Halloween may have come and gone but Los Angeles is still on holiday high alert. Families are preparing for their own versions of "Dia De Los Muertos" and many cemeteries have organized big celebrations around communing with ancestors.
LA Eastside blog posted an excellent round up of events happening this weekend: Self Help Graphics's annual celebration, Olvera Street observances, traditional strolling musicians abound at Resurrection Cemetery in Montebello...
The voice that permeated my childhood was not that of Fred Rogers, Winnie the Pooh or Charlie Brown.
It was Studs Terkel's.
My mother was – and remains – a fan of WFMT, Chicago’s classical music station from which his interview program was broadcast for nearly 50 years. Our house was equipped with in-wall radio speakers in every room, controlled by my mother at a central dial. And so we awoke, dressed, ate and played to the strains of Tchaikovsky and Bach, and the locutions of Studs Terkel.
His interviews, conducted in his trademark warm gravel, were a revelation to my young self: the excitement in his voice, the breathy press of it, the yes, yes, tell me more, what you are saying is urgent and important and worth hearing and placing into its larger context. He was the wise uncle who sat in a rocker on the front porch and struck up a conversation with whomever happened to pass by.
He was a sharp observer, a critic, a man who called things as he saw them. He could be gloomy and disparaging, but at heart he was an optimist. A believer in progress, in goodness, in the promise of the next great thing. His knowledge was vast, surpassed only by his curiosity about everything and his willingness to pursue it.
In our house, his warmth carried from room to room, setting the mood, transforming everything into something thoughtful and worthwhile and utterly, completely, manageable. There is nothing we can’t talk about, his tone suggested, nothing we can’t bring to light, turn over and around and grasp more deeply. In this way we take control of it, make it our own, bridge these gulfs between us.
Studs was renowned as a listener. But he could talk. About race, class faith. Music, art, acting. He took them on with equal zeal. He was funny, irreverent and energetic. He gave voice to ordinary people before the Internet enabled ordinary people to give voice to themselves. He was not interested in them for their celebrity potential, but for their ability to tell us something about our shared humanity. He brought these stories to a wider audience, unvarnished, with little fuss.
The Chicago History Museum, which has archived Terkel’s work, puts it this way:
“These interviews narrate the cultural, literary, and political history of Chicago and the United States. Discussion topics reflect the interests, passions, and political leanings of the interviewer. The archives are especially rich in interviews with and performances by musicians, singers, lyricists, and composers of jazz, opera, and folk. Mahalia Jackson, Louis Armstrong, Judy Collins, and many other artists performed.The list of authors and poets represented in the collection reads like a Who's Who of twentieth-century literature. James Baldwin, Ralph Ellison, Nadine Gordimer, Toni Morrison, Dorothy Parker, Carl Sandburg, Nelson Algren, and Mike Royko, are just a few of the authors who read from their works and discussed their craft with Terkel.
Terkel and his guests discussed such diverse topics as nuclear disarmament, the American peace movement, psychology, race relations, ecology and environmental pollution, violence against women, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, and labor activism.”
The WFMT website refers to Studs as the “Free Spirit” in the station’s broadcast family. Without Studs Terkel, it’s hard to imagine “This American Life,” “Radio Diaries,” even “Howard Stern.”
Studs knew and admired my mother, Susan Catania, a white Republican feminist state legislator from a predominantly black district on the South Side of Chicago. The feeling was mutual. My mother not only listened to his show and broadcast it through the house, she talked about it, about the guests and the topics, about what was said and who said it, to us and to anyone else who was interested. She bought all his books and had them autographed and gave them as gifts. Our copy of “The Good War: An Oral History of World War II” is inscribed to my husband, Mark, a war history buff. It reads, “To Mark: To always be gnawing at the bone of truth—like a famished dog. Here’s to peace and, Oh God, sanity.”
Studs Terkel played no small part in my decision to become a journalist, and I’d always wanted to meet the man himself. In the spring of 2001, I got my chance: an author Q &A to coincide with the release of “Will the Circle Be Unbroken? Reflections on Death, Rebirth and a Hunger for Faith.” I arrived at his home in Lincoln Park, just a couple of blocks from Lake Michigan and the Lincoln Park Zoo, list of prepared questions in hand. His wife and longtime companion Ida had died not too long before, and he was dynamic, energetic and engaged, if a little sad. He talked a lot about Kurt Vonnegut, art, politics, history and the state of America.
It was a delightful hour, in which I sat in complete awe and near complete silence – I think the photographer asked more questions than I did. At the end of it, I asked him to sign my book (yes, unprofessional, I know, but I didn’t care) and went on my way. That night, listening to the tape, I realized it was all “A” and no “Q.” The consummate interviewer had gone and interviewed himself.
I got a second chance the following spring, when Studs came to L.A. to accept an award from Death Penalty Focus for his work on behalf of abolition of capital punishment. I was hosting an hour-long special on KPFK on the death penalty and this segment was to be included in the show. It was a humbling and intimidating experience—interviewing for radio the man whose radio interviewing I so admired.
He was gracious and loquacious and, again, in the face of my fumbling, wound up carrying the interview pretty much by himself. Any concerns I had about the near-soliloquy were dispelled when I realized, in listening to the tape, that what he had to say was far more interesting than anything I might have contributed. It worked brilliantly.
It’s a shame Studs Terkel didn’t live to see the election of our nation’s first African American president, but on the eve of this historic election, the Democratic nominee would do well to take the advice Studs offered at the close of every show: “Take it easy, but take it.”
* Post-script, Monday Nov. 3:
A reader emailed to tell me that "take it easy but take it" comes from an old Pete Seeger song. I looked up the lyrics and they're even more relevant to tomorrow's presidential election than I thought. The last few lines:
if you don't let red-baiting break you up,
And if you don't let stoolpigeons break you up,
And if you don't let vigilantes break you up,
And if you don't let race hatred break you up,
You'll win. What I mean, take it easy, but take it!
As my kids suit up as skeleton orcs and grim reapers tonight and prepare to trick or treat, I’ll be keeping a close eye on the candy that fills their plastic pumpkins. This year, the semi urban myth fears of razor blade apples has been replaced by something more real and tangible: candy made in China or containing ingredients from China that might harbor melamine or other toxins.
The villain isn’t some slavering American maniac anymore, it’s those motivated by greed – or in some cases stupendous ignorance – who have polluted the food chain worldwide. What bothers me the most about the Chinese toxins is that candy isn’t always clearly labeled. It might say “distributed in America” but where does it originate? Even candy that says “made in America” may use ingredients manufactured elsewhere. Everyone knows chocolate is made with milk and butter. And Chinese milk has been found to be tainted. So how do we know that the candy companies aren’t buying these ingredients from China? And if the products go through layers of middlemen, how can they be sure anyway?
I have long pulled Mexican candies out of my kids’ Halloween stashes because some of those have been found to contain lead, which can cause mental retardation. This year, I’ll be reading labels as never before. But where does it end? The LA Times recently cited a study showing that artificial colorings can produce symptoms of ADHD. Do I need to pull all the colorful treats too?
In the end, I’ll probably cut them slack on this one. I monitor my kids’ diets the other 364 days of the year and figure the mental trauma of seeing most of their candy thrown out outweighs the health hazard of gobbling some dodgy sweets.
And they’re actually pretty good sports. They’ve read Eric Schlosser’s Fast Food Nation and they understand the perils. I hope Schlosser’s working on a book about the poisoning of the global food chain now. In the meantime, U.S. government needs to pass laws requiring food companies to list the originating country of all their ingredients. Only then can consumers make informed choices.
When I moved from Los Angeles to Portland, Oregon four years ago, it was with the sense I was going into exile. It was not so much the physical dislocation, as the fear I was leaving my work as a journalist. I was extremely fortunate that, from the time I began freelancing in LA in 1995, I was able to make a living. Nearly all the money came from local publications, which continued to give me assignments until the day I drove out of town, and beyond. I still occasionally contribute, though it’s been less the past two years, something I’ve chocked up to being far away, the umbilical getting too long to deliver ideas, and vice versa.
Then, yesterday, I received an email from one of my editors down there: “Am sure you heard about the Times this week… Good thing you moved and don’t have to compete with all these out-of-work LA journalists!”
Being a daily reader of LA Observed, and having friends and colleagues on Spring Street, I of course knew what was happening at the Los Angeles Times; had read the most recent list of lay-offs with real dread I would see one of my best friend’s names. (I didn’t.) I read earlier today there will be more layoffs at the LA Weekly. I have no idea whether my current editor will be let go, but do know my former one, Joe Donnelly, was laid off earlier this year, prompting me to think, then, that if they could let go Joe, no one is safe.
I landed in Portland at a timely moment. For a feature writer, there was a lot of work, if often at half the rate and half the length. And while some of the local papers have lately been shrinking, the major monthly, where I contribute, is getting fatter. They also have a sharp new editor in chief, they’re running smarter longer features, and, with the exception of Conde Nast publications, pay as well as any magazine I’ve written for.
Last year, when this same magazine was looking nationwide for its new editor, I mentioned the position to several folks in LA. No one was ready to jump, and why would they have? Portland is not as vibrant a city as LA (trust me); it’s a big move, people have kids; they had hope. Now, I have an LA editor asking about Portland real estate, a Hollywood columnist wanting to know whether there’s a position for him in my husband’s business, and, with increasing frequency, the sorts of emails above.
I tell them, I’d love to have them here, and that I will, as I tried to do for a recently axed Timesman, make connections for them. That nothing would make me gladder than a giant influx of big city news talent. But I also know, it’s already here: while walking through the magazine’s office the other day, I saw a gal in conference with several editors, and heard her telling them, “I was on staff at LA City Beat.” Two years ago – heck, two months ago – I would have butted in, to find out who she was and whether we knew each other’s bylines; to take her out and sit her down and tell her what I’ve learned about the politics of Portland journalism. But I didn’t. I walked on, thinking, I hope they have a job for her.
Way back in June, The New York Times published a story about "a growing band of supporters of Senator Barack Obama [...] who are expressing solidarity with him by informally adopting his middle name."
As you may have noticed by the new banner on my personal blog, I have kinda sorta joined that band, at least until Election Day, but not for purely political reasons.
If my goal was to support Obama's candidacy, I could certainly have found a more effective way. Instead, I took "Hussein" as a peaceful form of protest, a statement of my profound opposition to idiocy.
Today I write as "TJ Hussein Sullivan" because America's education system has so obviously failed to instill an ounce of common sense in many of our citizens. How else can you explain a person smart enough to work all the dials and switches required of a radio talk show host* who behaves like a schoolyard bully, attempting to belittle and degrade Obama by mocking his middle name?
"Hussein … Hussein … Hussein."
Obama, however, is hardly my only concern.
I am "TJ Hussein Sullivan" for Sen. John McCain, whose middle name is "Sidney."
Yep. Sidney.
I'm "TJ Hussein Sullivan" for former Vice President Al Gore, whose middle name is "Arnold," and for former President George H. W. Bush (41) who has a "Herbert" stuck in there.
And, remember the late Sen. Paul Tsongas? Paul Tsongas's middle name was "Efthemios."
Seriously. Efthemios.
Haven't the John Sidneys, the Al Arnolds, the George Herberts and, yes, the Paul Efthemioses suffered enough? My God, it's a wonder any of them survived recess.
*This is one of many examples.
UPDATE: The Los Angeles Times notices.
Less than a week before our historic presidential election, a growing number of American families are more concerned about where they will sleep tonight than with who will move into the White House in January.
Before the downturn, 59 percent of American workers with children under the age of six were living from paycheck to paycheck, and 37 million Americans were living in poverty. That’s about one in ten people across the country, a figure that rises to one in seven in LA County. The numbers today are certainly higher.
On Monday, the Downtown News reported that demand for help at LA’s downtown homeless shelters is soaring, while support for those services is shrinking. Most alarming is the increase in families seeking emergency shelter.
At the Union Rescue Mission, which serves more than 700,000 meals a year and can accommodate 1,000 people a night, an entire floor that was formerly used by volunteers has been given over to families, according to Andy Bales, the mission’s CEO. “We're actually increasing our services because of the need, and that's compounding our challenge,” Bales told the News. “We've been doing a lot of praying and stretching of resources.”
The News story continues:
Gregory C. Scott, president and CEO of the Weingart Center, said individual donations are down about 15-20% at the organization that houses about 600 homeless residents and helps 2,500 people annually find jobs. Scott said a program to help people find permanent homes will be canceled in December and City Live, a fundraising event scheduled for November that has been going for 17 years, was canceled due to lack of sponsor support.“A lot of the companies that usually sponsor us were just not able to pull out those donations this year, and it's a ripple effect," he said. "The people we do get donations from are donating less because the economy has affected them as well, and because the economy has become the way it is, the need for our service increases, but we have less resources.”
Nearly three in four of California’s low-income working families pour more than a third of their income into housing costs, according to a report by the non-profit Working Poor Families Project released earlier this month. The Golden State ranks among the bottom four states in terms of housing affordability nationwide. That report is based on statistics compiled through 2006. Without a doubt many of those struggling families are now among those facing homelessness.
Yet the concerns of the growing ranks of the poor—for safe and affordable housing, for access to health care, food, transportation, education and adequate pay for thankless work – remain remarkably absent from the presidential campaigns.
It’s not for lack of trying. According to the Buffalo News, “the ONE organization, co-founded by Bono, lead singer of the rock band U2, said that it sent an Internet petition signed by 122,000 people to moderator Tom Brokaw of NBC, asking him to pose one question about poverty during the Oct. 7 debate. Brokaw did not raise any questions about poverty.”
In September, the Marguerite Casey Foundation hosted a tri-city convention, which drew 15,000 low-income Americans to gatherings in Los Angeles, Chicago and Birmingham Alabama (full disclosure: I’ve done some writing for them, both because I have my own family to feed and because I endorse their family-empowerment approach).
The families talked about their hard work and sacrifices to put food on the table, keep their kids in school, hold down multiple jobs and keep a roof over their heads. Most of all they worried about their kids – about their health and safety and education. They appealed to the government to join them in ensuring their children’s futures. The event was ignored by the dunder-headed LA Times and Daily News, though both the Huffington Post and New America Media provided good coverage.
In an article in the July/August issue of Harvard Magazine entitled "Unequal America: Causes and consequences of the wide -- and growing-- gap between rich and poor," writer Elizabeth Gudrais cites a study that found that "by the time the election comes around, the only candidates left in the race are those who've shaped their platforms to maximize fundraising: poor voters have already been left out."
Working families are filling our shelters and struggling to feed their children. What will to take for us to stop ignoring them?
I've had the Los Angeles Times delivered every day since 1982. My parents subscribed in 1964. This morning I left it the driveway. I didn't do this to protest the latest round of staff cuts that, with all due respect to those who have departed before or taken the buyout or remain in the building, have now drained the lifeblood and gouged out the marrow. Friends and professional associates are gone, and while talented and worthy staff remain, the paper's bones are brittle, cracked, and the paper has fallen and it can't get up. You know what happens to old people who break their hips and heads in a fall: they must take to bed. Prolonged lack of motion causes fragile body systems to shut down. And death.
I wish I could say I left the paper in my driveway as a symbol of, if not anger, then sorrow. But no. I just didn't go out and get it this morning because the paper has become so increasingly irrelevant to the city and to my life that I simply forgot it was there.
I didn't realize I had missed it until I drove over it on the way out.
As you have probably read, the movie based on LA Times columnist Steve Lopez's book, "The Soloist," has been pushed to next year. A eerie portent of how many staffers will remain when the film finally debuts? Forget blame, okay. Maybe it's not possible to do the counter-intuitive and spend for the best into the downturn so that the paper stands out again. Maybe it's a one-way street. Will the last person to leave -- Mr. Zell? -- please turn out the lights?
We deserve better in Los Angeles, and I don't think what we have is simply the result of an economic downturn, or readers stolen by the web.
Suddenly those ads asking me to subscribe to the New York Times have become very tempting.
Author Henry Miller summed it up best when he wrote that, to become an artist, you must "be crushed … have your conflicting points of view annihilated." He wrote that you must be "wiped out" as a human being "in order to be born again an individual." He used words like "carbonized" and "mineralized" to describe what a writer must endure before he or she can "work upwards from the last common denominator of the self."
Had I read Miller before taking my leap into creative writing four and a half years ago, I’d have surely dismissed his advice as inapplicable to my life. After all, I'd been planning since college to traverse the same gateway used by my literary heroes, many of whom also started out at newspapers. I was certain that my years of reporting would provide a kind of equity against which I could borrow to gain entry into publishing. My journalism career had been "successful" and "rewarding,” and I had an "impressive" list of "accomplishments" and "awards.” I fired these words like arrows at the hearts of agents and expected them to swoon.
There was no swooning.
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