Well, this is different than what I was expecting, looks like dealing with 'worldly matters' is having an interesting effect on the President.
Playing with Mirrors
- Thread starter Expat
- Start date
Ya, she's had a long and impressive career, mostly in the news magazine world. Her husband is Gary Trudeau, who IOTL was a big fan of Anderson. Just a few butterflies to get her involved with the campaign when it started to really take off.
With the ever-growing legend of Reagan's perfidious non-response to the AIDS crisis, it's just about the lowest bar in AH to surpass OTL and make anyone look like a hero. To be clear, this hasn't gone any further than a classic Clinton "I feel your pain."
One thing I'll need to do when I go back to researching and writing future parts of the TL is learn more about what might've been done. Always more to learn!
I'm glad you're taking time to address the AIDS crisis in this TL. Was there activism on the ground going on that would have (or may already have influenced) Anderson's actions, or is it too early for that still? (I'm thinking about How to Survive a Plague and wondering how even a slightly more responsive President could shape the outcomes of the epidemic.)
This is very much at the beginning of the crisis. The CDC didn't even use the term "AIDS" to describe what was going on until late 1982. Before then (and indeed after) people used all sorts of terms, mostly describing the effects of the disease rather than the cause. Cancer terminology was often thrown around, as that was a common symptom. There were harmful terms referencing the sexual practices of some of the victims. Sometimes researches didn't even seem to know they were talking about the same disease.
Activism is in its infancy. Larry Kramer is on the scene early, and thanks to pre-existing social movements to improve the lot of vulnerable urban populations, some groups were able to hit the ground running by promoting safe sex. But the scale we're talking about is minuscule. Pamphleting, maybe some attempts at non-scientific epidemiology in the form of records-keeping of clinic patients. Nothing like ACT UP out there yet. (If you watch The Deuce you've got a picture of what I mean about early social movements. Season 2 (1977) has this network of people interested in improving the lives of street prostitutes, out there trying to do whatever they can, from setting up impromptu clinics to counseling to whatever is possible, really. Since we skipped from the early 70s in season 1 to the late 70s in season 2, I reckon we'll see these groups directly tackling AIDS in the early 80s in season 3.)
So since Anderson's public health approach to addiction meant more public health professionals in at-risk communities, I would imagine that's an area we're likely to see the overall number of infected decline. I don't think there's anything to be done about the mortality of the disease. But it's an area I need to research!
I really recommend this resource, especially for an overview of the early years.
And if you were unaware of how the Reagan White House first confronted AIDS, here's the story.
The scene you had in the church very much hits home as it seems like a similar start to a schism created in my current congregation, although earlier in this timeline but about very similar issues (secularism, “true Christians” versus Catholics). It seems very much of conversations regarding religion, not faith, are filled with those wooden phrases and tones, which you captured eerily well.
Thanks! It’s good to get some feedback from someone who knows. This is based loosely on a real schism as well. Perhaps we know some of the same people. Or perhaps Christianity just has to Always Be Schisming.
As a former Catholic turned non-denominational, I understand where these thoughts come from, and it always frustrates me, because Jesus had a diverse group of misfits as His disciples, but apparently churches have to be super-correct in fundamentalist land, which means that they aren't so much trying to help sinners as they are puffing themselves up, like the Pharisees of old (which, protip, Jesus wasn't a fan of, but the uber-fundamentalists are too stubborn, vain, and dense to understand how that applies).
Yeah, I see the massive, gaping holes in Catholic dogma a lot more clearly from the outside, but it doesn't mean they don't believe in Christ, and if working with them brings about a world more in His image, any true Christian should appreciate that, not try to tear it down. *sigh* I'll get off my soapbox now.
The idea here is to increase the moderate voices in the born-again movement. We’re still talking about a largely conservative affair, but not overwhelmingly so. Part of it is the jump-started politicization of the religious right necessitated by the rise of the Conservative Party. The political role certain Christian groups became inured to over the course of several decades IOTL happens much more quickly here; something a lot of parishioners just aren’t comfortable with. (Hopefully i’ll remember to demonstrate this later in the TL.)
And part of it is following the GOP on their trajectory. It’s an inescapable truth that a lot of people have a reverse-causal relationship with religion. They have some things they want to believe and then go looking for the proof. Sometimes you want Biblical justification for expelling immigrants or buying a summer home while you furlough your workers...why not justification for the policy preferences of the Republican Party?
Story Post XXII: Desegregation Picks up Steam
#22
1982
For the Washington DC Metro, joining a union is not mandatory. In 1982, the union produced a series of PSAs to lay out the benefits of union membership. This film features a pair of elevator/escalator repairmen, one black, one white. During the film’s 29-minute run-time, the pair go through a series of bonding moments, usually while laying out one union benefit or another.
As the film nears its ending, Leon and his wife, Carolyn, are able to secure a mortgage on a 3-bedroom unit in a whole-floor condominium complex in Northwest DC. Today is moving day, and helping him is his partner, Al.
They are currently straddling a couch stuck halfway up a stairwell.
“Hold on, I’m gonna push...are you pushing?”
“Why would I be pushing, I’m at the top of the stairs.”
“Well if you’re pushing, stop!”
“I’m not pushing!”
“Hold on. Just let it go.”
The two men step back from the couch. It stays securely stuck off the ground, wedged between the railing and the wall.
“Well...crap.”
“Two barcaloungers, that’s what you need. Don’t see why you need to sit so close to your wife anyhow.”
“Maybe why you don’t have a wife.”
“Okay, this isn’t gonna work. Just not happening. You think we can get it back down?”
“Hope so, seeing as how we got it up here. You want a sofa?”
“Man, that sofa is trouble.”
“Didn’t your brother move into one of the buildings in this complex, one of the ones they finished last year? Think he’d want it?”
“Charlie? Charlie lives on the 4th floor. If we can’t even get this up to the 2nd in yours how-”
“Okay, okay. Hey. How about the union hall?”
“Oh yeah. That sofa in there is dank.”
Leon and Al maneuver the sofa back down the stairs with some difficulty. Leon gets on the payphone at the corner and calls the Union Hall.
“Great, they’re sending a few people around with a truck right now. And the guys’ll stick around and help us finish moving.”
“Well alright, then, no reason to do any work before they get here.”
Both men sit on the couch on the sidewalk, exhausted. Carolyn pokes her head out of the window. Both men look up when she yells.
“Leon! What are you doing on your butt?”
“I’m sorry, baby, this couch isn’t gonna make it up those stairs.”
“What? So you’re opening a lounge on the street instead? Get up here, try again.”
“Seriously, Carolyn, we tried everything, every angle, it’s just not gonna work. I’m gonna give it to the Union Hall, they need a new couch in there.”
“Leon! You are not giving away my couch!”
“Carolyn, my mother gave us this couch and you said you hated it.”
“Well what am I supposed to sit on?”
“Al suggests barcaloungers.”
“Well then Al can go buy us barcaloungers, I want that couch!”
“And if I could get it up there, I would, I absolutely would, baby. But it’s not happening.”
“You know how ironic this is, right? I mean both of you, isn’t it basically your job to make sure things are able to move up and down?”
The men look at each other without saying anything. Carolyn sighs and disappears from the window above.
“So how’d you get the money for this place, anyway?
“Easy enough. You hear about the tax changes they made in congress?”
“Umm...I guess? I mean who listens to that? Never really seems to affect things on the the ground.”
“Well it did this time. The way our banker explained it, the entire banking industry used to be there basically to do for the rich. I mean the rich and the almost-rich, the white-collar folks, you know what I mean.”
“And you’re not seriously telling me that’s changed?”
“Eh...the way he explained it, basically yeah, it has. More, uh…’tax burden’ I think he called it, more of that on the wealthy, and the ability to borrow real money opened up to us regular folks. And when you go in with a contracted union job? That’s a guaranteed approval. You could afford this place, too.”
“Nah. I mean, maybe, but I don’t need it. Got my Momma’s house. Though now you mention it, there was a man at the church last Sunday talking about a new bank branch opening up on Georgia Avenue. Said we could get home repair loans at good rates as long as we had steady employment. If it’s like you say, maybe I’ll check it out. Could use a new roof, and the basement plumbing never really worked.”
“I bet it’s legit. Our guy, Tommy our banker, he says the new regulations are putting those fly-by-night lenders out of business. You know the ones that charge you 20% a quarter?”
“Man. I can’t believe things have really changed so much.”
“Is it really that hard to believe? I mean your own brother has a place in this complex, he must’ve gotten the money.”
“Oh no, Charlie’s on subsidy. He’s a teacher, makes no money, but he’s eligible for that new housing voucher program.”
“Right, yeah, the unions are partners in that, too. And that doesn’t look like change to you?”
“...I...guess it does. Sorry, man, you have to understand. In my neighborhood, we’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know what I’m saying?”
“I hear that, man, I hear you. But things have to change some time, right? Maybe they’re changing all the time and we just don’t know how to look.”
“Okay, maybe. But you keep talking about ‘my banker this, my banker that.’ You think I’m ever gonna have a ‘my banker’ of my own? Hell, would your banker even talk to a brother if he came through the door?”
“Our banker is black. Bank is hiring a bunch of black people for the new programs, he says. Black people are like 25% of the new market, and higher than that here in the city.”
“Damn. Well. Dammit, man, I’m still getting that feeling, you know? Like ‘when’s the guy in the hockey mask gonna jump out of the closet with a chainsaw’ kinda feeling. That’s what it’s like dealing with this stuff in my neighborhood, man. I can’t explain it any other way.”
“I hear what you’re saying, man. It sounds...totally awful, to be honest. And I'm sad to hear what you been through. But, um. Well. How do I put it...It was your neighborhood, right? The people, the Man, you know? The Man, he found it pretty easy to target your community when it was just you. Now we’re here together. I mean it’s not justice, I’m not saying it is, but if you’re saying white people get special treatment, and it sure seems like we have, well...I’m not letting them mess with my neighbors like they used to. We’re neighbors now. Union brothers look out for our own.”
Just then the truck pulls up and three burly men get out, one black, one white, one Hispanic. All the men get to work unloading the moving van and taking Leon’s possessions up to his new home. A song that sounds suspiciously like the theme from What’s Happening!!- perhaps altered just enough to avoid copyright infringement- plays as the credits roll.
----
2013
Excerpt from "The Final Fight: Housing Desegregation in the US 1945-1995," Scholastic Press
Some look back on the promotional media surrounding the Anderson administration’s push to desegregate the inner cities and laugh at its naivety; and sure enough the problems of race relations would not just disappear because people went to the same barber shops now.
But it is also impossible to deny the many early successes of the plan. Thanks to new priorities at HUD and key legislation and appropriations from Congress, Over 80% of new construction starts occurred within the framework of “Equality Covenants,” voluntary documents signed by developers (and often also local politicians and regulatory bodies) that vowed to take concrete steps towards reducing inequality in a given locality. These steps included some of the items discussed in earlier sections of this paper, including inclusionary zoning and a sliding subsidy for a percentage of new development.
These successes were possible thanks, not just to the efforts of the administration and its allies in various statehouses, but societal forces at-play in the early 1980s. Thirty years of decline and population loss in almost every American city created a myriad of low-hanging fruit to pick when it came to redevelopment. As America entered its second decade of uncertainty over oil prices, one's place in the world- meaning one's literal geographic location- became a growing concern to most citizens. Whether one agreed with government policy was irrelevant; the average American had simply grown used to the fact that cheap, stable gas prices were a thing of the past. The market responded, and new homes once again began to cluster close to urban centers and small towns. As populations in urban areas began to swell again, the invisible hand of government investment was able to orchestrate an unheard of level of integration into American communities.
But integration had its limits, primarily geographic and economic. Rural areas largely retained their pre-1980s levels of segregation, as did wealthier suburbs and even a few urban neighborhoods. Poorer ethnic and racial urban enclaves usually saw only minimal reinvestment from this market-driven approach to urban integration, with the bulk of new projects popping up in areas that had been depopulated over the last generation, or on urban brownfield sites caused by de-industrialization. Most of the people willing to move to the new homes that did go up in majority-minority areas were minorities themselves- just wealthier ones. And so while a majority of these enclaves saw income diversity increase over the course of the decade, ethnic and racial integration was much slower. (The same thing didn’t apply to their schools, of course, which integrated rapidly under the Anderson administration. But that’s a topic for a different book.)
Beyond the economic carrot of federal housing dollars, the Justice Department was using the stick of housing discrimination lawsuits to hammer communities for racist practices. While starting out relatively slow, Attorney General Pierce would end up bringing thousands of suits against the practice of redlining in his first two years in office. The numbers tapered off after 1983, as the financial toll in fines and legal fees for discriminatory practices began to weigh heavily on developers and communities.
Probably the most notable early victory for Pierce and the Anderson administration was in Yonkers, New York. The zeal of Pierce and his civil rights division’s prosecution of the local government in its attempt to renege on a commitment to integrate low-income housing into the city caught everyone off-guard. A settlement was reached in early 1983. Following this capitulation, state and federal assistance programs entered the scene and before the end of the year, ground was broken on a series of mixed-income public/private projects that would see 6,000 new units of housing (2,100 subsidized) in a revitalization effort for the Yonkers city center that also included new office space, parks, and a shopping plaza. It would become a model for public/private partnerships of the era.
As a side note, the city government was so taken aback by its experience with the justice department that they agreed to drop their concurrent school desegregation lawsuit and join the budding NATCO program right away.
----
April, 1982
Ward 3, Washington DC
The crime scene photographer signaled that he was done and Kincaid nodded to the firemen. They stepped forward and pulled the charred remains of the cross out of the blue curbside mailbox.
Ward 3. How disgusting that this was happening in Ward 3.
It’s not that hate crimes never happened west of the park. Kincaid went over that ground five or six times a year. But the character of those crimes was decidedly unique to a place like further Northwest DC: An Indian jogger pushing a Pakistani jogger into a tree. An off-duty guard from the Spanish embassy neatly stabbed in the hand by a possible (but unlikely) Basque nationalist. A road rage incident involving an Arab and an Israeli, both millionaires and both of them among the most eloquent profanity-crafters he’d ever encountered.
These were singular incidents. If they were connected to something bigger, it was something beyond the scope of the social fabric Kincaid had vowed to preserve. These problems were decidedly above his pay grade. Fuck the Arab-Israeli conflict; disorderly conduct and obstructing traffic. Fuck subcontinental politics; simple assault. Double fuck Basque nationalism; assault and battery. Motivated by racial/religious animus or not, Kincaid had no compunction about putting these in the books as the simple crimes they were.
But here he had something else. Here was a national problem. THE national problem. And it was west of the park, where shit like this just didn’t happen. He certainly couldn’t ignore the hate crime factor here. Kincaid looked up and saw them looking out of their windows: there on the second floor, and from the windows of two more units on the fourth. The three black tenants in the building. The intended recipients of this message.
It was happening now. And maybe he should’ve expected it. This was among the city’s least diverse wards, about 88% white at the time of the last census. But that number was dropping fast following changes in the housing laws, changes in the housing market, and changes in the enforcement of housing discrimination by the Justice Department.
The influx was still moderate compared to other wards in the city- working and middle class whites were streaming into Wards 1, 4, 5, and 7 to mix with the Hispanics and African Americans already living there. In those wards the problems were about claiming turf, street scuffles, maybe property damage. Wards 2 and 6 were already pretty integrated, just seeing some turnover on the margins and no significant uptick in crime. In fact in most places crime was down. With all the economic development returning to the city and a drastic increase in eyes on the streets, criminal behavior was being shoved out.
That left Ward 3- the whitest ward- and Ward 8- the blackest ward- where the big changes were still on the horizon, where they still had time to worry and doom-say, and make plans, and pull off shit like this.
Of course the blacks weren’t harassing the few whites who had moved to Ward 8, mostly up around the border with Ward 7 along East Capitol Street. Well, not harassing them much. They weren’t shooting them. They certainly weren’t burning fucking crosses in front of their houses.
No, that was only happening here. In the “civilized” part of the city. Leafy green trees, wide boulevards, expensive houses, unchecked racism.
But the one thing about Ward 3 that differentiated it from Ward 8: here they weren’t afraid of the cops. Sometimes bonds to authority were even stronger than bonds to family up here. This turned out to be one of those cases when an embarrassed father in ridiculous golf pants showed up at the station later that day to rat out his son.
Turned out his son played the trumpet at Wilson High and lost his first chair position to another boy, a boy who happened to live in the building recently confronted with a burning cross. No, not one of the black residents. This dubiously superior trumpeter was a white boy. A white boy who seemed to rejoice in letting the world know what he thought of black people (apparently not very much). Golf-pants’ son got the bright idea to burn the cross in front of his nemesis’ building in the assumption that the other boy might be blamed for the crime.
As the situation slowly sunk deeper into the boggy ground of disgust and recrimination, Kincaid happily passed it on to the District Attorney. Let them sort it out. He was going to the bar.
Over the coming weeks the community would come to grips with the crime: there would be protests, calls for justice, calls for understanding, calls for political action, calls for dialogue. Kincaid reckoned that at the rate that segregated places were integrating these days it would be the same in a thousand communities across the country before the year was out (this was a significant under-shot, it turned out).
For him, there would be meetings. Lots of meetings. Even just this week he was set to sit down with city prosecutors, with DOJ prosecutors (who knew vandalizing a mailbox could result in jail time?), his superiors, the Wilson High principal, the Wilson faculty, two different community boards, and a parcel of reverends and the like calling themselves the District Interfaith Committee on Racial Justice.
But that was for tomorrow, and every day after. Now, he was going to drink. He would sit there at the end of the bar with his shot, with his beer, and say his own private, secret prayer of thanks, the one he said every day he was lucky enough for it to be true.
“Nobody died this time. Here’s to it.”
He downed the shot and signaled for another.
----
June 19, 1982
ABC World News Tonight
“...And the Voting Rights Act re-authorization sailed through the senate today with no real difficulty. Conservative leader in the senate, James Buckley, took the opportunity to deliver a speech decrying the, quote, ‘tyranny of the minority.’ In the end three Democrats and two Republicans crossed the aisle to vote with the conservatives. The president is expected to approve the re-authorization straight away.”
1982
For the Washington DC Metro, joining a union is not mandatory. In 1982, the union produced a series of PSAs to lay out the benefits of union membership. This film features a pair of elevator/escalator repairmen, one black, one white. During the film’s 29-minute run-time, the pair go through a series of bonding moments, usually while laying out one union benefit or another.
As the film nears its ending, Leon and his wife, Carolyn, are able to secure a mortgage on a 3-bedroom unit in a whole-floor condominium complex in Northwest DC. Today is moving day, and helping him is his partner, Al.
They are currently straddling a couch stuck halfway up a stairwell.
“Hold on, I’m gonna push...are you pushing?”
“Why would I be pushing, I’m at the top of the stairs.”
“Well if you’re pushing, stop!”
“I’m not pushing!”
“Hold on. Just let it go.”
The two men step back from the couch. It stays securely stuck off the ground, wedged between the railing and the wall.
“Well...crap.”
“Two barcaloungers, that’s what you need. Don’t see why you need to sit so close to your wife anyhow.”
“Maybe why you don’t have a wife.”
“Okay, this isn’t gonna work. Just not happening. You think we can get it back down?”
“Hope so, seeing as how we got it up here. You want a sofa?”
“Man, that sofa is trouble.”
“Didn’t your brother move into one of the buildings in this complex, one of the ones they finished last year? Think he’d want it?”
“Charlie? Charlie lives on the 4th floor. If we can’t even get this up to the 2nd in yours how-”
“Okay, okay. Hey. How about the union hall?”
“Oh yeah. That sofa in there is dank.”
Leon and Al maneuver the sofa back down the stairs with some difficulty. Leon gets on the payphone at the corner and calls the Union Hall.
“Great, they’re sending a few people around with a truck right now. And the guys’ll stick around and help us finish moving.”
“Well alright, then, no reason to do any work before they get here.”
Both men sit on the couch on the sidewalk, exhausted. Carolyn pokes her head out of the window. Both men look up when she yells.
“Leon! What are you doing on your butt?”
“I’m sorry, baby, this couch isn’t gonna make it up those stairs.”
“What? So you’re opening a lounge on the street instead? Get up here, try again.”
“Seriously, Carolyn, we tried everything, every angle, it’s just not gonna work. I’m gonna give it to the Union Hall, they need a new couch in there.”
“Leon! You are not giving away my couch!”
“Carolyn, my mother gave us this couch and you said you hated it.”
“Well what am I supposed to sit on?”
“Al suggests barcaloungers.”
“Well then Al can go buy us barcaloungers, I want that couch!”
“And if I could get it up there, I would, I absolutely would, baby. But it’s not happening.”
“You know how ironic this is, right? I mean both of you, isn’t it basically your job to make sure things are able to move up and down?”
The men look at each other without saying anything. Carolyn sighs and disappears from the window above.
“So how’d you get the money for this place, anyway?
“Easy enough. You hear about the tax changes they made in congress?”
“Umm...I guess? I mean who listens to that? Never really seems to affect things on the the ground.”
“Well it did this time. The way our banker explained it, the entire banking industry used to be there basically to do for the rich. I mean the rich and the almost-rich, the white-collar folks, you know what I mean.”
“And you’re not seriously telling me that’s changed?”
“Eh...the way he explained it, basically yeah, it has. More, uh…’tax burden’ I think he called it, more of that on the wealthy, and the ability to borrow real money opened up to us regular folks. And when you go in with a contracted union job? That’s a guaranteed approval. You could afford this place, too.”
“Nah. I mean, maybe, but I don’t need it. Got my Momma’s house. Though now you mention it, there was a man at the church last Sunday talking about a new bank branch opening up on Georgia Avenue. Said we could get home repair loans at good rates as long as we had steady employment. If it’s like you say, maybe I’ll check it out. Could use a new roof, and the basement plumbing never really worked.”
“I bet it’s legit. Our guy, Tommy our banker, he says the new regulations are putting those fly-by-night lenders out of business. You know the ones that charge you 20% a quarter?”
“Man. I can’t believe things have really changed so much.”
“Is it really that hard to believe? I mean your own brother has a place in this complex, he must’ve gotten the money.”
“Oh no, Charlie’s on subsidy. He’s a teacher, makes no money, but he’s eligible for that new housing voucher program.”
“Right, yeah, the unions are partners in that, too. And that doesn’t look like change to you?”
“...I...guess it does. Sorry, man, you have to understand. In my neighborhood, we’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know what I’m saying?”
“I hear that, man, I hear you. But things have to change some time, right? Maybe they’re changing all the time and we just don’t know how to look.”
“Okay, maybe. But you keep talking about ‘my banker this, my banker that.’ You think I’m ever gonna have a ‘my banker’ of my own? Hell, would your banker even talk to a brother if he came through the door?”
“Our banker is black. Bank is hiring a bunch of black people for the new programs, he says. Black people are like 25% of the new market, and higher than that here in the city.”
“Damn. Well. Dammit, man, I’m still getting that feeling, you know? Like ‘when’s the guy in the hockey mask gonna jump out of the closet with a chainsaw’ kinda feeling. That’s what it’s like dealing with this stuff in my neighborhood, man. I can’t explain it any other way.”
“I hear what you’re saying, man. It sounds...totally awful, to be honest. And I'm sad to hear what you been through. But, um. Well. How do I put it...It was your neighborhood, right? The people, the Man, you know? The Man, he found it pretty easy to target your community when it was just you. Now we’re here together. I mean it’s not justice, I’m not saying it is, but if you’re saying white people get special treatment, and it sure seems like we have, well...I’m not letting them mess with my neighbors like they used to. We’re neighbors now. Union brothers look out for our own.”
Just then the truck pulls up and three burly men get out, one black, one white, one Hispanic. All the men get to work unloading the moving van and taking Leon’s possessions up to his new home. A song that sounds suspiciously like the theme from What’s Happening!!- perhaps altered just enough to avoid copyright infringement- plays as the credits roll.
----
2013
Excerpt from "The Final Fight: Housing Desegregation in the US 1945-1995," Scholastic Press
Some look back on the promotional media surrounding the Anderson administration’s push to desegregate the inner cities and laugh at its naivety; and sure enough the problems of race relations would not just disappear because people went to the same barber shops now.
But it is also impossible to deny the many early successes of the plan. Thanks to new priorities at HUD and key legislation and appropriations from Congress, Over 80% of new construction starts occurred within the framework of “Equality Covenants,” voluntary documents signed by developers (and often also local politicians and regulatory bodies) that vowed to take concrete steps towards reducing inequality in a given locality. These steps included some of the items discussed in earlier sections of this paper, including inclusionary zoning and a sliding subsidy for a percentage of new development.
These successes were possible thanks, not just to the efforts of the administration and its allies in various statehouses, but societal forces at-play in the early 1980s. Thirty years of decline and population loss in almost every American city created a myriad of low-hanging fruit to pick when it came to redevelopment. As America entered its second decade of uncertainty over oil prices, one's place in the world- meaning one's literal geographic location- became a growing concern to most citizens. Whether one agreed with government policy was irrelevant; the average American had simply grown used to the fact that cheap, stable gas prices were a thing of the past. The market responded, and new homes once again began to cluster close to urban centers and small towns. As populations in urban areas began to swell again, the invisible hand of government investment was able to orchestrate an unheard of level of integration into American communities.
But integration had its limits, primarily geographic and economic. Rural areas largely retained their pre-1980s levels of segregation, as did wealthier suburbs and even a few urban neighborhoods. Poorer ethnic and racial urban enclaves usually saw only minimal reinvestment from this market-driven approach to urban integration, with the bulk of new projects popping up in areas that had been depopulated over the last generation, or on urban brownfield sites caused by de-industrialization. Most of the people willing to move to the new homes that did go up in majority-minority areas were minorities themselves- just wealthier ones. And so while a majority of these enclaves saw income diversity increase over the course of the decade, ethnic and racial integration was much slower. (The same thing didn’t apply to their schools, of course, which integrated rapidly under the Anderson administration. But that’s a topic for a different book.)
Beyond the economic carrot of federal housing dollars, the Justice Department was using the stick of housing discrimination lawsuits to hammer communities for racist practices. While starting out relatively slow, Attorney General Pierce would end up bringing thousands of suits against the practice of redlining in his first two years in office. The numbers tapered off after 1983, as the financial toll in fines and legal fees for discriminatory practices began to weigh heavily on developers and communities.
Probably the most notable early victory for Pierce and the Anderson administration was in Yonkers, New York. The zeal of Pierce and his civil rights division’s prosecution of the local government in its attempt to renege on a commitment to integrate low-income housing into the city caught everyone off-guard. A settlement was reached in early 1983. Following this capitulation, state and federal assistance programs entered the scene and before the end of the year, ground was broken on a series of mixed-income public/private projects that would see 6,000 new units of housing (2,100 subsidized) in a revitalization effort for the Yonkers city center that also included new office space, parks, and a shopping plaza. It would become a model for public/private partnerships of the era.
As a side note, the city government was so taken aback by its experience with the justice department that they agreed to drop their concurrent school desegregation lawsuit and join the budding NATCO program right away.
----
April, 1982
Ward 3, Washington DC
The crime scene photographer signaled that he was done and Kincaid nodded to the firemen. They stepped forward and pulled the charred remains of the cross out of the blue curbside mailbox.
Ward 3. How disgusting that this was happening in Ward 3.
It’s not that hate crimes never happened west of the park. Kincaid went over that ground five or six times a year. But the character of those crimes was decidedly unique to a place like further Northwest DC: An Indian jogger pushing a Pakistani jogger into a tree. An off-duty guard from the Spanish embassy neatly stabbed in the hand by a possible (but unlikely) Basque nationalist. A road rage incident involving an Arab and an Israeli, both millionaires and both of them among the most eloquent profanity-crafters he’d ever encountered.
These were singular incidents. If they were connected to something bigger, it was something beyond the scope of the social fabric Kincaid had vowed to preserve. These problems were decidedly above his pay grade. Fuck the Arab-Israeli conflict; disorderly conduct and obstructing traffic. Fuck subcontinental politics; simple assault. Double fuck Basque nationalism; assault and battery. Motivated by racial/religious animus or not, Kincaid had no compunction about putting these in the books as the simple crimes they were.
But here he had something else. Here was a national problem. THE national problem. And it was west of the park, where shit like this just didn’t happen. He certainly couldn’t ignore the hate crime factor here. Kincaid looked up and saw them looking out of their windows: there on the second floor, and from the windows of two more units on the fourth. The three black tenants in the building. The intended recipients of this message.
It was happening now. And maybe he should’ve expected it. This was among the city’s least diverse wards, about 88% white at the time of the last census. But that number was dropping fast following changes in the housing laws, changes in the housing market, and changes in the enforcement of housing discrimination by the Justice Department.
The influx was still moderate compared to other wards in the city- working and middle class whites were streaming into Wards 1, 4, 5, and 7 to mix with the Hispanics and African Americans already living there. In those wards the problems were about claiming turf, street scuffles, maybe property damage. Wards 2 and 6 were already pretty integrated, just seeing some turnover on the margins and no significant uptick in crime. In fact in most places crime was down. With all the economic development returning to the city and a drastic increase in eyes on the streets, criminal behavior was being shoved out.
That left Ward 3- the whitest ward- and Ward 8- the blackest ward- where the big changes were still on the horizon, where they still had time to worry and doom-say, and make plans, and pull off shit like this.
Of course the blacks weren’t harassing the few whites who had moved to Ward 8, mostly up around the border with Ward 7 along East Capitol Street. Well, not harassing them much. They weren’t shooting them. They certainly weren’t burning fucking crosses in front of their houses.
No, that was only happening here. In the “civilized” part of the city. Leafy green trees, wide boulevards, expensive houses, unchecked racism.
But the one thing about Ward 3 that differentiated it from Ward 8: here they weren’t afraid of the cops. Sometimes bonds to authority were even stronger than bonds to family up here. This turned out to be one of those cases when an embarrassed father in ridiculous golf pants showed up at the station later that day to rat out his son.
Turned out his son played the trumpet at Wilson High and lost his first chair position to another boy, a boy who happened to live in the building recently confronted with a burning cross. No, not one of the black residents. This dubiously superior trumpeter was a white boy. A white boy who seemed to rejoice in letting the world know what he thought of black people (apparently not very much). Golf-pants’ son got the bright idea to burn the cross in front of his nemesis’ building in the assumption that the other boy might be blamed for the crime.
As the situation slowly sunk deeper into the boggy ground of disgust and recrimination, Kincaid happily passed it on to the District Attorney. Let them sort it out. He was going to the bar.
Over the coming weeks the community would come to grips with the crime: there would be protests, calls for justice, calls for understanding, calls for political action, calls for dialogue. Kincaid reckoned that at the rate that segregated places were integrating these days it would be the same in a thousand communities across the country before the year was out (this was a significant under-shot, it turned out).
For him, there would be meetings. Lots of meetings. Even just this week he was set to sit down with city prosecutors, with DOJ prosecutors (who knew vandalizing a mailbox could result in jail time?), his superiors, the Wilson High principal, the Wilson faculty, two different community boards, and a parcel of reverends and the like calling themselves the District Interfaith Committee on Racial Justice.
But that was for tomorrow, and every day after. Now, he was going to drink. He would sit there at the end of the bar with his shot, with his beer, and say his own private, secret prayer of thanks, the one he said every day he was lucky enough for it to be true.
“Nobody died this time. Here’s to it.”
He downed the shot and signaled for another.
----
June 19, 1982
ABC World News Tonight
“...And the Voting Rights Act re-authorization sailed through the senate today with no real difficulty. Conservative leader in the senate, James Buckley, took the opportunity to deliver a speech decrying the, quote, ‘tyranny of the minority.’ In the end three Democrats and two Republicans crossed the aisle to vote with the conservatives. The president is expected to approve the re-authorization straight away.”
Story Post XXIII: The Egyptian Civil War
#23
May 3, 1982
Thirty Thousand Egyptians are marching peacefully towards the city center. Pushing against them is Terrence Lowe (foreign correspondent, New York Times), Piers Antoine (freelance photographer), as well as their guide. The guide catches sight of Abou Elela Mady, a rising star in the National Unity Movement, and one of the main figures in the alliance between the moderate factions of the Muslim Brotherhood and the broader secular coalition. Lowe thanks his guide and approaches Mady, just 29 years old.
“Mr. Mady?”
“Mr. Lowe, good afternoon.”
“Sorry we’re late. Your people didn’t give me much warning.”
“We never get much warning these days. We must be opportunistic with our actions.”
“So this is unplanned?”
“Not exactly. We try always to be ready to take advantage of whatever the day presents to us. But this specifically came together with about five hours warning.”
The Jihadis were the reason they were able to march. A much more violent form of protest was under way to the northeast, led by some firebrand cleric, drawing the attention of the police. It was a strange irony that they relied so directly on the actions of their enemies to express their own political will. But the National Unity Movement was growing faster than the leadership could keep up. These growing pains meant the movement was better served by avoiding significant confrontation for the moment. That didn’t mean trouble wouldn’t find them, and walking up to the edge of trouble was almost necessary for any meaningful dissent.
“In that case it’s a very impressive turnout.”
“We can have ten thousand people ready to march with an hour’s notice. Give us a day and it would be a hundred thousand.”
“Really?”
“My people are very motivated, Mr. Lowe.”
“I’m excited to learn about your movement. Can we speak for a minute about the interview process?”
“Of course.”
“As requested I submitted a list of topics to your assistant. And when we have a chance to sit down in a calmer setting, I hope we’ll hold the more formal interview. But at times like this I feel it’s more productive to keep the conversation flowing and natural. If you want something off the record, please tell me. If you don’t want to answer a question, voice your concerns, I won’t be offended. If I push you, please understand it’s the nature of my profession and I hope you will not be offended.”
“Yes, very good. I think we both understand the process.”
“So what prompted you to march today?”
“Our message is never-changing. The government must respond to the will of the people. And the people want Sadat. We in the Brotherhood have heard their message, and though we disagree with many of his policies, we respect their will and are here to support it.”
“I understand your organization recently suffered a schism.”
“It was unfortunate, but some of our former Brethren forgot that we were an organization committed to promoting our principles through a democratic framework. Their commitment to God is admirable, but their interpretation is, we feel, being manipulated by outside forces.”
“Has this strengthened your position in the organization?”
“My Brethren have blessed me with increased responsibilities, and our allies here in the National Unity Movement have likewise welcomed our increased contribution. But I’d rather talk about the movement as a whole. My role in it is inconsequential next to the strength of our united desire for change.”
“This is where I’m still a little confused, because I understand you come from an organization that has long been calling for change. But many other people in the NUM are here primarily in support of Sadat. How do you reconcile this?”
“As I said, we respect the will of the people. We don’t deny that we’ve had arguments in the past with how Sadat has done things. But we believe he can be a reasonable man, an actor of good-faith as you’d put it. And we are worried that this emergency government is just a coup in slow-motion.”
“So will you go on record that you believe Sadat is being kept prisoner?”
Lowe knows this is a touchy subject. Goading the government about the exact state of Sadat- his health, whether or not he’s being held against his will in his compound- has prompted the most violent crackdowns of the recent troubles.
“Let me say this: It has been months since he's woken up and still there is no sign of him in public. The generals could assuage the worst fears of the Egyptian people on this matter simply by allowing Sadat to speak to us. Television, radio, whatever. Of course even then there’s no way to really be certain until he’s back in office. Yet we never see Sadat or hear him; why is this, do you think?”
It was well dodged. Lowe continued. “And how would you summarize the goals of the National Unity Movement?”
“We want the government to realize the voice of the people is an asset in the governance of the country. We want Sadat- and even the generals for the time being- to see us as an ally in making Egypt strong. We think increased representation is the-”
A man with a portable transceiver runs up and speaks in Arabic.
“Abou!”
“Police?”
“Military.”
“On the move?”
“Just blocking the main roads Downtown. Just a squadron each on some roads.”
Mady turns to Lowe and explains the situation to him.
“You see, they’re getting spread thin. But that means they’ll be nervous. We won’t test them today.” He turns back to the man with the radio. “Are they blocking El Tahrir?”
“No, but we’d be skirting their position pretty close.”
“Omar!”
Another man approaches.
“Tell your people we’re heading for Tahrir Square. There will be soldiers close by. They’re to be treated respectfully. No one is to engage with them, even verbally, do you hear me?”
“I’ll spread the word.”
“Should I even bother warning you that this might get dangerous, Mr. Lowe?”
Lowe smiles and gestures at his photographer.
“Why do you think Piers wanted to come along?”
----
May 12, 1982
The Egyptian Gazette
Headline: ALEXANDRIA RELIEVED
Subhead: Jihadi Rebels Pushed into Western Desert
Photo Caption: Defense Minister Ghazala salutes the troops on his visit to Alexandria.
----
May 13, 1982
Mohamed Abd al-Halim Abu Ghazala has been pulled out of a meeting to take a phone call from Dr. Sidrak.
“What is it doctor, my time is not my own.”
“Sir! He’s gone!”
Ghazala takes a moment to comprehend, and in the silence, Dr. Sidrak continues.
“They’re all gone, sir! Sadat! They took him!”
“Who took him, doctor?”
“Soldiers, sir. Some from inside, some in trucks.”
“Trucks? Did you see any officers?”
“I don’t know, sir, I was resting in my room and I think they must’ve forgotten I was there. He’s been limiting my visits for days.”
“Stick to what’s important, damn you. How long ago did this happen?”
“Perhaps an hour? They cut the phone lines and left. I hid for a while, then went looking for a telephone. There were...at least three trucks that I saw, perhaps several more. The captain you put in charge, he called some of the men from the perimeter, I saw him. He took their weapons with the help of some other men.”
“Some of the men posted to guard him were a part of this?”
“I think so, sir. The trucks were already waiting outside the compound when this happened. I didn’t see the president leave, but he must have.”
Ghazala hangs up and suppresses the urge to blaspheme. An hour. Sadat could be in the city by now. He had to think quickly. Who could he trust? First, admit that you don’t really know. You thought you could trust the men guarding Sadat, but clearly not. A gamble then. Either throw the dice now or flee the country.
----
June 1, 1982
The US ambassador to Egypt is being briefed by the CIA on the security situation.
“First thing’s first: please don’t tell me we need to evacuate.”
“Actually, sir, it’s safer here than it’s been in months. The Jihadis have been routed from the city and Sadat has control over this and all surrounding governorates. And we gauge the danger of air strikes to be very small.”
“What about the NUM?”
“Sadat’s meeting with them. They’ve got their own base of support now, and they’re offering to throw it his way. We’ve got advance word on a speech he’s going to be delivering either today or tomorrow. Announcing reforms after the current crisis is over. Whether or not he delivers is another story, but for now we like what we’re hearing.”
“Reforms? Democratic?”
“On the surface. It might all just be for appearances, but from a pure security perspective that still counts as a win.”
“So what’s the military situation look like outside of Cairo?”
“Messy. The jihadists are holding on in the south and raiding from the direction of the Western Desert. We suspect Gaddafi is aiding them at this point.”
“What about Sadat’s position?”
“It’s not as strong as we would like. Basically, Sadat’s in Cairo. Ghazala’s in Alexandria and also has the loyalty of some of the southern garrisons. There was heavy fighting in the Sinai initially, but it’s died down now, and Sadat’s faction now has firm control there. The UN stepped up its presence and neither side wanted to risk drawing them in, so the rebels withdrew.”
“Thank god. The Israelis would drop ten kinds of hell on the place if they felt threatened.”
“Otherwise, it’s a mess. Several garrisons haven’t made a move for one side or the other, waiting to see how everyone else jumps. Other than the battles along the two main highways between Alexandria and Cairo, there’s been little besides skirmishing across the country for the past few days. Even on the highways things seem to be moving at half speed. The army is understandably reluctant to attack...well...itself.”
----
June 10, 1982
Western Egypt
The ragged column of vehicles pushes west, unmolested by the military for the time being. The soldiers of the Western Desert, mostly loyal to Ghazala and the generals, are husbanding their resources, not totally sure of resupply- a sign of the uncertainty surrounding Egypt.
The convoy is mostly regular civilian vehicles, with a few stolen military trucks and some converted technicals thrown into the mix. Every so often the column halts, a council of triage forming. A few more cars are abandoned, those least suited to the journey. Their gas siphoned, their passengers redistributed. Then onward again.
It’s the middle of the night by the time they reach their rendezvous, still in Egyptian territory, about 20 km north of Siwa. The local Berbers have been paid well to guide them across the desert tracks and into Libya. Captain Maziq of the Armed Forces of the Libyan Arab Jamahiriya is here to make sure they stick to the agreement.
The meeting is lit by nothing more than headlights, and then on the horizon a speckle of strobing lights can be seen, followed not long after by a distant rumble. Sadat’s people are bombing the rebel air base, Maziq realizes. Rebel. Is that right? If Ghazala’s people are the rebels, what does that make these men here?
He stands apart from the two groups as they meet, Berbers and Jihadis, playing no official part in this operation until the column crosses to the other side. Still, the leader of the Jihadis raises a hand in greeting, and he returns it.
Under his breath, he says, “Welcome to Libya, brothers. Don’t get too comfortable. You’ll be coming back soon.”
May 3, 1982
Thirty Thousand Egyptians are marching peacefully towards the city center. Pushing against them is Terrence Lowe (foreign correspondent, New York Times), Piers Antoine (freelance photographer), as well as their guide. The guide catches sight of Abou Elela Mady, a rising star in the National Unity Movement, and one of the main figures in the alliance between the moderate factions of the Muslim Brotherhood and the broader secular coalition. Lowe thanks his guide and approaches Mady, just 29 years old.
“Mr. Mady?”
“Mr. Lowe, good afternoon.”
“Sorry we’re late. Your people didn’t give me much warning.”
“We never get much warning these days. We must be opportunistic with our actions.”
“So this is unplanned?”
“Not exactly. We try always to be ready to take advantage of whatever the day presents to us. But this specifically came together with about five hours warning.”
The Jihadis were the reason they were able to march. A much more violent form of protest was under way to the northeast, led by some firebrand cleric, drawing the attention of the police. It was a strange irony that they relied so directly on the actions of their enemies to express their own political will. But the National Unity Movement was growing faster than the leadership could keep up. These growing pains meant the movement was better served by avoiding significant confrontation for the moment. That didn’t mean trouble wouldn’t find them, and walking up to the edge of trouble was almost necessary for any meaningful dissent.
“In that case it’s a very impressive turnout.”
“We can have ten thousand people ready to march with an hour’s notice. Give us a day and it would be a hundred thousand.”
“Really?”
“My people are very motivated, Mr. Lowe.”
“I’m excited to learn about your movement. Can we speak for a minute about the interview process?”
“Of course.”
“As requested I submitted a list of topics to your assistant. And when we have a chance to sit down in a calmer setting, I hope we’ll hold the more formal interview. But at times like this I feel it’s more productive to keep the conversation flowing and natural. If you want something off the record, please tell me. If you don’t want to answer a question, voice your concerns, I won’t be offended. If I push you, please understand it’s the nature of my profession and I hope you will not be offended.”
“Yes, very good. I think we both understand the process.”
“So what prompted you to march today?”
“Our message is never-changing. The government must respond to the will of the people. And the people want Sadat. We in the Brotherhood have heard their message, and though we disagree with many of his policies, we respect their will and are here to support it.”
“I understand your organization recently suffered a schism.”
“It was unfortunate, but some of our former Brethren forgot that we were an organization committed to promoting our principles through a democratic framework. Their commitment to God is admirable, but their interpretation is, we feel, being manipulated by outside forces.”
“Has this strengthened your position in the organization?”
“My Brethren have blessed me with increased responsibilities, and our allies here in the National Unity Movement have likewise welcomed our increased contribution. But I’d rather talk about the movement as a whole. My role in it is inconsequential next to the strength of our united desire for change.”
“This is where I’m still a little confused, because I understand you come from an organization that has long been calling for change. But many other people in the NUM are here primarily in support of Sadat. How do you reconcile this?”
“As I said, we respect the will of the people. We don’t deny that we’ve had arguments in the past with how Sadat has done things. But we believe he can be a reasonable man, an actor of good-faith as you’d put it. And we are worried that this emergency government is just a coup in slow-motion.”
“So will you go on record that you believe Sadat is being kept prisoner?”
Lowe knows this is a touchy subject. Goading the government about the exact state of Sadat- his health, whether or not he’s being held against his will in his compound- has prompted the most violent crackdowns of the recent troubles.
“Let me say this: It has been months since he's woken up and still there is no sign of him in public. The generals could assuage the worst fears of the Egyptian people on this matter simply by allowing Sadat to speak to us. Television, radio, whatever. Of course even then there’s no way to really be certain until he’s back in office. Yet we never see Sadat or hear him; why is this, do you think?”
It was well dodged. Lowe continued. “And how would you summarize the goals of the National Unity Movement?”
“We want the government to realize the voice of the people is an asset in the governance of the country. We want Sadat- and even the generals for the time being- to see us as an ally in making Egypt strong. We think increased representation is the-”
A man with a portable transceiver runs up and speaks in Arabic.
“Abou!”
“Police?”
“Military.”
“On the move?”
“Just blocking the main roads Downtown. Just a squadron each on some roads.”
Mady turns to Lowe and explains the situation to him.
“You see, they’re getting spread thin. But that means they’ll be nervous. We won’t test them today.” He turns back to the man with the radio. “Are they blocking El Tahrir?”
“No, but we’d be skirting their position pretty close.”
“Omar!”
Another man approaches.
“Tell your people we’re heading for Tahrir Square. There will be soldiers close by. They’re to be treated respectfully. No one is to engage with them, even verbally, do you hear me?”
“I’ll spread the word.”
“Should I even bother warning you that this might get dangerous, Mr. Lowe?”
Lowe smiles and gestures at his photographer.
“Why do you think Piers wanted to come along?”
----
May 12, 1982
The Egyptian Gazette
Headline: ALEXANDRIA RELIEVED
Subhead: Jihadi Rebels Pushed into Western Desert
Photo Caption: Defense Minister Ghazala salutes the troops on his visit to Alexandria.
----
May 13, 1982
Mohamed Abd al-Halim Abu Ghazala has been pulled out of a meeting to take a phone call from Dr. Sidrak.
“What is it doctor, my time is not my own.”
“Sir! He’s gone!”
Ghazala takes a moment to comprehend, and in the silence, Dr. Sidrak continues.
“They’re all gone, sir! Sadat! They took him!”
“Who took him, doctor?”
“Soldiers, sir. Some from inside, some in trucks.”
“Trucks? Did you see any officers?”
“I don’t know, sir, I was resting in my room and I think they must’ve forgotten I was there. He’s been limiting my visits for days.”
“Stick to what’s important, damn you. How long ago did this happen?”
“Perhaps an hour? They cut the phone lines and left. I hid for a while, then went looking for a telephone. There were...at least three trucks that I saw, perhaps several more. The captain you put in charge, he called some of the men from the perimeter, I saw him. He took their weapons with the help of some other men.”
“Some of the men posted to guard him were a part of this?”
“I think so, sir. The trucks were already waiting outside the compound when this happened. I didn’t see the president leave, but he must have.”
Ghazala hangs up and suppresses the urge to blaspheme. An hour. Sadat could be in the city by now. He had to think quickly. Who could he trust? First, admit that you don’t really know. You thought you could trust the men guarding Sadat, but clearly not. A gamble then. Either throw the dice now or flee the country.
----
June 1, 1982
The US ambassador to Egypt is being briefed by the CIA on the security situation.
“First thing’s first: please don’t tell me we need to evacuate.”
“Actually, sir, it’s safer here than it’s been in months. The Jihadis have been routed from the city and Sadat has control over this and all surrounding governorates. And we gauge the danger of air strikes to be very small.”
“What about the NUM?”
“Sadat’s meeting with them. They’ve got their own base of support now, and they’re offering to throw it his way. We’ve got advance word on a speech he’s going to be delivering either today or tomorrow. Announcing reforms after the current crisis is over. Whether or not he delivers is another story, but for now we like what we’re hearing.”
“Reforms? Democratic?”
“On the surface. It might all just be for appearances, but from a pure security perspective that still counts as a win.”
“So what’s the military situation look like outside of Cairo?”
“Messy. The jihadists are holding on in the south and raiding from the direction of the Western Desert. We suspect Gaddafi is aiding them at this point.”
“What about Sadat’s position?”
“It’s not as strong as we would like. Basically, Sadat’s in Cairo. Ghazala’s in Alexandria and also has the loyalty of some of the southern garrisons. There was heavy fighting in the Sinai initially, but it’s died down now, and Sadat’s faction now has firm control there. The UN stepped up its presence and neither side wanted to risk drawing them in, so the rebels withdrew.”
“Thank god. The Israelis would drop ten kinds of hell on the place if they felt threatened.”
“Otherwise, it’s a mess. Several garrisons haven’t made a move for one side or the other, waiting to see how everyone else jumps. Other than the battles along the two main highways between Alexandria and Cairo, there’s been little besides skirmishing across the country for the past few days. Even on the highways things seem to be moving at half speed. The army is understandably reluctant to attack...well...itself.”
----
June 10, 1982
Western Egypt
The ragged column of vehicles pushes west, unmolested by the military for the time being. The soldiers of the Western Desert, mostly loyal to Ghazala and the generals, are husbanding their resources, not totally sure of resupply- a sign of the uncertainty surrounding Egypt.
The convoy is mostly regular civilian vehicles, with a few stolen military trucks and some converted technicals thrown into the mix. Every so often the column halts, a council of triage forming. A few more cars are abandoned, those least suited to the journey. Their gas siphoned, their passengers redistributed. Then onward again.
It’s the middle of the night by the time they reach their rendezvous, still in Egyptian territory, about 20 km north of Siwa. The local Berbers have been paid well to guide them across the desert tracks and into Libya. Captain Maziq of the Armed Forces of the Libyan Arab Jamahiriya is here to make sure they stick to the agreement.
The meeting is lit by nothing more than headlights, and then on the horizon a speckle of strobing lights can be seen, followed not long after by a distant rumble. Sadat’s people are bombing the rebel air base, Maziq realizes. Rebel. Is that right? If Ghazala’s people are the rebels, what does that make these men here?
He stands apart from the two groups as they meet, Berbers and Jihadis, playing no official part in this operation until the column crosses to the other side. Still, the leader of the Jihadis raises a hand in greeting, and he returns it.
Under his breath, he says, “Welcome to Libya, brothers. Don’t get too comfortable. You’ll be coming back soon.”
Nope, cause he'd be all of seventeen at this point in the timeline, and I don't think the NYT would sanction such a thing...
Thanks!
Well, looks like he's about 16-17 at the moment. From a cursory glance, it appears his family's financial situation wasn't totally solid at this time, and the uncertainty of the British economy is more pronounced ITTL. He might stay at his insurance job for a while longer out of necessity, rather than take a risk on journalism. But based on this self-satisfied, makes-you-throw-up-a-bit-in-your-mouth interview from the early 90s, it sounds like he would inevitably be drawn into that world. The question is, what do politics look like by the time he arrives? How have his own politics been affected? And will his mentor, Kelvin MacKenzie be there to take him under his wing?
Story Post XXIV: Early Days of a Transportation Revolution
#24
December 1981
While this episode of Three’s Company where Jack tries to get out of a date with a mob boss’s daughter is pretty solid, it’s time for a commercial:
Overhead shot of a closed race track. Pretty simple design, but it’s got a few curves. Cue the voiceover.
“Is asking for more from the best…”
Pause for pictures of a little car zooming around the track.
“...Asking too much?”
Overhead shot of the track again, but this time it’s chock-a-block with twists and turns.
“At Ford we don’t think so.”
More shots of the car handling a series of curves that might not be quite as twisty as the overhead shot implied, but which still look impressive with the right editing.
“The 1982 Ford Fiesta. The handling you expect; the comfort you deserve; and the fuel economy you need. Now 48 miles per gallon on the highway; 36 in the city. See your local Ford dealer today!”
----
June 1982
Forbes Magazine
Hot Handlebars: The Rise and Rise of the Bicycle
Article is accompanied by a picture of the new Schwinn 10-speed “Rambler” model, a more-or-less direct copy of the 1977 Nishiki “International”
The bicycle boom: here to stay? Ever since sales of multi-speed bikes for adults passed eight million in 1972, economists have predicted the bubble would pop on the two-wheeled phenomenon. While purchases did flatten in the late 1970s, the turn of the decade has seen an even sharper rise in sales than ten years ago.
Many industry experts predicting a fall in sales were factoring in a return to stable, low oil prices that failed to materialize. Now, with the arrival of the Federal Emergency Gas Tax- set at 35%, currently about $.52 a gallon- those predictions are dissipating, and many market-watchers are changing their tune.
Helping along this change in attitude to the humble 10-speed are the recent spate of actions by hundreds of municipal and county governments across the country, who have pledged the creation of bicycle-only paths or road lanes. In the past such projects were formulated as small-scale recreational endeavors, whereas these days projects are being approved with an eye towards making the bicycle a viable tool for commuting.
Most readers will have heard of some of the more ambitious projects on the list: New York City’s “10 For 10” campaign (adding 100 miles of bikeways by 1992), or Los Angeles’ “Cycling Viability Study,” predicted to add as much as 150 miles of bikeways by 1990.
But even smaller cities are getting in on the act. Downtown Dayton, OH recently saw Huffy Corporation (a new addition to the Fortune 500 this year) break ground on its new corporate headquarters, along with a promise to partially finance a network of 50 miles of bikeways in the city center. And small towns across the country are releasing their own plans, from the timid (a 150-foot painted strip in Holland, MI) to the ambitious (protected bikeways on every commercial street in San Luis Obispo, CA).
But what do the numbers really say? Are people cycling for more than just pleasure? Data-keeping on this phenomenon is a new endeavor, and there's not much to go on beyond the evidence of our eyes. To those of us who live in big cities, there has been an undeniable increase in the number of cyclists one encounters on the streets over the last few years. Perhaps the best indicator we have comes from a pair of surveys conducted by the Denver Post in 1977 and again this year. In the first survey, .7% of respondents identified themselves as regular bike commuters. Five years later, that number has grown to just under 3%, a more than 400% increase. Over 70% of those in the second survey indicated that they had only begun cycling to work within the last year.
Meanwhile in New York City, an estimated 300,000 trips are made via bicycle every day. Over 50% of residents own a bicycle or have owned one in the last three years.
While still a minor player in terms of the overall picture of transportation in America, it is clear that the growing popularity of the bicycle is not likely to slow down anytime soon.
----
March 1982
A meeting of the McKinley High School PTA is just getting started. The principle stands in front of a bird’s eye photo of the school parking lot.
“Okay everybody thanks for coming, as always. This should be a short one today as we really just have two items to go over. We’ve got the Spanish Gala coming up and Marci will be giving you an update on that in just a minute. But first I wanted to run by the proposed changes to the school parking lot with you all, I know lots of parents are concerned about this one.”
A few parents under their breath express sentiments amounting to “Yer darn tootin’ we are.”
“Well just to go over the plan again, we’re going to take this first line of spaces here, minus the five handicapped spaces, and we’re going to turn ten of them into parking for motor scooters and the other five into additional bicycle parking. It’s going to give us space for 80 scooters and at least 60 bikes.”
Rumbles of discontent.
“Well now, you know, I hear ya. Nobody likes coming to the game on Saturday or a concert or a play or what have you and having to park all the way down the road. There’s already not enough room for you as it is and here we are talking about taking away even more. But you know, this is about what we need here at McKinley every day. We’ve got more and more requests every day for scooter parking. You all know what gas is like now. We’ve all got to economize. Yes, Mrs. Nielsen?”
“I just don’t know how you can promote our children riding those dangerous things! They should be banned, you should have to be 21 to ride them. I just know one of the kids is going to get hurt!”
“Kids? Mrs. Nielsen, we’ve had almost 40 requests from teachers for scooter parking. The kids’ll have to wait in line!”
----
February, 1982
Flint Michigan. Hank’s barbershop. Only Hank and his regular customer Morty are in the shop. Morty is a devoted detester of sports, a man who will grind his teeth down to the gumline if he has to listen to one more debate about whether the Tigers should pick up that lefty reliever. Finding a barber capable of discussing something other than sports is rare in any town. Morty is currently counting his blessings once again, as Hank turns the conversation to politics.
“I see they passed that bill.”
“What?”
“Congress. The stimulus package.”
“What, again? Didn’t we just have one?”
“That was last year. This is this year.”
“Well if it worked so well last year…”
“You keep spending til you get it right, I guess. But at least this one has some good news for our boys.”
“What, lemme guess, they’re going to make it illegal to walk now so you gotta buy a car?”
“Not quite. We’re getting that sweet, sweet scooter money.”
“Scooter money?”
“Motor scooters, Mortimer. Wave of the future.”
“Nobody wants to ride around in a scooter. Can you imagine me riding around in a scooter? Ridiculous.”
“Eh, maybe people don’t necessarily want a scooter, like they’d rather have a Caddy. Who wouldn’t? But you can’t beat ‘em for cost.”
“There’s more to life than saving money. You gotta treat yourself. I guess that’s why I go to a barber who charges $2 for a shave. Must be the reason. Otherwise I’m just a sap.”
“Hey. All my best customers are saps.”
“I thought you might say that. So anyway, what’s this stimulus?”
“So you know how it is with these bills, it’s a mammoth. There’s stuff in there I don’t even think the Congress knows is in there. It’s mostly what you’d expect: money to pay the farmers and keep food costs low, money for more subways back east, money for energy and wind farms, like the one they got goin’ up over in Traverse City. Make people build more, buy more, earn more, spend more. So they pump more money into the economy. And while they’re at it, they notice that all the kids these days are off their rockers for these scooters.”
“You know now that you mention it my nephew’s been bugging my sister for one. And that neighbor of mine bought his daughter one when she turned 16.”
“Yeah, all the kids are getting scooters now at 16.”
“It ain’t American if you ask me.”
“What, capitalism ain’t American?”
Morty shoots Hank one of those soft Midwestern glares. Hank continues.
“So anyway, I guess Kawasaki or whoever sold something like a bazillion more scooters this year than last year. The brass in Detroit got spooked. The government got spooked. We got some emergency tariffs and a boatload of cash to retool a few places to build scooters. I hear one of them’s the V8 Engine plant. No one’s buying those muscle cars anymore.”
“I guess that’s something. Can’t complain about jobs staying here. Still, it seems like a shame. There’s just something about a car, you know?”
“Don’t I know it. And don’t you know it. But it doesn’t look like the kids know it.”
“Kids.”
“They ruin everything.”
“And then they get old.”
“And their kids ruin everything again.”
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
Beat
“...I wonder what we ruined?”
They think about it for a minute.
“Hats.”
“That’s true.”
“We never shoulda stopped wearing hats.”
December 1981
While this episode of Three’s Company where Jack tries to get out of a date with a mob boss’s daughter is pretty solid, it’s time for a commercial:
Overhead shot of a closed race track. Pretty simple design, but it’s got a few curves. Cue the voiceover.
“Is asking for more from the best…”
Pause for pictures of a little car zooming around the track.
“...Asking too much?”
Overhead shot of the track again, but this time it’s chock-a-block with twists and turns.
“At Ford we don’t think so.”
More shots of the car handling a series of curves that might not be quite as twisty as the overhead shot implied, but which still look impressive with the right editing.
“The 1982 Ford Fiesta. The handling you expect; the comfort you deserve; and the fuel economy you need. Now 48 miles per gallon on the highway; 36 in the city. See your local Ford dealer today!”
----
June 1982
Forbes Magazine
Hot Handlebars: The Rise and Rise of the Bicycle
Article is accompanied by a picture of the new Schwinn 10-speed “Rambler” model, a more-or-less direct copy of the 1977 Nishiki “International”
The bicycle boom: here to stay? Ever since sales of multi-speed bikes for adults passed eight million in 1972, economists have predicted the bubble would pop on the two-wheeled phenomenon. While purchases did flatten in the late 1970s, the turn of the decade has seen an even sharper rise in sales than ten years ago.
Many industry experts predicting a fall in sales were factoring in a return to stable, low oil prices that failed to materialize. Now, with the arrival of the Federal Emergency Gas Tax- set at 35%, currently about $.52 a gallon- those predictions are dissipating, and many market-watchers are changing their tune.
Helping along this change in attitude to the humble 10-speed are the recent spate of actions by hundreds of municipal and county governments across the country, who have pledged the creation of bicycle-only paths or road lanes. In the past such projects were formulated as small-scale recreational endeavors, whereas these days projects are being approved with an eye towards making the bicycle a viable tool for commuting.
Most readers will have heard of some of the more ambitious projects on the list: New York City’s “10 For 10” campaign (adding 100 miles of bikeways by 1992), or Los Angeles’ “Cycling Viability Study,” predicted to add as much as 150 miles of bikeways by 1990.
But even smaller cities are getting in on the act. Downtown Dayton, OH recently saw Huffy Corporation (a new addition to the Fortune 500 this year) break ground on its new corporate headquarters, along with a promise to partially finance a network of 50 miles of bikeways in the city center. And small towns across the country are releasing their own plans, from the timid (a 150-foot painted strip in Holland, MI) to the ambitious (protected bikeways on every commercial street in San Luis Obispo, CA).
But what do the numbers really say? Are people cycling for more than just pleasure? Data-keeping on this phenomenon is a new endeavor, and there's not much to go on beyond the evidence of our eyes. To those of us who live in big cities, there has been an undeniable increase in the number of cyclists one encounters on the streets over the last few years. Perhaps the best indicator we have comes from a pair of surveys conducted by the Denver Post in 1977 and again this year. In the first survey, .7% of respondents identified themselves as regular bike commuters. Five years later, that number has grown to just under 3%, a more than 400% increase. Over 70% of those in the second survey indicated that they had only begun cycling to work within the last year.
Meanwhile in New York City, an estimated 300,000 trips are made via bicycle every day. Over 50% of residents own a bicycle or have owned one in the last three years.
While still a minor player in terms of the overall picture of transportation in America, it is clear that the growing popularity of the bicycle is not likely to slow down anytime soon.
----
March 1982
A meeting of the McKinley High School PTA is just getting started. The principle stands in front of a bird’s eye photo of the school parking lot.
“Okay everybody thanks for coming, as always. This should be a short one today as we really just have two items to go over. We’ve got the Spanish Gala coming up and Marci will be giving you an update on that in just a minute. But first I wanted to run by the proposed changes to the school parking lot with you all, I know lots of parents are concerned about this one.”
A few parents under their breath express sentiments amounting to “Yer darn tootin’ we are.”
“Well just to go over the plan again, we’re going to take this first line of spaces here, minus the five handicapped spaces, and we’re going to turn ten of them into parking for motor scooters and the other five into additional bicycle parking. It’s going to give us space for 80 scooters and at least 60 bikes.”
Rumbles of discontent.
“Well now, you know, I hear ya. Nobody likes coming to the game on Saturday or a concert or a play or what have you and having to park all the way down the road. There’s already not enough room for you as it is and here we are talking about taking away even more. But you know, this is about what we need here at McKinley every day. We’ve got more and more requests every day for scooter parking. You all know what gas is like now. We’ve all got to economize. Yes, Mrs. Nielsen?”
“I just don’t know how you can promote our children riding those dangerous things! They should be banned, you should have to be 21 to ride them. I just know one of the kids is going to get hurt!”
“Kids? Mrs. Nielsen, we’ve had almost 40 requests from teachers for scooter parking. The kids’ll have to wait in line!”
----
February, 1982
Flint Michigan. Hank’s barbershop. Only Hank and his regular customer Morty are in the shop. Morty is a devoted detester of sports, a man who will grind his teeth down to the gumline if he has to listen to one more debate about whether the Tigers should pick up that lefty reliever. Finding a barber capable of discussing something other than sports is rare in any town. Morty is currently counting his blessings once again, as Hank turns the conversation to politics.
“I see they passed that bill.”
“What?”
“Congress. The stimulus package.”
“What, again? Didn’t we just have one?”
“That was last year. This is this year.”
“Well if it worked so well last year…”
“You keep spending til you get it right, I guess. But at least this one has some good news for our boys.”
“What, lemme guess, they’re going to make it illegal to walk now so you gotta buy a car?”
“Not quite. We’re getting that sweet, sweet scooter money.”
“Scooter money?”
“Motor scooters, Mortimer. Wave of the future.”
“Nobody wants to ride around in a scooter. Can you imagine me riding around in a scooter? Ridiculous.”
“Eh, maybe people don’t necessarily want a scooter, like they’d rather have a Caddy. Who wouldn’t? But you can’t beat ‘em for cost.”
“There’s more to life than saving money. You gotta treat yourself. I guess that’s why I go to a barber who charges $2 for a shave. Must be the reason. Otherwise I’m just a sap.”
“Hey. All my best customers are saps.”
“I thought you might say that. So anyway, what’s this stimulus?”
“So you know how it is with these bills, it’s a mammoth. There’s stuff in there I don’t even think the Congress knows is in there. It’s mostly what you’d expect: money to pay the farmers and keep food costs low, money for more subways back east, money for energy and wind farms, like the one they got goin’ up over in Traverse City. Make people build more, buy more, earn more, spend more. So they pump more money into the economy. And while they’re at it, they notice that all the kids these days are off their rockers for these scooters.”
“You know now that you mention it my nephew’s been bugging my sister for one. And that neighbor of mine bought his daughter one when she turned 16.”
“Yeah, all the kids are getting scooters now at 16.”
“It ain’t American if you ask me.”
“What, capitalism ain’t American?”
Morty shoots Hank one of those soft Midwestern glares. Hank continues.
“So anyway, I guess Kawasaki or whoever sold something like a bazillion more scooters this year than last year. The brass in Detroit got spooked. The government got spooked. We got some emergency tariffs and a boatload of cash to retool a few places to build scooters. I hear one of them’s the V8 Engine plant. No one’s buying those muscle cars anymore.”
“I guess that’s something. Can’t complain about jobs staying here. Still, it seems like a shame. There’s just something about a car, you know?”
“Don’t I know it. And don’t you know it. But it doesn’t look like the kids know it.”
“Kids.”
“They ruin everything.”
“And then they get old.”
“And their kids ruin everything again.”
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
Beat
“...I wonder what we ruined?”
They think about it for a minute.
“Hats.”
“That’s true.”
“We never shoulda stopped wearing hats.”
Last edited:
Not that you would know, but I decided to post this one out of order. I did that for a few reasons.
First is that I will likely be taking a break for the holidays starting after this. If I have the time to get everything in order I may post again later this week, but probably I'll see you in 2019. (I have an idea for a special Christmas post, but I have to write it still and may not have time, so no promises!)
Related to that, the post that was supposed to come next was really depressing. It covers more in-depth what's been going on with the American Conservative Party in the run-up to the 1982 elections, and...well, they're not the nicest people, let's say that. So I thought, why post dreary, hateful stuff around the holidays? Save that for after.
I also had a bit of a brainwave on the future direction of the TL, which will require some rewrites. I'm pretty confident that I can keep up my posting schedule and get these done through the 1984 election, but the extra writing time over the break will be a big help.
Just as a little gift (in case I don't get around to that Christmas post) here's what you can expect when Playing with Mirrors returns in the New Year:
First is that I will likely be taking a break for the holidays starting after this. If I have the time to get everything in order I may post again later this week, but probably I'll see you in 2019. (I have an idea for a special Christmas post, but I have to write it still and may not have time, so no promises!)
Related to that, the post that was supposed to come next was really depressing. It covers more in-depth what's been going on with the American Conservative Party in the run-up to the 1982 elections, and...well, they're not the nicest people, let's say that. So I thought, why post dreary, hateful stuff around the holidays? Save that for after.
I also had a bit of a brainwave on the future direction of the TL, which will require some rewrites. I'm pretty confident that I can keep up my posting schedule and get these done through the 1984 election, but the extra writing time over the break will be a big help.
Just as a little gift (in case I don't get around to that Christmas post) here's what you can expect when Playing with Mirrors returns in the New Year:
- Conservatives flex their muscles!
- Democrats try to find their purpose!
- Election Night '82!
- Election Night '82 UK Edition!
- Israel and the Near East react to the Egyptian Civil War!
- Further tortured dialogue about land use practices in a changing economy!
- AND SO MUCH MORE!!!
For me the worst that could happen is OTL land use policy 1865ish-2000ish FOLLOWED BY global thermonuclear war, so everything's comin' up roses as far as I'm concerned!
Please to be injecting these items directly into my eyeballs, kind sir. Also, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year and Gladige Jul and all the rest.