Unlike most male dairy calves, Harry, who was born at the Ahimsa Dairy, won't be turned into veal
If you don't eat beef because you feel sorry for those cows in Chick-fil-A ads, then you probably shouldn't drink milk either. The typical male calf born to a dairy cow becomes veal. The typical female is milked for five years—a quarter of her natural lifetime—then sent to the abattoir to become pet food or low-grade hamburger meat. Elsie the Cow, Borden Dairy Company's famous cartoon logo, is smiling only because she doesn't realize that she's about to get euthanized with a cattle gun.
Yet if you're an ethical vegetarian who still can't bear to give up milk, you now have another option: slaughter-free dairy, which comes from farms where cows never get killed. Since 2011, the UK-based Ahimsa Dairy has offered slaughter free-milk and cheese to customers in London. In February, Pennsylvania's Gita Nagari Creamery, which has supplied no-kill milk to the local Hare Krishna community for many years, began offering it to the public through subscription and mail order—for a whopping $10 a gallon. The price includes a $2.50 cow retirement fee and $1.50 for "boy calf care." Less than half of its 60-head herd gets milked; the rest of the animals pull plows or spend their golden years lackadaisically chomping grass.
"For us, the cows or oxen or bulls are seen as extended family members," says Pari Jata, the co-president of Gita Nagari Creamery. "It's very important for us to protect them in their retirement. We take care of them just as one would take care of elderly parents in their old age."
The slaughter-free milk movement takes its cues from India, where many vegetarian Hindus drink milk but consider cows sacred animals that should never be consumed for meat. Yet increasing numbers of Gita Nagari and Ahimsa customers are Westerners who eschew meat for ethical reasons. Both dairies have considered selling their milk in stores; Ahimsa is in talks with a major retailer.
If all dairies became slaughter-free, they'd add yearly greenhouse gas emissions equivalent to four large coal-fired power plants.
As vegetarianism gains popularity, slaughter-free milk could become a bona fide food trend—but there's a catch: It might take a toll on the environment. Cows are already the nation's single largest source of methane, a greenhouse gas produced by oil extraction, decomposing trash, and the guts of grazing animals that's as much as 105 times more potent than carbon dioxide. A single cow farts and belches enough methane tomatch the carbon equivalent of the average car. According to a 2006 United Nations Food and Agriculture Organization report, the world's 1.4 billion cows produce 18 percent of the world's greenhouse gases—more than the entire transportation sector. Since the turn of the 19th century, global methane emissions have increased by more than 150 percent, and cows are largely to blame.
If all dairies became slaughter-free, we'd need three to four times as many dairy cows to produce the same amount of milk, which would mean adding at least 27 million additional cows to our herds. Those added cows would each year produce greenhouse gas emissions equivalent to four large coal-fired power plants. We'd also need more meat cows to keep up with the demand for products such as veal and dog food. Pasturing all of these cows would displace wildlife or agricultural crops, straining biodiversity and increasing food prices.
Jata knows there's a potential for the slaughter-free milk trend to go bad—just like the craze for tofu and soymilk contributed to the spread of soybean plantations in South America's rainforests, she says (though most soybeans are consumed by livestock). "Where does it end?" she asks. "For us, as a community, we bring it all back to local food sources and local practices that are self-contained but shared, so it doesn't create this mass corporation-style approach to everything."
Small, humane dairies can certainly find other ways to mitigate their environmental impacts. The Gita Nagari and Ahimsa dairies employ cow manure to fertilize their organic vegetables and bull power to plow their fields, avoiding carbon-intensive tractors and chemical fertilizers. And the Gita Nagari dairy uses an anaerobic digester to convert manure into a gas that residents of the dairy use for cooking—but this sort of thing would be hard to implement on a larger scale.
For Nicola Pazdzierska, the co-director of the Ahimsa Dairy Foundation, the price and environmental impact of slaughter-free milk underscores the need to rethink our relationship with dairy products. "We're not saying more cows," she told me. "We're saying possibly even fewer cows, but kept in better circumstances." She went on: "We think milk is a precious foodstuff. If you pay more for it, you value it more. You use it more thoughtfully. It should be treated with respect."
Tent Girl. The Lady of the Dunes. The Head in the Bucket. These are just a few of the nicknames given to America's 40,000 unidentified corpses by amateur web sleuths. For decades, members of this thriving, heroic, and macabre internet subculture have been cracking cold cases that have long stumped law enforcement. But what motivates them to spend countless hours poring over police reports and autopsy photos? Deborah Halber replaces the classic whodunit with what you might call a whosolvesit. She discovers that many web sleuths throw themselves into their dark hobby to escape their own damaged lives. Some find their share of fame and fortune; others, only more demons.
The gender and ethnicity of Google's overall workforce Official Google Blog
After stalling for years, Google finally released data on the diversity of its workforce Wednesday, admitting that the company is "miles from where want to be." Lazlo Bock, Google's senior vice president of people operations, noted that "being totally clear about the extent of the problem is a really important part of the solution," adding that the company is supporting code education among historically underrepresented groups.
But those efforts may not be enough. Exclusive data obtained from the Labor Department by Mother Jones shows that top Silicon Valley tech firms lag far behind the general population in diversity, and that while Google is average in its recruitment of women, it has even fewer African-American and Latino employees than other major tech firms.
Google is far from the only Silicon Valley firm that has been tight-lipped about its demographics. Though large companies are legally obligated to report race and gender stats to the federal government, tech firms such as Google, Apple, and Oracle long ago convinced the Labor Department to treat the data as a "trade secret" and withhold it from the public. Mike Swift of the San Jose Mercury News sued the department to get the numbers. In 2010, following a two-year legal battle, he ultimately settled for stats for a handful of the Valley's largest companies.
Swift's data went through 2005. To get an update, I filed a Freedom of Information Act request a few months ago asking the Labor Department for its latest race and gender data on the top 10 firms. In order of largest to smallest by market capitalization, it now consists of Apple, Google, Oracle, Cisco Systems, Intel, Gilead Sciences, eBay, Facebook, Hewlett-Packard, and VMware. When I reached out for comment, most of these companies didn't get back to me. Google responded that it intended to make its stats public, as it now has. The chart up top shows stats for Google's workforce overall. The nontech workforce is a lot more balanced. But when you look at just the tech jobs, things are far less diverse. For example, 83 percent of the tech jobs are held by men, and 94 percent of those workers are white or Asian.
Google's tech workforce is far less diverse than its overall workforce. Google
The data I obtained shows that Silicon Valley's race and gender disparities also are wider when limited to executives and top managers, and more dramatic when compared to the makeup of the state workforce. Google's stats reflect the same: Its "leadership" is 79 percent male and 72 percent white, which would put it a bit ahead of its peers, except that the report is vague about which specific positions are being included. Here's what things look like for the Valley's Top 10 firms, based on our Labor Department data:
The data obtained by Mother Jones illustrates that "many companies pay lip service to diversity rather than making the real changes," says Telle Whitney, president and CEO of the Anita Borg Institute, a Palo Alto-based nonprofit that promotes the recruitment and retention of women in technology.
Though the technology gender gap originates in college—only about 18 percent of computer science graduates are women—Whitney believes that the imbalance ultimately stems from the failure of Silicon Valley's leaders to groom more women for top positions, which in turn discourages younger women from entering the field. "First it has to be a priority to have a diverse workforce," she says. "And the priority has to come from the top."
Not all of a tech firm's employees work as coders or engineers. But among those people directly employed in technology positions at Bay Area tech firms, Asians have actually surpassed whites as the dominant racial group:
These numbers are driven, in part, by the heavy reliance of tech companies on the H-1B visa program, which allows US firms to import up to 65,000 foreign workers each year to fill jobs that require "specialized knowledge." In 2012, more than 40 percent of the H-1B workers in the United States came from India, China, or South Korea. Many of them earn less money for comparable jobs than their American counterparts, which is perhaps one reason why major tech firms have lobbied furiously in Washington to increase the H-1B visa cap.
But Asian Americans are also represented at a high rate in Silicon Valley, and are overrepresented among high school students taking the AP computer science exam:
Prominent techies like to say that the Valley is a pure meritocracy, but the glaring disparities make that a dubious claim. "In polite company, I would say it's a fallacy," says Laura Weidman Powers, the executive director of Code2040, a San Francisco-based nonprofit that promotes racial diversity in tech hiring. "In impolite company, I would say it's bullshit."
Powers doesn't think tech corporate leaders are discriminating deliberately; the factors working against black and Latino candidates are more subtle and structural. "Referrals are a huge source of inbound talent for these companies, even when you look at a company as large as a Google or a Facebook," Powers notes. Given that most Americans run in the social networks of people who look like them, the system benefits the Valley's dominant groups at the expense of those on the outside.
Code2040 tries to disrupt that dynamic by actively recruiting talented African American and Latino computer science graduates and plugging them into internships at tech companies. But the group still struggles to convince CEOs to make diversity a goal. "For the tech industry, this is newer," she says. "There is a pretty pervasive mindset of 'Oh, we're colorblind. We just see talent.'"
The best case for increasing diversity in Silicon Valley may be financial. Powers' group gets its name from the year 2040, when people of color are expected to make up the majority of the US population. She argues that tech firms need to hire more people who reflect and understand their customer base. "For any company that has a consumer-facing product" a few years from now, she says, "the communities that use that product will look different."
Correction: A previous version of this post included a chart showing diversity at Silicon Valley's top 10 companies in 1999 vs 2012. There was a misinterpretation about one of the datasets used for the chart, so we have since removed it. In addition, the article has been amended to address Google's breakdown according to tech and nontech jobs, and "leadership" positions.
CEO David Bronner shows off his company's suds-spewing fire truck. Gregg Segal
It's 6 a.m. and my head is splitting from the roar of David Bronner's Vitamix blender pulverizing frozen berries and hemp milk. The 40-year-old CEO of Dr. Bronner's Magic Soaps—who looks like a raver version of Captain Jack Sparrow—kept me up past midnight drinking beers, smoking spliffs, and listening to Deltron 3030 and Gorillaz as he regaled me with stories about LSD trips in Burning Man's Sanctuary tent and his early days as a squatter and club kid in Amsterdam. Shivering out from under the Mexican blanket in his guest bedroom, I dimly recall the two of us dancing in his backyard and expounding upon the hugeness of the universe. "You've got to come to our board meeting tomorrow morning," Bronner told me at some point between the vegan tapas and my fifth Amstel Light.
But the Advil still hasn't kicked in as we load his extra longboard ("the Shredder") into his pickup and roll down the hill to Carlsbad's Terramar Beach, where we meet a crew of Bronner employees and Bronner brahs—including Mike Hynson, the son of the pro surfer featured in the 1966 cult classic The Endless Summer. Out past the breakers, Bronner starts egging me on as a huge wave approaches: "Go Josh! Go!" I flail desperately, wheezing my way into position atop a glassy wall cresting with foam.
Bronner says he has twice refused offers from Walmart to carry his soaps because he can't stomach the chain's politics.
It's been just 21 hours since I showed up at the hive of cheap warehouses that serves as Dr. Bronner's global HQ and found the CEO at his flimsy Ikea-style desk, ignoring business calls. An amulet dangled on a hemp necklace over his tie-dyed shirt as he leaned in toward his computer screen, staring at what really mattered to him: the latest internal poll for Washington Initiative 522, a ballot measure to require the labeling of foods containing genetically modified organisms that was coming up for a vote the following month. The initiative, which voters ultimately rejected, was among the costliest in state history: Its backers raised $8 million while its foes in biotech and Big Food poured nearly three times as much into its defeat. Dr. Bronner's alone donated $2.2 million to the Yes on 522 campaign—after sinking $620,000 into a similar California ballot measure in 2012. "If we don't win the right to label and enable people to choose non-GMO," Bronner told me, "then everything is going to be GMO."
The GMO battle is just the latest in a line of feisty political campaigns waged by the lovably weird cleaning products dynasty, best known for its tingly peppermint liquid soap with the earnestly logorrheic label. ("Absolute cleanliness is Godliness! Teach the Moral ABC that unites all mankind free, instantly 6 billion strong we're All-One.") Since its founding in 1948 by Bronner's grandfather, the Southern California company has become a soapbox for a variety of causes—from its founder's religious universalism to its recent campaigns to legalize hemp and marijuana, clean up fair trade and organic standards, and combat income inequality. Activism and charitable donations consume about half of the company's healthy profits. "If we are not maxed out and pushing our organization to the limit, then what are we doing?" Bronner asks.
Embracing lefty lifestyle politics might not seem like the best way to grow a business—until you sit on the orange velour couch in Bronner's Tibetan-flag-draped office in Escondido and watch the phone light up with calls from buyout firms. In the 15 years since he took over, annual sales have grown 1,300 percent, from $5 million to $64 million. Along the way, the company's castile soaps have gone from hippie niche products to staples on the aisles at Target. And yet Bronner says he has twice refused offers from Walmart to carry his soaps, even at the undiscounted wholesale price, because he can't stomach the chain's politics and crummy worker pay. The best way to go mainstream, he has found, is to be as unapologetically countercultural as possible.
At a time when companies strive to concoct "brand stories" of authenticity and altruism, Dr. Bronner's succeeds by being itself. "Their activism as a company is not engineered; it wasn't coached by a public relations firm," says Joel Solomon, the president of Renewal Partners, a venture capital firm that invests in socially responsible businesses. "Dr. Bronner's does their thing the way they think it should be done, and nobody is going to change them."
The company shares a niche with progressive rabble-rousers like Working Assets (annual sales: $100 million) and Patagonia ($540 million), but no other brand can match its idiosyncratic story. Emanuel Heilbronner was born into a German Jewish family of soap factory owners in 1908 and immigrated to the United States in 1929. His parents died in Nazi concentration camps, and he dropped "Heil" from his last name because of its associations with Hitler. More interested in godliness than cleanliness, Bronner—who wasn't really a doctor—invented a Judeo-Unitarian pop religious philosophy, publicizing its tenets on the labels of the soap bottles that he gave away at his lectures. He became so obsessed with spreading his All-One faith that he and his sickly wife put their three children in foster homes for long stretches so he'd have more time to travel and speak. In 1945, he was arrested after a particularly fervent speech at the University of Chicago and committed to a mental hospital for two months. He escaped and fled to Los Angeles, where he founded Dr. Bronner's All-One God Faith, which now does business as Dr. Bronner's Magic Soaps.
Dr Bronner's founder Emanuel Bronner (left and left in family photo) was the son of a soapmaker who was killed by the Nazis. The company was revitalized by his son Jim (left, with brother Ralph.) Courtesy of the Bronner family.
"The soap was there to sell his message," David Bronner tells me, "and if you didn't want to hear it, he didn't want to sell to you." Emanuel Bronner's cosmic ideals and his soap's 18 suggested uses (contraceptive douche!) found a following among hikers and commune dwellers, even though he was hardly a flower child; he hated communists and never smoked pot. His son Jim rejected his father's mystical ramblings and went to work for a chemical company, where he developed a firefighting foam for Monsanto that still doubles as fake snow on movie sets. But in 1988, he stepped in to rescue Dr. Bronner's Magic Soaps after it lost its nonprofit status and declared bankruptcy, recapitalizing it as a for-profit company.
David Bronner, Jim's son, wasn't sure he wanted to become the next standard-bearer for a soap-making dynasty. After graduating from Harvard in 1995 with a biology degree, he immersed himself in Amsterdam's drug culture. "I just had my life explode on many levels of identity," he recalls of a late-night ecstasy and acid trip at a gay trance club. These experiences, as well as the writings of authors such as Noam Chomsky and Paul Hawken, eventually opened his eyes to the value of his grandfather's All-One philosophy and the power of the soap company as a vehicle for change. In 1997, he let his dad know that he was ready to work for the family business, but only "on activist terms."
In 1999, Bronner capped the company's top salary at five times that of the lowest-paid warehouse worker—as CEO, he makes about $200,000 a year.
A year later, Jim Bronner died of lung cancer and David, just 25, took over as CEO. He decided early on that he'd rather feel good about his job than worry about making a ton of money. In 1999, he capped the company's top salary at five times that of the lowest-paid warehouse worker—Bronner now makes about $200,000 a year. He has hired a lot of people he met at Burning Man, including Tim Clark (official title: Foam Maestro), a muscular guy whose job mostly consists of driving a psychedelic, soapsuds-spewing fire truck to music festivals. That's about as close as the company gets to actual marketing. "We're basically like a nonprofit," Bronner explained as we grabbed coffee in the office of his mom, Trudy, the firm's chief financial officer. "But we aren't," countered Trudy, who could easily pass for a church lady with her silver cross centered on a prim maroon turtleneck sweater. "We're a for-profit business. And we make good money and pay our employees really well."
Still, the minuscule ad budget and cap on executive pay leave the company with plenty of cash to improve its products and fund social campaigns—goals that, as luck or savvy would have it, often go hand in hand. At one point, for example, Bronner decided to add a new ingredient, hemp oil, which gave the soap a smoother lather. But there was a hitch: Not long after he acquired a huge stockpile of Canadian hemp oil, the Bush administration outlawed most hemp products. "Technically, we were sitting on tens of thousands of pounds of Schedule I narcotics," he recalls.
Rather than destroy his inventory, Bronner sued the Drug Enforcement Administration to change its stance on hemp, a nonpsychoactive strain of cannabis. Hemp oil contains so little THC that you'd have to consume a bathtub full of the stuff to get high. To press the point, Adam Eidinger, who has since become the company's "director of social activism," set up in front of DEA headquarters and served agents free bagels with poppy seeds (which in theory could be used to make heroin) and orange juice (which naturally contains trace amounts of alcohol). In 2004, a federal court sided with the company and struck down the ban.
Three years later Dr. Bronner's, by then the world's first certified-organic soap company, sued rivals such as Kiss My Face and Avalon Organics for falsely advertising their products as organic. (The suit, rendered largely moot after Whole Foods began policing the organic claims of its personal-care suppliers, was ultimately dismissed.) When Bronner couldn't find certified-organic and fair-trade sources for palm, coconut, and olive oil, he grew his own in Ghana and Sri Lanka, and scaled up existing projects in Israel and the West Bank. Coconut oil now accounts for 12 percent of Dr. Bronner's sales, almost as much as bar soap.
"The activism side of the company enables us to take risks that no sane company would," Bronner says. "The point of what we are doing is to fight."
In recent years, Bronner has been arrested twice for his activism. In 2009, he planted hemp seeds on the lawn of DEA headquarters in Washington, DC, to protest a ban on domestic cultivation. He was busted again in 2012 for milling hemp oil in front of the White House—he'd set up shop in a cage, and police had to saw through the bars to take him into custody. Next he hopes to partner with renegade farmers to manufacture America's first line of domestically grown hemp-based foods. "The activism side of the company enables us to take risks that no sane company would," Bronner says. "The point of what we are doing is to fight, and the products serve that."
Nowhere has that attitude been more evident than in the Washington GMO battle. While many organics companies contributed money to the campaign, Dr. Bronner's temporarily turned its soap label into a Yes on 522 ad, and ran it in magazines (including Mother Jones). "Taking sides on a political campaign like that is totally unprecedented in the world of product labeling," Robert Parker, the president of the company that prints Dr. Bronner's labels, told me as we bobbed in the waves off Terramar Beach.
David Bronner Gregg Segal
On the day I met Bronner, his activism director Eidinger was arrested for a Yes Men-style stunt lampooning the biotech industry's clout in Washington, DC. Posing as a Monsanto lobbyist, he entered a Senate office building and dumped $2,000 in singles—"enough to look like money raining down," he later explained—from a balcony. Eidinger is also the brains behind the anti-GMO group Occupy Monsanto and a fleet of cute "Fishy Food" art cars (Fishy Sugar Beet, Fishy Tomato, etc.) that Dr. Bronner's commissioned to drive cross-country and make light of how transgenic crops sometimes incorporate fish genes. "I have no in-principle objection to genetic engineering or synthetic biology," Bronner insists, citing his biology background and his dad's work for Monsanto. His real problem with GMOs has less to do with Frankenfood fears than with the documented effects of herbicide- and pest-resistant GM crops, which were sold as a way to reduce harmful spraying. Studies have found that they've instead given rise to new superbugs and superweeds that demand ever-stronger pesticides and herbicides. "Far from freeing us from the chemical treadmill," Bronner says, "GMOs are doubling down on it."
The new factory store will include a "fragrance bar," a soap-bottle refill station, and a hemp activism diorama.
His loss to the biotech industry in Washington state hasn't dampened Bronner's lust for battle. "If this was 2016"—a presidential election year—"we would have destroyed them," he says, blaming low turnout for the measure's defeat. "And that's what we are going to do." (A second try in California could be next, Eidinger says.)
Before we headed to his house, Bronner took me to see the company's future headquarters—a bright, 120,000-square-foot warehouse a few hundred yards down the road from a Home Depot. There, Bertine Kabellis, his spunky, Haitian-born factory manager, details what they're doing to turn the bland corporate space into something more homey. The factory store will include a "fragrance bar," a soap-bottle refill station, and a hemp activism diorama featuring a Bronner look-alike mannequin sorting through cannabis plants in a cage. The store, Kabellis enthuses, will also carry Dr. Bronner-branded pinhole glasses—which create strange visual effects.
"Leopard-print Speedos?" Bronner asks, out of the blue. "Which I have to get for Palm Springs Pride. I'm gonna rock 'em."
As Kabellis explains the layout of the organic farm-to-table employee cafeteria, Bronner interrupts. He wants to show us a photo he's just received on his phone: It's Eidinger in his business suit, making snow angels in a big pile of dollar bills.
"That's so ridic-u-lous!" Bronner intones, beaming as he slips the phone back into his baggy hemp trousers. "It's so rad!"
Last month, the Nevada GOP voted to strip opposition to abortion and marriage equality out of its official party platform. This really shouldn't have come as a surprise to anyone who'd been paying attention: Brian Sandoval, the state's Republican governor, is pro-choice and doesn't want the state to defend its same-sex marriage ban in federal court. And even Bob Cashell, the 74-year-old, Texas-born, former truck driver who serves as the mayor of staunchly conservative Reno now backs marriage equality.
Even so, a lot of Republicans in other states are freaking out.
"The Nevada GOP action to remove marriage and life from their platform is a disgrace," wrote Oklahoma Republican National Committee member Carolyn McLarty in a recent email to some 100 Republican National Committee delegates. "Both are direct attacks on God and family."
But so far, Nevada's GOP delegation stands by its decision. "Nevada is home to many diverse people, including a large LGBT population," Nevada Republican National Committeewoman Diana Orrock wrote in a letter released on Friday at the RNC's spring meeting in Memphis. "The GOP is by definition a party of inclusion not exclusion.… Excluding an entire group of American citizens based solely on their sexual preference towards the same gender is not only divisive but in the 21st century it is unacceptable."