One Can Make a Difference

by Ingrid Newkirk

  This was in the mid-1960s, and civil rights and the Vietnam War were all that anyone talked about. After high school, I worked one summer offshore of Louisiana. Late at night, I would get into vigorous debates with some of the guys who worked with me, and many of them, twice my age, would look at me at the end of the debates, nod their heads in agreement and say that they would never let their kids go to Vietnam. All of this got me thinking, and it seemed that I either needed to do something about all of this or just bust wide open!

  I attended the Spring Mobilization in 1967 in New York and heard Martin Luther King and others speak, and I was one of the thousands who marched to the Pentagon in early 1968.

  I wanted to make a difference somehow, but I didn’t know how. I dropped out of college, was trained briefly by the Boston Draft Resistance Group, and went back to New Orleans to see if I could organize working people like us to understand their rights in dealing with the war. It was a hard time for six months, because I didn’t really know what I was doing and had to take a clerk and lift-truck-driver job at a coffee plant to make ends meet. After six months, I gave it up, got married, and headed for California, where we camped along the coast for a few months. I was filled with rage over injustice, but didn’t have a place to plant it. Then, that summer, a woman tracked me down to ask if I would be an organizer for the National Welfare Rights Organization (NWRO). I grabbed the opportunity and never looked back.

  I founded ACORN in June 1970 in Little Rock, Arkansas, as a special, experimental project of NWRO, but within six months ACORN and the NWRO parted ways over our different priorities, leaving us without even two cents to rub together, no office, no salaries, and for the most part a staff cobbled together from volunteers. I started the membership dues system with ACORN, simply telling everyone the truth: if our members didn’t pay dues, the organization would go under. The notion of poor, working families paying dues was heresy in those days, but it was either that or close up shop. And it worked. People paid dues so that ACORN would survive, and that’s been the basis of the organization ever since that time.

  If anyone thinks all this just happens effortlessly, let me say there is never a day when I am not plagued with worries and doubts! In Springfield, when I was first beginning to build NWRO, I had migraines so bad that I was convinced I had a brain tumor and actually walked into a free clinic in the River-view Gardens public housing project and asked the nurse what the symptoms for such a tumor might be. In Little Rock and a thousand other times when everything seemed to be on the line, I had a pit in my stomach as large as a grapefruit. I have found no cure for such fear when the weight of responsibility is on you and it matters to thousands whether the organization wins or loses, whether your quest and theirs succeeds or fails. You simply have to gut it out and work right through it to the other side.

  Is it worth it? Definitely. Recently, an outside researcher assessed ten years of ACORN’s major victories from 1995 to 2004 as having delivered $15 billion worth of benefits to low- and moderate-income families and neighborhoods. In the November 2006 election we won minimum-wage increases that we had brought to the ballot in initiatives in Ohio, Arizona, Missouri, and Colorado, which delivered raises to 4.5 million low-wage workers worth over $6 billion. Whether winning better drainage, new parks, stopping loose dogs, compelling banks to invest in low-income neighborhoods, improving schools, or 1,000 other things, each of these accomplishments has meant the world to some of our members. This work has given my life purpose and meaning, and I am so happy to have had the opportunity and ability to start and stay with one organization for the last thirty-seven years! I now serve more than 250,000 family members.

  The motto for ACORN is borrowed from the state motto of Arkansas: The People Shall Rule! That has always sounded just right to me. There’s another motto on my desk that essentially says: work hard and organize. And at the end of my blog it says, “You take it from here to there.” All of these things seem right to me. I have tremendous belief in and respect for the value and ability of the “uncommon common people” that make up the low- and moderate-income constituency and ACORN’s membership.

  ACORN’s first president, Steve McDonald, used to constantly advise us as we were growing “not to get the big head,” which was pretty sound advice. Social change is about sweat. It’s constant perspiration rather than sudden inspiration that wins victories and builds organization. I believe the day we lose ground is the day we don’t go to work, and that as long as we’re fighting and struggling to win every day, we have a chance. My best advice to anyone who wants to be an organizer is to always be ready for hard work, expect no thanks and no quarter, and make sure that every day adds up to some kind of progress, so that in putting it all together we collectively have the opportunity to win.

  DORIS RICHARDS

  Fighting for a Dog Park

  Doris Richards’s name may not be a “household” term, but a lot of people— and a lot of dogs—owe her a debt of gratitude because the term dog park is one. The concept of a dog park is relatively recent, and “Doris’s dog park” was the first of its kind, though I’m happy to report there are now thousands upon thousands of them across the country. Its proper name is the Ohlone Dog Park, located in Berkeley, California, where Doris has always lived, sometimes with dogs, sometimes without. Doris’s idea to create this special place was not an instant smash hit. Although Doris lives in such a dog-friendly community that in some churches dogs are not only welcomed but even take communion, there was opposition to her idea. From nervous neighbors to financial interests who didn’t want dogs digging in the land they wanted to buy or sell, some folks were determined there would never be a dog park in Berkeley. But Doris is the sort of woman who doesn’t go away, tail between her legs. In fact, she’s a bit like a dog herself; like one who can almost taste that cookie you have all to yourself and therefore plants himself right there, looking pointedly from the cookie to you, you to the cookie, until you give in and share. Apart from the fact that I believe dogs need parks as much as bees need flowers, Doris’s tenacity and willingness to make her dream into reality is why I chose her for this book.

  A couple of decades ago, there weren’t any dog parks in San Francisco. In fact, there weren’t any dog parks anywhere. If you were near the Golden Gate Park, where I live, and you shared your life with a dog, there were a couple of dog “runs,” that’s all. It was a matter of “go potty and go home.”

  One day, the city decided to tear out blocks of houses. They were going to build a rapid transit station or parking lot there or something. I don’t think they had decided exactly what to do with that land. But, as soon as they filled it in with dirt, people started to flock there, and many of them brought their dogs.The area takes up about half a city block and is far enough off the road, so it was a great place to let the dogs loose and know they could run safely. And, of course, everyone started chatting, and all the people with dogs got to know each other. It was very friendly.

  We were experiencing troubled times back then, with the police clamping down on free speech in Berkeley. A group called “People’s Park Annex” would hang out in the empty area, having picnics and—whenever someone was arrested for protesting against the war—collecting bail money. The police didn’t like this, so they put fences up around the park. But the “radicals” cut the fences in strategic spots. It was also discovered that if enough people leaned against the fence at once, it fell over and the park was opened up again. In went people with their dogs! All day long, there must have been twenty to twenty-five dogs coming and going from that place at a clip.

  Of course, we all wanted to save that land from being developed and to keep it a place where the dogs would be able to be themselves once in a while. So there was a panic when, one day, we heard they were going to take it all away. There was some plan to build a community college, although no one in the area wanted all the traffic that would come with it. We decided to petition the city to turn that land into a dog park. No one had heard
the term before. They kept saying “a run”? “No,” we’d say,“a park. For dogs.”

  I had had back surgery and I wasn’t working, so I offered to help get people organized. We formed a club, had meetings, and became a force to be reckoned with. Funnily enough, I wasn’t able to join the club, as I didn’t have a dog then and you had to have a dog to be part of it. But they let me go to meetings. At first, someone else was president, but then I got a husky named Killik and they made me president.

  This was my first taste of civic activism. It took a lot of work. I didn’t mean to get into it, but I felt useless sitting home after my back surgery. With this project, I could do things even though I had an odd schedule, and it made me feel useful. We found all sorts of allies, including at Animal Control and in the Parks Department. The head of the Parks Department started out worried but in the end, got to know the dogs and became a big advocate. By 1983, the City had heard all our arguments. They made the decision to see how the dog park idea worked, to make it an experiment.

  Just before opening day, trees were delivered to make the park look pretty for the opening ceremonies with the mayor and everyone. But because it was fall, when the trees arrived they lost their leaves overnight. So, we spent hours stringing leaves on them, orange and red leaves like those on an artificial Christmas tree! On the big day, it took the head of the Parks Department a while to realize the leaves were all false.

  It turned out that we weren’t home free, however. In fact, it’s been a constant struggle to keep our dog park. You have to be vigilant. New people move in, knowing there’s a dog park, and then complain to the City that dogs bark and the park makes them nervous and other stupid things. I mean, if you move in next to an airport, expect airplanes. One day, the City posted an innocuous little notice, just one little notice in the park. Someone took it down, investigated it, and found out that the City wanted to transfer the land to the Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART). We had another dog fight on our hands.

  We fought like hell to keep our dog park. We incorporated so as to get more clout. We knew we had to stop being just a casual neighborhood group. And we lobbied and lobbied. At the same time, we knew BART and Berkeley hated each other, so we quietly negotiated with BART. At the hearing, ninety of us from the club showed up at the council meeting in teal blue T-shirts with our dog park association name and paw prints on them. In the end, there was a unanimous vote to leave the dog park alone.

  The Parks Department installed a monument to me in the park and a plaque for my years of service. A lot of people thought I’d died! It’s a genuine fire hydrant painted blue and put next to a tree where chasing dogs won’t run into it. People said, “Doesn’t she know what they’ll do to this?” I think that’s funny, and it’s fitting.

  One day, I was visiting Flagstaff, Arizona, with my friend. We saw a sign for a dog park. It was the first one outside Berkeley I’d ever seen! I thought “Whoa! This is delightful. This has really caught on!” I asked, but they’d never heard of our Berkeley dog park. Now I get calls from all over. I even helped people in Finland get their first dog park. Someone once asked me if I were reborn as a dog, what kind I’d like to be. I think I’d probably be a Sheltie because I like to organize people and make up the rules.

  RACHEL ROSENTHAL

  When the Chips Are

  Down, Do It Yourself

  Rachel Rosenthal is a powerful performance artist and the founder of the Rachel Rosenthal Company. Her performances have a way of dancing around in your head for days after you have seen them, much the way Rachel herself dances on stage.

  She has appeared at Carnegie Hall and the Lincoln Center as well as on campuses across the United States, and has enraptured audiences from Sydney to Brussels.She leaves those who watch her thinking or rethinking their ideas about human behavior and obligations because her work is so provocative. Her empathy and family experiences (including fleeing the Nazis during World War II) have contributed, no doubt, to her desire to wake up the world, which she has done with a creation of electrifying performances that combine various mediums, including music, words, videos, costumes, paintings, lighting, and dance. In 2000, Rachel delivered her last performance in Wales, before, as she puts it, “throwing in the towel.”

  At eighty, Rachel still teaches, directs a company, and paints, the latter bringing her life full circle, for she began her creative life “with a continually active pencil/ brush/pen/pastel/chalk between my fingers,” drawing fairies, angels, and marquises and designing magic wands. A sometimes quiet, often dramatic, powerhouse of a person, Rachel is impressive for another reason as well: She practices what she preaches.

  She takes personal responsibility, something she has challenged her audience to do from the stage. I believe her work and her forceful determination are epitomized by this little story of how the “private Rachel” would not take “no” for an answer when something vital needed to be done. This is clear in the story of her rescue of Dibidi, the cat who became her inspiration and an inspirational motif for Rachel’s students worldwide.

  In 1979, I began to feel there was a lot of despair in this world, both individual and collective, that could be assuaged in a different manner than I’d thus far encountered. Therefore, I gathered up every technique, every method, I’d learned or taught myself over the years and melded them all into what I call the D.B.D. (Doing By Doing) Experience. A D.B.D. workshop takes place over a weekend and incorporates body exercises, breathing techniques, communication exercises, vocal experimentation, improvisational dramatics—all of which is nonverbal—alone and with others. What I try to do is separate people from their everyday lives. It’s like taking a bath in Lethe, the River of Forgetfulness. And it’s done through body movement, relaxation, awareness of letting go, guided imagery, and guided meditations. I work to help people bring consciousness into the body instead of being like a disembodied head and I must say I’ve seen some magnificent results. And while I hope to inspire others to live fruitful, powerful, and joyful lives, it’s truly one precious being who inspired me to reinvigorate and reshape my own life.

  When lived in New York, I was given my first kitten whom I called Dibidi. One day Dibidi disappeared. I searched for her all over the streets of Lower Manhattan, and the roofs over and adjacent to the loft where I lived. This went on for three days and nights. On the third day, I was on the roof, where several chimneys had been bricked over in my absence (I didn’t dare think that she could have fallen down one of these and been buried alive like in a Poe story) and, leaning on a still-open chimney, I wept, watching my tears falling into the five-story chimney shaft and disappearing within its darkness.

  As I tried to focus through my tears, I saw a small, almond-shaped green light way down in the chimney, soon joined by another. I saw her eyes and she spoke to me. I yelled at her in French (because we spoke French to each other) to be patient, and that I would get her out. No one could help because it was Saturday afternoon and even the SPCA [the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals] never responded. The police came but laughed at me and I threw them out. I calculated visually that she must be at the level of the second floor. I took some tools and broke into the mimeographing store and began to hammer a hole where I thought Dibidi might be, into a bricked-over fireplace, running up to the roof intermittently to remind her to hang on because I was coming. Finally, I had a hole large enough for my head and one arm. I looked inside the chimney, but I had miscalculated by about five feet. I tried to send down a makeshift dumbwaiter, but Dibidi was hanging onto the chimney wall for dear life, because it was the spot where the incline of the shaft became vertical. She was covered with the plaster of my hammering and wouldn’t dare let go to jump up on that diminutive elevator.

  I knew I should get her up with a noose around her neck but feared of doing it wrong and either killing her or dropping her back into the depth of the remaining chimney shaft. I got up my courage, made a noose, got it around her neck after a few tries, and hauled her up. I grabbed
her and ran up to my loft where I had food and drink waiting. But Dibidi didn’t eat or drink until she had truly thanked me, with her backside up and her head on the floor. This she did several times, falling over in her weak state, keeping me within her vision. I couldn’t hold and squeeze her enough as she purred and purred. Her rescue had taken five hours.

  But that was not the end of the Dibidi saga. One morning, after we had moved to California, I heard scratching under the cantilevered part of the house and realized in a flash that Dibidi, awakened from sleep on the porch by a passing dog, had made the mistake of climbing a trellis instead of jumping inside through the open window. She hung onto the underside of the cantilever as long as she could, with the dog below. I was down the steps and in the street in one jump just as Dibidi fell, hitting some rocks at the bottom and breaking her back.We raced to the vets, a white hankie tied to the side mirror, announcing to the traffic that this was an emergency. Dibidi was in shock, between life and death. Soon she was out of shock and into a body cast within which she had to be turned from side to side every two hours, night and day. The vet said she might have six months to live: “Cats can’t live without any leg mobility.”

  Dibidi lived another twelve years and died at age eighteen. She had me where she wanted me: as her constant and perpetual slave. We went everywhere together, including New York, San Francisco, Big Sur, etc. When her cast came off and it was obvious that she was a paraplegic, she learned to do her business over the toilet, lying on my knee after I raised her tail. She went through the Laurel Canyon fire of 1959, the earthquake of 1971, and countless storms and adventures, with our connection growing with the years. I ran with her, one hand under her belly, following where she wanted to go, I helped her jump on beds, chairs, and sofas, and she developed strong chest muscles to pull herself forward when I wasn’t holding her up.