On a recent visit to Oxford, I happened upon a bold symbol of the history I mean to write. It was a wet spring and the Cherwell River had flooded. Since I was spending just a short time with family between a workshop on hazardous chemicals in Munich and getting home to my wife and children in Ontario, I didn’t have with me the necessary footwear to tromp across the soggy fields that separate the town and colleges from Marston, where I was staying. The Romans might have marched straight across the fields, but they would have been better shod. So I stuck to the pavements, making a more circuitous walk towards Summertown and then down the Marston Ferry Road. The route took me past the Museum of Natural History, which had on its front lawn a rather striking exhibit called “Ghost Forest,” a collection of massive tropical forest tree stumps, mounted—lying down—on stone slabs. I tarried. It was late afternoon, and as I wandered from installation to installation, reading each plaque—which indicated the tree species and its full height in a manner that felt more like eulogy than informative display—the world became rather quiet. The traffic and bustle of the road, not twenty feet away on the other side of the waist-high stone wall, was muted. I was in a mausoleum, or the silent aura one associates with entering a church.
The exhibit was surprisingly moving: less, perhaps, the explicit ghost forest message, and more, simply, the massive remnants of once-living things. Shelley might have written a less arrogant version of “Ozymandias” for them, where just the stumps remain. I was transported back to childhood holidays on Vancouver Island and trips to Cathedral Grove. There’ Douglas Firs older than the Oxford colleges, through which I had roamed prior to discovering the ghost forest, still stand protected from the axe, accessible to visitors. Equally massive, awe-inspiring. In reflecting upon both Oxford and Vancouver Island, the word “majestic” belongs in this piece.
A significant portion of environmental history’s mission is to highlight human trespasses into nature. Themes of resource extraction, landscape despoliation, scarcity, and sustainability abound in the literature. Global analyses of these topics also investigate the social, economic, and historical factors that explain the more rapid rate of deforestation in the tropical world in relation to the increased protection of old-growth stands in the northern, more prosperous parts of the world (a far from simple, perfect, or complete distinction). The ghost forest was a warning—a testament. But in Oxford, I was especially struck by the sadness I felt. Maybe it was the fatigue of travel catching up with me, combined with mounting homesickness. But the sadness seemed to be born of a kind of kinship—very distant cousins, as it were—with those stumps. It felt more like a palpable reminder of the larger community of life, to which we are all connected.
I’ve written a bit about Commoner’s Center for the Biology of Natural Systems—and how it emerged in response to the popular realization that the 1960s environmental crisis defied or transcended traditional scientific disciplines. The Center’s goal was to think more broadly about what has become known as the science of the total environment.
But I raise this more as a place-marker. Last week I received an invitation to visit CBNS for its renaming. The new name will be the Barry Commoner Center for Health and the Environment, which sounds in line with Ralph Nader’s call for an Institute for Thought and Action in Commoner’s name.
I’m currently teaching a third-year course on the history of truth. The course examines the historical mechanisms that contributed to the social production and consumption of knowledge over time. It interests itself in the construction of “matters of fact,” and how scientific praxis emerged as the primary mode of knowledge authority in the modern world. It aims to explore the cultural features of who could practice science and how their scientific method came to be ingrained as a method of forging consensus among scientists, and how their findings came to be adopted as truths to a more general public. More significantly, this course proposes to examine how these activities changed or evolved over time.
We read Steven Shapin and Simon Schaffer’s Leviathan and the Air-Pump and talked about Boyle’s literary technology and virtual witnessing as pillars of the new experimental science. Recently, I lectured on Robert Kohler’s Lords of the Fly as a corollary investigation of the experimental life, and I stressed Kohler’s discussion of the moral economy. Collaboration, trustworthiness, fraud, failure, metaphors in science have featured throughout lectures and discussions. But I have had little opportunity to share anecdotes. Anecdotes can be fun.
Next week, I will be running a small module on science journalism in the twentieth century. I’m especially interested in themes surrounding science literacy and the media’s role as broker in communicating scientific information—translating it for a lay audience. In his classic essay, “Roots of the New Conservation Movement,” in Perspectives in American History 6 (1972), Donald Fleming talked about politico-scientists—scientists were politically engaged (Barry Commoner, for one)—as being part of a specialized fifth estate intent on informing the public. This during a politically tense period in American history.
As a topic, it reminded me of a story Barry Commoner relayed to me during the oral histories I conducted with him. Let me start with the report written by William Laurence (the Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist—and one of our in-class subjects), which appeared in The New York Times on December 29, 1954.
In 1954, E. U. Condon was an elder statesman of American physics, a notable quantum physicist from the 1920s, and the outgoing President of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. After World War II, he had also suffered serious scrutiny from a subcommittee of the House Un-American Activities Committee. Condon had been particularly critical of imposed secrecy in science, and strongly advocated continued international scientific cooperation. On 1 March 1948, the subcommittee described Condon—at the time, the director of the National Bureau of Standards—as “one of the weakest links in our atomic security.” Condon was by no means a radical thinker, but he did believe that science only functioned properly in an open society. His AAAS election (in 1951) had been somewhat controversial, and by 1954 the label of “Communist” or “security risk” constituted a black mark. But turn your attention to the final paragraph: “Dr. Condon received an ovation as he rose to address his colleagues.”
Warren Weaver was a strong supporter of Condon’s (as his remarks above might attest). The young Barry Commoner as well. The story that Commoner told me involved this evening and the standing ovation as Condon retired from his role as President. At the conference, Commoner—who knew Laurence—invited Laurence to join him and others for dinner and drinks before the evening lecture. Because the conference was in California, the time difference was such that Laurence needed to file his story before dinner so that it could appear in the following day’s paper. He hadn’t filed his story yet, and asked Commoner how the membership would respond to Condon’s term. Could vocal support be interpreted as political subversion in Cold War America? The ovation (reported) was hardly a certainty. Commoner assured his friend that there would be a standing ovation: File the story and come for a drink. Which Laurence did. The ovation was reported (if not printed) before it happened. Returning to the conference hall for the evening proceedings, Commoner walked Laurence to the front row of the auditorium to sit down. After Weaver spoke and introduced Condon, Commoner told me (almost 50 years later), Commoner pulled Laurence by the shoulder and gruffly said: “Bill, stand up!” At which point the two led the standing ovation—giving credence to the story Laurence had already filed.
It’s a fun little anecdote, and Commoner told it to me at least twice. But I was reminded of it this week while preparing to discuss and have students research the relationship between science, journalism, and the public.
The tragic mercury poisoning epidemic at Minamata, Japan, serves as one of the critical first chapters in the history of the Toxic Century. The mercury spill in Minamata Bay in the 1950s constitutes one of the first expressions of the new landscapes that typify the Toxic Century. From 1932 to 1967, the Chisso Chemical Plant dumped mercury into the bay, from which local villagers subsisted on a fish-heavy diet. By the early 1950s, a growing number of animals and then residents were afflicted with a mysterious disease that flummoxed medical experts. Most typically, the symptoms involved debilitating damage to their nervous system. While researchers at Kumamoto University were able to identify heavy metal poisoning, it took some time before they could point to methyl mercury with confidence. (Minamata disease symptoms were first observed in humans in 1953; in 1959, studies definitively concluded that methyl mercury was the source).
Uncertainty ruled the early response. Hospitals quarantined sick patients, concerned that their ailment was contagious. “Whenever a new patient was identified,” Akio Mishima reported in Bitter Sea, “white-coated public health inspectors hurried to his or her house to disinfect every nook and cranny.” And still the fishing community ate the fish from the bay. Kibyo—strange illness—the locals said, when another neighbour showed symptoms. In historical circles, we resist talking about passive victims, but the hapless not-knowingness of the early stages of the Minamata outbreak can be framed in a manner that would impress Alfred Hitchcock.
Fear: the delay in discovering acute mercury poisoning was the source of Kibyo provoked fear around not knowing the source of the ailment. Subsequent victims also expressed fears about dying. Another form of fear manifests itself in the cultural response to victimhood. As science pointed toward the bay and the fish therein as the source of Minamata disease, divisions within the community arose between the afflicted and the fishermen who depended upon the bay for their livelihood. Patients’ families seeking compensation suffered discrimination from their neighbours. This ostracism also stimulated new forms of fear.
I thought I’d written this post already. For more than a year I have been organizing my research agenda around the Toxic Century—a period, post-World War II, in which a host of toxic chemicals proliferated the physical environment and created a series of health concerns. My introductory summary in a grant proposal, submitted last year:
We live in a toxic century. Each of us is a walking, breathing artifact of humanity’s toxic trespasses into nature. Unwittingly or not, we are all carrying a chemical cocktail in our blood, our bones, and our tissue, which constitutes the problematic legacy of persistent organic pollutants. This project is a history of that century from within, where “within” refers to the fact that we are still living in the toxic century—it begins after World War II—but also that this is an embodied history, which explores the history of the toxins we carry around inside us.
Persistent organic pollutants, such as synthetic pesticides, plastics, and PCBs, defy environmental degradation. As a result they pose considerable risks to human and environmental health insofar as they are able to move great distances from their points of origin and because they tend to magnify up the food chain and accumulate in human and animal tissue. They are a by-product of the chemical revolution that began at the end of the 19th century and proliferated in the marketplace in the years immediately following World War II. As carcinogens and endocrine disruptors, persistent organic pollutants have become the ominous centrepiece of the global toxic story that continues to haunt us.
The toxic century refers to the contamination of the entire planet. The synthetic chemicals defining this century have become a ubiquitous feature of the human footprint on the global landscape. More than 350 of them have been identified in the Great Lakes, where they would persist, even if their emission were halted tomorrow. They also have demonstrated a distinct capacity to travel over great distances in waterways, in the atmosphere, in our mobile bodies. Multiple chlorinated chemical by-products have been located in measurable quantities in the Canadian Arctic and over the Atlantic Ocean, for example, thousands of kilometers from their point of manufacture.
As a history of persistent organic pollutants and their science in a global context, this project first explores the manufacture and proliferation of toxic chemicals before concentrating on the post-World War II environmental science that raised alarms about their threats to human health and ecological integrity. In this manner, the project merges environmental politics with public health and toxicology to uncover the scale and scope of our toxic crisis, putting special emphasis on the emergence of environmental toxicology as a hybrid discipline designed to confront the uncertainty that has driven so much of the recent history of chemical harm. And it helps readers understand that, since World War II, a variety of military and industrial practices have introduced new chemicals into the environment and into our bodies, many of which pose serious health risks and have wrought damage to the physical environment, the extent of which we do not even know. This project aims to ensure that even if the damage remains uncertain, our understanding of the history that produced these problems—and the history of efforts to repair them—should not.
Over the past year, I moved away from the idea of drafting a project on the Toxic Century writ large. Instead, my interest in toxic fear is an avenue of inquiry within this framework. Further, the idea of telling “history from within,” provides a context for linking the Toxic Century to my other interests in the history of the future. Another angle I mean to pursue involves investigating the history of disaster science, which explicitly links toxics and the future around ideas of planning and anticipating environmental contamination.
I keep coming back to the idea of uncertainty. It’s an omnipresent feature of the mercury project. Uncertainty, I think, is also at the heart of how toxic fear manifests itself. We’re afraid of what we don’t know—or don’t understand. And, yet, chemical pollution demands that we act quickly, and sometimes with incomplete information about the nature of the contaminant’s threat. So when uncertainty prevails, how do you develop baseline regulation? In the aftermath of mercury poisoning epidemic at Minamata, national and global health agencies raced to identify acceptable exposure limits for mercury. These were complicated by mercury’s ubiquity in industry and—scientists discovered—throughout the environment. As various organizations introduced reference dose recommendations that erred on the side of caution to accommodate unknowns in the available data (such as differences in sensitivity across a population and the inability of a single study to address all possible adverse outcomes), it became glaringly apparent that these preliminary numbers were not nearly conservative enough.
My focal point is the politics of establishing a reference dose for mercury and the manner in which uncertainty rests at the heart of this problem. The reference dose is effectively a standard uncertainty factor, and is built in to represent unknowns in the available data—such as differences in sensitivity across a population and the inability of a single study to address all possible adverse outcomes. The crux of the problem is establishing a regulatory line between safe levels of mercury in human bodies and not safe levels—and doing that without relying on a trial-and-error approach.
I want to argue that mercury has a distinctive place in the ecosystem of quantifying chemical hazards, due in no small measure to the manner in which it impressed itself through a series of acute poisoning epidemics during the latter half of the twentieth century. But also in terms of how it was measured. The weak mortar that holds this presentation together is the contradiction between the uses for toxicological research. Where the scientific endeavour seeks to identify acceptable parameters for chemical risk, legislative demands put scientific findings in conversation with competing economic and political imperatives.
To illustrate, consider the anecdotal story related by Nils-Erik Landell, reflecting on the Swedish mercury case of the 1960s. Sweden was the first developed country to locate widespread industrial mercury pollution in its water systems (this, of course, discounting the acute mercury poisoning case in Minamata, Japan). Landell recalls:
I was working at the Public Health Institute to get money for my education as a medical doctor … and my chief had written a toxicological evaluation of the maximum limit of mercury in fish. I saw it on his table, and he had written [the safe limit of mercury content in fish] 0.5 milligrams per kilogram of wet weight. The next day, the paper was still there on the table, but now I saw that he had rubbed it out and it was now 1.0 milligrams per kilogram. And I asked him why … and he said in Lake Vänern, the biggest lake in Sweden, the fishermen had pointed out that the fish had a concentration of 0.7, so he had to raise it to 1.0. And I understood that the evaluation of toxicology was not so sharp as it should be, but it was illustrative of the pressure from different companies and economic interests on the scientists.
As a reference point, the current EPA reference dose for mercury in fish is 0.1 µg/kg/day (there’s an interesting side-story here—maybe a post for another day).
To start, allow me to move away from mercury to discuss the broader history of the reference dose. Measuring the safety factor of chemicals is a feature of post-World War II environmental praxis. Starting in the United States, efforts to identify safe levels for new additives in foods in the middle-1950s prompted interest in articulating safe levels of acute and chronic exposure to harmful chemicals. The first recommendations came from two scientists at the US Food and Drug Administration. In 1954, Arnold Lehman and O. Garth Fitzhugh posited that animal toxicity tests could be extrapolated qualitatively to predict responses in humans, but that quantitative predictions were more problematic. To articulate safe levels of a given toxin, they proposed that the reference dose be evaluated by the following formula:
Reference Dose (RfD) = NOAEL/Uncertainty Factor
Lehman and Fitzhugh set their uncertainty factor at a 100-fold margin. That is to say that exposure levels to harmful chemicals should be set a hundred times lower than the point at which no adverse effects had been observed in the laboratory. The justification for the 100-fold safety factor was traditionally interpreted as the product of two separate values, expressing default values to a magnitude of 10. The protocol worked on the assumption, first, that human beings were 10 times more sensitive than the test animal, and, second, that the variability of sensitivity within the human population could be managed within a 10-fold frame.
The fundamental premise of the reference dose, as Lehman and Fitzhugh conceived it, was that it was designed to address the untidiness of extrapolating animal data and applying them to human populations outside the lab. In effect, the initial 100-fold reference point was arbitrary, without any real quantitative basis for or against it. It’s a principle that has stood up to more recent scientific scrutiny, and variants of it remain in practice sixty years later.
To mercury. Though mercury’s entry into the toxic century occurred at Minamata, it is the Swedish case study that galvanized growing interest in establishing a reference dose for mercury exposure. The Minamata case was the result of very specific mercury emissions into the bay. A combination of not looking further for mercury in the environment and broader disinterest in international circles meant that much of the Japanese research was not revisited until the 1970s when mercury was accepted as a ubiquitous environmental contaminant with universal reach. There was also some delay in identifying mercury as the source. In the mid-1960s, Swedes found mercury prevalent in wild birds—a product of mercury-coated seed grain (fungicidal properties)—and, subsequently, throughout their water systems—through a variety of industrial uses. Swedish concerns over an appropriate reference dose for mercury stemmed on the hypothetical. They had discovered mercury, but had not experienced any cases of mercury poisoning. So what was the threshold? Their analyses debated the merits of measuring mercury content in dry or wet weight of fish, measuring potential threats to the fishing industry, and determining social and individual risks associated with mercury exposure.
But if the reference dose studies in Sweden were based on conjecture, mercury’s neurotoxic potential was realized in Iraq in 1972. Widespread poisoning resulted after a mishandled supply of mercury-coated Wonder Wheat arrived too late from Mexico to be planted. Desperate, hungry farmers started making homemade bread from the seed grain. The seeds had been dyed pink to warn that they had been treated with hazardous chemicals, but farmers assumed that washing off the dye also removed the mercury. Numbers on the severity of the mercury epidemic vary drastically. Official, Ba’athist counts suggest 4500 victims; more recent, independent observers estimate at least ten times that number.
Amidst the chaos and calamity, the Iraqi case provided a critical opportunity to measure mercury exposures on human subjects. Note that whereas the Swedes were taken by measuring mercury content in fish, the new evaluations could be rendered more precise by disregarding the first 10-fold protocol, effectively by eliminating interspecies uncertainty factors—getting rid of the middle-fish. Put another way, where Lehman and Fitzhugh were addressing uncertainty factors as part of a qualitative analysis of potential risk, data derived from Iraq could engage a more quantitative approach. As a result, numerous national and international agencies—the World Health Organization and the US Food and Drug Administration foremost among them—collected data from mercury victims in the provinces around Baghdad. These studies subsequently served as the cornerstone for numerous national and international recommendations for acceptable mercury exposure for the next 25 years.
During the 1980s, however, researchers in Europe and in the United States raised concerns about the validity of the data. The measurements taken in Iraq stemmed from acute mercury poisoning—the rapid consumption of dangerously high levels of mercury. Were these findings—and the limits they proposed—consistent with the much more common chronic, low-level exposure? If mercury-contaminated fish was part of a regular diet over a longer period of time, how would mercury behave and what would be the epidemiological effects?
The first project, composed of an international team and based at Harvard, undertook an assessment of possible brain function impairment in adolescent children due to prenatal exposure to mercury when the mothers’ diet was high in seafood. They selected as their case study the small communities of the Faroe Islands to examine a traditional population that ate some fish, and occasionally feasted on mercury-contaminated whales. I’ll leave out the specifics of the study, but the authors found that high levels of mercury passed from mother to child in utero produced irreversible impairment to specific brain functions in the children. By age 7, 614 children with the most complete mercury-exposure data had lower scores in 8 of 16 tests of language, memory, and attention, suggesting that low-level mercury exposure caused neurological problems.
At roughly the same time, a team of researchers at the University of Rochester Medical Center, carried out mental and motor tests on 9-yr old children born on the Seychelles Islands. The study, begun in 1989, looked for an association between mercury exposure and behavior, motor skills, memory, and thinking in 779 children born to mothers who averaged a dozen fish meals a week. Around age 9, higher mercury exposure was associated with two test results. Boys, but not girls, were slower at one movement test, but only when using their less capable hand. Boys and girls exposed to more mercury were rated as less hyperactive by their teachers. The authors concluded, “These data do not support the hypothesis that there is a neurodevelopmental risk from prenatal methylmercury exposure resulting solely from ocean fish consumption.” So while the Faroes study indicated cause for concern in low level mercury exposure through ocean fish consumption, the Seychelles study exonerated mercury. To complicate matters, a third study in New Zealand, which followed the Seychelles methodology identified mercury risk more consistent with the Faroes study.
By way of exit strategy, let me conclude by situating talk of reference doses in its larger context. Interest in and analysis of mercury pollution and its acceptable limits constitute part of the transformation of global environmentalism after World War II. Put very roughly, prior to 1945 concern for the environment consisted of protecting nature from the onslaught of civilization; after 1945 this concern—in actions and in rhetoric—shifted to protecting civilization from itself. The environmental lexicon supports this notion. New vocabulary—bioaccumulation, biomagnification, environmental risk, chemical hazard—became prevalent, transforming our environmental engagement. Similar transformations take place within toxicological vocabularies. Environmental toxicology, toxicokinetics, toxicodynamics, suggest that specialized and nonspecialized forms of language use evolved during the second half of the twentieth century. None of this should come as a surprise, but it adds a layer of complexity to the traditional, post-materialist arguments that have typically explained the post-war environmental transformation.
The struggle for precision comes at another price, however. This bodily turn in environmental thinking has understandably shifted the gaze of environmental monitoring from the ecosystem to the body. What happens “out there,” ironically, matters less than what happens “in here.” And that fear over public health risks has galvanized a more pressing need for scientific knowledge and political action—the interaction between the two breeding a landscape of new, reactionary or crisis disciplines to make sense of environmental hazards. That policy moves faster than science and thereby shapes the practice of knowledge gathering and its place in policymaking has historically constituted one of the primary obstacles in the struggle for epistemic clarity when articulating threshold levels for mercury exposure. In somewhat related news, I received a copy of Frederick Rowe Davis’s book, Banned: A History of Pesticides and the Science of Toxicology, the other day. I have yet to get beyond the first chapter, but I look forward to seeing how he treats the messy politics of environmental toxicology—and especially the relationship between science and policy.
Lest this discussion seem more at home in the histories of science and policy, let me assert a place for it in environmental history as well. Mercury is a naturally-occurring feature of the physical environment, but human activities have increased the amount of mercury in circulation beyond any quantities that could ever be considered normal. Atmospheric levels are seven times higher and ocean-surface levels are almost six times higher than they were in 2000 BC. Half of that increase has occurred since 1950, during the toxic century. In effect, human-industrial practices provoked and set in motion the need for establishing a reference dose for mercury. But this is also a story grounded in place—or, rather, places. While the preliminary history of mercury’s reference dose took place in laboratories, it was prompted by the discovery that mercury was present in significant quantities in various specific places. Similarly, with the advent of the acute poisoning cases in Iraq in the early 1970s, reference dose studies left the lab to attend to mercury in the field, thereby transforming the nature and parameters of knowledge construction. In so doing, they invite re-readings of how we might tell stories about nature and the numbers we use to make sense of them.