It’s been five years since Patti Smith declared New York dead to the demimonde, so in a high-rent district in Manhattan it is surprising to run across a store with grotesquely ugly things that one couldn’t possibly imagine even the mistress of the most thuggish Russian mafiosi buying. Yet there they were, row upon row of vomitous carved ivory Buddhas, horses, castles, and, of course, elephants, some labeled mammoth teeth (not) on 57th between 5th and 6th.
I stopped, stunned by both their ugliness and obvious illegality. Except for antiquities, the sale of ivory has been banned in the U.S. for years, and this kitsch was clearly contraband scraped from the poaching that is threatening to make Africa’s forest elephants extinct within the next decade. Yet there they were, magnificent animals turned into cheap tourist crap that can be hawked with impunity until stricter regulations from the Obama administration kick in later this year.
There’s rarely good news on the environment: tidal waves threaten to engulf half the planet, the other half is turning to desert, summer bee stings and honey are soon to be quaint memories along with human life itself, according to the latest news on the Sixth Great Extinction. But last Friday, a dozen blocks away in Times Square, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service ran a ton of confiscated ivory through a rock crusher and it was good. Yes, it was a “media event” but I truly believe, cynic though I am after covering the environment through the grimness of the past decades, that the authorities have learned a few things and they are – finally – doing it right.
The question of elephants is as complex as extinction itself, involving global trade, war, peace, government corruption, poverty, overpopulation. Despite this rat’s nest of human failings, governments and conservationists, through trial and grievous error, have found an approach that may actually work: 1. stop the demand with a slick, energetic PR campaign using celebrities to make killing endangered animals uncool in China, 2. stop trafficking by stepping up enforcement in East Africa ports, and 3. stop the killing on the ground.
Stopping the killing on the ground was the old way of doing things. You could call it going medieval on the poacher’s asses – but “going colonial” would be more accurate. Twenty-five years ago, the Kenyan conservationist Richard Leakey temporarily halted poaching by turning his country’s wildlife agency into a paramilitary force. A lot of poachers died; one every four days, by most estimates.
It was a Band-Aid, as outdated as the mortifying Do-They-Know-It’s-Christmas song that has become a bad joke among hip Africans, and it fell off. Going after poor black guys with guns is like picking off the drug dealer on the corner in The Wire; the real players are international. The market for ivory is the fourth-largest illicit trade in the world, after drugs, human trafficking, and arms. And the long-term threat is both mundane and unmanageable: population growth. There are just too many people living in the bush where elephants used to roam free. Too many people all over the world, in fact.
But even twenty-five years ago, there were ways to make it work. While Kenya was shooting poachers, countries like Namibia and South Africa were building a thriving trade in wildlife products, gaining support in local communities for wild animals that had formerly been considered threats or nuisances. Even today, with poaching at record levels, elephants in those countries are faring better.
To be fair, Leakey didn’t have much choice: under pressure from Western animal rights groups Kenya had banned hunting in the 1970s, along with any trade whatsoever in products made from wild animals. This made it impossible to earn enough money from wildlife for community conservation, plus it alienated native Kenyans whose traditions included hunting. When it came to saving elephants, Kenya became an aid junkie – and the results were about what you’d expect. The animals disappeared. They just went.
Richard Leakey, recently appointed chairman of the Kenya Wildlife Service, his third stint with the agency, has stepped up his game. So have other people in Kenya. The Northern Rangelands Trust is working with communities in high-poaching areas, convincing elders to crack down on young men seduced by the cash they make by killing animals.
It’s a start. But the real chokehold has to be the global market. Unfortunately, American politicians have injected politics into a cause that should be valued on its own merits. In the U.S., politicians and conservationists, including Hillary Clinton, are selling elephant protection as part of the war on terror, claiming that groups like Somalia’s Al-Shabaab and Boko Haram in Nigeria are funded by the illegal ivory trade. But people in Africa say that the real movers in the trade are the criminal gangs, a dozen or more, who dominate the ivory trade worldwide.
The opportunism of the American foreign policy establishment is cynical and unfortunate, but it doesn’t have to be fatal. A change is gonna come, or it sure looks that way, and the forces are bigger than any one politician, whether it’s Hillary or Kenya’s Leakey. As China becomes an industrial power, minds are changing. Three-quarters of people polled in Hong Kong, a major entrepôt for the ivory trade, want to outlaw the sale of ivory. More than half support an outright ban.
It’s important that we get it right this time. It may be our last chance. But the debate over ivory has always been complicated. The usual chorus of free market contrarians say events like last Friday’s ivory crush will raise the price of ivory as speculators stock up, anticipating a shortage. These arguments, plausible decades ago, sound worn and dated. Ivory isn’t like dope. Ivory doesn’t get you high: money does.
If there’s no demand, the elephants will stop dying. Or at least, they’ll stop dying quite so fast. Who knows? There might still be hope that elephants will survive as a species just long enough to outlive the inevitable crash of civilization itself.
Culture changes. The days of CBGB are gone. The grotesque shop on 57th Street will close, or be closed by the authorities. Bad taste is timeless – now that’s a law of nature – but if we are lucky and smart and very, very quick, the ivory trade will be strangled by history. It’s a reminder that human progress, while it may pale in comparison to our follies, isn’t entirely mythical.
This time of year I feel the urge to watch old black and white movies, preferably starring Jimmy Stewart. This year, It’s a Wonderful Life is too painful, a reminder of what we used to be but aren’t anymore. I prefer screwball comedies like The Philadelphia Story, with its sympathy for alcoholics and philanderers, and schizophrenic alternation between class rage and craven worship of old money.
Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn play an upper crust couple who, though divorced, still love one another. Hepburn almost, but not quite, falls for Jimmy Stewart, a writer from a modest background. Every time Hepburn waxes nostalgic about the sailboat Grant designed for their honeymoon, the True Love, she murmurs, in that wonderful Connecticut lockjaw, “My, she was yare.” This means, in boat language, fast, agile, and resilient. When she says this, my own eyes brim with tears along with hers.
Christmas is the season when we take stock of our collective disillusionment. The season lost its innocence in the 1970s, around the same time we did. In my Manhattan barrio, children spent the holidays being passed back and forth between divorced parents, teenage girls devoured Vogue articles about Christmas in St. Bart’s and Mustique (Mick Jagger and Princess Margaret sightings obligatory), and parents engaged in the holiday standbys of drunkenness and depression.
In the 1980s, Mom and Dad settled into corporate harness, the stock market boomed, greed was good. We agonized about the commercialization of Christmas, but it didn’t stop us from buying things.
In retrospect, even these stirrings of disquiet seem like relics of a more innocent time. In the 2000s, “the season of giving” just adds to the overload of marketing. I’m beginning to wonder if forking over cash on “Giving Tuesday” actually makes things worse. The perfect example is a tweet I got from Rocco DiSpirito, presumably yet another celebrity chef. After announcing that 50 million Americans suffer from food insecurity, Rocco urged me to click through to a website for food donations that Bank of America will match dollar for dollar.
The number of ways this is wrong is so staggering that it is difficult to know where to begin. It goes without saying that I am not a subscriber to Chef Rocco’s twitter feed. More importantly, the real beneficiary of my largesse would be Bank of America. Sure, a few people might get fed, but the real benefit is to BofA’s brand, in poor repair and deservedly so: the bank is one of the worst offenders in the economic meltdown. Before the crash, Bank of America acquired Countrywide, the country’s highest-profile purveyor of subprime mortgages, as well as the venerable stock firm Merrill Lynch. The federal government sued the bank for allegedly engaging in a practice known as “the hustle,” churning out mortgages at a feverish clip without proper checks on wrongdoing. Another lawsuit alleged that the bank’s top managers lied about Merrill Lynch’s troubled financial state while in the midst of closing the deal to buy the firm.
The bottom line? This is the same bank that cut 30,000 jobs in 2011 and the following year rewarded CEO Brian Moynihan by quadrupling his annual pay to $8.1 million.
This is not Jimmy Stewart’s bank. Ironically, it started off that way: Frank Capra modeled George Bailey, the good-hearted smalltown banker played by Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life on Bank of America founder A.P. Giannini, the self-made millionaire who was the first to offer loans to the working stiffs of America, people he believed to be generally honest.
I wrote back to Rocco, telling him if Bank of America’s management really cared, they would stop laying people off. In reality, it’s not Moynihan’s job, or yours, or mine, to (fill in the blanks): feed the hungry, buy textbooks for public schools, keep hospitals open, bankroll local arts councils, or even put up money for animal shelters.
We’re OK with Bon Jovi and Bruce rocking for hurricane relief, but buying into the fiction that corporations should be playing the role of government will not end well. Foundations shouldn’t be the fount of good works, either. It’s not Bill Gates’s job, or Warren Buffett’s, to decide which diseases to cure, or what kind of equipment should be in schools and libraries. Good works on a broad scale should not subject to the whims of private individuals and certainly not to the self-interest of corporate CEOs, former or otherwise.
Call me a grinch, but even dropping a dollar in a bucket so little Brittney can have a new kidney is a capitulation. Our good works mean there is less pressure on insurance companies to do the right thing, and on government to force them to do it – or for the government to provide health care directly to citizens, which is what Obamacare would have looked like in a sane America.
It wasn’t always this way. In 1988, Americans bought into the President George Bush’s exhortation, written by Craig Smith and the vile Peggy Noonan, to become volunteers, one of the “thousand points of light in a broad and peaceful sky.” Bush’s maudlin call for volunteers was the logical next step after Ronald Reagan’s deregulation of corporate America, attacks on labor unions, and cutbacks in social programs.
We stepped up. What else could we do? Helping others made us feel good so we kept doing it. We donated to heart disease research. We ran for the cure.
People kept giving, but Americans kept getting poorer. By 2011, a record number had slipped below the poverty line; 15.9 percent, totaling 48.5 million people. That’s not even counting the millions above the poverty line – $23,050 for a family of four — who are, by anyone’s standards, in deep economic trouble. As Paul Krugman recently wrote, none of the economic remedies being proposed on either side of the aisle will solve America’s real problem: mass unemployment.
Mitt Romney was right when he complained about the 47 percent of Americans who are dependent on government aid, even though he got the reasons wrong. Staggering under the escalating cost of living – higher college tuition, rising rents driven by the housing bust that made bankers rich — we are becoming aid junkies, just like our cousins in Africa. We have no choice. We don’t have jobs, or if we do, they don’t pay us enough for a decent life. At the same time, our defunded government is externalizing its costs, like bankrupt airlines charging $25 for a piece of luggage.
Reaganomics was bigger than us, and bigger than President Obama, too. He may be willing to look over the fiscal cliff, but in the name of pragmatism, he appears to have given up on passing another economic stimulus bill to create jobs.
I try to be a realist, too, but the culture of giving feels demeaning and hopeless. As I prepared for my first Christmas in New York for more than a decade, I found myself remembering when giving a few bucks felt real. As a girl living in Manhattan, I could tell the Christmas season was off and running when I saw a neediest case article in The New York Times. These were heartbreaking stories of people who lived beside us, but whose hardships we rarely knew about. Now, of course, those people are us.
The paper’s Neediest Cases Fund celebrates its centennial this year. The Fund started on Christmas Day, 1911, when publisher Adolph Ochs encountered a shabbily dressed man on the street. The man struck Ochs as a respectable fellow who was simply down on his luck. Ochs gave him a few dollars and a business card.
“If you’re looking for a job, come see me tomorrow,” Ochs said.
If that sounds like a scene from a Jimmy Stewart movie, it played out pretty much that way. The Neediest Cases articles began the following year. The Fund, which is still in existence, has raised $250 million.
But it’s the story of Ochs and the homeless man that makes me swallow hard this Christmas. The old story is new again, as profound as one of those Jimmy Stewart movies. Because Ochs didn’t just give the man a handout. He gave him a job.
My, we were yare. Weren’t we?