Detroit: A ruined city

I’ve always thought I liked Detroit. But I now realize what I liked was the idea of Detroit.

Credit the difference to “Detroit,” a hard-hitting book published in 2013 by Charlie LeDuff, a former New York Times reporter who returned to his hometown to write for the struggling Detroit News. “Detroit” chronicles the sorry state of the Motor City and how it got that way.

LeDuff grew up in a working class suburb of Detroit and his mother and brothers still live in the area. He quit the Times in 2007, then joined the News hoping to write stories that would reveal how a once-mighty city fell into a decades-long tailspin. This isn’t a book about macroeconomics or geopolitics nor is it a feel-good story with a happy ending, LeDuff says in the prologue. “It is a book of reportage,” he says. “A memoir of a reporter returning home — only he cannot find the home he once knew.”

detroit coverThe city that gave us the automobile, unions that helped secure family-wage jobs and benefits, and the enduring Motown sound today is a shell of itself. Since 1950, Detroit has lost nearly two-thirds of its population, sliding from a peak of nearly 1.9 million residents to about 700,000 today.

Once the richest city in America, Detroit is known today as a center of misery — a place plagued by crime, drugs, poverty, illiteracy, dropouts and foreclosures. Layered atop it all is a political culture defined by cronyism and corruption, with city council members and a recent mayor — the disgraced Kwame Kilpatrick — having been sent off to prison.

With a reporter’s nose for news and a gift for storytelling, LeDuff presents a compelling portrait of the city’s fall from grace. If you’re like me, you may think you know the Detroit story — a city wracked by race riots in 1943 and 1967, a city that’s become 90 percent black after decades of white flight, a city that nearly went bankrupt earlier this decade, and whose Big Three automakers had to beg Washington for a bailout after the auto industry collapsed during the 2008 recession.

But again, if you’re like me, you don’t really know the depth of dysfunction in Detroit.

In 287 compelling pages, LeDuff traces the city’s recent history and shares the backstory behind some of the most memorable stories and columns he produced at the News. Some material in the book appeared in different form in the News and Mother Jones magazine. But it is fleshed out with additional reporting that calls out the scoundrels while also singling out the unsung heroes and ordinary citizens who strive against all odds to make Detroit a better place.


My affection for Detroit began more than 30 years ago. I was among a dozen U.S. journalists chosen to spend a sabbatical year at the University of Michigan in nearby Ann Arbor. During my 10 months living in one of the nation’s great college towns, I experienced Detroit as an occasional visitor and nearly always as part of a group. We toured the Detroit Institute of Arts. We dined on lamb and sipped ouzo at Greektown restaurants. I caught a Saturday afternoon baseball game at venerable Tiger Stadium and began a fan from that day on, enjoying the thrill of seeing the Tigers win the World Series in the fall of 1984, just months after I had returned home to Oregon.

I would return frequently on behalf of The Oregonian, delighted to recruit several students from the U of M, Michigan State, and Wayne State to Portland, and happy to establish friendships with many more who went on to succeed in other newsrooms. On one trip, I visited Hitsville, U.S.A., the Motown-themed museum where so many R&B artists launched their careers.

But it was a false picture. I knew how to get from the airport to Greektown, a safe haven with familiar hotels and restaurants, but little else. I wasn’t exposed to the urban wasteland described by LeDuff.


I’ve been a LeDuff fan for years. He’s a drinking, smoking, cussing old-school reporter with blue-collar roots who started his newspaper career at the Alaska Fisherman’s Journal, landed a summer internship at the Times, and went on to become an award-winning staff writer.


Charlie LeDuff

I discovered his book by chance. While waiting for a late-night flight to Detroit as part of my Midwest baseball road trip, I noticed the paperback on a table at an airport bookstore and snatched it up. Good call.

“Detroit” is one of those books where you wind up with more than a dozen dog-eared pages. The stories are so arresting, the writing so vivid, that you can’t help but savor these scenes.

Two examples:

— The city, what’s left of it, burns night after night. Nature — in the form of pheasants,, hawks, foxes, coyotes and wild dogs — had stepped in to fill the vacuum, reclaiming a little more of the landscape each day. The streets were empty and cratered. The skyscrapers were holograms. I stood and admired a cottonwood sapling growing out of the roof of the Lafayette Building. This was like living in Pompeii, except the people weren’t covered in ash. We were alive.”

— We sat in a local diner, a rundown joint with walls the color of an old man’s teeth. I watched the detective tear into a chili dog. He weighed 350 pounds and was trying that meat-only diet.

“The whole shit is corrupt from top to bottom,” he said through his mustache and mouthful of dog. “Cops to judges. The fucking radios in the cars don’t even work. Why you think so many guys are leaving the department?”

Reading “Detroit” was the equivalent of taking the Ice Bucket Challenge. The naive picture I had of the city was doused with a bucketful of grim reality. I knew things were bad. I just hadn’t realized they’d been this bad for so long and gotten even worse.

It’s hard to feel optimistic about Detroit’s future. Like other Midwest cities, it’s experiencing a renaissance of sorts.

But “Detroit” isn’t about happy endings. It’s about looking at what went horribly wrong, at who and what destroyed the city, and what we should all know about a city that played such a critical role in the U.S and world economy.


VOA 5.0 meetup

Lynn St. Georges and Keith Cantrell came over from the Oregon Coast for the annual meetup of Voices of August writers. That Golden Lab over Keith's shoulder hints at the name of the brewpub where we met.

Lynn St. Georges and Keith Cantrell came over from the Oregon Coast for the annual meetup of Voices of August writers. That Golden Lab over Keith’s shoulder hints at the name of the brewpub.

No red carpet. No paparazzi. Not even an after-party.

But who needs glitz and glamour when you’re part of something more substantive — the annual meetup of the men and women who contribute to my Voices of August guest blog project.

Each and every day in August, I publish an essay crafted by one of an assortment of friends, relatives and fellow journalists. As invigorating as the project is, with thought-provoking pieces framed by a variety of generational and geographical perspectives, the face-to-face gathering that comes afterwards is the real payoff.

About 20 of us, including spouses and significant others, came together last weekend at a Portland brewpub, the same one where we first met five years ago. The Lucky Lab on Southeast Hawthorne may not have much in the way of atmosphere, but it certainly has characters — as in the long-haired old-timer at the end of the bar and his drinking buddy, another grizzled guy wearing a wolf’s head (or something like that) on his noggin.


(Click on photos to view captions.)

Voices of August began as a simple idea, an experiment, really. Could I entice 30 people scattered across the country to carve out some time in their typically busy lives to write an original essay for public consumption? And having done that, could I encourage them to engage in some of the online conversation that ensued from VOA contributors and general readers?

Turns out the answers were “yes” and “yes.”

Some folks have been a part of VOA since the beginning. For their support in creating and sustaining critical mass, I thank them. Others have contributed a piece or two and then yielded their spots to others, so that I could bring in fresh faces. For their cooperation, I also thank them.

What we have after five years is not mine — not at all. I may be the online emcee, but the content is created by everyone and the community that has emerged from this effort is one that belongs to everyone. VOA feels like a living, breathing organism. It warms my heart to see it in action as people who once only knew of each other from their guest blogs now mingle as real-time friends, sipping drinks, chatting, laughing and sharing stories.

Mary Hull Caballero, Ray Caballero and Angela K. Rider get acquainted as first-time VOA attendees.

Mary Hull Caballero, Ray Caballero and Angela K. Rider get acquainted as first-time VOA attendees.

There are few blogs, I would venture to say, that bring together writers from places as varied as Oregon, Washington, California, Illinois, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Texas and Washington, D.C., let alone France and Slovenia. When you consider that one writer emailed her piece from the Czech Republic and four others touched on international experiences or issues in Kenya, Tanzania, Canada and Mexico, well, that’s pretty cool.

Talk about making the world a smaller place.

But VOA is more than that. During the course of a month, it’s like unwrapping a new gift every day.

One day you’re transported back to a time, long before the advent of social media, when families ate together at the dinner table and shared their days. Another day you’re educated to the dangers of a shaved head in the wrong bar (quick, think of bachelorette parties and the kissing or rubbing of said head.)

On yet another day you understand the gift one woman received when she rode the bus on a frigid winter morning with a trio of men, in stained clothing and of meager means, who offered suggestions of where to get a free cup of coffee and a sandwich.

No matter the topic, no matter the writer, VOA gives you the opportunity to see a slice of the world through the eyes of someone who may be quite unlike you but whose perspective enriches your own worldview. A special thanks to those who have shared what it is like to cope with the loss of a spouse or a parent, to raise children as a single mom or single dad, to endure life’s various traumas and indignities. And a nod of appreciation, as well, to those who invite us to laugh with you or at ourselves.


As always, the evening included the presentation of gift cards to bookstores and coffee shops to those whose essays were judged as favorites by the VOA community. The nice thing about the balloting is that the criteria are whatever each voter decides. He or she alone chooses how much weight to give to the choice of topic, the quality of writing, the resonance of the piece, etc.

In my humble opinion, this year’s guest blog posts were the strongest ever. So I was pleased to see so many writers recognized for their work. In alphabetical order, these were the Best of VOA 5.0.

Tim Akimoff:  “To unfinished stories”

Parfait Bassale:  “Sons of God”

Ray Caballero (a first-time contributor):  “Be careful what you wish for”

Angie Chuang:  “What a lonely mountain gorilla taught me”

Patricia Conover:   “The pilgrim soul in you”

Elizabeth Hovde:   “The need to belong”

John Knapp:   “Cracking me open”

Lillian Mongeau:   “Dear Boomers”

Lynn St. Georges:   “Song in darkness”

Lakshmi Jagannathan (at right) gestures during conversation with Keith Cantrell. To Lakshmi's right: Angela, Lori and Mary.

Lakshmi Jagannathan (at right) gestures during conversation with Keith Cantrell. To Lakshmi’s right: Angela, Lori, Mary and Ray.

Final note: It wouldn’t feel right to bring down the curtain on this year’s body of work without recognizing the contribution made on the final day by 9-year-old Gabrielle Raia-Elise Akimoff. What a charming piece she wrote about adapting to her family’s many moves across the United States — “Hiking across America.”

Happily, the Akimoffs have moved from Chicago back to Oregon, now that her dad, Tim, has landed a job with a state agency in Salem.


In case you missed (or want to reread) any posts, you can pay a visit to the VOA 5.0 index page. Never too late to leave a comment, either.

Until next year…

Time to write

The Kenyon College campus, about 40 minutes northwest of Columbus, Ohio, offers a tranquil environment for writers.

Kenyon College, about 40 minutes northwest of Columbus, Ohio, offers a weeklong residential program for writers.

By Rachel Lippolis

As a child, I was especially fond of corners.  On the playground, where two chain-linked fences met at a 90-degree angle, I crouched and watched—who played with whom?—who teased whom?  I catalogued their gestures and their strange and natural ways of speaking.

Everything for them seemed so spontaneous, and this fascinated me.  I was too shy to join them, but by observing and recording, I shared in their experiences.  This is what writing became for me—a way to participate.

As an adult, writing has taken a backseat to whatever else has been happening in my life: going to work, spending time with friends and family, going on vacation, dating, and getting married. I would try to find ways to squeeze it in—I blogged for the library where I worked; I wrote reflective pieces that helped shape my teaching; and for about 8 glorious months, I wrote the first draft of a novel while working at the library only twenty hours each week.

Lately, I get a couple hours on Saturday mornings; I get an hour before I have to get ready for work (well, 45 minutes—I stare blankly at the screen for 15 minutes as my coffee takes effect); I get random spare moments in the evening when I’m able to push out the rest of the noise and focus.  Any time I spend writing and revising and thinking solely about this stupid novel feels like a gift.

Rachel Lippolis relaxing in the Arashiyama Bamboo Grove of Kyoto, Japan.

Rachel Lippolis relaxing in the Arashiyama Bamboo Grove of Kyoto, Japan.


In June, I gave myself a weeklong gift when I participated in the Novel Writing Workshop at Kenyon College, and it was better than just about any other present.  I spent seven days and six nights focused solely on fiction writing—my own, the other participants’, the instructors’, and more.  We lived in dorm rooms, toting our laptops 15 minutes across campus for workshops and lessons and exercises that were so much more relevant and practical than anything I’d done before.  The other students were kind, intelligent, curious, and often hilarious in an introverted writerly way.  On evenings when no activities were scheduled, we still gathered together with our laptops and wine (when there wasn’t coffee, there was wine) to write and laugh and write some more.

Today, I’m closer to producing a final manuscript that I’m proud of and that I want to share (someday) with others.  That first draft I finished so long ago has been shredded and rearranged.  Some of my favorite paragraphs gone, my darlings dead.  I’ve even dropped what had been the driving force of the book. But in its place is something closer to what I had imagined all those years ago when I started.

I no longer need writing to participate in life from a safe distance.  Rather, writing allows me to be part of some wonderful communities and to meet some awesome people, from the folks at Kenyon and my fellow Voices of August participants to George Rede and Tonja, my friend and writing partner.  Now I am both crouched in my corner—watching, recording, and understanding—and planted on the playground—teasing, engaging, and empathizing.

Rachel Lippolis and her husband recently celebrated their second year of marriage with a trip to Japan, traveling from Tokyo to Kyoto to Hiroshima.  She continues to work at the library and enjoys being an aunt to two nephews.

Editor’s note: About six years ago, soon after I started my blog, I stumbled upon Perfect Sand. It was an engaging compilation of posts about books, current events and writing. Through it, I came to know Rachel, the Ohio-based author. We still have yet to meet but I imagine we’d get along well, both of us having moved out from our respective corners of the playground.

Tomorrow: “Sons of God” by Parfait Bassale

Voices of August, 5.0

storytelling-quotes-8The dictionary defines “community” in two ways:

In a physical sense, community is “a group of people living in the same place or having a particular characteristic in common.”

In a mental or spiritual sense, community is “a feeling of fellowship with others, as a result of sharing common attitudes, interests, and goals.”

I think both definitions apply to the wonderful group of people who participate in the annual writing project known as Voices of August. Starting today and continuing daily through the end of the month, Rough and Rede II will feature a piece written by a guest blogger.

There is no single prompt or unifying topic. Each person chooses what to write about. And with participants ranging in age from their mid-20s to their 60s, the result is an enticing mix of generational perspectives that illuminate the past and present.

Launched five years ago as a way to bring more variety to my blog, Voices of August has become a vehicle to share stories, to reveal feelings and insights, to discover common ground or points of disagreement. It’s all good.

Though most of us live in Oregon, many others do not. They reside in nearby Washington and California, but also in places like Texas, Utah, Illinois, Ohio and Washington, D.C. — not to mention France and Slovenia.

As organizer of this annual event, it’s my privilege to invite friends, family and former co-workers to participate. Some are professional writers. Most are not. And that’s the beauty of this exercise. Providing a forum for all people to tell their stories — honestly, safely and often with humor — brings writers (and readers too) together in a way that I rarely see online.

There is genuine dialogue, there is empathy, there is support. There is real learning that takes place from considering a different cultural point of view or someone else’s formative experiences. And, not least, there is a kind of validation that occurs when you recognize some aspect of yourself in another person’s story.

Ultimately, VOA is about connecting.

Whether you’re new to VOA or a seasoned veteran, I hope you will be generous with your feedback. Please consider leaving your comments on the actual blog posts in addition to anything you might say on Facebook, where I will link to each piece.

If you’re new to Voices of August, you can view last year’s posts. Here’s an index page of authors and topics from 2014.

Now, let’s get started, shall we?

— George Rede


Like father, like daughter

When I learned that the daughter of the late mystery writer Tony Hillerman had stepped up and written a novel featuring the same Southwest landscape and the same Navajo characters as her famous dad, I didn’t know what to think.

Tony Hillerman was such an accomplished writer, virtually unparalleled in producing 18 novels that honored the Navajo culture while also conveying the barren beauty of the rugged terrain that defines much of Arizona and New Mexico.

spider woman's daughterCould his daughter — or any writer, for that matter — do justice to the characters of Lt. Joe Leaphorn and Sgt. Jim Chee of the Navajo Tribal Police?

The answer is yes.

Thanks to my friend, Lynn St. Georges, I took a borrowed book with me on a recent vacation and breezed through its 352 pages in no time at all. “Spider Woman’s Daughter,” the debut novel by Anne Hillerman, was a pleasant surprise. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was Tony’s 19th, so similar is the book in plot, structure and voice.

Leaphorn and Chee are at the center of the story, of course. But they are joined by a new-to-me character, Officer Bernadette Manuelito, who is Chee’s wife. Manuelito appears in Hillerman’s 15th and 16th books (“The Wailing Wind” and “The Sinister Pig”) but this was the first time I’d encountered her.

Suffice to say she blends in neatly with the other two Navajo detectives, sharing a common culture and a knack for solving crimes.

In “Spider Woman’s Daughter,” Manuelito plays a critical role in figuring out who shot a law enforcement colleague, drawing on her university studies and knowledge of Native American art — plus her quick wits when she inevitably finds herself in harm’s way.

Tony Hillerman died in 2008. With his passing, I figured that was the last of the Leaphorn and Chee series. Little did I know that Anne Hillerman was a Santa Fe-based writer herself, with four non-fiction books to her credit.

In her acknowledgments at the end of “Spider Woman’s Daughter,” she wrote:

(F)rom head to toe, I appreciate the scores of my dad’s fans who asked if he had another manuscript stashed away somewhere (no, he didn’t). Like me they wanted more stories of Jim Chee and Joe Leaphorn, and Bernadette Manuelito. They urged me to jump into the job by sharing their own stories of affection for Dad, the characters he created, and the landscape in which they lived.”

Anne Hillerman is framed by a collection of her father's books, in Santa Fe.

Anne Hillerman is framed by a collection of her father’s books, in Santa Fe.

I think Tony would be awfully proud of his Anne. He left big shoes to fill. In my view, his daughter has taken one step forward, with a display of skill and respect for her father and the fictional world he brought to life for us readers. Already, she’s taken a second step with the publication of a second Navajo Tribal Police mystery called “Rock With Wings.”

Random observation: Except for the actress Bernadette Peters and my niece Bernadette Hermocillo Rackley, I’m hard pressed to think of any real-life or fictional people with that first name.

Photograph: Eddie Moore, Albuquerque Journal/2012

Helluva sentence. Helluva book?


Daniel Torday, writer.

Who is Daniel Torday? And why is everyone heaping praise on his debut novel?

I don’t know, but I intend to find out.

How could I not be intrigued after reading a 2-paragraph review in Esquire with the headline “The Best 149 Words Published This Year”?

Chris Jones, one of the magazine’s fabulous writers, declares:

“The last sentence of Daniel Torday’s debut novel, “The Last Flight of Poxl West,” is one of the great conclusions. Like the novel it completes, it is an elaborate and careful construction. It contains 149 words, 14 commas, 4 apostrophes, 2 em dashes and, finally, a period.”

(OK, I’m interested.)

“Every last one of those punctuation marks has been earned. Torday has written a novel that does more than just build toward its final page.”

(Yes?. Tell me more.)

“After unwinding a narrative that alternates between the unbelievable wartime memoir of Poxl West, a daring Jewish pilot, and his admiring nephew’s reckoning with it, Torday gives his dual protagonists the ending they deserve. It’s not a clean one, or a complete one, or an impossible one. It’s a real one, equal parts inevitable and explosive, the last of the countess bombs Poxl West drops out of the sky.”

(OK. That does it. I’m sold.)

Well, after an endorsement like that, I looked up Torday, where snippets from NPR’s Terry Gross and others only serve to reinforce my interest in this book. The author’s website says he is a former editor at Esquire, an editor at The Kenyon Review, and  Director of Creative Writing at Bryn Mawr College.

(Only one thing left to do. Add “Poxl West” to my list of must-reads.)

Photograph: Matt Barrick 

Mystery on the Rez

coyote-waitsToo many years have passed for me to remember when I began reading Tony Hillerman’s mystery novels about the Navajo Tribal Police or even how many of his books I’ve read. All I know is that I was captivated with the first one, as well as the second and third — and however many more I inhaled.

Eventually, I took a break so I could explore other writers. Finally, while on vacation earlier this month I picked up “Coyote Waits,” the 10th in his series of 18 books featuring Lt. Joe Leaphorn and Sgt. Jim Chee. After breezing through that paperback in a matter of days, I was reminded of the many reasons why I enjoyed his work so much.

I found his novels highly accessible, characterized by a clean, crisp, uncluttered writing style. I loved the sense of place he created, with detailed descriptions of the geography and geology of the Four Corners area of New Mexico and Arizona. I admired his storytelling, the way he took you through so many twists and turns as he unraveled one crime mystery after another through the common-sense investigations by Leaphorn and Chee.

Most of all, I appreciated his reverence for Southwest culture generally and the Navajo people in particular.

A native of Oklahoma, Hillerman was a decorated World War II veteran, a former newspaperman and a journalism professor at the University of New Mexico. He was prolific, producing several non-fiction and children’s books in addition to the Leaphorn-Chee series.

Tony Hillerman

Tony Hillerman

When he died at age 83 in 2008, The New York Times obituary said of him: “In the world of mystery fiction, Mr. Hillerman was that rare figure: a best-selling author who was adored by fans, admired by fellow authors and respected by critics. Though the themes of his books were not overtly political, he wrote with an avowed purpose: to instill in his readers a respect for Native American culture.”

Reading “Coyote Waits” gave me the feeling of reuniting with an old friend on the sprawling Navajo reservation. Diving into the novel, it was easy to get caught up again in the imagery of the Southwest and the steady pacing of each chapter. I could see how he constructed the scaffolding of the story, how he brought major and minor characters in and out of the narrative, how he cranked up the tension as events built toward a resolution of the mystery.

In other words, I was fully aware of being in the hands of a master storyteller. And it felt good.

Hillerman’s daughter, Anne,  has taken up the torch with the publication of a 2013 novel featuring Officer Bernadette Manuelito, the wife of Sgt. Chee, as protagonist. I’ll probably get around to it, but it’ll be on the back burner for a while as there are a few other books I’d like to get to first.

For now, I’d like to appreciate the simple pleasure of a Tony Hillerman novel. He made it look so easy.

Photograph: Harper-Collins

Read the Albuquerque Journal’s obituary

The art of listening


Whenever I’m asked what qualities do I like in a person, I always respond, “Someone who is a good listener.”

Few things annoy me more than someone who talks incessantly, barely pausing to let you into the conversation. Even more aggravating, someone who talks over you, as if what you’re saying doesn’t matter.

To me, that’s not just bad manners, it’s a sign of disrespect. Like, what you have to say is so important that you can’t be bothered to wait until I’m done with my sentence before you start in again?

Being a good listener is important to me for another reason. As a journalist, it’s imperative that I have the patience to hear someone’s story without interruption, to get their words and tone, and the context, exactly right.

Last night, I was reading a Tony Hillerman novel and came across a paragraph that captures my sentiments exactly. And if you’ve never read Hillerman, you should. Few writers convey the Native American experience as he does.

From “Coyote Waits”:

“Jacobs was silent for a while, thinking about it, her face full of sympathy. She was a talented listener. He had noticed it before. When you talked to this woman, she attended. She had all her antennae out, focused on the speaker. The world was shut out. Nothing mattered but the words she was hearing. Listening was ingrained in the Navajo culture. One didn’t interrupt. One waited until the speaker was finished, gave him a moment or two to consider additions, or footnotes or amendments, before one responded. But even Navajos too often listened impatiently. Not really listening, but framing their reply. Jean Jacobs really listened. It was flattery, and Chee knew it, but it had its effect.”


2014 in review: For all my R&R readers

The stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

I’m sharing this report with each and every one of you who took time to visit Rough and Rede II during this past year. I hope you’ll take time to scroll through it and relive some of the highlights with me. Like me, you might be amazed at the international reach: Russia, Sweden, Pakistan, Australia, just to name a few far-flung places.

If you were a contributor — a guest blogger during Voices of August — take a bow. Your piece undoubtedly contributed to the 14,000-plus page views.

This year’s most-viewed post: “The girl on the treadmill” by Taylor Smith.

Others in the top five: “Almost the bad guy,” by Jacob Quinn Sanders; “Know when to fold ’em,” by Lillian Mongeau; “From Portland to Paris,” by Patricia Conover; and myself.

If you were a commenter, take two bows. The online conversation is only as robust as you and I and all of us make it.

A special public thanks to the five most prolific commenters — Elizabeth Hovde, Lynn St. Georges, John Knapp, Lori Rauh Rede (hey, I know her!) and Tammy Ellingson.

Pretty cool stuff. Thanks for being part of it.

Very sincerely,


Here’s an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Sydney Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 14,000 times in 2014. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 5 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

Racism and the Vassar ‘bubble’


It pains me to post this piece.

Referenced below is a brilliant first-person account of what it’s like to be an African American professor at an elite institution of higher learning and yet still deal with the indignities of racism that render him just another faceless black man.

Until now, my experiences with and perceptions of Vassar College have been nothing but positive. Our daughter Simone gained a first-class education there and made lifelong friends on a picture-perfect campus in Poughkeepsie, New York, 75 miles north of New York City.

Vassar is a place steeped in history as one of the original Seven Sisters — a consortium of top women’s colleges formed in 1926 as a counterpoint to all-male Ivy League colleges — and later became the first of those schools to go coed in 1969. Its rigorous standards, abundant resources, and community of about 2,400 students proved to be a perfect fit for our daughter.

I visited twice.

First, in September 2011, just days after the 9/11 attacks, when the college welcomed new parents to campus and I found myself in an auditorium seated behind fellow parent Tom Hanks.

Second, in May 2005, when Simone walked across the stage to receive her diploma in the aftermath of an inspiring commencement speech by … Tom Hanks.

Simone flourished there — academically, socially and as a student leader — so I’ve been appreciative of the role Vassar played in helping develop our young lady into a well-rounded adult.

Main Building, with blooming tulips, lies at the center of the Vassar campus.

Main Building, with blooming tulips, lies at the center of the Vassar campus.

Now comes along this riveting essay by Kiese Laymon, an associate professor of English: “My Vassar College ID makes everything OK.” Originally posted on Gawker, it came to my attention thanks to a Facebook share by a friend and fellow journalist (Celina Ottaway, Vassar Class of 1994).

On the surface, it’s a piece about racism at one college. But, really, it’s not. It’s yet another perspective on the scourge that has stained our country’s history for centuries, seeping into every nook and cranny of our institutions and into the everyday lives of innocent men, women and children.

For people of color, it’s a familiar story. Doesn’t matter if you’re a professor, a janitor or an unemployed teenager. City cops or campus security will approach you with the same old, tired assumptions and treat you differently than your white peers.

Our country is convulsing in the aftermath of grand jury decisions in Ferguson, Missouri, and New York City, that have exonerated white cops who’ve killed unarmed black men. You may think you’ve heard and seen it all by now — despairing parents, defensive cops, enraged protesters.

But I hope you’ll make time for Kiese Laymon, too. His piece makes painfully clear the reality that no place and no black person is immune from racism. Most certainly, not on a lush, gated campus in a post-industrial, working-class city.

His essay resonated with me on two levels:

One, knowing that he speaks the truth about how we treat black people in 21st Century America. Two, having been in the very same campus buildings and on the same city streets described in the piece.

Photograph: Tamar Thiobodeau