"This is a woman who basically was trying to raise four kids and honor her deceased husband...I don't know how that was a threat to anybody's national security."
--Isaac Ferris, Jr., Coretta Scott King's nephew and spokesman for The King Center in Atlanta (http://ap.google.com/article/ALeqM5gdZ6WjVZ0RMNg6RHMfRBWm1t7f2Q)
Today's news of the FBI conducting surveillance on Coretta Scott King for years after Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.'s assassination sent my mind reeling. To think of anonymous, small armies of government bureaucrats, sitting in cubicles lit by dim, flourscent lights searching through Mrs. King's personal letters, reading logs of field agents meticulously recording the schedule of her comings and goings, and even having the audacity to critique her autobiography is like something out of a Terry Gilliam movie.
It's bizarre.
Unthinkable.
Yet, it happened.
Houston television station KHOU broke this story today: http://www.khou.com/topstories/stories/khou070830_ac_scottkingfiles.85e64faa.htm l. It shows the extent that certain elements in our society - including our own government - will go to when confronted with an eloquent, plain-spoken argument for social change.
In his "Beyond Vietnam" speech (http://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/mlkatimetobreaksilence.htm) delivered on April 4, 1967, exactly one year before he was assassinated, Dr. King argued that, "...A time comes when silence is betrayal...". In a relatively few short minutes he became one of the government's biggest domestic threats, more than the Black Panthers, more than Malcolm X. King was able in this speech to meld the anti-war movement, the civil rights movement and the movement toward economic populism together into one seamless garment, saying:
"...we have been repeatedly faced with the cruel irony of watching Negro and white boys on TV screens as they kill and die together for a nation that has been unable to seat them together in the same schools. And so we watch them in brutal solidarity burning the huts of a poor village, but we realize that they would hardly live on the same block in Chicago. I could not be silent in the face of such cruel manipulation of the poor..." (my emphasis added)
King's threat was real: he was already at this point working on the Poor People's campaign, a cause that would bring together working people and poor people of all races to use nonviolence to demand economic justice from our government. He was poised to bring together disparate factions of the left and right, rich and poor, young and old by articulating how our nation's dependence on the military-industrial complex and the foreign policies it spawns adversely affects normal, every day Americans from widely divergent walks of life.
The urgency to stop him was real. The tactics employed by our government through the COINTEL program were brutal (http://www.icdc.com/~paulwolf/cointelpro/cointel.htm). His voice being silenced exactly one-year-to-the-day of delivering this landmark speech has always looked suspicious.
But after being silenced, why did the government continue these tactics against Mrs. King? Why did they start a meme that literally hounded her the rest of her life, making her the butt of political cartoons (one where she and her children were depicted as pick ninnies) and encouraging right-wing radio talk show hosts to label her "the Black Widow"? As KHOU reports:
"...One agent even read and reviewed her 1969 book "My Life with Martin Luther King, Jr." and made a point to say Scott King's "selfless, magnanimous, decorous attitude is belied by.. (her) ..actual shrewd, calculating, businesslike activities." (http://www.khou.com/topstories/stories/khou070830_ac_scottkingfiles.85e64faa.htm l).
Why did the FBI employ these same tactics against close advisors like Ralph David Abernathy:
"...In the report the FBI details an uncertain and "shaky" Abernathy who was "concerned about his possible assassination as well as his position as President of the SCLC..." So the agent makes a recommendation: "It is felt that by notifying Abernathy directly upon receipt of information relating to threats against his life, some rapport may be developed with him..." The report also adds that doing this would give the benefit of "the disruptive effect of confusing and worrying him by reminding him of continuous threats against his life." (http://www.khou.com/topstories/stories/khou070830_ac_scottkingfiles.85e64faa.htm l).
The FBI was worried that someone might stand up in the void left by MLK, might continue the work that he started on a summer day in a quiet church nestled in the chaos and confusion of New York City.
So, in the midst of visits to the White House, where Mrs. King and her children posed for photo ops and were told what a wonderful man their husband and father was, our government was reporting to these very same men with the sympathetic eyes where Mrs. King was going, who she was talking with, and how to sully her repuation just enough to make her a less credible threat.
This story has an upside, as all stories do. The government ceased its surveillence of Mrs. King around November, 1972. The American Civil Liberties Union issued a press release today calling for an immediate re-writing of the guidelines the FBI uses to spy on people in public places (http://www.aclu.org/safefree/general/315 30prs20070831.html).
And, a Presidential candidate paid tribute to King's seminal speech, illustrating its urgent, timely call to end our silence and finally be patriotic about something other than war:
If we want to stop the type of injustice Mrs. King experienced, it isn't enough to hold investigations or write better laws and policies (as important as these action are). We need to change who we are as a people.
Silence is a betrayal.
Stand up, speak out. Be the change you want to see.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Carter on Edwards: "A Candidate Whom I Really Admire"
Two Southerners, two standard bearers of the Progressive Movement stood side by side in the Georgia heat today and talked about the future.
Jimmy Carter, the man who created a blue print for "ex-Presidents" that has been followed by everyone from Bill Clinton to George Bush, Sr., didn't endorse anyone for President. A man of great political wisdom, he rightly said it was too soon in the race to throw his considerable weight behind any one candidate right now.
But here's what he had to say about John Edwards:
"I can say without equivocation that no one who is running for president has presented anywhere near as comprehensive and accurate a prediction of what our country ought to do in the field of environmental quality, in the field of health care for those who are not presently insured, for those who struggle with poverty...." (http://www.cartercenter.org/homepage.htm l)
Let's stop for a moment and consider the gravitas of this statement. This is a man who as president guided us through our first serious energy crisis. Indeed, as Thom Hartman cites, Carter's April 18, 1977 speech, "...established the strategic petroleum reserve, birthed the modern solar power industry, led to the insulation of millions of American homes, and established America's first national energy policy." (http://www.commondreams.org/views05/0503 -22.htm).
In the area of health care, Carter has a wealth of experience to draw upon. The Carter Center, established by President Carter to continue the work he began in the oval office, is the base of the International Task Force for Disease Eradication (http://www.cartercenter.org/health/itfde /index.html). The Center's health programs have prevented the, "...suffering of millions of people around the world from diseases often ignored by others." (http://www.cartercenter.org/health/index .html). Carter's commitment to global health care, and his holistic approach in looking at how poverty and environment affect health, can be seen in the ways that Edwards approaches the issues of health care and economic justice. And both demonstrate that compassion should be the light that guides us, not just in determining our health care policies, but as an overall philosophy of government to ensure that everyone has a good, decent quality of life.
Although Carter's statement isn't an official endorsement, it is a heart-felt sentiment on John Edwards from one of our nation's most valued statesmen, and one that I hope folks will keep in mind during this primary season.
Jimmy Carter, the man who created a blue print for "ex-Presidents" that has been followed by everyone from Bill Clinton to George Bush, Sr., didn't endorse anyone for President. A man of great political wisdom, he rightly said it was too soon in the race to throw his considerable weight behind any one candidate right now.
But here's what he had to say about John Edwards:
"I can say without equivocation that no one who is running for president has presented anywhere near as comprehensive and accurate a prediction of what our country ought to do in the field of environmental quality, in the field of health care for those who are not presently insured, for those who struggle with poverty...." (http://www.cartercenter.org/homepage.htm l)
Let's stop for a moment and consider the gravitas of this statement. This is a man who as president guided us through our first serious energy crisis. Indeed, as Thom Hartman cites, Carter's April 18, 1977 speech, "...established the strategic petroleum reserve, birthed the modern solar power industry, led to the insulation of millions of American homes, and established America's first national energy policy." (http://www.commondreams.org/views05/0503 -22.htm).
In the area of health care, Carter has a wealth of experience to draw upon. The Carter Center, established by President Carter to continue the work he began in the oval office, is the base of the International Task Force for Disease Eradication (http://www.cartercenter.org/health/itfde /index.html). The Center's health programs have prevented the, "...suffering of millions of people around the world from diseases often ignored by others." (http://www.cartercenter.org/health/index .html). Carter's commitment to global health care, and his holistic approach in looking at how poverty and environment affect health, can be seen in the ways that Edwards approaches the issues of health care and economic justice. And both demonstrate that compassion should be the light that guides us, not just in determining our health care policies, but as an overall philosophy of government to ensure that everyone has a good, decent quality of life.
Although Carter's statement isn't an official endorsement, it is a heart-felt sentiment on John Edwards from one of our nation's most valued statesmen, and one that I hope folks will keep in mind during this primary season.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Alternet: Big Media Can't Write off Edwards
This great, amazing article by Joshua Holland is one to share with our brothers and sisters in the Progressive Movement (you know - the real Progressive Movement, not the one the DLC thinks is just another way of diffusing the unpopular label "liberal").
It also shows that if your heart belongs to Kucinich, your head should tell you to vote for Edwards.
Joshua elegantly, honestly makes the case why all true progressives who want to see systemic change need to be embracing Edwards for the Democratic nomination:
"...Edwards isn't the only candidate in the race making such bold statements, of course. Rep. Dennis Kucinich (D-OH) has long spoken of economic issues in the kinds of terms Edwards used last week. But John Edwards was the vice presidential nominee on a presidential ticket that won 59 million votes and he's raised $23 million in the current cycle (20 times what Kucinich has raised), and that means that corporate media is forced to cover him. So far, they've mocked him, written stories about his haircuts, pushed shadowy innuendo about his personal business dealings and suggested his focus on poverty is disingenuous or hypocritical, but they simply can't write him off as a member of the fringe. Unlike Kucinich, they can't ignore him..." (http://www.alternet.org/story/60748/)
So, who will win out? Big Media and politics as usual? Or the grassroots, netroots and working people?
You have a say in this contest, and the louder we speak the more we will start being the change we want to see.
It also shows that if your heart belongs to Kucinich, your head should tell you to vote for Edwards.
Joshua elegantly, honestly makes the case why all true progressives who want to see systemic change need to be embracing Edwards for the Democratic nomination:
"...Edwards isn't the only candidate in the race making such bold statements, of course. Rep. Dennis Kucinich (D-OH) has long spoken of economic issues in the kinds of terms Edwards used last week. But John Edwards was the vice presidential nominee on a presidential ticket that won 59 million votes and he's raised $23 million in the current cycle (20 times what Kucinich has raised), and that means that corporate media is forced to cover him. So far, they've mocked him, written stories about his haircuts, pushed shadowy innuendo about his personal business dealings and suggested his focus on poverty is disingenuous or hypocritical, but they simply can't write him off as a member of the fringe. Unlike Kucinich, they can't ignore him..." (http://www.alternet.org/story/60748/)
So, who will win out? Big Media and politics as usual? Or the grassroots, netroots and working people?
You have a say in this contest, and the louder we speak the more we will start being the change we want to see.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
The Ownership Society-Part 2-New Fictional Series
Part 2
“I know I’m supposed to care for these people, Pastor Nick, it’s just…I just don’t.” The calloused hands spread before the pastor in supplication. “I mean, why is it my fault if they have kids they can’t afford? Why is it my fault if they make stupid decisions and life kicks ‘em in the a—uh, rear? Sorry.”
Pastor Nick nodded, attempting to mask a serenity he saw in a painting of the Buddha. He found himself more and more frequently heading to that place of quiet meditation, recalling how the painting surprised him, hung in a far corner of a conference room. Quiet. Calm. Pastor Nick wondered how many meetings it had presided over from its perch next to the coat closet, its expressionless eyes, down-turned but awake and alert, its passive countenance following each individual around the room. Watching. Aware. Nonjudgmental. One hand held up as if to stop someone from speaking while the other encouraged a more thoughtful, engaging interaction.
Right now Pastor Nick was desperately trying to be the Buddha, letting long silences fill the room like so much cotton candy, sweet and ethereal, waiting for the long journey of the soul across from him to finally come to an end.
His companion continued. “I know the Bible says “I’m your brother’s keeper and all”, but wasn’t that God saying that? I mean, I have my own bills to pay. We don’t have a lot of money, either. We just plan and save and why the heck should I take it in the shorts just because of someone else’s stupidity? Look, I’m not saying to cancel this…soup kitchen thing or whatever it is. All I’m saying is to move it up an hour, so I can have a nice event with my family in the church hall. I’ve been a member here my entire life, and this is our 30th wedding anniversary, and I don’t think that this is too much to ask.”
Pastor Nick breathed in deeply, smelling the raw, burnt sugar smell he always associated with these uncomfortable pauses, opening his mouth to taste the heavy, candied air that he swore filled the room in the midst of someone baring their soul to him.
The man broke the silence. “And I don’t care about these people. I’m sorry, but that’s they way it is. I don’t see why I should feel sorry for them – they’re screw ups, plain and simple.” He pointed his finger in the air, missing Pastor Nick’s chest by six inches. Pastor Nick paused a second, channeling the Buddha, feeling the calmness descend from the top of his head down his spine, making his feet heavy on the worn, coffee-stained carpet.
“Bob, are you a sinner?” Pastor Nick let the words lie still on the worn, oak desk separating himself from the large, older man with the wispy, grey hair whose tirade he had just absorbed.
“What?” Bob asked absentmindedly, not ready for a question but a lecture.
“Are you a sinner?” Pastor Nick looked up at the man this time, meeting his eyes with a compassionate stare.
“Well, yeah. I mean, we’re all sinners, right?” Bob’s voice fumbled, attempting to recall a Sunday school lesson he had learned a generation ago.
“What’s a sin?” Pastor Nick asked, his voice modulated with a careful evenness.
“Well…it’s…I mean, you do something bad.” Pastor Nick saw Bob’s cheeks flush slightly, and he leaned back, attempting to alleviate the man’s embarrassment for being put on the spot.
“Lying’s a sin, right?” Pastor Nick offered, using a tried-and-true analogy Lutheran pastors had used since the time of Martin Luther himself. Bob picked up on it right away.
“Oh, yeah, I know, and lying is supposed to be the same thing as killing someone, right? And so somehow that means that I’m just as bad as those people are and that’ll just shut me up? But Pastor Nick, I’m not a bad man, I’m not a killer, and these folks…they just need to deal with the consequences of their actions is all I’m saying.” Bob’s hands started to tremble slightly, his voice a quivering roar as Pastor Nick glanced a touching blow at the exposed nerve of his soul.
“I think everyone feels the consequences of their actions.” Pastor Nick offered and then immediately wished he could take it back.
“Oh, no, not these folks.” Bob’s agitation was palpable. “No, not when they have welfare, and, and, food stamps, and Medicaid. They’re living in hog heaven off of my tax dollars. It isn’t fair!” Bob bellowed as his hand struck the desk, making an unexpected slapping noise.
For a few moments, the men just looked at each other, both equally surprised by the outburst of emotion that clung to the corners of the room.
“What’s really going on, Bob?” Pastor Nick leaned forward, intently studying the man’s face.
“Nothin.” Bob muttered.
“Why are you here?” Pastor Nick probed.
“I…I don’t know.” Bob gave up, his body slowing deflating.
“Whatever you’re going through, you know you can tell me about it.” Pastor Nick attempted to make eye contact with Bob, who just looked down, his body encased in his own embarrassment.
“I should go.” Bob stood up, turning toward the door. Pastor Nick stood up with him.
“Nothing about this life is easy.” Pastor Nick said, walking Bob toward the door. “Sometimes I think God makes it that way, and honestly, sometimes that really pisses me off.” Bob swung his head around, looking at Pastor Nick’s mischievous grin. They both chuckled slightly, relieved.
Bob turned around before leaving and shook Pastor Nick’s hand. “You’re a good man, pastor.” Nick put his hand on Bob’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, too.” He said.
It wasn’t until he closed the door behind Bob that Pastor Nick felt the throbbing in his temples. He made his way over to the desk, hands clasped to both sides of his head, fingertips feeling the soft, short blonde hair covering the dense pounding inside his skull. Sliding into his worn, fabric-covered office chair, he pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and absentmindedly scanned his address book. The rhythm of the mechanical blips as he pressed the arrow keys soothed his nerves. He passed by a name, thought about it, and scrolled back. He stared at the entry for longer than he realized. Finally, getting his nerve up, an unfamiliar panic tightening his stomach muscles, he pressed the send key.
“Hi, Jeff? It’s Nicholas. Yeah, Pastor Nick. Yep. Yeah, no, just a regular day.” He tried to keep up the friendly banter, his mouth becoming slightly dry the longer he talked. “So, what’s up with you? ‘Cuz I was wondering, if you’re not busy, maybe…maybe we could see a movie or something?”
…to be continued.
“I know I’m supposed to care for these people, Pastor Nick, it’s just…I just don’t.” The calloused hands spread before the pastor in supplication. “I mean, why is it my fault if they have kids they can’t afford? Why is it my fault if they make stupid decisions and life kicks ‘em in the a—uh, rear? Sorry.”
Pastor Nick nodded, attempting to mask a serenity he saw in a painting of the Buddha. He found himself more and more frequently heading to that place of quiet meditation, recalling how the painting surprised him, hung in a far corner of a conference room. Quiet. Calm. Pastor Nick wondered how many meetings it had presided over from its perch next to the coat closet, its expressionless eyes, down-turned but awake and alert, its passive countenance following each individual around the room. Watching. Aware. Nonjudgmental. One hand held up as if to stop someone from speaking while the other encouraged a more thoughtful, engaging interaction.
Right now Pastor Nick was desperately trying to be the Buddha, letting long silences fill the room like so much cotton candy, sweet and ethereal, waiting for the long journey of the soul across from him to finally come to an end.
His companion continued. “I know the Bible says “I’m your brother’s keeper and all”, but wasn’t that God saying that? I mean, I have my own bills to pay. We don’t have a lot of money, either. We just plan and save and why the heck should I take it in the shorts just because of someone else’s stupidity? Look, I’m not saying to cancel this…soup kitchen thing or whatever it is. All I’m saying is to move it up an hour, so I can have a nice event with my family in the church hall. I’ve been a member here my entire life, and this is our 30th wedding anniversary, and I don’t think that this is too much to ask.”
Pastor Nick breathed in deeply, smelling the raw, burnt sugar smell he always associated with these uncomfortable pauses, opening his mouth to taste the heavy, candied air that he swore filled the room in the midst of someone baring their soul to him.
The man broke the silence. “And I don’t care about these people. I’m sorry, but that’s they way it is. I don’t see why I should feel sorry for them – they’re screw ups, plain and simple.” He pointed his finger in the air, missing Pastor Nick’s chest by six inches. Pastor Nick paused a second, channeling the Buddha, feeling the calmness descend from the top of his head down his spine, making his feet heavy on the worn, coffee-stained carpet.
“Bob, are you a sinner?” Pastor Nick let the words lie still on the worn, oak desk separating himself from the large, older man with the wispy, grey hair whose tirade he had just absorbed.
“What?” Bob asked absentmindedly, not ready for a question but a lecture.
“Are you a sinner?” Pastor Nick looked up at the man this time, meeting his eyes with a compassionate stare.
“Well, yeah. I mean, we’re all sinners, right?” Bob’s voice fumbled, attempting to recall a Sunday school lesson he had learned a generation ago.
“What’s a sin?” Pastor Nick asked, his voice modulated with a careful evenness.
“Well…it’s…I mean, you do something bad.” Pastor Nick saw Bob’s cheeks flush slightly, and he leaned back, attempting to alleviate the man’s embarrassment for being put on the spot.
“Lying’s a sin, right?” Pastor Nick offered, using a tried-and-true analogy Lutheran pastors had used since the time of Martin Luther himself. Bob picked up on it right away.
“Oh, yeah, I know, and lying is supposed to be the same thing as killing someone, right? And so somehow that means that I’m just as bad as those people are and that’ll just shut me up? But Pastor Nick, I’m not a bad man, I’m not a killer, and these folks…they just need to deal with the consequences of their actions is all I’m saying.” Bob’s hands started to tremble slightly, his voice a quivering roar as Pastor Nick glanced a touching blow at the exposed nerve of his soul.
“I think everyone feels the consequences of their actions.” Pastor Nick offered and then immediately wished he could take it back.
“Oh, no, not these folks.” Bob’s agitation was palpable. “No, not when they have welfare, and, and, food stamps, and Medicaid. They’re living in hog heaven off of my tax dollars. It isn’t fair!” Bob bellowed as his hand struck the desk, making an unexpected slapping noise.
For a few moments, the men just looked at each other, both equally surprised by the outburst of emotion that clung to the corners of the room.
“What’s really going on, Bob?” Pastor Nick leaned forward, intently studying the man’s face.
“Nothin.” Bob muttered.
“Why are you here?” Pastor Nick probed.
“I…I don’t know.” Bob gave up, his body slowing deflating.
“Whatever you’re going through, you know you can tell me about it.” Pastor Nick attempted to make eye contact with Bob, who just looked down, his body encased in his own embarrassment.
“I should go.” Bob stood up, turning toward the door. Pastor Nick stood up with him.
“Nothing about this life is easy.” Pastor Nick said, walking Bob toward the door. “Sometimes I think God makes it that way, and honestly, sometimes that really pisses me off.” Bob swung his head around, looking at Pastor Nick’s mischievous grin. They both chuckled slightly, relieved.
Bob turned around before leaving and shook Pastor Nick’s hand. “You’re a good man, pastor.” Nick put his hand on Bob’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, too.” He said.
It wasn’t until he closed the door behind Bob that Pastor Nick felt the throbbing in his temples. He made his way over to the desk, hands clasped to both sides of his head, fingertips feeling the soft, short blonde hair covering the dense pounding inside his skull. Sliding into his worn, fabric-covered office chair, he pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and absentmindedly scanned his address book. The rhythm of the mechanical blips as he pressed the arrow keys soothed his nerves. He passed by a name, thought about it, and scrolled back. He stared at the entry for longer than he realized. Finally, getting his nerve up, an unfamiliar panic tightening his stomach muscles, he pressed the send key.
“Hi, Jeff? It’s Nicholas. Yeah, Pastor Nick. Yep. Yeah, no, just a regular day.” He tried to keep up the friendly banter, his mouth becoming slightly dry the longer he talked. “So, what’s up with you? ‘Cuz I was wondering, if you’re not busy, maybe…maybe we could see a movie or something?”
…to be continued.
Friday, August 17, 2007
The Ownership Society-Part 1-New Fictional Series
Part 1
It was supposed to be their dream home.
Lost between ominous red-striped envelopes bearing overdue notices mass-printed on cheap paper, buried under stacks of cynically bright colored pre-approved credit card letters, humming under the buzz of brash female voices yelling at the home’s occupants through a small, grey answering machine, hid the dream of the people living inside the house. The dream manifested itself in different physical forms: a nursery, lovingly painted in the tones of the sun and the sky on a clear, summer day; a rosebush, clipped and freshly watered, the musty smell of fresh cedar mulch mixing with the scent from the pink flowers as they opened to the visitors approaching the front door; family photos hung in carefully playful groupings inside the foyer, each face smiling lovingly on the guest as they climbed the stairs to the fireplace-adorned living room with the vaulted ceiling.
Deborah and Charles bought this home right after getting married. They were newlyweds moving into a newly built subdivision holding each other tightly together as they looked forward to seeing the trees in the backyard grow up with their yet-to-be-born children. They talked of where to put the yet-to-be-bought swing set, and purchased books from Home Depot on how to build a yet-to-be-constructed sandbox. Deborah had her first attempts at interior decorating in this home, painting the walls in the upstairs bathroom an icy-cold blue in the thought that this might refresh her and Charles after a long day under the hot, Georgia sun.
They didn’t have a buyers’ agent when they purchased this house. They simply walked into the newly built model, over plastic-covered carpet and through crisp, white walls into the living room where the builder’s agent fed them chocolate cookies and sweet tea and started showing them floor plans. Before they knew it, they were sitting at their closing signing page after page of legal documents. The lawyer, who was playing beat-the-clock, looked slightly annoyed when Deborah started reading some of the pages for herself. Fatigue won in the end, and by seven o’clock Charles was walking toward their car, his left arm holding onto Deborah’s waist, clutching a freshly-pressed set of house keys in his right hand. He kissed Deborah, squeezing her close to his chest before opening the passenger side door for her.
That was just a few years ago, before Charles got laid off from his entry-level job at a local computer company. This was before Deborah, four months pregnant, seated across the table from the manger of the small non-profit organization she worked at, was told that they just couldn’t afford to keep her around any longer. But they had been in the house a few years, and had paid off enough principal to qualify for a small home equity loan, to help pay for the pregnancy and the rest of the things they would need for the baby. Charles was working three jobs now: stocking vending machines by day; working the cash register at a local gas station at night and during the weekends; and he was trying to start his own home pressure-washing business, inspired by the pressure-washer they had received as a wedding gift.
And Deborah? She was home, full-time, with the baby. With both of their families living out of state, and with the cost of daycare at two-hundred and fifty dollars a week, even trying to look for a job was out of the question as whatever she would take home would just be eaten up by the daycare bills and commuting expenses. She was trying to do what she could to budget. Deborah was the one who found out that they qualified for the WIC program. Deborah planned all the meals, clipped coupons, and used the food processor (another wedding gift) to make her own baby food. She was a careful garage sale shopper, traveling to wealthier neighborhoods early Saturday mornings after dropping Charles off at the gas station, and talking rich, white women down from $1.00 to $0.50 for a pair of BabyGap shorts.
They had stretched, and stretched, and stretched the household budget. Charles barely got eight hours to sleep a night. And still…it wasn’t enough.
It started with the credit card bill. They had expensed a lot of the baby’s items on it – and their honeymoon – and when money was good they had always tried to pay more than the minimum. They had still been able to make the minimum payment, barely, when Deborah received a call from the credit card company stating that they could either close the account or pay thirty percent interest. When Deborah protested, explaining to them that they hadn’t been late in over a year, the aggressive, booming male voice on the other end of the line stated simply that because they had gone down to one salary as a household they expected them to be bankrupt within the year, and they wanted their money first before they defaulted on their other creditors.
Deborah closed the account. The interest rate was frozen at nineteen percent. They were now down to one credit card with three hundred dollars left in available funds.
Then the baby got sick. Deborah tried everything she could – over-the-counter children’s medication, cool baths, watered-down apple juice – but nothing helped. Finally, desperate, she took the baby to the emergency room. After more medication and more visits to the doctor the baby’s health improved. The rest of the home equity money was used paying the medical bills.
Soon, the interest rates on the credit card and the home equity loan were eating up any disposable cash their struggling, young family had for daily necessities. They weren’t the only ones in their neighborhood going through this – driving down the entrance of the subdivision, instead of seeing playing children and folks out mowing their lawns, she started to see foreclosure sign after foreclosure sign. “CASH FOR YOUR HOUSE” signs started appearing at the front of the subdivision. Charles, swearing under his breath, would try to remove the signs as fast as they sprouted up, but they were like a many-headed hydra: remove one sign and two sprung back in its place. Eventually, he gave up.
It was right in the dead heat of August that the utility bill came. After the baby’s illness, Deborah didn’t take any chances with the air conditioning: it was left on, all day, at seventy-nine degrees. Telling herself it would be cheaper to pay for the utility bills than go through another round of doctors bills for the baby, Deborah cocooned into a self-made psychosis of safety. When the bill came, that cocoon shattered, leaving her in a distraught, rumpled panic.
It was three hundred seventy-five dollars. And, with two hundred ten dollars already overdue, and no extra sources of income to draw from, she felt naked and vulnerable to the indifferent world outside. Hearing the baby cry, Deborah tried to make a bottle of formula, only to have her unsteady hands drop it on the vinyl kitchen floor, the pale, milky liquid pouring over the black-and-white faux tile motif.
And then the doorbell rang.
Wiping her eyes, gently lifting up the crying child, Deborah walked to the door and peered out the keyhole. A pudgy, hardened looking face looked back at her through the tiny, distorted glass. But, she knew who this was: Malcolm, her next-door neighbor’s nephew.
Cautiously, Deborah opened the door.
“’Sup?” Malcolm smiled broadly, a wild, insincere effort.
“Hey, Malcolm. How’s your aunt?” Deborah replied, her arms unconsciously wrapping the baby closer to her.
“She’s alright. Hey, I gotta favor to ask you.” Malcolm leaned slightly against the house. “I gotta – you know – take care of some business in Forsythe. I was wonderin’ – my aunt said you all are looking to make a few bucks – and I’d be real appreciative…” Deborah nodded, filling the empty pause with an approval for Malcolm to continue.
“So. Like I said, I got this thing I gotta do and the rental car company don’t rent to folks without a credit card or somethin’ ridiculous, like five hundred dollars in cash or somethin’. And, so I was wonderin’ if possibly you might be able to rent a car for me.” Malcolm pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket, rolled tightly and held together by a dirty, red rubber band. “I mean, I got money but I don’t got rental car company money, you know what I’m sayin’? And I only need the car for three days. So, if you could rent the car for me I could give ya three hundred bucks right now.” Malcolm snapped the rubber band off the bills, absently counting the twenties as Deborah’s mind looked for an excuse to over-ride the nagging doubts in the back of her mind. Three hundred dollars. Air conditioning.
Baby.
Her eyes drifted toward the innocent face of the child she held in her arms, and for a moment it was as if time stood still. She could feel his warm breath on her cheek, smell that wonderful smell of detergent and milk and joy that all babies exude.
“Let me get my keys.” She told Malcolm, her mind made up.
Keys in hand, she closed the door.
To be continued...
It was supposed to be their dream home.
Lost between ominous red-striped envelopes bearing overdue notices mass-printed on cheap paper, buried under stacks of cynically bright colored pre-approved credit card letters, humming under the buzz of brash female voices yelling at the home’s occupants through a small, grey answering machine, hid the dream of the people living inside the house. The dream manifested itself in different physical forms: a nursery, lovingly painted in the tones of the sun and the sky on a clear, summer day; a rosebush, clipped and freshly watered, the musty smell of fresh cedar mulch mixing with the scent from the pink flowers as they opened to the visitors approaching the front door; family photos hung in carefully playful groupings inside the foyer, each face smiling lovingly on the guest as they climbed the stairs to the fireplace-adorned living room with the vaulted ceiling.
Deborah and Charles bought this home right after getting married. They were newlyweds moving into a newly built subdivision holding each other tightly together as they looked forward to seeing the trees in the backyard grow up with their yet-to-be-born children. They talked of where to put the yet-to-be-bought swing set, and purchased books from Home Depot on how to build a yet-to-be-constructed sandbox. Deborah had her first attempts at interior decorating in this home, painting the walls in the upstairs bathroom an icy-cold blue in the thought that this might refresh her and Charles after a long day under the hot, Georgia sun.
They didn’t have a buyers’ agent when they purchased this house. They simply walked into the newly built model, over plastic-covered carpet and through crisp, white walls into the living room where the builder’s agent fed them chocolate cookies and sweet tea and started showing them floor plans. Before they knew it, they were sitting at their closing signing page after page of legal documents. The lawyer, who was playing beat-the-clock, looked slightly annoyed when Deborah started reading some of the pages for herself. Fatigue won in the end, and by seven o’clock Charles was walking toward their car, his left arm holding onto Deborah’s waist, clutching a freshly-pressed set of house keys in his right hand. He kissed Deborah, squeezing her close to his chest before opening the passenger side door for her.
That was just a few years ago, before Charles got laid off from his entry-level job at a local computer company. This was before Deborah, four months pregnant, seated across the table from the manger of the small non-profit organization she worked at, was told that they just couldn’t afford to keep her around any longer. But they had been in the house a few years, and had paid off enough principal to qualify for a small home equity loan, to help pay for the pregnancy and the rest of the things they would need for the baby. Charles was working three jobs now: stocking vending machines by day; working the cash register at a local gas station at night and during the weekends; and he was trying to start his own home pressure-washing business, inspired by the pressure-washer they had received as a wedding gift.
And Deborah? She was home, full-time, with the baby. With both of their families living out of state, and with the cost of daycare at two-hundred and fifty dollars a week, even trying to look for a job was out of the question as whatever she would take home would just be eaten up by the daycare bills and commuting expenses. She was trying to do what she could to budget. Deborah was the one who found out that they qualified for the WIC program. Deborah planned all the meals, clipped coupons, and used the food processor (another wedding gift) to make her own baby food. She was a careful garage sale shopper, traveling to wealthier neighborhoods early Saturday mornings after dropping Charles off at the gas station, and talking rich, white women down from $1.00 to $0.50 for a pair of BabyGap shorts.
They had stretched, and stretched, and stretched the household budget. Charles barely got eight hours to sleep a night. And still…it wasn’t enough.
It started with the credit card bill. They had expensed a lot of the baby’s items on it – and their honeymoon – and when money was good they had always tried to pay more than the minimum. They had still been able to make the minimum payment, barely, when Deborah received a call from the credit card company stating that they could either close the account or pay thirty percent interest. When Deborah protested, explaining to them that they hadn’t been late in over a year, the aggressive, booming male voice on the other end of the line stated simply that because they had gone down to one salary as a household they expected them to be bankrupt within the year, and they wanted their money first before they defaulted on their other creditors.
Deborah closed the account. The interest rate was frozen at nineteen percent. They were now down to one credit card with three hundred dollars left in available funds.
Then the baby got sick. Deborah tried everything she could – over-the-counter children’s medication, cool baths, watered-down apple juice – but nothing helped. Finally, desperate, she took the baby to the emergency room. After more medication and more visits to the doctor the baby’s health improved. The rest of the home equity money was used paying the medical bills.
Soon, the interest rates on the credit card and the home equity loan were eating up any disposable cash their struggling, young family had for daily necessities. They weren’t the only ones in their neighborhood going through this – driving down the entrance of the subdivision, instead of seeing playing children and folks out mowing their lawns, she started to see foreclosure sign after foreclosure sign. “CASH FOR YOUR HOUSE” signs started appearing at the front of the subdivision. Charles, swearing under his breath, would try to remove the signs as fast as they sprouted up, but they were like a many-headed hydra: remove one sign and two sprung back in its place. Eventually, he gave up.
It was right in the dead heat of August that the utility bill came. After the baby’s illness, Deborah didn’t take any chances with the air conditioning: it was left on, all day, at seventy-nine degrees. Telling herself it would be cheaper to pay for the utility bills than go through another round of doctors bills for the baby, Deborah cocooned into a self-made psychosis of safety. When the bill came, that cocoon shattered, leaving her in a distraught, rumpled panic.
It was three hundred seventy-five dollars. And, with two hundred ten dollars already overdue, and no extra sources of income to draw from, she felt naked and vulnerable to the indifferent world outside. Hearing the baby cry, Deborah tried to make a bottle of formula, only to have her unsteady hands drop it on the vinyl kitchen floor, the pale, milky liquid pouring over the black-and-white faux tile motif.
And then the doorbell rang.
Wiping her eyes, gently lifting up the crying child, Deborah walked to the door and peered out the keyhole. A pudgy, hardened looking face looked back at her through the tiny, distorted glass. But, she knew who this was: Malcolm, her next-door neighbor’s nephew.
Cautiously, Deborah opened the door.
“’Sup?” Malcolm smiled broadly, a wild, insincere effort.
“Hey, Malcolm. How’s your aunt?” Deborah replied, her arms unconsciously wrapping the baby closer to her.
“She’s alright. Hey, I gotta favor to ask you.” Malcolm leaned slightly against the house. “I gotta – you know – take care of some business in Forsythe. I was wonderin’ – my aunt said you all are looking to make a few bucks – and I’d be real appreciative…” Deborah nodded, filling the empty pause with an approval for Malcolm to continue.
“So. Like I said, I got this thing I gotta do and the rental car company don’t rent to folks without a credit card or somethin’ ridiculous, like five hundred dollars in cash or somethin’. And, so I was wonderin’ if possibly you might be able to rent a car for me.” Malcolm pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket, rolled tightly and held together by a dirty, red rubber band. “I mean, I got money but I don’t got rental car company money, you know what I’m sayin’? And I only need the car for three days. So, if you could rent the car for me I could give ya three hundred bucks right now.” Malcolm snapped the rubber band off the bills, absently counting the twenties as Deborah’s mind looked for an excuse to over-ride the nagging doubts in the back of her mind. Three hundred dollars. Air conditioning.
Baby.
Her eyes drifted toward the innocent face of the child she held in her arms, and for a moment it was as if time stood still. She could feel his warm breath on her cheek, smell that wonderful smell of detergent and milk and joy that all babies exude.
“Let me get my keys.” She told Malcolm, her mind made up.
Keys in hand, she closed the door.
To be continued...
Monday, August 13, 2007
The Ownership Society - New Fictional Series
Introduction
“It’s not the right orange juice, ma’am.” The clanging monotone voice echoed through the backed-up check out line. Its owner, a vaguely bland, somewhat skinny girl in her early twenties cut through Deborah’s vision with the annoyed stare of someone who had been overdue for a break for the last three years.
She flicked off the light hovering over the cash register in disgust.
“But…the sign said…” Deborah’s temples were pounding, and she felt like she could almost hear the blood rushing in her ears and see small, whitish-blue dots flit before her eyeballs like so many fireflies. She glanced at her baby in the car seat, perched ungracefully but securely on top of her shopping cart. Thankfully, he was still asleep, a slight smile hiding behind his closed lips.
“Manager, to register three. Manager, to register three.” The cashier’s indifferent voice grated against Deborah’s nerves. She waited, unable to speak, wanting to scream at this selfish child for making her an object of public ridicule. Eyes lowered, staring at her sleeping infant she heard the line behind her shuffle as people cursed under their breaths, psychically directing all of their day’s aggression and anger at her shoulder blades. Eventually a tall, white man, balding and sporting a slight paunch, arrived.
“This isn’t the WIC orange juice, is it?” A skinny, pale arm thrust the joyfully colored carton toward the man. Unconsciously, he pushed the bridge of his gold, wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose, and Deborah noticed it shone in the dingy, fluorescent lights of the store. She randomly thought about how some men actually do need foundation.
“Nope.” The man turned toward Deborah, barely making eye contact. He extended his once muscular arm outward, handing the carton to her. “I mean, you can buy this one, but it’ll just be full price.”
“But you’re out of the other kind.” As she was speaking Deborah noticed her voice climbing a little too high, becoming a little too shrill, but she couldn’t stop its aggression. “This was right next to it, and the sign was right there, and it is almost the same price -”
“Sorry, ma’am. Nothing I can do. Do you want it?” Deborah shook her head and handed the carton back to the man, who in one motion passed it back to the cashier. The cashier sighed louder this time, wanting everyone around her to feel how inconvenient this all was. Angrily, she pressed some buttons, removing the item, her fingers clacking against the smooth plastic and adding to the pounding rhythm in Deborah’s skull.
“Sixty-oh-eight.” Deborah sheepishly slid her card through the reader.
"Debit or credit, ma'am." The cashier demanded, knowing full well Deborah wasn't doing this right.
"It's...um..." Deborah handed the card to the cashier. Confirming that this was an EBT card for food stamps, the cashier all but rolled her eyes.
“Here.” The cashier handed the card back to Deborah. “Slide it through, and then select EBT.” Hands shaking slightly, Deborah quickly swiped the card and tried to immediately hide it in her front jeans pocket.
“Other way.” The cashier intoned, her voice spicy with impatience.
Deborah yanked the card out of her pocket, looked for the magnetic strip and swung it again through the reader. Her fingers mindlessly took over at the keypad, completing the transaction.
“All set. Have a nice day.” The cashier barked to her, an order directing her to leave the store as soon as possible.
Deborah complied. She put the baby – still sleeping, still unaware of his mother’s public humiliation – in the back seat, making sure the carrier clicked into the harness and testing it slightly with her hand before tenderly closing the door. She then got into the front seat, behind the driver’s wheel, put her head in her hands and let the hot, sticky tears silently drip through her fingers.
...to be continued
“It’s not the right orange juice, ma’am.” The clanging monotone voice echoed through the backed-up check out line. Its owner, a vaguely bland, somewhat skinny girl in her early twenties cut through Deborah’s vision with the annoyed stare of someone who had been overdue for a break for the last three years.
She flicked off the light hovering over the cash register in disgust.
“But…the sign said…” Deborah’s temples were pounding, and she felt like she could almost hear the blood rushing in her ears and see small, whitish-blue dots flit before her eyeballs like so many fireflies. She glanced at her baby in the car seat, perched ungracefully but securely on top of her shopping cart. Thankfully, he was still asleep, a slight smile hiding behind his closed lips.
“Manager, to register three. Manager, to register three.” The cashier’s indifferent voice grated against Deborah’s nerves. She waited, unable to speak, wanting to scream at this selfish child for making her an object of public ridicule. Eyes lowered, staring at her sleeping infant she heard the line behind her shuffle as people cursed under their breaths, psychically directing all of their day’s aggression and anger at her shoulder blades. Eventually a tall, white man, balding and sporting a slight paunch, arrived.
“This isn’t the WIC orange juice, is it?” A skinny, pale arm thrust the joyfully colored carton toward the man. Unconsciously, he pushed the bridge of his gold, wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose, and Deborah noticed it shone in the dingy, fluorescent lights of the store. She randomly thought about how some men actually do need foundation.
“Nope.” The man turned toward Deborah, barely making eye contact. He extended his once muscular arm outward, handing the carton to her. “I mean, you can buy this one, but it’ll just be full price.”
“But you’re out of the other kind.” As she was speaking Deborah noticed her voice climbing a little too high, becoming a little too shrill, but she couldn’t stop its aggression. “This was right next to it, and the sign was right there, and it is almost the same price -”
“Sorry, ma’am. Nothing I can do. Do you want it?” Deborah shook her head and handed the carton back to the man, who in one motion passed it back to the cashier. The cashier sighed louder this time, wanting everyone around her to feel how inconvenient this all was. Angrily, she pressed some buttons, removing the item, her fingers clacking against the smooth plastic and adding to the pounding rhythm in Deborah’s skull.
“Sixty-oh-eight.” Deborah sheepishly slid her card through the reader.
"Debit or credit, ma'am." The cashier demanded, knowing full well Deborah wasn't doing this right.
"It's...um..." Deborah handed the card to the cashier. Confirming that this was an EBT card for food stamps, the cashier all but rolled her eyes.
“Here.” The cashier handed the card back to Deborah. “Slide it through, and then select EBT.” Hands shaking slightly, Deborah quickly swiped the card and tried to immediately hide it in her front jeans pocket.
“Other way.” The cashier intoned, her voice spicy with impatience.
Deborah yanked the card out of her pocket, looked for the magnetic strip and swung it again through the reader. Her fingers mindlessly took over at the keypad, completing the transaction.
“All set. Have a nice day.” The cashier barked to her, an order directing her to leave the store as soon as possible.
Deborah complied. She put the baby – still sleeping, still unaware of his mother’s public humiliation – in the back seat, making sure the carrier clicked into the harness and testing it slightly with her hand before tenderly closing the door. She then got into the front seat, behind the driver’s wheel, put her head in her hands and let the hot, sticky tears silently drip through her fingers.
...to be continued
Friday, August 10, 2007
Big Media's Push Poll...and why history is on Edwards' side
Have you heard that this could be an historic election, because Hillary Clinton maybe the first woman elected President and Barack Obama may be the first African American man elected president?
Are you aware that Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama, respectively, lead in national polls?
Are you aware that Barack Obama has raised more money than Hillary Clinton, and that both of them lead the other candidates in the "money primary"?
Have you been following the debates Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama have had over foreign policy?
Which Democratic candidate do you support for President of the United States?
The above is an example of a "push poll", a tactic used by a campaign to elicit a targeted response after a series of biased questions.
Here's another great example of one:
Whether intentionally or not, the media have thus far been conducting one large "push poll" on the American populace, by focusing on the Hillary and Obama dynamic. How much money did Hillary raise? Who won the "foreign policy" squabble - Hillary or Obama? Is Obama less "presidential" than Hillary?
And yet...this dynamic was played out before. Four years ago:
"...In sheer numbers, however, Kerry had fewer endorsements than Howard Dean, who was far ahead in the superdelegate race going into the Iowa caucuses in February 2004, although Kerry lead the endorsement race in Iowa, New Hampshire, Arizona, South Carolina, New Mexico and Nevada. Kerry's main perceived weakness was in his neighboring state of New Hampshire and nearly all national polls. Most other states did not have updated polling numbers to give an accurate placing for the Kerry campaign before Iowa.
Heading into the primaries, Kerry's campaign was largely seen as in trouble; the key factor enabling it to survive was Kerry's mortgaging his own home and lending the money to his campaign. He also brought on the "magical" Michael Whouley who was Al Gore's national field director and would later become the Democratic National Committee's National Field Director for Kerry-Edwards. Whouley is widely credited with helping bring home the Iowa victory the same as he did in New Hampshire for Al Gore in 2000 against Bill Bradley..." (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Kerry_presidential_campaign,_2004#Campaign_history)
For all of us Edwards supporters - does any of this sound familiar? A campaign that the media has written off before the Iowa caucuses? A campaign that hired new staff to craft a new message?
...How about, against all pundit expectations, a campaign that won in Iowa and went on to win the nomination?
Are the current polling numbers correct...or is there a bit of the media push poll effect reflected in them?
We'll find out soon enough.
Are you aware that Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama, respectively, lead in national polls?
Are you aware that Barack Obama has raised more money than Hillary Clinton, and that both of them lead the other candidates in the "money primary"?
Have you been following the debates Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama have had over foreign policy?
Which Democratic candidate do you support for President of the United States?
The above is an example of a "push poll", a tactic used by a campaign to elicit a targeted response after a series of biased questions.
Here's another great example of one:
Whether intentionally or not, the media have thus far been conducting one large "push poll" on the American populace, by focusing on the Hillary and Obama dynamic. How much money did Hillary raise? Who won the "foreign policy" squabble - Hillary or Obama? Is Obama less "presidential" than Hillary?
And yet...this dynamic was played out before. Four years ago:
"...In sheer numbers, however, Kerry had fewer endorsements than Howard Dean, who was far ahead in the superdelegate race going into the Iowa caucuses in February 2004, although Kerry lead the endorsement race in Iowa, New Hampshire, Arizona, South Carolina, New Mexico and Nevada. Kerry's main perceived weakness was in his neighboring state of New Hampshire and nearly all national polls. Most other states did not have updated polling numbers to give an accurate placing for the Kerry campaign before Iowa.
Heading into the primaries, Kerry's campaign was largely seen as in trouble; the key factor enabling it to survive was Kerry's mortgaging his own home and lending the money to his campaign. He also brought on the "magical" Michael Whouley who was Al Gore's national field director and would later become the Democratic National Committee's National Field Director for Kerry-Edwards. Whouley is widely credited with helping bring home the Iowa victory the same as he did in New Hampshire for Al Gore in 2000 against Bill Bradley..." (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Kerry_presidential_campaign,_2004#Campaign_history)
For all of us Edwards supporters - does any of this sound familiar? A campaign that the media has written off before the Iowa caucuses? A campaign that hired new staff to craft a new message?
...How about, against all pundit expectations, a campaign that won in Iowa and went on to win the nomination?
Are the current polling numbers correct...or is there a bit of the media push poll effect reflected in them?
We'll find out soon enough.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
The Debate They Needed Him to Lose
The historic irony: Edwards, the Man Who Courted the Labor Vote, Loses it to Clinton. Puts the nail right in the coffin right there, don't it?
And, historic ironies always make great headlines.
So, it's no wonder initial reports from Big Media put Edwards as a "poor performer", and Hil as the winner (more historic irony as the Woman Behind NAFTA Gains the Labor Vote).
Again, it begs the question: what's up with that?
Here's the deal: all of us working people who thought Edwards hit a home run were listening for one thing, and all of the chattering classes were listening for another.
Check out this early analysis on MSNBC (host of the debate):
"...If this debate is remembered for anything, it will be for the moment that Joe Biden turned into Hillary Clinton's surrogate. He went after Obama on foreign policy and targeted Edwards on how sincere his labor stances are.
In fact, Dodd seemed to also take part in the attacks on Obama (less so on Edwards). But clearly, the old guard of Washington are not taking kindly to either Obama and Edwards. The problem for the two chief Clinton challengers, though, is that they are fighting to be the same person, the anti-Hillary. And Clinton, now, has a lot of supporters on stage with her, including Dodd and Biden. It's a fascinating dynamic that I think is developing in this primary. But how long can Edwards and Obama be allies and how comfortable will Dodd and Biden be carrying Clinton's water?..." (http://firstread.msnbc.msn.com/).
What is important to Big Media in this debate? Strategy. Politics. Hillary vs Obama. Who's supporting who?
Now, for all the rest of us working folks, and the fifteen thousand union members who showed up to this debate, this is what this debate will be remembered for: a retired steelworker with a camcorder, plaintively asking a blank screen, "Why?" Why was my pension cut? Why can't I pay for my wife's health insurance?
His age-scarred voice near to the breaking point, he simply asked, "What will you do about it?"
Edwards' answer was spot-on. Make CEO pensions tied to your own. Provide universal healthcare so you're not punished for the sins of your employer.
This is why folks stood outside, with rain threatening a desolate stadium on a muggy Chicago night. They're not there because they care about the personality politics of the Democratic party.
They care about health care. Their pensions. Their futures.
Any network that can't grasp that one has failed in understanding what their viewers want from their government, and in turn, what they want for themselves.
And, historic ironies always make great headlines.
So, it's no wonder initial reports from Big Media put Edwards as a "poor performer", and Hil as the winner (more historic irony as the Woman Behind NAFTA Gains the Labor Vote).
Again, it begs the question: what's up with that?
Here's the deal: all of us working people who thought Edwards hit a home run were listening for one thing, and all of the chattering classes were listening for another.
Check out this early analysis on MSNBC (host of the debate):
"...If this debate is remembered for anything, it will be for the moment that Joe Biden turned into Hillary Clinton's surrogate. He went after Obama on foreign policy and targeted Edwards on how sincere his labor stances are.
In fact, Dodd seemed to also take part in the attacks on Obama (less so on Edwards). But clearly, the old guard of Washington are not taking kindly to either Obama and Edwards. The problem for the two chief Clinton challengers, though, is that they are fighting to be the same person, the anti-Hillary. And Clinton, now, has a lot of supporters on stage with her, including Dodd and Biden. It's a fascinating dynamic that I think is developing in this primary. But how long can Edwards and Obama be allies and how comfortable will Dodd and Biden be carrying Clinton's water?..." (http://firstread.msnbc.msn.com/).
What is important to Big Media in this debate? Strategy. Politics. Hillary vs Obama. Who's supporting who?
Now, for all the rest of us working folks, and the fifteen thousand union members who showed up to this debate, this is what this debate will be remembered for: a retired steelworker with a camcorder, plaintively asking a blank screen, "Why?" Why was my pension cut? Why can't I pay for my wife's health insurance?
His age-scarred voice near to the breaking point, he simply asked, "What will you do about it?"
Edwards' answer was spot-on. Make CEO pensions tied to your own. Provide universal healthcare so you're not punished for the sins of your employer.
This is why folks stood outside, with rain threatening a desolate stadium on a muggy Chicago night. They're not there because they care about the personality politics of the Democratic party.
They care about health care. Their pensions. Their futures.
Any network that can't grasp that one has failed in understanding what their viewers want from their government, and in turn, what they want for themselves.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Why "liberal bloggers" are a political threat
I've been reading the back-and-forth between Clinton and the audience at the YearlyKos convention, specifically her statement that she will continue to receive campaign funds from federal lobbyists.
Now, the coverage of this exchange is frankly just as interesting as the exchange itself. Here's a sampling:
The New York Times:
"...Mr. Edwards got back on his hobby horse against Washington lobbyists, saying his rivals did not need to wait until the next election to start reforming..." (http://thecaucus.blogs.nytimes.com/2007/08/04/the-democratic-debate-begins/#more-2183)
And The Atlantic Monthly (which was founded, by the way, as a magazine of the abolitionist movement...a little-known factoid):
"...After dozens of forums in the last four months, it seemed as if the presidential candidates had run out of new things to say, and despite the promise of Netroots sparkle, today's YearlyKos roundtable, held in a poorly lit, cavernous convention hall, was kind of dingy...
... Although the headline-making exchange will probably unsettle Clinton's campaign, her refusal to disavow the culture of Washington was not surprising. Her platform aims to restore competence to government, to work within government to produce solutions, and to bring the Democratic Party back to power. John Edwards is running as an anti-institutionalist, taking on the Bigs. Barack Obama has placed on a pox on both houses of Congress and both political parties. Clinton seemed to relish the challenge of disagreeing with the audience, joking with them as they began to boo her. It was hard to here [sic] precisely what she said, but it sounded like "I'm here. This is real. It's what you were waiting for."
(http://marcambinder.theatlantic.com/archives/2007/08/the_mccormick_place_convention.php)
This is it, folks. The "liberal media", up close and personal. The writing in the above referenced pieces suggest a free-wheeling, let's-take-our-professional-masks-off-for-a-moment-and-say-what-we-really-think style. The writers are making attempts here to connect with the "vibe" they get from these bloggers...only, there is one vast difference: the bloggers at YearlyKos are not in the employ of major multi-national corporations, or Historic Magazines of Renowned American Thought.
"So what?" You may be thinking to yourself. "I mean, they're still working-stiffs, right?"
True. But defending the folks that put bread on your table can sometimes be a reflex so powerful it ingratiates itself into the fabric of your soul. And, in my opinion, that's exactly what's happened here.
And it begs the question: what's up with this?
There are three components to political power, as any good poli-sci professor knows: people, money and guns. Rarely does any one entity, be it State, State-Actor or Social Movement, have all three. Generally they're very good in one and have the other as a strong second.
Let's look at the US, for example. What are we strong in right now? Money and guns. In fact, they're so intertwined in our power structure that sometimes we can't distinguish one from the other. Wal-mart? Money...and people (even if they're being exploited), are a distant second. Al-Qaeda? People and money. Let's face it, an entity who's strong in the "guns" area doesn't build make-shift bombs or fly airplanes into buildings. If Al-Qaeda were strong in guns, a suitcase bomb would have exploded in a major US metropolitan area by now.
What does all of this sidetracking have to do with YearlyKos, and the above-referenced coverage of it by Big Media?
YearlyKos is a physical representation of the power of the liberal blogosphere, which is now approaching something resembling a Social Movement. It is very strong in people. With all of these people talking together ad-infinitum, it may start to attract money (in the form of grants, donations, or even job opportunities). That's two of the three spheres needed to have real political power (and, unless Kos shows up on YouTube with an Uzi calling for an armed takeover of NewsCorp, I'm assuming "guns" are out of the question).
Imagine if Gandhi had been a blogger. Or King. Or John Lennon.
*That's* what is terrifying to the current power structure in this country. And, that's why you're seeing folks from the New York Times and the Atlantic Monthly - entities that have lost people, one of their most important ingredients for political power - give snide remarks and back-handed coverage to both YearlyKos and any candidates who excite the populism of bloggers.
We were once their silent readers. Now we are their interrogators. And every dropped subscription reminds them of their daily obsolescence.
I guess, in their situation, I'd be a little snarky, too.
Now, the coverage of this exchange is frankly just as interesting as the exchange itself. Here's a sampling:
The New York Times:
"...Mr. Edwards got back on his hobby horse against Washington lobbyists, saying his rivals did not need to wait until the next election to start reforming..." (http://thecaucus.blogs.nytimes.com/2007/08/04/the-democratic-debate-begins/#more-2183)
And The Atlantic Monthly (which was founded, by the way, as a magazine of the abolitionist movement...a little-known factoid):
"...After dozens of forums in the last four months, it seemed as if the presidential candidates had run out of new things to say, and despite the promise of Netroots sparkle, today's YearlyKos roundtable, held in a poorly lit, cavernous convention hall, was kind of dingy...
... Although the headline-making exchange will probably unsettle Clinton's campaign, her refusal to disavow the culture of Washington was not surprising. Her platform aims to restore competence to government, to work within government to produce solutions, and to bring the Democratic Party back to power. John Edwards is running as an anti-institutionalist, taking on the Bigs. Barack Obama has placed on a pox on both houses of Congress and both political parties. Clinton seemed to relish the challenge of disagreeing with the audience, joking with them as they began to boo her. It was hard to here [sic] precisely what she said, but it sounded like "I'm here. This is real. It's what you were waiting for."
(http://marcambinder.theatlantic.com/archives/2007/08/the_mccormick_place_convention.php)
This is it, folks. The "liberal media", up close and personal. The writing in the above referenced pieces suggest a free-wheeling, let's-take-our-professional-masks-off-for-a-moment-and-say-what-we-really-think style. The writers are making attempts here to connect with the "vibe" they get from these bloggers...only, there is one vast difference: the bloggers at YearlyKos are not in the employ of major multi-national corporations, or Historic Magazines of Renowned American Thought.
"So what?" You may be thinking to yourself. "I mean, they're still working-stiffs, right?"
True. But defending the folks that put bread on your table can sometimes be a reflex so powerful it ingratiates itself into the fabric of your soul. And, in my opinion, that's exactly what's happened here.
And it begs the question: what's up with this?
There are three components to political power, as any good poli-sci professor knows: people, money and guns. Rarely does any one entity, be it State, State-Actor or Social Movement, have all three. Generally they're very good in one and have the other as a strong second.
Let's look at the US, for example. What are we strong in right now? Money and guns. In fact, they're so intertwined in our power structure that sometimes we can't distinguish one from the other. Wal-mart? Money...and people (even if they're being exploited), are a distant second. Al-Qaeda? People and money. Let's face it, an entity who's strong in the "guns" area doesn't build make-shift bombs or fly airplanes into buildings. If Al-Qaeda were strong in guns, a suitcase bomb would have exploded in a major US metropolitan area by now.
What does all of this sidetracking have to do with YearlyKos, and the above-referenced coverage of it by Big Media?
YearlyKos is a physical representation of the power of the liberal blogosphere, which is now approaching something resembling a Social Movement. It is very strong in people. With all of these people talking together ad-infinitum, it may start to attract money (in the form of grants, donations, or even job opportunities). That's two of the three spheres needed to have real political power (and, unless Kos shows up on YouTube with an Uzi calling for an armed takeover of NewsCorp, I'm assuming "guns" are out of the question).
Imagine if Gandhi had been a blogger. Or King. Or John Lennon.
*That's* what is terrifying to the current power structure in this country. And, that's why you're seeing folks from the New York Times and the Atlantic Monthly - entities that have lost people, one of their most important ingredients for political power - give snide remarks and back-handed coverage to both YearlyKos and any candidates who excite the populism of bloggers.
We were once their silent readers. Now we are their interrogators. And every dropped subscription reminds them of their daily obsolescence.
I guess, in their situation, I'd be a little snarky, too.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Promote the General Welfare, Already!
"There isn't any bigger metaphor for a society in trouble than a bridge falling, its concrete lanes pointing brokenly at the sky, its crumpled cars pointing down at the deep waters where people disappeared.
Only this isn't a metaphor..."
(Nick Coleman, Minneapolis Star-Tribune, writing on the collapse of the I-35W Bridge: http://www.startribune.com/10204/story/1339911.html)
There's a phrase in the Constitution that our country's been falling flat on fulfilling lately. In the Preamble, after establishing Justice and providing for the common defense, there's a phrase, "promote the general welfare".
What is that? What exactly does it mean to "promote the general welfare"?
A fellow blogger with an extensive site on the US Constitution puts it this way:
"...This, and the next part of the Preamble [and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity], are the culmination of everything that came before it - the whole point of having tranquility, justice, and defense was to promote the general welfare - to allow every state and every citizen of those states to benefit from what the government could provide. The framers looked forward to the expansion of land holdings, industry, and investment, and they knew that a strong national government would be the beginning of that." (http://www.usconstitution.net/consttop_pre.html).
Justice is not an end to itself, neither is insuring tranquility nor providing for a common defense. All of these are means to the end of promoting the general welfare. Although there's considerable disagreement among pedantics out there regarding what "general welfare" is, and what its intention was in the Constituion (with the far right claiming it was meant to limit the ability of Congress to regulate the states and the far left arguing exactly the opposite), I think it's a pretty clearly understood phrase by most folks out there.
Would most people consider bridge maintenence a part of the "general welfare"? I'd say so. How about upgrading levees? Rebuilding cities after a force majure event, like a hurricane? Yep. Protecting us from epidemics? Making sure we have clean water to drink and safe air to breathe? Enforcing the law?
I'd say most folks would consider all of these areas a part of the "general welfare", and therefore something they expect their government to do something about. But, when our government cares more about tax breaks than people, and thinks that its sole purpose is to boost the Dow and somehow everything else will fall into place...this is a government that has forgotten its entire reason for being.
No more Katrinas. No more interstate bridge collapses. No more neglect.
It's time to start promoting the general welfare.
Only this isn't a metaphor..."
(Nick Coleman, Minneapolis Star-Tribune, writing on the collapse of the I-35W Bridge: http://www.startribune.com/10204/story/1339911.html)
There's a phrase in the Constitution that our country's been falling flat on fulfilling lately. In the Preamble, after establishing Justice and providing for the common defense, there's a phrase, "promote the general welfare".
What is that? What exactly does it mean to "promote the general welfare"?
A fellow blogger with an extensive site on the US Constitution puts it this way:
"...This, and the next part of the Preamble [and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity], are the culmination of everything that came before it - the whole point of having tranquility, justice, and defense was to promote the general welfare - to allow every state and every citizen of those states to benefit from what the government could provide. The framers looked forward to the expansion of land holdings, industry, and investment, and they knew that a strong national government would be the beginning of that." (http://www.usconstitution.net/consttop_pre.html).
Justice is not an end to itself, neither is insuring tranquility nor providing for a common defense. All of these are means to the end of promoting the general welfare. Although there's considerable disagreement among pedantics out there regarding what "general welfare" is, and what its intention was in the Constituion (with the far right claiming it was meant to limit the ability of Congress to regulate the states and the far left arguing exactly the opposite), I think it's a pretty clearly understood phrase by most folks out there.
Would most people consider bridge maintenence a part of the "general welfare"? I'd say so. How about upgrading levees? Rebuilding cities after a force majure event, like a hurricane? Yep. Protecting us from epidemics? Making sure we have clean water to drink and safe air to breathe? Enforcing the law?
I'd say most folks would consider all of these areas a part of the "general welfare", and therefore something they expect their government to do something about. But, when our government cares more about tax breaks than people, and thinks that its sole purpose is to boost the Dow and somehow everything else will fall into place...this is a government that has forgotten its entire reason for being.
No more Katrinas. No more interstate bridge collapses. No more neglect.
It's time to start promoting the general welfare.
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