So now the hurricane and the storm have gone, and it's been a pleasant sunny day, what about the election? I almost missed that as well. I was over on Staten Island on the day of the election, and didn't get back until they were well into counting. Everyone had said it was too close to call but then suddenly it came up on the screen: 'CBS ANNOUNCES THAT OBAMA HAS WON.' This was a bit interesting; a TV station deciding the result of a national election - don't they have millions of bureaucrats to do that? So I flick over to Fox and they have a caption saying CBS ANNOUNCES OBAMA. Even odder that Fox should agree with anything that anyone else says. A grey haired man slumps in his seat and announces: 'there just aren't enough white people to go around', which is close to acknowledging defeat for a Fox correspondent. Meanwhile, Mr Romney won't admit defeat, at least a defeat announced by a TV station (my first and only outbreak of sympathy with Romney hits me) and eventually I, and most of America, go to bed hoping that CBS is either right or wrong. In the morning, still waiting for Florida to declare (I think we're still waiting for Florida), it is finally agreed that Obama has won.
Since then the post-mortem. 55% of women, 80%+ of any ethnic minority you can think of, a majority of under 30s, the great majority of people who earn less than $50,000 voted for Obama. Who didn't? White, old and male. Golly says the US media. This must mean that America has changed! Actually, the debate is an interesting one. The argument seems to centre on a realisation that the republicans might have been concentrating on issues that used to bother the majority of the people, which was white and middle class. That doesn't work now, because the majority of America is different, even with, by Republican standards, a moderate running. So there's a debate going on about where next for the Republicans. There's also a debate about how on earth it costs $6billion to elect a President.
In passing, two states also passed a law for same sex marriage and two for the legalisation of cannabis (for pain). Over 60 % of all voters wanted to retain 'Obamacare'. However, before anyone gets cautiously positive, I saw the back of a bus on Fifth Avenue which said: WHEN THERE IS A WAR BETWEEN THE CIVILISED MAN AND THE SAVAGE, CHOOSE THE CIVILISED MAN. SUPPORT OUR TROOPS. END THE JIHAD. The English use 'back of the bus' to mean Ugly.
So it's been an interesting week. In my research, I have been mostly reading about how the 'people' of the 1880s fought to make sure they got a fair deal and, in particular, how they could do this through democratic means. They would have recognised the debates that have been going on this week - whether over hurricanes or elections - even if they couldn't recognise the world that their descendants lived in, and even if they would tell us that, whatever the problems, it is better in 2012 than 1880.
One more library day. The AUT corporates have arrived over the weekend for the AUT Foundation meeting on Tuesday. So I guess I'll need to spruce myself up, maybe have a shower and comb my hair. Take off my Professor identity and become the Deputy Vice Chancellor. Another glass of wine please.
Rob's Trip 2012 - Plus others
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Thursday, November 08, 2012
What great storm....?
So you're saying 'well we did warn him'. There was some snow and wind for about twelve hours (reported internationally as a 'great Storm') and, sitting in the New York Public Library library today, I did hear a couple of thunderclaps, but it would normally be heralded as the start of winter (a week earlier than last year). However, if you're living in a devastated house, with no electricity it's a Great Storm. There are still nearly a million people across the NE of the US without electricity. However, tomorrow, New York will be over 60 degrees and sunny, or so the media tell me (and why you might say, would I believe them).
On Tuesday I went across to Staten Island as I had three meetings arranged. A beautiful day going across the harbour on the ferry. The Statue of Liberty still stands, inelegant and proud, the new building going up to replace the twin towers glistens. On the ferry a young man talks into his phone: it's fucking awful he says. I keep ringing, he shouts. They do the electricity but its only enough to heat the stove. My next door neighbour is fine. I'm fucking awful. And those fucking Nets ( the Brooklyn Nets basketball team) blew it (they lost to Minnesota Timberwolves after leading them by a long way). As the day goes by, I realise that it is mostly the stress of not being able to be normal. There's no real chance of starving, but you can be cold, damp, miserable, stuck in traffic, unable to get to work or buy petrol, and just pissed off. It's now six days.
I walk over to the my first visit which is at St Mary's Episcopal Church in Castleton. It's a beautiful little church, built in 1851 in the Ecclesiological style. The Island is full of these churches from a time when it was a wealthy rural retreat for the rich. I'm there to look at the vestry records because I think John De Morgan was the Vestry Clerk. Kevin, the minister, and Jane, his wife, who live in a beautiful little rectory give me some typical US hospitality and then park me in the church hall, usually used for Zumba, but now a food distribution centre, except no one is coming for food. People have been delivering food, baby stuff, bags, etc etc to the church for days and to all other possible points around the island. The people who need it won't know it's there, and in any case don't live in this area, and are often people who couldn't or wouldn't go looking for charity. In the first few days when very few people had electricity (including the church) there were no shops and these centres were useful, particularly for child stuff. I've sometimes laughed at the NZ obsession with disaster and disaster kits, but this proves that, even if you aren't hit with the tsunami, the first few days are difficult for everyone. As I go round the island (which varies from downtown slum to rural beauty) most people are still inconvenienced (not much fuel, poor Internet and phone, transportation issues) and a bit battered. The always vulnerable are suffering more than usual, and those who lay in the path of the tsunami are looking at a bleak future. They mostly live on an extended beach area. I meet someone who tells me that she was always told not to buy a house on the beach side of Hylvan Boulevard because it was below sea level. But over the century, people built holiday houses and these became permanent dwellings and nothing disastrous happened. Irene came and went despite the predictions of doom. She herself almost bought a house there (there are great views) but she remembered her mum's advice.
So there is a small amount of outright misery, a large scale inconvenience, and me walking around (I must have walked 12 miles) on a lovely day, seeing all sorts of interesting things - think Mongrel Mob, through the Sopranos, through to Devonport - and finding that it's place with much to admire and much to worry about. In the evening I give a lecture in another beautiful church, to the local Improvement Society (the equivalent of Devonport Heritage or the Plumstead Common Environment Group) which is across the road from the house that De Morgan lived in for the last 25 years of his life. I try to explain how he moved from being a Marxist Revolutionary in Ireland, to a notorious agitator in England and then ended up as a Vestry Clerk, Tax Receiver, Bank President and dime novel writer on Staten Island. They're still working out whether they can cope with the idea of a Marxist revolutionary living on the street.
On my way back I walk through the lower part of Manhattan. In the dark streets there are a number of very large vehicles, with lots of very large machines, trying to get water out of basements, to restore electricity, and to get the City that never sleeps wide awake.
On Tuesday I went across to Staten Island as I had three meetings arranged. A beautiful day going across the harbour on the ferry. The Statue of Liberty still stands, inelegant and proud, the new building going up to replace the twin towers glistens. On the ferry a young man talks into his phone: it's fucking awful he says. I keep ringing, he shouts. They do the electricity but its only enough to heat the stove. My next door neighbour is fine. I'm fucking awful. And those fucking Nets ( the Brooklyn Nets basketball team) blew it (they lost to Minnesota Timberwolves after leading them by a long way). As the day goes by, I realise that it is mostly the stress of not being able to be normal. There's no real chance of starving, but you can be cold, damp, miserable, stuck in traffic, unable to get to work or buy petrol, and just pissed off. It's now six days.
I walk over to the my first visit which is at St Mary's Episcopal Church in Castleton. It's a beautiful little church, built in 1851 in the Ecclesiological style. The Island is full of these churches from a time when it was a wealthy rural retreat for the rich. I'm there to look at the vestry records because I think John De Morgan was the Vestry Clerk. Kevin, the minister, and Jane, his wife, who live in a beautiful little rectory give me some typical US hospitality and then park me in the church hall, usually used for Zumba, but now a food distribution centre, except no one is coming for food. People have been delivering food, baby stuff, bags, etc etc to the church for days and to all other possible points around the island. The people who need it won't know it's there, and in any case don't live in this area, and are often people who couldn't or wouldn't go looking for charity. In the first few days when very few people had electricity (including the church) there were no shops and these centres were useful, particularly for child stuff. I've sometimes laughed at the NZ obsession with disaster and disaster kits, but this proves that, even if you aren't hit with the tsunami, the first few days are difficult for everyone. As I go round the island (which varies from downtown slum to rural beauty) most people are still inconvenienced (not much fuel, poor Internet and phone, transportation issues) and a bit battered. The always vulnerable are suffering more than usual, and those who lay in the path of the tsunami are looking at a bleak future. They mostly live on an extended beach area. I meet someone who tells me that she was always told not to buy a house on the beach side of Hylvan Boulevard because it was below sea level. But over the century, people built holiday houses and these became permanent dwellings and nothing disastrous happened. Irene came and went despite the predictions of doom. She herself almost bought a house there (there are great views) but she remembered her mum's advice.
So there is a small amount of outright misery, a large scale inconvenience, and me walking around (I must have walked 12 miles) on a lovely day, seeing all sorts of interesting things - think Mongrel Mob, through the Sopranos, through to Devonport - and finding that it's place with much to admire and much to worry about. In the evening I give a lecture in another beautiful church, to the local Improvement Society (the equivalent of Devonport Heritage or the Plumstead Common Environment Group) which is across the road from the house that De Morgan lived in for the last 25 years of his life. I try to explain how he moved from being a Marxist Revolutionary in Ireland, to a notorious agitator in England and then ended up as a Vestry Clerk, Tax Receiver, Bank President and dime novel writer on Staten Island. They're still working out whether they can cope with the idea of a Marxist revolutionary living on the street.
On my way back I walk through the lower part of Manhattan. In the dark streets there are a number of very large vehicles, with lots of very large machines, trying to get water out of basements, to restore electricity, and to get the City that never sleeps wide awake.
Monday, November 05, 2012
What hurricane...
Arrive at JFK three hours later than the time I left Auckland, so it's late Sunday. 'Hi Professor' says the taxi driver in a broad Jamaican accent. (Is there a neon sign above my head?). He apologises for the hurricane which makes petrol difficult to get he tells me. The traffic, which looks like Auckland at 8 am on any weekdaya, is therefore 'much less than normal'. Do I like cricket? he says, and when I tell him the Staten Island Cricket CLub was set up in the 1870s, he says 'I said you were a Professor'. Keen to tell me that, though he lives in Brooklyn, he supports the New York Mets not the Brooklyn Nets who, until last year were, the New Jersey Nets. Pleased that the Marathon was cancelled as it was an insult to 'the poor people of Staten Island ' who were left homeless by the hurricane. Half expecting an English style taxi driver diatribe about, vegetable eating, yoghurt drinking, sandal wearing poncey runners (see earlier blog c. 2010) I'm pleased to hear that the election is too close to call and he hopes Obama won't lose.
Arrive at the Library Hotel on 41st/Madison which appears to have noticed nothing about the hurricane, the Brooklyn Nets or the election. Good nights sleep. Any fears of me freezing/starving to death in the middle of Manhattan (you know who you are!) disappear as I sit with my iPad, eating Pringles, watching basketball (not the Brooklyn Nets) having turned the heating off because it is too hot.
In the morning, head up Manhattan to 103rd St to the City of New York Museum where, obviously having heard of my arrival, they have put on two exhibitions on the two subjects I am researching: Staten Island and the History of Activism in New York. Great Stuff. The imminent storm and freeze I was warned of seemed not to have arrived and it's a pleasant Auckland spring day (with a bit of a 'South westerly'), so I decide to walk along Fifth Avenue, along the side of Central Park, along the 'museum mile'. Soon take off my hat, gloves and scarf as I walk along in the sun admiring the green of the Park and the excesses of Fifth Avenue. Where's the hurricane? The museums are closed, but most of them are always closed on Mondays; there are a lot of service vehicles, but these are rich people who are always doing things to their houses. The people all look fairly not unhappy (in a New York way). Five days after the hurricane, I'm going to have to look elsewhere to find it.
Turn the TV on and it's obvious. It's been a tsunami and anywhere within a few blocks of a south facing waterside site is a disaster area. New Jersey, Staten Island, Atlantic City. Places it seems where poorer people live, where housing is substandard, where people have no resources of their own to manage the aftermath. In those places, it's devastating. No homes now, as well as no jobs. There is enormous sympathy, although increasing anger. Staten Island was almost overwhelmed as people, including ex-marathon runners, swarmed in to help on Sunday. A street had to be closed because there were too many people wandering around trying to give food and clothes out to people who want electricity, warmth, a house. Or to help relief centres and city officials who just want money and orderliness. Still, better compassion excess rather than the compassion fatigue that, you suspect, will soon set in. This is a city that, someone said, was prepared for a disaster if it was terrorism, but not if it was a tsunami. In 2009, the idea of a barrage (like the Thames) was considered but turned down because, at $10bn, it was thought too expensive. $20bn later.....
Later, I read that it's not just the poor. At the south end of Manhattan, many buildings along the waterfront are uninhabitable for weeks or months. It reminds you that tsunamis are not politically motivated, but the corporations and owners of gentrified residences will find a way out. The rest have a long haul. Makes you think of Christchurch.
Tomorrow I'm off to Staten Island to meet some people concerning my research and to give a lecture. The electricity came back on Saturday for most of them, and they are still looking for 'normal'. The lecture is on John De Morgan who after a brief life in England and Ireland as a notorious agitator, lived on Staten for 40 years. Other than his two Mrs De Morgans (one he married and the other he didn't) he loved Staten Island ( and fought for it be free of New York) and the idea of a just and fair people's democracy. Tomorrow night, election night, he may look like a prophet.
Arrive at the Library Hotel on 41st/Madison which appears to have noticed nothing about the hurricane, the Brooklyn Nets or the election. Good nights sleep. Any fears of me freezing/starving to death in the middle of Manhattan (you know who you are!) disappear as I sit with my iPad, eating Pringles, watching basketball (not the Brooklyn Nets) having turned the heating off because it is too hot.
In the morning, head up Manhattan to 103rd St to the City of New York Museum where, obviously having heard of my arrival, they have put on two exhibitions on the two subjects I am researching: Staten Island and the History of Activism in New York. Great Stuff. The imminent storm and freeze I was warned of seemed not to have arrived and it's a pleasant Auckland spring day (with a bit of a 'South westerly'), so I decide to walk along Fifth Avenue, along the side of Central Park, along the 'museum mile'. Soon take off my hat, gloves and scarf as I walk along in the sun admiring the green of the Park and the excesses of Fifth Avenue. Where's the hurricane? The museums are closed, but most of them are always closed on Mondays; there are a lot of service vehicles, but these are rich people who are always doing things to their houses. The people all look fairly not unhappy (in a New York way). Five days after the hurricane, I'm going to have to look elsewhere to find it.
Turn the TV on and it's obvious. It's been a tsunami and anywhere within a few blocks of a south facing waterside site is a disaster area. New Jersey, Staten Island, Atlantic City. Places it seems where poorer people live, where housing is substandard, where people have no resources of their own to manage the aftermath. In those places, it's devastating. No homes now, as well as no jobs. There is enormous sympathy, although increasing anger. Staten Island was almost overwhelmed as people, including ex-marathon runners, swarmed in to help on Sunday. A street had to be closed because there were too many people wandering around trying to give food and clothes out to people who want electricity, warmth, a house. Or to help relief centres and city officials who just want money and orderliness. Still, better compassion excess rather than the compassion fatigue that, you suspect, will soon set in. This is a city that, someone said, was prepared for a disaster if it was terrorism, but not if it was a tsunami. In 2009, the idea of a barrage (like the Thames) was considered but turned down because, at $10bn, it was thought too expensive. $20bn later.....
Later, I read that it's not just the poor. At the south end of Manhattan, many buildings along the waterfront are uninhabitable for weeks or months. It reminds you that tsunamis are not politically motivated, but the corporations and owners of gentrified residences will find a way out. The rest have a long haul. Makes you think of Christchurch.
Tomorrow I'm off to Staten Island to meet some people concerning my research and to give a lecture. The electricity came back on Saturday for most of them, and they are still looking for 'normal'. The lecture is on John De Morgan who after a brief life in England and Ireland as a notorious agitator, lived on Staten for 40 years. Other than his two Mrs De Morgans (one he married and the other he didn't) he loved Staten Island ( and fought for it be free of New York) and the idea of a just and fair people's democracy. Tomorrow night, election night, he may look like a prophet.
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