"Before I ask my question, I want to say that I agree with you." The woman standing at the center aisle microphone was probably in her late thirties or early forties. She had flowing auburn hair and a pleasing smile that reminded me of Meryl Streep. In her sky-blue blouse and beige slacks, she might have been a teacher, lawyer, artist, or housewife. "To change the world, we must persuade corporations to change their goals; they have got to move from serving a few rich people to focusing on making better lives for the rest of us—as well as protecting the environments and communities where we all live." She smiled sweetly. "I totally agree."
By now I was pretty sure I knew what was coming; she was about to ask the question that always came up, the question that haunted everyone. It was the final question on my list of the four we all must address.
She placed both hands on her hips and gave me a rather defiant look. "But what can I do—me personally—to make that happen?"
"There it is," I said for my own ears. I cleared my throat. "Thank you."
Back when I first began my speaking tour, I wondered whether people have always asked this question. Or is it a unique characteristic of the post-Hitler, post-A-bomb- Vietnam~Watergate-9/11-Iraq era? Have we always felt so small and helpless? Or just now?
Attempting to figure this out, I often thought about my grandfather. He owned a small furniture business in rural New Hampshire during the Depression. He died before I was born but I was raised in the shadow of his reputation. Legend held that he never made a major decision without agreement from his employees. He professed that his children could not live good lives unless the poorest members of his community lived good lives. Consequently he dedicated himself to pulling that community out of the Depression. He and other businessmen chose not to use their savings to exploit the destitute by purchasing their homes and farms for a few cents on the dollar; instead, they built an economy that offered jobs to the unemployed—to woodcutters, carpenters, street sweepers, plumbers, weavers, and upholsterers. My grandfather was never described to me as a Good Samaritan; rather his legend was that of a wise man who understood that his as-yet-unborn-grandson's future would be secure only if the futures of the grandchildren of those destitute farmers and laborers were also secure.
I also thought about my father. I suppose he could have written Hitler off as a European despot. "Killed a few million—so what? I'm not Jewish. I live across the Atlantic. I'm safe." He could have rationalized his way out of it. Or, as a language teacher, accepted a safe job as a trainer of translators. Instead, he volunteered for the Navy and headed up armed guard crews that manned the guns on merchant marine oil tankers crossing the Atlantic—an incredibly dangerous job.
I thought about the suffragettes, union organizers, civil rights workers, anti-Vietnam protesters, the young girls who stuck flowers into rifle barrels, and the students who lay down in front of tanks in Moscow and Beijing. Those times seemed long gone. Yet many of those activities happened during my adult life. Which got me to thinking about now—and the men and women who lie on the ground before bulldozers in the forests of Oregon, the Colombian farmers who chain themselves to fences to defy corporate mercenaries trying to force them off their lands, the athletes who refuse to play in sweatshop-made uniforms, those who sing, climb buildings to hang banners, write poetry, shop only at environmentally friendly and socially
responsible coops or privately owned local stores, and the ones—like my own daughter—who give up lucrative corporate careers to dedicate themselves to causes and lifestyles that offer more than money. They are doing all these things today.
"You know," I replied to the auburn-haired lady in the skyblue blouse and beige slacks, "I hear that question a lot. And I'm not sure why I hear it. You and I live in a country that prides itself on being a democracy. On taking action." I told the stories of my grandfather and my father. "Please don't feel that you're alone though." I looked around at my audience. "How many share this woman's question? How many of you want to know what you can do to make things better?"
The room was a forest of hands. I turned to the woman; she gave me a relieved nod. "Why do we feel so powerless?" I asked her. "Hint, the corporatocracy has a collaborator in taking away our power."
Her brow wrinkled. Then she gave me that Meryl Streep smile. "Us." "Right. They can't take away our power unless we allow them to."
She started to step away from the microphone. But thought better of it. "So, I repeat," she said with a gentle smile. "What can I do?"
"Take back your power. And convince everyone you know to do the same." I looked from her to the rest of my audience. "If you're tempted to say 'The problem's too big, the corporations and government too strong, I don't stand a chance,' that's just a copout on your part." I paused to let this sink in. "Thank God our forefathers back in the 1770s didn't say 'Oh, the King of England? He's too powerful... I can't do anything about him.'"
I told that audience as I have told many others that we today need to recognize that every one of the Founding Fathers and Mothers stuck their heads in nooses. They stood against the most powerful empire in history, and it happened to be their own government. They were traitors, terrorists in the eyes of the Crown; they faced hanging. Today we honor their courage, as we honor the courage of my father and other members of his generation who stopped Hitler. We honor their generosity, their willingness to make sacrifices.
We too must be courageous. And generous. We must be willing to pay more for diamonds and gold, laptops and cell phones—and insist that the miners receive fair wages, health care and insurance— and we must pay more for goods that are not produced in sweatshops but are made in places that treat their employees fairly. We must drive smaller, more fuel-efficient cars, cut back on total energy use and general consumption, and protect natural environments along with the diversity of species that inhabit them. It is imperative that we develop an awareness that every action we take and every product we buy impacts other people and the places where they live; collectively, our lifestyles today determine the future our children and grandchildren will inherit. Like those who have gone before us, we must be willing to make sacrifices—including, if necessary, the ultimate sacrifice—to ensure that we leave our progeny a world that is at least as good as the one our parents gave to us.
Individuals make a difference. I know it is easy to forget—the corporatocracy spends billions every year trying to convince us that we do not make a difference, except when we buy Product A of Brand B. But we all understand that people impact people. Remember the men and women at RAN, Amnesty, The Pachamama Alliance, MoveOn, and other similar organizations. Recall people who have impacted you personally.
Growing up in rural New Hampshire, I had no idea that African Americans were forced to ride at the back of buses in some parts of the South, until a woman named Rosa Parks showed me. Lots of poison ivy grew around our house; we were oblivious to the fact that the DDT we sprayed to eradicate it also killed fish, birds, squirrels, and lots of other species, until
Rachel Carson wrote Silent Spring. That book mushroomed into a global environmental movement. Eugene McCarthy started another movement—a political one— that brought down one of this nation's most powerful presidents, Lyndon Johnson. McCarthy never won the presidency but he gets a lot of credit for ending the Vietnam War. Coretta and Martin Luthd King Jr. taught us about the power of dreams; they broke through race barriers not just here but also in South Africa and so many other places. My father instilled in me a deep respect for the principles expressed in the Declaration of Independence. My mother encouraged me to write editorials for my high school newspaper and listened for hours as I rehearsed for the debateteam. Without the encouragement of my parents, I would not be writing this book.
I recited these things for my audience that night. Then I glanced at the woman who had stood at the microphone and was now back in her seat. "Do you have a job?" I asked. She nodded.
"Are you willing to tell us what?" "I'm a teacher."
"An amazingly privileged position," I said. "I had a third grade teacher, Mrs. Schnare, who empowered me to stand up to a schoolyard bully and then lectured me about always defending my beliefs, as well as my body. My sophomore year in high school, an English teacher, Richard Davis, implanted in me the idea that the pen really is mightier than the sword; a year later, my history teacher, Jack Woodbury, assigned books that convinced me that the powerful are also vulnerable. 'Even monarchs,' he would say, 'are people. Their hearts break, like yours and mine. They bleed. They can be brought around-—or taken down.'"
She walked slowly back to the microphone. The man at the front of the line bowed and yielded his position to her. "I guess I knew that," she said. "But sometimes it used to seem easier to forget it. Not anymore. I am a teacher. I will teach now, truly teach."