There is a saying referenced in Cicero’s Academica (I.5) that touches on our practical inability to give instruction to power.  The reference is as follows:

For although we do not have the ‘pig teaching Minerva,’ as the saying goes, nevertheless whoever gives Minerva instruction is engaged in a fool’s errand.

[Nam etsi non sus Minervam, ut aiunt, tamen inepte quisquis Minervam docet]

It is not clear what story from mythology is referred to, but we can discern the thrust of the proverb’s meaning from context.  The saying warns against efforts by the lowly-positioned (the pig) to “teach” those who wield absolute power, here represented symbolically by the goddess Minerva.  There is in fact a similar proverb in Arabic, which goes, “The sultan teaches, but is not taught” (السلطان يعلم و لا يعلم).  I imagine other cultures have similar sayings in their literary histories.  In all cases, the point is the same:  we cannot hope to “school” those who hold all the cards, and wield all the practical power.  Other methods of persuasion will need to be considered. 

History has shown, time and time again, that you cannot win your rights, or safeguard those rights, simply by pointing to a statute-book, or appealing to power’s sense of justice or righteousness.  This is because, more often than not, power cares only about itself, and exists to perpetuate itself at the expense of the common good.  Rights are won and safeguarded in courts or other arenas of conflict, and preserved by conscientious, nationally-minded leaders and legislatures.  And these rights, once won, must be re-fought, re-litigated, and re-won with every passing generation.  The jungle encroaches upon the pyramids of the Maya, and the deserts sands encroach upon the Great Pyramid at Giza; and every generation must diligently prune back that jungle, or clear away those sands.    

One forgotten example is enough to illustrate this principle.  During the Gilded Age, the American railroad companies were something like the large tech conglomerates of today.  They were plutocratic monopolies who owned the politicians of both parties; their influence was far-reaching, and extended all the way to the Supreme Court and the halls of Congress.  Their interests were almost always catered to, and indulged, by the judges and lawmakers of the era.  In the days before the passage of the Sherman Anti-Trust Act, there was little, if anything, that Congress was inclined to do to check the power of the railroad plutocrats.  Journalist and Civil War veteran Ambrose Bierce said it best when he wrote,

[S]windling corporations are not objects of our animosity; they are facts of our observation.  The real facts of the Central Pacific Railroad Company, for example, are Stanford, Crocker, and Huntington [the owners of the California railroad monopoly].  If the corporation is a thief, it is because Stanford, Crocker, and Huntington have stolen.

The event known as the Mussel Slough Massacre unfolded in the following way.  In the 1870s, as railroads expanded with lightning speed across the western states, the companies that built them were awarded generous concessions and land grants by state legislates and Congress, which, of course, were in the grip of railroad company lobbyists.  The Southern Pacific Railroad encouraged settlers to move into lands controlled by them in California’s San Joaquin Valley, as a way of building a civil infrastructure around the railroads without having to invest any of their own money.  The settlers were given informal assurances that, in return for populating the region and developing it, they would eventually be able to purchase the land for no more than five dollars per acre.  In the meantime, the understanding was that the settlers held the land pursuant to a lease agreement. 

However, when the time came to sell the land, the asking price was thirty-five dollars per acre.  I should note, in fairness, that these facts were disputed in court by Southern Pacific.  The railroad denied ever having given the settlers any firm promises, and considered many of them squatters with no standing to make demands.  But the gist of the dispute between the settlers and the railroad is, I believe, as I have articulated it here.  The settlers fought Southern Pacific in court, in the state legislature, and in Congress, but every decision went in favor of the railroad company.    

Southern Pacific continued to move new settlers into the disputed area, however, in a transparent attempt to create additional facts on the ground.  This created a situation in the region where the inhabitants were split into two camps:  one pro-railroad, and the other anti-railroad.  In May 1880, the simmering tensions exploded into violence at the settlement of Mussel Slough.  When the railroad company sent an armed party (a U.S. marshal, some hired guns, and a company agent) to evict some settlers, a shootout ensued.  Five settlers and two of company’s hired guns were killed; five other settlers were charged with, and convicted of, disobeying a federal officer.  The massacre was national news at the time, and became part of the popular culture.  The incident was the inspiration for Frank Norris’s 1901 novel The Octopus. 

Similar examples of corporate abuse can, of course, be found in every era of American history.  It is not surprising that the Mussel Slough Massacre is nearly forgotten today.  We live in an era of plutocratic resurgence that makes the abuses of the Gilded Age seem almost tame by comparison.  Enforcement of the Sherman Anti-Trust Act is apparently a thing of the past.  The government now sees no problem in massive consolidations and concentrations of corporate power.  Greed is the order of the day.  The Meta corporation, for example, wields undue influence over the social media landscape, a critical modern terrain.  It owns Facebook, Instagram, and Whatsapp, among other services.  Congress simply allows this state of affairs to persist, right under its nose. 

I have always been skeptical of the trite old saying about “telling truth to power.”  For power has no desire to listen to the cries of its victims.  Power has no wish to restrain or regulate itself. It does not need to be “told the truth,” for it already knows what the truth is.  Such an effort would be a fool’s errand. Systems of control need to be challenged and resisted; they must be compelled to behave in ways that advance the national wellbeing.  Resistance requires intense and sustained effort; and such resistance must be felt in the courts and in the legislature. It must emanate from the voices of the people, and from the office of the chief executive.  The pig is never going to teach Minerva anything at all, because the goddess could care less about what the pig has to say. But if, for instance, the pig sued Minerva in federal court—well, that would be an idea.     

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Read more about the consequences of power in the new translation of Sallust:

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