Summary

"The inside story of an extraordinary politics you probably didn't know existed-ordinary Americans getting together and acquiring real power for themselves." -William Greider, national correspondent, The Nation A New York city neighborhood once called "the beginning of the end of civilization" is where Michael Gecan starts. Hired by residents to help them save their community, he and local leaders spend more than a decade wrestling New York politicians in an impassioned effort against all odds that brings in five thousand new homes. From bad behavior by Ed Koch to complicated negotiations with Rudy Giuliani, Gecan tells the inside story of how the city really works, and how any organized group of citizens can wield power in seemingly unmovable bureaucracies. Gecan's unwavering vision of the value of public action has roots in a rough childhood in Chicago, where he witnessed extortion by the mob and a tragic fire in his Catholic grade school that left ninety-two children and three nuns dead. In his inspiring story of the will to claim the full benefits of citizenship, Gecan offers unforgettable lessons that every American should know: What is the best way to talk to politicians? What resources do all communities need to create change? What kinds of public actions really work? "If you want to know how ordinary Americans accomplished extraordinary things-built affordable homes, created effective schools, won living wages-then the story and the strategy reside in this remarkable book. Going Public is at once pragmatic and profound." -Samuel G. Freedman, author of Upon This Rock: The Miracles of a Black Church Michael Gecan has been an organizer for twenty years. He lives in Princeton, New Jersey.

Author Biography

Michael Gecan has been an organizer for twenty years. He lives in Princeton, New Jersey.

Contents

Preface: Why Organize?

Introduction

Part I: The Habit of Relating

1. All Real Living Is Meeting

2. The World as It Is

Part II: The Habit of Action

3. Activists on a Manhattan Street

4. Introducing Your Larger Self

5. Merit Means (Almost) Nothing

6. Chutzpah Helps

7. Ambiguity, Reciprocity, Victory

Part III: The Habit of Organization

8. The Hard Edges of Effective Organization

9. Disorganizing and Reorganizing

Part IV: The Habit of Reflection

10. Three Public Cultures

11. Fault Lines and Collisions

12. The Right Relationship

Conclusion

Acknowledgments

Index 00

Supplemental Materials

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Excerpts

Preface Why Organize? I am an organizer. It's a strange word-"organizer"-a word from the past, a black-and-white photo of a person passing out fliers to workers leaving an auto plant. But it's 2002, and I am an organizer. Not a consultant to so-called faith-based programs. Not a facilitator. Not an adviser. Not a service provider or do-gooder. Not an ideologue. Not a political operative. Not a pundit. Not a progressive. Not an activist. I'm clearly not a lot of things. In my organizing, I use other old- fashioned words like "leader"and "follower," "power"and "action," "confrontation" and "negotiation," "relationships" and "institutions." These words still form the phonics of the larger language of politics. With these basic tools, the plots and subplots of public life, no matter how intricate, begin to make sense. Characters come to life. Motivations emerge. Relationships reveal themselves. Themes and story lines become clear. The reader can begin to talk back to the teller of the tale, can begin to judge, or can pick up a pen and create a different world. In the public arena, participation and action and change can take place. But I won't begin to make sense unless I follow the advice of my former college professor and poet laureate, the late Robert Penn Warren, and tell some stories. We took a walk one day on the Connecticut roads near his Fairfield home. It was a brisk winter afternoon, and his dog was yanking him along. As we walked, he provided a gentle but thorough critique of a novel I was working on at the time. He kept coming back to a simple theme: "Just tell the story. Forget everything else and tell your story." He was repeating what he had already written in his wonderful book-length poem, Audubon: A Vision, "Tell me a story. / In this century, and moment, of mania, / Tell me a story / . . . Tell me a story of deep delight." So, many years later, I will follow the advice of this wise teacher and tell you some stories from my life, the beginnings of my life as an organizer. I grew up on the west side of Chicago in the fifties and learned that we live in a world of power-raw power-long before I knew the word. My mother and father bought a tavern when my sister and I were quite young. As a six-year-old, I served shots and beers to the men who sat along "my" section of the bar. My customers were Italians, Irish, and fellow Croatians. They walked down the hill a block away from the Chicago and Northwestern Railroad yard at noon-for a couple of shots, a couple of beers, and sandwiches and soup made by my mother in the kitchen. My father built a small platform behind the bar so that I could serve my crowd. I remember this as a glorious time in my life-a time when I was admitted to an adult world of strength and laughter and toughness. (My parents remember this as a period of unremitting pressure and endless work.) The time ended on a sunny afternoon. The young man from the mob came in to pick up his monthly payment. My father explained to him that, because by mother had taken ill, we were short. As my father and the young man talked, all the other men at the bar became silent, looked down at their drinks, or stared straight ahead. The young man told my father that he knew what he had to do. My father nodded. Then the man turned around and walked out. Slowly, conversation picked back up. Someone ordered a shot of vo and a Schlitz. That night, my father closed the bar-Gus's Tavern-for good. When he sold the tavern to a Polish immigrant, my father explained to him that there were three "expenses" that did not appear on the books-the p