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FEATURES

8 12

p. 8

16 p. 22

22

Seeking the Spirit Level In store fronts and private homes, the traditions and trappings of folk religions mingle with more mainstream beliefs.

BY ELI I<INTISCH

Photo Essay: American Dream

BY ELENA OXMAN

Mixed Messages Two recent postering incidents leave ambiguous messages behind.

BY DAN KELLUM

Left at the Center At the New Haven People's Center, old guard radicals keep Communist ideals alive.

BY j ESS CHAMPAGNE

s

T A N DAR D S _ _ _ _ _ __ 4

From Our Perspective

5 2.8

Points of Departure Between the Vines: White Bred, White Trash BY ANYA E. LIFTIG. The Critical Angle: Spinoza, Liberalism, and the Question of Jewish

30

Identity. BY JASON D 'CRUZ. Endnote: What I Saw at the Revolution

26

p.

26

\

BY

IAN BLECHER.

Cover by Hrisbikcsh Hirway.

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4

Whose line is it, anyway?

F

ROM AN UNDERGRADUATE' S PERSPECTIVE,

unions at Yale appear to serve only a perennial role, one almost as predictable and expected as the grass-growing rituals on Old Campus. The contract expires, the unio'h wants to make changes, Yale dislikes them, the two sides bicker for months on end and at the last possible minute the dispute is settled and the issue disappears back into the stonework. The intervening conflation of vigils, parades, sidewalk proselytization and omnipresent propaganda more closely resembles the internal contretemps of an emerging Eastern European country than the goings-on at an elite university. · Well, that's how it's supposed to work, anyway.

Ask any junior or senior if the names Proto, Vallone, Locals 34 and 35 and GESO ring a bell, and memories of the strike of '96 emerge as dearly as did the unions' 6 a.m. chants two springs ago.

The most recent labor flare-up between the YPBA and Yale heralds a marked divergence from the trend to which upperclassmen are now accustomed. No marches on Beinecke Plaza, no visiting celebrities to attract media attention to the unions' cause.

In fact, both the police union and Yale seem determined to avoid attention.

Let's back up for a minute. How many students actually know exactly what YPBA stands for? (Hint: the "B" stands for "Benevolent." Catchy, no?) How about the names Juhas and Morganti? The most noted participants in this dispute aren't even from the unions or the administration. They're students like Noel Poyo (MC '98), who have assumed roles as active champions of a hushed and elusive cause.

But what is this cause for which they fight? Why doesn't anyone know what's going on, and why doesn't anyone care? All the student publications covered the battle

between Locals 34 and 35 and Yale. The Yale Daily News ran labor articles every morning, and, during the strike, devoted a full column to day-by-day updates of labor talks. The New journal dedicated an entire issue to the topic of "Labor at Yale."

No one is reponing the YPBA dispute precisely because nothing seems to be happening. T he situation sounds a rather absurd note for labor relations. The administration says it's ready and waiting for the YPBA to contact them; all the union has to do is pick up the phone. The police union, meanwhile, alleges that the University is stonewalling them and trying to bully them into signing a contract. And both sides optimistically express their confidence in reaching an agreement-soon. Yale and the unions must be honing their diplomatic _acumen, because they haven't publicly met since December.

More disconcerting than the lack of basic communication between the two sides is the lack of even feign ed concern on the part of Yale and its students. Who will be on the other end of the blue phone if the YPBA is on the picket line?

One can only guess why the police . union agreed to a gag rule for speaking to the press about labor relations. Perhaps they thought it would make talks with Yale easier, or maybe they didn't think the students held enough clout with the higher-ups. But by keeping the situacio·n under wraps, the YPBA losr one of its greatest potential allies. Who else should care about security if not the students? Why should students care if they don't know that their security is at risk?

The question of who's to blame is moot since neither side, nor the people caught in the middle, are stirred enough to point a finger. In the good old days of labor strife, we could count on. the eleventh hour. But today, no one even cares what time it is.

THE NEW JouRNAl-

.. '

Bond. Bail Bond.

Robert Jacobs is the first bail bondsman I meet. Wearing a tan leather jacket and plaid scarf. with white hair and glasses, he circles the crowd of people, chatting it up, looking for a "bond." "I can't stand here," he says. "I have to keep moving around.

Everybody wants me." He grips my hand, hands me a card, and by habit, slips me a quarter to call him with, as if I were another of his clients.

This is the New Haven Courthouse at noon. It resembles a wdl-attended party-a disorienting blur of people, chambers percolating with conversation, and the occasional guy shuffiing around, ~mbarrassed, in ankle chains. Several cops huddle at the enrrance, manning a metal detector, and lawyers d ivvy up the criminals of the day. The courtrooms themselves are standing-room only, wall-towall with accused criminals and their assorted entourage.

As part of the festivities, Jacobs is busy procuring clients, so he directs me tO another bondsman, who gives me a proper introduction to the business. He wishes to remain unidenrified ("Look, kid. Don't print my name. This would bring me a lot of grief"), so I'll caU him Frank.

He explains bail bonding to me with a vivid scenario. "Say you're drunk outside of Toad's, take a piss in the gutter and get arrested for it. You want to get out of jail. To do this, you have to put up a bond, to insure that you show up at court for your trial. It's like collateral-you get it back when you show up. Say you can't afford the bond. You call us, we put the bond up for you, and you pay us a seven to ten percenr cut. If you show up at court, we make a nice profit. If you don't show up, we go after you. We have six months to find you. Otherwise, we lose the full value of the bond. It's a crap shoot. Every bond is a gamble. If you wanna make money, you gotta

gamble." It's a gamble that pays off, apparentback home the next day after he showed up at ly: if he's lucky, the bondsman can go through court. So he went along with me. As far as I $100,000 worth ofbonds in a month. With a know, he's still in prison somewhere in Conseven to ten percent cut, bail bonding looks necticut. But I have no remorse over somepretty lucrative. body that doesn't show up at court."

Nevertheless, bonding is still risky; Frank Sketchy? Perhaps. But bail bondsmen, aU proceeds to tell me about the manhunt in aU, can be nice folk. Frank, for example, required to find doesn't even carry a gun. "Do you think I'm those who have crazy? If I'm carrying a gun, chances are that "jumped bail." the other guy's carrying a gun, and chances are The bail bondsthat it's bigger than mine. No. I want to live a man simply surnice long life." prises the bail Think of the bondsman as simply a spejumper at his cial breed of investmenr banker- just the house. The best plaid polyester version in the back of the time to fi nd store. He makes investments: risky ones, with them is four in the morning, Frank informs a quick payoff and a little more dirty work. me. "We don't really need a warrant. We can And ifyou happen to be in prison, the bondsgo right into that house. We have certain man is your best friend-for seven percent, rights the policemen don't have. The laws that is.

-And"w Youn are very vague. As long as you don't break down any doors or anything, it's okay." If Getting Over Aesthetics the bail-jumper has left the state, Frank might hire a bounry hunter, and together, "Look at the ceiling height here," Richard track down the guy.

Lytle says as he stands up and touches plaster In fact, he - . . , . - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - . . . . _ with the palm of had just returned his hand.

"I from tracking mean, it's ridicudown a man in lous!" Lytle grins Florida.

Frank and sits back had put up a down, still laugh$9,000 bond to ing at the ceiling barely above him. spring the guy from jail, and he It is the seven foot ceiling on in rum failed to show up at court. the eighth Aoor With $9,000 on of Yale's Art and the Line and good A rch it ec t u re information that Building. Seven feet-perfecdy his man was in the Sunshine good to walk State, Frank around under, to boarded a plane. sit down and eat He took a lun~ or to have a licensed bounty co n versa t i o n beneath-but no hunter with him, and bought three space for the artist about to rerum tickets for make a ten foot high pain ring. the next morning. "I found my man, told him So the painters are leaving. Lytle chairs a that everything was all right, and that he'd be

5

building co'mmittee currently completing plans for the School of Art's new home on Chapel Street across from the Art & Architecture building. Once che New Haven Jewish Community Center QCC), 1156 Chapel has been vacant for more chan 15 years. The School of Art plans to move in at the end of 1999.

Paul Rudolph designed Yale's A&A building in 1963 and garnered the praise of the architecture world for his creative use of space. Rudolph's vision was to balance form and void, interior and exterior, rough and smooth. But Lytle's committee is balancing different scales: cost and time, function and appearance, one artist's space versus another's.

The A&A building is still a staple of architecture textbooks, and Rudolph remains recognized as an outstanding pioneer of modern architecture. "It's a monumental piece ?f sculpture," Lytle says, even 30 years after plywood partitions and lopsided drafting tables have broken up Rudolph's original vision.

Forced out by cramped conditions, much of the School of Arc has already left the Rudolph building behind. Sculpture hides out on Mansfield Street. Graphic Design is on Park Street. Undergraduate painting is split between York and Park. The renovated JCC building will eventually bring these departments back together. But, more importantly, it will give students in each department more space.

After all, a "monumental piece of sculpture" isn't always the best place to create sculpture. "To make art you need light, air and space," says Richard Benson, Dean of the Art School. "But the real thing you need is a building that the arc srudents can ruin. You can't put art students or artists in a space and not expect them to make a mess of it." So when the School of Art decided co renovate 1156 Chapel, Lytle's commircee left the Paul Rudolphs behind and went straight to architect Deborah Berke, author of Architecture for the Everyday, a book compiled co remind us that successful architeCture can be extremely unmonumental.

"We're not trying to get a place with beautiful finishes and perfect detail. What we really need is a big set ofloft spaces," says Benson.

The new Yale School ofArt building will have painting srudios on the cop Boor co access the best light. It will have computer hookups, year-round climate control and a three level

6

gallery. It will have space. And so will the Yale School of Architecture. The Rudolph building is slated to be renovated soon after the School of Art moves out, restoring many of the open spaces that have been closed up for convenience.

"We don't study art. We make art," Benson says with a smile in his half-partitioned A&A office. "That's what we're interested in."

Making art just doesn't require hand-molded walls and blank open voids. What it does require, according to the present renovation plan, are freight elevators, wide staircases and some really high ceilings.

-Heidi V0gt

Housecall on Mars Those who spend their days looking through telescopes have been given new reason to turn their gazes back toward .earth. ¡. NASA and the Yale. School of Medicine, the most unlikely of partner's, have engaged in a collaborative project to develop fururistic medical techn~logies. Researchers from the Commercial Space Center for Medical Informatics and Technology Application (CSC/MITA), located at the medical school, have been working almost five years to reinvent health care through the burgeoning field of telemedicine.

CSC/MITA was created to foster a partnership among businesses, academic centers and government agencies chat would¡ develop advanced technology for NASA's needs, especially missions to Mars. The Center has since become a leader in the telemedicine field, which allows doctors to administer health care electronically ftom distant points. Its researchers have invented devices chat allow doctors co check a patient's blood pressure, pulse, body temperature and oxygen levels from continents or even planets away. Such groundbreaking gadgets are complemented by new technology co facilitate remote surgery whereby a physician could move his hand in a sensor on earth and have a scalpel move in the same direction in space.

Though these projects may sound farfetched, they will be tested in the corning weeks. In May, CSC/MITA will have its first opporrunicy to cesc these technologies in remote conditions similar to outer space: the Yale team will participate in the 1998 Everest Extreme Expedition. Climbers, scientists and doctors will put geological and surveying

devices on the mountain's summit more than 29,000 feet above the ground. Researchers from CSC/MITA will then establish an advanced medical clinic at Base Camp to provide telemedical support for the 1998 climbing season and experiment with some of their latest medical technologies.

"Scientific investigation of high altitude effects with technology previously not available will extend our understanding of the human body beyond the incredible discoveries of previous expeditions," said Dr. Richard Satava, director of CSC/MITA. When the climbers begin their assault of the summit, they will wear vital signs sensors and wireless transmitters that collect scientific data on performance and endurance. The Center's newest telemedicine programs will transmit these vital signs to doctors at the School of Medicine. Data concerning nearly every aspect of human endurance, !ncluding blood pressure, pulse, EKGs, body temperature and signs of fatigue, will be transmitted in real time for Yale researchers to monitor. "All this data will be analyzed to help further our knowledge of human performance in extreme environments," said Satava.

When the climbers puc on such exotic accessories as medical sensors and portable 3D cele-ultrasound systems during the ascent in Nepal, doctors in New Haven will be analyzing the effects of high altirude. They will also diagnose any injuries that might occur.

But while virtual diagnosis may be appealing to the climbers, with the nearest doctor 10,000 feet away, treatment is another issue.

-Ronen Givony

Tune Inn, Sell Out When I went to the Tune Inn on Saturday night the crowd sported mohawb-big skyscraper mohawks towering above their heads in green and purple spikes a foot call or more.

The punk-lovers came from all over New Haven, Stamford, Milford and Guilford.

They were pierced and wore tom cloches, dark, heavy eyeliner and black cherry lipstick.

Some stood outside near the club entrance. where the sound of beating drums and angry shouts pulsed in co the street on waves of sweat and cigarette smoke. A hundred more slamdanced on the 269-person dance floor inside.

Several kids unloaded a cargo van parked

THE NEW JouRNAl-

in front of the club. Carrying variously shaped black boxes, they exchanged some hand slaps with the ktds loitering outside, then tried to make their way inside. Fernando Pinto, the club's owner, stopped them at the door-"Hey, hey, hey"- and held out his hand for the cover charge. They looked at him strangely.

"They're in the band," explained a greenhaired kid standing by the entrance. Fernando gave an embarrassed smile and motioned for them to pass. The band members pushed him aside.

In the six years that he has run the club, Fernando has become accustomed to putdowns from his sometimes volatile crowds. Since founding the Tune Inn in 1992, he has devoted the all-ages club to punk, hard-core and ska cultures whose main joy comes from defying the establishment, including him. Each night he stands at the door as a bouncer and enforces the cover charge. More than once he has had to flush patrons' weed supplies down the toilet or pour their 50 ounce bottles of gin into the street. His crowds have also caused problems with investors in the club's Ninth Square neighborhood, who would like to see the Tune Inn razed as part of a neighborhood revitalization effort. Fernando recendy put the club on the market. As head of his own label, Elevator Music (which launched groups such as Dinosaur Jr. and the Flaming Lips), he can return to promotion as soon as he sells the club. "Running this place is hard," he said. "I want a more relaxed job."

Fernando's efforts to make his club more marketable have frustrated club die-hards trying to escape the mainstream music scene.

Once a place where parents were afraid to send their children, the Tune Inn now swarms with giddy 12-year-olds who listen to M1Vpopulariz.ed ska and wear baby T-shirts

straight out of a YM spread. "They don't care about the music," said Liz Chodos, 16, a Tune Inn veteran. "They just go because they think it's cool to be in downtown New Haven at night."

In the six months since it obtained its liquor license, the Tune Inn has drastically altered its set-up. A ceiling-high wire fence now blocks off half the dub for the 21 and over patrons. A full bar with pool tables, a red Buddha, a montage of old guitars, construecion hats and steer horns now stands where there were once comfy couches and picnic tables. "The Tune Inn used to have this weird atmosphere that was really attractive," said Liz. "Now it's really hard to sit down anywhere."

Fe rnando sees in his older crowd the opportunity to promote the blues, swing, garage, surf and rockabilly music that he believes will dominate underground ' s future. Hard-core shows that draw younger audiences have nearly disappeared from the club roster, restricted to 5 p.m. Sunday matinees.

The week before Saturday's show, the Tune Inn hosted a swing show. I arrived at the club to find four girls, all age 16, waiting outside the club. "It's all old people playing music. We didn't know it was all old people," said Breigh Garguilo, a four year veteran whose business the Tune Inn may soon lose.

The normally full entrance area was completely empty. Inside, less than 15 kids stood on the giant dance floor, none of them dancing. The bar housed a few ratty-haired 40-year-olds in leather jackets, dressed like members of Spinal Tap. Walking back outside, I asked the girls what they were doing.

"Waiting to go home." They would come back the next week when Fernando played - ]ada Yuan better music.

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In s tore fro nt s a nd pri vate h o mes, the traditi o n s a nd tra ppin gs of folk reli g ion s ming le wi th m ore ma instream beliefs .

SEEKING THE SPIRIT LEVEL Eli Kintisch

A

DORNING THE WALLS OF A BACK ROOM IN ANNIE's APART-

ment near Wooster Square are symbols of African deities, Catholic icons, lucky rabbit's feet. Her shelves showcase statues of saints, carved animal faces and Congo sculpture.

Yoruba metal symbols adorn the room beside glass bowls of water and dozens of candles. Religious beads hang from the walls with Mexican hats and dice. Every few moments, a parakeet caws out from its cage.

The white tablecloth is decorated with uinkets, incense and colorful vials of oil. A plastic buddha surveys the scene. To my unin itiated eyes, I'm sitting in a virtual Religious Studies lecture: a feast of faiths, a visual dance of doctrines.

We hear the front door creak open, step into the kitchen and see two men waiting for Annie. "You were right, Annie, you knew he'd get shot," says Lamont. He sucks his teeth, gold tooth flashing in the dim light of the small apartment. _ Delroy, his friend, shakes his E dreadlocks incredulously. ~ They are here for a consulta~ tion with Annie, a practitioner of ~ Espiritismo, a Puerto Rican folk ~ religion. Lamont is on probation ~ for the sale of marijuana, and last ~ week he and a friend carne to Annie for a consultation. After a prayer ~ session, Annie warned them that they were in danger. Several hours .:i later, his friend was shot on the street. Now, with this friend in the hos~ pital and galvanized faith in Annie's abilities, Lamont has returned to -5 her aparunent for further spiritual guidance. a= Annie ap pears glad to see the men, but she is aware of the urgency

8

of their visit. Her expression is businesslike as she invites her clients to sit down on the plastic picnic chairs at her table.

Decorum demands that I refrain from watching the session. But from my seat in the kitchen, I can peek into Annie's back room to watch Lamont. He clasps his hands in front of his face in concentration. The chants and drum rhythms of traditional Yoruba m_usic rise from the stereo. Lazy curls of incense smoke drift through the open door towards me, and the kitchen fills with its sweet scent, mixed with pungent cigar fumes. ("Many of the spirits like the smoke," Annie later explains.) Afrer opening with a prayer in rapid Spanish, Annie listens as Lamont describes the spells that have been tormenting him. As she later recounts, she . lights candles labeled "Justo Juei' and "Court Case," and they pray for justice.

Soon it is Delroy's turn. He is a Jamaican man in his 40's or 50's who swears he has been tormented by an evil spell. "My sister has been trying to kill me for ten years," he says, and Annie begins to interrogate him. All I can hear are Delroy's impassioned descriptions of the spiritual chaos the spells have wreaked, Annie's high-pitched, heavy Spanish accent and a periodic "Right, right" from Delroy. They speak for more than an hour as the rhythm of the music rages on and the scent of incense thickens.

Annie prepares a mix of Agua de Florida-a sweet-smelling perfume-and Delroy fervently spreads the mixture over himself. he covers his face, his skin and his clothes. She instruCts Delroy to pray to the spirits

THE NEW JouRNAL

of his parents, and co cake several spiritual baths over the next few weeks. ¡ Delroy emerges into the kitchen, exhausted. "Annie knows her scuff, man," he says. "She's going to help me gee rid of those evil spells."

My reaction is one of skepticism-magic spells have always been the stuff of fairy tales for me.

I've always felt uncomfortable with the way African religions are depicted in pop culture as dark, wicked creeds. But it's hard to defend folk religions when confronted with the strangeness of Delroy's dtoughts. lc's easy to have an open mind, but does that mean accepting all that you take in? ee, we call ourselves Espiritistas," Annie tells me later. "We're spiritual people, mediums." She is quick to steer away from popular misconceptions of folk religions and voodoo. "We are more into God than anything else. This is not Black magic, but Mesa Blanca, the White Table."

Annie explains that the sacred ability to communicate with the spirits is known to be passed down in families. "My father was a medium too. When I was small, in Puerto Rico, I used to tell people things before they happened. He said, 'you're going to follow me'-1 said forget ic. But when I carne co th.is country, I saw a reader on TY, and knew I had co start using that power."

After studying for 15 years with a New York spiritualist, Annie began to establish a diverse following in New H aven. "Most of my customers are black, Jamaican," says Annie. "Plenty of Latinos coo." She sees a variety of clients seeking guidance, from couples with marital problems and families down on their luck to ex-cons like Lamont. "He comes to me a lot, you know. He's always in a lot of trouble with the law, he uses three names," says Annie. '' s

Her powers are renowned in local circles, bur Annie's reputation within the loosely-knit Espiritisca community goes far beyond the streets of New Haven. Her husband proudly describes the assortment of visitors who have come from New York, Boston and Chicago co pray with Annie. Recently she was invited co practice in a spiritualist temple in New York.

Annie is quick to set herself apart from other healers, many of whom are jealous of her reputation. "I don't go around killing animals, doing stuff like that. A lot of readers charge three, four, five hundred dollars, but I do it for God, for faith, not money, not anything like that."

Her face is youthful though the edges of her hair are greying. She keeps her thick glasses on a beaded cord around her neck.

"I'll stay our of trouble, Annie," Lamont says on his way our of the apartment. He sounds like a boy appeasing his mother.

A

nnie's homeland is a world of religious juxtaposition. In the islands of the Caribbean, the West A.ftican diaspora has intermingled with Catholic missionaries for centuries. With the influx of slaves to the New World, syncretic religions-those that have roots in Christianity as weLl as traditional sour~eveloped. These include Haitian Voodun, Brazilian Condoble, Cuban Santeria and various Catholic folk religions like Espiritismo. The creolization of this religion, apparent in the eclectic decorations on the walls ot'Annie's room, has continued in American cities. Combining elements from Roman Catholicism, Santeria, Native American healing riruals and European Spiritism, Espiritismo seems a religious microcosm of the American melting pot.

In Espiritismo, prayer to God is essential. Annie explains that an appeal to the spirits can be crucial in order co set one's world right. She

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describes the rituals she performs as spiritual "work," or service to please the spirits. Indicative of this kind of religious mentality is the tattered copy of Success and Pown- through Psalms, Annie's guidebook, sitting on the white tablecloth. The softcover book offers spells, prayers and procedures with the reductive simplicity of a cookbook, a collection of recipes to cure any malady. For an upcoming court appearance, it explains, pray to St. John the Conqueror with incense and lemon juice_.

For prosperity, pray to St. Jerome and light a votive candle. To ward off the evil eye, wear a charm called an acabache.

"It's all very simple," Annie assures me, adjusting the glasses which make her wide eyes appear even larger. "If you're working for love, you work with apple, with honey, with sugar, with Agua de Florida. If you're trying to control a person, you put their name in 'commanding oil' on your heel and stamp them out. If a student comes who's having a test, I put the white of an egg in a glass of water, pray Psalm 134, and add the mixture with wintergreen behind the neck."

It's one thing to absorb historical facts about folk religions, but when interacting with people whose faith in the power of the "spirits" is part of their daily existence, I find myself backing into a skeptic's corner. It's not that I don't believe in a higher power, but many of Annie's customs just seem contrived compared to the religious customs I've encountered before.

Raised in a Jewish household with a weekly Shabbos dinner and meat and dairy dishes, I grew up viewing ritual customs as passe. As I realized that my Jewish traditions were as subjective as other practices I doubted, I developed a kind of spiritual agnosticism. Sitting among the African sculptures and incense, I challenged my own conception of valid religious expression.

T

he Botanica Chango storefront sits quietly along the bustle of Grand Avenue, the main drag of Fair Haven.

Outside, a woman holding a baby hawks papayas and platanos from a van. The record shop across the street advertises "Salsa" in neon spray paint. Here, as in many small cities in southern Connecticut, se habla

espanoL Shops like Botanica Chango, a religious drugstore, novelty shop and modern-day

10

apothecary rolled in one, offer rare public evidence of a secretive world. As Good Friday approaches, the patrons inspect trinkets, oils and lotions that line the store shelves. Children are sent by their mothers to pick up candles, and espicitistas stock up on supplies. An occasional big spender asks about the porcelain statues of saints on the higher shelves or the full body snakeskins that hang above the cash register. Young mothers with toddlers peruse the greeting cards on their way to the perfume counter.

Some bring religious prescriptions written by their espiritistas on fine stationery. Others ask Grace, the friendly store manager, for remedies. More than just the folk believer's pharmacist, Grace is often asked to prescribe the medicines her store sells. After eight years, many of the community's believers have grown to rely on her spiritual advice to solve their problems.

"Hola, Grace," calls out a young man with a gold chain and sweat pants. He explains in Spanish that he's been having arguments with his wife. Grace leans forward on her elbows and listens closely, asking the occasional question. She gives him blue lotion, a candle and a pack of incense.

Relieved, he thanks her.

Later, Grace explains the sale. "I gave him that bath lotion to remove the tension from his body, gave him that incense to dear the air in his house, and the candle to help him see the problems better." It's a holistic system of healing-the supernatural combined with the commonsensical.

Almost all of those who believe in traditional religions consider themselves Catholic, even though the Pope has reiterated the Churdis ban on folk practices during several visits to the Caribbean. Although Grace con· tends that a large portion of the Fair Haven community practices some type of Catholic folk religion, local religious leaders seem to consider practices like Espiritismo childish behavior, not serious hereticism.

"I might allude to it in one of my sermons, but it's not an issue for my church," said Father Burbank at St. Rose's in Fair Haven. With a 70 percent Latino congregation, he's aware of the traditions behind the closed doors of many Latin American house· holds. "To find those religions I'd have to go digging for it-no one's going to tell me about it."

THE NEW JouRNAL

Congratulations to our graduating seniors: Alec Hanley Bemis

Loren Brody

Jesse Dillon

Jay Dixit

Dana Goodyear Yet even though local religious officials choose co overlook these secretive religious forms, Annie says she has received implicit suppon for the work she does. "A priest from St. Mary's in New Haven once saw my room, and he blessed it, saying, 'As long as you don't harm anybody, it's OK"' Followers of Catholic folk religions are as observant as any other Catholics. "I just don't work on Holy Week before Easter," says Annie. "That's the time for prayer, to seep back, to pray co God, let Him do His work."

Even though Annie is devoutly religious, it seems appropriate that she rediscovered Espiritismo through television, considering that folk religions have grown into a commercial industry. Botanica Chango boasts "Free Money" candles and cans of "Three Kings" aerosol spray, which sport pictures of Jesus on their labels. Several times I watched patrons at Botanica Chango compare different brands of the same candle like shoppers in a flea market.

In fact, the store caters to any spiritually aware customer, not just the consumer with Delroy's ingrained beliefs in the power of voodoo and spells. Many are middle class people with a wider belief in spirituality than most. One afternoon I watched a tall AfricanAmerican woman direct Grace's assistant in finding a medicinal lotion. "Right there on the lefi: next co the blue one. And can I gee some oil of High John the Conqueror?" She leaves the score with $20 wonh of candles, lotion and incense.

When I ask her which system of worship she practices, she laughs. "Espiritismo? Sante-

ria? What's that? I speak English," she says, depositing the shopping bag into the back of her Buick, next to the antifreeze. It turns out that she is Pentacostal. "I was brought up just believing in God-but God gave us wisdom to learn about the spiritual world."

Kavita Mariwalla

Dan Murphy

CCT

e traditional religions are alive and well going into the next century," says Roben Thompson, Yale's expen on Wesc African religious culture. "AU religions of the world are coming out in our cities. There are differences to be celebrated regardless of the racist snickers of the West. What aU religions share is a search for meaning."

Grace's husband, Angel Maninez, shows me the warehouse where Boranica Chango stores its supplies. He points to a porcelain statue of Santa Barbara in the corner. "If the president of Yale came co me with a blank check and offered me any amoum of money, I wouJd not give him this statue. She came to us in a vision, she is our guardian angel."

I smile at his faith, his fervor. I'm not ready to accept the alternative meanings.

From my rationalise, skeptical perspective, I'm more comfortable with my doubts.

"You don't believe. I see this, you don't believe. Tonight, when you go home and try to sleep you won't be able to." Angel stares hard at my shocked expression. "Then you will believe."

181

EJi Kintisch, a junior in Ezra Stiln associau ~diwr ofTNJ.

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American Dream Elena O x man

I took these photograp~ in Utah over Spring Break. Most of the towns I photographed were siruated in the Northern Valleys, some right outside of fancy ski resorts like Park City. The contrast was astounding. I saw very few people as I walked around, and I think the photographs reflect this sense of loneliness. The human traces in the pictures are mostly inanimate-signs, cars, houses. I photographed them because I fed they are charged with the hope and tragedy of the American Dream.

12

THÂŁ

NEw JouRNAL

IJ

THE NEw JouRNAL

15

T

he ky that Saturday was the color of swimming pools. It was the kind ofday whtn undergraduates flood Cross Campus in T-shirts and Aip-Aops even if the temperature calls for cardigans and socks.

Though there was a breeze that delivered waves of goose bumps, when the wind was still you could feel the sun beating down as if it were summer already. Even though it was only the first week after Spring Break, the gray of winter and the worries of the school year seemed to evaporate with the sun's arrival.

Despite the appearance on Cross Campus of leisure and laxness, a cool undercurrent of cy was about. Among rhe clumps of people laughing one could see course packets, the pages rusding, perhaps unattended bur nonetheless opened, as if reading were possible in such weather and in such company. There was the steady stream of me conscientious cloistering d1emselves in Cross Campus Library. Among those moving underground were three members of Consent, an undergraduate organization that staffs a ~cxual assault hotHoe. They carried helpful hints about protection, a computer printout on blue paper which read RAPE AWA.REN&SS WEEK in large letters and nempaper clippin~ mounted on paper in eye-catching Day-Glo colors. The three Consent members were there to set up a display in one of the glass cases between Machine City and CCL. The display would draw attention to the upcoming National Rape Awareness Week and promote events the gr up was sponsoring on campus.

•1 felt proud making the display," said Maren Obermwn (CC '99) ... It's an issue I care very much about. and I thought it was effective. I

thou~r people would notice it." In particular she mennoncd the newspaper clippings from a variety of sources: the Nnv ~rk Tim~ a year old Yak Halerter ro rhe ediror, and then roo, recent clippmgs from the Yak. Daily Nnvs covering an alleged sexual assault case tn an off-campus apartment in November. "I thought ir would get people's attention," said Obermann.

By rhe rime the Consent volunteers finished stapling their display it was around 4:30. The library was set to dose at five. There was no key ro the glass case, so they left it unlocked. Then, proud of their work, they filed out of the underground tunnel, back onto Cross Campus where the last few sun-worshipers sat in disorganized clumps.

The next day, two of the three Consent volunteers were out on Cross Campus lawn. Laughter reverberated against the stone walls of Berkeley College. One of the Consent volunteers, Teresa Lawson (MC '99), walked into CCL to see the display she had so proudly assembled the day before, bur found ir destroyed.

Some of the clippings were gone and the printout that had read RAPB AWARENESS WEEK now read only AWARENESS. It was a strange way to voice dissent. Half of the display had been removed, but half had been left behind-a ghosrly reminder of Consent's efforts to a.dvertise-and this fact raised interesting questtons .. Had r.he vandals ripped the whole thing down tmmedtatdy, would the counter-<lisplay have h~d the same violent effects? Or leaving it as they d•?· had the authors of the new display draw conspicuous attention to their own effons, to their power as destroyers of a message? Their action was a violent one--a rape of the word-and a preemp-

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who would speak out against sexwl assault, but also of the organization that would make them fed confident enough to do so.

The central oddity of the event was the wotd that remained- AWARENEss--while its compeers RAPE and WEEK were ripped away. It would be easy to read this incident as an angered response to the accusation of sexual assauJt made public earlier this semester. Was this asking us to be aware of another truth, one in which the accusations are trumped up, the spawn of second-guessing and misinterpretation? In this context of missing anicles and ripped paper under glass, this remaining word-AWARENESS--seems to ironize a rime when we were supposed to be aware of so much (the: same week was also Gay Pride Week and Women's Wellness Week, and the first ~ of Asian Pacific American Heritage Awareness Month).

But somehow, in the transition between the thought of "What ,. if 1..., and the: actual desuuction of someone else's well-intentioned effort, the act lost any daim to humor and produced only an indecipherable message.

One wonders what made this particular display so worthy of attack. Perhaps if the newspaper clippings had not included references to the contentious assault accusation, the: display would not have been so violently edited. Or if the newspaper clippings themselves wererit the offending dement of the display, maybe the concept of rape

awareness itself is more controversial than many of us think.

The temporal aspect of the event is also worthy of consideration. Consent set up its display 30 minutes before the library closed on Saturday. The: library opened at one the following day. By 2:30 p.m. the: display had already been ripped down.

"Terry had gone in to look at it," said Obermann. "Then she came out and found me on Cross Campus and told me. I was pissed off. I was really angry, then I was just confused about why it happened." Certainly there wasn't much rime between the setting up and the taking down. Did a person par· ticularly sensitive to the display's message happen to be standing nearby, or are there many people who would have: done some-

thing similarly aggressive if they had happened to pass by?

Over the next few days, the remaining bits vanished, according to Obermann. In this way, the violence that created the counter-display disappeared as well, until the space behind the glass was. empty and mes· sageless. Consent's display had attracted attention--not the kind it intended, but attention nonetheless. It was, as Obermann said, a good display.

Good but unwittingly provocative, so much so that someone felt it needed a quick, perhaps haphazardly executed, rebuttal.

O

n a Tuesday when the out again and so many of us wished we could have been outdoors, ~was

Annie Barrett ':'(SM '01} was caught off guard by a flyer posted on the kiosk near Elm Street at the entrance to Cross Campus. "Fag-out" it read in bold letters ovet a no-smoking symbol and the day's date: April 7, 1998. University Health Services had proclaimed the date Yale Quit Day. "I thought immediately that someone with an ounce of wit or someone who<l gone to England before was trying to be funny,.. said Barrett. The sign seemed to be a play on the double meaning of the word "fag. â&#x20AC;˘ alternately a British slang term for cigarettes and a slur used to deride homoscmals.

The poster was a complex sign in the midst of many other complex signs being bandied about on Yale campus. "I wasn't sure how to read it," said Barrett. "I knew it was an attempt to be funny, and I knew I was offended, but since the poster did not credit a group I wasn't sure just how I was supposed to read it." In such a situation, many might have ignored the posters, but Barrett contacted University Health Services to see if they had sponsored the posters in conjunction with Yale Quit Day. When they said they were not responsible, she

faced a difficult decision: take them down, or leave the posters as they were, taCked co the kiosks bearing a confusing and offensive slur.

"It was hard for me, but it all came down to the fact that were anonymous. If there had been a name or an organization that was responsible, I could have sent out an email/' she said. To Barrett the posters' anonymity suggested a malicious intent. Since no one wanted to be associated with them, it seemed obvious chat the person who made them understOOd how they might be received. '"As the situation stood, it was dear that it was a hate crime. I just thought the Yale community doesn't need to see this."

Coming to that conclusion, she went around campus and ripped the posters down.

T

his incident, unlike that

of the Consent display, was premeditated. Not only did the disuibutors of the poster design and photocopy them ahead of time, but they also knew about Yale Quit Day and coordinated their efforts with that event. Even the ~y the posters forged associations between the University Health Services event and homophobic slurs belies a lengthier amount

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of time spent in the production of its message. If the Consent display incident was a bold eraswe, this "Fag-our' poster was a campus-wide infusion of homophobic sentiment.

As serious as the people behind this poster were in putting their message out, they were nonetheless flippant about where this message would go. The posters obviously weren't meant to do anything except get under the collars of people who stop to look at kiosks.. The · posters provoked without providing a forum for response. In this sense, the production of these posters, like the destruction of the Consent display, was an act of confusing negation. We are Jeft not only with the question, "Why did they choose these forms of expression?'" but also, "Why did they bother?"

Posters, after aJl. are advertisements. They are made to seize our attention.

If designed .dfectively we acwally notice them. We find out about the events they advertise, even in the sea of so many other posters, and messages competing for ow attention. It is only in rare instances that kiosks bear the weight of manifestos. Colored chalk. in fact, seems to be the de facto medium of proselytization here at Yale. In both cases, the messages are easily

erased-if nor-:,by rain then by the patrol of university employees who remove posters after they've been around a while. In both cases the message soon disappears.

The message behind most posters is lost quickly, but posters that spark controversy necessarily linger in the mind.

Po!.'ters replace posters in an endless cycle, but these instances of defacement puncruate the seamless process of forgetting. These messages linger, though not in a way that provokes real thought.

Ultimately they confuse because, though they produce messages, their messages are unclear and prone to misunderstanding. We can attempt

to interpret . why a person might want to tear down a Rape Awareness Week display or why a person would put up posters that slur a large group of srudents, but these incidents in and of themselves do nor provide us with any clear answers. These are not manifestos; they're not even commentaries. Though powerful in their method of getting our attention, these gestures do little once they have it. They signal the emptiness of what they so audaciously and anonymously have said. -

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· a.nifesto of the CommuniSt Party v1d a nations become --·nd na row-mindedness

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st, i.e., to bourgeo1 ~or d after it , own image.

Jess Champa2ne u objected the c ry o e rul of t It has s cities, has greatly increased t ~~~~~~·th the rural and has thus rescu ·. from the idiocy of rural 1i ~.-~~~~dent on the towns, so it t ~ ..... ·es dependent on the c of bourgeois, the E~ 7

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believe a people's movement is about to unfold in this country. Inequity is rising. Soon, people won't be willing to sit on the sidelines any more. We think it's very important to have a place for things like this to happen." Joelle Fishman, wearing her customary apologetic smile, gestures at the space around her, a large room typical of new suburban houses with hardwood floors, white walls and ample sunlight. In this environment, Joelle might be taken for a middle-aged housewife, her sweatpants appropriate for cleaning, cooking, maybe taking care of aged parents. Similarly, the New Haven People's Center might be mistaken for nice but affordable student housing conveniently located on Howe Street, close to Mamoun's and cheap Chinese food.

After a moment's conversation with Joelle, a deeper understanding of the building's true personality, and her own, become clear.

The Center's origin 130 years ago as a private home, and its transformation 50 years later into a meeting place for poor immigrants, is reflected in its narrow hallways, small rooms and wide selection of leftist literature and posters. Joelle's father, who lives with her, is looking through the latest P~opk's ~ek(y WOrU the national newspa.per of the American Communist Party. Even in the stuffy heat of the Center, his &ail body is wrapped in a heavy coat and wool ScarÂŁ He is dwarfed by Boorto-ceiling shelves filled with books. Walking through the room, Joelle picks up yellowed photographs of New Haven radicals, Communist pamphlets and People's Center fliers. She continues into the small library, with its musty, donated volumes. Here, students catalog the collection according to the system used in the Marxist Library and Resource Center in New York.

Joelle's ideals are drawn from the tradition of leftist politics and community action that comprises the Center's philosophical core. She was raised in a progressive working-class family. "I learned to play the piano in a union hall. I remember making coffee on cold days and bringing it to the picketers, and boycotting Woolworth's when they didn't let blacks sit at the lunch counters." She participated in the 1963 March on Washington and ran New Haven's Angela Davis Bookstore in the early '70s. Joelle's time is now split between the Center (she is a board member), the Communist Party (she is Connecticut Chairperson and one ofseven National Secretaries) and her job as secretary at a local union.

The beliefs that Joelle espouses permeate the conversations at the Center. As they repair the pipes, volunteers trade jibes about politicians' positive assessment of the economy. They know too many people who have not been lifred by the rising tide. Acknowledging economic improvement would be tantamount to admitting that capitalism might lead to peace, justice and prosperity.

Though the Center is not officially affiliated with any political ideology, its leanings are heavily leftist. "The People's Center has been part of every major struggle that has marked our country, including union-

ization and the desegregation of schools, jobs and sports," says Center President Al Marder, whose stories date mainly from the 1930s and '40s. The Center organized and played host to New Haven's first interracial basketball team (the Redwings), its first interracial drama group (the Unity Players) and its first celebration of International Women's Day. The first production of Clifford Odets' Waiting for Lefty was a Center project, performed by the Unity Players with a Yale student director in 1938. Marder remembers that the city wouldn't allow the group to rent a school building because of the play's leftist content.

Marder also recalls the many unionization campaigns of the period, in which student-supported Center activists worked with laborers from the automobile and meatpacking industries, as well as workers from what is now Local 35. When Joelle's generation started elementary school in the 1950s, Marder's generation was taking over the Center, participating in anti-lynching demonstrations and desegregation efforts. Marder recaJis the successful struggle to establish a night school to help working people earn degrees.

Then, as now, Center activists neither flaunted nor denied their communist and socialist sympathies.

Marder will emphasize the Center's lack of political affiliation, but he is proud of its tradition of working for

The McCarthy era brought fear, bomb threats and arrests to Center activists. "I remember stopping to drop things off for my father at the Whalley Avenue Jail when I was five," says Joe Taylor, as he rakes leaves in the Center's backyard. Taylor says he was practically born in the Center and continues to volunteer there.

"There were people who killed themselves because of all this," he says, as other Center volunteers nod solemnly. Joelle, whose father's activism caused him to lose his job as a schoolteacher, remembers the anti-progressive climate just as vividly. "I didn't realize until I was an adult that no Girl Scout troop would accept me, and that's why my mother started her own troop," says JoeUe. She tells these anecdotes of childhood rejection as if they were disturbing but distant news blurbs, poignant examples of historical discrimination rather than stories of personal injury.

As fears of communism subsided to a less hysterical pitch in the late 1960s, the Center sponsored unionization efforts and helped workers fight employers including Yale-New Haven Hospital and New Haven schools. Center activists supported various Yale unionization drives and strikes by bringing coffee and lunch to strikers and providing an alternative classroom site during graduate student actions. Volunteers' recollections of the 1970s cover everything from braving tear gas at the 1970 New Haven murder trial of Black Panthers leader Bobby Seale to hosting pot luck dinners and picketing during the 1979 Winchester Firearms strike. "You meet good people on a picket line," says John Hiller, a Park Service worker. He is one of the Center's younger volunteers, but he still seems more like a father than a firebrand activist. The

23

volunteers' graying, parental appearances contrast sharply with their stories of being dragged by police and wiping tear gas from friends' eyes.

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The Center's next major struggle came after the building sustained major damage from serving as a daytime drop-in center for " the homeless (staffed partly by YHHAP members and the Law School Legal Aid Project). A local real estate broker, an alderwoman and others joined in a campaign to prevent the Center from getting a HUD grant to fix up the building. Joelle laughs when she recalls this group's efforts to "prove" she was a Communist. 'Td run for Congress on the Communist ticket several rimes," she says, smiling at the absurdity of the situation.

Drawing on local support, the. Center ultimately managed to win the funding in a vote by the Board of Aldermen.

Friends hope that she might one day run as a Democrat, but Joelle has stuck fast to her chosen label through eight Congressional campaigns. "My beliefs come from my group," she says. "Why should I hide the name of it? We didn't make 'Communist' a bad word. Now the same thing's happening with 'liberal.' It doesn't matter what you call yourself. If someone wants to run a smear or fear campaign, they'll do it." Joelle's feelings of persecution clearly draw on personal experiences-menacing cars and threatening phone calls. Her personal brand of politics neglects some of the more global reasons that communism was demonized in the United States.

Despite JoeUe's experiences of isolation and discrimination, she maintains faith in community action and mass movements. "I believe that Communists are the greatest patriots in this country," she says, without offering a definition of patriotism. She contradicts the image of the coup-hungry radical, saying. "A small group wouldn't stay in power anyway. We're about educating and organjzing--<:hanging the future of our country, because this country needs to be changed fundamentally." While the rhetoric sounds lifted from 1930s propaganda, it remains current for Joelle. She cites an active Youth Communist League as proof that the movement still exists. "Look around you. The need is greater than ever. The movement has always been

THE

NEw JouRNAL

homegrown."

The ideals of Jodie's revolution and the ideals for which the Center works are not particularly shocking; ~ainstream politicians claim adherence to some of them. Even those that sound far-left seem to translate, at least in Jodie's mind, to creative community service and action rather than armed rebellion. "I believe in the equality of people. No person has the right to make gain for themselves at the expense of someone else. Everyone should be able to develop their gifts and talents. I believe resources should be distributed by work and by need, not by exploitative expropriation. I believe I have more in common with my working brother in other countries than with the president of GM or Ford because he happens to be American."

Joelle's words sometimes sound canned and cribbed from Party documents. This makes some sense: she sees herself as continuing a hallowed tradition that still thrives and will soon catch on nationwide. She moves through the Center with comfort and ease, showing it off as if it were her own newly renovated home. "This was all handed down through the generations," says Joelle. "Everything is run by volunteers, so there's a continuity of vision and openness, but the programs vary with the needs of the movement and the volunteers." Recently, that volunteerism has included the Crisis Information Action Center, which led a successful campaign to extend the warning period for electricity shutdowns from three to ten days.

Jodie's excitement over an extra seven days before power shut-offs makes it even harder to see her as a leader of the revolution, or as part of a movement which is in full force. Pride in small steps towards the larger goal of economic justice may provide the energy to continue the fight, but the degree of pride in these small steps attests to the steep uphill battle that Joelle and her fellow leftists face. Still, as she heads out of the Center after a long day, Jodie's smile is less apologetic and more confident while she speaks of her successful campaigns. She dons a heavy coat, IBIJ preparing for the cold outside.

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White Bred, White Trash Anya E. Liftig

F

RESHMAN YEAR I HAD AN AFFINITY FOR WONDER BREAD. I

loved to rip the center out of entire loaves of the stuff, roll the dough into tiny balls and chow down. While indulging this strange habit in the company of my roommate in the Calhoun dining hall one Friday evening, she glared at me and said, "Pwr." "Excuse me?" I asked, mouth stuffed with Wonder Bread balls.

"Poor White Trash," she spat back, obviously annoyed by my bizarre behavior.

Over the next few months, the letters PWT carne in and out of my life. They popped up on the tongues of academics, in sociology classes and on television. Her playful insult began to bother me in a way that I had never noticed before. Rather than express my discomfort, I was silent. The term PWT has not clisappeared from my life, and I still often remain silent. In fact, the letters PWT come up more frequently these days: said in passing at meetings, at luncheons, in casual conversations with close friends.

Despite my suburban Jewish upbringing in affiuent Westport, Connecticut, my background makes me "poor white trash." My mother, born deep in the hills of East Kentucky, is what most would call a bona fide hillbilly. She clidn't see a television until she was 18, had her birth certificate signed by an illiterate midwife with an "X" and educated herself by reacling all of the Encyclopdia Britannica. She and seven other people lived in a three-room house with a tin roof. She was poor.

She had no shoes. Her cousins had babies at age 13. There were two sets of marriages in the same generation between related families, resulting in my mom having nine double first cousins. By blood these cousins are almost brothers and sisters.

My mother was the valeclictorian of her high school class and made her way out of the holler with a scholarship to a northern university and a two year stint in the Peace Corps. It was during this time that she

met my father. She was trying to educate the world, he was dodging the draft. They moved up north to be near better schools and New York City. Over the next 27 years, my mom's accent became almost indistinguishable from those of the yuppies who shopped on Main Street. She could schmooze with the best of them and fight for parking spaces like a true New York native. But despite my mom's "Yankee-fication," each Sunday morning when she speaks to my grandmother her accent reappears; the crops and pick-up trucks and my cousins' basketball games are the subjects of her conversations. Each Sunday morning on the phone, I also try to sink back into a Kentucky home I have never really known.

I

had a very different relationship with my Kentucky family-all 63 double second cousins-before I carne to Yale. I visited every summer. We would swim, taunt the craw dads, make dandelion chains.

We would collect locust shells and snake skins. We traipsed through the strip-mined hills, in and around lakes owned by my family for seven generations. No one cared about school and when I was there I clidn't either. What mattered was who would 6.ll the inflatable pool with warm water and who would entertain us while we shucked corn out by the creek. We were all constantly covered with bee stings and chigger bites and calamine lotion. I knew I cared about academics, but catching lightning bugs at twilight with my cousins, nothing really mattered but our blood ties.

One night, the summer before I carne to Yale, this all changed. I was shelling peas on the porch with my sister when my aunt yelled to my father, "How much does Yale cost a year?" My father said, "About 30,000 bucks." My cousins stared at me in disbelief. At that instant, I was no longer the quirky cousin from Connecticut, but the epitome of the rich elite. It broke my heart that night, but by the time I had been

THE NEW jOURNAL

at Yale for three weeks, I wanted to be nothing but the rich elite girl they perceived me to be.

F

reshman year, I knew how to talk the talk. I could banter and make judgments about which New York private schools were the most prestigious. I knew which city kids performed in the opera and the ballet. I memorized the names of the coolest clubs and bars and although I had never been to any of them, I acted like I sure as hell had.

My own life in Westport had been dotted with the typical suburban rites of passage: private dance lessons, four years of cosmetic orthodonture, sweet 16. I actively tried to fit the affiuent but relatively normal world of my hometown into the glow of New York society lights.

I wanted to reinvent myself as the sophisticate who knew how to party. At Yale, it was cool to be educated, to care about John Keats and the definition of the sublime and the problems of modem China. I tried very hard that year to memorize as many names, definitions and theories as I could, just to hold my own in classes. It was, in many ways, a year of playing intellectual name games. My Kentucky cousins became slightly embarrassing, as did the innocence of my summer experiences in the mountains. Although my roommate was joking that night in Calhoun, her comment bit deeply into what I thought was a well-hidden insecurity about my intelligence and whether or not I was qualified to be at Yale.

In many ways, the past three years at Yale have been about trying to reclaim those roots that I so arduously shunned. There has been pain in my life in the past few years, and coming to terms with that pain has made me want to return to those warm Kentucky nights. It's taken me a long time to learn to stop playing intellecrual games with everyone else and work with the unique perspective that my diverse family background has given me. But, in coming back to my family I have been

forced to realize the great personal distance that exists between us. I don't know much about their lives. They don't know much about mine.

Even though I am often not able to verbalize it, I am fiercely defensive of my Kentucky family. Yet, Kentucky is a part of me with which I can't even claim to have been involved for the better pare of three years.

W

hat I can claim to have been very involved with in the last three years is my Jewish heritage. My interest in rhi~ aspect of my life is due to a comment my suiremate from Ohio made during the second hour of freshman year. She handed me a piece of paper the Slifka Center had taped to my door and said, "Ir's runny, I've never lived with a Jew before." I had never really thought of myself as a Jew before. I always identified with that side of the family more, but religion was more cultural and often left unspoken. It was and is difficult to reconcile the conflicting cultures that my parents have raised me to identify with. While I definitely have a sense of both sides, only engaging half of my identity at any time is difficult. I can never go to Kentucky without thinking about Judaism and I can never sir down at a seder table without thinking about Kentucky.

Comments like those that my roommates made freshman year ~car deeply, if only because I can never claim to be wholly one label or rhe other. The dichotomy is in some ways an evil personal license rh.lt allows me to remain silent when I want to stand up for my family. I can always play the chameleon and pretend that on one datI am not Je\\ ish and on another day I am not Kentuckian. But to engage in such a game defeatS any attempt to reconcile the two. Instead, I shall continue to be both the intelligent Jewish coed and the dutiful Kentucky daughter, im] playing each role to its appropriate audience.

Atrya E. Liftig, a junior in Mors~ Co/kg~. is photography t'ditor ofTNJ. 27

A New Spin on Spinoza Steven Smith Rethinks the "Jewish Question"

by Jason D'Cruz Spinoza, Uberallsm, and the Question of Jewl... Identity, by Steven B. Smith (Yale University Press, 1997), pp. 270.

SpinO'la Ulmlism. and the Otmtion

of Jewish Identity STEYEI I. SMITH

(( E

cRAsEz

L'INFAME!"

voLTAIRE's

renowned exhortation to "crush the infamy" represents a monumental campaign in the history of Western civilization against superstition and the power of the Church. The phrase is the harbinger of modernity, the emancipation of the individual, the ascendancy of liberalism and the triumph of reason over fear: We must ask our- ¡ selves, however, whether these ideas are still ascendant with the current resurgence of new age religions, including Christian "Promise Keepers," Hindu nationalism, Islamic fundamentalism, the Christian Coalition, the CCC and ~e Yale Five. Did the Enlightenment's cold rationalism lead us to a state ofself-denial that we are only now realizing and rebelling against? Could it be that the idealistic project of secular, rational, universal self-improvement turned out to be a shiny nothing?

Steven Smith, Yale political science professor and Branford College master, addresses these questions in his new book, Spinoza, Liberalism, and the Question of jewish ldmtity.

Smith traces the origins of modern liberal political philosophy to a source often ignored: seventeenth century Jewish thinker Baruch Spinoza. Although Spinoza's ethics, and to a lesser extent his metaphysics, are still studied, his political theories have been widely ignored. Smith argues that Spinoza's contributions to the canon of political philosophy are essential to understanding the development of our thought about the relationship between religion and the state.

Smith positS that the overwhelming victory of liberalism has rendered us unable to see the complexity of the theologico-political problem. For this reason we must look to the past to understand the present situation: "Precisely because the founders of modernity did not live in a world shaped by the separation of church and state and an ethic of toleration,

they give us a window on how we have come to arrive at our own self-understanding."

Because we tend to take the separation of church and state as a given, we cannot easily see its ramifications.

Spinoza's thinking on religion was influenced by his own experiences: in 1656, at the age of 24, he was excommunicated by the elders of his synagogue for reasons of which scholars are still unsure. Many of his readers find that Spinoza's persecution led to his renowned passion for secrecy and his isolation was a source of ethical and political insight.

Much ofSpinoza's work is deeply critical of Judaism, characterizing it as legalistic, particularistic and full of divine promises that lead to passivity and weakness. On the other hand, Spinoza characterizes Jesus as a profound moral philosopher, and Christianity as a religion further advanced in the progression of reason. As a result, many interpreters of Spinoza see him as a self-hating Jew motivated by revenge.

Smith disagrees with this interpretacion, arguing that since Spinoza was unable to critique Christianity because of the power of the clerics, he had to take a more circuitous route.

By contrasting Judaism with Christianity, Spinoza was outwardly playing to the prejudices of the time, while insidiously advocating a civil religion based on reason rather than Scripture. This tactic seems rather Machiavellian, but Smith counters that it is "constitutive of Spinoza's liberalism." Smith's argument is a little murky to say the least, and is never made fully clear in the book. Surely secrecy and duplicity are not "constitutive ofSpinoza's liberalism"? This point aside, Smith's reading is sensitive and perceptive, showing clearly that Spinoza was not a rabid anti-Semite. ~e main thrust of Spinoza's

Theo/ogicothe emancipation of philosophy from theology, of the civil state

1 Political Treatise is

from ecclesiastical power, and of the autonomous individual conscience from proscriptive ¡ religion. On chiefly naturalistic grounds, Spinoza defends democracy as the best regime to achieve the ends of toleration, personal autonomy and self-formation. While to our modern ears these sound like inherently positive and innocuous ideas, Smith shows that they can have very different connotations when framed in terms of the "Jewish Question."

The "Jewish Question" refers to a longstanding debate in the Enlightenment as to whether Jews should be granted the same civil liberties as "ordinary" citizens. Smith argues that Jews represented the "Quintessential Other," a community that separated itself from the rest of society with a very distinct set of customs and laws. Jews could be welcomed into the modern civil state only if they would abdicate their traditions. Indeed, the true test of the modern state would be its capacity to assimilate the Jews. lit what Smith calls a "Faustian bargain," the Jews would gain toleration only by losing their identity. "\VJhile Smith's ideas may seem rather W abstract to those not accustomed to the jargon of political theorists, his work is relevant to current societal trends, especially the resurgence of charismatic and fundamentalist religious groups. These groups, often emphasizing a personal relationship with a savior or a certain "spiritual insight," appeal to a sense of awe, symbolism, sanctity and divine mysTHE NEW JouRNAL

tery wholly within the secular ideal.

The return to spirituality is a reaction against the idea of a ~tural melting pot in favor of a society based on diversity and multiculturalism. Smith points out that the idea of a melting pot is not at all neutral. Although in theory the melting pot results in a composite of the highest ideals from different cultures, in practice it often means conformity to Protestant secularism. One need only look at Yale's many ethnic and cultural organizations to see discontent with the philosophy of the melting pot. On a national level, religious leaders such as Louis Farrakhan draw on racial identity as a source ofself-esteem. Assimilation is now seen not as a liberating force but as an essential ingredient of patriarchy and domination.

Smith points out that because Spinoza lived in sect-ridden seventeenth century Holland, he did not see identity politics as a source of emancipation, but rather as "a means of imposing narrow orthodoxies and conformity." He sought to transcend a system where one was identified solely by one's religion. In order to understand the reaction to the Enlightenment Smith shows us that we must understand its o..rigins. To properly evaluate the causes of the current religious resurgence and the parallel renaissance of identity politics, we have to understand that the liberalism we have been taught to regard as neutral and innocuous is actually fraught with religious and political tensions. As Smith puts it, liberalism only extends toleration once we have rendered ourselves tolerable.

Smith's analysis of modern political movements is informed by a keen sense of history.

But his insistence on framing the entire identity problem in modern politics in terms of the "Jewish Question" seems anachronistic.

Moreover, Smith's book is not a light read.

Sections on scriptural interpretation or the metaphysical unity of substance may discourage readers less dedicated to the subject matter. The work, however, provides an unexpected insight into sources of modernity and the various motivations stemming from the "Jewish Question" that helped to create the liberal ideal of toleration. For this reason, the Spinozist epigram to Smith's book seems most appropriate: "All things excellent are difficult as they are rare." laJ

Jason D'Cruz, a sophomore in Ezra Stiles Cotkgt, is on the staffofTNJ.

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29

What I Saw at the Revolution Our intrepid reporter uncovers ex i stentia l consp ir acies while trying to participate in a United Farm W orkers march .

by lan Blecher

T

HE FOLLOWING IS A SERIES OF NEGATIONS, WHICH,

oddly enough, evolves into a narrative and even contains a small moral. This is the story of a story not told, of a rally not quite attended, of people unable to speak to one another, of a union that doesn't (yet) exist, and of toilets nowhere to be found.

The strawberry industry, especially Driscoll Growers, is booming these days. It's not as difficult as you might think to make it in this business. Just listen to this fabulous offer from the Strawberry Workforce: for the incredibly low price of $7,999.99 a year, your very own worker will stoop 12 hours a day, inhale carcinogenic pesticides, and drink brackish water. And don't worry: there's no union included. If he tries to start one, simply return him for a full refund. High turnover and a low retirement age keep the industry anonymous and healthy. Those workers who want to speak out wcin't be speaking English; most of them can't even pronounce "Driscoll."

Some of us in the consumer sector have begun to wonder whether cheap, delicious strawberries are worth the degradation of human life.

To assuage our guilt, a friend and I drove down to Broadway's most spectacular show last week: a United Farm Workers solidarity march on behalf of strawberry pickers, led by Dolores Huerta and Gloria Steinem, from 96th to 72nd Street.

By the rime we parked and caught an overstuffed subway to our destination, we were an hour late, with no rally in sight. The road wasn't even blocked off. A few cops were standing around smirking, proud to be keeping Broadway safe from mavericks like us. We were ready to give up and find a museum when the parade thundered down the sidewalk and enveloped us. In seconds, we were distributing pamphlets, wearing badges and holding signs. Close to 100 people marched below a bright blue Yale flag, singing, "We are the union I The mighty, mighty union! I Everywhere we go I People want to know I Who we are I So we tell them: I We are the union... " On the fringes, stone-faced old communists flashed us the P~opk's ~~ko/ World. Displays spread out on both Banks featured ancient muckraking and conspiracy revelations in Grenada and Nicaragua. Employees at fruit stands gave us the thumbs-up and leather-clad bikers honked.

I was actually beginning to feel like "the unjon" when there, on 80th Street, shimmering in the heat mirage of the horizon, stood the Cats of gourmet food, Zabars. Even amidst the din of leftist chants, Zabars's clarion public address system rang out: "Special on smoked salmon! Special on boccancini! Special on Guylian chocolate!"

Through the window, I saw troves of rare olive oils and grizzled cheeses framing tables brimming with free samples. Throngs of satisfied customers squeezed their way to the registers in the front window to pay for their booty.

We figured we'd buy some hand-made food products and use :!if executive-quality washroom in time to join the tail end of the procession. Right away we snagged a ready-made snak-pak: fresh mozzarella balls soalcing in sun-dried tomato sauce. I paid while my friend found the bathroom. The parade passed by as I sampled a few crackers and some tangy goat cheese, ignoring the "take one, please" looks of Zabars managers, who asked if they could help me between Spanish directives barked at the line of beleaguered cashiers. Seven "''m just waiting for someones" later, I realized the UFW marchers were probably already in Jersey. I asked an olive oil representative where the bathroom was in ambitious though broken Spanish. "There is no bathrpom, sir," he said.

Egad! It all made sense. First the strawberry fields, now Zabars: cosmically connected by a mysterious lack of plumbing facilities. Customers and workers, our plights had at last converged.

But if using the bathroom in Zabars was an existential impossibility, where was my friend? I ran upstairs, aisles of high-priced cookware flying by like so many parade marchers-marchers whose parade I was missing more and more with every gelato machine I passed. I paged her. I asked two stock boys whether they'd seen her: "No." Finally, a "take one, please" manager said, "You're going to have to leave, sir.

You've been here too long without buying anything." He must have seen my UFW badge and mistaken me for a subversive conspirator.

I threw down my mozzarella indignantly, walked outside and kicked down Broadway, looking for other lefr-wing stragglers. Eight blocks later, I found the march, congealed on 72nd Street. Someone was finishing a speech denouncing Driscoll, and everyone was holding hands. My friend was there too, next to the big Yale sign. We sang some garbled folk songs, and talked about informing the world about strawberry workers, since the Nau Yl>rk Times doesn't write about these sorts of rallies.

In the end, the march became a sort of free-floating negation, a contagion that seemed to spread to everyone who involves himself in the strawberry industry. I didn't read about it in the paper. I spent the entire day trying to talk to people who couldn't underscand me about bathrooms that weren't there and a friend I couldn't find. And in an infinitely more extreme way, strawberry workers deal with the same sorts of frustrations every day. They fight with growers, people who can't even understand them, about the non-existence of perquisites most people won't talk about: benefits, security, day care, t<:>ilets and unions.

So if you want to help strawberry workers, don't eat Driscoll fruit. You can buy the gourmet version at Zabars during the next illWm~. g

/on Blecher is o sophomore in Davenport College.

30

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