Storming the Gates of Paradise (43 page)

The book had a colossal impact from the beginning and is often credited with inspiring the DDT ban that went into effect nationwide in 1972. Though some now challenge the relationship between DDT and eggshell-thinning in wild birds, species from brown pelicans to bald eagles and peregrine falcons have rebounded from the brink of extinction since the ban. Conservatives such as Michael Crichton prefer to blame Carson and environmentalists for “millions of deaths” from malaria, but the ban was never applied worldwide, and DDT is still used selectively overseas. (Carson pointed out that since mosquitoes quickly develop resistance to DDT, as insects do to many other pesticides, the stuff is hardly a cure-all.) But picking on Carson over DDT misses the point that she was the first to describe the scope of the sinister consequences of a chemical society, the possibility that, with herbicides, pesticides, and the like, we were poisoning not just pests—or pests and some songbirds and farmworkers—but everyone and everything for a very long time forward. As one chapter opening puts it, “For the first time in the history of the world, every human being is now subjected to contact with dangerous chemicals, from the moment of conception until death.” Still true. And if the particulars of the chemicals identified by Carson have changed enough that her book no longer has the currency Jacobs’s does, that may be one measure of its success. Another is the far greater environmental literacy of the public, the necessary precursor to any broad environmental movement.

In
The Feminine Mystique
, Friedan, who died earlier this year at age eighty-five, described an array of nebulous social forces—women’s magazines, Freudian psychology, politicians’ speeches, advertising, and more—that were pressuring and persuading women to be stay-at-home mothers, producing the baby boom,
pushing the consumption of household and beauty products, and promoting demeaning, demoralizing ideas about women’s capabilities. Her job was hardest of all, because these forces weren’t technically coercive; to prove that they were, she had to argue against the powerful façade of contented domesticity, a façade not only men but many women were (and are) bent on preserving. Simply by demonstrating the forces that had pushed women back into the home after the war and into a more retrograde version of female identity, Friedan was digging deep and fighting hard; if her book now seems overly focused on middle-class married white women with kids, it carved out wholly new territory to think about what we might nowadays call the production of identity and the possibility of resistance.

In many respects,
The Feminine Mystique
seems dated now. Friedan’s background in psychology seems to have made her susceptible to a lot of the era’s clucking over “delinquency,” homosexuality, adultery, and promiscuity, as though she were witnessing the first stirrings of what would become feminist and sexual revolutions without seeing the implications. Nor does she question the foundations (if not the delights) of marriage, affluence, or suburbia. Still, there are fleeting moments when she recognizes the links between the “feminine mystique” and consumer capitalism, as in her observation that “in the suburbs where most hours of the day there are virtually no men at all . . . women who have no identity other than sex creatures must ultimately seek their reassurance through the possession of ‘things.’ ”

Friedan’s inchoate solution to “the problem that has no name” seemed to be that these educated middle-class women needed careers or some kind of intellectual stimulation, a solution far less profound than her analysis of the problem, and one that overlooked the women who were already invading politics. In
The Feminine Mystique
, she said of the 1950s, “It was easier to look for Freudian sexual roots in man’s behavior, his ideas, and his wars than to look critically at his society and act constructively to right its wrongs.” Of course, Friedan would go on to think more radically about what women’s lives could become and what we could change, and of course in writing for women’s magazines and then taking up a five-year residence at the New York Public Library’s Allen Room, where she wrote her landmark book, she was having more of a career than she let on—not to mention a history of youthful activism in left and labor politics that she seldom discussed.

Jacobs and Carson were also working—the former as an editor at
Architectural Forum
, the latter as an independent writer. Indeed, they and the WSP activists seem like the women Friedan imagined but did not actually portray in her book. Married with three children, Jacobs continued a professional life of writing, engaging in the world of ideas and, by the time her book appeared, fighting Robert Moses’s plan to put an expressway through Greenwich Village’s Washington Square. Indeed, she was able to shame the nation’s anointed urbanist, Lewis Mumford, into supporting the cause, even though he had just patronized her book in the
New Yorker
as “Mother Jacobs’s Home Remedies” and reduced her description of the rich social life an urbanite might experience on the street to “the little flirtations that season a housewife’s day.”

Sexism in those days went around undisguised;
Time
magazine, in the course of asserting that DDT posed no human health problems, brazenly portrayed “Miss Carson” as “hysterically overemphatic” with a “mystical attachment to the balance of nature,” her book as an “emotional and inaccurate outburst.” Carson, who never married but raised a couple of nieces and a great-nephew, had been a successful scientist and writer within the federal government before she became an independent, full-time, and best-selling author in 1952.
Silent Spring
was published in September 1962. The Cuban missile crisis began a month later, and for a while people in the United States thought they wouldn’t have the luxury of dying slowly from chemicals rather than suddenly from bombs.

A year earlier, the United States and the Soviet Union had decided to resume nuclear testing after an informal three-year moratorium. In response, six women met in Washington, D.C., and began to organize what became, on November 1, 1961, a nationwide strike of tens of thousands of women in sixty cities across the country—mostly married-with-children, middle-class, white women whose radical potential would grow with the decade. The aboveground tests were already known to create radioactive clouds that drifted over the earth, dropping radioactive by-products as they went. Strontium 90 was seeping into mothers’ milk and thereby into newborn children; the weapons that were supposed to protect civilians in case of an all-out war were routinely contaminating them. Using their status as middle-class moms as a shield, WSP activists plunged into the fray, taking
risks no one else had dared, refusing to screen out potential communists and reaching out to women in the USSR. Within a couple of years, they had helped bring into being the Limited Test Ban Treaty (an achievement acknowledged by United Nations chief U Thant and President John Kennedy) and made a mockery of HUAC’s anticommunist inquisitions. In early 1964, they were among the first to oppose the Vietnam War.

Epochal insurrection was breaking out all over during what is often seen as the nation’s most repressive era. The civil rights movement was in full swing (though the contributions of key players such as Ella Baker and Rosa Parks would be marginalized and/or downplayed). In the 1950s, the Mattachine Society and Daughters of Bilitis organized, respectively, gays and lesbians; the Daughters held their first national conference in San Francisco in 1960, the year students and labor protested HUAC’s anti-educator hearings in that city in one of the first confrontations that looked like “the sixties.” Tom Hayden spent the summer of 1960 with students in SLATE, the Berkeley student activists’ organization, and brought what he learned back to Michigan and Students for a Democratic Society. The history of SDS is well-enough known at this point; that WSP was working side by side with SDS on antidraft and antiwar organizing has been airbrushed out of history’s official portrait. But the later ’60s only reaped what the more daring had sown at the beginning of the decade. And among the most visionary sowers were those women whose achievements, those books and bans and changed roles, are still here.

An e-mail arrived as I was finishing this essay, detailing the work of four or five women who are researching and deploying new bioremediation technologies in the cleanup of toxic residues in New Orleans. Based at the Common Ground community center, these women are scientists, environmentalists, and urban activists all at once, and the e-mail goes on to describe them conferring while a young man reads a book to three girls in daycare. It’s hard to imagine this guerrilla cleanup team now without Carson, Friedan, and Jacobs then. “Only a book” is a popular epithet, implying that writing always takes place on the sidelines, but these three make it clear that books can change the world.

Dante’s Inferno
, illustrated by Sandow Birk, text adapted by Sandow Birk and Marcus Sanders (San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 2004), 240 pp.

Many years ago, I was supposed to move to Los Angeles, but every time I went there, something about the light and space convinced me that life was basically meaningless and you might as well abandon hope right away. I was still an art critic in those days, and I would drive from northeast of Los Angeles, where I was supposed to settle into my new suburban existence, over to the downtown museums, look at some art, and drive back. But when I came home, I would find that the hours I’d spent negotiating freeway merge lanes and entrances and exits and parking garages were, in some mysterious way, more memorable than the museums. I was supposed to have a head full of paintings or installations. Instead, I had a head full of the anonymously ugly spaces that are not on the official register of what any place is supposed to be, the infrastructure of what for me in those days of my youth was despair.

Every city has them. If you think of Paris, you’re more likely to envision gracious rows of mansard-roofed apartment buildings on chestnut-lined boulevards or the Eiffel Tower than the long cement passages of the metro lit by bad fluorescence and smelling of piss or the dank passageways descending from cafés into Turkish toilets. Even national parks situate the sedentary visitor in an asphalted world of public toilets, parking lots, and thou-shalt-not signage, stuff that almost every visitor is good at fast-forwarding past to the sublimity of waterfalls and forest glades
and elk doing ungulate things in public. Certainly a waterfall is more striking than the parking lot near its base, but I wonder how it is that visitors can be so sure they saw what they were supposed to and so oblivious to what they are not.

Wordsworth wrote in “Tintern Abbey” of those rural places, saying that, in “the din of towns and cities, I have owed to them,/In hours of weariness, sensations sweet” and speculating that such places contributed “unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,/As have no slight or trivial influence/On that best portion of a good man’s life.” It isn’t hard to speculate on what he would think of multistory parking garages—he fought to keep a railroad out of the Lake District—but one wonders if he ever felt the weight of the din of cities amid the pastoral places and calculated what
their
effect might be. Not that I’m categorically against din or cities, but I wonder about these leftover spaces. Someone remarked to me recently that the reason you lose your recent memory after a blow to the head or similar catastrophe is that you haven’t had time to edit it yet. We edit, but life lies also in the outtakes. And they get grimmer and grimmer. Perhaps what’s terrifying about these new urban landscapes is that they imply the possibility of a life that would be one long outtake.

The world sometimes seems to be made more and more of stuff we’re not supposed to look at, the whole banal infrastructure that supports the illusion of automotive independence, the largely unseen places whence come our materials—strip mines, industrial agriculture, automated assembly lines, abattoirs—and whence they go: the dumps. A city is a theatrical space, and its parliaments and museums and courthouses are the stage sets, while the sewer systems and trash cans are in the wings. But we are not audience (though tourists try); we are all actors, wandering on and off stage, seeing what we’re supposed to and what we’re not. Los Angeles just happens to consist mostly of these drably utilitarian spaces, in part because cars demand them, and it is a city built to accommodate cars to the nth degree. These spaces tend to be gray, the gray of unpainted cement, asphalt, accumulated grime, and steel; they tend to be either abandoned or frequented by people who are also discards, a kind of subterranean realm hauled to the surface. Or not.

When the new Getty Museum opened off the stretch of the 405 Freeway that
connects Los Angeles proper to the even more suburban San Fernando Valley, much was written about Richard Meier’s architecture and Robert Irwin’s gardens. Remarkably little was written about the parking garage, though this was the first structure one encountered on arriving at the Getty. (Theoretically, you could take a bus to the place, but this was, after all, a museum in L.A., up on the bluff above the deep canyon the 405 runs through; it wasn’t close to anything, except some mansions up in the heights with it, and public transit is largely an underclass phenomenon there.) The old Getty in Malibu had been modeled after a Roman villa, all colonnades and porticoes; and it became clear to me that the new one was, wittingly or otherwise, also full of Europeanate historical reference. It was Dante’s
Divine Comedy
as a theme park, and, just as in the
Divine Comedy
, the Inferno was the most compelling part. You, brave cultural adventurer, were Dante. Or a dead soul with a thing for art, anyway.