Archive for June, 2007

An abstract from Larry Bartels, professor of Political Science at Princeton, in a study titled “Economic Inequality and Political Representation“:

I examine the differential responsiveness of U.S. senators to the preferences of wealthy, middle-class, and poor constituents. My analysis includes broad summary measures of senators’ voting behavior as well as specific votes on the minimum wage, civil rights, government spending, and abortion. In almost every instance, senators appear to be considerably more responsive to the opinions of affluent constituents than to the opinions of middle-class constituents, while the opinions of constituents in the bottom third of the income distribution have no apparent statistical effect on their senators’ roll call votes. Disparities in representation are especially pronounced for Republican senators, who were more than twice as responsive as Democratic senators to the ideological views of affluent constituents. These income-based disparities in representation appear to be unrelated to disparities in turnout and political knowledge and only weakly related to disparities in the extent of constituents’ contact with senators and their staffs.

I never could have guessed.

(h/t: Ezra Klein)

My parents and I went to see the movie A Mighty Heart today, which tells the story of Daniel Pearl’s kidnapping and eventual murder in Pakistan five years ago. Don’t have much to say about it, except that I highly recommend it. It reminded me of United 93 in the sense that its emotional impact comes through a startling sense of realism. Both movies are among the most terrifying I have ever seen. They also both use the subject of terrorism to effectively illuminate the best and the worst that humanity is capable of, leaving us with appropriately difficult questions about the state of our collective soul.

After we got home, my mom pointed me toward this negative review of the movie written by Asra Nomani, who appears as a character in the movie and who worked with Pearl at the Wall Street Journal and who rented a house in Karachi where Daniel and Mariane Pearl stayed when Daniel was kidnapped. Among her criticisms is that Daniel’s character is barely to be seen in the movie at all, which is in its way true (though to the extent that he is shown, I believe his character is fleshed out quite well). It is difficult to argue with a woman who lived through the experience herself, but it seems to me she misses the point of the movie, which is not meant to be a tribute to Danny, or even one to Mariane, as much as one to the people, like Nomani herself, who worked together to do the best they could to bring Daniel home. Go see it if you get the chance.

Whether any other candidate understands American culture is irrelevant, her campaign people do:

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Man, next commercial I expect Bill to turn out to be a good guy after all, swoop down from the sky and take her up above NYC to explode, saving the world (and the cheerleader.)

Tom

ten·den·tious also ten·den·cious (tĕn-dĕn‘shəs)
adj.

Marked by a strong implicit point of view; partisan: a tendentious account of the recent elections.

Thesaurus:

adjective

Exhibiting bias: biased, one-sided, partial, partisan, prejudiced, prejudicial, prepossessed. Seelike/dislike, straight/bent.

Example: Brian, Jon and Lally’s favorite media sources only provide tendentious information.

Last night I went to downtown Chicago to hang out with a sexy girl (pause) friend of mine. She lives in a beautiful apartment about 2 blocks from Lake Michigan where square feet are worth more than your own two. I left her apartment around 11:40pm to catch the train home.

I passed by the usual array of rich white faces walking their manicured dogs, sad & desolate black faces hustlin’ on the streets, and determined & methodical Hispanic faces (one was watering the flowers outside of a golden hotel). One 25 or so year old black guy came up to me and began trying to talk to me, I tried to avoid falling into his artful trap.

Then he asked me if I smoked any pot, he was courting clients for a dealer down the street. I told him that I did not but that I was curious about what it does to people’s minds. He spoke with eloquence and scientific understanding of its various forms and effects. He offered his hand and said that his name was Cody, I reluctantly shook his hand replying with “Billy.” His handshake was soft and sweaty, my right hand still feels dirty from it and I avoided touching my face on the train ride home (I was reading Will Durant’s “The Story of Philosophy,” he is my favorite historian). He followed me down the steps to the red line CTA. I notice that he walked with a bad limp in his left leg. I gave him about 75 cents and the advice to get a job because working must be easier than hustlin’. He explained that he was on the verge of getting hired and said with pride that it was an $8/hour janitorial job, but that he was near to losing the opportunity because he didn’t have the $20 necessary to buy a State I.D., which the employer required. He would only look me in the eyes every 20 seconds or so. He was likely stoned, but insisted that he did not do drugs. Cody told me that he never knew his mother and that his father died about a year ago, which forced him to drop out of college.

He cried as he told me the story. His eyes were red. He said with shame that his clothes and body were all dirty and “greasy.” All the while I evaluated him and his story, trying to decipher its degree of truth. He said that he prayed often at a nearby Catholic Church. I asked him if his story was true and he swore to God that it was, he raised his right hand and looked to the sky, though it was hidden by the cracked cement ceiling of the subway. We were alone in the stairwell for about 20 minutes. Sometimes he would pound the wall with his fist to express frustration about his life. He said that most of the people at the homeless shelter have a mental illness, as though to separate himself from them, trying to maintain some dignity. I could tell that he was smart, his mind was agile and quick; I told him that I thought so. When I finally tried to leave he reminded me that I had just a minute ago asked him if his story was true, and thus I implied that I was on the verge of helping him; I appreciated his tactical play and his perception. I couldn’t stop thinking that the twenty dollar bill in my wallet had a different number on it, depending on which one of us looked at it.

I decided to give him one of the five twenty dollar bills that were in my wallet. I figured that even the 10% chance that his story was true was enough for me to help him get to his current dream of becoming an eight dollar janitor. When I opened my wallet he shielded his eyes with his arms out of politeness for my privacy. I urged Cody many times to “please do good with it, whatever it is, just do good.” He promised that he would and requested my phone number so that he could check in with me on his progress. I didn’t even feel comfortable giving him my primary email address (which is shamefully listed for all the world on this site). I wrote my secondary email address on the back of a dirty receipt that he plucked off the ground. He admitted to not understanding how to contact me via email, but had heard once that he could get a free email account through the public library. As we parted, he offered an open palm while I simultaneously offered a closed fist, he conformed to my gesture and pounded my fist with his (I did this from conscious desire to not shake hands with him again. That’s how hypocritical I am.). I suspect that I’ll be checking that email account often for the next few months, until I give up hope.

Through the entire encounter, I do not remember him smiling until I gave him my email address, maybe he felt like he made friends with someone from a different world.

I had spent so much time with Cody that I could no longer take the CTA to make the 12:40am train on time, so I took a cab. The cab driver was a light-skinned black man of about fifty years old, although the hardness of the City could have added ten years to his appearance. I asked how he liked living in Chicago, he replied in a slow voice that it is the best city in the world. He said that he has lived here his entire life. At a stop light he flexed his fingers, I could tell that they pained him from so many years of clenching the wheel. He asked about me and I told him about law school, while also trying to hide being from the suburbs. He said that he knew a lot of lawyers and that as a lawyer in Chicago you can really “get over,” though I’m still not sure over what.

He then declared that this was his City and that he was “number one.” He said that he has lots of important and rich friends. He told me about some people who have in the past turned cab drivers to people of status in society, including former Mayor Harold Washington, who he also claimed was his father (interestingly, Washington beat Daley in the 1983 Democratic primary). He told me that you can have all the degrees in the world, but if you don’t know the right people and if you aren’t in the “Chicago clique” then you won’t be able to “get over.” He called himself a “professional man.” He told me about his plans for soon becoming rich. He told me the trick to it all was “PMA.” I smiled and asked him what “PMA” meant, he explained “Positive Mental Attitude.” We talked for about five minutes after the cab ride was over. Apparently he started some professional networking organization called “The People’s March Inc.” You can email him, Robert, at thepeoplesmarch23@yahoo.com. He explained that the number 23 has, even before Jordan, been a number leading people to success. He gave me a cheap looking business card and a flier explaining his business. He asked for my card and explained to me how to print up my own when I told him that I did not have one. I apologized for only being able to tip him a dollar on a $5.25 fare, because it was the only one dollar bill I had left. As I left the cab I shouted, “Stay in touch,” but I doubt we will.

Robert will probably never stop driving his cab and he will probably never be rich, but at least his dreams will occupy his mind during his lonely nights. Wisdom and delusion in one man, I liked him as much as I liked Cody. I would hire them both and pay them as much as I could.

A couple of hard, “tuff” looking white train conductors were complete assholes to me. I had a question so I approached them and said “Hey” in a friendly voice. He said “Hey?” with a scowl. I made a second attempt with, “How’s it going?” He retorted, “How about ‘excuse me sir’?” If Cody had such an easy, mindless job I think he would have instead replied with a smile, “Hey man, what’s up?”

Both Cody and Robert have a lot of talent, all humans do. We’re designed to do great things, and a few of us have, but most never will. How does a human being with all the dark caverns and catacombs of a powerful mind remain sane while working a job below his abilities? They are forced to either lose sanity or to forget about the mental potential that makes them human. “C” from A Bronx Tale said, “The saddest thing in life is wasted talent.”

My night was not unusually eventful, that’s not why I’m sharing it. My night was significant precisely because it wasn’t eventful. There are millions all over Chicago doing the same hustlin’ and hopin’. Those hustlin’ will probably never stop hustlin’ and those hopin’ will probably never stop hopin’.

I tried to take a step in this article toward acknowledging my own prejudices and my ambitions for breaching my safe shell and eventually helping a whole lot of people. But this article wasn’t just about race, it was mostly about people and faith and hope and pain.

Don’t worry about me, now I’m back home in Schaumburg with my garden and $600,000 house, away from all those scary people.