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In 1992, the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA) introduced the Food Pyramid. It promoted a diet centered on grains, with only a modest nod to fats and proteins. This pyramid, with its broad base of bread and cereals and a narrow peak of fats and sweets, quickly became ubiquitous in American life. By the time I started elementary school, it was inescapable. Posters adorned every corner of our aging, now demolished school building—a larger poster was plastered in the school cafeteria. The Food Pyramid didn’t merely influence school nutrition programs; it fundamentally transformed them, becoming the cornerstone of meal planning and dietary instruction, prioritizing high-carbohydrate foods like bread, pasta, and cereals.
Nutritionists—actual nutritionists—criticized the pyramid’s guidelines. Walter C. Willett, a professor of medicine and nutrition at Harvard, argued that the Food Pyramid was driven more by agricultural interests rather than the interest of public health. In his book Eat, Drink, and Be Healthy, Willett criticized the pyramid’s blanket warnings against fats and its promotion of high carbohydrate intake. He pointed out that not all fats are harmful and criticized the excessive promotion of refined grains, which he believed contributed to obesity and diabetes.
But the warnings were ignored. The pyramid was gospel. No teacher of mine—to my knowledge—questioned the USDA’s logic. I even recall my school’s lunch lady insisting that I finish my pizza before eating an orange—my lunch was once taken from me when I was caught eating in reverse order. After all, the best way to teach a kid a lesson is to starve him.
If the experts had intended to make every child in America fat, they accomplished it. By the time I reached middle school, Ohio faced a childhood obesity crisis—I was one of the tubbies. We had to walk around the school parking lot to burn off pizza, which, because it had enough tomato sauce, absurdly counted as a vegetable under USDA guidelines.
This tale is well-trodden, but it sparked a thought: the ability to sell a bad, unhealthy product as something beneficial isn’t a skill monopolized by the USDA. It’s an enduring skill that has been picked up by many.
Today’s experts spin fantastical claims with a zeal that would make even the most cunning charlatan envious: Kamala Harris, once a dismal failure in border security, is now exalted as the perfect steward for immigration. Violent anti-Israel protests are exalted as the highest form of free speech. Speech itself is violence. Whites are oppressors. Abortion is reframed as family planning. “Diversity, equity, and inclusion” is the sacred path to equality. Gender reassignment surgeries improve mental health. And, pizza is a vegetable.
This list scarcely grazes the surface of the pervasive delusions many have come to embrace. By denying our very eyes, we inch ever closer to a state where the truth is obliterated, history is rewritten, and everything is fake.
Consider, for instance, the Biden administration’s audacious attempt to bury truth under layers of ideological deceit when it sought to redefine sex under Title IX to allow biological men to participate in women’s college athletics. We are presented with the grotesque spectacle of men beating women—literally in some cases. We can see with our own eyes that it is wrong, yet we are implored to question our own perceptions. And conform we have—sororities are accepting male members.
Our historians, those keepers of our collective memory, have betrayed their calling. They peddle the myth—among others—that Native Americans were peaceful before the arrival of European settlers—recite this land acknowledgment.
More professors than not are also awarding As to students who scarcely deserve them, sending off unqualified graduates to work in America’s industries. And many professors, I imagine, hold the fake New York Times in reverence as a paragon of unbiased journalism.
This web of lies only endures if we stop confronting them. At MTC, our role isn’t to claim ownership of the truth, but it is to remain vigilant in our pursuit of it—and to call bull when we see bull. As a new academic year approaches, I implore you to untangle the web.
Image available on Adobe Stock — RIGHT and LEFT added
