Lessons in how to speak against an ocean

by Jack Neely

They called it the first exposition ever held that was oriented toward the future, not the past. Not that it was the first futuristic fair just in Knoxville. They said it was the first one in the history of the world. Right about 85 years ago, it was running full tilt.

The National Conservation Exposition drew them in by the tens of thousands every day.

Its historical significance might well overshadow that later one with the Sunsphere.

In old photos, Chilhowee Park is unrecognizable. Only the stone bandstand—where Teddy Roosevelt and William Jennings Bryan spoke—is still there. But 85 years ago, there were 11 large buildings in Chilhowee Park, several of which looked like great white Greek temples. These were high-minded men, with a high purpose. The Exposition, they said, would be "a living and tangible promise of a...more glorious tomorrow foreordained by the wise actions of today."

Gifford Pinchot, the leading conservationist who with his ally Teddy Roosevelt had co-founded the Progressive Party, was one of the officers of the Exposition. Knoxville was ideal for the first Conservation Exposition, Pinchot said, because the city combines "the vigor of the North with the warm-hearted generosity of the South." Pinchot seemed to expect it would be the first of many that would transform the American consciousness.

Some of the literature from the 1913 Exposition is surprisingly foresighted. "The one big question of the day," claimed a promoter, "is how to conserve energy and to prevent waste." The Exposition, they said, would show "how many things that now go to waste may be converted into sources of revenue." They also called for the abolition of child labor and better conditions for women, who still couldn't vote.

Already, conservationists were concerned with the recent endangerment of one species in particular. There was a standing $1,500 reward—nearly $30,000 in today's money—waiting for anyone, anywhere, who could locate a single passenger-pigeon nest. At the fair, conservationists confessed their fears that the reward would never be collected.

They warned it could happen to other species. In a moving essay about the fair, organizer William Goodman called for "the preservation of fish, birds, and other wild creatures of the forest, field, and sea."

We don't know whether Goodman meant his umbrella to cover the rare species on display at the fair's most popular attraction, "Joy Street."

Advertised daily in the newspaper—in fact, receiving more space than most of the bold conservationist lectures—were some especially impressive delegates: "The Human Fish," "the Human Sea Lion," and "Arthur Sherwood, the Human Fly." (That's not to mention "Johnny Webb, America's Prize Fat Baby," and "Capt. Jack Arnold, the Iron-Chested Man.")

Maybe the idea was to attract the common man to the fair, and, when he least expects it, raise his consciousness. If so, it didn't always work.

Still, the fair's idealists might have been heartened by the turnout for one notable lecture, 85 years ago this week. It might have fallen under the category of human conservation.

Thousands of fairgoers packed the Chilhowee Park auditorium on a Tuesday afternoon to hear this one speech given by a remarkable 33-year-old Radcliffe graduate. She wore what one Knoxville reporter described as a "simple girlish dress" of pink. Despite her plain dress and hairstyle, she was, some seemed surprised to admit, "pretty." She had become nationally famous in recent years for her efforts on behalf of the handicapped. She was, in fact, handicapped herself. Her name was Helen Keller.

Her companion on stage that afternoon was identified in the Knoxville papers as "Mrs. John O. Macy," but she became better known to posterity by her maiden name, Anne Sullivan. She stood up and introduced the day's speaker. "Out of the land of silence and darkness she comes to you, who live in the light, with a message of brotherhood."

Keller stood and began to speak, but many in the auditorium had difficulty understanding her. "We can do little alone, but much together," Keller said. The audience shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. A few slipped out, followed by many more.

"To the shame of many," editorialized the Journal, "it must be said that when they realized that it would take the closest attention to catch the drift of Miss Keller's remarks, they became uneasy...."

Maybe they'd figured this was just another freak show, and they preferred the Human Fish. So many attempted to leave the auditorium during Helen Keller's speech that the day's featured speaker could feel the vibrations through her feet. Anne Sullivan rose and stopped her speech. She suggested they drop the speech and opt for a question-and-answer session.

"Can you feel the movement of the people?" Anne Sullivan asked. Helen Keller felt her teacher's mouth as she spoke.

"Yes," Helen Keller answered.

"What does it feel like?" Sullivan asked.

"The ocean," Keller answered. "And you can't expect me to speak against an ocean."

Much of the message of the 1913 Conservation Exposition may have fallen on ears deafer than Keller's. But a few may have found inspiration there. Barely a decade later, several of those involved in the Conservation Exposition were taking leading roles in a grander and seemingly impossible conservationist project: to take the lucrative timberland known as the Smoky Mountains—one of Knoxville's biggest industrial assets—and make of it a protected national park.