The Colors That Run

Well, we’re seeing the true colors of our Congress, and guess what? It’s not red or blue, but green. The green that lives in your wallet, not on the trees.

The polls all say the same thing—somewhere around 80 to 90% of the American people favor background checks for anyone buying a gun. So naturally, Congress is going to have to act, to get right up there at the head of the parade, to wave that flag around and pass that legislation that is more popular than motherhood, right?

Lawrence Lessig, the guy in the clip below, might say no. Or he might say that the answer is very simple: look at the money the NRA spends on Congress versus the money the gun-control groups spend.

Well, I know the answer to that one—and here it is, courtesy of the Washington Post. 

Congressmen and women spend up to fifty percent of their time on the first priority of any politician: getting reelected. And all too often that means money, preferably big money, because look, are you going to spend hours trying to get a 10-buck donation? Remember Mitt Romney and the famous 47% remark? He made it in a room full of people spending 50,000 bucks a head. That’s 100,000$ a couple, plus parking and the babysitter.

Well, we certainly saw Mitt in his element, but the bad news? That’s every politician’s element. But until we all get together and force change on Congress, we’ll keep getting what we’re currently stuck with: the best Congress money can buy.

Consider this fact from POLITICO.com: “the top 0.07 percent of donors are more valuable than the bottom 86 percent.”

Well, I’m sure at this point you must be scratching your head and saying, “don’t bring me problems, bring me solutions!” And I’m happy to say that Lessig argues that there are solutions out there—varying proposals to empower the small donors and lessen the power of super donors. I’m all for it, as well as for bringing back the hand-counted, paper ballot.

Question is—which to do first?

An Effin' Hero

How much money was there in the room?

Well, every guest was coughing up $50,000 a plate, and there were—from what you can see in the video—at least twenty people in the room. And if there were thirty, or forty?

Right—so Mitt Romney, the Republican presidential candidate in 2012, was going to walk away from the fundraiser with a million or two bucks in his pocket. And that night he decides to let his guard down—he’s among friends, after all, people who think like him, dress like him and act like him. You know, guys you see on the golf course.

The bartender, of course, or the waitresses or the other people that serve and cook and clean—well, they can be ignored because they don’t have the 50,000 bucks that the rest of us do to spend on a dinner and to meet the next president of the United States, and press the flesh, and get the picture taken. The bartender, the wait staff—they don’t count.

Well, it was a fatal mistake for Mitt Romney. Because the bartender, a husky late-thirties middle class guy from Boston named Scott Prouty, had brought a camera in, and was videotaping the whole thing.

What Mitt said created a firestorm. Mitt wasn’t going concern himself with the 47% of Americans who are always going to vote for Obama because there’s no way to get their votes. They’re victims who think they’re entitled to food and clothes and health care. And on the word “entitled” Mitt’s voice jumps a third (in musical terms) and resonates with all the petulance, the entitlement, the astonished horror of a socialite confronted with a maid asking for a raise.

Especially because those victims, those leeches, don’t know how the rest of the world works, but Mitt does. He’s been to China to see the factory with the attached dormitories, and he’s even been inside one of the dormitories to see the one bathroom for ten rooms, and each bedroom has twelve girls in it, and they’re all saving money, those girls, hoping to get married. Here, he breaks off, and asks his audience—“well, you’ve all seen it, haven’t you?”

Murmurs of assent.

And what about that gate, with the barbed wire fence? How can they imprison those girls?

A good story-teller, he puts in the conflict, the moral uncertainty.

Ahh, but the gate isn’t to keep the girls in, but to keep other girls, girls with no jobs, from trying to sneak in and start to work, hoping to get paid.

This, of course, is familiar ground for liberals. We decry Nike for producing tennis shoes half a world away for $2.75 and then selling them to us at the mall for 85 bucks. Nike, in turn, releases a photo of hundreds of Indonesians thronging in front of a new factory, eager to make 60 cents an hour in a country where the norm is 20 cents.

My answer to this argument?

Buy your shoes at Marshalls. And try not to buy until you really need something—we can’t keep consuming like this.

Well, Mitt had been over there looking at a company then called Global Tech, which made small appliances, and sought customers who were looking to outsource their production.

OK, it’s been two years now since Wal-Mart decided to send me on my way, so I was a little rusty. But what that means, I recalled, is that the Sunbeam toaster you hold in your hands at Wal-Mart is no longer made in Georgia, or wherever it domestically was. Now it’s made in China. But what do you care, because it’s cheap and that’s great because the only job you can get is a waitress / a maid / child care because there are no manufacturing jobs because they’re all over in China and so you’re broke so you gotta buy the product.

That’s our world, now—see?

Well, not everybody’s world, of course. Mitt, when he was CEO of Bain—and also that little holding company in the tax haven of Bermuda, Sankaty High Yield Asset Investors LTD—owned over 10% of Global Tech. And when you put that money down, you’ll want to go over and see how things are run, right?

So Mitt’s gone over to see the company, and to see how the rest of the world works—how Chinese girls will work 10 hours a day for a pittance while Mitt’s own countrymen, well, just about half of them are victims who think the world, or at least the United States government, owes them a living! Hah!

The guy behind the bar doesn’t see it that way. He grew up in Boston, he knows about the rich, the guys with the prep school that leads into Harvard that leads everywhere. He sees a rich guy who decides he wants to be president, so we all better stand back and let him.

And he has it on tape. So is he gonna erase the tape, or put it out there? And if it’s out there, he’d better get ready for some serious flak, because the Republican right is not gonna forgive him.

He checks out the Chinese angle, and comes across David Corn’s article on Global Tech in Mother Jones Magazine. Prouty realizes—Mitt has been lying all throughout the campaign, demanding a retraction from the Washington Post when they said that Bain had bought equity of firms that were devoted to outsourcing production.

Prouty starts losing sleep—hey, why should he stick his neck out, run the risk of losing his job or getting slapped with a law suit, or just having right wing crazies track him down and make his life miserable.

Well, he looks into the mirror one night, and doesn’t like the guy peering back at him. “You’re a coward,” he says, and then goes off resignedly to bed. Between coward and hero there’s an intermediate persona—the reluctant hero.

He contacts Corn, who properly checks it out and at last tells him, he can’t go forward with the story without knowing Prouty’s name. Silence on the line, and then Prouty reveals himself.

As he revealed himself two nights ago, when the rest of the world was looking at a new pope. And sure enough, even as he was speaking, people had found out where he lived, they were milling in front of the house. Prouty has received threats, and has set up a defense fund—he’s had to consult several lawyers.

Hey, let him tell the story, as reported in a Mother Jones article “Scott Prouty 47% Legal Assistance Fund….

After going public, I've received a flood of physical and legal threats in emails and tweets. People have found my address and have shown up at my door. It's possible I may have to move. And I've had to contact several lawyers and have incurred legal expenses. I might incur more going forward. I always knew that if I talked about this, I could become a target, and I don't want to be melodramatic, but some of the threats I've received do cause me to be concerned for my safety and that of my loved ones.

I appreciate all the support I've received from the beginning—and especially now. Many people have asked how they could help. This is one way. I've also said in interviews that if they would like to show their support they can send donations to the ASPCA and the Institute for Global Labour and Human Rights. These are both groups that I care about.

I'm hoping that I don't need to spend a lot of money on lawyers and security. If people are generous and there are any funds left over after these costs are covered, I would use the remaining money to pay for going back to school. I've been bartending for eight years and I'd like to move forward with a job that lets me help others. If I end up not using these funds for education, I will donate them to the SPCA and IGLHR.

Ummm—Scott?

Scott, honey, you need to face something. You cannot be giving this message about the ASPCA and the Institute for Global Labour and Human Rights.

The right wing crazies are gonna go after you. The guy who organized the fundrasier, according to Mother Jones, is a billionaire who can easily afford the lawyers’ fees that will have you twisting in the wind for years to come. You’re gonna have to come out with a message—simple, clean and direct. Here it is:

They’re after me. They know I helped keep their rich kid out of the White House and they’re furious. And I don’t have any money—what bartender does? So dig into your pockets because the fight didn’t stop, it’s still going on. I need your help.

I know, Scott, you don’t want to say it. You’d rather not say it, but you will, Scott, you will, because you know what, Scott?

You’re a fuckin’ hero. 

Confusion in Condado

It was Joan Didion who said that hotels are social constructs, and I read the sentence in my teens and nodded sagely and wondered…what did it mean?

Well, I’m still not sure. I could call up Pablo, a social anthropologist, and he could tell me—but would I understand? His last explanation, about the meaning of the Passion and Lent, left me completely confused. Then again, they weren’t my best days.

Anyway, Pablo’s busy, so here’s my guess. Hotels present a vision of themselves and of their guests that people buy into—or not—depending on the degree of the match. You feel safe in one hotel because it’s clean and people call you Sir and the ashtrays have perfectly raked white sand and the marble floors are spotless and it’s real silver, not stainless steel.

Oh, and you’re paying 350$ a night so it better be clean and click your heels when you call me Sir!

And you know, of course, that the guest next to you is paying roughly the same. So, of course, you’ll watch his kids while he gets a drink from the bar. He’s one of us (or whom we’re pretending to be….)

Which is all to say that I went to Condado—one of the two tourist areas of San Juan. And confession—no, not by público. There are no públicos in such places, though there are buses that go there. But we chose, Raf and I, to take a cab, since traffic into and out of the small isleta of San Juan was murderous.

First cab driver—very obviously from Santa Domingo. Not lacking in testosterone, or unwilling to engage in zestful and creative driving practices. And completely disdainful of the police, who were actually causing the traffic jam, and the bicyclists racing on the avenue below, who were the ostensible cause. 

Many of our taxi drivers, by the way, are Dominican, and many are probably undocumented. Certainly, most of our construction workers are Dominican. And they arrive here after having saved enormous sums (thousands of dollars at least) to purchase a seat on a leaky wooden boat to travel the Mona Passage from Dominican Republic to Puerto Rico.

Two facts about the Mona Passage:

It’s the deepest part of the Atlantic Ocean

It’s filled with sharks

Right. A guy once told me of the experience, which has to take place in the dead of night, and which depends on an ancient outboard motor, and the skill of the guy working it.

Am I imagining it, or did he tell me—a guy you’re not allowed to see? Turn your head and you’ll be shot.

If you’re lucky, you’ll get to a little beach in some rural area and face your next problem. What to do now?

Well, this I do remember. The guy knew that his sister lived in Santurce—a barrio in the metro San Juan area. And then the word spread through the group on the beach. There was a público waiting to take them. Yup, at 5 in the morning, a público that would take them to safety at the price of…

…100 dollars each.

What are you gonna do?

So the cab driver probably had a similar story. Or not. But the chances are better than even that he did.

Well, well—the traffic continued terrible. We got out of the cab a block away from the hotel, giving the driver a break: the last block was the worst of all.

And then strolled into the Marriot Hotel—yup, the same Marriot whose sacred undergarments had saved him from a terrible burn.

OK, in a post about classism, I’ll come clean with my own.

This is a hotel for people who have money, and perhaps shouldn’t. Lots of mirrors, marble everywhere, chrome. Loud Latin music. Rattan furniture. What won’t you find?  A quiet, unrefrigerated corner. Mahogany or gleaming, polished brass.

We were there to meet an old classmate—whom I’ll call Isabel—of Raf’s, a lady who had just finished a cruise, and was staying a day or two extra at the hotel. She was with her husband, a Texan who speaks no Spanish, and who was in the military for many years. He greeted us with his bourbon in hand, and we sat to chat.

There is, in fact, a lot to commend this guy. He treats Isabel very well, unlike her first husband, a Puerto Rican who had all of the worst habits—skirt-chasing being number one—of Puerto Rican men. But Isabel learned—Jim, her gringo husband, treats her like a queen, comes home and stays home at 5, and hands the paycheck over every two weeks. Oh, and Isabel works as well, and reasonably decreed that she wouldn’t cook or iron. So Jim does that. Or they go out to eat, and Jim pays.

Well, Jim’s drink was done, and he “danced” his way to the bar. Those quotes because, look, it was only a crude imitation of some Latin dance step. But no problem, because the barmaid imitated him exactly, and put on her best smile. They held both hands, smiling and swaying, as he placed his order.

Looking at her, I could see the tension in her jaw, she was smiling so hard.

Well, several bourbons later, Jim went to another bar. He courteously asked all around if anyone wanted anything. His wife wanted a Riesling. 

Well, it’s not a common drink on the island. And the kid at the bar didn’t have any.

Jim disputed that—there was Riesling in the house. His pal at the first bar had come up with some twenty minutes ago. What gives? Go find some.

“It’s the last time we’re staying in this hotel,” said Jim, when he returned in disgust.

And so we went on to talk about the younger generation, and their complete lack of a service mentality. Meaning perhaps that they don’t dance over and hold hands when Jim approaches?

But it gets more complicated.

“I felt ashamed of the Puerto Ricans we saw on the cruise,” says Isabel. “They were loud and vulgar, and you know what? They were justifying the worst stereotype of Puerto Ricans. And you know, there IS an educated, professional class in Puerto Rico. I’m part of it.”

In this, she is completely correct.

“Vergüenza ajena,” I say. Shame for my brethren.

Right, so I’m hungry, and I go to see if we can get some sorullos—fried corn sticks, and mighty tasty. I approach a woman and ask her, in Spanish, if there might be some. 

She replies in English.

OK look. My Spanish is neither great nor bad. It is absolutely adequate for this task. Her reply indicated that she had understood me fully. But she resolutely spoke English to me, just as I spoke Spanish to her.

Hunh?

Was it that I was trying to cross a border that I shouldn’t cross? You are a guest, and a gringo. No Spanish for you!

OK, we’re now joined by another classmate, also now living in Texas, and also, it develops, a gun collector.

Like Jim. 

“Are you packing,” I ask.

“No way, I don’t have the permits that Jim has,” returns the other guy, named (falsely) Oscar.

But Oscar shares more than a love of guns with Jim. They have ideology in common.

“I really think we’re gonna have to figure out where we’re living if Obama wins,” says Oscar, “I’m planning on Costa Rica.”

“I’m thinking Norway,” says Jim.

Who tells the story of talking to an old woman from Ohio, and how brainwashed she was by the Democrats demagoguery about oversea investments and tax breaks.

“She was a lost cause,” he said.

“You know, I really fear for this country if that guy wins…” he added.

I wanted to walk away. At the same time, I felt sad. My parents, ardent Republicans, walked to the polls with their friends, ardent Democrats. Why were they doing it, they asked. Our votes are gonna cancel each others’ out. Then they realized. They were checking up on each other. If they stayed home, well, the other couple might sneak out and vote!

They laughed.

No one was laughing last night. And I, in particular, wanted to get away from gun-lovers and Republicans. It was getting late as well. So I took another cab home.

OK, act 3. I bid farewell to my hosts and go to get a cab. I know how to do this now, though it took me a while to learn. I address the guy wearing the silly white imitation-sahib-from-India as “caballero” and he produces a driver. We walk to his car.

“I speak perfect English,” said the taxista.

“I come close,” I said, “pero tengo que practicar mi español.” I gotta practice my Spanish.

So we spoke Spanish, and I asked him about business. 

Not so easy. His van is rented, and costs him 1200 bucks a month. Gasoline is over 4 dollars, and he can’t afford to fill his tank, which would help his mileage. Bottom line—he has to clear 80 bucks a day just to cover his costs.

Right—so how many trips is that?

About four or five. And there are always five or ten cabs waiting at the hotel.

So how many hours a day?

10 hours, seven days a week.

Wait—what about buying, not leasing.

Well, Christian—I’ve learned his name—knows the numbers. He’s got an MBA.

What!  And you’re driving a cab! Look, with your degree and your English, go to Orlando, go to the States.

And leave his three-year old son on the island with his divorced wife?

OK—so what about somebody in your family who can help you get the 9,000$ for the down-payment of the 45,000$ that you need to buy, not lease, your taxi?

Whole family is poor. Welfare, subsidized housing, food stamps.

That 47% that leeches off the government.

Except that Christian is also part of that 47%. And he’s out there 10 / 7 / 365. That’s ten hours every day of the year.

I’ve checked none of this, of course. For all I know, Christian never completed high school, has a criminal record as tall as the Empire State Building, and daily shoots 200 bucks of white powder up his nose. Didn’t see any of that, though.

What did I see? A guy on his umpteenth bourbon. A barmaid doing a perfect imitation of a bad imitation of a dance step. A lady who addressed me in excellent English in return for my average Spanish and called me Sir. A cabdriver who broke the numbers down as well as the financial guys at Wal-Mart ever did.

Did I go to Condado, or Confusion?