me—getting his news by reading the paper on the bus to work. See?

And all this comes at a rather unsettling time, since the United States Department of Justice…wait, let those fire-breathing liberals from the ACLU tell you about it:

A report released by the ACLU in June 2012 concludes that the Puerto Rico Police Department is plagued by a culture of unrestrained abuse and impunity. The PRPD – which, with over 17,000 officers, is the second-largest police department in the U.S – is charged with policing the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico.

In July 2013, the U.S. Justice Department entered into a legally binding consent decree with the Puerto Rican government that requires sweeping reforms to end the widespread police brutality on the island.

Well, to make sure that the police department complies with the “sweeping reforms,” Tuller appointed a retired US Army colonel, Michelle Hernández de Fraley, to oversee the whole process. And good luck to her, since the US Department of Justice determined that the police practiced discrimination, especially against blacks and Dominicans, were poorly trained, and didn’t investigate cases of domestic abuse. Oh, and that they used excessive force, especially in cases of peaceful protest.

Nor is that the only challenge she might face, if nominated and approved. Because we have more police officers than any place I have ever seen—but the monthly pay for our cops? It’s $2,600, or slightly over 30,000 dollars annually. On the island, that’s not bad—but consider, the other news of this morning: the police hauled in nearly two tons of cocaine in an interception off the north coast of Puerto Rico. In fact, in March alone, the police have pulled in nearly three tons of cocaine.

And what does that mean?

Well, we’re awash in drugs, and with the drugs comes the money, and with the money? Corruption—which is a distinct possibility. How much honesty does a base salary of $30,000 buy you?

The sad news is that the previous chief of police was—by all accounts—a very effective guy who had the support of the force, even as he was changing it. And the one who just left?

By all accounts an excellent guy…

Look, he just cheated on his taxes….

A Farmer Weighs In

Well, he got after me, as he sometimes does. Had I been fair? Had I slammed Monsanto without giving the company a chance to defend itself? What if it were true that this technology not only was improving yields but also was capable of doing a host of other things? If, for example, Monsanto could breed a drought-resistant strain of wheat, how beneficial to humanity would that be?

It was in vain to tell him—my long dead father—that Monsanto was hardly likely to take my call. No, he was as persistent in death as he was in life, and so I did what I had always done: sighed and caved.

Right—so who would take my call? Cousin Marshall, I decided. He’s family and a farmer, so it was the work of a moment to call him.

Well, he confirmed what I suspected: yes, he uses Roundup-Ready seeds from Monsanto, which in this case come from a local seed dealer, Dairyland Seed. And yes, he’s seen an increase in his yields; in addition, he’s using much less pesticide / herbicide. Even better, what he’s using is far less toxic—before, he had been using pesticides / herbicides with a low LD 50 (a measure of toxicity, and the lower the LD 50 the more toxic); with Roundup, he doesn’t have to worry about applying near streams and killing fish.

Well, LD 50 was new to me, so I googled it, and discovered that it stood for the lethal dose (LD) of 50 percent of a given population. Right—so I looked that up and discovered that Roundup has an LD 50 of 5,600mg / kg for rats. In short, if you give 5,600 mg / kg to 100 rats, you will kill 50 of them.

Wow—the stuff you learn as a blogger!

All that led to the question: was Roundup really less toxic? The answer—par for the course—is that I don’t know. I can tell you that I went to Table 6 of the Pesticide Safety Fact Sheet; Roundup’s LD 50 seemed to be in the mid-range—there were others with an LD 50 of over 10,000 mg / kg. But what do I know about farming? There may be other factors to consider….

Marshall’s one problem with Roundup? Well, at one point he was farming with both Roundup-ready and with non-Roundup-ready seeds (in other words—regular seeds), and somehow he forgot which was which. So he applied Roundup to one of his fields, with the result…

You could tell it still hurt, so I didn’t tell him, though I was tempted, “typical Newhouse!”

In short, for Marshall, Monsanto has made his life easier. And guess what? Anything that makes a farmer’s life easier is—usually—something I’m all in favor of. Because a farmer’s life is seriously hard, and never more so than today. And so I assured him that I bore him no grudge for using genetically-modified seeds. After all, I well remember the howls I got from people who learned that I worked for Wal-Mart—who am I to talk?

Marshall was then good enough to write an email, in which he pointed out…wait, let him tell it:

Over 90% of the acreage in the Corn Belt is under cultivation using GMO’s (as I stated earlier).  The problem with that scenario is that it represents millions of square miles of a man-made monoculture.  That is not anything you will find in nature anywhere on this planet and not at any time in the past.  Earth’s systems will fight that and will eventually win the battle.  That is already occurring with weeds developing resistance at various places around the country.  As numbers of species of resistant weeds increase and areas infected with these resistant weeds expand, the efficiency of GMO’s (Roundup in this case) always yields to the environment.

Marshall went on to state, “Each GMO breakthrough is a short term solution designed to last a decade or two if the industry is lucky.”

Well—that’s definitely a cause for concern. In short, we’re skirting with disaster, hoping to outwit Mother Nature. Can we sustain that?

If I were a farmer, I might very well do as Marshall has done: join the crowd and grow GMO seeds. The problem? I’m not a farmer, but an eater. And which foods and products have GMO’s? At the moment, I have to assume that they all do—at least until I go onto a site that has a list of GMO-free foods.

As I said yesterday, we have taken part in an experiment without being told that we were guinea pigs. And what have been the consequences? Since I had written about the possibility of GMO foods being linked to autism, I decided to check it out. Here, from the Washington Times, is a comparison of US’ versus Britain’s—which has banned GMO foods—rates of autism:

As of 2010, their article said, autism prevalence rates for 8-year-old British boys was about four cases per 1,000, and 0.8 per 1,000 for British girls. This was essentially the same as in 2004.

By contrast, autism rates for 8-year-old U.S. boys rose from a range of 8.9. to 15.8 cases per 1,000 in 2004 to an average of 18.4 cases per 1,000 in 2008. For U.S. girls, rates went from 1.5 to 3.7 cases per 1,000 in 2004 to four cases per 1,000 in 2008.

Maybe it’s true what Mom always said: you are what you eat!

Monday Morning Bastards

Well, well—Monday morning, and time to find out what all my favorite bastards are doing.

They don’t stop, you see—which is curious, because...aren’t they reading? Aren’t they paying attention? Surely this blog should put the fear of God into at least a few people….

There’s Monsanto, for example, and what, by the way, ever became of that genetically modified wheat that somehow sprang up in a farmer’s field in May of last year? Remember that? An Oregon farmer sprayed the herbicide Roundup on his field, and some wheat plants refused to die. So he sent them off to Oregon State University—which unsurprisingly is quite interested in wheat, since the state sells 700 million bucks of it mostly to Asia—and yup, it was Monsanto’s experimental wheat. And the experiment? It had ended more than a decade before.

Japan suspended purchases of wheat; the USDA guys were scrambling to try to determine how the wheat got there. Then, in a conference call, some Monsanto spokesman came up with an ingenious idea: sabotage. One of those nutty foodies, you see, had snuck into Monsanto—presumably any soul can drift in and out of their facilities, rather like a mall—and copped the wheat. Then, he had gone into a field, planted the seed, and pointed the finger at Monsanto, to tarnish the company’s reputation! Hah! Foiled that dude!

The complete inanity of the explanation was of no importance. What’s important, as anybody in corporate America knows, is that somebody says something. Anything. Whatever….

Because they know—the public forgets. We go on. We worry about North Korea until it’s time to worry about the Crimea, and then, guess what? The North Koreans detonate a nuclear missile and then we all start worrying again.

And so I googled “GMO wheat Oregon,” and was unsurprised to learn: we still don’t know, the story went cold. I did, however, discover the name of the professor who identified the wheat—Carol Mallory-Smith, professor, Weed Science.

Weed Science?

This, I have to say, greatly improves the Monday morning experience. Who knew, for example, that there is the Weed Science Society of America, or the WSSA, which takes its weeds very seriously? And I regret to inform the readers of this blog that I completely screwed up by not informing you guys about National Invasive Species Awareness Week, which was February 23-28. (Though it does seem curious—don’t most weeks have seven days? Or do invasive species move so fast….)

Right—so I have emailed Professor Mallory-Smith, to see if there’s any more information on the Oregon wheat situation; the professor, curiously, has not immediately responded. She may be out in the field; stay tuned.

What else did I find? Well, take a look at this….

And the caption for this photo?

Michael Doane, Monsanto's wheat industry affairs director, looks at growth in a wheat field in an undisclosed location in North Dakota in this undated file photo. (Reuters / Carey Gillam)

And the date of this article? January 15, 2014.

Guys? Who the hell decided to allow Monsanto to test their new GMO wheat in—of all places—a North Dakota field? And why, by the way, did The New York Times publish an opinion piece entitled “We Need G. M. O. Wheat?”

Well, I read it, which turns out to be an op-ed written by guys seriously in bed with the “biotech industry.” One of the authors, in fact, has written a book, The Frankenfood Myth: How Protest and Politics Threaten the Biotech Revolution—does that tell you the story?

According to the authors, the soybean and corn farmers made the switch to GMO seeds in the 1990’s, and they’ve been happy as Chesapeake Bay clams ever since—enjoying increased yields, using less herbicide, making more money. But those fussy foodies won’t let the biotech industry approve GMO wheat, since 15 percent of it is exported to countries that don’t want the stuff. Oh, and the authors go on to say:

The scientific consensus is that existing genetically engineered crops are as safe as the non-genetically engineered hybrid plants that are a mainstay of our diet.

Whew—what a relief!

Or is it? Because I had been watching a documentary about Monsanto, and something stuck in my mind. So I googled “GMO food autism” and sure enough, there’s a body of research out there—done in admittedly iffy institutions like Harvard and Massachusetts General—that suggest that there may be a link between autism and GMO foods.

Why? It appears that GMO foods cause the intestines to weaken and become inflamed. Here’s what one article had to say:

One of the earliest indications that GMOs might cause GI tract distress was a 1999 study published in the Lancet. After rats were fed experimental GMO potatoes for just 10 days, the cells of the stomach lining and intestines were significantly altered.[¹²]

When California pediatrician Michelle Perro reviewed the study in 2011 and saw the photos of the increased cellular growth and abnormal architecture, she thought to herself, “Uh oh -- we’ve got some problems.” Based on her experience treating children for 30 years, she said, “You can extrapolate that the same thing may be occurring in babies clinically. They are not digesting their food. They are malabsorbing. . . . And I’m seeing that commonly now.” Digestive issues are skyrocketing among her patients. 

Does this gastric distress lead to or cause autism? Nobody knows. What’s more interesting, though, is the research on rats fed GMO. Consider this:

Dr. Irina Ermakova, PhD, a senior researcher at the Russian Academy of Sciences, reported to the European Congress of Psychiatry in March 2006 that male rats fed GM soy exhibited anxiety and aggression, while those fed non-GMO soy did not [³]. Ermakova reported the same behavior in GM soy-fed female rats and their offspring in her study published in Ecosinform. The animals “attacked and bit each other and the worker."[⁴]

(Far more shocking, however, was that more than 50% of the offspring from the GMO-fed group died within three weeks when compared with a 10% death rate among the group fed natural soy. The GM group also had high rates of infertility and had smaller members.)

In one of his books, Michael Pollan writes of being given GMO potatoes, which he kept for a while. Then the question came up—could he make a potato salad and take it to a pot luck supper? And if so, was he morally obliged to let people know? Pollan eventually tossed the potatoes, and came to the conclusion any sane person would: even if the potatoes were safe, why take a risk?

In fact, we have all taken the risk—everyone who has eaten “normal” food for the last 20 years. And now, one in 68 kids in the US may have autism; in New Jersey, one in 28 boys has autism.

Oh, and the guys who are regulating the “biotech industry?” Unsurprisingly, they’re not even in bed with the industry, they’re in flagrante with them.

It’s a cynical as it is evil.

PS—The good professor came through!

Tropical Koan

Susan sent me an email, having read a review of a book on the depressing topic of…depression.

“Depressing,” because, according to the article—well, here’s a quote:

At any given point, 22% of the population exhibit at least one symptom of depression and the World Health Organization projects that by 2030, depression will have led to more worldwide disability and lives lost than any other affliction, including cancer, stroke, heart disease, accidents, and even war.

Well, I turned to the review, and was stopped in my initial tracks by the first sentence:

“Depression is a disorder of the ‘I,’ failing in your own eyes relative to your goals,” legendary psychologist Martin Seligman observed in his essential treatise on learned optimism.

Yeah? So who is Martin Seligman, legendary though he may be? And what the hell does he know about depression? Has he ever been trapped in a toilet stall, has he ever had a crying jag he couldn’t stop, has he ever sat at a computer and looked at the screen and felt his mind turn to mush and realize that his thinking has slowed so far down that his thoughts can’t make it up to the surface? So that email that he has to write? He can’t concentrate, he can’t focus—all he can do is sit there numbly and mutely and hope that, in some way, the governor will sign the reprieve. Because, let’s be clear—there is no chance whatsoever that anything he does will affect in any way how he is feeling. Why? Because he is not feeling.

Or is he? Because he’s been crying, sobbing, and he’s been ruminating.

Maybe you don’t know….

Ruminating is not—not where he is—pondering a problem deeply. No, ruminating is the incessant—shouldn’t it be incesssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssant?—repetition of a single thought. Today it’s “I want to die.” Yesterday it was “I can’t think.”

Sure, Styron did it better than anyone—myself included—in his book on depression Darkness Visible. But don’t think that he or I or anyone can get this one right. Why? Because, by its nature, depression defies description. It’s a black hole, where any light shone into it is lost, consumed. And when, at last, the master of the universe relents and you’re out, the very memory of it has been consumed as well.

So the legendary Martin Seligman has pronounced himself on depression—how very nice! At best, it accounts for one and only one of the many depressions. Because when I went from 10 milligrams to 20 milligrams of one drug and began to take 15 milligrams of another, guess what? I began humming to myself as I rode to work.

I’m lucky; as I understand it, the serotonin reuptake inhibitor basically floods all of the brain, and all the receptors, with serotonin. And some of those relate to mood, and some relate to other things having nothing to do with mood. Which means that some people get lots of side effects and remain depressed; the lucky ones like me get relatively few, but a blessed lift in mood.

So do I come down on the side of chemicals, medicines, physiology? No, because what you do with your life changes your brain. That I learned one afternoon as I saw a group of people wearing new clothes—and really terrible ones, at that—waiting to be photographed by a clearly professional photographer.

The “models,” however, were just-as-clearly not professionals. But who were they, I wondered, as I pondered them standing around on the beach under the palm trees? And where was I?

Lolling on my back in the water, after a day of writing and playing music and taking a walk and listening to Monteverdi. I hadn’t made a dime that day, but I was happy. And the people on the beach? They were Wal-Mart employees, who had been chosen to be the models in the newspaper advertising insert.

I had worked for seven years for Wal-Mart, and for many of them I was lethally depressed. I was laid off; I went into crisis. I got out of the crisis and put myself on a schedule, a schedule I still follow. And I was at that moment splashing in the blue Caribbean waters, watching a group of prisoners from a prison I had escaped.

“Escaped,” because merely being laid off would have been “paroled” or perhaps “released.” But the prison I had escaped from wasn’t Wal-Mart—I had escaped from a brutal, decade-long battle against myself. I had willed myself to go to the brink of madness, to stand on the precipice and grant the Gods permission to push me into it.

It wasn’t a psychiatric crisis—or perhaps it was. I had been an angry, impossible steward for a man who had been given great gifts. I had raged at myself, scolded myself, belittled myself, bitten myself….

But wait—it wasn’t “myself.” Because I had had nothing to do with it—I could no more write a book or play the cello than I could scale Mount Everest. My job was to feed him and give him as much water as he needed and exercise him and put the cello into his hands and sit him at the computer and then GET THE HELL AWAY! He’ll play perfectly well on his own.

Wrong—he’ll play infinitely better. Because you know all that criticism for all those years?

Sorry—but it was shit.

The person you see occupies a middle position. I came to know a presence, which to me was the wind. And from this presence, which I call Domine, the cellist gets his talent, and the writer as well. My job is to get him in front of computers and embracing cellos.

I take him to the dentist—just as I brush his teeth. At the end of the day, I read what he’s written, or I listen to him play. ‘Where did that come from,’ I wonder. ‘He’s so good,’ I tell him. ‘Wow!’ I say.

I had made my life a koan, which, for the benefit of my red-squiggling computer, I will define, via Wikipedia:

A kōan (公案?)/ˈkoʊ.ɑːn/; Chinese: 公案; pinyin: gōng'àn; Korean: 공안 (kong'an); Vietnamese: công án) is a story, dialogue, question, or statement, which is used in Zen-practice to provoke the "great doubt", and test a student's progress in Zen practice.

What is the music of a mute cellist?

What happens when the music goes away?

Should it matter if he plays better without the instrument than with it?

None of these fanciful statements are true. I was simply holding on to a small thread of faith, which I could only grasp by observing with agonizing detail how I went about my life. I lost the ability to use a computer, and then stared at my fingers until I could connect my right first digit with an icon that was on my dock. I looked at the icon, absorbed the blue, noted that the downward slash of the small part of the “W” is superimposed over the upward slash. But am I supposed to do a double or a single click?

How many Word documents had I opened before?

And why was I doing it?

I wanted to change something so fundamental about myself that I required a reboot. “Put the detergent on the sponge,” I told him. We were doing dishes—which he generally did by wasting water, slopping water all over the floor, and not paying attention. Now, I had to tell him how to wash the dishes—first you put the soap on the sponge; then you lather, as it were, the coffee cup; then you place the cup with soap still on it on the side of the sink; proceed to the next cup.

The important thing?

There was no abuse in it. Just patient directions—completely explicit, clear, detailed. He didn’t know how to do prosaic stuff, and had been too impatient to learn. And I had berated him for decades about the stuff he really could do.

I blew it a few times; so did he. He was holding on, too, to the thread. Perhaps more than I, he had heard the wind through the palm trees, heard the fronds stir to life, appreciated the swaying green against the constant blue, felt the hand caressing his brow, smiled, looked up, and said…

…Domine.