6 OPINION e 4 Edited and managed by students at The University of Michigan I Vol. XCI, No. 98 420 Maynard St. Ann Arbor, MI 48109 Editorials represent a majority opinion of the Daily's Editorial Board City election tomfoolery Saturday, January 24, 1981 Feiffer etasC61a - FNJAW FMJ1?6i6'S. F6ILg5.. The Michigan Daily IV~ T615 12AN~CE WHO SATISFY.. GIRD FA4JPSD WOMKE I964~2 EA{2S. L MAK'E fNeH FOG6CS:... A PAI~36 12' E LECTION LAW is supposed to be a set of guidelines to keep prospective candidates from taking advantage of public ignorance or apathy, from lining their pockets with supposed campaign funds, and from various other campaign practices that have surfaced, from time to time, in American electoral history. Nowhere in the lawbooks does it say that elec- lions ought to necessitate the expen- .iture of public moneys for frivolity. 'et an expense that can hardly be characterized as anything but tom- foolery is soon to be unleashed by the city treasury, with the blessings of Mayor Louis Belcher and the Democratic minority on the City Coun- Oil. The problem started months ago, when two candidates - Kenneth Newble and Jennie Johannsen - filed their names for the Republican spot on the Third Ward primary ballot. The of- ficial deadline for withdrawing from the race passed unnoticed, and the ward's Republicans began preparing for the primary. Then the bombshell hit. Newble changed his mind and was no longer in- terested in the job; he threw his sup- port behind his former opponent, and racefully bowed out. Some naive Ann Arborites might have believed that would be the end of it, as well it should have been. But the Democratic caucus ,n the council, with an attention to the Newa life fi T DIDN'T TAKE the anti-abortion Iforces very long after the nauguration of their political )2essiah, Ronald Reagan, to fill the streets of the capital, parading their new-fornd clout and pushing their proposed constitutional amendment prohibiting abortion a little closer toward becoming a reality. Some 50,000 foes of a woman's right to choose took to the streets with their "pro-life" slogans and signs in yet another frightening spectacle. But, what separated this rally, held to lament the eighth anniversary of the Supreme Court decision legalizing abortion from others in the past was the fact that this time the demon- strators received the active support of high-placed government officials. Representatives from the anti-abor- tion forces met with President Reagan and, although they did not press for his commitment to the proposed amen- dment, they claimed "he agreed with everything we said." The anti-abortion activists also spread out over Capitol Hill, systematically winning the support of senatois and congressmen through in- dividual visits to their offices. letter of the law that can only be described as pedantic, pointed out that is was officially'too late for Newble to withdraw. The primary would have to go on, they said, even with the only one willing candidate. "The state election law is very well outlined," argued Susan Greenberg, the Democratic councilwoman from the First Ward. "If you can begin to violate that law, you have to wonder what the next set of laws to be violated will be. One has to wonder about a person in a position of public responsibility who cannot distinguish between violating a law in defiance of someone's interests and a technical regulation whose only purpose here can be to punish the tax- payers with $5,000 or more worth of farce in the guise of a primary. The Re- publican councilmembers seem to recognize the distinction; they pushed through a resolution to allow Newble to withdraw. But Belcher, intimidated by the possibility of a lawsuit, went along with the Democratic minority, and left the planned primary intact. Any lawsuit that might be brought could almost certainly be won, and probably at a smaller expense to the city than the amount the primary will cost. It is a risk Belcher and the Democrats ought to have been willing to take, but bold and intelligent action, it seems, is not politic-at least in the eyes of some of our city leaders. or 'pro-life' ... Secretary of Health and Human Ser- vices Richard Schweiker also lent his support to the "pro-lifers,' promising to administer anti-abortion policies in his new department. The Department of Health and Human Services is responsible for providing funding for abortions for women who cannot afford to pay for them. The alarming aspect of Thursday's rally is not simply that the "pro-lifers" turned out in larger numbers than usual, or were more vocal, but rather that many of the most influential politicos in Washington are now ac- tively supporting their efforts. The "pro-lifers" hailed the rally as a huge success, signalling the real beginning of the end for abortion in the United States. They spoke op- timistically .about the prospects for banning abortion )forever within the next four years. If the forces supporting such an ab- surd constitutional amendment are to be successfully fought, it will require a renewed effort on the part of pro- choice activists. With the new ad- ministration and the new Republican domination in the Senate, such liber- ties as a woman's right to choose can no longer be taken for granted. AW M-ATS A~iIP 1C {I35OJ/ b' / 4R l ryj A6fWANT A~4/,V' -J, The kids of the Tenderloin: Making it any way they can SAN FRANCISCO - The times ahead, economists tell us, could be bad. We're in for a serious recession-maybe a full-fledged depression-and for most of us that prospect means sacrifice. But what about the people at the true bot- tom of American society, the people who already float outside the mainstream? What would a depression mean for them? Their numbers are on a steady rise today, and among them are increasing numbers of youths, living their lives far beyond the margins of normal youthful experience. THEIR FUTURE is all too likely to be an extension, with minor variations, of an en- dless, precarious day. Deserted by, or having abandoned their "real" families, they often rely deeply on new friends, transients like themselves. They remain loyal until they get bored or burned; then they move on. Meanwhile, they say they're making it "on the road" and "in the streets"-these kids are surviving. Here in San Francisco, they come to the Tenderloin, located between the Civic Center complex and-the elegant downtown shopping center, an area of welfare hotels, hard porn movie houses, strip clubs, second-hand stores, and pawn shops, where Greyhound and Airporter buses deposit visitors from all over the world. The wandering kids among them often end up hanging out on nearby street corners, relying on their their wits and plying their own improvisations of the classic skid row scams. One legitimate resource they are learning to depend on is St. Anthony's Dining Room, a Catholic mission relying wholly on donations, which feeds a hot, nutritious meal to 700 to 2,000 people every day. The manager of the "Antoines," as the kids call it, estimates that with the advent of the '80s, more than 65 per- cent of their diners are under 30 years old. JEFF PEARSON, 23, has been eating at "Antoines" off and on ever since he lost his job. He lives in an apartment in the gay area of Polk Street. Although he doesn't include himself, he is pessimistic about the fate of young people like him. "These kids will never leave the Tenderloin. Not that they should or shouldn't, they just won't. If I come back here 20 years from now, a lot of these kids will still be here, or in similar places in other cities. "Most of them are runaways, burnouts, skid row types, hippies, deadbeats-people who are already cast out, who live in the streets. What happens to them when the depression hits? These kids have no dreams. How could they? People with dreams are in universities. But these kids-no matter what their ages are-they're old, tired." According to Jeff, many of the Tenderloin kids live in the "Drunk Park" that Mayor Feinstein unofficially set aside for the winos to sleep in. There the cops don't hassle them and the winos are kept away from people's homes and where they work. Now, everybody's happy. "What do I do? Well, I like to draw." Then he added perfunctorily in an aside, "I guess I should get another job." VALERIE POOLE MAY end up in the Ten- derloin as one of Jeff Pearson's predictions, but according to her, she "grooves on her life," although already her cheeks are grey, her eyes droopy. She's pudgy, the buttons on her sweater are fastened to the wrong holes; a safety pin holds up her pants. Valerie is high, and each time she wafts into the dining hall wall she laughs. She'll be 16 in July. "All I want to do is go back to Azle, near Ft. Worth in Texas, to be with my dad. But I can't leave the city. What a drag. "I ran away from home when I was eleven By Pauline Craig "I've lived in the streets so long," Valerie continues, "that I know who to trust. The bums, the lung-hairs, or else the punks-they're all right. They'resthe ones who've got the money. One of my boyfriends was a hippie dealer-he always had at least $500 on him. But the slickos in three-piece suits-they never got no money." "I HUSTLE," she shrugs and giggles. "There's nothin' to it. If I need mon'ey, I go up to a man and ask 'Ya got anything for me?' Then we go to a hotel and I make him give me $50, sometimes before, sometimes after. They always pay. If they don't I show 'emn my knife-I always have it on me. Nobody don't do nothin' to ya if ya have a weapon. "Who cares if.there's a depression? That'll just bring more customers down to us. Whenever the economy gets wacky, people go to movies and to hookers to escape." Mickey O'Farrell, 23, has a black eye and a six-day stubble. "My jaw's been busted in three places," he grins. "Can't shave or chew. Can only eat beans and 'mashed potatoes.tTherekwas a little scuffle between me and the cook at the Apostle of the Sea, a merchant seaman's place where I lived until the cook threw me out." Mickey left his wife and two daughters back in South Boston, "They were livin' with another man when I got back from the Navy. There was nothin' I could do. Tina and Bar- bara will be two in March. I got their names totooed on my arm." MICKEY AND his friend Eddie "from Philly" found a place to sleep in their sleeping bags where the wind can't get to them under the Bay Bridge. "We have a lovely view of the tankers," he intones in his second generation brogue. "Me and my friend Eddie panhandle whenever we need anything. Thenwe go to the Union Square with our friends. We all sit in a Frisco Circle, toss our money in a pile, then buy a bottle and pass it around. You never starve in San Francisco." Walter Alexander mutters English phrases from his school notebook as he waits in line for dinner. "I must learn English to get a job," he says. "I want to be janitors or to paint the buildings." Walter is from El Salvador. "There is much fighting so I must go away. I live in the Fillmore with the community colors (blacks). Is good to live there." His family remains in San Salvador. "They want to come out now, but they cannot get the (immigration) papers. The United States says no more people can come to here from El Salvador. It is very sad, I think. ' "I want ninos-it is necessary to have a family, I think, but I don't have. I have many friends. These (people at St. Anthony's) are all my friends. In El Salvador my friends, the juventud (youths) live for the revolution. I do not. I do not think there will be a revolution. I hope yes but I do not think. People in El Salvador live in a depression social. It is necessary to open the eyes, to open the mind. There will not be a revolution military, but maybe a spiritual revolution, yes." TEN DAYS AGO Joanne, 16, and Lynn, 19, left Tacoma, Washington, by bus to come to San Francisco. Lynn left her infant daughter with her mother. "I'd be satisfied just to get married," she laughs, covering her mouth so her new boyfriend, Jim, won't hear. Joanne, with big brown eyes and round cheeks, an in- nocent still, says that, "In Tacoma, we hang out in pool halls. At least in San Francisco we have some excitement." Both girls are flirting with the prospect of gold chain instead. "Maybe I'll just go back to Tacoma. How can I find work here? I quit school in the ninth grade." FREDDIE BOOGALOOS down the ramp to the food line, his dreadlocks flopping down his back and in front of his face. At 19, he suppor- ts himself by stealing to order. Private homes, offices, warehouses, and loading docks are where he gets his merchandise. A4Whatya want? Color TV? Set of sterling silverware? It's yours." He smuggled a hot mahjong set with authentic bamboo and ivory tiles into the dining room tnder his pea coat. "Chinese'll love this, mon." He slaps the palm of a friend who slaps his back. Freddie saunters up to a Chinese man standing alone in line. He looks up at Freddie, startled, then looks away. Ramon Hernandez, 15, is about 5'3" and has freckles all over his brown face. Three weeks ago, "I sneaking over the (Mexican) frontiera (border) at Tijuana. I'm a wetback," he grins. "My friend Carlos is not a wetback. He has a green card because he is Juichol Indian. He is muy guapo (very handsome) but he 'likes boys, don't you Carlos?" Ramon shoves Carlos into the man in front of him in line. Carlos giggles and covers his mouth with a hand with enormous long finernails. "Carlos no speaks English-he no likes school," says Ramon. , "In Mexico I am cook. I want to go school in America to be cook. Now I can only be bus boy. "The other day a man hold up knife to my neck. He says to me give him fifty cents. But I say, 'I have no money, man.' The police see this guy and scares him away. I am escaped. The police OK. I no home." Ramon smiles beaming. "I sleep anywhere." JOHN IS 6'3" and weighs about 140 pounds. He has long red hair and two diamond studs in one earlobe. He's a transvestite and a male hooker. "Well, Tuesday I sold my plasma again-I get $17 a week that way The Wed- nesday I borrowed my friend's child and headed for the Financial District to panhan- dle. I just tell people we're hungry-it always works. They only give us a quarter at a time, but I can get $3-4 in a couple of hours. I treat the kid to a hot dog. Let's see, Thursday I sold my $63 worth of food stamps to a restaurant for $45 cash. But grocery stores or adult books will trade 'em, too. Friday I had $20-how did I get that? Oh. I know. I turned a $20 date, a guy I met at the Landmark Bar (in the Ten- derloin). The Saturday I turned two tricks, for $20 and $30-the last guy really liked me. But for $50 he could really have had a good time,". John pouts. "For two months this summer I slept out- side, on a hill in Fort Mason. Lots of bums live down there. Some sleep in their cars. I just needed a blanket. Now I live with my o1' man. He's from the East Oakland ghetto. He has a B.A. in psychology, but he doesn't want to get into any white man's establishment hassles. So he steals tape decks, radios, and CB outfits out of cars. "Then I know this nine-year-old kid. She goes to the Emporium and walks out with per- fume, eye shadow, lots of makeup. A woman I share a corner with sometimes also knocks off $500 coats from Saks two or three times a day." "I just want a good job," John continues. "Christ, if there's a depression, the formerly rich will be down here in droves working our territory. The new competition will drive some of the regular girls out of work. And hookers don't get unemployment benefits," he laughs. "Maybe I'll get work in a restaurant In -1 __ ONE MORE ~ ~ ~ 514OV-THEN ''/N WATCH MS'J i Du/,/ /;.~e YK I f$;t A f r// ,}/ / }~ ,I , ftl 1 , 1 P7 J