The dealer segment of our shelly society has taken a bit of a beating
recently.  It wasn't my intention to unleash a revolution, nor did I really
feel that my thoughts on the unsavory aspects of commercialism were
especially revolutionary.  There are a myriad of philosophies to collecting
-- the self-collecting purist, the avid traders, those who buy their shells
more than find them, and others who dabble in all three.  I'm sure CONCH-L
is representative of the general collecting public.
 
Having given further thought to my earlier idle musings, please pardon my
humble essay, which grew so long I've submitted it in two parts.  This, the
first part, introduces something I call the "Stewardship Ethic" of shell
collecting.  The second part is called "The shell as commodity."  I would
appreciate knowing your thoughts on my ideas and sugestions.
 
It would be fruitless to characterize a right way of thinking from a wrong
in a discussion of ethics and shells.  "Right/wrong" implies morality, and
as someone recently noted, divides us into camps rather than making us
aware of benign differences.  No one is an enemy here -- in spite of the
few passive-aggressive personalities previously alluded to, I think we all
share a basic love for the perfect beauty of shells.  As we disagree and
tussle over issues, it's good to keep that fundamental tenet in mind.
 
That being said, I think we all recognize there are some difficult ethical
questions presented to the shell collector.  The answer to these questions
run deeper than simply electing not to purchase shells, but it is at the
root of this and other troublesome issues.
 
One ethical question is whether, as Mark Ferreter asked, we are entitled to
kill a living creature -- even a lowly snail -- on account of our
possessive love for its shell. We all have rationalized our response to
this question, or we wouldn't be the collectors we are.  Some choose to
take only dead shells; others skirt the issue by buying or trading for
shells someone else killed.  Others figure humans are at the top of the
food chain in any case, so our "mastery" of the planet gives us the right
to deal with its denizens as we wish.
 
Most collectors probably feel that their activities are but a drop in the
bucket for bountiful Mother Earth to replenish.  And many compare their
selective predation to worse mollusc-killings caused by pollution, beach
construction, and natural "disasters" such as tsunami and hurricanes,
rationalizing that since collectors' impact is less significant, it is of
little concern.
 
The next ethical question becomes the value we place upon the shells we
harvest.  Having gone to the trouble to rationalize collection, we quickly
assign relative value to our molluscan prizes.  Let's develop an example.
 
When I was younger and didn't care about putting names or prices on things,
I grouped my shells based strictly on aethestics.  I liked them because
they felt good in my small hands.  They had funny knobs and whorls and
bumps; to my young eyes something just seemed pretty about even the
weariest little snail-house.  I still have those beach shells today, even
though a craft shell store would turn their nose up at them.  You see, I
collected those shells during walks at low tide with my mother, which is a
special memory for me.  Those shells have acquired a personal value of no
interest to anyone else.  I'm sure most of you have similar "sentimental
favorites."
 
Now, growing up, I learned to categorize things, to decide right from
wrong, to discriminate bad, good, and better.  Whatever the consequences,
we all learn to do this -- it seems to be the human condition to lump
things into groups.  I learned what's mine is not yours, and since I "own"
it, I can do with it as I wish.  Here lies the root of this discussion.
 
Knowing what it means to own something, we begin to understand how to
assign value.  Someone else is going to want it, depending on how little of
that "something" there is.  Things become commodities.  The logical
deduction is that nothing tangible is free -- and many intangibles aren't,
for that matter.  You have to get something for giving to be worthwhile.
(Face it, this is one of life's basics.  Even gifts carry some expectation
of gratitude.)
 
So how to assign value?  Simply, we learn that value is whatever someone
else is willing to give you to get what you have.  We place a price on
ownership, whether we put effort into acquiring that commodity or not.  In
this possessive world, nothing seems to physically exist without being
"owned" by someone.
 
If we accept that it is ethical to collect living shells in the first place
-- which is to say we are not bothered by the requirement to slay benign
creatures for the purposes of aesthetics and study rather than sustenance
-- then we probably don't have any trouble with the idea of possession.  We
accept that shells, once owned, are a commodity like any other: ours, until
we elect to relinquish them, for whatever reason.
 
So consider this -- as owners of collections built wholly or partially upon
shells taken live, does possession make us ethically responsible for the
deaths of the molluscs within?  What does it mean if we are?  And why
should we be concerned about the question in the first place?  Surely it's
ridiculous to worry about the life of a mere snail or clam.  Is it?  These
are questions we ought to consider, as individuals whose collective
behavior has in fact an impact, however variable, upon this world and its
other inhabitants.
 
I'm not arguing we should radically change our methods and suddenly strive
for some utopia where humans refrain from preying on other members of the
animal kingdom.  I am simply suggesting that if we choose to "own" things,
we shoulder responsibility for how our possessions come to us, and for how
they leave us, as well as what we choose to do with them.  We step beyond
selfish ownership, and emerge as stewards, striving to make our possessions
beneficial to our community, whether for science, education, or public
awareness.  It's as true of the planet as it is for our modest shell
collections.