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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Downsizing

I’m going through a senior rite of passage: downsizing to a smaller house.

This has required a lot of thought and soul-searching because I’ve always been a big-house guy. I grew up in a tiny apartment while my parents saved their money and my mother yearned for a house. The modest house they eventually bought was a milestone of upward mobility. I continued the quest for gracious living with a three-story vintage home, a sprawling ranch house in the suburbs and my current faux-Spanish casa in Albuquerque.

I really love my house. It’s in a convenient location and has ample room for entertaining, a big patio and yard, a hot tub and a nice view of the city and mountains. But at this point I’m not using much of it. I no longer need four bedrooms and two living areas, and I’m getting tired of maintaining a third of an acre of landscaping.

So I’m building a new house in an over-55 community in Los Lunas, 20 minutes south of Albuquerque. My new digs will have two bedrooms, an open kitchen and living area, a den and an intimate patio. It’s also a lifestyle change because a close-knit community with resort-like amenities will expand my social life.

I pulled the trigger on this decision last month, signing the contract for the new house and putting the old house on the market. I worried that the new house would be finished before the old house sold, saddling me with two houses.

I soon found myself with the opposite dilemma: I got an offer on the old house after less than a week on the market and will close at the end of March. Because my new house will not be complete until June, I will move temporarily to a rental house in the Los Lunas community. So instead of the methodical transition I had planned I’m suddenly in frantic-moving mode. And downsizing.

I’ve always marveled at the Parkinson’s Law of possessions: Your worldly goods expand to fill whatever dwelling you’re living in. Years ago we moved from a two-bedroom house to a four-bedroom house and seemed to fill the place in about a week.

Over the decades Kathy and I acquired a mostly inherited treasure trove of awkward utensils that were rarely used but too nice to throw out: silver pitchers, serving dishes, candlesticks, embroidery and an incredible number of knickknacks. There’s an elaborate silver candelabra that we dubbed Liberace’s Revenge. Not to mention boxes and boxes of family photos and albums. In past moves this stuff was transported from one spacious house to another and socked away unseen in closets and cabinets. Downsizing to a house a third smaller forces a reckoning.

The imperative to empty the house in a few weeks has made me more ruthless, less sentimental and, at times, downright joyful as I dispose of things. I am filling my trash and recycling dumpsters every week. Boxes of books were donated to the library. I’m making weekly donations to the thrift shop at the local Air Force base. Unneeded clothing is going to another charity. I donated a few items to Goodwill (and they accepted my collection of old VHS tapes, bless their hearts).

I got a head start on this process when my daughter, Wendy, got interested in family history a few years ago. She spent several holiday visits going through old family albums and scanning photos into the computer. Still, I’m finding an incredible number of boxes of framed family photos going back several generations.

I am not tossing everything. Some items that look valuable are going into storage, to be disposed of after the move when I have time to make the rounds of antique dealers. I’ve rented a self-storage unit for things I won’t need for months such as Christmas decorations, fancy china, etc. I have identified the furniture that definitely will not fit in the new house and am posting it for sale online.

Three weeks from now the movers will load everything destined for the new house into a couple of shipping containers for storage until I’m ready to move in. And I’m arranging for a junk disposal service to pick up whatever’s left.

In the meantime I’m going through the house and garage packing, discarding and… downsizing.

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The death of the phone call

When my phone rings I rarely answer it. That’s a big cultural change for me, because I spent much of my career working for a telephone company where answering the phone (within three rings in a tone of unflagging courtesy) was pretty much mandatory. Even the company president answered his own phone. 

I don’t answer the phone because 90% of my calls are unwanted solicitations or attempted fraud, often robotic. When the phone rings I look at the caller ID screen and ignore any call from an 800 service, or from a town where I don’t know anyone. If I miss a call that’s actually relevant I’m confident the caller will leave a voicemail. I still pick up the phone more than I care to because technology allows fradulent callers to “spoof” local phone numbers.

It’s good to see the government taking more action to curb junk phone calls, but so far the scammers have been undeterred by either laws or technology. I do not expect this to change.

Happily, there are alternatives. I am communicating more by text, email and Facebook message. More people are using Facetime and other video calling services. Many people are disconnecting their landline phones and I probably will follow suit. The voice telephone call may be going the way of the buggy whip.

This a milestone because ubiquitous telephone service helped define the Twentieth Century. When I joined Illinois Bell in 1968 the Bell System was one of the biggest organizations in the world. Everything about it was gigantic: a million employees, buildings in every town in America; the largest private fleet of motor vehicles; the nation’s top research lab; the world’s most widely held stock; revenues larger than the economies of entire countries; and a manufacturing arm that processed much of the world’s supply of copper. One factor that spurred the development of dial telephones was that the anticipated demand for telephone operators threatened to exceed the number of women in the U.S. labor force. 

It was an American success story. A regulated monopoly supported the national goal of universal telephone service and attracted the billions in private capital investment needed to make it happen. By the late Twentieth Century more than 90% of American households had phones. To dissuade the government from breaking up its monopoly the Bell System developed radar during World War II and released its patents (like the transistor) to the public. 

It was probably inevitable that technology the Bell System developed led to its demise. The “natural monopoly” of telephone service disappeared when lower-priced computerized switching equipment and microwave data transmission enabled competitors to enter the telephone business without massive capital investment. Cell phones liberated people from a fixed network of copper, and the voice telephone service that once required buildings full of specialized equipment now is just a software feature on a generic server. For many people (myself included) “landline” phone service now comes via the Internet instead of the traditional telephone network. 

The voice telephone call, once the only wheel in town for electronic communications, now competes with text, video, pictures and anything else that can be displayed on a screen. The majority of people who still prefer voice calls now make them on cell phones as landline phone penetration has fallen below 50%. 

The final nail in the coffin of voice telephone service may be the technological wizardry that enables fraudulent callers to stay a step ahead of call-blocking systems. When the majority of calls are unwelcome, who’s going to answer the phone?

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A threat to our democracy

In the Senate impeachment trial, the Democrats have been saying repeatedly that President Trump is a threat to our democracy and must be removed from office before he steals the 2020 election. My senators and Congressional representative, Democrats all, have repeated this in daily social media posts. Election integrity is important to me, and I’m glad my elected representatives are as concerned about this as I am.

So I was a little suspicious when my son, Haven, received an official-looking invitation to register to vote in New Mexico. Because he lives in Wisconsin.

Haven’s voter registration form arrived in my Albuquerque mailbox with a letter from the Voter Participation Center advising him that publicly available records show that he is eligible to vote in Bernalillo County. That’s odd because my son grew up in Illinois, moved to Wisconsin years ago and has never lived in New Mexico. Neither Haven nor I could figure out how he got on a list of potential New Mexico voters. He never attended school here, held a New Mexico driver’s license, rented a car or signed a petition. Haven’s only presence in the state is his annual Christmas visit. The only record that could possibly connect him with my address is the birthday presents he sends me via Amazon.

Now, that’s a threat to our democracy. Someone who is less law-abiding than I am could send in the registration form and actually vote on my son’s behalf, since New Mexico does not have a voter ID law.

Who would want my Cheesehead son to vote illegally in New Mexico? Must be the Russians, I thought, or perhaps the Ukrainians or the Trump campaign. Turns out the Voter Participation Center is a nonprofit organization with close ties to the Democratic party. John Podesta once served on its board. The Voter Participation Center has come under fire for misleading registration campaigns in several states. The organization sends out millions of voter registration forms that look like they’re coming from a government agency. Many have gone to felons, undocumented immigrants and the deceased with letters assuring them they are eligible to vote.

State election officials have found that many of the applications from the Voter Participation Center are invalid or fraudulent. And some people who are ineligible to vote got in trouble with the law when they sent in a registration form.

Election officials in some states have issued fraud alerts about the Voter Participation Center’s registration drives, and have warned residents that attempting to register when they are not eligible to vote may subject them to prosecution. The New Mexico Secretary of State has issued no such warning because voter fraud apparently is not a problem in New Mexico.

Now that I know that a fraudulent voter registration drive is under way in my state, I am going to contact my elected representatives to alert them to this threat to our democracy. Because they are so concerned about the integrity of the 2020 election, I am confident they will take immediate action to prosecute the Voter Participation Center to the fullest extent of the law.

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Japanese honeymoon

We had a picturesque apartment on the lower floor of a house on a steep hillside, half cave and half treehouse. A step down from the entrance hall to the living room, two steps down to a kitchen with windows on two sides, a step up to a bedroom with no windows. It was a romantic adventure (or so we kept telling ourselves): starting married life in an exotic country 6,000 miles away from both sets of parents. 

I was at a joint-forces base in Albuquerque when the Navy finally ordered me to sea duty: a minesweeper homeported in Sasebo, Japan. “Sasebo’s a nice town,” said the Air Force colonel I worked for. “I bombed it once.” 

Kathy and I had been dating and decided to get married before I shipped out so the Navy would send her to Japan, too. One of the many ways in which I was lucky in marriage was that Kathy was an Army brat who had moved a couple of dozen times. To her, an overseas move was business as usual. 

I flew to Japan 12 days after we got married and Kathy joined me three months later, getting from Fukuoka to Sasebo by train on her own after a snafu in the Navy’s transportation arrangements. I was at sea when she arrived. When I returned the Navy housing office helped us find an apartment in town because base housing was limited. 

Kathy in the kitchen

Sasebo had recovered from the colonel’s World War II bombing when we arrived in 1966 and was a bustling seaport city. House-hunting was an adventure because an address identified a neighborhood of twisting streets and alleys and house numbers were sort of random. The cabdriver would stop in the center of the neighborhood and ask for directions from a couple of local guys who drew a map in the dust after a lengthy discussion.

Our neighborhood would drive a zoning inspector to drink: houses of assorted sizes shoehorned in wherever they would fit, crowding narrow streets with no sidewalks and an open-sewer “benjo ditch.” Because street parking was impossible, we had to rent an off-street parking space in order to license our car. Coming home entailed walking about a block uphill from the parking lot, descending a long staircase, walking along a footpath and down another flight of stairs to our front door. Carrying groceries was great exercise. 

The Navy housing office provided worn but serviceable furniture and appliances. Kathy figured our refrigerator had gone through the war on the Japanese side. The apartment had two half-baths: a toilet and cold-water sink off the entrance hall, and a sink and bathtub off the kitchen. Hot water came from an on-demand water heater over the kitchen sink that lit a gas burner and shot out a tongue of flame toward your face when the faucet was turned on. 

Sasebo’s winters are mild but our house was lightly built with no central heating. We dressed warmly and huddled around the space heater as the wind whistled up through the floorboards. Mildew was a problem in the topical summers.

Our sunporch

Then there was the wildlife: gangly spiders the size of a saucer. Kathy emptied a can of bug spray on one before we learned they were non-poisonous and easy to dispatch with a flyswatter. There also were centipedes. One Navy wife photographed the exotic insects in her house and mailed the photos to her husband at sea. 

Sasebo was less westernized than Tokyo and some people still wore traditional Japanese dress. Getting around was an eventful ride through Kamikaze traffic and the occasional street market. Japanese drive on the left side of the street (most of the time). Our VW Beetle was a medium-sized car by Japanese standards but still was a tight fit for the narrow streets. We were told there had been few motor vehicles in Sasebo until recent years, and it looked like everyone was learning how to drive together. The two-way street near our house was wide enough for one car and Japanese drivers were sensitive about losing face.

The mechanics of living in Sasebo kept Kathy busy while I was at sea for a couple of months at a time. She drove down to the base every day to pick up mail. My letters took a couple of weeks to reach her via a supply ship, an aircraft carrier in the Tonkin Gulf and the Philippines. Daily visits to the exchange store and commissary were necessary because when a scarce commodity (such as hair spray) appeared on the shelves it was snapped up quickly. 

Most Navy families hired Japanese help: At a couple of dollars a day you couldn’t afford not to. Families with children complained that their Japanese nannies spoiled the kids rotten. Our cleaning lady, who came once a week to clean and do laundry, spoke no English and Kathy’s Japanese was limited. When the plumbing froze one winter morning Kathy found the cleaning lady outside the house, trying to thaw the water pipe with burning newspaper. She pointed to the pipe and explained “mizu (water).” Kathy pointed to a pipe a few inches away and asked what it was. When the lady replied “gasu,” Kathy emphatically convinced her that the burning newspaper was a bad idea. 

Our elderly landlord and landlady, whom we nicknamed Mama-san and Papa-san, lived upstairs. Mama-san apparently believed that if she chattered enough Japanese at us we would eventually understand her. Paying the rent once a month was a mini-ceremony in Japanese etiquette. I’d greet them, exchange bows, and give them the money. Then they would bow and I would bow in response. And then they’d bow again. Since I was usually in uniform, I would straighten up after a few rounds of bows and salute. This caught them off balance and allowed me to get out the door before they bowed again. 

We never got to know our Japanese neighbors. When I went out in the morning I often saw some of the neighbor men urinating in the roadside ditch. Who would greet me with a bow, of course. 

Fortunately, we had American neighbors. Our enterprising landlord had built two small houses on his property to rent to Americans. We also attended the occasional social function at the officers’ club, though Kathy found the wives’ club scene boring and took a Japanese flower-arranging class instead. 

Our favorite bartenders

Our favorite hangout was a joint known as a stand-bar, where the hostesses served drinks and flirted from behind the bar instead of cuddling in booths for drinks. Kathy was popular with the hostesses, who had learned all their English from talking with drunken sailors. They fussed over her when she became pregnant: “No mo’ drink fo’ you — baby-san get stinko.” We explored the local restaurants and learned not to ask what was in the food.

Our adventure came to an end in typical Navy fashion when I came home one day and announced: “We’re leaving Japan a week from Sunday.”  “Where?” Kathy replied. “Great Lakes, near Chicago.” “Sounds good.” She was four months pregnant at that point and did not relish having a baby (and a Japanese nanny) in Sasebo. We’d had enough of Japan and Kathy was starting to understand Mama-san. 

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Observations on immigration

Immigration ought to be a no-brainer. Control the border with Mexico. Decide who gets in and make it easier for them to do so legally. Deport the criminals. Grant legal status to my cleaning lady. 

But nobody’s thinking along those lines, are they? Democrats want to adopt the same open-door policies that stimulated Brexit and are toppling governments in Europe. Some of President Trump’s policies make sense but are immediately branded as racist because that’s the only argument Democrats have. So nothing is going to happen until the situation becomes so intolerable that voters elect representatives who are willing to compromise. When that happens, they will need to consider issues no one is talking about. 

The United States is a nation of immigrants because generations of immigrants have become Americans. This sets us apart from countries such as France, where Muslim immigrants have been excluded from the mainstream and live in enclaves where terrorists are sheltered from the police.

We used to be good at assimilating immigrants. In the 1970s we welcomed a million Vietnamese refugees (over the objections of Democrats). Those refugees were vetted in a multinational effort and temporarily housed on military bases, where they got a crash course in English and American citizenship and some learned to do manicures

So it’s worth asking: What’s being done to assimilate the million or so immigrants streaming across the Mexican border this year? We know most of them disappear after they’re turned loose and won’t show up for immigration hearings. Where do they go? Are they integrating into American society in diverse communities, or are they populating Central American colonies in ethnic ghettos? Are they being encouraged to pursue the American dream, or are their advocates telling them they are victims of racism? Will they become hypenated Americans, as my Hungarian-American grandparents did, or will their ethnicity become the basis for grievance-mongering and plantation politics? 

The first step to assimilate these folks is to identify them, weed out the criminals and grant legal status to the vast majority. If the objective is to bring illegal immigants out of the shadows and put most of them on a path to citizenship, it’s odd that some politicians don’t want to know how many people we’re tallking about: 11 million? 30 million? 

The American immigrant tradition is based on two guiding principles: We welcome practically everyone (not without controversy),and we decide who gets in. That second principle no longer applies at the Mexican border, where smuggling cartels decide who enters the country. 

Opening our borders to everyone who wishes to live here is unsustainable, as they’re learning in Europe. Victor Davis Hanson offers the gloomy hypothesis that unchecked immigration will taper off only when parts of the United States are indistinguishable from the Latin American barrios the migrants left behind.

If and when our government chooses to exercise authority over the border AND overhaul the legal immigration system, our representatives have some decisions to make and opportunities to consider. A starting point may be the “Statue of Liberty” standards once applied at Ellis Island: Admit immigrants who are healthy, able to support themselves and are not criminals or unaccompanied minors.

If we value diversity, why do we favor immigrants from Central America over those from Africa, Asia and Europe? And why do we bring in mostly unskilled immigrants when entry-level jobs are being automated and skilled positions go unfilled? A merit-based system like Canada’s would allow us to move medical and technical workers to the front of the line, with expanded guest worker programs for seasonal and agricultural workers. Perhaps our economy will offer more upward mobility if employers no longer have an unlimited supply of cheap labor.

We also need Armed Forces recruits because the majority of young Americans cannot pass the physical or drug test. Immigrants who meet the standards and speak English should be allowed to enlist and get a fast track to citizenship. (The Navy did this for many years with recruits from the Philippines.)

Limiting chain migration is a good way to bring in more workers and fewer dependents. I’d like to see an exception for family businesses, however, to allow immigrant business owners to bring in relatives to work for them. (Many of my favorite restaurants in Chicago probably are the result of chain migration.)

Our asylum system is a farce when overwhelming numbers of economic migrants are encouraged to file fraudulent claims. We need to close loopholes in the law and admit more genuine asylum seekers such as endangered Iraqi translators and Middle Eastern Christians fleeing genocide.  

We also need to work with Central American governments to stem the flow of migrants. Nothing we can do will transform these failed states into prosperous democracies. (And no, they are not failed states because the United States harvested bananas, fought communists or went after druglords.) But cooperation still is possible. The Trump administration’s outreach to Mexico and Guatemala is a good start toward the kind of multinational initiative that resettled Vietnamese refugees in the 1970s. 

One problem is that exporting poor people to the United States is a rational economic strategy for Central American governments. Migrants get jobs and government services in the U.S. that enable them to send more money to their families than they would earn at home. Actively encouraging its citizens to sneak across the border has been successful for Mexico, where remittances from Mexicans in the U.S. contribute more to the country’s GDP ($30 billion a year) than oil exports. 

This is not necessarily a bad thing. The voluntary foreign aid of individual remittances, which dwarfs U.S. aid to Central American governments, helped Mexico grow its economy and eventually reduced the flow of migrants. We can’t expect these governments to change their economic model, but we can work with them to expand trade and regulate the flow of migrants. This will support our national interest as well as theirs and make the relationship less parasitic. Taxing remittances to fund border security and other initiatives is a good first step. 

Fixing our immigation system offers many opportunities but will remain a big problem so long as our elected representatives refuse to solve it. The only question is how serious the border crisis will become before the voters force politicians to work together as a last resort. 

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Censorship, privacy and monopoly

One of the many political controversies swirling around is the role of social media such as Facebook and Twitter in poisoning public discourse and fanning the partisan flames. Censorship of political opinion is a growing concern, along with the influence of doctored videos, Russian bots and fake accounts. But the remedy of government regulation may be as dangerous as the disease.

I saw a precursor of this controversy when I worked for Illinois Bell in the 1970s. The hot technology in those days was the telephone answering machine, which delivered a recorded message to anyone who dialed the machine’s phone number. 

Every technology has its dark side. At one point a white supremacist group in Chicago set up an answering machine to deliver a virulently racist message. Predictably, the politicians and media went into outrage mode and demanded that Illinois Bell take the message down. 

I worked in media relations at the time and had some interesting conversations with reporters. 

Yes, we agree that the message is repugnant, but Illinois Bell does not have the authority to censor the content of telephone messages. You really don’t want the telephone company involved in censorship, do you? 

I pointed out that if a court were to order Illinois Bell to take down the offending message as a threat to public safety, our technicians could disconnect the white supremacists before the ink on the court order was dry. But that’s up to the judicial system and not the Bell System. 

I also reminded reporters that no one was forcing people to pick up the phone and dial that specific number. If you don’t want to be offended by the white supremacists’ message, don’t call them. People figured this out and the controversy soon blew over. 

What kept Illinois Bell out of a censorship nightmare was that we were a regulated public utility, accountable to both the Illinois Commerce Commission and the Federal Communications Commission. Any attempt on our part to pass judgment on the content transmitted over our wires, even if we wanted to, would run afoul of a large body of regulatory law. 

Our status as a regulated monopoly also drove corporate policies and ethical standards designed to earn the trust of customers and keep the company out of trouble with regulators. Censorship was not a big issue but safeguarding customer privacy was practically a religion. Employees signed off on the company’s privacy policy on their first day of work. Eavesdropping on telephone conversations was strictly forbidden and revealing an unlisted phone number was grounds for dismissal. 

This was more than a regulatory requirement: It was deeply engrained in a strong telephone company culture that had been nurtured for generations. Employees took the company’s commitment to privacy personally, not for fear of getting fired but because it was part of their value system. Telephone operators would never give out an unlisted phone number (even under torture, I suspect) because it was not just against the rules, it was unthinkable. 

Could this be a model for the social media companies? That’s hard to tell. Regulating Facebook and Twitter as media companies could make them more responsible for content but runs the risk of government censorship. Making them public utilities could outlaw censorship but would be difficult to enforce. Government-imposed privacy safeguards could help, but that ship probably has sailed. 

If the Bell System is an example, no regulatory policy will be effective unless it has the full support of management and is embedded in the corporate culture. For the social media companies, this probably would require new leadership and a massive overhaul of a politicized corporate monoculture. 

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