Clinton St. Quarterly, Vol. 6 No. 1 | Spring 1984 (Seattle) /// Issue 7 of 24 /// Master# 55 of 73

FREE SPRING 1984 KW: SPRING What more perfect time to demonstrate the secret sign of the ^ J B p yai Ordfifawwa, of the Starfish! SAE ^ADORAN ^ F ICT ION AND MORE ETH ICAL ! INVESTING

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VOL. 6, NO. 1 SPRING 1984 Staff (Above) The Official Screwdriver o f the 1984 Olympics. Contents Co-Editors Peggy Lindquist David MiIhoiIand Jim Blashfield Lenny Dee Design and Production Jim Blashfield Production Assistant David Milholland Camerawork Paul Diener Ad Production Peggy Lindquist Stacey Fletcher Beverly Wong Ad Sales — Portland Lenny Dee Sandy Wallsmith • Lisa Raven Anne Hughes Ad Sales — Eugene Laurie McClain Ellen Adler Tim Jordan Ad Sales — Seattle Linda Ballantine Danny O'Brien Proofreaders Stan Sitnick Theresa Marquez Betty Smith Steve Cackley Contributing Artists Claudia Cave Kate Gawf T. Michael Gardiner Henk Pander Mary Robben Steve Winkenwerder Contributing Photographers Jim Blashfield Paul Diener Leo Gabriel Stan Sitnick Typesetting Jill Wilson Archetype Printing Tualatin-Yamhill Press Public Relations Cramer/Hulse Thanks Lumiel Dodd, Eric Edwards, Denny Eichorn, Jeffrey Harmes, Martha Gies, Paul Loeb, Melissa Marsland, Doug Milholland, Charlotte Uris, John Wanberg The Clinton St. Quarterly is published in both Seattle and Portland/Eugene editions (Seattle Address: 1520 Western Avenue, Seattle, WA 98101, 322-8711) by the Clinton St. Theatre, 2522 SE Clinton, Portland, OR 97202, (503) 222-6039. Unless otherwise noted, all contents copyright ©1984 Clinton St. Quarterly. Position available for top notch ad sales person, call 322-8711 or write 1520 Western Ave., Seattle, WA, 98101. EDITORIALS / \ h. Spring! After long and dreary f u m o n t h s of winter, Spring reminds us like nothing else that we are not, after all, dead, but merely dying. But what the heck! The flowers are up, poking their perky heads triumphantly through the new linoleum on the kitchen floor! A riot of color! A Renaissance of nature! The Royal Order of Starfish is out in force too with the coming of the Spring months. Relentlessly cheerful, backed with big money from Taiwan, they become fixtures in every neighborhood in America, their gaily colored banners and brightly decorated donation envelopes reminding us that winter is over. ‘‘It’s Spring,” they cry. “Time to get echino- dermic!" Old William down the street is out in his yard enjoying the balmy day, conscientiously spraying the dandelions with gallon after gallon of Agent Orange, thanking his lucky stars for the modern conveniences that have made gardening a pleasure. William’s little dog Pepper barks when he sees the Starfishians coming. He knows that they have treats for him: little biscuits made from pulverized wheat germ and Karo syrup, wrapped in tiny ribbons. One year Pepper choked on a ribbon and had to be taken to the veterinary clinic where he inadvertently received the first heart transplant ever given to a Cocker Spaniel. Spring! The bears at the zoo are stirring! Yawning and stretching after their long winter’s sleep, they bound exuberantly out into the main display arena, ready for a wake-up swim. They dive headfirst into the cast-concrete pool, still filled with last fall’s construction equipment. Three are in serious condition. Ah, Spring! The heart fairly bursts with renewed thoughts of love, however indiscriminate and ill-considered. Spring! Only 272 shopping days left until Christmas! Spring! Spring! Dare thee call thyself by any other name? JB Name_____________ :__________________ i_________________________________________________________ Address __ ______.____________ ;___________ C ity S ta te___________ Zip You know, I think I'll send a subscription to a friend too — I’m feeling guilty today. Name_________________________________________________________________________________________ Address C ity State Zip From __ _______________________________________________________________________________________ Send the 2 free passes to: them □ me □ Mail to: 1520 Western Ave., Seattle, WA 98101 Can you imagine living in a democracy with one-third of its votingage populace unable to read a newspaper editorial. . . where over 60 million adults cannot read the antidote labels on a bottle of kitchen cleaner . . . where most citizens have to depend on 30-sec- ond television blips to understand this complex planet? Well, you do. The same good old U.S.A, which prides itself on being No. 1 is ranked 49th in the world in literacy, behind such “backward" nations as China, Cuba and Nicaragua. It is no wonder that we get such charlatans in office when so many cannot measure this year’s promises against last year’s shrewd betrayals. The current Reagan reading program budget allocates 90 cents per illiterate adult annually. It seems true that if 60 million poor white, black and Hispanic Americans were empowered to have access to the written word, chose to vote, and voted in their self-interest, they would certainly not vote for Ronald Reagan. It is quite understandable that a President ruling over a subjugated population is unlikely to make efforts to improve those who will vote against him. Unfortunately, the Democrats, with the noble exception of Jesse Jackson, have YOU COULD BE READING THE CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY IN HAWAN! Although, of course, it's not very likely. Certainly we have no way of sending you there. Then again, who cares? What's there, anyway — a bunch of volcanoes, fish that would just as soon eat you as look at you, blazing heat almost guaranteed to bring on sun stroke. Big deal. Who needs it? We prefer the soothing rains and bleak overcast skies of the great Pacific Northwest. Less glare. Much better for reading. And what better publication to read than the Clinton St. Quarterly, the Northwest's multiple-award-winning journal of fiction, commentary, humor, and snazzy graphics. Join the growing armada of CSQ subscribers today! We insist on this. Best to do it right this second. OK. Enclosed is a paltry $5 for four issues. I could lose that much money down in the couch and not even notice it. P ho to by D on H ud so n Cover Jim Blashfield Sub in the City Leanne Grabel 4 The Family House John Bennett 8 Ethical Investing Joe Kane 11 At the Corner Store Mary Robben 16 Life on the Streets Salvadorans in Seattle Michael Daley 19 Sex Education David Romtvedt 22 A Bitter Fog Carol Van Strum 27 Long Season Without Rain Sharon Lynn Pugh 28 also failed to see it in their self-interest to empower this disenfranchised group. Could it be that it is in neither party’s interest to educate this slumbering populace? If the Democrats are truly the party interested in the welfare of all the people, as they surely will claim this November, then they must begin the call for universal literacy. Wouldn’t it be exciting to think of America as a giant university? To fail to do so will further a gap as dangerous as any Pentagon fantasy. LD Clinton St. Quarterly 3

in tro du c t ion ( - i ) HOWARD NEMEROV: Flaubert wanted to write a novel About nothing. It was to have no subject And be sustained upon style alone, Like the Holy Ghost cruising above The abyss. .. KENT MAK, AGE 12: Teachers I hate: all of them. Teachers I like: none . . . In this article, I will write about substitute teaching in San Francisco middle schools (6th-8th grade) during December, January, and February.— I have read a million books written by teachers and scholars. I have spent hours and hours within the classrooms, prodding the students to speak out their guts. I have questioned colleagues eagerly in the lunchrooms, listening to their responses in a leaning-forward position. I have reread my papers from college. I even skimmed all my notes on educational theory. I read Piaget. I read Aristotle. I read Rousseau. I went to a SEMINAR on disciplinary methods for the modern substitute, and NOT ONLY took home all the handouts, BUT ALSO read them. But • The theme?? The all-encompassing basic tenet from which the total experience springs? That it expresses? neber either, typing JULIE, AGE 13: The teachers I don’.t like are my science teacher because he’s fat and ugly . . . he'll yell at anybody for any reason. He Clinton St. Quarterly That it confirms? I CANNOT FIND IT. Every single day out there has been completely different in every way than the one before it. I have never acted the same, and neither have the students. There seems to be no way, without the help of five or six clinical research teams, consulting statisticians, and the TIME it would take for them to find their conclusions, to separate the factors involved. And determine the reasons for the varying tones of each day. It could all just be random. So I have decided that this demands my falling way back to the basics — to THE LAST RESORT THEME — which always seems to work in a clutch. THE KEY TO SUCCESSFUL SUBSTITUTE TEACHING IS THE SAME AS THE KEY TO SUCCESSFUL HUMAN INTERACTION: It all comes down to a matter of love. knows what he's talking about Also I dislike my teacher because. .. he picks his nose with his fingers and his pencil lead and eraser. ARISTOTLE on the master/ disciple relationship: It is a moral type of friendship, which is not on fixed terms: it makes a gift, or does whatever it does, as to a friend. 4

Really, teaching is the most like a romantic relationship. On the good days, it thrusts you to an apex of hope, gushing enough juice to refuel OPTIMISM. You become convinced that the devils are outside. And the goodness is inside. And the goodness can blast all the devils to hell. But on the bad days, it can scrape out your soul. You see the vehemence in these 12-year-old beings. And the vehemence is edged like a switchblade. You see the fury, the fear, and the hatred. And you wonder: Is it me? Is it my voice? Is it my face? Or is it them? Is it their homelife? Is it the times? Is it the place?? With substitute teaching, you are walking the thin edge between pure love and hate IN A DAY. You rub up against 150 12-year-old people in your life, and you try and wow them with your brilliance. Before they pelt you with their substituteteacher hate. I spent 40-odd days in the school zones of San Francisco. I have thought that teaching was truly TRULY beautiful. I have thought that teaching was the most horribly frustrating thing I have ever done. I have been awed by the explosive light within my students. And I have thought they were the most idiotic and ridiculous beings I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. I’ve tried to love them throughout it all, because I KNOW that must be the key. AMANDA, AGE 13: Tip: I think that when teachers have a roughty class that is making fun of the teacher, the only way is to insult the children making snide or smart remarks. It always works best. I know it sounds crule but a smartmouth kid has to be told to shut it up. THOMAS AQUINAS: It is an act of love and mercy. It is always a luxury for the teacher and a form of leisure: an activity meaningful for both, having no ulterior purpose. The bell rings. Absolutely nothing changes in the tone of the ^Jcene ^7 It is 8:18 a.m. at a middle school near the oddly placed projects in between North Beach and Fisherman’s Wharf. The classroom I’m in charge of is in the annex, down the street and around the corner from the belly of the school. General adolescent chaos ensues amidst the 33 members of the 7th grade class, which includes Screaming Darting about Hitting Pushing Tugging Stomping Desk pounding Pencil throwing Tearing up papers with which to litter the floor. room, except I get up and stand in the front and say, “Okay. Let's sit down now, ok?” Absolutely nothing changes in the tone of the room. Suddenly a large Mexican boy stands up in the rear of the classroom. He is very large for his age. And very beautiful. In a voice throwing knives in my face, he says, “YOU SIT DOWN, BITCH!” The room falls silent. Several pairs of eyes dart to my face, bursting with anticipation for my reaction. I say, “Oh, come on!” He says, “You come on, bitch!” I say, “Leave the room!” He says, “You leave the room, bitch!” I say nothing. I am stunned. I feel hurt. I feel mad. “MANNNNNNNNN.......... !” I say. Voices whisper: “Teacher said ‘Man,’ ” “The bitch is cool,” “Teacher’s cool . . . ” Falling into a familiar dictatorial machismo, I blurt, “You’ve got 32 minutes to read pages 112-124 in your book on American colonialization and answer the questions on page 124 now!” I walk to my desk and sit down. I feel awful. Within seconds, general adolescent chaos ensues. S c e n e It is 11 /z minutes later. Approximately four students are reading the chapter (three Orientals and the only blonde person in class). The rest of the class are either pushing their desks loudly across the floor, throwing pencils or papers across the room into the farthest garbage can, sharpening their pencils, staring out the windows at the loud gym class screaming below, combing each other’s hair, or glancing at me. I say nothing. Suddenly a skinny black girl with several plastic barrettes in her hair screams at a fat black girl with several plastic barrettes in her hair across the room: “Hey! Shuddup, girl!” The fat black girl screams: “You shuddup, bitch!” The skinny black girl screams, leaping from her desk: “Make me, bitch! Come on! Make me!” A major girlfight ensues. Desks are tumbling, jive talk’s screaming, muscles punching, skin is slapping, scalps are tugging, whines and shouts are razing my ears. I get up slowly. I walk over and lean into the fight. The tangle of them is twice my size and nerve strength. They are punching each other and gouging out eyes. I think twice. I lean back. I stare. I am stunned. Finally I remember my hot line. I walk slowly to the phone in the front of the room, which immediately connects me to the office down the street and around the corner. Before I even get the receiver to my ear, all chaos stops. Cold. There is silence. The two black girls collect the 20-odd barrettes on the floor, sit down, take out their combs, and calmly rearrange their ruined hairdos. That is it. I cannot believe it. We all sit down and wait for THE REAL AUTHORITY to arrive. The girls collect their things and wait, looking happy as hell to be taken away. “You little phonies,” I whine, bruised in the heart. At lunchtime, I resign the day’s assignment. “ I’m sorry,” I say, “but they whipped me.” ro S p e d ALBERT EINSTEIN: It is a very grave mistake to think that the enjoyment of seeing and searching can be promoted by means of coercion and a sense of duty. are tn a*1 The awful teacher seemingly has no MARK, AGE 13: is the teacher who union with the individual students, but with the text books and other typical teaching objects. This teacher only communicates with students through false accusations and threats. The supposed good teacher is the exact opposite of the stuff above. AMORETTE, AGE 12: But what do you expect from a teacher? Do you expect them to change into a fairy godmother? Horace Mann Middle School. James Lick Middle School. Francisco and Visita- cion Valley. The bad schools about which I was warned. They are the schools that always need substitutes. The regular teachers stay home. I really thought because I was dark. I really thought because I wore purple. I thought because I knew anger. I thought they would give me control — without aggression. I was a fool again. LAURENCE, AGE 14: Good teachers know pupils as who they are, not what they are. They don’t make you feel like you're locked up. On the other hand, bad teachers treat students like animals. They don’t care about your feelings. I don’t know if the bad days were my fault. Maybe I forgot they were as young as they are. Maybe I forgot just how mad youth can get. Maybe I forgot what being born in the pits of the city in a world with no myths could be like. I just wanted to show them my spirit. And drink some of theirs. But Theirs are scarred. Already. They keep them locked. That is what always drained out all my juice. These young, bright-skinned children — with spirits already brutally wounded. They already hated without ANY proof. Even the babies. ^ a m e s During the Christmas holiday, only the children’s centers were open — where the “disadvantaged” 2- and 3-year-olds spend their time. Two years old and they are already whirling being buffeted by the boisterous they do not bounce off at all correctly. I was substituting in a children’s center in the Lower Haight. I noticed this one little boy instantly. He looked just like James Brown: strong, thick, dark, in- \ tense, with a face that showed pain with knit brows. He was only 2. Before the teacher finally turned on the music, he spent his time knocking down all the little boys he could find. And taking toys away from all the girls. He would push into everybody with all his might. They would fall over, and he'd push them again. Then the music was turned on. He began throwing himself in the air. And falling down as hard as he could. Then he jumped onto a chair and threw himself down. Over and over, falling limp. All this aggression. All this defeat. Two lousy years old. When the teacher turned the music off, he ran directly for my legs and clutched my calf. The strength of his grip was a shock. I tried to release him, but he wouldn’t let go. So I moved, and he let himself be dragged along the floor. And still he clutched. Then suddenly he let go and jumped into my lap. And hugged me. The strength of his hug was a shock. He had lines in his brow like he'd already experienced hell. He was 2. On the bad days, it scrapes out your soul. OMI, AGE 13: What makes a teacher enjoyable is when he/she knows how to relate to students so that they become involved. Nothing is worse than a class of idle statues — or a class of ear piercing rioters. A teacher should try to put theirself in a student's shoes. I actually had a perfect day one day. I don’t know how much it had to do with my teaching skills. I think it may have had a lot to do with love. Because it had a lot to do with Michael Jackson. I used him. Out of at least a thousand preteens I have met, and everyone else I have talked to in three months, there has only been one skinny blonde guy who didn’t love him — with a TRUE and HOLY love. (And I’m sure that kid’s problem was sour grapes.) I mean, the world LOVES Michael Jackson. And to teenagers, he is GOD. (Thank God he's sweet.) All I had to do on said day was bring Michael Jackson’s name up once, and the whole day became like a dream. I was in a great mood to begin with, and wore a cornflower blue cotton dress with ruffles that my mom bought me in Stockton. I had seen a picture of Michael Jackson with his hair steaming in the morning paper. I cut it out. I passed the picture of Michael Jackson around with the rollsheet. For a change, I introduced myself as a writer and poet. I told the students I was writing about them. I said, “Those from the north think you Californians are a little weird — a little perverse — and definitely wild. They think the schools down here are totally berserk. In fact, northerners may be a little frightened of you Californians. I am their correspondent, and I want to write an article that really tells what is happening in California middle schools. I want you to tell me what you think.” Instantly the classes fell silent. They began writing with an intensity that lasted twenty minutes, which is usually an eternity in these situations. They kept writing. Finally I stopped them and asked them to read an article in the latest Junior Scholastic. And answer the questions at the end. They did it quietly with smiles on their faces. At the bell, they crowded about my desk. They asked me personal questions about my life. It was a coup. l^uL eScen l [^ ro p i le As I mentioned earlier, I asked the students a lot of questions about themselves. I asked them about all their favorite things, what they ate, what they dreamed about, and what they thought of Ronald Reagan. Without interpretation, I now offer you the majority answers. There was not much individuality here; in fact, I was a little disappointed and stunned that all the answers were so much the same. But it IS a time for fitting in. Favorite food: pizza Favorite drink: Coke and fruit punch Favorite TV show: A-Team/MTV Favorite movie: “Return of the Jedi”/ “The Evil Dead” Favorite album: “Thriller” Favorite single: “Beat It” Favorite singers or bands: Michael Jackson/Def Leppard/Quiet Riot/ Duran Duran Favorite candy: Nerds/Snickers Favorite car: Black Firebird/Lamberghini/ Ferrari Favorite clothes: jeans/steel-toed boots Favorite movie star: Mr. T (one vote for Mickey Rooney) Favorite weekend fantasy: unlimited sex Normal weekend: watching TV/chores/ . shopping Normal breakfast: eggs/toast/juice Normal lunch: pizza/Coke Normal dinner: meat/potatoes or rice/ vegetables (Winner of the worst diet award goes to one 11-year-old girl who eats Lucky Charms for breakfast, donuts and punch for lunch, and pizza and cookies for dinner.) Biggest worry: the future/bad grades/ no sex Worst nightmare: Most had never had one. Of those who did, their parents died, or they were attacked by rats, monsters, or ghosts. Best dream: unlimited sex and money As far as Reagan goes, just about 50 percent of the students thought he was “OK,” “cool,” “good and powerful,” or “the best” ; while the other 50 percent thought he was “a bad man,” “a bumb,” “the pits,” or “sucks eggs.” And although the majority believe there are definitely living creatures in outerspace, if given the chance to check it out personally, they wouldn't take it. I also asked the students to give me a list of several items they thought should be included in a time capsule for their generation to sum up what is really going on with them. Ian, a 12-year-old, had a list which just about sums it up. 1. Michael Jackson 2. Michael Jackson’s hair getting burned off Clinton St. Quarterly 5

3. “Thriller” record and video 4. Model of a.Transam 5. Model of a nuclear bomb 6. Model of a plane 7. Model of a boat 8. 45 Magnum 9. Laser 10. Rachel (a girl in the class) 11. Football and jersey 12. Any war 13. Blonde hair and blue eyes 14. Grey Poupon dijon mustard 15. 1984 by George Orwell and a note saying it isn’t true n i t p o i 9 n a n l t e l l e r - R i v a r d GINGER, AGE 12: I think that I don 't like school because o f the fact that I ge t bored a lot. And because I don ’t like some o f the teachers. I think the teachers should not kick the kids out o f class. I think the teacher themse lf should make the kids obey. Some o f my teachers ye ll and scream a lot and that makes me feel different. It makes me feel like I want to be dead. But I don’t want you to think that I hate teachers because I think they are doing there very best o f trying to get us to learn about life and get a good job. And I also think that it is great that some man or woman would take the time out to teach or help a child like me. But I want to tell you that the reel fact is that I love school myself but I can ’t keep my mind on one thing. And I also want you to know that 6th graders should be able to work with the computers like the 7th and 8th graders can. And as you also know that in the newspaper the other day it was talking about Everett Middle School and how a girl got raped and a 11 year old boy got hung by 3 other boys. I jus t wanted to say I hope Mr. Ronal Ragen or somebody is going to stop this. And that is how I really feel. T J le I Inconcfusion Of course, I thought back on what it was like when I was 12 years old at El Dorado School in Stockton,-California, on the days when we had a substitute in the classroom. First of all, it rarely happened. But when it did, I remember all the derision among us for that odd being. I remember all the really bad fat jokes about piano-playing Miss Esplin. About her breaking the seat and everything. I never made them myself, but the only time I ever got sent to the office in my school life was in the 6th grade. When we had a substitute. And when I stole the answers to the Junior Scholastic test from Mr. Corkery’s desk, made several copies of the answers, and passed them out to all willing cheaters. As usual, whenever I did anything wrong, I got caught. But I had to stand up and admit my own guilt. And only about 60 percent of the other willing cheaters even stood up with me. And I remember it made me really REALLY mad. But my father ended up 'giving me a dollar — for my honesty. But Mrs. Frieberg, a mother of one of those who didn’t stand up, got mad anyway. She said that CHEATING, not honesty, was the point. And the dollar was a mighty disgrace. Well, I don’t mind if I never substitute again, to be frank. It is too hard to win the respect of these kids in a day. Especially because to me, respect means silence so that hearing can go on. In both directions. And since most 12-year-olds don’t have any tendency at all to be quiet, I assume I just can’t stand fighting human nature. But maybe you can. WRITE YOUR ANSWER HERE :____ (You may use your own paper to continue.) Name______________________________ A g e ________________________________ # __________■ _ __________________ • Leanne Grabel is a Portland writer whose first story in the CSQ was “Bye Bye Baja.” T. Michaef Gardiner is a Seattle artist. MUSIC SEVEN NIGHTS PER WEEK APRIL EVENTS SAT 7 • BLUE FLAME STRING BAND THUR 12 • SANDY BRADLEY & LAURIE ANDRES SAT 21 • KENNY HALL & LONG HAUL STRING BAND FRI 27 • DANNY CARNAHAN SAT 28 • JIM PAGE MAY EVENTS FRI 4 • HOWS BAYOU SAT 5 • MORRIS DANCE FESTIVAL SAT 19 • RURAL DELIVERY SUN 29 • BENEFIT FOR DICK GAUGHAN 2110 N. 45th d SEE YOU AT THE MURPHY’S CELTIC STAGE S| DURING FOLKLIFE ’84, MAY 25, 26, 27, 28. 634-2110 6 Clinton St. Quarterly

ON T H E BO A R D S presents LA U R IE A N D E R S O N at the Paramount Theatre

FAMI L Y HOUSE / talked with the District Attorney in Indian Gulch on the phone today. They’ve got bail on Drake set at $10,000. They’ve got him for a stolen car, a count of theft, one of burglary, two more for something else. Several of those 'charges carry maximum 1O-year sentences. Trial date is set for June 22, and then they send him to Harmony to stand trial on another count of burglary, the one they were trying to nail him for, the one that made us keep him in Portland, hoping he’d go into the army before they caught up with him, hoping things would straighten out. He did it all on the day he turned 18. The DA called what he did a spree. I have to look that word up — spree. I told the DA I think Drake needs psychiatric help. He didn’t think so. “He talks perfectly fine to me,” he told me over the phone. “He ain’t seeing no green Martians or anything like that.” From “A Failure to Communicate” By John The passage of time bludgeons us into submission. To challenge it is like a frail man trying to walk on stormy water into the eye of the typhoon and the peace he knows awaits him there. Who's ever made it. Typhoons and time — they drive us to our knees and cause us to invent mythologies, and right there is where we begin to go astray. We cannot tolerate our limitations. Our ignorance. Our mortality. And so we begin constructing a social mythology that we pass on to our children as “the real world.” I had the idea when Drake was born that this would not happen to him. I would personally see to it. I was going to make him impervious to things I couldn’t handle myself. His mother and I — ages 19 and 23 respectively — were living in a single room in a slum tenement in the heart of northwest Washington D.C. She was working as a typist for a rich old German and I was going to a university to learn to be a teacher, although I wasn’t going to send my child to school once he was born. I had a head full of dreams and half-baked ideas. Yes, well, make a long story short. All the ingredients were there for disaster. They were there from the time I first set eyes on Drake’s mother. Fate! She swung the heavy circus hammer down hard and rang the carnival bell of life. My eyes rolled back, my tongue came lollygagging out of my mouth, and my son was born. He was born screaming and he never stopped. By the time we had him tucked into his bassinet in that small room on 15th Street (the landlady banging on the door and asking in a loud, alarmed voice, “What are you doing to that child?”) my elaborate plans that stretched 20 years ahead of the winds of time were already coming unravelled. Bennett * ♦ • ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ <5 f ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ • ♦ • ♦ • • • ♦ • • Yesterday Drake’s parole officer, according to plan, brought him from the county jail and dropped him on our doorstep with the understanding that we’d drive him to Seattle and deliver him to the Family House. A small thing to do, a stopgap measure, but that’s what it’s come down to. I stand on the sidelines like a coach or a waterboy, ready with a bucket of water or a towel or an Ace bandage. A little smelling salts up the nose, some coagulant to stem the flow of blood from a nasty gash in the eyebrow, and then he goes back onto the field. The years have taken their toll, and my grand schemes to keep my son from getting tangled in society’s insane web have been honed to such small services as these. The 20-year game plan has almost run its course, and one of these days when he comes trotting to the sidelines, I won’t be there. Or he'll go trotting back into the game, never to return, and I will always be there. It’s a nice place, this Family House. Nicer by far than I expected. I expected something more like Synanon. These places always have to be somewhat like 8 Clinton St. Quarterly

from institutions John Bennett is an Ellensburg writer and the publisher of Vagabond Press. V Synanon, like the idea behind Synanon: they’re all for people who are fucked up. It’s not necessary to go to prison first (like Drake did) to qualify. You just have to know you’re fucked up and want to try to do something about it. Get off the streets for awhile. Get out of society’s web. Drake got out of the car and went in to check it out. Wearing those one-way sunglasses, a Winston dangling from his lips, peach fuzz under his nose and on his chin. A bandana wrapped around his head. Mr. Tough Guy. Six-foot-two, 180 pounds, 19 years old. He came back out and got his duffle bag of worldly belongings from the trunk. "You can come in if you want to,” he says. Sandra and I go in. It’s a clean place with a bright atmosphere, located high on Queen Anne Hill. You enter through a corner gate into a tidy complex of small houses. There’s a sandbox just inside the gate with some small children playing in it. Someone with tinted shades is watching over them, one child — apparently his — clinging to his leg. We talk briefly, and he tells us he’s been in the program for 10 months. I get the feeling he’s been deeply wounded, will always be deeply wounded, that the Family House is outfitting him with and training him to use an array of spiritual prostheses. We cross the yard passing young men and women who are all smiling and vigorous. Drake begins smiling too. This isn’t going to be as bad as he thought, he’s thinking. Better than going back to prison at Walla Walla. A boy about Drake’s age directs us into a room with a long conference table in it. He sits down with us. Every instinct in me veers away any institution, and my son has been dragging me through them steadily now for the past four years. It all turned out ass-backwards, who’s educating We're waiting for the director. Ah, sweet Jesus. We’ve been going through this sort of thing in one form or another for four years now — directors, counselors, parole officers, cops and robbers, judges and lawyers — but the shock waves continue to ripple through me; I still can’t believe all this is happening. Every instinct in me veers away from institutions, any institution, and my son has been dragging me through them steadily now for the past four years. It’s all turned out ass-backwards; who’s been educating who? No one educates anyone, that’s one card I’ve turned up. We live, we experience, and if we’re lucky, we perceive a thing or two pretty close to how they really are. The kid who showed us into the room is talking away. It’s the party line. It’s his hope for the future, the alternative that they’re offering him to drugs and ripping off his mother and everyone else who crosses his path. His alternative to prison, where he’s been, where Drake’s been. The kid keeps talking and finally lets a few things slip that make it possible for all three of us to get a glimpse of who it is behind the program rhetoric, who it is, even, behind the drugs and the stealing. Does the program come to terms with that person, or do they run their wiring around him? Will they break Drake or help him? Will they do either? Will Drake be able to handle what they’re going to lay on him and balance it with his inner self, make the two compatible? His inner self that I so brazenly and in my fragility tried to protect 20 years ago like a mother hen doing her dance around her chicks when the snake slithers into the coop? That balancing act that I never stopped trying to teach him? Until now (when the shock of watching him get thrown again and again in his attempt to ride life’s tornado has gone from sharp and piercing to dull and throbbing), I see that I have to pull away from him and let him go it alone. I cut the kid off in mid-sentence, not unkindly, not with anger, just knowing the scene too well, what can and cannot be said, knowing it’s not going to be good, it’s going to be bad to wait for the director to get out of conference and run it all down again, tell us what the kid is saying and much more, knowing how my brain works on Drake’s and his on mine so that it is next to impossible for us to be in the same room (the silent ride over the mountains), when he’s around all my thoughts, words and gestures are in hock and I’m as sure as sure can be that it works both ways, all this tied up with the tattered dreams of 20 years ago . . . I cut the kid off as he’s telling us what Drake will be like in 10 months (he’ll be just like this kid), cut him off and say, “Well, yes, but I think ail this is premature.” He stops talking abruptly and looks at me for the first time since we all sat down. “And I think we ll go, Drake, before the director comes, you know?” “Either way’s ok with me,” Drake says. We all stand up. I hug Drake, Sandra hugs him. The hugs are real; it’s the only way we communicate, the only way we can be reassured that down under all this mind-boggling maze, there’s love for each other. We drive around the block, a fine, quiet neighborhood, and there is a little overlook park with a vis’ta that encompasses the entire city of Seattle and all of Elliott Bay. On a day with no haze, the Olympic Range should be visible, too. From a Washington D.C. tenement to this — not bad, not too bad. Some morning, after Drake’s gone through his first three months of Black Out, in which they attempt to isolate him from all previous connections in life, perhaps he’ll stand alone in this small park. The sun will rise over the mountains to the east and turn the city and the bay golden, and whether he’s come to terms with society or not, the inner man in him will sing out in recognition and shatter time into countless prisms of eternal beauty, making all my dreams come true at last. • Clinton St. Quarterly 9

AMADEUS by Peter Shaffer May 3 - May 26 The New Yirker called AMADEUS "a highly intelligent thriller having to do, on one level, with the possibility that Mozart’s early death (at age 35) was a result o f his having been poisoned by a rival and, on another level, with that rival’s indignant repudiation o f God. ” Tony Award for Best Play. TOP GIRLS by Caryl Churchill June 7 - June 30 Densely provocative view o f women climbing the corporate v ladder by a highly imaginative and gifted writeiyCburchill was, last month, awarded the Blackbum Prize fo r “work o f outstanding quality. ” "Funny, fiercely serious^and boldly unconventional, ” says New York Magazine. ANGELS FALL by Lanford Wilson July 12 - August 4 This Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright takes us to a sun- baked mission in New Mexico to share the views o f six people, trapped by an accident at a uranium mine, searching fo r meaning and peace. '"Warm, funny, touching, highly satisfying evening o f theatre,’’ says Village Voice. THIRTEEN by Lynda Myles August 16 - September 8 World premiere by a new American talent, growing up in the 1950’s in Queens, N.Y., a young girl is, at 13 years, moving toward a more complex time. FOOL FOR LOVE by Sam Shepard September 20 - October 13 J In a motel at the edge o f the Mojave Desert, a man and a woman demand affirmation in fierce, brilliant, lacerating language. “It is as mysterious and unsettling as spare, and incidentally, as funny as anything he has ever done... brings fresh news o f love, here and now, in all its potency and deviousness and foolishness, ” saysTheNew Yorker. THE COMMUNICATION CORD by Brian Friel October 25 - November 17 Hilarious Irish farce in which a graduate student in linguistics creates a web o f confusion, misunderstanding and merriment. “As always, Mr. Friel’s prose, line by line, is as good as any living playwright’s,” says The Financial^ Times. \ BY PHONE We'll be happy to take you r o rd e r ove r th e p h o n e w i th a VISA. MasterCard. American Express num b e r Call 285-5110. Tuesday-Friday, n o o n to 5 :30 p m 1984 SUBSCRIPTION PRICES Opening Fri.-Sat. Evenings Sun.-Thur. Evenings All Matinees Senior Discount (Wed Mat and Sat Mat) m i S ID E $51 50 $42 .50 $32 .00 $27 .50 y । । M ID $62 .00 $51.50 $42 .50 $38 .00 \ nnnnnni CENTER $72 .50 $62 .00 $51.50 $47.00 Sunday, Tuesday, or Wednesday Preview: $38 00/Student Series: $26.00 BOX OFFICE Phone : 285 5110 IOCATION . Mercer from 1-5 and c o n tinu e on Mercer Ave W o n e b lock past Q ueen Anne Axe to the c o rn e r o f (st W. and W. Roy \ \ BY MA I 1 Fill ou t th e en c lo se d o n je r form a n d mail to ACT' 100 W Roy. Seattle. WA 98119 (The above p rice s in c lud e a S2 .00 hand ling charge ) THEATRE SEATING PLAN PERFORMANCE TIMES: All Matinees 2 :30 Tuesday • Saturday 8 p m Sunday Evenings ""^O p m 1984 ACT Theatre Subscription Order Form MaU to: ACT, 100 W. Roy, Seattle, WA 98119 Name „ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ; _________________________ Address____________________________________________________________ C i t y State--------------------------- Zip--------------------_ _ Home Phone______________ _______ Work Phone Check choice of day: □ Tuesday □ Wednesday □ Thursday □ Friday □ Saturday □ Sunday O Wednesday Matinee □ Saturday Matinee □ Sunday Matinee O Tliesday Preview □ Wednesday Preview □ Solo Series (3rd Tuesday) □ Opening (Th) □ Speaking of Theatre (2nd Tuesday) □ Student Series (side section seats only) T W Th PM □ Sunday Preview Student I .D .# ______________________________________________________ □ I am a 1983 subscriber. □ 1am a former subscriber. □ I am a new subscriber. Check choice of seating area: □ SIDE □ MID □ CENTER. If my choice of seating has been sold out, my second choice of performance day i s .. Please send me (total n u m b e r ) s e r i e s subscriptions, for a total x ' amount $_x_____________ □ 1 enclose my check or money order, payable to ACT Theatre. □ 1 wish to charge my subscription to: □ MasterCard □ Visa □ American Express Account Number Exp. (copy from card):________________ _ _________ da te______ 1 want to sit with (Name o ^ y those .people ordering separately from you). ------------------------------------------------------------------- y . . .— -------------------------------------- ■— ----------------------------------— — - — ■— ■ 10 Clinton St. Quarterly

ET H IC A L rop the term ethical investing in casual conversation and the reaction you’re likely to get is,“Wasn’t that what Jerry Rubin was into before he started his networking parties at Studio 54?” That is an unfortunate, though common, association, for Rubin is to ethical investing what Gerald Ford is to the game of golf. Ford once earned an asterisk in the record books when he bounced a golf ball squarely off the head of an- innocent spectator, thereby becoming the first U.S. president thus to distinguish himself. Rubin made an equally graceless exhibition in 1980 when he announced his intended foray into investment advising with John Muir & Co., a New York-based financial consulting firm. Ethical investing is a financial revolution as solid as Muir was evanescent. It is not easily defined, for it is as complex as any other field of finance, a mesh of styles and opinions, statistical shell games and rude facts, hustlers and saints. One person’s ethical investment is another’s moral transgression, one’s notion of safety another’s ungodly risk. But taken as a whole, the idea that one’s dollar should be invested with regard to social consequence has mushroomed into a multi-million-dollar investment movement. Measured against the hard gray standards of Wall Street, ethical investing is at best a guerrilla campaign, but it is one that has, in the past 15 years, redirected hundreds of millions — some think billions — of investment dollars away from the dark side of corporate America toward what Next Economy author Paul Hawken calls “ areas that address real human need” : consumer coops, inner-city redevelopment, alternative energy, small businesses, family farms, worker-owned companies, corporations with enlightened policies toward their employees, their products, the environment. Like any successful guerrilla campaign, ethical investing is a series of pincer attacks, strong steely fingers reaching into the American economy, manipulating it from many sides: It is a new breed of financiers come of age in the 1980s, social activists who have earned the tools of power on Wall Street but whose vision is firmly rooted in the activism of the '60s and 70s. It is religious leaders who have marched down from their pulpits and into the boardrooms of the nation’s largest corporations, backing their message of moral courage with economic muscle. It is an increasingly aware economic elite following through on its sense of noblesse oblige with the millions of dollars at its command. And it is a growing army of good common folk who have tucked away a dollar here and a dollar there, and who now, in the words of economist Hazel Henderson, “ have stood on their doorsteps and smelled the rot and can no longer let what they do with their money counteract what they do with their lives.” If the range is broad and the boundaries vague, the results are real. A few recent examples: • The Lutheran Church loaned half a million dollars to the Alabama Rural Council, giving the ARC the financial leverage it needed to secure $2 million in Small Business Administration loans to build low- income housing. • The Teachers Insurance and Annuity Association/College Retirement Equities Funds, the nation’s third-largest private pension fund, voted to screen its $9 billion in investment capital through a strict set of ethical criteria. • The Calvert Group launched its $20 million Social Investment Fund, which went against all the rules of Wall Street by basing its money market and mutual fund portfolios on ethical considerations. It invests only in businesses that are nonnuclear, nonmilitary, proconsumer, pro- environmental. Its board of advisors includes the likes of Armory and Hunter Lovins, Robert Rodale, and Hazel Henderson. And it defies all expectations by outperforming both the Dow Jones and money market averages. • Three manufacturers of infant formula — Nestle's, American Home Products, and Bristol-Meyers — succumbed to shareholder pressure brought by groups affiliated with the Interfaith Center for Corporate Responsibility and agreed to conform to marketing codes that will end "baby-bottle disease" in the Third World. The list goes on, solid evidence that the most basic unit of American capitalism — the investment dollar — is being used to fight the good fight. “ Ethical investing is really survival investing,” says Duane Elgin, author of Voluntary Simplicity. “The American public has begun to realize that the game of Wall Street roulette, of stockbroker speculation based on greed and fear, is a self-fulfilling dynamic that just doesn't promote a healthful economy. What this sudden rise in conscious investing is telling us is that there is hope beyond the current economic madness.” w W W herever you go in the world of ethical investors, two names keep popping up: Zevin and Schwartz. If ethical investing is a guerrilla campaign, Robert Zevin and Robert Schwartz are the generals. Robert Zevin has been wrapped up in one radical cause or another for most of his life. He was an original member of both the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee and the Congress on Racial Equality. With Mark Raskin and Benjamin Spock during the Vietnam war, he founded the antidraft organization Resist; he was the principal author of “Call to Resist Legitimate Authority,” for which Raskin and Spock were later indicted. He founded the U.S. Servicemen’s Fund to support the Gl antiwar movement. Over the past decade he has involved himself in neighborhood organizing and anti-nuclear and environmental campaigns OV E R M O R E T H A N A D E C A D E O F S O C IA L IN V E S T IN G , S C H W A R T Z HAS C O N S IS T E N T L Y O U T P E R F O R M E D T H E D o w JO N E S A V E R A G E , A N D H E CAN C O N V IN C IN G L Y D IS P E L T H E M Y T H T H A T S O C IA L IN V E S T IN G IM P L IE S G R E A T F IN A N C IA L R IS K . across the breadth of his home state, Massachusetts. Given this background, you’d hardly expect Zevin to be a vice-president of investment firms, or to direct some $350 million in investment capital. But that is exactly who he is and what he does. For Zevin, the jump from political activist to portfolio manager was both logical and simple. While teaching graduate students in the 1960s, he became active in the antiwar effort, devoting much of his free time to fundraising. At the same time, he held a small portfolio of stocks, which, he says, “were a hobby for me, the way chess and poker are for other people.” The portfolio was a game, a test: How well could he do with stock selected for their political merit — specifically, their nonsupport of the war? Not too badly, as it turned out, and when friends began asking him for investment advice, Zevin took the next step, registering as an investment advisor. “ It took about an hour," says Zevin. “ It was the easiest thing in the world to do.” Meanwhile, his fundraising had introClinton St. Quarterly 11

duced him to wealthy liberals who were beginning to question the moral implications of their investment strategies. “They’d ask me what I did for a living,” says Zevin, “ and when I’d tell them that one of my occupations was investment counseling, they’d be surprised: here was this guy who’d managed to reconcile his leftist political beliefs with his investments. Their reaction was: That’s unusual. Would you handle my investments for me?’ I got clients pretty rapidly that way, and by the time the war was over, I was concentrating most of my working time on investing.” Zevin joined U.S. Trust in the mid-’70s and by 1979 was handling $7 million in what the company termed “ socially sensitive” ’ accounts. By 1983 social accounts totaled $52 million. When Zevin predicts that his social accounts will hit $100 million by 1985, there is little reason to doubt him. Over the past three years they’ve outperformed U.S. Trust’s con- “ A V O ID 1 N G IN V E S T M E N T S IN T H E E V IL S A N D IL L S O F S O C IE T Y IS A S O U N D F IN A N C IA L D E C IS IO N ---- NO IN V E S T O R , NO M A T T E R W H A T H IS O R H E R P O L IT IC A L P E R S U A S IO N , W A N T S TO BACK C O M P A N IE S T H A T A R E C R E A T IN G P R O B L E M S IN S T E A D O F S O L V IN G T H E M . ” ventional accounts and the Dow Jones average, which doesn’t really surprise Zevin: social considerations, he says, are only good business sense. "A company that treats its employees in an innovative way will be innovative in the marketplace,” he says. “ Businesses that develop environmentally benign technologies avoid the costs that make polluters unprofitable — the nuclear power industry has been an investor’s nightmare, while alternative energy has done well. Small businesses, which are many of the companies we consider ’clean,’ have outperformed large corporations over the past several years, because they’ve been better able to adapt to the recession.” Zevin has hired a staff of portfolio managers and researchers to handle U.S. Trust’s social accounts, and together they have developed what is generally considered the nation’s most sophisticated system of ethical criteria. “My early clients taught me that it wasn’t effective just to not invest in something," says Zevin. “You have to go a step further. Divestiture of South African investments, the boycott of J.P. Stevens — they’re most effective as part of a broader effort. So we’ve had to work hard to define what a good company is.” To do that, Zevin and his associates look at a company’s performance not just in financial terms — though this aspect is certainly taken into account — but in social terms: What kind of products does it produce? How does it affect the environment? What are its hiring policies? How does it treat its employees? What are its politics? But the screen is not an absolute. Steve Moody, one of Zevin’s portfolio managers, notes that the criteria automatically rule out about a third of the country’s major corporations. But the vast majority fall into a gray area. Take Fort Howard Paper: “ It’s the country's leading manufacturer of recycled paper," says Moody. “ It’s also had labor problems and has refused to meet some pollution control requirements. But we looked at it and decided that its beneficial aspects outweigh its negative points, at least for the moment." Other companies Moody might recommend are People’s Express, whose innovative management policies — such as making all workers shareholders — has made it the country’s leading cut-rate airline, or Magma Power, whose development of geothermal power has made it one of the best utility buys in the past decade, even though, Moody admits, “ the Sierra Club has had some problems with them.” “You have to keep in mind that we re dealing with capitalism and its strengths and weaknesses, and that everything might be different six months from now," says Moody. “A company’s financial picture might change." As Robert says, it seems that the more you know about a corporation, the less you like it.” In line with that observation, Zevin has expanded his service to connect more demanding investors with riskier “enterprises with explicit commitments to social change” — consumer co-ops, community organizations, alternative media. And as social investing grows, says Zevin, this kind of “ alternative” investing will play a much bigger role. “ People will begin to use social criteria to promote new enterprises, creative financing for cooperative housing, things like that,” he says, “ rather than becoming embroiled in trying to determine whether this big oil company or that major steel producer can be considered socially responsible." From the sound of it, Zevin, instead of vainly trying to blow the capitalist machine off the highway, is working his way into the driver’s seat and subtly changing the vehicle’s course. But can anyone who switches roles so readily — from social activist to high-powered financier — be trusted? Zevin claims the two roles are really one. “ In the most basic sense there is no conflict between my investment work and my social conscience,” he says. “ Investment decisions depend on a fundamental analysis of the economy, and that is exactly what my political beliefs give me. And, from the other end, avoiding investments in the evils and ills of society is a sound financial decision — no investor, no matter what his or her political persuasion, wants to back companies that are „ , IKE ruAVE A LOT Of ANGCA MV PAO AMP o r CPUME I WAS AB^ T r * Y -TOTAU-V lf4 * WHERE I * Skeep iix Tkerapy creating problems instead of solving them.” ven as Robert Zevin was fundraising around Boston for the antiwar effort, Robert Schwartz was taking part in antiwar demonstrations in New York — albeit decked out in the medals he’d earned as a Marine captain in Okinawa in World War II. Today, as an investment executive for Shearson-American Express, Schwartz influences over a billion dollars in investments, much of it based on ethical concerns. He’s considered the dean of ethical investing, and, like Robert Zevin, he has a history of involvement in liberal causes, from the civil rights movement to the antinuclear crusade. He sees no contradiction between his ideologies and his chosen occupation. “You’re either a full- time revolutionary,” he once told the Wall Street Journal, “or you have to earn a living in a constructive way.” When confronted on the question, he points out that “ not everyone on Wall Street holds the conviction painted when people start talking about the ‘citadels of capitalism.' Like me, many of the senior people on Wall Street [Schwartz is 65] have children, and as their kids came of age, they became more concerned about the shape of the world. They can be persuaded to new points of view.” Schwartz is one of the movement’s cleverest tacticians. Consider, for exampie, the campaign he conducted against the Blue Diamond Coal Company. Blue Diamond, known as the “J.P. Stevens of Appalachia,” was one of the largest coal producers in Eastern Kentucky and one of its worst abusers of safety standards and environmental regulations. But because Blue Diamond had fewer than 500 shareholders, it did not have to file public information with the SEC, and its public accountability was al- , most nil. Whenever it appeared that its shareholder total would exceed 500, Blue Diamond bought out the small shareholders. After a 1976 explosion killed more than RESTAURANT mountain Song 9^aturady ‘f in e Country ‘Dining North Cascades Highway Mitepost 106 Marbtemount, Wa (206) 873-2461 TRUFFLE The Truffle (’traf-al) Defined: A divinely decadent confection with a smooth rich center and a pure chocolate shell. Truffle Habitat: Marketplaces featuring fine foods, gourmet specialty stores and gift shops throughout Eugene/Springfield, greater Oregon and Washington. Truffle Desire: To grace the tables and please the palate of all discriminating dessert lovers. Unmatched in dessert decadence. 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