Dreamstate

Be there. Go there now and never leave. Imagine that your dreams have already come true. Live your life from that mindset. Predicate your behavior on that reality, not the illusions that now surround you. Filter every thought, question, and answer from there. Let your focus shift and be born again - because dwelling from, not upon, the space you want to inherit is the fastest way to change absolutely everything.

Miss Representation

Important.

I said my pretty Creole girl, me money here is no good

Fall was crazy. I quit volleyball, my team and childhood dreams born in the backyard. I quit a year-long relationship and stability. I fucked around. I took a rec class. I danced every Saturday night and drank a lot of beer. I skipped class to lie in bed all day. I ate like shit. I listened to folk music and lit candles that smelled of lilacs and home. I started a student organization and spent way more time organizing than being a student. I did it for my own good. I think. I thought.

I don’t know much, when I knew less / And I was heartbroke for the first time / I was drowning in my tears / I went looking for a lifeline / Trying to find some comfort / A simple tender touch / Searching for some little cure / That would not cost too much…

Amtrak.com: one ticket southbound on the City of New Orleans. I had never been to New Orleans.

I love the train. I have always loved the train from my days of riding out with my mother to visit my grandparents in Arizona. I would sit in the lounge car, snacking on sesame sticks and apples, watching the dry desert roll by. A stop in Santa Fe: on the platform, indigenous women laid out their beautiful crafts of Iroquois, sky blues, yellows, oranges and browns across folding tables. Mom bought stone earrings and I got a beaded change purse colored like the earth. I have always loved the train.

Over the summer I met a new friend who lived in New Orleans. I called her up a few days before I departed, asked if I could stay on her couch. She said yes and I was happy that this trip was only going to cost me about $200. I needed to be around people but not my people – my people were driving me crazy. I think I needed new people. New Orleans is full of people, I thought. And, I could be alone.

I drove my white station wagon down to the familiar Kalamazoo depot and was dropped off by one of my people. I really needed new people. The ride to Chicago was spent leaning against the tall windows, numbly watching the cities roll on. I was on my way to somewhere and away from somewhere. I thought – but more so, I wanted.

I had an eight-hour layover in Chicago so I visited former teammates. Another train ride through suburbia landed me in manufactured small-town U.S.A. A quick tour of the town, a home-cooked meal and one more tear-filled testimony of how much the team missed me. Had I made the right decision about volleyball?

We gotta get out of this place / If it’s the last thing we ever do / We gotta get out of this place / Girl, there’s a better life…

I took a train to take a train and I was on my way to New Orleans. I stirred in Kentucky and dozed through most of Tennessee. We chugged through Graceland and into the land of the Delta Blues. Mississippi had poverty like something fierce: rickety houses lined the tracks, held together by nothing more than some particleboard and promises of something better. At Yazoo City, I walked down to the lounge car to eat lunch and find someone to talk with me.

A white woman, late-twenties to early thirties with two kids, a baby and a lifetime of miserable boyfriends sat down at my table. She asked to use my power outlet – I said of course and we fixed to talking. She was on her way to visit her ‘new’ boyfriend in New Orleans. He was an Army vet of Iraq, a man who refused to abandon his hometown during Katrina, helping pass out food, water and medical supplies at the Superdome in the weeks following. But he was black and her parents were unflinching in their racist hatred. So she packed up her life and kids and took the City of New Orleans.

As she was rambling, we were rumbling through the lakes of Pontchartain on track ties that had not been dry since they were standing upright. We carried speed to keep from sinking into the big muddy. My eyes watched for alligators but saw only birds, soggy trees and houses sitting up on long stick legs. Out of the bayous rose the interstate: twisted concrete also fighting against a waterlogged demise.

The train hit the now-dry ground of the city and we rolled past the Superdome, twinkling with advertisements about upcoming events – never able to shake the ghosts of Katrina and not allowed to by New Orleneans. How could they? Nagin said, “We’re not even dealing with dead bodies. They’re just pushing them on the side.” How could they.

It was so damn hot / the air so thick / even Sister Magnolia / was wearing nothing but her slip / Sittin’ on the corner, waiting for his whites to dry / Spittin’ on his shoes, trying to get a little shine / He says / I love this city, I love it all my life / I was born here and this is where I wanna die / If a hurricane comes, if the levees break / With my one true love I will wash away…

I grabbed my pack, sweating from the oppressive heat in stark contrast with the January winds of Chicago and heavy snows of Marquette, and walked out into the city. A tiny car zipped up and I was taken into the world of someone I had known only in an entirely different context. We discussed the summer and those things we had in common. She told me about her life but I did not say much. Not much to say.

We bypassed the French Quarter and drove past Louis Armstrong Park. “You shouldn’t go in there alone.” District 7, the Bywater, was our destination, just across the canal from District 8 – Holy Cross and the Lower Ninth Ward. A walk to shake the cobwebs from my legs: down on the levee, the oil-slicked water rolled by the chain-linked fence of the military base. Her dog ran on ahead while the image of a catfish with no eyes and an extra fin dangling from the pup’s mouth consumed me.

With catch-ups exhausted, I moved our conversation toward the state of a city that is more than a city – the Big Easy, the birthplace of Jazz, the home of Cajun cooking, Bourbon Street and Mardi Gras. We talked racism as we strolled by shotgun houses with X’s spray-painted in neon orange above the porch – or higher, depending on the flood level. Date goes on the top, name of the search unit on the left, the right reserved for “NE” or ‘no entry” if the National Guard hadn’t checked it and the bottom tells how many dead bodies found inside. We chatted on education as we passed a middle school covered in particle board, the final bell still ringing down the halls. I was aware of my awareness and feigned sensitivity as I tried not to stare with unsettling interest at the car crash on the side of the road in the City that Care Forgot.

They call her Mississippi / But she don’t flow to me / Spends her light on the Bayou / But she don’t come to see / She’s the one that makes my dreams / They call her Mississippi / But she don’t flow to me…

We returned to her two-story house with vaulted ceilings, bookshelves of queer-feminist poets and roommates from upstate New York with small, liberal college degrees who moved down to NOLA after the storm and spoke of their lives in relation to years post-Katrina and pre-Masters. With fixed-gear bikes, colorful neck scarves, JusticeForNewOrleans buttons and an affinity for middle school dance-themed parties and open relationships, they shared a pointed loathing for “hipsters who moved to NOLA because it was the cool thing to do.” Conversation was lost on me as I tried to follow a three-foot flowchart tracking the “Institutionalized Movement of Racial Minorities into and within the Prison Industrial System” hanging on the wall.

Rowan was my friend and her roommates also had hyphenated last names. She was in a long-term relationship with a man who lived elsewhere but had short-term partners in New Orleans. The “Free Love” vibe hung heavy in the air. I was one of two house guests – the other was a guy named Lance. Lance was working on his Master’s thesis: “an oral history of those who had come down to NOLA post-Katrina to lend their talents to fighting in solidarity with New Orleneans for social justice.” He was from upstate New York and loved to dress like David Bowie; he slept in Rowan’s bed.

I wanted fried chicken and gumbo so we went to Sammy’s. “You have to try the cornbread,” Rowan said. I told the woman my order and she fixed to making a three-course all-N’awlins meal. Well-traveled barstools mounted on the floor cushioned my fatigued body as I started a conversation with the road-weary local sitting in the corner. Rowan and Lance – eyes dancing everywhere save the gaze of another – occupied the space of one person while they stood by the counter. We were the only white people in there. We grabbed our plastic grocery bags of food but ran into a back-up of kids at the door. Over my shoulder, I waved goodbye to the other half of my conversation as I tried to keep pace. “Y’all pass ah good time this evenin,’ cher,” he drawled.

Some say this world of trouble / Is the only one we need / But I’m waiting for that morning / When the new world is revealed / When that revelation comes / When that revelation comes / Oh lord I want to be in that number / When the saints go marching in…

I heard my first Big Band in New Orleans play that night at the Rock’n’Bowl-MidCity Lanes – a name that tells of venue and neighborhood. The nightclub-alley has barebones character similar to the Crescent City in that you didn’t have no electronic machine telling you what you bowled but you were welcome to stay and party all night.

Kermit Ruffins and the Barbecue Swingers made the packed house bump with a brass section that would make your heartbeat change. Rowan pointed out the owner: a cool cat in a black and gold zoot suit standing against the counter where you could rent your shoes. He was surrounded by women in tight-fitting dresses who laughed loudly and twirled his gold chains in their long black fingers.

You will see the Zulu King / Down on St. Claude and Dumaire / You know, you’ll see the Zulu King / Down on St. Claude and Dumair / And if you stay right there / I’m sure you’ll see the Zulu Queen…

Lance, Rowan and I made like a bike gang through damp neighborhoods, weaving down narrow streets lined with cars and cypress trees. I bought a 40-ounce beer at a corner store for the ride just because I could. Faster and faster we chased each other under the Pontchartrain Expressway, crossing bridges that spanned cement waterways and doubling back to do it again. Carrollton to Genois to Esplanade to Saint Claude to Dauphine to Louisa to a living room futon.

We packed Rowan’s car the next morning with paddles and snacks, set for an afternoon’s canoe through the bayous. The noise and congestion of the city life and travel had my head spinning and I was anxious to escape to the outskirts. We drove past the new condo high-rises that had replaced the low-income housing neighborhoods, got lost in the recently-built strip malls and stopped for directions at a Super Wal-Mart. I sat in the back with the dog while Rowan went to get directions.

As we pulled over to the side of the road, my eyes followed the levee that housed the bayou to a factory looming portentously from its roost miles and miles away. With pipes opening their mouths into the waters, the factory looked like a bastardized fish tank filter, vomiting a toxic death into the waters and people of the watershed with the same “bubble, gurgle, bubble” consistency. Rowan shared a story of her collaborative fight to stop the vinyl siding manufacturing plant in another part of Louisiana. The cancer rate in that community, children included, is 70%. “There is no direct causation,” says the company attorney. In this moment, I feel the intersection of social and environmental injustice down in my core for the first time.

Yer a human thing / Who ya think that you’re foolin’ / Yer not foolin’, not foolin’ me / Yer a human thing / Yer so busy frontin’ / Confusin’ courage and acting / Move me / Move me / Could it really be so wrong / To let somebody, let somebody see…

“Nature” in Michigan is clean: freshwater lakes, unsullied woods and crisp air. As we dropped our canoe into the algae-covered bayou that smelled of rot and decay, I knew this was going to be a very different experience than the ones I had on the Pine River or Lake Superior. Where we had muskrats, this had alligators. Again, my close companion was the dog: we shared a collapsible seat in the middle of the boat. Well, I was sitting in this seat and the dog was using my lap as his throne.

As we tooled quietly along, I watched circles of green matter swirl in eddies created by paddle strokes. Spanish moss, moved by a breeze I longed to feel, painted ripples on a body of water otherwise undisturbed. The stillness of the surface was underpinned by a conscious recognition of the unseen: below the surface, life and strife and conflict teemed and always threatened to unsettle the calm.

The dog on my lap made me sweat and conversation between Rowan and Lance was not something I could tap into. My goals in New Orleans were as follows: eat good food, listen to good music and talk with good people. I put out, “I hear Frenchmen Street has some good music. Who are the best musicians in town?” Rowan responded that she does not really get out to hear local music much. Frenchmen was a three-minute bike ride from her house; these were not my people. But the bayou was beautiful: we at one point crept through swamp maple on a floating moss island to play voyeur to a flock of resting white egret.

Born on the bayou / Born on the bayou / Born on the bayou / Wish I was back on the bayou rollin’ with some Cajun Queen / Wishin’ I were a freight train, oh, just a-chooglin’ on down to New Orleans…

That night, I went to the Frenchmen music clubs alone. Low, cool neon signs asked me to join the dimly-lit party at the Spotted Cat Music Club, the Blue Nile, the D.B.A. and the Three Muses. I first walked down the length of this famed alley-like street, pausing at those places in the sidewalk where the clarinet from one club would blend and dance with the trombone of another. Even on a Sunday night in January, it was standing-room only. I found a spot near the door and next to a window where I could watch a man in his twenties swirl and seduce nearly every woman in the club; sweat and tradition poured from his body with each swingstep, swim and slingshot.

The next days passed quickly: with Rowan at work, I was left to explore the city solo by bike. Days were spent eating gumbo and sugary beignets from Café Du Monde. I went shopping at flea markets and thrift stores and sat with artists trying to sell their work in Jackson Square. After an hour of loitering, Sylvester Francis himself kicked me off the steps of his Backstreet Cultural Museum – Rowan said it took her four months to get in for a tour. “You sure you’re not letting anyone in today?” I asked as I watched through the window a couple taking in the memorabilia of Mardi Gras celebrations passed.

“You’re not from around here are ya?”
“No, I’m from Michigan. How could you tell?”
“Oh sweetie, ya just can.”

Each night, I circled the French Quarter on bike: I weaved in and out of the crowds and clubs, composing my own transient soundtrack. The only scheduled event was to return to a bar on the corner of Bourbon and somethin’ a little after midnight to listen to a woman I knew only as Big Mama. She would sing my favorite Sam Cooke songs; I would sit at the bar with the guitar player in the hot, hot house band and listen to him tell me stories about Mama. I was the only one in the bar under the age of fifty-five but I had friends there and a place to rest for a half hour.

Darling you send me / I know you send me / Darling you send me / Honestly you do, honestly you do / Honestly you do

Rowan took off from work Tuesday afternoon so we could attend a demonstration downtown. Israel was lobbing missiles into a Hamas-controlled Gaza Strip and the rally was in solidarity with Palestinians and the quest for a Palestinian state. Rowan’s long-term boyfriend joined us as we marched down the street. He walked hand-in-hand with another woman while Lance and Rowan maneuvered awkwardly through the crowds and with this addition to our group. As the masses swirled around me chanting and shouting, I fixated on these complicated exchanges and positionings. It was beyond any love triangle I had ever seen (or been a part of). Not my people.

Lance had to drive me to the train station on the morning of my departure. The coal-colored asphalt steamed and the climate in the car was exceedingly uncomfortable. I had been playing third fiddle to the romance of Lance and Rowan and was pretty certain that Lance did not care for my impromptu visit to New Orleans. He dropped me off with my pack three hours before my train was to leave. I found a locker and walked under the expressway to get a Po’ Boy for the trip home. “Hey there pretty lady, I’m sure you got some money in that bag of yours.” Yes, I was ready to go home.

Finding a seat of my own, I tossed my pack up against the window of the train, pulled out my pillow and sank in, feeling like the dregs of the Mississippi. The rocking motion from the tracks sated my sleep deprivation – I crashed hard. Somewhere down the tracks, the brakes of the train echoed in my head and I opened my eyes to a very dark town. There was something wrong with the engine and we had been delayed. “Departure time TBD, so don’t go far. If you’re not on the train when we start to take off, we’re not stoppin’ for ya,” said the voice.

I stepped out onto the platform, scanning for a gas station or restaurant; the dining car was long-closed and I had slept through its dinner hours. A man smoking down the way said there was a Texaco three blocks up and two blocks over. I waffled for a moment but decided: I had to make a run for it. No other businesses were open as I sprinted between pools of light left by dim lampposts. A low-riding Oldsmobile rolled up, falling in step with me for a few paces before squealing rubber; that was the only local presence I saw.

Halfway home and we’ll be there by morning / Through the Mississippi darkness / Rolling down to the sea / and all the towns and people seem / To fade into a bad dream…

I burst through the door of the Texaco, not at all comforted by the bullet-proof glass separating the cashier and me. Grabbing a couple boxes of off-brand crackers and a block of suspect cheese, I dropped my cash through the slit in the counter and said, “I don’t need change.” The woman smiled sweetly as I bid her goodnight and clambered out the door.

A whistle from the direction of the station set me on a rampage. With my plastic bag of shitty food, I no longer cared about trying to stay in the light. Luckily, the run back was downhill but this created an added dilemma as it had started to rain. Three blocks over, two blocks up? Or was it three blocks up and two blocks over? The whistle sounded again. “SHIT.” I zig-zagged down the blocks, figuring it would be my best bet at recognizing where the station was in this shadowed, forsaken town.

Yup, I had gone too far: I popped out from the city blocks near the end of the train. I saw silhouettes boarding a hundred yards away and made a push for the homestretch. Hopping over a retaining wall that turned out to be much, much higher than it looked, I somersaulted onto the concrete of the platform with equal parts grace and athleticism – actually, about as far from both as anyone possibly could. I was a sweaty mess with shot nerves as I made those final steps toward the opened side door.

A man walked out just before me, holding a cigarette and lighter. “Aren’t we leaving now?” I panted. He informed me that those whistles were from another train and that we had “at least another three hours before we were moving anywhere.” I doubled over – and laughed and laughed, a tear-filled, side-cramping, head-wagging, soul-cleansing laugh. The guy walked away, making a wide circle to give the crazy, laughing woman some room.

I climbed the steps to my seat and sat in my sweaty, rain-soaked clothes for a while, breathing. As I broke open a box of crackers, I pulled out a journal I had been writing in throughout the fall. Frantic scribbles of melodramatic thoughts, sappy poems, inspirational quotes and song lyrics were dashed over the pages. My thumbs stopped and my eyes rested on a song I had transcribed from a “New Orleans playlist” I put together in Michigan for my trip.

I could not love to save myself / From lonesome desperation. / Everything I thought was love / Was worthless imitation. / My concept of commitment / Was to take all you could give, / I thought the cheapest thrills I loved / Were teachin’ me to live, / But nothin’ seemed to last or see me through / Nothin’ but that little song / That I still sing for you…

I reclined in my seat, replaying the song in my head. In my fractured state, I had spent months trying to “figure myself out.” I tried a lot of different methods, some self-destructive, but largely ones that led to some really wonderful experiences and new friends. Never could I figure out why I decided to go to New Orleans – I just had that feeling, ya know? – nor could I pinpoint why I was so certain that “good food, good music and good people” would solve all of my life’s problems. They didn’t but they made me feel better in the interim. I wish I could say that there was some sort of revelation or epiphany in this moment on the train or during that period when we were stuck there for four hours. But I don’t think I can. There was, however, forgiveness in that laugh, a certain softness I had been missing for the better half of a year. My body didn’t give me time to change clothes before I fell into sleep again. This time, I didn’t stir when the train started moving down the tracks.

For your own good I will tell you / What’s right before your eyes, / Intelligence is no defense / Against what this implies, / In the end no one will sell you what you need, / You can’t buy it off the shelf, / You got to grow it from the seed…

Gramps Essay Reflection

I have to be honest here: I really didn't mind the essay. As someone who is new to the college English world - I took Honors classes for my EN111/211 requirements - I guess I haven't developed the complex where I *gasp* in horror at the grammatical mistakes and all of the other crimes against the "conventions of Standard Written English." Should a college student be writing at a level higher than the one displayed in "Gramps?" By my standards, absolutely. But I think there is good fodder within the piece to salvage it - I wouldn't give up hope on its author. I would, however, question the amount of effort that went into developing this paper. If this were turned into me, I would likely turn it back to the student with only one question: Is this really the best you can do? I would continue to ask this question until he/she said "YES!" Then I would read it and ask why they didn't just do that in the first place. This idea goes back to the Taylor Mali Def Jam Poetry video that I showed in class in which he says, "I can make an A- feel like a slap in the face - How dare you waste my time with anything less than your best?" I do not believe that a quality effort was given for this assignment but I am not going to throw the baby out with the bathwater (I like this phrase and I don't care if you don't like cliches).

I love to write and I love to read. I am not going to stop anyone from writing or tell them that their writing is not of value because they do not adhere to a prescribed set of rules, guidelines or conventions. I believe that becoming an effective writer takes practice and making mistakes and learning rules and breaking rules and more practice and a lot of reading and striving, striving, striving to find the holy ground of space/time when that which is in your heart is found on the paper in front of you - in whatever form it may manifest. I don't believe I could ever call myself a good writer because qualifiers are always based on other people's parameters and perceptions. Do I follow rules? Yes, typically - but not always; and I am not going to require my students to do so either, whether I teach in a History, Political Science or English classroom. I believe the "conventions of Standard Written English" have roots in hegemonic notions of that which is "proper" and "intelligent," as informed by white, Euro-centric colonialism and patriarchy. And I'm not buying it.

One of my life mottoes is, "You don't know it all, Callie. You don't have it figured out." And while I consider myself a "believer," I can get behind the militant agnostics who say with conviction: "I don't know and you don't know either!" I am going to teach my students the "conventions of Standard Written English," if only to arm them with the tools necessary to dismantle the whole damn thing. There are hoops that we all must jump through in order to "pass" in academia at any level. I want my students, more than knowing where to put 'the semicolon' and how to NOT write in the passive voice (sometimes the passive voice is acceptable to me), to develop self-efficacy in the writing process. I have a banner in my room that has the words of H.H. Dalai Lama (I think we're on #14 now) that is titled "Never Give Up." His Holiness says, "Develop the heart / Too much energy in your country / Is spent on developing the mind / Instead of the heart / Develop the heart." Too much head and not enough soul makes Callie a dull writer. I guess I need to work on appreciating the "conventions of Standard Written English" more. I'll have to get back to you on this one.

Break Your Heart

All. Dudes.

I was 400 miles away when my new boss called and asked if I was going to be in to work the next day. What? I wasn’t supposed to start until next week! I hyperventilated for somewhere between five and seven minutes, then immediately started driving. Destination: Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. I was going to be a Ranger, a Trail Worker – Manual Labor. Yes. This is going to be a good summer.

Chris, my boss, had told me to camp behind the maintenance yard. In the dark and in a state of disorientation, I pitched my tent. When I awoke at 6am, I realized I was camping on the front lawn of the headquarters building. Oops. I tore down quickly and got back into my car to search for the real maintenance yard.

I finally pulled into a gravel parking lot full of extended bed, extended cab trucks with diesel engines and, duh, a HEMI. I parked my little station wagon in the employee parking lot and nervously made my way up the dewy grass hill, slipping on my worn hiking boots, feeling more and more insecure about not having an olive and green uniform that I was certain everyone else would be wearing. I opened the door with the hand that wasn’t holding my sack lunch of carrots and a veggie wrap, and stepped into the break room.

All. Dudes. Fifteen middle-aged men stared back at me. They were just as surprised to see me as I was to see them. Immediately they made to pull up their pants and smooth their hair. The banter I had heard only seconds before had ceased in an instant. I would come to find later that I was the first female trail worker the park had ever seen.

Emergency Financial Manager Act Analysis

To the desk of Governor Rick Snyder:

The bill before you would create a new “Local Government and School District Accountability Act,” repealing the existing Local Government Fiscal Responsibility Act passed in 1990 and amending others that have enabled state review and intervention in instances of municipal fiscal stress or emergency. This new bill has been coined the Emergency Financial Managers Act (EFMA). In many ways similar to the 1990 act, the EFMA’s largest change in public policy would be to increase the power and authority of the appointed emergency manager, a title that indicates an authority extending beyond financial matters. The most significant, and therefore controversial, implication for this new authority would be in public employee sector, specifically in the arena of collective bargaining and union contracts. This new bill would amend the Public Employment Relations Act, established in 1947, allowing emergency managers, individuals appointed by the state treasurer or the state school superintendent (if a school district), would be able to revoke labor contracts, suspend collective bargaining for up to five years, become the sole trustee of an underfunded pension system and suspend the power, authority and salaries of city managers and local elected officials. This means that the emergency manager would be granted the authority to reject, modify or terminate collective bargaining agreements made with employees of the state. Contractual agreements made after the passing of this law, if you chose to do so, would be required to include a provision that gives an emergency manager this authority, conversely eliminating the subject’s bargaining rights if deemed necessary by the emergency manager.

Under the current statutory stemming from the public policy debate in 1990, three strategies can be employed by the state if a fiscal emergency is declared in a local government: (1) local officials can develop and implement a plan to resolve the crisis under a consent agreement negotiated with a state-appointed review team; (2) a state-appointed emergency financial manager can develop and implement a plan to resolve the financial crisis; or (3) file Chapter 9 bankruptcy upon recommendation of the emergency financial manager and approval from the state. Under this statutory, seven Michigan communities have had state-appointed emergency financial managers – all within the past 10 or so years: Hamtramck (2000), Highland Park (2001), Flint (2002), the Village of Three Oaks (2008), Ecorse (2009), Pontiac (2009) and Benton Harbor (2010), as well as the appointment of a financial manager for the Detroit Public School District (2009). The reasons for appointment are just as varied as the success rate of the emergency financial managers in actually improving the fiscal health and prosperity of the municipalities. Currently, only Benton Harbor, Pontiac, Ecorse and the Detroit Public Schools still have their state-appointed emergency financial managers in place.

You currently have to face more than 500 separate school districts, a number far greater than most states. Focusing on the performance of school district officials – rather than school financing – comes at a timely crossroads in the restructuring of public education and the financing of public services. You have asked all districts to take steps to shrink staff, close buildings, privatize services and ask teachers to pay a bigger share of their health insurance costs – which some, admittedly, have avoided or been reluctant. Your proposed 8-10% cut to all school districts in the upcoming budget year, when paired with cuts in federal monies and the fact that districts have to pay a bigger share of pensions, works out to a $715-per-student reduction. With this in mind, it is highly likely that many municipalities, particularly schools, will be in a state of either financial stress or financial emergency, as defined by the bill, almost immediately.

If you pass this bill, an unprecedentedly dramatic shift in home rule and local governance will be practically inevitable. Currently, there are a projected 40 school districts that may fall under emergency manager authority within the next year; the number of additional other municipalities is currently unknown. But one can project that the number of state-appointments needing to be made will far outnumber the track record of the past ten years under the criteria set forth in the 1990 Local Government Fiscal Responsibility Act. The propensity for municipal accountability is a motivating factor in all of this but I would warn against passing this bill in the immediate aftermath of deep, across-the-board cuts. It is important, as you have stated, to ensure that all the smaller pieces of the puzzle are working effectively in order for the bigger picture to work. Tempering cuts with greater pressure on municipalities would give local officials the time necessary to make adjustments in their budgets, personnel and facilities. To piggyback one with the other could prove devastating to the efficacy and future efficiency of local governments. I would propose a 2-3 year adjustment period for municipalities around the state to regain their bearings and control over their budgets. If after an appropriate wait period, municipalities are still not making the necessary moves, then the provisions of this bill in the form of an emergency manager may be a viable option. While the intent of this bill is to protect the credit of the state and its political subdivisions, the track record of emergency financial managers does not necessarily lead us to believe that this bill is our greatest – or only – option as I will explain.

First, I would like to draw your attention to a report published in April 2010 by the Citizens Research Council of Michigan, titled “Financial Emergencies in Michigan Local Governments.” The CRC reports that the State of Michigan has adopted a number of statutes specifically designed to prevent local governments from falling into a financial crisis. Some of these acts have been referenced directly or indirectly in this analysis, many of which will either be eliminated or amended if the current legislation passes. Notable legislation includes the Uniform Budgeting and Accounting Act, the Emergency Municipal Loan Act, the Fiscal Stabilization Act, the Revised Municipal Finance Act and the Home Rule Cities Act. Additionally, the CRC report adds, the state constitution already provides for the removal or suspension of local officials, a major component of EFMA. As stated, it might serve the state well if local municipalities were allowed the time to recalibrate their budgets in the wake of the fiscal disequilibrium of massive cuts. There is no immediate need for increasing the authority of emergency financial managers as there are already measures in place to support struggling municipalities. Moreover (and perhaps most importantly), as only the aforementioned eight municipalities have fallen under current standards of a financial emergency, there is no practical or substantial basis to say that the current acts do not truly help struggling municipalities. The acts, therefore, have provided sufficient preventative measures for struggling municipalities. I suppose it goes back to the old adage: if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

In order to determine the effectiveness of emergency financial managers, it is important for you to look at our living case study: DPS’s financial manager, Robert Bobb. Bobb was brought in to help deal with the aftermath of a serious scandal that surfaced in which DPS officials embezzled money from the already depleted district budget. Additionally, a corrupt mayor further set back DPS through rampant mismanagement. Bobb came in to assess the damage and give an estimate on how much money it would take to get DPS out of its deficit. He has done similar administrative work in other cities around the country to varying degrees of success. It goes without argument that if Bobb were to go into nearly any school district in the state (and perhaps across the country), he would likely come back with an estimate in the millions that would be needed to get the district out of its deficit and get the "best school possible" for students.

Since Bobb was appointed emergency financial manager in 2009, a Detroit paper reports that “the district's deficit has grown from $219 million at the end of 2009 to its current $327 million. He's closed 59 schools in two years and outsourced several departments including transportation and school security." School consolidation is a likely reality on the horizon, especially with your proposed cuts to education. But consolidation is made at the expense of the jobs of teachers, a population that has historically had a loud voice as backed by the American Federation of Teachers and the National Education Association. As governor of a state strapped for jobs, it is important to remember that the potential for eliminating jobs by way of consolidation has garnered serious resistance from your constituency. The odds are stacked against job retention and teacher retention in our schools. With budget cuts come consolidation, pink slips and eliminations. The creation of new authorities for the emergency manager essentially renders teacher tenure and job security as moot points because seniority and a lifetime of achievement in the schools will no longer be grounds for maintaining a job. Additionally, this bill has provisions that would further damage the attractiveness of the teaching profession to quality candidates in Michigan, particularly in areas that have the greatest need for highly-qualified teachers, such as Detroit and other impoverished districts.

Bobb has taken an approach to education reform similar to that of Michelle Rhee, the former Chancellor of Schools in Washington, D.C., whose methods he has openly supported. This methodology specifically targets teachers, including eliminating seniority in union contracts and rules at schools and implementing merit-based pay (based on student performance on standardized testing and continually rising 'progress' standards). Other reform measures include: extending the school day and school year, and allowing flexibility to use outside service providers to run schools, according to the plan (i.e. contract schools). After implementing a similar plan in D.C. of massive teacher cuts/layoffs, school closures and shifting of principals around, Michelle Rhee stepped down as Chancellor of the D.C. Schools. She served as Chancellor for two and a half years. Robert Bobb has publicly stated his intentions to stay only to the end of this school year. That means his stay in Detroit will have lasted all of two years.

The provisions of the EFMA outline the required qualifications of an emergency manager. The language of the bill states that the emergency manager would be chosen on the basis of competence but need not be a resident of the local government. The manager would serve, as stated, under the state treasurer or state superintendent of schools. Newly-made authorities of the managers have already been discussed at length. Additional language requires that an emergency manager have attained a degree in accounting, business, public administration or a related field from an accredited institution and have a minimum of five year’s experience in local or state budgetary or fiscal management. I would particularly like to point out a responsibility in the job description that requires emergency managers to provide an explicit exit strategy to enable formerly struggling local governments to emerge from financial emergency status, during which time local officials are prohibited from revising the emergency manager’s two-year budget, labor contracts or ordinances. It is absolutely necessary for an exit strategy to be established and truly given a chance to succeed in municipalities.

The success of these strategies, however, rest almost solely on the judgment of an individual, perhaps from the area but perhaps not, with a multitude of personal interests. Bobb himself is both the CEO of a public/private consulting firm all the while serving on the D.C. Board of Education. It is tough to see how local communities, even if disenfranchised with their local government, could really get behind a non-elected individual taking the reigns on the future prosperity of their municipalities, regardless of endorsement by the state or even the governor. After living in the Upper Peninsula, it is conversely safe to say that many Yoopers are highly suspicious of the intentions of down-state politicians and businesspeople. A short-term (two years or so) stay by an outside authority is, in many ways, contrary to our perception of local governance. While this idea of home rule has undergone vast changes over the past decade, there is something to be said about having local knowledge and understanding.

The list of authorities granted to the emergency manger is lengthy and expansive. An emergency manager, if you chose to pass this bill, will essentially be able to manipulate, shift, consolidate, eliminate, employ, restructure (debt, personnel and governing structure), sell, lease, apply for a loan, order millage elections, create ordinances and resolutions, overturn elections of officials, supersede the power of any other entity of the local government – elected or appointed – and all other functions of the local government. These actions are done at the expense of the local government, of which the previous actors have their salaries eliminated for the duration of the receivership. I will not recite to you all of the newly created authorities of the emergency managers but rather implore you to look over the list yourself. I think this is the only way to really capture the profoundness of the legislation. Perhaps if you were to compare it to your own list of authorities upon declaration of martial law, the obvious connections may make you reconsider the bill. The office of the governor is entrusted by the people of the state with their vote and backed by a history of doing right by the people. To grant an emergency manager of unknown virtuosity and intention the same authorities as the office of the governor undermines the power and confidence of such a position.

I would like to close by stating that this analysis does not claim to address the totality of the bill. Nor can this analysis fully express or predict the implications that this bill could have on the future of this state. Upon close review of the bill and extensive consideration, I would highly recommend not passing the Emergency Financial Managers Act into law – particularly at this moment. There are positives to draw from the language of this bill, many of which are already in action. For those provisions not in action at the expense of accountability, I would propose a stiffer agenda and perhaps greater incentives for struggling local governments to get on track. However, to enact such a sweeping measure prior to allowing local governments the chance to work through current budget cuts would be preemptive and, with the provisions of what constitutes a financial emergency, could have long-term damaging effects on the ability of local governments to be self-determining and self-sustaining.

Sources utilized:

http://www.legislature.mi.gov/documents/2011-2012/billenrolled/House/pdf/2011-HNB-4214.pdf

http://www.mlive.com/news/detroit/index.ssf/2010/10/robert_bobb_confirms_he_will_e.html

http://www.legislature.mi.gov/documents/2011-2012/billanalysis/Senate/pdf/2011-SFA-4214-F.pdf

http://a2docs.org/assets/files/2011/02/24/2011-HLA-4214-3.pdf

http://www.mlive.com/politics/index.ssf/2011/03/gov_rick_snyders_education_cut.html

Teenage Angst

I want to start off with a joke that I find particularly appropriate, especially in light of what has been happening in Wisconsin and now in Michigan: A union worker, a member of the Tea Party and a CEO are sitting at a table. On the table is a tray with a dozen cookies. The CEO reaches over, grabs 11 of the cookies and says to the Tea Partier, “Watch out for that guy; he wants a piece of your cookie.”

I think that as a nation-state, we are going through our teenage years and dealing with the growing pains of finding an identity in a globalized world. As a relatively young country, we are not quite sure how we should treat one another and how to function cooperatively/efficiently. At the same time we curse socialized medicine, we drive on socialized roads, attend socialized schools, feel protected by a socialized police and fire force, turn on socialized electricity, drink from a socialized water supply, eat foods regulated by a socialized agency and retire on social security. There is nothing in our lives that is untouched by our government in some way but we still struggle with our relationship. To me, framing the debate of “What should we do next?” as a matter of “More v. Less” is not taking into account the fact that we still have yet to work out who we are and how we should treat one another. The argument surrounding social programs is laced with ideologies – cultural, economic, legal, educational, religious, familial, political. These ideologies all function to answer the questions facing a country trying to find its identity, stated as concisely as “Who are we?” My definition of ‘American’ – and what civil liberties/rights/equity this title and privilege entails – is a lot larger than those people/ideologies that oppose social programs.

I was talking to a friend of mine the other day who is Republican and we got on this topic of more v. less government by way of the Tea Party. The intentions of the Tea Party have been exhaustively discussed on this forum so I won’t go into that but rather I would like to look at the Republican model of government. First, the Republican platform is not against big government – that is a myth. I recognize that there are factions within the Republican Party or near to the Republican Party, including the Tea Party and Libertarians. I would, however, opine – as evidenced by a long track record – that Republicans, as my friend put it, “prefer a big government that intervenes on their behalf, rather than for the poor and working class of this country” (her emphasis added). Are the poor and working class not a part of this country? Has our nation not been built on the backs of these people?

We are a nation that champions capitalism, an economic AND ideological model that requires a cheap labor force. At the same moment we cut social programs that support the working class, we go to Wal-Mart to buy the goods that these people made. In Michigan, Governor Snyder too has championed the ideologies of capitalism and less government but has put together a budget proposal consisting of eerily similar contradictions. In FY2011-2012, Snyder proposes a tax hike for seniors, those in the lower income tax bracket and those who wish to make a tax-deductable contribution to universities to the tune of $1.7 billion. Snyder, in the same year, has proposed a measure that would give $1.8 billion to corporations/businesses in the form of tax breaks. Under the pretext of an economic recession and the need for more businesses in Michigan, Snyder, I feel/fear, exemplifies what I have outlined above. Our budget choices reflect our priorities and our priorities reflect ideologies and, ultimately, answers the question of "Who are we?" I don't want to be Snyder's Michigan.

Dr. Haynes posted in another forum that “a great nation, a great democracy or semi-democracy has a strong, vocal middle class. It is the middle class who will want to take care of the less fortunate and it is the middle class who will assure that the social elites do not take too much power from the citizenry. In every country, it is the middle class who makes the nation function best.” He goes on to say, “we need to find the middle as a nation and debate and resolve our mission, vision, values and direction. Then we can get to an agreement on size of government, scope of government and how we pay for it.” As a country going through growing pains, I believe this middle class has the most authority to speak to power and the most compassion to reach out to those in need. We need the middle – no more, no less.

A new Congressional agency, please

I want to frame this conversation with an important point that Matt brought up about the inherently different relationship to economic policy of the Executive and Legislative branches. He quotes LBJ: “The President is concerned with the economic well-being of the entire nation. Congress, by contrast, is the product of 50 states and 435 local constituencies, each representing only one piece of the national jigsaw puzzle.” This fundamental difference is a necessary component to our democracy as it creates a binary between the individual and the whole, giving voice to both. But the tension created when trying to reach a compromise can also threaten to tear apart a country – as we are seeing currently.

According to the Constitution, Congress must authorize all federal appropriations. This becomes increasingly difficult and complicated with economic globalization as more and more of our federal dollars go international – a phenomenon not predicted by our nation’s founders. While Congress has tried to account for this with Committees and Subcommittees on Foreign Relations and Foreign Affairs, it is, by its very nature, unable to hold sway with the Executive stranglehold on the minutia of the non-domestic.

As Michael pointed out, “it is not the President alone who is responsible for these issues.” The Executive Branch includes many agencies and departments that deal directly with foreign governments and corporations on very intimate levels. These agencies and departments report to the President – not to Congress – who then generates a foreign policy AND a budget proposal based on this information. By the nature of their position, Congresspeople do not have this sort of intel, authority or ability to exercise international economic power because, ultimately, they have to report back to their state constituency.

With the Executive monopoly on foreign economic relations, Congress, as it should, chaffs at this increasing disparity in power. This is where I see the danger – when both branches are fighting to exert authority that has arisen with the globalization of the economy and to which the Constitution is silent. To regain some semblance of shared powers and balance, I would propose a Congressionally-appointed agency on foreign relations made up of non-Congresspeople that could serve the same purpose as the ones afforded to the President/Executive.

To Grandpa - With Love, Callie

What do you say? What can you say?

What should you say? What could you ever say?

What do you say about a Grandpa who loved his grandchildren so fiercely - laughed as we played dominos, smiled as he opened gifts of finger paintings and photographs, attended soccer games and got on us when we didn't talk to our parents - and each other - with respect?

What do you say about a father who loved to fish and golf with his sons, who drove them all over the country to look at dams and climb mountains and who instilled in them responsibility for and commitment to family, underscored by the irreplaceable but eternal love of a father?

What do you say about a husband who lifted his wife up in health, doted on her in sickness, kept her laughing and feeling loved and inspired her with his unfailing spirit?

What do you say - now?

What do you say about a man who had a lifelong faith in and excitement for what Heaven brings?

What do you say when this brings you great comfort - knowing he passed on so certain of the beauty that was and is ahead of him for eternity?

What do you say?

What can you say?

I don't know.

On January 20, I was on a roadtrip for basketball when I got a call from Dad saying that Grandpa was in Hospice. I stayed up nearly all night. This is what I had to say then and I don't know if I have more to say now.

In my mind
Dad and Mom were immortal
That changed today
Grandpa went into Hospice
He is almost gone
He is 89
He was immortal
Outlived two wives
Never aged
Working bagging groceries
Playing 18 holes with Dad
Walking the dog
Building us a play set in the yard
Baking twelve dozen cookies
Grandpa was always going to be around
That changed today
Grandpa is mortal
Mom and Dad are mortal
Life is different

So what can you say?
Life is different

I love my grandpa very much

I miss him and I don't think that will ever stop I give thanks for the time we all had with Grandpa and the many ways he will live on in each one of us