The Lion’s Tooth

Benjamin Vogt

http://bevogt.com

http://deepmiddle.blogspot.com

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 At the front corner of our yard when I was growing up, where a sliver of

lawn separated our driveway from the neighbors', the mailbox stood covered in the

full glory of a finicky, magenta-blooming clematis my mom finally got established.

From a block away this mature vine was a beacon—the subtle and regal color, the

thick petals, and the puffy stamens. Someone who knew how to garden lived here.

But in the grass popped up the misplaced bright head of a dandelion bent on

ruining the majesty of the queen of vines. You could see it from inside the house,

fifty feet away, like a pulsing strobe light. You could see it from down the street. At

night you could, invariably—according to my mother—see it from an overhead

Northwest Boeing 727 making its final approach to Minneapolis-St. Paul

International. It was like an overnight pimple on the rejuvenated skin of my mom's

late-spring landscape.

Dandelions provide one of the first sources of nectar for bees and other

pollinating insects in spring, and confirm the first glimmer of hope we had when,

back in March, the temperature briefly hit sixty. With their proliferate seed heads,

dandelions are a staple of the American landscape. Once, when English colonists

came to the new world, they were also an imported food staple, a cultivated

delicacy for garden salads. Still, as humans have spread over the last 100,000 years,

reaching North America some 12,500 years ago, the development of agriculture has

placed us above and out of the confines of our environments—leading to the

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inevitable disappearance of over 95% of the plants the pilgrims saw in the new

world. According to biologist E.O. Wilson, the earth loses nearly 3,000 plant,

animal, and insect species each year, or three every hour. This constitutes what

many scientists call the sixth great mass extinction in the 3.5 billion year history of

the earth.

As the continents drifted apart long ago, separate and distinct ecosystems

began to emerge. One such place can be found in the Hengduan Mountains of

southwest China, the most biodiverse temperate forest in the world. Over the

course of one day, starting from the valleys to the high ridges, one can move

through all four seasons as the climate changes. This strong box of genetic

diversity was perfectly placed to survive the ice age's glaciers that ravaged the

fauna and flora of North America and Europe. As a result, many of the world's

most common ornamental garden plants originate here.

Toward the beginning of the cretaceous period, dinosaurs were flourishing

amid tropical and moist landscapes. On the basis of the pollen spores found in

ancient sediment the world over, the first flowers began to appear among these

reptiles some 134 million years ago. A recent fossilized discovery by

paleobotanists Sun Ge from China and David Dilcher from the United States,

shows a flowering plant named archaefructus dating to around 125 million years

ago in northern China. Though it lacks petals, and while alive had no scent, it is not

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primitive enough to be the definitive first flower—but it is the first visual record of

such a plant in the world.

The end of the cretaceous period, 64 million years ago, marked the most famous

extinction period the world has ever seen, that of the dinosaurs and an estimated

50% of the total species on earth. The largest extinction occurred 235 million years

ago when over 90% of the species vanished. Niles Eldridge, paleontologist and a

curator of the American Museum of Natural History, says scientists have

discovered a recurring pattern in these extinction events that cycle at about every

64 million years; and though they are usually caused by forces such as tectonic

shifts, volcanic eruptions and meteor impacts, the current period is clearly caused

by creatures living on the earth. As human agriculture, through the monoculture of

its crops, brings an end to ecosystems that support vast species, as fences and

poisons and suburbs create barriers to migration routes, as foreign invasive species

are brought in accidentally or to beautify our foundation plantings, in our eyes,

native species become pests and die away. Through farming, humans no longer fit

into the larger picture, are no longer bound or balanced by a place's ability to

physically sustain them. But eventually, at around 10–13 billion people, our

agricultural effects may catch up with us and we will outgrow the planet's capacity

to nourish us, even with the advent of genetic engineering of crops and animals.

With projections of human population to be at 8 billion by 2020, we simply dwarf

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the estimated 10–30 million species of other life forms that we rely on to replenish

and maintain our world. If we truly are in the midst of the sixth extinction, Eldridge

says that the hope of our population cap will mean the level of lost species should

not reach that of the largest extinction 235 million years ago.

Such statistics aren't meant to terrify, or even to humble in the strictest sense,

but they should make one more aware of the value—beyond nature for nature's

sake—of the biologic and human cultural diversity that needs to be preserved in

order to balance ourselves with the world for the first time in our species' history.

When I was growing up my dad had a gas edger. He fitted a makeshift metal

tube to the exhaust of this edger and shoved it down into holes we found in the

yard. For my mom, if she could, she'd use as violent a means to rid the world of

dandelions—with a passion for Armageddon that I've only come to know recently,

all dandelions must die. Their seed must be wiped from the earth. One spring I

casually mention over the phone how happy I am to see dandelions, that their

emergence means the forsythia and tulips are not far behind. "I hate those damn

dandelions," she replies. "I wish I could pluck every last one of them so we'd be

done with it." It seems strange to me as I think about dandelions as a foreign

species, brought here by us, thriving in spite of our chemicals. Don't they now have

a right to exist, much as the fictional Frankenstein did?

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 In Switzerland, the government has requested that an ethics panel weigh the

dignity of plants, or, to find out what plants' rights actually are. Is pulling a

dandelion morally wrong? According to journalist Katherine Kersten, "The Swiss

have added a provision to their constitution requiring ‘account to be taken of the

dignity of creation when handling animals, plants, and other organisms.’" The

ethics panel was formed in an attempt to give such concerns practical examples and

applications. One illustration is the following, where Kersten is citing Wesley

Smith from the Weekly Standard:

A farmer mows his field [apparently an acceptable action, perhaps because

the hay is intended to feed the farmers' herd—the report doesn't say]. But

then, while walking home, he casually ‘decapitates’ some wildflowers with

his scythe. The panel decries this act as immoral, though its members can't

agree why. The report states, opaquely: ‘At this point it remains unclear

whether this action is condemned because it expresses a particular moral

stance of the farmer toward other organisms or because something bad is

being done to the flowers themselves.’

This panel does not consider that genetic engineering is unacceptable to the

plant's dignity, but it would be so if it caused plants to lose their independence as

free, reproducing, and wild organisms. I wonder how many "introduced" cultivars

of plants in the gardening industry have lost their own dignity over the centuries?

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But still, is my mom insulting the flora, feverishly yanking every dandelion flower

and sharp-leaved stalk from the ground? The entire wildness? The creation itself?

Or is she saving the native plants? If we genetically engineered a dandelion that

acted more like a prim and proper front-of-the-perennial-border ground cover, what

would change? Our dignity might increase at the expense of the plant's—perhaps.

Walking along the back fence of my small lot, I noticed my neighbor—who

lives on a mostly wild three acres—came along his back property line and yanked

out large prairie thistles. Then, apparently, he laid them down parallel to my fence,

almost as if they were sacrificial offerings. I don't know if he thought I'd planted

them, or what statement he might have been making. I do often seed just over the

fence line—perhaps he saw me—simply because I'm amazed his wild backyard

only grows invasive cedars, not one wildflower benefitting bird or bee anywhere.

We need prairie thistles.

And we need dandelions. I need dandelions. They're the first bright sign in

spring that winter is finally over, yes, praise be, finally over. And I've come to

appreciate them for this reason mainly, but also for their importance to, say,

emerging queen bumblebees hungry to start a new colony. I also have fond

memories of frying their blossoms at camp one year, and drinking warm Kool-Aid

to wash them down. In a way, this flower is my first flower—likely the first one I

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ever touched as a child, the petals staining my knees as I roughhoused outside or

whose seeds I blew in to the air.

The dandelion is a weed because it doesn't belong here. The dandelion is a

weed because it has the ability to spread quickly and thickly on disturbed land, and

its progeny will always lay waiting just beneath the soil, hidden under other plants,

caught between blades of grass or cracks in concrete where the rain settles it in so

we can't get to it. The dandelion is a weed because it reminds us too much of

ourselves, of how our own thoughts and actions can suddenly become loosed from

our ethics and morals. It seems such a plant should be placed at the center of our

gardens.

© 2010 Benjamin Vogt

reprinted from ISLE: Interdisciplinary Studies in Environment and Literature

http://isle.oxfordjournals.org/cgi/content/full/isq048?ijkey=EpY92LlVyLj6FCR&k

eytype=ref

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