Volume 30 - Issue 3 by The New Journal at Yale

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The Co-Op. The one placeforYale sionature near. The rivalry oontinues. So does the cool apparel that shows you're a pro ud Yale fan . And the

If you want books, we got 'em . Everyone from Stephen King to Karl Marx. So win

Co-<>p has it all. Yale signature items from

or lose, check o ut t he Co-op. And

tee-shirts and sweatshirts to hats and jerseys.

remember, Yale linebac ke r s' G PAs are

And major brands like Northface, Urban

probably a lot higher than Harvard 's.

O utfitters, Timbe rland , and Ra lph Lauren .

So there.

92A Chapel Street (on the Green) · New HciYen · 1-800-Eli-YALE • 203-772-2200 Slore Hours: Mon.- Fri. 10 - 6, Gameday houn: 9 - 6, Thurs. 10 - 8, Sun. 12 - 6 1&/HlouJ patl lng « thrttt S«<m lou. r lfh a S/0

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21,1997

Bombing the Elm City With graffiti as their weapon, suburban teenagers battle police and each other for ownership ofthe streets. BY KAVITA MARlwALLA

p. S

The Privileged Minority Outdated perhaps, outnumbered for s~re, but hardly out ofpower, Yale's campus conservatives still command big bucks. BY L EE TUNG WANG

Going Postal Heading home for the holidays? Have you considered tra~eling by mail? First, take a moment to learn the ins and outs ofthe US. Postal Service. BY ANDREW YOUN

p. 12

Breaking New Ground At Common Ground High School, one ofConnecticut's 12 new charter schools, students apply classroom skills to a workingform in W'est Rock. BY MICHAEL G ERBER

Freedom in Translation For the kidnapped Africans aboard the slave vessel Amistad, communicating their plight was the only hope for survival. BY D APHNA RENAN

p. 16

S T A N D A R D S _ ____;:__---..:..._ _ _ __ _

p.30

From Our Perspective Points of Departure Between the Vines: Learning to Fly BY DAVID SLIFKA The Critical Angle: Baule: Mrican Art Western Eyes BY VANESSA AGARD-JONES Endnote: Accursed Verse BY j ESSICA WINTER

THE NEw j OURNAL is published fivt rimes during lht acadtmic: ytar by Tht New journal at Yale, Inc., P.O. Box }4Jl Yale Station, N""' Haven, CT o6jl0. Offict address: 1j1 Park Str«t. Phone: <w3>.fJl-19! 7· All contents copyright t997 by Tht New journal at Yale, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Rtproduction either in wholt or in pan without writttn permission of !ht publisher and tditor in chief is prohibited. While !his magatint is published by Yalt CoUege students, Yale Univetsity is not responsiblt for iu contcnu. Ten thousand copies of each issue au distributed ~ to mtmbm of lht Yalt and New Haven community. Subscriptions art available to !hose ouuidt me area. Rates: Ont year, $18. Two ytats, S)O. THE NEW jOURNAL is printed by Turley Publications. Palmer, MA; bookkeeping and biUing services arc provided by Colman Bookkeeping of New Havtn. T HE NEW j ouRNAL encourages lenets to me tditor and comments on Yale and Nnv Haven issues. Write to Editoriah. 3-431 Yale Station, New Haven, CT o6jl0. Alllettets for publication must include address and signarurt. Wt ~rve !he right to tdit allletten for publication.

TheNewJoumal PUBLISHER

Dan Murphy EDITOR- IN- CHI EF

Gabriel Snyder MANAGING EDITORS

Alec Hanley Bemis Kavita Mariwalla BusiNEss MANAGER

justin Sacks PRODUCTION MANAGER

Lainie Rutkow PHOTOGRAPHY EDITOR

AsaPiyaka AssociATE P uBLISHER

Catherine Olender REsEARCH DIRECTORs

~nessa Agard-fones

Dorie Boufides CIRCULATION AND SUBSCRIPTIONS MANAGER

Daphna Renan CoNTRIBUTING EDITOR

Dana Goodyear Carolint Adams • Lortn Brody • jo Coaltky* Jason D'Cruz* • jay Dixit • Michatl Gtrbtr• Sara Harkavy • Dan Ktllum* • Monica Kzm* Eli Kintisch* • julia Lu* • Navin Manglani* Yuki Noguchi • David Sliflra* • Gmtvitvt Taft Andrew Youn* *tkcttd to staf!Novtmbtr 16, 1997 Membm and Dirtcton: Constance Clement Peter B. Cooper • Brooks Kelley • Hillazy Margolis Elizabeth Sledge • Fred Suebeigh • Thomas Strong

Frimds: Steve Ballou • Anson M. Beard, Jr. • Blaire Bennett • Edward B. Bennett, Jr. • Edward B. Bennett HI Paul S. Bennett • Gerald Bruck • Barbara Burrell • Jay Carney • Josh Civin • Jonathan M. Oark • Constance Clement • Elisha Cooper • Peter B. Cooper • Andy Co11rr • Jerry and Rae Court Mesi Denison • Mrs. Howard Fox • David Freeman • Geoffrey Fried • Sherwin Goldman David Greenberg • Stephen Hellman • Brooks Kelley • Roger Kirwood • Andrew J. Kuzneski, Jr. Lewis E. Lehrman • Jim Lowe • E. Nobles Lowe Hank Mansback • Martha E. Neil Peter Neill Sean O'Brien • Julie Peters • Lewis &Joan Plan Josh Plaut • Julia Preston • Lauren Rabin Fairf.ut C. Randal • Roll in Riggs • Mark Rinella Nicholas X. Rizopoulos • Stuart Rohrer • Arleen and Arthur Sager • Dick and Debbie Sears • Richard Shields W. Hampton Sides • Lisa Silverman Eliz.abeth & William Sledge • Thomas Strong Elizabeth Tate • Alex & Betsy Torello • Allen and Sarah Wardell • Daniel Yergin & Angela Stem Yergin

Taking Home the Bronze e have to give it to Money magazine. They know a money-maker when they see one. U.S. Nws & World Report (a distant third to Time and Newseek) figured out that a second-tier magazine can survive entirely off the overwhelming public appetite for ridiculously neat and pat answers to extremely complex questions. Thus college rankings were born. Now Money (a distant third to Fortune and Forbes) has figured oui: that each year there are more people contemplating moves to other cities than high school seniors thinking about college. Thus city rankings are

born. It's not clear how we at Yale are supposed to react to Monejs conclusion that New Haven is America's "third most dangerous small city." More likely than not, however, Yale will shrug its collective shoulders, remain in New Haven, and continue to be what U.S News and World &port considers America's third best university. Everybody from President Levin down to the freshest of pre-frosh seems to agree that Yale is safe, and if anyone has any lingering doubts, a quick walk down Elm Street is a lot more convincing than a chart in America's third best financial magazine. But some people do read Money, primarily when they find a copy in a dentist office, and once they do they'll probably believe that New Haven is akin to Lebanon circa the mid1980s. This kind of characterization is not one that generally holds sway with the people who actually live in Yale's pared of the the Elm City. Roger Vann, president of the local NAACP, once said in these pages, "The whole thing about New Haven being a war zone is overblown. It's a city, folks. Get over it." The local reality is once again much less exciting than the national myth. Anyone who has ever shopped the fi rst lecture of Statistics 123a can tell you why num-

bers don't always tell the truth. In the case of

Monejs list, the numbers make a lot less sense when you read the fine print. To weigh different kinds of crime in its tabulations, Money relies on the results of a national poll that asks people which crimes they fear the most. Since more people are robbed than murdered, it is no surprise that people will tell you they fear their house being robbed more than they fear being murdered. And so, in Monejs rankings, burglaries make a city more dangerous. Now, of coUrse, if the poll asked which crime people would rather not have happen to them, the results would certainly be a whole lot different. Last year, Money did not break cities down by size, and New Haven was rated the 21st most dangerous city in America mosdy because we were 9th in car theft and 14th in burglary. As crimes become more violent, though, New Haven's ranking slips: 29th in assaults, 38th in rapes, 54th in murders. We at The New journal accept the fact that this Money's information is useful to somesoccer moms looking out for minivan-theft rings, corporate executives fearful for their $10,000 hi-fi stereo-but since when has New Haven considered itself the next Greenwich or Darien? New Haven is a city with seven universities and packed with college students, not a suburban sprawl. New H aven has it's problems, certainly, but we don't have mass murderers or serial rapists, and-at least on this side of Fortress Yale-we don't even stay up nights fearing break-ins. Money's list only feeds our parent's mistaken fears that they've sent their children into the belly of an urban beast while chipping away at the morale of a city that is making considerable progres in cutting crime through a~irable programs like community policing as well as developing a reputation as Connecticut's cultural center.

-The Editors THE NEw JouRNAL

The Chai Life I'm taking a study break in the Pierson Courtyard when an energetic Hassidic guy appears, smiling and shaking my hand vigor~ ously. His black coat and wide~brimmed hat dwarf his young face, making him look only several years past bar mitzvah age. I'm intro~ duced to Shmully Hecht, a 22-year~old Has~ sidic rabbi who holds weekly Chai society dinners which have developed a small but devoted student following over the past year and a half. We talk, and I'm quickly com~ fortable with him; he's an engaging fellow, not the righteous zealot I expect. "Anyway, what are you guys doing studying, it's Thurs~ day night! Aren't there any parties on cam~ pus?" he asks, laughing. Later we meet outside Taft Caffe. He seems quite ordinary, sipping coffee in his almost fashionable green jacket with white fringes peeking out. His wispy red beard dances in the wind as we chat, and he asks me about the Pierson Wer~ no and my major. Soon we're talking about the Chai society. "Our society is inspired by Lubavitch Jewish ideas," he explains. "The idea is to cultivate virtue and embrace a tradition. We aim to bring Judaism to the forefront of discussion." Shmully's eyes blaze behind his oval~shaped glasses as he talks. He's passionate yet easy~ going and full of wit, whether he's discussing Jewish law or public perceptions of Hassidic Jews. This mix of humor and religion is apparent in the weekly Chai society dinners, too: the gin and tonics flow freely, and the discussion of spiritual matters is as important as having a good time. Lubavitch Hassidism is an ultra-conserv~ ative sect within Orthodox Judaism whose goal is to help all Jews learn and practice the teachings of the Torah. People are often leery of Lubavitch Jews; their practice of active outreach, as demonstrated by the "mitzvah tank" on Elm Street, is often seen as prosely~ tizing. But Shmully has the personality, the sensibility, and the wit to be an effective reli~ gious leader on campus in spite of his group's reputation. At 22 he's more like an intelli~

December 3, 1997

gent, well~spoken peer than an intimidating religious figure. While studying to become a rabbi berween the ages of 18 and 21, he became an independent trader on the Australian and American markets, managing huge portfo~ lios for wealthy clients. But when he was ordained as a rabbi last year, Shmully decid~ ed to leave the financial world. "I came to see a vanity and emptiness in the markets. It was an obsession for money." He's aware that his past experiences on the market are unusual

In its attempt to get college kids to explore spiritual issues, .the Chai society's strategy is to be as accessible as possible. The society sponsors intimate weekly Sabbath dinners open to all, no strings attached. Attendees describe the Friday evening meals as intellectual and lively, attracting open~ minded thinkers of diverse religious back~ grounds. And Shmully is versatile enough to get everyone into the conversation. "He creates an atmosphere of cama~ raderie and hospitality at the dinners," says Christopher Thacker (DC '98), a non~Jew~ ish student, "He's a great entertainer and constan~ teacher." Shmully shatters preconceptions-he is no stodgy fundamentalist. And he~s aware of the stereotype people might have. As we're walking along he stops and holds my shoulders "Eli, I'm not the Unabomber." He grins like a prankster. -Eli Kintisch

From Hair to Eternity

but he downplays this part of his life. "But for a while I had the Beamer with the cell phone," he kids. In fact, he tells me later, he drives a Jeep Cherokee. Shmully grew up in a Lubavitch commu~ nity in Queens, New York. After receiving his rabbinical ordination in 1996, he carne to Yale, one of the few universities lacking a permanent Lubavitch presence. Along with Ben Karp (GRD '99) .a nd several other grad~ uate students, Shmully created the Chai soci~ ety in September 1996. "And the rest is history. We're rocking now!" he exclaims. Last year the group met in a Taft apartment for the dinners. Currently the society is on hia~ tus until the renovations on its new building on Crown Street are complete.

I was stroking Lord Tennyson's hair the other day. He-well, at least some of what's left of him-is kept in Beinecke in an unassuming gray box. And all I needed to do to borrow Tennyson from the library was some paper work and a promise to only use a pencil. In fact, I could have been petting the likes of Napoleon Bonaparte, Charles Dickens, Robert Louis Stevenson, Benjamin Silliman, or Lord Byron. Beinecke has quite a cast of charac~ ters in its catalog under the keyword hair, 24 locks in all. The Tennyson box I received was divided into ten 61es: doodles and halves of notes in one 61e, a segment of Lady Tennyson's wedding dress, and an envelope written on by a relative. When I turned the envelope over, Tennyson's hair was creepin~ out of it. He was peeking out, as if caught in a last attempt to escape 20th century curiosity. Unexpectedly, my stomach was moved more by the sight of his hair than my heart was ever moved by his words. I never thought that I would have been so repulsed by having

Lord Tennyson in my hands, nor do I think he ever expected to be there. "It makes you feel like you are in the same world as, say, Robert Louis Stevenson. It is a way to make people intrigued and involved in the past," Joseph Reed says of the famous locks of hair. Reed, an English professor at Wesleyan, put together an exhibit of the random things in the Beinecke collection three years ago. But all I could imagine was Tennyson in my lap. He was more frail than I had thought. In the Beinecke reading room, it was either Tennyson's hair or I who seemed out of place. The hair conjured up the past, but the thoughts it created for me were entwined with images of death. A body dead for 130 years. It used to be part of a living organism, but once cut, it lays limp and dead. Like a severed limb-what do you do with it? Keep it? Auntie Tennyson kept the Lord's hair in Âˇ order to remember. The next file had locks of both the Lord and the Lady's hair from their wedding day. The problem is that there was a third clump of gray hair. Whose hair was that? And how did it get into the same time capsule as the lovers' locks? My stomach turned again. "It all started with the Victorians. They kept a piece of Martin Luther's garment and then everyone's hair," Reed explains. It was a keepsake. People wore hair as mourning jewelry: a ring with the hair of a deceased loved one. Some wore it wrapped around their wrists-as John Donne described, "A bracelet of bright hair bound around the bone." They were buried with the hair of the loved one, and when their own flesh melted, it would remain around the bone. The hair survived as a memory and then outlived the memory. In the 1850s, a Philadelphia scientist named Peter A. Browne collected hair, and called it a pile, because he felt he could classifY people according to hair. Browne was one of the first to use hair in a scientific study and believed that he had found a difference between hair grown from an insane mind and a sane one. Indeed, afrer touching Lord Tennyson's hair, I would certainly classify Tennyson as a good fellow, trustworthy, though somewhat timid.

Recent science has used the DNA found in hair to relate the Romanovs to Britain's Prince Phillip. Perhaps Yale has kept the clumps of distinguished hair in hopes that they would endow the university with all those genes. Napoleon's hair is, of course, a vestige of the Napoleonic complex, which Yale was quick to capitalize on. A Beinecke curator maintains, "We don't go looking for hair- it may be left to us, but we don't have an interest in buying a lock of hair." But it seems that some people do go ~~ looking. Beinecke houses a lock of Major Andre's hair taken from his exhumed body and donated to the library. Though they didn't loot graves for their hair, the curators of Beinecke might find that others covet their resource. They could make some money selling the strands as "trinkets of famous literary figures" at the grand opening of the Yale Bookstore. Or create a new promotion: buy a book, get the author's hair. It might sell. Who knows what kind of scientific or capitalistic scheme collected locks of hair will fall victim to in the future? I wanted to cut my hair, but now I think I might keep it all to myself, all on my head. But perhaps I am being paranoid-after all, who would ever want my hair?

-Genevieve Taft

Shared Spotlight It's the last rehearsal before the Homeless Theater Troupe's opening night of Angelic Greeting. Director Jane Chen OE ' 98) describes the final production touch. She wants the audience to interact with the actors as they enter Nick Chapel. Her plan is for members of the audience to enter through the backstage door and pass the troupe members hanging out onstage. Troupe member Tony Alves gives Jane a skeptical look. "Why don't we just sit in the audience until we start the show?" Tony asks. Jane doesn't like the idea, and producer Laurie Kennington (BR '99) mentions the lack of extra chairs. "Then we'll get up when people come," Tony persists, pretending to politely relinquish his seat and garnering comments of agreement from the

other actors. Jane still looks doubtful, but consents to Tony's plan. When the plan is put into action on opening night, the actors comfortably mingle with audience members, many of whom were unaware of the actors' identity until they left their seats to go backstage. Stephanie Escajeda (TC '98), a student actor in Angelic Greeting, says while audience response was difficult to gauge, the actors' presence tied in well thematically with the troupe's attempts to break down the walls between the troupe members and other community members. "I've been really impressed that students and troupe members interact on an equal basis," Laurie says. The troupe's "work nights," which Laurie organizes, typifY this unusual relationship. Every Thursday, the troupe members, all of whom are homeless or formerly homeless, work together with Yale students on administrative tasks like publicity and fundraising. When the troupe has raised enough money, it will hire a troupe member as a replacement for soon. to-graduate Jane. Laurie expresses surprise at how impressed people, particularly grant administrators, are with the easy interaction between students and troupe members on work nights. She recalls only one contrasting scene when she and Jane had to make an executive decision about light design because no one else fully understood the factors involved. "I guess that's the exception that proves the rule," she says. The troupe's mode of cooperation, which contrasts so sharply with the benefactor-beneficiary paradigm of most community service, feels natural to its participants. During the post-performance talkback, troupe member Donna Fields says, "We're homeless, but we're not helpless"-a theme that runs through all the troupe's workings and one that working with the troupe helped her to realize. A few weeks later at a work night, Andree Thompson, busy writing a press release, looks up to say "This is beautiful." Krissy Clark (ES '98) agrees. "There's so much energy in here!" "It's not about handouts or 'the capable:' and 'the needy,"' Krissy writes. "Working side by side toward a common goal, all the members of the troupestudents and actors-benefit."

-jessica Champagne THE NEW JouRNAL

Friendly Tips from Sallie Mae Tucked away neatly on the third floor of 246 Church Street is a harmless-looking room complete with the standard adornments of any Yale office where Important Business is conducted. Month-old issues of Ntwswuk and Good Housekuping, sterile pink wallpaper interrupted by an occasional Monet print, and the familiar background noise of office workers amiably chatting greet the casual visitor. However, room 305, the Student Loans Office, is the site of unique Important Business. I've been summoned to this room by a number of e-mails politely informing me (read: threatening) that I've yet to view a mandatory 30-minute Stafford loan video describing my rights and responsibilities as a recipient of federal largess. Litde do I know that I've come to room 305 for an afternoon of unexpected hilarity. After a brief meeting with the secretary at the front desk informing me that the video will begin shortly, I take a chair near several other tired-looking students. "You here for the video?" one asks. He responds co my nod with a look of knowing sympathy and mutual annoyance. Several minutes pass before the eight of us are finally led to the mysterious room. After being given a "Statement of UnderStanding" with an ominous checklist of regulations we're supposed to agree to, an almost frighteningly concerned loan counselor enters. She reminds us several times that we're not only allowed but expected to ask any questions we might have about the loan process. Following a span of silence and visible impatience from the small crowd, the door is closed and the film starts. The Sallie Mae corporate seal proudly graces the screen for an instant before fading into footage of a bustling eollege campus. No expense has been spared in the video's attempt to recreate a college environment: pennants, canned and vibrant frisbee players, even student slang. The film begins to take

December 3, 1997 -

form with a diverse group of young people, all attired in regular college garb, appearing one after another on a carefully constructed set. Each, of course, has their own scripted wisdom co impart co the captivated and financially aided members of the audience. But instead of eliciting polite attention or bored Âˇdisinterest, the Stafford loan video becomes laughable as its cast members' advice strays farther and farther from reality and becomes a ridiculous attempt to connect with college students. "Pay attention! Definitely pay attention to your loan officer. I never really did, and

need it. I remember signing up for an extra thousand here and there, and now I really regret it. I mean, don't mess around." Robert shakes his head from side to side in remorse, as if to emphasize the point. Furthering the guide. to avoiding common student financial messups, John describes how he foolishly used his student loans "co buy pepperoni pizza every night for an entire year." He laughs at his error and smacks his own forehead. "What a mistake." "Buy 'em with mushrooms next time," an unimpressed audience member shoots back. Perhaps sensing the futility of a staid loan agency relating to college students, the camera cuts to Arthur, a balding, suspendered accountant working late in a dimly lit (Sallie Mae, presumably) office. Utilizing a threatening rather chan helpful ap-proach, Arthur has even more to expl~n and warn us oÂŁ Slowly, huge words flash across the screen, as we're taken through the Student Loan Basics: FORBEARANCE. LOAN CONSOLIDATION. DEFERMENT.

now I regret it," I'm warned by Robert, the first of many annoyingly helpful students interviewed. Robert's outstretched, pointed finger and didactic words earn giggles instead of alarm from a girl sitting behind me. "You have to know what you're getting into. It's very important that you read the paperwork. Read, read, read. Read how much you have to pay back. It's a contract, you know. Probably your first," is the advice of a serious woman named Susan. I'm unable to keep from smirking at Susan and Robert's assumption of our third-grade comprehension level. Other grins of amusement, if not outright laughs of derision, are slowly emerging from the small audience. "Check off that you understand everything, but don't be afraid to ask questions if you have them," are Robert's further reminders. "You should only get a loan if you

"So pay them back," Arthur intones. "It's not a good idea to fall back on your payments. You might not be able to buy a car or a house." Robert and Susan nod in agreement. "You could even permanently damage your credit record. You're not just hurting yourself, you're hurting others. It could come back to haunt you." "Sallie Mae and the Mafia never forget," comes from the back of the room. The screen fades to black as the loan officer reenters the room. "Was the video informative?" she asks hopefully. "Oh, yeah," one of us offers. "A real riot." Pleased, she hands back copies of our statements of understanding and asks Xsurprise, surprise) if we have any questions before signing. Eight hands collect pens and bookbags and race for the door without a peep.

-Ro Givony 7

W ith graffiti as their weapon , suburban teenagers battle police for ownership of the streets.

' GOD

OF A BITCH SPELLED BACKWARDS IS A RUN DOG."

Âˇ For years this phrase from New Havens Gang of Four ' adorned the brick wall facing the entrance to Ezra Stiles College. All those who passed it knew the bunch; their names were as much fixtures of the landscape as their perplexing phrase, And while the Barnes and Noble powerwashers have erased the paint, the contusing phrase still lingers in people's minds-a symbol qf the Elm Oty's mysterious graffiti culture. To understand the lure of graffiti in New Haven, one must first become familiar with the key concepts. These are the players: the graffiti artists and the police. lieutenant Joe Polio to be specific, head of the New Haven Police Department Graffiti Team. We have the stage: the ''legal wall" near Acme Furniture on Crown Street. And finally, the language ofthe scene: bombing, tagging, and posting. Now we're ready to begin.

is unusually busy at 3 p.m. at Cafenine on State Street, but when you mention graffiti, people stop and acknowledge you with a knowing nod of the head. Mike Reichbart, the owner of the bar, is ~ the man I'm looking to speak with, but it seems like everyone has a :g story ro tell. Ace, the cook, is first; he asks me if I've seen the legal wall ~ out back. Leg<l1 wall? ''Yeah, mats where all the great stuff is," he says. ~ "The Acme Furniture guy lets kids spraypaint the side of his building. ~ That's why it's called legal, 'cause no one complains." ~ "Yeah," interrupts Sara, the waitress. "Its amazing. Just recently ~ these kids carne out here and were putting up a new mural for a mend &. who died. There were like 15 of them working on it. Moms and aunts

were out there. They had a bUnch of puppies so I went after work and people were just hangin' out and painting. It was real nice, playing with the puppies and watching these guys put that mural up. They must have been there all day." I find Mike and he takes me outside to reveal the setting of everyone's stories--an empty parking lot closed off by a black chainfink fence. Yellow signs warn "No Trespassing: Violators Will Be Prosecut~ ed," but the fence presenrs lirde more than an annoyance. With a weak push, it rolls back easily. This is a parking lot without cars. Instead, the asphalt sttVes as a morgue for spraycan tops. Discarded rollers. paint pans, old .rags, and an occasional beer bottle litter the ground. Putpte, gold, black, blue, green: every color of spraypaint lays it:S claim to this space. On the right side of the lot, the walls are covered with the m.onikl:rs of graffiti artists: ERA, Duo J, CDE, OMS, BPt ct "See that over there?" Mike says pointing to the last tag. "That means Bridgeport. Connecticut. These guys come from all over the place to spray h~. I see them late at night spraying. MOSt of them are good kids-you wouldn't mind having them as sons.'' As Mike continues to point out the tagJ he is familiar wim, he systematically points out what is not graffiti. "see that over there?" he says, indicating a scribble of white on the hack wall. "Now see, that's just vandalism, that's not graffiti.'' The distinction he makes is curious, bur has its own logic. Graffiti culture has its own handbook which separates it from mere vandalism. To those combatting graffiti, it ~ all the same, but for insiders like Mike the difference is the visual dfect on the vieweL What he points to as vandalism looks like spatters of paint and illeg-

Tm NEW' JouRNAL

ible writing, when compared to graffiti's use of bold colors and studied style of script. "Well, what's that?" I ask, pointing to graffiti that I soon learn is a proclamation of war. The words, "Independent Optics Only," have been scrawled over some older graffiti. "That's bad," Mike says. In the language of the paint, a challenge to fight has been declared. "See, anytime someone purs their tag over another tag, that means they're looking to start something." But while war is announced on one side of the parking lot, the opposite side mourns the dead. "Seme RIP," one portion of the wall wishes. Next to it is another memorial: "In Memory of Brian Rorick." Inside the purple and green bubble letters "PIB," the words "Rest Easy" are printed. Mike doesn't know what PIB stands for, and the threepronged crown atop the I is a mystery. But this memorial is a temporary one. "These walls have been repainted at least 20 times," Mike says. "Each time a new kid comes, he breaks out a roller and goes over the old stuff and bam! purs his stuff up right after." This mural holds Brian's place here for a short while, at least until the next roll down. "It's a shame really," Mike says, "They ought to do this stuff on canvas, but I guess that's the whole point. You do it, some people photograph it, everyone you want to see it does, and then boom! you paint over it and start again." At the top of the wall-one can still make out "Pedro" underneath a thin <:oat of whitewash. In place of the E is a menacing face whose eyes and beard appear dearly. "See up there? They covered that up already. It's like some sort of continuous artform, always changing. It's amazing how you can make a spraycan talk like that." December 3, 1997

For the first time someone has used the word art to describe the wall, but little mention is made of the land feud being waged over the canvas. According to Lieutenant Polio, the legal wall presenrs irs own problems. While AI Greenberg of the Acme Furniture Company has no qualms with the paint-happy youth, the parking lot owners do not share his enthusiasm for this form of expression. The Catch-22 is this: how does one paint on a legal wall when one has to invade private property to get to it? "It's difficult ro call it criminal trespassing," Polio says, "The owners of the two properties need to work it out between themselves." In the meantime, Mike laughs. "They think this fence is gonna stop someone. Did it stop us? We just walked right in." "The kids aren't looking for trouble for the most part," Mike concludes as we leave the parking lot. One last look at the wall and we slip back through the chain link fence. But the graffiti isn't just on the legal wall. After an introduction to the language of graffiti the eye learns to read the urban landscape. All along the buildings from Cafenine to the Tune Inn there are scrawlings, tags. Now the initials are familiar: CDE, DMS, ERA. Then there is the most prominent of all, on the second floor of the Chapel Square Mall in white bubble letters surrounded by red and blue lines: VERSE. erse is worth a dinner," Polio says from behind Ius desk at City Hall. "The guy who turned in DMS got a lunch, but Verse, he's worth a dinner. I was promised him by someone." "They're going to deliver Verse?" an officer in the room asks. "Yeah, that's what they said," Polio beams. A conversation with the lieutenant quickly reveals the srrange

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nature of the ·police department's graffiti team. Polio doesn't know the names of the kids he is looking for; all he has to go on are the tags. His methods are not altogether orthodox. He promises meals, combs the papers for the identity of the taggers, and even does a little bombing of his own. "You know how we found out who OMS was?" Polio asks, handing me a clipping from the New Haven Register. I stare at the picture of a band from Wallingford with a longhaired lead singer, and look back at Polio confused. "That band is OMS. I was just looking through the paper, and there they were." Indeed, a look at the photo's caption gives the kids away: "OMS, a Wallingford-based rock band, returned from a European tour to their hometown. When asked what their name stands for their answer varies between Drastic Mood Swing and Don't Mean @#?!." "So this is OMS?" I ask,. "But they're just a band." Visions of inner-city gangsters waging turf wars are dispelled by the picture of angstridden suburban teenagers. "Most of these kids aren't from New Haven," Polio says. "They come from families where the average household income is $100,000 a year." Polio swivels around in his chair and turns on the computer behind him. This is his database. With a few clicks of the keyboard a listing comes up of the towns most of the apprehend-

ed graffiti taggers come from: Milford, BranElm City Boy is to be from New Haven. ford, Guilford. New Haven's graffiti is largely They're a gang that was formed in j~ but they're pretty harmless. Actually, one of the the hobby of suburban boys. Few of the artists are female, few are minorities, and few are guys is meeting me here later." Polio scrolls down the list on the computpoor. They hang outside the Daily Ca.ffe and er screen. TO BY. The lieutenant gives me the Tune Inn and pale when Polio threatens to call their parents. "These are vandals, but most some background. "He's an enforcer for a of them have never committed any felonies. gang, but he's dumber than a sto,ne-someone else must be writing his name for him You don't get many gang tags in the downtown because he's in jail more than he's out." area, that stuff is a little farther away." "The stuff on the streets isn't terribly creAccording to Polio, most of the taggers are ative," Polio says. A few more clicks on his key- ~ just young people looking to identify themselves. "We get worried when we see tags that board and another list appears on the screen. This rime it's alphabetical and mostly initials. have been written over. If you write on peo"Tills is a list of all the tags we find in the ple's tags, you get shot at, so we try to cover that up as soon as it comes out." municipal area. Look at this one. Who do you think this guy is?" he asks, pointing to HEC But the caggers aren't the only ones bombDOE. I am puzzled. ing. "Sure, we bomb the gangs. There was a "C'mon, say it quickly," Polio urges. building downtown that they were trespassing "Hecdoe ... Hectoe ... H ector?" I say. in. We went in and saw their tags and bombed them. We wrote right over it: "That's right, Hector. HEC DOE is HecNHPD. Yeah, we left a message: for themtor. AU you have to do is be able to read it. that they better not come back 'cause we'll be Like I said, some of this stuff isn't too creative." ·A tagger who calls himselfRahmique's back everyday." "In one neighborhood the folks were Boy puts his address and his girlfriend's name complaining about this house," Polio says. on his graffiti. "It's not hard to track them down when they do stuff like that," Polio says. "Shoes were hanging over the telephone wire Then there are the crew tags like HBO. outside which means drugs were being sold Not the cable channel, but rather Hill Boys there. We went in and bombed the place With 'Gangs Don't Fit In This NeighborhoodOnly. What does ECB mean? Elm City Boys. "The only qualification you need to be an NHPD.' Son of a gun, their graffiti was down and the place cleaned up." But, offbeat stories like these are rare in the war against raggers. Most of the kids get caught or are turned in. Polio explains his policing methods. "They keep notebooks, so when we catch them, what do we do? We take their notebooks." From underneath his desk, Polio pulls out a large brown box. In it, there are thick envelopes filled with photocopied versions of the graffiti artists' portfolios. "We keep this scuff on file so when we see a new tag, we can match the lettering and identify who did it," Polio says. "We tell the kids you need to fix your stuff. They have to wash it off or paint it with the same color of paint within ten days and then they won't be arrested. We make a deal." Polio shows me an example of one of the contracts he offers to offenders who are caught. But while the police confiscate paint and notebooks and require raggers to sign these pacts, the artists are -rarely deterred. Take for example, New Haven's YACone. Even though he was recently caught by Polio, his attitude remains unchanged. He wouldn't be inter-

THE

NEW JoURNAL

viewed in person, but he gave me a written statement. "I am a writer, and I was apprehended by the New Haven Police. I love graffiti. I love it for its challenge, its power. It is beautiful; it is more dynamic, provocative, and interesting than any other two-dimensional art form in my opinion. Cavemen did it, so did Greeks, Romans, and Egyptians. As writers, we are not alone in our desire for fame. The very goal of humankind, it often seems, is to be remembered, to live forever in a sense. There's graffiti on the moon."

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raffiti on the moon? In this culture of tagging and bombing and posting and NHPD and HBO and ERA, the ultimate question becomes what is graffiti? I'm told the crown I saw on Brian Rorick's memorial mural is merely an imitation of the symbol used by the gang Latin Kings. According to Polio the kids who use it in New Haven are simply artistic kids trying to lend their work an air of authenticity. "You see the numbers 231 around town. That's the police code for homicide in New York. You see it up by the legal wall, but it's harmless." "Most of these kids are j~t seeking attention," Polio concludes. "See Verse, he's blatant and malicious. He got up there on the second story of the Chapel Square Mall and hung upside down to do that tag just so people waiting on line at the Tune Inn could look up and say 'Wow, cool, look at that.' Right now he's the one we're looking for." Depending on who you are, you call graffiti art or vandalism. There are the gang members, there are the wannabe gang members, and there are those who are just in it for the thrill like Verse. There are the supporters of graffiti artists like Mike Reichbart and AI Greenberg, and there are the people who have to clean up after them like Joe Polio. In the end there is only one certainty. With all of the new construction around town, the fresh concrete walls are a graffiti artist's dream come true. Whether the prodUCts of this dream are an eyesore or an asset is a matter of opinion. But for now, it is Verse who has the last word. I saw it in big black letters, painted on the top of the new Yale Bookli1J store: "1 AM EVERYWHERE.".

!Gzvita Mariwalia, a smior in Ezra Stiks College, is a managing editor ofTNJ. December 3, 1997

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Outdated perhaps, outnumbered for sure, but hardly out of power, Yale's campus conservatives still command big bucks.

The Privileged Minority Lee Tung Wang

POR TENNIS. A PAST-PACED, INTENSE CONTESf OF wit. The rules are simple. They play on teams, two on two, three on three-almost like regular tennis, except they play with words instead of balls. One team serves up a word, and the other bounces one back that is somehow connected to the first. The goal, like regular tennis, is to make the opponents run, sweat, fall on their faces. Tonight's match starts slowly, but as sobriety among the Party of the Right wears off, the pace picks up, even attracting a few observers. A new match is beginning. A pensive pause sets in before the firSt serve. Social, he begins, eyeing the opposition. Breakdown, the opposition returns. He rallies: Rap. And the words shoot back and forth: HE GAME IS

Porn. . Playboy. Western. Decline.

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The table shakes with pounding of approval from the sidelines. Technically, the game isn't over-the points are not yet tallied-but the audience has passed its judgment. They have chosen their winner. Stripped of its rules and form, POR Tennis is essentially a test of legitimacy. Everyone has to earn his place on the court of conservative intellectualism. In this sport, esoteric historical references and subversiveness will earn you respect, and liberalism will get you lynched. But scoring points on the intellectual plane isn't enough to merit membership in the POR. By entering the POR, students enter not only an intellectual world, but also an entire culture of conservatism. Attendance is virtually mandatory for weeknight dinners at Saybrook, latenight debates, Friday toastings at Mory's, and weekend social events like cards and games night. Gaining membership is a long and involved process, often taking months for someone to be finally voted in. In a symbolic gesture, nonmembers of the POR cannot be recognized by their full names in the sign-in books at party events. If a nonmember uses their full name, it will be crossed out later. Once petitioners become members, they can use their own middle name or choose another. As testament to the fierce exclusivity of the POR, one of the most effective ways to insult a POR member is to call him a "social normalise," a person whose friends are mostly non-POR members. Implicit in membership in the mainstream is a betrayal of conservative loyalties and selling out to campus liberalism. Although the Conservative Party splintered off from the POR and insists there are differences between the two groups, its members are similarly consumed by party events. The Conservative Party schedule of

events is practically identical. Avik Roy (MED '99), founder of the Conservative Party and publisher of Light and Truth, describes the conservative parties as "intellectual fraternities." Lila III Arzua (SY '98), Conservative Party member and editor-in-chief of Light and Truth, highlights the necessity of the conservative parties. "There are no structural incentives for conservatives at Yale," she explains. The lack of a strong traditional western education and the omnipresence of liberalism can mislead freshmen who don't know better. Arzua says that the Conservative Party and the POR both strive to build Great Men and Great Leaders. She argues that conservative organizations at Yale-parties and publications alikefill in missing gaps in our institution;U structure. A popular game among all campus conservatives is Diplomacy, a military strategy game based on World War I. The game mirrors the disputes between. the conservative parties. Every player fights for his own country in a bartle of political adroimess. Players negotiate treaties, cut deals, and backstab allies. As games draw into the wee hours of the morning, Diplomacy addicts lament only that card and games night does not start earlier in the evening. As the rising sun finds POR members conniving and strategizing, the members seem like troops in training. Maybe these are the Great Leaders of whom Anua spoke: they are preparing for war.

he debate over legitimacy becomes critical when you are a minority, and at Yale, conservatives think of themselves as just that. Alone, under siege, marginalized, defensive, victimized, ostracized, and stereotyped. Conservatives crusade against a liberal orthodoxy and fight for the little man, the little man in bow tie and cuff links. The erosion of traditional conservative values is nothing new; since William F. Buckley (DC '50) searched for God at Yale in the 1950s, conservatives have been guarding Yale against the siege of radicalism. As the fight wears on, the minority mentality threatens to become a militant minority neurosis. The conflict inevitably turns in on itselÂŁ Different right-wing groups on campus compete for the title of True Conservatives because in the shrinking reserve for conservatism, there is room for only one. Roy compares the conservative network to a community of recent immigrants. Like Korean immigrants in New York City who are viewed with suspicion by the rest of the city, Roy argues that conservatives must become a tight-knit community. They become self-segregators, struggling to justify their existence against the majority. Korean immigrants draw strength from their small numbers by pooling in kae. Every member contributes money to the pool and money from the pool is doled out on a rotating basis. lmmigran~. who could not normally get a loan from a bank, get a new start through the help of their community. Organizations that funnel money to conservative THÂŁ NEW JouRNAL

The Conurvative Party at their weekly toasting session at Mory's. groups on campus justifY themselves similarly. Ar this strange and unfriendly university, conservative students would have no chance. Our curriruJum is diluted by diversity, our professors are overgrown leftovers &om the 1960s, and everyone speaks the weird tongue of political correctness. Conservatives have become foreigners in their own land. However, in a crucial way, conservatives still have an immeasurable advantage over Korean immigrants. Korean immigrants have no choice but to stick together. Koreans can't get loans from the bank, oonservatives seem to own it. Although oonservatives are numerically a minority on our campus, their influence is disproportionately large due to the financial and institutional support they receive from conservative organizations fighting to restore the old order. When conservatives talk of returning to better times (i.e., 1950s America, or maybe 1950 B.C.), they sound like }aoobires in eighteenth century Britain plorting to revive the f.illen House ofStuarts. The comparison is not actually that far-fetched. After all, every chairman of the PO R must wear a medal dedicated to Charles I, the infamous Stuart King beheaded during the Civil Wars of the 1640s. lthough many of the wealthiest oonservative foundations are wellknown for their support of think tanks and advocacy groups, the largest portion of their money is acrually directed towards influencing universities and academic life. In a study done by the National Committee for Responsible Philanthropy, almost one half ofall oonservarive foundation grants went to academic institutions of which Yale received the fourth largest share. Between 1992 and 1994, Yale received approximately $5.9 million dolJa.rs in grant money fiom oonservarive foundations for projects ranging from academic programs to farulty endowments. However, the most immediately felt impact ofoonservarive money is direccly on students. The largest and most influential group among campus oonservarives is the Intercollegiate Studies Institute (lSI). Although their official mis-

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The New Journal thanks: Lila Ill Arzua Rita Jules Jennifer McTiernan David Penn Mike Reichbart A vik Roy Lee Tung Wang jessica Winter Andrew's brother

scandal called the administration's rejection of The push to restore our universities to their old conservatism is part and parcel of a widerthe $20-million grant for a Western civilization program a victory for the liberal multicultural reaching conservative agenda. lSI is simply one orthodoxy on campus. And while lSI praises member of a family of conservative institutions that consider themselves inheritors and defendLight and Truth as an example of how swdent journalism can change campuses, the Bass scaners of the same traditionalist legacy. lSI was dal was the result of a sophisticated PR camstarted in 1953 by Frank Chodorov, a vocal libpaign. lSI made sure that the first issue of the ertarian of the time, who prompdy tapped magazine was sent to many prominent alumni, recent Yale grad Bill Buckley to preside over the including Yale's top 20 donors, all of the Yale fledgling institute. Presendy, lSI relies on grants Corporation members, journalists, and opinfrom conservative groups including the ion-makers. In the mind of Pat Collins (fC , Bradley, Olin, Murdock and Scaife founda'96), founder of Light and Truth, one of the tions. In their attempts to wield influence, largest consequences of the scandal was the subthese foundations understand all stages of the sequent loss of donations from conservative processes shaping American political and culalumni. By souring its relationship with Perry tural life. This awareness leads them to suppon Bass, Yale may have lost its largest alumni donasuch divergent endeavors as legal advocacy tion ever. Collins reports a rumor going around groups, the Christian Coalition, and conservain conservative circles: "Perry Bass has taken tive publications such as the National &rMw Yale out of his will." and Public Interest. They provide major fundHowever, when dissatisfied alumni withing for the most influential right-wing Washhold their donations from Yale, lSI wdcomes ington think tanks including the American their money with open Collins explains Enterprise Institute, the Heritage Foundation, and the Cato Institute. They are also the that Light and Truth was initially conceived as a way of reaching alumni. The alumni list has patrons to conservative thinkers like William F. now swollen to several thousand names, Collins Bennett, Charles Murray, and Dinesh speculates. Regardless of the exact·figure, there D'Souza. Not surprisingly, the lSI board of is no doubt that Light and TruthS alumni readdirectors reads like a roster of key conse~cive ership rivals, if not exceeds, the number of stufoundation players. dents who read the magazine. Arzua claims that alumni are kept in the dark about the state of he structural suppon for up-and-comthe campus. Light and Truth then acts as a secret ing conservative students makes a eye into Yale for many alumni, and the m~ career in conservatism an attractive zine exploits this advantage marvelously. Its alternative to other postgraduate options. Even Overheard section keeps alumni up to date on the most financially lucrative job opportunities current campus events. After simply printing for Yale grads cannot offer the same allure of a verbatim the course description of a gay and les-career that involves contact with powerful bian studies class, Collins says that Light and opinion and decision makers. Several Yale stuTruth received calls from many alumni who dents already have the option of such a future. A former editor-in-chief at the fut Pms, could not bdieve the course was real. In lSI's crusade to reclaim the academy, the magazine Neomi Rao (SM '95) got her start as a journaldoes its part to confirm alumni's worst fears of a ist at the wetkry Standard, the brainchild of radicalized New Yale. right-wing guru William Kristol. David Frum This schematic of conservative influence (fD '82), who wrote controversial conservative looks like a small, self-enclosed circle. Alumni columns in the Yale Dairy NtwS as an underare dissatisfied with university policy; they give graduate, now works as a senior fellow at the Manhattan Institute, a conservative think tank donations to lSI which directs money to Light and Truth; the magazine publishes the scandal and is a contributing editor of the ~tkry Stanstories about Yale's liberalism; lSI publicizes stodard. ries through its media contaCts; and alumni Some conservative Yale students have have new reasons to be dissatisfied with univeralready started down their career paths. Roy sity policy. And, the circle completes itsel£ was recendy designated an lSI campus leader Campus conservatives may innocently bdieve for Yale. Thi.s honor recognizes his long service that they are the momentum behind all of this, and dedication to the conservative community but the scheme is much larger than they can see. beginning during his undergraduate days at

arms:

THE NEW jOURNAL

M.I.T. when he started an lSI-affiliated publication called Counterpoint. The leadership of the POR has also benefitted [rom lSI opportunities. Matthew MacLean (CC '99), chancellor of cards and games, Christopher Thacker (DC '98), chairman of the party, and Laura Torbett (PC '98), member-at-large, were all fellows at the lSI Honors Program. According to program director Gary Gregg, the fellowship tries to identifY the "top 40 conservative students in America" and to point promising students toward careers in conservatism. Roy explains that it's relatively easy to make a career out of conservatism. He admits, "The supply and demand for conservative public intellectuals is all out of whack."

onservative organizations like lSI enable alumni to provide crucial opportunities to conservative students. However, the benefits of conservative organizations are far from the communal strategies of a struggling minority. Unlike new Korean immigrants who work to provide opportunities for their children that they themselves were denied, conservative institutions are striving simply to make sure the next generation does not decline. The conservative dilemma on college campuses is the dilemma of a dying monarch without a legitimate heir. Some older alumni are jarred by everything from changes in curriculum and student population to the co-ed bathrooms in our dormitories. By investing in conservative student organizations-publications and parties alike-alumni attempt to perpetuate their waning traditionalism. Although they succeed in supporting enclaves of the old order, who sport ties and jackets in smoky common rooms, these enclaves are isolated in a past out of place and pace with the New Yale. History has passed its judgment on the Old Yale traditionalism, but conservatives hold on for dear life. Although the supply of students committed to conservative ideas is small, conservative alumni and foundations demand successors to keep their traditions alive. They defy their own free market principles by priming the pump on the demand for new blood. But the market does not lie. Conservatism is old, and the demand for it has become a desperate appeal-co the past. li1J

Lee Tung Wang is a sophomore in &rluky Colkgt. December 3, 1997

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GOING POSTAL A11drew Yot.tll Heading home for the holidays? Have you considered traveling by mail? First, take a moment to learn the ins and outs of the U.S. Postal Service.

HEN I WAS A KID, ONE OF MY FAVORITE BOOKS WAS

Homeroom: Yale Station

Bruno Takes a Trip. In the story, the somewhat portly

Rhinehart convenes the first class in the early afternoon behind the counter at Yale Station. It's very different on the "other side"you can see the backs of all the P.O. boxes, and for the first time in your life, you can check your mail from the other side of the box. (Still empty.) While Rhinehart talks about Yale Station, squeaky mailbox doors periodically squeak open and shut as Yalies check ' their mail, creating an odd classroom environment. The lecture material for the day is the recent controversy over Yale Station. At issue has been mail servi~numerous students have complained about hold-ups in receiving letters and packages. In a September 22 editorial, the Yak Daily News alleged that staff cuts at "the station have hurt performance, and cited mail delays of up to a week. "Yale Station has become a model of how not to r:un a post office," the Daily argued, holding that service, which is normally "slow and unreliable," has "deteriorated significantly." As students of the USPS, we must thoroughly investigate these charges. Here's what the controversy is all about: In 1993, Yale Station employed 18 clerks, two mail-handlers, and two supervisors. Today, Yale Station employs ten clerks, one mail-handler, and one supervisor. Since the number of full-time employees dropped from 22 to 12 without a corresponding drop in mail volume, people became concerned. In particular, this fall, students returned to a fairly significant mail hold-up. However, Rhinehart smoothly replies, as he warms up to his role as our postal service mentor, the hold-up, which was only a day or two, was temporary and unrelated to staff cutbacks. "The UPS strike hit Yale Station at a time that is normally very busy, as students are returning to school," he says. "The amount of parcels coming into the station quintupled to 25 hampers a day during the fall because of the strike." (A hamper is big enough to hold a few dozen packages.) Rhinehart says the problem is now permanently solved. Rhinehart justifies the staff transfers (postal workers are rarely fired) with increased automation in the postal service. Today, mail comes to Yale pre-sequenced. The clerks at Yale Station simply have to walk down the rows of boxes and stuff them. While the amount of work is significant, Rhinehart insists that it is manageable. Rhinehart ends his lecture with a personal tour of Yale Station, to prove his point. He proudly pulls mail out of at least a dozen P.O. boxes, carefully examining the timely postmarks before returning the letters to their proper place. Contrary to popular belief, an atmos-

protagonist Bruno is gripped by a strong desire to visit his friends in the country but can't afford a train ticket. So, naturally, he sends himself through the mail. He starts by cutting holes in the bottom of a big box so that his legs can stick out and he can walk to the post office. He stamps "FRAGILE" all over the box and packs a blanket, a harmonica, Âˇ and, of course, a can of corn for his pet raven Hans who's going along with him. He ambles to the post office, is thrown on the mail train, and after a long trip, he finally makes it into the country. When his friends open their humongous package, Bruno jumps out and scares them silly. Most toddlers would read this book, this voyage of Odyssean proportions, and fall asleep contented, dreaming of Bruno and his raven Hans making their way through the United States Postal Service (USPS). In contrast, the intrepid young scholar would toss and turn through the night, raring to cross the country in a washing machine box. But of course, this idea is ridiculous, Mom would say with a pat on the head. Fellow arrogant Yalies, now that we're all grown up, do we have to take "No" for an answer? Of course not. Like any other academic question we face, the problem of sending oneself bodily through the mail merely requires a little study into the intricacies of the USPS. After all, we're God's gift to academia-surely we can learn to travel through the mail. All we need is a teacher to show us the way. Enter Sheldon Rhinehart, New Haven's postmaster and a man who has a lot in common with most Yale professors. He even dresses the part, in an old-fashioned suit and tie. A thin black man with light brown skin and wiry, curly gray hair, he speaks patiently with a wisened, gravelly, and slightly squeaky voice. Like the rest of our gifted faculty, Rhinehart has also staked out a specialty in his fieldhe carries a voluminous knowledge of New Haven's mail. Like most over-eager academics, no question on his area of expertise is too obscure for Rhinehart. When it comes to mail, he is willing to talk about anything, and he won't stop until you understand. Guided by Rhinehart, our assignment as students of the USPS will be to examine the most minute details of mail processing, to step behind the counter at Yale Station, and to carefully investigate the caliber of the vehicles that bring us our mail. There's no Credit/0/Fail involved; if our studies are not good enough, we will surely perish in the final exam, The Mailing of Self.

THE NEW JouRNAL

phere of neatness and efficiency pervades. Even the president of the New Haven Postal Workers' Union, John Dizrius, who would be the first to notice the ill-effect_s of staff reductions, is reluctant to make any allegations of slow mail at Yale Station. Rhinehart wraps up the day by repeating a favorite phrase: "It's very simple. We get the mail in, and it goes in the students' boxes the same day."

Guest Speaker: Postal Clerk The next day, the parcel window guy Robert Celone is both lecturer and subject as he discusses the ins and outs of being a mail clerk. Celone typifies the postal clerks at Yale Station. Casual and easygoing, he jokes around a lot. The constant rhythm of his work, moving around neat brown parcels and combing through letters, is strangely soothing. The parcel window guys are the surrogate Santa Clauses to thousands of Yalies. Bringing goodwill to all, the clerks who work at the parcel window spread peace and joy throughout the Yale community. Celone-slightly portly, wearing big red suspenders and a friendly smile-even looks like M r. Claus. Admittedly, Celone's delivery style is a bit different than St. Nick's; instead of nimbly sliding down your chimney, he drops a yellow slip in your P.O. box and you have to visit him at the parcel call window. He begins his postal lesson slowly in his amiable voice. He handles questions with short responses, intermittently handing students their packages. "We get a little bit of everything around here," he says. "One time, an ex-boyfriend s~nt an ex-girlfriend-how shall I say itsome bodily fluids. The way we found out is that it started having an odor." Despite strange events like this, Celone enjoys Yale Station. "Nine out of ten Yale students are really terrific people. I like the atmosphere in here. I try to blend in a little humor, kid around with them." When he's not delivering parcels, Celone indulges his old-fashioned tastes. He listens to classical music and big bands from the 1940s and is a fan of old black-and-white movies. Lately though, he has taken up the Internet on his Web TY. "My teenage nephew called me a caveman because I wouldn't buy a computer. They must've chipped the ice around the cave," he quips. Celone's easy manner reflects the pace and mood of Yale Station.

December 3, 1997

The backstage rooms at the post office have a sort of timeless quality and, upon exiting the station, the world seems dark and ugly in comparison. At any rate, we're ready for the next lesson. On to bigger and better things.

Field Trip: The Mother Ship A new day, and we're back with our regular instructor Rhinehart. He has scheduled a field trip for today, to New Haven's postal nexus. We are about to experience mail delivery on a seriously macro level. Just a half-mile from campus, New Haven's main office sprawls over 225,000 square feet of floorspace. The main office-more reminiscent of a factory than an office-spews forth an army of delivery trucks and Jeeps in the early afternoon, only to accept them into the fold once again at night. Inside, the ground floor, which resembles an airport tarmac, is too vast for even echoes to carry. Its surface is covered with a haphazard array of enormous machines, people milling around, and mountain upon mountain of mail. Rhinehart suggests a walking tour of the main floor; he pauses often to patiently indulge questions. How is New Haven's mail delivered? Rhinehart describes the complicated process: Mail coming into New Haven starts out in Wallingford, Connecticut, where it is sorted and partially sequenced by address. After it arrives at the New Haven main office, the mail is divided among the different carrier routes. In the early morning, each carrier takes the letters for his route back to his cubby area on the main floor, and sorts the mail by address. Rhinehart pauses to inform me that they do this so early in the morning that workers have been known to come to work with their pants on backward, not noticing their mistake until morning light. Once the mail for each route is sorted, the carrier stuffs his wickets. Each and every address in New Haven has two wickets, or slots, for its daily mail: one for regular letters and one for magazines. Each carrier route handles about 20 linear feet, or about 5,000 pieces of mail each day. "The mail, it comes like snow," declares Rhinehart. "We have to keep moving it." Finally, in the early afternoon, the mail carriers stream out of the main office to serve Greater New Haven's 302 mail routes. It's how we get our mail. At this point on our walking tour, Rhinehart takes us near some of the heavy machinery. He expounds on the virtues of mail technology

A mail carrier handles 20 linear feet, or 5,000 pieces of mail, each day. "The m ail, it comes like snow. . . t ., Wie h av e t 0 k eep IDOVlllg 1 â&#x20AC;˘ at length; automation seems to be a favorite topic. The bulk of the work at the postal service is increasingly done by machine. Long ago, the postal service used the LSM, or Letter Sorting Machine. New Haven still has one which is used when mail volume is high. About the size of four pregnant elephants stacked on top of one another, the awkward machine is operated by 12 people who can each sort about 3,600 pieces of mail an hour. More recently, the postal service started using the CSBCS, or Customer Service Bar Code Sorter, which is run by one person and can actually read handwriting. But these machines are mere peanuts compared to the DBCS IY, the newly perfected fourth generation of the Delivery Bar Code Sorter. Operated by two people and about the size of a school bus, it can sort and sequence 18,000 pieces of mail in one hour. Moving past the machines, Rhinehart shows me the recently-constructed stamp cage, tucked away in a corner of the main floor. New Haven is soon to become the stamp distribution center for all of Connecticut-in other words, every stamp licked by every person in every household in Connecticut will at one time dwell in the New Haven main office. The stamp cage, with its sinister black fencing, says "No" to potential stamp thieves. One can only try to imagine this basketball court-size enclosure full of millions of tiny stamps. Rhinehart simply smiles with an air of proprietorship and walks on. Finally, Rhinehart shows me the training room. On our quick tour, he only shows me the outside, which has the capaciry for 350 postal employees to train simultaneously. The windows are dark and it's impossible to see inside. Rhinehart implies that it is a mere auditorium. O ne can't help but wonder if it's really a Navy S.EA.L.-style danger room with exploding mail boxes and rabid dogs, a true training ground for raw postal recruits.

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But, fellow disciples of the postal service, we don't have time to fully consider the possibilities, because Rhinehart IS movmg on. To the parking lot.

Case Study: Vehicles of the USPS Rhinehart seems to take his parking lot for granted. But the lot of the New Haven Postal Service unfolds before the eyes of the uninitiated like the centerfold of a smutty magazine. To even the most discriminating of car aficionados, the lot is a treasure-trove of sex-laden, muscular vehicles, painted a . virile red-white-and-blue. T he Postal Service owns a lot of cars. It has so many vehicles, in fact, that if the price of gas goes up one .cent, their gas budget goes up $1 million. Rhinehart runs down the roster of his best delivery trucks. There's the LLV (long-light vehicle), otherwise known as the three-quarter-ton truck. With a top speed of 80 m.p.h. and a life expectancy of 25 years, this model is a steal at $15,000. Its cargo bed is absolutely humongous. Its right side steering is avantgarde, so chic and English. Then there's everyone's favorite, hearkening back to Norman Rockwell, the post office Jeep. Weighing in at a mere quarterton, it is now being retired from the USPS after a long career of distinguished service. This previously unattainable gem can now be bought used for around $750. True, its somewhat boxy design makes it less than desirable for a night on the town, but think: utility, utility, utility. Finally, the penultimate and most recent addition to the post office family: the minivan. With its broad, wire-cage cargo bed full of jostling parcels, it makes other cars seem barren and impotent as it passes them on the road. Too elite for regular dury, the V6 special-converted postal minivan is used exclusively for express deliveries. Stylewise, the minivan's suburban lineage makes it an adequate cousin to the post office Jeep, but its sleek body allows for a racy sexiness that

bursts its conservative bounds. Rhinehart insists that the top speed of the post office minivan is only 85 m.p.h. But one glance, and any postal student with a critical mind knows it's good for 100 m.p.h., if not more. Attempts to take a spin in one of the vehicles ("C'mon, you can pull some strings, right?") are met with Rhinehart's firm but gentle admonishment. Alas, no go. Insurance and all that.

Final Exam: The Mailing of Self .. The culmination of our studies, is of course, sending oneself through the mail, what the top scholars in the field like to call the Bruno hypothesis. Is it possible? With bated breath, the question js put to Rhinehart. He laughs. "No. We don't take parcels over 70 pounds." Drat. This is where the average pos~al student loses heart and the aspiring postal professional shifts into serious extra-credit. So I scrjke out and dare to color outside the lines. It's time to try another carrier service. I bid farewell to Rhinehart's familiar USPS; at some point, I realize with a heavy heart, one must move beyond the comforting arms of his teachers and into the wider world. First, I'll need a box. I call Pack-Rite, Inc., and ask them how much it would cost to build a 5-foot wooden cube box with screened air-holes. The guy there, Oleg, informs me that it would cost $270 and would weigh 260 pounds and use 160 square feet of plywood. Too heavy. What I figure then is, how about rravelling inside of an aluminum canoe? T hey only weigh about 50 pounds and there's plenty of room to lie down. I start calling delivery places with the .premise of sending a 200-pound package through the mail, from New H aven to Minnesota, my home state. Amtrak says they'll do it for $50. My heart leaps. But then they find out the dimensions of the box. They don't take parcels over three feet in length. Unless one feels like traveling in a 3 foot by 3 foot by 3 foot box (i.e., in the fetal position) for more than a day, this is probably not the way to go. Next is Atlantic Customs. They're pretry sharp and just hang up on me.

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International Service Consultants pushes me for details. "Is your parcel perishable or non-?" Oef~itely perishable. "What kind of perishable?" It's a big plant, I inform them. "What kind of plant?" Uh ... it's a big bush. "Sir, what are the dimensions of this bush?" I hang up. ABF Freight says they'll deliver an international parcel, but it would involve riding in a "really big crate," stacked along with thousands of other crates, on the deck of a cargo ship for a few days. After calling another half-dozen shipping companies, I switch tactics and start trying more standard delivery services. The thrill of the hunt is exhilarating-sweat beads on my face and drips onto my cheap Radio Shack phone. UPS is a no-go. U.S. Delivery says they'll deliver a 200-pound package in four to six hours for $359.50, but it involves riding in the cargo chute of a commercial airplane. Their insurance isn't so hot, either. FedEx will do it, but only for $987. Of course, I don't actually tell them that I want to send a human through the mail, but the prices are nonetheless pretty steep. I finally hit gold with Yellow Freight, a trucking company. They'll do it for $148.10. This is only a small savings over regular airfare; my parents would be pleased. However, the trip would take four days in the cargo bed of a smelly, dieselpowered truck with significant danger of freezing to death at night. I would soon learn the limits of continental freight delivery. Shivering, surrounded by strange, dark boxes and bumping around in the truck, I would yearn for my days with Mr. Rhinehart and the good old USPS. li1J

Andrew Youn, a sophomore in Calhoun Coikge, is on the staffofTNJ.

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At C0mmon Ground H igh School, one of Connecticut's 12 new charter schools, students apply classroom skills to a working farm in West Rock.

Breaking New Ground Michael .G erber

MAGINE GOING TO SCHOOL ON A FARM. THAT'S RIGHT, WITH

chickens, pigs, and crops straight out of those picture books you had as a child. Imagine algebra on a farm. Instead of solving problems about Bill the farmer's chicken pen, students figure out how much fencing is needed for their own chicken pen. And then they build it and decide how much food their chickens need. To learn science, they take soil samples-not from some random din between the parking lot and the football field-but from a spot of land which will soon be filled with this year's crop. Of course, agricultural schools already exist, in states which house active chapters of the Future Farmers of America like Ohio, and . Kansas, Iowa, Nebraska . . . and West Rock. West Rock, one of the poorest neighborhoods in New Haven, is home to Springside Farm, the future site·of Common Ground High School, a charter school located on a 20-acre plot of land in the West Rock Nature Center in northwest New Haven. On August 27, the school opened its doors for the first time. Delays in the construction of the new building forced Common Ground to begin classes on the campus of Southern Connecticut State University (SCSU). "It sets a nice tone for the students," says Oliver Barton (BK '85, FES '94), a co-founder and teacher at Common Ground. "The students feel like they're going to college. However, they don't realize that means they have to adjust their behavior and pretend they're in college while they're here." While SCSU has been good to the Common Ground students and teachers, the school is supposed to be on a farm, where they hope to be this spring. On October 31, the student body and other members of the New Haven community attended the groundbreaking ceremony at Springside Farm. "The students were really excited to see so many adults who cared about their education," Barton said. Each student got a chance to shovel some dirt in preparation for the construction which is currendy underway. Now they have one more thing to consider on their weekly trips co the farm to plant garlic and build a chicken coop: the bulldozers. While Common Ground's temporary location prevents them from being on the farm daily, the school's concept remains the same. The curriculum is based on the principle of ecology. According to the school's handbook, "Common Ground's basic educational premise is that life and learning do not exist in discrete disciplines; the world is interdisciplinary." Thar curriculum is the mosr distinguishing characteristic of the school. According to Connecticut law, Common Ground is required to

have the same distributional requirements as all other public schools. However, the daily schedule looks nothing like that of any other public school. Each day consists of only three class periods: two hour-long seminars or workshops, and a third, longer course which takes up the time in between. "Our most innovative course is a three-hour-long, team-caught interdisciplinary course which takes on a cerrain theme," Barton says. He and Victor Medina, a former deputy superintendent in the New H aven public school system, teach a course, "Natural History of New Haven," which combines history, science, and other disciplines. O ther classes include "River of Life," ·an exploration of New Haven's waterways through science and literature, and "Measure by Measure," a combination of literature and the mathematics of measurement. It is these kinds of innovative classes which set charter schools apart from the rest of the public school system. _ "Everything is interconnected," explains Jennifer McTiernan (CC '99), who spent last summer working at Common Ground and continues her involvement once a week through Yale's Teacher Preparation program. "Charter schools revolve around some unifYing theme to get kids interested in a subject," she says. Common Ground is just one of twelve charter schools which opened this school year in Connecticut.

harter schools are a relatively new phenomenon in this country. The first charter school was formed in Minnesota in 1991, but Connecticut did not pass charter school legislation until May 1996. Scates or local governments grant charters to groups, usually teachers, who have submitted a proposal for a new school. The charter enables them to open a public school which is independent of the governing hand of the school board. "It's part of the public school system, but it's not," McTiernan says. Along with the freedom of a charter school comes a lack of funds. Students at Common Ground, like at a public school, attend for free. While the school receives some per-pupil funding from the scate, it is responsible for raising the remaining money. Common Ground, for example, turned to private donors and foundation grants in order to begin construction on its schoolhouse. The idea of bringing charter schools to Connecticut had been discussed among lawmakers for a few years, according to Scate Rep. Cameron Staples (0-New Haven), who chairs the Connecticut H ouse Education Committee. However, there were concerns among H ouse mem bers that charter schools were not the best option for the state. "Some legislators were concerned that public funding for non-traditional schools is a distraction from ou.r mission to improve public

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schools," Staples says. By putting certain.requirements in the law, however, such as accountability to the state and the prohibition of for-profit schools, the supportecs of the bill made a compromise which found support on both sides of the aisle, Staples says. Besides the support of the state legislature, charter schools also have high-ranking national officials on their side, including President Bill Clinton (LAW '73). "I believe that every state should pass legislation giving parents the right to choose the public school their child will attend," Clinton said in a White House statement. He includes charter schools in his plan for public education. Unfortunately for Connecticut's charter schools, not all school districts share the President's views. McTiernan feels the New Haven school board has been less than enthusiastic about Common Ground. "They don't do anything they're not legally responsible for," she says. "It's like pulling teeth." Barton, however, does not think that the New Haven public schools consider Common Ground a threat. "At first they did," he says, "bur once they realized we were working with them instead of trying to steal their top students, the relationship has been very positive." In fact, one of the contingents of the charter school legislation is that the schools cannot be selective. Common Ground's students were selected by a lottery of New Haven students interested in attending. Staples feels that charter schools and public schools will often collaborate in certain areas. "There's no reason they can't work well together," he says. This year marks the first year for charter schools in the state, and Common Ground is one of this first batch. New Haven has one other charter school, Village Academy, which educates students ftom kindergarten through eighth grade. Village Academy does not have .a specialized focus, but, most other charter schools have unifYing themes in their curriculum like Common Ground's emphasis on ecology. At the Sports Sciences Academy in Hartford, a student can focus on sportsrelated areas like spores law, spores fundraising, and sports marketing. For anyone who went to a traditional high school, schools like Common Ground and the Spores Sciences Academy can appear to pro-

December 3, 1997

vide a limited education, one which seems too focused for a high school student. McTiernan dismisses the idea that charter schools are too narrow. "It's not so much to get kids pigeonholed into a certain subject as it is to get them to realize that school can be fun and that it can be relevant to things that they find enjoyable." Common Ground is not a place for teenagers who don't like getting their hands dirty, nor is it simply for future farmers and ecologists.

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s Arnirah waits for the clock to strike 4 p.m. in the homework center-(Comrnon Ground's euphemism for detention)-she g is thinking about her four younger siblings. By taking care of ~ them while her mother is sick, the 14-year-old is getting an early start g on her future. "I want to be a nurse," she says, checking the clock once i5. again to make sure it hasn't stopped. Amirah did not come to Common Ground to prepare for a life on the farm, but she enjoys it so far. She adds, "When the teachers get on my nerves I say I'm going to Hillhouse"-(one of New Haven's two nQO-magnet public high schools)and glances towards Alexis Wtlcox, one of Common Ground's six teachers and the person who now stands between Amirah and home. Bqt even Arnirah realizes that the teachers only "get on her nerves" because they want her to excel. As students point out, the biggest difference between Common Ground and their previous schools is the caring faculty. Harold, a 16-year-old who came from a Hamden public school, explains that at his previous school, "If you joke around, they'll fail you." At Common Ground, he says, "They might kick you out of class, but they'll make you do the work." Of course, it remains to be seen if the students will feel the same when Common Ground doubles in size. Currently, about 60 students in grades nine and ten attend the school. The five-year plan for the school calls for a four-grade total of 150 students by the 2001-02 school year. However, afterÂˇseeing the teachers and the students together, it is obvious that the small size of the school is nor the lone reason for the personal attention. During lunch, Common Ground's tempo-

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rary office in SCSU's Davis Hall is filled with students and teachers talking freely. There are few signs of the usual barrier between teachers and pupils. Teachers at Common Ground have a much larger investment in their students than those at any other public schools. Charters are not permanent; in five years, the state will evaluate each new school. The school's charter is contingent on its performance, and after the years of effort it took to get that .charter, the founders are not going to let anything go wrong. The roots of the school trace back to 1990, when three of the current teachers formed the New Haven Ecology Project. "Our goal was to create this type of school," Barton says. Barton founded the New Haven Ecology Project along with his wife, Debra Riding (TC '85), fellow Common Ground teachers Andy Wight and Joan Gillete, and Bill Duesing, who now serves as farm educator for the Ecology Project. Connecticut, however, was not giving out charters, so the plan for the school had to be set aside. The New Haven Ecology Project ran summer programs and adult workshops out of the West Rock Nature Center, and Barton and his co-founders taught in the New Haven school district. Seven frustrating years of waiting for state approval, gave the Common Ground faculty insight into the good and bad aspects of public schools. Then, finally, Common Ground received its charter in February, leaving the school six months to h ire faculty, find students, and design a curriculum. After spending another day in the homework center helping students like Amirah finish their late homework, Ms. Wilcox piles her supplies in the back of her car for the ride home. As she pulls away, she spots a few of her studentS walking through the parking lot and says, "Hey Shannon, I'd better not see you in the homework center again. You either, Yvonne." And then to emphasize the point, she adds, "Hey Juanita, thank you for never being in homework center." It might be hours after school officially ended for the day, but Ms. Wilcox and the rest of the teachers at Common Ground are still working. 1111

Michael Gerber, a foshman in Ezra Stiles Colkg~. is on the staffofTNJ. THE

New JouRNAL

For the kidnapped Africans aboard the slave vessel Amistad, communicating their plight was the only hope for survival.

Freedom in Translation Daphne Renan

OR THOSE WHO VENTURE BEYOND THE GOTHIC GATES OF THE

Yale campus, the New Haven Green is a familiar place with many familiar faces. Though Steven Spielberg's is usually not one of them, last February it was. That was when DreamWorks Pictures undertook the production of Amistad, a historical drama featuring an international cast including Morgan Freeman and Anthony Hopkins. The tale is as much a story of slave rebellion as it is a story of Yale activism. But one does not need Hollywood to uncover the tale behind the dark eyes of the statue in front of City Hall. Som~ p~ople say Mendi p~ople crazy; Mendi p~ople dolt b~caus~ w~ no talk American languag~. Merica p~ople no talk Mendi languag~; Mmca people dolt?... Som~p~ople say Mendi people got no souls. Why wefui bad, w~ got no souls? wt- want t<J b~.fre~ vay much.

is dark head is lifted with determination and pride. H is eyes stare beyond the heart of the New Haven Green, and his jaw is firmly set. In one hand he clutches a stick; his free hand is pointed, bur at what? You move your hands across the scarves draped around the statue's shoulders; the man's loose pantaloons sway in their stillness. An African war helmet rests at his right foot. The pedestal bears the legend: "Make Us Free." The man immortalized in the dark

December 3, 1997

stone in front of City Hall is Sengbe Pieh, leader of the Amistad mutiny and rebellion. It was a hot and humid day in late August 1839 when Pieh was led onto the New Haven Green. He was not alone. With him were 39 men and three young girls. All were emaciated and confused, fearful and determined. They carne from New London, Connecticut, after being transported from Havana, Cuba. They were kidnapped from Africa. The Amistad was a small, black schooner that lefi: the port of Havana, Cuba by the light of the moon. Aboard it were Jose Ruiz, Pedro Montes, two sailors, a captain with his 16-year-old cabin boy named Antonio, a mulatto cook named Celestino, and 53 ladinos. These 49 men and four young children had recently been stolen fi:om Africa, and smuggled into the busy port of Havana. Bringing them to Cuba was a direct violation of the Anglo-Spanish Treaty of 1817 which prohibited the African slave trade by penalty of death. The Spaniards who smuggled them were well aware of this penalty. They waited anxiously in their vessel off shore and truSted only the night to hide their secret. The enslaved Africans ascended from the belly of the vessel, were marched into Havana by night and sold to the waiting slave traders by day. The laws were vague and enforcement was inconsistent. Though bringing the slaves into Cuba for trade was punishable by death, the

sale of slaves Wrui permitted. Ruiz paid $450 each for the 49 male slaves he chose. Montes, meanwhile, meticulously selected four children. Ruiz ensured that he had papers with false Spanish names for each of his new buys. In June, the Amistad set sail for Pueno Principe. The Africans were crammed into the pit of the schooner. Each received a daily ration of one banana, two potatoes, and a small cup of water. They were abused both physically and verbally. Although they, did not share a language with their captors, the cook often made signs and gestures that vividly explairied to the captives that they too would end up like the dead pieces of beef that he cut. The Africans were enraged; they yearned for revenge.

deliberately, making signs to Judson that relayed his expectation to be hung. While his hands acknowledged his helplessness, his eyes burned with hatred as they met Ruiz and Montes seated across from Judson. The Africans were awaiting trial for piracy and murder. Both Spaniards requested that the case be sent to the Spanish Consul in Boston, claiming that the ship, cargo, and surviving ladinos were their propeny. Instead, Judson chose to hold the 39 African men for the next meeting of the grand jury of the U.S. Circuit Court which was scheduled for Sep-

Cook say he kill, he eat Mendi peoafraid-we kiU cook; then captain kiU one man with knife, and cut Mendi people plenty. ~ never kiU captain, he no kiU us.. .. AU we want is make us free.

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ieh found an old nail and hid it, plotting silently, waiting anxiously. Then, finally, in the early morning hours, the storm came. It was the first of July. Pieh drove the nail into the iron collar that hugged his neck. He then freed the other captives as well. Together, they revolted. The cook was the first one they killed, then the captain. The two sailors disappeared into the sea, into the night. Ruiz and Antonio begged for their lives and were spared. Montes too was spared but only so that he could sail the captives back home, back to Africa. But where was Africa? Pieh knew only to follow the sun, and he ordered Montes to sail in its direction. But Montes and Ruiz devised a plan. By day Moores sailed into the sun, towards Africa. By night he rurned the vessel northward, towards Puerto Principe. This persisted for two months. Conditions went from miserable to unbearable. Ten of the Africans died. It was August 29, 1839 when the Amistadwashed into New London. When Andrew T. Judson, Federal District Judge of Connecticut, went to New London to investigate the ship, something about the mutineers captivated him. Pieh walked into the room wearing a red flannel shin and Bowing pantaloons. He moved his hard hands

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tember. The Africans were moved to the New Haven jail, and the abolitionist movement swung into full gear. The case was more than a simple mutiny. It became a rallying point for abolitionists facing the question of slavery. in the United States. Were these free men or were they mere chattel? Could a black man count for more than three-fifths of a person? New London abolitionist Dwight P. Janes wrote to Yale graduate, lawyer, and editor of the Emancipator, Roger S. Baldwin, urging him to take on the defense. Baldwin was no newcomer to constitutional law, nor to New Haven. Born in the Elm City in 1793, Baldwin graduated from Yale with honors at the age of 18. He was the grandson of Roger Sherman who was a signer of the Declaration oflndependence and a delegate at the Constitutional Convention, and, ironically, a key figure in maintaining the legality ofslavery within the Constitution. However, the tides had turned, and Baldwin found that he was not alone in his abolitionist zeal. The Amistad Committee was formed to raise money for the Africans' legal counsel and to see that their living needs were met. The abolitionists understood that in order to make Americans sym-

pathetic to the Africans' case, the American people must first recognize them as human beings. The committee visited the jail often, writing reports that were primed and reprinted in the press. They strategically worked towards changing the public image of the Africans. Konoma, one of the Africans, had noticeably protruding teeth. To erase the rumors that linked his teeth with cannibalism, the committee wrote that he used these teeth in his attempts to attract women. ' Whether or not the information was relevant, whether or not it made much sense, the papers printed it. Soon, spectators from miles away huddled outside the jail to catch a glimpse of the imprisoned men. Not only did the Africans regard Pieh as their natural leader, but the public did as well. The American journalists praised his air of grace and poise; he was callea "another Othello." But the comminee knew that winning the emotion of the public could only take them so far. The real batde would need to be fought in the courtroom, and it would have_to be done on legal terms. To do so, the Africans' story had to be heard, and more importantly, their story had to be understood.

Dearfriend, we want you to know how we fieL Mendi people think, think, think. Nobody know what we think.

osiah W Gibbs, a Yale professor of linguistics, made communication possible. Gibbs often observed the prisoners as they were taken onto the New Haven Green for exercise. One day, he approached them, raised his fingers up in the air arid counted in English. After some confusion, the Africans began to count his fingers as well, but they did so in their own language. Gibbs learned their words for numbers and took this new knowledge to the New York and New Haven ports. He paced the waterfronts repeatedly, yelling out their words for numbers. Finally, he found two men who understood. They were working on the British warship, Buzzard, docked in the busy New York pon. They were James Covey, a former slave from Sierra Leone, and Charles Pratt, who himself had been seized

THE NEW JouRNAL

seven years earlier from Mende. They told Gibbs that the language was Mendi, and they accompanied him back to l'few Haven on September 9. Pieh was brought before them and requested to tell his story. He began to speak, at first hesitantly and then more freely. He said most of the men were from Mandingo, and explained that he himself was born about 60 miles inland in Africa, a son of one of the "principle men." While doing business, he was captured by his own tribesmen for an outstanding debt and sold to King Sharks, who reigned in Gallinas. The king then sold him to the Spaniards, who forced him to leave his parents, wife, and three children and put him on a ship secretly bound for Cuba. Pieh was asked whether he had aided in the enslavement of the others. He replied, "I would never take advantage of anyone, but would always defend myself" Of the captain of the Amistad, Pieh said he was "very crud and beat them severdy." He described their condition in great detail. While Pieh's account was, on the whole, accurate, it was not entirely true. In fact, most of the Africans were from Mende, not Mandingo. It was not until two years later that the Africans admitted they-had decided to tell no one their true place oforigin-they did not trust their questioners. Yet, ironically, their language would play a crucial role in the trial, and in their eventual freedom.

"Wt wantyou tQ ask the court what we have done wrong. What for Americans keep us in prison. uring his court testimony on the morning ofJanuary 8, Professor Gibbs explained the significance of language in the case. In order to win, the defense knew it had to prove the Africans were enslaved illegitimately. It could do so by proving that the Spaniards violated the Anglo-Spanish treaty of 1817. But, to prove this, they had to prove the men were not from Cuba; they had to prove that the blacks were Africans. Gibbs began to make this case outside of the courtroom through the press. Gibbs himself had Covey teach him Mendi. After accumulating a vocabulary, he communicated with the Africans. Gibbs showed that each of the Mende prisoners' names was an object, place, or thing in the Mendi language. He explained that ifthe Spanish had chosen African names "haphazanlly and given them to Africans indiscriminately, it would, in the multiplicity of African dialects,

December 3, 1997

have been a miracle for the Mendi names to fall so exactly on Mende people." Moreover, he argued that if the Spanish had taken words from Mende and given them to the blacks as names, they would have "corrupted" words both "in form and sound." Finally, while it was evident that the blacks could not speak Spanish, they did communicate in several African dialects. In court, Gibbs concluded that the blacks undoubtedly were "native Africans and recently from Africa." The trial's drama climaxed with Pieh's testimony. One observer later recalled the room's "breathless attention." Pieh's testimony struck the audience. He lay on the floor of the courtroom to demonstrate the conditions in which the Africans had been placed. When he discussed the treatment of the blacks by the Spaniards aboard the Amistad, he told one account of the cook hitting him. He was asked whether he thought the cook might have been doing so in play. "Oh, no, no," he responded. Two other Africans testified as well. One of them, Grabeau, explained how the sailor had whipped him and others for stealing water, how the cook had told them they would be eaten after their heads had been cut off. Then he admitted the cook was the first to be killed. They hadn't wanted to kill the captain, but did so after he had killed one of the Africans. Through their testimony, the Mricans made it evident that their rebellion was one of self-defense. Their case was tried twice before it was taken to the U.S. Supreme Court where John Quincy Adams headed the defense. Finally, they had won their freedom. After the court decision, Baldwin asked Adams, "What shall be done with them now that they are free? They are separated from their homes by the distance of half the globe and in a state where they might be pitied but not wanted." Pieh and his fellow men returned to Africa, but their legacy still remains with us. Because they were able to be heard, and understood, they attained their freedom. From the memorial in front of City Hall, to the reconstruction of the Amistad currendy being built in Mystic, Connecticut, the story of the Amistad captives' capture, rebellion, trial, and freedom is told and retold. Now, the story of the Amistad will be told in a different language, that native to Hollywood. 1111

Daphna Rman, a sophomore in Mone College, is CirculaJUm and Subscriptions Manager ofTNJ.

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"Wannafiy?" The question sounds psychedelic, but it raises a series of mundane questions. Do I want to learn how to By a plane? How much time will it take? Is it dangerous? How far away is the airport? Is there a bus to take me there? The question has a very different ring when asked while 5,000 feet over the Alaskan countryside by a pilot eagerly handing you the controls to a plane. It was through this spontaneous act by a daring Alaskan bush pilot that I was introduced to flying. It was more than enough to get me hooked. In the few minutes before the controls were plucked from my hands, I tasted freedom. This sort of freedom is well and good in Alaska, where you can easily be a hundred miles from the nearest road. Back home in New York City, there is barely room to park, much less take off and land. So, my first round of Bight instruction had to be postponed until an end-ofsummer trip co Long Island.

<"'

t 0

~ I learned to my dismay that flying is popular on Long Island, and ~ the instructor called me to say that he's fully booked. Well, he said, all ~ but 6 a.m. I took the offer in a second.

I caught a cab to the airport and arrived ten minutes early. Soon enough, a plane landed, taXied over, and the instructor hopped out. After a tutorial covering how planes fly, and a preflight inspection of the airplane, we were tip in the air. I have since learned that a good instructor makes the novice student feel as though he is flying the airplane, and I, for one, was fooled completely. Sensing only gentle assistance from the instructor on the controls, "I" took us around the neighborhood and along the beach. I learned the layout of the now-familiar control and instrument panel, and we did some basic climbs, descents, and turns. Towards the end of the lesson, we were even able to locate a number of familiar local landmarks. Were we waking people up while buzzing around at 7 a.m.? I certainly didn't care. I spent the months before winter break grounded in New York, lazily staring at my precious 2.3 logged hours and devouring anything written about flying. I learned the phonetic alphabet, the system by which letters and numbers are communicated dearly across the radio. The alphabet runs from Alpha through Zulu. The numbers are normal with the exception of the somewhat famous "Niner." I also subscribed co Flying magazine, which I still read. By the time winter break rolled around, I was aware of most of the topics a pilot needs co know--only I had no flight experience. Winter break was my first opportunity to solidify my flying knowledge. My family went away to Arizona where flying time is cheap and plentiful, and I loved every minute of it. By the trip's end I had a good

T.HE NEw JouRNAL

chunk of knowledge and experience about the basics of flying, not to mention having logged 14 hours in the cockpit. My newfound experience ranged from getting the plane through the air smoothly, to performing a preflight inspection. This had also been my first time speaking to the control tower, which is the most basic unit of air traffic control (ATC). I still find ATC incredibly cool because nothing quite says "flying" like "Scottsdale tower, Cessna 55374, holding shon of the active runway at Bravo for nonheast departure." I was also pulling off some fairly decent landings. Landing is the hardest pan of flying. It requires slowing down enough so that the wings lose their lift, but only within inches of the runway so that the plane doesn't smack down too hard. A bad landing causes a loud crash and the seats to hit up against you as the plane drops onto the runway. A good landing leaves the plane rolling calmly and effortlessly down the runway. Upon my return to New York, my enthusiasm only deepened. I continued to read everything I could about flying. Despite my wistful glances up at clear skies on cold winter days (ideal for flying), Bight training was again postponed, this time until spring break. Over break, I made it up to 32 hours, and on the second to last day I was endorsed by my instructor to By solo-if, he cautioned, the winds stayed down for my final day. I checked the Weather Channel constantly that night and was greeted by healthy gusts the next morning. Despite some beautiful landings in a crosswind, I wasn't allowed to solo. I finally brought together my sporadic training of the last year this past summer. Towards the end, I flew as often as several times a week. I mostly practiced things I had learned before, but I also experienced Approach Control, a new facet of ATC. If you are flying from one place to another, you can request "Bight following." This means a con-

December 3, 1997

troller will watch you on radar and attempt to keep you clear of other planes, and clear you through any controlled airspace which might be in your path. My summer culminated with two solo flights. People often ask about the meaning ofsolo. "All by yourself? Really?" Really. Solo means solo, I reply, but even I was surprised by the lack of supervision on the second solo. All by myself, I got the keys from the desk, did a preflight inspection, started the engine, took off, flew, and landed. At every stage, it was a shock not to have anyone in the copilot seat watching and checking everything I did. But I hadn't felt independence until I'd flown in a plane which was solely my responsibility. After a year of obsessing, I was finally there, flying an airplane. I was eager to continue my flying as soon as I got to Yale. Unfonunately, because of my schedule and weather, I only recently began flying here. The Yale Flying Club has planes that I've never flown before, and it will be a few hours before I'm soloing again. I can't wait-straight up seems like an excellent direction to go to escape the hubbub of campus for a while. Flying also inspired me to take a meteorology course here at Yale. We've all moaned about how our life is never going to depend, say, on our ability to solve a multi-variable equation. The excitement of meteorology, for me, is that my life may actually rest one day on my knowledge of this course material, such as whether a storm will be forming in my Bight path. On the ground, I sometimes kick myself to keep from going on for hours about the wonders of ATC, visual flight rules, wing Haps, landing, or anything else. But of course, the real fun is being up there, cruising along, and having it all come together. There are lots of places to By around New Haven, but as we have all heard, it's the joutney, not the destination, that is irnponant. Being able to make the journey at 5,500 feet makes it only bener. 1111

David Slifka, a freshman in Jonathan Edwards Co/leges, is on the staff

ofTNJ. 27

Prying Eyes The invasive Western gaze on display by Vanessa Agard-Jones Baule: African Art/Western Eyes, curated by Susan F. Vogel. Yale University Art Gallery, August 30, 1997 to January 4 , 1998.

BEGINS

WITH

SOMEWHAT

FAMIUAR

pieces, works we have come to expect of art in the African tradition. Figurines sit singularly encased under glass, and curator's notes dot the wall beneath a map of northwestern Africa. We have walked into '1\rt: That Is Exhibited: Museum· Masterpieces," the opening of Baule: African Art/Western Eyes at the Yale University Art Gallery. Gathered here, for the first time, is an assembly of artwork from this region of the Ivory Coast, Baule Country, representing an ethnic group of over one million people. Susan Vogel, former director of the museum, brought this culmination of her personal research to the gallery in an attempt to redefine the Western notions of looking at African art. And that is exactly what we as visitors do; we look, examine, critique the line, the form, the detail, and the tone that each piece sets in this first themed segment. We do so instinctively, playing directly into Vogel's hands. Our initial reactions teach us a lesson in the end-about our Western-ness, our assumptions, and ultimately about ourselves. The first portion of Baule is placed rather unassumingly near the entrance of the museum-not in a separate room, but in the lobby itsel£ We encounter this first section with the impression that it is unremarkable--we read the historical backgrounds on the walls, circle the installments, scribble notes in a lined pad. There is only a hint that this art will be challenging, because it comes from a different cultural tradition and also because its presentation, even now, is a little different. The labels are less pretentious than the ones in the gallery on the museum's second Boor. They tell us what each piece is, where it originated, by whom it was donated, and the cultural significance that it possesses, but that is all. The

focus is on the bare analysis. We are left to look. But we've been well trained. We fill in the pretension that the labels have left out and walk on. The lighting changes. A screen on the opposite wall plays a videotape and the music, chant-like, seeps into our ears. ·Palms start sweating. In this next section, all of the pieces are not housed under glass cases. They aren't stilted and displayed like the classic Greek sculpture that we're used to seeing on the floor below. Here, there is raffia, cloth, texture. It makes us nervous. One half of the room is "Art That Is Glimpsed: Spirit Spouses." The intricately carv~ figures are the personal possessions of the Baule people, representing the other half of themselves, the spouses left in the womb the moment they were born. They are not meant to be seen by other people. They are private creations. We wipe our hands on our jeans and wonder what has become of those people whose spirit spouses are here, at the Yale University Art Gallery, far away from the Ivory Coast and their other halves. We sit for a moment with the smaller spouses, made for children, and read the admonition on the wall: "The original purpose of a Baule figure can only be known while it is in its original context." But we are not on the Ivory Coast, we are in New Haven. Understanding the concept of Baule art within both its own context and a Western one is the central task. It is this duality that Vogel has carefully constructed and attempts to drive home with graceful subtlety. Behind a thin muslin-like screen, a mask materializes out of darkness. It is Banked by large, colorfully batiked swaths of cloth, the scene derived from the videotape playing nearby. The music has gotten louder. We have crossed the room to "An That Is Watched:

Entertainment Masks," but have begun to understand that .the watching is inappropriate. Notes from Koffi Nguessan, a Baule artist who helped Vogel with the eXhibit and its accompa!lying book, explain that Baule artists seek to surprise with their work and, in ·that tradition, the Baule mask is never openly displayed. It is revealed, quite elaborately and only fleetingly, during entertainment dances and is then wrapped up and put away until the next time it is used. The masks hanging here in the gallery are unnaturally displayed. They are naked, staked to the cases, unprotected from appraising eyes. It is a painful sight. Through the corridor that connects the two parts of the exhibit, we find time to breathe but are unprepared for what is co come next. We encounter '1\rt That Is Observed With Awe: The Sacred." The curator's notes for this section remind us that these objects are kept in sanctified spaces. They are not made for public eyes. It is Baule tradition to divide the sacred along gender lines; men and women each have their own versions. On the female side the divine is captured in adyanun, the sacred women's dance, the collective property of women that men are forbidden to see. For the men there are bo nun amuin, or the men's gods, objects that women are forbidden to see. A young woman stands transfixed, indecisive before this next, most powerful segment of the exhibit. Behind. her head a videotape plays showing Baule trance diviners, the intensity of the dancers' performance escalating with her anxiety over what to do next. She

THE NEw jouRNAL

is faced with a choice. The space is fractured: women's ceremonies are behind one wall, men's behind another. She stands before a sign that reads, "Baule men do not want women to see their sacred objects." Behind her another sign reads, "Baule women do not want men to see their sacred ceremonies." She chooses not to enter. She makes the conscious decision to leave the male space unviolated. Her decision is perhaps the most intense moment that can be experienced through art: something that calls for comprehensive selfreflection and self-location as both viewer and cultural outsider. To encounter a space that one culture holds so dearly calls attention to our own strangeness, the particularity of the Western psyche. The sense of being an outsider is acute. We are both male and female in this space, ghost-walking through someone else's sacred world. Our alienation comes from our assumptions about why we deserve to be there. The last section reinforces the sense of displacement. With the tide ''Art That Is Displayed: Decorative Objects," the theme of the exhibit's final segment makes us realize that these pieces are the only enes that we should have been able to view all along. The placards inform us that Baule artists spend the majority of their time creating functional objects, simply because they are the only pieces that are seen and can be acclaimed. Here, almost tucked in as an afrerthought, is the only art that the Baule people would have seen in our Western way. We feel the callousness of what we have done. Looking back, though, it is difficult to accept Vogel's critique of our ways of seeing. We recognize its validity, but realize that she asks a great deal of us. Exiting the museum it is inevitable that we look through our Western eyes. We have been touched viscerally by the experience, but are still muddling through its intellectual and personal significance. We have spent time looking and in that process have been forced to confront our own presumption. Bauk has left us questioning on a broader scale what else, beyond simply African An, we have been misrepresenting and mishandling with Western Eyes. 18]

~nessa Agard-fones, a sophomore in Calhoun

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Accursed Verse For aspiring poets, Yale University Press' Inferno is sheer torment.

by j essica

N THE MIDDLE OF THEIR JOURNEY, THEY CAME TO A

dark landing-on a little-used back staircase at Yale University Press-where the straight way was lost. H ere, cobwebs traverse the corners of the walls. T he overhead light has gone out, so that any pilgrim to the Yale Press building who wishes to glimpse the refuge of the damned must make do with the dim glare filtering through the single dingy window. Someone has tossed a ÂˇFig N ewton wrapper-a mark of disdain, ~scar of defeat- into one of the 17 mailbins lining the musty walls. Most of the bins are labeled with construction paper guideposts, magicmarkered " IN FERNo" and "PURGATORro" ; one lone box, which sits exalted above the rest on a rickety, abandoned desk, carries Âˇ the tag " PARADISO." . All of the bins are stuffed with manuscript submissions to the Yale Series ofYounger Poets competition, which each year selectS an unpublished poet under age 40 whose manuscript is plucked from the vulgar herd and published in book form. The labels, alas, seem but a .cruel mockery now. So does the epigraph to the portrait of long-dead Yale patron Earl Trumbull Williams that hangs above the poetic sinners languishing on the floor: "H is strength sprang from the cleanness of his heart." For this year, at the decree of newly-appointed judge and Minos, W S. Merwin, all submissions have been consigned to H ell. Merwin and Yale Press announced that they had abandoned all hope through a press release issued shortly after Merwin's O ctober decision. Isaac Cates (GRD '00) echoes their statement when he explains, "There is not a winner in the Yale Series of Younger Poets this year not because there were no good submissions but because there were no uniformly great ones." Cates is one of a dozen readers, a group mostly comprised of graduate students in the English department, who whittled 700 ap plicants down to 15 finalists. Cates speculates that if the late James Dickey, who judged the series between 1990 and 1996, were still _ presiding, one of the manuscripts would have found red emption at the E typesetter's-he was, after all, the author of Deliverance. "Merwin is ~ putting his mark on the series by holding each manuscript to really ~ high standards," Cates says. Another reader, Stephen Burt (GRD '01) ~ concurs, "The bottom line is not 'Poets are getting worse,' but 'Yale ~ Series ofYounger Poets has a new judge."' ~ Merwin's decision forced an abrupt end to an arduous selection ~ process whose way is long and road is hard. Back in February, like Vir~ gil's apprentices, the readers began guiding the submissions toward ~ their respective fates according to Dante's system of the afterlife, a clas'tl sifying scheme instated three years ago by Yale Series sponsoring editor ~ Richard Miller (GRD '57). "Eighty percent of the manuscripts make

W inter

it to Inferno within th.ree readings," Miller estimates. "Once a few more people have gone through the remaining poems, then Purgatorio needs to be purged. That's when Inferno overflows." Indeed, this year many exiles from Purgatorio were shipped to "INFERNO LAKES (bedroom community for those who work in Inferno)," located in another room of the Yale Press building. After Merwin rejected a first batch of finalists, the readers performed a Harrowing of Hell, plucking six manuscripts from the depths like so many Rachels, Noahs, and Abrahams. Merwin forsook these, too. Just as all involved were losing hope of the. ascent, Yale &view editor J. D. McClatchy (GRD '74) presented Merwin with a few manuscripts he himself had solicited. Merwin gave one his blessing, but higher-ups at Yale Press intervened, arguing they could not award the prize to any poet whose collection had not followed the same procedural channels as the hundreds of other applicants. (This phantom manuscript, pure of heart but knowing not the ways of those On High, presumably rests its weary frame in the first circle with the Virtuous Heathens: those who are guiltless but without hope.) Miller, Cates, and Burt are all quick to point out that Merwin's edict is hardly unprecedented in the competition's 78-year history. During his 12 years as judge, W H. Auden gave no award on two occasions. But Auden's tenure also produced a remarkable string of soon-to-be great shades: Adrienne Rich, John Ashbery (who beat out Frank O 'Hara), James Wright, John Hollander (Hon. MA '77), and Merwin himself, among others. Recent years have produced no such notables; last year's winner Talvikki Ansel's My Shining Archipelago was scourged by critics. But Burt points out, "As opposed to novels, it takes a while for people to see when a book of poems is really important. The people who have won in the last few years have not been super-celebrat~, and it could be they're not very good, or it could be it just takes a while. Auden was a special case, but even with Auden, some of his selections were hit by trucks, some became John Hollander. But no one in 1957 was saying that John Hollander was a great poet. It's only visible in retrospect." Just as many published poets must spend some time in lit-crit Purgatorio before ascending the sunny hill, unpublished scribes hope that a retrospective glance at their work will allow them to attain the lofty seat; as Cates points out, "We get a lot of resubmissions from year to year. That's especially encouraging this year, beca.use there were a few I wouldn't have minded publishing, but none that couldn't have used a year's worth of revising." Those thousands of poems awaiting recycling in a dusty corner of Yale Press, it seems, have some recourse. After all, revision is its own penitence. laJ

je ssica Winter is o junior in Saybrook College.

December 3, 1997

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