You Are What You Eat

The following is my latest creation.  It is actually a paper that I wrote for my class on globalization, but I was so passionate about the topic that I figured that I would post it here and let you guys enjoy the things that I argued.  The information in the paper is very general but I would someday like to write a more detailed and controlled argument, though this version does get the point across that I am trying to make.



You Are What You Eat: The Effect of Globalization on Food Production and Consumption

            What effect does food have on the global market?  How does the production and consumption of food impact a nation’s identity?  How has the history of food changed in the modern era?  These questions are essential to understanding how the globalization of the food industry has affected nations developed and developing.  The consumption of food worldwide is changing rapidly from locally grown and consumed to conventionally grown large plots of single crops shipped all over the world.  Markets are now supplying food that they couldn’t just a few years ago because the produce wasn’t in season.  The demand for lower food prices and more food puts strain on production methods and forces producers to reinvent ways to keep up with the demand of a global economy.  The universalization of food products has a huge effect on societies the world over.

            To understand the changes that have occurred in the consumption of food we need to look at the way food was traditionally grown and eaten.  Crops are grown on a seasonal basis.  Warm-season crops are available during the summer and fall harvesting times while cool-season crops are available during the winter and early spring months.  Another crucial aspect of traditional food production is the geographic space.  Food had to accommodate the land that it was grown on.  Some crops prefer sandy soil and long growing seasons while others can grow in a short amount of time in a cooler climate.  This said, crops grown were traditionally very local in that they were grown specific to the conditions of that area: seasonal length, climate, soil conditions, and plant tolerance.  Families grew their own food or hired people to grow it for them on their land.

            In addition to agricultural tradition we need to consider the production of meat, which today is the fastest growing production in the food industry of America and certainly under the most scrutiny.  Farms, traditionally, would raise enough meat (beef, pork, fowl, and lamb) for the local demand.  Slaughter of these animals was relatively humane and done with care.  The animals were raised on diets that were instinctually natural.  The production and consumption of food is traditionally local and intimate, with consumers associated with many aspects of production from face to face interaction with the farmers to actual growing of the food themselves.  But traditional ways of production and consumption in America have almost entirely disappeared and have been replaced with a new and global network of food.

            In an article entitled Introduction: Agriculture, Trade, and the Global Governance of Food Abigail Cooke, Sara Curran, April Linton, and Andrew Schrank (from now on Cooke et al.) explain a few key concepts in understanding the impact of the changing food market.  According to their argument food is a “fictitious commodity” meaning that it is “not originally produced for sale” (Cooke et al. 101). These commodities are “rarely privatized and commercialized without social and political struggle” (Cooke et al. 101).   A stark example of this would be the bread riots of France during the countries revolutionary years.  Demand for lower food prices and more food has been going on for centuries.  And this has sparked change in the way that food is produced, which now is in mass quantities of lower quality food.

            I want to spend less time on how food production and consumption have changed from these traditional ways and dedicate more time to how this has affected national and personal identity, so my summary of how things have changed will be somewhat condensed.  Produce production has dramatically changed since the introduction of genetically modified species.  Genetically modified organisms (or GMOs) are scientifically altered to have certain characteristics, such as a tolerance to certain diseases or the ability to develop at a faster pace.  This sets the stage for growing plants in geographical areas that were limited in their supportable plants.  Strains of rice that could only grow in Asia could now be grown in Africa.  Soybean production in America has been monopolized by a patented GMO strain of soybean.

            Similarly, raising livestock has changed from traditional methods.  Animals are fed vitamins and steroids to bulk the flesh up.  Chickens have been modified to develop in a shorter amount of time so that production time is shorter and demands are met.  Commercial turkeys have so much weight on their bodies that they cannot mate naturally and have trouble walking.  Yet this gain in weight gives the consumers what they want: more meat.  Animals are raised by the thousands on what are now called factory farms.  These farms pump out as much meat as fast as they can, with no regard to sanitation or the livelihood of the animals.  The consumers want more and fast, and that is what they get.  This is the issue with the modern food economy.  People want more food, available at all times, and for a low cost.  But what is sacrificed for this cheaper and readily available food?  And how does this affect a nation’s identity?

            I am going to take a look at Latin America for a moment, and how the deforestation of one of the world’s most pristine habitats has been caused by the world’s rising food demands.  H. Ricarco Grau and Mitchell Aide’s article Globalization and Land-Use Transitions in Latin America details how to improve production and be ecologically friendly with the agricultural land of Latin America.  They say that Latin America’s ecosystems “not only feed the local population, but also produce an increasing amount of food for the rest of the world… where growing income is promoting diet changes toward a higher consumption of animal protein” (Grau 2).  Grau and Aide discuss how the “shift from traditional agriculture and particularly grazing pastures to modern agriculture” increases the productivity of producers and brings in more money.  This is the universalization of producing.  Traditional and local methods are being forgotten for the modern methods, and are spreading across the world.  Farms can now use the same methods to grow product in every corner of the earth and be more productive than ever before.  This poses a problem to small farmers though.  Commercial growers are able to lower the prices of their product because of the efficiency they have.  Small farmers using traditional methods of growing produce or raising animals cannot compete with commercial growers because the cost of their product is higher and the consumers want a lower price tag.  The effect of this is ecologically damaging to the unique ecosystems of Latin America, arguably the best known aspect of that area of the world.  The rainforests are being depleted for acreage of pasture and farmland.

            Another example of how globalized food networking is affecting social, political, and economic status of a country is here in America.  The fishing industry is very much at the center of global food markets.  The fishing industry is very different from growing plants or raising animals as there is a limited supply of fish in the ocean which cannot be entirely controlled by human intervention.  As the global market demands more fish, the industry raises its quota and brings in a bigger haul.  This poses problems that we don’t have in agriculture or raising livestock.  The ocean could potentially be depleted of a resource.  Michael T. Morrissey, in his article Global Resources and Market Impacts on US Pacific Northwest Fisheries, states that “the 1990’s proved that the explosive growth [of the international fishing market] could not continue as several of the most important commercial species were being harvested at their maximum sustainable levels” (196).  This means that the fish were being over-harvested, or that they could not reproduce as fast as they were being harvested, and that if they were to fished at the same rate the population would eventually disappear entirely.

            This problem was tackled internationally by coming up with a solution that reduced the amount of fish that could be taken from the ocean every year.  This solution was to farm-raise fish.  This, like the produce and animal protein, creates a market for cheap fish.  This created more problems though.  Morrissey states that sales of farm-raised fish “significantly depleted the livelihoods of fishers dependent upon wild-caught” fish (197).  Those who made their living on fishing from natural sources were losing out on sales because of the now global method of raising fish.  They could not compete in the global market without changing their traditional ways of fishing.  Morrissey gives data on a cost comparison of fish-meat in the markets.  He says that the cost of “Chilean Atlantic farmed Salmon fillets [went from] a high of $4/lb in 1993 to $2.20/lb by 2001” , and that “consumption of salmon in the US tripled from 0.7 lbs/person/yr to 2.2 lbs/person/yr” making salmon the “third highest consumed seafood product” in the United States (200).  This is a dramatic decrease of price when inflation is taken into account.  While the cost of living is up, the price of food keeps going down.

            The universalization of food is directly affecting every person in the United States of America.   Because food is such a large part of our economy, the government has posed regulations and laws on the farmers of America.  In a book entitled Integrative Nutrition: Feed Your Hunger for Health and Happiness by Joshua Rosenthal there is a section on how our food is regulated.  He says that “public nutrition policy is dictated by the political process, which is now heavily dictated by a corporate agenda to maximize profits” (8).  He is referencing the fact that many of the big food corporations CEO’s are now in charge of regulating their own food production because they are either elected government officials or lobby for government officials to pull strings for them.  They do this because the sales of food, particularly animal protein, are increasing internationally and they want to milk the cow for all its worth (pardon the pun).  This in turn creates health problems for those who are being mislead by those who are in control of food and are putting information about that food into the heads of those who consume it (all-natural beef is really beef that has been fed a diet of corn or soy beans compared to actual natural diet of grass and hay, for example) and by putting unhealthy and untraditional food on to the plates of consumers.

            People in America now eat anything they want to at anytime they like.  Peppers can be found in the marketplace year round as opposed to late summer, and so-called “fresh” eggs can be found in bulk in the refrigerated section of the grocery store instead of in the nesting boxes of chicken coops as per tradition.  And this affects the identity of America.  America is now seen as the unhealthiest country in the world, stemming from our modern diet and food consumption.  The rise in childhood obesity is astounding.  And since we are seen as the source of westernization, the world follows suit.  Japan and Korea are increasing their consumption of beef thanks to “the efforts of US-based, but globally powerful agricultural trade associations and their lobbyists” (Cooke et al. 103).  America leads the world in the production and consuming of food and the social, political, and economical impact of that fact is huge.  If we are defined by what we eat, then American’s (and, increasingly, those around the world) are made of up every corner of our planet.  My peppers are from Chile, my olive oil from California, my apples from New Zealand, and my scallops from China.  Aren’t I the world traveler?

blast from the past

 i was wandering through my files during a late night paper writing procrastination break and came across these gems from my time at BYU when i first started writing for fun.  these three are from 2006.  i still love them.




I Just Don’t Understand Metabolic Processes

I can’t understand
I can’t filter through the nonsense,
That is floating in my head.
As gray matter spills out my ears
And everything goes blank
A question enters through my eyes
And finds a billion more
And this is how the process goes
Over and over and over again
Till I just
Give up.


Haikus:
The dog licks the sand
 In his mouth tiny rocks
 A bit of history on his tongue

Where the flower blooms
And in adversity flourishes
There lies strength

The Tour (draft 2)

The Tour

Margaret ordered the Coq au Vin for the both of them.  She had commanded the situation since the beginning, and Alvin was comfortable with that.  He asked the questions.  She gave the answers. 

          “Tell me again about Scotland, Margaret.  I can’t get enough of it.”

          “How about I tell you about my last day there?  I don’t think I was able to get to that this afternoon, but it was my favorite part of the trip.  It was summer, as you know, and the afternoon was delightful.  The sun shone, the mountain-tops were clear, the lake glittered in the valley behind us, and the stream of Glen Coe flowed down to it glittering among the trees…”

          “It sounds otherworldly.”

          “It was.  It is.  I am so glad that you actually listen to my stories, Alven.  No one else wants to listen to them.  All my friends and family have heard it before.”

          She smiled at him and took a sip of her pinot noir.  He was handsome, to be sure.  His hair was flecked with grey at the temples, but maintained a vibrant shade of chestnut from there.  Whatever time had done to him had done it well.  He wasn’t old, but he wasn’t young.  To Margaret he was physical perfection embodied.  She barely knew anything about him, but she knew- she just knew- that this guy was different from the rest.

          “What stories do you have of Europe, Alven?  I feel like I have been doing all the talking since we sat down, and I would love to hear some of your stories.”

          “I really haven’t been anywhere worth mentioning.”

          “Come on, you have to have traveled somewhere.”

          “I did make it to Quebec a few years ago with my ex-wife.  The most exciting part about it was the carriage ride, though, really, all we saw on it was a cannon ball stuck in a tree.  All the roots had grown around it.  Kind of strange, actually.”

          “But it’s a piece of history.  I like it.  I’ve never been to Quebec before, but I hear that it is wonderful.”

          The waiter came out with their meals and laid them out on the table.  She gradually coaxed him into telling her a story about his trip to Quebec while they ate dinner.  He seemed genuine.  The way he spoke was genuine.  She really liked that.  She wanted to know more about him.  He had asked her out to dinner tonight after talking for hours in the library.  It was the first time she had been out with anyone for a very long time.  He finished his story and she started trying to figure him out.

          “You know, when you walked up to the front desk with that book yesterday I was wondering why you would pick up such a thing.  Not many people sign out Mary Wollstonecraft’s tour book” said Margaret.

          “Hah.  The last date on the sign out card was April of 1942.  I guess you are right.”

          “I own a copy myself.  I love European tour literature from the eighteen-hundreds.  I’ve just never met someone who shares that affection.”

          “Well I just recently found myself interested in Europe.  I wanted to find the best places to visit.  One of my buddies from the Yale English department told me to look for some travel books.  That was the only book I could find in your library.  Thinking about it now, I think he meant something more modern.  I looked through everything and this was the only book I could come up with.  It looks really old.”

          “Tour books are a rarity in libraries nowadays.  You’re lucky you came to the Glenhaven Library.  They have two tour books, and only because I work there and requested them as personal reading material while I sit and monitor the overzealous grad students for hours.  That particular book that you have was written in the early eighteen hundreds.”

          The waiter came over and asked them if they would like a dessert menu.  Margaret politely turned him down and he picked up their plates.  She asked for more wine before the waiter left.   

          “Now Alven, tell me, I’ve heard that the food in Quebec is wonderful.  Is it really as good as it is made out to be?” she asked.

          “Well really it all depends on where you go…”

          Look at those teeth.  Perfectly polished.  Did he just spit on my hand?  Never mind.  Don’t let him see that you saw.  Smile and nod.  Look down.  Look up. Bat your eyes a couple times.  God I hope my mascara isn’t running.  I can’t remember how to do this, it’s been so long.

          They continued to talk until the check was paid for.  They walked together towards the entrance of restaurant.  Before they parted ways Alven asked if he could see her again the next morning for coffee.  His excuse was to hear about Dumbarton Castle, which she hadn’t had time to get to that night.  She agreed and they got into their cars and left.

         

As she walked through the door she tossed her keys into a basket on the side table and let her coat drop to the floor.  The cold stiff from her heater-less car drive home started to melt away in the warmth of her apartment.  Reaching down, she unzipped her boots and stepped out of them.  A small puddle of water was beginning to form around them from the dirt caked snow they had collected. 

          She made her way to the living room, and sat on her cream-colored love seat amidst stacks of books.  No flat surface in the house was left without a book or two.  Stacks of books rose from floor to ceiling, and made the house look more like a cave with paper and leather stalagmites.  Each book was part of Margaret’s collection.  She traveled around the state to old library book sales, using her savings to purchase any and every European tour collections she could find.  When her bookshelves were filled she went on to putting the books on the coffee table.  And then onto the desk.  And then beside the desk.  And then near the couch.  After that they started creeping into the kitchen.  Into the cupboards.  On top of the fridge.  Into the bathroom closet.  Every corner of the house became filled with books.  Once, she found a book in the freezer, crisp and crinkly as a bag of frozen green beans.  She couldn’t recollect how a book made it into the freezer.

          Margaret, the collector, picked up her current read, flipped the book open to a dog-eared page in the center of the book, and began to engross herself in the text.   She started to re-read the previous page before going on:

Beyond we had the same intricate view as before, and could discover Dumbarton rock with its double head.  There being a mist over it, it had a ghostlike appearance.  Right before us, on the flat island mentioned before, were several small single trees or shrubs, growing at different distances from each other, close to the shore, but some optical delusion had detached them from the land on which they stood, and they had the appearance of so many little vessels sailing along the coast of it.  I mention the circumstances, because, with the ghostly image of Dumbarton Castle, and the ambiguous ruin on the small island, it was much in the character of the scene, which was throughout magical and enchanting…

“It sounds so beautiful. I wonder if it would still be like that today,” she thought.

The phone rang and Margaret laid her copy of Dorothy Wordsworth’s  tour book down with a wide red ribbon to keep her spot.  The phone rang a few times before she could reach it in the kitchen.  When she picked up her mother’s voice came through the other line.

          “Margaret Anne Fitchburn, why do you never call your mother?”

          “Mom.  I just called you yesterday.”

          “No.  You didn’t call me yesterday, Margaret.”

          “Mom, I did.  You just don’t remember.  Is Eddie there still?  He can tell you that I called yesterday.  He picked up the phone when I called.”

          “Eddie is a two-timing do-gooder.  I sent him home last night.”

          “Eddie is perfectly nice, Mom.  He’s only there to help.”

          “Yeah, well, I don’t need any help Margaret.  I get along just fine.”

          “You say that now, but what will happen when it gets worse and you can’t remember where you are or what you were doing?  What is going to happen, Mom?  You know you need him around.”

          “I don’t want to talk about me anymore.”

          “Fine.  What do you want to talk about?”

          “Margaret, I want you to go abroad.”

          “Mom, you know I can’t do that.  I don’t have the money, and besides, what how could I leave you?”

          “You have always wanted to go to Europe, and I think that now is the perfect time.  I have a few things I could sell.  It could get you at least halfway there, Marg.”

          “That’s very… kind… of you mom.  Even then I couldn’t make it over there.  I barely make enough money to pay the bills.  I’ve resorted to stealing silverware from local restaurants, Mom.  I can’t afford to purchase a ticket to get overseas, let alone pay for anything if I even made it there.”

          “Well then sell those goddamn books.  Lord knows you’ve spent a fortune on those damn things.”

          “I couldn’t.”

          “You could.”

          “Mom, listen.  Thank you so much for trying to help.  I appreciate it, I really do, but I don’t know if I will ever make it to Europe.  I’m not as young as I look.  I’m 38 and feeling twice my age.  And as much as I talk about going over there, it is not going to happen right now.  Maybe someday, but not right now.”

          “Then I don’t want to hear another word about Europe until you have finally made plans to go there.  I want to hear, for once, a story about Europe that you have experienced and not one from those damn books.  And I want to hear it before I lose my mind, Margaret.”

          “I’ll see what I can do, Mom.  I’ll talk to you later, okay?  Give Eddie a call.  See if he’ll come back and keep you company tonight.”

          “Yeah, yeah.  Goodnight.”

Margaret hung up the phone and slumped against the wall.  He eyes darted back and forth between the stacks of books, and she considered, for only a moment, a life without them.

Alven met Margaret at the Café de la Gente with a single rose.  She was taken back by the gesture, but happily received the affection.  They sat and drank hot coffee for a few minutes, chatting about this and that.  She found out that he was recently divorced and had a daughter in junior high school.  He owned a small company out in California, but had recently moved to the east coast to get away from the messy divorce.   He decided to sell his house and get away by touring Europe, like he’d always wanted to.  He said he was so glad to meet someone who shared such a passion.  She agreed.

          “Would you want to go back Margaret?”

          “I don’t know,” she said, “I don’t know if I could afford to pay for my mortgage and a trip overseas right now.  In this economy, I just don’t have the means to do that anymore.”

          “Maybe I could help.  If I offered to help pay for the trip would you take me on a tour of Europe?  I think that traveling Europe with someone who knows it so well would be an eye-opening experience.  And I trust you.  I don’t trust a lot of people, but I trust you.”

          He took her hand in his, and pleaded with her.  When she pursed her lips and nodded okay he was ecstatic.  They excitedly made rough plans to travel through France and Italy, then onto Switzerland and Germany.  They would end in England, spending the most time touring around the Lake District and Scotland.  Their time for coffee was coming to a close and they still had a lot of planning to do, so Margaret and Alven made plans to go to dinner that night and continue planning their trip.

          She walked through the door of the Glenhaven Library and made her way through the rows of sky-high bookshelves to the elevators.  In the elevator she pressed the round button for floor three and leaned against the cold elevator wall.  It jerked awake and groaned as it pulled her weight up three stories.  She walked out of the elevator and pushed open the heavy glass doors of to the Special Collections room.  Her desk was at the front and already there was an impatient grad student lurking around it to ask her questions.  She sat down into her stiff wooden chair and looked up at him through her glasses. 

          “Can I help you?”

          “Yes, but first I need to know the way to the bathroom.”

          “Take the stairs to the second floor and it will be on your right as you enter through the doorway.”

          “Thanks, I’ll be right back.”

          With the grad student gone for the moment she could relax.  She unpacked her bag and settled into her space with a hot cup of tea.  After doodling on the post-it pad for a couple minutes she impatiently huffed and got out her cell phone to pass whatever time she had before the grad student returned.  She dialed a number and listened to the tone.

          “Hello?”

          “Hey Eddie, its Marg.  Can I talk to Mum?”

          “Yeah, give me a second, I have to find her.  She keeps running off saying something about ‘two-timing do-gooders’ and patting the staircase.  Then she runs off cackling.”

          “Check the library.  She’s probably planning your demise as we speak.”

          “Isn’t she always?”

          “True.”

          Margaret heard a clunk as he put down the receiver.  She thought about the last time she told her mom about a guy.  Kent had just ended their five year relationship one week before taking off for their planned backpacking trip- the trip to Europe they had been planning for over a year.  She hadn’t talked to her mom about guys since.  Things weren’t quite the same after that happened. 

          “Margaret?”

          “Hey Mom.  I have some news!”

          “Well, spill it.”

          “I met someone.”

          “God, I hope it’s a guy.”

          “Yes, Mom, it’s a guy.  His name is Alven.”

          “Go on.  I know that isn’t the end of it.”

          “He offered to pay me as a tour guide over in Europe.  So I am going over there, all expenses paid, with an incredibly handsome man.  No need to sell off my books now, eh?”

          “How long have you known this guy Marg?”

          “That doesn’t matter, Mom.  He’s really great.  You’ll love him, I swear.”

          “I don’t know about this.  Maybe you shouldn’t go.”

          “You were the one who was, just yesterday, telling me that I needed to seize the day and go now.  And now that I finally have the chance you are telling me that I shouldn’t do it?”

          “Yes.”

          “Mom.  I’m going.  I don’t need your blessing.  I just thought that after yesterday, you would be happy for me.”

          “Margaret, you haven’t called me in weeks.”

          “Mom…”

The grad student walked back through the glass doors.

          “Mom, I’ve got to go.  I’ll talk to you later.”

That evening Alven picked up Margaret and brought her to a neat little Italian restaurant on the other side of town.  He treated her to dinner while she talked of Dumbarton Castle.

          “We went beyond the trees and saw Dumbarton rock with its double head.  There was a mist hanging over it giving a ghostlike appearance.  In front of us, on the island I just mentioned were several small single trees or shrubs, growing at distances from each other, close to the shore.  Some optical illusion had detached them from the land they stood on and so they appeared as little boats sailing along the coast of the island.  With the mists and Dumbarton castle in the background the scene was magical… enchanting.”

          “Lovely.  Margaret, we must go there.  It sounds too beautiful to miss.”

          “I would love to take you there.”

They finished dinner and added many places to their tour.  He held her hand as they walked to the car, and opened her door when they reached it.  The car ride was silent, though the air around them buzzed.  He pulled up to her apartment building and parked.  His hand came off the stick shift and grasped hers.

          “I really like you, Margaret.”

          “Um…”  Margaret didn’t know what to say.  She hadn’t been in this situation for years.  She had been taking the lead in their newly found friendship, but she found that slipping away in this moment.  She was quiet.  And unsure.  

          “I’m sorry.  It’s too soon.  I just… I thought…”

          “No, that’s okay.  I have a bottle of wine I can open.  Let’s sit and relax for a bit up in my apartment.  I could use a drink after all that planning anyways.”

She smiled and squeezed his hand, not wanting him to leave but also fearing how he would react to her apartment.  He was so clean cut and perfect.  She swallowed her doubts and led him to her door.

          Once inside she could see that he was overwhelmed by the amount of books.  He stood there with wide eyes surveying the rooms.  There was an earthy smell to the apartment: musty paper, decaying leather, a hint of peppermint.  Smells he recognized from being around her.  His eyes roved around and caught hers.  She quickly apologized, but he just laughed at himself and walked into the living room.  It was overwhelming, but seemed to suit her. 

          “I didn’t realize you were so into books.  I mean, you did tell me, I just didn’t realize the extent.”

          “I am so sorry.  You must think I’m a freak.”

          “It’s okay, don’t worry about it.  It’s a little …overwhelming.  But only because I’ve never seen so many books outside of a library. ”

          “I’ll be right back.  Let me go find that bottle of wine.”

She hurried to the kitchen and he settled in on the love seat.  He could hear her shuffling things around in the kitchen.  The clock ticked on the wall.  He picked up a book that was lying beside him with a wide red ribbon as a bookmark.  The book fell open and he started reading.

Beyond we had the same intricate view as before, and could discover Dumbarton rock with its double head.  There being a mist over it, it had a ghostlike appearance.  Right before us, on the flat island mentioned before, were several small single trees or shrubs…

He paused.  He moved to the next page.

The afternoon was delightful, the sun shone, the mountain-tops were clear, the lake glittered in the great vale…

He heard the sloshing of the wine as she poured it and slipped the book between his hip and the loveseat.  She walked in with two glasses of white wine and sat beside him.  He took his glass and downed it before hers reached her lips.  He wanted no more of her lies, and gave her a stern look.   Nervous now, she started to finger the lace on her sleeve, she didn’t know what to expect.  Could he be upset about the apartment, even though he said he wasn’t?  

          “Margaret, I don’t think I can do this.  I have to go.”

He placed the glass on her table, on top of a stack of yellowing books, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and left.

          Margaret stared into nothingness as the realization that her only chance to make it to Europe just walked out the door.  She licked a salty tear from the corner of her mouth.  She shuddered.  She shook.  She rocked back and forth on the couch clutching her ribs.  And then everything stopped.  Her face glazed over in nothingness; her spirit- broken.  She walked to the door and locked dead-bolt.  She walked over to the windows and shut the blinds.  Then she sat back on the loveseat and started to whisper to herself.  The book was open where he was sitting, with the wide red ribbon still marking her place.  She took a sip of her wine, and began to read.

Red, White, and Blue (draft 2)

Red, White, and Blue

Jessica Cookson

The events of childhood do not pass,

but repeat themselves

like seasons of the year

-Eleanor Farjeon

I pull on my collar and let the steam flow out of my shirt. The desert never lets up. Since getting here all I have known is heat.

I have been in Iraq for nearly two months on a grant to study the war. I have been assigned to follow a group of soldiers for a total of six months so I can use their lives here on the front lines in my newest novel. Today they have been assigned to a part of the city far away from my apartment and I am struggling to get there on time. I rush around cars on my bike and peddle as fast as I can. When I finally make it to the neighborhood I see that the streets are filled with kids.

The kids here are, really, no different from the ones back home. Whenever I see them they are playing games and teasing each other. The adults aren’t as familiar. They keep their distance. From what I can gather, most of them are not happy that we are here. There are some crazies that will threaten you, and some that follow through with those threats, but I have been lucky enough to never encounter those ones. Not everyone you meet is against you though. I’ve made friends with a local farmer at the market. He tells me where I can find people to interview.

I spot the guys in uniform ahead of me. In the distance I see a little boy, perhaps eight years old, looking my way. He is surrounded by other kids who are playing some version of kick the can in the red dust of the streets. The little boy starts walking towards me and the logo on his t-shirt becomes clear. It is a red and white baseball tee with a Transformers mask logo. He is small and skinny, and if his hair was a lighter brown and his skin pale he would have been the spitting image of me at that age. When I could see his eyes I was shocked. They were a brilliant blue. I had never seen blue eyes on a person of middle-eastern decent. They were mesmerizing.

He approached me with his hand held out in front of him, closed around something he held. He stopped when he reached me and smiled, the dimples in his cheeks further reminding me of myself as a kid. His eyes flickered to his hand and back and I held out my hand as if he had told me to. Slowly, he turned his hand over and opened his fist. He held a small yellow flower in his palm and had taken care not to smash it when he hand had been closed. He took my hand and then slid the flower off of his own and into mine. The little boy smiled again and then turned and walked back to the other kids, who had stopped their game to watch what had just taken place.

I slipped the flower into my pocket and jogged to catch up with the guys.

“Hey Alma, hows it goin’ today?” said Charlie, one of the guys that I’ve gotten close to.

“Woke up late this morning. And damn this heat.”

“Yeah, it’s a scorcher today.”

“Anything interesting to report, Charlie?”

“Nope. At least, nothing you could use. How is everything back home?”

“I called Jen last night and she said that the economy is really starting to tank. Unemployment rate is up to ten percent.”

“Damn. How is she doing without you there?” he asked.

“Fine, I guess. She is going to fly out here in a couple weeks when her students go on April break.”

“Nice.”

We continued walking through the street, past concrete houses and bikes and children. It was the first time I had been alone since I was ten. I hated being alone. It scared me. My only consolation here was the city itself. Lights and noises kept my fears at bay. I didn’t have to hear that incessant jaying from the birds back home. God, I hate those birds.

I don’t miss Jen. I don’t love her anymore. I did back in college, but ever since my novel was published I haven’t wanted to be around her. That was why I left. I needed to get away. I needed to immerse myself in the world I was writing about. I had a hunger, no- a thirst, for the violence of the war. It would fuel my new story, and I needed to see it firsthand.

I was fiddling around in my pack to find my water bottle when an earsplitting crack and a hot cloud blew me to the side of the road. Ash and flame burning my skin as I lay delirious.

***

It had been the hottest summer on record, which was why Alma’s mother had been working overtime. This left him alone at her house during the day and alone at her house at night while she slept or was passed out in the old la-z-boy, bottle of beer still in hand and a trashy reality T.V. show casting a flickering light on her face. He was alone at her house that summer and he had had to find his own way to pass the time.

That morning he had woken up to the rattle of the old garage door closing as his mom left for work. The fan in the window had done little to stifle grinding metal on metal and the final shrill squeal of the rusted wheels and braces as the door slid into place and became still once more. The jaybird on the tree outside his window made sure that he wasn’t able to fall back to sleep again that morning. Its call was piercing and came again and again, like the sleep button on an alarm clock set to annoy the shit out of you so you’ll get up on time for your morning routine.

Aggravated and already feeling the effects of another sweltering day, he pulled on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and headed downstairs to scour the kitchen for some breakfast. He grabbed a chair so he could reach up and pull the cupboards open. He brushed away a couple perishable bugs long past their expiration date, and grabbed a box of generic brand cocoa puffs. The he grabbed a clean-looking bowl from the counter and began pouring the cereal. At the fridge he stood on his tip-toes to reach the milk on the top shelf. The carton was crusty, but the milk smelled decent, so he took both it and the bowl of cereal to the table, and sat down to enjoy his spoils. The kitchen was small and endlessly dirty. The sink was usually full of empty beer bottles and pizza boxes that didn’t make it into the trash the night before.

He splayed the comic section of yesterday’s paper out in front of him and took in the latest of Garfield’s antics while eating his cereal. When he finished he put his empty bowl in the sink and headed outside. Even though his mother sold expensive air conditioners to the people in town who could afford such luxury, she never brought one home to keep her own house cool. He found solace in the yard, where the trees shade provided what cooling effect they could and his imagination could take front and center, passing the long hours of summer.

The backyard was large, as was customary on the outskirts of town, but trees and shrubs took over the majority of the space. This was where he spent most of his time climbing trees, hunting imaginary game, and getting dirty in the dusty underbrush. When his mom had bought the house the chicken coop behind the garage had been turned into a storage unit, but he used it this summer as a makeshift zoo. He found turtles and frogs at the small pond a little ways into the forest and came back to the coop to place his treasures in an empty box or crate, and kept them as temporary pets. He didn’t have the attention span it took to take care of them, so they would hop or crawl away the minute he set off to do something else.

This particular morning Alma decided to play in one of the trees. He climbed on the lower branches of the small evergreen and took a seat on the sturdiest one. His hands were sticky with sap and at the small of his back pine needles pricked him and made him itchy. He was a lookout today. He could see the whole backyard and beyond from where he was, though the garage and the chicken coop blocked most of the view of the street. The sky was a hazy blue, without a single cloud, and the air was so heavy with moisture you could feel it swirl around you. From the little effort it took to climb the tree his shirt was already thoroughly dampened.

He sat there, looking out over the yard. Bees were swarming near the lilacs to his left, and he could just make out a chipmunk on top of the roof, scurrying along the gutter. Everywhere he looked something was moving. He made up stories about the things he saw: the bees were searching for their queen, who had run off with a yellow jacket and was secretly planning to capture their queen and have her beheaded, and the chipmunk had lost his favorite little cousin, had dropped him into a river of brown goo and was desperately trying to find a way to get him out.

There came a rustle from his right and he whipped his head around to spot a squirrel carrying an object and looking very wary about the path he was taking to the closest tree. He would stop and look around, staying still as a statue on his two hind legs and protecting his spoils with his arms. He sniffed the air and in jerking movement continued his path to the tree, and then would stop again, still as a statue. He maneuvered his way through the yard this way.

It was about halfway through the squirrel’s perilous journey to the tree that a piercing shriek scared the Alma and he tumbled out of his perch. His knee caught on the lowest branch and flipped him over in the air so that when he slammed the ground he was stomach down. As he landed the wind was squeezed out of his lungs and he lay there gasping for breath. He rolled over onto his back to recover. From high above him another piercing shriek came. He peered through the branches of the tree he had just fallen out of. It was the jaybird from this morning, perched near what used to be his lookout spot.

“Stupid bird” he muttered.

He got up and brushed himself off. He looked up at the tree and eyed it warily, then walked away towards the house. The lookout spot had been taken over by the bird, so it was time to move on. His bike was resting against the side of the house, so he decided to take it for a ride to the gravel pit down the road. The bike was old and rusty, but it worked.

The gravel pit was a large and dangerous place to explore. He had ridden his bike by it a few times that summer, but he had never dared venture into it. The boys down the street told him stories of kids getting trapped and never found again. He didn’t believe them, but he had never wanted to chance it either. But that stupid bird wouldn’t leave him alone, so he took his chances and decided to play where the bird wasn’t. The road he was traveling down was heavily wooded and never had much traffic. It was easy to imagine himself flying over the road as he peddled faster and faster. He lifted his hands from the handlebars and let his arms rise like wings while he peddled. His heart beat ferociously and he smiled freely. The trees whirred by him, and then suddenly stopped as he came close to the pit. He slowed down and pulled up to a sign in front of the large and dusty gravel pit.

“Danger: Stay Out”, it read.

Looking around he couldn’t see any immediate danger. The gravel pit was sandy and rocky. The pit itself wasn’t more than one hundred fifty yards across and looked to be just smaller than his backyard. There were mounds of crushed rock and sand here and there, and a sloped walkway around half of the pit to safely get in and out. It didn’t look dangerous to him.

He laid his bike down next to the sign and entered the sandy pit on foot. He followed the sloped walkway to the bottom of the pit and looked around at the hills of sand and gravel, taller than he had expected. Walking around the piles he decided that the tallest one was on the side opposite from where he stood, so he made his way toward it passing other mounds as he went. They were streaked with red and yellow. Some of them held huge chunks of rock. It seemed other-worldly to him, like walking on the moon. The pit was so deep, that from the bottom where he stood he couldn’t see out of the bowl.

The tallest of the piles was a deep sand color. There were rocks here and there and a large oblong boulder at the bottom of the pile. He started climbing at the boulder. The rock and sand were very unstable and it was difficult to get very far without sliding back a few steps. The challenge was there, and he was going to beat it. Get to the top of the mountain and he would be king. Step after step he took. Dust was flying all around him, and rocks rolled down the enormous pile each time he put his foot down.

The sun beat down so heavily here that his shirt, now caked with dust and sand was drying quickly. The sun’s rays were so intense that each rock felt like a hot coal. They burned his feet a bright red as he climbed higher and higher. He could see the top of the gravel pile as he climbed. The glare of the sun blinded him and forced him to look back down. Pebbles were rolling behind him, jumping and smashing into other pebbles on their way down. He kept climbing and reached the top, where the incline smoothed away to a flat plane just large enough for the Alma to sit on.

He sat down with a thunk and tried to forget how much his butt and thighs were burning. He was sure they were red hot from the heat already. The rocks were just has hot on top of the pile as they were while he was climbing. He looked around from his new viewpoint.

This is so much better of a lookout point than that damn tree.

From this new height he could see everything in the quarry and was just above eye level from the ground outside the bowl. Heat waves were rising up and out of the gravel pit, making everything at ground level look like a mirage. The grass swayed and the trees were belly dancing to an earthly rhythm. From above came a familiar piercing Jaayy Jaaaayyyy.

Alma looked up just in time. A blue jay was circling above him and diving through the air in an elegant swooping motion. The jays intentions were not to provide a show, but swooped dangerously close to Alma while continuously bellowing its piercing Jaaaay Jaayy.

Alma waved his arms around frantically above his head. The bird dived for him but pulled up at the last moment. He picked up a rock and threw it at the bird, missing by a few feet. It flew high and dived again, Jaaaaaaaaaay. He picked up a rock and aimed straight at the bird. His throw missed again and the bird, not deterred by the rock, kept in his dive. He backed up as the bird’s dive brought it closer, placing each foot behind the other on the hot rocks.

To avoid the attack he dropped to his knees at the last second, and lost his balance. The rocks beneath his feet started to tumble away and he was sliding on his stomach with blistering sand and gravel to the bottom of the pit. He landed with his face caked in sand on the floor of the bowl with rocks and pebbles still rolling down the gravel pile behind him.

Pushing himself up and onto his knees he looked around for the bird. It was flying around overhead, but not diving anymore. He reached for the rocks at his feet and put them in his pocket, arming himself with a particularly sharp piece and took off at a running pace towards the entry of the pit.

The rocks were heavy in his shorts, dragging them down on his hips. They clunked and scraped as he ran up the sloping drive way out of the pit. The bird, meanwhile, had landed on a bush just outside of the forest wall. He had been watching the bird while he stealthily reached the top of the drive way, slowing down so that he could sneak up on it.

Alma watched the jay from the edge of the pit. The grass was long here, and hid his face from the bird’s view. He could make out something moving in the grass ahead of him. He stole a peek and raised his head just enough to see a black and brown tabby cat tense and very aware of the jay about ten feet in front of the boy.

The cat was stalking the bird. It bent its body close to the ground- nothing moving but the tip of its tale, whipping back and forth in excited anticipation. Its body was like a spring, coiled beyond its capabilities and just bursting to release its pent up energy. It picked up one paw and moved it forward fluidly, its head moving with the bird as it flew from one branch to the other. The cat dug down into the grass with its body, hugging the earth and wiggling its rear in calculated time. He sprung. The jay had no time to react and no sound escaped from its beak before the cat broke its body.

Alma let out a resounding Ooooooyyy! and threw the rock in his hand at the cat. He reached into his pocket for another and ran towards the it. His second rock hit the cat in the hind leg and the cat took off running, leaving the blue jay behind.

Alma, rock in hand bounded over to the bird’s body. When he reached it he fell to his knees and examined the broken bird. Its wings were bend and contorted out of their normal angles and the feathers were twisted and broken. One wing was fully out, the wing under the body, and the other was almost folded up, except for the tip because it was bent backwards like the dog-eared flap of a page in a book. Its neck was twisted back and its beak was open as if it was still calling out its shrieking “jay”.

He looked at the bird’s black and glassy eye, still open and reflecting the Alma’s image. He saw his face, and squinted his eyes at the reflection. The rock in his hand was heavy now. He pulled his eyes from the birds and looked at the rock.

He raised the rock high above his head and pulled it down onto the head of the bird. The skull cracked and popped as the rock impaled the eye socket. Again the boy lifted the rock and again he let it smash over the body.

The rock ripped the feathers from the skin, broke the frail bones, split the skin apart and gouged holes in every fleshy part of the body. Over and over he brought the rock down on the bird till there was nothing left but a pile of blue and white feathers and red blood oozing over the dirt and grass.

Panting and out of breath the boy screamed and pounded the ground. His chest was heaving and blood pounded through his temples. Down feathers clung to his sweaty arms and face. Beaded drops ran down his chest and collected at the button on his shorts. He tried to scrape the feathers off, but ended up smearing the blood on his skin instead. A million emotions ran through him.

When he regained his breath and the sticky blood in his veins ran cleaner he stood up and walked to his bike, tossing the rock into the trees beside him. He picked the bike up by the handlebars. As he swung his leg over the plastic seat, he saw a flash of blue fly overhead. He whipped his head around to see a blue jay on the branch beside him.

Just as he started to peddle off, it called out to him: jayyy.

I regain consciousness to the nearby screams of a woman, “Jaaaie!? Jaaaie!?” I twist my head around to see the woman frantically pulling rubble off of a little body. I can see the sleeve of a red baseball tee under the concrete and my stomach turned on itself. I look for the face of the little boy. His blue lifeless eyes terrify me.

Violence. I’ve encountered it before. But not like this. That boy was innocent. Peaceful. Damn. Goddamn. I try to move, but can’t. I look down to see that in the blast I have been thrown onto my bicycle and the handlebar twists its way through my stomach. Oh God. My eyes dart back and forth from left to right as I lay down in the dirt. Ash burns my skin as it falls like snowflakes.

A blue jay flies above me and its calls are mixed with the woman’s desperate calls to her son. And I lay there bleeding out into the streets of red dust.