Category: Free the Jackson Five

Why does North Minneapolis, which boasts the Twin Cities’ highest concentration of black folk, appear to have the most trash on the ground? As a newcomer to the “North Side,” I have been shocked at the garbage strewn about my ’hood. When I complained to then Fifth Ward rep and Minneapolis Council President Jackie Cherryhomes about it, she told me I have trash problems because I live too close to the Broadway commercial corridor.

If that were the case, then Kenwood and Linden Hills, both of which contain thriving commercial districts, should be choked with litter. They are not. Both neighborhoods are relatively litter-free. And, dare we say, both neighborhoods have relatively few young people of color.

I have stood in the living room of my North Minneapolis home and watched young people deliberately drop trash on the street. My next-door neighbor, reasoning that a convenient trash can might encourage people to do the right thing, placed one in his front yard. The trash can barely made a dent in the amount of trash dumped in front of our houses. In fact, my neighbor has seen people saunter up to the trash can, look into it, and then drop trash outside the can.

Most people I see dumping trash on the ground are young people of color. Mostly boys, but the girls make a sizeable contribution as well. Ironically, many of these same kids, who apparently think nothing of trashing their own turf, often take great pride in their $150 sneakers and their mega-decibel car stereo systems.

Comedian Franklin Ajaye once quipped about being at UCLA at the height of the black power movement, jumping to the front of a registration line while shouting, “Get back, Whitey!” Instead of giving him the whacking he deserved, the white students said, “They’ve been oppressed, you know. We’ve got to make allowances.” And Ajaye, fearing no consequences, kept cutting in line.

Oh, I can hear the apologists now—these are kids suffering from self-esteem issues. The system has beaten them down. They do not have effective role models. We need to gently steer them in the right direction. Blah, blah, blah. Poverty, oppression, teen pregnancy, and white racism—you pick the social ill. None of it excuses living in filth. This is one issue that black folk cannot blame on Mr. Charley. White people do not make these young people commit the ecological equivalent of defecating where they live.

A few weeks ago, after watching yet another drop-the-trash-next-to-the-trash-can episode, I could not restrain myself. Like news anchor Howard Beale in Network, I was mad as hell and I wasn’t going to take it anymore. Before I knew it, I was outside in my J.C. Penney’s robe and matching house slippers, telling the two teenaged culprits to pick up their garbage. They paused as if in shock. After about three heartbeats of silence, they picked it up, placed it in the can, and said, “No problem man, it’s cool.” I do not know what their grades are like, if they live at home with both parents, or if they have other issues. I do know this: By placing the trash in the can, their actions belied the obvious—that it was not a problem to “do the right thing.”

We as a community (and I do not mean just the darker side here) must confront these kids and hold them accountable for dumping trash. Ignoring it (and, for that matter, the trash talking) does nothing but (1) keep them from learning the crucial life lesson of personal responsibility; (2) lower property values; and (3) give the racially jaundiced more fodder to perpetuate racial stereotypes.

Yes, it will probably feel awkward to confront the trashers. And some kids will get mouthy. If however we choose to say nothing, we become accomplices in the creation of neighborhood landfills and miscreant young adults.

Clinton Collins, Jr. is a Minneapolis attorney and commentator.

What do Norm Coleman, Clem Haskins, and 70s soul man Billy Preston have in common? They all understand that “nothing from nothing leaves nothing—you gotta have something, if you want to be with me.”

On first blush, it looks like both Norm and Clem are getting something for nothing. Clem got paid to leave a gig. Norm is getting paid to join a gig—the Winthrop & Weinstein law firm, even though he has an inactive law license and is never at the firm anyway because he’s running for the U.S. Senate. Clem got $1.5 million to leave ahead of schedule. Norm is probably getting six figures to chill with his homies at Winthrop.

Please, please, please sign me up for a piece of that action. Imagine getting paid win, lose, show, or no-show. Most of us ordinary nose-to-the-grindstone legal eagles have to show up to get paid. Law firms usually have what is known euphemistically as “billable hour requirements.” Plain English—lawyers have to crank out enough legalese to pay their salaries and the overhead necessary to support them. Firms often require at least 30 hours a week of billable time. For the honest lawyer (I realize this is an oxymoron to many God-fearing Minnesotans), that means at least 45 hours a week in the office, since much of a lawyer’s time (lunch, potty runs, emailing office gossip, chasing ambulances, and so on) cannot be billed.

The thing is, Clem and Norm are providing something of value to the people who signed their checks. Surely these people expect more than simply a big toothy grin and “thanks” for the cash they’re doling out to Clem and Norm.
Clem Haskins’ troubles are well known even to the most sports-challenged. He engaged in various academic chicaneries during his tenure as University of Minnesota basketball coach. When the rubber hit the hardwood floor, U. president Mark Yudof instructed Mark Rotenberg, general counsel, to get Haskins off the plantation. In short order, they coughed up $1.5 million and Clem was gone with the wind.

According to some insiders, the U knew Haskins had (as we say in the business) “unclean hands” pretty much from jump street and decided to cut its losses. Now, the Yudof/Rotenberg twosome, facing heat from “Greater Minnesota” legislators, incredibly claim that Haskins bamboozled them. Now they self-righteously want their dough back.

What does this have to do with Norm? Think about it for it for a moment. Norm has a few things someone might want. Like a wide-ranging Rolodex and a bright political future. Winthrop realized that Norm could use his public service contacts to reel in some big fish, and be the trump card for the lobbying end of the firm’s practice, especially if he ousts Sen. Paul Wellstone in November. If that happens, Norm’s adopted law firm will be only a phone call away from a Republican U.S. senator whose friends include the sitting President of the United States.

Remember the 1974 pet rock craze? California salesman Gary Dahl reasoned that people will pay for anything they perceive is trendy, cool, and well packaged. (Any similarities here to certain political figures are entirely coincidental.) He sold over a million “pets” for $3.95 each, scoring a half-page in Newsweek and two Tonight Show gigs along the way. Am I saying that Norm is like a pet rock, trendy and well packaged? Not really. Actually the point is this: Gary Dahl was right. People will pay for value, either real or imagined.

Like Clem Haskins’ name off the letterhead. Or Norm Coleman’s name on the letterhead.

Before dreadlocks and cornrows, there was the Afro. The Afro was 15 percent hairstyle and 85 percent political statement. Armed with my Afro, I was a true “brother.” I grew my first ’fro in 1971. I was a bad–ass 13 year-old Denver kid just itching to help free the oppressed—Angela Davis, the Chicago Seven, even the Jackson Five. When I got into Harvard College in 1977, my dad made it clear—there would be no second mortgages to fund my eastern pilgrimage. Meanwhile, Uncle Sam offered to provide m-o-n-e-y if only I would join Air Force R-O-T-C. I was torn. How could I be a true brother in a military uniform, shorn of my Ultra Sheened crown? For a week, my stomach went through moves that would put the brothers on Soul Train to shame. However, the allure of Ivy League chic was too seductive to resist. Two days before I left for Boston, I went to Ray’s House of Hair and ordered the military cut.

Stripped of my ’fro, I was sure I was marked for excommunication from the brotherhood. I truly believed that everything in America was about race. Therefore, all my decisions—where to go to school, who to date, what profession to enter—rested, on some level, on race stuff.

I shudder to think how often I let “race stuff” skew my decision-making process. While I was in college, I supported Edward Brooke, a black Republican senator from Massachusetts. I liked his politics and I liked his style. Yet I worried. Could a true brother be a Republican? According to one wag, a black man voting Republican is like a chicken voting for Colonel Sanders. Could a brother be “down” and have a white wife? Many folks, especially African-American women, will privately (and some, not so privately) say hell no. I am ashamed to admit that I have almost let such narrow thinking about skin color trump my heart’s desire.

Today, I have no ’fro (not that I could grow one if wanted I to), I have voted for Republicans, and I have a terrific, thoughtful wife, who just happens to have blond hair and blue eyes. If that means my “brother card” gets revoked, so be it. Over the years, I have learned that being a real brother is not as important as being a real man. Real men think for themselves and live with the consequences of their decisions.
American politics is like a big engine that runs on the fuel of self-interest. Race, gender, party labels are important additives to the fuel mix. The political engine actually runs smoother, the richer the mix. However, the political engine will not run at all without a strong base of self-interest. Failing to acknowledge that group identity is a critical component of self-interest is naive. But believing it to be the basis of self-interest is downright stupid.
Consider the recent ouster of Denny Green from the Minnesota Vikings. Some think Green got canned for being an “uppity nigger”—confident, talented, and unwilling to kowtow to certain sports columnists.

A more likely explanation is this: Green forgot the first rule of American politics. Self-interest trumps racial loyalties. I think even Ray Charles could see that star receiver Randy Moss was out of control. For whatever reason, Green would not or could not take him to the woodshed. Vikings owner Red McCombs (a.k.a. “the Man”) apparently did not believe Green could look past the politics of race and focus on the politics of self-interest. Green’s fate was sealed.

Sounds cynical, doesn’t it? Perhaps. Self-interest drives most of us more than we might care to admit. Ten years ago, I chaired the Minnesota Minority Lawyer Association’s annual scholarship dinner. I wanted a military color guard to open the show. Some of the “brothers” threatened to boycott the event because they weren’t comfortable with the “military baggage.” The color guard got canned. In 1998, some of the same lawyers wanted to lure the primarily black National Bar Association convention to Minneapolis. The NBA wanted a military presence. Suddenly, waving the military colors became a very cool thing to do. The NBA got the color guard and Minneapolis got the convention. Hypocrisy? Perhaps. But I like to think it was the brothers getting hip to self-interest.

Clinton Collins, Jr. is a Minneapolis attorney and commentator.