Ode to Cups

Posted on 22 November 2013 by Carol

One of life’s pleasures is the daily process of choosing a cup from which to enjoy my morning coffee.  I am now at my mother’s house in Portland, Oregon.  She shares this enjoyment and is surely a prime source thereof:  she has a cup collection [indeed, she has many collections, but that is another story].  Today I woke early and, as usual, savored selecting my cup.  After an initial scan of her array, I considered first the white one of medium size, with a faintly inscribed lilac-colored iris on its side.  I looked next at and thought about the tall, delicate one with two regal Siamese cats on it.  The cup itself looked a bit regal, with its elegantly curving handle.  But in the end, I chose one I’d bought for my mother in 1994, when we were both reeling from my father’s death.  It has a white interior and framing, but most of the tall, slender, fine-bone china cup is covered in a painting of Butchart Gardens (in the Canadian city of Victoria, where I’d gone for an Ethno-biology conference).  The image is done in impressionistic style, with an additional strip of the greens and reds of the painting flowing down the mostly white and beautifully curving handle.  It’s really lovely.

Another favorite is one we bought in England, on a visit to a family friend we’d known in my youth.  This cup also has a white interior, but it’s a short one, made delicate by the outward curve at the bottom.  It is covered with lovely flowers portrayed in an English garden scene.  Sometimes I choose a solider cup of medium size, one that I bought for my mother two summers ago on our trip to Alaska with her now deceased partner and his eldest daughter.  Its main color is purplish, with an iris as the central motif.   It was not expensive, only $5, but for some reason I like it better than the bigger, more expensive, and even more delicate one I bought in duplicate, for both of us.  That one is both tall and wide, mostly white, with scattered single flowers of a kind I can’t remember.

These are the ones I usually choose from the large and varied collection she has displayed in her cupboard.  She also has as many more stored in her attic, and she switches them around from time to time, but these that I have described seem always to be available when I come. 

At my own home, I have a smaller collection, only the ones I particularly like.  One favorite that I found in my goods when we unpacked our 30 year storage unit in 2009 is a short, globular, transparent cup with the Earth etched on it.  I look at the various places I’ve lived, turning the cup from side to side to look at Indonesia, at the Pacific Northwest, at Turkey, now at New York.  I got this cup at a ‘swap meet’ (where people bring their stuff to sell, rather like an estate sale, actually!) in Hawaii in the early 1980s.  Another favorite was recently acquired, on my trip to Cameroon last May.  The flight stopped in Turkey (not exactly on the way!), where I had grown up (in the late 1950s).  I found a strangely curved cup with an abstract design portraying things Turkish.  The whole cup curves outward, away from the handle; it reminds me of a pregnant woman.  The motif includes among others, a woman with a headscarf and the word Istanbul in letters of various sizes and shapes so that it’s almost unrecognizable as a word—it’s definitely an unusual ‘souvenir cup’.  Before this cup arrived on the scene, I liked to use a rough, cream-colored pottery one with a blue dragonfly etched on one side, left behind by the previous owners of our Etna home. 

These are all used for coffee.  I have others from which I choose if I’m making tea.  Sometimes I choose a big globular pottery cup from CIFOR (my place of employment).  This cup has a light brown or tannish color, with a big diagonal swath of light green across it and CIFOR written in small letters toward the bottom.  It was designed by Dennis Dykstra, my much appreciated boss at the time (early 1990s) and a fellow Oregonian.  It is a very Oregon type design (earthy, ‘green’), and always reminds me of my home state.  I also have two real English tea cups of fine bone china—tall, delicate, set up a bit from a base, and with little matching lids.  They even came with insert-able tea strainers!  Both are mainly white,  with outward curving lips and elegant S-shaped handles.  One has a single red poppy prominent upon it; the other a pattern of small, light blue cornflowers.  These two cups were very expensive (maybe $20 each?).  I bought them in an airport, probably in Heathrow, but have used them now for a decade or two.  For years, I had one in my office in Bogor (Indonesia), and one at home.  Now they both sit in my cupboard in Etna, NY, available for use at any time; they are often used by guests who eschew caffeine at night.  The last one I would mention is a big one I got from my mother in law, when she died.  I had used and enjoyed it at her house whenever I went there.  It is mainly white, but one side is covered with several big American flowers (dahlias among them); and the other side is covered with brightly colored vegetables (corn, tomato, and more).  She got the cup from a seed company from which she had bought gardening supplies.  I was happy to inherit it.

Who would imagine one could get so much recurrent pleasure from such mundane things!?

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A Bit of Americana: Estate Sales

Posted on 19 November 2013 by Carol

I’d been to estate sales from time to time (those sales designed to empty the homes of the recently deceased, often organized by professional dealers), but I’d never been involved in one for a member of my own family.  An interesting and somewhat disturbing process.  I was not the organizer; I was one step removed, as the pseudo-step-daughter of Bob, the recently deceased.  The sale was organized by Bob’s daughters, who hired the estate sale professionals.

The process, as I understand it, goes like this:  the family contacts the estate sale professionals, who first come and evaluate the house’s potential for an estate sale (after the family has selected what they want).  At that point, Bob’s home was declared marginally suitable (i.e., he wasn’t quite enough of a junk collector for their taste).  Warnings were apparently given, that the family should not take any more of the remaining goods, that such acts would render the house unsuitable/unprofitable.  Still, the family was given a special day,one last chance to purchase goods they’d not taken previously.  Last weekend was the real sale.  It had been advertised in the newspaper, and there were large bright red and yellow placards, prominently displayed at the various nearby street corners, leading people to the house. 

My mother decided, after the family day, that she really wanted to purchase two of Bob’s chairs.  She had called the estate sale people requesting to be let into the sale early, so she could pick these out and buy them before the place was open to the public.  She’d understood that they would let her in at 8:45 (the sale was to begin at 9:00).  To my amazement, when we arrived, there were cars lining this quiet residential street and there was a cluster of people waiting in front of the house.  There was a signup sheet to get in and people already had plans about what they were going to try to reach before the item in question was snapped up by others.  Clearly these folks were experienced estate sale attendees.

When we arrived at 8:45, the professionals [three rather abrupt and unpleasant women] told us that they had not agreed to let her in early, but…after some negotiation…they agreed to let her in among the first cohort.  At 9 AM, one of the women came out and began reading off the first names from the list [we were numbers 2 and 3}, and these were let in.  People rushed in, spreading out throughout the house.  Fortunately my mother and I were able to get the chairs she wanted. 

Everything in the house had been labeled with a price.  The chairs were $65 and $75, I think.  A set of 10 German, hand painted fruit plates with birds accurately represented on them sold for $25.  We saw two beaded buckles I’d made for Bob on sale for $8 each.  Mother paid $1 for a jumbo Valentine she’d given him one year.  It was a very weird feeling to be wandering around in a house we knew so well, selecting the private possessions of someone we had loved so well—and seeing others picking up, evaluating, selecting, buying these items, many of which held dear memories.  I was grateful that Bob’s daughters were not there to witness what seemed somehow crass and inappropriate, a commercial dealing with what should be private. I was sorry that my mother was there to see it (even though it was her decision to do so).

Yet what else can one do in a society so fraught with consumerism?  Even Bob, who was definitely not by any means an impulse buyer or a squanderer of resources (quite the reverse), had accumulated more goods than his family could absorb.  A huge proportion of Americans have far more goods than we need, and definitely far more goods than our children will want—they all have their own homes bulging with possessions!  Once family members have selected the things they want or need, there typically remains a mountain of other things that can be thrown out….or sold in an estate sale.  The former seems more distasteful than the latter.  On the positive side, an estate sale is a mode of redistribution and an entertainment.  It can be quite interesting to wander about looking at some stranger’s possessions, seeking treasures as yet unrecognized and therefore inexpensive.  ‘One person’s junk is another’s treasure’.  But wandering through one’s relative’s home and seeing his possessions displayed, as in a store, I found quite unsettling.

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Working with One Hand Tied Behind Your Back

Posted on 9 November 2013 by Carol

We have all heard, perhaps, the Chinese notion that ‘women hold up half the sky’; but I had not heard the analogy comparing current development practice with ‘working with one hand tied behind your back’.  Andy White, of the Rights and Resources Initiative, quoted this notion as part of an introduction to a two day workshop on ‘Gender Justice’, which was designed to help their coalition strategize about how to address gender more effectively.  He, like the other participants in the room, regretted the waste of the female half of humanity’s talent, energies, and capabilities—largely absent in current efforts to make the world a better place.

The group began by thinking about some definitions, as these related to their concern with gender and land/forest rights.  What did we or should we mean by ‘gender justice’?  Did we prefer to focus on equality or equity, and what were the differences?  What about ‘women’s rights’ vs. a gender focus?  Should men be a part of the focus or not?  Should RRI address communal rights or individual rights? Both?  What about forest vs. land tenure?  How should we deal with the overlaps between customary rights and statutory rights on the one hand, and the fact that both tend to ignore women’s rights in forests/land on the other?  We didn’t come to final conclusions about these vexing issues in this meeting—it was an early scoping exercise for RRI to consider what to take into account as they determined their future strategy.

But fascinating differences emerged within the group (with one commonality:  that there were problems with women’s access to resources everywhere).  In China, despite considerable differences from place to place, the hegemony of the central government was quite clear.  Our participant from China had to laugh at the improbability of following one colleague’s suggestion to bring grass roots pressure on the central government to strengthen gender equity in forests, as had been so effective in Nepal.  Impossible in today’s China.  We heard from an indigenous man from Nicaragua, who was struggling with efforts to collaboratively manage the recently acknowledged ‘indigenous territory’ that was now populated by a variety of ethnic groups, divided among three powerful political parties.  Women’s interests differed from village to village, and people tended to coalesce around party politics rather than think through issues independently or by community.  Although much discussion centered around large scale ‘land grabs’ and their observed and likely impacts on women, there were also concerns from Indonesia about small scale mining that was obliterating forest gardens and spreading mercury into rivers from which local and downstream inhabitants obtained food and water.

RRI is not a research group, though they do secondary research to ascertain global trends and advocate for change, and they support action research at the local level by national partners.  We spent a long time brainstorming about how to do a global assessment of women’s access to land and forests, similar to what RRI had produced for tenure in general.  RRI had struggled with the forest tenure question, eventually using FAO’s national statistics, even though all agreed that these under-represented local people’s day-to-day access, management, even informal (customary) ownership.  ‘National forest estates’ in the tropics are full of people making a living from swidden agriculture and who may have elaborate traditional tenure systems in operation.  But even this not-entirely-satisfactory attempt to assess changes in tenure worldwide is not an option for assessing gendered access to forest resources:  the data gaps are far more dramatic in the gender realm.  There are efforts to address this data lacuna:  Data are being collected now within the GAAP, Gender Agriculture and Assets Project, from the International Food Policy Research Institute; some have mined the International Forestry Resources and Institutions dataset, which has a longer time frame but which is not global in scope.  But there is no dataset comparable to FAO’s statistics, which were used in the repeated tenure assessments.  We brainstormed about ways to extrapolate from the case studies that do exist.  More ‘food’ for the RRI brains to process.

Besides the stimulating discussions, there were personal pleasures:  I met for the first time Jane Carter, whose participation work I’d used for decades and with whom I’d been in email correspondence for many years.  We ‘clicked’  in person, as we had long distance.  Solange Bandiaky (from Senegal), whose work I’d reviewed for a CIFOR/Earthscan book, helped lead this group.  Another pleasure to meet her!

I reunited with Omaira Bolaňos, the organizer of this meeting.  She had worked with me on CIFOR’s Adaptive Collaborative Management Program in its Bolivian manifestation ten years earlier—at the very beginning of her professional life.  Mia Siscawati had come to my Bogor office in the mid 1990s, with another then-very young woman, Latifah, to ask if I ‘knew anything about gender in forests’ and could help them think about such issues in Indonesia.  Since that time, she has gotten a PhD in anthropology in the US, focusing on women’s studies (and produced four children!)—now teaching at the prestigious University of Indonesia.  We discussed the possibility of her coming to Cornell to work together while she writes up some of her findings about women, forests and land in Indonesia.  And Esther Mwangi, one of my many CIFOR bosses and a good friend (who lives in the house my husband and I rented for our last four years in Bogor), was there as well.  We enjoyed sharing stories about CIFOR, catching up—though time was short and I wished there was more chance to talk.  Cecile Njebet came from Cameroon, where she collaborates with some CIFOR colleagues. 

And of course I met new people:  Xaobei from China, Eleanor from the Philippines, Ann from Uganda, Ceferino (the lone man) from Nicaragua, Lina from Ecuador, Bharati from Nepal, Praba from Canada.  RRI had arranged translation for Ceferino and Lina, whose language was Spanish; and we had two amusing identical twin interpreters (we were corrected when we referred to their actions as ‘translating’:  apparently translating is for written materials; interpreting is for the spoken word).  One evening we all ate together and heard praise for Augusta Molnar (another old friend), who plans to retire to Colorado—the testimonies suggest she will be sorely missed at RRI!  Another evening, we discovered that we could order Pisco Sours (reminding me of times in Bolivia with Omaira) and then caipirinhas (prompting pleasant memories of work visits to Brazil).

A good professional meeting is a combination of intellectual stimulation and the expansion and strengthening of personal connections with other human beings.  This one fit the bill.  I left wishing RRI good luck in crafting a viable strategy for this important issue.  They’ve made a good start, and they have good people to carry it forward—both in Washington, DC and elsewhere.

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One Woman’s ‘Relationship’ with Football

Posted on 27 October 2013 by Carol

Returning from a busy and demanding week long meeting in Washington, DC, discussing heavy subjects like gender norms and agency, I was ready for a relaxing evening when I got home.  My husband had greeted me by having the garage door ready and open for me to drive into, a drink freshly iced, dinner almost ready, and a welcome fire blazing in the fireplace.  We settled in to enjoy a peaceful evening watching [ever-violent] football together.  It was almost exactly a year ago that I was last inspired to write about football (https://www.earth01.net/CarolConsiders/?s=football) — focusing on the pink attire that most football players wore to recognize and encourage research on breast cancer.  It’s October now, and therefore again Breast Cancer Month, so again we see the incongruous color combos.  This time I was struck by my own reaction to the different teams. 

My brother, David Pierce, an actor who has lived his life on the West Coast and whose single-minded devotion to the San Francisco 49ers has never wavered, scolded me recently for even considering supporting other teams.  Yet I have seen myself pulled in numerous directions—a fact that in itself is rather odd to acknowledge. [I remember the shocked look of horror I received from European colleagues when I mentioned as an aside a few years ago that I enjoyed watching American football.  Women aren’t supposed to like football.]   Analyzing my own divided (peculiar) loyalties, a lot has to do with residence.  I now live in upstate New York, and have been incessantly bombarded with the feats of the NY Giants, the NY Jets, and the Boston Patriots.  I’ve developed a liking for the Patriots quarterback, Tom Brady (who, incidentally, is also very good looking); I also admire his rather remarkable skill.  I’ve heard over and over again about the Manning brother (Ely, quarterback for the NY Giants, who is doing badly, and receives my sympathy; and Peyton of the Denver Broncos who was considered too old but is doing brilliantly).  I learned recently that Peyton is very religious and rightwing, facts that lessened my enthusiasm for him considerably.  Ely has a receiver, Victor Cruz, who combines amazing speed, catching ability, and an appealing personality.  He has an attractive ‘touchdown dance’ that’s full of joie de vivre.

But I find myself having internal conflict, when these NY teams are playing against the Philadelphia Eagles, whom my son in law supports as avidly as my brother supports the 49ers.  I can’t help but wish them well, as I imagine his reaction to these games.  He follows them far more seriously [dare I say ‘religiously’?] than I.  Then there is the case of the Seattle Seahawks playing the San Francisco 49ers—again, which male relative do I support?  I like the uniforms of both these teams (not supposed to be a consideration, of course).  My loyalty for the 49ers comes from my father and brother and from a time when the 49ers were one of fewer professional teams on the West Coast (my ‘homeland’)—maybe the only one!?  But I lived for decades in the Pacific Northwest, so I feel I should have some feeling for the Seattle Seahawks as well.  More internal conflict.

College football is of course another realm.  My brother approves of my interest in the University of Oregon Ducks (a school he attended for a couple of years).  They’ve been doing very well lately, and introduced a much speedier version of the game by doing without the ‘huddle’ between plays.  This speeds everything up and makes it more fun to watch.  Additionally, the sports company Nike supports their efforts, providing multiple elegant uniforms of great variety.  They have a number of colors, with what I consider rather incongruous, even amusing, wings on their shoulders and helmets.  Surely ducks are an odd animal to choose as a mascot for such a machismo sport (but perhaps that is part of their charm).  Last night I was eager to watch them play, because I’d seen the amazing pink helmets Nike had provided in support of the fight against breast cancer.  I was disappointed that they did not wear them in that game.  However, the green of their uniforms reminded me of Oregon’s widespread environmentalism, which I value highly.  The support for breast cancer and for the environment endear Oregon and their teams to me.

In contrast, another of my longstanding favorite teams, OU (the University of Oklahoma), brought to mind some less sanguine political thoughts:  Oklahoma has gone politically off the rails, apparently wholeheartedly supporting the ultra conservative Tea Party.  They have passed a variety of laws contrary to decisions by the US Supreme Court, and have proposed withdrawing from the United States. 

But I grew up singing the OU ‘fight song’, Boomer Sooner:

Boomer Sooner, Boomer Sooner, Boomer Sooner, Okla U;

I’m a Sooner born and a Sooner bred;

And as soon as I die, I’ll be a Sooner dead;

Yea Oklahoma, Yea Oklahoma, Yea Oklahoma, Okla U.

I hadn’t remembered the etymology of Boomers and Sooners—small scale land grabbers, par excellence (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sooners).  Now, being personally deeply immersed intellectually in studies of land grabbing around the world, I am dismayed at my own unthinking (and lifelong) attachment to these words.  Yet, I still enjoy watching OU play football—it also brings to mind many happy hours with my father throughout my life.  He was an academic workaholic, and watching football was one of his few joyous releases.  He would totally immerse himself in the game, playing — on the couch — every play with his chosen team, sharing their triumphs and their dashed hopes.

To return to the lighthearted mood in which I began this blog…the University of Georgia is another team that inspires my enthusiasm. I watch my husband (who used to work there) follow their successes and (this year at least, more consistent) failures.  He has told me about the changes in the stadium over the years, a radio broadcaster who could bring the game to life for listeners even without the images, how he and his previous wife used to watch the games from a bridge that looked onto the field (no longer possible).  He remembered the faculty members coming in to work every Monday morning and saying “How bout them Dawgs!?”.  These ‘Bulldogs’ have bone decals on their helmets that represent….Is it every touchdown each player has made?  Something like that.  I’ve never been to Georgia (except the airport), but I’ve grown to love the Bulldogs, in solidarity with my husband.

So….although in many ways I disapprove of football—it’s far too dangerous for the players, and I see its function reinforcing ‘masculine hegemony’—for me it has too many pleasant links to my past, to my place of residence, to the men in my life, even indirectly to my politics, for me to abandon it.  It is another indicator of the interconnectedness of cultural systems.  So far, the positive connections have outweighed the negative and I continue to watch it with pleasure.

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Life’s Small Pleasures on a Sunday Morning

Posted on 22 September 2013 by Carol

Having just emerged from a week of a strange blue funk, I’m noticing life’s small pleasures, which have been drifting by unobserved, unappreciated, above my head.  A flu shot, itchy allergy-ridden eyes, and new glasses that didn’t quite fit right on the bridge of my nose seem to have been the culprits putting me in this rare blue funk.

But today, I awoke in good humor.  On rising, I walked out into the small room adjacent to our bedroom.  There, on the single bed, sat our part-Manx cat, Gwendolyn (also known, quite unimaginatively as ‘Kitty’).   The soft sound of her purr intensified.  She looked up at me, her hopes of being petted obvious in an expectant expression.  The feeling was reciprocal:  I love to pet her.  Her fur is softer than any I’ve ever felt, and her obvious enjoyment of my ministrations doubles my own enjoyment.  Eventually I moved on, heading for the bathroom.  She followed, purring all the while, hoping for more affection—which was indeed forthcoming.  [It must be honestly acknowledged that her hopes of forthcoming food are surely also in her mind, beside her addiction to affection.]

Descending to the main floor, I pass the dining room table, on which sit four baggies of assorted beads, an unexpected gift from my new—and first formal—pen pal (the wife of a much valued mentor in Hawaii who died a year ago).  She and I exchange newsy letters, recipes, and occasional small gifts.  The contents of the baggies seemed to be roughly sorted by size, but my own system involves sorting by color, so I had earlier begun the (perhaps oddly) engrossing task of dividing these colorful baubles into single-hued piles.  I enjoy running my fingers thru the piles of beads.  I had delighted in the different colors, shapes, sizes, imagining what I might make from them, as the colors gradually shifted from an undifferentiated, variegated mass to single hues that might form a necklace or bracelet.  Passing the piles this morning, still on the table, I remembered my pleasure, and thought about more to come, as I continued this process, and later created something with them—yet another pastime to anticipate.

Moving eventually into the kitchen, I notice the utter brilliance of the orange tithonia blossoms, which I had spread out some days ago over all surfaces in the kitchen and breakfast nook.  I had littered our kitchen with them, fearing a frost—freezing temperatures immediately kill tithonia.  I wanted to garner as much enjoyment from these beauties as I could, surrounding myself with them one last time this year.  Thankfully the freeze was brief enough that the flowers continue to bloom outside as well.  Peeking around the edge of a window, beyond our table, sprays of tiny white flowers spew forth from a climbing bush that my husband planted last year.  We had anticipated wonderful scents, which he remembered from his childhood.  For some reason, the fragrance is far milder than we’d hoped, but these lovely delicate blossoms are candy for the eyes. 

I make my morning coffee, something always anticipated with still more pleasure.  A bit groggy, I fill the espresso maker’s little cup with coffee grounds, but forget to wait for the green light to come on, the indication that the water is hot enough.  At first I convince myself to drink the lukewarm concoction anyway, not to waste the coffee. I remember stories of World War II, when people had to drink coffee substitutes and longed for good coffee.  But one taste, and my resolve evaporates.  I make another cup, which tastes as good as hoped.  I relish the hot, sweet liquid passing over my tongue, gradually filling my body with much-needed caffeine.  Virtue loses out to pleasure sometimes.   Like petting the cat, drinking good coffee is a cherished pleasure (I like Folgers—not a popular choice among my friends, who disdain my plebeian tastes).

This time alone is also cherished.  I write in my journal each morning—checking on my own emotional state, remembering the events and feelings of the day before and anticipating the coming day.  I don’t know why I appreciate writing in my journal so much, but it is a major factor in my emotional equilibrium.

Later, after some relaxing conversation with my husband—he reads me excerpts from the news and from Cornell’s magazine, Ezra, as he too drinks his morning coffee (a much fancier variety than mine)—I go upstairs to write to my friend in Hawaii.  I respond to her last letter, thank her for the gifts, and tell her about my three grandchildren, as she has just told me about hers.  After writing the letter, a communicative pleasure in itself, I turn to my store of stationery, accumulated over the years.  Which lovely paper shall I use today?  I now know how to adjust the computer software to print almost any size and shape, so I am free to select from many choices.  Eventually I choose some paper with pinked edges that I bought a week or so ago as part of a fund raiser.  Although the printer eats one of the special sheets, I finally manage to print the first page on the remaining one, completing the letter on regular paper, and stuff it all into the colorful envelope.  I select a color—light blue—from my set of fountain pens to sign the letter, choose a special circular return address label with the best of two decorative options (daisies), and choose a nice stamp that fits the personality of the recipient and the colors on the envelope (a passion flower).  All these little tasks please me, as I try to make the letter physically attractive, as well as interesting to read.

There is nothing special about these quotidian pleasures; but I welcome back my ability to appreciate them.  One wonders why the same events can fill the soul with joy and delight one day, yet fail to elicit such a response another…We human beings are odd ducks.

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On my Late Discovery of the ‘Charter of the Forest’

Posted on 15 September 2013 by Carol

The Magna Carta Manifesto,* a book written by Peter Linebaugh, has spurred all sorts of thoughts.  Primary among those is simply my learning that a companion volume to the Magna Carta itself exists.  The Magna Carta is a central and well acknowledged statement of western philosophy about political and human rights ‘issued’ in 1215 by King John of England under pressure from his feudal barons.  It is a document that has had vast influence on human thinking about governance and rights (though Linebaugh sees its benign influence sadly falling away).  The companion volume, of which I have never before heard,** is called the Great Charter of the Forest.  Linebaugh’s book examines this Charter in detail, translating the strange English of the 13th century into modern day usages, and explaining/interpreting the significance of its contents.

As I read—and I have not yet finished the book—I find fascinating attention to gender issues, a topic rarely, until quite recently, addressed within the forestry community.  The Charter speaks of people’s, including explicitly women’s, rights to take ‘estover’ (‘necessaries allowed by law’ or ‘subsistence wood products’) from forests.  The Charter’s words make explicit a variety of rights to forests and products that have been conveniently ignored throughout the world—despite widespread reference to the rights acknowledged in the more famous, Magna Carta. 

Although, of course, there is no logical reason that other countries should take notice of an English document written so long ago, the equally illogical global acceptance of western forest management and regulation has been noted by many.  The elite-friendly, male-oriented and timber-focused approaches that formal European and American forestry adopted in more recent centuries have spread far and wide.  What a shame—though not a surprising shame—that the subsistence rights specified in this forest Charter, many so vital in the lives of forest peoples everywhere, have been so consistently and conveniently ignored.

The significance of subsistence uses of forests has been a particular rallying cry of my own.  Living for long periods with forest peoples, whether Uma’ Jalan Dayaks of Borneo or the loggers of North America’s Pacific Northwest convinced me of the importance of the day to day uses to which people put forests—economic, aesthetic, spiritual and cultural.  Subsequent involvement over two decades in international comparisons of tropical forest peoples in Africa, Latin America and other countries of Asia reinforced these observations.  Yet, even in my own institution, the Center for International Forest Research (CIFOR), I have often been unable to convince colleagues of the significance of subsistence uses.  One huge global comparative study, for instance, focused almost exclusively (and purposely) on commercial use of non timber forest products, despite my repeated pleas for attention to subsistence uses.  Thankfully, a recent CIFOR study (part of the Poverty and Environment Network or PEN), which involved cross-country comparisons of a quantitative nature, has demonstrated that in these contexts, “Both women and men collect predominantly for subsistence use” (Sunderland et al. 2012; http://www.slideshare.net/CIFOR/myths-and-realities-about-men-women-and-forest-use).  Perhaps these findings—phrased in and dependent on widely-loved quantitative methods—will convince the reluctant colleagues.

But I stray from my main point, which is that insofar as we see value in improving the lives of forest peoples, perhaps we should look to this ancient Charter of the Forests (as urged and interpreted by Linebaugh).***  It is peculiar that we have neglected it, given our global attention to other European historical documents and preferences.  There seems to be something of wider value there.

—————————

* 2008, Berkeley:  University of California Press

**This is rather significant in itself—unless I must conclude that I am a remarkably ignorant researcher—given that I have been enmeshed in the intersection of people and forests for nearly four decades.

***Special care must be taken to read the document with the associated glossary, as many familiar words (like afforestation) have unfamiliar and quite different meanings.  For instance, “[t]o disafforest meant to remove from royal jurisdiction; it did not mean to clearcut timber or destroy the trees” (Linebaugh, p. 31).

 

References

Sunderland, Terry, Ramadhani Achdiawan, Arild Angelsen, Ronnie Babigumira, Amy Ickowitz, Fiona Paumgarten, Victoria Reyes-García and Gerald Shively. 2012. Myths and realities about men, women and forest use:  A global comparative study. Presentation at CIFOR’s Annual Meeting (October). Bogor, Indonesia: CIFOR Annual General Meeting.  [more to come in a special issue of World Development]

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A Brief Comment on ‘Systematic Reviews’

Posted on 8 September 2013 by Carol

There is a movement afoot to encourage a more systematic and replicable form of literature review within science.  On the one hand, I do recognize and approve the notion that we need to be broad in our reviews and not ‘hunt and peck’ among the materials to support our own pre-existing views.  Such an approach is clearly undesirable from the standpoints of enhancing human understanding (my own interest) or predicting human behaviour (as some seek).  However, the approach of sticking only to a pre-specified set of key words and dates to do searches on the internet—the most widely encouraged suggestion—has serious failings.

The one that first came to my own attention is the small number of books that emerge using this approach.  A book author is normally quite unable to specify 5 keywords (a common number allowed) to reflect the contents of several hundred pages.  Since social science material particularly is often published in book form, whole disciplines become disadvantaged, in the sense that their materials are unlikely to emerge in the review process.  My own concern is with anthropological and ethnographic analyses, which particularly rely on such materials—and which I consider important to incorporate into many practical fields, for instance—though the problem is broader than this field alone.

Secondly, and related, although some topics are amenable to brief explanation, any approach that looks at human behaviour holistically will have difficulty explaining what is happening in a short form—leading both to the production of books (again) and to the inability to summarize the topics covered in a small number of keywords.  Portrayals of human (and biophysical) complexity represent treasure troves of material we should be seeking, not avoiding.

Thirdly, there is the question of terminology.  Different disciplines use the same term for different phenomena:   Culture means a human lifeway to an anthropologist, a blob in a petri dish to a biologist, cultivation to an agronomist.  Although one can distinguish these different meanings, this introduces an element of subjectivity that proponents of systematic reviews are trying so hard to avoid. 

Additionally, authors may simply neglect to mention key features—irrelevant to their own analyses—about which they have written material, which is extremely pertinent for a new  topic.   In a recent review of gender issues occurring within dry forests, for instance, I found that many social scientists working in dry forests, having no particular interest themselves in that feature, failed to mention the habitat in which the people lived, though their material was very pertinent to my search.  Such analyses also fail to emerge in simple key word searches.

The use of different terms for the same thing (or very similar things) in different fields represents another more serious constraint if we limit our reviews to a few key words.  Anthropologists may refer to swiddens, agricultural scientists to slash and burn; foresters to shifting cultivation.  Extension agents write about farmers, where gender specialists differentiate men and women—meaning that sticking to a pre-specified set of terms is likely to rule out a significant amount of very relevant material.  One can of course constantly revise one’s original estimation of what to include before finally settling on THE chosen set—which moves us toward improvement in the review system.  But, knowing human nature, many will deem such an iterative process more trouble than it’s worth—particularly given our equally human inclination to work within our own silos of knowledge.

In a recent search using the key word ‘equity’ (or more precisely, ‘equit’)—in an effort to satisfy my suspicion that humid forest literature was more likely than dry forest literature to feature/stress equitable social systems— I had to distinguish between articles that talked about ‘not equit’ or ‘inequit’ exclusively or predominantly from those that talked about truly equitable systems.  Determination of what to include and what not to include again required human judgment.

Finally, neglecting old literature and the knowledge and guidance of experts in the field strikes me as even more problematic.  Not everything is available on the internet.  To do a proper review, to understand the topic we are seeking to summarize/synthesize/reflect in a review, it seems to be a travesty to ignore what has come before. 

I recognize and applaud the concern to cover a topic fairly and as objectively as is humanly possible.  However, the suggestions I’ve seen so far for doing this basically ‘throw the baby out with the bath.’

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Gendered Implications of my own Values

Posted on 18 August 2013 by Carol

After writing about my values a few days ago, it occurred to me—brought back to my professional interest in gender—that my [very American] values did not seem to be particularly ‘gendered’.  They would be, it seemed to me, equally pertinent for men or women.   

But then, on further reflection, I realized that within the values that came spontaneously to mind, there was nothing about loyalty or courage in the face of violence—values to which I also adhere but that may be more emphasized for men.  My own courage, for instance, has been far removed from my physical safety. ‘Speaking truth to power’ takes a kind of courage.  But I have never had to face an enemy who was likely to strike me, for instance; I have never been called on to rush into a melee to save someone.  In the US, most boys and many men do have to face such eventualities.  And although I have tried to be loyal to my friends, it has not seemed to be a value much threatened.  I have rarely been confronted with friends or family under physical attack (more often I have defended against emotional or verbal attack).  [There are, of course, places (and times)—too many—where violence strikes everyone, men, women and children.]

Alexander Dumas’ work, The Count of Monte Cristo, reminds me that issues of obedience and submission vis-à-vis pride and strength, or protection (of one’s reputation and of others) might be more emphasized in a list made by men.  Many of the values associated with ‘hegemonic masculinity’ are notably absent from my own spontaneous list—despite my respect for many of them (responsibility, self-control, strength, courage). 

So…perhaps it is less the applicability or not of a particular value, and more the repertoire of ‘activated’ values or ones likely to be activated that vary by gender…

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Central Elements of my Personal Values as Captured in Sayings and Quotations

Posted on 18 August 2013 by Carol

‘To thine own self be true and it follows, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.’  [from Shakespeare’s Hamlet]

This quotation came to my mind early this morning, far too early in fact to be getting up!  But this thought led to others, to sayings that I’d been told in my childhood, some from my parents, my grandparents, even my great grandparents; others, like the one above, from literature or—I discovered later in life—from the Bible.  In my work, I’ve returned to thinking about ‘norms and values’.  Perhaps this led me to examine my own—so clearly culturally influenced.  Many are encapsulated in short, pithy sayings like these below—with suitable additions and qualifications to reflect what has surely partially guided my own life (in no particular order).

  • Never do anything you wouldn’t want printed in the newspaper (from my great grandfather, via my Dad)
  • Compete only against yourself (same source)
  • The early bird catches the worm [have some ambition to accomplish something in life]
  • ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men [and women] are created equal’ [or at least deserving of equal respect, justice, and opportunity]
  • ‘Honor thy father and mother’
  • Be kind to others and faithful [the interpretation of which can be difficult]
  • Tell the truth, be honest with others [sometimes in conflict with the effort to be kind]
  • Love and care for your children [who also deserve your respect]
  • Be responsible
  • ‘Don’t hide your light under a bushel’ [let your strengths shine through and be of use to others]
  • ‘Pride cometh before a fall’ [being arrogant is a bad idea]
  • ‘If it’s worth doing at all, it’s worth doing well’
  • Don’t lie, steal, kill, or give in to greed [selections from the Ten Commandments]
  • ‘Turn the other cheek’ [don’t seek revenge; try to understand the other person]]
  • Be kind to animals
  • Use your intelligence for the good of your fellow human beings

As a small child, my mother used to recite the poem, Abou ben Adhem, to me:  it captures something central to my values.

Abou Ben Adhem – by James Henry Leigh Hunt

  • Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
    Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
    And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
    Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
    An angel writing in a book of gold:—
    Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
    And to the Presence in the room he said
    “What writest thou?”—The vision raised its head,
    And with a look made of all sweet accord,
    Answered “The names of those who love the Lord.”
    “And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
    Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
    But cheerly still, and said “I pray thee, then,
    Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”
    The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
    It came again with a great wakening light,
    And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
    And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.

And of course, as a child of an anthropologist and a psychologist, I was encouraged to understand cultural difference and to respect individual difference as well.  I was raised on cultural relativism, moderated by the exhortations and admonitions above—sometimes prompting considerable internal confusion, analysis, and difficult personal decisions about the best course of action or response.

What will be the cultural exhortations and ‘rules’ that will guide the current young and future generations?

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‘Summertime and the Livin’ is Easy’

Posted on 4 August 2013 by Carol

The music of our youth stays with us, bringing back memories and feelings from earlier eras.  Driving home from a Sunday breakfast outing with my husband this morning, I heard the rhythmic beat of 1960s music blaring from an excellent-quality loudspeaker at a nearby Dunkin’ Donuts.  The music infiltrated my body, which responded irresistibly to these familiar, if rarely heard, sounds—I danced into our destination:  the grocery store across the street.  Across from the source of this music, in the parking lot, was a lineup of cars with their hoods and trunks open for display.  We’d seen some odd, fancy, refurbished old cars driving by the restaurant earlier, and now realized that this was their destination.  There was a 1956 Chevy, very similar to one owned by my boyfriend of 1961 (my age at the time:  14)—my boyfriend’s had been salmon and white.  Another car had the rounded appearance of the late 1930s—a later boyfriend had modified a similar car in 1963 (age 18).  He’d painted it bright red.  I’d spent many happy hours riding around in these cars, and others displayed there, in my youth.  As we wandered the parking lot, the familiar music continued loud and clear, as did my urge to dance.  I was suddenly 19 years old again. 

Although the day has turned rainy and cloudy, it started with a brilliant blue sky, with soft fluffy white clouds drifting by above.  The anticipation of a warm and beautiful day remains in my mind.  I finished a paper on Friday, so this weekend is a welcome respite between that paper and the next (which will begin tomorrow).  Today and yesterday though, I’ve had the relaxation I felt in my youth, when there were no pressing needs (of which I was aware) and I could simply lose myself in the beauty and peace of my surroundings—following whatever inclination came to mind.  I could fall into the lovely Peruvian hammock, which my husband hung outside for me, between our ash and oak trees, and gaze up at the pollution-free sky.  I could wander into my flower garden to admire the flowers—Oriental lilies, gladiolas, butterfly bushes, dahlias, daisies, cone flowers, cosmos and black eyed susans—-all beautifully in bloom, the garden a riot of pink, yellow, orange, and purple.  Today a pure white (and unexpected) Oriental lily came into bloom, its characteristic fragrance filling me with delight.  I returned to the house with a selection of these flowers, and arranged them into bouquets—enjoying their brilliant colors as well as the process of selecting among my lovely and various vases.  I filled our kitchen table, a coffee table in the living room, the window sill in the kitchen with vibrant color.

On this lovely day of rest, I plan to get out my beads, and continue working on a barrette I agreed to make for my daughter’s neighbour.  I can immerse myself in the teal, turquoise and silver colors of the beads, as I complete the body and begin on the edging and backing of the barrette.  Playing with beads is another of my delights; and today is a day I can devote to that if I so choose.  Or perhaps I will finish reading the book my aunt lent me:  The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks—about a poor black woman who died of cancer in the 1950s but whose unusual and long-lived cancer cells have continued to be a boon for cancer research. 

One of the pleasures of summer (and weekends) is the freedom to choose among one’s interests and pursue whichever appeals at the moment.  It feels utterly luxurious!

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