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It’s Time to Abandon War

By Kathy Beckwith, author and educator, Oregon

[These ideas were first shared by the author as a TED Talks program, at TEDxMcMinnville, Oregon, and we are now pleased to publish it for the benefit of Skipping Stones readers. —Editors]

I grew up on a hog farm in western Oregon. I had my own pig. She was my 4-H project. But it was more fun to play in the woods with my brothers and sisters than train a pig, so she never got really tame. In spite of my lack of pig training skills, I still reaped the benefits of growing up on that hog farm—learning to swim in an irrigation pond, eating garbage that was collected for the pigs. Just kidding, well, sort of. What we ate were the “trimmings” from grocery stores, discarded produce that had begun to fade, that my dad had picked up on his route around town, gathering scraps to feed the hogs. So we ate artichokes, oranges, bananas, pomegranates—things too good to feed hogs that we wouldn’t get otherwise.

I never wondered if this was normal, but I don’t remember ever telling other kids at school about sharing the pigs’ trimmings. So maybe, it wasn’t totally normal, after all. I have not lost two minutes of sleep over the question of trimmings being normal

But there is something big, now, that we take as normal, that at times makes me cry from the cruelty of it, and other times makes me cry out against the injustice and the horrid destruction because of it. I’ve been learning more about how it comes to be considered normal.

Have you heard of the Green Frog in the lima bean pot? Green Frog hops into the pot where the lima beans are soaking overnight—in cold water—but in the morning, when the fire is lit in the cook stove under the pot, and the water starts to get hot, so does Green Frog—unaware. Because it’s his nature to adapt his body temperature to his surroundings. Sometime before boiling, Green Frog has to be startled into leaping from danger, or risk getting cooked.

It seems to me, that when considering war, many of us are quite like Green Frog. We’ve been adapting to our surroundings, to a culture that treats war as normal, and it’s getting hot.

I propose three things for your consideration:

War is not normal…
It is time to abandon war… and
It can be done.

Yet we do things ourselves that normalize war. We let assumptions take hold in our minds. Have you heard these?

War is inevitable. Things will never change.

Inevitable? Conflict is inevitable; but war is a choice, a decision that is made about how to respond to a conflict.

Things will never change? Dueling, to the death, was seen as an honorable way for gentlemen, including a man who became a U.S. President, to settle a rumor. Women, vote?! Ha! Things change!

There are other reasons we adapt to the “war is normal” lima bean pot.

Fear sells war, and we’re sold fear.
Carefully chosen words and PR (Public Relations) campaigns market wars such as
“Rolling Thunder”, “Shock and Awe”, and “Operation Enduring Freedom.”
Kids watch the parades and ceremonies from toddler days on. They play with war toys bought for them, and—when older—with video games simulating war, normalizing war.
And then we put war in its own category and don’t challenge it like we would other things. If neighborhood problems were handled with the violence of war, we’d name it tragic, criminal—not heroic. If hometown parades included execution equipment from prisons past and present—electric chairs, firing squads, lethal injection kits—we’d say, “What in the world were they thinking, putting that stuff in a parade our kids watch?” But execution equipment of war—tanks…? “Wow!” If we heard teenagers down the street calling out the chants used in military training: “What makes the grass grow? Blood makes the grass grow. Who makes the blood flow? We do, we do. Blood, Blood, Blood!” … and “Kill, Kill!”—we’d call 9-1-1 for help. Never would we condone the “normals” of war in our communities!

But perhaps most normalizing of all, is the assumption that even though no one wants war, sometimes it’s necessary to protect human rights and our freedoms; that without war, we’d lose our freedom. The problem is, rarely do we finish that sentence. Our freedom to do what, exactly? What freedoms have our wars actually protected? Freedom to take land we wanted? To protect business investments in other countries?… To opt for war instead of using alternatives, over and over again. Our history is bleak, and sad. How many of us grow up believing that the horrendous killing and maiming of the American Civil War was necessary to get rid of slavery? We don’t learn to ask, “Why didn’t we join the rest of the world in eliminating slavery through moral and legal persuasion, instead of turning to war?” The more we learn about alternatives that were possible but not taken, the harder it is to accept war.

But wait. What about Hitler? I have been asked that question so many times, and heard Hitler used as justification for U.S. military acts so many times, that I’ve begun to wonder if maybe Hitler won the war, after all. Wasn’t he the one who believed that power and violence should be combined to reach one’s goals? That philosophy seems to have caught on.

When we discuss Hitler, let’s make sure we ask, and answer, because the answers are here, “What could have been done before and during Hitler’s rise to power that would have changed the course of that history? What could have been done to prevent Hitler’s brutality from being condoned?”

Never should we grant Hitler—or anyone—power over us to keep us from choosing alternatives that are wise, effective, humane, and that honor life and our precious Earth.

But are there alternatives that really work? That’s the good news! Alternatives abound. Education. Diplomacy. Negotiation, mediation, arbitration. Economic justice, crisis response teams, peace commissions—all are effective alternatives to war.

A more democratic United Nations could be used to advise wisely, instead of us bartering with its members to do our will.

Universities around the world have programs in international conflict resolution, and specialists ready to facilitate peace-making, as do religious and secular organizations, and the United States Institute of Peace.

People find ways! Women from Liberia barricaded men inside a hotel, preventing them from leaving until they got serious about negotiating the end to war.

Bulgaria was ordered by Hitler to ship the country’s Jews by rail to the death camps. The first group of 9,000 Jews were assembled at the railway station, in barbed wire fences, awaiting final orders for loading onto the trains. Members of parliament, students, and others from all walks of life, joined the clergy there, who said they would lie down on the tracks; these people must not be taken away. Those ready to give the orders, instead told the Jews to take their bags and go back home.

President Truman and the United States Air Force responded to the Soviet Union’s full blockade of West Berlin in 1948, not with a return to war or the threat of war, but with an airlift of supplies dropped into the city for months, until the Soviets recognized the futility of their actions.

The research of Maria Stephan and Erica Chenoweth (TEDxBoulder) presents us with dramatic truths: nonviolent civil resistance works, it works better than violence, and it more often results in democratic systems in place after the resistance. There is no excuse for saying war is necessary.

So what can WE do, personally, to help bring about the end of war?

We can question. We can ask, “What alternatives are possible in this situation?” Question what role U.S. military bases around the world, our weapons sales, military spending, our rhetoric—what role do these things play in perpetuating war. Question why the U.S. government insists on spending a trillion dollars to modernize nuclear weapons of unimaginable destruction, designed for the mass murder of populations, when so many nations are calling for them to be dismantled.

Question. And assign ourselves a history lesson: Learn about wars, and what they do to real people, including survivors, and soldiers who actually fight on the ground. So much of war, for so many of us, happens someplace else.

We can learn about alternatives, including nonviolent civil resistance, and teach that history to children and teens. We can teach kids how to mediate conflicts for each other at school, and bring that training home and into their future lives. We can hold family meetings, so kids grow up knowing how to facilitate a meeting and brainstorm solutions. We can encourage youth to explore service in the Peace Corps, or take six months (or more) to volunteer somewhere around the world, because their work and experiences in different cultures will make a difference. Prevention costs a fraction of military action. And as they help others, they will surely grow in compassion and understanding.

We can stop feeling powerless and join others to share ideas and take action. We can stop honoring war and honor its opposite: “creative problem-solving.”

And if we wish, we can point out how mules cooperate—to swat flies.

I was walking on our road and glanced into the field where our mules…(video) were standing rump to head, swishing their tails, brushing the flies off each other’s faces. I ran home, grabbed my camera, and when my husband got home, I told him, “Your mules are amazing.” “Yep, they are,” he said, “but they do that all the time. It’s normal!”

Well, if mules can normalize cooperation, people can too.

In January 1929, the US Senate advised ratification and President Coolidge signed into law the Kellogg Briand Pact outlawing the use of war as a means of resolving conflict. Millions and millions of Americans said we are ready for the end of war. They raised such a voice that those in government had to listen, and join the effort, and make it the law of the land—it’s still the law of the land—a law that we can reclaim, if we will seek out and use alternatives to war.

We’re lucky to have three awesome and exceedingly fun grandkids. I love them dearly. I want the best for these precious kids. Down deep I think we know what’s normal, what we come home to—the longing we all have, to give the children the very best we can. They don’t need to inherit our messes. War is a monstrous mess. It has been normalized, but it’s not the way, and we don’t have to accept it.

We can abandon war. There are alternatives. I extend to each one of you a personal invitation, and permission, to help make that happen.

About the Author:
Kathy Beckwith is a school mediation trainer from Dayton, Oregon. She also volunteers as a mediation coach. She is author of PLAYING WAR: A Story About Changing the Game (winner, 2006 Skipping Stones Honor Award); A MIGHTY CASE AGAINST WAR: What America Missed in U.S. History Class and What We (All) Can Do Now; and other books on problem-solving. Her latest work is a young adult novel, ENCOUNTER: When Religions Become Classmates—From Oregon to India and Back (winner, 2022 Skipping Stones Honor Award). She lives on a small farm with her husband (and his mules) and loves picking wild blackberries for summertime pies. She can be reached via her website at www.kathybeckwith.com. Kathy’s TEDx Talk can be accessed online here.

The Secret

By Hongwei Bao, United Kingdom.

“Your secret is safe with me,” was Ming’s promise when I told him that I liked boys instead of girls.

Ming was my best friend at school. Wearing the same type of school uniform, Ming looked older and bigger, but we were the same age. We grew up together in the same neighbourhood and our parents knew each other well. Ming was always the first one to hear stories from me. I trusted him on everything and anything. One afternoon after school, we met at the balance bars on the school playground as usual. It was just the two of us. I mustered up courage and told him about my secret.

Ming seemed slightly surprised, but he soon smiled and agreed to keep it a secret for me, as he had done other times. We were best friends after all. After a few push-ups, we headed for our own homes.

The next morning, in the school corridor, just as I was about to wave at him and say hi, I noticed something was different. As soon as he saw me, he dropped his head and continued to walk on, avoiding eye contact with me. In the classroom, I couldn’t help casting frequent glimpses at his side—he wasn’t looking at me. In fact, he remained quiet all day. When the school bell rang, he picked up his schoolbag and left the classroom in a rush. Was it because of my secret? What did he do to my secret?

I ate very little that evening. Mum frowned when she saw the food I’d left in the bowl. Dad threw me a disapproving look and asked me how my day was. “It was OK,” I replied, “lots of homework to do.” I stood up, ready to leave the table.

“Wait!” Dad raised his hand and gestured me to sit down. His eyes looked serious.

After a few seconds of silence, he spoke: “We know it. Ming told his parents, and his dad told me about it.”

I could hear my own heartbeat.

”I’ve asked them to keep it a secret. They’ll make sure Ming doesn’t talk about it either,” Dad added.

A relief, followed by a profound sense of sadness.

“You should learn a lesson from this. Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”

Horrified by these words, I nodded sheepishly.

“Ming will remain your friend, but he will need more time to understand this,” he consoled me.

I dropped my head, tears in my eyes.

The next morning, in the school corridor and in the classroom, I tried to avoid Ming. The day felt long, and the air was steaming hot. I couldn’t concentrate on the lessons. The words in the textbook jumped around and didn’t make much sense. I wished the Earth would crack open, and I could disappear into the hole. I felt ashamed for what I had done, and for who I was.

Near the end of a day, a small, folded paper ball landed on my desk. I picked it up and unwrapped slowly. Ming’s handwriting jumped into my eyes:

“Can we talk?”

There, on the playground, near the balance bars, Ming told me that he was confused the other day and didn’t know what to do. So he told his parents about it. They simply told him to shut up and keep quiet. But he couldn’t help thinking about it, and about me. He told me that he liked boys too.

—Hongwei Bao (he/him) grew up in China and now lives in Nottingham, UK. He uses short stories, poems, reviews and essays to explore queer desire, Asian identity, diasporic positionality, and transcultural intimacy.

United States v. Wong Kim Ark

By Fanny Wong, New York

In October 1895, Wong Kim Ark was lucky he didn’t get sick and die on his ten-week journey on the steamship Coptic from China to San Francisco. The third-class hold was crowded and poorly ventilated. He was eager to return to his small apartment on Sacramento Street in the city he loved. He missed everything about his city—San Francisco, even its fog.

At age 22, Wong had already visited China several times. So when he arrived at the dock, he was shocked to find out that he would not be allowed to land. How could the Collector of Customs, Mr. John Wise, not allow him to land? True, this man was known to be against Chinese immigration. But Wong’s identification paper was in good order. He even had three white residents vouch he was born in the city and was a good resident.

Wise had detained Wong on the grounds that he was not an U.S. citizen. And, Wong became a prisoner on the ship.

Wong Kim Ark, courtesy of the National Archives

Wong was born in San Francisco in 1873 to parents of Chinese descent. Around 1881, the parents had returned to China after a 20-year stay in San Francisco. However, Wong had chosen to stay in the United States, and now he found himself in a dire situation after another trip to China.

Fortunately, an aid association, The Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association, was ready to help him. Its lawyers argued that his rights as a citizen were being violated. The Fourteenth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution, ratified in 1868, stated, “All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and the State wherein they reside…”

The U.S. Solicitor General, Mr. Holmes Conrad, disagreed and appealed the case all the way to the Supreme Court. He argued that Wong’s parents were subjects of the emperor of China and by extension Wong was also the subject of the emperor.

When the case was argued in 1897, the Supreme Court justices were, Stephen Field, John Harland, Horace Gray, Melville Fuller, David Brewer, Henry Brown and Rufus Peckham. The justices debated whether American citizenship should be based on the principle of “right of blood” (jus sanguinis) or “right of the soil” (jus soli). The Supreme Court did not agree with the Solicitor General and ruled in favor of Wong. Justice Horace Gray wrote the opinion on behalf of a 6-2 majority. The court established the concept of jus soli—the citizenship of children born in the United States to non-citizens.

The cloud over his citizenship had disappeared forever!

Wong’s landmark case set a very important precedent. It remains today the definitive interpretation of the 14th Amendment’s birthright provision. It affects all the children born to legal and illegal immigrant parents. It is reasonable to say that Wong never expected his case to have such long lasting and important consequence. Immigrants may not know his name, but they certainly know the rights of their children born in the United States.

—By Fanny Wong, Chinese American author and long-time contributor to Skipping Stones, New York.

Notes
1868: The 14th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution ratified.
1882: The Chinese Exclusion Act signed by President Arthur. It restricted entry and immigration of Chinese labor, both skilled and unskilled, into the United States.

The Goal

By Annie Laura Smith, Alabama.

Greg sat on the driveway of his home and rolled his papers for delivery on Monday afternoon. He pulled a rubber band neatly around each rolled paper and tossed it.

The shouts of his friends playing soccer in the schoolyard across the street caught his attention. He watched his neighbor, John, kick the ball into the goal as excited shouts came from his teammates.

Greg sighed and looked wistfully at the group. How he would love to be able to play soccer, too. But he had to deliver newspapers every afternoon, as well as before church on Sunday mornings. There just wasn’t enough time for playing soccer and doing his homework.

After filling his canvas bag with the rolled papers, Greg hoisted the heavy load on to the handlebars of his bicycle. As he pedaled down Willow Lane toward his paper route on Brookdale, he glanced back at the soccer game. The boys continued to play at a furious pace.

He eyed the Lambert’s yard warily as he approached the gate to throw their paper. Their Golden Retriever, Max, seemed to have a strong dislike for him. Greg tossed the paper on the porch and pedaled rapidly toward the next house.

Max bounded out of the Lambert’s driveway, barking furiously. He ran along side of Greg’s bicycle for the next block and continued barking. The dog stopped following him and quit barking only when Greg crossed the street.

His parents’ friend, Mrs. Morrison, was watering her flowers and gave Greg a friendly wave as he passed her house. Greg slowed his bike to be sure the paper landed in the proper spot at Mr. Adams’ house. When it missed the doormat, Greg stopped, got off his bike, and threw the paper directly in the center of the mat.

Mr. Adams opened the front door. “Well, young man, I’m glad you’ve finally learned how to deliver a paper properly,” he said.

Greg swallowed hard and said, “Yes, sir.”

He finished his route and quickly pedaled home. John met him in the Anderson’s driveway, bouncing his soccer ball.

“Hi, Greg. We sure miss you on our team. Wish it was the good old days when you were our goalie.”

Greg shook his head. “I just can’t do that now.”

“Why don’t you give up your paper route,” his friend said. “Then you’ll have time.”

Greg just shook his head again as his mother called to him.

“Boys, I have some freshly baked oatmeal cookies. How about a snack?”

John quickly followed Greg into the kitchen.

“Boy, your Mom’s a great cook!” John said as he downed his third cookie. “Let’s kick the ball around for a while,” he suggested as he finished his glass of milk. “You can be the goalie.”

The boys played soccer in Greg’s backyard until almost dark when Mrs. Anderson called to them that Greg’s dinner was ready.

Greg said goodbye to John and went to his room. As he cleaned up for dinner, he thought about his paper route. It had been necessary after his father suddenly lost his job. Greg saw his parents struggling to meet their bills. His mother had to go to work while his father looked for another job. Greg knew there must be some small way he could help, too. His friend Mark had a paper route, and Greg decided that he could get a paper route to help his parents.

“But, Greg, that won’t leave you enough time for sports and your homework too,” his mother had said.

“That’s OK, Mom,” Greg had told her. “The paper route will be fun!”

The paper route had not always been fun though. Especially, on the days when Max chased him barking for blocks. Or when Mr. Adams fussed at him for not throwing the paper on his front doormat every day. And he had not fully understood what it would be like not to be able to play soccer regularly with his friends. But the money he earned really had helped his family.

***

On Tuesday Greg stopped at the soccer field before he began his paper deliveries. John and his other friends were just beginning a game. John called to him, “Hey, Greg. Come play a quick game with us.”

Just as Greg started to say no, the soccer ball went out of play and rolled to a stop by his feet. He picked it up and tossed it back to Tim who was playing goalie.

Tim caught it and stepped aside. “I have to go home, Greg,” he said. “Here—the goal’s all yours.”

Greg took the ball from Tim and stood in front of the goal. He kicked the soccer ball to the waiting players and the thrill of playing soccer was back.

His friend John took the ball down field and scored a goal. They continued with the game until their team was ahead 3-0.

Greg didn’t realize how much time had gone by until he looked at his watch at the end of the third goal. It was almost 6:00 O’clock! His papers were all supposed to be delivered by 5:30.

He threw the ball to John and said, “I’ve got to go now.”

John caught the ball and said, “OK. I’ll see you later.”

When Greg got home, he found the canvas bag on his bike was empty, and his mother’s car was gone. Surely, Mom didn’t deliver my papers, he thought.

His mother drove into their driveway as he put his bike into the garage. She got out of the car and said, “Greg, just as I got home from work today, several of your subscribers called about not getting their papers. What happened?” She sat down on the porch steps as she spoke.

“I stopped by to see the guys playing soccer, Mom. I only meant to play for a little while.”

“Greg, I’m sorry you had to get a paper route and miss playing soccer, but it’s really helping us right now.”

Greg lowered his eyes and nodded his head.

“Dad will find work soon,” his mother said. “You’ll be able to resume your sports activities before very long.” She reached over and patted him on the arm. “And you’ll be the best goalie on Willow Lane again soon, too,” she said with a smile.

He looked up at his Mother whose weariness showed in spite of her smile. He realized that he had let his parents, and his subscribers down. All of them were counting on him.

“Thanks, Mom for delivering my papers,” Greg said. “You won’t have to do it again.”

His goal now would be to let his parents and his subscribers know they could depend on him. The soccer goal could wait until his Dad got another job. Greg hoped especially for his parents’ sake that it would be soon.

—Annie Laura Smith, M. Ed., Alabama. Annie was a Learning Skills Specialist at the University of Texas at Dallas. She has published numerous novels and nonfiction books.

Mona Lisa Memories

By Katacha Díaz, Oregon

During my childhood years of growing up in Peru, as the first-born grandchild in the family, I spent a great deal of time with my loving and nurturing paternal grandparents. Papapa and Mamama patiently indulged me with clever age-appropriate answers to my many questions. I was intrigued by my grandparents’ art collection—serene landscapes and stormy seascapes kept me entertained, but I was most fascinated by the formal portraits of our family members and predecessors. Little did I realize we had such illustrious relatives in our family tree, for the family to commission portraits from popular artists of the time.

My Mamama and Papapa on their Return Voyage from Europe, 1953

Recently I spent time organizing my own family memorabilia, collected over the years, and found myself transported back in time to childhood days at my grandparents’ sprawling house in Miraflores, a suburb of Lima, Peru (see below). The family had gathered at Sunday luncheon to celebrate my grandparents’ return home from Paris. Papapa had served four years as Peru’s ambassador to France.

The Author as a child at her Grandparents home in Miraflores, Lima, Peru. 1948.

This particular day is etched in my memory. Papapa stood beside me while I gazed wide-eyed at the painting of a smiling beautiful young woman. “Is she another of our famous relatives, I asked him?” Papapa shook his head and smiled. “This is a copy of the world famous painting by Leonardo da Vinci, the Mona Lisa. Mamama and I saw the original painted on wood, at the Louvre Museum in France. We found our oil-on-canvas copy at an art gallery, during an evening stroll along the Ponte Vecchio in Florence (Italy).”

“Mona Lisa” Replica. Illustration by Daemion Lee. Oregon.

Papapa and Mamama showed me photo albums and art books collected during their European travels. These were filled with photographs of renowned paintings and illustrations with captions, along with artist biographies and exhibition notes. I learned the difference between an original piece of art and a reproduction, like the one in my grandparents’ house. Later, we stood by the floor globe in Papapa’s study and charted the voyage of the replica Mona Lisa. Our Mona Lisa had traveled inside a wooden crate from Europe across the Atlantic Ocean and through the Panama Canal to reach Peru!

Growing up in the exotic land of the Incas, I was impressed by my grandparents’ eclectic art and stamp collections, the leather-bound books, and encyclopedias lining the walls of the library where my grandfather spent hours reading and writing. Mamama and Papapa’s home opened a whole new world to explore and study during my sleep-over adventures. Five decades ago, following in my grandparents’ footsteps, I visited la bella Firenze, walking across the beloved 16th century Ponte Vecchio, peering into the windows of the art galleries, goldsmith shops, and souvenir sellers. And I imagined Papapa and Mamama enjoying a romantic afternoon stroll along the picturesque bridge, the only one in Florence that was spared from destruction during the Second World War. I was transported back in time and reconnecting with my dear Papapa and Mamama missing their presence in my life.

Ponte Vecchio, Florence, Italy. Illustration by Daemion Lee, Oregon.

All these years later, I am grateful for my childhood memories of Peru, and the way that a painting or a photograph can keep my grandparents in my life, even today. In my kitchen I keep a watercolor painting of sunflowers in a Tuscan (Italy) field, which I found along the Ponte Vecchio. It keeps the memories alive and is good for my soul. Who could ask for more?”

Katacha Díaz is a Peruvian American writer and author. Wanderlust and love of travel have taken her all over the world to gather material for her stories. She has been published in many outlets, including in several issues of Skipping Stones. Katacha lives in the Pacific Northwest, near the mouth of the Columbia River, USA.

We’re Getting Hotter by the Year!

A Happy New Year to all our readers, contributors, subscribers, and supporters, both here and abroad!

Photo of the Emigrant Peak, seen from Paradise Valley, Montana

Emigrant Peak, seen from Paradise Valley, Montana. Photo by Paul Dix.

Did you read that 2023 was the hottest year for as long as human beings have been on the planet? According to research 2023 was the HOTTEST year in at least the last 100,000 years! Don’t get confused just because there are a few regional cold spells—like the upcoming Deep Freeze in much of North America later this week and the recent Arctic Blasts in Scandinavia and Northern Europe!

Common Dreams and other news media reported (on January 9, 2024) that global average temperature in the year 2023 was 14.98°C—that’s 0.17°C warmer than 2016 (the previous warmest year), 0.60°C warmer than the 1991-2020 average, and 1.48°C warmer than the 1850-1900 (pre-industrial) level, according to the scientists at the European Union’s Copernicus Climate Change Service. And, the prediction is that this year, 2024, will be warmer than 2023! Why do scientists predict more of the same in 2024?

The global oceans paint a better picture of what is happening in the climate world because the heat gets absorbed in ocean waters. A study published on January 11th in Advances in Atmospheric Sciences states that the upper 2,000 meters of the global ocean was estimated to have an additional 15 zettajoules of energy in 2023 compared to the 2022 amount. The Chinese Academy of Sciences estimates that the world’s economy requires about half a zettajoule of energy to run every year, that means, the oceans gained 30 times the annual energy needs of the world. Fifteen zettajoules would be enough to boil 2.3 billion Olympic-sized swimming pools of water . About 90 % of the energy produced by global fossil fuels use is stored in the world’s oceans. Therefore, the ocean is warming consistently, year over year to new record levels, due to this increase in ocean heat content. The resulting increased ocean water temperatures fuel the weather systems bringing intense heat waves, hurricanes, and big storms—high winds and dump heavy precipitations.

The Paris COP agreement was to limit the global temperature rise to 1.5 °C over the pre-industrial levels. Obviously, most countries will not meet that target because we continue to depend greatly on the use of fossil fuels—coal, oil, natural gas (fracked gas).

Unfortunately, the recent COP 28 international conference (like most of the previous ones) was not much more than a hot air balloon, and the next one—COP 29 is likely to be no different. So disappointing! What can we expect when these climate conferences are dominated by oil producing countries and thousands of black gold lobbyists?

We need hundreds of thousands of nature educators, activists and nature protectors of all ages, like the late Rachel Carson (author and marine biologist, USA), Sir David Attenborough (of UK), Bill McKibben (Co-founder of 350.org, USA), Greta Thunberg (from Sweden), Ilyess El Korbi (from Ukraine, Morocco, and now Germany), Elizabeth Wathuti (of Kenya), Xiuhtezcatl Martinez (Native American from USA), Maria Reyes (of Mexico), Amma (from India), Tahsin Uddin (in Bangladesh) and Leah Namugerwa (of Uganda), people from all over the globe to wake us up from our slumber—to educate us and demand a change in the ways our industries, businesses, systems, people, and governments have been damaging and destroying the planet’s natural systems.

Won’t you become a change maker in your school, community, region or nation—wherever you are?

Presented by Arun N. Toké, editor. Based largely on several news reports published by Common Dreams (Jan. 9 and Jan. 11, 2024)

Perfect: A Seven Letter Word

By Lila Ahitov, 15, California.

Perfect. Verb, “make (something) completely free from faults or defects, or as close to such a condition as possible.” Adjective, “having all the required or desirable elements, qualities, or characteristics; as good as it is possible to be” (Oxford Dictionary).

Perfect! Such a small, seemingly insignificant word! Worthless even, words can’t cause any real harm, right? Perfect is just a way that you can describe something. Wow, the weather really is perfect for swimming today! I’m just going to study a little bit longer; I want perfect grades. It’s a nice word, it describes things that are really good. Perfect is inspiration, it’s a standard you can hold yourself to. Honestly, what could be bad about trying to be perfect? It’s no different than trying to succeed at something, or than just trying to lessen the amount of flaws overall.

I want to be perfect. I want the perfect body. So, what if that means waking up at 5am every morning and going for a run? It really is no big deal to skip breakfast every day, and sometimes even lunch. To restrict sugar and carbs, and anything that will stop me from looking perfect. I want the perfect grades. Exchanging many emails with each of my teachers can only benefit my grades. Staying up late memorizing flashcards and completing countless practice worksheets will only further my understanding of the material. I hope that my report card will reflect that I am being perfect.

I want to be the perfect friend. Of course, I can help you with the homework! You’re feeling sad, I’m sorry, tell me about it, maybe I can help. You’re bored? Come over! Or we can just FaceTime. You don’t need to know when I’m feeling down, that wouldn’t be very cool from the funny, loyal, therapist friend that I am. I will not share the burden of my thoughts, as that would not be something a perfect friend would do. Concealer can hide the eye bags that deepen after every late night and early morning. A practiced smile can cover up the nervous facial twitch that I’ve developed. It’s all worth it, so I can be perfect.

A bad grade, a failed test, a blemish on my skin. All flaws that can be fixed. The judgment from everyone else, surely that would stop once I have become perfect, right? A teacher yelled at me last week because I was talking to my friend. Which do I prioritize? Be the perfect friend, or be the perfect student? What if when I stop laughing at their jokes or contributing to the conversation, they don’t want me as their friend anymore? What if I do think of the cleverest, the most perfect response to my friend’s comment, and after I say it the teacher catches me? Is it worth the bad reputation with my teacher for the good one with my friends? Is it worth the possibility of my friends liking me less or talking to me less so that the teacher thinks that I am perfect? Is it possible to do both? Candy, offered to the class, and I always take a piece. I don’t think of the repercussions of this, until the guilt that drowns me later. And yet, I never fail to take it when it is presented to me.

I cannot possibly choose which things I want to be perfect all the time. My friendships, my face, my body, my grades, my reputation, my mental health, my social life, my ability to handle being alone. My anxiety that will not settle for anything less than perfect. Which to prioritize when they contradict each other? Do I choose my mental health over my friendships and my schoolwork? I would allow myself to sleep in from time to time, and to submit mediocre work on a couple of the dozens of assignments that I get a week. I would choose to spend my Saturday night watching a movie and eating pizza. If I take that road, then my grades, my social life, and my friendships will suffer. On the other hand, if I don’t sleep, I could be irritable and rude, and then my friendships and my relationship with my parents will be hampered, but I will have enough time to do my homework. I play an instrument, I’m in clubs, I’m on the cheer team, I hang out with my friends, I spend time with my family, but choosing to do one thing stops the others from being perfect. And yet, while I agonize over what to do and the consequences of each, perfect people seem to be able to choose the perfect option, every single time. I don’t try to be selfish with my choices, but it isn’t possible to think through everything that ought to happen for me to be perfect. I say that it’s all worth it. And that a simple, seven letter word cannot possibly affect me, or my life. I ponder on that thought, and hope that my answer will be considered perfect.

—Lila Ahitov, age 15, California.
Lila writes: “Since a young age, I have loved writing and reading. Whether it was reading the French children’s books that my Parisian mother put me to bed with, or attempting the lyrics of my dad’s favorite Turkish song from his childhood, I always noticed words. “Lila,” my name, means purple, night, and beauty, and much more that I have yet to learn. Growing up in America with European parents allowed me to dabble in languages other than English, French being the one that mostly stuck. Staying close with my family and friends, and growing my cultural knowledge are continuously important to me. I am filled with gratitude for the freedom of choice in my future, which I hope to include writing, travel, and law. Heavy emotions and thoughts can sometimes be a burden, and writing things, like my submission, helps me release it.”

My Happy Place

By Keira Kelly, age 17, Missouri.

The all-consuming monster that is anxiety has ruled over my mind for my entire life. Growing up “shy” is cute, but staying a quiet, on-edge shell of a person loses its charm with age.

“Just take deep breaths, count to ten,” my mother would say.

“Calm down, it’s nothing to get worked up about,” my father would say.

“You can’t avoid everything that makes you a little anxious, Keira,” my teachers would say.

Nothing they said worked; anxiety comes as naturally to me as breathing, and no amount of deep breaths or mental perseverance could calm the storm once it decided to hit; those who say otherwise have never experienced such a dreadful feeling.

I started therapy in my freshman year of high school, due to my parents growing worried when I was getting too old for the “cute, shy little girl” routine. Dr. McBride was the first to understand that my anxiety was a real disorder, not just a little emotion I had to overcome. I was prescribed medicine, and she gave me a place to talk about my issues. She understood me, more than anyone else. She listened to what I had to say and validated my emotions, and understood.

Then, she offered a coping mechanism that worked for me.

“Find your happy place.”

What a cliché. Just like the deep breaths and counting to ten, I assumed this to be another useless measure that others thought helped with anxiety, yet held no merit. The extent of my anxiety tended to cause depressive episodes, so, originally, my “happy place” was only my bed, where I could curl away and hide from the real world. Warm, cozy blankets surrounding me seemed like absolute bliss, when, realistically, they sprung me deeper and deeper down a lonely spiral.

“No, Keira, find the place. The place where worry does not exist, where it is impossible to feel unsafe or insecure. That’s your happy place.”

It took some time to think it over, but I soon came to the revelation that I was capable of being happy outside of my bed; in fact, I could be even happier.

Ever since then, whenever I’ve gotten too stressed or worried or sickly anxious to cope with my everyday responsibilities, I take a moment to imagine myself in a field full of wildflowers, with birds chirping quiet songs in my ears, sunshine warming my skin, fresh flowers surrounding me. Around the field would always be a forest, which granted me a sense of safety, symbolizing that the unknown could surround me all it wanted, but I still had my beautiful space, one that belonged to me, and to me only.

West Boulder River Valley, with Absaroka Mountains in the Background, Montana. Photo by Paul Dix, Oregon.

The fictional safe haven I created in my imagination is represented by this image, which resonates deeply with me, granting an inherent sense of calm. I can imagine myself walking down the paved path, allowing my senses to absorb the beauty surrounding me, and the terrible monster inside of me dwindles.

One day, I’d like to visit my happy place. I have yet to find it in the real world, so, in the meantime, I can continue to travel there in my mind, living amongst nature and forgetting the horrors of reality.

—Keira Kelly, age 17, Missouri. She adds: “My goal… is to become a published author, hopefully one day, of a fiction novel. What I enjoy most about writing is the artistic creativity available in carefully choosing and stringing together words to create a beautiful piece. I’ve adored writing ever since I was little, and I am ecstatic to explore how far I can reach with this passion. I wish to continue Creative Writing programs in college, and depending on my success rate, pursue a career as a full-time author. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to begin my journey.”

A S.T.E.M. Woman from India

A S.T.E.M. Woman from India

By Saroj Pathak, originally from India, now lives in California.

My 50 years of professional life have been a series of challenges, failures, triumphs, and also a few shattered glass ceilings. I would like to share my experiences and describe some of the twists and turns, and the choices I made.

I grew up in Indore, Central India. We were six siblings growing up in a middle-class family. In the 1960s, my high school, St. Raphael H.S., did not offer math major to girls! I was exceptional in Math and wanted to pursue my passion. My father talked to Mrs. Jagdale, who was the head of a small public school nearby. Mrs. Jagdale, an early Women’s Rights pioneer, said, “If our girls want to take math, we have to start math classes.”

Now retired, Saroj Pathak Recently Visited the Historic Site of Mandu, near the city of Indore, Madhya Pradesh (Autumn 2023)

So my sister and I moved to Mrs. Jagdale’s school. In the nurturing environment of this small school, I ranked third in the state’s high school board examinations, an exceptional achievement!

From 1965 to 1969, I attended S.G.S.I.T.S., the only engineering college in Indore (M.P.). There were only five female students in the entire college. We had to fight for a small private bathroom and a tiny women’s room. I excelled in my chosen field of Electronics and Electrical Engineering and held the first rank in all branches of engineering throughout the four years. I was like a sponge; I absorbed everything offered. There was so much to learn from all my professors.

As graduation approached, I started looking for options for further studies. My parents were liberal but still would not send their daughter away for higher education out of state. And, I didn’t have the audacity to argue.

Dr. Dasgupta, the head of the college, recognizing my potential, and created an opportunity for me to pursue higher education in collaboration with the prestigious Indian Institute of Technology (I.I.T.) at Bombay (now, Mumbai), while working as a lecturer at G.S.I.T.S. in the Electronics Department. While satisfying my drive to excel, this enabled me to live at home. I taught for three years while completing my Master’s degree in Engineering in Control Systems from I.I.T. Although this experience was challenging, I wanted more.

I reached for a moonshot and applied for and was awarded a Rotary International Scholarship to study abroad. It was an easy decision to select University of California at Berkeley for further studies. I dared to dive head-on into the unknown, knowing only one person in America; a graduate student who had graduated from S.G.S.I.T.S. a few years ahead.

It was shocking for me to realize that I was the ONLY female student in the graduate school of electrical engineering, even at this prestigious university. The students and the professors were friendly and treated me with the utmost respect and kindness.

After graduating from U. C. Berkeley with a Master’s in Electrical Engineering and Computer Science, I worked as a semiconductor design and development engineer at American Microsystems in the Silicon Valley of California. When I came in for the job interview, the manager and engineers were shocked to see a female candidate. Women engineers were rare.

The Silicon Valley was full of type-A men, hungry for fame and wealth. It was a norm to “pull all-nighters.” All the engineers were transplants from somewhere else, and without family obligations; we worked hard and played harder. We created a family regardless of skin color or gender. We were on an endorphin high from the success of our innovations.

From 1975 to 1983, I worked with a small group of engineers at Intel Corporation; that’s where we invented and produced the first ‘non-volatile’ memory chips. These were the first chips that retained data (information) after unplugging the power supply. This was revolutionary! We published international papers, had numerous patents, and enjoyed the glory of success. I was a manager by this time and always felt respected and valued. My opinions counted, and I had the center seat at the table.

In 1983, I was offered a job at a Startup company to set up a non-volatile product line. My initial response was NO. I had an eight-month-old son and a three-year-old daughter. I was unwilling to work long hours. Since the company’s CEO wouldn’t take NO for an answer, we negotiated. I agreed to join the company, understanding that I could go home at 5 p.m. every day. The company provided flexibility, and I used my professional judgment to balance work and family needs.

Two years later, the room was packed with engineers from around the world when I presented a research paper on the First High-Speed Non-Volatile Memory at the International Solid-State Circuits Conference (ISSCC). My children sat in the front row. By then, I was confident and assertive enough to invite my children without asking.

When a Vice President position opened up, I did not consider it because I knew it meant working very long hours, and I did not want to sacrifice time with my children. Later, when the children were older and busy with school activities, I accepted a position as Director of a multinational research and development group in a different company. Most often, I was the only woman in the room where the decisions were made. Yet I also attended most of the swim meets, music lessons, cross-country running events and other activities with my children.

After 45 years in business, I decided to follow my lifelong goal of helping the younger generation in STEM field. I am passionate about the accessibility of primary science education to all children. To that end, I have started a non-profit that teaches science fundamentals to children of all socioeconomic statuses. I mentor through Stanford Mentorship Connections and other non-profit organizations. I am also the president of a local Kiwanis club whose mission is the education and well-being of children.

Advice to My Younger Self:

* Enjoy the ride. The trailblazing path is littered with obstacles, but there is no greater joy than facing challenges and finding solutions.

* Discover your core values and be true to them. Define your goals on your terms. Do not let others decide who you should become. Sort through the clutter of cultural baggage and embrace that which gives you joy.

* Be like a river flowing constantly towards the ocean, soft and flexible, but always focused on the destination. Change directions, detour if necessary, or carve a new valley, but keep flowing towards your goal.

* Be confident. You are stronger than you feel, smarter than you think, and braver than you know. Use any fear as motivation to be successful. That fear will then turn into confidence.”

* Educate yourself and acquire indispensable skills.

* Take chances. Inventions are just a step away from failure. Become comfortable with failure and learn from it.

* Dare to shatter glass ceilings, even if that means cuts and bruises. The pain of cuts and bruises is the price you pay to help your daughters and granddaughters.

* Most importantly, find a mentor. Find several mentors. Surround yourself with your cheerleaders. Find inspiration from the life stories of the pioneers who paved the path before you. From mythological women to recent ones, our (Indian) history is full of women who advanced humanity through their ingenuity, courage, and persistence.

* Be a mentor. You are standing on the shoulders of giants. Later, you can offer your shoulders to those following you.

* Be ready to choose. Most successful people have made difficult choices to get there.

* Find a supportive spouse. Sheryl Sandberg, author of “Lean In” and ex-CTO of Facebook, said, “The single most crucial decision you will make in your life is whom you marry, for this will determine the rest of your life.” She was talking to graduates of Harvard Law School.

* “Start the conversation before committing to marriage, not after.” Did you know that the Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg credited her husband for her success?

In Conclusion, as a young adult in STEM fields, I would like you to be brave, explore, and take chances. Show up daily, sit at the table, and speak up in a firm, clear and compassionate voice. Act like the fate of humanity depends on you because it does.

—Saroj Pathak, originally from India, lives in California. She shared this advice with engineering students at her Alma mater in Indore, India, in November 2023.

Photo: Saroj in Indore, Nov. 2023.

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