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I don’t know how dirt got its bad reputation. The word is a catch-all for every vile behavior humankind can muster. If you’re corrupt, you play “dirty pool.” A nasty politician, is a “dirt bag.” A malicious gossip “gets all the dirt.” There’s dirt cheap, dirty old men and dirt poor. And please, don’t air your dirty laundry.

Now, for anyone who has ever tracked dirt in on the carpet and suffered the consequences, comes a Smithsonian exhibition to restore credibility to the word. Dirt, explains curator Patrick Megonigal, is soil that has been displaced. Meaning, I suppose, that a stiff wind in a corn field stirred up some dust.

In a new show, “Dig It! The Secrets of Soil” that opened recently at the National Museum of Natural History, the dirt about soil is this: The next global crisis could stem from a lack of appreciation for just how important the world’s dirt really is. After all, who knew that it takes 500 years to create just one inch of topsoil, or that a handful of soil contains more organisms than there are people on this Earth, or that scientists know even less about soil than they do about the world’s oceans (and curators working on Natural History’s new Sant Ocean Hall, opening September 27, will say that there’s a mighty lack of knowledge there also). And yes, it’s true soils are renewable, as every backyard composter knows, but only with a huge amount of effort. So the take home message is: soil, where we grow most all of what we eat, is akin to pure gold.

As a gardener, I’m perhaps a little more ahead of the curve on soil appreciation. I love to stick my hands in it, smell it, pour water on it, dig in it and nurture it with rich, homemade compost. But I was stunned to learn from the exhibition that the soil in my Maryland garden has an official name. It’s “Sassafras.”

Sassafras, so named in 1901, is a Benchmark and Hall of Fame soil. It’s one of the oldest. It’s well drained, moderately permeable and among the most productive soils for agriculture and forestry. You can build on it and it won’t sink. It’s great stuff. My garden grows well out of it.

In fact each of the 50 states and four territories have named soils. Illinois’ Drummer is a black, silty clay. Hawaii’s Hilo is a dark reddish brown. There’s Threebear in Idaho, Cecil in North Carolina, Texas has Houston Black; Wisconsin, Antigo; Michigan, Kalkaska; Montana, Scobey and a sample of each—54 in all—are on view in the new exhibition. Each displays a different shade, color and texture, some are graced with minerals that sparkle, some are dull, together the display is amazingly diverse. So who knew that soils had such range of personality?

You got any dirt to share about dirt? Tell us in the comments section below.

(Images: Courtesy of L. Clarke/Corbis and John Steiner/Joseph Talman)

Most museum goers confine themselves to murmurs of appreciation or the occasional reverent flip of a program page.

Not so for the high school spoken word team from the Santa Fe Indian School in New Mexico. The group of six, fresh off a successful stint at the Brave New Voices International Youth Poetry Slam Festival, treated visitors to a strident production of Native American spoken word recently in the museum’s main hall.

What is Native American spoken word? Good question. It consists of poems, on a variety of Native American themes, performed aloud either in groups or singly.

It’s as ancient as the Navajo creation myth, in which humanity crosses through four worlds before finding its real home, or the ancient Navajo ritual by which a young girl transitions into womanhood. It’s as fresh as Common, whose angry flow and political awareness the speakers sampled when they talked about uranium mining and alcoholism.

It’s at its best when spoken in multiple languages: English, yes, but also the Hopi and Navajo dialects.

For the space of fifteen poems, the audience, like the speakers, got to ask some serious questions. What does it mean to respect the Earth? What does it mean to come of age? What does one say to one’s ancestors? How does one reconcile American politics and wigwam wisdom?

They were not new questions, but when set to rhyme and cadence by a group of bright-eyed spoken word artists, they seemed urgent and universal.

The great thing about spoken word is how it adapts itself so well to many different causes and voices. Sure, it’s been around the hip-hop block (cf the Roots, Erykah Badu, etc) but the performance at NMAI felt like something new.

What do you think? Can spoken word stay real if it moves to the museum world? Got a rap you’re itching to share? Let us hear it in the comments area below.

(Photograph courtesy of Katherine Fogden/NMAI; left to right: April Chavez (Santo Domingo/Diné), 18, class of 2008; Nolan Eskeets (Diné), 18, class of 2008; Davin Coriz (Santo Domingo/San Juan/Picuris), 18, class of 2008)

National Zoo darling Mei Xiang, who recently celebrated her tenth birthday, has kept mum about her maternal status. On March 20, Mei was anesthetized and artificially inseminated. She has since coyly toyed with her adoring public’s hopes for the pitter patter of panda paws.

Over the course of her 2008 estrus cycle, Mei has developed some unusual behaviors. She has taken up a nest building hobby, sporting her 21st century eco-ethics by using bamboo for building material. In the past month, she has been increasingly lethargic and developed disinterest in her favorite foods—and when a panda doesn’t leap at the opportunity to snarf down a fruitcicle, something’s amiss. (Potential baby daddy Tian Tian was unavailable for comment, and has yet to be seen running to the grocery store at 2 a.m. to pick up pickles and Rocky Road ice cream for his wife.)

She has also recently been observed cradling Kong, her favorite toy. Are these the actions of a mother-to-be or a panda who has caught on to the fact that certain behaviors get human attendants really excited?

Coupled with her high progesterone levels, these outward signs are promising. Unfortunately, they are not surefire indicators that Mei Xiang is expecting. Female pandas ride the same hormonal roller coaster whether or not they’re pregnant and fetal development occurs late in the gestational cycle, making it difficult to determine if she is pregnant.

So what do you think: is she or isn’t she? Take our poll! If you’re right, you win the satisfaction that you made a good guess. Bragging rights are included only if your friends are willing to put up with you. C’mon, give it a whirl!

I’d like to think most people are at least familiar with John James Audubon, America’s most popular wildlife artist, and Carolus Linnaeus, the Swedish botanist accredited with binomial nomenclature. But what about Mark Catesby, the English explorer, naturalist and artist whose work informed and inspired them both?

Anyone?

Yeah, I don’t blame you. Catesby’s not exactly a household name. In fact, very little is known about the man himself other than that he was born in Essex in 1683 and made several trips to America–Virginia, then the Carolinas, Spanish Florida and the Bahamas – before returning to England. But his book, Natural History of Carolina, Florida and the Bahama Islands, chock full of the first depictions of the plants and animals of the colonies begs the question, why? With 220 hand-colored etchings detailed down to the scales of a catfish and wisps of hair on a bison, Catesby could dethrone Audubon as the founding father of nature illustration. In fact, Catesby (1683-1749) makes Audubon, who came more than a century after him, look like a downright copycat. Their styles are remarkably similar–birds propped on tree limbs with sterile white backdrops. And Linnaeus, too, stood on Catesby’s shoulders, infusing his moniker in to Latin species names in his honor. FYI: The Linnaean name for the North American bullfrog is Rana catesbeiana.

For Catesby’s long list of firsts–first to portray the flora and fauna of America, first to draw sketches from life as opposed to dead, posed specimens, first to give viewers a sense of environmental relationships by picturing plants and animals with the wildlife that surrounded them in their habitats, first to discover that birds migrate (nixing the thought that they hibernate in caves, hollow trees or at the beds of ponds) and likely the first to recognize how natural and man-made destruction of a species’ habitat leads to extinction–he’s been unduly forgotten. Finally, some fans of his are taking it upon themselves to yank him out of the folds of history.

David Elliot, founder of the Kiawah Island Natural Habitat Conservancy in South Carolina and executive director of the Catesby Commemorative Trust, and Cynthia Neal, an award-winning documentary producer–fueled by Elliot’s interest in history, especially that of Kiawah Island where Catesby once tramped, and Neal’s passion for wildlife conservation–teamed up to create The Curious Mister Catesby, a film about the one and only. A writer for London’sThe Times called the endeavor “more a labour of love than a hard-headed commercial venture,” a sentiment that if kept in mind should let you get past the hokey, over-articulate narrator. And, so far, over 1,000 people have seen the film at London, Washington, DC, Charleston and Kiawah Island screenings. Its producers are working towards public television broadcasts across the country.

The Curious Mister Catesby from David Elliott on Vimeo

Smithsonian Institution Libraries, which has two of the roughly 80 remaining originals of Natural History, is doing its part to bring the rare book to the everyman’s living room. The text will be digitized for inclusion in the Biodiversity Heritage Library, a digital portal for literature on biodiversity of which the Smithsonian libraries are a part of, and made accessible through the Encyclopedia of Life, an online project aiming to create a Web site for every known species that calls up relevant material. The idea is that researchers–tikes to adults–will be able to call up a site on a Rana catesbeiana and get Catesby’s painting of one, along with other interesting sources. Smithsonian Institution Libraries will also have an all-Catesby Web site up and running by the end of the year with a selection of illustrations and essays on his influence on art, natural history and scientific observation.

Join in the Catesby revival! If you’ve heard of him or learn something about him, post a comment.

(Photograph Courtesy of Smithsonian Institution Libraries)

I started watching The X-Files circa 1997. I was in middle school, finally old enough to stay up until ten on a school night, and oh buddy, did I get hooked. The bizarre tales of paranormal activity instantly made for fascinating viewing, but the show’s tone—which ranged from the frightening to the comic—and the fundamental conflicts between the central figures—Fox Mulder, the believer, pitted against Dana Scully, the skeptic—endowed the show with a tremendous amount of character, a quality sorely missed in today’s age of reality TV. Being without cable (there’s something about paying for airwaves that never made sense to me) I haven’t seen the show since it’s finale in 2002. Nevertheless, my “innie” geek went “outie” as I was able to attend the ceremony commemorating the donation of X-Files memorabilia to the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History. I was able to take an up-close gawk at Mulder and Scully’s FBI ID badges—you know, the ones they flipped out in, like, every episode with those “yeah, we know we’re badass” expressions on their faces— alongside a coffee-stained script, storyboards, maquettes and the iconic “I Want to Believe” poster. But, hands down, the icing on the cake was my brief interview with series creator Chris Carter. Unfortunately the donated items will not be on view until the museum’s renovation is completed, but in the meantime, X-Philes can get their Mulder and Scully fix with the new X-Files movie, due out July 25. What are your feelings about a second big screen adaptation of one of the most popular television series of all time? Sound off in the comments section below!

I started watching The X-Files circa 1997. I was in middle school, finally old enough to stay up until ten on a school night, and oh buddy, did I get hooked. The bizarre tales of paranormal activity instantly made for fascinating viewing, but the show’s tone—which ranged from the frightening to the comic—and the fundamental conflicts between the central figures—Fox Mulder, the believer, pitted against Dana Scully, the skeptic—endowed the show with a tremendous amount of character, a quality sorely missed in today’s age of reality TV. Being without cable (there’s something about paying for airwaves that never made sense to me) I haven’t seen the show since it’s finale in 2002. Nevertheless, my “innie” geek went “outie” as I was able to attend the ceremony commemorating the donation of X-Files memorabilia to the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History. I was able to take an up-close gawk at Mulder and Scully’s FBI ID badges—you know, the ones they flipped out in, like, every episode with those “yeah, we know we’re badass” expressions on their faces— alongside a coffee-stained script, storyboards, maquettes and the iconic “I Want to Believe” poster. But, hands down, the icing on the cake was my brief interview with series creator Chris Carter. Unfortunately the donated items will not be on view until the museum’s renovation is completed, but in the meantime, X-Philes can get their Mulder and Scully fix with the new X-Files movie, due out July 25. What are your feelings about a second big screen adaptation of one of the most popular television series of all time? Sound off in the comments section below!

Cameras don’t lie. As for the people behind them, that’s another issue entirely. This blending of fact and fiction inherent in moving-image media — everything from what you see on the nightly news to Hollywood — is explored in the Hirshhorn’s video art exhibition, “The Cinema Effect: Realisms.” While you can tour most of the exhibition any day of the week, two noteworthy works only receive bi-weekly screenings: “The Battle of Orgreave” and “Repetition.”

“The Battle of Orgreave” tells the story of a 1984 miners’ strike and a violent confrontation that took place between picketing laborers and police. More than 50 miners and as many as 72 police officers were injured (many of the miners are believed to have not reported their injuries for fear of arrest). The film is unusual in that it reenacts events that are still in living memory, which made me immediately wonder, “Video crews already filmed this. What’s the point?” The point: in 1984, the BBC’s misrepresentation of events helped sway public opinion against the miners. (The BBC issued an apology in 1991). The film “Battle of Orgreave” tries to set the record straight. Through reenactment and interviews, the miners finally have an opportunity to tell their side of the story. The men who went head to head years ago are brought back to participate in the film. There is, however, creative casting afoot: some miners play policemen. If nothing else, the film — from the art of creating to the act of viewing — is all about gaining new perspectives.

“Repetition” recreates the 1971 Stanford prison experiment, in which a number of college students — some designated as guards, others as prisoners — were pitted against each other in a prison simulation. The passage of time has done nothing to improve the ethics or scientific methodology of this insane exercise. In the film, volunteers are paid $40 a day to play guards and prisoners, and they can quit the experiment at any time. Guards have a list of rules they are expected to enforce and prisoners are expected to obey. The people running the experiment sit back and wait to see how long it takes before the guards start abusing their power and the prisoners start rebelling. Isn’t that sadistic? The volunteers readily fall into their roles, and we’re never sure if they act from preconceived notions of guard/prisoner behavior or if what we see really reflects some dark element of human nature. Maybe that’s why this venture is best passed off as art than science fair fodder. Still, it’s shocking to see what people are willing to do for money.

When do you begin to question the truth or ethics of what you see? Are there works of art that raise those questions for you? Tell us in the comments area below. Personally, I’m a huge fan of “Grey Gardens.” Some see it as a piece of exploitative tabloid-style filmmaking. I find it to be a poignant piece of portraiture. Does the truth lie somewhere in between?

These films are free to the public and seating is first come, first served. Screenings are held on Tuesday and Thursday and begin at noon. A note to parents: unless you are OK with f-bombs bombarding your children’s ears and are willing to explain why that nice man is urinating in the soup, AVOID THESE FILMS!

(Still from Jeremy Deller’s, “The Battle of Orgreave,” 2001. Image courtesy of the artist and Artange, London. Photo by Martin Jenkinson.)

“A lot of people don’t know that women used to play professional baseball,” said Mamie “Peanut” Johnson, looking appalled.

If you didn’t know this either, prepared to be schooled.

Mamie is one of three women who played in the Negro Leagues, all-black baseball teams where giants like Hank Aaron, Jackie Robinson and Satchel Paige got their start in the years when baseball, like almost everything else in America, was segregated. The Leagues drew thousands of fans, had their own World Series and All-Star Game, and for many years were one of the nation’s biggest black-owned and –operated businesses.

Mamie, who was invited by the Anacostia Community Museum yesterday to speak as part of an exhibit about the Negro Leagues, said her path to the pitcher’s mound was far from smooth.

She started playing ball as a kid. When times were hard, she made her own baseballs out of twine, masking tape and rocks. In 1953 she signed with the Indianapolis Clowns (who, through some strange trick of geography, were actually based in New York). For the next two years, she was the only female pitcher amid a sea of male sluggers.

“Some guy told me I couldn’t strike him out because I was no bigger than a peanut,” said Mamie. The way she tells it, she nodded at the guy. And then she struck him out. That’s when she got the nickname “Peanut.”

Robert Hall, Assistant Director for Education at the Anacostia Community Museum, said it was important for museum-goers to hear from one of the few women who played the game.“If you looked around, you saw there were a lot of girls,” he said, referring to the audience at the lecture. “She’s told the girls a part of their history they didn’t know about.”

Did you know women once played pro baseball? Could that ever happen again? Tell us what you think in the comments area below.