Arnie

 

 

For the record

A lot of importance is being ascribed to the Chestnut Hill Local’s use of the word “takeover” in reporting on CHCA discussions about getting involved with the Water Tower Recreation Center. For some at last week’s meeting, the notion provided a means to express their distrust of the CHCA’s motives, while members of the association’s Water Tower committee denied vigorously that such a move was intended.

“None of us on the committee have any ability to affect what the Local publishes and when the Local used that term [takeover] it wasn’t quoting anyone, nobody was identified … and we were all thinking about it too when we found out [from the Local] that what we were doing was trying to figure out how to take over the Water Tower,” committee chair Tia Burke is quoted as telling the crowd.

While, strictly speaking, this statement may be accurate, a look back at the Local’s coverage reveals that there is more to the story. The April 14 issue features a piece, based on an interview with Burke, which characterizes the involvement in terms of the CHCA’s “exploring the idea of assuming a role in the operations of the Water Tower recreation center” (this article also took pains to point out that the center already offers a host of programs, and quotes director Tom Piskorski as saying so). At an executive committee meeting held that same day, CHCA president Maxine Dornemann said that talks with the city would include an “application to deed the Water Tower to us.” The subsequent article, published April 21, mentions this comment as part of what it refers to as “a brief report on efforts to take over operations at the Water Tower recreation center.” That was the only time this specific proposal — justifiably referred to as a takeover — was mentioned in these pages, although that and ideas similar to it (such as a lease agreement with the city) would be brought up several times at CHCA meetings.

While a takeover was never the only option considered by the CHCA, it is disingenuous for any member of the Water Tower committee to suggest that this idea was not “on the table” — regardless of whether the “t” word was actually used — or that the CHCA’s vision for involving itself in the center was only vaguely formed, awaiting the input of the community. The CHCA has had very clear ideas of what it might like to do, including, from the very beginning, the idea of “expanding recreational opportunities.” In a May op-ed piece, Dornemann said, “it might be time for the community to pull together to provide a space that is truly intergenerational in scope with youth sports leagues, teen programs and Senior Center programs.”

Having said all of this, it is important to note that none of the CHCA’s ideas were ever spoken of as more than proposals, and that there is every reason to believe the association is sincere in not wanting to do anything without broad community support. The real issue here is that of a longstanding feeling of distrust, far predating any of the current actors in this drama, between some residents of the Hill’s east side and the community association. The Water Tower has long been central to the lives of eastsiders, and is as much a cultural symbol — something this distinct corner of the Hill holds dear as its own — as it is a place that provides concrete services to the neighborhood. For some, the identification of the CHCA with the Hill’s wealthy northern and western sections is slow to change. Any proposal made by the community association regarding the Water Tower must be sensitive to this fact.

As I said in last week’s editorial, this CHCA initiative should be seen by all as an opportunity to help the Water Tower. The CHCA, Water Tower Advisory Council and community at large should move beyond issues of who-should-have-invited-whom and simply get down to the business of improving this key community resource.

James Sturdivant

Commentary:
A snapshot of homeland security’s finest

by WENDY HORWITZ

My daughter is standing spread-eagle on the linoleum floor, her thin arms straight out from her shoulders, the pink-trousered legs in a wide upside-down “V”. She looks proud of her still-as-a-statue stance. And she’s grinning; she knows she’s the center of attention. But my husband and I are not grinning.

We are returning from Seattle after a family wedding. The weather is good, not much of a delay, only a bit of whining from the kids. But there is a little glitch.

My three-year-old and her luggage are being searched, thoroughly, by a black-uniformed security person, in the middle of Terminal “C”. Yes, it is a kindly woman and she makes it a game, saying (like the best pediatricians do), here’s a little tickle. But this scene is surreal: Anne is barely three feet tall and the socks on her toddler-size-eight feet still have those no-slip patterns on the bottom.

The woman runs a hand-held metal detector over arms, torso, legs. Anne follows this with her eyes wide, as if it is Harry Potter’s wand. Then the woman gently, but firmly pats my daughter’s ribs, fanny, tummy, thighs, and skinny ankles.

To her credit, the woman looks at me kindly, sorry that she has to do this, but I detect no irony in her glance — merely the cordial apology of one who is, dutifully and professionally, doing her job.

In a further surreal move, the little backpack, with its decorative purple and yellow dragonflies, is hand-inspected. Teddy-bear, broken crayons, stickers, and pretzel bag — all are carefully scrutinized, poked, massaged. Then, Anne’s white sneakers with sparkly pink butterflies — the kind that light up when you take a step — are whisked away to the super x-ray. The mechanism that runs the light bulbs has set off the metal-detector. At the sight of the tiny sneakers held between the surgically-gloved fingers of a card-carrying security professional, stars and stripes sewn de rigeur onto the sleeve above his triceps, I cannot help laughing.

I feel as if we have been dropped into the middle of a movie set and given starring roles — in “Wag the Dog,” or maybe “Doctor Strangelove.” My husband gestures to me to be quiet, but I am a little giddy with the proceedings, even as the bag is carefully repacked and handed to Anne. Another nice guard helps her with her sneakers. All is well, no weapons in the Weeboks, no bombs in the Barbies.

When we checked in, we’d been told only that the special sticker on Anne’s ticket meant we were to see the agent at the security checkpoint. (The word “checkpoint” often makes me think of “checkmate”; this is a strange game: remove shoes, walk through man-sized wickets, and — gotcha.) Ushered quickly through, I naively thought, how nice, we have tired children and a long flight ahead, so we get the express line. But then I remembered it wasn’t a grocery queue.

“Come with us, Sir. Ma’am.” They really said this, and I clutched my children’s hands; my husband took the backpacks. The search had begun.

“You know,” the security agent says. “They’re really not supposed to issue these to children under twelve.”

“Well, they didn’t ask,” I say, “Though she is, obviously, nowhere near puberty,” and then I giggle at my feeble humor. My husband glances at me again. He probably prefers my not getting hauled away for breaching the national humor code. I know. The sign says, no joking about these matters ... but it is just too bizarre.

Later, we learned that a small percentage of travelers are chosen for a detailed search. Although the airlines are supposed to check ages, our ticketer was in a rush, and didn’t have time for the bureaucratic procedure for getting Anne off the list. And once you are chosen and enter security, you must serve. So, sometimes, mistakes are made and teddy-bears are strip-searched.

It does not matter what airport or airline this was. In fact, I was relatively unruffled by the airline’s gaff, and I did not resent the security agents.

No, we were less indignant about this specific event than we are angry about the principle that generated it. This ritual, repeated in all airports, distracts all of us from the political, economic, and more complicated tasks of restoring trust and diminishing hatred.

My little girl was drafted to be the unwitting, cute equivalent of a magician’s handkerchief, the red herring, if you will. Other passengers watch and are sympathetic to us, but also, to the procedure; some may even feel more secure in their homeland. One says, “Well, better to err on the side of caution…” No, I think, it is not better. They seem to have missed the irony, the futility.

For, such procedures engender paranoia, not security. These practices have become a way to avoid the intelligent, brave and subtle work that might actually improve our safety, and the rest of the world’s. It is a way to frighten us, but not to prompt our leaders to pursue legal and diplomatic alternatives. The Washington Post reported recently that, worldwide, terrorist attacks have gone up significantly in the last three years, despite efforts at curbing the violence, and despite the Administration’s claims to the contrary.

So, we have become a nation of “warriors,” warriors in our stockinged feet, wielding our stashes of bottled water and duct tape. And what color code is current today? I surely don’t know.

I also doubt the efficacy of these airport procedures in particular: since the search has an obvious loophole, it’s unlikely to deter potential terrorists. Any saboteur who’s half-awake would take one look and say, oh, they’re putting these dots on (for argument’s sake, let’s say) two percent of the passenger tickets; if I get one, I’ll just walk away. Buy another ticket for another flight. Getting another dot is not a big risk for a would-be terrorist.

I am not an expert on international conflict and terrorism, but to mothers like me, this kind of “airport security” seems misdirected. This search of my daughter, its incongruity and ineffectiveness, merely highlight its use as a palliative, not a preventive measure.

No, I am not angry at the airline, or the security guards. Instead, I am discouraged. Because once the light-up sneakers have long stopped flickering, our children will live in a world where cynical leaders command others to plant bombs or inspect backpacks, while, far from this florescent-lit waiting room, resentments seethe and injustices reign, buses and cars explode and little girls die — in Baghdad, in London, in Lahore. And they will do so as long as we are all, silently — without laughing, without marching, without shouting — complicit in this misguided war, the real and the metaphoric one.

Wendy Horwitz is a writer who lives and works in Mt. Airy.

 

Commentary:
Door-to-door broken promises

by EDWARD JOHNSON

“Our organization was founded to give kids like me summer jobs so we can stay off the streets and avoid gangs and drugs. Can you help us by buying our product?”

“I’m selling magazine subscriptions to earn a college scholarship. For each magazine I sell, the group I work for provides scholarship funds for my education.”

Sound familiar? Every summer, crews of teenagers and young adults travel to towns across the country peddling magazines, cleaning products or other items. They show up on your doorstep with stories such as how you can help them avoid inner-city troubles by buying their product. The cause sounds admirable, they appear to be hard working, so why not help out?

Before making a decision, the Better Business Bureau (BBB) advises you to consider the following: The National Consumers League estimates that 50,000 children nationwide are involved in traveling sales crews selling consumer items door-to-door and on city street corners. The youth groups are transported hundreds of miles from their homes, often across state lines. Unfortunately, many of these young people are victims. The league has consistently ranked “traveling crews” among the worst jobs available for youth and indicates that they can also constitute a dangerous environment.

BBB files reflect that the organizers of these crews may falsely present themselves as charitable and civic-minded groups. In such cases the organizer is the victimizer. In fact, many are for-profit operations that take advantage of their young and vulnerable “workers.” The youths are taught to use high-pressure appeals and basically live out of vans and hotels. The organizer also may keep your “donation” or “subscription money” and not pass it along to any charity, community group or publisher. Further, these young people often make little or no money in wages despite the help-wanted advertisements luring them with claims of “big money” and “fun and travel.”

Employing the young plays on your sympathy; it may also violate state wage and employment laws. Various news media have reported abusive treatment of young sales crews. Minors report having been sexually harassed and physically assaulted; some have been left stranded with no means of transportation home. In addition, the young people are typically expected to work long hours with little rest and it is not uncommon for them to be exposed to illegal drugs or underage drinking. Parents often discover too late the perils to which their children have been exposed.

Certainly, there are legitimate youth fundraisers. And yes, they may come knocking. However, the next time a youth sales crew appears on your doorstep, it may be wise not to assume that it represents a local school or youth group. Ask for the name of the organization and other details. You may also want to inquire about the welfare of the young “worker.”

Edward Johnson is president & CEO of the Better Business Bureau serving the Eastern Pennsylvania region.