As a shareholder of a Vanguard mutual fund, I was recently invited to vote on several proposals.
A year ago, I would've just voted according to the Board's recommendations, which are prominently advertised in the proxy statement: vote yes for every trustee, and vote yes for the updating and standardization of all funds' investment policies. I don't understand finance, I don't know what's best; these guys are professionals, I would've figured.
But a third recommendation gave me pause: the board of trustees is advising shareholders to vote AGAINST a proposal that would create procedures to prohibit investment in companies that "substantially contribute to genocide or crimes against humanity, the most egregious violations of human rights."
How can anyone claim that there's no need to divest from genocide?
Well, here's Vanguard's take: You should vote against this proposal because it would "duplicate existing practices and procedures of the Vanguard funds".
A quick look around the Internet shows this isn't true: according to Investors Against Genocide, Vanguard invests $303 million in "the top problem companies" as of 1/31/2009. Between the late 2008 and 1/31/09, Vanguard increased its holdings in PetroChina from 177 million shares worth $134 million to 189 million shares worth $140 million. PetroChina, through its parent, China National Petroleum Company, provides funding that the Government of Sudan uses to conduct genocide in Darfur. In its reply, Vanguard does not address or refute these claims.
But, again according to the Vanguard trustees, "mutual funds are not optimal agents to address social change."
*****
So what if you believe you can't separate ethics from investment practices?
In their reply, Vanguard's trustees suggest their so-called "ethical" investment fund, the Vanguard FTSE Social Index Fund. Authorised in 2000 "in recognition that some individuals consider social issues when selecting investments", the fund "screens companies on social, human rights, and environmental criteria".
The top ten funds:
1. JPMorgan Chase & Co.
2. Apple
3. Intel
4. Google
5. QUALCOMM
6. McDonald's Corp
7. Amgen
8. Bank of America
9. Gilead Sciences
10. CVS
...McDonald's? If you're concerned with the ethics of a corporate-industrial food system run by transnational companies and retailers, or with the environmental sustainability of the planet, how can you support a company that's reshaping the world's diet to include more and more meat when livestock production is responsible for 18 percent of all greenhouse gases, according to an FAO study? And that's just a top of my head... I'm sure a more intrepid blogger would go to town with that list.
Can we really be living in a system where someone who wants to invest ethically has no better options?
*****
What's most troubling is that all of this slips under our radars. Who has time to read a 131-page .pdf document sent by an investment company? Not many of us - and Vanguard knows it. If you don't want to think, when you get to the online ballot, you can just click a button that says "Show me what the board recommends" at the top of the page, and it fills in your votes FOR YOU.
And you're not only voting against the "no genocide" proposal. In voting to "update and standardise investment policies," you're essentially letting Vanguard do away with its current regulations, which are stricter than national standards. For example, the new proposals would allow Vanguard funds to borrow more money and use more leverage, which means investing more money than you actually have in order to make more profits. But haven't we all seen in the past few years that this can go terribly awry? Isn't it clear that our national regulatory framework for finance isn't quite up to scratch, and that its construction was inherently political?
Sure, there's an argument that this will increase efficiency and decrease expenses - but at what cost?
If I've learned anything this year, it's that deference to "expert knowledge" and unflagging trust in regulatory structures equals a devolution of governance to people and institutions who don't have our best interests at heart. We need to be asking: how were the regulations created? By whom? With whose interests at stake?
Yet I'm not one to stand on my soapbox. I voted this time, but I've let these decisions slip past me more often than not.
And even with awareness, what's to do now? As we can see, when investors mobilise to democratically challenge the structural power of finance, the company tries to subvert them by claiming virtues it doesn't have. If collective action doesn't work, what can we do to change the system?
Monday, June 29, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
don't look at the sun
Much has lost its mystery. The day I spiralled down the back stairs of Webster and lurched against a bathroom wall, giggling - so this is what it feels like to be drunk! The day I realised I was the one in the romance, not just watching it on a screen. The impossible becomes possible - moving overseas, learning a language. Less lustrous things have lost their mystery, too - how banks create money, and what happens behind the scenes of newspapers.
But I'm still not sure about the sun. If you look straight at it, you'll go blind, they always said. I watched it, low in the sky, because no one was there to tell me I shouldn't, just like there's no one to tell me not to eat ice cream for breakfast anymore.
The colours changed as I stared, threatening to become a colour I'd never seen. You're pushing it, the sun said. You'd better blink - a game of chicken.
I stopped running for a moment as it slipped behind the skyline and underneath the sea, waiting for the green flash, but I must have blinked at the wrong moment.
But I'm still not sure about the sun. If you look straight at it, you'll go blind, they always said. I watched it, low in the sky, because no one was there to tell me I shouldn't, just like there's no one to tell me not to eat ice cream for breakfast anymore.
The colours changed as I stared, threatening to become a colour I'd never seen. You're pushing it, the sun said. You'd better blink - a game of chicken.
I stopped running for a moment as it slipped behind the skyline and underneath the sea, waiting for the green flash, but I must have blinked at the wrong moment.
Monday, February 2, 2009
snowstorm
I have never seen a city so excited about snow.
To be fair, it's the biggest snowfall England has seen in 18 years, or so they're saying. Train service was shut down, buses were pulled off the roads, school was cancelled. One English friend told me he hadn't made a snowman since 1990 as we rolled snow and stones together on the beach into a lopsided snow-woman. Yet it's quite funny that London's in such a tizzy over an amount of snow that'd be laughable in Michigan or Massachusetts.
Still, I've fully embraced the excitement. My experience of this snowstorm is coloured by the fact that I celebrated my first snowfall of the season last night with two Brazilians who were seeing the first snow of their lives. I was washing dishes when Kaoru’s laughing flooded out from the darkened second kitchen. “Look!” I rushed to the window: two grown men gleefully packing snowballs. “Come on!” I cried. “Hurry!” and laughing, we spiralled up the staircase to grab our coats and cameras. Last night, there was a mere centimetre or two of snow, and still we danced in the streets, laid down in the crystals and made a knee-high snowman.
And this morning, it was real snow. Proper snow, turning the trees to enchanted trees and silencing the city. A group of us met at the seafront at noon and, fortified with sticky-sweet donuts, began a sporadic snowball fight that would last for two hours. After defending our lopsided snowman from unkind comments, I walked to the Brighton pier and looked out over the beach, towards the marina. I smiled at the sight of at least two dozen snowmen spaced out along the beach. The snow was still falling, the streets were full of mush and the bus service was still spotty, but Brighton was out in full force.
It may be what I love most about England: people are always outside. Doesn't matter the month or the temperature or even the rain. In mid-January, as the temperature hovers around zero, the seaside cafés are open, people are sitting at tables sipping coffee, and the beach walks are packed with strolling couples, joggers and waddling children. The racks at school are still packed with commuter bikes so you can't even find a spot.
Everyone sympathised with me before I came, moving to a rainy cold island, and now that I'm here they often ask, "How's the weather?" as though expressing sympathy for a nagging health problem. Perhaps it's because of my low expectations that I've been pleasantly surprised. Earlier this month I went hiking for the afternoon, remarking how pleasant the weather was as I strolled through fields of sheep. Am I turning into a Brit?
Nah. My snowman-making skills were infinitely superior.
To be fair, it's the biggest snowfall England has seen in 18 years, or so they're saying. Train service was shut down, buses were pulled off the roads, school was cancelled. One English friend told me he hadn't made a snowman since 1990 as we rolled snow and stones together on the beach into a lopsided snow-woman. Yet it's quite funny that London's in such a tizzy over an amount of snow that'd be laughable in Michigan or Massachusetts.
Still, I've fully embraced the excitement. My experience of this snowstorm is coloured by the fact that I celebrated my first snowfall of the season last night with two Brazilians who were seeing the first snow of their lives. I was washing dishes when Kaoru’s laughing flooded out from the darkened second kitchen. “Look!” I rushed to the window: two grown men gleefully packing snowballs. “Come on!” I cried. “Hurry!” and laughing, we spiralled up the staircase to grab our coats and cameras. Last night, there was a mere centimetre or two of snow, and still we danced in the streets, laid down in the crystals and made a knee-high snowman.
And this morning, it was real snow. Proper snow, turning the trees to enchanted trees and silencing the city. A group of us met at the seafront at noon and, fortified with sticky-sweet donuts, began a sporadic snowball fight that would last for two hours. After defending our lopsided snowman from unkind comments, I walked to the Brighton pier and looked out over the beach, towards the marina. I smiled at the sight of at least two dozen snowmen spaced out along the beach. The snow was still falling, the streets were full of mush and the bus service was still spotty, but Brighton was out in full force.
It may be what I love most about England: people are always outside. Doesn't matter the month or the temperature or even the rain. In mid-January, as the temperature hovers around zero, the seaside cafés are open, people are sitting at tables sipping coffee, and the beach walks are packed with strolling couples, joggers and waddling children. The racks at school are still packed with commuter bikes so you can't even find a spot.
Everyone sympathised with me before I came, moving to a rainy cold island, and now that I'm here they often ask, "How's the weather?" as though expressing sympathy for a nagging health problem. Perhaps it's because of my low expectations that I've been pleasantly surprised. Earlier this month I went hiking for the afternoon, remarking how pleasant the weather was as I strolled through fields of sheep. Am I turning into a Brit?
Nah. My snowman-making skills were infinitely superior.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
soundtrack: snoring
This library is dead silent except for one echoing, raspy snore floating up from the ground floor. Each time I look up from my books, I see a punitive notice:
“The Library has received many complaints from user about graffiti in the study spaces… If you are aware of someone who is defacing Library property in this way, please contact the building manager.”
Someone has scrawled on it “SNITCHES GET STITCHES.”
The UMass library hummed until late. Real late. But it’s hard for a library to hum when the café closes at 8, when you have to leave the library entirely just to use the bathroom.
This seems like a strange thing to say, but I miss all-nighters in the first-floor silent zone at UMass. May was a time of purpose, of culmination, of pushing beyond the limit – but knowing Joe Meloni would be there even longer than I would. And at least there, I could look forward to a gorgeous view of the sunrise.
But this is what I get, I suppose, for 3 ½ study-less weeks in Cape Town. Worth it? Yes.
“The Library has received many complaints from user about graffiti in the study spaces… If you are aware of someone who is defacing Library property in this way, please contact the building manager.”
Someone has scrawled on it “SNITCHES GET STITCHES.”
The UMass library hummed until late. Real late. But it’s hard for a library to hum when the café closes at 8, when you have to leave the library entirely just to use the bathroom.
This seems like a strange thing to say, but I miss all-nighters in the first-floor silent zone at UMass. May was a time of purpose, of culmination, of pushing beyond the limit – but knowing Joe Meloni would be there even longer than I would. And at least there, I could look forward to a gorgeous view of the sunrise.
But this is what I get, I suppose, for 3 ½ study-less weeks in Cape Town. Worth it? Yes.
Monday, November 17, 2008
One of the cool kids
I’ve never been one of the cool kids.
Sure, it didn’t help that my mom dressed me in turtlenecks and stretch pants until I was ten, or that I used to sew my own felt “pocket-mice” and wear them in my breast pocket, or that I was one of the last girls in the seventh grade to start shaving my legs. I can’t reminisce about the high school parties because I didn’t go to any, and the first time I was offered alcohol in college – as part of an initiation ceremony – I did a water shot instead. Oh, and marching band uniforms – need I say more?
But there it was on the front page of the Metro, a British commuter paper, on November 5: “The day America became just a little bit cool again,” with a picture of Barack Obama smiling and waving.
Me? Cool? It’s true. In the past two weeks, no one here in England has bullied me for covert violence, nation-building or economic imperialism. In fact, they haven’t even teased me about my accent. Instead, everyone wants to talk about the election, to rehash my team’s victory. That’s never happened before.
I don’t know if I can take credit for my sudden coolness. Sure, I voted. I followed the election, but so did half of the Brits I know. I didn’t campaign or register voters. I didn’t pen any brilliant columns urging people to vote for Obama. I didn’t give money to the campaign. And I certainly haven’t discovered a newfound sense of fashion in the past two weeks. I’m wearing a turtleneck right now.
Yet somehow, I’m cool by proxy. Everyone wants to be an American now, because we have the greatest claim to the excitement that’s sweeping the world. In these days of escalating food prices, economic recession, the terrorist threat and global warming, the world has experienced an unprecedented, universal wave of optimism, and everyone wants a piece of it. Around the world, the population of “Canadians” abroad has probably been halved.
Now that I'm part of the “in-crowd,” does that mean someone else will end up a loser? Maybe. On November 5th, a British friend complained: “Half of our humour is gone – we can’t make fun of you Americans all the time anymore!”
Will my new “cool” status last? Obama’s inherited such a mess that it’s impossible for him to live up to his promise. When I railed on Bush recently to a friend for “killing people,” he reminded me, “Obama’s going to kill people too, you know.” The war in Iraq is not yet over, and commitment in Afghanistan is likely to grow. No one knows for sure how to rescue the economy, and we can’t afford to restructure health care, reinvest in public education and launch a “Green New Deal” at the same time.
So I’m going to bask in my newfound coolness it while it lasts. I can already feel it starting to wane.
But whaddya know? Nowadays, turtlenecks and stretch pants – at least in England – are back in style.
Sure, it didn’t help that my mom dressed me in turtlenecks and stretch pants until I was ten, or that I used to sew my own felt “pocket-mice” and wear them in my breast pocket, or that I was one of the last girls in the seventh grade to start shaving my legs. I can’t reminisce about the high school parties because I didn’t go to any, and the first time I was offered alcohol in college – as part of an initiation ceremony – I did a water shot instead. Oh, and marching band uniforms – need I say more?
But there it was on the front page of the Metro, a British commuter paper, on November 5: “The day America became just a little bit cool again,” with a picture of Barack Obama smiling and waving.
Me? Cool? It’s true. In the past two weeks, no one here in England has bullied me for covert violence, nation-building or economic imperialism. In fact, they haven’t even teased me about my accent. Instead, everyone wants to talk about the election, to rehash my team’s victory. That’s never happened before.
I don’t know if I can take credit for my sudden coolness. Sure, I voted. I followed the election, but so did half of the Brits I know. I didn’t campaign or register voters. I didn’t pen any brilliant columns urging people to vote for Obama. I didn’t give money to the campaign. And I certainly haven’t discovered a newfound sense of fashion in the past two weeks. I’m wearing a turtleneck right now.
Yet somehow, I’m cool by proxy. Everyone wants to be an American now, because we have the greatest claim to the excitement that’s sweeping the world. In these days of escalating food prices, economic recession, the terrorist threat and global warming, the world has experienced an unprecedented, universal wave of optimism, and everyone wants a piece of it. Around the world, the population of “Canadians” abroad has probably been halved.
Now that I'm part of the “in-crowd,” does that mean someone else will end up a loser? Maybe. On November 5th, a British friend complained: “Half of our humour is gone – we can’t make fun of you Americans all the time anymore!”
Will my new “cool” status last? Obama’s inherited such a mess that it’s impossible for him to live up to his promise. When I railed on Bush recently to a friend for “killing people,” he reminded me, “Obama’s going to kill people too, you know.” The war in Iraq is not yet over, and commitment in Afghanistan is likely to grow. No one knows for sure how to rescue the economy, and we can’t afford to restructure health care, reinvest in public education and launch a “Green New Deal” at the same time.
So I’m going to bask in my newfound coolness it while it lasts. I can already feel it starting to wane.
But whaddya know? Nowadays, turtlenecks and stretch pants – at least in England – are back in style.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Obama is my president
"I'm proud to call myself an American for the first time in my entire life. I'm so happy."
She had a British accent, but she was crying, laughing, on her toes through the entire speech. Her mom was American, she told me, but she'd always been ashamed to admit it until now.
When I'd arrived at East Slope bar at one (that's 8 p.m. EST), I waited for half an hour outside the door before I was even admitted - the bar was filled to capacity. An American exchange student from Philadelphia and I stood on our toes to glimpse the big screen: Pennsylvania predicted to go Obama. We screamed, then whined: "Americans should get in first!"
But we did get in, and state after state turned blue: Pennsylvania. New Hampshire. Ohio. New Mexico.
Then, at 4 a.m.:
California.
Washington.
And the banner: "OBAMA VOTED PRESIDENT." How did it happen so easily, so fast?
On the way home, I passed a group of people on my bike. "Obama!" one yelled. "HE'S MY PRESIDENT!" I screamed back, then laughed gleefully, listening to Paul Simon. I couldn't keep myself from yelling the news to people at the bus stops on the way home:
"Obama's the president!"
She had a British accent, but she was crying, laughing, on her toes through the entire speech. Her mom was American, she told me, but she'd always been ashamed to admit it until now.
When I'd arrived at East Slope bar at one (that's 8 p.m. EST), I waited for half an hour outside the door before I was even admitted - the bar was filled to capacity. An American exchange student from Philadelphia and I stood on our toes to glimpse the big screen: Pennsylvania predicted to go Obama. We screamed, then whined: "Americans should get in first!"
But we did get in, and state after state turned blue: Pennsylvania. New Hampshire. Ohio. New Mexico.
Then, at 4 a.m.:
California.
Washington.
And the banner: "OBAMA VOTED PRESIDENT." How did it happen so easily, so fast?
On the way home, I passed a group of people on my bike. "Obama!" one yelled. "HE'S MY PRESIDENT!" I screamed back, then laughed gleefully, listening to Paul Simon. I couldn't keep myself from yelling the news to people at the bus stops on the way home:
"Obama's the president!"
November 4th
I have grown up in a time when so many Americans have been afraid to be proud of being American.
I have come of political consciousness in the seven years since September 11, 2001, as America has been increasingly vilified by others, increasingly polarised within. I have voted, but I have rarely felt that my voice was heard.
I left my country in 2006 feeling relieved to get away. And I have found my place in the world while apologising for my country. Once, the words were spat at me: "Everything evil comes from America." Other times, many times, I have laughed along with others at my country because mourning it has done no good.
I have come of political consciousness in a country that was still 50 percent disenfranchised by choice, a country much of the world still doesn't believe will dare to elect a black president.
And I have watched this race for more than a year, barely daring to hope. I have scanned the news reports, sometimes indignant, sometimes frustrated, sometimes afraid.
I know that the election means only new challenges. No person can absolve the sins we have committed or solve the problems we face. No one can restore the ozone layer we've depleted, rewind Katrina, erase the taste of American arrogance and greed that's still sour in the air.
But it is not about a savior for America.
It is about every American whose voice will be heard for the first time. It is about people in Uganda, and France, and China, and South Africa, and Thailand, who are watching with bated breath, who have followed this election religiously though we know nothing of their own politics. It is about every person who lived under Jim Crow laws or who has been the target of a racial slur or who has doubted what she can achieve.
Today, I remember the way I felt on a crisp, clear October night at Boston Common, after I saw Obama speak. As the crowds cleared, autumn leaves scuttled across the pavement in the breeze and words hung in the air, fat with possibility.
I can't call it, and I'm afraid writing this will jinx it. Maybe it's easier to feel confident from across the ocean. But this election is something much larger than myself; my words will not change what has been set in motion. All I can say is...
Bring it on.
I have come of political consciousness in the seven years since September 11, 2001, as America has been increasingly vilified by others, increasingly polarised within. I have voted, but I have rarely felt that my voice was heard.
I left my country in 2006 feeling relieved to get away. And I have found my place in the world while apologising for my country. Once, the words were spat at me: "Everything evil comes from America." Other times, many times, I have laughed along with others at my country because mourning it has done no good.
I have come of political consciousness in a country that was still 50 percent disenfranchised by choice, a country much of the world still doesn't believe will dare to elect a black president.
And I have watched this race for more than a year, barely daring to hope. I have scanned the news reports, sometimes indignant, sometimes frustrated, sometimes afraid.
I know that the election means only new challenges. No person can absolve the sins we have committed or solve the problems we face. No one can restore the ozone layer we've depleted, rewind Katrina, erase the taste of American arrogance and greed that's still sour in the air.
But it is not about a savior for America.
It is about every American whose voice will be heard for the first time. It is about people in Uganda, and France, and China, and South Africa, and Thailand, who are watching with bated breath, who have followed this election religiously though we know nothing of their own politics. It is about every person who lived under Jim Crow laws or who has been the target of a racial slur or who has doubted what she can achieve.
Today, I remember the way I felt on a crisp, clear October night at Boston Common, after I saw Obama speak. As the crowds cleared, autumn leaves scuttled across the pavement in the breeze and words hung in the air, fat with possibility.
I can't call it, and I'm afraid writing this will jinx it. Maybe it's easier to feel confident from across the ocean. But this election is something much larger than myself; my words will not change what has been set in motion. All I can say is...
Bring it on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
