Archive for the ‘A Thousand Words’ Category
The more I learn about contemporary agriculture of all forms the more I’m convinced that the decision to avoid eating animals is a limited response to the myriad problems of modern farming. I’m in no way suggesting that eating exclusively plants should be abandoned as a strategy of reform. But I am saying that, in and of itself, its promises are modest at best. We need a new perspective on the issue, one that thinks bigger about agriculture’s future.
Begin with the common vegan claim that a vegan diet does not harm animals. This claim, which typically means to say that vegans do not intentionally harm domesticated or hunted animals, overlooks the fact that untold numbers of sentient little creatures—I’m excluding insects here (more on them soon)—are sliced and diced and crushed to harvest our plant-based diet. It also overlooks the fact that vegetable farmers rarely suffer larger animals—say, deer—from cutting into their profits. Lead injections are par for the course on the happy veggie farm, as are insecticides (even organic) that harm more than insects.
As much as we would like to sidestep this issue, vegans cannot declare themselves free from harm and tuck into their tofu. In fact, there may be cases in which raising and killing and eating one large farm animal, instead of clearing the land to raise kale and kill vermin, is—at least in utilitarian terms—less harmful to the animal world. I’m not at all saying eating domesticated animals is a choice we should make, but I am noting that there are arguments to be made that it could reduce animal suffering. That’s tough medicine to take, but we need to at least swallow it.
Many of you have no doubt heard some version or other of this objection. I think it needs to be taken more seriously than we’ve taken it, if for no other reason than the fact that it nudges us towards a radically new way to conceptualize food and the human-animal relationship. Again—I’m not going to any way suggest eating domesticated of hunted creatures. Instead, I’m going to ask you to think in a more radical way about animals, food, and agriculture; more radical than just saying no to eating critters.
It’s comforting and relatively easy to give up animal products and declare our hands clean. But they’re only clean in the way that the person who fails to pull the switch to kill one person instead of five in the famous trolley experiment has clean hands. As it now stands, anyone who eats has animal blood on her hands. So if deciding to give up animal products is not enough, or only a symbolic gesture in light of the problem’s severity, what are we supposed to do? What are our options.
We must be advocates, of course. But we have to maximize our advocacy. I would argue that advocating a plant-based diet is meaningless if it’s not complemented by an equal, if not stronger, advocacy for climate controlled agriculture. That is, vegans who think they are helping animals by not eating them would be much more effective if they enjoined veganism with advocacy for a farming future that could realistically eliminate all animal harm. Growing food indoors, where condition are carefully monitored, is quite possible if we’re willing to give up row crops and eat a diversity of whole plants.
As agriculture now stands, we cannot assume that not eating animals alone would necessarily reduce animal suffering. Expanding acreage in kale would expand the acreage where squirrels and bunnies and mice and birds and deer are also killed. Move agriculture inside—that is, radically rethink and advocate and invest in a new form of agriculture—and the game really changes in a way that improves the lives of animals, not to mention that of humans who, having decided not to channel our resources into domesticated animals can start cultivating the thousands of nutrient dense crops we now neglect
I would even suggest—tentatively—that this agricultural future could include room for eating animals at the margins, where the ethics of killing sentient animals intentionally don’t apply. I’ve written extensively about roadkill as a viable dietary supplement and I’m as eager as ever to support that option. I’ve also written about eating insects and, although not as convinced, I feel fairly sure that this could be an acceptable dietary choice in a future agricultural system that did minimal harm to animals, humans, and the environment. We should, in essence, eat like bonobos.
These ideas are at the core of a book proposal I’m now writing on rethinking the meaning and form of agriculture for a sustainable future. Be assured: raising and hunting animals for the purposes of consumption are not part of that future. Eating animals might be. Vegan activism has a role, but not nearly as essential a role as a new way of advocating for farming, one that would be best for the animal world and the environment.
Humans have been practicing agriculture for less than a 10th of our contemporary existence. Who’s to say we got it right the first time? It’s time to start over. Not eating animals raised or killed for food should be a starting point. But it’s not the be all and end all of a future that’s based on just food. To advocate for veganism as a singular path to justice for animals in agriculture is misguided. There so much more involved.
“Just be compassionate.” So goes the practically mantra-like phrase popular among those who advocate for animal justice. It seems to be an unassailable advice, a perfect lead rope to the land of reform. “Expand the circle of compassion”!
It becomes complicated, though, when considered in light of another fundamental quality of social life: justice. Thing is, it’s possible to be compassionate and, at the same time, unjust.
A dear friend applies for a job. You are head of hiring. A better-qualified applicant sends a resume across the transom but, because you know your friend is in financial straits and would be greatly relieved by this job offer, you give the job to your friend. That’s compassionate. But it’s also unjust.
Matters get complicated here because compassion is a felt emotion while justice is an understood concept. That’s overstating the distinction a bit, but still, emotions sometimes lead us to just decisions but they are as likely to lead us away from them. I know that my emotions have caused trouble on more than one occasion.
It happens. I recall my former neighbor, the owner of Max, a massive Weimaraner dog, defending Max—“oh you’re still a good boy Maxie”—after he was appropriately deemed an “out of control beast” by a neighborhood kid who Max had yanked off his bike. My neighbor’s canine compassion—however biased—outweighed the justice of a due apology.
Compassion, in other words, is never enough. There must be moral justice, too, and that requires thinking critically—often disinterestedly so—about justifying moral choice. On many occasions, readers will suggest that The Pitchfork not get overly tangled in the intricacy of ideas, lest we lose sight of the bedrock message of compassion. But those ideas, however abstract or entangled, keep compassion on target, maximizing its potential while protecting it against itself.
So I have a bumper sticker on my car that reads “Love Animals, Don’t Eat Them.” You could say that’s a sign of compassion, and it is. But it’s also a statement that everyone who advocates for animal interests needs to be able to justify without emotion and, yes, without compassion. Do that, and then your heart flow with love for the creatures who, by virtue of justice, we choose to respect as a moral imperative.
Loyal readers: I’m on the verge of launching The Daily Pitchfork, a website dedicated to promoting accuracy and context in the field of animal journalism. What follows are some tentative standards that we’re asking journalists to consider when they write about animals in the mainstream media. Please provide feedback, suggestions, and critiques. Also, if you are interested in doing volunteer work for The Daily Pitchfork please send me a note (email@example.com).
The Daily Pitchfork’s Basic Standards For Animal Journalism (DRAFT):
1) Many animals are the sentient subjects of a life. They experience pleasure and pain. Journalists writing about these animals must—if only implicitly—acknowledge the reality of their consciousness. When they do so through the perspective of animal advocates, they must use the proper terminology to describe the advocate (not everyone is an “animal rights activist”).
2) Many animals—particularly farm animals—are the products of extensive genetic manipulation. Failure to recognize animals’ genetic situation fosters basic misunderstandings about their behavior. Journalists writing about these animals are obligated to frame their lives in the relevant genetic histories, noting when appropriate how that history shapes an animal’s behavior.
3) The animals we eat and wear have to be slaughtered for these purposes. The nature of this process varies from backyard butchery to industrialized slaughter. Journalists writing about the life cycle of farm animals have an obligation to note the reality of slaughter, provide some insight into what it entails, and, when appropriate, illuminate the discomfort consumers and animals might have with the slaughtering process.
4) The industrialization of animal agriculture has been, and continues to be, exposed for its unacceptable environmental and ethical practices. At the same time, journalists have increasingly turned their attention to non-industrial (small, local, humane) alternatives. Writers must evaluate the environmental and ethical nature of these alternatives on their own terms rather than in comparison to the industrial models. They must do so, moreover, with the support of peer reviewed research rather than farmers’ claims to “sustainability” or “humaneness.”
5) Animals have perspectives on their own lives. They cannot, however, articulate them for us the way other oppressed groups can. Journalists nonetheless have a duty to consider those perspectives. Doing so does not require anyone to adopt “an animal rights” position, but only to make a charitable effort—drawing on the work of animal ethology when possible—to give a voice to the voiceless.
In the past week—in personal discussions and in the Twittersphere— I’ve heard three claims about killing animals that I’d like to address and, I hope, challenge. There’s nothing unusual in these objections—in fact they’re all pretty trite—but that’s all the better reason to deal with them forthrightly.
The first came on a run with friend who conveyed a story about her cousin thinking it was justifiable, and even required, for humans to cull invasive species. The specific animal in question, as is often the case in Texas, is the feral hog. These aggressive creatures wreak havoc on agricultural acreage and eastern woodlands across the Lone Star state. Those who hunt hogs often do so under the guise of conservation. They are, they insist, serving the public good by keeping the ecosystem in check. My first reaction to this justification is that humans have historically proven incapable of replicating the largely hidden complexity of nature and, as a result, any attempt to restore the “natural” balance is a fool’s errand marked by hubris. But my real objection comes down to something quite different: the proper relationship between resource consumption and punishment.
Here’s how I see it: it’s commonplace for certain sentient creatures to consume a disproportionate share of available resources. When I say sentient creatures I am of course including humans. It is often noted that the elderly and infirm consume an overwhelming majority of medical care resources. They are, in this respect, a sort of invasive species in the health care system. Their intention is hardly to be this way, but circumstances usually beyond their control have placed them in a resource-hogging position. Anyone who assumes that sentience is a baseline for moral consideration would, if I’m right here, have to accept the justifiable and intentionally administered death of the elderly and infirm (in hospitals) if they were also going to accept the intentional death of invasive animals as a just move. I’m not saying invasive species aren’t a pain in the ass. I’m just saying that certain groups of humans, usually by no choice of their own, are also a pain in the ass. Sometimes we need to call on compassion, if not respect for basic rights (and I realize this can get complicated vis-à-vis land rights), to help us back off and deal.
The second claim came from a tweet sent by Andrew Gunther. After he posted a celebratory pic of himself with colleagues who had devised a bunch of animal welfare standards, I asked: ”How do you justify caring for animal welfare and then killing the animal?” The back and forth went on for a bit and then Gunther dropped this little rhetorical gem: “Death is not a welfare issue. Quality of life is a welfare issue.” Wha??!! After I picked my jaw off the floor, I wondered: are we this delusional in our logic? Or, as agribusiness does so well, have we started to sway to the rhythm of our own slogans?
Let’s clarify. Gunther is saying—and I do wish he was alone, but he’s not—that while sentience obligates moral consideration, that moral consideration does not have to be be consistent. In other words, if you treat an animal well you are dutifully fulfilling a moral obligation but, when you want to eat the animal, you can toss duty and moral consideration out the barn door and send the poor beast to an untimely and callous death. Needless to say, this inconsistency renders the moral obligation meaningless and, in turn, Gunter’s supposed welfare concerns arbitrary. Gunther says death is “not a welfare issue.” He could not be more wrong. Death is THE ultimate welfare issue. If you kill a creature intentionally and unnecessarily, after all, you are denying his ability to enjoy the very welfare scheme that Gunther otherwise advocates as essential to an animal’s life. Point being, if sentience is a baseline for moral obligation (and Gunther’s interest in welfare per se proves his adherence to this premise), then it would be okay to treat any dependent creature well—your kids, your pets, your elderly parents—but then kill them when it struck your perverted fancy. Because, you know, death is not a welfare issue.
The final bee in my bonnet came in an essay by the English fox-hunting philosopher Roger Scruton. We read it in my “Eating Animals in America” class at Texas State (which I teach with the philosopher Bob Fischer). Scruton, who works with a fairly loose usage of virtue ethics, argues that if we did not eat farm animals they would not be here to enjoy the lives that they deserve to enjoy (assuming, as he does, they are raised on pasture). Scruton is no Gunther. He’s a deeply thoughtful philosopher. This claim, as such, is thus trickier than it sounds to refute. I boil the issue down to this question: when humans control the genetic fate of “a being that is the subject of a life” (Regan) does that control confer on humans permission to use that being as a means to an unnecessary (and violent) end? If yes, then wouldn’t a dog breeder be justified in killing dogs when it served a perceived interest to do so? Or a parent kill his kids when they pissed him off? Neither beings would have come into existence without the human choice to bring them into existence.
So why is it any different with farm animals?
As I continue the often uncomfortable process of subjecting my beliefs about eating animals to systematic scrutiny, I find myself seeing aspects of animal activism in a new, and not always flattering, light. Lately, for example, I have found myself getting frustrated with the overly simplistic claims that serve to justify the vegan way of life. Please note that I have zero moral tolerance for raising animals to consume them when other options are available. That said, I’m realizing that many vegan justifications are just as thoughtlessly reductive as are the carnivorous claims that vegans find so dimwitted: “we were meant to eat meat,” “we’re at the top of the food chain,” “it is the animals purpose to be food,” and so on. And we don’t want that.
So when I read something like (and I’m choosing a random example of late), “Our relationship with other animals should be one of awe and reverence, not one of use,” I think, well that’s nice. But then when I really think about it on a deeper level, I realize that this is an aphorism that obscures a far more complicated reality. First, on what grounds do I have an obligation to look at other creatures with awe and reverence? What if the animal does not behave in a way deserving of these reactions? Should I revere my awe-inspiring dog for rifling though my trash? To do so would actually be to objectify them by denying them any form of free will, to release them from any consequence of their actions, with automatic awe and reverence freezing these creatures into a romanticized category not unlike a classic painting or novel. Awe and respect too easily becomes mindless glorification.
Likewise, the question of use is far more complicated than the aphorism suggests. Of course, the intended meaning is to not use animals by yoking them to a plow or churning them into a burger—but that’s exploitation, a form of use. But use per se is unavoidable. We use each other—humans and humans, animals and animals, animals and humans—all the time. To remove ourselves from the matrix of use, for the evident purpose of experiencing disengaged awe and reverence, is to exonerate ourselves from the very hard work of developing genuine relationships with animals, ones that demand us to deal with a range of differences and similarities—a matrix of uses— to find common ground on a set of relationship “rules.” If you live with a companion animal, you know how hard this could be. I use my pets; they use me. To sever that bond is, once again, to objectify animals.
I’ll stop, but maybe you get my point. If you think it’s wrong to exploit animals, you have an obligation to make those thoughts known and appreciated. But when we do so through sloganeering rather than on the basis of common sense, moral clarity, and logical consistence, our chances of having an impact on broad cultural change is significantly reduced. We’re just firing very loud blanks in a war of words.
Beginning tomorrow, and lasting through August 20, the city of Denver will promote the gratuitous slaughter of animals who were raised with love. On Sunday you can get bison; Monday “sheep is the star”; Tuesday is pig night; Wednesday it’s cow. Every meal will be served at a restaurant that prides itself on morally commmodfying sentient animals who farmers respected while they lived, before selling their bodies for cash. The event is called “Hoofin It” and “farm to table” is the mantra. As The Denver Post reports, “a different hooved animal will be showcased every evening.” Cost of the showcase: $60.
Now, critics of animal agriculture, as well as animal advocates, have become all too familiar with these sort of Orwellian stunts. Essentially, what these events do is obscure systematic suffering under the false guise of humanity in order to serve a range of financial interests and a popular taste for animal flesh. It’s insulting, really. We’re especially accustomed to the oxymoronic–not to mention moronic—sponsorships of these moral carnivals: ethical butchers, humane animal farmers, compassionate carnivores, and the like. It thus may come as a surprise that the sponsor of “Hoofin It” is . . . . The Humane Society of the United States.
As you might imagine, there’s been outrage over this. Why would an organization that works so diligently to reduce the consumption of meat promote the consummation of meat? One letter I received from a Colorado critic of the event explained, “Needless to say, the vegan community in Colorado is quite upset with HSUS’ sponsorship of this event and has notified HSUS of their concern.” Here is what HSUS wrote by way of an explanation:
My thoughts on this response too are many to articulate, and none of them are in sympathy. But in a nutshell it’s safe to say that there’s a fundamental difference between encouraging more humane methods of animal agriculture and throwing a party to celebrate animal slaughter. There’s simply no hoofin it around HSUS’s craven capitulation to compromise on this event. Shame.
(HSUS’s response came from Sarah Barnett. You can reach her here: Sarah Barnett <firstname.lastname@example.org>)
The British psychotherapist Adam Phillips writes movingly about the relationship between frustration and satisfaction. Frustrations are inevitable and they instinctively seek satisfaction. But not all our sought for satisfactions are equally healthy or effective.
In fact, the source of most human angst is that the vast majority of our chosen satisfactions are off the rails. Way off the rails. Most of them may in fact be preconditions for addiction. We become frustrated, we overshoot the satisfaction bullseye, seeking a solution in behaviors that feel good in the moment but leave us damaged in the long run.
We all have addictions, whether we are aware of them or not. Some addictions are low grade—such as watching too much TV, running too many miles, drinking too much coffee, playing too many video games, worrying too much, not worrying enough, Facebook. Others are debilitating–everyone with an uncle knows about those. Somewhere on this continuum of addictive behaviors lies the craving to eat animals.
This idea came to me this afternoon, while swimming. I was in a city pool, a fairly run down one, and I was swimming laps and feeling residual anxiety about having to change in the tiny “locker room” where a lot of underprivileged people shower, do drugs, and even have sex. As I was contemplating the admittedly minor frustration of my clothing change in a grungy changing area a huge waft of meat smoke from a nearby grill came over the pool.
And suddenly . . . . I felt better.
The smell overwhelmed me, evoking the safety of childhood and, I suppose, the satisfaction of a deeply comfortable flavor. On another level it may also have satisfied a less obvious desire to dominate another being, to manipulate the genetics of a critter to make my life more focused on satisfaction. As the “locker room” anxiety receded under the influence of a grilled animal flesh, the thought came to me that eating meat was an addiction—a culturally approved addiction. It seems perfectly safe to hypothesize that killing sentient beings when we don’t have to might very well be a pathology.
As I say, it’s only a thought. But it seems reasonable to interpret eating animals—which we once did for survival but (for most of us) no longer have to—as a particular kind of all-too-easy response to our very real sufferings and struggles. And, as indicated, there’s virtually no psychoanalytic check on this behavior, no cultural message that indicates how our response is out of whack with the anxiety it seeks to alleviate. As with so many of our pathologies, the impulse to pursue them may have once helped us survive. But we mature and outgrow them, once we recognize them for what they are. Addictions.
I’ve been doing some historical research lately. One of the rewards that comes from investigating the details of 18th-century agriculture is that an unexpected discovery can cast doubt on common assumptions about the way agriculture works today (or is supposed to work). One of the more tenacious beliefs common in contemporary agriculture is the idea that the best way to keep soil healthy is to graze animals on it. Defenders of rotational grazing insist they’re farming the way nature intended us to farm, and the way farmers have been doing it for centuries. It was thus more than a little gratifying to stumble upon the following account, published in Maryland in March of 1789, by a sheep farmer, who was not so convinced of this received wisdom:
So far as dung improves soil, it ought to be allowed for; and this is for all dung applied from winter littering or summer folding; but how far, if at all, it is to be prized, when slowly dropt about in pasturing, is a question. Beasts constantly ramming the soil of a pasture into a close compact state, until it more than is commonly apprehended. That the foot of the beast does more damage to soil than his dung so dispersed and exposed to exaltation does good, is probable from several instances related by serious good people of clover fields having been divided, and the one half pastured on, all the summer, the other mown twice and both sown at the same time with wheat on one plowing, when the mown gave considerably the best crops of wheat. Let us suppose a lay of grass has been left unpastured, and even uncut, for three years; another like field at the same time is pastured close as is usual during the same three years; now let the farmer walk into these and observe how mellow, light, and lively the one is,–how firm the other. Whish of these will he prefer for a crop of grain? . . .It them may be suspected that pasturing doth not improve the soil; that on the whole it even injures it.
It really makes you wonder in what other ways we’ve twisted the agrarian past to fulfill today’s utopian visions, or at least on what sources what we’ve based our contemporary ideas.
If you care about honeybees, you probably know about colony collapse disorder (CCD). The disappearance of the world’s greatest living pollinators evokes an especially uneasy kind of ecological discomfort. After all, honeybee pollination brings us much of our food.
It would therefore seem especially critical—if only in a self-interested way— to understand the causes of honeybee collapse. And quickly. A wide range and combination of circumstances have been proposed over the years as factors contributing to the disorder. So diverse are the causal possibilities that the complexity of this problem has become legion to entomologists worldwide. It’s therefore not at all surprising that what’s missing from the CCD debate is a smoking gun. THE answer.
But if you read Mother Jones (May 23), you’d be forgiven for thinking that the ever elusive smoking gun was, at long last, discovered.”Did Scientists Just Solve the Bee Collapse Mystery,?” ran the headline. It’s a thoroughly Mother Jones-ish tactic. Strongly suggests a clear answer to a multifaceted problem—that smoking gun—but stay aware that the issue is really a lot more complex than the article will make it seem. Then add a question mark to cover everyone’s ass while still allowing the reader to feel the satisfaction of a clear and singular answer, not to mention righteous outrage at the dastardly menaces behind this ecological tragedy.
This is good guys/bad guys journalism.
The MJ article breezily relies on a single study, one that happens to have a Harvard imprimatur on it (along with that of a beekeeping association) to argue that the “key driver” of colony collapse disorder has once and for all been identified: a class of pesticides known as neonicotinoids. The study identifying neonicontinoids as the cause of CCD is praised by MJ for its clarity (The experiment couldn’t have been simpler”), it’s brilliance (“What makes the new Harvard study remarkable . . .”), and it’s conclusiveness (“the CCD mystery has been solved.”) The author of the MJ article, Tom Philpott, effectively blames CCD on Bayer, the manufacturer of the pesticides in question.
But then, as always happens with MJ’s coverage of agriculture—coverage driven first and foremost by an inveterate hatred of industrial structures (Bayer in this case)—the other shoe drops with a thud. It happens a lot at MJ. I’ve noted as much in the past with respect to GMOs and an eventually retracted French study on rats. In the CCD case, the backlash against the “Harvard study” fingering neoniotinoids was unusually swift. The more you learn about the study used to play the role of the smoking gun, the harder it is to believe that it was given so much weight in a major magazine to explain one of the most mysterious ecological phenomenon on earth.
The best critique of the “Harvard study” that MJ placed on a pedestal is here. Suspicions begin with the journal in which the paper was published—an obscure Italian publication called The Bulletin of Insectology. Critics note that the study’s author Chensheng Lu, “ has had trouble getting his work on honeybees past peer review in many US journals.” The study’s sample included only 18 honeybee colonies, all located in central Massachusetts. The researcher “had exposed his bees to an unrealistically high dose of pesticides,” a level that bayer itself agrees would be lethal for bees. ”This study is a total distraction,” said an entomologist at the University of Maryland. “It’s not surprising that those bees died — those doses weren’t field realistic. The only surprise was that the bees didn’t all die right away.”
But a distraction is what Philpott and MJ are all about. They will shamelessly deploy the flimsiest science to bash industrial agriculture. Which is sad because industrial agriculture is so thoroughly flawed on its own terms, and its flaws are so readily obvious, that nobody should have to rely on questionable science to expose those problems. I’m all for sticking it to Big Ag—which is why I advocate for veganism—but let’s not resort to deception to do it. Follow the money, for sure. But follow the science as well.
Just as we experience outrage when Big Agriculture’s deep pockets lobby for subsidies and deregulation, so we should react when a bunch of great writers lend their literary talents to a fast-food company with a history of greenwashing.
That’s now happening with Jonathan Safran Foer and the team of writers he has “curated” to further thicken Chipotle’s rhetorical soup. Like Big Ag’s iron triangle, this relationship reeks of self-interest and faux populism. Simply put, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
So far the reviews of this initiative are rotten, as they should be. But what’s problematic is not that the writing—all done on cups and bags—isn’t insultingly bad, but that this project happened in the first place.
That an impressive slew of cultural critics and deep thinkers—ranging from Toni Morrison to Steven Pinker—didn’t think better about cheapening their talents by using them to promote a food franchise bodes poorly for the state of intelligent public discourse. It’s like all those cool kids in high school, the best looking ones with the nicest clothes and fanciest cars, who were so collectively enthralled with their clique that were unable to see how ridiculous they looked to the rest of us.
Beyond the embarrassment of this literary-burrito association, though, is the goofy reasoning behind it. Here’s Foer’s quote in Vanity Fair: “I mean, I wouldn’t have done it if it was for another company like a McDonald’s, but what interested me is 800,000 Americans of extremely diverse backgrounds having access to good writing. A lot of those people don’t have access to libraries, or bookstores. Something felt very democratic and good about this.”
Sure. All those Chipotle goers, denied access to a library or a bookstore, will now be able to read the thoughts of our nation’s most creative thinkers on the outside of trash—very democratic, very good. But, by this logic, why not just place your wordy pearls of wisdom on a McDonald’s bag? Or just a bathroom wall? That would be democratic. And eliminate this outbreak of literary food poisoning for good.
*Two notes. First, I’m so baffled by this initiative that my residual paranoia compels me to say that I think this could be a hoax. Just saying. Second, I have this piece today in Slate.