Fuck Rahm Emanuel

A more precise title for this essay might have been, "Fuck Rahm Emanuel's Snake-Oil Arguments for Being Able to Stay on the Ballot for Mayor of Chicago, and Fuck the Board of Election's Willingness to Swallow Those Snake-Oil Arguments Down Without Gagging." More precise, but too wordy. Effective titles benefit from economy of language.

I am not going to belabor the reasons Rahm Emanuel will make a lousy mayor. But I could. I could detail how, as a Congressional representative, Emanuel helped push through NAFTA and other trade policies that sucked thousands of jobs out of cities like Chicago. I could outline how, as an investment banker, he worked to inflate the housing bubble that subsequently burst and wrecked the US economy. I could highlight his aggressive support for privatization, a form of legalized thievery where public assets are sold off to private interests at fire-sale prices. I could note his contempt for public education, for organized labor, or point to his recent dismissal of the Democratic party's entire liberal base as "fucking retards."

And by the way, when I say Emanuel will make a lousy mayor, I am not playing prophet. Anyone with common sense can already see the fix is in. Rahm Emanuel will be the next mayor of Chicago. Not because he is the brightest or most qualified. Not because he has the grandest vision or the best ideas. Rahm Emanuel will become the next mayor of Chicago because he because he possesses, in abundance, the only political currency that really matters: clout. Rahm Emanuel is the Democratic party's Most Effective Fundraiser, a title he's earned over the years by consistently giving corporate America what it wants. In this country, elections may be won, but candidacies are bought. All it takes is a glance at the size of Emanuel's war chest to know his opponents don't stand a chance.

But, as I said, that's not what I want to talk about. What I want to talk about is how the hell Rahm Emanuel managed to convince the board of elections he is even eligible to run. Let me start by referencing the statute that has kicked up all the fuss:

(65 ILCS 5/3.1-10-5)

Sec. 3.1-10-5. Qualifications; elective office

(a) A person is not eligible for an elective municipal office unless that person is a qualified elector and has resided in the municipality at least one year next preceding the election or appointment, except as provided in subsection (c) of Section 3.1 -25-75, Section 5-2-2, or Section 5-2-11.

The emphasis, of course, is mine. The double emphasis--the bold atop the italics--is to draw attention to the word "resided." This is important, because the arguments Emanuel's legal team advanced in his defense turned on the meaning of that single word.

The linchpin of Emanuel's case is that while he may have physically relocated to Washington D.C. when he became Obama's chief of staff, he never ceased being a legal resident of Illinois. While living in D.C., Emanuel continued to pay Illinois taxes. He remained a registered Illinois voter. He never sold his Ravenswood home, but instead rented it out in anticipation of his eventual return. All of which is perfectly true.

And all of which is perfectly irrelevant.

The statute does not say a prospective candidate must maintain legal residency in the state for at least one year prior to running for office. The statute says a prospective candidate must have resided in the state for at least one year prior to running for office. Residency is a legal status. It may be satisfied in the ways Emanuel's legal team outlined. But resided is a verb. It denotes an action taken, or omitted. It is perfectly possible--and in fact, common--for legal residents of a state not to reside there. The requirement set forth by the statute couldn't be clearer, couldn't be any less ambiguous.

As if to underline the distinction between having legal residency and having actually resided, the statute lays out one specific circumstance--just one!-- in which one's physical absence from the state in the year prior to running for office may be excused: military service. That is the only exception the statute permits. Serving as the president's chief of staff doesn't cut it. Maybe it should, but it doesn't. If someone wants to change the rule, let them try and change it. That is perfectly reasonable. What is not reasonable is to allow Rahm Emanuel to simply break the rule because--well, because he's Rahm Emanuel.

Make no mistake. Were Rahm Emanuel a Republican or a third-party candidate, or even a Democrat without so much clout, he would have been knocked off the ballot immediately. No question about it. By trying to obscure the difference between legal residency and actually residing, Emanuel has revealed himself to be a snake oil salesman. By having swallowed that crap instead of puking it back in his face, the board of election has revealed itself to be utterly corrupt.

http://law.onecle.com/illinois/65ilcs5/3.1-10-5.htmlp://

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Thoughts on Divorce

I was riding the L Thursday morning and overheard two women lamenting what one called the "curse" of divorce. These were older ladies, West Indian. They sat huddled side by side, both bundled into dark, heavy coats that looked too big for them. Each clutched a copy of The Watchtower tightly to her chest.

"Don' no one care no more 'bout God's holy union no more."

"Yes, sista, dat's da truth now-in-day. Don' no one care 'bout dat no more, no way."

It wasn't much of a discussion, really. They already shared precisely the same view on the subject, so the dialogue just kind of went around in circles, like a dog chasing it's own tale.

It got me thinking, though. Everyone seems to agree that the high divorce rate in the US is a catastrophe. Everyone seems to agree divorce traumatizes children, bankrupts parents, corrodes familial bonds, and undermines social stability. Some of that may be true. But look at existing societies where the divorce rate is low, and you immediate see they share several common features. Among them:

1) Women have few, if any, legal rights. The U.S. divorce rate hovers around 50%. In about 75% of cases, divorce proceedings in the U.S. are initiated by women. Are we to believe that women in, say, rural India are much less likely to file for divorce than US women because they are so much more content in their marriages? I doubt it. More likely, women in rural India simply lack access to the legal system.

2) Most women lack economic power. Divorce rates are low in societies where women have few, if any, opportunities to earn a living wage.

3) Most women are poorly educated. Not only is a low divorce rate associated with low educational levels among women, but so is early marriage, a high birth rate and a high maternal mortality rate.

2) Marriages are often arranged. In societies where arranged marriages are common, the marriage relationship itself is often conceived as a purely functional one. Each partner has a clearly defined role to play. Each partner is expected to play that role. End of story. Questions about whether the partners love each other or genuinely want to be together are largely irrelevant.

3) Divorce imposes a severe social stigma on the partners, especially on the woman and, often, on children born to the marriage. This was once true in the U.S., and not that long ago, either. Back in college, I had a professor, a man in his late 60s, who grew up in a small town in eastern Texas. As a child, one of his classmate's parents were divorced. Most of the other parents in town forbid their children from going to this child's house or from associating with him outside of school. The community saw the boy's mother as a fallen woman and suspected her of being "loose." The boy, having been raised by such a mother, was not deemed a suitable playmate or friend for children who came from "decent" families.

The fact people stay married doesn't necessarily mean they value marriage more. It doesn't mean they are more responsible, more mature, or that they love their children more than people who divorce. Often, it just means the consequences of divorce are so dire--again, especially for women--many choose to stay married despite being miserable, neglected, exploited or abused.

Most of us want to live in a society where we are free to choose our own partners, where we feel entitled to have them treat us well, where we expect the freedom to exit relationships that we find unbearable or unsatisfying. So long as that remains the case, we will have to accept our high divorce as a fact of life. A high divorce rate is the price we pay for free society. It is really that simple.

The Ho Tavern

7318 N. Rogers

Chicago, IL 60626

R.I.P

19?? - October 11th, 2010

Thanks for the memories, old girl. You'll be missed.

Not In Arizona

A late summer evening and some of my Mexican neighbors over on the next block, on Damen Avenue, are having a party.

They live in a red brick 4-flat with a two-car garage attached. The garage door is thrown up and a soft yellow light glows from within. Blue and white balloons dangle from the ceiling; blue and white banners hang from the walls. Two long folding tables, each covered with a white paper tablecloth, stand beneath the balloons, surrounded by folding chairs. Children huddle in the chairs, shoveling hunks of pastel de tres leches into their tiny mouths with plastic forks. Adult women move among them. The men are gathered outside, either seated on more folding chairs or leaning against the sides of pickup trucks.

Behind the long tables, near the back wall, stand three musicians. They wear white ruffled shirts and formal black vests. Two strum guitars. Another pumps an accordian. They play rancheras, nortenas, patriotic songs honoring fallen heroes of the Mexican revolution. Their music begins before sundown and continues after dark. Mexcian songs from the garage drift through the neighborhood, and are audible many blocks away. Everyone at the party, everyone passing by on the street, everyone save the musicians, is strangely silent. Listening.

It suddenly occurs to me how fortunate they might be--how fortunate we all might be--that this particular garage stands in Chicago, Illinois and not in Arizona.

Bird Lady

Today on the L, I sat behind a couple of teenage girls who were gossiping about an old lady they saw from time to time, a strange old lady who liked to feed the birds.

This strange old lady hobbled to the park each morning all by herself, a loaf of Wonder Bread stuffed into her purse. She spent all day sitting on a bench, tearing off crumbs and throwing them to the pigeons, who gathered all around her.

"I don't know what her problem is," one of the girls told her friend. "I wanna go, like, 'lady, the pigeons don't need you to feed them.'"

They were still to young to understand it was the old lady who
needed to feed the pigeons, not the other way around.

Life is Only Temporary

Fourteen years old and I am straddling my Huffy, sailing down a sidewalk left slick by a sudden summer rainstorm. My hair is drenched. Wind rushes across my scalp and cools my ears. My white t-shirt sticks to my chest and stomach like a second skin. Hands gripping the handlebars. Feet locked onto the peddles. My strong, young thighs pump up and down like a pair of leathery pistons.

I don't see the trench at the end of the block until my front tire nearly meets its lip. Construction work. Curb gouged out. Not a single warning flag or sign in sight. Fuck you, you lazy, thoughtless bastards.

My brakes are nearly shot. My tires are balled, and slippery from slicing through the newly formed puddles. Too late to stop. Too late to turn. I am gonna roll right over this trench whether I like it or not. I clench my teeth, tighten my gut. I brace myself for what I fear will be a nasty, painful jolt in the crotch.

But the jolt never comes. Instead, my front tire drops right into the trench and a I am airborne. I fly over the handlebars and spend an eternal, exquisite moment in contact with nothing, nothing but air. I even have time to blink. To swing my head right, then left. But before my eyes can focus on anything, it's over.

My right shoulder smashes onto the blacktop with an sharp, audible "crack!" The rest of my body crumples down around it. The impact blasts the air right out of my lungs. For the first time in my life, I have the experience of drawing breath with all my might and coming up empty. I literally cannot breath. I try again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Somewhere nearby, a car horn is blaring.

Sheer animal panic sets in. I roll onto my back, gaze up at the sky. Please, God, let me breathe. Let me breathe, God.

The sky is bright, blue. Empty.

I try to draw breath again. Nothing. Mushroom clouds are bursting in front of my eyes, billowing patches of black on black. Something wet and sticky and hot is filling them up, blinding me.

Then suddenly, the air rushes back into my chest in a torrent, a glorious cloudburst blessing a parched and dying land with sweet, cool rain. I breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out. Then I cough. Then wretch. Then start to cry.

I can hear footfalls and people's voices nearby ("What happened?" "Is that kid okay?"). A youngish black lady in lavender scrubs kneels down next to me, face hovering over mine. Her hair is short and sweeps away from her face in a series slick, delicately sculpted waves. Huge gold hoops dangle from both her ears. Her cheekbones are high, sharp. Her eyes are soft, like an angel's.

"Baby, you all right?"

She doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, she pulls a clean white hankerchief from somewhere and presses it, hard, against my forehead just above my right eye. Her hands smell clean, like cedar...




I must have gone into shock after that, because I don't remember much of what happened next. I surived with a concussion and a broken collar bone. The latter still aches some days, when it rains. But that was the first day I felt in gut, as well as understood in my brain, that I was mortal.