Avatar's Crude Environmentalism

I've been meaning to write this post for a while, but I think it's still timely as Avatar's buzz isn't going away anytime soon.

On the one hand, the movie has received a ton of praise for its groundbreaking technical prowess. On the other hand, the movie has been criticized for its rehashing of white liberal fantasy, the predictably colonial undertones that drive the narrative forward.

Discussion of the movie in these two regards is well-traversed territory. What I haven't seen much of is criticism of the movie's environmentalism. The environmentalist message is typically noted in passing and subsequently folded into the politics of colonial subjugation.

In its Manichean scheme, Avatar pits humans versus nature, as though one could conceive these two categories essentially and in isolation. Humans relate to the environment in purely corporate, extractive terms; meanwhile, the enviable Na'vi exist in perfect harmony with their natural surroundings. Clearly, the movie espouses a vindictive reproach of capitalist kowtowing to the Almighty Quarterly Earnings Statement. The threat embedded at the heart of the movie: we who in our consumer culture continue to be champions of industry are doomed to moral and economic depravity.

Let me step back from this plot line for a moment and channel Break Through, as I am apt to do:

"If 'the environment' includes humans, then everything is environmental and the concept has little use other than being a poor synonym for 'everything.' If it excludes humans, then it is scientifically specious, not to mention politically suicidal." (emphasis in original)

The movie wants us to buddy up with those lovable scientists who are oh-so-dedicated to protecting Mother Tree and "the environment." In turn we are expected to demonize the mechanical logic of corporate interests. But as the Break Through quote states, the categories of "industry" and "environment" or "humans" and "nature" are simply untenable. Why must economic growth be inherently parasitic and unsustainably extractive? Why is it impossible to imagine technological innovation that brings us towards greater resource efficiency rather than increased resource consumption?

The answer is pretty obvious. Fear sells. We are captivated by the prospect of civilization's eventual demise. But fear doesn't inspire action. I'd like to think that James Cameron aspires in his movies to more than simple-minded entertainment (why else produce an environmental allegory?). In fact, I'd like to think that James Cameron, by virtue of the popularity of his movies, has a responsibility to be thoughtful and critical of his movies' messages. But in this regard, Avatar demonstrates a frightening failure of the imagination.

I relish saying that last sentence.

You've Gots to be Kidding Me

There was not a single tree growing in San Francisco when the first Spanish arrived; it was too dry and wind-blown for trees to take hold. Today, Golden Gate Park looks as if Virginia had mated with Borneo, thanks to water brought nearly two hundred miles by tunnel. The same applies to Bel Air, to Pacific Palisades, to the manicured lawns of La Jolla, where the water comes from three directions and from a quarter of a continent away. (Mark Reisner, Cadillac Desert 333)

Hating on Agribusiness

It's so easy to hate on agribusiness these days. Such industrial behemoths as Monsanto and Cargill, they are the bullies in our story, the Goliaths, the colonial oppressors against whom it is our moral obligation to fight the good fight. They've infiltrated Washington, D.C. with their lobbyists, co-opted the political process, insulated themselves from popular pressure in order to pursue their single-minded pursuit of profit. They pillage our planet with their environmentally destructive practices; they ignore the welfare of animals, workers and family farms; they feed the masses with diabetes-inducing Frankenfood, helping us along in our journey to exploding the national healthcare budget. Oh, they are so evil. It is so, so easy to hate on agribusiness.

Hating on agribusiness has a long history, beginning with Upton Sinclair's muckraking in The Jungle. More recently, books such as Fast Food Nation and The Omnivore's Dillema, documentary films such as Supersize Me and Food, Inc. have helped fan popular resentment of agribusiness. But as with all such linear, good versus evil stories, we should view this tale, which has so captivated popular imagination, with some amount of skepticism.

Rather than blindly throw our weight behind Alice Waters and Chez Panisse, the organic food movement or small-scale farms or the holistic, wholesome grass farming methods of individuals such as Joel Salatin, we should listen to the views of dissenters. For many environmentalists, the ruthless efficiency of agribusiness and the use of genetically engineered crops are in fact an environmental imperative. James Lovelock, in The Revenge of Gaia, writes:

As I have said before, we cannot farm more than about half the Earth's land surface without impairing Gaia's capacity to keep a comfortable planet. Sadly, at our present numbers the lower productivity of organic farms compared with intensive agriculture makes it a dubious enterprise. (121)

Lovelock goes on to argue that we need to disabuse ourselves of the notion that all "man-made chemicals" are harmful with "natural chemicals" somehow beyond reproach and always salutary. Stewart Brand, in a recent TED Talk, echoes these concerns about the too-easy categorization of agricultural methods and the land-intensity of agriculture as he comes out strongly in favor of genetically engineered crops. What to do about these concerns that detract from the linear simplicity of the story told by agribusiness-haters?

As ever, a Manichean worldview serves us poorly. There are never easy solutions and always trade-offs to be weighed and considered...

Nuclear Energy?

In The Revenge of Gaia, James Lovelock makes what I found to be a compelling case for nuclear energy. While I don't feel well-versed enough in the nuclear debate to comment intelligently on Lovelock's specific arguments, I was struck by his analysis of current popular resistance to nuclear energy. In particular, Lovelock quotes W.J. Nuttall's Nuclear Renaissance at length:

The real opposition to nuclear power within the public grew in the 1970s and the 1980s. It may be argued that this has been a consequence of the rise of single-issue pressure groups and youth culture. That is, as the anti-Vietnam War demonstrations of the late 1960s grew out of earlier Civil Rights demonstrations, so the anti-nuclear demonstrations of the late 1970s arose directly from the Vietnam War protests, once that conflict had come to an end. This, however, is a rather Americanized perspective on what has been an erosion of enthusiasm for nuclear power. In Britain the defining socio-political events of relevance are those assoicated with the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND) in the late 1960s and resurgently in the early 1980s. Not only was CND passionate and anti-American, but it was also fun and it was cool. This fusion of popular culture with the British anti-nuclear movement of the 1960s is vividly captured by the present writer's uncle Jeff Nuttall in his visceral autobiography Bomb Culture, in which he describes one CND Aldermaston March as a Carnival of Optimism: 'Protest was associated with festivity.' This important aspect of matters nuclear has only slightly attenuated with passing decades. Those advocating nuclear renaissance ignore such aspects of nuclear power at their peril. (quoted in The Revenge of Gaia, 94)

To this, Lovelock writes: "I agree with Nuttall, and it is easy to see why many greens are so anti-nuclear; they often are the children of a union between environmentalism and the CND...gradually as the Cold War intensified and the two superpowers tested larger and ever larger weapons, the all-pervasive fear of all things nuclear became widespread" (94).

While it is typically easy to view today's issues and groups in isolation of the socio-historical contexts from which they emerged, this analysis of anti-nuclear sentiment highlights the importance of taking a historical view and examining origins. This is the work that has been most thoughtfully done for the environmentalist movement (to my knowledge) by Van Jones in The Green Collar Economy, Ted Nordhaus and Michael Shellenberger in Break Through and by Gavin Hood in X-Men Origins.

Important stuff, I say.

Break Through

Break Through: From the Death of Environmentalism to the Politics of Possibility. An excellent read. I am tempted to say that it is for me the most intellectually influential book I have read since Thomas Kuhn's The Structure of Scientific Revolutions. That statement will have to withstand the test of time, but I highly recommend the book to anybody interested in liberal politics, or politics and environmentalism in general.

Explains perfectly why I have never called myself an environmentalist. More on this later...

Spring Forward, the (Tragedy) of Suburbia

In Quito, there wasn't much in the way of seasons. Total daylight varied by maybe forty-five minutes over the course of the year. There was a rainy season to be sure and a dry season as well. But four, well-defined seasons? Forget about it.

Now that I live at a higher latitude, things are a bit different. The days are lengthening noticeably. The golden sun dips into the ocean progressively later each day. Freezing cold mornings, blue skies, warm days, my goodness! it's spring! and what a feeling! What does springtime conjure up in my mind?

Lazy afternoons spent soaking up the sun on Parrish Beach... But more than that, with a Proustian bent, I remember whizzing down hills on a bike in the neighborhood park in Denver suburbs, breathing pungently fresh air mixed in with the occasional gnat, breezing by cattails that lined the creeks streaming by. I remember rollerblading, playing street hockey in the cul-de-sac only a couple blocks away from home, collapsing onto a friend's lawn in exhaustion and being overtaken by the itchiness of rolling around in grass. I remember throwing tennis balls against the stone facade of my house, diving to snag erratic rebounds so that I could play baseball like the Big Cat, Andres Galaragga.

What is it about these pleasant childhood memories spent outdoors in springtime air? They have such a suburban hue, or stench, depending on how you look at it. Subsidized by cheap energy and the interstate highway system. My nostalgia for life in Denver 'burbs, though, is not tinged with any sense of guilt. Hell, I think I'd still like some day to raise kids in the kind of safe neighborhood in which I grew up. I want it all. I want to tread lightly on the environment, I want all the material goods that come from industrial development, I want the safety and sense of space that comes from living in a suburban neighborhood...

Ahhh...springtime!

Engineering Bias: a Transaction Cost?

It's very tempting to view today's energy problem as essentially an engineering problem. A quick scan through popular media turns up all sorts of reporting about the promise of new devices that will help us reduce our energy consumption and thus both our environmental footprint and our dependence on foreign oil. On the supply side, we hear about the need to invest in solar and wind power, or just more efficient, cleaner methods of extracting energy. On the demand side, we hear about pushing for fuel efficiency in vehicles, energy efficiency in our buildings and everyday appliances. These are all good things, positive developments to get excited about. But the one thing that such "solutions" have in common is an engineering perspective, and I worry about this engineering bias.

For one thing, viewing the energy problem in this way allows the layperson to deflect personal responsibility. Climate change? Dependence on foreign oil? Air pollution? These are problems for engineers to solve, one might say. Such a deflection of personal responsibility dictates business-as-usual for all non-engineers. That kind of mentality is worrying when there are demonstrated gains to be had in human behavioral changes.

Also, single-minded focus on engineering solutions crowds out more systematic ways of thinking. Gains in energy efficiency do not have to come at the level of devices. A couple of weeks ago, I attended a lecture delivered by a PhD student from Stanford's Precourt Institute for Energy Efficiency. The student's research related to CDMs (Clean Development Mechanisms), which are institutionalized methods for industrialized nations to curb their own environmental footprint by offsetting carbon emmissions more cost-effectively in developing countries. The student observed that transportation systems are being overlooked as an offsetting mechanism and proceeded to analyze the cause of this prejudice. Turns out that the panel that is responsible for approving CDMs is staffed by engineers. It also turns out that it's much harder to quantify to the satisfaction of an engineer's standards the carbon offsets that result from developing a transportation system. (Warning: I am definitely butchering the nuances of the research and the empirical analysis of the causal relations, but this is my take on the talk.) When you take into account these things, it begins to make sense why a panel of engineers might overlook systematic improvements in favor of device-level projects. The idea behind CDMs is to provide an efficient platform for industrialized nations to reduce carbon emissions, but it appears that an engineering bias presents a significant transaction cost that hinders the program's cost-efficiency.

So what big systems-level improvements might we be overlooking right now? Well, this is a thought piece, so I am just going to throw some ideas out there. In addition to transportation systems, I think that the energy-intensity of agriculture needs to be looked at more systematically. And I think policymakers need to think more seriously about reversing urban sprawl and stepping up urban revitalization.

Two Metabolisms

A long time ago (2002), in Cradle to Cradle, William McDonough and Michael Braungart introduced the idea that we need to think about materials as belonging to two different metabolisms, namely a technical metabolism and a biological metabolism. The authors argued that waste predominantly results when the two metabolisms get mixed up and confused with each other in "monstrous hybrids."

It's an interesting idea that I believe is fundamentally right, but it seems that putting the idea into practice is (surprise!) infinitely more complicated. (An interesting article about McDonough and his complicated visionary status can be found here.)

But I'm not writing to talk about the practicality of zero-waste design, I'm writing to extend the idea of two metabolisms to energy consumption and energy efficiency. I've been casually grappling with the idea for a bit now, but I think I've come to something of a revelation with the aid of revisiting Cradle to Cradle.

Just like materials, our energy consumption can be thought of as belonging to two different metabolisms. One industrial/technical and the other ecological/biological. Energy efficiency makes sense only in the context of industrial energy, because industrial energy belongs to a metabolism whose primary input is carbon-emitting fossil fuels. With regards to the ecological metabolism, energy efficiency makes no difference whatsoever.

All the hoopla these days is about increasing the efficiency of industrial energy. I'm beginning to believe that we should really be focusing our efforts on first understanding and then manipulating the interaction between industrial metabolism and ecological metabolism. Okay, that's a bit confusing. But bear with me, this is an idea in progress.

Let's take buildings as an example. We could and indeed are beginning to focus our energies on how to make buildings more energy-efficient. Such efforts belong to the industrial camp. But if we stop thinking about buildings as devices to be engineered, if we get away from the industrial logic of energy efficiency, then we get a different picture and a whole set of different questions. How can we get buildings to partake in an ecological metabolism? How can we capitalize on natural energy flows (regardless of efficiency) to satisfy our energy demands?

In my opinion, we should be trying to maximize our dependence on ecological metabolism while minimizing our dependence on industrial metabolism. Rather than focus on the efficiency of devices, we ought to focus on how to be more a part of an ecosystem. I'm not entirely sure about this, but I think there is potential in exploring the different types of thinking that follow from the different types of metabolisms. Is it possible to reduce our dependence on industrial metabolic logic?

Energy Perceptions

I have joined livingtheamericangreen.org as a contributor. So, when appropriate, I will be cross-posting on both this and that blog.

There certainly is a lot of talk about being green these days. A lot of publicity on a lot of different fronts. Given the media exposure, I think it would be prudent to see how well perceptions match up with reality.

As I am sure many a commentator has noted before, there is a truly disproportionate amount of attention being paid to three letters in particular: M-P-G. A lot of people seem to regard the mpg of your vehicle as a merit badge, a barometer for just how "green" you are. The unfortunate truth is that mpg represents but a small slice of the energy pie, even when considering the transportation sector in isolation. First, we should be concerned not about miles, but about passenger miles. Five people carpooling in a gas-guzzler surely beats five people each driving their own hybrid car. Second, we need to account for the embodied energy in the production of a new vehicle. With regards to transportation, we should ultimately be thinking about how to take cars off the road, and how to get people to share cars, bike, walk or use public transportation.

The outsized attention being paid to vehicular fuel efficiency ought to give us pause. How else do the various loci of media scrutiny skew public attention on energy issues? There are a lot of commercials these days about the wondrous possibilities of a smart electric grid and smart devices (vehicles included). Is all the hoopla deserved? Does it crowd out other energy interests? By many estimates, agriculture accounts for fully one-fifth of U.S. petroleum consumption. But is one-fifth of our attention being directed towards increasing the energy efficiency of agricultural practices? I don't have any numbers to back me up on this, but I would guess not.

Media scrutiny is important because it plays a role in shaping the public conscious and directing public as well as private funds towards the development of various initiatives. It would behoove the "green movement" to think about how the allocation of media attention matches up with underlying realities.

The Omnivore's Dilemma

I have nothing but praise for Michael Pollan's book, The Omnivore's Dilemma. It is informative, engaging, thoughtful and thought-provoking. I especially enjoyed the ecological perspective that Pollan employs as well as the intellectual humility with which he writes. Intellectual humility, by the way, I find myself prizing more and more highly everyday.

Ecological Perspective. We often think of literary analysis and the tools employed in such analysis as being useful for, well, literary analysis alone. But Pollan demonstrates just how far a simple literary conceit, a metaphor, can go in explaining the way behavior is organized. How a Cartesian metaphor largely explains the contemporary model of industrial agriculture. How an ecological conceit yields a totally different specimen, the Polyface Farm in Virginia that calls itself "beyond organic," or "postindustrial." The implications are dramatic for a term that I've been thinking a lot about recently, "efficiency":

Most of the efficiencies in an industrial system are achieved through simplification: doing lots of the same thing over and over...By contrast, the efficiencies of natural systems flow from complexity and interdependence--by definition, the very opposite of simplification...Polyface Farm is built on the efficiencies that come from mimicking relationships found in nature...(214-215)

I still need to do a bit more thinking about this, but I think the distinction between industrial efficiency and ecological efficiency is important and exciting. Especially with all the attention that "energy efficiency" has received recently.

Intellectual Humility. The book's NYTimes reviewer criticizes Pollan for being too nice a guy, for failing to judge when judging was clearly called for. To be sure, Pollan is neither didactic nor vituperative in his style, but I take the book's balanced argumentation as a sign of intellectual humility, something that Pollan clearly values as well:

The problem is that once science has reduced a complex phenomenon to a couple of variables, however important they may be, the natural tendency is to overlook everything else, to assume that what you can measure is all there is, or at least all that really matters. When we mistake what we can know for all there is to know, a healthy appreciation of one's ignorance in the face of a mystery like soil fertility gives way to the hubris that we can treat nature as a machine. (148)

I like this a lot: "a healthy appreciation of one's ignorance in the face of a mystery..." On buying Argentina-grown asparagus from Whole Foods, Pollan writes:

The ethical implications of buying such a product are almost too numerous and knotty to sort out: There's the expense, there's the prodigious amounts of energy involved, the defiance of seasonality, and the whole question of whether the best soils in South America should be devoted to growing food for affluent and overfed North Americans. And yet you can also make a good argument that my purchase of organic asparagus from Argentina generates foreign exchange for a country desperately in need of it, and supports a level of care for that country's land--farming without pesticides or chemical fertilizer--it might not otherwise receive. Clearly my bunch of asparagus had delivered me deep into the thicket of trade-offs that a global organic marketplace entails. (175)

The material in this book could easily have lended itself to a rhetorical attack on the vices of industrial agriculture. But Pollan refuses to deliver on that account, and the final product is incredibly refreshing. Though I am none the wiser as to how one ought to disentangle the moral knot presented.

Thank You, David Brower!

I went hiking with my sister this weekend at the Point Reyes National Seashore. Unbelievable scenery.

At the end of one trail, we found ourselves on a beach with huge waves crashing in and sending clouds of mist into the air. Right at the edge of the water, there was a guy staring out at the vast expanse of the Pacific. From where I saw him, he was no more than an outline of a figure facing the ocean with a hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun. There was such simplicity in the image, a solitary figure in awe of natural beauty, just a couple of meters removed from the unfathomable strength of the ocean waves. As familiar and archetypal the image was, it struck me as immensely strange as well. He was so clearly outside the regular grid of routine, utility and worry in which we spend most of our time...how does one explain the type of appreciation embodied by a guy mesmerized by the ocean?

David Brower was the conservationist most responsible for protecting the Point Reyes area.

An Expanded Notion of Environmentalism

Typically, when we think of environmentalism, we think of that brand of environmentalism espoused by John Muir and the Sierra Club. We think of the great outdoors, trees, green things and dirty hippies. But if you talk to a psychologist about environmentalism, then a very different conversation evolves. Environmental psychology is about the interplay between one's surroundings and one's behavior. In The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell talks about environmental psychology as "The Power of Context," and attributes the precipitous decline of New York City's crime rate to simple environmental changes made particularly within the subway system. According to Gladwell, doing things like scrubbing the graffiti off subway walls and arresting fare-beaters can lead to significant changes in individual behavior.

So, at first glance, it appears that "environmentalism" refers to at least two disparate bodies of thought. In thinking about the work of Majora Carter, however, and her pitch to "Green the Ghetto," tree-hugging environmentalism and the psychological variety as well find common ground. Saving the environment (Mother Earth) can have everything to do with reducing crime, fighting the war on drugs, lifting people out of poverty, etc.

Pretty cool if you ask me.

The Milky Way

I don't know that I've ever seen the Milky Way with my own two eyes. This bothers me. While I am by no means a hardcore outdoorsman, neither am I a stranger to the smells that a fresh rain unleashes from the earth. In fact, I derive much of my spiritual sustenance from moments of "Einsteinian wonder," moments when you are put face to face with the largeness and beauty of the cosmos through nature.

The night sky invites its undeserving gazers to ask age-old questions. It sends a chill down my spine to think that humans have been staring and wondering at essentially the same constellations since, well, the beginning. But I was at Safeway the other day, and I saw the front cover of a National Geographic magazine, a night-time, bird's-eye view picture of a city, a rationalized grid of orange light. The editor's letter was about a small town in Virginia that is known for its view of the night sky, and the controversial decision of the town to install stadium lighting for high school football games. Isn't it strange to think that something as ancient and revered as the night sky has become a tourist attraction? A thing that a town can become known for? Isn't it strange that I have only seen the Milky Way in pictures that I studied in elementary school?

I associate stars with the silent chill of night air, when one cannot help but shiver--from the coldness of the darkness? or maybe from the smallness of one's existence? It troubles me, then, that when I look up at the night sky--on those few clear, chilly nights when light conditions permit--I can only recognize the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper and Orion's Belt. In a way, I suppose, this is nice. The night sky allowed to be a mystery, a spectacle that evades scientific classification in my mind. The stars unnamed and unknown to me. But the fact remains...I don't know that I have seen the Milky Way with my own two eyes.

I have always been fascinated by the different ways in which today's environmental problems are framed. Some describe the environmental crisis as a problem of awareness and consciousness, others point to the limits of technology and capitalistic growth. More recently, people like Al Gore and Thomas Friedman frame the problem as a policy failure and have advocated for a Coasian solution, a price signal placed on carbon emissions. Mark Wallace, in introducing his book, Finding God in the Singing River, describes today's environmental problems as fundamentally "a problem of the heart." It is this last formulation that I can't seem to get out of my head. How do humans relate to nature? Are we to be its benevolent stewards? its domineering masters? its helpless victims?

In Al Gore's famous climate crisis slideshow, the photos that he shows of melting glaciers are truly harrowing. Presented with such pictures, I invariably react with a mixture of thoughts and emotions. We did this? Changes of this magnitude are the result of industry and human activity? Is this really possible? There is such a profound hubris in the imagining. We did this, and now we need to try to fix what we have damaged. Weather, previously the exclusive playground of the gods, now rendered a human plaything. There is something deeply offensive to me about talking about global warming, or about our relationship with nature, in this way.

There are people who yearn for some imagined era when humans existed in harmony with nature, or who romanticize the relationship that exists between humans and nature in developing countries that have not yet been falsely weaned from Mother Earth. The irony being that companies from developing countries are invariably dirtier and more hurtful to the environment than their first world counterparts. Such romanticizations make me cringe. Have you ever been to a developing country? I want to ask. Have you seen the litter and the careless disposal of waste?

I don't know. Perhaps it can only be helpful to exaggerate our abilities to manipulate nature. Much like it can only be helpful to believe in the persistence of personal agency in the face of external constraint. Maybe, despite all odds, something profoundly human will triumph. It is a nice thought at the very least.

But jeez, the Milky Way. Surely something is amiss.

Language Barrier

During my freshman year, Richard Dawkins came to Swarthmore to lecture about his work on evolutionary psychology and his views on the apparent conflicts between science and religion. After his talk, I went up to him and, eager to use vocabulary and ideas I was picking up from my philosophy class, asked him if his ideas didn't represent a positivist and reductionist worldview. "I'm not a philosopher," he replied to my naive and inappropriately confrontational inquiry. Hearing such a curt reply, my facial muscles probably twitched awkwardly, and I probably looked down at the wrinkles in my t-shirt self-consciously before squriming my way out of the crowd that was growing around him.

In retrospect, this brief interaction represented my first encounter with the insularity that characterizes the academic world. If you are an established discipline, then you necessarily boast an esoteric vocabulary and specialized journals to boot. Unfortunately, these things set up walls between disciplines and inhibit communication. They essentially allow Richard Dawkins to rebuff inquiries such as mine by pleading ignorance. In Economics, there is the presitigious Journal of Economic Perspectives, but sometimes I wonder if a Journal of Perspectives on Economics and the Economy might not be more fruitful as an intellectually curious publication. It appears to me that a discipline often receives more fanfare for its methodology than the questions that it professes to answer. This is obviously a very short and perhaps a simplistically naive assessment of academia, but I think it merits consideration.

The problem of communication doesn't just exist in the academic world. I see evidence of a genuine language barrier in issues all around me. Let us take the issue of environmentalism as an example. There are those environmentalists that profess an eco-centric as opposed to an anthropocentric worldview. Such environmentalists condemn all environmentally hurtful activities and generally resist capitalism as an environmentally exploitative, earth-destroying, growth-bent, parasitic, soul-sucking system. Naturally, such environmentalists clash with traditional economists. In the context of Swarthmore, Crum-dwelling granola crunchers don't often fraternize on the halls of Kohlberg 2nd. Meanwhile, the concerns raised by such environmentalists fall deaf on the ears of the more pragmatically-minded economists and businessmen of the world. What happens? The 1999 WTO anti-globalization protests happen.

Thomas Friedman's new book, Hot, Flat, and Crowded, forges a path forward. He sums up the problem burdening the environmental movement, which I think has its roots in communication: "Too many environmentalists oppose any growth, a position that locks the poor into poverty. Too many critics of environmentalism characterize any conservation as some flaky anticapitalist ideological dalliance" (194). But, if I could assign TF an epitaph, it would be, "Speaker of many languages." He "pals around" with venture capitalists, environmental activists, politicians, academics, and manages to speak to all these different groups of people. In his book, he gives one example of successful communication between groups that I find particularly inspiring. Friedman describes the success of a conservation project in Indonesia and quotes the project's leader, Dr. Jatna Supriatna:

When you talk with the head of the government, your language is economic; when you talk to the communities, the language is welfare; when you talk to business, you talk about their future profits; when you talk to other NGOs, the language is environment. (311)

The answer seems rather simple. Just communicate across disciplines, across interest groups. But the forces of insularity are strong. Language barriers difficult to surmount. I think that it is a point, while simple, that we tend to overlook and fail to appreciate. In my view, a language barrier serves as the greatest source of frustration for young idealists intent upon effecting substantive change in the world. Friedman pokes fun a bit at the youthful naivette:

ExxonMobil, Peabody Energy, and General Motors know the difference between a Facebook group and a blocking coalition in Congress. They are not in Facebook, but they are in the faces of those lawmakers who stand in their way. (400)

Most of us, i.e. young and eager twenty-somethings, don't speak even a single language that resonates with groups that are in a position to effect change. I think this is the harsh reality that youthful idealism confronts. We may possess the soft tools, the critical thinking and the drive, but we lack the credibility, experience and language skills to communicate effectively. There doesn't seem to be an easy way around the language barrier, and I guess that is why Friedman ultimately counsels diligence, discipline and sacrifice.