As far as I can tell, nearly the entire ecosystem of Central Park’s lakes lives on bread. The ducks, mallards, geese, and swans eat it. The red-eared slider, painted and box turtles \eat it. And, arriving at my interests, the sunfish, catfish, and carp eat it (only the largemouth bass seem immune). They don’t eat just any bread. They do not crave my all-rye sourdough Danish Rugbrød with its whole pumpkin, sunflower, and flaxseed that I am — justifiably, in my opinion– famous amongst my neighbors for baking. No, the birds, reptiles, and fish of Central Park’s waterways prefer white bread, the softer the better, with over-processed, additive-enriched, Wonderbread being their favorite. This strange food dependency began, of course, with humans who, despite the many signs forbidding it, throw bread out onto the water to attract the pretty birds paddling on top. Leftovers then go to the cute turtles floating along the surface, and any uneaten scraps sink down under the water to the unseen fish. (There may be beasties further down the food chain that also consume white bread, but this is as far as my knowledge descends.) Processed white bread can not be good for these beasts, it certainly isn’t good for humans, and I feel a twinge of guilt that I am contributing to this destructive mono-diet. I’ve tried fishing with other baits and lures, but if it’s carp, catfish, or sunnies I’m after I always resort to whitebread. An unintended consequence of this fish diet is that it’s changed my own. I usually have a loaf of what our kids call “carp bread” around the kitchen, and I am regularly pressed into service by them into making toasted cheese sandwiches, with Wonderbread and processed American cheese, for lunch on Sundays. I know they are not good for us, but damn, they are good.
Activists often have a problem with purity. Rather, purity is a problem for many activists. Reacting against the myriad modes of oppression in the world we are trying to change, we create an ideal of the individual we would like to see and be, and then expect it of everyone else around us. We tell others to eat the way we do (go vegan!), dress the way we do (no heels), and talk the way we do (the ever-changing lexicon of political correctness). I’m sympathetic to this politics of purity. Identifying oppression, and creating alternative ways of thinking, feeling, and doing is an essential part of a rebellious identity formation. I’ve actually done this rejection and recreation twice, first as a punk rocker, the second time around as an activist. In each instance, I tried my best to purify myself of the sins of society and was born again. My purity set me apart from other people, except the other elect who shared my views. This would not be a problem if I was interested in founding a monastery or content to live in a bohemian ghetto, but as an activist trying to change the world, I found I was largely cut off from the people in the world I was trying to change. The great Detroit activist Grace Lee Boggs once said that “You cannot change any society… unless you see yourself as belonging to it.” I needed to let go of a bit of my purity in order to belong to an impure society, and I rediscovered a lot to like — even as I worked to change it. When my friend, the activist and writer Maz Ali, heard I was creating a blog on fishing and activism he wrote to me, congratulating me on this bold strategic move,
to use affinities (even just hobbies) as inroads for deeper human engagement…to enter readers’ minds — including the most unlikely readers — to find messaging themes that just might win them over, because we can’t go as far as we need to with just the choir.
Maz, as always, is brilliantly perceptive. Is that what this blog is? A strategy of engagement to reach Fox-watching anglers and convert them to my cause. Or is it the pure expression of my re-found love for fishing and its connections to my long-beloved activism? I really couldn’t tell you; for an experienced activist the lines are never that clear.