When Blue Citizen Meets Red Citizen, Coming Across the Mountain
Not too long ago I found myself in a red—a very deep red—state, for a research trip. It’s the sort of place where they feel compelled to post on the library and museum door, “Firearms Prohibited.”
I was staying at a friendly, small motel that didn’t have a shuttle, so the innkeeper’s husband volunteered to drive me the short distance to the airport for my flight back home.
His Jeep has a bumper sticker with a photo of Obama and the caption. “Communist: Look it Up.”
I don’t think he means it approvingly.
Doesn’t he realize that Communists are now about the least scary people in America? I laugh to myself that he’s bitter because Obama’s too much like a Communist, and I’m bitter because he doesn’t act like one at all—or even like a competent, reliable liberal.
“You travel light,” he says
“Always,” I say. This the last that I’ll see of small talk until the airport.
My driver is a very angry man, politically, and dislikes liberals a great deal. Government stinks, the administration bites, people are lazy, the country a gloomy, unfair declension from its past glory. He brings up Vince Foster, and it feels like the political equivalent of an old Smokey Robinson tune on the radio.
As the conversation progresses he keeps his left hand casually slung on the wheel and waves his right hand in front of my face, to make a point.
I begin to worry. Is he taking me to the airport or to the nearest Liberal Columnists’ Body Parts Landfill, or the Commie Organ Recycling Center? Is he doing this to me because he’s read something I’ve written? It’s not at all likely, let’s face it, but it could happen.
At what point is it prudent to try to escape, and would my stupid-phone get 911 reception out here, and do they even have 911 reception or is that some Blue State liberal thing?
This is a problem of everyday American life, as well as politics, the navigation of immovable political battlements, on the rare occasions when either Red Citizen or Blue Citizen finds himself outside of his usual habitat or comfortable feedback loop.
I don’t want to be disagreeable, especially with an extremely agitated man behind the wheel, driving across mountain paths, but I want to represent for my political people, too, and not be a total coward.
I’ve lost the ingenious skill that my 82-year old mother has always had, of making a facial gesture and an empathetic if not sympathetic murmur and nod, a gesture of acknowledgment but not endorsement.
My mother’s wordlessly elegant and perfect gesture, if it had to be written out, would go something like this: “I acknowledge by this blankly neutral smile and nod, and my noncommittal ‘hmmmm,’ that you are saying something to me, but it is something that I can neither endorse honestly by the dictates of conscience, nor contradict vehemently by the dictates of good manners. So I am going to do this gesture, instead, in hopes that you change the topic, and recognize that although we entirely disagree, and/or you are a crazy person, I see that you are human, and will give you this acknowledgment, and I hope that you do the same for me.”
We need that gesture back.
Having lost my mother’s knack, I rely on another tack. I pluck at the threads of agreement that I can find, to avoid slogging into trench warfare over what are by now almost intellectual clichés of rage.
And by the end of a short ride we’ve casually amassed some areas of agreement along the way. We agree that immigrants in the U.S. work very hard, that we deplore agribusiness and manure—manure, that is, that runs into lakes and the Chesapeake Bay, and destroys beautiful places. We agree enthusiastically that if we were in Congress we would be hanging our heads in shame at our inability to do or accomplish anything. I learn that back east, Vermont senators are under the sticky thumb of Big Ice Cream, which sounds eminently plausible to me.
We agree heartily that we wish we would get told the hard truth by politicians, since neither of us is dumb, after all, and we’re quite sure that we could handle it…Although for him the truth he yearned to hear was that Hillary Clinton had shot Vince Foster in the head in a state park, while my truth would be that government is in the tank for Wall Street.
It’s not bad, actually. We agree on more than I would have thought, and this is only a short ride. I don’t know if we really can live in the same country. I don’t know if in any meaningful way we are living in the same country now.
I’ve never been happier to see biplanes, puddle-jumpers, and a terminal. He’s driving in the right direction!
“Hey, when you’re in the plane, sit in the window seat,” he tells me in a milder, calmer tone as I walk off to the terminal. “You can look out and see the trails. I don’t have a horse yet, but I’m getting one. I hike the trails all the time.”
“I will. You should keep hiking. Forget about DC. It’s hopeless, and vile. And don’t have a heart attack.”
There is this small thing, at least, that isn’t stated but is clearly sensed, and conveyed: we don’t actually want to dislike each other. It’s a start. And the trails were indeed stunning, when viewed from above.
The Lumina Foundation lays out steps for increasing access to quality post-secondary education credentials.
- America's post-high school education landscape was not created with the modern student in mind. Today, clear and flexible pathways are necessary to help individuals access education that can help them lead a better life.
- Elizabeth Garlow explains the Lumina Foundation's strategy to create a post-secondary education system that works for all students. This includes credential recognition, affordability, a more competency-based system, and quality assurance.
- Systemic historic factors have contributed to inequality in the education system. Lumina aims to close those gaps in educational attainment.
- In 2019, Lumina Foundation and Big Think teamed up to create the Lumina Prize, a search to find the most innovative and scalable ideas in post-secondary education. You can see the winners of the Lumina Prize here – congratulations to PeerForward and Greater Commons!
French newspapers report that the trial hasn't lived up to expectations.
- The French government initially invested in a rural solar roadway in 2016.
- French newspapers report that the trial hasn't lived up to expectations.
- Solar panel "paved" roadways are proving to be inefficient and too expensive.
During World War II, the U.S. incarcerated over 100,000 Japanese Americans in concentration camps throughout the West.
- Now that the issue of concentration camps in the U.S. has once again reared its head, it can be beneficial to recall the last time such camps were employed in the U.S.
- After Pearl Harbor, the U.S. incarcerated over 100,000 Japanese Americans in camps, ostensibly for national security purposes.
- In truth, the incarceration was primarily motivated by racism. What was life like in the U.S.'s concentration camps?
On February 19, 1942, President Roosevelt issued Executive Order 9066, which authorized and directed military commanders "to prescribe military areas … from which any or all persons may be excluded, and with respect to which, the right of any person to enter, remain in, or leave shall be subject to whatever restrictions the Secretary of War or the appropriate Military Commander may impose in his discretion." Under the authority of this executive order, roughly 112,000 men, women, and children of Japanese descent — nearly two-thirds of which were American citizens — were detained in concentration camps.
How did the camps get their start?
With the benefit of a nearly 80-year perspective, it's clear that the internment of Japanese Americans was racially motivated. In response to Japan's growing military power in the buildup to World War II, President Roosevelt commissioned two reports to determine whether it would be necessary to intern Japanese Americans should conflict break out between Japan and the U.S. Neither's conclusions supported the plan, with one even going so far as to "certify a remarkable, even extraordinary degree of loyalty among this generally suspect ethnic group." But of course, the Pearl Harbor attacks proved to be far more persuasive than these reports.
Pearl Harbor turned simmering resentment against the Japanese to a full boil, putting pressure on the Roosevelt administration to intern Japanese Americans. Lieutenant General John DeWitt, who would become the administrator of the internment program, testified to Congress
"I don't want any of them here. They are a dangerous element. There is no way to determine their loyalty... It makes no difference whether he is an American citizen, he is still a Japanese. American citizenship does not necessarily determine loyalty... But we must worry about the Japanese all the time until he is wiped off the map."
DeWitt's position was backed up by a number of pre-existing anti-immigrant groups based out of the West Coast, such as the Joint Immigration Committee and the Native Sons and Daughters of the Golden West. For many, the war simply served as an excuse to get rid of Japanese Americans. In an interview with the Saturday Evening Post, Austin Anson, the managing secretary of the Salinas Vegetable Grower-Shipper Administration, said:
"We're charged with wanting to get rid of the Japs for selfish reasons. We do. It's a question of whether the White man lives on the Pacific Coast or the brown men. ... If all the Japs were removed tomorrow, we'd never miss them in two weeks because the White farmers can take over and produce everything the Jap grows. And we do not want them back when the war ends, either."
Ironically for Anson, the mass deportation of Japanese Americans under Executive Order 9066 meant there was a significant shortage of agricultural labor. Many Caucasians left to fight the war, so the U.S. signed an agreement with Mexico to permit the immigration of several million Mexicans agricultural workers under the so-called bracero program.
Life in the camps
Hulton Archive/Getty Images
Circa 1943: Aerial view of a Japanese American relocation center in Amache, Colorado, during World War II. Each family was provided with a space 20 by 25 ft. The barracks were set in blocks and each block was provided with a community bath house and mess hall.
For the most part, Japanese Americans remained stoic in the face of their incarceration. The phrase shikata ga nai was frequently invoked — the phrase roughly translates to "it cannot be helped," which, for many, represents the perceived attitude of the Japanese people to withstand suffering that's out of their control.
Initially, most Japanese Americans were sent to temporary assembly centers, typically located at fairgrounds or racetracks. These were hastily constructed barracks, where prisoners were often packed into tight quarters and made to use toilets that were little more than pits in the ground. From here, they were relocated to more permanent camps — replete with barbed wire and armed guards — in remote, isolated places across the seven states of California, Arizona, Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho, Utah, and Arkansas.
Many of these camps, also known as War Relocation Centers, were little better than the temporary assembly centers. One report described the buildings as "tar paper-covered barracks of simple frame construction without plumbing or cooking facilities of any kind." Again, overcrowding was common.
As a result, disease became a major concern, including dysentery, malaria, and tuberculosis. This was problematic due to the chronic shortage of medical professionals and supplies, an issue that was not helped by the War Relocation Authority's decision to cap Japanese American medical professional's pay at $20 a month (about $315 in 2019 dollars), while Caucasian workers had no such restriction. As a comparison, Caucasian nurses earned $150 ($2,361) a month in one camp.
The U.S. government also administered loyalty questionnaires to incarcerated Japanese Americans with the ultimate goal of seeing whether they could be used as soldiers and to segregate "loyal" citizens from "disloyal" ones. The questionnaires often asked whether they would be willing to join the military and if they would completely renounce their loyalty to Japan. Due to fears of being drafted, general confusion, and justified anger at the U.S. government, thousands of Japanese Americans "failed" the loyalty questionnaire and were sent to the concentration camp at Tule Lake. When Roosevelt later signed a bill that would permit Japanese Americans to renounce their citizenship, 98 percent of the 5,589 who did were located at Tule Lake. Some apologists cite this an example of genuine disloyalty towards the U.S., but this argument clearly ignores the gross violation of Japanese Americans' rights. Later, it became clear that many of these renunciations had been made under duress, and nearly all of those who had renounced their citizenship sought to gain it back.
Since many children lived in the camps, they came equipped with schools. Of course, these schools weren't ideal — student-teacher ratios reached as high as 48:1, and supplies were limited. The irony of learning about American history and ideals was not lost on the students, one of whom wrote in an essay --
"They, the first generation [of Japanese immigrants], without the least knowledge of the English language nor the new surroundings, came to this land with the American pioneering spirit of resettling. ...Though undergoing many hardships, they did reach their goal only to be resettled by the order of evacuation under the emergency for our protection and public security."
Potentially the best part of life in the camps — and the best way for determined prisoners to demonstrate their fundamental American-ness — was playing baseball. One camp even featured nearly 100 baseball teams. Former prisoner Herb Kurima recalled the importance of baseball in their lives in an interview with Christian Science Monitor. "I wanted our fathers, who worked so hard, to have a chance to see a ball game," he said. "Over half the camp used to come out to watch. It was the only enjoyment in the camps."
When the camps finally closed in 1945, the lives of the incarcerated Japanese Americans had been totally upended. Some were repatriated to Japan, while others settled in whichever part of the country they had been arbitrarily placed in. Those who wished to return to the West Coast were given $25 and a train ticket, but few had anything to return to. Many had sold their property to predatory buyers prior to being incarcerated, while theft had wiped out whatever else they had left behind. Many, many years later, the 1988 Civil Liberties Act mandated that each surviving victim be paid $20,000, though that seems like a small fine to pay for irrevocably changing the courses of more than 100,000 lives.