Volume 42 - Issue 1

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Editor-in-Chief Ben Lasman

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Managing Editors Sarah Nutman, Kate Selker

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Designer Aimee Marquez Production Manager Haley Cohen •

Associate Editor Kanglei Wang

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Copy Editor Elsie Kenyon

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Senior Editor Laura Zax •

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Production Staff Timothy Shriver, Samantha Ellner, Helena Malchione, Abigail Owen-Pontez

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Members and Directors Emily Bazelon, Roger Cohn, Peter B. Cooper, Jonathan Dach, Tom Griggs, Brooks Kelley, Kathrin Lassila, Jennifer Pitts, Henry Schwab, Elizabeth Sledge, Jim Sleeper, Fred _Strebeigh, _T homas Strong

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Advisors Richard Bradley, Jay Carney, Joshua Civin, Richard Conniff, Ruth Conniff, Elisha Cooper, Daniel Kmtz-Phelan, Julia Preston, Lauren Rabin, David Slifka, John Swansburg, Steven Weisman, Daniel Yergin

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-Friends Michael Addison, Austin Family Fund, Steve Ballou, J. Neela Banerjee, Margaret Bauer, Emily Bazelon, Anson M. Beard, Jr., Blaire Bennett, Richard Bradley, Martha Brant, Susan Braudy, Daniel Brook, Hilary Callahan, Daphne Chu, Jonathan M. Clark, Constance Clement, Andy Court, Masi Denison, Albert J. Fox; Mrs. Howard Fox, David Freeman, Geoffrey Fried, Sherwin Goldman, David Greenberg, Stephen Hellman, Laura Heymann, Gerald Hwang, Walter Jacob, Jane Kamensky, Tma Kelley, Roger Kirwood, Jonathan Lear, Lewis E. Lehrman, Jim Lowe, E. Nobles Lowe, Daniel Murphy, Martha E. Neil, Peter Neil, Howard H. Newman, Sean O'Brien, Laura Pappano, Julie Peters, Lewis and Joan Platt, Josh Plaut, Lauren Rabin, Fairfax · C. Randal, Robert Randolph, R. Anthony Reese, Rollin Riggs, Stuart Rohrer Arleen and Arthur Sager, Richard Shields, W. Hampton Sides, Lisa Silverman, Scott Simpson, Adina Proposco and David Sulsman, Margarita Whiteleather, Blake Wilson, Jessica Winter, Angela Stent Yergin •

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THE- NEW JOURNAL •

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Volume 42, No. 1

and New Haven September 2009

The magazine aboutYale

FEATURES

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GRAY MATTER When it comes to racial profiling, are Yalies as smart as they think?

by Haley Cohen

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CONNED ARTISTS Noah Charney claims to be the world expert on art crime. But does his work need a second look?

by Sarah Nutman

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TWELVE STEPS BACK TO SALVATION .

Retail, rehab and reticence at New Haven's Salvation Army store.

by Kanglei 'Wang

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WAR OF THE WARD The messages of aldermanic candidates Lisa Hopkins and Greg Moreh ead could not be more different. But will Yale students bother to listen?

by LauraZax

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PO INTS OF DEPARTURE

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PERSONAL ESSAY A Hoop Drea rn Deferred, by Ike Wilson •

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ENDNOTE Letters to 7he New ] ou1·tzal

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The New Journal is published five times during the academic year by The New Journal at Yale, Inc., P.O. Box 203432 Yale Station, New Haven, CT 06520. Office address: 305 Crown Street. All contents Copyright 2008 by The New Journal at Yale, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Reproduction either in whole or in part without written permission of the publisher and editor in chief is prohibited. While this magazine is published by Yale College students, Yale University is not responsible for .its contents. Seventy-five hundred copies of each issue are distributed free to members of the Yale and New Haven community.

Subscriptions are available to those outside the area. Rates: One year, $18. Two years, $32. The New Journal is printed by Turley Publications, Palmer, MA; bookkeeping and billing servic:es are provided by Colman Bookkeeping of New Haven. The New Journal encourages letters to the editor and comments on Yale and New Haven issues. Write to Editorials, 203432 Yale Station, New Haven, CT 06520. All letters for publication must include address and signature. We reserve the right to edit all letters for p·ublication.

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SEASONAL DECORATIVE DISORDER Each year, a few days before December 25, my family marches like the Magi into our garage. We carry three large boxes into our living room and spend the rest of the evening de-boxing and re.,..dressing our seven-foot tinsel tree. Most of the ornaments once came in a color-coordinated set, but others are special ones from our travels. Some were impulse buys, some were presents, but all are necessary to make our tree look and feel complete. When the boughs are amply decked, we unwrap the plug from around the base of the tree. We flip the switch and stand together, gazing at the beautiful Christmas tree glowing in our Jewish home.

I have always loved Christmas. Anyone who has ever lived with me can attest that the holiday madness and Christmas .music starts promptly on November 1 annually and without fail. Having left Chicago, I . can no longer listen to 101.9 FM for all my Christmas needs, but I have found online radio stations that keep me from having a Blue Christmas. Some may think that this Midwestern girl gets into the spirit too early. They may be right. But since moving to New England, I have noticed that I'm not alone. In small red barns and shopping malls throughout the Northeast you may find my like-minded peers in the form of Year-Round Christmas Shoppes (spelled with a "pe" of course).

The evolution of Christmas has been a long one, but the real start of the commodified tradition began after 1880, when the machines of the industrial revolution began to pump out shiny toys for little girls and boys. With unheard of speed, to-

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day's capitalist Christmas was born. The creation of Santa as a jolly, bearded figure began in 1863 with a cartoon by Thomas Nast, and Santa soon found himself in the company of a great array of other Christmas characters like Rudolph, who trotted onto the scene in 1939. These characters began to decorate both private trees and the public pines of city- sponsored tree lightings. Beginning in the 1950s, one could walk into any department store and find Santa on a red velvet seat wait- . ing to hear children's hopes and dreams for that year's hot products. As the craze for holiday paraphernalia grew and stores began to carry great arrays of ornaments and lights. entrepreneurs realized the economic potential of renting out empty lots to house independent seasonal Christma.S tree and decoration stores.

In the early 1980s a few shops took the concept further when it became apparent that they could minimize costs in storage if they rented out a space for the year. What do you do with a store full of dancing trees and synthetic holly in June? It seemed only fair to have the stores of Christmas cheer open wide for all to peer. The idea caught on in small towns across the East.

Stores began to pop up in quaint wooden homes and red barns like the G and L Country Barn & Christmas Shop, the Bayberry Barn ·Christmas Shop, and Perrotti's Country Barn & Christmas Shoppe ·in Connecticut ( the verdict is still out on whether that is the ubiquitous Yale Chief's other profession ... ) .

The manager of G andL Country Barn, Tim Kettle, says that people are drawn to the festive atmosphere of his store. "I think it is the red ·color of the barn and the warm feeling that you get when you walk in," he says. ''A back to the country feeling." Nevertheless, Kettle knows that a red barn and a New England location do not ensure a magic ticket to perennial Christmas success. "You really have to remember that you will not make any money for the first 15 years," he said. Only once locals and seasonal vacationers come back year after year do the small stores gain reputations and big bucks.

During the off-season, Chrisunas stores take a different tack, trading images of Claus for New England clam chowder, •

substituting sleighs for seashells, and generally capitalizing on the ornaments and traditions that symbolize the Northeast.

"We do sell lots of ornaments year round here, but the ones with a summer look or ocean theme tend to sell better," Kettles says. "People that are on vacation always want to bring home something that will remind them of our store or something that they have done in the area." He holds to the three golden S's of the tchotchke trade: "Swimming, seaside, sports."

Small towns are not the only ones that let the most wonderful time of the year last all year. The New England-based Christmas Loft boasts six store locations across the region. If a New Englander begins to crave the cold, they can always head over to the Christmas Loft for life-size Christmas villages located in two of the outlets.

Once there, browsers can find makeshift ch~rches, an old country store, even a covered bridge while a mechanical Santa in -a sleigh flies over the fake town.

These stores make green . selling the red and green all year, but they have noticed that they can, like the barns in tiny towns, focus sales on the wandering tourist. Ronnie Vander Veer, vice president and co-owner of The Christmas Loft and co-owner, says that visitors love the spectacle, claiming that "going into a highly decorated, magical Christmas store is an experience." When people step out of the reality and into their Christmas fantasies, everything begins to sell. Vander Veer says, "We sell thousands of ornaments, both local, state-themed ornaments and just ornaments for people to give others: personalized pieces, pets, and more."

Like me, Mrs. Vander Veer swears by Christmas. Visitors will find holiday tunes turning the hottest days into visions of snowy sidewalks. But not all stores are the same. Kettle sees the magic of Christmas, but often finds it a bit too cheery. "Don't get me wrong," he said, "I have six trees in our house decorated and over five thousand white lights outside my house. But I am a little crazy when it comes to Halloween. We do a two-car garage over as a walk-through fun house. Very scary."

But as long as they don't make it a goal to sea re away the customers, New England visitors and residents can expect to see THENEWJO

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Christmastime all the time for many years · to come.

-Ari Berkowitz

FARM TEAM Summer offers a fruitful exchange for some ofYale's more agri-minded students.

Some trade squash rackets for rows ofbutternut; others swap the Sterling stacks for sterling steel rakes; a .few leave Elm Street for avenues of apple orchards. This year, equipped with shovels, spades, and a desire for something different, these Yalies left behind the gothic buildings and coffeefueled all-nighters to step into the world ofWWOOF. Sporting a catchy and contagious acronym, World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms is a global organization spanning 43 different countries. From the rice terraces of Luzon, to the sheep farms of New Zealand, to the lavender fields of Provence, this network facilitates communications between volunteers and organic farms. The premise is simple; both host and volunteer pay a small fee in order to publicize and access information about organic worksites. Once a WWOOFer has selected their farm of choice, they offer free labor in exchange for a roof over their head and fresh, organic food on their plate. The key, of course, is browsing the scores of options and finding which olive farm or vineyard is right for you. Think of it as agricultural match.com.

Each summer, more and more students across the world are rejecting the traditional summer internship or study abroad course in order to participate in this agrarian exchange program. So why the sudden flock to the outdoors? Why the newfound penchant for physical labor? There are, of course, many enticing aspects of WWOOF: the allure of travel (and cheap

travel at that), of escape into the sylvan landscape, of having a good story in your back pocket. Yet, in addition to globetrotting the world via farms, WWOOF also offers a personal journey for its participants.

While the organization is a leading advocate for environmentally conscious lifestyles, it also takes great interest in the individual growth of its volunteers. Sue Coppard, the founder of WWOOF, began cis a secretary from London who, after years of frenzied metropolitan streets was eager to feel the earth between her toes. · She recognized that urbanites needed ac- · cess to country life just as much as farms needed the helping hands of city dwellers. Working on a farm not only reunites WWOOF volunteers with nature, but also offers them the chance to learn by physically interacting with the world, as opposed to simply studying it in a classroom.

Eliza Bagg, SM '12, spent her summer WWOOFing on a plot in Maine not because she wanted to be a farmer, but in order, she says to experience "a lifestyle in which you connect yourself intimately with the processes of the world around you." A farmer works seven days a week, and while the work itself varies little from day to day, it puts him in constant contact with the elements that make it possible for living things to grow and thrive.

As Bagg suggests, this arrangement provides a stern contrast to our student life, where we work to distance ourselves from the world via iPods, text messages, and activities that busy our fingers and brains but neglect the rest. "Working on a WWOOF farm, you can literally take a seed, watch it grow, harvest its fruit, and transform it · into a product," says Bagg. "The world has a richer story that it is trying to tell us if we can just let ourselves go out, breathe it in, and accept it." WWOOF volunteers prepared to yield to Mother Nature are rewarded with a new, deeper relationship with nature not bound by the pages of an Ecology 115 textbook.

So next summer, if there isn't a special job calling your name, h ead out of the library, hand in your laptop for a set of Carhartt gloves; and roll up your sleeves.

It may be time to start digging.

-Maya Siedler

EASY RIDER People always say "It'll all go by so fast, you know," and I never quite believe them.

You tell yourself the summer's so long, but it's always gone in thirty seconds. So I guess common wisdom is right. Time Flies When You're Having Fun. After some firsthand research last night, I propose a corrolary: Time Slogs When You're Flying. I went to the carnival this summer, in Paris, France. Before I got on "The Boomerang," I was told "It'll go by so fast!" Friends, you were lying. I was on that ride forever. Hell, I might still be on it.

The carnival, set in the Tuileries, was large and varied in its offerings. There was a classic Ferris Wheel, the token rickety coaster, and a cheery shoot-the-duckie booth. There was even a funhouse that poofed air up the skirts of every woman who walked out its door, Marilyn Monroe-style, answering our naive pre-entry questions about that big crowd of men lined up outside. There were the requisite kiddie rides, accepting individuals too tiny to hop on anything else, and there were the not-so-kiddie rides, accepting only individuals brave souls with a death wish.

Those gut wrenching, eyeball flipping, larynx eroding contraptions that spared not one swoop, twirl, or sudden drop.

The Boomerang was among these elite. I stepped on, an ignorant victim, drawn in by peer pressure and bright colors. (Always the peer pressure and bright colors; .. ).

I am usually proud of my vocabulary.

I love thinking about words and using a lot of them. On the Boomerang, however, my inner dictionary was melted away faster than a gelato puddle in the sun. At the initial rounds and turns, my phrasing was set back fifty years, and I could only utter "gee-WHIZ gee WHIZ gee WHIZ" and "Lordy! Lordy! LORDY LOU!" (where this second phrase came from, ~

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only the Boomerang Gods know). fu the ride went faster, I said nothing, emitting only howls, screams, laughs, and wails. I could say nothing but "HOLYMOTHERFUCKINGSHIT." Over. And over. It felt somewhat less problematic to be shouting profanity at the top of my lungs because people couldn't understand the · English, although I think it was clear I was some- . what distressed.

I decided to console myself with a new ride, the Caterpillar of Joy. I am not sure that this is what it was called, but I am sure that this is what it would've wanted to be called, had it been given a choice.

The Caterpillar of Joy involves a big, larval, worm-like contraption that you sit inside as it creeps over a roller coaster track.

Some may have called this a "kiddie ride," and indeed, I believe it may have been, as the average age of passenger seemed to be about eight. Nonetheless, I came, he crawled, I conquered.

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10/1/09 THE NEW JOURNAL

WAR OF THE WARD Ward 22 aldermanic candidates face off.

By LauraZax

PoP QUIZ: A student living in Silliman, Timothy Dwight, Morse, Stiles, or Swing Space is a resident of which New Haven ward? If you're a freshman who's stumped by the question, there's no need to be ashamed. Most seniors couldn't answer it either. This fact is an obstacle the aldermanic candidates for Ward 22-the ward that includes not only those five Yale residences, which comprise about one forth of the ward's voters, but also the Dixwell neighborhood located just north of campus--face as they prepare for the primaries that will take place on September 15th.

The first name on the ballot for Ward 22 will be incumbent Greg Morehead, who took the seat in the spring of 2007 as a result of a special election and proceeded to win the seat again the following fall.

Though Dixwell resident and three-time alderman candidate Cordelia Thorpe will also appear on the ballot, Morehead's most credible challenger is Lisa Hopkins, a community organizer who unsuccessfully ran against him in both 2007 elections. With only two weeks to reach out to the ward's student constituents, the candidates are racing to introduce themselves to the many Yale voters who do not even recognize their names, including freshmen in Timothy Dwight and SiUiman who have just arrived on campus.

And it probably won,t hurt Morehead$ image on campus that he is a drummer who has backed big name acts such as Mary J Blige and Bobby Vtzlentino at venues illustrious as Madison Square Garden and the Apollo Theater.

September 2009

It's not surpnsmg that Morehead, a public school teacher and father of four, has focused on youth issues during his two years in office. His current platform includes continuing to support the youth open mic nights he helped begin, and revitalizing the Q House, a now defunct youth center that is an important symbol to the Dixwell community. Even if some Yalies fail to recognize how such measures directly affect them in terms of safer street or a more livable community, they will have trouble denying the benefits they would reap from Morehead's plan to pursue the creation of a Bolt Bus route from New Haven to New York and Boston. At 31, Morehead is among the youngest of New Haven's alderpeople, a quality that might appeal ro the student demographic. And it probably won't hurt Morehead's image on campus char he is a drummer who has backed big name acts such as Mary J. Blige and Bobby Valentino at venues illustrious as Madison Square Garden and the Apollo Theater. 'Tm nor going to support a candi-

date because he's cool," says Ben Shaffer, YC '09, though he admits Obama is an exception. But Shaffer, who is the deputy manager for Mayor John DeStefano's reelection campaign, and who has volunteered for Morehead since 2007, concedes that the candidate is, well, super cool. And though opponents have critiqued Morehead for seeking popularity-by-association-browsing through photos of him with celebrities on the Ward 22 website does, at times, feel like surfing the facebook page of a scar gawker-Shaffer points out that Morehead has used his connections for the benefit of the ward. Last spring. for instance, he brought Ludacris--in whose backup band Morehead once drummed-co New Haven ro speak to at-risk youth.

Bur more important than whom Morehead backs is who backs him. The city's Democratic machine is Morehead's political base: he is the Democratic Party's endorsed candidate and is supported by Mayor DeStefano. Morehead attests that his connections with City Hall do not interfere with his ability to represent his

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constituents' needs. "Walk with me in · her outreach to the Yale community. In sick ·while that's not headline news, that's bixWell and you'll see I know the people, the 2007 election, the anti-establishment a lot of what aldermen do," agrees Ben care about their problems and work with candidate sometimes came off as anti-Yale.

Shaffer. The fact that few if any Yalies them to get things done. Walk any street "For any person in my opponents' camp will go to their aldermen for such services with me and you'll see my lawn signs in to formuate the idea that I am anti-Yale has led some students to ask themselves support of my re-election," he wrote in is ridiculous. More than anything I think not whom to vote for in the alderman elecan email interview. Morehead's dose asthere should be a cohesive relationship betion, but rather whether they should vote sociation with what Thorpe criticizes as tween Yale and the residents of Dixwell," at all. "There's always this 'should Yalies the city's "democratic hierarchy" no doubt said Hopkins. "We're finally coming to a vote in ·New Haven' question," explains gives him a .leg up 1n the election. Yet it place where we're trying to build a comShaffer. After all, many Yale students live is this very association that moves Hopmunity together, and that's not by separathappily within a bubble whose boundarkins, who believes the ·drummer-cuming the ward into two separate denominaies are Payne Whitney, Timothy Dwight, tions." Nevertheless, opponents are still politician fails to march to his own beat and Old Campus. While Yalies debate skeptical, deeming attention to Yale stuto challenge _Morehead. Hopkins reprewhich dining hall to have dinner in, many sents what Andrew Feldman, Treasurer dents nothing more than political strategy. of their Dixwell neighbors, 25o/o of whom of the Yale Democrats, calls the "tnayorare living below the poverty level, are wonskeptical" demographic of Ward 22.

Acdering how they are going to afford dinner.

• From january through july o cordingly, she plans to expand the city's While Yale will graduate roughly 95o/o of 2009, he was absent at 12 o Youth at Work program, create neighborthis year's seniors, last year saw a 45°;0 hood block watches, Work for an increase dropo1,1t rate from one New Haven high 14 meetings held by the . the ·school. in homeowner advocacy and eviction prothree committees on which he tection, and improve access to services for So, should transient college students senior citizens. But what makes Hopkins have a say in local politics? Bronstein sits, including four o the ve stand out is her overarching platform, her thinks ~o. "This is where we're spending meetings o the Public Sa -ety four of the most important and formative claim that she would provide checks and balances to City Hall by serving on the Comm.ittee, o which he is years of our lives, and we're tasked with board of aldermen. "A breath of fresh air learning the skills about how we want to Vice Chair. finally! Join the movement oflndependent live no matter where we end up," she says.

Voices," reads one user's posting on an ar"One of the skills we should want to learn Morehead is not free of playing politics ticle about the election in the New Haven is how to be plugged into the community · himself Those seeking to oust Morehead . , a part o. £" Independent. youre call him a mouthpiece for the mayor, a Hopkins' freedom from machine poliThough Feldman agrees, he underpolitical puppet focused on · advancing tics has taken its toll in the past. During stands where students who fail to show DeStefano's agenda rather than catering to the 2007 campaigns, while Morehead was up to the voting booth on the 15th are . his constituents' needs. "I am able to work able to use connections to get through coming from. The alderman race for with City Hall to improve our Ward and Yale's gates to speak with potential student Ward 1 the "Yale Ward" penetrated because of that I am attacked?" Morehead constituents, Hopkins was not so lucky. campus. But "Ward 22 is a harder case," responds to the criticism. Meanwhile, opWithout widespread campus support, the explains Feldman. "Yale is a minority in ponents cite his disappointing attendance colleges were impenetrable to the candithe Ward, and we're transient ... .In Ward record at committee meetings as testament date, who ultimately lost the race. But 22, it's harder to care about local politics," to his lack of motivation. From January Hopkins learned from her past experience, alluding both to the limited status ofYalies through July of2009, he was absent at 12 and this time around she has been makwithin Ward 22, and Ward 22 Yalies on of the 14 meetings held by the three coming a pronounced effort to reach Yalies campus. Yet they still make a sizable bloc, mittees on which he sits, including four in Ward 22. She proactively organized a one that each candidate needs in order to • of the five meetings of the Public Safety meeting with undergraduates before . the Wln. Committee, of which he is Vice Chair. campus cleared for the summer, recruit'When voters take to the booth on Sep(He attests that he was struggling with· ing student volunteers who will host her tember 15th whether they be lifetime health issues, undergoing and recuperatwithin the colleges in the weeks before the residents of Dixwell or departing seniors ing from surgery on his foot). "From what election. She has even joined Facebook, in Silliman they'd do their neighborI understand Greg made promises about creating her own page to connect to the hood a favor to keep in mind who best can being the students' alderman, but once generation of internet addicts she hopes to unite, and not what most separates, the he got elected he has hardly showed up," residents ofWard 22. · soon represent. "Communication is key," says Pierson junior Rhiannon Bronstein, a says Hopkins. She sees her Facebook page Hopkins supporter. as the "start of something much bigger," "Showing up" for an Elm City alderjust one small aspect of an improvement man does not only mean attending comin community dialogue that she hopes to mittee meetings. Giving someone a job lead.

Laura Zax is a senior in Silliman Colkge, application or visiting them when they're Critics of Hopkins were surprised by and the Senior Editor ofTNJ ' THE NEW JOURNAL 8 •

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WE IN THE IVY LEAGUE like to think of ourselves as progressive: our schools offer the best financial aid packages, record some of the highest minority enrollment, and frequently produce research at the vanguard of a variety of social issues.

Lately, Yale has placed particular focus on overcoming racial barriers. In 2007, President Richard Levin asked the incoming freshman class to read Beverly Daniel Tatum's book Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafttetia? And Other Conversations About Race. Tatum, who also serves as president of the historically black Spellman College, gave the opening address after which students discussed her comments with their new peers and freshman counselors. Later that year, after incidents of racist graffiti near Pierson College and snowball swastikas on Old Campus, Yale held town hall forums and other events to promote dialogue on race in hopes of preventing similar events from happening in the future. Last spring, Yale played host to the Connecticut chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People's centennial celebration. Long all-male, all-white, allrich strongholds, the members of the Ivy e have slowly started to address their

issues with race.

An event in Cambridge, Massachusetts this summer brought these ongoing struggles into the public eye. By now the story is familiar. Bleary-eyed Harvard scholar Henry Lewis Gates Jr. returns home from China to find that his door is jammed.

Assisted by his driver, he forces the door open, prompting a neighbor to call the Cambridge police to report a possible break-in. The police arrive; six minutes later, Gates is led out of his own home in handcuffs and brought to jail on charges of disorderly conduct.

The facts are black and white, but their interpretation is far less clear. Gates, whose only offense was belligerent speech, insists his arrest was a blatant example of racial profiling. "If I had been a white professor answering the door, there is no question in my mind that I would not have been arrested. I will go to my grave absolutely convinced of that." On the other hand, Sergeant Crowley, who spent five years teaching Lowell police cadets about how to avoid racial profiling, insists that professor Gates' race played no part in his arrest.

It is unclear whether the Gates incident was a display of racial profiling, or simply a tale of two egos. Regardless, what the epi-

sode clarified is that Ivy League campuses, however tolerant they may purport to be, are not immune to racial tensions.

Several years ago in the dead of winter, Yale professor Gerald Jaynes walked into the psychology building for a meeting with a senior psychology professor. The furnace had been broken for several days; the building was frigid and Jaynes, who has taught in Yale's Economics and African American Studies departments since 1977, tied his "expensive-looking" overcoat even tighter around his suit to stay warm. As he was making his way down the hallway, two white professors exited the elevator and looked Jaynes up and down. ~ "Are you here to fix the furnace?" one inquired.

Jaynes paused. He stared silently. at the men before retorting, "Well, at least you gave me a skill."

Recalling the incident, Jaynes remarks, "It was pretty pitiful." But Jaynes is generous. Recognizeing the complexity of racial profiling, he refuses to blame the junior professors for their misplaced perceptions.

"It is unlikely that those junior professors were actually racist. But that just goes to show you how powerful stereotypes are.

Usually black males in the psychology

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building were there to do some type of handiwork so they just assumed that's why I was there. Instead of taking into consideration how I was dressed, all they could see was 'black male'."

Similar episodes of racial profiling are not rare.

Many black Yale students cite instances of how, at night, women will clutch their purses when passing them, people will cross the street to get away from them, and ·other students will sometimes slam residential college gates in their faces if their IDs aren't readily accessible.

It may at first seem surprising that an institution that prides itself on attempts to counter racism could play host to such bias. But, as many scholars have pointed out, cross-racial interactions, can often cause presumably smart people to act in ways that are not logical.

Furthermore, although racism is often seen as a scourge of the ignorant, Dr. John Dovidio, a professor in the Yale psychology department whose research focus is aversive racism, explains that prejudice has little to do with intelligence. "The way to think about implicit bias is as a habit of mind. When you grow up in a society with racist traditions, that's basically as segregated now as it was thirty years ago, with big differences in socioeconomic sta•

tus among different races, bias becomes a "' subliminal habit."

Like most habits, racial profiling is not easy to prevent and will be even harder to eliminate. As Professor Jaynes' story demonstrates, racial stereotyping is not always grounded in overt racism. Instead, racial profiling usually stems from implicit biases that subconsciously influence our behav- · •

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As he was making his way down the hallway, two white professors exited the elevator and looked Jaynes up and down. c_j1re you here to fix the furnace?'' one inquired.

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Implicit Association Tests such as "Project Implicit," a web experiment sponsored

by Harvard, show that 75-80 percent of self-identified whites and Asians show an implicit preference for white people relative to black people. Even more surprisingly, at least half of all black people surveyed demonstrated a preference for white people over black people.

In another study, participants are quickly exposed to photos of either a

black or white man holding an ambiguous object and asked to identify the object as either a weapon or benign article. The researchers found that participants were much quicker to identify the unclear objects as weapons when the pho.tos were of black men. Respondents are often completely unaware of these biases, and usually identify themselves as unprejudiced on the • pre-expenment surveys.

In an interview with the Boston Globe, Mahzarin R. Banaji, the Harvard psychology professor who heads "Project Implicit," said; "I think our data, obtained from millions and millions of people, show a real. disparity between who we are, who we say we are ... and what actually goes on in our heads."

Although what goes on in our minds may be implicit, the social ramifications are ·anything but. Wes Phillips, TD '1 0, recalls his anger at being asked for his ID when entering the Yale shuttle behind a long l_ine of other students, all of whom were white or Asian and had not been . asked for identification.

In another example, Jarrett Burks, CC '1 0, was in the basement of Berkeley College, which he had reserved for the Yale Black Men's Union to host an outreach event for black Wilbur Cross high-schoolers. The kids were bouncing basketballs

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and eating pizza when three Yale police officers suddenly appeared on the scene.

They claimed to be responding to a call that a black male had broken into Berkeley and "was running around in a Yale football jacket."

"Now, I understand that the police were just doing their jobs. But from the caller's standpoint, does that make any sense?" Burks asks incredulously.

Dovidio's research on aversive racism explores these questions. His findings are • staggenng.

"Unconscious biases get played out in ways that prevent people from recognizing that they're biased but still have the same impact as old-fashioned racism." .

He brings up an example of a panel deciding whether or not to hire various job applicants.

"If the applicant has impeccably strong qualifications or incredibly weak qualifications implicit biases arep't expressed.

You hire the strong candidate, not the weak candidate. But when you give people a mixture where an applicant has some traits that are good and some that aren't, whites get hired more than blacks. When the applicant is white, the panel weighs the qualification that the white is stronger in more heavily. When the applicant is black, they weigh the qualification that the black person is weakest in."

This type of bias is especially dangerous, as it is often expressed in ways that can be justified. ''Aversive racists rationalize their decisions in ways that have nothing to do with race. When people hire a white applicant with a high GPA but low SAT scores over a black applicant with a low GPA but high SAT scores, they can believe that their decision was based on the black applicant not having a high enough GPA." Though this type of discrimination may not be intentional, the outcome is still the same: white people have a better chance ofbeing hired than blacks.

PEOPLE'S RELUCTANCE TO TALK about race is another fact that further hinders attempts to reduce racial profiling.

"Initiating cross-racial discussion would alleviate a lot of tension. But race is a tricky topic that makes a lot of people very uncomfortable," comments Phillips.

"Most people try to avoid talking about it at all costs."

Among those tiptoeing around racial issues in New Haven is the Yale Police Department. According to Gila Reinstein, Yale's Associate Director of Public Affairs, Yale has rules and regulations in place that explicitly prohibit the Yale Police from collecting racial statistics of crimes committed on campus. Reinstein maintains that the policy is meant to "avoid racial profiling." The messages from Chief Perrotti that are sent out to alert the Yale community of criminal incidents on or near Yale's campus lack racial descriptions of the perpetrators, even when the suspect is still at large.

Reinstein declined to comment on how Yale could justify ignoring skin color in their crime repons when such a policy makes it indisputably harder for the Yale community to recognize alleged offenders. She empha.Sized instead the requirement for, Yale Police officers to complete a course on "Cultural Awareness and Diversity" when they carry out their basic rraining at the Connecticut Police Academy in Meriden. Stan Konesky Jr., who was a lieutenant for 29 years in Branford, and now teaches this class, explains its mission as "heightening the officers' consciousness of the differences between different peoples' cultures, religions and backgrounds."

When asked what concrete methods are used to help officers avoid racial pro@ing, Konesky waxed poetic about an activity in~olving a box of Crayola crayons.

"The officers are told to pick whatever crayon they want and express themselves

on a large sheet of paper at the front of the room. So then you'll have 40 or 50 officers who have. all chosen different crayons of different colors and types - some may be broken, some may be sharp- and expressed themselves. Thus, the drawing becomes like a metaphor for the community - with lots of individual drawings of dif- ¡ ferent colors and types all coming together as a whole."

The kids were bouncing basketballs and eating pizza when three Yale police o cers suddenly appeared on the scene. They claimed to be responding to a call that a black male had broken into Berkeley and c'was running around in..a Yale football jacket. '' While this venture may be well-intentioned, it is not likely to put an end to racial pro@ing. Especially not when statistics seem to affirm the notion that black people are more likely to commit crimes than people of other races. According to the U.S. Department of Justice, offending homicide rates for blacks were more than seven times higher than the rates for whites. Another statistic claims that, based on current rates of first incarceration, an estimated 32o/o of black males will enter

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Dovidio adds that to the minority community on Yale's campus, the police seem to be ignoring an issue that is very salient to them.

"It's very hard to establish trust that way. The safest neighborhoods are those with the faith, trust and cooperation of the community."

But it is not just the police who are to blame. In the Burks incident, officers were responding to a concerned caller; similarly, the police had nothing to do with the initial misidentification of Jaynes. It is not just law enforcement that needs to build trust with their communities. It's that we need to do a better job of policing ourselves.

State or Federal prison during their lifetime, compared to 17o/o of Hispanic males and 5.9o/o of white males. .

But Dovidio insists this data should not be taken at face value. "Statistics get really complicated because if you look at the people who are incarcerated, blacks are in jail in a much higher proportion than whites are. In a way, it's a logical base rate to think: 'I'm looking for a criminal -I'll look for a black person. But when you profile any group it can actually inflate the statistics. It's self-perpetuating. You're creating the reality." · Yale Professor of Sociology Elijah Anderson agrees: "One of the main reasons we have such a high black incarceration rate is the persistence of concentrated, racialized urban poverty. In this context, black men are often profiled and scrutinized; if white men were in the same position, we might have more white tnen in prison." Anderson, therefore, thinks our oflly hope for eradicating racial profiling is for white people to put themselves in that • • pos1t1on.

"The problem may not be dealt with until enough privileged people · "get it," so to speak. . And they can only "get it" through education about the root cause of this problem: the persistence of concentrated, racialized urban poverty. Racial profiling on a broad scale is one of the ways in which the wider society, seeking to protect itself, reacts to a "dangerous" black urban underclass.

Anderson also believes that, due to their position as targets of racial profiling, black people often bring an extra measure of understanding to their cross-racial social interactions. In his book Streetwise, 12

which explores urban life, the professor . labels this extra layer of comprehension "street wisdom." He claims that through . repeated exposure to street life, as well as the stereotypes and fears that accompany it, individuals both black and white gain comfort "sharing the street with young black males."

Similarly, Dovidio insists that our best chance at eliminating aversive racism is to increase interracial interactions. He · believes this tactic would prove especially effective if people were exposed to more racial diversity from a young age.

"In the US we classify people based on three dimensions: · race, sex and age. People have argued that both age and sex have good evolutionary basis but the argument about race is socially constructed. If you · cah give people a lot of interracial exposure early on in life then race doesn't become an important marker in how they see the world."

Dovidio also stresses the importance of holding people accountable for their biases.

"Instead of walking around and saying 'I'm not biased, I'm not biased' we should be willing to stop and ask 'Am I biased?'

When people become aware that they're behaving in an unfair way, they're the first to want to adjust it."

Dovidio believes the Yale police should undertake this same exercise.

"How to eliminate racism? You make people pause, think and become accountable. Police officers might not even be aw are that they're biased, but as long as they don't record the race of a person - they're never even acknowledging that they might be."

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I HAD HEARD ABOUT NOAH CHARNEY long before I met him. His mother, Diane known, to her French students at Yale, as Madame Charnay often tells stories about her son, the novelist, the founder and director of a non-profit think tank, and, she says, the expert on art crime.

I thought, based on our limited email interaction and a ubiquitous picture from a New York Times article, I would be able to recognize Noah when we met at a local New Haven bookstore.

I arrived at Atticus slightly early for our meeting at half past noon. At 12:37, a tall man in his late-twenties with a shaved head and silver sunglasses walked in and asked for a dry cappuccino. His unbuttoned navy canvas blazer and slim, designer jeans gave him a distinctly European look too trendy for the average American out for Sunday brunch. He added a packet of turbinado sugar to his coffee and walked to the bookshelf labeled ''Art History."

In the pictures I'd seen, Charney had chin length black hair tucked behind his ears revealing a high forehead and a short, reddish beard, but, I imagined, if he were dean-shaven, he would look something like this man. I walked towards him,

"Professor Charney?" He looked down at me over his sunglasses. "Sorry, no," said the fraud and exited onto the street. Five minutes later, with still no trace of the real professor, I too headed home.

Noah Charney specializes in lookalikes and things that are missing. When we finally meet one week later, he is alternately sipping cappuccino and tugging at his beard as he tells me how he stumbled upon the field of art crime. In 2003, he was working on his first Master's degree and studying seventeenth-century Roman sculpture at London's Courtauld Institute of Art. At the same time, for fun, he began writing his first novel, The Art Thief, a mystery-thriller that begins with the disappearance of three paintings. While researching for the ·book, which is based on historical thefts and has been criticized for being bogged down by facts, Charney says, "I found that the field was just wide open."

With the exception of looting during the Second World War and illicit trade in antiquities, the subject is underdeveloped, especially in the subfields Charney focuses on: fine art theft, theft from exigency, and forgery. Since it is interdisciplinary equal parts art history and criminal-

ogy scholars in related fields occasionally publish articles in the respected Journal of the International Foundation for Art Research (IFAR). Although the organization began in 1969 with the mission to prevent the circulation of forged and misappropriated art, today it focuses more on legal and ethical issues, like what should happen to the innocent collector who accidently purchases a stolen painting or sculpture.

As far as the stolen art itself, only about 10 percent is recovered due to poor documentation of heists, an under-regulated market, and a lack of coordination between owners, dealers, and enforcement agencies. Charney, for his part, faults governments that do not take art crime seriously. While both the Federal Bureau of Investigation and Scotland Yard have dedicated teams, they are quite small thirteen and six respectively. Additionally, neither agency files art crimes separately from other stolen goods such as cars or electronics, which makes compiling data on such crimes onerous. According to Charney, "only the bureaucracy behind the Carabinieri Division for the Protection of Cultural Heritage provides praise-worthy support."

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Charney trumpets sustained institu.·. tional support and research because, for this. type of crime, he explains, "there is Clouseau..."He pauses. ''No, . no mspector not him. I mean inspector Poirot," Ag- · atha Christie's masterful detective. Instead, most stolen art is recovered through sting operations and obtaining information from criminal informants .. Charney temporarily considered taking part in these operations. "It lasted two minutes," he laughs, explaining that the job requires such 9-5 conventions as having a boss and doing as you are told.

Following orders has never been one of Charney's strengths. When Noah was two he took violin lessons at a Suzuki studio, which, according to his mother, was "a fiasco."

His parents had enrolled him · . . in the class shortly after the day he took two sticks, rubbed them together furiously, and proclaimed ''I'm violinning."

But, explained his mother Diane, "Suzuki • is made for kids who want to do what everyone else is doing, so Noah's sitting on · ., the floor saying, 'I hate music"' and refusing to play. Two years later, in an attempt at reverse-psychology, his parents told him · they wanted him to study piano in order to con him into taking cello. It worked.

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Over the course o a less than a month, the thie , a 53,.-yearold heroin · addict, stole 39 pieces o art vm New Haven businesses, galleries, and the New Haven Free Public Library by hiding them under his clothes.

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The elder Charneys, Diane and her husband Jim, were serious musicians in their own right he had studied at Interlochen and Julliard and she at Eastman. Although the family lived in New Haven, Noah describes his parents as Europhiles who delighted in "Euro-style imports farmers markets, restaurants, and certain types of furniture" and travelled across the Atlantic whenever possible. When Noah was a toddler, the family began making annual summer pilgrimages to a chateau in the Loire Valley, where his mother taught a Choate Rosemary Hall summer course.

Twelve years later, after Diane began teaching at Yale, Noah, then himself a student at Choate, embarked on his own summersession trip to the Continent. It was then that he decided he wanted to live in Europe forever. "It was just a matter of how to do it logistically," he says.

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At Colby College, Noah spent two semesters in Europe, one in Paris and one in London. In England, he studied playwriting and formed a punk-rock band for which he wrote the songs and lyrics, sang, and played rhythm guitar. They recorded albums "in their dorm rooms, played bars and _called themselves The Jump Into ("Into what?" he asked the friend who came up with the name. "That's exactly the point," she said).

The band fell apart as its members graduated, which, in 2002, drove Charney back to England and towards his childhood dream of becoming Indiana Jones (the topic, incidentally, of his college application essay), solving historical mysteries and making fantastic discoveries.

Archeology, however, required too much dirty work, "brushing off," and "attention to the nitty-gritty." Plus, it didn"t provide enough potential to make discoveries. He looked instead to art. To Noah, works of art are giant visual puzzles that he delights in trying to solve. For his second Master's thesis, Noah wrote an interpretation of Bronzino's ''An Allegory with Venus and Cupid", his favorite painting. It is one of the approximately forty works with litde consensus among art historians about its underlying meaning.

His own mystery, The Art Thief, was published in 2007, two years after Charney moved to Cambridge to begin work on a doctorate in art crime, the first, he claims, of its kind. Along with a new television show currently in development, Noah believes the book portrays art crime in a way that makes it "something both a taxi driver and a professor would find interesting." Noah emphasizes the importance of accessibility of information about art crime, explaining that its portrayal in popular media, especially film, is inaccurate. Movies often portray the criminal art collector "the man in a three piece suit with a pink bowtie, a monocl~: the Planters peanut guy" which, Charney says, has not existed outside of dramatic cliche since World War II. "Ordinary art thieves are unglamorous." They are mostly "thugs" hired on a one-time contract and told what and how to steal, mostly "street criminals who would steal a car one day and mug someone the next," and learn about crime mostly "at the movies."

In the absence of Doctor No-esque masterminds, most art crime is carried out

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by or on behalf of organized crime syndi. cates who use the paintings as barter or collateral, or for ransom. The industry, the third largest black market behind narcotics and arms trafficking, has been valued at $6 billion, an estimate Charney deems conservative. Most stolen art, however, is sold on the open market, often on Ebay.

Antiquities, which, according to Charney, · make up about 75 percent of the stolen . art market, and other little known pieces can be easily sold by "doctoring the provenance, which is just a fancy way of saying, changing the paperwork."

Art is also often swapped directly for drugs, as in the case of the paintings lifted from the Joseph Slifka Center and New Haven City Hall in March. Over the course of a less than a month, the thief, a 53-year-old heroin addict, stole 39 pieces of art from New Haven businesses, galleries, and the New Haven Free Public Library by hiding them under his clothes.

According to police reports, much of the art was unsecured, just hanging on the wall. Such unprotected displays, Charney notes, are common in spaces that, unlike museums, are not primarily concerned with art exhibitions. According to him, •

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churches are especially vulnerable due tO"' limited security budgets and an unwillingness to display art in less accessible parts of the building or erect barriers, like glass cases, between viewers ·and the art. It is estimated that thefts from churches occur three times more often than thefts from museums, galleries, and art dealers combined. Charney's organization, the Asso.,. ciation for Research into Crimes Against Art (ARCA), which provides free security consultations, emphasizes low-cost, minimally invasive technology. "Something as simple as a motion sensor and a length of fishing line" or a video surveillance system will work, says Charney citing the security camera footage that played a crucial role in the recovery of the New Haven paintings.

(They were found, in prime condition in the thief's home, along with five firearms, marijuana and heroin packaged for sale, and nearly one thousand dollars in cash).

Charney's work has gained attention from media outlets worldwide, while the emerging nature of the general field has allowed him to deviate from the traditional . path of the academic. In large part, these prospects for fame and freedom drew him to art crime more than the subject itsel£ '

"There is a certain route one takes: you do your undergraduate, Master's, Ph.D. and publish an article, then publish ·another during your post-doc" he explains, "and you are not supposed claim or accept commendations of authority." Noah, who admits he has "unsubstantiated selfconfidence," has no qualms accepting such commendations; at 29, he considers him- · self an expert "the world expert," to use his words in the field.

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While theft and orgery lead to the loss o billions o dollars each year, for the individual artist, the loss o a painting can be good thing.

He enjoys having relative fame in his field without the rigor and discipline of working towards tenure, choosing to teach only as a guest lecturer or adjunct profes- _ sor so he can also have time to write and to travel. Over the past seven years, he has lived in twelve different cities. Noah speaks "4.5 languages," English, French, Italian,

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Slovene, and some Spanish. Though he modestly contends that he "sounds like a three year old; every sentence has a grammatical error," his mother rebuts that "even when he is saying gibberish, he does it in a perfect accent." In his native English, his voice is deep and enunciated, and changes when he says words with the letter L; he doesn't "like" going anywhere as a tourist; he "1-eye-kes" being in foreign countries where he cannot understand everything precisely. For him, it creates "a cocoon of thoughts," which fuels his creativity.

Charney's latest exploit took him to Ljubljana and the Julian Alps, which he had chosen, on a whim, as the setting for his second novel, To Catch the Devil. The trip also introduced him to Udka Jeran, a woman from the small Slovenian town ofTunjice whom he married last September. She shares his zeal for adventure; after working in mattress and electric fuse factories and digging potatoes, Jeran left her village for China, Peru, and Bolivia. Cur_rently, she works as a translator, graphic designer, and helps manage ARCA, all jobs that Noah emphasizes are portable.

During the spring of 2008, however, Noah and Ur.Ska lived with his parents.

The Charneys temporarily ceded a floor of their home to the newlyweds who are, acc~rding to Diane, "homeless and pretty penniless, so to speak." Diane and Jim also lent their recently renovated house in Umbria, Italy to Noah and Udka. It is currently the couple's primary residence while they oversee Noah's Master's program in Rome. "He is the be-ali and endall only child," Diane told me, and they are the self-described, "proud, hovering parents" who have little qualms supporting their nearly thirty year-old son. In lieu of a small framed photo of her son on her desk, Diane has a three-page story recounting Noah and Udka's Slovene wedding complete with inlaid photographs of the couple plastered to the outside of her office door. Jim often stopped by the college seminar his son taught last semester at Yale on the theoretical, historical, and practical aspects of art crime.

He is the be-all and endall only child " Diane told me~ and they are the self-described "proud hovering parSeptember 2009

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who have little qualms supporting their nearly thirty year-old son.

Forgers, says Charney, are unlike other art criminals. Often con-men make-up the fringe of the art community: talented artists whose work is not selling. "So they give the middle finger to the art world by tricking them," says Charney. The art world, however, abets in. these acts. "Ev~ryone benefits if a new object enters onto the market the owner has something of value, the middleman receives a profit, the collector to whom money is not an issue gets a trophy, the scholar something to study, the journalist," Noah says motioning towards me, "gets something to write about." Though most forgers go to jail for a few years, "they are seen as lovable crooks," says Charney. Once released, forgers often become famous in their own right by selling copies of famous artists' works, but with their signature instead.

While theft and forgery lead to the loss of billions of dollars each year, for the individual artist, the loss of a painting can be good thing. "If it is good enough to steal, it must be great," Charney explained.

"The Mona Lisa was never more famous than it was right after its theft." Moreover, crime begets crime. Shortly after its return, the Mc;ma Lisa twice became the target of vandals, and the work of Edvard Munch was stolen three times in ten years.

Jan Van Eyk's Ghent Altarpiece holds the record; the twelve-part panel the size of a wall in a small room has been the victim of thirteen crimes and seven separate thefts.

It is the subject of Charney's next book, a non-fiction work titled Stealing the Mystic Lamb.

Over the next year, Charney also plans to publish a collection of academic essays in addition to his second novel, and a series of art history guides commissioned by museums in Spain. Though he will be based in Umbria, he plans to travel extensively in Europe promoting his book and continue to "dabble in lots of little fields." Ultimately, he feels a multifaceted approach to his interests novels, television, documentary, and scholasticismmakes the subject accessible to the largest number of people and gives him the best chance for recognition. The stories of art crime are, without embellishment, good,

he claims. "The truth can be so much more unbelievable than fiction," he says recalling famous thefts, the black market, and the now famous forgers. The story of his own life an American Europhile, using art crime to foray into other fields without competition, still supported by his parents while forging a path to fame is much the same.

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T Sarah Nutman is a junior in Trumbull College, and a Managing Editor ofTNJ

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234 Church Street, New Haven, CT 06510 203-784-3702 Jeanie DeLoughery, VP-Branch Manager

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I. We admitted we were powerless no- · der institutional influence.

Years ago, on a trip to New York, I heard the ringing for the first time. I must have been seven or eight sometime before I stopped believing in Santa Claus because I was drawn immediately to the man in the red velour suit and snowy beard standing beside a red kettle, bells in hand like the ones Mrs. Confessore let us use for chorus.

I wanted to run up to this man, but my mother steered me away, scolding me in Chinese, "Dou shi pian ren de." Lies, all lies. .

Now, years later at college, I associate a different ring with the Salvation Army; in the store on New Haven's Crown Street, a chime hangs from the door, producing a tinny sound that is gentler, more sensitive than the shaken bells of the street. Welcome, this bell says, while its undertones imply a familiar message: Support our store. Please buy someone hope. A lady with grey and white streaked hair calls out from behind the glass display case of a reg• 1ster.

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"Hi," I reply, hoping to discover how her Salvation Army works. My mom isn't there to shoo me away, but the woman is a different story. "Oh no, you can't talk to us," she says. "Wait <til the manager comes back."

Paul, the manager, a thin .man with kind eyes whose apron only partially covers his long legs, tells me Salvo as locals call it frowns on unsolicited inquiries into its operations. Salvo, he claims, is a spiritual space. It must be respected: when friars visit, no one should be taking pictures, as happened years ago. Salvo is a private place. In the back of the store, the Salvation Army plays a different role: running an adult rehabilitation center for men trying to quit drugs, alcohol, and their old lifestyles, using the twelve-step program of Alcoholics Anonymous. Behind the brick wall separating the store from the center, up to 45 men may be working towards sobriety: "We admitted we were powerless over alcohol - that our lives had become unmanageable. We came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore . ... " us to sanity While money from the bells on the •

street helps support Salvo's other programs soup kitchens, shelters, afterschool programs the . chime hanging from the door of a modest storefront on Crown Street acts as the sole support for the New Haven Salvation Army Adult Rehabilitation Center. Sales from the store almost entirely fund the center, and the men who seek help inside.

Still, the distinction between different Salvo venues is often lost due to the organization's commitment to confidentiality.

When I ask if I can interview him, Paul says, "I have no control over these types of things." He is just a regular worker under the institution's payroll and influence, with no power to accept or deny requests for information. Nevertheless, he refers me to the "Captain" of the Army, an ordained minister and the real head of this Salvo, who decides whether reporters, researchers, anybody has permission to talk.

IT. We came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us.

Captain Merchant is remarkably receptive and well-groomed. I had been half-ex•

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peering a full-bearded man like the 1865 founding General of Salvation Army, William Booth, who, in his time, requested Captains to grow beards like his. Today's Captain is shaven, young, with dark eyes, strong hands, and a sturdy build. Though he makes decisions for the New Haven store, his primary responsibility is running the live-in rehabilitation center, whose facilities are located alongside a giant warehouse for importing, sorting, and shipping Salvo donations. ''All of this," says Merchant, gesturing around the facilities, "supports the boys."

':All o this, " says Merchant, gesturing around the facilities, 'supports the boys. " Every morning, six trucks pick up donations. Workers then unload the white garbage bags of clothes and miscellaneous items anything from scuffed rollerblades -and picture frames to slightly chipped bookshelves and wire sculptures into the back storeroom. The clothes are poured onto beige tables and separated into grey buckets reminiscent of garbage bins, with signs denoting their prices: $7.99 for a sequined formal dress, $3.99 for a blue-andwhite checked blouse.

September 2009

The clothes, sorted by price, are marked by differently colored tags which, Merchant says, helps keep track of how long items have been in the store. Each item has only five weeks to sell before being taken back into the warehouse on the same "runner's racks" think of a wardrobe on wheels that it came out on, and taken to a different outlet. Every day, five thousand articles circulate through a single store.

While Merchant shows me around, the workers in the stor.e room don't look . up once; if anything, with the presence of the captain, they seem even more meticulously focused than usual on the label of a jean, the collar of a shirt. Past the workers hanging clothes, past the grey door, is the actual store's space again. "Well, that's that," the Captain says, as we reach the rows of sweatshirts. There we meet Paul.

Then, putting to work the power that only the Captain can wield, he tells him, "Show this girl around."

III. Made a decision to turn our will over as we grew to understanding.

That so many steps had been required for just a simple chat with Paul seemed strange: what did Salvo have to hide? Despite the Salvation Army's long-time presence in New Haven, the librarian from

the New Haven Historical Society can only producea thin file labeled "Salvation Army, New Haven. [Miscellaneous Publications]." Inside are only two items, both customary handouts from Salvo, both from the 1930s. "Maybe they have their own library?" she suggests, almost apologetically. They do ·have a library, the official Salvation Army Archives and Research center in Alexandria, Virginia, which is open to the public. Still, a serious visitor would need to make an appointment .

Only archives staff are allowed to photocopy documents, but they are not always on call. Only certain documents may be copied.

Yet Salvo's stringency, like that of most churches, is merely steeped in custom.

Though most people recognize the organization more for its social than religious services, the Salvation Army is at its heart a Christian church organized in the manner of the military, with its own traditions and restrictions. Salvo has been in New Haven since 1888. Paul has worked in the store for the past 15 years. Things were a little different back when he began, for example a larger staff of at least five at a time, whereas now he can rarely get two to work the register. But some policies don't change. In the New Haven branch, at least, captains are still only allowed to •

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marry other officials within the Salvo hierarchy. Other rules include no soliciting within the store. For me, this means no asking shoppers questions either.

IY. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. .

Hi, excuse me, sir. Sir, can I have a moment of your time? I noticed you came out of the Salvation Army. Why do you shop there? Oh, sorrySome people are unresponsive; I try to seek out the ones with open faces and jolly walks, the ones who won't be angered by questions. Why do they shop there? It's cheaper! It's economics, you know. People want to save money. Ain't nothin' wrong with that.

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While Lenny is gone~ the man in beige walks over. His eyes meet mine. c2isten~ '' he says. czisten, I know Lenny. And I need some help. " Lenny sees me taking notes. He walks •

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over. "Do you support the Salvation Army?" I ask eagerly. "Oh sure," he said.

"Oh, they do great things. Whenever I got somethin' I can~t use, I give it to 'em.

Support their rehab center, ya know." He wears a black bandanna and tells me he's a mover, here for a temporary job transporting things into the Schubert Theater. He is waiting outside for the hot buffalo wings he ordered to be delivered. "Don't worry.

I'm not preyin' on no women. Unlike that guy," he tells me, pointing to the one in a beige jacket standing by the entrance of the nearby parking garage, and laughs. Lenny has a car of his own, pays car insurance, rent, gas. Lives an honest life. Tells me his address; spells it out on the street. ''Ain't got nothin' to hide," he says, shrugging, and then waves to the woman through the restaurant's window. His wings are ready.

While Lenny is gone, the man in beige walks over. His eyes meet mine. "Listen," he says. "Listen, I know Lenny. And I need some help." But before he can finish, Lenny comes back, opening his tin box of wings. "How're you, man?" Lenny says, punching the guy who turns out to be Ted, fifty years old and recently released from prison. "You been in there again?" says Lenny. "Well, that's too bad." "Yea," says •

Ted, who adds that he needs a bus ticket to Delaware, 42 dollars, to stay with his family there. Says he's been homeless for a few weeks now.

"Don't they give you transportation money when you come out of prison?" asks Lenny. "Oh no," replies Ted. "You have to make a special case for that. I didn't want to make a special case." Lenny shrugs. "Well, why don't you get a job then? Why don't you get yourself a rake?"

-he mimics a raking motion "It's leaf season, you know... you could go 'round to different doors sayin' 'you need anybody?"'

Ted says he's tried. Nothing works. Lenny - shrugs and reaches into his pocket. I almost expect him to pull out some cash, but he takes out his cell phone instead.

"Gotta go, " h e says. "They need me. I'm . movin' things today."

"You need some help?" Ted asks. "Nah, nah," says Lenny. "Nah, we've already got enough people." And he leaves.

V. Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

·

Ted looks after Lenny walking down the darkening streets, then turns to me .

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•

"Lenny and I go way back, to 1992," he tells me. "We were both in the same rehab program together, right back behind there" he points to the store. I wonder why Lenny didn't mention his participation in the program as he expounded on the virtues of the store, even after I had mentioned my interest in the rehab center. "Anyway, it worked for Lenny. It's good for some people, you know." Ted sighs. "Listen. I don't want you to feel sorry for me." But he needs money to get to Delaware. "This is all I got on me," he says, indicating his jacket, his sweatpants, his old backpack.

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was always on the other end o things, you know, "she says. '1 used to have a personal shopper."

My parents have always admonished me for throwing quarters into the hats of the homeless in Manhattan; where they were raised in China, people are suspicious of swindlers. I want to believe Ted, but I have no change. I scavenge and hand him my only bill, a crisp one, my parents' money. He accepts it soundlessly.

"I stepped off the path. I was doin' alright, but me and mah girl broke up," Ted continues. "Now I'm not sayin' that's an excuse or anythin', but" she filed a suit against him. He broke the restraining order and was sent back to jail.

"So why can't you go back to Salvation Army?" I ask. "Can't they help you?" ''I'm not steppin' through those doors again," he replies. "It's a process, a whole process. And they don't do anything for , you.

VI.

Were entirely ready to remove all these defects of character.

Even for those who want to change, Kelly, a counselor at the Adult Rehabilitation Center, says the success rate of the New Haven branch is about 10 percent, just slightly higher than the average for the Salvation Army nationwide. The men who show up for the six-month program often come from local detoxes, or are referred there by parole or probation officers. Some people just walk in. Kelly says the center accepts anyone who isn't a regSeptember 2009

istered sex offender, a convicted arsonist, a woman (the center is an all-men's facility), or someone physically unable to do work therapy.

Work therapy means forty hours of work at Salvo week for each resident, usually in the sorting room, or store, or as a truck driver or box mover. The workers aren't paid, but they are given a "gratuity."

Seven dollars a week for the first week, then up to nine, ten, and finally maxing out at 18 a week.

VII. Humbly asked for our shortcomings to be removed.

Jared is putting stickers on videotapes, marking each battered cardboard box with a price, $1.99 for movies he has heard of, $.99 for kid's movies and more obscure films. "Are you a worker here?" I ask, cheerf11lly. "Uh, no, unfortunately, I'm in the program," he replies stolidly.

"Well, that's good, at least you're getting help," I say. "Well ..." He hesitates. "Yes and no. I mean, you still pretty much have to do eve · g yoursel£" It's his second time in the program. .......

Ibis tirne, he carne voluntarily. Jared's

case, Kelly tells me, is not unique: "Unfortunately, we have a lot of repeat offenders." Some guys just keep coming back to Salvo, relying on the organization to take care of them the same way others rely on • ""\VT pnson. we c all (em Saily-go- (rounders," says Kelly. "There's Salvation Armies in Bridgeport, Worcester, Springfield, Providence ... some people make a whole circuit . " For "Saily-go- ' roun d ers," S alvation tnp.

Army is the solution to an otherwise unstable life, a way to move forward with the beginnings of each new program.

But Jared is clearly disappointed in himself and a little disappointed with Salvo; his voice is quiet, his eyes look anywhere but at me, and when Paul comes over, he stops talking altogether.

Vlll. Made a list of all things we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.

Most people have been friendly and responsive to my questions, but some take offense. One says sharply, "It's none of your business," when I ask her why she shops at Salvo. I can't forget I'm a Yale student when I'm here, that their finances are none of my business, that I'm look-

25

ing for different things from . this store, · and, unlike the woman who struggles with her husband to decide whether or not she should purchase a two-dollar video game that might not work on her console, I spend at will, almost frivolously in comparison: a one-dollar vase for my suite, an eight-dollar outfit for Halloween. Four Yale freshmen boys browse for "fat lady in · drag" costumes. · · Few people come to Salvo for deeper reasons than saving money, but maybe they don't need to. They don't want to know more about the organization and how it ser¥es others when they need Salvo to serve themselves; they don't always have the luxury or time to ask questions like I do.

Some seem barely able to purchase from Salvo at all. Paul tells me people steal from the Salvo store all the time. Just the other day, he caught a woman with a child stuffing clothes into the bottom of the stroller. Others pack clothes into drawers in the used furniture room, to retrieve them at a later time. Some go as far as to switch their worn-out shoes with a pair of Salvo's from the shelf on the spot. "People just don't respect this place," says Paul.

IX. Made direct a mends to such people whenever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

When I first arrived at the store, I noticed a woman walking through the aisles with intensity, picking up after the shoppers. Hangers and clothes are constantly strewn over Cindy's arms as she searches for the right places to put them. When I ask her her story, she surprises me. She's a volunteer here. Oh, and she used to be a millionaire, she tells me, in a tone so matter-of-fact that it holds the ring of truth. "I was always on the other end of things, you know," she says. "I used to have a personal shopper." When I comment on her intensity in work, she laughs. "Well, I worked for a restaurant corporation for 30 years," she says. "And I just love this store. I want to improve it. Paul, all the guys here, they're great. They spoil me."

Years ago, she and her ex split up and she decided to go out East. Then, another ten years and an abusive relationship later, she lost her money, became homeless, began staying at a shelter. In 2008, Cindy dropped by this store with no resources,

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no outdoor clothes for the cold fall. Someone had told her she could maybe work for clothes at Salvo. So she worked for five hours and earned a coat and jeans, especially important for someone who used to be from California.

Paul tells me people steal om the Salvo store all the time. just the other day, he caught a woman with a child stu ng clothes into the bottom o the stroller. Others pack clothes into drawers in the used furniture room, to retrieve them at a later time~ Some go as -ar as to switch their worn-out shoes with a pair o Salvo's from the shel on the spot. uPeople just don't respect this place," says Paul.

•

She is still living at that shelter, working at Salvo for no pay and few benefits, coming to help out at the store even on days when she doesn't have to. She compliments customers' clothing choices. She · · walks around the store with vigor. ''And," as she rings the register, she says, ''I'm happy."

•

X. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong prompdy admitted it.

If Cindy never feels out of place at Salvo, why should I? I used to feel guilty stepping inside the store, not because I thought I was better than the people there, but afraid that those same people would think that I thought I was better. Mraid that my middle-class past and present not rich, but certainly far from poor meant not being able to understand the different pasts and presents of other shoppers.

A woman is looking at a decorative plate a deep, cratered sort of thing, with a scene of a castle carved in. I ask her if she thinks she's going to eat out of it and she laughs. "What is this place?'' she asks,

tilting her head. "Is this France?" I don't know either. We turn the plate over and it reads: Neuschwanstein 1357. "Oh God ...

Noos-k-wan-steen," she sounds out slowly, chuckling. "Who would go there?" . Jared, who is more willing to talk to me lately, explains that he's never been out of the country. But his rich sponsor~ the recovery programs encourage you to have a sponsor flew him to Florida for a week before his rehab program began, the first time, in 200 1. Daytona Beach.

"I still think he was tryin' to show off a bit, you know," says Jared of his sponsor.

But it was the only time he's ever traveled. . .Now in his second round with the program, he's worked at the store for two months. "I get paid like, what, 17 cents an hour?" But he doesn't seem too bitter:. "I guess it's for discipline." Still, he says~ you can't break the rules: no drugs, no alcohol, no women. "If you break the rules," he says, "they penalize you. Sometim~s you get kicked out or they give you _ what they call 'P.R T' Personal Reflection Time." Residents on PRT are unable to leave the premises of the rehab center, and even during the allowable times, curfews are normally ten on weekdays and eleven o'clock on weekends. The men are not allowed to call friends.

A man appears from the grey door of the storeroom as Jared is still talking. That man points his finger towards Jared, gesturing for him to come in. "Uh-oh," sings Jared as he goes over and looks at me with his eyebrows raised .

XI. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve onr conscious contact with people there, ptaying only for knowledge and the power to carry that out.

At Yale, the conception of Salvation Army seems to be dominated by the clothes the store sells. Paul shows me Yale Daily News articles written about it before, including one about Yalies looking for wild clothing at Salvo for the Safety Dance, the school's annual 80s-themed dance. Another describes "finding an outfit for under $100 in New Haven."

But there's more than cheap stuff in the discarded piles: eve · g in Salvo is a transfer of histories, from the mother who chooses to donate her daughter's once-loved doll to the workers in the

THE NEW JOURNAL

sroreroom who, in silence, puc rags on sweaters as they work through their theraPYâ&#x20AC;˘ to the customers, the ones who choose carefully amongst rhe debris for something new ro call rheir own, items rhey can give a future.

XII. Having had an awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to all people, and to practice these principles in our affairs.

I walk to rhe COs and rapes section, nor really knowing what I'm looking for, but pick up a hand-made cover: September 2001 mix. Jared walks over. "September 11, '0 1, char's my birthday." He can't possibly be seven years old. He's calking about che day he was incarcerated, in Connecticut, as the Towers fell. "I wish I never had rhac birth dare," he says. "I rry ro forger about the past... bur then I see something like that. And it brings ir all back."

Some things remain deeply private in Jared's memory. These memories, these pasts, nestled within a person, may need nothing more than an object, a tide, the ring of a bell to Aoar into consciousness.

Salvo is a spiritual space, a private place. The organization seems almost a blend of the public and the private: giving people the garments with which chey present themselves to the world, and, behind closed doors, trying to heal their tortured inner selves. Asking questions may only probe further inro the hurt, the memories.

Maybe this is why Salvarion Army prefers fewer questions. Salvo remains hidden, steeped in a habit of silence.

While Ted nurses his old wounds and repeats his mistakes, Lenny and Cindy live happily, blurring their pasts, focusing on the present: Lenny perhaps pretending he was never in rehab, adjusting to a completely new lifesryle. Each time an item makes it our from the warehouse and is purchased by someone, char item's history replaced by its new purpose.

Back in my dorm, I place the September mix inro my computer. The compurer hums and I am hopeful, bur it srops abruptly. No songs show up. What now?

Salvation Army's items policy: no return.

TN] Kangki \~mg is a ju11ior i11 Bra11jord Col~g~. and a11 Associau Editor of TN}.

September 2009

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through the front door of my compact suburban house in California, you find that the foyer, family room, dining room, and kitchen are not · separated in any clear-cut way. There are no walls, just open space. It's one common room, cluttered with a shoe rack, a table, bookshelves, kitchen appliances, a couch, my morn's unused exercise machine, and five video game consoles. From the time I was little, it was clear that this was the place where every member of my family could be left alone to do his or her own thing: even today, my dad oddly obsesses over the dirty dishes, my mom and younger brother lounge around on the couch watching TY, and I shoot around on the miniature Nerfbasketball hoop that hangs from the front door. · It isn't my first Nerf hoop; I've had dozens since my parents bought me my first one to complement the foam basketball I already had. Though to most kids this present might pale in comparison to the neon Nerf blasters that fire harmless, pufl)r bullets, I could not have been happier.

Over the years, the sound of the backboard thumping against our front door as the ball goes through the net has become just as familiar as the wailing of rny dad's favorite Delta blues artists blaring from WHEN YOU WALK

our stereo on Sunday mornings while he compulsively scrubs the kitchen.

I used to play on the Nerf hoop while I watched television. I remember ·watching the first season of American Idol, ball in hand, the rest of the family in their usual spots. All of the contestants not named Kelly Clarkson were crying and screaming about getting cut while we laughed hys. . . terically at them. "Get over it!" we yelled.

Some of t~em looked especially miserable.

"I knew I would make it," they kept saying. "This doesn't make sense. I know I'm the one; I'm different, I'm special."

•

Instead, I started my own franchise, the San Francisco Secret. I would be the best player on the Secret, a deceptively strong 6:11 ';} speedy guard who could score from anywhere on the court and dunk like Michael jordan. .

The show went to a commercial break, and I resumed play on my Nerf hoop. I jumped as high as I could and slammed

the little ball through the plastic rim, lost in a dunk-filled dream world of my own.

I had escaped from the reality of basket.ball played on ten-foot goals. I hurriedly retrieved the ball from underneath the dinner table and scurried to the back of the room for a difficult long shot. It was a rare miss. The ball careered off the rim and fell right into my dad's bowl of noodles on the table. Some of the soup flew out at his face, but he didn't seem too upset. Still chuckling at the pop star wannabes we had just seen on TY, he nonchalantly wiped his face, extracted the ball from the broth, and handed it back to me. I got right back into the game .

I was fortunate that my parents encouraged my incessant, delusional trips into the world of Nerf, where all hoop dreams came true. Everything would unfold as I imagined it would, without me ever having to go outside and work on my real-life game. First, I would go to Los Altos High, where I'd be the star of the varsity squad.

Then, I would play for Stanford and lead the team to a few championships. Then it was on to the NBA, where glorim 1s individual playoff performances were sure to come. Usually, I would perform beautifully in these games. But sometimes, for the fans, I would struggle, only to come

THE NEW JOURNAL

28 •

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through for my team· in the end.

The team I would play for didn't exist yet. I liked living in the Bay Area, so I figured I'd play there once I got to the NBA. Still, I didn't want to play for the perpetually abysmal Warriors, based in nearby Oakland. Instead, I started my own franchise, the San Francisco Secret.

I would be the best player on the Secret, a deceptively strong 6' 1" speedy guard who could score from anywhere on the court and dunk like Michael Jordan.

Like my real basketball-playing self (who today stands only 5'10"), my NBA self would be a good ball handler who could drive to the lane. But like my Nerf sel£ he could also shoot accurately from 40 feet away. I made up and memorized how many points, rebounds, and assists I would average, and when I watched NBA games I would compare real players' stats with my foam ones.

Not only was I going to be a local icon, I would also be an entrepreneur, the new-age Jordan. I would have my own line of shoes that I designed mysel£ I drew up dozens of full-color blueprints for sneakers and assigned each of them specific prices. None of them would cost less than $150 - after all, they were Nikes. On each shoe, the N would be sewn on in white, and the IKE would be in black (like the Secret's uniform). My parents were proud of how creative and athletic their son could be.

Luke "Sky" Walker was the Secret's center, a 6' 11" beast of a man. He could shoot threes like those white guys on Indiana's college team and shove people around like Shaquille O'Neal. The rest of the starting lineup consisted of my cousin Julian and two of my best friends, Chris and Adam. Together, we won ten straight championships, setting every imaginable record (75 wins in a season) and winning every possible award one year the five of us were all be selected for the five-person All-NBA first teamalong the way.

As I grew up, I began the trying to achieve my dreams outside of my living room. In the driveway, I honed the dribbling moves I had learned shooting Nerf to dart past my dad. At school, I challenged my friends to HORSE at recess and routinely emerged victorious. I spent summers at Stanford's basketball camp . trying to impress my future coaches. I joined a youth league and ma-de the all.

September 2009

star team at the end of the year, but by the time I finally got to Los Altos High, I only made the JV team. Nonetheless, byy high school's end, I had done pretty well for mysel£ which had served only to perpetuate my basketball delusion. But the dream ended there. College coaches never came · calling, and I was forced to confront reality, my American Idol moment. I wasn't like that Southern girl who had grown up to be Kelly Clarkson, or that skinny kid from Wilmington, NC named Michael Jordan. I wasn't destined for greatness.

Contrary to what I had once thought, I had never been on an inevitable path to success, never on the road from nobody to household name.

Together, we won ten straight championships, setting every imaginable record (75 wins in a season) and winning every possible award- one year the ve of us were all be selected for the jive-person AllNBA first team along the way.

As it became dear that I was never going to make it as big as I had previously imagined, I would come home from youth league or ]V games and pick up my Nerf ball. I would escape from the memories of forgettable performances and return to my basketball utopia, where there still existed a hope that one day my lofty expectations could be fulfilled. It was a fantasy fueled only by- the fact that I happened to be a true champion Nerf-baller. I had once made a house-record 51 consecutive foul shots from my imaginary free throw linefive feet up from the gas heater in the back of the room, where there was a dark linear spot on the hardwood Boor. I was best at shooting straight-on (probably because the fronts of Nerf rims start to conveniently sag as the hoops get worn down), but I was fairly consistent from anywhere in the room. Although on real courts I was more of a slasher good at driving to the basket but mediocre at scoring from long range! became a pure shooter in the world of Ner£ invincible to all who dared challenge me.

Now at college, I'm trying to make up for the real basketball deficiencies I largely ignored as a kid. I play a lot - in intramurals, for the university club team, and even as a practice player for the varsity girls' squad. No one comes to watch me play anymore, but I don't care too much.

I remain excited to go practice, and even though I'm kind of a nobody now. I'm still pleased to have come at least this far as a ·basketball player.

But I still have my Nerf hoop, just in case I need an occasional fix. It hangs on my bedroom door, facing out into the common room because my room isn't spacious enough to shoot around in. I play whenever I'm feeling restless, and my suitemates don't mind, probably because I look like an idiot. My forehead is above rim-level, and when friends come over to find me standing by the hoop, I blush. But it doesn't matter. We all know I could still beat anyone who tries to take me on.

•

TN Ike Wilson is a junior in Trumbull College.

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As Yates preeminent undergraduate publication for investigative journalism, in-depth news analysis, and incisive commentary on New Haven and university affairs, The New Journal receives its fair share ofcorrespondence from readers, admirers and prospective contributors. yYpically, due to space constraints, we are unable to publish letters to the editors. However, having fired most ofour staffto weather the recession, we have more than enough room. So, in an attempt to give something back to the thousands ofindividuals who have taken the time to sit down at a computer and drop us a line, we have decided to run a very special Letters Section in their honor. So here, for the first time ever, we present an unedited sample straight from The New Journals Gmail inbox. Enjoy!

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.... ......... .

Falling 1cieles f•om tluilding slnJctUi&:l can catJSe setio<a "• Rlle$ia kficl·NS all too aboullhis ~tltl\.

. " Mo.cow, TASS " boilding$ in a central

repolted on February 2$.

regjOil.•

111

and even d nll1

...nan ll:ey fall on unsusp I!Cting pedestrians.

"Six

Got something to say? E1nail us at thenewjournal@gmail.com.

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THE NEW JOURNAL·

O..tlngl

I.A!tters to the New Journal {Endnote)

IX

GreetingsI

My name is Miss Monica, I saw your email address from site today and I become interested in you, so if you donl mind, I will really want to be having communication with you so that we can get to know each other better and see what will happen in

fub.n.

My pictures will be sending to you and other some of proof of my self fot you to know whom I am,Remember that nationality Of appearance is not important.The most important thing is love m as much as life and nature are concem, Honestly I am not searching for games, or contrary something like that, I hope to find that special person in you, and somea~e with whom I can create the friendship and good love I've always want and who knows what could happen from there.

Beat regards Monica....

A lot of love and kiss

Dear Lucky Winner,

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Lette-s to the New Journal (Endnote)

1x

NATIONAL LOTTERY

Dear Lucky Winner, YouremaiiiD was awarded (£1 ,000,000,00 GBP), in the tobacco Promo.

1.Full Name: 2.Full Address: 3.Status: 4.0ccupation: 5.Phone Number.

G. Country:

Wamlng Thla m _ . mrj not be from w'-tl 11 claim a liD be - . o1 foUow4ne 8ftY llnU In it 0< ol providing th• . .nd., w tth any pwaonal lnfonnaUon.

~Jqwa~<»m/

A gaod p&.c. to rMke Y<Nf cadlion t.fter.

September 2009

31

YALE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

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