Commonalities between two 'movements'

On the question of why the Nazis succeeded so rapidly in Germany in 1933, without much resistance (in spite of 56% of voters voting against the Nazis in 1932), one contemporary observer* suggested the main reason was fear; go along to avoid being beaten up. But he posited other reasons, such as the ‘intoxication of unity’; a betrayal by the weakness of previous leaders causing going along as ‘revenge’; a jumping on the bandwagon; and finally, the idea that they could change the direction of the Nazis from within.

In the Trump era we are nowhere near an environment of fear that Germany was in back then, but the intoxication of unity (Make America Great Again – Hitler was pumping people up to Make Germany Great Again); the vindictiveness of actions and policy from Trumpists reacting to perceived weakness of Obama et al.; jumping on the bandwagon; and going along in hopes that change, or moderation, can be effected from within - these seem to be common characteristics of the rise of Naziism and the rise of Trumpism. They are not unique to them though: Zumaism in South Africa, Mugabeism in Zimbabwe, others). But Naziism was the most extreme expression the world has seen, and Trumpism is the most extreme expression the US has seen.

The submergence of critical thought, of principles, the anti-intellectualism and anti-science attitudes, and the denial of and excuse-making for abhorrent actions and policies seem to be common as well.

There are enough differences in the character and institutions of the US and those of Germany in the 1930s (and in the historical conditions) to give me confidence that we will not go down that road, but there are threads of similarity in the two ‘movements’ that are still worth noting, and not forgetting.

*Referenced in ‘The Coming of the Third Reich’ by Richard J. Evans (2003)

Letter to Science

A letter submitted to Science magazine in response to an editorial by its Executive Publisher and Chief Executive Officer of AAAS, Rush Holt, where he claims the march was non-partisan. Guess it was too harsh for them to publish.

In response to Rush Holt’s editorial of May 5:
To claim that the impetus to rouse the tens to hundreds of thousands to march for science on April 22 was not the election and policies of the Trump administration is disingenuous at best, absurd at worst. The anti-science and anti-intellectual rhetoric of Trump and his cronies, the transformation and gutting of the EPA, the extreme climate change denial, the embrace of conspiracy theories, the eschewing of fact and evidence, the appalling budget proposals…etc. all acted on the slumbering passions of scientists who would not have engaged in this march otherwise.  The denigration of science and escape from evidence and reason has been ongoing for some time, but we can be quite sure that this march would not have happened had Clinton won the election.  It’s considered wise that science be non-partisan, but dissembling about it when it very much is partisan, does no service to anyone, and may in fact do a disservice to many.

An exemplar of misunderstanding and misplaced emotions

An exemplar of misunderstanding and misplaced emotions:

In Longview, Washington birch trees planted along streets have become infested with aphids (so the reports say, I have not checked to confirm that they are aphids and not a different hemipteran taxon). The city’s solution to this problem appeared to be removal of the trees, a solution that met with some resistance from tree lovers. The city council proposed applying imidacloprid in granular form around the bases of the trees. Not surprisingly, given the outcry against neonicotinoids, there was an outcry against this idea. A group of school girls, pictured in the news at their ‘pollination garden’, put together a presentation for the city council to ‘save the bees’ and when the motion came up for a vote it could not even find anyone to second it. The girls were lauded as having succeeded in ‘saving the bees’.

The problem with this story is the neglect in paying attention to the biology of the situation and acting in a rational way in the light of the biological knowledge: honey bees generally don’t spend time foraging at a wind pollinated plant such as the birch. It’s not worth their while and optimal foraging theory and empirical observation would suggest scout bees would not recruit other bees to such a resource. There is evidence of solitary bees and even honey bees using birch pollen though, especially when other resources are scarce. Birch blooms in the early spring and this can be accounted for by avoiding this time for treating the trees. Given the proper timing, the risk to bees from this application of imidacloprid would be very low and a cost/benefit analysis would suggest the treatment should go ahead.

Other solutions to the aphid problem are possible, of course, such as release of lady beetles, spraying with soaps or botanical oils, or even high pressure water treatment, but it’s a bit disconcerting that biology is often ignored when people attempt to ‘save’ the players involved in a biological game. This result is a clear abrogation of the basic principles of Integrated Pest Management (IPM).

Excerpt from Stockboy

I worked that job for ten months. Roof sheeting can be insane, and it’s only a needle in the stack of insane jobs. There was absolutely no mercy from the sun in the blazing summers of California’s foothills. We brought gallon milk jugs filled with frozen water but it would all be gone long before the end of the day, as hot as a spa by that time. We slipped on our own sweat, skittered down the sheets before regaining balance, and searched for spots where it was dry. In the winter, when the rains fell, sometimes for days, the bars and the armchairs were the only places to go for most people. I loved those days though, and lost myself in reading. But in between pages worry about the rent and bills sometimes settled down upon me like a gentle snow, and a chill passed through me. When it wasn’t raining we got to the job site at seven AM and the roofs glistened with the ice crystals that coated the surface of the plywood. We’d wait around for the rising sun to work a bit of magic in melting the ice but Growly nearly always got impatient and shouted; “Get to work! What are ya standing around for?”

            One day a guy went down. He was on a house about four over from ours, on a cul-de-sac, and as the sun edged over the Ponderosa pines to the east it illuminated his roof like a stage. A sudden glint of sunlight off his hammer pierced my eye, and when I looked back he was down on his ass, sliding down the roof with bits of ice and sprays of the previous night’s rain forming a halo about him. He sailed off the edge of the roof like a toboggan. The newly installed and innovative plastic gutter tore off and both objects were airborne for the briefest of moments. The gutter fell onto the freshly poured concrete driveway, clattering like castanets, while the carpenter landed on a mountain of chunky pieces of clay peppered with 2 x 4 and 2 x 6 cut-offs. He was lucky. The ambulance came and took him away, they fixed his broken leg, and he only lost three months of work, and there was no doubt about his claim for worker’s comp.

            A couple days later I went over to Pietro’s house. I hadn’t been there before. It was a squat little place that sat sandwiched between a couple of other squat little places, just a block or two from downtown Grass Valley. There was a cute little scallop to the fascia boards that led steeply to the ridge of the roof and a worn redwood deck led to the front door. I tripped over a plastic scooter as I reached for the bell.

            “Hey man!”  Pietro exclaimed as he opened the door. “Come on in, man!” He looked around at a cacophony of toys and thin but tall kid’s books and strewn clothes littering the floor and couch and said, “Let’s go in the kitchen, man.”

            We sat at the kitchen table.

            “Man, we make a good team.” he said.

            “I think you’re right. Why, do you think? We’re so different.”

            “Doesn’t matter, man. We’re the same where it counts. We both got soul.”

            I laughed.

            “We do, eh?”

            “Yeah, mon, we got soul! We can take the pain and turn it into gain!”

            “You’re shucking and jiving now, my friend.”

            “Look, let’s do this.” He reached into the penny pocket of his jeans and came out with a bindle of coke. He pulled a small mirror over and spilled some of the powder onto it. A razor blade appeared from nowhere and he chopped and diced and sorted the lines, rolled a dollar into a tube, and handed it to me.

            It went up my nose with a medicinal burn and I quickly came alive.

            “Yeah!”

            Maria, Pietro’s wife, appeared in the doorway, as if she was a sentinel. Pietro grabbed a newspaper and covered the evidence, smoothly, as if he was doing nothing other than stretching.

            Maria merely looked at both of us, coldly, as if we were clams. She was rather wide now but I could see that once she must have been foxy, a Latino lover that surely drove Pietro into the situation he now found himself in – endlessly torturing his body to sustain the outcome of that attraction.

            “I love my wife. I really do.” He bent down and sucked up a line like a vacuum cleaner. “She used to be so beautiful!” He bent down again. “I need you, man! I need you! I am so deep in debt! We’re making money! Let’s kick ass, buddy!”

            He pushed the mirror to me and as I bent to send the line to my nose I regretted everything, everything, from the day of my birth to the day I would die, it was all a bunch of crap, and I had no power over it. Pietro, Joe, Mitch, Jimmy, Helio, Growly, Billy, Fuckhead, and all the bloody and battered workers I’d shared both rotten and beautiful moments with, their names were like a list on the wall of a monument, were doomed to a life where their potential was squandered and finally squashed. Beauty bathed each and every one of us every day but we never seemed able to grasp a hold of it. Life was a monumental struggle, and in a world of such bounty no one could understand why.

             After I’d said goodbye I looked up at Pietro’s house and wondered about the lives that happened in there.

            Then I turned and headed back to my place. Joice was waiting, impatiently, and nothing was going to stop our outcome from happening.