Page 720 - Demo

EditorialsEverybody's Side of the StoryThe issue of %u201c red linin g%u201d has been one that has received extensivecoverage in the pages of this new spaper over the past few yearsprobably more coverage and m ore responsible coverage than thesubject has received anywhere.Over the years of our redlining issue reporting, a num ber of theBrooklyn-based savings banks have pursued a deliberate policy ofw ithholding advertising from the pages of The P H O E N IX in whatthey seem to think is a way to %u201c punish%u201d us for our reporting, usingequally or more expensive advertising m edia w hich even theiradvertising agencies acknow ledge are less effective. Since theadvertising pays the bills, we notice it. But since the purpose of ourefforts here is to produce a new spaper that tells w hat is happeningin our part of tow n, we see it as part of the price we have andcontinue to pay.That's why it is with particular in te res t%u2014 and som e sense ofpride%u2014 that we see both sides of the issue stepping out of the newscolum ns of the paper to take their case to our readers in paidadvertisem ents this week.The P H O E N IX has been the num ber one forum in New York Cityon the redlining issue and in addition to the news coverage on thesubject, Bank on Brooklyn, one of the anti-redline organizations,has been advertising in recent w eeks for depositors to rem ove theiraccounts in Dim e branches, charging that the bank has reneged onits com m itm ents to that group about m aking local m ortgage loans.Now, this week, w e have not only Bank on Brooklyn soliciting Dim edepositors, but Dim e Savings Bank reporting on its investm entprogram and announcing the availability of m ortgages in Brooklyn.The sam e subject is the topic of a news story on Page Six this week.And as with m ost stories on redlining, th e re%u2019s a little bit of truth inwhat everyone has to say.W e %u2019re proud of our award-w inning reporting on the redliningissue, as we are proud of the kind of responsible, thoroughcom m unity-based journalism we have made a standard in ourpages. And w e %u2019re proud that those involved in this issue see ourpages as a useful place to carry on their dialogue w ith the public.One sure thing: The PH O EN IX will co ntinue to report on the subjectof red linin g%u2014 everybody%u2019s side of the story. You can bank on it.oping b y Ju d y LinscottGiving in the True Spirit of Holiday GuiltRound about this tim e of year 1 predictably start to feel Guilty. This guilt has nothing to do with murky pasts or bizarre feelings about my mother. This guilt is boring, standard, white middle class privileged Holiday Guilt.That kind of guilt, one would presume, feeds charity. In fact this is not the case at all. Charity, such as I have known it, has never succeeded%u2014for the giver or the givee. That is to say, for me or the otherguy1 hold the New York Times and its endless pages of neediest cases largely responsible. It is aided by the Salvation Army and the Richmond, Massachusetts United Church of Christ. UNICEF and, for that matter, those greedy guts to whom I%u2019m yearly obliged to attend with gifts are also not far behind in blame.Charity, it is said, begins at home. For me, it began in childhood, at the Richmond Chuch. It began with something called %u201c annual collection,%u201d staged around Thanksgiving time. Annual collection, with its appropriately sober and humorless title (conjuring up images of freshly laundered used wool underwear) was in fact the Sunday School constituent%u2019s version of a charity ball. It amounted to our dragging in food-related largely canned food donations for our Third World friends and parading with the merchandise in full and angelic view of the congregation to the foot of the altar, where we placed our offerings. (I may be imagining this, but I swear there was always a big plastic turkey there, which served as a centerpiece, and I suppose, inspiration).Our little Third World friends, we were given to believe%u2014or we vaguely imagined %u2014were very hungry, dirty and cold. I thought they lived in South America (which they may have, I%u2019ve no idea where this stuff was actually sent) and I imagined them wrapped in something akin to dirty Mexican blankets. I also imagined them dutifully penitent and gloriously grateful in the face of our Campbell%u2019s tomato rice soup cans and boxes of Muller's enriched spaghetti.Since my parents were not churchgoersthemselves, but deemed the Sunday ritual an essential part of the well rounded education, they were seldom privy to upcoming events of this sort. Thus they were constrained to sleepily and hastily on the Sunday morning in question rummage round their New England WASP shelves, most often emerging triumphant with cans of things like Mrs. Snow%u2019s clam chowder orMy heart goes out to theunderprivileged andthat includes people whocan%u2019t carry a tune andanyone who plays thetuba in public.Hearthstone steamed Boston brown bread.I admit I often wondered if in fact these little friends of ours wouldn%u2019t rather some banana pudding, but we nevertheless sailed to the altar, clutching the chowder, on a wave of glorious sacrifice and the missionary conviction that we were opening new culinary vistas to the small and presumably grateful little stomachs in the foothills of Buenos Aires. We might not be capable of bringing the Word, but surelywe could send Wonder Bread, thereby ensuring a spot in the Great White Heaven. Where the only thing closer to God is Pepperidge Farm.Only later in life did I discover that people simply (and wisely) won%u2019t eat certain foods%u2014thus much of what we gave was never sent to its alleged destination. This makes sense (well, after all, I don%u2019t eat anything with coconut). Nevertheless, the news came as a crushing blow. The added information that those cans of tomato rice in fact end up often as not on the shelves of church staff members produced instant and staggering disillusionment.1 decided then and there never to join the Peace Corps. Some say that I never intended to join the Peace Corps, to which I reply: you never know. I might have, and think how that misguided effort might have benefited from the likes of me bolstering its failing ranks. Had it come to pass, for instance, they might be eating Wonder Bread in Buenos Aires today, instead of making revolutions or whatever it is they do there. (Nothing like Wonder Bread for blunting all initiative).My second and more recent attempt at Charity was the decision made three years ago that everytime I passed one of those Salvation Army kettles I had to put some money in. Just how much I had to put in, 1 wisely reserved the right to decide on the spot. Why I came to this decision is still open to speculation, which is to say that I can%u2019t remember. I think I had my resons at the time, and I vaguely recall it having something to do with the fact that the Salvation Army bands are always so awful. (My heart goes out to the underpriviledged and that includes people who can%u2019t carry a tune and anyone who plays the tuba in public).So there I was, committed. I%u2019d made my promise and by God I was going to keep it, even though I never realized until then that there were so many damn Salvation Army buckets around time. Nor did I realize that when you drop in your dollar or whatever (mostly whatever, and most nickels, as it happened; this little project started gettingexpensive) the guy who stands there and rings the bell likes to publicly thank you over his little bullhorn.Clink. In goes my quarter. %u201c And thank you, little lady, for your kind thoughts and your generous donation. God bless you. Hey, who wants to do like this nice little lady has done here, folks?%u201d blares out from the bullhorn. 0 Lord. Immediate embarrassm ent. The eyes of the street (I imagine) turn as one. I am subjected to the humiliation of public thanks for my paltry and pathetic deed. And, of course, I know They Know. I might be able to fool the bucket bell ringer, but I know damn well I%u2019m not fooling anybody else. What%u2019s worse, the bell ringer has made them look Selfish and Niggardly and now they%u2019re all mad at me.As we came down to the wire, Christmas-wise, I took to crossing the street to avoid the kettle. I knew that bucket brigade layout like the back of my hand. I restructured my whole travel system, sticking to side streets and out-ofthe-way shops. If I heard the strains of the infamous band, I%u2019d sneak down a side street fast. One weekend I made the mistake of visiting a friend in Boston. Unfamiliar with the lay of the land there, bucket-wise, I spent three days of sweaty hell.I refused to join shopping expeditions or meet friends for lunch downtown. I avoided Christmas tree lightings and other public festivities, knowing full well that the Salvation Army people may be dumb, but they know where to carry their kettles. I bought presents in gas stations and drug stores.Everyone thought I%u2019d finally gone over the edge. They were amazed at my instant recovery on Christmas morn. At that point, they stopped feeling sorry for me and started getting mad at all those cancelled lunches and drugstore presents.You just can%u2019t win. It may indeed be better to give than to receive, but when you%u2019ve got the option, by all means give so that you don%u2019t get back. Unless, of course, it%u2019s a tax deduction.Inklings By Bene SuchmaI'D LlfcG 7D BUV THAT R0D(^ 0\\lQ 9~ T H e f t %u00a3 D o YoUACCBPT CA*>H \%u00abou.et, ______ r\\/\\ J L %u00a3OU-%u00a3C.TiC%u2018N V o u R . a s e _ Y e s . , YOU <000(0 THAT RODlW.5 A R%u00a3ALIY GD C o p y ...- $ 0 > THe H0W6Y