The Power and the Money

Queens, and a basketball question

I just got back to civilization. I was in Queens. And I was in Queens without the Internet! OK, I occasionally checked email, but that was it. I suspect that such a vacation will be impossible within not too many years. (Click the link for knowledge about the horrifying future to which information technology is inevitably bringing us.)

But this post is not about Queens. It is about sports. I spent much of today watching some awesome Olympic soccer matches. Mexico-Senegal had me biting my nails ... and almost (but not quite) feeling sorry for the way Senegal botched it up in overtime. Then there was that foul-fest between Brazil and Honduras. I am still sad that the little Hondureño underdog lost. And the tight U.K.-ROK game: I admit it, I was rooting for the home team. In between all that, I hoped to see  Lithuania beat the U.S. of A. in basketball.

I am currently watching the Czechs defeat poor Brazil in beach volleyball. That is a great sport. One of the people below is of Brazilian descent: my heart goes out to you. The Czechs stole it.

What is it about international basketball? In every other sport, I root for the U.S. of A. above all. But there are exceptions: at the World Baseball Classic, I root for the crazy underdog teams: Australia and the Netherlands and the like. In basketball, the United States is not merely dominant; it is ridiculously dominant. Ludicrously dominant. Stupidly dominant. Yeah, there is 2004 and FIBA, but in both cases we didn’t send our best players. So I get happy when somebody gives the U.S. a run for its money. (I am not a hypocrite: we dominate beach volleyball too, but that is all about Kerri and Misty.)

Which, finally, brings us to the Knicks. I always used to say that the minute the Nets move to Brooklyn, then I switch loyalties. And I am still tempted! But ... well, “Brooklyn” no longer means what it used to mean. I no longer feel it. I mean, dude, if you had proposed Atlantic Yards in 1985 nobody but nobody woulda opposed it! I feel much more at home in Queens, which outside a few parts of LIC and Astoria is still not cool. Although Sunnyside is becoming suspiciously nice.

So I am thinking that I will stay with the Knicks. But I am unsure. After all, there is that wide swath of Kings County, from Bay Ridge to Canarsie to East New York, that is AFAICT pretty much ungentrified and uphip and old-school.

And, well, even the annoying full-of-hipsters and morons-who-hate-new-buildings part of Brooklyn has its charms. Although it would be more charming if there was a 40-story tower on top.

And since the Nets arena is smack in the middle of Atlantic Yards, then rooting for the Nets would be sticking it to the people who don’t like tall  buildings! Or it would, if I had the same sorts of emotions that motivated Sarah Palin supporters. Which I just might, at least where Brooklyn is concerned.

Plus, the Knicks let Lin go to Houston. I mean, WTF?

So, Nets or Knicks? Advice wanted.

A bad person did something bad and bragged about it in the New York Times

 Imagine the following. You are sitting at the Port Authority Bus Terminal in Manhattan. While you are there, you see someone get punched in the face a few feet away. The victim staggers and collapses, bleeding, in front of you. Do you:

1. Take a good look at the perpetrator, move away quickly (for fear of a weapon), and immediately call the police;
2. Run to the victim (realizing that he is concussed and may not recover) and make sure that he is still breathing and responsive;
3. Run in front of the perpetrator and yell “Basta!” or something along those lines, while blocking him with your body.

All three reactions would be honorable. A fourth would be a completely understandable variant on (1): move away and call 911 on your cellphone (within seconds, obviously) without memorizing any identifiable characteristics of the perpetrator.

What you do not do is what Christine Quinter and her father did, and then bragged about doing in a letter to the New York Times Metropolitan Diary column. I reproduce the letter for you below.

Dear Diary:

My father and I recently spent a lovely day in Manhattan. We saw a matinee performance by the New York City Ballet and met good friends for an early dinner on the Upper West Side.

While passing the time before our bus came in the Port Authority’s Deli Plus, we witnessed a fight. One of the young men was punched in the face and collapsed on the floor just a few feet away from us.

I think my father and I handled the situation like true New Yorkers. We didn’t panic or run for safety. We merely moved our $22 bag of cupcakes from the Magnolia Bakery out of the way to avoid having it splattered with blood and went on with our conversation.

Christine Quinter

Sweet Mary mother of God. Somebody please tell me that this letter is fake, or otherwise lacking in context, because the above is just unforgiveable.

The 1940 census and the old neighborhood, no. 3

 I don’t think a whole lot about our time at East 71^st Street, even though it lasted through most of my high school years. There were three reasons for that. The first was that I hated the neighborhood. The building was great — I made lots of friends, not counting the Irish heroin addict from the sixth floor who burglarized our apartment and received a ... well, in these more enlightened times I shouldn’t say ... in return. But by the late 1980s the East Side south of 86th and east of Lexington was going on its third decade of what would today be called gentrification, and while I greatly appreciated the fact that I could space out on the walk from the subway station with no fear of getting mugged, I hated the neighborhood’s wealth with a deeply-burning passion impossible to describe. The second reason for my lack of nostalgia or good-feeling to the area was that most of my good friends lived elsewhere. I spent much more waking time in Stuyvesant Town and Loisaida and Washington Heights ... and I probably spent more nights at my friend Guy’s house in Queens — also the borough from which I drew most of my friends. (My wife is from there!) Which brings us the third reason. Life inside the apartment was not particularly salubrious. Not that I’m complaining! It just wasn’t a great time, so while I have heavy nostalgia for the late 1980s in Rego Park and Stuy Town and Washington Heights and Harlem (East and otherwise) and Loisaida, not so much for East 71st Street.

I’ll digitize some photos at some point, but as of right now I don’t have any. Which says something about my feelings towards the address, despite the fact that the neighborhood was much nicer than 115, 93, 77, or anywhere in Brooklyn, Bayville, or North Miami Beach. So here I give you a picture from 1986, when I lived on East 71. Dinner for the first person to ID the 16-year-old me.  

Forty-four years earlier, the East Side was significantly different from 1985-88. 416 East 71st, however, was remarkably similar. The difference is that in 1940 the building was representative of the census tract, whereas by late 1980s it was an outlier. It still had plenty of children, the sons and daughters of older folk who remained due to rent control rather than moving to the suburbs. Their kids were not in elite schools, and it was not easy to earn their toleration. It helped that I joined next-door Sokol Hall for gymnastics and tae kwon do. In short, the building was a little retro pocket of old-line white ethnics, in an neighborhood that had turned into a suburban-like mush of affluence. At the time it was not enough to compensate for my extreme antipathy to the rest of the neighborhood ... and to be honest, it is not enough now 24 years later. Maybe by the time my son turns 18.

In 1940, the entire neighborhood was Czech and Slovak. It wasn’t quite as Slavic as East Harlem was Italian, but it came close. Co-blogger Doug Muir had family who lived six blocks north at the time, and reports something similar. 

The 1940 census counted 21 households at 416 East 71st Street. Of those, eleven had the head of household (or both, if a married couple) born in “Czechoslovakia,” “Slovakia,” or in one case, “Bohemia.” The twelfth reported that the head of household — a 66-year-old widower named Tilly Dran — had a birthplace in “Austria.” Tilly lived with a single daughter aged 39, a married daughter (age 48), her 52-year-old husband (Harry Ledak), and their 20-year-old granddaughter. The older daughter and Tilly’s son-in-law had also been born in “Austria.” It isn’t unreasonable to assume that “Austria” probably meant Czechoslovakia, considering as he had emigrated before 1901. 

In addition to those 12, the Viddetzk (sp) family was born in New York (Joseph in 1905, Anna in 1914, and daughter Dorothy in 1934) but was likely of Czechoslovak origin. Similarly, up on the upper floors, Edward Holut (born in New York in 1894) lived with his “Austrian” mother. Meanwhile John Panelka of Ohio (33-years-old) lived with his 31-year-old wife from “Austria-Hungary” … who had been born in 1909, when there really was such a place. (They had two children, Eleanor aged 4, and Alfred aged 1.) Having moved into the building 44 years later, I am having trouble believing that John’s wife wasn’t actually from what would today be the Czech Republic or Slovakia.

That’s 15 households with origins inside the 1918-93 boundaries of Czechoslovakia. But there’s more! Sam and Anna Graycon (born in 1885 and 1884 respectively; she was in fact a year older than he was) reported having been born in Hungary. In 1885, Hungary included modern Slovakia. (Their 22-year-old daughter was born in New York.) The Slawinskis (born in 1875 and 1887 respectively) listed their birthplace as Poland at a time when there was no Poland. It is likely that they were Polish, but I am also sure that they felt comfortable around their fellow Slavs. (They lived with their four children, aged between 16 and 23.) In addition, the Hrabie family was born in New York and lived with their two children … along with the father’s mother, who had been born in Czechoslovakia.

At that point you’ve got 18 out of 21 households being some sort of Slavic — you can dig into the most West Indian parts of Brooklyn and Queens today and find less homogeneity. Who was left? Walter Thiele had been born in Germany in 1895, and his wife Olympia had been born in Russia in 1904. It’s possible that they weren’t Jewish, but that isn’t how I would bet. They lived their children, 18-year-old Rita and 13-year-old Ralph, both in school, and a lodger, Edward Parfer, who worked in a hospital laundry for $1500 per year. The family paid $32 per month in rent; nothing was reported from Mr. Parfer. For what it is worth, Edward had been born in New York in 1890.

The Cuthberts, aged 46 and 37, had both been born in Scotland. Their six-year-old son Robert was born in Short Hills, New Jersey, where they had been living in 1935. Cuthbert pere was a porter at a bank for $1352 a year. Their previous address implies serious downward mobility.  

There was also Leo (age 37) and Georgette (age 33) Larkin and their 4-year-old son, John. Leo was from Pennsylvania and Georgette from New York. Leo was an unemployed dockworker who had earned $830 in the previous year; Georgette didn’t work. They paid $23 a month in rent: $276 per year. Admittedly, the area was crappy back then, but imagine somebody making $13,300 a year living there now. My mother did it … but that was (a) almost three decades ago; and (b) involved judicious use of the rent control laws and (c) a significant other. 

The building hangs on around high-rise redevelopment that has utterly changed the character of the neighborhood. That is a good thing. I have moved left on most things over the years, but when it comes to land-use planning and historic preservation, I am of the libertarian “tear it down and build bigger” school. (I can accept that owners should have a property right to sunlight. But that is it.) I will survive if the charming brownstones of the Upper West Side are ripped down and replaced with 50-story towers ... and America will be better off. No need to mention the crappy little tenements around Pleasant Avenue. More towers, please, just like the ones on 93rd Street..

Before we end, I want to mention the Novak family. The widowed head of the family, Anna, had been born in Czechoslovakia in 1882. She lived with her three New York-born children, Emily (age 27), George (age 26), and Gerald (age 24.) The three children had eighth-grade educations. Emily worked as a bookkeeper for $1040 per year, and George worked as a delivery man for $680. Gerald was unemployed, but had previously worked as a machinist for $916.

Why do I report this? Because I knew George Novak, the bow-legged old man who ruled the building. He gave me fatherly advice on more than one occasion during the not-very-nice years of 1985-88. He was in his seventies, he had fought in World War Two, and he was a very good man. He deserves props, and I hope he is remembered.

I believe that this story was because of him. It does, in fact, date back to 1987. God bless you, Mr. Novak.

The 1940 census and the old neighborhood, no. 2

 The Upper West Side of Manhattan, like East Harlem (and the upper reaches of what used to be called Yorkville) had become a slum by the 1970s. It never reached the abandoned gang-ridden depths of East Harlem, and parts remained nice … but in general it was crappy. The San Juan Hill area was cleared for Lincoln Center and the Amsterdam Houses. During the 1977 blackout, looting hit the entire area, but it was especially bad in Manhattan Valley and the side streets off Amsterdam Avenue in the eighties and nineties. Broadway in the seventies wasn’t burnt-out terrible, but it was far from today’s disneyground. Needle Park on 72nd Street was so named because of the used heroin needles that littered it, not its shape.

The area’s decline set in before World War Two, and that shows up in the census data. Two other things also show up. First, East Harlem’s fertility really was strange. Second, the rise of Adolf Hitler to power had a profound effect on this part of New York.

The first family listed at 317 West 77th are the Landers. Herman and Eve (49 and 35 years old) were both born in Russia. They both graduated high school. Herman’s profession is unclear — it’s listed as “propietor, furnished apartments,” with no wage income listed. He doesn’t own the building, though: the census has him down as a renter for $50 per month. (That’s $802 in 2011 dollars — half the market rate in the same building today, and for a place that was probably four times the size.) They lived with their daughters, Joy and Helene, 14 and 9 years old. They employed a live-in maid, Jennie Richardson, 20, a black woman born in New Jersey. Jennie had been living there for over five years, meaning that she worked for them as a teenager. Jennie didn’t graduate high school, but she is listed as having had three years. She earned $360 per year — $5,770 in 2011 dollars — for a 60-hour week. Room was probably worth another $420, judging from what lodgers in the building paid, but that’s still a remarkably low wage by modern standards.

The next family was a young couple, almost certainly refugees from the Nazis. Samuel and Mary Hirschaut were born in Germany and Russia, respectively, in 1914 and 1916. In 1935, Samuel lived in Germany and Mary was in Switzerland. Both graduated from high school; Samuel worked as a leather dealer on his own account — no wages were reported, but he is listed as having earned income from other sources. His wife modelled dresses for about $100 per year. Neither were working when the census was taken: Mary checked “yes” to seeking work, Samuel said “no” on account that he said “yes” to the question: “If not seeking work, did he have a job, business, etc.?”

The third couple are also German refugees: Solomon Frohwirth, aged 28, was born in Poland. His wife Lottie was born in Germany, and had the same age. Both had been living in Germany five years previously. Solomon was a fur dealer. Solomon had only a ninth-grade education, but his wife reported one year of college. Both the Frohwirths and the Hirschauts paid $35 a month in rent.

Next up were the Pustay brothers: Walter and Fred, aged 20 and 17, both from Connecticut by way of Hackensack, New Jersey. They worked as clerks, Walter for an oil company, Fred in “exporting,” for $910 and $256 per year. (In 2011 dollars, that’s a combined income of $18,700.) They supplemented their income by taking in three boarders. And by now the pattern in the building should be obvious: at least two of the boarders were refugees from Hitler. Max Weingarten, age 26, had one year of postgraduate education—it doesn’t say in what, but he worked as a motion picture importer. Max had been born in Poland ... but listed Austria as his place of residence in 1935. It isn’t hard to connect the dots. Ditto for the second housemate: Deron Wachenhum, a 48-year-old German man who had been living in France five years previously. He worked as a magazine reviewer for only $948 per year. (He was listed as having two years of college.) The odd-woman-out was Florence Black, a married 29-year-old Romanian woman who made hats for $1462 per year. She had been living in Manhattan in 1935, and so was not likely a refugee. There was no sign of her husband.

The Pustay brothers did pretty well off the lodging. Their rent was $45 per month, but each boarder paid $35 — a nice annual increment of $720. ($11,500 in 2011 dollars.) Plus ça change and all that.

Finally, we have the Gerschel family. Stanley (age 40) was from New Jersey and his wife Alice (age 31) came from Pennsylvania. Their monthly rent was $38. The couple had probably experienced recent downward-mobility: in 1935, they had lived in  Baldwin, Long Island. Baldwin had experienced explosive suburban growth in the 1920s, going from 5,000 to 12,000 over the decade. (That’s a lot: the town covers less than three square miles.) It seems likely that they had been a suburban couple in 1935, and lost their home in the 1937 recession. (Conversely, many families lost title during the 1929-33 collapse, but weren’t forced to leave for some time thereafter: the Gerschels might have also fallen into that category.) Stanley sold dresses for $2,000 per year. His wife was listed as a dental assistant and did not say that she was unemployed, but reported no income. I’m not sure what to make of that: volunteer work? (She had one year of college, and so some training.) Pride? They lived with their 8-year-old daughter, Patricia, and a lodger.

Nicholas Vasilieff was not a refugee from Hitler. (By this point, I was surprised to realize that.) He had been born in Russia in 1906, but listed San Francisco as his place of residence in 1935. He had been unemployed for 26 weeks as of the census (March 24-30), but listed his occupation as dancer and claimed to have worked for 30 weeks in the past year — the math does not quite add up — for $1200 in wages. The Gerschels charged him no rent, so I suspect that he was a family friend or a distant relative.

It turns out that Vasilieff actually was a dancer. He performed in Laugh, Town, Laugh! in 1942.  (Were dancers exempt from the draft?) He then moved back West to Portland, where he helped found first a dance school, and then in 1954 the Portland Ballet Society. He died in Portland in 1976. His son Nick Vasilieff currently lives in that city, as does his grandaughter Nikole.

When my father moved into 317 West 77th in 1982, it was divided into nine apartments: one on the first floor, and two on the four upper floors. In 1940 it only had five apartments: likely one on each floor. That would explain the boarders: the tiny one-bedrooms into which they been divided by 1982 could not have held five people in anything less than barracks-like conditions, which would not be consistent with charging $35 per month for the privilege, not given what you could rent for that money. (Rent control did not yet exist in New York City.)

The neighboring building to the east, 315 West 77th, had already been subdivided into 16 apartments. In some ways, it was more interesting than 317 West 77th. In fact, in some ways it seems like it could have been transported out of the 21st Century, except for the rents. The average rent was $28.16 — a astonishingly low $451 in today’s money, with none under $400 or over $584. (From here on, all figures will be in 2011 dollars — the 1940 number multiplied by 16.) The reason for the low rents, of course, was twofold: low incomes and few zoning restrictions.

First, it had no children in it. None at all. That shouldn’t be surprising. You wouldn’t be surprised at a Manhattan apartment building with no children in it today, when 18% of New York City’s population is under age 15. Well, in 1940 only 20% of the City’s population was under 15; not that different — and the birth rate today is higher.

Second, three units were occupied by divorced women. The first was Vada (sp?) Littlepage, a 35-year-old professional photographer from Forth Worth, Texas. The second was Ida Howe, a 48-year old nurse from England. The third unit was occupied by a mother-daughter team, both from Mexico, both divorced. The daughter worked as a manicurist for $260 per year — her mother was out of the labor force, but reported having nonlabor income. Mom was named Rebeca Sanders, while the daughter was named Amelia García, the implication being that mom had married an American, split from him, and then brought Amelia up when she split from her husband. Amelia, it should be noted, was 36, and both reported living in New York five years previously.

There were seven single never-married working women in the building. 25-year-old Geraldine Bordeaux, from Quebec (“Canada-French”), lived with her older brother Francino. Both were unemployed “artist models.” Dorothy Donnelly was from “Canada-English,” 26-years-old, and an unemployed saleswoman from a department store. 23-year-old Anne Allen was from New York (although she had been living in the apartment since she turned 18) and worked as a stenographer in a bank for $17,120 in today’s money. 26-year-old Evelyn Griffin from Illinois worked as a receptionist in a department store for $12,480. Nina Echeverría from Uruguay worked as a floorlady in a dress shop for $16,000 and 33-year-old Edna Dolan from Massachusetts — who reported living in Astoria, Queens, five years earlier — made $21,120 working in a key factory. 24-year-old Alice Maher, also from New York, earned $12,480 as a bakers’ assistant … but reported having dropped out of the labor force. I suspect that she had just gotten engaged, since the census-taker had written “M” under marital status before crossing it out and pencilling in “S.”

The four married couples consisted of a native New Yorker married to an Irishwoman (both age 36), two Irish immigrants (aged 41 and 38), a Spanish chef married to a Panamanian stenographer from Los Angeles (aged 37 and 31, and clearly married for less than five years, since they were in different states then), and a 30-year-old unemployed laborer from Massachusetts married to a 29-year woman from New Jersey.

Add in widowed Gertrude Weckler from Germany (a 66-year-old who fit corsets in a department store) and divorced George Pitscharer from Austria (a 50-old bartender) and you have the set of a modern sitcom.

A happier view of 1940 than the one from my building on 115th Street. Moreover, the view from 317 West 77th in 2005 was even more marvellous!

Next up ... well, I am not sure. Maybe the people who lived in the houses that were demolished to make way for 100 Ocean Parkway in Brooklyn?

The 1940 census and the old neighborhood, no. 1

 The United States recently released the 1940 census manuscripts. They are fascinating. I am sad and depressed to realize that right-wing craziness means that our grandchildren in 2080 will not see the like for 2010, where the census was pared down to ten incredibly-boring questions. Hopefully, that will change.

It isn’t that those people (or, God forbid, robots) won’t be able to call up information about their ancestors in 2010. I have no doubt that with a flick of the hand towards some sort of hyper-attuned artificial intelligence agent — or at least a verbal request delivered in natural English — they’ll be able to instantly recall all the information that exists about any one of us. No, it’s that they won’t be able to call up the same sort of information about the people who lived in same place they live in. Because, you see, we don’t record that stuff anymore. And it’s fascinating! Social change made real.

We moved around a lot when I was a kid, albeit always within the counties of New York, Kings, Nassau, and what is today called Miami-Dade. I don’t recall the exact address of the house in North Miami Beach or the one in Bayville or the apt on 93rd; and neither 1780 First Avenue nor 34 Vanderbilt Plaza nor 100 Ocean Parkway existed in 1940. But 414 East 115th Street, 317 West 77th Street, and 416 East 71st Street were there!

East Harlem is today becoming a Mexican neighborhood, filled with young children and struggling parents, with lots of green-white-and-red alongside Old Glory. In 1940, it looked about the same, just without the eagle.

414 East 115th Street then, like now, had five families in it. The first listed is the Squittieri clan. Dominick and Geneviene had been born in Italy in 1888 and 1890 respectively. Dominick ran a grocery store and worked a 60-hour week to earn $1300 per year — $20,800 in 2011 dollars. They rented for $35 a month, or $561 in 2011 dollars. Dominick was listed as having had two years of schooling; his wife had never been to school at all. They lived with their ten children: Carmine, 24; Alphonse, 23; James, 22; Helen, 20; Yolanda, 18; John, 17; Mary, 16; Domenick Jr., 15; Louise, 12; and Gilda, 10.

You can see the lingering effect of the Depression in the statistics. Carmine worked as a painter (a 48-hour work week) for $1190 a year — $19,100 in 2011 dollars. Alphonse was not in the labor force. It isn’t completely clear why: there is a squiggle that is probably an “H,” meaning he was doing “housework.” It could, however, be a “U,” which would indicate “unable,” meaning a disability. He was not a student. His sister, Helen, was also out of the labor force and clearly listed as doing “housework.”

James, Yolanda, and John were unemployed and looking for work. The enumerator put “new worker” as their profession. All three had been unemployed for over a year. Carmine, Alphonse, James, Helen and Yolanda had all dropped out of school in the eighth grade; John had finished one year of high school before dropping out. The four youngest children were all in school.

Of course, it was a different time. I do not know what happened to the Squittieri family, but I bet you they went on to economic success — something that a Mexican-American family with the same statistics today will probably not achieve. But I don’t know: in 2022, it might be possible to try to track them down in the 1950 census.

The Mango family looked a lot like the Squittieris. Anthony had been born in Italy in 1880. His wife Antonette, however, had been born in America in 1887. Still, being born in America hadn’t given her any more opportunities — like Geneviene Squittieri, she was listed as having no education. (Anthony had eight years of schooling.) Anthony worked as a pressman in a junk shop for $926 per year, no vacations, and a 54-hour work week. ($14,800 in today’s money.) They lived with their seven children: John, 27; Louie, 26; Theresa, 22; Josephine, 20; Mary, 18; Emily, 14; and James, 12. None of the adult males made it past the eighth grade; Josephine had one year of high school and Mary had two — Emily and James were in school.

The Mango children did a little better in the labor market. John worked as a “shearer,” which can’t mean what I think it means. (Where the hell would you find sheep in Manhattan?) He cleared $1480 ($23,700 today) working 35 weeks at 40 hours. Louie was a shipping clerk, earning $625 ($10,000 today) on a 40-hour week for a full year. Theresa did something I can’t make out—“Frlnger”?—also for $625 and the same terms. The total household income, therefore, was $58,500 in today’s dollars. Mary was unemployed and looking for work; Josephine was not, helping out around the house instead. They paid only $32 per month in rent, or $513 in today’s money. Still, remember, I lived in those apartments: they were about 600 square feet, plus change, and that rent is actually not that different in real terms from the 1970s and early 1980s. (Our toilet had a cable that you had to full down to flush, something I’m pretty sure had to have been installed before World War Two, so these families enjoyed private bathrooms along with central heat and electricity.)
  
The other families looked a little more modern. Angelina Lombardo was from Italy, eighty years old, and lived alone. Her rent was $7 per month. No wage income was listed, but average monthly social security benefits for widows in 1940 were $20.36, although the program had only just started and I do not know if she would have qualified. Hopefully, she had some savings or support from children.

The Caldarise family were New York-born, 33 and 32 years, old, with three children (Dorothy, Joseph, and Violet) aged 10, 8, and 6. They had started young, but appeared to have taken control of their fertility: Antonette Caldarise had not had any children since she was 27, as opposed to Antonette Mango, who had her last child at age 41 with no more than a four-year gap between them, let alone Geneviene Squittieri. Joseph Caldarise worked (I think) making chromium plates for $1352 ($21,700) per year and a reasonable 40-hour week. (No vacations, though.) They paid $19 ($305) per month in rent.

Finally, there are the Antonuccis. Michael Antonucci, New York born, was 44-years-old and unemployed. He had, however, only been unemployed for six weeks — he had previously worked as a “buyer” for $1040 per year. His wife was quite a bit younger: Millie Antonucci, also New York-born was only 28. Neither had more than an eighth-grade education. They had only one child, baby Virginia, aged nine months. Rent? Twenty dollars.

Now for something important: language. The census did not ask every person about the language spoken at home. Rather, each census manuscript page asked two randomly-selected people “Language spoken in home in earliest childhood.” On the two pages covered by 414 East 115th, all four people asked happened to have been born in America ... and three of them reported “Italian.” The only one to report English was little Violet Caldarise, who had two young New York-born parents.

For those of you who know the statistics, this is not surprising: Mexican-Americans are learning English (and losing Spanish) quite a bit more rapidly than their Italian predecessors. But it is, I think, worth repeating.

Next up: 317 West 77th Street.

New York the way that 40-something white (and Puerto Rican) people see it

 So before I left for Mexico, I was talking with my old friends Guy and Omar and Carlo, and we all agreed that those of us with some connection to the borough of Brooklyn are less likely to bring it up than we used to be. Why? Well, simply put, the hipsters. “Brooklyn” does not mean what it used to. In my case, this is not a bad ting thing, since I have a better claim on Manhattan, including parts that only recently became nice. But for most of us, it kind of sucks. Who are these people? What have they brought, besides the thoroughly awesome Barcade?

Seriously. Go to Barcade. A little while after taking the below photo, I played Asteroids until the muscles on my right hand started to scream. If you are of a certain age, you will be able to find your poison, and without that ever-present fear of violence that hung over actual arcades in the 1980s. Plus, beer!

Upshot: these two videos made me laugh.

and (watch for the hipster bemoaning, even though they have not got to Bay Ridge, AFAIK):

Learn. In the second video, watch the pizza thing at 2:05. That is where I must say that East Harlem beats Brooklyn. (My wife is my witness!) And should you tell me that the whole shit-people-say meme is over, well, then I can respond that the best thing about deactivating my Facebook page is that I do not have to care. 

Department of calm down, state defense force edition

 So, I’ve gotten some hyperventilating emails about the fact that Arizona is looking to establish a State Guard independent of the National Guard. “Facism, racism, separatism, end of the Republic, yadda.” Oh, gosh. This is monumentally stupid, what Glen Beck would talk about if he shared my political beliefs. There is absolutely nothing odd or sinister in the Arizona bill.

Back in the day, I (like anyone who was ever in the NYARNG) routinely ran into people from the New York Guard. What’s the New York Guard? It’s a state defense force, authorized by a 1955 act of Congress. State defense force members do not receive federal military training (National Guard members undergo the same training as members of the regular armed services) and therefore cannot be federalized. Back then, their uniforms were almost indistinguishable from regular NYARNG (IIRC); today it seems they wear standard Army ACUs with a funny black cap and brightly-colored state flag.

It turns out that twenty-two states have state defense forces, although Massachusetts’ is no longer active. New Hampshire seems to want one.

Establishing a state defense force seems like a silly idea: if New York didn’t have its Guard (which has trouble meeting its 1,700-person authorized strength, what with the low pay and benefits) it isn’t clear why you’d want to invent it. But the Arizona bill isn’t a threat to the Republic, and it pains me when American liberals start to travel down paranoid rabbit holes the way too many of their conservative brethern have recently. In short, calm down, there really is nothing to see here.

Race, roads, or regulation? Canadian and American cities

 When asked why Canadian cities are so built-up compared to American ones, Martin Wisse of the Netherlands suggests, “No white flight.” It’s an appealing answer, given America’s massive urban ghettoes, but it’s almost certainly wrong.

 

Consider the differences between Seattle and Vancouver. For an American city, Seattle is very white and disproportionately childless. The city, however, splatters across the horizon, with few high-rises outside the central business district, while Vancouver is relatively compact and its proliferating residential towers reach to the sky. All this despite geography in Seattle that should encourage density!

The Seattle-Vancouver comparison alone should make you doubt the validity of the “white flight” hypothesis. There are other reasons, however, to reject it. Until 1990 none of Canada’s metropolitan areas declined in population — the country didn’t see shifts in economic geography like what turned cities like Buffalo, Detroit, New Orleans, Flint, Akron, Pittsburgh, Dayton, and Syracuse into what they are today. (The 1990s recession changed that, but the places that shrank tended to small, and located in Atlantic Canada or northern Ontario and Quebec.)

More importantly, white flight can’t explain why the nonblack sections of American cities look rather different from their Canadian counterparts. Nor can white flight (by itself) explain why American suburbs strongly resist residential high-rises, whereas Canadian ones (Montreal excepted) take to them with relative zeal. For example, Chicago’s North Side does not look like Toronto, save for a belt along the lake. Nor does Boston’s central and northern urban area — Back Bay, South End, North End, Southie, Brookline, Allston, Brighton, Cambridge, Somerville, Chelsea, Watertown, Arlington, Belmont, Charlestown, and East Boston — look much like East York or Scarborough. It is true, of course, that the great American ghetto is an American phenomenon, created by America’s strange racial caste system, but racial tensions don’t explain why Houston looks very different from Calgary.

So if isn’t race, then what is it? Another possible culprit is roads. American cities have a lot more freeway-miles per capita than their Canadian counterparts. The logic is not that freeways destroyed the neighborhoods that they cut through. I’m sorry, but speaking as someone who grew up in neighborhoods that had roads driven through or beside them, that argument is just stupid. (Yes, this applies to Toronto.) The plausible logic, rather, is that inner city neighborhoods were always relatively undesirable, but without subsidized freeways it would have harder to leave them for lower-density suburbs.

I am sympathetic to this argument, but I have some doubts. (Not least that my wife and I prefer dense inner city neighborhoods to the suburbs.) It is almost certainly true that American-style sprawl requires massive investment in freeways. Fewer freeways, more density. More density, more high-rises. The problem? If density the key, why does Los Angeles look so different from Toronto despite being denser? The 11.8 million people who live in Los Angeles’s urbanized area (that is, the area defined by the lights visible from space at night, minus fringe areas with a population density below 1,000 people per mile) are packed in at 7,068 per square mile, whereas their 4.6 million Torontonian counterparts live at 6,835 per square mile. Perhaps it is the freeway net that allows Los Angeles to splatter its density more uniformly than Toronto, but that feels ad hoc as an explanation, especially since Toronto’s suburbs are actually very densely-populated compared to Boston, Chicago, or New York.

The other possible explanation is regulation. In this view, roads may have contributed to American sprawl, but zoning is what really keeps it in place. For this view to be correct, Canadian zoning has to be less strict than American zoning. Are Canadian cities more likely to approve density, allow smaller lots and narrower streets, require fewer parking spaces, and permit higher buildings? This is not hard to believe, considering the far greater control that provincial governments exercise over municipalities in Canada, but I do not know the answer.

 

In point of fact, the “roads” and “regulations” hypotheses may be hard to disentangle. If a lack of roads drives up land values (by limiting the effective supply of land), then there will be more political pressure to allow dense development. After all, people need places to live. On the other hand, if it is easy to get out to the burbs (via all those freeways) then there will be less political pressure on inner-city areas to permit taller buildings. Cambridge, for example, saw a high-rise boom in the 1970s, which the city deliberately stepped on. As a result, the Central Square subway stop (where we live) is stupidly surrounded by two-story buildings instead of 20-story towers. Our building was built in the early 1990s, and was effectively capped at five floors. Without Boston’s two ring roads (I-95 aka “Route 128” and I-495), the pressure to build up in places like Cambridge would have been harder to resist.

 

In fact, however, it is possible to disentangle between “roads” and “regulations,” by testing for the effect of zoning changes on land values. Of course, it’s never that easy — endogeneity is always a problem. Ed Glaeser has a paper suggesting that zoning is determinative in shaping American cities in California and the East Coast north of Virginia. He has a particularly-detailed study of Boston that supports the zoning hypothesis: market forces (given the existing road net) would make Greater Boston rather denser were the regulations less restrictive. (Newton would look like Brookline; Brookline would look like Brooklyn; and Boston itself would be filled with high-rise towers.) On the other hand, his same work implies that in most of America it is the road net what produced sprawl, and not race or land-use regulation.

In short, most American cities sprawl because the federal government built roads out to the horizon. The exceptions are along the coasts, where U.S. cities would look more like Canadian ones in the absence of tight zoning laws. The increasing segregation of immigrants appears to be an effect of the above, rather than a cause. Of course, the great American ghetto is a striking and horrible thing, but we would have had them with or without freeways and zoning.

Canadian cities really are different

 I was in Toronto last week. I’ll discuss the reasons in a later post. My wife and I stayed out in the suburbs. Our hotel was in Scarborough, right north of Highway 401.  We spent most of our time (when I wasn’t downtown at the University of Toronto) in the further suburbs of Pickering and Ajax. Most of it could be in the United States.

Downtown Toronto is about as generic as it is possible for a North American downtown to get. This is not news. And some parts of the suburbs, like Ajax (pictured above) look like the more depressing parts of Orange County, California, save for the houses being in a slightly different shade of Caucasian skin tone. But even after saying all that, when my father-in-law said that Toronto really doesn’t feel like America, we knew exactly what he meant.

He meant the high-rises. You see giant towers everywhere, where you wouldn’t expect them to be. We were in a 14-story hotel, for example, across a ten-lane freeway from a sprawling shopping center and not far away from subdivisions like the one above, where every house looked alike. But there were two ginormous 30-plus-story condo towers going up right next door. And there was nothing unique about this. High-rises sprouted in parts of the city where you would be very surprised to see them south of the border. You really need to rent a car and drive around to appreciate the difference; hanging around downtown or taking the subway won’t show it to you.

But I am skeptical of both statistics and personal observation. I won’t relax unless they agree. So I went to the Emporis website, and pulled up statistics on buildings over 35 meters or 12 floors. What do you know?Normalized by population Toronto ranks below the high-rise forests of Honolulu and Vancouver, but looks more like the megalopolis of New York (and the D.C.-Arlington core of Greater Washington) than other mid-sized North American cities. Chicago and Philadelphia don’t come close. 

 

Still, the above chart is misleading, because Toronto proper contains 45% of the metropolitan population. In other cities, like San Francisco or Miami or Seattle, the central city is just a sideshow — an important neighborhood, but not representative of the metropolitan area. Miami-Dade, which I know very very well, has a high-rise core and a couple of clumps elsewhere, but nobody would call the place a high-rise city. Ditto San Francisco — Marin and the East Bay and San Mateo are all low-slung places. So I cut out all the places where the center city holds less than a quarter of the metropolitan population.

 

The result is even more dramatic. Toronto is up there with NYC as an outlier. In fact, all Canadian cities are outliers, even the ones that look like they aren’t. Why? Well, central Ottawa, Edmonton, and Calgary contain respectively 67%, 63%, and 85% of their metropolitan populations. Chicago, Las Vegas, Philly, Houston, and Los Angeles, on the other hand, only contain respectively 30%, 29%, 26%, 38%, and 30% of their metropolitan populations. Their central municipalities are a big part of the metropolis, but the cities as a whole feel a lot more low-slung than the central city figures indicate. Central Calgary and Edmonton, on the other hand, feel like parts of much bigger metropoli than they are when you visit, because they’ve got these big crowded bustling and disorderly urban cores than you don’t associate with North American cities that have only a million or so people in them. 

Canadian cities really are different, and it really is something that you can’t fail to notice without needing to look very hard. The only way you’d fail to notice is if your only exposure to America consisted of Honolulu and New York. Now, that isn’t hard to imagine, but it’s gotta be rare.

But this just raises a question: why do Canadian cities sprout so many more high-rises than their American (or Mexican) counterparts? 

ADDENDUM: Another way to slice the data below the fold.

Four out of nine ain’t bad

 So it’s Elena Kagan. I’m not going to get into the merits; I’m not particularly bothered. I’m much more bothered by the Attorney General’s statement that we need a bill relaxing Miranda rights. That said, there is something very important about the appointment: for the first time, we will have four justices from four boroughs: Elena Kagan (Manhattan), Ruth Bader Ginsburg (Brooklyn), Antonin Scalia (Queens), and Sonia Sotomayor (the Bronx). Not only that, but all four of them have New York accents.

Note the way Ms. Kagan pronounces “thought.” Most excellent. Ms. Kagan grew up on the Upper West Side. Aged 50, she may be the last generation of children from that area to possess a distinctive New York accent of the older type. You can still hear the modern type in and around Manhattan Valley, but even there it is fading out in favor a more generic Northeastern accent.

Yeah, that’s Manhattan Valley in 1899! Somebody needs to add a soundtrack.

Black people and the GOP: a road not taken?

 “Dewey beats Truman” is an iconic headline. The election was close (arguments otherwise smack of hindsight bias) and could have gone the other way. What if it had?

Well, the Republican Party might have become the party of civil rights. Why do I say that? Well, this 1947 memo from Clark Clifford to Harry Truman (courtesy of Matt Yglesias):

Since 1932 … the northern Negro has voted Democratic, with the exception of 1946 in New York. A theory … is that the northern Negro voter today holds the balance of power in Presidential elections for the simple arithmetical reason that the Negroes not only vote in a bloc but are geographically concentrated in … New York, Illinois, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Michigan.

This explains the assiduous and continuous cultivation of the New York Negro vote by Governor Dewey and his insistence that his controllable legislature pass a state antidiscrimination act. 

There are several straws … that the northern Negro is today ready to swing back to his traditional moorings — the Republican Party.  Under the tutelage of Walter White, of the NAACP, and other intelligent educated and sophisticated leaders, the Negro voter has become a cynical hardboiled trader. He believes the rising dominance of Southern conservatives in the Democratic councils of Congress and of the Party makes it only too clear that he can go no further by supporting the present Administration. 

Republican politicians … make no great secret of their intent to try to pass a FEPC Act and anti-poll tax statute in the next Congress.  The Democratic Party can only point to the obvious — that the really great improvement in the economic lot of the Negro of the North has come in the last 16 years only because of the sympathies and policies of a Democratic Administration.  The trouble is that this has worn a bit thin with the passage of the years.  Unless the Administration makes a determined campaign to help the Negro (and everybody else) on the problems of high prices and housing … the Negro vote is already lost.  Unless there are new and real efforts (as distinguished from mere political gestures which are today thoroughly understood and strongly resented by sophisticated Negro leaders) the Negro bloc, which certainly in Illinois and probably in New York and Ohio, does hold the balance of power, will go Republican.

27 and a good cigar

  It wasn’t against the Dodgers, so I didn’t spend the bank to get to the Bronx.  Instead, I watched the games at the Thirsty Scholar in Somerville, which appears to have (as I’ve mentioned before) become an unofficial Yankees bar.  I showed up with my high school buddy Carlo Cerruti; other friends drifted in as the night progressed.  Ultimately, there were six of us; but we were there with around fifteen other fans who’d independently discovered that you were unlikely to be assaulted in Yankees regalia at this place.  I speak as someone who has been told by one Boston bartender that his cheering was “inappropriate” and by another “I’m going to have to ask you to tone it down, if you’re going to root for them.”  And those were in yuppie upscale places that I’d scouted in the Harvard Square area because I thought they’d be more Yankees-friendly. Polite yes, friendly no.

The other good thing about the Scholar is that you can smoke outside in full view of several large vidscreens.

No blow-by-blow of the game.  I mean, it was a bar!  Nothing interesting, the way there woulda been at an actual game, that you can’t get from the sports pages.  There were three Phillies fans in the place, all dressed up with Victorino jerseys and all, but they left in the seventh.  What??  The game was by no means over at that point.  If they hadn’t dressed for the occasion, okay, but they had.  Why put in all that prep work and go to a Yankees-friendly place just to give up and leave before the fat lady has sung? 

There was also a bartender from Terry Francona’s favorite bar.  He bites his tongue about his true allegiance when on the job.  You also had the brother-and-sister team from the Big Apple.  I know, the great thing about New York is that nobody looks like they’re from New York.  But to this native New Yorker, this pair just looked like they should be from New York.   (They were.  The Bronx, in fact.) 

Bartender gave us victory shots.  On top of at least four pints of brown ale and three cigars that proved to be a serious mistake. 

 
Anyway, the Series took my mind off the frightening amount of work I have to do and the depressing sight of the U.S. Senate doing whatever it is that the Senate does.  And it brought a ring back to where it belongs.  Now all we need to do is repeat the feat in 2010.

Is America in decline?

  I don't mean as a world-bestraddling empire and all of that; I mean as a polity with a government capable of responding to the needs of its citizens. Here you can see a moderately-libertarian fellow worrying that the United States is headed the way of Argentina. In comments you can read the counterarguments proposed by my friend and colleague, Carlos. Or you can read this post on the same blog, which summarizes Carlos’s arguments.   

The above picture is of a beautiful woman in the most American part of America, the old stomping grounds of the Chase boys. Clearly not Buenos Aires. Could it become Buenos Aires, without the charm?  Could American political institutions cease working? Read the links, then read the below, and tell me what you think.

CARLOS FOR THE DEFENSE:  And to be fair, I should put up some indicators that I think would disconfirm my idea [that the U.S. is well within historical norms, and looks to muddle through quite well]. There might be too many “veto points” in the Federal system to resolve new problems of government in a timely manner. The military might not accept civilian authority. The monetary and regulatory agencies might be too slow or too unwieldy to deal with unexpected changes in the global economic system. The U.S. population might become apathetic and gullible to the point of civic dysfunction.

Out of those four indicators, I see maybe one-half (and it’s not the last one). I won’t count the experiences of the states, since the Federal system allows them a level of moral hazard that the U.S. as a whole doesn’t have.

Though that would be an additional failure mode: enough states go dingo that the Federal system can’t deal. That hasn’t happened since the 1850s.

Bronx, accents, Supreme Court

  And it goes to the woman who saved baseball™!  Excellent.  But I want to discuss accents.  Sonia Sotomayor is from the Bronx, you see, and will bring a third New York accent to the bench, after Antonin Scalia from Queens and Ruth Bader Ginsburg from Brooklyn.

Sotomayor has an accent of the older type, with modern elements, which many people (of all ages) in the New York region still speak.  The fellow who gives the New York speech lessons certainly does, as do I with my relatives.  But it is not a fully modern accent of the sort spoken by my younger in-laws.  See here at minute 1:52 (it is worth it) or here or here. 

What about the other two New York members of the Court?

Great debate attempt #4: There may be hooptie politics in the U.S. of A., but functioning machines there are not

  Some time ago, I took issue with the use of the word “machine” by two commentators on this blog. Short version: They talked about the role of machines in the election.  I said, “There are no more machines.” They said:  “You’re wrong. Patronage politics lives.”

I now believe that it is time to reassert my contention. There is no more Chicago machine. There may, in fact, be no more political machines in America.

What’s a machine, you ask? Simple. Machine politics happens when politicians make promises and levy punishments on voters at an individual level, and not merely as members of an ascribed group. It isn’t machine politics to support EFCA in return for a union endorsement or union contributions. It is machine politics to tell Joe the Union Leader if he gets his local gets out a certain number of votes, he’s gonna get federal contracts steered his way. 

Obviously, the boundaries are grey. They usually are. (C’mon. This blog has an “empire” tag.) But you can make a strong case that machine politics is dead unless you choose to draw the line so broadly as to make everything into machine politics. 

Consider the Board of Revision of Taxes, in Philadelphia, where I write this. 

In theory, its an independent organization, appointed by elected judges and funded by the school district. In practice, Republican and Democratic Party leaders give jobs away to people who work hard on election day. Machine politics!  Except … uh …. the BRT was originally part of a Republican machine. (Hard as it is to imagine, many northeastern cities, like Philly and Jersey City, were once controlled by left-leaning GOP machines.) As the city became more Democratic, Democrats got control of more of the posts. A real machine shouldn’t let that happen — why would its constituents have an incentive to switch? But the Republican Party has managed to retain control over 20 of the 78 seats on the BRT and give them to the people who get out its votes despite a complete collapse in the ability of the Philadelphia GOP to, you know, get votes out. If one machine replaced another, that shouldn’t happen either. What’s going on in Philadelphia seems more like straight-up corruption rather than machine politics, conventionally conceived.
 
Or consider what a real machine did back in 1972, and try to imagine it happening today. 

In 1972, Richard Daley the Elder could already see the writing on the wall: the days of the classic machine were coming to an end. Royko’s Boss came out in ’71. Michael Shakman began his famous suit arguing that patronage politics violated the 14th Amendment. Ralph Metcalfe defected from the machine with the wonderful quote, “It’s never too late to be black,” and managed to stay in office. His candidate for governor lost. So when a bunch of goo-goos challenged his control over the selection of candidates to the Democratic National Convention, he showed what a real machine does. They attacked the churches where the reformers organized and destroyed their records. Attacked, as in mobs and beatings. The Partido Nacional Revolucionario would have called that a porra. Richard Daley the Younger, I should add, led the porra that assaulted a Catholic Church in the 5th District. They then disrupted the election of the at-large delegates from Cook County. 

Daley lost anyway, save for the at-large. He sued, and when the U.S. Supreme Court punted, he got a machine judge to seat his hand-picked slate over the elected delegates. Except that the judge couldn’t do anything, because, well, the Supreme Court had kicked the problem back into the hands of the Democratic National Committee. Daley’s case wasn’t helped by the fact that in a massive failure of vision his slate contained only one Italian last name and three Polish ones. That’d be like, well, uh … you know, lots of Irish political machines shot themselves in the head over this sort of oversight, be it Chicago’s failure to integrate Italian and Poles and African-Americans, or Boss Flynn of the Bronx trying to pretend for a stupidly long time that all these Jews and Puerto Ricans would just go away. (The Jews did. The Puerto Ricans are. But the machine went away first.) 

Wrap your head around that happening in the 2012 . You can’t. It wouldn’t. Not even in places like San Antonio, where machine-like organizations still exist in a way that they’ve faded in Chicago and Philadelphia. Those cities have a problem with corruption, but I’m just not seeing the machines. (Michael Nutter is many things, including a plausible future President of the United States, but a machine politician is not one of them.) Boston, well, Boston kinda sort has a machine, sorta, but it’s weak, and survived because the Irish were smart enough to turn things over to the Italians. Cambridge has one that survives only out of apathy and indirect elections.

New York City could have replicated machine politics. It had an ethnic base and plenty corruption, while Jews and Italians were replaced by Puerto Ricans and African Americans, who were in turn displaced by West Indians, Dominicans, and Chinese. 

Yeah, I know, hugely diverse immigration stream and all that. But a political entrepreneur could have built a machine on a simple West Indian-Dominican-Chinese tripod … heck, they could have built on West Indians alone.

Only they didn’t. And if you tell me that’s because West Indians don’t make good American politicians or don’t become citizens or otherwise lack the necessary chops I will be unable to contain my laughter. It’s because, I think, American institutions and political culture currently make machine politics impossible. The combination of law, free elections, and prosperity has destroyed the great American political machine. 

In fact, the same combination — or at least two of the three — has also wounded the great Mexican political machine. They hang on in parts of Mexico, but generally the country’s politics resemble U.S.-style interest group politics, not the machine politics of yore. “Porras” cause riots after university soccer games; they don’t assault polling places and beat up opposition politicians. They’re also weakened in Panama. I’m not sure that I’m particularly happy about Martinelli’s victory, but it isn’t a victory for machine politics. 

Now, machine politics isn’t dead in Latin America, despite some bruising. Consider “Daleyismo” in Venezuela. ¡Viva la maquina! The Nestor-Cristina team in Argentina is very good at this sort of thing. Danny Ortega is less good at it, as his need to resort to vote-stealing shows, but even the great Daley had to do that on occasion. Correa and Morales, in different ways, are trying to build machines. Dominican politics is dominated by machines, albeit not hegemonic ones … and I think you could say that Mr. Uribe’s conservatives have built there own odd sui generis electoral machine. 

So machine politics lives on in América, but in America it is almost impossible for me to imagine the kind of tactics used by the Socialists-Peronists-Sandinistas-MAS-Conservatives achieving anything other than a wave of negative news stories followed by indictments.

I know less about the Old Continent. There are some machine-like things in Italy these days, although I think a new word is needed for Berlusconi’s very 21st-century political strategy. But to repeat myself, electoral machines no longer seem to exist in America.

Am I wrong? As always, I’m happy to change my mind. And just to be sure that we’re on the same wavelength, a “machine” doesn’t need to be as powerful as the Cook County Democratic Party under Richard Daley to qualify. It just needs to be able to win elections on the basis of personalistic relationship and individual patronage. 

Supreme court vacancy

  So, Justice Souter is retiring. 

Me, I vote for Sonia Sotomayor. Why?  C'mon, it's obviousFirst, she's from the Bronx.  Second, she ended the baseball strike back in '95. Third, I need a third?

I reserve the right to change my opinion should I discover that she does not have a New York accent of the modern type.

But I'd sure love to have a guest post about the Court from somebody who, you know, actually knows something about it.  Hint.

Dog Day Afternoon blogging

   So I’m at home, cleaning the apartment, missing my wife, thinking about working, and idly watching Dog Day Afternoon on the teevee. 

And about five minutes ago there’s that scene where the cops set up shop outside the bank and the police helicopter waves off a news chopper, and I’m getting this sense of déjà vu. Like, didn’t the actual robbery happen in Midwood or Gravesend or one of those two-family home places? Y’know, like, that street is not in that part of Brooklyn. Actually, it looks familiar. Don’t recognize the stores, but isn’t that Bishop Ford? And that's the Prospect Expressway, no? Dude! That sign says 17th Street! That’s Ninth Avenue! They filmed Dog Day Afternoon in Windsor Terrace!!

Pretty cool.

And that scene where his wife hears what’s happening over a transistor radio in a McDonald’s? That was Queens. Black-on-white street signs, instead of white-on-black, or black-on-yellow, the way God intended.  (Don’t talk to me about this white-on-green thing.) The things you can get nostalgic about.

“He’s one of them Spanish kids.” I love that line.

UPDATE:  This movie could have been made yesterday. I don’t mean in a zeitgeisty sort of way, not at all. And I don’t mean the clothes or cars, of course. But these little things, a discussion of cigarettes and cancer, a newscaster mentioning “the gay community,” Al Pacino’s body language. It seems more recent than 1972.   

Accents, Brooklyn

  Over at Randy's place, he's got a neat post on the survival of Dutch in New York City.  Seems like it held on for a couple centuries after the English took it over.  In the post, Randy suggests that the “Brooklyn” accent derives from Dutch.  Peter takes issue, debate ensues. 

Goin' Back To Brooklyn @ Yahoo! Video

Here, I'd like to say three things about New York accents.

1. There are no geographic variations.  None.  Zip.  Say-roe.  All of what seems to be geographic variation is due to race, immigration, or social class.  All of it.  Anyone who tells you otherwise is either confused or f*@king with you.  I have been asked this question every goddamned time I go to Britain.  It ain't true.  Somebody from New York, they say different, they probably be playing games.   
2. The traditional New York accent is dead.  (For a brief period in college, I tried to affect one, for reasons which are beyond me.  My natural speech is bad enough.)  Its more modern variations are also in fact dying, save for ...
3. ... the accent exemplified by Rosie Perez, held by most children of Latino immigrants in the New York metropolitan area, and now spreading throughout the Northeast. It is somewhat different from the previously dominant version of the accent, and it is replacing that version very rapidly.  Even among non-Latinos.

For your edification, click here for Ms. Perez on Letterman, with the new New York accent.  It's worth it.  (For some reason, the damned embedding won't work.)  My older sister isn't quite young enough to talk like this, although I have some very non-Latino in-laws in their twenties who do.  You can see two more examples of the same accent coming from the eyewitnesses in the below BBC report around minute 2:06.

Finally, here is a fellow who gives pretty good lessons in the older version of New York English, the one I speak with my siblings.  He does confuse class and geography, presumably ingenuously, when he describes his accent as a mix of Westchester and Staten Island.  There is no speech difference between a blue-collar dude from Rosebank or one from southeastern Yonkers, or between the child of Ivy League graduates in Todt Hill or in Scarsdale.  He is simply cottoning on to the fact that there are a lot more upper-class types in Westchester County than in Richmond County, and a lot fewer plumbers and police officers. 

Now that you been schooled in the Kings English, what sort of English do you speak? 

America returns, with a New York accent

  Below is an example of intellectual heroism. It was strange to see Senator Cornyn (R-Texas) ask a question that boiled down to: “If you concede that my argument is correct, then isn’t my argument correct?” Do you think he noticed the chuckles?

Newsflash: Boychick from Brooklyn loses Senate race, and word he deserves it

  Official it ain't, but Norm Coleman of James Madison High School in Midwood, Brooklyn, New York appears to have lost to Al Franken. Now, Coleman has always been an a--hole, but he was once the sort of a--hole that I could respect, having unfortunately been a similar one myself.  Frex, the dude wrote, in the late 1960s, “I know these conservative kids don't f--k or get high like we do (purity, you know). Already the cries of motherhood, apple pie, and Jim Buckley reverberate thorough the halls of the Student Center.  Everyone watch out, the 1950s bobby-sox generation is about to take over.”

Nor do I fault Coleman for becoming a Republican in the 1990s; once again, I did that myself, and the past can be forgiven. And my priors are always in favor of the candidate who sounds most like Jerry Ferrara. 

But Norm took a dive off the right end of the pool, hit his head, and never came up for air. That I fault him for.

Plus, Al Franken is whip-smart, right on the issues, and a great writer. I gave dinero to his campaign, to my wife's great amusement, and I think he will make a great senator. Icing on the cake is that Minnesota is one of the few states that deserves no more and no less than its two seats. Go, Al!

Once was Kings

This is increasingly hard to imagine, but Brooklyn wasn't always cool.  Once upon a time, the other name for Kings County brought up visions of overweight white men in tank tops, women with very big hair and very tight clothes, and people who actually said "neighbuhud" and "fuggedaboutit." Or, conversely, visions of howling wildernesses of burnt out buildings and blighted lives, someplace going the way of the Bronx.  In fact, you'd hear people say, "TheBronxandBrooklyn," as one combined place.  Hell, other than in bad World War 2 movies or good Mafia ones, you could probably have lumped Brooklyn in with Cleveland in the popular American imagination.  It was a great place to be from.  It wasn't really where anyone would want to go to, unless from happened to be someplace like Fujian or Tajikistan. 

But that's not Brooklyn anymore.  Nope, now Brooklyn is cool. And all those cool people in Brooklyn want you to know about how cool and special and hip Brooklyn is.

Which is why I have grown to appreciate Queens.  Queens is not cool.  The producers of Entourage picked Queens for their guys' home town because Queens is not cool.  And while rents have risen, thus far, thank God, Queens shows no sign of becoming cool.

So when two cars crash into eachother on Hillside Avenue, and the driver at fault gets out gesticulating wildly at the much calmer person he hit, and skateboarding local kids start cracking wise about the show, it's just another car accident and not a deep metaphor for the inassailable uniqueness of place or whatever.

Which is ironic, because nowadays Queens is hella more exotic than most of Brooklyn.  Just not in a cool, hip, attitudinal way. 

And it's still a good place to be from.

(Hat tip:  Marcia.)

Really Weird Stuff in the Washington Post

OK, there's a lot of very weird stuff in the Washington Post.  It's not a very good newspaper, and it's getting worse.  (Not all of it, of course; and some of its reporters are the best in the biz ... even if they seem to save their best stuff for their independent books and not their articles in the paper.)  One of the problems is the editorial page, which publishes increasingly strange things, like the following from Robert Maranto of Villanova University.  Starting in the second paragraph of his piece, right after a brief quote from Larry Summers, Maranto writes:

I spent four years in the 1990s working at the centrist Brookings Institution and for the Clinton administration and felt right at home ideologically. Yet during much of my two decades in academia, I've been on the "far right" as one who thinks that welfare reform helped the poor, that the United States was right to fight and win the Cold War, and that environmental regulations should be balanced against property rights. All these views -- commonplace in American society and among the political class -- are practically verboten in much of academia.

Whaaaa?  I supported and continue to support the replacement of AFDC with TANF ("welfare reform") on the grounds that the evidence shows that it has helped the poor.  I certainly believe that resisting Soviet aggression was a good thing.  And I happen to approve of applying cost-benefit analysis to environmental regulations.

Absolutely none of these positions has ever caused me political problems in the university.  Obviously not in economic or political science departments, but not even in history departments. 

In fact, I have a good friend in a major political science department who is advising Rudy Giuliani and a excellent colleague in a similarly major history department who is doing the same.  We won't mention my opinion of their presidential choice, but I can't possibly think more highly of their academic work, and their careers are doing more than fine. 

In short, I just don't know what to make of an editorial that starts by telling me that my own experience of reality is wrong, and then proceeds to make its argument via series of anecdotes reported in ambiguous ways.  For example, is it the following really true?

Despite New York City's 15-year-long decline in crime, most criminologists still struggle to attribute the increased safety to demographic shifts or even random statistical variations (which apparently skipped other cities) rather than more effective policing.

Actually, considering how the above is phrased, how would you know it weren't true?  It implies that any attempt to test the causes of the crime decline is "anti-conservative." 

The whole thing is just a little ... bizarre.

Nostalgia

As a fan of the Green Bay Packers, I have to say that this is shaping up to be a most exciting football season. I've been a Green Bay fan since becoming friends with Carlos. 

But my football loyalties are shallow. I'm a baseball man, a fan of the once and future dreaded (but always hated) New York Yankees.

I follow them around. That's me at Fenway. I had doffed my hat at the moment that photo was taken, but look at the two guys standing below my right arm.  Yankees hats.  And look at the fellow seated in front of them. A Derek Jeter jersey.  We are there, in the bleachers of Fenway. The opposite would not occur in Yankee Stadium, not unless the Red Sox fan in question wanted humiliation. Or possibly violence.

The Bleacher Creatures of the Bronx are the fellows who learned to chant obscene comments about the sexuality of Dice-K's mother in Japanese. Two senior professors once took me to a Red Sox game against Toronto. They weren't surprised, exactly, at my comportment. 

In some ways, Boston and New York are inverses. In NYC, nobody could care less if you wear Red Sox paraphenalia. In fact, Manny Ramírez managed to blow a shot at turning most of Washington Heights and a big chunk of the Bronx into part of Red Sox Nation. (Guess how he blew it.  Right.)  In Boston, though, people feel free to yell at me in the street for wearing a Yankees hat. (And so I mostly don't, except around Harvard Square.) On the other hand, Yankees fans do fine inside Fenway, even in the bleachers ... and the reverse ain't true in the Bronx. (I wouldn't risk it on the D-train after a game neither, to be honest.)    

So why am I a baseball fan? Three reasons. (1) I actually played it back in the day.  Sure, now I have trouble throwing a ball ninety feet, but I played the real thing, unlike football.  I think I played tackle football maybe, like, twice in my life, and even then it was way way watered-down because we used neither pads nor helmets and I am still here to talk about it. (2) I understand baseball.  People who don't understand baseball won't admit this, but the game is actually simpler than football. And (3) ... history.  Baseball's just got hella more history than football. 

Which brings me to nostalgia. I rarely give Brink Lindsay props. After all, he has no idea what really caused the Great Compression, mistakenly believes that the Democratic Party lost white male votes outside the South during the 1960s and 1970s, and claims that the Great Society contributed to "an explosion of crime, urban riots, family breakdown, and welfare dependency."  But he did say one very very clever thing about nostalgia for the 1950s, when baseball ruled supreme, and today's political debates:

"Republicans want to go home to the United States of the 1950s, while Democrats want to work there."

True or false?

Guest-blogging with Leon Maurer, part one

HDTD readers may know Noel Maurer as an occasional commenter and guest poster here. Some of you may even know that he and I have been working on a project together. But most of you don't know Noel's dad Leon; and you should. The word 'raconteur' was devised to describe him. I remember sitting spellbound at a diner on Broadway, listening to the man's tales. He was a young man in World War Two:

Did I tell you the story of how I was picked on by the gumba Mafiosi tough guys when I first arrived in the company and had to beat up a punk twice my size to get my reputation as someone to contend with in the company? Besides the supply sergeant named Goldstein, I was the only other Jewish guy in outfit, but they soon forgot all about that. The rest of the outfit were Midwesterners and Southerners whom I got along with easily. The gumba guys later became my buddies too when I told them all about Meyer Lansky, Al Capone, Bugsy Siegel, Lucky Luciano and the rest of the Brooklyn mob that were my Dad's high school buddies.

But maybe we should start at the beginning. Mr. Maurer?

Well, the story goes like this...

It was around February 1944. There I was, hanging out at the overseas staging camp in Newport News, Virginia, waiting for a bunk on the next departing ship.