“Yes, sir. I’m on it.”
The Census Debate
“We now come to the next item, the determination by the Commonwealth government of the population of each member planet for purposes of determining the weighting of votes in the Council and collecting a head tax on member planets,” Sania Mehta said.
“Madam Chairman, I move the language proposed be included in the Charter as drafted,” said Gerald Ansen, standing at one of the two lecterns in the well of the floor.
“Seconded,” Ikaika Kalani called out. He was one of the delegates from Hutan.
“Debate,” Patryk Mazur said.
“We have a call for debate on this issue. Is there an objection, Mr. Ansen?”
“No objection, Madam Chairman.”
“Your opening statement, Mr. Mazur.”
“Thank you, Madam Chairman.”
Patryk Mazur collected his notes and advanced to the other lectern.
“Madam Chairman, distinguished colleagues.
“This subject has come up before, often before, in human history. The Romans are reputed to have gathered census data by requiring everyone to report to the village of their birth, causing disruptions which became famous in another context.”
There was some chuckling among the delegates to that.
“More recently, a republic founded on the highest of principles made the same mistake Mr. Ansen now puts forward for our proposed Commonwealth. If I may point out to you the enabling language within the Constitution of the United States of America, dated 1789.”
Mazur manipulated the controls on the lectern and the large overhead display showed a portion of a handwritten document, with one sentence highlighted.
“They, too, had provided for a representation based upon the population of their member states, a concept to which I do not object. And they provided means within their founding document for their federal government to determine the populations of their member states. ‘The actual Enumeration shall be made within three Years after the first Meeting of the Congress of the United States, and within every subsequent Term of ten Years, in such Manner as they shall by Law direct.’
“So there we have it. An ‘enumeration,’ to be made every ten years. Now, enumeration is a very precise word. It is ‘to make a counting of.’ We have here a very limited authorization for a specific purpose, the sort of thing Mr. Ansen and I might both applaud.
“Shall we now proceed two hundred and thirty years forward and see what grew out of this innocuous language?”
Mazur manipulated the lectern controls, and a new document appeared on the large display, and slowly scrolled through multiple pages as he talked.
“We have here the ‘American Community Survey’ of 2018, promulgated by the Census Bureau of the United States of America, an agency that by that time employed over four thousand permanent bureaucrats and over six hundred thousand census takers. This questionnaire runs to eleven pages, in three columns, the last four pages of which are repeated for each person in the household. If four people live in this household, this survey runs to twenty-three pages.
“And what sort of data is being collected by the federal government of the United States of America under that simple enabling language within their Constitution?
“The name of each person living there. Fair enough, I suppose, for while that exceeds the nature of a simple count, the word ‘enumeration’ can also mean a complete listing.
“The race of each person. A curious inquiry for a republic whose declaration of existence loudly and proudly declared all people to be created equal. If you are not going to treat people differently on the basis of race, then for what purpose do you need to know it?
“The relationship of each person in the household to the other, with choices like ‘Husband or wife’ or ‘Unmarried partner’ or ‘Housemate or roommate.’ Now what business is it of the government, with whom I am engaging in sexual relations, and the commitments my partner and I have or have not made to each other? If my housemate and I engage in the occasional sexual congress, is that person then my ‘Unmarried partner?’ Even if we do so only once? If one act of sexual congress is not enough for such a change in status, then what is the threshold count? Must I keep an accounting? And why is any of this any of the government’s business?
“The education of each person in the household, by level of education attained and even the subject matter of their studies. By what person or company each person in the household was employed. How much money each person made. Whether the house was owned or rented, and the amount of the rent or mortgage payment.
“How the house was heated. How the computers in the house were connected to the network. How much the electricity bill was last month. How much the gas bill was last month. How each person got to work, and how many minutes it took them to get there.
“Note that answering this ridiculous intrusion of the government into people’s lives, pending by the most tenuous thread from that enabling language, language similar to what Mr. Ansen here proposes, was mandated by law. One could be fined one hundred United States Dollars for not complying, an amount equal at the time to two bottles of good bourbon, a measure of value Mr. Ansen and I both understand.”
There was general laughter from the delegates.
“Further, one could be fined five hundred dollars – we are now up to ten bottles of good bourbon – for providing false information. How anyone could be expected to fill out such a lengthy and detailed questionnaire and not make any mistakes in its performance is beyond my comprehension. What if I misstated the number of minutes I took to get to work? Is it twelve, or is it thirteen? It seems to me the only sane response to this survey is to decline to respond and pay the two bottles of bourbon, keeping the other eight bottles for myself. Perhaps I’ll even share them with Mr. Ansen.”
Mazur sorted his papers until the laughter died down.
“My fellow delegates, I cannot support the inclusion of a provision in the Charter of the Commonwealth that would, by the historical evidence, enable the Commonwealth government to so pry into the private affairs of its citizens.”
Mazur shut off the overhead display but remained at the lectern. He turned and nodded to Mehta.
“Mr. Ansen. The floor is open for debate.”
“Thank you, Madam Chairman. Mr. Mazur, I note you do not object to the weighting of Council votes by population. By what means then is the population of the member planets to be determined?”
“Let the member planets conduct their own counting.”
“And if they cheat?”
“In which direction would they cheat, Mr. Ansen? If they understate their population to reduce their tax burden, they reduce the impact of their vote in the Council. If they overstate their population to gain advantage in the Council, they must pay a higher head tax.”
“It’s like asking students to grade their own exams.”
“But having students grade the exams can work, especially if the students don’t grade their own papers.”
Mazur stopped for a moment, then thumped his fingertips on the lectern.
“Ah! Now there’s an idea. What about having some other member planet make the count or certify the results of a member planet’s count?”
“So Kodu could certify Jablonka’s population count?” Ansen asked.
“Yes, or Jablonka could simply hire Kodu to do the count. The count doesn’t have to be terribly accurate, after all. The difference between one hundred million and one hundred and one million makes little difference, either for the head tax or on the Council.”
“Madam Chairman, I think Mr. Mazur and I have come to sufficient agreement on this point to be able to work out some new language that will avoid the historical danger he has so eloquently described. I withdraw my motion, and propose Mr. Mazur and I be charged with redrafting the proposal on this point.”
“Mr. Mazur?” Mehta asked.
“No objection, Madam Chairman.”
“Very well.
The motion is withdrawn. Mr. Ansen and Mr. Mazur will draft new language on this point, and this point is set aside for future consideration of the new language. We move on to the next item of business.”
The Citizenship Debate
“We now come to the next item, the right of every human being over the age of fourteen solar years to petition for and be admitted to citizenship in the Commonwealth upon passing a citizenship exam,” Sania Mehta said.
“Madam Chairman, I move the language proposed be included in the Charter as drafted,” said Gerald Ansen, standing at one of the two lecterns in the well of the floor.
“Seconded,” Mineko Kusunoki called out. This clause had been her idea and was her pet project.
“Debate,” Patryk Mazur said.
“Counter,” Kusunoki said.
“We have a call for debate and counter on this issue. Is there an objection, Mr. Ansen?”
“No objection, Madam Chairman.”
“Debate and counter will begin on the matter. Mr. Mazur, Ms. Kusunoki.”
“Thank you, Madam Chairman,” they both said.
Ansen stepped down from one lectern, yielding it to Kusunoki, while Mazur advanced to the other lectern. Mazur looked a little discomfited to find himself opposite Kusunoki.
“Mr. Mazur, your opening statement.”
“Madam Chairman, distinguished colleagues.
“My issue with this provision is one of both appearance and substance. My understanding is that this Citizenship Exam is to presume, in addition to the standard fare of a knowledge of the Charter and the structure of government, the equivalent of a college education.
“Are we then to be an elitist nation, one which admits people only on the basis of intelligence and privilege? Do we not desire also citizens who may contribute in other roles than those enabled by such an education? Will we turn away all those who do not or cannot, by innate ability or circumstance of fortune, meet the requirement of a college education?
“My fellow delegates, I object to this provision on those grounds, and ask that it be dropped from consideration.”
Mazur turned and nodded to Mehta.
“Ms. Kusunoki. Your opening statement.”
“Thank you, Madam Chairman. Mr. Mazur, I’m afraid you misunderstand this provision and its application, its intent and its scope.
“It is not only under this provision that citizenship in the Commonwealth may be granted under this Charter. The powers granted to the Council in Article 2 of the proposal include that of determining rules, regulations, and quotas for immigration and the granting of citizenship by other means.
“This provision is a limit on the Council’s power to regulate immigration. It states that in no case, regardless of the Council’s regulations, shall citizenship be denied to any person who meets this admittedly high bar.
“It is a constraint on the Council’s power to limit citizenship.”
Kusunoki nodded to Mehta.
“Mr. Mazur, the floor is open for debate.”
“Thank you, Madam Chairman. Ms. Kusunoki, I must ask under what imaginable set of circumstances the Council would deprive granting citizenship to a person who met the requirements of the proposed language?”
“Mr. Mazur, I will use your own previous example of the United States of America in the year 2018. A hard quota on immigration was first set by their Congress. Special preferences were then granted to various people who suffered one circumstance or another – political refugees, economic refugees, refugees from natural disasters, family members of people already admitted under the previous three categories – until that hard quota was almost completely filled. The remaining positions of the quota were filled by a lottery of the open applications.
“At that point, and to its own detriment, the United States of America denied entry and citizenship to the rest of the open applications, people who not only met but greatly exceeded the requirements of the language proposed here. University professors with PhDs, entrepreneurs who had built whole industries, doctors, engineers, scientists. When their visas expired, they were sent home – deported! – despite their desire for citizenship.
“Further, the process of immigration and citizenship had become a set of hurdles and mazes only a lawyer could navigate. People without means were seldom capable of following all the ins and outs of these procedures on their own. Regardless of how qualified otherwise, the poor, it seemed, need not apply.
“That is an historical precedent, Mr. Mazur. It has happened before, and therefore it can again, under the proposed language of the Charter absent this provision.
“With this provision, however, it is a simple matter. Present oneself at the nearest Commonwealth embassy, consulate, or planetary headquarters, anywhere in human space, petition for citizenship and take the citizenship exam. If you pass it, you are at once and always a citizen of the Commonwealth, and no act or regulation of the Council can ever deny that right, whether tycoon or pauper, wearing tuxedo or rags.”
Mazur looked at Kusunoki for a long minute. He looked back down to the proposed language, then thumbed back to Article 2 of the proposal and the powers of the Council to regulate immigration.
“Mr. Mazur?”
“A moment, please, Madam Chairman.”
Mehta was content to wait. Mazur finally looked back up from his papers.
“Thank you, Ms. Kusunoki. Madam Chairman, I withdraw my objection to the proposed language. Further, I encourage my fellow delegates to vote in favor of the proposal, as I shall myself.”
Mazur and Kusunoki both returned to their seats, and Ansen returned to his lectern.
“We have a motion and second on the proposed language regarding the right of every human being over the age of fourteen solar years to petition for and be admitted to citizenship in the Commonwealth upon passing a citizenship exam,” Sania Mehta said. “Are there other objections?
“Hearing none, we will proceed to a vote. Ayes? Nays? The Ayes have it, and the proposed language is adopted.”
Mehta looked at the clock on the wall.
“It is now time for a break. We will reconvene at 3:00.”
Mehta banged the gavel once, and rose from her seat as the delegates got up and stretched, some of them heading to the refreshments in the back of the room, and others to the restrooms in the hallway.
Kusunoki walked across the room to Mazur, and surprised him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“Thank you,” Kusunoki said.
“For what?” Mazur asked.
“For being who you are.”
Halfway
Gerald Ansen, Mineko Kusunoki, Patryk Mazur, Aluna Kamau, Ikaika Kalani, and Manfred Koch were having dinner at Ansen’s and Kusunoki’s dacha. Aluna Kamau was a very dark black woman from Courtney, Ikaika Kalani was a very large Polynesian man from Hutan, and Manfred Koch was a pale, blue-eyed northern European from Waldheim.
Ansen and Kusunoki, and the single (and lonely) Mazur, had been having dinners and weekend meals with small groups of other delegates throughout the months of the conference. Every delegate had by this time been their guest several times, but they kept changing around the invitations so the mix of people was always different.
The dinner table on the lanai had now become a permanent fixture. Dinner had been ordered and they sat around the table and chatted while they waited.
“So here we are. The end of our seventeenth week. Halfway through the conference,” Ansen said.
“It’s amazing,” Kamau said. “At once it seems like the time is flying by, and at the same time everything before the conference seems like a different life.”
“Indeed,” Koch said. “It has been an incredible experience thus far. To see all the ideas we had all been working on separately come together in such a way. And in what is, really, a very short time.”
“It is the advance work that made that possible,” Kalani said. His voice was a deep rumble, as much felt as heard. “Three years of correspondence paved the way.”
“Agreed. Perhaps two more months of work, and we will be finished, I think,” Koch said. “The question then is, what do we do with it?”
“We should all be thinking of our options there, I think,” Mazur said. “We’ll have plenty of time to debate those in the last two months.”
“And I should have more information to share by that point, which would help in debating those options,” Ansen said.
“Some of those options, the ones where this all becomes something more than an intellectual exercise, are pretty scary,” Kalani said.
There was general agreement and nodding of heads. Everyone knew what Kalani meant, and no one thought the big Polynesian talking about being afraid was at all incongruous.
Other dinner parties among the delegates also had been going on all along throughout the conference. At the halfway point, another included Donal McNee, red-haired and green-eyed, from Bliss, Guadalupe Rivera, dark and beautiful, from Parchman, Jacques Cotillard, impeccably dressed, from Valore, Nils Isacsson, tall and big-boned, from Boomgaard, Willard Dempsey, built like a fireplug, from Mountainhome, and Jane Paxton, the blond-haired, blue-eyed firebrand from Bahay.
They were seated around a similar table on another lanai. Dinner had been ordered, and drinks served.
“Two months more, I figure, and then the document’s done. Then what do we do?” McNee asked.
“Two months of vacation? Works for me. Hard not to like it here,” Dempsey said.
“No, what do we do with the document?” McNee asked.
“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it,” Isacsson said. “And Ansen’s being cagey about it. He never talks about what’s next. Just a lot of babbling about ‘post-colonial structures’ and the like.”
A Charter for the Commonwealth Page 14
