My Corona Diary (Take XVI): When Neglect Doesn't Feel Benign

<"Green Ceiling"

The Reckoner>

Well, I live here in kill city, where the debris meets the sea

Well, I live here in kill city, where the debris meets the sea

It's a playground for the rich, but it's a loaded gun to me...

Iggy Pop, "Kill City"

<i.>

His many dubious achievements include coining the oxymoron, "benign neglect." How well you remember the late Patrick Moynihan depends on your age, demographic and interest in national politics, I suppose. As for me? I always loathed Moynihan (1927-2003), New York's (officially) Democratic Senator from 1977 to 2001. I say "officially," since he often voted against progressive positions, an inconsistency that the stenographers to power were kind enough to overlook, amid the reams of fawning news coverage that he generated.

A classic example came in the 1990s, when Moynihan drew a line in the sand against President Clinton's attempt at health care reform. As tepid and half-hearted as the Clinton plan seemed to progressives, it apparently struck Moynihan as a socialist bridge too far. How else to explain his notorious declaration, "There is no health care crisis in this country," as the number of uninsured continued to climb? (In 1998, that figured stood at 44.3 million; by 2012, it had ballooned to 84.2 million.)

Moynihan's numerous lapses deserve a post of their own, but for today, I'll focus on his most infamous misstep, which came in a 1969 memo that he wrote to President Richard Nixon, whom he was serving as an urban policy adviser: "The time may have come when the issue of race could benefit from a period of 'benign neglect.' The subject has been too much talked about. The forum has been too much taken over to hysterics, paranoids, and boodlers on all sides. We need a period in which Negro progress continues and racial rhetoric fades."

Those darkly provocative sentences soon took on a life of their own. The far right and its acolytes keenly embraced the term, calling for the political classes to ramp down on municipal investment. The far left recoiled, as did progressives, who took Moynihan's phrasing as grim confirmation that government secretly intended to tip the poor and vulnerable out of the few lifeboats they were occupying, in the aftermath of LBJ's self-styled War On Poverty.

Moynihan protested the loudest, naturally. He claimed to have been misquoted, that he'd merely been calling for a cooling-off period, citing Vice President Spiro Agnew's speeches as an example of overheated rhetoric that needed to stop. Only when a divided nation finally binding its wounds, Moynihan suggested, could it return to the business of deciding who might get what. But that's not how events panned out nationally, as we'll see.

<Down, Down, Down...

.For The Third Time"

The Reckoner>

Well I'm sick of keeping quiet and I am the wild boy
I'm sick of keeping quiet and I am the wild boy
But if I have to die here first I'm gonna make some noise...

Iggy Pop, "Kill City"

<ii.>

By and large, the Moynihans and the Nixons of the world -- followed by the Reagans and the Bushes, the Clintons and the Bidens, the Bannons and the Trumps -- got their way. Direct aid to cities began declining in the Reagan Eighties, as the "by your bootstraps" mantra of his so-called "New Federalism" became the order of the day. That approach quickly ratcheted down to state governments, who welcomed the chance to balance their ever-shaky books without having to confront the often-racist and classist assumptions underlying such maneuvers: Hey, why give "them" anything? They don't really deserve it, anyway, and even if you do, "those people" will only mess it up. 

The mainstream media fell into line, for the most part, having been euthanized by the same corporate cash-out culture that had narcotized the nation. Out went jokes about green stamps and government cheese; in came squishy soft-sell pieces lionizing soccer moms and swing voters. 

You may think I'm oversimplifying here, but not by much, because I've witnessed the effects of this neglect all my life. I thought about that infamous Moynihan memo after hearing a presentation at our Zoom church service today, on the effects of structural racism in South Bend, IN, from someone who'd served on the Common Council there.

The more relevant facts included the release of $90 million of economic neighborhood funding in 2019, of which zero dollars went to black neighborhoods. That's right, that's not a typo. Zero dollars, as in, null, nada, nothin' but a big fat goose egg. Call it what you wish.

Yet, when it comes to code enforcement, City Hall is always Johnny on the spot, it seems. The presenter talked about a neighbor, who'd just had his lawn mowed for him, like it or not. The city charged $169.75 for the work, plus an additional $250 fine, for noncompliance with its code.

And if you can't pay that $400-plus amount right away? Well, the city slaps it on your taxes, plus interest, putting the homeowner at risk of losing their property, which has happened to many people that our presenter knew. She didn't say how many, but the gist clearly suggested, bigger than a breadbox, smaller than an elephant. "That's why my husband and I are out mowing our lawns at nine o'clock on Saturday night, even though I have two jobs, and he has three. And God forbid if it ever rains on the weekend," she said.

Yet one other force has not let the grass -- financial, material, or otherwise -- grow under its feet. That realization hit me when our presenter showed a photo of roughly 17 cards and flyers from realtors saying, "I want to buy your house." 

In other words, the only attention these long-neglected black residents in those long-neglected neighborhoods can ever expect is when someone views them as a potential cash cow, to swoop down over and profit from, when the relevant price points -- and pain points, exerted on those who have to knuckle under, sell out for a bargain price, and go elsewhere -- finally proves right. "So we know they're coming," our presenter said. "Gentrification is coming."

Such practices exemplify vulture capitalism at its worst. But they don't happen by accident. For anyone reading this blog closely, it's worth remembering who presided over those $400-plus code enforcement bills -- Mayor Pete Buttigeig, whose presidential ambitions ran up against the harsh reality of failing to register more than zero to three percent among black voters. I suspect that his priorities, such as his code enforcement approach, had a lot to do with that outcome.

Yet the mainstream media never stopped promoting Mayor Pete as a more "adult," more "realistic" alternative to the rumpled anti-Christ from Vermont, Bernie Sanders -- even as he peaked at nine or 10 percent nationally, than rapidly fell to earth, below five percent. No matter. A corporate-owned media always has its own fish to fry in these fights. They just don't happen to be ours.

In the end, though, all this neglect, benign or malign, leads down the same road, to the consolidation of power by a small, privileged overclass, with the marginalization of the majority written off as the cost of doing business, or price of progress, take your pick. (To see how well this approach works in reality, check out the links below.)

This is what the Moynihans of the world have left us, and while trying to beat them back is a spectacularly grueling and thankless task, even in the best of times, we must never stop reminding everyone what they're really after, and what their neglect represents. That is the least we should accomplish, once we finally emerge from our never-ending dystopian pandemic, which resembles Logan's Run, minus the snappier costumes. 

If they still manage to advance all their most noxious, malicious goals in spite of all of our best effort....then shame on them. If we don't learn from our mistakes, resign ourselves to permanently having to think small, and surrender the high ground to them, without a fight? Then shame on us. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry,
Before They Mow Your Lawn,
And Feed You The Bill):

Buzzfeed News: What Happened
When Pete Buttigeig Tore Down Houses...
https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/henrygomez/mayor-pete-buttigieg-south-bend-gentrification

Pro Publica: Leaked Audio Recordings
Reveal Chicago Mayor Lori Lightfoot Firmly In Charge...
https://www.propublica.org/article/leaked-recordings-reveal-chicago-mayor-lori-lightfoot-firmly-in-charge-and-city-alderman-left-largely-on-the-sidelines

Yahoo News: "Two Cities" Collide
As Chicago's Social Time Bomb Explodes:
https://www.yahoo.com/news/two-cities-collide-chicagos-social-140104990.html

My Corona Diary (Take XV): Weekend Notes #2 (8/13-8/17)

<"Spider Above Garage Door":
Take I/The Reckoner>

Reckoner's Note: Here we go again, with various random observations, tidbits and just plain surreal moments that we're encountering in our travels....

<Thursday: 8.13>

We were running short on resources for the weekend, so The Squawker and I drove out to the bank. Like that classic '60s Sonny Curtis number says, "I needed money, 'cause I had none." Well, we had a little bit, but didn't have to fight the law to get it.

It's been a long time since we experienced the lengthy waits we encountered when the COVID-19 bomb first dropped (see Take II of this series, "No Go (At The Drive-Thru A Go-Go"). These days, it's downright pleasant. You're in and out, more or less, in five minutes. 

Like every major player of our economy -- dollar stores, gas stations, groceries, and so on -- the banks have buckled down, and adjusted. The lobby is still open by appointment-only, but otherwise, you're in and out so fast, you almost forget there's a pandemic. Well, almost.

I pull into the center drive-through lane. Next to me.a bald black woman bends studiously over the pneumatic tube/intercom, on...a walker. Wow, that's a first, I tell myself. A walker.

The pneumatic tube hisses open. The woman grabs her red and white envelope, stuffs it into her purse. She pushes out of the drive-through lane, and disappears across the street in just a couple of minutes. 

"Hey," I ask the teller. "I didn't know you allowed anybody to walk through the drive through..."

"Sure. Why not?"

"As long as it's mobile, I guess?"

The young man nods. "Something like that." He shoots us our money and our envelope back, and we're on our way. Seventy-five bucks, which should see us smoothly through till Monday. With fewer places to go, less to support means less to spend.

<Friday: 8.14>

Today's big headline in our local paper focuses on the Michigan High School Athletic Association's decision to push football season from fall to spring. Whether kids will be able to practice is left hanging; to be announced, presumably, once greater minds weigh in.

Of course, our local high school coaches wax disappointment, but honestly, what did they expect? A similar ax also just fell on Big Ten football, which also postponed play until next year,  amid doubts about whether any of the institutions actually voted to do that. But it's a semantic distinction, I'd say, given the cloud of dread that hangs over our nation. As Minnesota's president, Joan Gael, so eloquently put it: "Safety first,. Absolutely, safety first."

I stick our hometown paper back in its rack and go on about my business. I haven't written for it since mid-March, when management sidelined all correspondents after COVID-19 hit.  

The week we went on ice, I found myself groaning at covering our annual countywide beauty pageant, a massive two-night affair -- one for the girls, one for the guys -- held at our community college. Then it got canceled. Great! I thought. So much for that headache. But I was scrambling to finish a preview story for an upcoming symphonic concert. 

Halfway through my task, the conductor emailed. The concert was canceled, and the season was scrapped, too. Then my editor emailed: no need for the story, obviously. When (or if) I'll write there anymore, who knows? But at least I'm not out giving "elevator pitches," or whatever they're telling jobless to do these days. So it could be worse, I guess.

<Saturday: 8.15>

Tonight, I find myself running a quick errand for some grocery items, like lunch meat and bread, plus two-liter pops, toilet paper, and a six-pack of paper towels, as we're getting our toilet replaced on Monday. Management has sternly advised us, via email, to make sure that everything is thoroughly cleansed and disinfected for them. 

On my way out, I pull across the street, and zip through the blood bank parking lot (NO THROUGH TRAFFIC, my ass), next to the small bar that's been hosting live music outside lately. I call it the Corona Corral, because the majority of the crowd, small as it is, doesn't bother to wear masks, social distance, or any of that stuff. 

The sight has convinced me that "Entertainment Or Death!" is no longer only a slogan. (For further reference, see Take XII in this series, "Live & Unmasked, At The Corona Corral.") Tonight's crowd seems smaller at first, barely hitting a couple dozen, but half an hour or so later, I see that it's picked up to 30-40 people.

On Monday, I learn that our city commission has yanked their permit, citing an array of noise complaints as the reason. I'm not surprised, because the bar is situated in a mostly residential area, for which any outdoor amplification seems totally inappropriate. 

But even without the noise issue, The Squawker and I feel less inclined to get any food there. After seeing so many people flout the most basic rules, we don't feel the same way about them anymore. 

<Sunday: 8.16>

Our weekly church services are continuing on Zoom, though this week's turnout is notably flatter than usual. "How many checked out this week's session?" I ask The Squawker.

"Sixteen. I feel like people are getting burned out on all this stuff. A lot of people seem pretty depressed. That's what I'm picking up on."

"Hmm, I skipped out, myself," I admit. "So I can't say I'm a role model there. But don't forget, summers are always a bit slower. We had fewer people, even when we could actually go to a church."

"Well, we're not reopening before May," Squawker responds. "I wish we could do it in October. Soon, it's going to be a year of my life I've lost to all this bullshit."

"I feel bad for you, and everybody else." Now it's my turn to sigh. "But right now, there's no end in sight, short of heading for the hills, as it's often put."

"I may do that. We may do that."

<Monday: 8.17>

For tonight's dinner, Squawker and I opt for Mexican food. Neither of us feels like cooking, nor dealing with the associated rituals (as in, prep work, or loading the dishwasher). In these situations, the path of least resistance usually wins. I stop at the store for a couple two-liter bottles. 

On my way to check out, I spot a couple sporting the unmistakable trademarks of the far right fringe. They're both sporting red baseball caps that demand: IMPEACH WHITMER. The male half of the dynamic duo also wears a red T-shirt with a rattlesnake. Underneath said snake is the colonial-era slogan, DON'T TREAD ON ME. Just in case you missed the memo, right? 

I watch them haggle with the cashier. Apparently, they thought they were getting 50% off on four jars of something or other, but the cashier says otherwise, after checking the weekly ad. Looks like this transaction will take forever.

I head for the six new self-service checkouts that Matthew's installed recently. I have mixed feelings about this development. I appreciate the convenience, but I enjoy talking with the cashiers, and so do they, I'm sure, if only to move the minute hand.

But I'd sure as hell miss a future where I couldn't banter with anybody. Then again, I'm glad Mr. and Mrs. Don't Tread On Me didn't approach me, or try to hand me a flyer for their cause, or whatever fringe group they represent.

Put another way, I don't want my tacos and fries, nor Squawker's burrito, guacamole, chips and soup to get cold. Once again, the path of least resistance wins. But this time, I don't mind. --The Reckoner

<"Spider Above Garage Door":
Take II/The Reckoner>

Punk Rock Art Photos: "Abandoned Air Conditioner/Banged Up Bike Graveyard"

<Take I/The Reckoner>

Our complex is on a tear, most recently against bikes without any obvious ownership. A few weeks back, the management dropped off a stern notice, giving absentee owners until July 30 to fess up, and reclaim their errant two-wheeler, so they could register it properly...or management would take such matters into its own hands. Something like that.

<Take II>

And so, they have, as you see from these photos. Most of the bikes don't look like much, though, honestly. To these (relatively) untrained eyes, these particular bikes -- by and large -- seemed like bang up kids' models, for the most part. When the kid outgrew the model, they moved on to something else, I guess. Or so I surmised.

<Take III>

The air conditioners are an entirely different matter. They looked like discards from the maintenance crew that outlived their usefulness. They probably reflect another longtime practice I've seen, as a tenant of almost 15 years' standing. 

For a long time, whenever I needed something -- a set of blinds, for example, or yeah, an air conditioner -- Maintenance cannibalized them from apartments where either someone had just moved out, or had yet to move in. Wash, rinse, repeat. At some point, I suspect they broke down and bought one, whenever the chain finally ran out of air conditioners to cannibalize. 

<Take IV>

Those air conditioners look quite worn too, having seen a lot of wear and tear, as the weathered surface of the unit in Take VIII's photo surely establishes (below). That's the policy at most apartment complexes, I imagine -- work it till it conks out. 

<Take V>

Judging by the photos I've just taken, these particular air conditioners look like the newer, energy-efficient models that offer plenty of options to regulate your climate and temperature, as opposed to the old ones, which simply offered different levels of cool air to blast out. Either one works for me, honestly.

<Take VI>

At any rate, management proved as good as its word. Driving last Wednesday around the oval-shaped path that circles all four apartment buildings, I stopped, with a start, because the air conditioners  -- and the bikes -- were no longer there. I presumed they'd been preserved in their own form of amber, as they headed on their final journey...to the county landfill.

<Take VII>

As the cliche runs, you wonder what kinds of stories you might hear, if these objects could talk. Like so many personal and non-personal items nowadays, you feel their presence is everywhere, yet also nowhere, at the same time. 

You don't really give them a second thought till they're gone, much like those dying of COVID, or struggling to live on the abbreviated lifelines thrown to them, by a federal government that loudly and vocally begrudges every inch, and fights it every step of the way.

<Take VIII>

With those thoughts in mind, ponder the nods and the winks that never get exchanged, the rumors that never set the woods alight, the stories that never get told, the sweep of time that now gets to sidestep that quintessential million dollar question: Hey, who owned all this stuff, anyhow? And what happened to them, anyway? Are they still living here? Or did they end up moving on?

<Art Shot...>

Ponder those stories, and multiply them by whatever foul statistic you wish. The 40% of Americans who cannot save $400, at least, for a personal emergency. The average jobless black worker right now who earns $40 a week less in benefits than his white counterpart. The 41% of black-owned businesses that have shut down, due to COVID-19, versus 17% of white businesses. The 33 million jobless Americans filing for benefits, as of June 20, or five times the levels of the Great Depression...

And so on. And so forth. Wash, rinse, repeat. 

Now stop what you're doing for a moment, and think about what might have been, if only for a moment. That could have been your story, too. -- The Reckoner

My Corona Diary (Take XIV): After Me, The Returnables...

<"So Many Bags (So Little Time)":

Take I/The Reckoner>

<i>

Now it can be told, I guess: I collected cans in the middle of a pandemic. Shock, horror! Stop presses! (Gasp, blush, cough, ahem...) "What were you thinking?"

Well, hang on a minute. I didn't do that, exactly. But I might as well have. Here in Michigan, the opportunity to return your pop bottles and cans for its 10-cent deposit wound up one of the earliest casualties of COVID-19, when the viral bomb dropped. 

State health authorities fretted about the possibility of Coronavirus being transmitted via liquids in plastic and metal pop bottles and cans. So, virtually overnight, all the grocery stores shut down their returnable stations and spaces, by executive order.

I found out the hard way one spring April afternoon, after lugging a couple good-sized bags to our favored grocery store, Matthew's, for nothing. I had no idea, till I spied the notice taped on the automatic doors. "Oh, crap," I told myself. "Well, I guess I got some greatly-needed exercise."

But now we had a problem. When would we ever get a chance to return any pop cans (in our case, oodles and oodles of two liter bottles of Diet Peps/Cherry Diet Pepsi)? Who knew how long this whole pandemic nightmare would last? 

After some thought, however, I decided to save them. I hadn't heard anything about the state canceling the deposit, and like any self-respecting punter, I wanted my money, even if it was only 10 cents a can or plastic bottle. 

Naturally, the prospect of storing so many containers, just like the grocery store, left The Squawker less than thrilled: "What if they wind up attracting a bunch of bugs?"

"I'll take the chance," I shrugged. "But if we see so one much as one winged thing, out they go. I promise."

"Fair enough. We'll see how it goes, I guess."

<"So Many Bags (So Little Time)":

Take II/The Reckoner>

<ii.>

I made one other concession: I agreed to keep those bulging 39-gallon bags in my archive room, which just happens to be the smallest space in our apartment. A small price to pay, I figured, till we find out what the state does with them. 

After all, I'd collected cans, off and on, for 20 years. Nobody knew their value better than I. Or so it seemed. (Michigan and Oregon are the only states that pay 10 cents per can. See the link below for further info. It's dated, but for readers in non-deposit states, it gives a good rundown, and will save me all the keystrokes of rehashing it here.)

Bit by bit, bottle by bottle, week by week, our stash grew from a molehill to a mountain. The storage didn't grow any bigger, though. 

Soon, I ran out of floor space, so I started piling those bulging bags on top of one another. I made a point of not visiting that room, unless I needed to find a particular CD, press clipping or tape from my collection.)

Then in June, the floodgates opened as fast as they'd slammed shut. The state, apparently convinced its earlier fears were groundless, allowed stores to begin taking returnables again. 

As the photos for this entry show, we'd ended up with six bags, mostly filled with two-liter bottles, plus a smattering of metal cans, too. (Here in town, some of the gas stations sell cans for 50 cents apiece, an ideal incentive before you go off on a picnic, for instance. Or eat in the car. Or want something to take on a trip)

Matthew's responded by walling off the bottle return area, and posting one of the baggers to vigorously spray down the machines, once you finally get to use them. What's more, they're only allowing one person at a time in there.

I'm not quarreling with those measures, except the last one. There's six machines in there, I think, so why not at least let one or two more people in, if you kept them sufficiently apart? For me, the containers were never the problem. It's the people deciding whether practices like social distancing, or wearing masks, apply to them or not.

What's more, the bottle return shuts down at 7:00 p.m. No more popping by after hours and dropping off your returnables. At least...for now.

<"So Many Bags (So Little Time)"

Take III/The Reckoner>

<iii.>

On this particular mid-June Monday afternoon, I'm lined up with half a dozen people, all pushing carts packed to the brim, and then some. No surprises there, with state estimates of some $50 million in returnables awaiting that 10-cent deposit (see link below). That's a staggering number, by any measure.

The line barely inches forward, because when you're only allowing one person in there, and they're taking their sweet time, stuffing those cans and bottles down the throat of the machine...I guess you can see how that might take awhile.

Behind me, a black guy and his friend start getting antsy. They have two carts, probably 20-30 bucks of bottles and cans between them. Behind them are another three or four people waiting. What's more, it's about 6:30 p.m., and we've all been here half an hour.

One of the black guys asks, "You think they're gonna get to all of us?" 

I wave my hand in reassurance. "Oh yeah," I smile. "You're already here, right? Then I can't see them telling you to come back tomorrow." 

The bagger on duty comes out, looks around briefly, and reassures all of us: "Don't worry, you'll taken care of."

The black guys visibly relax, though someone on a bike has now joined the fray. The bagger quickly sticks some type of wooden barrier or other behind him, the visual equivalent of "Come back tomorrow," I guess.

Reminds me of what happened in my regular canning days, when stores would literally put up signs, or insist, "Sorry, we're all full now," when they saw you coming with all those bulging bags. It didn't happen consistently, but enough to fall under the heading of "ongoing annoyance."

Ten minutes later, I finally get my chance. It easily takes me that long, if not 15 minutes, to feed the riches in my bags -- all six of them -- into the machine. I end up with $28.80 for all my trouble, which I end up using to knock down my grocery bill, when I head back over that night.

That's one for us, I think, heading home. It's been a good day. --The Reckoner

Links To Go:
Detroit Free Press:
Michiganders Wait -- And Wait -- 
To Redeem $50 Million In Can Deposits:
https://www.freep.com/story/news/local/michigan/2020/05/18/michigan-bottle-returns-open-closed/5194368002/

TripAdvisor: US Bottle & Can Deposits:

https://www.tripadvisor.com/Travel-g191-c113378/United-States:Bottle.Container.Deposits.html#:~:text=As%20of%20October%202010%20there,New%20York%2C%20Oregon%2C%20Vermont.

<"So Many Bags (So Little Time)"

The Art Shot/The Reckoner>