Staying Sane in My Sphere of Influence
Some brief thoughts on what the hell we're doing here
I’ve struggled over the months with the fact that most of the essays I’ve written recently fall into one of three categories:
Pointing out (complaining about?) why things are the way they are
Critiquing proposed solutions that I have reason to believe will not work
Highlighting things that you, in theory, should support, but that in practice you can’t really take action on right now
I’m as sensitive as anyone to the criticism that it’s not helpful to spend time tearing down other people’s solutions, and that I should instead be bringing solutions of my own. And I agree, I don’t want to be an apologist or a defeatist, nor do I want to only champion inaccessible (if good) solutions. I don’t want to contribute to anyone’s feelings of hopelessness or powerlessness, because if I believe one thing, deep in my bones, it is that each of us is much, much more powerful than we think.
I guess part of the challenge is, that when it comes to the food and farm system (and many other big, hairy problems) the “solutions” for ordinary, everyday people are not real. They are meant to make us feel good, like we’re taking action and making the world a better place, but usually, that’s all that they’re doing. The problems with our food and farm systems didn’t start with the consumer, and they won’t be fixed by them either. And I’m sorry that that’s true, because I know people really want “One Simple Step You Can Take Today To…” but just, you don’t have to. Because I’m telling you, it won’t work.
But that doesn’t mean that we should all do nothing– of course not! It just means we have to think a bit more strategically about our actions, and more importantly, about our personal spheres of influence.
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When I think about my sphere of influence, I start from my physical self and work outward. My family and friends, new and old, my neighbors, my local community, and most importantly perhaps, my coworkers– those folks are, at some level at least, within my sphere of influence. My congressmen and senators are at the very outer edges of my sphere of influence, my state reps and city councilors are much closer.
Influence isn’t just about the people though, right? It’s about the places and the issues. I should have the loudest voice when discussing the issues that directly affect me, my family, my life, and my job. Should I expect my voice to be particularly loud on matters of U.S. foreign policy, say, or banking regulation, or the management of the WHO? No. But I should expect to have a wildly loud voice when it comes to whether or not there is a crosswalk at the end of my street. I expect to still have a pretty loud voice when it comes to questions of zoning, transit, and development in the neighborhood and city where I live. I expect to have a loud voice in regional questions in our state about land use, city investment, and the management of public lands.
Now for people reading this newsletter, this might feel silly. I am, after all, at least some grade of expert on U.S. food and agricultural issues. Why not expect to have a loud voice in all of those discussions as well? Well, I do get a voice in the discussions I’m actively involved in– the ones I have with the people I work with and for. But beyond those, how could I have a voice? Outside of writing for the publications I write/podcast for, including this one, I have no actual power to influence action in or around the food and ag system. Journalism and reporting is not meant to be an activist endeavor, it’s meant to be a truth-seeking practice that the public can take and use to fuel their own efforts to stay informed and make positive change.
It’s not that I dismiss the potential power of my work– I believe it certainly can be (and maybe, already has been?) a force. But it is not my force. My work is knowledge that others take into their jobs, into their positions of power, and use to advance their own goals, and I love that, for them and for me. That’s why I write many of the things I do, because I know that somebody reading it will find it useful in their sphere.
For example, I know there’s folks who read this newsletter who work for foundations, non-profits, and family offices, which might be pursuing goals that I’ve argued are ineffective. To that audience, learning that a possible solution is a dead-end is not an exercise in defeatism, it’s a valuable piece of information they can use to stop funding some efforts, and direct their resources elsewhere.
I also know there’s folks reading this who work for farms or for-profit ag companies, some that are dedicated to cultivating a different, more sustainable future for this industry. To that group, learning why things are the way they are (and that they generally aren’t that way by accident) isn’t an exercise in apologism, it’s a critical piece of the jigsaw puzzle that they need to build their narrative, to craft their incentives, or to convince their funders that they’ve found a real opportunity.
I also know that there are folks reading this who work in government, academia, media, or somewhere else on the margins. As one of these folks myself, I can tell you that it can be both lonely and difficult out here, not least because it’s not always evident what we contribute to the greater good. To those folks, elucidating the value of their contributions, and encouraging others to see them as allies, is not a fool's errand. Just because we all can’t pull the levers ourselves to get government agencies funded or workers protected better at their jobs doesn’t mean that it’s pointless to discuss them.
For these reasons, I keep writing and publishing these essays. Not because every essay is going to apply to every person, or because every topic is buttoned up and covered in a full and complete way. I write them because I think each one has some nugget of value and usefulness to someone in this system. If you read one and arrive at the end thinking “what am I supposed to do with this?” or “but what is the solution”-- know that it’s not that I’m trying to be a Debbie Downer or a crank. I’m just sharing a little piece of this enormous puzzle that I’ve figured out. I don’t have all the answers, I’m just trying to share what I’ve learned.
This, too, is part of my sphere of influence. “All the answers” do not fit into my sphere. “Sharing the answers I have with the people I can–” that does fit. After all my writing and research, I’ve come to the firm conclusion that I should not be in charge of the food or farm system. I have a lot of learning and growing left to do, and there are many smarter, more experienced people out there than me. Not to mention, my talent is writing. It’s not farming, administrating, or giving. Frankly, I don’t really want to sit in the seats that most of you occupy. I don’t have the skills for it. So I sit here, and I write to you, and this is how I use my influence.
So I guess my advice (not that you asked) is that when you’re feeling panicked or sad or powerless, remind yourself to set aside what you can’t do, and think about what you can do. You are talented, thoughtful, and capable. You know people in the real world. You live somewhere, you work somewhere, and you have a stake in that place, if nothing else. Your job is not to do everything or to solve everything. Your job is to do the thing you do best, to the best of your abilities, and ideally in ways that support others to do the same. Everything that is happening is not on you to figure out, but some things are, so find those places where your voice is loud. Think about where you live, where you work, and of the people you spend your time with. How can you use your power and standing in those places to move the needle, or more importantly, to empower others? That’s your sphere, and that's the work.