The American Street

When angry mobs of protesters stormed the Wisconsin state capitol in 2011, their rallying cry was: “This is what democracy looks like.” That’s ridiculous, I thought. Democracy is delivered at the ballot box, not in the streets.

I was wrong. Angry protests have increased in the last few years, from broken windows following President Trump’s election to the permanent siege of Portland, Oregon. At this point we have to consider violent protest part of the political process. When the Middle East was in turmoil the Arab Street was considered a potent political force. Will the American Street follow the same trajectory?

Mobs are not going away because they are working. Traditional democratic processes are slow, and seeking the consent of the governed may not produce the desired outcome. If you want to remove a statue, for instance, you can circulate petitions or get the city council to pass an ordinance. That would take months and citizens might vote to keep the statue.

Mobs are more efficient. Just bring in a bunch of people to vandalize the statue and the mayor will cave every time. If the vandals claim they’re fighting racism, local officials are likely to take their side and restrain the police. Protesters who are arrested will be quickly released by a compliant prosecutor and a well-funded nonprofit will spring for their bail. This has been a winning formula in city after city. Some cities even are removing statues preemptively to avoid vandalism.

It works at the national level, too. It took years of peaceful civil rights marches to pass civil rights laws in the 1960s, but Black Lives Matter was able to bring members of Congress to their knees in a matter of weeks once cities began burning. (Okay, they didn’t pass a law, but Congress no longer does that sort of thing.) And corporations are giving them money.

It’s not that the government is powerless. American governments have been preserving order ever since George Washington led federal troops to put down the Whisky Rebellion in 1794. Local police and the National Guard have stepped in on innumerable occasions when peaceful demonstrations became riots. Most recently, Seattle police easily cleared out the “autonomous protest zone” once the mayor allowed them to do so.

Local officials have choices. Most have chosen to favor the mobs because politicians find them useful and are afraid of being accused of racism. They have political cover because the angry mobs that opposed President Trump in 2016 were legitimized when the Democrats declared themselves a resistance movement. Organizations like Black Lives Matter and Antifa can count on Democrat politicians and news media to dismiss arson and looting and characterize all protests as mostly peaceful.

Republicans are behind the curve here. They can’t use “racism” as a magic word and Tea Party-style peaceful protests don’t cut it. It’s a dilemma because most Republicans balk at destroying property or attacking police officers. Not to mention wearing masks. And lose the guns, guys. Everybody knows you’re not going to use them and they give people an excuse to freak out.

As mobs have become emboldened political support for them is becoming a challenge. We’ve seen TV reporters describe protests as “mostly peaceful” as buildings burn in the background. Video shots of violence the TV networks refuse to air are widely available on the Internet. Politicians claim Antifa does not exist. In a Congressional hearing not one Democrat criticized attempts to burn down a federal courthouse but instead blamed the violence on federal law enforcement. It’s getting harder for the national news media to ignore events like a mob attack on a Ronald McDonald House. We’ve accepted politics as an irony-free zone, but this is dark comedy.

It will be interesting to see how this plays out in the presidential campaign. Democrats continue to deny that the mobs they have tacitly supported are a problem. There was no mention of rising violence during a national convention in which speakers urged their supporters to keep fighting. Yet they are making an implied promise that once Donald Trump is defeated everything will be calm once more.

How, exactly, will this work? Will a Presidential commitment to end systemic racism (whatever that is) convince Black Lives Matter to shut down its protests, or will BLM continue to press its demands to abolish the police, prisons, immigration enforcement and capitalism? Can anyone believe the activists calling for the overthrow of the entire American system will put down their Molotov cocktails if Joe Biden is elected?

Republicans are going to promise that re-electing President Trump will end the violence, but that will only stiffen the resolve of Democratic politicians to oppose any federal action to restore order. This may be an untenable position because mobs are difficult to control once they’re unleashed. Remember that the French Revolution ended in dictatorship after the Jacobins began sending their own leaders to the guillotine.

Some public officials are discovering that mobs lack political loyalty. Angry protesters are showing up at the homes of mayors who had backed the protests. That wasn’t part of the deal. The mayor of Chicago recently declared that looting is criminal and not part of political protest — in direct opposition to a BLM leader who argued that looting is reparations. Even the mayor of Portland dared to criticize the rioters (if only because they help President Trump score political points).

The good news is that many Americans do not support unimpeded protests as much as their politicians do. Rallies in support of the police are taking place across the country. In Chicago’s Englewood neighborhood, local residents drove off a group of outside protesters. Growing public opposition to mob excesses may be why some mayors are discovering their spines, especially when discontented residents and businesses are filing lawsuits and leaving town.

If mob rule is going to be checked, it’s up to ordinary Americans. The riots will stop once mayors and governors decide to take back their streets, enforce the law and put lawbreakers in jail. They will not do this until their constituents convince them that voters, not protesters, will keep them in office. It’s that pesky consent of the governed thing, inefficient as it may be. Let’s hope we still have that.

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Experiment in integration

My hometown of Oak Park, IL., is all in for Black Lives Matter and I’m not at all surprised. Because the nearly all-white suburb where I went to high school became a rarity in America: a racially integrated community.

Oak Park is the first suburb west of Chicago, birthplace of Ernest Hemingway and workplace of Frank Lloyd Wright: an attractive community of around 50,000 with graceful vintage houses and apartment buildings. It became a social experiment in the 1970s when it bucked the trend of resegregation to embrace intentional integration.

Saul Alinsky, the legendary community organizer, defined integration as the time between when the first black moves in and the last white moves out. That’s what was happening in Chicago in the 1960s: Unscrupulous real-estate agents fanned racial fears with blockbusting tactics to buy houses at bargain prices from frightened white families and resell them to blacks on lucrative installment contracts. I saw this happen on the West Side and covered it as a reporter for a community newspaper. Urban experts were predicting that much of Oak Park would be all-black in a few years.

But Oak Park had some things going for it. As a separate municipality it had an honest, nonpartisan village government — unlike Chicago neighborhoods neglected for decades by corrupt politicians. Its public school system was one of the best in the country (which is why my parents moved there in the 1950s). In 1968 the village enacted a fair housing ordinance that committed the community to racial integration.

When Kathy and I bought our first house in Oak Park in 1969 people were a little nervous. The fair housing ordinance had prompted a few people to move. When we moved in some of the neighbors were relieved that we were white.  

The fair housing ordinance quickly evolved into a stated community strategy:  If you want to live in an all-white or all-black neighborhood, you have plenty of choices. Oak Park is going to be a place where people value integration.

How it worked

Making integration happen entailed a dizzying list of initiatives supported by widespread citizen participation. We were immediately immersed in what amounted to a movement to transform the entire community.

  • To counter real estate misconduct the village government banned for-sale signs and prohibited steering white buyers to one neighborhood and blacks to another. An innovative equity insurance program offered to reimburse homeowners if racial change reduced the value of their property.
  • The police force was increased to counter the crime beginning to spill over from Chicago and assure residents that racial change would not diminish public safety. The schools adopted a voluntary integration plan to ensure racial balance in every school.
  • A nonprofit referral service for apartment rentals — half of the village’s housing units — used reverse steering to encourage blacks to move into mostly-white neighborhoods and whites to move to integrated areas. The village stepped up enforcement of housing codes and purchased blighted apartment buildings for renovation and resale. A beautification program gave awards to homeowners who fixed up their houses.
  • A flurry of public works projects included a new village hall, new street lights and cul-de-sacs to reduce traffic on residential streets. The village government organized block parties, community festivals and a farmers’ market. An economic development program attracted new shops and restaurants, converted a downtown street to a pedestrian mall and used Oak Park’s Frank Lloyd Wright architecture to attract tourism.
  • Citizen participation went on steroids because every initiative involved a commission, committee or task force. Hundreds of people were working on village projects and new residents, black and white, were quickly recruited and engaged.
  • Kathy joined a women’s group that developed the equity assurance program and posed as a house-hunter to test realtors’ compliance with the anti-steering law. I served on a planning committee, a street lighting task force and the economic development board. We both were active in a citizens group that pushed to expand the police force.

None of these improvements happened automatically. Every new program was debated, often argued, at village board meetings that routinely ran for hours. Nor were Oak Parkers a bunch of wild-eyed radicals: Most public officials in those days were moderate Republicans. But the village government was stubbornly nonpartisan and the commitment to integration transcended politics.

Living with integration

Within a few years Oak Park became an exciting place to live where good things were happening. In 1972 the experts still were predicting that Oak Park would resegregate, but Kathy and I had enough confidence in what was going on to buy a bigger house. Best investment we ever made.

Even though Oak Park’s black population was only around 10 percent at that point (18 percent today), we got acquainted with African-Americans as neighbors, fellow committee members and participants in informal strategy sessions that quickly became social gatherings. Our kids went to school with black kids and had black teachers. Virtually every neighborhood in the village was integrated: The block-by-block resegregation people had feared never happened.

Shortly after we bought our second house, we got a visit from an unenlightened relative who immediately asked: “How close are the N_____?”  “Three doors away,” I replied. The look on his face was priceless.

Oak Park residents, especially the many who were involved in community activities, quickly developed a comfort level with integration because the African-Americans we encountered were middle-class homeowners who had moved to Oak Park for the schools, just as we did. The community’s commitment to integration made it a magnet for like-minded people: university professors, community activists who had been displaced from resegregated city neighborhoods and ordinary folks, black and white, who thought integration was a good idea.

Oak Park also attracted racially mixed couples and white families who had adopted black children. In later years the commitment to racial integration extended to LBGTQ tolerance and we saw an influx of gay couples, some of whom started businesses.

By the end of the decade integration in Oak Park was considered a success even though Chicago’s crime-ridden ghetto was literally across the street. The real estate market figured out that the village was not going to resegregate and property values increased. The equity assurance program was never used because everybody who sold a house made money. As did we, when we left Oak Park in 1992 for a suburban ranch house that accommodated Kathy’s disabilities.

Aftermath

I continue to follow Oak Park events and the community still is a work in progress. People appear to be as involved as ever and arguing continues to be the most popular pastime. There are some challenges we had not anticipated in the 1970s.

Oak Park’s integration started as a middle-class proposition. Black residents were middle-class for the most part — nobody moved there from the housing projects — and economic differences were not part of the equation. In those days the threat of resegregation made Oak Park houses a bargain. Today’s prices are much higher and so are property taxes. There may be a wider class diference today between homeowners and apartment renters and more concern for economic diversity.

At the same time Oak Park, like other close-in suburbs, is urbanizing. The quiet downtown shopping district has been transformed with high-rise buildings and heavy traffic. Many apartments have been converted to condos.

The high school, as shown in a  recent documentary series, is wrestling with differences in academic achievement between black and white kids. They’re working on it — really hard — but there’s no easy solutiion.

Today’s residents and community leaders appear to be as committed to integration as ever but, inevitably, view it from a different perspective. Oak Park’s generation of integration pioneers saw Chicago resegregate and many had experienced it first-hand. Their attitudes toward civil rights had been shaped in the 1960s, and they took decisive action as a matter of community survival. Today’s leaders inherited a successful community and may be tempted to consider integration a done deal.

Oak Park is a more political place than it was 50 years ago, like the rest of the country. Moderate Republican and Democrat public officials have been supplanted by ardent progressives. Chicago Tribune columnist John Kass pokes fun at what he calls the People’s Republic of Oak Park.

Today’s hyper-racialized culture did not exist in the 1970s. For all the arguing that accompanied Oak Park’s transition to integration, people rarely accused each other of racism. Perhaps we assumed — naively, in retrospect — that the act of living in Oak Park was a commitment to racial justice and that everyone was trying their best not to be racist. We also had seen actual racists attacking Martin Luther King on Chicago’s Southwest Side a few years earlier. I suspect attitudes are different today.

Integration worked in Oak Park because residents were willing to embrace social engineering to make it happen, sometimes at the expense of individual rights. When for-sale signs bans were declared unconstitutional, local realtors continued to observe the ban voluntarily because they were willing to suspend their right to post signs for the greater good of integration. The practice of steering black and white newcomers to different neighborhoods to preserve racial balance, while not mandatory, could be viewed as an affront to the right to live wherever you choose.

So far Oak Park’s commitment to integration appears to be intact. The village continues to be an attractive place to live despite soaring housing prices, complete with Covid-precaution rules for block parties. And new generations of Oak Parkers are addressing old and new issues with passionate argument.

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When Greenpeace helped the Navy

For many years the Navy’s annual Great Lakes cruise deployed a ship on a goodwill tour of Midwest cities to build awareness and boost recruiting. As a Navy reserve public affairs officer in Chicago in the 1980s, I was involved in promoting the cruise and generating publicity.

Having a warship at your disposal is a terrific public relations asset. The ship docked at cities along the Great Lakes to host visitors and prospective recruits. Local dignitaries turned out and some were invited to ride the ship to the next stop. Every port visit attracted lots of media coverage because it usually was the biggest event in town.

Except in Chicago. Chicago is big-league, one of the busiest local news markets in the country where slow news days are rare.

We launched a textbook publicity campaign, issuing news releases and calling news desks. Our pitch was enthusiastic: “The Navy is bringing one of our newest frigates to Chicago for a port visit and will offer tours of the ship.” The typical response was: “Just like last year, right? We may send someone if we can but an alderman just got convicted, two factories are on strike and there’s a riot on the South Side.”

At the same time the Navy was telling us that the ship was getting front-page coverage in Duluth and Sheboygan, and the captain expected similar acclaim in Chicago. We brainstormed the possibilities and concluded that the only way to get front-page coverage in Chicago would have been for the ship to fire on Canada as it passed through the St. Lawrence Seaway. We reconciled ourselves to striking out on media coverage.

Enter Greenpeace. During the 1980s Greenpeace promoted its message of peace and environmentalism with aggressive, often dangerous, maneuvers to interfere with Navy ships during training exercises and missile tests. The organization saw our Great Lakes cruise as an opportunity to stage demonstrations and get publicity by accusing the Navy of carrying nuclear weapons into the American heartland.

It was a far-fetched claim. The small ship the Navy sent into the Great Lakes was not part of the nuclear triad and would not carry nukes into the Midwest in any case. It would have been easy to point out how ridiculous the Greenpeace accusation was, but the Navy’s security policy dictated that we could neither confirm nor deny the presence of nuclear weapons aboard any Navy ship. Greenpeace knew this and took advantage of it to create a bogus issue.

So now our ship’s routine goodwill visit was controversial. The Greenpeace operatives did a masterful job of alerting the news media to their plan for a mass demonstration to embarrass the Navy.

When the ship arrived at Chicago’s Navy Pier the media turned out in force. They were treated to some impressive military theater: The ship fired a gun salute as it approached with flags flying, a band was playing on the pier and local dignitaries held a welcome ceremony. Only a dozen or so Greenpeace protesters showed up and the city kept them at the entrance of the pier.

That evening’s TV newscasts featured lavish video footage of the ship’s arrival festivities and wholesome-looking sailors being welcomed to Chicago, with fleeting shots of the bedraggled Greenpeace contingent as an afterthought. It was the best media coverage we had seen in years.

The Greenpeace folks abandoned their Great Lakes cruise protests after that. We were disappointed when they stopped helping us.  

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Here’s looking at you

I recently attended my first homeowners’ association meeting as a new resident of an over-55 community. Because of the pandemic it was conducted online via Zoom. It worked pretty well once participants were reminded to mute their microphones when they were not talking, and I enjoyed seeing my neighbors peering into their computers.  

One effect of the Coronavirus is that much of the population has developed a comfort level with videoconferencing, from informal Zoom meetings to TV talk shows that look like Hollywood Squares.

It’s been a long time coming.

I started using videoconferencing when I worked for Illinois Bell 50 years ago. The big-deal technology then was the Picturephone. AT&T and Bell Laboratories had invested untold millions to develop a Star Wars-looking desktop box that housed a video camera and a five-inch, black-and-white TV screen. Someday every home will have one, we were told. It was a fun gadget but a little hard to take seriously.

The company equipped a conference room with a Picturephone in front of each person. In my first Picturephone meeting, with a few friendly colleagues in Chicago and New York, I had just walked into the building on a subzero February morning and kept my ski mask on for the first few minutes.

When a major company tried out the Picturephone in its Chicago headquarters, a few employees punked their colleagues by holding a photo of the CEO in front of the camera. We often wondered if the Picturephone would add a new dimension to the obscene phone call but that did not happen. As far as I know.

The Picturephone was a commercial disaster because it required more bandwidth than was practical for that era’s technology and was prohibitively expensive. For a number of years a few major companies used specially designed Picturephone conference rooms with big screens instead of Star Wars boxes. But the technology still was fragile: I once brought a reporter into our Picturephone conference center to interview a couple of executives in New York and was embarrassed when the video circuit went down.

The Internet finally made video conferencing feasible. In recent years I’ve participated in video meetings on a variety of Internet platforms. The technology mostly got in the way: The first half-hour of each meeting was spent in mutual tech support until everyone could see and hear one another.

A few years ago some of us went through a Skype phase, chatting online by video with friends and participating in meetings. I chatted with a former co-worker I had not seen in years and Skyped regularly with one of my cousins. Eventually the novelty wore off. I haven’t used Skype in a long time, and my cousin and I keep in touch on Facebook.

Zoom and other videoconferencing services probably will be a keeper after the pandemic abates as some people embrace working at home and distance learning. But I hope my homeowners’ association will return to in-person meetings. Maybe with refreshments.

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Time for more statues

Mobs have declared open season on every aspect of American’s history.  Confederates and abolitionists, Christopher Columbus, Founding Fathers, and the occasional saint are being erased from memory. What an opportunity! 

This is the perfect time to deepen our understanding of the country’s history by erecting a bunch of new statues while creating a context to preserve the old ones. The jihad against historic statues suggests that Americans need some lessons in history that our educational system failed to teach them.

For starters, correcting the way we memorialize the Civil War is long overdue. Most of the Confederate statuary is the result of the “Lost Cause” propaganda campaign, which successfully whitewashed the South until well into the 20th century and perpetrated historical inacccuracy.  So there’s a massive bas-relief in Atlanta of Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson — who never set foot in Georgia during the Civil War — instead of John Bell Hood, who actually lost the Battle of Atlanta. And then there’s Gone With The Wind. We know better now, thanks to a growing body of historical work such as the Ken Burns TV series. But the statues remain, frozen in time.

Communities erect monuments to reflect the sentiment of their citizens. It made sense to put Confederate statues in the courthouse squares of Southern towns when the families of Civil War veterans were still alive, but those communities moved on decades ago. So it’s time to move statues and monuments that reflect local history (rather than a transplanted Lee or Jackson) to a less prominent location and erect a statue of a more contemporary hero in the middle of town. 

The Civil War demands more context. We need more statues of Ulysses S. Grant to correct decades of disparagement while the Lost Cause deified Lee. How about a statue of Lee surrrendering to Grant at Appomatox? We need more statues of William Tecumseh Sherman (perhaps ordering the return of Navajos to their homeland in 1868 rather than burning Georgia in 1864). Perhaps the Emancipation Memorial in Washington can be expanded with a freed slave standing tall and a statue of Frederick Douglass nearby. 

Nor should we erase the Confederates. Let’s move their statues to historical parks with explanatory plaques that will more fully explain who they were, what they did and why. Include guys like Patrick Cleburne, the general who was passed over for promotion when he advocated for freeing the slaves and enlisting them in the Confederate army. 

Let’s expand the pantheon of heroes by adding statues of forgotten ancients and more contemporary heroes. There is room to enhance Revolutionary War history with statues of some of the African-Americans who participated, for example. Practically every town in America boasts a 20th Century scientist, builder, astronaut, civil rights leader or Medal of Honor recipient who merits a statue in front of City Hall. 

President Trump missed an opportunity to add to the celebration of history when he spoke about the Presidents on Mount Rushmore but failed to mention the Crazy Horse Memorial a few miles away. 

There’s an even bigger opportunity for state and local leaders. Instead of just eliminating statues in deference to the mob, mayors and governors have an opportunity to re-evaluate how best to memorialize history now that people are paying attention. Set up an orderly, democratic process for creating new statues and relocating old ones. Appoint a commission. Hold a referendum. Do New Orleans residents really want to take down the statue of Andrew Jackson? Put it on the ballot. Set up a sculpture competition. Re-define a more inclusive sense of civic pride. 

So far nobody is doing this. Elected officials are being intimidated into subtracting history and removing statues without the consent of their citizens. This is an opportunity for them to lead (instead of pandering) and reassure their constituents that the voters, and not the mob, are still in charge of our history. Will they?

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The Civil War’s New Mexico sideshow

The American Civil War was fought in New Mexico. It was, really, though most histories make no mention of the Confederate invasion in 1862 and its two significant battles. It was a bizarre little sideshow.

I’ve been a Civil War buff for years but was unaware of the New Mexico campaign until I moved here and attended a re-enactment of a battle I’d never heard of.  I began reading up on the campaign and was intrigued by what I found. 

General Sibley’s big idea

The invasion was the brainchild of Henry Hopkins Sibley, a Mexican War veteran. He was an Army captain stationed in the New Mexico territory and, like many Army officers from the South, resigned to join the Confederacy when the Civil War began — becoming an instant Confederate brigadier general.

Sibley was an idea man. He invented the Sibley tent and stove that were widely used in the Union Army. He also had a well-known drinking problem and was nicknamed the “walking whiskey keg.” 

In 1861 Sibley met with Confederate President Jefferson Davis and proposed a grand plan to lead an invading army through New Mexico to capture the gold fields in Colorado. He then would march west to conquer Nevada and California, and maybe seize part of Mexico while he was at it.

Bob Newhart could have made this a telephone sketchPresident Davis, I’ve got Henry Sibley on the phone from Texas. Yeah, the whiskey keg guy. He wants to invade New Mexico. … What’s in New Mexico, Henry? … Yes, I know there’s nothing there. Why do you want to invade it? … You want to go to Colorado? And get the gold? And then go to California? Have you been drinking again, Henry? 

History did not record Sibley’s conversation with his president, or whether Davis rolled his eyes when he heard Sibley’s plan. But hey, the Confederacy was going broke and Colorado’s gold would come in handy. Sibley also claimed he could do all this with a small army that would not need traditional supply lines because the local population would rally to his support. It’s easy to imagine Davis saying the 19th-Century equivalent of “Sure, what the hell.” 

So a drunken general launches a bold invasion and expects his army to live off the land. In New Mexico. What could possibly go wrong?

Battle on the Rio Grande

Sibley’s force of Texas volunteer cavalry left San Antonio in November 1861 and won an easy victory at Mesilla, near El Paso, where most residents favored the Confederacy. Then he advanced up the Rio Grande valley toward Fort Craig, south of Socorro, where he expected to replenish his supplies by taking the Union fort. 

Union forces in New Mexico were commanded by Sibley’s former boss, Colonel Edward Canby. When most of his regular troops were transferred east to fight Confederates in Missouri, Canby hastily recruited a mixed force of inexperienced New Mexico militia and Colorado volunteers. To counter Sibley’s invasion he concentrated his troops at Fort Craig. 

When Sibley’s 2,500-man army advanced up the east bank of the Rio Grande, Canby sent 3,000 Union troops across the river on Feb. 20, 1862, to keep the Confederates from crossing and attacking Fort Craig. The two-day battle at Valverde ford was hotly contested with around 200 casualties on each side. The New Mexico volunteers were used to fighting Indians but were new to traditional warfare, and many spoke only Spanish. Most fought well, however, including a unit commanded by legendary Indian fighter Kit Carson. 

The battle included some unusual tactics. A Confederate company of lancers — guys on horses with nine-foot spears — charged what they thought were green New Mexico militia but turned out to be a crack Colorado unit. The lancers were nearly wiped out in a volley of rifle fire, and the survivors dumped their lances and picked up rifles. It was the first and last time lancers were used in the Civil War.

A Union spy company (that era’s special operations) commanded by a saloonkeeper came up with a clever idea: Send mules loaded with explosives into the Confederate camp and blow the place to smithereens. They loaded several elderly mules with howitzer shells and led them across the Rio Grande at night. When they neared the enemy camp they lit the fuses and sent the mules on their way. But instead of mingling with the Confederate herd as intended, the mules turned around and began following the Union soldiers back across the river. The big bang stampeded some of the Confederate horses but did minimal damage.

And a New Mexican vaquero captured a Confederate cannon by lassoing it from his horse and dragging it off the field. 

Sibley did not participate in the battle, by the way. He was “indisposed” (or drunk on his ass) in an ambulance wagon. 

The battle ended in a tactical victory for the Confederates after they captured a battery of Union cannons and pushed Canby’s force back across the Rio Grande. But they had lost too many men to accomplish their strategic objective of capturing Fort Craig and its cache of supplies. And they had lost many of their own supply wagons and enough horses to convert some cavalry units to infantry. 

Logistics was a big deal in the Civil War because armies needed secure supply lines for miles of wagon trains and herds of cattle. Even well-supplied armies stripped the countryside of everything edible or flammable. Marching without supplies was unusual and risky. Sherman did this successfully in the fertile farmlands of Georgia, but Sibley’s army of 2,500 men and 3,000 horses and mules did not fare as well in arid New Mexico. His force could survive only by capturing Union supplies and getting provisions from the local population.

Sibley had expected New Mexico’s Hispanic population to side with the Confederates. That wasn’t unreasonable: When New Mexico became a U.S. territory after the Mexican War, an uprising by Hispanics and Indians killed the first territorial governor. But while New Mexicans were not big fans of the Anglo government in Santa Fe, they really hated Texans — who had tried to forcibly annex New Mexico to the Lone Star Republic in the 1840s. New Mexican parents used to frighten misbehaving children by telling them the Tejanos were coming for them. The local population generally sided with the Union and served with Union forces. So much for living off the land. 

The Confederates next headed for a federal supply depot in Albuquerque, but when they got there the defenders had fled and most of the supplies were gone. They pressed on to occupy Santa Fe March 13 but found no supplies there, either. So they marched up the Santa Fe Trail toward Fort Union, near Las Vegas, NM, hoping to capture the fort and the supplies they so desperately needed.

Gettysburg of the West?

Meanwhile, a force of Colorado volunteers had been marching south from Denver to reinforce Canby’s Union troops. The two armies met at Glorieta Pass northeast of Santa Fe March 28. Sibley wasn’t present for that battle, either. Neither was Canby.

One of the commanders of the Colorado volunteers was Major John Chivington, a minister-turned-soldier known as the “mad Methodist.” After two days of fighting back and forth along a series of narrow mountain passes, Chivington led part of his force over the mountains, guided by New Mexico volunteers, and destroyed the supply train in the Confederate rear. This ended the battle even though the Confederates had been winning. 

New Mexicans call the Battle of Glorieta Pass the “Gettysburg of the West.” That’s a stretch, since the casualties of Pickett’s Charge alone far outnumbered both armies at Glorieta. But just as Gettysburg was the high-water mark of the Confederacy in the East, Glorieta Pass ended the invasion of the West.

Canby’s wife had remained in Santa Fe while her husband was in the field and was treated courteously when the Confederates occupied the territorial capitol. When Confederate soldiers fell back to Santa Fe after the battle of Glorieta Pass, Louisa Canby organized a group of women to nurse wounded soldiers and became known as the “Angel of Santa Fe.” 

Without supplies and blocked from further advance, the Confederates’ only option was to go back the way they came. They retreated to Albuquerque but were attacked there by Union forces. Several Confederate cannon, buried by retreating Texans to keep them out of Union hands, were dug up and displayed on Albuquerque’s Old Town plaza for many years. 

At this point Canby saw no need to risk a full-scale battle with the depleted Confederates. Since they already were retreating, he merely followed them and encouraged them to keep going. 

Long road to Texas

To avoid Canby’s forces on the main road along the Rio Grande, the Confederates retreated along a more difficult route through the mountains and the Journado del Muerto (dead man’s journey) Desert in search of food and water. Along the way they were harassed by angry New Mexicans, rattlesnakes and the occasional Comanche raiding party. Their retreat was even more difficult because they insisted on dragging along half a dozen cannons they had captured at Valverde. The 1,700 ragged, starving survivors of Sibley’s army finally reached safety in El Paso on May 4. 

The Confederates had marched 346 miles from El Paso to Glorieta Pass, nearly three times the distance of Lee’s advance to Gettysburg and 60 miles farther than Sherman’s march through Georgia. 

Canby finished the war as a major general after a variety of assignments. In 1872, while commanding U.S. forces in the Pacific Northwest, he was killed by Indians: the only general to be killed during the Indian Wars.

Chivington emerged from the Battle of Glorieta Pass a hero and was appointed to command the Colorado Military District, but his reputation was ruined in 1864 when he led the Sand Creek Indian Massacre.

Sibley continued to lead Confederate forces but was court-martialed due to alcoholism in 1863. He served briefly as a military adviser in Egypt until alcohol and illness ended his career. He sued the U.S. government for royalties on his tent and stove patents but lost because he had fought on the other side. He died broke in 1886. 

The New Mexico campaign attracted little notice. President Lincoln followed each battle from the telegraph office, but Valverde and Glorieta Pass were far from the telegraph and rail lines that connected the rest of the country. With everything else going on — the Monitor and Merrimac, McClellan’s Peninsular campaign and the battle of Shiloh — a few thousand troops in faraway New Mexico would not have made headlines even on a slow news day. No newspaper reporters made the trek to New Mexico. Neither did photographers like Matthew Brady and no contemporary photographs exist. 

Even the battlefields are mostly gone. The Rio Grande changed course and obliterated most of the Valverde battlefield, which now is part of Ted Turner’s nature reserve. Interstate 25 paved over most of Glorieta Pass.

New Mexicans still aren’t fond of Texans. Some voted against our last governor, Susana Martinez, because she grew up in El Paso. There was a campaign sign that read: “Susana es una Tejana.” 

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Kid reporter at City Hall

“Hey, we don’t have any coverage of City Hall. Is it okay if I set up a news beat?”

“Sure, kid, go ahead, “my editor replied. 

I was a journalism student working part-time and summers at the Austinite, a weekly newspaper serving the Austin neighborhood on Chicago’s West Side. That the paper’s three-person news staff did not cover City Hall was not unusual: Neighborhood and suburban papers in the 1960s had an intensely local focus. It was said that if the Russkies nuked the Loop we would not run a story unless the fallout spread west of Cicero Avenue. 

But there still was news to be reported at City Hall, so I began stopping there when I took the El from my classes at Northwestern to the newspaper office at Central and Lake. I introduced myself to the aldermen who represented Austin, Paul T. Corcoran of the 37th Ward and Daniel J. Ronan of the 30th (who later served in Congress), and dropped by their offices once a week. There wasn’t a lot going on beyond the occasional street project or sewer repair. The neighborhood was in decline but had not yet become the high-crime ghetto that emerged a few years later. 

And there I was, at age 19, a reporter covering City Hall! I stopped by the press room, mostly to gawk at the byline stars of the downtown dailies who had permanent desks there. Eventually I learned to navigate some of the city government offices, interview bureaucrats and pore through public records in search of story angles. 

Once I attended Mayor Richard J. Daley’s regular news conference. I had no questions to ask, but there was a chance he might announce something relevant to my readers. The news-conference room had a long table at the front, several rows of chairs and space for TV cameras at the back. When the mayor entered the room he was suddenly bathed in a golden aura: It took me a moment to realize that the room had built-in floodlights for the TV cameras. The mayor spoke from behind the table and answered questions as radio reporters held up their microphones. When he decided the news conference was over he began ambling toward the exit. Reporters continued to fire questions and followed him with their microphones, dragging their tape recorders the length of the table as the mayor departed:  like an unvanquished whale swimming away festooned with harpoons. 

In 1962, the biggest city project in Austin was moving the Lake Street El trains from street level to the adjacent railroad embankment. A month or so after the move the unused gatekeepers’ shacks along the old tracks had not yet been removed, and some of our readers expressed concern that bad people could hide in them and prey on small children. When I could not get an answer from the transit authority about demolition plans I called Ald. Corcoran. “The shacks will be gone by next week,” he pronounced. And they were. 

Ald. Corcoran passed away in 1964 and his funeral was a news event. Mayor Daley attended, and I waited in the gaggle of news photographers to get a photo as he emerged from the funeral home. When the mayor walked toward his car we raised our cameras. The mayor spotted the cameras and — instinctively and probably unconsciously — flashed a politician’s smile. We lowered our cameras and the mayor changed his expression. We raised our cameras and again the mayor smiled. Finally one of his aides said: “How about a somber shot for the papers, Mr. Mayor.” 

The street where the El tracks used to be was renamed Corcoran Place. 

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The pandemic and institutional co-morbidities

It’s probably a healthy sign that people are beginning to talk about what will change once the coronavirus has run its course. There’s a lot of speculation about how things will work now that people are concerned about social distancing and have acquired the habit of washing their hands.

One characteristic of this virus is that it is most deadly to people who have co-morbidities such as immune deficiencies, diabetes, obesity and respiratory ailments. The same effect applies to institutions: businesses and organizations that were ailing before the virus hit will face a reckoning and may not survive. The pandemic’s wake-up call is an opportunity to reform dying institutions and re-think some common assumptions. Here are some possibilities:

Retailers — It’s not surprising to see chain stores like Macy’s and Nieman-Marcus closing. Brick-and-mortar stores have been teetering for years. The pandemic is giving them a final nudge while stimulating even more hiring by Amazon and Walmart. Supermarkets and big-box stores have adapted to social distancing. Smaller businesses easily can do so if they survive until the politicians allow them to reopen. The pandemic is forcing consumers to use low-contact services such as online ordering, delivery and drive-up grocery pickup and some of this behavior will be permanent.

Higher education — Colleges and universities are rife with co-morbidities. With the pool of 18-year-old freshpersons declining, their shaky economic model has been artificially propped up by Chinese oligarchs and easy-money student loans. Soaring costs, political conflict, admission scandals and worthless degrees have diminished the value proposition of a college education. Colleges were beginning to close before the virus hit. States now are cutting funding to public colleges and we are going to see a shakeout.

It’s an opportunity to re-think higher education. Institutions that embrace and integrate online learning, as Purdue University is doing, will thrive. Many others will close and some ought to. Can colleges re-purpose themselves from merely indoctrinating the young to lifelong learning and career development? And will college sports accelerate its transition to a fully professional enterprise?

K-12 education — Elementary schools have stepped up during the pandemic to continue feeding children who depend on subsidized meals. Educating them, not so much. Some public schools have put lessons online and obtained laptops for needy kids, others have not. The pandemic has forced millions of kids and parents to sample online learning and home schooling. Some of them may like it, and we are likely to see greater demand for online charter schools and home schooling. Public schools will have an opportunity to integrate more online learning into their classrooms and offer distance-learning options, but teachers’ unions are likely to checkmate such reforms.

Urban planning — For decades, city planners and the politicians who hire them have tried to shame us into abandoning our wasteful suburban homes and SUVs for virtuous high-rise apartments and public transportation. We now know that the high-density lifestyle these experts were pushing was a petri dish of contagion in cities like New York and Wuhan. Big cities were losing population before the pandemic hit and this trend is likely to accelerate. Will anybody listen to urban planners in the future, or will they be forced to seek honest work?

The Postal Service — The post office is an employee-benefit organization that delivers mail as a sideline. It’s been a financial sinkhole for decades and now is asking for a federal bailout because — wait for it — the pandemic has cut its revenues. I’m getting hysterical emails from a Senatorial candidate claiming that MY local post office will close NEXT MONTH unless we somehow remove Sen. Mitch McConnell from office. The Postal Service is a mess because Congress has thwarted attempts to streamline its operation and control costs. The pandemic has made the mess worse and probably merits at least a short-term bailout. This gives Congress an opportunity to combine an aid package with long-needed reforms. Don’t hold your breath.

News Media — While local news coverage of the pandemic has been generally responsible, the national news media have stepped-up their political activism. Most of the rumors and panicky predictions that dominated the headlines — firing of public health officials and the big ventilator shortage — have proven false. The White House press corps is putting on a good show at the daily coronavirus briefings, especially when President Trump plays into their hands, but the media’s already low credibility is taking another hit.

State and local government — Decades of unsustainable employee pensions and out-of-control spending have made many states and cities financially precarious. Unprecedented demand for state unemployment assistance has exposed the frailty of bureaucracy and outdated computer systems. States certainly need federal help to cope with the pandemic, but some states also want federal taxpayers to bail out their pension plans and have shown no willingness to curb spending.

At the same time citizens are pushing back against governors and mayors who have been shutting down the economy and society, sometimes with fascist zeal. Taxpayers whose elected officials have put them out of work may be less willing than in the past to fuel the government spending machine, especially if they must subsidize states that are more irresponsible than their own. Calls for accountability are being met with the usual political outrage, but maybe things will be different this time. Maybe.

Lots of things will be different when the pandemic has run its course and so will we. Americans who are cheering first responders and volunteering to make masks may emerge from the pandemic with a renewed sense of values, a little more healthy skepticism and a willingness to reform or replace the institutions that have failed them. We can hope, anyway.

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Will working at home be the new normal?

The Coronavirus is forcibly introducing much of the American workforce to the phonomenon of working at home. I understand what these folks are going through because my late wife and I had a work-at-home household for 16 years. I had a post-corporate career as a freelance writer/consultant and Kathy was a home-based clinical social worker.

Having a dedicated office (rather than a kitchen table) is a must. We bought a home with work requirements in mind. Kathy saw her counseling clients in a paneled den on the first floor and my offfice was in a finished basement at the opposite end of the house. We sometimes emailed back and forth. I did most of my work during the day while Kathy’s peak client hours were in the afternoon and evening. So fixing dinner was my job.  

I decided early on that I needed to be open for business the same hours as my clients. That meant being at my desk every morning dressed, shaved and caffeinated. I soon learned not to ask people in the Eastern time zone to call me first thing in the morning, however.

At the same time, I enjoyed the flexibility to take my mother to a doctor’s appointment or mow the lawn before it started raining. When I took time off during the day for personal chores it was easy enough to shift tasks that did not require client contact to the evening.

I worked more efficiently at home than I had in a corporate setting and that surprised me. At first I felt guilty that I was not putting in as much time as I used to in a downtown office. But then I looked at what I was actually getting done. My working day was more productive because I was not attending meetings, chatting with colleagues over coffee, supervising people, showing up at the savings bond rally or sitting through the human resources department’s latest mandatory training. Not to mention commuting. I kept better track of my time because I was billing for it. Best of all, I could focus on a major writing project for hours without interruption.

Much as I enjoyed freedom from distraction, I sometimes missed the daily companionship and professional stimulation of colleagues. I made up for much of that by being active in my professional association and teaming up on projects with other freelancers. Being invited to a client’s meeting was more satisfying than being dragged into a meeting as a company manager because the client was paying for my time and was reluctant to waste it.

Working at home is more comfortable than any office. You can personalize your workspace and listen to music to fit your mood or task. I found bagpipe music a good antidote for writer’s block, but that’s just me. When I wasn’t working on something intense I used to turn on the TV to catch the news or some Jerry Springer Kabuki with the sound off. Home offices are inherently pet-friendly: When I told a client my assistant was on it, that meant the cat was lounging atop the computer monitor.

At the same time, a comfy home office makes work/life balance especially challenging. When an increasing share of our entertainment and social interaction is online, it’s tempting to spend most of your waking hours at your desk. I still do that, even as a retiree.

I found an unexpected disadvantage of working at home when we retired and moved across the country. During my corporate career I was transferred to a new assignment every few years. This usually entailed throwing a few personal items into a box and walking down the hall to my new office, leaving the files and work products for my successor. As a freelancer I occupied a large basement office for 16 years and had a lot of stuff to throw out. Kathy had an even bigger challenge because her years of confidential client files had to be carted off to a commercial shredding service.

Working at home as a self-employed freelancer was satisfying for me, but will it work for employees and organizations? Companies have flirted with working at home for years with varying results. Now the economy has been forced into a mass experiment of remote collaboration. Will it work?

I was able to work successfully at home in the 1990s because I had a home computer and knew how to use it. Today’s technology has spawned a generation of workers who use video chat and streaming apps on their phones. Many will thrive under the quarantine and may embrace working at home as the new normal once the pandemic has passed.

Managers will have a bigger challenge: to break away from traditional in-person leadership and create an organizational culture that unleashes employees while building group identity and motivation. It’s going to be interesting.

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The census

I got my census invitation in the mail and completed the questionnaire online. Doing my civic duty took about five minutes. It’s a simple process, as it always is every 10 years. The census carries a sense of importance and patriotism that I don’t feel when I fill out a form at, say, the Motor Vehicle Department.

Participating in the census was a little more exciting in 1990 when my son, Haven, was counted as homeless.

After graduation from college Haven joined the staff of the Global Walk for a Livable World, an organization in Los Angeles that was putting together a coast-to-coast walk to call attention to environmental issues. The group, which averaged around 100 people, spent most of the year walking from Los Angeles to Boston and stopped in every town to conduct environmental information programs. The walkers camped out or slept in church basements, using a converted school bus as a mobile office.

When the census questionnaire arrived in the mail I dutifully filled it out:  Wife and I are living at home, daughter is away at college, son is walking across the U.S.

A couple of weeks later a guy from the Census Bureau phoned. Tell me more about your son. We’re trying to figure out how to count him. I explained what he was doing.

Where, exactly, was your son on April 1? Somewhere in Arizona, I said. If you wind up with an extra Navajo, that may be my kid.

The census guy concluded that since my son was with an organized group he probably was counted somehow.

And so he was. The next time Haven called, he mentioned that on the morning of April 1 a couple of people from the Census Bureau drove up as his group was breaking camp and counted them. The census was making a special effort to count the homeless that year, and the census takers probably exchanged high-fives when they came across a bunch of nomadic people sleeping in tents.

My son was proud to be counted as homeless. But he made a point of saying that he still wanted his room when he got home.

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