Thursday, August 15, 2013

As many who know me are aware, I was totally upended by a visit to the Soviet Union in 1981. I came home with these thoughts:

  1. The Soviet Union was a “shame” society, far more focused upon external compliance than inner life;
  2. Despite its “leftist” and “revolutionary” reputation, the Soviet state was deeply and structurally conservative, more like the reactionary Nicholas I than the reformer Alexander II.

As a child in Berkeley, California, I grew up swimming in a sea of leftist, progressive thought, which was one of the reasons I was interested in the Soviet Union in the first place. Russian literature awoke in me a rich constellation of thoughts and feelings and the elegant society in which I passed my childhood found a sympathetic echo in its pages. So what was not to like about going to Russia?

The best parts of me did not like Russia. But the phoniest, smarmiest, public relations side of my being liked the place just fine.

“Remember,” said our tour organizer, a old Berkeley radical to the souls of his shoes. “You don’t have to put up with any shit from them. You’re free people and don’t forget it.”

Most of the people who were on my tour took his words to heart. Being raised to be gracious, I found them simply impolite, and though free, thought that silence was probably the more prudent course in a country whose customs I did not know.

The tour was a summer university exchange and we spent most of our time as guests at Leningrad University listening to lectures on Russian history and culture from various faculty members. They were interesting, and for the most part were about economic theory and economic development, topics that until that point had not particularly engaged me. But it was in the Soviet Union that I experienced with great honesty the power that money exerts over people’s lives, how having it confers confidence, how having it taken away shatters confidence; in short, how money could be used as a weapon of intimidation.

But while I sat quietly in my seat trying to deal with this onslaught of new information, my fellow travelers were hurtling the insults of “free people” at our Soviet hosts, demanding that they talk about imprisoned poets and slave labor, which, of course, this being a summer vacation, they would not. They did not return the accusations with silence, however; they returned the accusations with tracts so lengthy and so boring you regretted that anyone said anything at all, and it was in the midst of a discourse upon the construction of a dam in some area so remote that most Russians had probably not heard of it that I hit upon an idea.  

That idea was being constructive. Clearly, these guys knew how to deal with disruptions, but what about constructions? So, the next day, I raised a tentative hand. “I realize, thanks to you,” I began, referring to the Marxist ideology upon which Soviet Communism was built, “that ideas can be absolutely perfect. But it has been my experience of human beings that we are less than perfect. So, how do you handle the ordinary difficulties of daily life like traffic tickets?”

Everyone laughed, and one of our hosts, a lovely woman in her sixties who reminded me of my favorite aunt, touched me on the shoulder. “No one is interested in that,” she smiled, “but come over here and I’ll tell you all about it.”

While the rest of the group went on to loftier subjects, I received an incredibly lively picture of daily life in Leningrad, of squabbles between neighbors, small claims court, apartment councils, the sheer complexity of lots of people living in close proximity, the ill tempered ones and the nice ones. It was thanks to this lovely woman that I learned beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Russians knew a lot more than they were telling.

My alarm became not for them; it was clear that Soviet Power was on its last legs, but for us, because, after all, we were “free people,” in the greatest and best society that had ever arisen on the face of the earth, and we didn’t know a thing.

A lot has happened since 1981, but the tension between perfection and disruption continues, and now that we don’t have the Russians to beat up anymore, we are doing it to ourselves.

Social Ecology: Because We Are Nature

I'm  not sure where I first heard this story. I'm sure it was in Alaska, and its beginning was told me by a Native during the course of opening to me the Native Mind. The ending of the story was added by me, also a storyteller, and I can think of no better fable to show the difference between the way I was taught to view reality and the way my Alaskan friend was taught.

The story begins with a scientifically proven fact: at the end of the Pleistocene, about 10,000 years ago, there was a mass extinction of large animals across Eurasia and North America. No one was there to witness this event; most people attribute it to overhunting, and author Barry Lopez in his precise and pointed manner observes that outside the African continent, there was almost no co-evolution between humans and large mammals. Co-evolution describes a relationship between predators and their prey. Prey species adapt in ways to better avoid those who hunt them, forcing predators to hone their hunting skills and resulting in stronger species overall.

There is no question that during the Pleistocene, humans honed their hunting skills, napping flint arrow and spear heads and mastering the art of fire which permitted cooking what they had caught. In North America, so goes the Native account, the animals did not know us when we crossed the bridge into the new land, and because they did not know us, it made it possible for us to hunt them out of existence. When we saw what we had done, we were very sad and we were very hungry, so we came together to learn how we could live better with the animals and the land. Out of this was born our Native Way. We did not always have this way. We had to learn from our mistakes.

Presumably, the same thing was going on in Eurasia. All the animals whose memory haunts us from caves in El Castillo, Chauvet, Lascaux also went extinct. This might be one of the things indirectly alluded to in the myth of the expulsion from the Garden, although the Bible makes no reference to humans' eating meet until after the Flood, and the Flood is about saving animals, not losing them. The mythological evidence from Europe is spotty. But what we can document, from around that time, is the rise of a culture of control: agriculture, domestic animals, walled cities, armies, hierarchies; in short, the mechanisms of order, and the distancing of the human person from the world that nourishes and sustains him. With the beautiful exception of the Egyptians -- and remember that the Egyptians were Africans and so enjoyed co-evolution -- animal people are surprisingly absent from the Greek and Near Eastern pantheons, appearing mostly in monstrous form.

Ecological philosopher Paul Shepard believes that something so profound happened about 10,000 years ago that we are only just beginning to appreciate its consequences. His beautiful study Nature and Madness details the loss of adulthood that accompanies civilization. In the more technical societies, humans enjoy very long childhoods and lack any kind of initiation into real maturity. The result is that in the most so-called "advanced" technical societies, even the elders are just decaying young people. One of his other books, collected from posthumous writings, describes the Pleistocene, being the age in which humans rose to high levels of consciousness, was also the age to whose ecosystems we were the most perfectly adapted, and all that has followed has been in some way a mismatch, with all the distortions to reality implied when our instincts are not in tune with our surroundings. In such a view, although Shepard does not go this far, cities become a way of tailoring the environment to purely human sensibilities. More about this later.

In his whimsical book about a philosophical gorilla named Ishmael, novelist Daniel Quinn refers to two basic cultural stances in the world: the leavers and the takers.

To be continued...