Tag: Isabel Montclaire

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Half the Truth is a Lie, Part Two

Let’s continue reading between the lines in the advertisement that Bayer/Monsanto placed in The New York Times on Wednesday, March 27, 2019 (please see previous post). The corporation placed this ad in response to the negative publicity being generated from the 11,200 court cases winding their way through the legal system. The plaintiffs allege that Roundup/glyphosate causes Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma, a type of cancer.

The advertisement states “Independent regulatory agencies continue to assess glyphosate-based products and conclude they can be used safely and that glyphosate is not carcinogenic. These include not only the United States Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), but also the European Food Safety Authority (EFSA), European Chemicals Agency (ECHA), Australian, Canadian and Japanese regulatory authorities, as well as the Joint Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations/World Health Organization Meeting on Pesticide Residue (JMPR).

That’s quite a lineup of societal authorities, very convincing. But . . . . let’s read between the lines to reveal what the ad doesn’t say. Remember, a lie can be told by omitting the other half of the story, the contextual framework. Here is what Bayer/Monsanto doesn’t want you to know:

That one of the tactics agribusiness uses is to infiltrate regulatory agencies and other institutions around the world with their own executives. These people then become high-level officials in the regulatory agencies/institutions that oversee the agribusiness industries. Then these executives use their power to influence the agency’s policy and regulations. Other terms for this are “regulatory capture” and “revolving door”.

Keep in mind that governments create regulatory agencies to act in the public’s interest and to protect the public’s health.  When the corporations capture the agencies, the commercial interests of big business (via lobbying groups) become primary and the public’s interest and health, secondary.

Bayer/Monsanto also doesn’t want you to know that they genetically modified food so that it can withstand increasingly strong applications of Roundup/glyphosate. Now the pesticide’s residues are appearing in many foods. Roundup is being detected more and more in our water, air and soil. It’s everywhere.

We need more people to recognize the deception and destructive dynamics these large corporations use to keep us blind and unremittingly under their control. Then we can say a loud and resounding NO to this unethical use of power that represses and disregards the public’s voice. We can say NO to government captured by corporate power. We can do this by refusing to buy the corporation’s products. In the case of Bayer/Monsanto/Roundup, this means avoiding genetically modified food and if possible, buying organic food instead. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth is that, we, the people, can speak truth to power, one buying decision at a time.

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Half the Truth is a Lie, Part One

A couple of weeks ago when I was thumbing through The New York Times, I couldn’t help but notice the blue and white full-page advertisement placed by Bayer/Monsanto in defense of Roundup/glyphosate. The heading reads “Let’s talk about Roundup® herbicides”. Oh no!

The company is launching a campaign to convince the public that the pesticide won’t harm our health. When big corporations see their profits are threatened, (please see previous two posts for explanation of this) they launch massive campaigns designed to manipulate the public’s opinion. These campaigns will be filled with propaganda and disinformation, including paid ads disguised as news meant to create doubt. An unsuspecting reader might read these ads and be convinced the stuff is safe enough to drink in a martini every night. And the corporation certainly doesn’t want you to know that most GMO food has been modified to withstand increasingly strong applications of the stuff, and that the pesticide is showing up in our food, soil, water and air with increasing frequency.

But here’s the thing: a lie can be told via a “half-truth”. It’s lying by omission. It’s lying by presenting only part of the story and omitting the full context.

So knowing that, let’s read the ad between the lines:

“Glyphosate-based herbicides, which include most Roundup® products, are among the most rigorously studied products of their kind”. What they don’t want you to know:

That the chemical companies hire scientists to do the research necessary to get pesticides approved by regulators,[1] so the scientists are bought and paid for by the chemical companies. This naturally creates a conflict of interest dynamic, because the scientists will feel duty, obligation and loyalty to the authorizing power over them. The scientist might feel pressure to conform to the company’s objectives and standards. Under this pressure, the researchers often skew the findings, fail to question fundamental premises, and suppress awareness of contradictions so that the results favor industry profits over the public’s health. Then when agribusiness companies answer questions about pesticide safety, they can claim with authority that decades of scientific studies have shown the chemicals to be safe for human use and that no credible scientific evidence exists otherwise.

As you can see, it’s all in the family – at least in the feudalistic one, where the corporations are the overlords. So now you’ve read between the lines and you know more of the truth than you did before.

Advertisement in The New York Times, Wednesday, March 27, 2019

[1] Danny Hakim, “Scientists Loved and Loathed by an  Agrochemical Giant,” New York Times, December 31, 2016, accessed at  https://www.nytimes.com/2016/12/31/business/scientists-loved-and-loathed-by-syngenta-an-agrochemical-giant.html

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Goodbye, Corporate Feudalism

I don’t generally consider myself to be a political type, yet I can’t help but feel encouraged about the conversation I see shaping up among the Democratic Party’s presidential candidates.  Many are outlining a plan to revitalize rural America by breaking up agricultural monopolies and restoring competition in that sector.

Finally, someone (Cory Booker, Elizabeth Warren, Amy Klobuchar, and John Delaney) is acknowledging the damage done to rural America from industrialized farming practices and hyper-consolidation in agribusiness. Independent farmers, the backbone of our rural economy, are finding that their profits are rapidly disappearing. This is because big monopolies now control the cost of everything involved in the entire food production process. This process begins when a farmer plants a seed and ends when a shopper plucks an item off the grocery store shelf. Farmers are getting strangled from both the buy and sell sides of transactions. The inputs monopolies control the prices of the products the farmers buy to grow or raise food: seeds, fertilizers, pesticides, machinery, etc. On the sell side, the processor/distribution monopolies control the prices paid to farmers for their crops/livestock. These monopolies make it increasingly difficult for farmers and ranchers to run profitable businesses; they drive up the price of food for shoppers.

Is that too long and complicated? Then how about this, in two simple words: corporate feudalism. A difference between now and centuries ago is that the overlords aren’t the aristocracy; it’s the corporations.

I felt another glimmer of hope that turned to excitement after I read the best summary on corporate feudalism that I have ever read, written recently by the Open Markets Institute.  It’s titled “Food and Power: Addressing Monopolization in America’s Food System”. They propose suggestions about how to solve this problem on pages 12-16, take a look! We can mobilize as a society to support these policy changes and transformation can occur. Check it out here: https://openmarketsinstitute.org/wp-content/uploads/2019/03/190322_MonopolyFoodReport-v7.pdf

It will take a lot more than breaking up agricultural monopolies to restore economic vitality to rural America. It took fifty years for those monopolies to develop and it may take that many years to undo them. Still, dissolving them is a step in the right direction. The coming tsunami of job loss due to automation, robotics, artificial intelligence and software are enormous headwinds. So I approach the subject of breathing life into rural America with cautious enthusiasm. 

This upcoming election season presents a fabulous opportunity for discussion and debate. I hope Republican candidates will also join this conversation to weigh in on the issue of hyper-consolidation in the agricultural sector (and other sectors, too). I look forward to lively dialogue and bright lights shining in dark and dreary corners.

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A Glimmer of Hope

My faith in the American government has been somewhat restored. And it feels invigorating, like a breath of fresh, floral spring air filling up my senses. I haven’t felt such a glimmer of hope about our government in years. Oh my, did I ever need that!

Why am I feeling optimistic? Because of the Bayer/Monsanto/Roundup trials (please see previous post). Apparently there are 11,200 other similar cases waiting to go to trial. So, we can expect this topic to be circulating in the news for quite sometime.

But this is more than just a news story. The stories reveal a deeper truth: that the United States’ judicial system is inadvertently taking on the role of protecting the public’s health, because the appropriate regulatory agencies have failed to do so. Everyone plays a role in this current situation. The regulatory system holds regulators in a vice-like grip of science versus politics, and economics versus health. The public’s demand for inexpensive food and the government’s desire to decrease hunger by making cheap food available contributes to the problem. Ethical considerations prohibit testing pesticides on humans. Regulatory agencies around the world are infiltrated with executives from the agribusiness industry so there are conflicts of interest. All this results in an ineffective and fundamentally flawed regulatory system.

The primary regulatory bodies that oversee the public’s health – the Environmental Protection Agency, the Food and Drug Administration, and the United States Department of Agriculture – have all been emasculated to one degree or another because the corporations greatly influence government functions at every level. The fact that 11,200 cases are now working their way through the courts reflects the failure of our regulatory agencies.

The cases are also a testament to the brilliance of our founding fathers. Their genius created a checks and balances system that preserves the integrity of our government. The trials demonstrate the moderation of power in action between the judicial, legislative and executive branches of government. Unfortunately, the regulatory agencies are under the jurisdiction of the executive branch so they can, and have become, highly politicized.

The downside of the judicial system acting as regulator is that they can respond only after the fact, after the damage has already occurred. Judiciary is reactionary, not proactive.

But who was it that said “better late than never“? I’ll take that breath of fresh air and hopefulness over nothing at all.

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Supercide Me, Bayer/Monsanto!

“I read the news today, oh boy” (to quote the Beatles).

“Monsanto Ordered to pay $80 Million in Roundup Cancer Case” (The New York Times)
“Bayer Keeps Roundup Faith After Losing Second Trial” (Bloomberg)
“Jury Awards Over $80 Million in Roundup Exposure Case” (Wall Street Journal)

In case you haven’t read the story, here’s my annotated version:

In a trial against Bayer/Monsanto, a US jury awarded $80 million to a man who developed Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma after prolonged exposure to Roundup. The jury found glyphosate/Roundup to be a substantive factor in causing the cancer. They also found Bayer/Monsanto to be negligent by failing to warn the public of the weedkiller’s cancer risk and failing to properly research the safety of its product. The trial is thought to be a bellwether case, helpful in determining the fate of 11,200 similar, pending cases. This and a similar case last August are historic and precedent-setting cases.

Or, an even shorter version: Bayer/Monsanto has been taken to the whipping post. The American judicial system is increasingly taking on the role of protecting the public’s health.

Bayer/Monsanto is not entirely at fault here. Over the past 40 years since regulators approved glyphosate/Roundup, the company has responded to the public’s demand for inexpensive food and the government’s desire to prevent hunger. But as so often happens, greed sets in, ethics go out the door, and corruption takes hold. The company has clearly crossed a line, or several lines.

My physician, Steven Rotter, MD and I wrote a short, free, downloadable book called “Supercide Me: how pesticides are making us sick and what we can do about it”. Our goal was to quickly give readers the back story of the glyphosate/Roundup issue to expand their understanding of it. Then we will be better equipped to mobilize and create the kind of change we’d like to see. We are introducing a new word – “supercide” into the English language. This word describes the chronic, low-dose exposure to pesticide residues in food and the environment. This word will make it easier for people to talk about pesticides’ effects on health and to warn others about it. When you read this short book, you will understand why eating organic food has become mandatory, not optional. You can download it here: https://www.isabelmontclaire.com/books/supercide-me/

Please let me know how you like it! I’d love to hear from you.

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My Grinch Story

Something profound happened recently on my quest to make the high-quality food necessary to maintain optimal health affordable for more people.

One misty December morning, I was writing away at my desk, tortoise Kat on lap and red china teacup in hand, wearing what I always wear when I write: my long black velveteen housecoat, leggings, and a puffy down jacket (I live in a cozy but sometimes drafty cottage). I hadn’t taken a shower yet and barely combed my hair. From my desk I can peer out a small window that frames the lane in front of the house.

That morning from my small window I see a sheriff’s car pull up in front of the gate. Two officers step out of the car, and I step out onto the porch. After brief and polite introductions, they inform me that they have a warrant for my arrest.

Oh.

I was allowed to make one phone call (to my neighbor, “I’ve been arrested, please feed Kat.”) I hurriedly put on my shoes, grab a coat and my purse, am escorted to the car, put into handcuffs and buckled into the back seat. The officers were firm but kind. I did not feel threatened or afraid; no adrenalin was shooting through my body that I was aware of. Along the way, they read me my Miranda rights.

After a twenty minute drive, we arrived at the county jail. And there I had a razor sharp view into a world I had not ever seen up close and personal, no, not in the bubble of my insulated life. A world I had been increasingly curious about because it seems to be expanding in the landscape now.

I spent nearly thirty hours there (time crept by slower than forever), going in and out of various cells, and talking with at least fifteen young women, maybe more. These were some of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, despite the fact that some had missing teeth, unkempt hair, scars on their thin arms. Wearing our prison blues, there we were stripped down to our raw, sincere and humble true selves.

Over and over, I heard different versions of the same story. Of inmates who had suffered severe abuse or trauma as a child or young adult. A friend offers drugs to ease the pain, addiction sets in. Somewhere along the line they are abandoned by friends and family who have done all they can to help and can do no more.  Many have young children, placed with relatives or in foster care. Some are homeless. Several were there because they had missed a court date (which results in another charge). I heard of the logistical difficulties a homeless person has of getting to court. No money or a way to charge a phone to get a bus schedule.

The dialogue was sincere and honest. “Have you ever been in love?”, a young woman thoughtfully asks. In a split second I wonder, “If I thought I was, but then decided I wasn’t, does that count?” After a long pause, I reply by saying “Yes, once, but he died.”

“My child was my only hope. And they took her away.” ”My father murdered my mother when I was three.” “My mother drank when she was pregnant; I was born with fetal alcohol syndrome.” “I was caught stealing food after my food stamps ran out.”

An inmate going through withdrawal wails with piercing screams. “Get the doctor!”  But “medical” is busy that day. I sit beside her, reassuring her that she is not alone, feeling helpless like she does. Many inmates tell me they wish they could do better; some are tired of the long wait to get into treatment facilities.

At night in a dorm with about 15 bunk beds, I attend a Narcotics Anonymous meeting with four other inmates, all of us sitting on a lower bunk. They want to know what I’m addicted to. After giving them the annotated version of my story, one of them says, “Oh, it sounds like you are addicted to helping people.”

I hadn’t thought of it that way.

No words describe the tenderness and care these women showed to me during my stay there. The experience was rich with intense connection and sharing. With no cell phones or other distractions such as superficial social media, there was a certain level of presence that I don’t often experience in my day-to-day life. Yes, I’ll take that.

Two days after I’m released, I’m driving down the freeway. Suddenly a primal scream accompanied by a flood of tears gushes up from the empty space deep inside of me. It’s explodes with that “hurts-so-good” kind of pain. Am I the Grinch whose heart grew three times that day? And then found the strength of ten Grinches more, plus two? Or am I the tin man, who knows he has a heart because it is breaking?

I’ll definitely take both.

Thank you, Santa.

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Afternoon Delight

 

Yesterday I fell in love with a carrot.

It happened when I picked up my first share of winter vegetables provided by a CSA (community-supported agriculture) farm down the road. What a lovely surprise it was to walk into the old barn and see a gorgeous display of unusual vegetables, some that I have never eaten before, such as a black radish and kohlrabi.

I couldn’t resist the temptation to try a shiny, freshly dug carrot. This exquisite carrot was like no other I have ever tasted. Suddenly the world stopped as this sweet carrot catapulted me into a total being experience. All my senses were filled with excitement and joy. (Later that night, I found myself feeling sorry for all the people in the world who would never be able to experience a carrot like this. Then I wished everyone could.)

Laura, the farmer, mentions that the variety is Hercules. Oh. That explains it. A divine, God-like carrot. A perfect infusion of firm, strong flesh, smooth skin and indescribable taste mingled with spirit. If paradise had a flavor, this would be it. Sweet, like heaven! As I devour this carrot, it leaves me wanting more … and more … and more. Carrot, you’re my hero!

The carrot’s sweetness, Laura tells me, comes from the winter’s cold. Do they sit in the soil trembling? Is this why I felt a shiver go up and down my spine with the first bite? Do they store the summer sun and, in their resting state, concentrate energy? Yes! Every cell of my body knows this.

I will toss a few into a Greek salad tonight, to commemorate this awakening. And my body will delight in this incredible gift of nourishment and bounty of blissful sensations.

PS The Latin name for carrots  is Daucus carota and you can get the seeds here:  http://www.johnnyseeds.com/vegetables/carrots/main-crop-carrots/hercules-f1-carrot-seed-2735.html

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Thank-full

With Thanksgiving and the holidays upon us, I’ve been asking myself what I am most thankful for. There are so many things, it’s difficult to narrow down the list. But one category stands tall above the rest.

It’s the continuous string of divine sensations I experience throughout the day, every day. Who says heaven is somewhere else? Maybe it is, but it’s here and now, too – I experience heaven infused deeply into my flesh.

Heaven is in the velvety fur of Kat’s ears, the soothing purr of her kitty motor, and her warmth on my lap as she helps me write every morning. It’s in the deep, glossy orange-red of my morning breakfast tea as it reflects the light from the lamp, the tea’s sweet and astringent flavors, and the music of the kettle as it lovingly heats up my water.

It’s in the warm tickling of the shower spray as it cascades down the back of my neck and shoulders. Try it. Notice.

No matter what is or isn’t happening in my life, heaven presents itself in these small moments of fleeting, yet continuous pleasure. Together, they knit a thick blanket that warms me with joy and comfort, especially on those days when I feel jangled or out of sorts. I experience one lovely sensation after another and then look forward to the next. For those moments, the whirring busy-ness of life steps back and the richness of the “now moment” steps forward. Love expresses itself this way, baby.

And then there’s food. Who says you can’t eat chocolate for breakfast? Certainly not me! I dip 85 percent organic chocolate into freshly ground peanut butter. The contrast of crunch and creamy is a lovely way to start the day, along with the rush of all that feel-good stuff that’s embedded in the chocolate. And I give thanks for the complex flowery licorice taste of fennel pollen that I sprinkle like fairy dust onto a simple cauliflower dish. This transforms the humble vegetable into a meal fit for a king or a queen. Don’t know any royalty? Maybe you do! Because when you are following the Joy of Plenty way, everyone eats like royalty. So invite yourself or a friend for dinner and be a king or a queen.

Isabel Montclaire

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A Dream Come True

Late one evening a few weeks ago, I read the letter I had written to my dear friend Lolita a couple of years earlier when she was on her deathbed. Out of left field, I broke down and cried uncontrollably for several hours. It was the kind of crying that went straight to the jugular, the intensity so great there was no doubt I was fully alive. This wasn’t the painful, bleak, black, broken-hearted kind of crying, but rather the kind that felt like a thunderous, pounding rain.

Over the next few days, I reflected on this experience. Why had I grieved her death more than I had grieved any other person’s, even those whom I had known far longer and who were much closer to me? This didn’t make any sense.

But then it dawned on me. She made my lifelong dream come true. And she gave it to me in grand style, served up on a silver platter. What greater gift can a person give to others than to help them realize their deepest dreams? The tears were the thankful kind, The Joy of More Than Plentiful kind.

The tears were also an ode to that mysterious hand that had so serendipitously delivered the gift to me. Yes, the universe was listening to me – and my dream just got happened. What was my dream? To ride safely with freedom, ease and perfect balance through the countryside with a seat so secure it felt glued to the saddle. I wanted to feel as if my horse and I had dived deep into the beauty of a Monet painting.

And beautiful the countryside was – everywhere. I rode in one fabulous painting after another. Like the day we rode just after a freezing rain. The sun was out and thousands of icicles hanging everywhere reflected shimmering, prismatic light against a cloudless, bright blue sky. The clear, cold air blowing on my face and filling my lungs felt as pure as pure could be.

Or the day when we stopped at sunset after an invigorating gallop around the “big daddy field” and witnessed the sun and the full moon exactly opposite each other, perched on the horizon. It seemed we were caught in the pull of a tender love song, whose title could have been “Come Closer, I’m Here for You.” Quincy, my paint quarter horse, was the drummer. He grew impatient and pawed his hoof in a rhythmic request to get moving.

Then there was the time when a murder of cawing, black crows swirled against a background of charcoal clouds while majestic Mt. Hood, freshly dusted in pristine white snow, held court in the distance. In the foreground, the Hood’s shoulder touched the holly tree’s bright red berries and shiny green leaves. The color palate was beyond exquisite. Monet would have loved it.

Even Quincy was part of the special beauty that surrounded me. He had the most beautiful patches I had ever seen, as if they were outlined with a paintbrush. He had one blue eye and one brown eye, and it seemed as if a highly skilled makeup artist had painted black eyeliner around his eyes. No matter how many times I brushed his face, I always laughed.

Isabel Montclaire

I’ve experienced my ultimate dream – so what do I dream of now? I dream that millions of people throughout the world will join together to repair our broken agricultural system through a face-to-face social network where people will actually talk to each other. I dream that we will join forces to create radiant health for people, pollinators and our planet through affordable organic food. I dream that this network will be created through a spontaneous and loving uprising. I’ve heard this kind of network called a “decentralized autonomous organization.”

I dream of food as life. I dream of better food for a better future. I dream that organic food is the norm, not the exception, and that it becomes our national medicine. I dream of no back-of-mind worries about all the pesticides I am eating or about what those pesticides are doing to the bees. And so on. You get the idea.

I’ve named this network “The Hive Food Network.” If you dream of eating a diet consisting solely of organic food, I’m here to help you because my dream now is to make your dream come true. Just like Lolita did for me.

Let’s dream together and enjoy the beautiful ride.

*Portrait by Eve Holloran

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Nirvana in the Real World

My next riding experience offered me the opportunity to witness chemical-intensive agriculture, or stated another way, to repeatedly see the huge amount of chemicals used to grow crops and raise animals.

After rehabilitating injured racehorses, I rode my paint quarter horse, Quincy, with my friend Lolita on her family’s 480-acre working farm. The land had been in her family since 1912 – that’s five generations. According to Lolita, the farm had a lot of stories to tell. At the time, they were leasing the land to a hazelnut orchardist, a grass seed farmer and a cattle rancher. It is oddly ironic that although the farm met the acreage definition of a small farm, large-scale industrial agriculture practices were used to cultivate the crops.

A perfectly manicured trail meandered throughout the farm. Spectacular vistas of Mt. Hood and its rolling foothills framed the farm’s bottomland pastures. A river ran through it. A lone white swan occupied a pond in the middle of a wood and would make a point of spooking our horses by swiftly flying straight up when we rode by. Having lived in England, I often had the feeling I was riding through a beautiful English country estate. Once in a while, Lolita and I would see a coyote and pretend it was a fox and chase it around, minus the hounds. No matter how fast we galloped, though, it would always elude us.

My experience was perpetually the same – on every ride, every cell of my body overflowed with wonderment and gratitude that I was able to ride there. I’d pinch myself and think, This is too good to be true. I learned that nirvana does exist: It’s right here, right now, not some other where on some other day.

While we rode, Lolita and I would discuss the world’s problems and try to figure out solutions. Chemical-intensive agriculture was a frequent topic because we were seeing it firsthand. The farmers used a constant procession of pesticides and synthetic fertilizers, and it seemed like every couple of weeks during the growing season something or other was being applied. Countless times, Lolita called me to cancel our ride because some big machine was out there spraying pesticides, and we didn’t want to get caught in the crossfire of pesticide drift. Lolita was constantly concerned that the chemicals were damaging the soil. The harshness of it all was difficult to ignore. Death, death, death. There must be a better way, I thought.

I learned the cattle that grazed on the lush grass of those pastures had time-released bovine growth hormones clipped to their ears. Yes, grass-fed cows can be pumped full of hormones. Buyer beware.

My horse went lame and Lolita was diagnosed with brain cancer all in the same year. The letter I wrote to her when she was on her deathbed remains to this day the best writing I have ever done. Someday I may publish it. When I return to the farm for a visit, I break down and cry. The emotions are a potent, soupy mix of sadness, joy, and gratitude, and they are slow to fade with time.

Deep love hides behind the curtain of grief.