Us Against The World And Us Against Us?

I grew up and spent a fair amount of my adult life in Belzoni, Mis’sippi, on the banks of the Yazoo River.

Life around there breaks out in two ways: On one hand, the finite of Belzoni. On the other, the infinite of “cross-uh-river.” That’s southern drawl — which I speak fluently — for “across the river.”

Such as:
• Where’d you kill that big buck? Cross-uh-river.
• When you did that incredibly ignorant and criminal thing and had to hide out from the Belzoni police (we really say “po-lease”), where’d you go? Cross-uh-river.

And so it is in the business of cotton. There is America, and then there is the rest of the world cross-uh-river. It is us against the world.

Just as one example — and there are plenty more — we have the West Africans crying hysterically that our cotton subsidies are keeping them in poverty. I’m too lazy to look it up, but I’m told the West Africans make about one-half the world average cotton yield. Then they sell it for one-half the world price to their merchants supported by their governments. That’s 50% of 50%. And we are keeping them barefoot and pregnant?

The Washington Post recently quoted an Illinois corn and soybean farmer as saying he grossed nearly $500,000 on his crop. He received $120,000 in subsidies.

But he said “it’s embarrassing” to accept subsidies.

Well send it back!

But wait, he can’t: “I would like to have the moral courage and financial clout not to take (subsidies). But if I don’t, I won’t be able to compete … ”

Just who is he competing against exactly? Eighty percent of America’s corn production is consumed domestically. Seventy percent of America’s cotton production is exported. So, yeah, let’s talk competition.
I’ll go on and say it: It’s not just our cotton industry against the world — it’s our cotton versus everything else, including other American farmers.

I recently lost my wallet and had to cancel my charge cards. I had no problem with Visa and MasterCard.

But American Express was a nightmare. It took me three calls and well over an hour — mostly on hold — to get it done. And these calls were to the emergency phone number I found on the American Express web site. It said I could get an emergency card replacement. I’d hate to be bleeding to death and have to pay the doctor in advance with that emergency American Express card.

On the first two tries, I got a lady, then a gentleman. Both of them in India. (Please understand that what I am about to say is not poking fun at the Indians for the way they speak, I am poking fun at the way I do.)

Anyway, I told the lady I had lost my card and asked what information she needed. She responded in French. I swear. So I asked her to please speak English, which she did, and asked, “What is card number?” I thought to myself, didn’t I just say I lost my card? Can that much really be lost in the translation from Southern drawl to French? So without the card number, she said she had to put me on hold and look it up. And I suppose she is still looking, because I never heard from her again.

On the second try, I went through the same routine with the Indian gentleman. He promptly responded — in English, this time I am happy to report — “What is card number?” This time I said it out loud: “Didn’t I just tell you I lost my card?” Then he tells me I called the wrong number. Well, I said, I called the emergency number, and now I am having one. But he still wants me to call another emergency number. I guess it’s like triage: My emergency was not as great as others he had heard this night.

I finally got through to another lady … in Canada. She understood Southern drawl and the deed was done.
Ross Perot was right about that giant sucking sound.

We tell the world to give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. And we should.

The world tells us, give us your textile industry, your Step 2 program and American Express’ customer service. And we should not.