Majoritarian Cities : Policy Making and Inequality in Urban Politics [1 ed.] 9780472029549, 9780472119028

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Majoritarian Cities In Majoritarian Cities, Neil Kraus evaluates both the influence of public opinion on local policymaking and the extent to which public policy addresses economic and social inequalities. Drawing on several years of fieldwork and multiple sources of data, including surveys and polls; initiatives, referenda, and election results; government documents; focus groups; interviews; and a wide assortment of secondary sources, Kraus presents case studies of two Midwestern cities, Minneapolis, Minnesota, and Gary, Indiana. Specifically, he focuses on several major policy decisions in recent decades concerning education, law enforcement, and affordable housing in Minneapolis, and education and riverboat casino development in Gary. Kraus finds that, on these issues, local officials frequently take action that reflects public opinion, yet the resulting policies often fail to meet the needs of the disadvantaged or ameliorate the effects of concentrated poverty. In light of citizens’ current attitudes, he concludes, if patterns of inequality are to be more effectively addressed, scholars and policymakers must transform the debate about the causes and effects of inequality in urban and metropolitan settings. Neil Kraus is Associate Professor of Political Science at the University of Wisconsin, River Falls.

Majoritarian Cities Policy Making and Inequality in Urban Politics Neil Kraus

The University of Michigan Press Ann Arbor

Copyright © by the University of Michigan 2013 All rights reserved This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, including illustrations, in any form (beyond that copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the U.S. Copyright Law and except by reviewers for the public press), without written permission from the publisher. Published in the United States of America by The University of Michigan Press Manufactured in the United States of America c Printed on acid-­free paper 2016 2015 2014 2013  4 3 2 1 A CIP catalog record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN 978-­0-­472-­11902-­8 (cloth) ISBN 978-­0-­472-­02954-­9 (e-­book)

For Jennifer, Ben, and Alex

Contents



Preface and Acknowledgments

Chapter 1. Majoritarian Cities

ix 1

Chapter 2. Patterns of Inequality, Public Attitudes, and the Cases

40

Chapter 3. When Political Support Is Not Enough to Reform Urban Schools

69

Chapter 4. Focusing Events and the Limits of Law Enforcement Reform

101

Chapter 5. “The Number One Issue”? The Struggle for Affordable Housing

131

Chapter 6. The Popularity of Gambling Meets the Need for Economic Development

162

Chapter 7. Democratic Control in an Impoverished, Segregated Urban School District

188

Chapter 8. Politics, Policy, and Inequality in Urban and Metropolitan America

212

Notes References Index

237 241 263

Preface and Acknowledgments

This book has taken over ten years to write, and I have incurred numerous debts along the way. When I was growing up, my parents sparked my interest in the subject matter. Many years ago, my father and late mother, Donald and Noreen Kraus, initiated a conversation about politics and government that continues to the present day. I would like to thank all of the current and former public officials and other individuals in Minneapolis and Gary who agreed to talk to me during my research. Several colleagues and friends provided indispensable feedback on various parts of the manuscript. John Freie commented on several drafts of the introductory chapter, and I am grateful for his many insights. José Cruz also offered important criticism of an early version of chapter 1, and his thoughts were instrumental in helping me to scale back the argument and make it more manageable. The comments of Richard Flanagan were also helpful in framing the argument. Karen Mossberger provided a wider perspective on the entire manuscript, and her suggestions certainly improved the final product. I also received constructive feedback on conference papers based on this project from several scholars including Paul Schumaker, Donald Rosdil, and Chris Leo. Todd Swanstrom has given me valuable suggestions at several stages of writing and revising the manuscript, and his support for my work continues to be greatly appreciated. Teaching four courses each semester makes writing a book even more difficult than it would otherwise be, and I am grateful to my political science colleagues at the University of Wisconsin, River Falls (UWRF)—­Wes Chapin, Davida Alperin, the late Tracey Gladstone-­Sovell, Sooh-­Rhee Ryu, and Steve Maloney—­for creating an environment that is conducive to research and writing. Thanks also go to UWRF for awarding me a Faculty Research Grant in the summer of 2007, which helped me to complete the research for chap-

xpreface and acknowledgments

ter 5. The staff at the university’s library assisted me on numerous occasions in locating various documents and other sources. I would also like to thank several friends at River Falls, including John Heppen, Lissa Schneider-­ Rebozzo, Betty Bergland, Njia Lawrence-­Porter, Michele McKnelly, and Zhiquo Yang for their encouragement. Over the years, my students at River Falls have given me valuable feedback on many of my ideas. In addition, two former students in particular, Jane Norman and Steph Sianko, provided research assistance that was instrumental in allowing me to finish chapter 5. Beth Hawkins, a writer at MinnPost.com, helped me to obtain materials used in chapter 3. Further, many friends and former colleagues also provided words of support during the many years that the it took to complete the book, including John Mazis, Joe Peschek, Nurith Zmora, Martin Markowitz, Larry Baas, Joe Kling, and Eric Ziegelmayer. I would also like to acknowledge the University of Michigan Press. I am grateful for the detailed comments of three anonymous reviewers, which substantially improved the book’s organization and refined the argument. Melody Herr, acquisitions editor, has been extremely helpful throughout this lengthy process. Even though the project ultimately took much longer to complete than I originally planned, Melody stuck with me every step of the way. Her words of encouragement and professionalism were essential in helping me to keep things moving forward. But most of all, I would like to acknowledge my wife and two sons, Jennifer, Benjamin, and Alexander. Jennifer is the love of my life and my best friend. She has happily allowed me to spend the considerable amount of time away from family responsibilities that is required to write a book. Each day I am extremely grateful for her love and support, without which completing this book would have been impossible. Benjamin was born just as the original draft of the book was starting to come together, and in my mind the process of watching him grow from infancy to preschool will always be intertwined with the completion of this book. The joy of watching Ben grow up has taught me to appreciate all the little things in this world that most of us take for granted, like diggers and concrete-­pouring trucks at construction sites, or red-­winged blackbirds on the tops of cattails in the spring. And Alexander was born just a few months after the final version of the manuscript was sent to the publisher. Thus I dedicate this book to Jennifer, Ben, and Alex, who make my life worthwhile.

Chapter 1

Majoritarian Cities

After the 1990 census was published, Minneapolis leaders worried about what was happening to their city. In fact, many were afraid that the city would lose its “status as one of the most livable urban communities in the nation” (Goetz 2003, 94). The census showed that population trends that had begun to affect dozens of other Northern and Midwestern cities decades earlier had arrived in the Twin Cities. Although the city’s total population had decreased slightly since 1980, the percentage of residents in poverty had reached nearly 20 percent. Local officials and policy experts wondered aloud about the possibility of Minneapolis falling victim to what was called the “Detroit scenario,” in which the city would consist increasingly of high-­ poverty neighborhoods as the middle class migrated to more exclusive suburban jurisdictions (93). Keeping the middle class in the city became a policy priority for local officials. Despite the fact that the mayor has no formal power over the Minneapolis Public Schools (MPS), during the 1993 campaign candidates for the city’s highest office discussed various ways to use education policy to retain the middle class (Orfield 1997, 46). For several years, the district had operated an attendance policy that was intended to bring about some level of racial balance in the schools in compliance with the Minnesota desegregation rule. But the prospect of a return to neighborhood schools, based on the more traditional approach of a student’s residential address largely influencing the school they attended, was gaining momentum. Sharon Sayles Belton was elected mayor in 1993, and one year after taking office, she called for a return to community, or neighborhood, schools in her annual State of the City speech. The Minneapolis School Board adopted this policy later in 1995, and the state granted Minneapolis a waiver from the desegregation rule so that community schools could be implemented. Public opinion data showed

2majoritarian cities

that the community schools policy had significant majority support among both city residents in general and those who had children in the public schools. Although the policy of community schools is popular, it has directly contributed to increasing segregation and concentration of poverty in the district. Schools in better-­off neighborhoods, most of which are located in southwest Minneapolis, consistently perform better in terms of student achievement. Many community schools elsewhere in the city, however, have persistently high rates of poverty and are struggling. In the lowest-­income neighborhoods, which are disproportionately made up of racial minorities, students have left the public schools in large numbers, opting for charter and suburban schools.1 Today, district officials are intent on taking any steps necessary to keep students in the MPS. Clearly the MPS is operating on the assumption that adopting policies and programs that are desired by the greatest number of citizens provides the best chance of slowing the pace of declining enrollment and, in turn, will help to turn the district around. By the late 1990s, just a few years after the community schools decision, Minneapolis found itself caught up in the housing boom that swept much of the nation. As a result, the cost of housing in the city and throughout the region began to increase rapidly, with many communities experiencing double-­digit annual housing appreciation rates. These circumstances exacerbated the city’s shortage of affordable housing, leading 2001 mayoral challenger R. T. Rybak to label affordable housing the city’s “number-one issue” during the campaign. Rybak argued in favor of a limited governmental approach to affordable housing, instead stressing the role of the private sector, religious congregations, and individual citizens. In contrast to Rybak was the incumbent, Mayor Sayles Belton, who advocated a much more traditionally liberal policy approach focusing on the role of government, including the creation of an affordable housing tax. Rybak defeated the two-­term Sayles Belton by a roughly two-­to-­one margin, and over the next few years the city council and mayor balked at the adoption of more extensive measures and created a rather modest Affordable Housing Trust Fund. By the end of Rybak’s first term, housing prices had stopped appreciating and 55 percent of city residents expressed satisfaction with the city’s overall efforts on the issue. At the same time, however, data continued to show that thousands of Minneapolis residents at or below median income were living in housing that was considered unaffordable, indicating the seemingly chronic nature

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3

of the affordable housing crisis despite apparent public satisfaction with the city’s policy response. Gary, Indiana, is a case study in deindustrialization. Built by the U.S. Steel Corporation in 1906, the city thrived for decades. But more recent history has seen the dramatic loss of industry, population, and businesses of all types in the city. As a result, economic development, crime, and low-­ performing schools are the major issues on the local political agenda for the foreseeable future. As a predominantly African American and Democratic city in a Republican-­leaning state, Gary has historically faced substantial obstacles in bringing about economic development. In the late 1980s, after actions by the U.S. Congress and Supreme Court, many states, including several in the Midwest such as Indiana, explored the prospect of using casinos as a tool for economic development. Before any municipality in Indiana could move forward with a casino, however, the state legislature would have to authorize such action. To spur the legislature forward, in 1989 Gary officials placed a nonbinding, advisory referendum on the ballot to demonstrate to state legislators that the idea of casinos had the support of city residents, and just over 60 percent of local citizens voted in support of casinos. In 1993, after several years of defeat in the legislature, state lawmakers passed a bill that allowed riverboat casinos in a limited number of economically distressed cities on Lake Michigan and the Ohio River. Gary was the only city that was allocated two riverboats. Now, roughly fifteen years after they opened for business, the impact of the casinos has been moderately positive. They have provided a decent number of jobs, some of which have been unionized in recent years. The riverboats have also provided an additional source of revenue for city and county governments. Research conducted for the Indiana Gaming Commission by scholars at Indiana University has shown that residents have a generally favorable view of the riverboats. This is not to say, however, that the casinos have become a solid foundation for rebuilding the local economy. But they were likely one of the most viable economic development options at the time they were adopted, and they have had the support of a majority of residents. These three examples illustrate the major themes of this book. In the case studies that follow, I argue that on major policy issues affecting large numbers of city residents, local governments tend to be responsive to majorities, and that, more often than not, popularly adopted decisions tend to reinforce

4majoritarian cities

local patterns of inequality. The preferences of citizens are made known to local officials through a variety of methods, including polls/surveys, elections, initiatives and referenda, public meetings, neighborhood planning processes, and constituent contacts. Further, local officials increasingly solicit citizens’ views as well. Yet even when public opinion on specific decisions is unknown, citizens’ views on broad issues provide the framework that guides local policymakers. The responsiveness of local government is important for a number of reasons. Local government has an important role to play in our democracy. As J. Eric Oliver has noted in his study of suburban democracy, local government is “the proving ground of a democratic citizenry” (Oliver 1999, 15). At the local level, citizens can participate in politics in numerous ways, including neighborhood or community groups, local boards, grassroots political campaigns, traditional elections, and, in many cases, through initiatives and referenda. With all the methods of participation available at the local level, questions about the degree of local policy responsiveness seem particularly appropriate to ask. If local governments are not responsive to citizens’ views on significant issues, then how can we reasonably expect higher levels of government, which are much more distant, to be responsive? Yet the analysis presented here is in no way intended to imply that local democracy should be celebrated. Rather, by placing citizens’ attitudes and priorities at the center, I call for a reevaluation of the debate about the relationship between local policy making and urban and metropolitan inequality. That policies reflecting public sentiment reinforce patterns of inequality is a significant problem for the practice of local democracy in the United States. The main obstacle to more equitable policy outcomes is not a lack of democracy or policy responsiveness at the local level, but the prevailing views on important local issues held by many citizens. Further, my focus on the responsiveness of local governments distinguishes this book from the other major schools of thought within the field of urban politics. Although the issue of democratic responsiveness was at the heart of the original community power debate between pluralists and elite theorists, this question has not been given significant attention by scholars in the field in recent years.2 Pluralists (Banfield 1961; Dahl 1961) argued that local officials are primarily responsive to organized groups, and elite theorists (Domhoff 1978; Hunter 1953) argued that local governments are mainly responsive to business elites, an approach that subsequently influenced growth machine theory (Logan and Molotch 1987; Molotch 1976). Public

Majoritarian Cities

5

choice theory, best exemplified by Peterson (1981), essentially avoids the question of responsiveness by arguing that local governments necessarily have to pursue economic growth because it is in the “unitary interest” of the city. But implicit in Peterson’s argument is that local governments need not worry about responsiveness to a broader public on policy decisions because local politics, unlike state or national politics, is basically issueless, a position that suggests that the public does not have clear views on many of the issues taken up by local officials. In the last two decades, regime theory has come to dominate the study of urban politics. Pioneered by Stone (1989) and Elkin (1987), regime theory maintains that regimes, or informal coalitions of different groups, govern cities because of the lack of capacity of local government to act on its own to make and implement significant policies. Even though it has been the subject of dozens and books and articles, including the creation of a large number of regime types, however, the answers provided by regime theory to the central question of government responsiveness are incomplete. The subtitle to Robert Dahl’s (1961) classic work on community politics in New Haven, Who Governs? Democracy and Power in an American City, suggests the central, interrelated concerns that animated the study of community power several decades ago: To what extent are cities democratic? On significant matters of policy, do local governments respond to the will of the people? Or is policy responsive to the pressures of interest groups or small numbers of elites with the public standing by as passive spectators or, worse yet, dupes? And when the subfield grappled with these types of questions, the study of urban politics was central to the discipline of political science (Judd 2005; Peterson 1981; Sapotichne, Jones, and Wolfe 2007; Trounstine 2008). One of the purposes of this book, then, is to reengage with some of these fundamental questions. Moreover, unlike elite, growth machine, public choice, and the bulk of research rooted in regime theory, my approach examines several different policy areas in addition to development. I suggest that looking at a wider variety of policies provides a more comprehensive assessment of the many ways that public sentiment can both directly and indirectly shape locally adopted policies. The second theme of this book involves the relationship between local policies and local patterns of inequality. Specifically, I argue that majority-­ driven local policy decisions frequently illustrate and ultimately reinforce existing patterns of inequality. This argument also differentiates my approach from existing theories of urban politics. Pluralists have tended not to

6majoritarian cities

examine policy effects at all. Rather, pluralism is essentially a process-­based theory with no explicit attention to outcomes. Other approaches adopt different assumptions about the effects of local policies. Scholars in the public choice school, following the lead of Peterson (1981), have tended to assume that local development policies necessarily have a positive impact on the local community, and therefore on all members of the local community. Scholars affiliated with the elite and growth machine approaches, however, have tended to assume the opposite—­that major local development policies tend to directly benefit a relatively small number of business elites (Gendron and Domhoff 2009; Hunter 1953; Logan and Molotch 1987; Molotch 1976). Further, some prominent regime scholars (Imbroscio 2003, 2010; Stone 2009) have made a similar argument that assumes that most citizens do not benefit economically from regime-­led policy making. I am sympathetic to many of the claims made by elite, growth machine, and regime theorists about the effects of local development. However, my analysis fundamentally differs from these approaches in that I expand the investigation beyond development to include other important local policy functions while making no assumptions about the effects of major development policies themselves. Thus I argue that the effects of policies and projects need to be examined on a case-­by-­case basis, thereby leaving room for the possibility that major projects can positively affect more than a small group of elites. Whereas the riverboat casinos have had a modestly positive impact on inequality in the city, the same cannot be said about community schools and policies affecting affordable housing in Minneapolis, both of which have essentially reinforced existing inequalities. Other popularly adopted decisions I discuss—­in education policy in both cities, and in law enforcement in Minneapolis—­also highlight the problem of inequality and local democracy. That is, policy outcomes supported by majorities both demonstrate and exacerbate existing racial and economic inequalities. Moreover, not only is assessing the concrete effects of popularly adopted local policies an important element of evaluating local democratic decision making, it is directly relevant to future policy making as well. If a major downtown development project failed to produce many permanent, decent-­ paying jobs but required significant subsidies to businesses, these facts should inform subsequent policy making in the area of development. Admittedly, attempting to shape the debate about major development and redevelopment proposals in any city is not an easy process in light of the many influential players involved in the process. But looking at the effects of past

Majoritarian Cities

7

decisions, particularly in terms of their effects on patterns of inequality in the city, can contribute to normative discussions about a range of future local policies of concern to many citizens. Examining the effects of locally adopted policies also underscores the significance of local policy responsiveness and of local governance itself. Local government is the “most visible and immediate unit of government,” providing services that “have the most impact on citizens’ daily lives.” Municipal governments have become increasingly important since the 1960s in terms of the implementation of federal and state programs (Oliver 1999, 15). James Q. Wilson has elaborated on the significance of local events in the everyday lives of citizens, arguing that people “care about the demeanor of their neighbors because it affects them directly and, in the short run, more profoundly than any national or world event” (Wilson 1999, 19). Municipal decisions with respect to development, schools, housing, law enforcement, transportation, and other issues affect citizens directly and immediately. We are confronted with local policy choices on a daily basis, which led Lewis and Neiman to label local politics the “politics of everyday life” (Lewis and Neiman 2009, 1). The nature of local issues and problems also highlights the tangible effects of popularly adopted policies. Economic and racial segregation and their attendant problems are fundamentally local phenomena that citizens and municipal officials face on a regular basis. And segregated living patterns directly shape economic and racial segregation in the schools, which negatively affect academic achievement in a number of ways. Certainly this is not to suggest that these phenomena are caused only by local forces. Rather, it is to say that local officials and citizens are on the front lines in addressing them every day, a fact that calls attention to the issues of whether local governments listen to the demands of their citizens and to the tangible effects of decisions supported by majorities.

Beyond Development In order to illustrate these arguments, in the following chapters I examine the policy areas of education, law enforcement, and affordable housing in Minneapolis, and riverboat casino development and education in Gary. Research in urban politics in recent years has tended to focus on development (Dowding 2001; Henig et al. 1999), and therefore has paid less attention to

8majoritarian cities

policy making in other significant areas. Without question, economic development and redevelopment are major functions of municipalities. Yet many other policies are central functions for city governments, including the ones already mentioned. And these policy issues frequently involve intense local debates about the appropriate distribution of benefits and the proper role of local government. Law enforcement is one of the most significant functions of local government in terms of both public expenditures as well as salience, and is often a major issue in mayoral and city council elections. Approximately 8.5 percent of local budgets in the United States go to law enforcement, which makes it one of the single largest budgetary items in cities today (Ross and Levine 2006, 497). Crime is “usually a top item on the list of public concerns, and thus public officials often make the promise to hire more cops a centerpiece of their campaigns” (Christensen and Hogen-­Esch 2006, 321). Judd and Swanstrom (2008, 402) have noted the importance of crime as an urban electoral issue beginning in the 1980s, and how crime control became the centerpiece of the administration of one of the nation’s most well-­known mayors, New York’s Rudolph Giuliani. Despite its significance, however, law enforcement has been examined infrequently by scholars of urban politics in recent years. Police departments are clearly political agencies, particularly in strong mayor cities. But even in cities in which mayors have less formal power regarding appointments, elected officials often experience political repercussions related to the conduct of police. Hence city council members bring perceived police misconduct to light in their oversight capacity. Policy debates regarding local criminal justice tend to revolve around the level of formal involvement of the public in formulating law enforcement policies as well as the method of oversight of the police. Law enforcement is particularly important to racial minorities. As a leading American government text affirms, “Blacks and Hispanics, for example, are generally more supportive of affirmative action and less trusting of police and the judicial system than are non-­Hispanic whites” (Patterson 2011, 203), a fact that often makes relations between police departments and minority communities a defining characteristic of a city’s overall political climate. In light of the racial disparities in the criminal justice system, restoring trust in the police has become a central focus of civil rights organizations across the country. Although housing markets operate well beyond the confines of local governments, city officials shape housing development in multiple ways. Local

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9

policies involving housing are especially salient to citizens because of the nation’s relatively high homeownership rate, which reached nearly 68 percent by 2008 (U.S. Census Bureau 2008), and because home equity represented an ever-­increasing percentage of the wealth of most Americans prior to the collapse in housing values beginning in 2006. Housing decisions made at the municipal level necessarily shape the demographics of every community, which in turn shape every aspect of community life. This process is different from the housing policies of, and the programs run by, state or federal governments, whose impact is much more diffuse and ultimately mediated by local governing structures. For example, although the federal government created public housing and the Federal Housing Administration in the 1930s, the individual housing developments that resulted from these programs were built in specific neighborhoods located in particular jurisdictions, and therefore not built in others. Control of housing development is a critical component of the home-­r ule powers of municipalities. Substantial appreciation in housing prices during the late 1990s and early 2000s throughout much of the country made the issue of affordable housing increasingly important for many constituencies. Local governments can affect the supply of affordable housing through zoning and planning policies, the provision of public monies, acquiring and clearing land, and through the regulatory process. Debates regarding affordable housing policies can become acrimonious because of the relationship between housing stock and community demographics. Fear of an influx of economically disadvantaged citizens is a common refrain in middle-­and upper-­income neighborhoods. The recent foreclosure crisis, which has had a major impact on cities, has presented another set of housing-­related problems for local governments. The increasing number of foreclosures, especially in higher-­poverty neighborhoods, has eroded the tax base of central cities, contributed to increasing costs associated with basic service provision, and led to declining property values in neighborhoods hardest hit by this phenomenon. When considering the relationship between local government and housing, it becomes clear that this relationship is multidimensional and politically complex. Education is “by far the largest single spending category for all local governments combined” (Christensen and Hogen-­Esch 2006, 312), and is a highly salient issue in municipal politics. Local control of schools is a fundamental element of American political culture. And the subject of urban schools has, in fact, received extensive attention by scholars in recent years

10majoritarian cities

(Clarke et al. 2006; Henig et al. 1999; Portz, Stein, and Jones 1999; Stone 1998; Stone et al. 2001). These works, however, are centered on questions involving how to best create educational reform coalitions, not on the broader relationships between the public and local education polices. Examining the types of school policies supported by local electorates faced with declining schools can help us to better comprehend the difficult task of reforming urban districts. In sum, expanding the study of local politics beyond development is a recognition of the many important functions of city governments and school districts and also a more comprehensive way of assessing local public sentiment. In turn, this expanded view of local governance provides a more complete picture of the characteristics of democracy at the local level.

A Tale of Two Cities The two cities chosen for this research, Minneapolis and Gary, are very different economically and demographically. The policy agendas in these cities have been influenced by their respective histories and contemporary characteristics. Minneapolis is midsized (roughly 375,000 population), predominantly White, and a relatively more economically advantaged city, and it began to transition to racial and cultural diversity later than most U.S. urban areas. The city has been described as having a “moralistic” political culture, in which politics is “a public activity centered on some notion of the public good and properly devoted to the advancement of the public interest” (Elazar 1966, 90). Participation is highly valued, and government has historically been viewed as a positive force. However, increasing racial and ethnic diversity have contributed to the erosion of the moralistic political culture in more recent years, making political coalition building much more challenging. Gary is smaller (roughly 80,000 population), deindustrialized, and became a predominantly African American city in the 1970s. Its political culture has been labeled individualistic, whereby “government is instituted for strictly utilitarian reasons, to handle those functions demanded by the people it is created to serve” (Elazar 1966, 86). The economic decline of Gary and northwest Indiana has, in basic respects, exacerbated the characteristics of its political culture, and, as a result, substantially circumscribed the local policy agenda, which is dominated by a handful of issues, specifically economic development, education, and crime.

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The rationale for the selection of these two cities as well as for the specific policy issues examined merits further explanation. The major factor for the selection of these two cities is the fact that I have lived in close proximity to both for extended periods of time. Convenience has long been considered an acceptable rationale for the selection of cases in urban research. It was Yale University’s location in New Haven, after all, that allowed Dahl and his colleagues to carry out the research that went into one of the classics in the field, Who Governs? Easy access to the case study cities significantly shaped my understanding of the specific characteristics of each while also allowing me to utilize other research methods, such as conducting in-­depth interviews, attending public meetings, and directly observing the cities in some detail. With respect to the selection of the particular policy issues, first, I was committed to examining the school system in both cities because of the critical importance of reforming urban education. When considering what policies to examine in Gary, the policy agenda there is limited as a result of the city’s objective characteristics. Because there has been little formal discussion of the oversight of police or other policy-­related aspects of law enforcement in Gary, I was left with the issue of economic development. Whereas there have been numerous published works that address the politics of downtown development, stadiums, and economic development policies in urban America, the story of riverboat casinos is more recent and, I believe, both more interesting and revealing in terms of public attitudes. In Minneapolis, in addition to an analysis of education policy, the issues of police reform and affordable housing were obvious choices. Despite its significance, the politics of law enforcement has been largely neglected by scholars of urban politics, and the Minneapolis story is compelling in terms of both politics and policy. In addition, affordable housing was labeled the city’s “number one issue” during the 2001 mayoral election, which led me to an extended examination of this issue. Moreover, affordable housing, as distinct from traditional downtown development, has received less attention by scholars in the field. As primarily a residential neighborhood issue, the politics of affordable housing can help to illuminate the attitudes and values of the citizenry. Although I briefly discuss economic development in some of the Minneapolis chapters, for two reasons I decided not to include a separate chapter on the subject. One, another policy chapter would have made the book unnecessarily long, and two, the story I could have told—­downtown development in a major city—­has been the subject of numerous published works.

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In order to gauge the relationship between public sentiment and local government responsiveness, I rely on an analysis of a variety of sources, including scientific polls conducted for the local media and for government-­ sponsored publications; referenda and election results; government documents; neighborhood planning documents; formal policy evaluations; public meetings; personal interviews, conversations, and observations; as well as a wide assortment of additional secondary sources. In total, 36 interviews (19 in Minneapolis and 17 in Gary) were conducted between 2001 and 2010 with persons knowledgeable about, and in most cases directly involved in, the policy areas under examination. Persons interviewed included former and current elected officials (city council members, mayors, school board members, and judges); state and local government employees; individuals active in civil rights organizations and housing/community development organizations; members of the academic community; and the media. The majority of interviews were done individually, but in some cases I interviewed small groups of people at the same time. All interviews were done on a not for attribution basis unless an interviewee gave me permission to cite them as a source for a particular piece of information. To assess the effects of specific policies, I relied on census and government documents and reports, along with data provided in other secondary sources, all of which are publicly available. Having easy access to both cities, I also utilized a variation of the social scientific method known as participant observation. For example, I participated in numerous informal conversations with citizens in both cities about local politics in general and about the particular policy issues under examination. These were spontaneous discussions, and tended to occur during the course of my research in places such as libraries, government buildings, and public meetings. Overall, these discussions helped me to better understand the events I was studying, and were particularly useful in coming to terms with life in Gary. I did not enter into these discussions to obtain quotations. But in a few instances, I have included anonymous quotations from these discussions in order to make what I believe are especially important points. In addition, I spent roughly fifty hours tutoring elementary students at a charter school in Gary during the 2004–­05 school year. This experience deepened not only my understanding of education in Gary but also of the basic challenges faced by the city. Generalizing from one or a few cities is, without question, problematic. But the differences in the two cities chosen here can help to illustrate that city officials are responsive in very different contexts. In recent years, Min-

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neapolis has had to address the many issues related to its transformation to greater racial and ethnic diversity. The economic decline and racial transformation of Gary make it fairly representative of a larger class of smaller urban areas, mainly located in the Midwest and Northeast, facing similar challenges. Although public sentiment manifests itself in different ways according to context, local officials, preoccupied with reelection, are mindful of the types of policies and programs that citizens desire and oppose, and act accordingly. Moreover, despite their obvious differences, both cities face similar issues related to increasing concentrations of poverty, a problem that is especially apparent when examining their respective school districts.

Public Opinion and Local Policy The argument presented here hinges on the concepts of public opinion and majoritarianism, and it is therefore necessary to carefully define these concepts before going further. Political scientist Thomas Patterson defines majoritarianism as “the situation in which the majority effectively determines what the government does” (Patterson 2011, 14). This definition, however, needs further explanation: Does this refer to a majority of all citizens, all adults, or all voters? A similar problem occurs when trying to pin down the elusive concept of public opinion, which has proven challenging for political scientists for quite some time. As a leading text in the field states, “Public opinion is notoriously difficult to define. There are scores, if not hundreds, of variations on a definition” (Erikson and Tedin 2011, 7). Fifty years ago, V. O. Key emphasized the importance of the views of citizens in a democracy when he defined public opinion as “those opinions held by private persons that governments find it prudent to heed” (Key 1961, 14). More recently, Kinder and Sanders have suggested that “[p]ublic opinion is the atmosphere of American politics; it is the air we citizens breathe” (Kinder and Sanders 1996, 12). Although the famous statement from Key quoted earlier is a good starting point, his formulation also begs the same types of questions I raised in response to the definition of majoritarianism. In his classic work, Public Opinion and American Democracy, Key addressed these issues in some depth. He acknowledged that given the wide range of decisions that governments make, the meaning of public opinion depends largely on the context of the issue under consideration, and I take advantage of his insights when laying the groundwork for my overall approach. Although only a handful of major issues typically constitute the political

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agenda at any one time, elected and appointed officials, even at the local level, take action on a wide range of policies on a regular basis. On the small number of pending or recently adopted major policy decisions in larger municipalities, defining public opinion as the views of the adult population is often possible for two reasons. One, most people have views on the small number of major issues government is addressing at any one point in time, and two, because in the contemporary period scientific polls frequently exist that provide a snapshot of the public’s views, either before a major policy decision or by assessing public satisfaction with various local policies after their adoption. Yet there are many instances in which public opinion polls, even on major policies, do not exist, in both smaller and larger cities. Another complicating factor long recognized by social scientists is that a measureable number of citizens do not appear to have concrete views on various issues and policies, particularly lesser publicized ones. In other words, different groups of citizens have views on different issues, a fact that Key was well aware of: “On one issue, the public may consist of one sector of the population; on another, of a quite different sector” (Key 1961, 15). Whereas Key referred to these smaller segments of citizens as “special publics” (10), subsequent research on public opinion has used the term “issue public” to delineate this concept (Anand and Krosnick 2003, 33). Thus on many pending decisions, policy makers are primarily listening to various sub-­groups of the wider public that possess and express clear policy preferences. Yet even in these two situations—­where either no polling exists or only issue publics have expressed positions—­local officials are clearly influenced by the larger public’s views on the issue or policy involved in the particular decision at hand. Therefore, even when they are aware only of the preferences of a particular issue public regarding a specific decision, local officials act within the wider public’s views on subjects such as inequality, the proper role of government, trust in institutions, government employees, and so forth. Recognizing this, Key argued that public opinion also necessarily includes citizens’ views on these larger issues in addition to their views on specific policy decisions by affirming that the public’s general attitudes have the “most direct relevance for governmental actions though not formulated as policy issues” (Key 1961, 16–­17). The public’s fundamental beliefs are therefore a significant component of Key’s discussion of contingent opinion, or “probable responses to actions they [governments] consider taking” (14). Given the lack of scientific polling on specific decisions that is characteristic

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of local politics, clearly city officials routinely estimate contingent opinion on decisions they face based on their understanding of broader patterns of public opinion. Key went on to argue that because of elected officials’ awareness of their constituents’ preferences on these larger issues (e.g., inequality or the role of government), which helps them to estimate contingent opinion regarding specific decisions, “communication of views to the government is not essential to transform opinion into public opinion, although communication may be the general rule” (17). The implications of Key’s conceptualization of public opinion for this book are straightforward: local officials can be responsive to the actively expressed policy positions of a specific issue public while simultaneously acting within the parameters of the general public’s views and priorities. For instance, when elected and appointed officials in Minneapolis have scaled back the process of civilian review of the police in recent years, they have taken these actions in response to the forcefully expressed desires of the most powerful components of the relevant issue public (the police officers’ union and the police chief, in particular). However, local officials have also acted within the context of a high level of satisfaction with police services among city residents. Thus by deemphasizing the process of civilian review, which, by definition, has been advocated by those who do not implicitly trust law enforcement, Minneapolis officials are clearly not offending the sizeable majority of the population that possesses a high level of trust in the police. Or, as I will discuss in chapter 5, by adopting relatively modest policies on the issue of affordable housing, Minneapolis officials were indeed responding to the most influential components of the issue public (such as realtors and developers), most of whom wanted little government involvement in the provision of affordable housing. But they were also acting against a backdrop of city residents’ skepticism of a more aggressive local policy response, which was subsequently illustrated by surveys documenting public satisfaction with the city’s limited actions on this issue. The model presented later utilizes Key’s broad yet nuanced conceptualization of public opinion. On some of the highest-­profile decisions discussed in the chapters that follow, defining public opinion in the broadest sense—­ the views of the adult population—­is indeed possible because scientific public opinion surveys exist that reveal these preferences as they relate to certain policies, issues, and candidates and elected officials. In addition, I utilize the Minneapolis resident surveys as well as reports issued by the Indiana Gaming Commission in order to gauge citizen satisfaction and experiences with

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several of the major policy areas. Additional data is utilized to provide insight into the views of the wider public, such as the content analysis of neighborhood plans in chapter 5 that sheds light on Minneapolis citizens’ views regarding affordable housing. Throughout the chapters, I also take advantage of several other indicators of public opinion in cases where the views of the adult population cannot be definitively known. For example, in many cases I use initiative/referenda and election results as indicative of, at minimum, the views of the majority of voters. In still other cases, I discuss the extent and nature of citizen participation in school district politics in both cities and the relationship between this participation and policies adopted by the two school boards. I certainly do not rule out the possibility that local officials do, in fact, go against what a majority of the adult population believes when responding to a smaller subset of the population. I also concede that on some decisions ultimately we cannot necessarily know whether officials in Minneapolis or Gary had the support of 50 percent plus one of all city residents because of the dearth of scientific public opinion data on each decision. However, even in these cases I maintain that reelection-­seeking local officials, aware of the broad contours of public opinion as it relates to the major policy issues they face, are still responding to more than a small number of elites, regime partners, or narrow interest groups. And this position ultimately differentiates my argument from existing literature in the field of urban politics.

The Model The model used is presented in figure 1.1. Several variables shape the environment within which local political processes occur, including the economic and demographic context, state and federal policies, and interest groups. Public opinion is, of course, shaped by many variables, including these. In turn, public opinion is transmitted directly in the policy-­making process and indirectly through elections and other forms of local participation (e.g., direct democracy, neighborhood organizations, or public meetings). Local policies result from these fluid processes, and the effects of local policies shape the environment within which future policy making takes place. The model also includes focusing events and litigation as elements of the

380  

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Focusing  Events   Elections     Economic  Context      

 

 

Public   Opinion  

Local   Policies  

Policy  Effects  

Demographic  Context      

Interest  Groups      

Local  Participation   ¥ Direct Democracy ¥ Neighborhood Organizations ¥ Public Meetings  

Litigation  

Federal  &  State  Policies    

Fig. 1.1. Model of local policy making

local policy-­making process. In his classic work, John Kingdon defined a focusing event as “a crisis or disaster that comes along to call attention to the problem” (Kingdon 2003, 94). As chapter 4 explains, focusing events can be especially important in highly salient but generally stable local policy areas such as law enforcement. Because focusing events are highly unusual and unexpected, they stand apart from the other variables in the model. However, as Kingdon observes, in higher visibility policy areas (such as law enforcement) focusing events ultimately have less of an impact on policy: “So as a general proposition, the more visible the policy domain, the less important are crisis and disaster” (95). Litigation that affects local policies generally occurs as a reaction to democratic processes, and is therefore both a product of and an influence on local policies. Despite their potential significance, however, neither focusing events nor litigation tend to produce major, sustained policy changes because these phenomena are not predicated on a shift in public sentiment. I suggest that governing regimes, whether they are present or not in a given city at a particular time, exist within this wider context.

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Urban Politics and Local Government Responsiveness The issue of government responsiveness has been a central concern for scholars of national politics and policies (Key 1961; Monroe 1998; Page and Shapiro 1983; Sobel 2001; Wliezen 2004), state politics (Cohen 2006; Erikson, Wright, and McIver 1993; Hero 1998, 2007), as well as of social policy at the state and local levels (Sharp 1999a). Public opinion within the context of local policy making has also received scholarly attention, and most of the empirical literature on local government responsiveness tends to support the notion that city officials take action on significant issues that reflects public sentiment. Early work examined community leaders’ ability to interpret local public opinion on education policy (Sigel and Frisema 1965) and patterns of policy responsiveness in multiple cities (Schumaker and Getter 1977). Some scholars have examined decentralized local decision making processes and found local governments to be more responsive within this context. For example, Yates’s (1973) work on neighborhood democracy in New York and New Haven found that decentralized decision making increased local governmental responsiveness. Berry, Portnoy, and Thomsen’s (1993) classic, multidimensional study of five cities with institutionalized neighborhood associations presents several important findings for the study of local political responsiveness. The existence of strong neighborhood associations does not appear to make a difference in a city’s overall level of participation, nor does it reduce the traditional class bias associated with political participation. As a ten-­year resident of one of Berry and his coauthors’ case study cities, St. Paul, I have had substantial firsthand experience with the limited impact of the city’s district councils on traditional patterns of political participation. As I have observed firsthand, in a neighborhood of nearly 13,000 residents, generally speaking perhaps a few dozen individuals typically attend monthly district council meetings. Regular meetings of the district council’s subcommittees generate much less interest. If the council is debating an especially controversial project, which is not common, then perhaps 75–­100 residents may show up. Yet Jeffrey Berry and his coauthors also found that participating in such associations increases participants’ political knowledge, tolerance, and perceptions of efficacy. And with respect to the larger question of the policy impact of neighborhood associations, Berry, Portnoy, and Thomsen argue that “city hall has been shown to be responsive to the needs of individual neighborhoods because of the advocacy of the neighborhood associations” (289–­

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90). Although the picture of city politics presented in The Rebirth of Urban Democracy falls short of an ideal democracy, it is reasonably democratic in terms of responding to the desires of local residents within an institutionalized system of participation. Other recent work on decision making at the neighborhood level (Fagatto and Fung 2006; Fung 2004) and within small towns (Robinson 2011) also points to the responsiveness of local officials within a structured deliberative framework in which citizens are able to establish priorities and discuss policy options. Some researchers have taken a broader look at the responsiveness of local political institutions. Along these lines, Paul Schumaker’s work (1991) on Lawrence, Kansas, reveals a picture of local government that quite frequently responds to the will of the citizens. He documents how city policy making in Lawrence often falls short of the three democratic principles he identifies as standards for measurement—­responsible representation, complex equality, and principle-­policy congruence. However, Schumaker concludes that the “overall assessment of the political process in Lawrence would seem generally positive” (209). Additional scholarship based on large data sets also confirms the responsiveness of local governing institutions. Berkman and Plutzer’s (2005) extensive analysis of public opinion and local education spending levels affirms the responsiveness of school districts on this issue. And Palus (2010) demonstrates the connection between communities’ ideological beliefs and local governments’ spending decisions. Other scholars have been quite critical about the contemporary characteristics of local democracy, with the implication that local governing institutions are not responsive to the public. For instance, Holland and her coauthors’ study (2007) of several North Carolina communities concludes that market rule and neoliberalism have essentially gutted democracy at the local and national levels, leaving most citizens passively accepting a narrow range of policy options to address the most fundamental problems. But this book is much more of a critique of neoliberalism and market rule as guiding national philosophies than a close examination of the responsiveness of local governments. In recent years, regime theory has come to dominate the study of urban politics. Although it was advanced by several scholars (Elkin 1987; Fainstein and Fainstein 1983; Stone 1989), Clarence Stone’s work on Atlanta remains the most thorough explication of this approach. Stone has defined regimes as “informal arrangements by which public bodies and private interests function together in order to be able to make and carry out governing deci-

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sions” (Stone 1989, 6). Economically advantaged actors have “systemic power” (Stone 1980), which gives them an edge when shaping the priorities of the governing coalition. Numerous types of regimes reflecting different policy agendas have been identified (Imbroscio 1998; Stoker and Mossberger 1994; Stone 1987, 1993), as well as the antiregime (DeLeon 1992), and, more recently, the concept of regimelessness (Burns and Thomas 2006; Rast 2006). A fundamental tenet of regime theory is that governmental power alone is not sufficient to make and carry out policies, hence its distinction between electoral coalitions and governing coalitions. Thus regime theory advances the notion that “public policies are shaped by three factors: (1) the composition of the governing coalition, (2) the nature of the relationships among members of the governing coalition, and (3) the resources that the members bring to the governing coalition” (Stone 1993, 2). Significantly, urban regime theory advanced the community power debate beyond the economic determinism that characterized different approaches to political economy, including elite, growth machine, and public choice theories. Moreover, the development of the large variety of regime types suggests that not all local governments are necessarily dominated by growth-­related interests. And in any locality individuals seeking city office will make certain pledges and commitments that will become difficult to honor once in office, a fact that highlights the differences between electoral and governing coalitions. Important institutions and constituencies within governing coalitions can and do advance their policy priorities onto the local agenda. In addition, regime theory’s deliberate concern with the problem of inequality also successfully called into question pluralism’s inherent minimization of how racial and class-­based inequalities affect and are affected by the local policy-­making process. Yet this line of analysis does not merit deemphasizing public sentiment in relation to what local governments do and do not do. But this is the effect—­whether intentional or not—­of the assumptions and subject matter of much of the research in the regime tradition. Some of the various types of regimes seem to imply that policy making in certain instances can be responsive to broader constituencies, such as middle-­class progressive and lower-­class opportunity expansion regimes (Stone 2008), human capital regimes (Orr and Stoker 1994), and community-­based regimes (Imbroscio 1998). Yet as Karen Mossberger has suggested, the “typology implies that mobilising support around an agenda of social justice entails extraordinary effort, and perhaps unusual circumstances, at the least” (Mossberger 2009,

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44). I suggest that the political difficulty of adopting and implementing a social justice agenda in many cities lies in the values and priorities of most citizens. But the normative thrust of regime theory suggests that local governments tend not to be responsive to majorities. In fact, Clarence Stone has recently argued that “[p]ublic sentiment is a poor guide to what is doable” (Stone 2008, 268), a claim with which this book takes issue. The project of regime theory is to make local decision making more democratic. Toward this end, Stone has advocated for a more inclusive local politics in order to better address the persistence of economic inequalities (Stone 2009). To deal with poverty at the local level, he states that “the essential task is to reconfigure relationships so that a different mix of players is engaged, drawing on a different corpus of resources and addressing a different body of concerns.” Specifically, in order to achieve a more inclusive local political order, Stone goes on argue in favor of expanding local governing coalitions to include many different types of organizations, such as Community Development Corporations, universities, foundations, and the like, which would presumably lead to a change in policy direction (Stone 2008, 269). These types of institutions could help to bring about a shift in local priorities aimed at addressing fundamental inequalities. Yet I argue that the biggest obstacle with creating a new local policy agenda aimed at addressing fundamental inequalities is the public itself. Americans’ ambivalence about redistributive policies and inequality generally, discussed in more detail in chapter 2, underlies all policy making in the United States, local or otherwise. In its push for more inclusive, democratic local processes, regime theorists have moved too far away from a close inspection of the preferences of citizens and how those preferences may be, and frequently are, similar to the preferences of the governing coalition. Despite regime theory’s popularity, in recent years it has come under criticism. For example, the ever-­increasing list of regime types has been the subject of several critical analyses (Dowding 2001; Mossberger and Stoker 2001; Reese and Rosenfeld 2002). In their important work, Mossberger and Stoker (2001, 815) have identified several conceptual problems in the regime literature, including parochialism, or the “[c]asual use of the term urban regime to describe urban policy agendas or any type of public-­private partnership.” Dowding (2001, 15) has echoed a similar point when he asserts that “deciding that a particular local government has been electorally successful because it supplies good service provision to its electorate may explain electoral success, but calling it a service regime does not seem to add anything to

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the explanation.” Mossberger and Stoker (2001, 817) have also discussed concept stretching, or “removing aspects of the original meaning of the concept so that it can be used to accommodate more cases.” The application of regime theory to alliances between local officials and state government administrations (Burns 2002, 2003), regional governing coalitions (Hamilton 2004), to the variety of different types of local policy agendas cited earlier, as well as the introduction of the concept of “regimelessness” (Burns and Thomas 2006; Rast 2006), raises the question of whether the concept has been stretched beyond its original formulation. Although regime theory has been dominant, a number of scholars have utilized other approaches in empirical studies of urban and regional politics in recent years. Some of this work focuses on the formal institutions of government and, implicitly, its relationship with the public (Kraus 2000; Simpson 2001; Sonenshein 2004), urban voting patterns and elections (Hajnal 2010), historical accounts of machine and reform politics (Bridges 1997; Erie 1988; Trounstine 2008), the various dimensions of local racial and ethnic politics (Catlin 1993; Cruz 1998; Keiser 1997; Kraus 2004; Nelson 2000; Randolph and Tate 2003; Sonenshein 1994; Thompson 2006), as well as cultural and identity-­related issues (Bailey 1999; DeLeon and Naff 2004; Sharp 1995b, 2005). Other work has focused on the broader context within which regimes exist, or, in some cases, do not exist. Savitch and Kantor’s (2002, 52–­53) study of development in North American and European cities suggests that regimes exist within a city’s “bargaining context,” while Reese and Rosenfeld (2002, 44) have argued that cities have specific civic cultures that substantially affect the policy-­making process. Further, much of the work on regionalism gives substantial attention to public opinion both as it is currently constituted as well as to how it could be mobilized in support of more equitable local and regional polices (Dreier, Mollenkopf, and Swanstrom 2001, 2004; Orfield 1997, 2002; Rusk 1999, 2003). All of these works implicitly, if not explicitly, suggest that local policy making is about more than a narrow interplay of elites and interest groups. Other long-­standing theories of urban politics point in different directions in terms of their answers to the fundamental question of local government responsiveness. The early elite theorists were explicit in making the argument that local government was not responsive to the broader public. Relying heavily on reputational methodology in which notable community leaders were asked to identify individuals who wielded the most influence in local politics, Floyd Hunter (1953) concluded that city government re-

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flected the interests of a very small number of private citizens. In the final chapter of his famous study of Regional City (Atlanta), Hunter concluded that “the individual in the bulk of the population of Regional City has no voice in policy determination. These individuals are the silent group” (248). Domhoff’s (1978) study of New Haven, a direct response to Dahl, came to similar conclusions. Subsequent work operated on assumptions similar to those of elite theory. In his highly influential article, Harvey Molotch argued that “the very essence of a locality is its operation as a growth machine” (Molotch 1976, 310), hence the development of the growth machine thesis. Unlike pluralism, which examined different policy areas, those in the growth machine school argued that economic growth and development was inherently the most important policy function of cities while also maintaining that consensus existed among a city’s elites on the imperative of growth itself. Molotch acknowledged that elites may be split on other issues (310), but because of his privileging of economic growth as a policy issue, these divisions among elites were not considered important. Drawing on the work of Murray Edelman (1964), Molotch argued that politics unrelated to growth was essentially “symbolic,” whereas “[t]he other politics is the process through which goods and services actually come to be distributed in the society” (313)—­growth politics. Because it places growth at the center of local politics, the growth machine thesis says very little about the dynamics of other significant local functions, effectively minimizing the importance of issues such as education and law enforcement. In Urban Fortunes, Logan and Molotch (1987) elaborated on Molotch’s earlier arguments, and were unambiguous about the question of policy responsiveness. Local governments, responsive to the wishes of growth machine elites, adopt policies that run counter to “public opinion of all social classes” (222). Growth machine theory further argued that not only are growth policies opposed by the majority of local citizens but also that the chronic competition among cities for growth harms “the vast majority of their citizens as well as their environments” (Molotch 1999, 249). Without question, the competition for growth can have harmful effects for cities, and not only in terms of the environment. When cities provide major financial incentives for developers, they often create budgetary constraints that will adversely affect the delivery of other local services. Yet unlike growth machine theory, I argue that public support regarding local growth projects, as well as the concrete effects of development, are empirical

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questions. Local citizens, who exist in an increasingly consumerist-­oriented culture, often support many of the large projects that growth machine theorists bemoan. And considering the wide assortment of growth projects that local governments pursue, it seems reasonable to suggest that the effects of growth would vary according to the characteristics of the project and of the community in which it is located. A more recent account rooted in growth machine theory (which the authors label “growth coalition theory”) espouses a more nuanced view of the relationship between public opinion and local growth policy: In most instances, growth coalitions win out over people who are protesting intrusions into their neighborhoods because the residents grow tired of the battle or are eventually mollified by the developers with stop signs, street barriers, or parks. Those who can afford to do so move to the suburbs that are primarily focused on neighborhood use values. Growth coalitions also win out because it is difficult to organize neighborhoods in general to fight a city-­ wide battle. People tend to focus on their own neighborhoods, as the well-­ known phenomenon of NIMBYism (‘not in my backyard’) demonstrates, and they have trouble overcoming differences arising from varying income levels and racial identifications. (Gendron and Domhoff 2009, 10)

This description of growth politics conjures up smaller-­scale projects proposed in residential neighborhoods, and in certain respects the argument presented here is consistent with Gendron and Domhoff’s analysis of the political dynamics in these types of decisions. NIMBYism remains a potent force in local politics, as the case study of affordable housing in Minneapolis in chapter 5 will help illustrate. Without question I recognize the class bias associated with neighborhood-­based political debates, as well as the political difficulty of uniting diverse neighborhoods in citywide battles. Further, as research has shown, lower-­income neighborhoods often become the location of LULUs, or locally undesirable land uses (Been 1994). Yet I would also argue that depending on the specifics of a development project, many neighborhoods are, in fact, effective in limiting or preventing certain projects from being located in their communities. And in other cases, when developers are successful in building projects in residential neighborhoods, it can actually result from residents’ supporting such development. This pattern is especially apparent when it comes to retail development in disadvantaged communities. Such projects, which are often opposed in middle-­

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income or wealthier neighborhoods, are frequently welcomed in disadvantaged neighborhoods because of the lack of retail establishments that is characteristic of lower-­income communities. It is also important to distinguish between the politics of development in residential neighborhoods versus downtown, which Gendron and Domhoff see as the focal point of growth coalition efforts. In many smaller and medium-­sized U.S. cities, downtown is not much of a residential location. Thus the types of projects that are proposed and built in downtowns across the country—­stadiums, arenas, office buildings, casinos, shopping areas, restaurants, nightclubs, and so forth—­are often supported by city residents because of the lack of direct impact of such projects on residential communities, particularly in second-­and third-­tier cities. In addition, oftentimes those who choose to live downtown today—­either in these cities or in the nation’s largest—­do so precisely because of the many opportunities associated with the development taking place there, a trend that provides additional evidence of the popularity of mainstream development proposals. In some cases, local policy makers clearly pursue development projects that are not supported by local citizens. Yet the assumption of elite and growth machine theories that prodevelopment decisions always run counter to the wishes of the majority is, I suggest, empirically questionable. As Savitch and Kantor have argued, “popularly supported government and elite-­dominated business are often in genuine agreement” (2002, 34). The question of responsiveness is answered yet another way by pluralists (Dahl 1961), who suggest that policy can be responsive to majorities, but that in most instances the opinions of the majority are not known and therefore not acted on by local officials. Although Dahl discusses the potential for elections to transmit the views of constituents to government on certain issues (101), ultimately his account of New Haven focuses on the importance of elites and groups in the local political arena. Robert Waste has described Dahl’s account of New Haven as “stratified pluralism,” in which “a majority of the pluralist activity occurs within the political strata of homo politicus, and that the membership and representativeness of the political strata may change—­both across issues within one city and across cities on the same issue” (Waste 1986, 127). For Dahl, at any given time, the majority of citizens are examples of homo civicus—­individuals more interested in private pursuits than political affairs. Only a relatively small number of citizens are examples of homo politicus, each of whom “deliberately allocates a very sizeable share of his resources to the process of gaining and maintaining control over the

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policies of government” (225). Carter Wilson has argued that pluralists are “group theorists who see the interest group process as an alternative to majoritarian democracy. They argue that most people are concerned only with issues that impact them directly or when they have a stake in the outcome” (Wilson 2006, 36). Thus traditional pluralism is not a majoritarian empirical theory and it also implicitly opposes majoritarian democracy because of its belief in the nonpolitical nature of most citizens. Although it is fair to say that Dahl’s basic assessment of the level of political interest and participation of everyday citizens has not changed significantly, the world of local politics and governing has changed considerably since his work was published. Taken together, these changes have made it much easier for local officials to be aware of public opinion, and, in cases of direct democracy, they directly link public opinion to local policy. With the exception of voting on a new city charter, the primary method that citizens in New Haven in the late 1950s could formally participate in local politics was to vote for candidates for mayor and alderman. Although the city possessed a weak mayor form of government, all top city officials, including school board members, were appointed by the mayor (Wolfinger 1974, 23–­ 24). If citizens perceived that they were under a direct threat, as in the metal houses incident (in which residents perceived that their housing values would decline if a proposed housing development went forward), they could organize and try to impact these very narrow decisions (Dahl 1961, 192–­99). Or they could join an existing group or political party based on the assumption that it would represent their interests. But in the intervening years, a number of important changes have taken place that give policymakers more knowledge of the public’s views and citizens more of a direct voice in local governing in the United States. Although these processes vary somewhat from state to state and even across municipalities within the same state, in general we can identify several important trends in local governing that have occurred since the original community power debate: the direct election of school boards; the increased use of scientific polls and focus groups; the removal of barriers to voting; the creation of more opportunities for direct citizen participation in decision making (often legally mandated), such as the initiative/referendum, or through neighborhood-­or community-­based organizations; and the expanded use of public hearings. As one recent analysis of the history of polling points out, “[p]ublic opinion polling was not a key component of any political strategy until after the 1960s” (Heith 2004, 34). In his comprehensive study of the initiative in

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the United States, John Matsusaka outlines how “more people live in a city with the initiative than a city without it (even though there are fewer initiative cities)” (Matsusaka 2004, 8). In addition, technological advances have substantially improved two-­way communication between local government and citizens while also making it much easier for local officials and others to collect the views of constituents. Whereas electing a small number of officials was the primary way to translate public sentiment into policy in the 1950s and 1960s, today the subsequent expansion of public input provides the public with many more concrete ways to affect the actions of local government. Thus local politics is fundamentally different today than in Dahl’s New Haven or Hunter’s Atlanta. Bachrach and Baratz’s (1970) theory of nondecision making added much-­needed context to the early debate about community power. Their empirical study of politics in Baltimore sheds much light on the inner workings of the political process, specifically how some proposals advance while others do not see the light of day. And they convincingly demonstrate that the pluralist assumption that all groups, once organized, can basically get a fair hearing in the local political arena was unrealistic. Yet for all of their insights, Bachrach and Baratz do not demonstrate that the city’s White officeholders were unresponsive to the city’s majority when they repeatedly thwarted Black attempts at increasing political power up until 1968. Following the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. in April 1968, rioting occurred for several days in Baltimore’s African American neighborhoods. These events led to significant political changes, and White leaders acted in ways intended to prevent future unrest. Straight-­line estimates based on census data show that Baltimore consisted of roughly 43 percent African Americans and 57 percent Whites in 1968 (Gibson and Jung 2005). And whether a majority of the city’s residents supported local officials’ resistance to extending Blacks greater political power until the rioting of April 1968 is an empirical question not addressed by the authors. In fact, as Marion Orr has pointed out, for most of the post–­World War II era, a majority of the Baltimore City Council was controlled by Whites who represented districts that supported George Wallace in the 1968 presidential election (Orr 2003, 271–­72), a clear indication of the racial views of many city residents. Public choice theory does not directly address the issue of local government responsiveness. Peterson (1981) argues that cities act in such a way as to improve their economic standing, and claims that local politics is unlike state and national politics and is primarily centered on economic growth

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and development. He assumes that citizens will support whatever measures a locality takes to improve its economic standing, but does not include any explicit analysis of public opinion (Palus 2010). His picture of local politics is basically a politics without many issues and with little conflict, thus a politics that generates little interest among the citizenry. A large number of critics have pointed out some of the flaws in Peterson’s reasoning elsewhere, and there is no reason to reiterate them here. Yet an assumption I make is that issues such as education, affordable housing, and law enforcement, as well as economic development, are highly salient to significant numbers of urban citizens, and policy decisions in these areas generate considerable debate and conflict in urban governance. The argument presented here does not mean to suggest that groups are not important or influential in local politics. To be sure, groups such as teachers’ and police unions, Chambers of Commerce, developers, bankers, and realtors continually attempt to shape local policy making in myriad ways. But there are inherent complications with any theory that emphasizes group influence over all others. One is the simple fact that public opinion is often congruent with or at least not substantially different from the policy positions of dominant groups on major issues. For example, police and teachers’ unions often want more cops and teachers, respectively, two things that are frequently greeted favorably by the public. As I will discuss in chapter 2, Americans’ widespread confidence in the police gives law enforcement, and therefore police unions, a significant built-­in advantage in any local policy making that affects policing. Substantial numbers of citizens implicitly defer to the desires of local law enforcement agencies, thereby lending tacit support for the policy positions expressed by police unions and police departments. Further, researchers in the field of education policy have shown that local interest groups in this area generally do not counteract the priorities of the citizenry. In their comprehensive study, Berkman and Plutzer argue that while interest groups active in local education policy making can increase or decrease spending, “their efforts do not appreciably reduce policy responsiveness overall” (2005, 156). The constituency that has received the most attention from scholars of local politics is the business community. Local elected officials are clearly dependent on the business community in many tangible ways. Business provides jobs and tax revenues, and business interests are able to contribute significant resources to political campaigns. Yet stipulating the power of the business community does not necessarily mean business dominates all sig-

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nificant local policy making, nor does it inevitably mean that policies advocated by business are either unpopular with or fail to tangibly benefit members of the broader public. In their extensive study of several European and North American cities, Savitch and Kantor (2002, 34) point out the disconnect between academic analyses and local public opinion on the subject of economic growth: “Although many academics are suspicious of pro-­growth policies, these options are often supported by local electorates who are interested in jobs and higher property values.” Local citizens often support major development projects because of the perceived benefits that will accompany them. Further, business and labor—­two constituencies frequently at odds with each other at the state and national levels—­often have similar policy priorities at the local level in the form of supporting economic growth and development projects. Thus the discussion of interest group influence versus citizen influence in the local political arena is not necessarily an “either/or” question. Initially, citizen participation was seen as a potential counterweight to regimes. For example, in his early work on the subject, Stephen Elkin advocated some of the very processes mentioned earlier, including neighborhood assemblies and citywide referenda (Elkin 1987, 173). In addition, the original definition of regime offered by Susan and Norman Fainstein (Fainstein and Fainstein 1983, 256)—­“a circle of powerful elected officials and top administrators who move in and out of office”—­implied much more attention to the actions of government itself, which at least implicitly suggested the potential significance of elections and the views of citizens. But more recently, regime scholars have paid less attention to these variables in their analyses, a fact which is consistent with regime theory’s focus on the relationships among regime partners as opposed to public opinion, political participation, and the formal institutions of government. Some caveats are in order. An obvious objection to an emphasis on the role of governmental responsiveness is the question of how well informed the public is. For many years, researchers have documented citizens’ lack of basic political knowledge, and recent work has shown that technological advances such as the Internet have not increased the public’s knowledge of politics and government (Pew Center for the People and the Press 2007). Mark Bauerlein’s widely discussed work goes even further, and argues that digital technologies have significantly hindered the intellectual and social development of younger generations in particular: “Instead of opening young Americans minds to the stores of civilization and science and politics,

30majoritarian cities

technology has contracted their horizon to themselves, to the social scene around them” (2008, 10). These and other studies raise important questions about the level of political knowledge necessary for democracy. Yet looking at the relationship between public opinion and local policy outcomes is a different matter than assessing the public’s knowledge of political issues. What is presented in the chapters that follow does not contradict the research that has found that the public is not very well informed. Rather, my findings serve to highlight the significance of the current level of political knowledge of the general public. If local officials routinely went against the wishes of their constituents on major decisions, then any discussion of the public’s political knowledge would be largely academic. Moreover, by emphasizing the responsiveness of local officials, I do not suggest a type of politics in which issues spontaneously emerge from the consensus of a majority of citizens. Casual observation of local politics confirms that most citizens are not politically active, and that an ideal democracy in which groups of citizens regularly meet to discuss public priorities and deliberate on various proposals, remains just that, an ideal. The local policy agenda is influenced by a variety of factors, including objective conditions, interest groups, federal and state policies, focusing events, as well as public sentiment. I suggest that public opinion can have a decisive role in determining which options are pursued, and which are not, once an issue is on the agenda, and in some cases can play a major role in placing issues on the agenda in the first place. Finally, my argument is not necessarily meant to be applied to national or state governments. The original debate about community power was ultimately a debate that used cities as a lens to examine the characteristics of American democracy more broadly. On this point, Allan Harding has noted that “[t]he ‘urban’ focus of community power studies, then, was rather vague and based largely on the convenience for the researcher and the assumption that empirical research findings derived at the local level could be generalised” (2009, 32). In the present study, I make no assumption along these lines. Although the model I utilize explicitly recognizes that cities act within a broader context shaped by significant forces, I am ultimately interested in examining why cities adopt certain policies, which is quite different from explaining public policy at the state or federal level. Public opinion with respect to national-­and state-­level policy making is influenced by many more variables, including a much larger variety of media. In addition, citizens’ views about local government and policies are fundamentally different from

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their views about state and national politics in that people see and experience the effects of local decisions each day, making a consideration of the effects of specific policies a unique component of an assessment of local policy responsiveness. Susan Howell has succinctly articulated the difference between local versus state/federal issues in her study of mayoral performance and approval: “Citizens can evaluate cities in terms of crime control, street conditions, housing, parks, public transportation, and schools. In addition, these aspects of urban life can be closely observed in the course of daily life, in contrast to conditions in the state or the nation” (Howell 2007, 2). If U.S. national defense policy changes, the persons who would see the effects immediately are members of the armed services and their families, and perhaps those local communities in which military installations are concentrated. In a nation of over 300 million individuals, this is a relatively small number of people. On the other hand, if a local police department decides to vigorously enforce “quality of life” offenses in a given city, a significant number of that city’s residents would directly or indirectly witness the effects of this decision in fairly short order. This is not meant to suggest that public opinion is not an important variable in the policy process at the state and national levels. The explosion in public relations firms and campaign consultants, the rise in opinion-­based media, as well as the seemingly endless use of polling and focus groups by candidates, officeholders, and the press illustrates the lengths to which government and the private sector go to both measure and shape public opinion. The title of the influential Republican pollster Frank Luntz’s book, Words That Work (2006), speaks volumes about the significance of measuring and attempting to influence public opinion in modern American politics. Moreover, the fact that phrases such as “talking points” and “spin” have effectively become part of our everyday language is strong evidence of the increasing influence of public relations and opinion shaping within American culture. But examining the relationship between public opinion and policy making at higher levels of government is much more complicated in light of the increased number of participants and the greater number and complexity of national and state policies and programs. In sum, it is a less complex task to assess citizens’ views toward issues such as a proposed local development project or pending decision of the school board than their views on issues such as state-­level health care policies or U.S. foreign policy. To be clear: my argument is not a cause for celebration of the nature of local democracy in the United States. Even though majoritarianism seem-

32majoritarian cities

ingly satisfies the minimal requirements of democratic theory—­local officials responding to the views of citizens—­the policy outcomes generated by majoritarian politics serve to highlight the many built-­in problems associated with using local and regional policy to address fundamental inequalities. Deeply held attitudes, such as suspicion of affordable housing, unwavering support for neighborhood schools, and the like, are difficult to change, and exist within a wider culture in which skepticism about government in general is high. Thus my purpose is to redirect the study of local politics to include explicit attention to the attitudes and values of the citizenry, including how local policies adopted often correspond with those attitudes. Whereas regime theory suggests that the path to policies that better serve lower-­income individuals and groups involves broadening the number of players involved in local policy making, I suggest that this task is much more difficult. As the data presented throughout the following chapters will help demonstrate, a wider variety of players in the local political process is not likely to change many policy outcomes. In addition, using the courts to remedy the unequal effects of majoritarian politics at the local level in the contemporary period is quite difficult because, under current law, these decisions tend not to involve infringements of individual rights. Therefore this book argues that the search for a more just and equitable city begins with a close examination of public sentiment and the many ways that it is manifest in the local political system. Ultimately I suggest that the task of creating concrete policies that positively impact disadvantaged citizens needs to begin with a more meaningful discussion of the causes and effects of inequality in the urban and metropolitan setting, and how local decisions, including the most politically popular, affect these patterns of inequality. Broadening participation in local political processes can begin to create significant changes in policy only after the prevailing attitudes of the citizenry regarding fundamental inequalities are transformed.

Majoritarianism and Local Policy Making: Not a Matter of Individual Rights A question that has been addressed by students of democratic theory since the founding period of the United States is the relationship between majoritarian policy making and individual rights. However, most contemporary policy making at the local level affecting affordable housing, the schools,

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economic development, and law enforcement typically does not involve questions regarding infringements of individual rights. Thus local reform-­ oriented litigation strategies will typically generate limited results. Yet a discussion of the legal boundaries of local policy making helps to provide the foundation for the political narrative that follows, and shows that local officials possess substantial latitude when making and implementing policies in these areas. Education is, to be sure, subject to federal and state constitutional protections. In the famous 1954 case Brown v. Board of Education, the U.S. Supreme Court affirmed that racially segregated schools violated students’ Fourteenth Amendment equal protection rights. As a result, in the decades after Brown, dozens of U.S. cities, including both Minneapolis and Gary, experienced federal school desegregation lawsuits. But nearly twenty years later, in San Anto­ nio v. Rodriguez (1973), the Supreme Court also held that education is not a right either explicitly or implicitly guaranteed by the U.S. Constitution. Thus, since the late 1970s state constitutions have been used in two ways to advance the education of citizens, particularly those attending economically disadvantaged schools. First, most state constitutions contain provisions that explicitly mention the role of state government in the provision of education, and education clauses have been used as the basis for numerous successful lawsuits in state courts. Many state courts have also relied on state constitutional clauses guaranteeing equity or equal protection for all citizens to nullify existing educational financing arrangements (Reed 2001, 11). Taken together, these decisions have tended to result in school financing changes, but, for the most part, have not altered the basic geographic-­based public education system that is the norm in the United States. Although various public school choice options are in place across the country, generally speaking where one lives is the biggest factor in determining which public school one attends. This system places higher-­poverty residential areas, which are disproportionately made up of racial minorities, at a substantial disadvantage in light of the negative relationship between concentrated poverty and educational achievement. However, the legal framework for race-­and class-­based school attendance policies provides local officials with the ability to creatively address concentrations of poverty in the schools. The Supreme Court’s decision in Parents Involved in Community Schools v. Seattle School District #1 (2007) struck down school attendance policies that included an explicit racial component. Because only four justices voted to disallow race-­conscious attendance policies

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in all instances, using narrowly tailored race-­ based attendance policies aimed at school desegregation remains a possibility, albeit a politically difficult one. Income-­or socioeconomic class-­based school attendance policies, however, appear to be on much more solid legal ground. In light of the unpopularity of any sort of race-­based policies, the implementation of attendance policies that consciously attempt to break up high concentrations of low-­income students of all races is a more politically viable, even if still challenging, option for school officials. Housing is not a legal right granted by either the federal government or the states. Zoning and planning policies are the main methods that municipalities use to establish the types of housing that exist within their boundaries, and the decentralization of land use policies has been a major contributor to economic segregation and sprawl (Dreier, Mollenkopf, and Swanstrom 2001). The courts, however, “have consistently held that discrimination on the basis of income or class is not prohibited by the U.S. Constitution”. Further, the federal courts have “gotten out of the business of reviewing local zoning laws, except in the rare case when a community was extremely blatant in applying them against blacks or other minorities” (Judd and Swanstrom 2008, 264). Ironically, the reasoning that makes it easier for government to make distinctions on the basis of income, while frequently used to favor economically more advantaged citizens with respect to local housing decisions, could also be used by school officials to deconcentrate poverty in schools. In sum, the amount and location of affordable housing units within a municipality—­a subject taken up in chapter 5—­are mainly political issues decided by local officials. The intersection of individual rights and law enforcement policy is more complex. All citizens have a federal right to the “equal protection of the laws,” and most state constitutions contain equal protection or equity provisions that apply to the provision of law enforcement the same way they apply to any other government service. Yet in light of the existing racial disparities in the criminal justice system, political and policy debates regarding law enforcement are dominated by questions of race. Civil rights advocates argue that racial minorities are subject to discriminatory treatment, which manifests itself in a variety of ways, including racial profiling and harsher treatment by police, and results in disproportionately higher numbers of minorities being arrested, convicted, and incarcerated. Most racial profiling is practiced by individual police officers and is “not generally a practice authorized by state statutes, local ordinances, or even

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police manuals or guidelines” (Wu 2005, 492). But in recent years the courts have done little to mitigate this practice. One legal scholar has even gone so far as to argue that “[c]ourts have not only provided little relief; they have encouraged the activity and even enabled it to continue unaddressed” (Harris 2003, 79). A particular Supreme Court decision from 1996 has been interpreted as a major blow to criminal justice reform advocates interested in using case law to address racial profiling. In Whren v. U.S., a unanimous Supreme Court ruled that law enforcement could constitutionally use traffic code enforcement as a pretext for stopping drivers even if the officers involved had no interest in the actual traffic violation, but in finding another violation of criminal law. Critics of the Whren decision argued that it essentially provided legal cover for the police to engage in racial profiling of drivers under almost any circumstances. In conjunction with the Court’s long-­established 1968 ruling in Terry v Ohio, which affirmed that police simply need “reasonable suspicion” that a pedestrian has been or may be involved in criminal activity in order to constitutionally stop and frisk that individual, law enforcement officers have been given a substantial amount of leeway when carrying out their daily activities. Police conduct, therefore, has become a major political issue in urban politics. And in the absence of federal or state statutes or case law, institutions such as state legislatures, city councils, mayors, and police departments, have become the main venues for policy making with respect to oversight of local law enforcement. Within fairly broad parameters, these officials and agencies have the ability to adopt whatever measures are deemed necessary to achieve nondiscriminatory police conduct and ensure broad public confidence in law enforcement. Economic development policy, a subject to be addressed in chapter 6, generally does not directly involve individual rights. Rather, it is a hotly contested policy area that pits local governments against one another in an ongoing attempt to attract and retain jobs and tax revenues. The politics of development and redevelopment also generate contentious local political battles within municipalities, as supporters and opponents of growth projects work diligently to affect policy outcomes. In some cases, individual property rights can be directly affected by local economic development efforts, an issue that became the subject of another widely discussed Supreme Court case. In the 2005 case of Kelo v. City of New London, the Court ruled that private developers could acquire privately owned land under the takings clause of the Fifth Amendment if the proposed development constituted general economic development for the community. But the Kelo deci-

36majoritarian cities

sion sparked a tremendous backlash, and as a result most states have passed laws that substantially reduce the ability of private developers to use the power of eminent domain in this manner. Further, in the case of the riverboat casinos in Gary and elsewhere, the privately owned boats are located on public property. The fact that these policies are generally not associated with infringements of individual rights helps to outline the boundaries of local and regional governmental efforts aimed at addressing patterns of inequality. The racial and economic inequalities that are manifest in urban education, housing, the provision of law enforcement, and economic development patterns are primarily political problems. This line of analysis leads to questions about public opinion regarding racial and economic inequalities and public sentiment vis-­à-­vis specific local policies, issues to be taken up in chapter 2 in some detail.

Conclusion This book’s central argument is that local governments frequently reflect public opinion on significant policy decisions. By arguing that local governments are responsive to majorities, however, I do not suggest that public opinion in cities is characterized by consensus on major policy decisions. To the contrary, many high-­profile decisions in both cities have resulted from intense debates and conflicts that demonstrate a lack of fundamental agreement on the basic direction of policy. Thus majority support does not mean consensus. Critics might suggest that the argument advanced here represents yet another version of pluralism. My approach, however, which emphasizes the role of formal governing institutions and policy making, is distinct from traditional pluralism in several respects. First is the role of leaders and leadership. In Dahl’s pluralism, Mayor Lee is a masterful politician, skilled at negotiating and bringing together various constituencies, while also playing an important role in shaping public opinion: “The ambiguities are created by the fact that leaders do not merely respond to the preferences of constituents; leaders also shape preferences” (1961, 164, emphasis in original). None of the elected officials discussed in this book have successfully engaged in much public opinion shaping. Minneapolis mayor R. T. Rybak routinely recites words and phrases that sound as if they have been created by political

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consultants in an ongoing attempt to reflect majority support for all significant decisions. There is every indication that Rybak is following the public rather than the reverse. And the many difficulties of everyday life in Gary simply do not provide city leaders much of an opportunity to actively engage in the shaping of public opinion.3 Another key distinction between the approach advanced here and traditional pluralism is the treatment of racial and ethnic relations as well as the broader issue of inequality generally. As other scholars have noted, the traditional pluralist framework cannot adequately explain racial and ethnic politics. Pluralism generally considers racial minorities as analogous to other interest groups, while also treating minorities as similar to White ethnic immigrant groups (Hero 1992, 15). Further, as Dianne Pinderhughes has argued, “When political institutions handle racial issues, conventional rules go awry, individuals react irrationally, and constitutional rules are violated” (1987, 261). Considering the events of American history, it becomes evident that the politics of race and ethnicity are fundamentally different from other forms of interest group bargaining. Directly related to race relations is the issue of inequality, and orthodox pluralism’s treatment of inequality is clearly insufficient. Writing at the beginning of the 1960s, Dahl correctly observed that African Americans still faced significant discrimination in employment and housing: “Although discrimination is declining, in the private socioeconomic sphere of life New Haven Negroes still encounter far greater obstacles than the average white person” (Dahl 1961, 293). However, he goes on to point out the political progress Blacks have made by presenting data that shows that African Americans participated in political activity at rates higher than Whites (294–­95). Thus in his analysis of the history of political influence in New Haven, Dahl concludes that “in the political system of today, inequalities in political resources remain, but they tend to be noncumulative. The political system of New Haven, then, is one of dispersed inequalities” (85, emphasis in original). In other words, in late 1950s industrial New Haven, for Dahl, inequalities in one sphere of life do not necessarily translate into inequalities in other areas, as they had during the city’s earlier period of patrician oligarchy. Setting aside the potential methodological problems associated with small sample sizes (Dahl’s claims on this issue are based on a sample of only 47 Blacks in New Haven), given the direct and substantial connections between housing and other basic areas of life, including education and public safety, it is clear that inequalities in one area of life lead directly to inequali-

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ties in others. Indeed, this is one of the central points in much of the recent literature on regionalism, perhaps best summed up by the title chosen by Peter Dreier and his colleagues, Place Matters. More specifically, the lack of affordable housing in a variety of neighborhoods leads directly to inequalities in educational outcomes because of the generally inverse relationship between concentrated poverty and academic achievement. Higher-­poverty residential areas also tend to have higher crime rates, which have many adverse effects on the education, recreation, and economic and social opportunities for neighborhood residents. Beyond simply making daily life far more difficult, higher crime rates also translate into more contact with police for residents of higher-­poverty areas. If police engage in racial profiling or other types of discriminatory conduct, the effects will be felt disproportionately in disadvantaged communities. In light of the fact that pluralism is basically a process-­based theory with no specific attention to policy effects, it is not surprising that Dahl’s analysis leads him to this conclusion. He clearly saw political activity as the key to economic advancement. But given the inherent connections between one’s place of residence and one’s overall life chances, it becomes evident that inequalities cannot be disaggregated in the manner that traditional pluralism would have us believe. More fundamentally, my analysis gives more weight to public opinion than pluralism, which places more emphasis directly on elected officials and interest groups. Although pluralism concedes that local officials can reflect public opinion, traditional pluralist writers such as Dahl assumed that the majority of individuals do not have concrete views on most issues, and therefore public sentiment is frequently not relevant for elected and appointed officials in the normal course of events. Lastly, I seek to examine the impact of local policy decisions on patterns of inequality, which also differentiates my approach from traditional pluralism’s strict emphasis on process. Here I take a cue from the work on deliberative democracy, which suggests that decisions arrived at by democratic means, including those that result from deliberative processes, need to be carefully scrutinized. Such decisions are, in the words of Amy Gutmann and Dennis Thompson, “politically provisional” (2004, 116). I argue that existing patterns of inequality, as manifest in geographically concentrated poverty and residential segregation, are detrimental for democracy. In other words, democratic processes that result in affordable housing being kept out of certain neighborhoods, or large numbers of low-­income children attending the

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same schools, ultimately harm the city and the region in that they limit important opportunities for some while reinforcing the privileges of others. If policy makers and scholars are concerned about inequality, then a critical interrogation of local policy decisions, including those sanctioned by large majorities within the context of significant public debate, is necessary. Ultimately I maintain that examining the local institutions of government and their relationships with citizens is a worthwhile endeavor.4 Studying what measures a city council adopts in response to citizen complaints about the police, or the actions taken by a school board with respect to a highly salient issue such as attendance policies, can help illuminate a community’s priorities. In order to begin to envision policies designed to address patterns of inequality within urban and metropolitan areas, it is first necessary to more closely examine the relationships between citizens’ views and the actions of local governments. This includes an assessment of public opinion on specific decisions, but also includes attention to attitudes on the broader issues that local government deals with on a regular basis. The formulation of policies aimed at addressing inequalities will be increasingly difficult without first being aware of the priorities of the public. Hopefully this book is a step in that direction.

Chapter 2

Patterns of Inequality, Public Attitudes, and the Cases

Chapter 2 provides critical background for the chapters that follow. First, I will briefly discuss the how the subject of economic inequality is addressed in some of the recent literature on regionalism, and identify the similarities between my approach and that of the new regionalists. Following this, I will outline contemporary national data on patterns of inequality in the United States as well as attitudes about inequality. Then I will present a variety of public opinion data on the policy issues discussed in the remainder of the book. To be sure, national samples are demographically different from the local populations in the two case study cities. Gary is largely African American and more economically disadvantaged, and because Minneapolis is increasingly multiracial, it is somewhat more diverse than the nation as a whole. But much of the data is broken down by categories including race, income, political party affiliation, urban versus suburban, and by metropolitan areas, which, taken together, provide greater comparability to the populations in the two cities. Finally, I provide background information on the politics and history of Minneapolis and Gary, which helps to set the stage for the policy chapters that follow.

Economic Inequality, Regionalism, and Local Decision Making In the contemporary period, the issue of inequality has largely driven much of the most influential research in urban studies (Jargowsky 1997; Massey and Denton 1993; W. Wilson 1987, 1996), including the burgeoning literature 40

Patterns of Inequality, Public Attitudes, and the Cases

41

on regionalism (Dreier, Mollenkopf, and Swanstrom 2001, 2004; Katz 2000; Orfield 1997, 2002; Pastor, Benner, and Matsuoka 2009; Rusk, 1999, 2003).1 Whereas scholars of community power have tended to focus on the relationship between political processes and inequality, new regionalists have spent considerable effort documenting the effects of national and local policies on patterns of metropolitan inequality as well as articulating policy prescriptions for addressing these patterns. Central to these analyses are discussions of the causes and effects of concentrated poverty. Neighborhoods containing high concentrations of poverty have important effects on individuals who live in such places. Higher crime rates, lower-­performing schools, and weaker access to job markets all combine to present formidable obstacles for local residents. In addition, the existence of high-­poverty neighborhoods makes political coalition building much more difficult at every level of government, further complicating the task of addressing these problems. Admittedly my emphasis on local decision making in two cities is fundamentally different from that of researchers such as Myron Orfield and others who focus on the dynamics of metropolitan regions. Yet my work is similar to much of the work by new regionalists in terms of the explanatory weight given to how the attitudes and actions of citizens have shaped local and regional inequalities. For example, Orfield has succinctly outlined the relationship between poverty and schools, and how the actions of individuals and families affect the predicament of declining schools and communities: “As schools gradually gain more and more poor students, middle class demand for housing in the community softens. Housing prices reflect this. As poverty continues to increase, demand slackens further. As the school population becomes noticeably poorer, non-­poor families with school age children are likely to leave first because changes in the schools affect them most” (Orfield 2002, 9–­10). The cycle continues, and the schools in this hypothetical community will move in the direction of greater concentrations of low-­ income students. As poverty in the schools, and eventually in the community, increases, social problems such as crime will also increase, further escalating neighborhood decline. The public attitudes implicit throughout the analyses of Orfield, Rusk, and Dreier and his coauthors are directly linked to local policies in areas such as housing, education, and development emphasized by the new regionalists that have contributed to persistent regional inequalities. Pressure from local publics is often the driving force in these types of policies and is evidence of the value Americans place on home rule in government and school-

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ing. Thus the new regionalists, similar to the argument presented here, tend not to assume that expanding political participation alone would necessarily lead to policies moving toward greater regional equity. Although they do not minimize the role of elites in shaping regional inequalities, new regionalists recognize that citizen preferences and behaviors are a key part of the explanation of not only how regional disparities have developed but also for developing processes and policies that can meaningfully address such inequalities. I suggest that a better understanding of the priorities of urban citizens as exhibited through local democratic processes, as well as of the impact of local decisions, can inform the debates about the politics of regionalism while shedding some light on related policy issues.

Inequality: Current Patterns and Attitudes National data on inequality is a key piece of the puzzle when examining public perceptions of both economic opportunity and discrimination, as well as of specific local policy issues. Recent data continue to show substantial economic differences according to race in the United States. As shown in table 2.1, both African Americans and Hispanics remain significantly more disadvantaged than Whites in basic economic indicators such as median household income and poverty rate. These data help explain why Americans of different races diverge in their attitudes regarding public policies intended to address economic and social inequalities. Further, these patterns are particularly significant for urban politics in light of the relatively large number of racial minorities who reside in central cities. Individual perceptions exist within the larger American political culture, which places a great deal of emphasis on individualism. And this belief in individualism necessarily shapes how Americans think about economic opportunity. As a leading text of American government states: “Since the beTABLE 2.1. Economic Characteristics of U.S. Population, by Race, 2009 Median Household Income Poverty (individuals)

Non-­Hispanic African Whites Hispanics Americans Asians $54,461 9.4%

Source: U.S. Census Bureau 2010, 5, 15.

$38,039 25.3%

$32,584 25.8%

$65,469 12.5%

Patterns of Inequality, Public Attitudes, and the Cases

43

ginning of the republic, foreign observers have noted that American culture is distinctively individualistic. Individuals are thought to be the authors of their own destinies, endowed with the capacity—­even the duty—­to define beliefs, thoughts, and aspirations, for themselves. While some other nations most highly value the society in general or even the national state, pride of place in America is reserved for the individual” (Miroff et al. 2010, 66). This strong adherence to individualism has important implications for some of the policies discussed here. For instance, citizens’ attitudes about the best ways to address the problems of urban schools, a community’s lack of affordable housing, or the relations between police and minority groups are shaped by individualism’s emphasis on the motivation and behavior of lower-­ income persons and their families. At the same time, however, as several scholars have shown, Americans are not unconcerned about economic inequality and its effects. Rather, Americans appear to be ambivalent about inequality and therefore unsure about government’s role in addressing it. In his recent analysis of inequality and American democracy, after reviewing the extensive public opinion data on the subject, Larry Bartels summarizes the public’s seemingly disparate views in the following way: “So, do Americans care about inequality? Here, so often, it is easy to disagree about whether the glass is half full or half empty. Almost 45% of Americans say that the difference in incomes between rich people and poor people has increased over the past 20 years and that that is a bad thing—­but an even larger proportion either do not acknowledge the fact or have not thought about whether it is good or bad. More than 60% agree that government policies have exacerbated economic inequality by helping high-­income workers more—­but more than a third disagree—­ and more than 85% say that ‘some people just don’t work as hard.’ Half the public thinks that rich people are asked to pay less than they should in federal income taxes—­but almost half does not think so” (Bartels 2008, 148–­49; also see Newman and Jacobs 2010). In her classic study of the attitudes of residents of New Haven three decades ago, Jennifer Hochschild arrived at very similar findings: “Many of the poor and a surprising number of the rich do not seek redistribution, but are so ambivalent about their own distributive beliefs that they do not oppose redistribution as much as they fail to support any system of distributive justice very fully” (Hochschild 1981, 283). In a discussion of citizens’ views on inequality and distribution, Ian Shapiro observed that there “is no strong relationship between democracy and downward distribution, and quite possibly no relationship at all” (2003,

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150). Whether there is any clear-­cut relationship between democracy and downward distribution, particularly at the national level, is well beyond the scope of this book. But at a minimum, these attitudes do not provide government at any level with major political incentives for addressing the needs of the economically disadvantaged. Complicating these seemingly contradictory attitudes, of course, is the nation’s continuing struggle with race, which has traditionally been a central fault line in urban politics. There is still a significant divide between Whites and minorities with respect to the perceptions of the circumstances faced by racial minorities and policy prescriptions to address those circumstances. Specifically, Blacks continue to perceive a relative lack of economic opportunities compared to Whites. For example, in 2006, when asked whether “racial minorities in this country have equal job opportunities as Whites,” 53 percent of Whites responded positively, as compared to 34 percent of Hispanics and only 17 percent of Blacks (Gallup and Newport 2007, 279). In a Gallup Poll from 2009, 72 percent of Blacks believed that racism against African Americans is widespread, whereas only 42 percent of Whites thought this to be true (Newport 2010, 393). Additional survey data from 2007 also revealed some of the striking differences in public opinion according to race with respect to the subject of inequality. As shown in table 2.2, major differences between Whites and African Americans exist in perceptions of basic opportunities in housing, education, and employment. In all three of these fundamental areas of life, Whites are much more optimistic about the opportunities available to African Americans than are Blacks themselves. While an overwhelming number of Whites think that the housing market and education system are fair and nondiscriminatory, only a minority of African Americans believe these things to be true. Other data from 2007 also showed that only 30 percent of African Americans were satisfied with how Blacks were treated in society, as TABLE 2.2. Perceived Opportunities for African Americans Compared with Whites in United States, 2007 To Get Any Housing They Can Afford For Children to Get a Good Education To Get Any Kind of Job for Which   They Are Qualified Source: Gallup and Newport 2008, 287.

Non-­Hispanic Whites

African Americans

84% 80%

44% 49%

76%

37%

Patterns of Inequality, Public Attitudes, and the Cases

45

compared to 68 percent of Blacks who were dissatisfied (Gallup and Newport 2008, 293). Clearly Whites and African Americans perceive the nation’s progress toward racial equality in very different ways, a fact that has profound implications for the future of central cities and urban and regional policy making. Data regarding the public’s views of the best ways to reduce existing patterns of inequality are particularly relevant for an analysis of urban politics. Americans tend to place a great deal of emphasis on education, and often express the view that education is the key to reducing economic inequality. In 2000, before the September 11th attacks, education ranked as the number-­ one most important problem facing the country (Gallup 2001, 191). The issue subsequently played a major role in the presidential election that year, with candidates George W. Bush and Al Gore offering a range of policy prescriptions for the nation’s ailing schools. It was within this context that the No Child Left Behind Act was signed into law in early 2002. In the years since, although education has slipped below issues such as national security/war and the economy, it remains among the top issues of concern to the public. And public opinion data consistently show that Americans believe that improving the educational system is the most effective way of addressing the economic problems faced by minorities. A 2006 Gallup Poll showed that non-­Hispanic Whites, Blacks, and Hispanics all ranked improving education far ahead of several other possible methods of addressing the economic hardships faced by African Americans. As shown in table 2.3, 54 percent of Whites, 41 percent of Blacks, and 35 percent of Hispanics cited improved education as the most effective way to combat the economic inequality faced by Blacks. This survey also revealed, however, that Whites place much more emphasis on personal responsibility and significantly less emphasis on increasing employment opportunities and reducing discrimination than do African Americans. Behind improving education, creating more employment/job opportunities (24%) was ranked second by African Americans as the best way to improve Blacks’ economic situation, followed by less discrimination/equal opportunities (17%) (Gallup and Newport 2007, 280). Whites ranked these two proposals much lower, at 7 percent for more jobs and 4 percent for less discrimination. Another national survey from 2006 asked respondents about their family’s most important financial problem, and compared White and African American responses. Out of eight possible problems, Blacks cited lack of money/low wages most frequently at 22 percent. In contrast to this, health-

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TABLE 2.3. Improving the Economic Situation for African Americans, 2006 Improved Education System More Personal Responsibility/   Self-­motivation/Better Attitudes Improved Family Structure More Employment/Job Opportunities Less Handouts/Improved Welfare System Less Discrimination/Equal Opportunities Better Job Training Affirmative Action Higher Income/Wages Government Needs to Provide More Public/   Social Assistance No Opinion

Non-­Hispanic African Whites Americans Hispanics 54%

41%

35%

14% 9% 7% 6% 4% 2% 2% 1%

6% 5% 24% 1% 17% 2% 2% 7%

7% 3% 21% 3% 9% 1% 1% 2%

1% 11%

* 7%

* 20%

Source: Gallup and Newport 2007, 280. Note: Several others at or below 2%. Asterisks [*] denote that these responses received less than 0.5%.

care costs was the most popular response among Whites at 17 percent, while only 11 percent listed lack of money/low wages as their biggest financial problem (Gallup and Newport 2007, 484). Taken together, these figures reveal the persistent differences in the economic circumstances and related attitudes of Americans of different races and help to illuminate the dynamics of several local policy debates.

Public Opinion and Local Public Policies Education National public opinion data also help to explain many of the specific findings discussed in the chapters that follow. Cities exist within a regional and national context, and so the decisions that local governments make will clearly be influenced by this larger context. Whereas there is widespread agreement in the importance of education, Americans’ particular views about education demonstrate the continuing political difficulties associated with substantive educational reform along the lines of breaking up high

47

Patterns of Inequality, Public Attitudes, and the Cases

concentrations of poverty in schools. In 2004, as part of an ongoing discussion of the 50-­year anniversary of the Brown v. Board of Education decision, the Gallup Poll measured public preferences regarding the best ways to improve the educational opportunities of Black children. As shown in table 2.4, among the most popular suggestions for all adults and for both Whites and Blacks individually included better teachers, equal opportunity, more family responsibility, and improved funding. Far down the list was the prospect of increased integration by socioeconomic class, mentioned by only 1 percent of all adults, 1 percent of Whites, and 2 percent of Blacks. Policies such as increasing the levels of racial desegregation, which would frequently accompany economic desegregation, did not appear at all on the list of responses for any group. These findings also help to elucidate the popularity of neighborhood schools, a subject taken up in chapter 3. If most parents of any race do not consciously think that the student population of schools is substantially related to educational achievement, then they will most likely be satisfied with the default attendance policy, which typically means neighborhood-­and municipal-­based school boundaries. Significantly, in the survey TABLE 2.4. Most Important Way to Improve Educational Opportunities for African American Children, 2004 Same Standards/Equal Opportunity More Family Responsibility Better Funding/Financing in General Better Teachers Greater Encouragement to Attend School Improve Educational System Overall Better Schools/More Schools Improve Economic Conditions Focus on Funding Inner City Schools Less Discrimination/Racism Allow Vouchers More Help with Scholarships/Grants Better Discipline More Integration between Poor and Wealthy Early Childhood Intervention/Development Smaller Classrooms No Opinion Source: Gallup and Newport 2005, 201. Note: Several others at or below 1%.

National African Adults Whites Americans 11% 10% 7% 7% 5% 4% 4% 4% 4% 4% 3% 2% 2% 1% 1% 1% 25%

10% 11% 7% 6% 5% 4% 4% 4% 4% 4% 3% 2% 2% 1% 1% 1% 27%

12% 5% 9% 12% 7% 5% 5% 4% 2% 4% 1% 3% 2% 2% 2% 1% 16%

48majoritarian cities

reported in table 2.4, only 16 percent of African Americans had no opinion on this question, in comparison to roughly a quarter of both Whites and adults as a group. The vast majority of Blacks have concrete ideas as to how best to educate African American children, and these ideas tend not to revolve around either economic or racial desegregation in the schools. Additional survey data from 2004 reveal the current lack of public support for policies that promote class-­based integration in schools. That year, researchers from Gallup asked a random sample of citizens an open-­ended question about “the best way to improve kindergarten through 12th grade education in the U.S. today,” and of the 19 ideas that received at least 1 percent among respondents, none had to do with the demographic composition of schools. The most frequently cited response was better teachers (15%), followed by reducing the number of students in classes (11%), adopting a back-­to-­basics curriculum (10%), improving school funding (7%), better pay for teachers (6%), and more parental involvement (6%) (Gallup and Newport 2005, 376). The same survey was carried out in 2009 by Gallup, and the results were similar. Of the 19 answers that were mentioned by at least 0.5 percent of all respondents, none had anything to do with class-­or race-­ based desegregation in the schools. The top three responses were quality teachers, a back to basics curriculum, and improved funding (Newport 2010, 301). These data do not mean, of course, that increasing the level of integration by income in schools is not a wise policy. Rather, educational reformers need to be aware of public opinion on this issue when attempting to formulate and ultimately generate support for proposals involving greater socioeconomic integration of students. Affordable Housing A variety of organizations have conducted survey research in metropolitan areas across the country and used national samples to measure public attitudes on the issue of affordable housing. Two reviews of survey research on the subject have concluded that certain themes dominate these surveys. In an extensive review of national, regional, and local surveys from around the United States, the Campaign for Affordable Housing concluded: “When stated generally, ‘policies’ to expand affordable housing receive solid support. . . . Support does not translate into endorsement of specific local efforts to in­ crease the amount of affordable housing” (Campaign for Affordable Housing 2004, 6, emphasis in original). And in a review of 13 studies on affordable

Patterns of Inequality, Public Attitudes, and the Cases

49

housing communications, the Citizens Housing and Planning Association arrived at a very similar conclusion: “Concern about housing affordability appears to be passive and does not necessarily translate into support for specific local housing policies and initiatives, although the reasons for the disconnect are unclear.” Further, respondents are more comfortable with “solutions related to homeownership” rather than the creation of a greater number of affordable rental units (Citizens Housing and Planning Association 2008, 1, emphasis in original). Chapter 5 chronicles the politics of affordable housing in Minneapolis and provides further evidence for these claims regarding the public’s views on this issue. Although public concern about the lack of affordable housing in a general sense should be encouraging for local affordable housing advocates, the lack of support that frequently accompanies specific proposals is a consistent obstacle to addressing this pressing social need. Gambling The decision by the state of Indiana and several of its municipalities, including Gary, to utilize riverboat casinos as a method of economic development is not at all surprising when one considers Americans’ attitudes toward gambling as well as their gambling habits in recent years. The national debate about gambling picked up steam in the late 1980s and early 1990s. Data from the 1990s (after most states had reintroduced lotteries) show a solid majority of Americans reported that they had purchased a lottery ticket at least once in the last twelve months, with nearly half saying that they had done so more frequently. For example, in 1996, 57 percent of Americans said they had bought a lottery ticket within the last year, with 42 percent buying lottery tickets weekly or monthly (Gallup 1997, 191). In 1999, 57 percent again said that they had purchased a lottery ticket at least once in the last twelve months (Gallup 2000, 263). Survey data also reveal that lottery ticket buyers represent a fairly diverse economic group, with majorities of each of Gallup’s four income categories reporting that they had purchased at least one lottery ticket. Individuals of lower incomes, which make up a disproportionate share of urban residents, do not appear to be buying lottery tickets at a much different rate than those in higher-­income groups. Data concerning the number and demographics of casino gamblers also illustrates that this activity is clearly not confined to lower-­income groups. Roughly 27 percent of all adults over 21 in the United States are casino gamblers. In addition, those who gamble in casinos appear to be better off eco-

50majoritarian cities

nomically and have more formal education than the population as a whole. In a report for the Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis, Thomas Garret reviewed the literature on the demographics of casino gamblers, and his findings are instructive. Household income of casino gamblers is actually higher ($50,000) than that of nongamblers ($41,000), and more casino gamblers either graduated from or attended college (46%) than the population as a whole (43%) (Garrett 2003, 6). Thus the argument that cities such as Gary support casino development because of the disproportionately high number of casino gamblers who are lower income is not accurate. During the 1990s, when debates about casinos were occurring in several states, as shown in table 2.5, significant numbers of citizens supported various forms of casino gambling. And by 1996, majorities supported the legalization of all types of casinos included in the Gallup survey. More important for the study of urban development, nearly two-­thirds of citizens believed that gambling helps to create jobs and stimulate local economies. Further, in 1999, 31 percent of national survey respondents said that they had visited a casino over the past twelve months (Gallup 2000, 262), a striking figure considering the fact that casinos are geographically dispersed and therefore not within easy access of many Americans. With gambling as popular as it is, it is no wonder that many states and municipalities have debated the introduction of some form of casino gambling as a method of reviving local economies. Law Enforcement Public attitudes toward the police make the prospect of changing traditional law enforcement practices and policies an extremely daunting task. National survey data consistently show that the police are one of the institutions that engenders the highest level of confidence among the public. In 2004, 64 per-

TABLE 2.5. U.S. Attitudes toward Casino Gambling, 1992 and 1996 Casino Gambling at Resort Areas? Casino Gambling in Major Cities? Casino Gambling on Indian Reservations? Riverboat Casinos? Gambling Creates Jobs and Helps   Stimulate the Local Economy? Source: Gallup 1993, 201–­2; Gallup 1997, 189–­90.

1992: “Yes”

1996: “Yes”

51% 40% 42% 60%

68% 55% 57% 63%

64%

65%

Patterns of Inequality, Public Attitudes, and the Cases

51

cent of citizens had either a great deal or quite a lot of confidence in the police, while only 10 percent had very little or no confidence (Gallup and Newport 2005, 224). Although confidence in the police has dropped slightly in the years since, law enforcement still commands the support of a significant majority, and ranks ahead of all other institutions except the military and small business. Table 2.6 outlines public confidence in the police since 1993, the first year law enforcement was included on Gallup’s Confidence in Institu­ tions survey. In the current period, the public has more trust in the police than they do in organized religion, the medical system, the public schools, the Supreme Court, banks, the presidency, television news, newspapers, organized labor, the criminal justice system, health maintenance organizations (HMOs), and Congress, among other institutions. Although Republicans tend to exhibit higher levels of confidence in law enforcement than Democrats, trust in the police is a bipartisan phenomenon. This pattern is particularly important in a discussion of urban politics because of the disproportionately high percentage of urban residents who are Democrats. In 2004 and 2005, for example, 58 and 52 percent of DemoTABLE 2.6. Americans’ Confidence in the Police, 1993–­2009 Year

Expressing “Great Deal” or “Quite a Lot” Rank among of Confidence All Institutions

1993 52% 3 1994 54%      2 (tie) 1995 58% 2 1996 60% 2 1997 59% 2 1998 58% 2 1999 57% 2 2000 54% 3 2001 57% 3 2002 59% 2 2003 61% 2 2004 64% 2 2005 63% 2 2006 58% 2 2007 54% 3 2008 58% 3 2009 59% 3 Source: Gallup Poll 2009; Newport 2010, 218.

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crats, respectively, said that they had confidence in the police. In fact, when the data was broken down by place of residence, confidence in law enforcement, although higher in the suburbs, enjoys majority support in both urban and suburban locations. In 2004 and 2005, 55 and 54 percent of urban residents, respectively, said that they had confidence in the police, in comparison to 66 and 54 percent of suburban residents (Gallup and Newport 2006, 420). In addition, a 2006 survey showed that the public ranked the police as the eighth most honest and ethical occupation on a list of twenty-­ three total occupations (Gallup and Newport 2007, 519). A 2009 survey showed that police were the fourth highest-­rated profession in terms of honesty and ethical standards, behind only nurses, pharmacists, and medical doctors (Newport 2010, 449). When broken down by race, however, the seeming consensus of confidence in law enforcement looks very different. On the same 2006 survey measuring public perceptions of honesty in various occupations, 58 percent of Whites said that the police exhibited a very high or high level of honesty and ethics, while only 37 percent of minorities expressed these sentiments (Gallup and Newport 2007, 519). Data from 2004 and 2005 showed that only 32 percent of Blacks had confidence in the police (Gallup and Newport 2006, 420). And in national surveys over roughly the past 10 years, large majorities (between 65 and 79 percent) of African Americans have said that they have been treated unfairly in their personal dealings with the police, while only between 15 and 25 percent of Blacks reported that they have been treated fairly in all of their interactions with law enforcement (Gallup and Newport 2008, 293). Previous surveys regarding perceptions of police conduct also show measureable differences according to race and place of residence. In 2000, 28 percent of Whites as compared to 50 percent of minorities believed that there was police brutality in their communities. Additionally, 46 percent of urban residents believed that police brutality existed in their community (Gallup 2001, 302). These data help to situate the events in Minneapolis described in chapter 4. Despite measureable differences in perceptions according to race, however, reforming police procedures in any meaningful way in a society that generally places such a high level of confidence in law enforcement will inevitably be an uphill battle. These data on patterns of inequality, attitudes related to inequality, and public opinion on local policy issues helps to provide the backdrop for the policy case studies that follow. These data help to demonstrate why policy

Patterns of Inequality, Public Attitudes, and the Cases

53

change aimed at improving the situation for the economically disadvantaged, including racial minorities, is an ongoing challenge.

The Cases: Gary and Minneapolis In this section I describe the two cases selected for this book, Gary and Minneapolis. The two cities’ demographic and economic characteristics are illustrated in some detail. In addition, their governmental structures and political processes are described. Although similar with respect to their Midwestern location, the two cities are quite different in their historical backgrounds and contemporary characteristics. Race is central to this analysis. Scholars have long considered the contextual variables that shape local and regional policy making. Decision making in any location is substantially influenced by its population characteristics or its “social diversity” (Hero 1998). For Rodney Hero, a state’s political culture is heavily influenced by its racial and ethnic makeup. He suggests that there are three types of states—­ homogenous, heterogeneous, and bifurcated—­and argues that the nature of political pluralism in a state (consensual, competitive, or limited) is largely a function of the characteristics of its population. Hero also applied his model to the substate level, and showed that individual political behavior is significantly shaped by a county’s social diversity. Fundamentally, then, Hero maintains that racial and ethnic composition is the independent variable that shapes political culture, which includes attitudes, practices, and ultimately policies. Following Hero, my approach accepts the proposition that more racially homogeneous places tend to produce a more consensual politics, whereas heterogeneous areas are likely to produce a more competitive and conflictual politics. Hero has summarized these dynamics succinctly: “In the heterogeneous environment, there is a need to arbitrate or broker social heterogeneity and complexity. In the homogeneous setting, political and governmental institutions face a less daunting task, needing only to moderate or mediate issue disputes, but seldom facing major questions relevant to the ‘American dilemma’ of race” (1998, 20). Historically, Minnesota in general and Minneapolis in particular have transitioned to racial and ethnic diversity very slowly. But in contemporary Minneapolis politics, local policy debates have become far more compli-

54majoritarian cities

cated as a result of the city’s increasing racial and ethnic diversity. That Gary has become a predominately African American city is clearly the single largest factor in shaping both city politics and the broader politics of northwest Indiana. Although current racial patterns have created a greater level of consensus within city politics on certain issues, the disproportionate levels of economic hardship faced by African Americans make the overall predicament faced by Gary more acute and the chasm between the city and the surrounding region and state vast. Directly related to a region’s racial and ethnic characteristics are its economic characteristics. In some cases, economic patterns can essentially predetermine the priorities for local governments. For example, in Gary, substantial economic decline has made the issue of local economic development a seemingly permanent priority on the local agenda. In their study of cities in neighboring Michigan, Jones and Bachelor (1993, 254) make a similar point about economic decline and local political agendas: “Moreover, economic decline has directed the attention of city leaders more and more toward issues of economic development.” Casual observation of Gary today confirms this. Traveling in any direction outside of the central business district, one can see numerous vacant lots and buildings, boarded-­up and dilapidated structures of all types, and lots overgrown with tall weeds and grass, some as high as those found on remote prairies. It is difficult to fully comprehend the impact of this type of economic decline without witnessing it firsthand. And economic decline drives all other policy discussions, including population loss, crime, and declining schools. Therefore the policy priorities in Gary today are, for the most part, fixed. Suggesting that the loss of industrial jobs and population has placed economic development at the top of the local agenda, however, is not synonymous with the proposition that the city has an objective interest in any economic development policy per se. Some economic policies will tangibly benefit more people than others, a fact that became apparent when Mayor Scott King unilaterally redirected local casino revenues for the construction of a minor league baseball stadium. As will be discussed in chapter six, the citizens of Gary knew that the ballpark offered few economic benefits for local residents, and certainly would have opposed this use of casino funds within the context of a public debate. Nonetheless, the broader issue of economic development, along with education and crime control, will necessarily be the major issues on the city’s policy agenda for the foreseeable future,

Patterns of Inequality, Public Attitudes, and the Cases

55

and elected officials and those seeking office will need to develop specific proposals that address these most fundamental issues. In other contexts, however, it is more likely that the local political agenda will be the subject of continuous contention. In Minneapolis, which is much more racially and economically diverse, numerous players vie for influence in shaping the agenda. As noted previously, the policy of neighborhood schools had wide support across a variety of constituencies in Minneapolis. Mayor Sayles Belton helped to push this popular policy onto the agenda of the Minneapolis School Board and, although opposed by some civil rights leaders and groups, the policy passed easily. Issues such as police reform and affordable housing are very different, however. Although these issues have been advanced by several groups and a few elected officials, substantive policy change has been slow and uneven at best, illustrating the political difficulties associated with policies aimed at benefitting disadvantaged groups. There simply has not been much public support for significant, citywide efforts in these policy areas. Gary: The “Hoosier Stepchild” Indiana was originally settled by a combination of Southerners, New Englanders, and immigrants, and was admitted to the union in 1816. From early in its history, the state had a large number of migrants from Southern and border states (Fenton 1966, 155). In 1966, John Fenton described how the state was different from its neighboring Midwestern states: “Indiana, more than other Midwest states, was a ‘border state’ in the 1960s. The intensely partisan flavor of its politics, the speech and attitudes of its people were more akin to Kentucky and West Virginia than to Ohio and Illinois” (Fenton 1966, 155). The strong attachment to political parties continues up through the present day. Local elections in Indiana are partisan and it is one of only 17 states that still allows for the option of straight-­ticket voting. Northern Indiana, which runs along Lake Michigan, was originally bypassed by most settlers because it was thought to be too swampy for farmland. In the late 1800s, U.S. Steel began to look for a location to expand its operations outside of Chicago, and the site that became Gary was located just a few miles to the east. In 1906, the corporation selected this location for its new operations, and the city of Gary was born. The city was named after Judge Elbert Gary, U.S. Steel president. The site made an ideal location for the

56majoritarian cities

company because of its proximity to the natural resources of the Appalachian region and the Midwest as well as transportation access via railroads and the Great Lakes. The corporation’s new plant, Gary Works, became the world’s largest steel manufacturing facility (Greer 1979, 51). By 1915, Gary “was transformed from a barren wasteland to a second class city of 55,378 people” (Lane 1978, 27–­28), illustrating the rapid growth of the company town. Beginning with Gary’s founding early in the twentieth century, when it was the home for a wide variety of White ethnic groups, politics was characterized by preferential treatment for U.S. Steel, numerous instances of corruption in both city and Lake County government, and a limited overall role for local government. In the wake of decades of continuing economic hardship, city residents’ expectations of government revolve around basic services. Government jobs are highly coveted, and economic favors between government officials and private citizens have become a built-­in characteristic of local politics. Gary’s political institutions and practices reflect a mix of reformed and unreformed traditions found throughout much of the Midwest and Northeast.2 The city has a strong mayor-­council form of government, with nine council members, six of whom are elected from geographic districts and three at-­large. The Gary School Board consists of seven directly elected members, six of whom represent districts and one elected at-­large. The Democratic Party has dominated the city’s partisan elections for many decades, and Republican candidates usually present only token, if any, opposition. Thus electoral competition takes place primarily within the Democratic Party, and most elections are settled during the Democratic primary. Local governments in Indiana do not have the most significant forms of direct democracy, the direct initiative and general referendum, at their disposal. But the state legislature has authorized various advisory referenda for local governments, and the riverboat casino legislation passed by the state in the 1990s required local governments to have referenda before authorizing a riverboat within their borders. In addition, Indiana voters do not have the ability to vote for school budgets, and have only recently been given authority to vote in local referenda involving the construction of new school buildings or additional tax levies in the event school districts need additional funds in order to meet their basic obligations (Bennett 2009). Thus in the usual course of events, this lack of direct democracy means that citizens in

Patterns of Inequality, Public Attitudes, and the Cases

57

Gary have to rely on other ways of influencing policy, such as elections, public meetings, contacting government officials, and participating in organized groups. Gary and northwest Indiana have always had an uneasy relationship with Indiana state government, the capitol of which is Indianapolis. The state has traditionally been Republican-­controlled, and northwest Indiana, specifically the cities of northern Lake County, including Gary, developed as Democratic strongholds mainly because of the influence of labor unions. The awkward relationship between the city and Indianapolis first became apparent many decades ago. Describing the politics of the 1920s, Lane argued that “State officials generally regarded Gary as a ‘Hoosier step-­child’” (Lane 1978, 107). The number of African Americans in Gary increased significantly during the First World War. This pattern added to the city’s strained relationship with state government, which had become increasingly influenced by the Ku Klux Klan (Greer 1979, 34). In fact, Indiana was the state with the largest Klan membership outside of the South in the 1920s, being home to roughly 350,000 members statewide (Lane 1978, 93). James Loewen’s (2005) compelling book on sundown towns, or towns that barred African Americans and other minorities from taking up residence beginning in the late nineteenth century, discusses the central Midwestern states in-­depth. Missouri, Illinois, Ohio, and Indiana possessed literally hundreds of towns in which Blacks were either forcibly removed or prevented from living there. Loewen (2005, 66–­67) confirmed that 95 towns and numerous counties in Indiana remained all White until well into the twentieth century, another indication of the state of race relations in Indiana during Gary’s formative years. The tension between northwest Indiana and the rest of the state continues in the current period and is made more apparent by the racial and ethnic divide between Lake County and most of the rest of Indiana. Today Lake County has about 7.5 times, and the city of Gary 2.5 times, the minority population of Indiana as a whole. Further, the rift between the city and state government has had measurable impacts on public policy. Catlin has argued that under Mayors Richard Hatcher and Thomas Barnes, during a time of significant economic decline, Gary did not receive the “full support of the state’s economic development arm” (Catlin 1993, 35). Reinforcing the racial and partisan divide between Gary and state officials in Indianapolis is the obstacle posed by human geography. Northwest Indiana is basically consid-

58majoritarian cities

ered another suburb of Chicago by many Indiana residents living outside of this region, and this attitude likely contributes to the establishment of the state government’s priorities.3 Gary is perhaps best known as an example of a city that rose and fell with the U.S. steel industry. At the time of its founding, U.S. Steel was the world’s first and only billion-­dollar corporation (Greer 1979, 51). In 1900, the company produced about 40 percent of the world’s total supply of steel, and by the end of World War II this number had increased to about 60 percent (52). Gary Works was a key component in the company’s production, and the rapid expansion of the steel industry had a major impact on many other economic opportunities for city residents. In 1929, on the eve of the Great Depression, with African Americans making up almost 18 percent of the total city population, Gary had 1,300 retail stores employing 4,000 workers and generating annual sales of $48 million (82). Even though they did not enjoy all of the same benefits of manufacturing employment as Whites, African Americans still played a role in the expansion of the local steel industry. By the end of World War II, out of 28,000 total employees at the Gary Works plant, 6,400 were African American (94). The steel industry initially began to decline gradually after World War II, but data from the 1970s and 1980s reveals the massive loss of manufacturing jobs in Gary and northwest Indiana that occurred during this period. In 1974, Gary steel mills employed approximately 30,000 workers. By 1987, the total number of jobs in the steel industry located in the city was about 6,000. Regional employment in steel decreased from 70,000 to 40,000 during the same period (Catlin 1993, 33–­34). In addition to the steel industry, other major employers in the city also closed operations, including the 1982 closure of a metal stamping firm that employed 5,000 workers (34). Economic decline hit downtown Gary especially hard. The number of business establishments in the central business district decreased from over 500 in 1960 to less than 40 in 1979. During Mayor Hatcher’s second term, numerous major downtown institutions either closed or left the city, including several large retailers, a major hotel, and a theater. A five-­story Holiday Inn was built in 1969, but was closed in 1975. The hotel was reopened as a Sheraton in 1981, but closed again in 1985 (Henderson 1999). Gary had become a shell of the city it was just a few decades earlier. Initially, a large number of individuals and institutions that left Gary in the 1960s and 1970s relocated to the suburb of Merrillville, Indiana. After Richard Hatcher defeated the business-­backed candidate in his 1971 reelection, the downtown Gary business establishment responded by announcing

59

Patterns of Inequality, Public Attitudes, and the Cases

plans for two large shopping malls in Merrillville (Catlin 1993, 27). And a few years later, many other downtown retail establishments had relocated to either the two new malls or to other strip malls in the region. Robert Catlin (1993) has described in some detail the exodus of the White population and downtown businesses from Gary to Merrillville that began occurring in the late 1960s and escalated in the 1970s. Indiana state law prevented incorporation of municipalities within five miles of established cities. In light of the fact that Merrillville was only two miles south of Gary, in 1971 state legislators from Lake County representing areas outside of Gary got Merrillville an exemption from this state law (114), thereby facilitating Gary’s rapid population decline. In 1970, Merrillville possessed just over 15,000 residents, but by 1980 it had increased to nearly 28,000. Remarkably, in 1980 only 36 of these residents were African American. Whereas the population of Lake County had actually decreased by 4 percent between 1970 and 1980, Merrillville had nearly doubled, and, for the time being, was essentially an all-­White city. As Catlin has stated: “After Merrillville’s incorporation, not only did thousands of white Garyites move there but Gary’s entire business community did likewise” (114). The changing economy substantially circumscribed employment options for city residents. Table 2.7 outlines the employment changes that have occurred in recent decades. The transition to a service sector economy has been quite slow. Not only has the city lost thousands of manufacturing jobs, but the number of lower-­paying service sector jobs has increased at a sluggish pace. Along with a declining economy has been an overall decrease in income levels and consequently a significant increase in poverty. Table 2.8 outlines trends in poverty in recent decades, which peaked in the early 1990s and has declined somewhat since that time. Tables 2.9 and 2.10 capture the substantial population changes the city has undergone in recent years. As early as 1920, blacks made up nearly 10 percent of Gary, and by 1970 African Americans constituted 53 percent of TABLE 2.7. Employed Residents in Gary, by Industry, 1970–­2000 Year Manufacturing Services 1970 29,356 1980 22,467 1990 10,168 2000  6,999

12,510 13,131 13,709 15,226

Source: U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development, 2007.

TABLE 2.8. Poverty Rate in Gary, 1969–­2003 Poverty Rate Year (individuals) 1969 15% 1979 20% 1989 29% 1993 35%a 1998* 30%a 2003* 28%a Source: U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development 2007. a Estimated.

TABLE 2.9. African American Population in Gary, 1950–­2010 Total African American Year Population Population 1950 133,911 1960 178,320 1970 175,249 1980 151,953 1990 116,646 2000 102,746 2010  80,294

29% 39% 53% 70% 80% 83% 85%

Source: U.S. Census Bureau, selected years.

TABLE 2.10. Population Loss in Gary, 1970–­2000 Years

Population Loss

1970–­80 1980–­90 1990–­2000

−13% −23% −12%

1970–­2000

−41%

Source: U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development 2007.

Patterns of Inequality, Public Attitudes, and the Cases

61

total population. Racial patterns were clearly a major factor in the election of African American mayor Richard Hatcher in 1967. Today the city has approximately 80,000 total residents, 85 percent of whom are African American. Unlike many other major Northern and Midwestern manufacturing cities that hit their peak population in 1950, Gary actually peaked in 1960, and declined slightly between 1960 and 1970. Since that time, however, there has been a consistent population decline. As shown in table 2.10, a major population exodus occurred during the 1980s. Gary is similar to many deindustrialized cities in the Midwest and Northeast in terms of overall population loss. But the city is in a much different situation than larger cities such as Cleveland or Detroit, which have always had significant central business districts even as many of their residential neighborhoods have declined dramatically. When a smaller city such as Gary experiences economic decline, there is very little left on which to build hope for economic revival. Economic decline has substantially contributed to the problem of crime, which affects nearly every aspect of the daily lives of many residents. And the problem of crime is directly related to all other issues, from school closings to the lack of economic development. In recent years, Gary has been ranked among the most dangerous cities in the nation based on reported instances of violent crimes, alongside urban areas such as Detroit, Atlanta, Washington, D.C., Camden, New Jersey, and Newark, New Jersey. Like economic development, crime control is seemingly a permanent fixture on the local political agenda. The city’s racial transformation has been the most significant event affecting local policy making. Because of the economic disparities between Whites and African Americans, higher poverty and unemployment rates necessarily accompany disproportionately Black cities. This generates constant demand among citizens for economic development. “Giving the public what it wants” (Elazar 1966, 89), an element of Gary’s individualistic political culture, translates into an ongoing attempt to lure investment and employment opportunities to the city. Racial Homogeneity and the Political Development of Minneapolis Minnesota was originally settled in the nineteenth century by descendents of the Puritans from New England, followed by large numbers of Scandinavians and other northern Europeans (Elazar 1966, 100), and became a state

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in 1858. Prior to statehood, settlers were loyal to the Republican Party, and thousands of residents volunteered to fight for the Union Army in the Civil War. The Republican Party became so dominant that “between 1860 and 1930 it was very nearly a one-­party state.” Although antislavery explained part of the state’s strong backing of Republicans, support was also rooted in many Minnesotans’ commonalities with the antiliquor and anti-­Catholic Yankees that dominated the Republican Party after the Civil War (Fenton 1966, 76). Thus, antiracism was not the driving force in the popularity of the Republican Party in nineteenth century Minnesota. As illustrated in table 2.11, the population of racial minorities in Minnesota was minuscule until well into the twentieth century. Although Minneapolis is more diverse than the state as a whole, the city has also transitioned to racial and ethnic diversity rather slowly in comparison to most other urban areas, as shown in table 2.12. Although the very small minority population precluded wholesale racial politics in Minneapolis, bigotry and discrimination were common in the early and middle twentieth century, particularly anti-­Semitism and anti-­Catholicism. Jews were prevented from joining any number of organizations and moving to many neighborhoods. In fact, in 1946 Carey McWilliams went so far as to label Minneapolis the “capital of anti-­Semitism in the United States” (Delton 2002, 47). Loewen’s account of the creation of the suburb of Edina, located on the city’s southwestern border, confirms the strong public expressions of racism and anti-­Semitism in the area until well into the twentieth century (2005, 109–­10). Minneapolis’s small African American population made civil rights for African Americans in the middle twentieth century a relatively safe political issue. In January 1947, Minneapolis adopted a wide ranging Fair Employment Practices Commission ordinance banning discrimination on the basis of race, creed, color, national origin, or ancestry in hiring, conditions of employment, compensation, promotion, and union membership within the city limits by an overwhelming city council vote of 21–­3. The ordinance established a monetary fine or jail time as a penalty for violators, and created a Commission on Job Discrimination to examine any complaints and recommend cases for prosecution (Delton 2002, 104). When he was criticized for supporting the ordinance for political gain, Mayor Hubert Humphrey responded by reminding his opponents of the very small number of Blacks in the city at the time. This is not to say that there was no genuine antiracist sentiment among supporters of antidiscrimination laws. Rather, it is to call into question the account of Minnesota politics provided in the work of

TABLE 2.11. Minority Population in Minnesota, 1900–­2010 Year

Total Minority Population Population

1900 1,751,394 0.8% 1910 2,075,708 0.8% 1920 2,387,125 0.8% 1930 2,563,953 1.0% 1940 2,792,300 0.8% 1950 2,982,483 1.0% 1960 3,413,864 1.2% 1970 3,806,103 1.8% 1980 4,075,970 3.9% 1990 4,375,099 6.3% 2000 4,919,479 11% 2010 5,303,925 15% Source: U.S. Census Bureau, selected years.

TABLE 2.12. Minority Population in Minneapolis, 1900–­2010 Total Minority Year Population Population 1900 202,718 1910 301,408 1920 380,582 1930 464,356 1940 492,370 1950 521,718 1960 482,872 1970 434,381 1980 370,951 1990 368,383 2000 382,618 2010 382,578

0.7%a 0.9% 1.1% 1.0% 1.1% 2.2%a 3.2% 6.5% 13% 22% 37% 40%

Source: U.S. Census Bureau, selected years; U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development 2007. Note: Minority population includes African Americans, Hispanics, Asians, and Native Americans. Percentages for 1980–2010 rounded to the nearest whole number. a Indicates straight-­ line estimates based on decennial census data before and after.

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scholars such as Daniel Elazar (1966), whose moralistic political culture is implicitly presented as the ideal, public-­spirited polity. According to conventional measures, Minneapolis has been and continues to be better off economically than many other Northern and Midwestern cities. As shown in table 2.13, the population of Minneapolis has declined over the past several decades, but not nearly to the degree of many other cities in the North during the same time period. The city actually increased in population slightly between 1990 and 2000, reflecting a pattern similar to some of the largest Northern cities, including Chicago and New York. Further, Minneapolis was nearly identical in population in 2010 as in 2000, illustrating its overall population stability even during an economic recession. Table 2.14 shows the poverty rate in Minneapolis over the past few decades. The area’s economic diversification has shaped its prosperity relative to other deindustrialized metropolitan areas. But the lack of racial and ethnic diversity has also substantially contributed to the economic conditions of the Twin Cities. Considering the significant disparities in poverty and inTABLE 2.13. Total Population, Minneapolis and Twin Cities Region, 1970–­2010 Year

Twin Cities Region

Minneapolis

1970 2,026,715 1980 2,198,190 1990 2,538,834 2000 2,642,062 2010 2,849,567

434,381 370,951 368,383 382,618 382,578

Source: U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development 2007; Metropolitan Council 2011.

TABLE 2.14. Poverty in Minneapolis, 1969–­2003 Year

Poverty Rate (individuals)

1969 12% 1979 14% 1989 19% 1999 17%a 2003 19%a Source: U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development 2007. a Estimated.

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come among racial groups, the slow transition to racial diversity largely insulated Minneapolis and neighboring St. Paul from the crippling poverty that developed earlier in cities such as Milwaukee, Chicago, and Detroit. The lower levels of poverty also contributed to a more consensual politics in that it was easier to craft agreement within a context where a significant majority of residents are not worried about basic sustenance. Compared with many other large metropolitan areas, the Twin Cities region in the contemporary period has average segregation levels. For example, in 2000, the region ranked 24th out of 43 large metropolitan areas in overall segregation levels for both African Americans and Hispanics (Iceland, Weinberg, and Steinmetz 2002, 69, 86). This pattern is likely a function of the historic lack of diversity in Minneapolis and the Twin Cities as opposed to a substantially different set of racial attitudes. For example, the original school desegregation case in the early 1970s showed that Minneapolis officials had taken the same types of actions as local officials in other Northeastern and Midwestern cities in an effort to segregate African American students, despite the fact that Blacks represented a tiny fraction of the total student body. Yet less racial diversity in the population still means fewer opportunities for racial conflict and the residential segregation often produced by such conflict. The economic context of the Twin Cities region has created a different employment base for local residents. Unlike states such as Michigan, Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio, which established heavy industry as the foundation of their economies early in the twentieth century, Minnesota’s economy was more mixed. The Twin Cities were heavily dependent on lumber and milling during their early growth in the nineteenth century. But by the middle of the twentieth century, Minneapolis had become the major banking and technology center of the upper Midwest, and was less reliant on manufacturing. Thus the vacant buildings and land that frequently accompany industrial decline are less evident in the Twin Cities, painting a somewhat different picture of urban poverty there. Political participation is a highly valued component of Minnesota politics. One of only ten states having a same-­day voter registration law, Minnesota is consistently near the top in voter participation rates in the United States. Local elections also generate high participation rates. Turnout in recent years in contested local elections has been in the 50 percent range, and is considerably higher in state and presidential elections. This pattern usually makes elections a fairly solid indicator of wider public sentiment.

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Participation has also been institutionalized in both Minneapolis and St. Paul through various neighborhood planning structures. In Minneapolis, the Neighborhood Revitalization Program, created in 1991, established neighborhood planning units throughout the city to enable residents to help determine priorities for their own communities. The program spends public dollars, and each neighborhood organization is incorporated as a nonprofit organization. St. Paul has a similar type of neighborhood participation program administered by community-­based district councils. In addition, Minnesota state law allows for city governments to adopt the direct initiative and general referendum, and many smaller jurisdictions have done so. Although neither Minneapolis nor St. Paul voters have these measures at their disposal, they are often able to vote on school taxes and budgets. For roughly twenty years, state law has allowed school districts to authorize excess school funding levies, and the Minneapolis Public Schools have sent several such levies to the voters for their approval in recent years. In sum, even in the absence of the most significant direct democracy processes, Minneapolis’s culture of participation provides a number of connections between citizens and their local government. Unlike Indiana, local elections in Minnesota are officially nonpartisan, and the success of third parties historically reveals the lack of influence of the two major parties in comparison to many other states. The contemporary Democratic Party in Minnesota, officially known as the Democratic-­ Farmer-­Labor Party (DFL), has its origins in the merging of the Democratic and Farmer-­Labor Parties. The more radical Farmer-­Labor Party was created in the 1920s, and until the 1940s it was the main rival to the Republican Party. In 1944, the Farmer-­Labor Party merged with the Democrats, which created the Democratic-­Farmer-­Labor Party. In more recent times, third parties have had some notable successes in Minnesota, the highest-­profile one being the election of Reform Party candidate and former professional wrestler Jesse Ventura as governor in 1998. At the local level, although the DFL dominates Minneapolis politics today, the Green Party has elected three city council members in recent years, along with a variety of local officials elsewhere in the state. The structure of Minneapolis city government reflects a variety of influences. In the city’s mayor-­council system, the mayor’s powers are limited. The City Council consists of thirteen members, all of whom represent geographic wards. The mayor does not prepare the budget, but does have the power of the veto. The weakness in the mayor’s powers is evident in the ap-

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pointment and removal process of several key city officials, including the police chief, fire chief, city engineer, and health commissioner, among others. The Minneapolis City Charter establishes a five-­member Executive Committee, chaired by the mayor and consisting of four other city council members. The mayor submits the names of appointees to the Executive Committee, but then the committee has to approve the appointees, which must then be approved by a majority of the City Council. In an effort to depoliticize important services, key officials such as the police chief serve fixed terms and can only be removed before their term expires by majority vote of the City Council. In practical terms, then, the mayor is relatively weak and must govern with the council. Today Minneapolis is a city in transition. Overall population levels are fairly stable. But demographic changes, including the influx of a sizeable number of Asian, Latino, and African immigrants, have transformed the city from a relatively homogeneous polity to one in which racial, socioeconomic, and cultural differences have shaped nearly every aspect of political life. The delivery of housing, education, and police services is intertwined with this increased level of diversity.

Conclusion Local and regional inequalities have been at the center of some of the most influential work in urban studies in recent years. Similar to much of the research in this vein, I argue that public attitudes are a critical component of the larger discussion regarding socioeconomic and racial inequalities. Moreover, although important progress has been made in the area of racial inequality specifically, the United States still possesses significant inequalities according to race. These nagging patterns, in conjunction with the continuing presence of discrimination, have shaped the very different perspectives of citizens of different races, and have profound implications for urban and regional politics. Some key differences exist according to race, particularly on questions related to the prevalence of discrimination in fundamental areas of life. Also, the lack of public support for racial or economic desegregation in the schools, substantial public confidence in law enforcement, the widespread popularity of casino gambling, and the public’s seemingly conflicting attitudes about affordable housing provide the context for many of the policy choices chronicled in the chapters that follow.

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The background information on the two cities shows that they have developed into two very different urban areas. The economic contexts of Minneapolis and Gary, along with their contemporary demographic and political characteristics, are quite distinct and reflect their fundamentally different historical trajectories. Yet at the same time, they face similar issues revolving around the problems associated with racial segregation and the geographic concentration of poverty. The following chapters examine several policy decisions in both cities in recent decades. Clearly local governments are not capable of solving complex problems by themselves. But it is also clear in many cases that these two city governments are responding to the desires of citizens on major policy decisions. As we will see, inequality not only shapes the local policy process but it is also shaped by the process in many concrete ways.

Chapter 3

When Political Support Is Not Enough to Reform Urban Schools

For much of the history of Minneapolis, the schools were the pride and joy of city residents. But in recent years the district finds itself struggling with the interconnected issues of racial and economic segregation and the lower academic achievement characteristic of these patterns. The children of better-­off residents, particularly those living in the southwest section of the city, attend public schools that are consistently high achieving. These schools are also the least diverse in terms of the racial and socioeconomic composition of the students. Yet because of their strong academic reputation, parents work diligently to get their children into these schools. For example, in 2006, after their children were denied entrance into Lake Harriet Community School, which demographically consists of approximately 86 percent White and 9 percent low-­income students, two families hired an attorney and threatened litigation against the MPS (Brandt 2006). Schools in other areas of the city, however, are increasingly made up of minority and lower-­income students, and many of these schools struggle academically. This has led to an exodus of students from higher-­poverty schools, with an increasing number of students, particularly African American students, opting for charter and suburban schools. In this chapter I examine significant educational policy decisions in Minneapolis in recent decades that have directly contributed to the current state of the district, including several school funding referenda; the segregation of the schools and the federal desegregation lawsuit; the adoption of the community schools policy in 1995 and subsequent lawsuit challenging the state’s oversight of the Minneapolis Public Schools; and more recent actions involving strategic planning, school closings, and attendance policies. 69

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I argue that there are many indications that the district has responded to large numbers of both city residents and MPS parents on these major policies. But because of the direct link between concentrated poverty and educational achievement, policies driven by public opinion have frequently reinforced existing educational inequalities. For example, the results of several school spending referenda have clearly demonstrated that a substantial majority of city residents and major institutions believe that the MPS needs more funding. City residents are consistently willing to increase taxes earmarked for the schools, presumably in the belief that increased spending within the context of a traditional geographic-­based attendance boundary system will lead to increased student achievement. Despite a willingness to pay additional school taxes, however, the citizens of Minneapolis have shown much less interest in addressing the increasing segregation by race and class within the district, seemingly because most do not believe that these factors are a major barrier to student achievement. In spite of the unceasing popularity of community schools, the demographic characteristics of some of the district’s schools have been the subject of litigation on two occasions. The first of these, the original desegregation case in the early 1970s, revealed that despite the city’s very small number of African American students, public pressure was a key element in the school board’s recalcitrance in implementing desegregation measures prior to litigation. The second instance of litigation, which targeted the state’s oversight of the MPS after the school board’s adoption of the community schools policy, occurred in 1995. More than any other major decision discussed in this chapter, community schools had strong majority support, notwithstanding its inevitably direct impact on patterns of racial and socioeconomic segregation in district schools. The 1995 litigation was a sign that key figures in the civil rights establishment were dissatisfied with the direction of MPS policies. But the suburban transfer program that ultimately resulted from the settlement was modest. Latent suburban resistance to more significant metropolitan education policy measures as well as the popularity of community schools in both the city and suburbs made more sweeping change infeasible. More recent events, including the strategic planning process and related school closings and attendance policy changes, have been implemented within the context of substantial public input, illustrating the district’s commitment to the process of widespread participation in all key decisions. Regardless of the enduring popularity of the notion that students should attend the school closest to their home, in fact there is extensive evidence

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regarding the negative effects of high-­poverty schools on student achievement.1 According to researchers at the University of North Carolina’s Center for Civil Rights, “a consistent, forty-­year body of scientific studies confirms that children who attend high-­poverty schools face considerably higher risks of lower academic performance, whatever their individual academic potential” (University of North Carolina Center for Civil Rights 2005, 1). The North Carolina report also cites research from the Economic Policy Institute showing that schools with poverty levels below 50 percent are 24 times more likely to be high achieving than schools with poverty levels above 50 percent (7–­8). And because of the continued racial and socioeconomic segregation of metropolitan areas, academic achievement gaps persist between urban and suburban districts, and within urban districts themselves. The relationship between poverty and educational achievement, then, needs to be at the forefront of any discussion of education policy making in urban America. This, of course, necessarily means that housing and residential patterns are inherently part of the larger discussion about education policy as well. As chapter 3 demonstrates, ultimately there is a broad political coalition in support of improving the academic performance of students in the Minneapolis schools. So the question is not whether there is the political will to address the problems of the district. Rather, the question is how to best address chronically lower levels of academic achievement in many district schools, and the long-­standing public support for the district has not given priority to the creation and maintenance of racially and economically integrated school settings. Although some civil rights groups and their allies have actively opposed policies that have increased class-­and race-­based segregation in the district, support for neighborhood or community schools in the current period exists among several different constituencies. But in light of the persistent patterns of underachievement associated with high-­poverty schools in the MPS, the case for policies that address these patterns is clear. When one examines the wider context of education policy making in Minneapolis and Minnesota, however, there is reason to believe that pursuing policies that can address the significant challenges faced by the MPS, including actively promoting educational settings that are desegregated by race and class, is possible. But in order for any such policies to be seriously considered, policy makers and educational leaders need to move the debate about urban school reform toward an explicit recognition of the relationship between the student composition of schools and academic achievement.

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The Minneapolis Public Schools: High Priority for City Residents and Institutions There are many indications that Minneapolis residents and institutions place a high priority on the public schools. In 2001, the year that Mayor R. T. Rybak was first elected, a Star Tribune poll found that Minneapolis citizens ranked the schools and affordable housing as the city’s two most important issues (Smetanka 2001). And Minneapolis resident surveys have consistently shown that, since 2001, education has been among the top three challenges facing the city according to city residents, along with public safety and transportation (National Research Center 2008, 12). The salience of the public school system can also regularly be seen in local elections. Despite the fact that neither the mayor nor the City Council has any direct control over the schools, the MPS invariably becomes a major issue in campaigns for city offices, and has figured prominently in several citywide elections since the 1990s. Because city government is seen as a partner with the Minneapolis schools, those aspiring for either the mayor’s office or a seat on the City Council need to talk about education politics and policies as voters have come to expect this from their local elected officials. The most tangible sign, however, that city voters give priority to the public schools is their attitudes about school funding. Berkman and Plutzer’s (2005) comprehensive analysis of spending in U.S. school districts shows that local communities’ preferences are, in fact, reflected in districts’ spending patterns, and the Minneapolis case appears to be a clear illustration of this pattern. In the 1970s, the Minnesota legislature passed a statute that allowed local school districts to levy taxes for operating costs beyond what was authorized by law if a district’s voters supported such a measure. The state law stipulates that the local school board first has to vote to send an excess levy to the voters, and then the referendum results for the levy are final. In Minneapolis, voters have repeatedly shown their support for the school district by voting in favor of excess school funding levies by significant margins on each of four occasions. In 1990, the first excess levy passed by a margin of about two-­to-­one despite vocal opposition from the Greater Minneapolis Chamber of Commerce. Six years later, in 1996, a second excess levy was put to the voters, with the funds earmarked for lower class sizes and early childhood education programs. The second excess levy was endorsed by a large number of individuals and institutions, including 11 of 13 city council members, and the measure even received conditional support from

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the Chamber of Commerce. The Chamber expressed its support in exchange for the district agreeing to take two actions—­moving some of the tax burden away from businesses and toward homeowners, and developing a clearer method of measuring student achievement (Drew 1996). The 1996 levy passed with 70 percent voter approval. Public support increased even more in 2000, with 73 percent of voters supporting the $42 million school levy increase. By 2008, the many problems of the Minneapolis schools had become the subject of ongoing public discussion. The exodus of students from the district, especially low-­income and African American students, continued unabated. Because the district is the subject of extensive local media attention, it is fair to say that most voters would be aware of these trends. Further, the MPS was in the midst of a widely publicized strategic planning process intended to address some of its most fundamental problems. Moreover, the nation was entering an economic recession, and the Twin Cities economy was in decline. Within this context, in 2008 the Minneapolis School Board voted to authorize another referendum for an excess school funding levy. Once again, the referendum was endorsed by a wide variety of groups and individuals, including the teachers’ union, the DFL Party, nearly every city elected official, and a variety of other organized groups, including many businesses and business organizations. And for the fourth time in as many tries, Minneapolis citizens voted in support of the referendum, this time by a margin of 71 percent. This vote was especially significant because by 2008 more than 80 percent of city residents did not have any children attending Minneapolis Public Schools (Relerford 2008). To date, unlike many suburban and small-­town school districts around the state, Minneapolis citizens have never voted against an excess school funding levy referendum. The voters of Minneapolis are not a representative sample of U.S. citizens or voters. Further, the city’s voters are not demographically identical to all Minneapolis residents. The education and income biases associated with the voting population have long been recognized by political scientists. However, when one considers this specific issue as well as the sizeable majorities that have supported the increased school funding levies (all of which hovered around 70 percent), it seems apparent that a majority of city residents support spending more on the schools. Lower-­income persons, who vote at relatively low rates and are disproportionately racial minorities as well as renters, are also the group that is most directly impacted by school spending because of their greater reliance on public education. Thus, while some

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lower-­income individuals who did not vote in the levy referenda likely would have voted in opposition, many, perhaps most, would have supported such tax increases, particularly because such increases have been felt directly only by property owners. In addition, recent referenda have been supported by a range of influential interest groups in addition to the teachers’ union, another indication of widespread support. Paying additional taxes, even during an economic recession, is one significant education-­related policy that has generated widespread public support. But this support has not translated into more substantive measures affecting the student composition of district schools. Indeed, the issue of attendance policies appears to be quite distinct from the issue of school funding in the minds of most city voters.

Litigation and School Attendance Policies: Round One Controversy regarding the relationship between the attendance policies of the MPS and the racial composition of district schools began several decades ago, when the city experienced a federal school desegregation case similar to those in dozens of other Northern and Midwestern cities. The problem of school segregation first became apparent in the late 1960s. With a total city minority population of just 7 percent in 1971, the minority student population in the MPS had grown to about 14 percent (Booker et al. v. Special School District No. 1 1972, 802). The district issued Human Relations Guidelines in 1967 and again in 1970, along with a desegregation plan in 1972, in an attempt to head off court-­ordered desegregation. But the Minneapolis NAACP filed suit against the MPS in August 1971 because of the lack of progress toward desegregation. Then in 1972 the federal district court in Minneapolis officially found that the MPS was intentionally segregated by race, and ordered the district to desegregate (802). In its outline of findings of fact, the federal court noted that public pressure was key in the creation and maintenance of segregated schools in the first place: “Finally, the Court finds that the factor largely responsible for the defendant’s failure to take significant affirmative action to alleviate the segregated condition of the schools has been public pressure not to integrate. School board members themselves admitted that public pressure against desegregation/integration has influenced their decisions” (Booker et al. v. Spe­ cial School District No. 1 1972, 806, emphasis added). Considering the unrest that occurred in the late 1960s downtown and in north side neighborhoods,

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as well as the subsequent election of the popular law-­and-­order mayor, Charles Stenvig, in 1969, the fact that public pressure was central in the board’s decision not to desegregate the schools is not surprising. The court’s desegregation order stated that no school would have more than 35 percent minority students (Booker et al. v. Special School District No. 1 1972, 810). On balance, court-­ordered desegregation was a relatively safe political issue in Minneapolis: only 4 percent of MPS students were directly affected by the implementation of desegregation (Brown v. Board of Education: Twin Cities Impact 2004). But the events of the case revealed the significance that attendance policies would come to play in future school policy making, and helped to place the issue of desegregation on the agenda of state and local officials. In 1973, just one year after the desegregation case, Minnesota adopted a desegregation rule intended to maintain desegregated schools across the state. The rule was revised in 1978 to define a school as segregated “anytime the minority students in a school building exceeded the percentage of minority students in the school district as a whole by 15%” (Minnesota Department of Children, Families, and Learning 1999, 2). But in a state that had a total minority population of approximately 3 percent, the number of schools and districts directly affected by the rule would be quite small. In 1983, the federal district court released the Minneapolis schools from supervision and ordered the state to monitor the district and enforce the desegregation rule. In the years that followed, however, racial-­and class-­based segregation within the MPS increased and the differences between the district and most surrounding suburban districts became much more pronounced. The Twin Cities’ regional population was changing, but meaningful racial diversity was limited mainly to the central cities and a handful of first-­ring suburbs. By the mid-­1990s, nine of the 62 elementary schools in Minneapolis were in violation of the state desegregation rule (Hawkins 2000), which the state was making no effort to enforce (Hotakainen 1995a). MPS officials maintained that, because of racial living patterns, they had little power to address this issue. Within this context, the state began to consider revising the desegregation rule. Officials engaged in an extensive process throughout the 1990s that included a variety of task forces, public hearings around the state (including in both north and south Minneapolis), and the release of several reports on the subject (Minnesota Department of Children, Families, and Learning 1999, 2–­4). In 1995, the MPS adopted the community schools pol-

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icy, which I will discuss in detail, which shaped the statewide debate about school segregation. And then, in 1999, the State Department of Children, Families, and Learning (currently the Department of Education) officially revised the desegregation rule in important ways. The new rule defined segregation as “the intentional act or acts by a school district that has the discriminatory purpose of causing a student to attend or not attend particular programs or schools within the district on the basis of the student’s race and that causes a concentration of protected students at a particular school” (3). The revised desegregation rule defined a school or district consisting disproportionately of minorities as a result of unintentional acts as “racially identifiable” (2). Districts had a duty to implement voluntary integration plans in the case of racially identifiable schools, and districts that were defined as “racially isolated” (containing more than 20 percent more minority students than any adjoining district) also had to create voluntary cross-­district integration plans with adjoining districts. State officials defended the revised desegregation rule in a 180-­page public document, emphasizing that extensive public input went into drafting the new rule: “The proposed rules have been evolving over the past several years in response to these changing demographics and are the product of much discussion and debate from various stakeholder communities” (Minnesota Department of Children, Families, and Learning 1999, 2). Maintaining desegregated schools had become much less of a priority for many Minnesota residents, including a large number of citizens in Minneapolis. The widespread support for the city’s community schools policy was the best evidence of the fact that most Minneapolis residents did not see racial or economic segregation as the primary barrier to improving educational achievement. Further, the significance of the new rule was evident in its definition of segregation as an intentional act as well as the voluntary nature of desegregation policies to combat racially identifiable and isolated schools and districts. The voluntary approach to desegregation was a demonstrable signal of the direction of both policy and public sentiment.

The Election of Sharon Sayles Belton and the Policy of Community Schools In the midst of the statewide debate about the desegregation rule, Sharon Sayles Belton was elected mayor of Minneapolis in 1993. Sayles Belton, who was born in 1951 and grew up in St. Paul and Minneapolis, was both the first

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woman and the first African American to be elected to the city’s highest office. She graduated from Central High School in Minneapolis, attended Macalester College in St. Paul, and became a local leader in civil rights and women’s issues. Sayles Belton was first elected to the Minneapolis City Council from the Fifth Ward in 1983, and became council president in 1990. Throughout the 1980s and early 1990s, as the city became more diverse, several African American representatives were elected to the city council and appointed to city boards and commissions. Yet by the time she ran for mayor, Sayles Belton was clearly the most prominent African American leader in Minneapolis. Sayles Belton’s 1993 opponent was John Derus, a more conservative, White, DFL party member, and former Hennepin County commissioner. During the campaign, Sayles Belton was backed by women’s and civil rights groups along with some unions, while Derus was supported by the Minneapolis Police Federation, the Firefighters Union, and the Minneapolis Building and Construction Trades Council. An August 1993 poll showed that only 39 percent of city voters thought the city was headed in the right direction, and crime outweighed other issues as 48 percent of voters believed it was the most important problem (Diaz 1997a). The departure of the middle class from the city also became a major campaign issue, and using the school system as a way of stemming the exodus of the middle class became a topic of frequent discussion. Sayles Belton campaigned on providing more money and programs for the MPS, while Derus stressed the need for better management (Orfield 1997, 46). Despite the powerful endorsements received by Derus, Sayles Belton spent roughly twice as much on her campaign, and won over 57 percent of the vote in the general election. She won by large margins in minority areas, as well as in areas dominated by socially liberal middle-­and upper-­income voters. Derus did well among working-­class Whites but was less successful in middle-­class and higher-­income predominately White neighborhoods. Sayles Belton ran a deracialized campaign (Wright 1997, 4) in which there was little emphasis on racial issues and most of the candidate’s public comments involved issues of concern to members of all racial groups. In terms of appealing to White voters, Sayles Belton’s strategy paid off. She received 67 percent of the White vote, and one scholar calculated the racial polarization score of the election to be 24 out of 100, with 100 representing complete polarization (12). This approach, which made sense in a city with a sizeable White majority, laid the groundwork for policies that Sayles Belton would advance later in her administration. Although the specific proposal did not feature prominently in the 1993

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mayoral campaign, the idea of community or neighborhood schools had been discussed for several years in Minneapolis, and had won the support of many constituencies and political leaders across the city. And in early 1995, in her State of the City speech, Sayles Belton formally called for a return to neighborhood schools. The mayor was praised by many as a “voice of reason and a realist who would return ‘community’ to city neighborhoods” (Orfield 1997, 47). She also won high marks from middle-­class residents, especially in predominately White northeast Minneapolis, many of whom voted against her in 1993. Even though the community schools policy appeared to enjoy the support of the majority, there was also vocal opposition from such organizations as the NAACP, the Urban League, and the University of Minnesota’s Institute on Race and Poverty (Orfield 1997, 47). Although districtwide data, as illustrated in table 3.1 below, indicated that racial desegregation was within reach depending on the attendance policies of the MPS, the policy of community schools would make it much more difficult to achieve desegregation within the context of increasingly segregated living patterns. Given the strong correlation between racial and economic segregation, opponents argued that community schools would likely hurt academic achievement levels in increasingly segregated, high-­poverty schools. The debate about community schools continued through the early months of 1995, and in June the school board formally adopted the new policy. Under the policy, students would be given preference at elementary schools based mainly on proximity, with the goal of having no school with students of over 70 percent one race (Minneapolis Public Schools 1995, 16). Students would still have various school choice options, including several magnet schools, thus would not necessarily be locked into specific community schools. Yet considering the popularity of neighborhood schools among different demographic groups, it was evident that most students would at-

TABLE 3.1. Racial Composition of Minneapolis Schools, 1995 Race Percentage White 38 African American 39 Hispanic  4 Asian 12 Native American   7 Source: Drew 1995.

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tend their designated community school. Further, the proposal was silent as to what would happen if any particular school exceeded the 70 percent threshold for any one racial group. The MPS defended its decision by arguing that former policies aimed at racial balance were obsolete in light of racial changes in the district, and also suggested that the community schools policy would improve the achievement of minority students (1). In addition, because the state desegregation rule at the time stated that no school could have more than 15 percent more or fewer students of color than its district as a whole, Minnesota awarded the MPS a variance from the rule in order to implement community schools (Minnesota Department of Children, Families, and Learning 1999). The district maintained that the policy was the result of an extensive process, and argued that it gathered input from “students, parents, community members, and its own staff of what best fits the needs of the students and what the larger community expects of those students as they finish their education in the school system” (Minneapolis Public Schools 1995, 4). The district acknowledged that some community members favored a metropolitan approach to desegregation (4, 5), which would be better equipped to provide for racially and economically desegregated educational settings. A metropolitan policy, however, would have been vigorously opposed by many suburbs and their elected officials, and so the adoption of community schools in Minneapolis was popular well beyond the city limits. Quoting from one of its earlier reports on the matter, the MPS concluded that “‘In summary, families want family choice and elementary schools near their homes, even though they feel uncomfortable with the possibility of increasing segregation’” (6, emphasis in original). The district’s assertion that the policy had widespread support is confirmed by other data.2 The school board’s vote on the policy was six to one, and even the lone dissenter was “not completely opposed to the goals of the program” (Drew 1995). And public opinion data lent strong support to the district’s characterization of the community’s views on the issue. An August 1995 poll showed that 68 percent of Minneapolis residents supported the decision to adopt community schools, with 51 percent strongly supporting the policy. The policy also had broad support among parents with children in the Minneapolis Public Schools. Sixty-­seven percent of MPS parents supported community schools, with 42 percent of these identifying themselves as strong supporters (Hotakainen 1995b). Beyond simply asking respondents whether they supported the community schools policy, however, the poll also posed a second question in an at-

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tempt to examine the priorities of city residents in more detail. Respondents were asked about their support for community schools in light of three possibilities that could accompany the policy: less racial balance in the district, increasing parental involvement, and the allocation of more money for classroom instruction. In response, 68 percent of all city residents and 67 percent of those with children in the public schools still supported the policy. The same poll also put the mayor’s approval rating at 59 percent (Hotakainen 1995b). Although the schools were only one issue that explained voters’ approval of Sayles Belton, her strong public support for community schools clearly increased her popularity among some previously skeptical constituents. The poll was the most compelling evidence yet that city residents and parents strongly supported community schools, in spite of the policy’s potentially negative consequences. But support for community schools among various constituencies, including low-­income citizens, should be considered in its proper context. Wells and Crain’s study of African American students attending White suburban schools sheds some light on this subject. In an analysis of the nonparticipating African American students who remained at their neighborhood schools in St. Louis, the authors conclude: “The evidence presented here paints a portrait of twelve black students who end up in all-­black inner-­city schools for several reasons that have nothing to do with the quality of education offered. Many are the children of tired, beat down parents who have not actively investigated the educational options. They often come from homes where day-­to-­day survival taps so much energy that little is left for gathering information on schools of choice. They attend city schools because they are close to home and host many familiar faces” (Wells and Crain 1999, 179). Convenience is clearly a major factor in parental support for community schools, particularly among the disadvantaged. Public support for community schools among all demographic groups should also be understood within the larger context of American individualism. Parents of low-­income students are no more likely to attribute the success of their child’s education directly to the socioeconomic background of the students in their child’s school than are many better-­off parents willing to concede that their child’s success is substantially shaped by the economic backgrounds of their children’s schoolmates. Rather, most parents link educational outcomes primarily to things such as better teachers and administrators, teaching methods, classroom discipline, and the like. This line of thought is reinforced by the popular media, which regularly runs stories and

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commentaries on the relationships between these variables and educational outcomes. Without question, teachers and administrators can make a difference, and lack of discipline is a major obstacle to learning in high-­poverty schools. But focusing on these variables does not adequately recognize the multitude of tangible advantages that accompany socioeconomic stability and the disadvantages that accompany poverty. Ultimately the mayor’s leadership was considered key in the board’s adoption of the policy. As one school board member remarked at the time, “I think her [Sayles Belton’s] voice was instrumental in providing kind of a catalyst to push this thing through. . . . When she came out, I think she got the ball rolling” (Drew 1995). Later in 1995, in exchange for supporting community schools, Sayles Belton convinced the City Council to sign on to a set of four housing principles. Two of these principles involved the more equitable distribution of subsidized and affordable housing throughout both the city and Twin Cities region (Minneapolis Planning Department 1995, 5). But because of the nonbinding nature of these principles within the city, let alone the region, “housing progress would be slow and uncertain” (Orfield 1997, 47). The resistance of many suburbs to affordable housing was not likely to dissipate any time soon. Sayles Belton went on to be reelected relatively easily in 1997, two years after the adoption of the community schools policy. That year, she enjoyed a nearly 60 percent approval rating (Diaz 1997b), and, on balance, city voters appeared to be content with the mayor and the state of the city. Her leadership on the community schools policy contributed to her overall popularity, and earned her praise from many previous critics, including many leaders among the city’s minority communities. Yet some important elements within the civil rights establishment were not pleased with the general direction of the MPS and the community schools policy in particular, which led to more litigation.

Litigation and School Attendance Policies: Round Two With the adoption of community schools, those who favored creating MPS attendance policies that prioritized creating desegregated schools had lost in the political process. Thus in September 1995, shortly after the adoption of the community schools policy, the Minneapolis NAACP filed another lawsuit. Instead of making their case against the school district, however, this

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suit was aimed at the State of Minnesota on the grounds that the state was not providing an adequate education to the students of the Minneapolis Public Schools. The plaintiffs argued that because the Minneapolis Schools were segregated by race and socioeconomic class, students were not receiving an education equal to that of students in neighboring suburban districts with very different demographic characteristics. The NAACP based its argument on the Minnesota Constitution’s requirement that the legislature “establish a general and uniform system of public schools” (Minnesota State Constitution, Article XIII), and argued that “the educational environment in which they [Minneapolis students] are placed, however, with its concentration of poverty and race and the negative effects incident thereto, depress their educational achievement” (Minneapolis Branch of NAACP v. State of Min­ nesota 1995, 3). The plaintiffs presented extensive academic achievement data on MPS students to support their claims. Nongraduation rates among Minneapolis students were 33 percent, while those of neighboring suburban districts averaged below 12 percent. The performance of city students in terms of standardized tests, college attendance rates, and employment prospects after graduation were considerably worse than their suburban counterparts (Min­ neapolis Branch of NAACP v. State of Minnesota 1995, 14). A companion case was filed in 1998 on behalf of several additional plaintiffs that further demonstrated racial and economic segregation within the district and also detailed the substantial racial disparities on the Minnesota Basic Standards test (Xiong et al. v. State of Minnesota 1998). By 1998, the MPS had become approximately 70 percent students in poverty and 70 percent minority students (10), which led to much lower performance on the Basic Standards test among Minneapolis students. The plaintiffs’ legal strategy was constrained by two previous cases. The termination of the federal court’s supervision of the MPS desegregation plan over ten years earlier meant that targeting the district’s attendance policies within Minneapolis would likely not be successful. In addition, Minnesota’s educational funding formula had withstood a challenge to the Minnesota Constitution several years earlier (Skeen v. State of Minnesota 1993); therefore, making the case about school funding would also likely fail. However, because of Minnesota’s open enrollment policy, moving urban students to suburban schools was one option for the plaintiffs, and the NAACP’s original filing implies that the plaintiffs were seeking some sort of a metropolitan-­ wide remedy:

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Members of the plaintiff class are therefore confined to schools that are separate in terms of both racial composition and socioeconomic composition. As a matter of both law and fact, such schools are not equal to neighboring and surrounding suburban schools. . . . The State, which has known for some time of these patterns of segregation and resulting educational outcomes, has the capacity to discharge its constitutional obligation to provide these class members with an adequate education, but has failed to do so. (Minneapolis Branch of NAACP v. State of Minnesota 1995, 2, 3)

Politically, the plaintiffs faced an uphill battle for a metro-­wide remedy. Although a handful of major cities, including Boston, St. Louis, and Indianapolis (Kahlenberg 2001, 152–­54), have implemented programs sending urban students to suburban schools, “[d]irect efforts to integrate poor and better-­ off students, nevertheless, have been few and far between and have proven very difficult to accomplish” (Hochschild and Skovronick 2003, 26). But at the same time, the state’s open enrollment policy, first adopted in 1987, meant that the prospect of sending inner-­city students to suburban schools was well within the parameters of existing policy options. The legal reasoning of the Minneapolis NAACP’s case against the state was significantly shaped by the Sheff v. O’Neill (1996) case in Hartford, Connecticut, which challenged that state’s constitutional responsibilities for the Hartford schools. But the Minneapolis NAACP case was fundamentally different from Sheff and the many other successful educational equity and adequacy lawsuits in that it focused on providing low-­income students, not only racial minorities, access to more economically advantaged suburban schools.3 This economic dimension of the Minneapolis case made its potential impact more wide-­ranging. In Sheff, the emphasis was on minority students as the court “specifically took the issue of economic isolation off the judicial and legislative agenda” (Reed 2001, 169). In April 2000 the parties involved in the litigation reached a settlement. Suburban resistance to any sort of metropolitan policy that would have changed the traditional system of school districts, which largely corresponded with municipal boundaries, was palpable, and all of the players involved in the settlement negotiations were well aware of this fact. In addition, the state legislature would have to be involved if the court declared a metropolitan solution, and the political power of the suburbs at the state level would almost certainly have created significant delays in the implementation of such a policy. However, the suburbs also knew that if the case

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went to trial, the possibility of a judicial declaration of a metropolitan remedy was very real, despite the fact that such a remedy would have been unpopular with most citizens in the affected areas. These dynamics created incentives for both sides to work toward a settlement. The settlement had three major provisions: an interdistrict transfer program involving eight suburban districts, a new intradistrict placement program involving Minneapolis magnet schools, and an accountability program for all the Minneapolis schools. All Minneapolis students receiving free and reduced-­price lunches would be eligible for the new interdistrict and intradistrict programs, which were designated “The Choice Is Yours” by the state. The most important component of the settlement was the suburban transfer program, which mandated that at least 500 new students each school year, from 2001–­02 through 2004–­05, be allowed to enroll in eight participating suburban districts, for a total of up to 2,000 participating students.4 In order to avoid sending Minneapolis students to other high-­poverty schools, suburban districts that had more than 50 percent of their students eligible for free and reduced-­price lunches were excluded. The settlement spelled out the precise minimum number of MPS students that each district had to accept, which facilitated the implementation of the program (Settle­ ment Agreement NAACP 2000). The state was also required to pay for the transportation costs, which were minimized by giving participating students a limited number of suburban school options closest to their home. Even though the number of students allowed to participate in the suburban transfer program was relatively small, the settlement was seen by many school reform advocates as a victory in that it furthered the debate about the consistently different educational outcomes produced by predominately lower-­income urban schools and those of more middle-­class suburban schools.

Enrollment Declines, Strategic Planning, and School Closings In 2007, coming just a few years after a round of closings in 2004, the school board voted 6–­1 to close six additional schools, five of which were located on the north side, with the remaining school in southeast Minneapolis (Brandt 2007a). School closings have hit the north side particularly hard. The board spared seven schools that were originally scheduled for closure, most of which were located in economically better-­off communities, after intense

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public pressure. But north side schools have experienced the greatest enrollment declines, which provided the board with the rationale for the closings there. One analysis, which divided the district into four quadrants (north, northeast, south, and southwest), found that the enrollment decline among MPS K-­5 students was greatest in the north quadrant, the home to the majority of the African American population (Reinhardt 2006, 28). The MPS lost roughly 44 percent of its students in the north quadrant between 2001 and 2006, and eight of 18 schools located there were operating at half or less capacity (Brandt 2007b). The substantial decline in enrollment at several north side schools made it very difficult in practice for the district to spare many of these schools from closing or restructuring. Understandably, however, many parents of students who attended schools slated for closing expressed intense opposition at a series of public and community meetings and in communications with district officials. A common refrain was that the district was failing minority students, especially Black students. Thus, in exchange for the 2007 school closings, the Board adopted a policy labeled Destination Excellence, phase one of which was the North Side Initiative. This initiative included policies such as full-­day kindergarten in all schools, prekindergarten in all schools, increased gifted and talented opportunities, more advanced placement courses in middle and high school programs, and smaller class sizes in grades K-­3, among other programs. Destination Excellence, and specifically the North Side Initiative, were justified by documenting the persistent achievement gap between African American and White students in north side schools, which the district acknowledged “was the greatest gap of its kind in the state” and “growing each year” (Minneapolis Public Schools 2007b). In 2007, the district also launched the beginning of a strategic planning process. This process was based on extensive public input, including a survey of parents, student focus groups, parent focus groups, a parent advisory committee, a survey of MPS staff, interviews with district staff and principals, focus groups with teachers, interviews with “community and education leaders,” as well as a “community connections committee.” Strategic planning also involved interviews with educational experts and a review of urban school reform research, and produced a set of nine recommendations adopted by the Board in December 2007 (Minneapolis Public Schools 2007c). The parents’ survey, implemented by two well-­known consulting firms at no expense to the district, was accompanied by a letter from Superintendent Bill Green that was mailed to every parent in the district (Green 2007). The

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survey consisted of 19 questions, with several utilizing Likert Scales to determine the relative importance for parents of numerous factors when selecting a school for their children. Of the nearly 40,000 surveys mailed, 3,697 useable surveys were returned, for a response rate of over 9 percent (Minneapolis Public Schools 2007d). Responses were weighted to reflect the district’s demographic characteristics, which made the results more representative of parents of school-­age children as a group. Because the survey went to parents of all school-­age students in Minneapolis, MPS officials were also able to obtain data from parents who sent their children to charter, private, or suburban schools. Of the 18 possible reasons for selecting a school, parents ranked academic achievement, distance from home, and the availability of special programs as the three most important factors. Sixty percent of parents ranked academic achievement in the top three reasons for selecting a school for their child, making it the single most frequent response. The next most frequent response was the school’s distance from home, which 32 percent of parents ranked in the top three reasons. Only 12 percent of parents ranked the school’s ethnic and cultural diversity in the top three reasons for selecting school. The survey results seem to confirm the notion that most parents do not see a clear relationship between academic achievement and school demographics, while also illustrating that geographic proximity to the school remains one of, if not the, highest priorities for MPS parents when selecting a school. The parents’ survey also included questions about general satisfaction with the district, and 71 percent of MPS parents said that they were satisfied overall with the district (Minneapolis Public Schools 2007d). Although this number could be seen as encouraging, parents of children in private and suburban schools expressed greater satisfaction, with 89 and 79 percent, respectively, being satisfied with these options. Somewhat surprisingly, only 65 percent of charter school parents indicated that they were satisfied with their child’s current school, which seems counterintuitive given the steady stream of Minneapolis children who have left the public schools to attend one of the many charter schools in the area. Even though the survey showed that MPS parents are more satisfied than charter school parents, it also revealed a significant minority of parents who were not satisfied with the current state of the MPS, a fact that helps to explain the persistent enrollment declines the district has experienced in recent years, with large numbers of students choosing to attend charter, private, and suburban schools. In 2008, within the context of nagging budget deficits, the district began

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to explore changes in transportation and attendance policies, and again solicited and received extensive public input into what was described by the district as a comprehensive plan. In February, March, and April of 2009, the district convened over 30 public meetings that drew more than 2,500 individuals. Fifteen of these meetings provided information in Spanish, Somali, and Hmong. In addition, more than 1,100 online responses were received through the MPS website, in addition to “hundreds of individual email contributions” (Minneapolis Public Schools 2009, 13). The major recommendations that came out of this process that were eventually adopted by the Board included the closing of four schools and the conversion of four magnet related schools to neighborhood schools, along with other attendance-­ changes. Up until the final vote, school board members said that “constituents peppered them with thousands of e-­mails, phone calls and petitions” (Johns 2009). The adopted changes were projected to affect up to 20 percent of MPS students. This is not to suggest that all the policy changes that the Board adopted necessarily had the support of a majority of all MPS parents. The major participants in the process affirmed how difficult the process was, and no scientific polls or surveys were taken of the final proposal that the Board adopted. Rather, it is simply to say that the district has relied heavily on public input when faced with crafting major policies to address persistent enrollment declines and chronic budgetary problems, and takes every opportunity to publicize this fact to citizens.

The Effects of Education Policies The effects of local educational policy making can be measured in a number of ways. In terms of educational funding, the effects of state and local policies on the Minneapolis Public Schools, including the excess levies consistently supported by city voters, have been significant, particularly when the MPS is compared to other districts in the state. A recent analysis of 317 school districts in Minnesota found that the Minneapolis schools spent the fifth most per pupil, more than all major cities and most large suburbs (Haveman 2004, 39–­43). The only four districts that spent more per pupil—­Clinton-­ Graceville-­Beardsley, Kelliher, Red Lake, and South Koochining—­are all located in rural areas and have very high student poverty rates, which enable them to receive additional federal and state educational funding. Although it is certainly true that higher-­poverty schools and districts

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such as the MPS have greater needs, it is questionable whether additional funding increases will have the desired outcome on educational achievement in high-­poverty schools (University of North Carolina Center for Civil Rights 2005, 6). More fundamentally, recent data continues to reveal a strong relationship between high-­poverty schools and lower academic achievement. For example, 95 percent of all Minneapolis schools that have been designated as not making Adequate Yearly Progress (AYP) as defined by the federal No Child Left Behind (NCLB) legislation had student poverty rates of greater than 40 percent (Minnesota Department of Education 2005). Further, 48 of 59, or 81 percent, of the city’s Title I (high-­poverty) schools were recently identified at some stage of needing improvement according to NCLB standards (Minnesota Department of Education, 2009). Results of the 2007 Minnesota Comprehensive Assessments also clearly showed a clear relationship between higher-­poverty schools and lower academic achievement. Of all the MPS schools with student poverty rates of over 50 percent, an average of 26 percent and 30 percent of students scored at or above grade level in math and reading, respectively. In schools with less than 50 percent of students in poverty, the averages for math and reading were 53 percent and 62 percent, respectively (Walsh and Draper 2007). These numbers confirm the argument advanced by the Minneapolis NAACP linking concentrated poverty to lower academic achievement. One of the most tangible effects of poor performing high-­poverty schools in Minneapolis, however, has been the relatively large number of lower-­ income parents, especially African American parents, who have taken their children out of the traditional public schools and enrolled them in the city’s numerous charter schools. Minnesota was the first state to enact a charter school law, and today the state has approximately 150 charter schools enrolling about 35,000 total students (Minnesota Association of Charter Schools 2010). Charter schools are much more popular in the central cities, however. Approximately 11 percent of Minneapolis students attend the city’s 29 charter schools (Minnesota State Demographic Center 2005), making them the largest contributor to declining enrollment. Minorities and low-­income students are disproportionately represented in charter schools. Whereas the district as a whole consisted of 27 percent White and 65 percent students in poverty in 2006, charter school enrollment was 11 percent White and 81 percent students in poverty. And charter school enrollment among minority students has not been representative of the makeup of minority students in general. African American students are transferring to charter schools at a

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disproportionately high rate. Although 42 percent of MPS students were African American in 2006, Blacks comprised 62 percent of charter school students (Reinhardt 2006, 30–­31). These numbers indicate that African American families are seemingly the least satisfied with the performance of the MPS. In addition, roughly 10 percent of MPS students have used the open enrollment option in recent years, which includes the approximately 2,000 students attending suburban schools as part of the NAACP settlement (14). The results of the suburban transfer program created by the 2000 NAACP settlement have thus far been mixed. Table 3.2 shows the racial and ethnic composition of students who participated in the suburban transfer program between 2001 and 2007. Sixty-­five percent of the program’s participants were African American, 18 percent were white, with the remaining participants being Hispanic, Asian, and American Indian. Because Black students represented about 53 percent of all eligible students (Aspen Associates 2004, A-­14), their participation rate has been disproportionately high. White students, who represented about 9 percent of eligible students, have also participated at higher than expected rates. Up through 2007, retention numbers in the program were not encouraging. As shown in table 3.3, almost two-­thirds of the students who participated in the suburban choice program at any time through 2007 withdrew. Of the students who withdrew, however, 21 percent reenrolled in subsequent years (Aspen Associates 2007, 21). Retention rates for the participating suburban districts have also varied, with some of the lowest-­poverty districts retaining the most students, and the highest-­poverty districts retaining the least. For example, Edina and Wayzata, two of the three districts with the lowest poverty rates, had two of the three highest retention rates at 78 and 74 percent, respectively. Conversely, two of the three districts with the highest

TABLE 3.2. Students Enrolled in Suburban Transfer Program, 2001–­7 Race Percentage African American 65 White 18 Hispanic  9 Asian/Pacific Islander   7 American Indian/Alaskan Native   2 Total Participants N = 4,927 Source: Aspen Associates 2008.

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poverty rates, Richfield and Columbia Heights, had the two lowest retention rates at 57 and 52 percent, respectively (A-­4). These data could suggest the positive effects of lower-­poverty rates on participants’ educational experiences. But official evaluations of the program, which is funded by the state, have not explored the reasons for students withdrawing from the program. In terms of the academic achievement of program participants, results have also been mixed. Students in the transfer program in third through seventh grades were given Northwest Achievement Level tests in reading and math in the fall and spring of each school year. The results of these exams were then compared with a sample of similar size and demographic characteristics of eligible nonparticipating MPS students (Aspen Associates 2006, 36). The average gains in reading and math made by Minneapolis students attending the suburban schools in 2004–­05 exceeded those of eligible nonparticipants. Suburban transfer students in each grade level initially showed greater improvements than their counterparts in the MPS. In addition, improvement in the academic achievement of lower-­performing suburban transfer students surpassed that of a similar group of MPS students in both reading and math (11). But the findings regarding student achievement during the 2005–­06 and 2006–­07 school years showed different results. In 2005–­06, the improvements made by the suburban transfer students were less in both reading and math scores than those of eligible, nonparticipating MPS students. A similar pattern was revealed among lower-­performing students, with the Minneapolis students outperforming the suburban transfer students in both subjects (Aspen Associates 2007, v). Academic achievement results in reading and math for 2006–­07 were roughly the same for traditional as well

TABLE 3.3. Students Withdrawing from Suburban Transfer Program, 2001–­7 Race Percentage African American 65 White 17 Hispanic  8 Asian American   7 Native American   3 Total Withdrawn N = 3,060 Source: Aspen Associates 2008.

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as for lower-­performing suburban transfer and MPS students (Aspen Associates 2008, 38–­41). The suburban transfer program has been very successful when judged in terms of the satisfaction of the parents and students who have remained in it. Approximately 87 percent of parents said that their child’s new school was prepared to meet the needs of students of different races and cultures, compared to 78 percent of parents of eligible nonparticipants who agreed with this characterization of their child’s school in Minneapolis (Aspen Associates 2006, A-­45). Further, nearly 90 percent of parents of suburban transfer students said they would choose the same school again if given the opportunity, as compared to 79 percent of parents of eligible nonparticipants (Aspen Associates 2007, 21). Students who have remained in the suburban transfer program have also evaluated it positively. Approximately three-­quarters of all participating students said they felt like they belonged at their new suburban school and that students of different races worked well together at the suburban schools (Aspen Associates 2006, A-­55–­56, 59–­60, 63–­64). The responses of eligible nonparticipating MPS students to questions related to the racial and cultural climate of their schools were very similar to the perceptions of suburban transfer students, indicating that the climate in the predominately White, middle-­class suburban schools appears to be conducive to racial and cultural diversity. These data are encouraging when considering the prospect of socioeconomic and racial integration across school district lines. Moreover, the results of the research on parental and student satisfaction also cast the transfer program’s relatively low retention rate in a different light and signal that most families have left the program for factors not directly related to their children’s experiences in the suburban schools. The politically sensitive nature of the NAACP settlement became apparent in the aftermath of the publication of participating students’ academic achievement data. Before the state published the data, which showed that participants’ academic progress was less than that of their peers in the MPS during the 2005–­06 school year, the results were leaked to a reporter at the Minneapolis Star Tribune, along with internal e-­mail communications from the state’s lead evaluator of the program (Brandt 2007c). Opponents of the transfer program seized upon the finding that showed that MPS students performed at a higher level than suburban transfer students. Many individuals associated with the Minneapolis Public Schools have been quite critical of the NAACP litigation and settlement from the beginning, presumably in-

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terpreting the case as a direct attack on the district’s professional abilities.5 The strong views brought out by the case and the seemingly contradictory evaluation reports further complicate the debate over the future of the Minneapolis schools, and have given ammunition to opponents of metropolitan-­ based school attendance policies. Yet mixed academic success in the short run of students who transfer out of high-­poverty urban schools to suburban schools should not be interpreted as a sign that integration by socioeconomic status does not work. As Roscigno and his colleagues have pointed out, students in high-­poverty areas suffer from lower levels of resources and investments at both the family and school levels, which have substantial effects on educational outcomes (Roscigno, Tomaskovic, and Crowlet 2006). A family’s economic well-­being shapes a child’s cognitive development in the early years, and has a variety of effects on academic achievement over time. Placing low-­income urban students in more socioeconomically diverse suburban schools and expecting that each student’s academic achievement will improve immediately is simply not realistic. Moreover, any parent of a child who has ever changed school districts should be able to appreciate the multitude of challenges a student faces when going through this process, particularly when the student is demographically different from the majority of students at the new school. The current Minneapolis suburban transfer program resulting from the NAACP settlement presents only a glimpse of the possibilities open to policymakers interested in improving the performance of students in high-­ poverty schools. The results of more comprehensive approaches to de-­ concentrating low-­income students can shed more light on this issue. For example, in North Carolina, researchers have documented that low-­income students who attend middle-­income schools in Charlotte-­Mecklenberg improved their academic performance at a rate faster than any other student group (University of North Carolina, Center for Civil Rights 2005, 3). Cambridge, Massachusetts, which has about 40 percent students in poverty, has phased in socioeconomic integration program over several years, which has thus far been successful. Moreover, the Cambridge plan “was not considered controversial because of mounting evidence of its effectiveness” (15–­16). The merger between the Chattanooga (Tennessee) schools and the surrounding Hamilton County schools, which brought about greater racial and socioeconomic integration in the district, also led to increasing academic achievement for the district’s students (Grant 2009, 164).

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Perhaps the most wide-­ranging socioeconomic integration plan, however, has been implemented in Wake County, North Carolina. The plan’s goal is to limit the number of students in poverty at any individual school to no more than 40 percent, and to cap the percentage of students performing below grade level at 25 percent. Rather than assigning individual families and students to schools on the basis of income, the Wake County plan uses an innovative approach that involves coding block-­level nodes according to their overall socioeconomic status, which allows students who live near one another to attend the same school (University of North Carolina, Center for Civil Rights 2005, 16). By all accounts, the Wake County plan has been very successful. Since its implementation, students at each income level in district schools have achieved at higher levels (University of North Carolina, Center for Civil Rights 2005; Finder 2005; Flinspach and Banks 2005; Grant 2009). Further, a recent comprehensive analysis of the Wake County Public School System chronicles the details of increases in student achievement for lower-­income and minority students as well as the satisfaction of the county’s residents with their consolidated school district (Grant 2009). Admittedly, integrating students by income is a politically difficult task. The weakness of Minnesota’s original open enrollment law, which does not require any districts to accept inner-­city students and also does not provide funds for the transportation of students using the open enrollment option, was evidence of this fact long before the Minneapolis NAACP lawsuit (Ryan and Heise 2002, 2069). But the examples discussed earlier are instructive, and show that this approach can work. As Richard Kahlenberg has persuasively argued, such a policy can be adopted within the context of school choice, rather than mandatory assignment policies, which would undoubtedly be met with more resistance (Kahlenberg 2001). A recent U.S. Supreme Court ruling has called into question the use of school attendance policies based on race (Parents Involved in Community Schools v. Seattle School District #1 2007). But the legal status of policies based on income, as the North Carolina report argues, is much clearer. The Supreme Court has affirmed several times that “a state may validly make legally binding distinctions based upon socioeconomic status in carrying out various public purposes, and that such choices need to survive only a minimum level of judicial scrutiny” (University of North Carolina Center for Civil Rights 2005, 17). A federal legal challenge to the Wake County policy failed, and therefore the main obstacles, which are admittedly substantial, were basically political. In 2003, Minnesota received a five-­year federal grant to assist with the

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costs of implementing the suburban transfer program created by the NAACP settlement, which has an annual cost of $4 million. In January 2004, the Minnesota Department of Education announced that it would continue to fund the provisions of “The Choice Is Yours” until further notice. Because it is funded by the state, however, its long-­term future is unknown. Since 2004, the future of the program has been in the hands of state-­level elected officials. Supporters and opponents will continue to pay close attention to the evaluation reports, the results of which will likely have a major impact on the political debate regarding the future of this program. Not unlike the federal desegregation case of the early 1970s, the suburban transfer program created by the NAACP litigation shows the limits of a litigation strategy against a backdrop of strong support for geographically based community schools. This is not to say that the suburban transfer program has not been valuable. Rather, it is to say that more substantive changes in educational policies that include a deliberate effort to break up concentrations of poverty in the schools will not be possible in the absence of a shift in public attitudes, including the attitudes of predominately White, middle-­class suburban jurisdictions that tend to resist metropolitan education policies. Although the MPS continues to struggle with falling enrollments, the long-­term population trends in Minneapolis are more favorable than those of many other urban areas, and could therefore provide a more solid foundation for the implementation of attendance policies that intentionally break up concentrations of low-­income students. Unlike many other Northern cities that have experienced substantial population declines in recent decades, the population of Minneapolis has been relatively stable. In 1972, the city was home to approximately 422,000 residents, while the school district had just over 65,000 students. By 2008, the city’s population was roughly 370,000 people, which equated to roughly a 12 percent decline, whereas the school district’s enrollment had fallen to just over 36,000, which represented a 45 percent decrease. Yet the city’s population stability appears to be a better foundation on which to build school reform than what many other cities currently face. In other words, with a stable population, the prospect of the MPS increasing enrollment in the future is real, depending on the preferences of the parents of the city’s school-­age children. Tables 3.4 and 3.5 outline the recent racial and economic characteristics of the MPS. As shown in table 3.4, nearly two-­thirds of the district consists of students in poverty. And as illustrated in table 3.5, the district has some ability, albeit limited, to mitigate the problem of concentrated poverty through-

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out the schools by altering district attendance policies. Although poverty rates are high in a majority of the schools, about 25 percent of the schools have poverty rates of less than 50 percent, with some substantially less. And when examining the demographics of the MPS within the context of the state law allowing for open enrollment, using policy to deconcentrate poverty beyond the confines of the district’s boundaries, as the NAACP settlement provides for, should also be considered an option.

Conclusion This chapter has chronicled several events in the recent history of educational policy making in Minneapolis, emphasizing the many connections between the public and local policy making.6 Despite the tangible connections between public preferences and local education policy, including a

TABLE 3.4. Minneapolis Public Schools Student Profile, 2008 Race Percentage Asian  9 African American 40 Hispanic 17 American Indian   4 White 30 Poverty 66 Source: Minneapolis Public Schools 2008.

TABLE 3.5. Socioeconomic Segregation in Minneapolis Public Schools, 2007

Total Schools

Schools > 50% Poverty

High Schools   7   5 Middle Schools  7  6 Elementary Schools 48 36 Source: Minneapolis Public Schools 2007a, 2. Note: As noted by Kahlenberg (2001, 39–­40), the 50% threshold is commonly used by researchers as a cutoff point for high-­poverty schools.

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widespread commitment to the MPS in general, many schools continue to struggle, and the district has experienced long-­term enrollment declines notwithstanding the city’s overall population stability. The evidence suggests that Minneapolis exhibits a necessary prerequisite that scholars have identified for urban school reform, “civic capacity.” According to Clarence Stone, “Civic capacity refers to the mobilization of varied stakeholders in support of a community wide cause,” and involves two elements—­participation and understanding (Stone 1998, 15). In Minneapolis, the development of civic capacity has occurred at two levels—­among citizens, and among elites and interest groups. First, there is widespread public discussion of the problems faced by the city’s schools. Minnesota has a relatively generous school funding formula, which has been supplemented by Minneapolis voters’ willingness to pay higher taxes in order to increase school funding in recent years. Against a backdrop of a political culture that places a high value on citizen participation, the MPS has gone to great lengths to solicit public input in the policy-­making process prior to the adoption of significant policies. Also, even though the mayor lacks any formal authority whatsoever over the schools, the problems facing the district are without fail one of the few major issues in mayoral elections, another vivid illustration of the salience of the schools for city residents. In addition, several prominent local institutions have consistently demonstrated their commitment to improving the educational performance of the MPS. For example, the local media, particularly the city’s daily newspaper, frequently runs lengthy stories about the school system, and the business and philanthropic communities are actively involved in educational affairs by assisting the school district with the collection of data and the dissemination of reports. Specifically, the Greater Minneapolis Chamber of Commerce and the Minneapolis Foundation have been active partners with the MPS. And the local teachers’ union has also been committed to specific reform efforts beyond simply advocating for increased funds. The union recently announced that it received a grant from the American Federation of Teachers in order to initiate union-­sponsored charter schools in the city (Johns 2010). If created, these schools would be the first of their kind in the United States. But this widespread dedication to and involvement in the public schools has generally not led to increasing student achievement. However, this dynamic does not make Minneapolis unique. In a discussion of the civic capacity and urban education research, Joseph Viteritti has

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pointed out that “[w]ith few exceptions, even the development of something resembling broad-­based civic capacity in some locations did not lead to a significant improvement in school performance or a reduction of the learning gap that existed between urban students and their peers” (Viteritti 2003, 243). These findings cast doubt on an urban educational reform strategy that relies primarily on coalition building without advocating specific policies that could begin to improve the educational performance of disadvantaged students. Minneapolis’s community schools policy, which the district has always maintained reflected extensive public input, is one such example of a popular proposal that did not represent the best policy as measured by its effectiveness in leading to positive educational outcomes, particularly for disadvantaged students. Although deconcentrating poverty in the schools in the form of the limited suburban transfer program created by the NAACP settlement has not proven to be a panacea, it is clear that an attendance policy that relies heavily on neighborhood schools as the default option has not worked well for most students attending high-­poverty schools. Moreover, the creation of the suburban transfer program is akin to official recognition by the various participants in the settlement (eight suburban school districts, the MPS, the state government, and the plaintiffs) of the disparate educational outcomes produced by the traditional democratic process. More substantive and longer-­term poverty deconcentration efforts in other U.S. school districts have shown promising results. And in light of Minnesota’s existing open enrollment attendance policy, children attending public schools outside of their home community at no charge is already considered a mainstream alternative. Thus the primary political obstacle remains the unwavering public support for community, or neighborhood, schools. Litigation has been utilized by critics of MPS on two occasions, both of which were initiated because of the outcomes produced by local democratic processes. In the late 1960s and early 1970s, in spite of several U.S. Supreme Court rulings spelling out the process of desegregating schools, the Minneapolis School Board bowed to public pressure and refused to desegregate the handful of schools attended by large numbers of African American students. Subsequently the Minneapolis NAACP filed a federal desegregation lawsuit because of the district’s unwillingness to desegregate schools. Although victorious, the long-­term effects of the original desegregation suit have proven to be rather hollow. When Minnesota redefined the desegregation rule in

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the 1990s, it became very difficult in practice to break up segregated schools because of the new rule’s requirement that intentional segregation be proven in order to create nonvoluntary desegregation plans. The second use of litigation by MPS critics occurred in the mid-­1990s. During this period, because the U.S. Supreme Court effectively ended federally mandated school desegregation, the fact that so many urban schools across the nation remained segregated was not likely to change. Also, Minneapolis residents, like citizens across the country, became much more attached to neighborhood schools than in maintaining racially and economically diverse schools, which made the school board’s adoption of community schools in 1995 politically popular. At the same time, the community schools decision was also the last straw for the Minneapolis NAACP, which filed a lawsuit again in 1995 involving the MPS. The plaintiffs sought a metropolitan schooling remedy, which the 2000 settlement agreement established, albeit on a very limited scale. The NAACP and its allies correctly argued that community schools would only reinforce the significant differences between most MPS public schools and neighboring suburban schools. But in both cases—­federal desegregation in the 1970s and the 2000 NAACP settlement—­the changes produced by litigation were limited because they were not predicated on any fundamental shift in public attitudes. When I speak of public attitudes here, I am speaking in a very broad sense: the attitudes city residents (many of whom are low income and minorities), and the attitudes of suburban residents, who are disproportionately middle class and White. Suburban resistance to metropolitan education policy and affordable housing policy has been documented by a large number of scholars and analysts over the years, and the Minneapolis case is similar to other metropolitan areas in this regard. But the community schools decision was supported by a solid majority of both MPS parents and city residents, many of whom are racial minorities and lower income. In addition, the policy was pushed by Mayor Sharon Sayles Belton, who was not only the city’s highest elected official but also the most prominent African American leader in the region. Sayles Belton went on to be easily reelected in 1997, and never lost much support among her core constituencies by pushing community schools. In sum, the debate about using education policy to desegregate schools by class and race does not pit a significant majority of Whites against a significant majority of African Americans and other racial minorities. Rather,

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the information presented in this chapter, in conjunction with the national public opinion data outlined in chapter 2, illustrates that policies aimed at desegregating schools by class and race are not given primary importance by a fairly diverse majority of citizens. It is entirely possible that this debate in Minneapolis would have unfolded quite differently if predominately White, middle-­class suburbs placed a higher value on deconcentrating poverty in schools. But it is important to remember that the contemporary debate about urban education policy is fundamentally different from the debate that played out in dozens of cities across the country when civil rights groups fought against intentionally segregated schools in the federal courts. That earlier debate can be properly characterized as a tyranny of the White majority over the African American minority. The current debate, however, has transformed into one in which the majority places the highest priority on having access to public schools that are close to home (and, in cities like Minneapolis, schools that are well funded), and a minority that sees a school’s student composition as being the critical variable that shapes academic achievement. And so while litigation can be one viable component of urban education reform, it needs to be accompanied by a change in the discussion about the specific problems faced by higher-­poverty, largely segregated schools. This transformation could then contribute to the creation of specific policies, including those aimed at intentionally breaking up high-­ poverty schools. In an essay about the nature of urban school reform, Michael Danielson and Jennifer Hochschild have raised important questions about the role of public participation in the process of formulating reform policies: “We are not arguing that participation in school politics is unimportant or undesirable. We claim instead that, at a minimum, inclusive processes do not necessarily advance educational reforms and that, at a maximum, additional participants may make progress even more difficult than it would otherwise be given the variety of interests, priorities, and stakes of different players, particularly in the beleaguered realm of city schools” (Danielson and Hochschild 1998, 287). Danielson and Hochschilds’s analysis provides a useful starting point for any discussion of substantive urban school reform today. Policies that rely on significant public participation without a transformation in the larger debate about education policy may well not lead to positive outcomes for disadvantaged students. In Minneapolis, like so many other urban districts across the country, if a

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different approach is not taken and current trends continue, racial and economic segregation is likely to escalate, leaving large numbers of low-­income, predominantly minority students in high-­poverty schools. A significant number of parents will continue to pursue charter, suburban, private, and even home schooling options, leading to continued erosion in public confidence in the city schools, and contributing to further enrollment declines. And many low-­income students will be left behind in high-­poverty schools in the MPS.

Chapter 4

Focusing Events and the Limits of Law Enforcement Reform

This chapter addresses the politics of law enforcement in Minneapolis through the lens of three focusing events: the social unrest of the 1960s and early 1970s in north Minneapolis and at the University of Minnesota; the accidental death of an innocent elderly Black couple during a failed 1989 Minneapolis Police Department (MPD) drug raid; and a small-­scale riot in north Minneapolis in August 2002 in the aftermath of another drug raid. The unrest of the 1960s and ’70s proved to have the most significant impact as it catapulted Charles Stenvig, a former Minneapolis police officer and president of the Police Federation (the union representing MPD officers), to the mayor’s office for three two-­year terms beginning in 1969. The popularity of Stenvig’s law and order emphasis, best exemplified by his promise to “take the handcuffs off the police,” ultimately revealed most residents’ lack of interest in any discussion of police oversight, particularly during a period of social unrest. Further, Stenvig’s message and policy positions made clear that in a city that was over 90 percent White at the time of his first election, thinly veiled racial appeals were very popular. The 1989 tragedy prompted the creation of the Civilian Review Authority (CRA). The CRA’s creation was not the result of any major change in political power. Rather, it was the result of an extremely tragic event and policy makers seeking to quell a vocal minority and dampen the prospects for further protests. It should come as no surprise, then, that the CRA has never been able to have the impact that reformers had hoped. The agency’s lack of institutional power has made it less independent and authoritative than is necessary to effectively provide oversight of law enforcement personnel.

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And finally, the events of the summer of 2002 set off yet another debate about police conduct and led to federal mediation and the creation of the Police Community Relations Council (PCRC). The unrest of 2002 also eventually led to the appointment of a police chief with a proven track record of improving police-­community relations. Self-­interest among policy makers was again at work insofar as city officials clearly did not want to lose control of their police department. Having the federal government administer the MPD was a distinct possibility if the police department was not willing to have a meaningful dialogue with its critics and enact tangible policy changes to address their concerns. After several years, however, the PCRC expired, and normal politics returned in which public scrutiny of the police is low and a relatively small group of reformers is left trying to push an issue that does not resonate with the general public. Because of the unique nature of the politics of law enforcement, only major focusing events have caused local officials to more closely examine current policies and practices. Law enforcement officers enjoy a special status with Americans that makes them stand apart from most government employees. Thus the backdrop for all local policy making in law enforcement is a high level of trust in and satisfaction with the police, a pattern which has been evident in the politics of policing in Minneapolis. Surveys taken over the past several years have shown that a significant majority of city residents are satisfied with police services in the city. Thus the process of reforming law enforcement practices and bringing greater accountability to the Minneapolis Police Department has been slow, with some incremental gains and occasional setbacks. But by a number of indicators, racial minorities still experience unequal outcomes in the provision of basic law enforcement services. For example, many recent surveys of city residents have shown that people of color have less trust than Whites in local law enforcement, and the racial profiling of the minority population by the MPD has been documented extensively. In addition, racial minorities, especially African Americans, consistently file complaints against MPD officers with the CRA at disproportionately high rates compared to Whites. These facts point to the need for additional reforms. Complicating matters further are the different approaches to reform advocated by the various critics of the city’s police force. In sum, the current parameters in the debate over policing demonstrate the difficulty of achieving and sustaining police reform over the long term.

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Background Law enforcement is one of the most visible functions of local government, and the politics of local criminal justice are multidimensional. The public expects government to provide a measure of safety to citizens, and most of this is done at the local level. In addition, crime and law enforcement-­related matters play an important, sometimes decisive, role in local elections. Because crime is highly salient to the urban public, those seeking elective office frequently stress their credentials and policy positions on these issues. Police unions and other interested groups are active in the local political process, and the media pay substantial attention to criminal activity. Further, the relationship between law enforcement policies and criminal activity becomes an inherently complex question given the numerous causes of crime. And finally, there is the critical question of the impact of local policing practices on the social fabric of the city. Specifically, how do various constituencies perceive the police? Are there discrepancies according to race, income, and neighborhood? If so, what are the consequences of these discrepancies? In sum, an assessment of local politics is made more complete when the many political and policy dynamics of local criminal justice are examined. Although crime is not as significant a problem in Minneapolis as it is in Gary, Minneapolis has had relatively high crime rates in recent years when compared to other U.S. cities. In 1995, at the height of the crack epidemic, the city experienced a record 97 homicides, and was infamously dubbed “Murderapolis” by the New York Times (Diaz 1997). Despite the fact that the violent crime rate decreased in subsequent years, crime is a still a major problem. In 1999, Minneapolis was ranked the 25th most dangerous municipality out of 322 U.S. cities in a national composite index (Morgan Quinto Press 2000). By 2004, out of the 70 largest cities, Minneapolis had the 16th highest number of violent crimes (U.S. Census Bureau 2004), illustrating the political significance of crime and law enforcement. Violent crime is concentrated in the lowest-­income areas of the city. For example, in 2006 there were sixty homicides in Minneapolis, all of which were mapped and described by a local magazine. The map was striking, as it vividly revealed the relationship between homicide and specific neighborhoods, especially in parts of north and south Minneapolis. Twenty-­nine of the sixty murders occurred in a six-­square mile area of north Minneapolis, in a disproportionately low-­income, African American neighborhood (Clancy

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2007). This pattern is not unusual, and it makes the issue of crime, along with police-­community relations, inherently salient for the city’s minority community. Yet the events of the late 1960s showed that crime was also quite salient to a large number of residents across the city, which led to the election of one of the most famous politicians in the history of Minneapolis.

Social Unrest and the Emergence of Charles Stenvig: “Take the Handcuffs off the Police” The unrest that began in Minneapolis in 1966 had a profound impact on local politics for years to come. The significance of the crime issue for city voters and their willingness to support strong-­armed police tactics became apparent. Beginning in the late 1960s, African American youth, civil rights organizations, and student activists at the University of Minnesota engaged in a variety of highly publicized protests. In fact, the rioting in north Minneapolis in the summer of 1967 led the Kerner Commission to label the city as one of only eight “major” urban disorders in the United States (National Advisory Commission on Civil Disorder 1968, 164). And the city that had a national reputation for liberalism elected a mayor in 1969 whose law and order philosophy could rival that of the most well-­known conservative mayors elected in other major U.S. cities during this period. The story of Charles Stenvig’s 1969 election began in 1966. That year, there was a relatively minor disturbance in August in north Minneapolis involving between 35 and 50 individuals (Cunningham 1967). In the summer of 1967, unrest plagued many urban neighborhoods across the nation. The rioting in Newark in July received major coverage in the local Minneapolis media. The Minneapolis Tribune featured a UPI story with the headline “Snipers Active; Death Toll Rises in Newark” on the paper’s front page on July 16 (Minneapolis Tribune 1967a). And then just three days later, rioting involving between 100 and 150 individuals began in north Minneapolis and downtown. Unrest continued the next day, and the local media focused on the story for the next several days. The first night of unrest was described by the Tribune in a front-­page headline “Fires Set, Rocks Thrown in City Mob Outbreak” (Minneapolis Tribune 1967b). An MPD officer was quoted in the local media comparing the events of July 1967 to the unrest of August of 1966 by saying that the main difference was “[t]hey (the Negro youngsters) stood up

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to us this time” (Cunningham 1967). The unrest led the governor to call up over 600 National Guard troops in an attempt to keep the peace. Just a few days after the unrest appeared to end in Minneapolis, the Tri­ bune once again placed the issue of urban unrest on the front page with the headline “1,500 Guardsmen Ordered to Quell Detroit Negro Riot” (Minne­ apolis Tribune 1967c). The story was accompanied by a large photo of an armed Michigan National Guardsman. Thus, even after the local unrest had subsided, the local media continued to give this issue front-­page attention. While most of the media and broader community focused on the criminal aspects of the unrest, African Americans in the affected area expressed the need for a “Marshall Plan” for rebuilding the community, along with more Black police officers and an FBI investigation into the causes of the unrest (Minneapolis Spokesman 1967). In response to the events of 1966 and 1967, the city, under the direction of the administration of DFL Mayor Arthur Naftalin, created both a Department of Civil Rights and a Human Relations Commission, and initiated sensitivity training for police officers. But Mayor Naftalin’s alliance with the African American community was fractured and his relationship with the MPD had also been damaged. In an analysis of the political implications of the events of 1966 and 1967, one researcher observed that “[t]hese sorts of responses did nothing to quell the fears of some voters, and violence in the streets became an issue in Minneapolis in the last two years of Naftalin’s term in office. . . . The ability of Minneapolis elites to compromise over an emotional issue did not mean that the general population shared their viewpoints.  .  .  . Many police officers saw elites, especially Naftalin, acting as pawns for lawless black militants. Many ordinary voters felt the same way” (McPherson 1983, 172, 174). Naftalin narrowly won reelection in 1967, but it would be his last mayoral victory. More unrest occurred in 1969, which further shaped the tone of city politics that led to the election of Stenvig. In January of that year, African American students occupied the University of Minnesota’s administration building at the Minneapolis campus, Morrill Hall, which led to the creation of the University’s Afro American Studies program. The occupation of the building was a “joint effort involving activists from the campus as well as community groups” (Lehmberg and Pflaum 2001, 117). Although peaceful, the event was yet another sign for many city residents that lawlessness was on the rise in Minneapolis.

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Within this context, Charles Stenvig, the president of the Police Federation, declared his candidacy as an independent for mayor in 1969. Few expected him to seriously compete for the city’s highest office, and his subsequent victory shocked many in the political establishment. Stenvig first eliminated the DFL candidate Gerald Hegstrom in the 1969 mayoral primary, and was left to face the Republican president of the Minneapolis City Council, Dan Cohen, in the general election. Cohen, who, like Stenvig, was White, was considered a moderate, and had the support of prominent business organizations, major interest groups, the major newspapers, and President Nixon, among many others. Stenvig had few endorsements, being backed mainly by some conservative unions, including the police, the firefighters, and the Teamsters. Stenvig ran as a conservative populist, and his appeal was based primarily on the theme of law and order. But he also emphasized his credentials as the anti-­big-­business and anti-­intellectual candidate. He ran an untraditional campaign that relied heavily on volunteers and reached out to churches around the city. In fact, his worldview contained a healthy dose of traditional Christian values. At a celebration of his initial 1969 victory, he declared that “[m]y chief advisor is going to be God. . . . And don’t you forget it” (Manual and Urban 2008, 13). In what turned out to be an uncompetitive race, Stenvig went on to defeat Cohen by receiving 62 percent of the vote in the general election. The new mayor’s approach to governance was perhaps best summarized in one of the few major policy positions he stressed during the campaign when he promised to “take the handcuffs off the police” (Manual and Urban 2008, 5). Given the fact that the city was approximately 94 percent White at the time, it is clear that although he was not favored by the city’s elites, a majority of White voters were supportive of Stenvig’s law and order message. His antiestablishment status led business leaders to begin recruiting potential challengers to run against Stenvig shortly after his 1969 electoral victory (Davis 2002, 212). He was labeled the “George Wallace of the North” by his opponents (University of Minnesota Immigration Research History Center 2007), and Wallace even took credit for the popularity of local candidates such as Stenvig outside the South. In a 1969 Newsweek article, Wallace boasted: “My vote was only the tip of the iceberg. . . . There’s others I’m responsible for: Stenvig, Mayor Yorty of Los Angeles, two mayoral candidates in New York. They were making Alabama speeches with a Minneapolis, Los Angeles, and New York accent. The only thing they omitted was the drawl” (Elliot 1970, 479). And prior to his election as mayor of Philadelphia in 1971, Frank Rizzo

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visited Minneapolis to learn “how a policeman could successfully run for mayor of a major American city” (Manual and Urban 2008, 214). Antiwar demonstrations on the campus increased the year following Stenvig’s election. In May 1970, roughly five thousand students and faculty members voted for a strike of the university to protest the U.S. invasion of Cambodia and the potential for additional bombing of North Vietnam (Lehmberg and Pflaum 2001, 119). The strike drew substantial attention and continued for several days, culminating in large demonstrations on May 8 and 9. An unrelated incident had occurred just north of the University of Minnesota campus in the Dinkytown neighborhood on April 1. There, in an act of protest against corporate-­backed redevelopment, a group of university students occupied the site of a proposed Red Barn restaurant. The incident led to a major confrontation with about fifty Minneapolis police officers and fifty Hennepin County sheriff’s deputies, who were heavily armed (120). The event did not lead to any violence—­the protestors were removed, and bulldozers moved in and demolished the buildings. But it was yet another event that highlighted the ongoing tension between law enforcement and certain segments of the community, and further reinforced the political issue of law and order for Mayor Stenvig and for voters across the city. Mayor Stenvig’s appeal to law and order was, to a large extent, a race-­ based appeal, which was also apparent in his positions on other issues. For example, he “openly challenged civil rights programs in the city—­he labeled them unfairly preferential to minority groups” (Blee et al. 2008, 79). And the issue of race was at the forefront of the 1971 election campaign. That year, Stenvig defeated a prominent African American, DFL candidate Harry Davis, with over 70 percent of the vote in a racially charged campaign.1 The mayor won all twelve of the city’s wards, and the election was never close. In addition to an emphasis on law and order, the campaign also brought the issue of the segregation of the Minneapolis Public Schools into focus, and Stenvig was an outspoken opponent of the prospect of the federal courts dictating attendance policies to the school board (Davis 2002, 218–­19). Considering Stenvig’s attitude on this issue, it becomes easy to understand the public pressure not to integrate schools alluded to by Judge Earl Larson in the desegregation decision of 1972. The 1971 election was the first time an African American had run in the general election for mayor, but the results proved that it would be a long time before heavily Democratic Minneapolis would be ready to elect a Black chief executive. Stenvig lost reelection in 1973 by less than 4 percent in a multiple candi-

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date race in which the winner, Albert Hofstede, received a 46 percent plurality. In 1975, despite not having the endorsement of any major group (McPherson 1983, 178), Stenvig won the city’s top office again by defeating the incumbent by less than 1 percent in another multiple candidate race. He went on to lose two more elections, to Hofstede again in 1977, and to Don Fraser in 1979, a liberal DFL mayor who went on to serve four terms. Although the DFL mayor Hofstede had different policy priorities than Stenvig, the MPD had regular influence under both administrations, and were rewarded for their service with better jobs and generous pay raises (McGrath and Hotakainen 1990). Fraser’s election, however, signaled a shift in police influence in city hall. Stenvig’s campaigns and administration were straightforward in terms of message and tone: law and order during a time of unrest. During his tenure, city hall appointments reflected the political strength of the MPD, and this period was clearly the high point of police influence in Minneapolis politics. The fact that the police chief and many top MPD officials served at the pleasure of the mayor during Stenvig’s time in office substantially facilitated the mayor’s ability to control the police department and reward loyal supporters with top jobs in the department. In fact, shortly after taking office for the first time, the Stenvig administration removed all but one of the top supervisors in the MPD, and replaced them with several individuals who had worked on his 1969 campaign (Eidenberg and Riggert 1970, 298). In 1979, after growing complaints about the increasing politicization of the MPD and frequent turnover of chiefs and top department leaders, the Minneapolis City Charter was changed to provide for fixed three-­year terms for police chiefs. Charles Stenvig’s popularity shows that in spite of the city’s national reputation for progressivism, the turbulent 1960s brought out quite different strains in Minneapolis politics. The city’s moralistic political culture had very different characteristics during a time of social unrest than Elazar’s unambiguously optimistic formulation implies. Order amid turbulent times was the underlying theme of Stenvig’s administration, and when looking at election returns it becomes clear that this sentiment was shared by a large number of city residents. Opposed by the downtown business community, many labor unions, and a wide a variety of interest groups—­including the civil rights establishment—­did not change the fact that Minneapolis voters elected Charles Stenvig three times, twice by large majorities. Increasing oversight of the police was first seriously discussed by policy makers in Minneapolis as early as the 1950s. But with the ascendance of

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Charles Stenvig, increasing external oversight of the police department was, quite simply, inconceivable. Further, his administration was characterized by a lack of any substantive policy initiatives and a liberal use of the veto, and he continued to rely on the crime issue as the basis of his appeal throughout the 1970s, long after the unrest in north Minneapolis and at the University of Minnesota had subsided. Yet the fact that the voters responded quite favorably during his original campaign, when he promised to “take the handcuffs off the police” and when he repeatedly stressed his ability to restore law and order, is strong evidence that most voters had no interest in any reforms that would infringe on the autonomy and power of the MPD. Beginning in the 1970s, however, the city began to become more diverse, and the law and order issue that had carried Stenvig into office faded. The subject of police brutality, particularly in African American neighborhoods, was a topic of frequent discussion among civil rights organizations and leaders. The election of a sympathetic mayor in 1979, Don Fraser, in conjunction with a tragedy several years later involving the MPD, put the issue of police reform at the top of local policy makers’ agenda by the late 1980s.

Tragedy and the Creation of the Civilian Review Authority Police officers are more visible to the public than employees of any other government agency. Yet ironically, this visibility to the public makes them less visible to their supervisors and to other government officials. As Samuel Walker has suggested, “[I]n many encounters with the public, there are no independent witnesses to what happens” (Walker 2001, 8). Thus, in his classic study of bureaucracy, James Q. Wilson labeled police departments as coping agencies because neither their outputs nor outcomes can be observed: “Police officers cannot be watched by their lieutenants and the level of order the officers maintain on their beat cannot readily be observed, or, if observed, attributed to the officers’ efforts” (J. Wilson 1989, 168). Further, because they carry firearms, police officers have more power than other government employees in that they have the ability to seriously hurt or kill citizens in the line of duty. The potential for problems related to police misconduct necessitates concrete measures for democratic accountability of law enforcement agencies and their personnel. Thus there are several arguments in favor of civilian oversight of the police.

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Advocates argue that independent review boards will produce more thorough and fair investigations, have higher rates of sustaining complaints against officers than traditional internal affairs reviews, deter future police misconduct, and promote overall police professionalism (Walker 2001, 55). In addition, oversight agencies improve the public’s attitudes toward the police. Supporters also argue that individuals who utilize independent review boards will have more confidence in the police, and that the general public’s attitude toward the police will also improve because citizens will “no longer suspect that misconduct is covered up” (55, 56). Theoretically, then, civilian review agencies should improve relations between minorities and the police. In the United States, the idea of having some sort of external oversight of the police emerged in the 1920s. But early on the idea that citizens would have a say in dealing with complaints against law enforcement was considered radical. By the mid-­twentieth century, however, oversight of the police had gained momentum, and “became part of the emerging national civil rights movement” (Walker 2001, 20). In the 1950s, under increasing political pressure, oversight boards were created in Philadelphia and New York. But these victories proved to be short lived, as the Philadelphia board was terminated by an executive order of the mayor in 1969, and the voters of New York eliminated its board by a lopsided two-­to-­one margin in 1966 ( 24, 30). In the 1970s, citizen oversight of the police was revived, and many cities enacted various types of oversight processes. By 2007, according to the National Association of Civilian Oversight of Law Enforcement, 71 of the nation’s 100 largest cities had some type of citizen review mechanism (National Association of Citizen Oversight of Law Enforcement 2007). It should be made clear, however, that this relatively high number includes a wide variety of local structures, many of which have little concrete power and are essentially advisory. In a discussion of Minneapolis, the noted scholar of civilian review Samuel Walker has observed, “Despite the city’s reputation for good government, the police department had a bad history of excessive force” (Walker 2001, 38). As a result, the term “thumper” was used to describe Minneapolis cops beginning several decades ago, and is even still used today by some critics of the department. Thus the rationale for strengthening oversight of the MPD has been discussed for quite some time. A civilian review board was first created in the city in the late 1950s during the administration of progressive Republican Mayor P. K. Peterson. But the board did not function, and was eventually dissolved because it was advised by attorneys that its unofficial

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status would not shield its members from possible lawsuits (Beral and Sisk 1964, 511). This initial version of a civilian review body turned out to be much more symbolic than substantive. Peterson’s successor, Mayor Arthur Naftalin, was faced with unrest in the city, which led to the election of Charles Stenvig in 1969. These events effectively tabled the discussion of civilian review for many years. Things began to change, however, with the election of Mayor Don Fraser in 1979. The problem of police misconduct, particularly as it affected minority communities, received official recognition. Mayor Fraser created an Internal Affairs Review Panel from 1983 to 1986 to study the MPD’s handling of complaints through the internal affairs process. The study found several problems, including the fact that, in many instances, the police chief had refused to discipline officers even when complaints of excessive force had been substantiated (Kerstetter and Rasinski 1994). Another report completed in 1989 found that between July 1983 and December 1987, out of 227 citizen complaints of excessive force against MPD officers, the Internal Affairs Unit sustained none of the charges (Police Civilian Review Working Committee 1989, A-­65). Numbers like these do not generate citizen trust in the police’s ability to investigate itself. Although the problems within the police department had become more publicized, little substantive reform followed Fraser’s Internal Affairs study. But community surveys about the review panel showed that its mere existence increased public confidence in the police. Kerstetter and Rasinski’s (1994) research on the annual surveys of the Internal Affairs Review Panel showed that the number of people aware of the panel’s existence increased to almost 50 percent once it had been operating for a few years. The number of people who expressed the view that the review panel gave them either “a lot more” or “a little more” confidence in the police increased from 27 percent in 1983 to 40 percent after the panel had existed for just two years. These results also held for minority respondents to the survey. In 1983, the first year of the panel’s existence, 24 percent of minority respondents expressed having confidence in the police, and two years after the Internal Affairs Review Panel was operating, this number increased to 35 percent. Additional surveys conducted one year after the panel disbanded revealed that confidence in the police among minority respondents dropped to a mere 10 percent (118). The surveys showed that the city’s formal review of police procedures contributed to increasing public confidence in the process of law enforcement. Despite the Fraser administration’s apparent commitment to reforming

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the MPD, problems involving excessive force continued throughout the 1980s, with little evidence that the culture or practices of the police department would change. For instance, two attempts to remove an officer from the force were unsuccessful despite the fact that he had cost the department $2 million in police brutality suits (Walker 2001, 38). In 1985, the Minneapolis Commission on Civil Rights issued a report that analyzed attitudes toward the police by various groups, and found a continued lack of trust among minority communities in the MPD’s Internal Affairs division. Even though Fraser’s formal review of Internal Affairs procedures had improved the attitudes of minorities toward the police, African Americans still exhibited less trust in the MPD than other racial groups. The report also made several policy recommendations to restore trust, including the creation of a civilian review board (Kerstetter and Rasinski 1994). Then a tragic event in early 1989 made the issue of police conduct front and center in city politics for several months. The late 1980s was the height of the nation’s war on drugs under President George H. W. Bush, and local police officers around the country were on the front lines. In late January 1989, Minneapolis police officers hurled a “thunderflash stun grenade” (Brunswick 1989) into the apartment of suspected drug dealers in an attempt to disorient the individuals inside. But fire broke out immediately after the grenade landed inside the apartment, and an elderly Black couple, 71-­year-­old Lloyd Smalley and 68-­year-­old Lillian Weiss, were killed. The MPD maintained that it was not aware of the couple’s presence in the apartment at the time. The event became a major local news story immediately, and sparked intense reaction in the Black community, including protests and repeated calls for outside investigations and increased oversight of the MPD. Compounding calls for reform was an event just ten days later, in which MPD officers conducted an early morning raid at what was reportedly a loud party, and allegedly beat several African American partygoers (Bryson 1989). The African American community spoke with a united voice after the events of early 1989 in advocating for the creation of a civilian review agency of the Minneapolis Police Department. The largest African American newspaper in Minnesota, the Spokesman and Recorder, published several strongly worded editorials in favor of the creation of a civilian review board, including one entitled “Without Oversight, Citizens Are Sitting Ducks” (Spokesman and Recorder 1989). African American groups and civil rights leaders led protests at city Hall, and kept the issue visible over the next several months. The

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significance of the tragic deaths of two innocent elderly residents created public sympathy and allowed critics of the MPD to demand that the city deal with the issue of police reform. The Civilian Review Authority proposal was offered by then city council president, Sharon Sayles Belton, and actively supported by Mayor Fraser. But creating the CRA would not be without controversy, however, and many members of the MPD and the Police Federation vigorously opposed it. In early 1990, when the idea of the CRA was gaining momentum with the city council, members of the MPD’s Emergency Response Unit threatened a work stoppage if the CRA were enacted (Diaz and Hodges 1990). Although the work stoppage never materialized, during the early stages of formal policy making the police were able to influence the operations of the proposed CRA. The original proposal called for the new agency to have the power to discipline officers itself, but in a concession to Police Chief John Laux, the proposal was changed to give the police chief sole disciplinary authority after the completion of CRA proceedings. Giving the chief the ability to unilaterally control the discipline of officers became one of the most contentious issues related to the process of civilian review, and was addressed at length in a consultant’s report on the CRA completed in 2006 (Browne 2006). Writing before the creation of the CRA, former Minneapolis Police Chief Anthony Bouza stressed the significance of the specifics of the disciplinary process: “The civilian review controversy has nothing to do with review and everything to do with who controls the disciplinary process” (Bouza 1990, 253). The Police Federation has labeled the issue of who has the ultimate disciplinary authority over police officers the “single most contentious aspect of the C.R.A. process” (Michels 2006). The Federation has argued that the police chief inherently possesses sole disciplinary power under the city charter as the mayor’s designee. Further, the Federation has also maintained that the collective bargaining agreement and the Public Labor Relations Act (which governs Minnesota public employees) stipulate that an arbitrator has the final say in decisions made by the CRA, thereby implying that even the chief’s decisions were not necessarily definitive (ibid.). Despite this major concession made by the city council and the mayor, many rank and file officers were still united and very public in their opposition to civilian review. More than a hundred uniformed officers wearing pins that said “Cops or crack: Your choice,” attended the city council meeting during which the CRA ordinance was passed. In an apparently lopsided vote,

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the council voted 9-­1 to create the agency. However, two council members abstained from the vote, and one other was absent (Hotakainen 1990), and so the creation of the CRA was not as lopsided as the vote made it appear. Ultimately, the Police Federation was the only major group that opposed the CRA, as the city’s business establishment, which had long been sympathetic to the concerns of the civil rights community, did not lobby against the proposal. It is not clear whether a majority of city residents supported the creation of the CRA because no public polls or surveys were done at the time of its inception. What is clear is that the nature of the tragic events of early 1989 led enough local policy makers to believe that some action had to be taken in order to maintain peace and satisfy the demands of the increasingly vocal civil rights community. Further, the fact that the police themselves were the only organized opposition to the CRA and that the agency’s powers were limited made the politics of this issue less complicated for those elected officials that voted in support. The stated purpose of the CRA was to investigate “complaints alleging excessive force, inappropriate language or attitude, discrimination, theft and failure to provide adequate or timely police protection” (Hotakainen 1990). The board was initially made up of eleven citizens, six of whom were selected by the city council with the remaining five chosen by the mayor. In its original formulation, there were no rules prohibiting members of the MPD from being on the CRA board. But the ordinance was subsequently changed to prohibit current or former employees of the MPD from serving on the board. The CRA was seen by its supporters as an institution that would increase trust in government, specifically the police. This sentiment was captured perfectly in an editorial in the Star Tribune entitled “Police Review Can Restore Lost Trust” (Star Tribune 1990). The city had become much more diverse in the years since Charles Stenvig occupied the mayor’s office, and the implications of a lack of trust by minorities toward the police became more far-­ reaching. The creation of the CRA was also seen as evidence of the declining political power of the MPD under the Fraser administration, a pattern that continued during the Sayles Belton administration. But the limited power of the CRA set the tone for future debates about the agency, and substantially weakened its independence from the beginning. Not long after its creation, the CRA began to be viewed as politically expendable, and became an easy target for city council members who were looking for ways to cut a shrinking city budget.

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When Sharon Sayles Belton was first elected mayor in 1993, the Police Federation actively campaigned against her. Council member Sayles Belton proposed the original CRA ordinance, and the Police Federation never attempted to hide its disapproval of the civilian review process. In its endorsement of her 1993 opponent, John Derus, the Federation harshly criticized Sayles Belton’s record on crime as a council member, saying that she had “demonstrated an appalling lack of judgment in dealing with crime problem,” and argued that Derus could lead “an all-­out war on crime” (Lopez Baden 1993). But with the strong backing of the outgoing mayor, Don Fraser, Sayles Belton went on to win the general election relatively easily by a 15 point margin. Changing demographics and a modest crime rate made it much more difficult for the anticrime focus of the Derus campaign to resonate in the same way that Stenvig’s law and order emphasis resonated during the turbulent 1960s. Once in office, however, crime became a major issue for Mayor Sayles Belton. Minneapolis experienced a record 97 homicides in 1995, the second year of Sayles Belton’s first term. Most observers attributed the spike in violent crime to the widespread presence of crack cocaine that fueled extensive gang-­related activity. The increase in crime certainly had an effect on voters’ attitudes about the city. In a poll that year, only 38 percent of residents believed that things were going well for the city (Diaz 1997). Within this context, in June 1997 the city council voted 7–­6 to eliminate the position of executive director of the CRA, and move the independent agency into the City Coordinator’s office (Taylor 1997). Mayor Sayles Belton, however, vetoed the measure, a move which reinstituted the executive director’s position and enabled the CRA to remain an independent, albeit politically damaged, agency. Yet the agency’s opponents were gathering momentum, which foreshadowed more substantive changes that were to come during the administration of Mayor R. T. Rybak.

Police-­Community Relations on the Brink: Unrest, Mediation, and the Police Community Relations Council Crime did not figure prominently in R. T. Rybak’s 2001 electoral defeat of Sharon Sayles Belton, but by the end of the summer of 2002 the issue had shot to the top of the agenda for both local officials and the media. Two police-­related

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shootings occurred in early August, one involving the death of a police officer, and the other a Minneapolis woman. Then in late August, during a drug raid in the north Minneapolis neighborhood of Jordan, police shot at a pit bull, and the bullet deflected and hit a 10-­year-­old boy. A crowd of nearly a hundred residents quickly gathered and began to yell and throw various objects at the police. The boy’s injuries were not life threatening, but shortly thereafter, in the midst of reporters and police officers converging on the scene, a small-­scale riot ensued, resulting in several reporters being injured along with the burning of a news van. The incident received extensive attention in the local and regional media, and was yet another painful reminder of the poor relationship between the MPD and minority communities. Soon after the incident, protestors “gathered in front of city hall and angrily demanded something be done about police brutality, especially in communities of color” (Schimke 2002). A federal mediator came to Minneapolis immediately after the unrest to assess relations between the MPD and the community. The event brought back memories of the tragic events that occurred during the drug raid in early 1989, and the violence in the street after the incident was reminiscent of the turbulence in the summer of 1967. Subsequently, in the fall of 2002, the city council authorized a mediation process between the MPD and the community. For the remainder of the year, an extended debate took place about the nature of the mediation. The main issue became the membership of the mediation committee. In early December, Police Chief Robert Olson informed the media that he would delay the mediation process until the local NAACP and the Urban League had official representation on the mediation committee (Anderson 2002a). But some community activists feared that the presence of these two organizations on the committee would make whatever agreement that was produced essentially a deal among insiders. As the process of premediation discussions dragged on for several more months, Mayor Rybak, sounding like an official backed by the Police Federation, stated his lukewarm feelings about the process: “It [mediation] to me was only one way to go at this problem, and there are lots of others. We’ll continue to go at this problem. . . . Mediation was always misunderstood as an end-­all and be-­all” (Olson 2003). In addition to keeping the peace, another strong incentive for the mayor and the MPD to move mediation forward, however, was the possibility of the department being placed into a state of receivership by the U.S. Justice Department if the stalemate continued. During this period, several other major law enforcement agencies, including those in Detroit, Pittsburgh, Los Ange-

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les, and Miami, had entered into this type of arrangement with the federal government (Demko and Anderson 2005), and clearly Minneapolis officials did not want to lose control of their own police department. Thus the parties came to enough of an agreement to allow mediation to go forward in 2003. The mediation participants ultimately represented a variety of different constituencies, including several religious congregations, the Urban League, Native Americans, the gay and lesbian community, and Asian and Hispanic Americans. As the process of mediation progressed, much of the discussion revolved around the issues of diversity and the racial composition of the MPD, and the final agreement deals with these issues extensively. Significantly, the mediation committee did not include any representatives from the organization that has been the most consistent supporter of civilian review, Communities United Against Police Brutality (CUAPB). In December 2003, representatives from the MPD and the 18-­member “Community-­Unity Team” signed a 24-­page document outlining several problems between the MPD and the community as well as various ways to specifically address those problems. The final agreement was praised by many, including federal mediator Patricia Campbell Glenn, and its language appeared to demonstrate a real understanding of the level of problems between the MPD and many minority constituencies. Yet skeptics also questioned the document’s teeth, with one local attorney active in police reform observing that “[i]t does nothing to affirm the changing of the culture of the department” (Chanen, Olson, and Bentley 2003). Nonetheless, the agreement contained some fairly strong language regarding the relationship between the MPD and minority constituencies. The agreement’s preamble states: “We condemn cultures of brutality and violence everywhere they exist. Where we find them in society, we will combat them. Where we find them in the police department, we will combat them. We also condemn institutional racism everywhere it exists. Where we find it in society, we will combat it. Where it is found in the police department, we will combat it” (Unity Community Mediation Team 2003). The agreement was divided into 14 sections, the first of which addresses the use of force by the MPD. Other areas addressed included dealing with suspects with mental health problems, police-­community relations, complaints against the police, and the diversity of the MPD, among others. The agreement established a Police Community Relations Council (PCRC) to oversee and monitor the terms of the agreement. The PCRC consisted of 30 members, 18 of which were appointed by the mediation team, with the remaining 12 appointed by

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the police chief. The PCRC would meet regularly and issue reports on the progress of the implementation of the agreement, as well as educate the public on matters related to the mediation agreement (Unity Community Mediation Team 2003, 4). The section of the agreement that addressed the subject of complaints against Minneapolis police officers stated that the MPD would develop and implement a “Minneapolis Police Conduct Incident Report Form,” which could be used by citizens to initiate an investigation against an officer(s) (Unity Community Mediation Team 2003, 19). The agreement stated that this new form would be printed in English, Spanish, Hmong, and Somali (with the option of adding more languages), and available at the offices of 14 distinct organizations representing various constituencies around the city, as well as at all MPD precincts and the Internal Affairs Unit. Further, the agreement affirmed that a person filing a complaint against the police “may direct that the form be submitted to the Commander of the Internal Affairs Unit (‘I.A.U.’) for review” (ibid., 19). The MPD called the new process for citizen complaints with the Internal Affairs Unit “more easily accessed and understood” and maintained that it “stresses accountability at every step” (Minneapolis Police Department, Office of Professional Standards 2006, 3). Yet there was no mention of the Civilian Review Authority anywhere in the agreement, a fact that sheds considerable light on the politics of the mediation process. Unlike the PCRC, the Civilian Review Authority was an independent body intentionally removed from the day-­to-­day world of police-­ community relations, whose board members gained little from their service. The mediation agreement and the PCRC, however, encouraged the public to take any problems with the MPD to the community representatives on the PCRC itself, which would, in turn, take up these matters with the MPD. Thus the PCRC took on the role of negotiating the conflicts between minority communities and the police department, and in certain respects it supplanted the Civilian Review Authority, at least temporarily. The lack of a firm commitment to civilian review in the federal mediation agreement ultimately reflected the preferences of the committee that created the agreement. Members of the MPD constituted nearly half of the individuals involved in the mediation process, and the Police Federation as well as past police chiefs and had always opposed civilian review. In addition, many of the community representatives who participated in the mediation, including some who originally advocated in favor of the CRA when it was first created, now claimed that the CRA was ineffective. Data on CRA

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cases helps support the argument regarding its ineffectiveness. A comprehensive analysis of the CRA commissioned by the city’s Department of Civil Rights in 2006 concluded that “[i]n an alarming number of cases, the MPD leadership exceeds its administrative authority under the governing ordinance by refusing to accept the C.R.A. Board’s finding-­of-­facts and determination” (Browne 2006, vii, ix). More specifically, between its creation in 1991 and 2000, there were 1,373 signed complaints filed by citizens with the CRA, 151 of which were sustained after the agency’s proceedings. Of these 151 sustained complaints, discipline was imposed by the chief in only 54 cases (Minneapolis Civilian Police Review Authority 1996, 2000). Statistically, a citizen’s odds of having a signed complaint against an officer sustained by the CRA and then result in the disciplining of the officer were a long shot at best. This fact explains much of the apparent lack of enthusiasm for civilian review among many critics of the MPD, including many civil rights leaders. But another factor that helps to explain the lack of support for the civilian review process among several prominent civil rights leaders in 2003 involves the political relationship between the MPD and minority communities. The most prominent African American leaders that were selected by the mayor and the police chief for these bodies were not publicly advocating for strengthening the process of civilian review. The community leaders who were on the mediation team and the PCRC had been designated by the city, in effect, as spokespersons for various minority communities. These individuals, then, became semiofficial brokers between the MPD and their respective communities, which reinforced their political and social status. Two of the PCRC’s most visible and outspoken members deserve mention here. In the aftermath of the small-­scale riot in the summer of 2002, Police Chief Olson encouraged African American community activist Spike Moss to lead foot patrols in the neighborhood, which received extensive attention by the local media. Moss was later appointed to the mediation team, and became a member of the PCRC. Ron Edwards, another prominent figure in the African American community who was named to the mediation team and the PCRC, was formerly the head of the Minneapolis Civil Rights Commission and the local Urban League. But Edwards has also been an advocate for the Minneapolis Police Department’s Black Police Officers’ Federation for several years, a fact that he has made well known in numerous articles for print publications and his Internet blog (Edwards and Jessen 2007). His appointment to the PCRC, juxtaposed with his long-­standing affiliation with African American police officers, presented, at a minimum, the potential of

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a significant conflict of interest. And having been chosen as two of the primary leaders of the Black community by the MPD, neither Edwards nor Moss were likely to advocate for strengthening the process of civilian review in light of how much the MPD opposed the CRA. Further, similar to the mediation team, there were no members of CUAPB appointed to the PCRC, leaving no strong advocates for civilian review during the committee’s regular monthly meetings. Whether leaders such as Moss and Edwards would have pushed for strengthening the process of civilian review if they had not been selected to be part of these influential committees is difficult to say. Much of the discussion and deliberation of the PCRC and the MPD policies that it ultimately influenced revolved around increasing the number of racial minorities in the MPD, presumably based on the belief that a more diverse work force would change the attitudes and behavior of officers. But what was clear was that Sharon Sayles Belton, who actively supported civilian review throughout her time in office, was no longer a factor, and Mayor Rybak wanted to make every effort to maintain positive relations with the MPD and the Police Federation. Giving workforce diversification high priority, particularly if it could be accomplished while deemphasizing civilian review, appeared to square well with both the mayor and the Minneapolis Police Department. And the selection of such prominent African American leaders as Moss and Edwards for positions of influence during this challenging time was seemingly compatible with the goals of both the mayor and MPD. That relations between the MPD and minority communities had become so damaged as to create the need for federal mediation is a strong indication of the lack of salience of police-­community relations to most city residents. Social unrest sparked the mediation process because the conventional political process, dominated by public concerns about crime rather than about police conduct, was not addressing the issues of police conduct or police-­ community relations in any meaningful ways. And all parties involved had a compelling interest in preventing any additional unrest.

Whither the Civilian Review Authority? From its inception, the CRA has been criticized by both opponents and supporters for various reasons. The CRA was a politically weak agency, and the city council had previously voted to restructure it during the Sayles Belton

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administration, a measure that was vetoed by the mayor. In early 2002, shortly after his initial election, in which he was enthusiastically backed by the Police Federation, Mayor Rybak even recommended eliminating the CRA altogether, arguing that this would save the city about $357,000 annually. This gesture, while sure to be popular with the MPD’s rank and file, was strongly opposed by several council members and community activists. Rybak quickly backed down, and soon “professed a desire to strengthen the C.R.A.” (Schimke 2002, 8). In the interim, the CRA was dissolved by the city in order to undergo analysis and eventual restructuring (Browne 2006, 7). A 24-­member CRA Redesign Action Group consisting of local leaders, community activists, and elected officials was appointed by the council and the mayor for the purposes of discussing the issue of excessive force and the future of the CRA. Only five community representatives were present at the last meeting of the task force, during which the committee voted on recommendations. The committee issued a set of recommendations, one of which was to move the CRA into the city’s Department of Civil Rights. This proposal, according to one member of the Redesign Action Group, was the and least effective” of the recommendations (Anderson “least popular—­ 2002a). The Redesign Action Group also recommended lowering the standard for sustaining a complaint of misconduct against an officer from “clear and convincing” to a “preponderance of evidence,” a measure that was given qualified support by the Police Federation. In late 2002, during the early stages of the mediation process, the city council proceeded to make several key changes in the CRA, some of which were recommended by the Redesign Action Group. The proposal to restructure the CRA was adopted by the council in December, and the agency was moved to the Department of Civil Rights. As a result, the executive director position was eliminated. The council also adopted the recommendation that lowered the standard for establishing a sustained complaint against a Minneapolis police officer from “clear and convincing” to a “preponderance of evidence,” which conceivably could produce more sustained complaints against officers. Yet the council also voted against a measure offered by Natalie Johnson Lee (one of two Green Party council members) that would have given the CRA the power to issue subpoenas (Brandt 2002). This measure, if adopted, would have increased its effectiveness as an investigative body considerably. Moreover, the lowered standard for sustaining a complaint against an MPD officer would in and of itself be unlikely to yield significant change in police conduct, particularly since the policy of the police chief possessing

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sole disciplinary authority in the process of civilian review was never seriously debated. The erosion of the CRA’s already tenuous status continued.

A New Police Chief to “Unalienate” the Minority Community The unrest in the summer of 2002 also changed the context of the appointment of a new police chief in 2003. When Chief Olsen’s term expired that year, in another attempt to make amends with minority communities’ criticisms of the MPD., Mayor Rybak selected William McManus as the new chief. Since 2001, McManus had been chief of police in Dayton, Ohio. Prior to Dayton, he had worked in the Washington, D.C. Metropolitan Police Department, reaching the rank of assistant chief in 1999. McManus, who is White, had developed an excellent reputation for building bridges with the minority community in Dayton. And the selection of McManus had widespread support among minority communities in Minneapolis, as well as many city council members. He was endorsed by the Minneapolis NAACP, the Coalition of Black Churches, the African American Leadership Council, the Minneapolis Black Police Officers’ Federation, and the only two African Americans on the city council (Anderson 2006; Olson and Chanen 2003). The Police Federation, however, withheld its support for McManus and pledged its support for internal candidates who had applied for the position. Yet there is little doubt that McManus’s appointment had the support of a large number of individuals and groups, and he was confirmed by the city council by a comfortable margin of 9-­4 in January 2004. The new chief said his “main priority” was to “reestablish or establish a working relationship with the minority community, to ‘unalienate’ the minority community” (Anderson 2004), which clearly reflected the rationale of his appointment. It is telling to assess precisely how McManus went about his mission of repairing the relationship between the MPD and minority communities. He promoted more minorities to high-­ranking positions within the department, and was very visible in minority communities around the city. During his relatively brief tenure, Chief McManus argued in favor of eventually getting rid of the CRA all together. He claimed that civilian review boards come about when a department does not adequately police itself, and maintained that once a department shows the community that it can investigate itself, civilian review becomes, essentially, unnecessary (Anderson 2004). Thus,

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McManus increased the scope of the Internal Affairs Unit in an attempt to show the department’s commitment to accountability and proper conduct. Chief McManus’s dislike for the civilian review process was apparent when examining CRA case data. He refused to act on nearly all of the CRA’s sustained cases of misconduct that came before him during his tenure as chief. During 2004–­05, only two of 27 cases that led to sustained complaints of misconduct received discipline from the chief (Browne 2006, 100). Even with this attitude toward civilian review, however, Chief McManus retained strong support among most minority residents and leaders, which is a clear indication of how the politics of the issue of civilian review had been transformed since the initial creation of the CRA roughly 15 years earlier.

Public Opinion and the Police: Why Reform Is an Uphill Battle For several reasons, the effects of law enforcement policies and practices on actual crime rates can be very difficult to determine. Crime rates can increase or decrease during periods when law enforcement initiates no policy changes at all. In other cases, crime rates might stay roughly the same despite significant changes in policing. Yet another important effect of law enforcement policies and practices is public attitudes, which are largely a function of how citizens see and experience police officers. For most Americans, as discussed in chapter 2, supporting and having confidence in the police is, in effect, part of the American creed. In fact, the number of Minneapolis citizens expressing satisfaction with local law enforcement has been high in recent years. The City of Minneapolis has contracted with professional research firms on a regular basis since 2001 to assess the attitudes of city residents on a wide range of services and problems. These surveys are based on statistically significant sample sizes, and are therefore representative of both citywide demographics and of the city’s many neighborhoods. Several aspects of policing and law enforcement stand out when looking at the resident surveys. First, public safety has been consistently ranked as the biggest challenge facing the city, ahead of all other issues, including education, transportation, housing, economic development, and numerous other issues (National Research Center 2008, 12). Of eighteen specific city services, law enforcement was ranked as the second most important, behind only fire protection/emergency medical re-

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sponse (36). Clearly, law enforcement is considered an extremely important function of city government. Another striking trend revealed in the resident surveys is residents’ high level of satisfaction with local law enforcement services. Table 4.1 shows overall satisfaction with police services reported by Minneapolis residents from 2001 through 2008. This high level of satisfaction also applies to those persons who have experienced police services directly. Only about 21 percent of the U.S. public has direct contact with the police in any given year, and a significant majority of these contacts do not result in any conflict (Walker 2001, 162). But in Minneapolis, between 2001 and 2008, survey data indicate that between 35 percent and 45 percent of city residents had at least some contact with city police within a two-­year period (National Research Center 2008, 30). In 2008, of the 35 percent of city residents reporting some contact with the MPD within the last two years, 86 percent said that they were either satisfied or very satisfied with the professionalism shown by the police department (31). Yet when we look more closely at how different groups perceive the police, a somewhat different picture emerges. A breakdown of the resident survey responses according to race shows important differences in terms of how Whites and minorities view the issues of crime and policing. Among racial minorities, negative attitudes toward the police are more common than among the general population. For example, two of the city’s 11 planning communities are made up of a majority of minority residents—­the Near North neighborhood and the Phillips neighborhood in south Minneapolis—­ and these two communities have shown the lowest level of satisfaction with the police in comparison with the other nine planning districts (National Research Center 2008, 59). Citywide survey data also showed that Whites have been more satisfied with police services than other groups, with 89 per-

TABLE 4.1. Minneapolis Residents’ Satisfaction with Police Services, 2001–­8 Year

Percentage of Residents “Satisfied” or “Very Satisfied” with Police Services

2001 89 2003 84 2005 81 2008 86 Source: National Research Center 2008, 35.

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cent of Whites reporting that they were either very satisfied or satisfied in comparison to 77 percent of people of color and 82 percent of Latinos (70). Data from the 2001 survey showed that 80 percent of Whites were satisfied with police professionalism, in comparison with 59 percent of African Americans (Marketline Research 2002, 53). Also included in the resident surveys are questions related to discrimination faced by city residents. Table 4.2 outlines the number of city residents who reported that they had experienced some type of discrimination within the last year. In 2008, when those who had experienced some discrimination (17 percent of respondents) were asked about the nature of that discrimination, just under half said that it involved the provision of city services, and roughly half of these individuals reported that the service involved was the police (National Research Center 2008, 47–­48). Thus a fairly small number of Minneapolis residents said that they had directly experienced discriminatory police conduct. Despite the somewhat encouraging figures regarding the views of minority residents in Minneapolis toward the police, important differences in perceptions remain. A Minnesota Public Radio survey in 2001 found that while 40 percent of the city’s Whites said that police relations with minority groups in Minneapolis were either excellent or good, only 14 percent of African Americans believed this to be the case. Conversely, 55 percent of Blacks but only 14 percent of Whites said that police relations with minority groups in Minneapolis were poor (Minnesota Public Radio 2001a). However, minorities’ perceptions of the police appear to have improved since 2001. In 2008, for example, 23 percent of all people of color and 18 percent of Latinos reported that they were either unsatisfied or very unsatisfied with local police services (National Research Center 2008, 70). TABLE 4.2. Minneapolis Residents Experiencing Some Type of Discrimination within the Last Year Year Percentage 2001 16 2003 16 2005 19 2008 17 Source: National Research Center 2008, 46.

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One of the main causes of greater distrust among minorities has been racial profiling by MPD officers, which has been documented in many studies in recent years, and even publicly acknowledged by Mayor Rybak (Rybak 2006). A 2000 report by the Star Tribune based on arrest data from the previous six years revealed that African Americans were 27 percent more likely than Whites to be arrested for lurking, and 42 percent more likely to be arrested for not possessing a valid driver’s license (Chanen 2004). A 2001 study showed significant disparities in the number of times that Whites and African Americans were stopped by city police in proportion to each group’s share of the total city population. African Americans, who represented 18 percent of the population at the time, accounted for 37 percent of traffic stops, whereas Whites, who represented 65 percent of the population, accounted for only 43 percent of drivers stopped (Council on Crime and Justice 2001). A more elaborate study, which was authorized by the State of Minnesota and published in 2003, had similar findings: the MPD was stopping Black and Hispanic drivers at rates much higher than would be expected based on each group’s share of total city population, whereas Whites, Asians, and American Indian drivers were stopped at rates much lower than expected (Council on Crime and Justice and Institute on Race and Poverty 2003). Law enforcement officials frequently defend these types of statistics by arguing that African Americans are statistically more likely to be engaged in criminal activity, thus stopping Black drivers at higher rates would lead to a greater number of arrests and seizures of contraband. But the 2003 report cited earlier included additional data that significantly undermined this argument and strengthened the position of those who maintain that this type of law enforcement is nothing more than racism. The rates at which contraband was found when African American and Latino drivers were stopped, 11 and 4.7 percent, respectively, were actually lower than the contraband seizure rate for White drivers, which was 13.3 percent (Council on Crime and Justice and Institute on Race and Poverty 2003, 28). This type of discrimination in everyday policing is bound to lead to increased tensions between minority citizens and the police. Data on signed complaints filed with the CRA since its inception also confirm the very different relationships that Whites and racial minorities have with law enforcement. During the 1990s, approximately 64 percent of all signed complaints with the CRA were filed by racial minorities (Minneapolis Civilian Police Review Authority 1996, 1997, 1998, 1999, 2000), in a

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city that had a total minority population of 22 percent in 1990 and 37 percent in 2000. Between 2005 and mid-­2007, approximately 63 percent of signed complaints were filed by minorities (Minneapolis Civilian Police Review Authority 2007), while the city population was roughly 62 percent White. Such disparities clearly are harmful to the social fabric of the city, and an honest recognition of such disparities is a necessary first step in the process of creating nondiscriminatory law enforcement. Policies such as vigorous civilian review of law enforcement agencies could be an important component of combating these discriminatory patterns because officers would be constantly aware of the fact that their conduct was subject to public scrutiny. Yet the apparent satisfaction with police services among a fairly sizeable percentage of the total city population and among a majority of the city’s minority groups makes the prospects for any significant changes in policies regarding the MPD unlikely in the near future.

Conclusion The history of Minneapolis politics shows that the process of reforming law enforcement policies and practices has been slow at best. Within the context of strong public confidence in the police, three focusing events stand out as significant moments in the recent history of local law enforcement policy: the unrest of the late 1960s and early 1970s, which led to the election of Charles Stenvig; the tragic deaths of an elderly Black couple during an MPD drug raid in 1989, which led to the creation of the Civilian Review Authority; and the minor riot that followed another drug raid in the summer of 2002, which led to federal mediation and the creation of the Police Community Relations Council. Charles Stenvig’s election was a crucial moment for the politics of law enforcement in Minneapolis because it put off any serious discussion of police reform for close to a decade. With the election of Don Fraser in 1979, the issue of police reform received official discussion, but only the tragedy of early 1989, in which an elderly Black couple died as a result of MPD actions, made the creation of the CRA a reality. However, the CRA has had limited powers and has been under political attack since its inception. Although I would not argue that its creation was a purely symbolic victory, it clearly has not had the impact that supporters had initially hoped for. In their study of California cities, Browning, Marshall, and Tabb (1984)

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have argued that the adoption of police review boards was an indication of the strength of minority incorporation in the local political system. In their initial work (1984), only Oakland and Berkeley had adopted police review boards, and these were the only two of the authors’ ten cities in which minorities were strongly incorporated—­that is, effectively represented in the policy making process. Further, some of the contributors to Browning, Marshall, and Tabb’s subsequent edited volumes (Browning, Marshall, and Tabb 1990, 1997, 2003) argue that stronger minority incorporation tends to be associated with the adoption of police review boards. Although I do not seek to assess the overall level of minority incorporation in Minneapolis here, I argue that the Minneapolis case casts a somewhat different light on whether the existence of a law enforcement oversight agency in and of itself is an indicator of strong minority incorporation. Many critics of the MPD, including many in minority communities, had voiced concerns over police conduct for many years. Also, the issue of civilian oversight of the police in some capacity had been discussed by city policy makers for decades. But considering the chain of events that led to the adoption of the CRA, it becomes clear that it would not have been created were it not for the tragic MPD drug raid of 1989, and the agency’s political and institutional weakness are further evidence of this claim. The unrest of the summer of 2002 led to federal mediation and ultimately the selection of Bill McManus as police chief. In some respects, these were both positive developments in terms of the MPD’s relationships with the city’s increasingly diverse communities, but neither contributed to strengthening civilian review. On the contrary, civilian review had been relegated to a subordinate status not only by the MPD but also by several influential critics of MPD policies and practices, including some prominent African American leaders who participated in the process of federal mediation and served on the PCRC. In sum, the Minneapolis case shows that the process that leads to the creation of a police oversight agency, along with the relationships between police and minority communities after formal adoption of oversight, are both important elements of the larger discussion of minority political power. Two more recent events illustrate that, during periods of normal politics, any serious attempt at police reform is necessarily challenging. First was the matter of the expiration of Police Community Relations Council. In October 2008, with the events of 2002 fading from memory, Mayor Rybak announced that he would not renew the PCRC beyond its expiration at the end of the year. This announcement, although opposed by several community

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representatives on the PCRC and others sympathetic to the issue of police reform, occurred with very little fanfare, but was welcomed by the MPD. Rybak subsequently removed the PCRC files from the city’s website, and claimed that “[t]he city has made an enormous dedication of time, money, and commitment that citizens can review for themselves by looking at the mediation documents on the city’s website” (Chanen 2008). Although the PCRC did initiate some substantive changes in the MPD, many of its goals were incomplete, and various watchdog groups were left to single-­handedly push the issue of police reform. Short of another focusing event, the high level of satisfaction with police services expressed by city residents, in conjunction with the different approaches to reforming the MPD advocated by the department’s critics, make the creation of measures implementing more oversight of the MPD quite unlikely. The second recent event that illustrates the politics of law enforcement during normal times was the debate surrounding the reappointment of Police Chief Tim Dolan in early 2010. Dolan was initially appointed in 2006 while he was serving as interim chief, and confirmed by a lopsided 12–­1 vote. During the nomination process, Dolan had won over several council members who were initially either uncommitted or opposed to his nomination by indicating his willingness to work on increasing the trust in the police among the city’s minority communities. It was clear that he had the support of a majority of city residents and influential interest groups, including the Police Federation and various civil rights leaders. Initially, Chief Dolan imposed discipline in sustained CRA complaints much more frequently than his recent predecessors. In 2006 and 2007, for example, Dolan imposed discipline in 25 of 55 cases in which the CRA sustained a misconduct complaint against an officer (Minneapolis Civilian Police Review Authority 2008, 26). This, of course, was the period during which the PCRC was holding monthly public meetings. Despite the fact that the CRA was not mentioned in the federal mediation agreement, for the chief to routinely ignore CRA rulings at this time would have been politically dangerous. Yet by 2008, the year that the PCRC expired and the mayor publicly stated that it was no longer necessary, Dolan imposed discipline in none of the cases in which allegation of misconduct were sustained by the CRA, and in only 15 percent of such cases in 2009 (Minneapolis Civilian Police Review Authority 2010, 20). Several council members noted Dolan’s worsening record with respect to disciplining his officers during his 2010 confirmation hearings, and the vote

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to reconfirm Dolan for a second term was much closer than his original confirmation, with five members voting against his reappointment. If history is any guide, the debate that occurred during his second confirmation hearing will likely cause the chief in the short term to increase the frequency with which he disciplines officers who have received sustained rulings of misconduct from the CRA. But as time goes on, assuming that the streets of Minneapolis remain relatively peaceful, there is a good chance that the chief will return to the historic pattern of effectively ignoring CRA rulings, and there will be little political incentive for most elected officials to challenge either this behavior or the autonomy of the MPD in general.

Chapter 5

“The Number One Issue”? The Struggle for Affordable Housing

This chapter chronicles the politics of affordable housing in Minneapolis over the last two decades, including the creation and implementation of the city’s Neighborhood Revitalization Program, the ongoing struggle to get the city council and the mayor to adopt substantive measures related to affordable housing, and the election and subsequent administration of Mayor R. T. Rybak. Many of the events discussed took place during the period of significant appreciation in housing prices of the 1990s and early 2000s. The housing boom initially helped to highlight affordable housing on the local policy agenda. But as an increasing number of local residents were able to buy homes, the tension between homeownership and support for affordable housing construction described in chapter 2 came to the surface. The implementation of the Neighborhood Revitalization Program’s Phase I neighborhood plans helped to illustrate this tension. As will be shown, the increasing neighborhood diversity that would accompany more affordable housing units was simply not a priority for most Minneapolis neighborhood planning organizations. The minority of already diverse neighborhoods (in terms of race and income) were the ones that expressed support for a range of housing options, including affordable housing, in their neighborhood plans. This tendency helps to reinforce existing neighborhood patterns rather than geographically disperse affordable housing into a greater variety of residential areas. In turn, within the context of a neighborhood-­based school attendance policy, the location and availability of affordable housing directly shapes education policy outcomes. In terms of citywide policy, a number of individuals and groups both documented the lack of affordable housing as well as advocated for more ag131

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gressive policy measures for several years beginning in the 1990s. During the administration of Mayor Sayles Belton, the city formally acknowledged the affordable housing crisis and adopted affordable housing requirements for all city-­assisted rental properties. The issue came to a head during the 2001 mayoral election in which the challenger, R. T. Rybak, labeled affordable housing the city’s “number one issue.” However, during the campaign, Rybak and the incumbent, Sharon Sayles Belton, advocated very different approaches to dealing with the lack of housing for persons of modest means and below. Sayles Belton pushed for a more activist governmental approach, including the adoption of a local affordable housing tax, whereas Rybak’s ideas revolved around public-­private sector cooperation within the context of a much more limited role for government. Rybak easily won the 2001 election, and the city council eventually adopted some relatively modest affordable housing measures, both during the Sayles Belton and Rybak administrations. As the housing market began to collapse in 2005 and 2006, it took the issue of affordable housing with it. Most of the media and the public moved on, and affordable housing once again became an issue for a small group of activists and progressive elected officials. For most residents, especially homeowners, housing had become too affordable, as the Twin Cities, like so many other metropolitan areas across the country, struggled with declining property values.1 Within this context, those in need of affordable housing have found much less interest in this issue at city hall. Yet as I will document, in the current period there remains a significant unmet need for affordable housing in the city. At the same time, however, by 2008 a solid majority of local residents expressed satisfaction regarding the city’s efforts with respect to the construction of affordable housing, which clearly illustrates the political difficulty associated with this issue.

Background: Local Government and Housing The regulation of housing is a basic function of local government. Although Americans tend to conceptualize a “free market” in housing in which buyers and sellers act autonomously, housing decisions are shaped in numerous ways by government. Without question, local housing markets are influenced by a number of factors beyond the city limits, including national and state policies and trends. But local governments have a number of ways to

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affect the supply of affordable housing in their communities. The most direct type of government involvement is through public housing, which is administered by municipal public housing authorities and funded by federal or state governments. Public housing authorities have been established to be independent of local elected officials but have certainly never been immune to political pressure. Although politically unpopular for many years, public housing and Section 8 housing vouchers continue to address the needs of many lower-­income Americans. In addition, there are several specific types of local policies that can affect the supply and location of nonpublic, affordable housing. Through zoning, planning, land use and building regulation, and code enforcement, local governments determine the rules of development. Zoning and planning policies substantially affect where various socioeconomic groups of people live, thereby shaping neighborhood composition and the provision of local services. Communities with higher concentrations of lower-­income residents incur greater government costs for basic services. Thus municipalities often engage in fiscal zoning, which involves the intentional development industrial property “and of more expensive housing and commercial-­ limit[ing] less costly housing and entry to the community by the people who normally buy it” (Orfield 1997, 62). Within municipalities, neighborhoods frequently oppose increasing the number of affordable housing units because of the many negative perceptions associated with this type of housing (Campaign for Affordable Housing 2004). And because of the popularity of neighborhood-­based attendance policies in public schools, residential patterns heavily impact education policy by shaping the economic composition of schools within a specific district as well as variations in student populations from district to district. Several others types of local policies have an impact on affordable housing within a community. For example, housing demolitions affect the supply of affordable housing. And by granting subsidies, local governments can encourage certain types of development, including affordable housing. City officials are also free to levy taxes, sell bonds, and allocate expenditures for affordable housing construction and rehabilitation. Increasingly, local governments are establishing partnerships with Community Development Corporations (CDCs) to create different types of development, including affordable housing. Local officials also frequently work with the business, philanthropic, and religious communities to advance the construction of

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affordable housing. One can see, therefore, that the “free market” in housing in any community is in fact shaped by local government in multiple ways. The politics of housing is indeed a central component of local governance.

Context: The Housing Boom Hits the Twin Cities In the 1990s, housing values throughout much of the United States. began to steadily increase. From April 1995 through August 2005, the median price of previously owned homes across the country increased each year (Peters 2006). Housing appreciation continued despite the economic downturn caused by September 11, 2001. Nationwide, the median price for single family homes increased 7.1 percent between April 2001 and April 2002. The most significant increases occurred in major metropolitan areas on the East and West Coasts. For example, in cities such as Los Angeles, New York, and Washington, D.C., housing appreciated in the range of 20 percent between 2001 and 2002 (Cropper 2002). But the housing boom also affected many other areas of the country, including much of the Midwest. In the Twin Cities, while the cost of housing increased modestly throughout the 1980s and early 1990s, beginning in the second half the 1990s real estate prices began to rise substantially. In 1996, the median home price in Minneapolis was roughly $90,000 (Porter 1999), but by 2005 this figure had increased to $211,000 (CNNMoney.com 2010). Many municipalities and neighborhoods in the Minneapolis–­St. Paul region experienced double-­digit annual housing appreciation rates in the late 1990s and early 2000s. Several inner-­city neighborhoods in Minneapolis saw appreciation rates over 100 percent between 1996 and 2001, with housing values in one neighborhood nearly tripling. In the high-­poverty Minneapolis neighborhood of Phillips, the median home price increased 51 percent between 1999 and 2000 alone (Rubenstein 2001). Whereas increasing property values can be good for many homeowners, they also can be detrimental to renters who are forced to pay ever-­increasing rents and to homeowners of modest means, many of whom are elderly, who have to pay much higher property taxes. Rents steadily increased beginning in the second half of the 1990s in the Twin Cities, a trend that was driven by a decline in rental vacancy rates. In 1990, the vacancy rate for rental housing was about 5 percent, but by 1998 it had fallen to just over 1 percent, further driving up the cost of rental housing (Federal Reserve Bank of Minneapolis 1999, 5). By 2001, the average rent for a two-­bedroom apartment had increased to just under $1,000 a month (City of Minneapolis 2001). These con-

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ditions helped to place the issue of affordable housing near the top of the local policy agenda. “Affordable housing,” however, is an ambiguous term, and therefore should be clarified at the outset. First, it is not synonymous with low-­income housing. Rather, the widely accepted standard is that housing is considered affordable for a household if it costs no more than 30 percent of the household’s gross income. Using the 30 percent threshold, housing advocates and researchers generally examine the number of housing units that are considered affordable in a given location at various percentages of the area’s median income (AMI). So, for example, one could determine how many housing units are affordable at 80 percent of AMI, 50 percent of AMI, and so forth. Affordable rental housing is often subsidized and, with the exception of public housing, built and managed by private firms (which are frequently not for profit). This type of housing is also contractually bound to keep rents at a specific percentage of AMI. Affordable housing, then, is a large category that includes housing for the lowest-­income citizens, but it also includes housing for a large number of persons who have incomes ranging from just above poverty up to and including the area’s median income. During much of the 1990s, parallel processes were playing out in Minneapolis that affected the supply and location of affordable housing in the city. At the microlevel, neighborhood organizations were participating in the creation of neighborhood plans as part of the city’s new Neighborhood Revitalization Program. And at the citywide level, several organizations and individuals were pushing local officials to adopt more comprehensive and substantive local affordable housing policies. Although affordable housing advocates had some successes, progress was very gradual, and the housing boom, which was accompanied by increasing homeownership rates in the city, significantly changed the context of the issue. By the time the housing market began to collapse in 2005 and 2006, affordable housing was receiving little official attention and no longer registered as a significant public concern.

The Neighborhood Revitalization Program and Affordable Housing The formal city planning process in Minneapolis is supplemented by an institutionalized process, the Neighborhood Revitalization Program (NRP), created in 1990, in which citizens participate in setting the priorities for

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their neighborhoods. The Minneapolis NRP is an important component of the city’s long-­standing tradition emphasizing citizen participation in the political process. Minneapolis is very proud of the NRP, and local officials from hundreds of cities in the United States and abroad have traveled to the city to observe how the program works in practice.2 The NRP is one of, if not the, most extensive, formalized neighborhood participation programs in the country. Despite its generally positive reputation, the NRP has also received criticism. One of the persistent criticisms has been that the city’s neighborhood planning organizations that make up the heart of the NRP are biased in favor the desires of economically better-­off homeowners at the expense of renters, especially lower-­income renters (Fainstein and Hurst 1994; Filner 2006; Goetz and Sidney 1994). The lack of participation of renters and lower-­ income citizens in neighborhood organizations, however, is consistent with historical patterns of neighborhood-­based political participation in other cities (Berry, Portnoy, and Thomsen 1993), a fact that must be taken into account when evaluating the NRP. The beginnings of the NRP can be found in the decline that the city experienced during the 1980s. Although there is some disagreement about the precise origins of the NRP concept, as Fainstein and Hirst have suggested, “One point of consensus, however, does exist: the conceptualization of the NRP did not emerge directly from neighborhood groups” (Fainstein and Hirst 1994, 14). But public sentiment appears to have been a central dynamic in moving the program forward. Specifically, a 1986 survey by the city found large numbers of Minneapolis homeowners dissatisfied with neighborhood quality as well as an increasing number of individuals planning on leaving the city in the near future (Fainstein 1995, 13). There was also an increasing concern among citizens regarding the decline of residential neighborhoods at the expense of downtown, which had grown considerably in the 1980s, doubling its share of the city’s total tax revenue between 1980 and 1990 (Filner 2006). These patterns led many citizens to argue that more attention should be paid to residential neighborhoods in order to prevent the loss of population that could escalate if these trends were not addressed. In 1987, the city council appointed a task force to examine the future of housing and economic development in the city, and one year later the task force issued its final report, entitled “Twenty-­year Neighborhood Revitalization Plan” (Fainstein 1995, 15). The city council accepted the recommendations of the task force, and created an Implementation Advisory Committee

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to spell out in concrete terms how the new program would function (Fainstein and Hirst 1994, 16). The NRP was created as an independent city agency with its own board, presumably to limit the influence of elected officials in its day-­to-­day operations. The city was divided into 81 specific neighborhoods with clear boundaries, and each neighborhood was represented by a nonprofit organization with an elected board. The NRP was financed through tax increment financing for a total of $400 million over 20 years, and spending these monies would occur in two phases. The ability to spend public funds as well as the number and geographic size of the neighborhoods distinguish the NRP from neighboring St. Paul’s system of district councils. In St. Paul, a city of close to 300,000 people, there are only 17 district councils, and these entities do not spend any public funds. District councils are essentially neighborhood-­based advisory organizations. NRP planning organizations, however, represent only a few thousand citizens each, and its supporters argue that the program’s ability to spend money is a key component of how it empowers average citizens and neighborhoods. The state statute that authorized the NRP specified that 52.5 percent of the program’s funds had to be spent on “housing-­related” matters, with the remainder being spent on anything else, including parks, infrastructure, commercial property, public safety, and so forth. But because of the generality of the term “housing-­related,” participating neighborhoods have had a fair amount of discretion in how they spend these funds, which has substantially contributed to the program’s popularity. Ultimately it is up to neighborhood planning organizations to determine the “housing-­related” projects that deserve funding in their communities. Neighborhoods are classified by three different categories according to increasing levels of need—­ protection, revitalization, and redirection. Ten different formulas that include a range of economic and demographic variables are used to determine the amount of funds that go to each neighborhood, and the median of these calculations is the final amount allocated.3 The Neighborhood Revitalization Program was created to fulfill four basic goals: build neighborhood capacity, redesign public services, increase intergovernmental and intragovernmental communication, and create a sense of community (Minneapolis Neighborhood Revitalization Program 2008). These goals are achieved primarily through the creation of a neighborhood plan. The process of creating a neighborhood plan is lengthy and is a reasonably close approximation of deliberative democracy in action. On average, the time from the original conception of a plan to final approval has been

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roughly 3.2 years (Fagatto and Fung 2006, 642). Creating a plan involves extensive collection of the views of neighborhood residents, drafting the plan, followed by implementation. The views of neighborhood residents are gathered in surveys, focus groups, and, in some cases, through door-­to-­door contacts. Planners with the city’s NRP office assist neighborhoods in technical matters throughout the process, and final plans have to be approved by the NRP Policy Board and the city council. NRP staff members also attempt to make sure that “those who participate in neighborhood associations actually represent a full range of interests and populations within those neighborhoods” (Fagatto and Fung, 641). This is not to say that the positions adopted by NRP planning organizations always reflect the majority sentiment of their respective neighborhoods. Rather, neighborhood organizations attempt to gather as much feedback as possible before creating and submitting plans and taking positions on other major issues affecting their neighborhoods. This can be difficult, however, given the lower rates of participation among disadvantaged populations as well as the lack of opinions held by a certain number of citizens in every neighborhood. Plans typically include a statement regarding the neighborhood’s vision, which is frequently accompanied by a discussion of the neighborhood’s history and contemporary characteristics. In addition, plans generally contain a neighborhood profile in terms of residents, businesses, housing stock, arts and recreation, and educational institutions. Plans also explicitly state the neighborhood’s goals and objectives, implementation strategies, including specific funding levels sought for each objective. Many plans also contain more detailed data on the neighborhood as well as maps. Plans express what neighborhoods are, and what they want to become, and represent a concrete example of decentralized democratic decision making. Residents remain involved during the implementation phase by working on committees that monitor plan execution. In an effort to minimize costs, neighborhood residents spend considerable volunteer time participating in “projects such as clean-­ups and community policing” (Fagatto and Fung 2006, 641), which further connect residents to their communities. Additionally, neighborhood planning organizations frequently express positions on policy matters to city council members and other local agencies, and it is clearly in the interests of local officials to listen carefully to their views. Without question, each neighborhood planning organization has influence in the local policy-­making process as it affects their neighborhood. Because some neighborhoods have formed voluntary partnerships with

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other neighborhoods, there are only 66 NRP action plans in total. Phase I plans were drafted throughout the middle and late 1990s, with many completed after 2000, a period during which there was extensive local discussion about the city’s relative shortage of affordable housing. In order to get a closer look at public opinion on the issue of affordable housing at the neighborhood level, a content analysis of all 65 Phase I neighborhood plans was performed (one neighborhood did not complete a Phase I plan). Plans varied substantially in length, from roughly 10 pages to over 70 pages, thus the content analysis involved an examination of well over 1,000 pages of material. Although all plans had certain common elements, the process of creating Phase I neighborhood plans was very much decentralized, with neighborhood residents and their elected boards determining both content and format. Phase I plans were created and written in such as a way as to approximate neighborhood sentiment as closely as possible. Only the content of Phase I plans was analyzed for this research. NRP Phase II plans were created several years later, after 2000. By this time, the city had adopted an official statement expressing “City Goals and Expectations” that was approved by the mayor and the city council in January 2003. One of these goals was to “[f]oster the development and preservation of a mix of quality housing types that is available, affordable, meets current needs, and promotes future growth” (City of Minneapolis 2003, 1). During the process of drafting Phase II plans, neighborhood planning organizations were encouraged to explicitly link their Phase II plans to citywide goals, including the one quoted.4 Thus the Phase II plans are much more similar to one another and, as a result, it is much more difficult to infer neighborhoods’ specific priorities when examining Phase II plans. Affordable housing development, particularly for those individuals at various percentages of AMI, will necessarily bring greater levels of economic diversity to many communities. And because of the disproportionate numbers of people of color at and below median income, increased economic diversity will bring greater racial and ethnic diversity. The picture that emerges from the content analysis of the Phase I planning documents, however, is that most city neighborhoods did not want additional economic diversity. In total, 40 percent (26 of 65) of Phase I plans mentioned affordability as a desirable characteristic of their neighborhood. In some cases, however, the affordability that was described was clearly relative to other, much more expensive neighborhoods. For example, the neighborhood plan for a stable, middle-­class area of south Minneapolis stated: “Because our

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neighborhoods offer affordable housing, Nokomis East attracts young people interested in starting a family” (Nokomis East Neighborhood Association 1998, 34). But this community has less than 5 percent residents in poverty and is over 90 percent White; therefore, affordability within this context is in comparison to other neighborhoods in Southwest Minneapolis with considerably more expensive housing. In other cases, neighborhood plans mentioned affordability explicitly in terms of homeownership and not rental properties, a view which sidesteps the main problem for most low-­and moderate-­income citizens—­the lack of affordable rental properties. Therefore in order to paint a more comprehensive picture of public sentiment and affordable housing, other words and phrases were utilized as indicators of neighborhoods’ attitudes toward increasing population diversity that would generally accompany an increasing number of affordable housing units. The most direct way to assess the value that neighborhoods place on population diversity is to examine whether and how diversity is discussed in the neighborhood plans. And in fact, many Phase I plans had some mention of population diversity in a positive context. Twenty-­six of the 65 plans, or 40 percent, at least mentioned diversity either as a positive attribute or goal of their neighborhood. The following statements from three different Phase I plans are typical examples of how communities expressed the positive aspects of population diversity: “E.P.N.I. also set out to expand employment opportunities and to promote economic development and cultural activities that celebrate the diversity of the neighborhood” (Elliot Park Neighborhood Association 1997, 7); “A neighborhood that defines itself as residential, proud, diverse, multigenerational, and sustainable” (Folwell Neighborhood Association 2000, 3); “Create a welcoming, interactive community that supports the diversity of its residents” (Tangletown Neighborhood Association 1997, 3). However, there was substantially less support expressed in Phase I plans for specific types of diversity. For example only 13 neighborhoods, or 20 percent, mentioned racial/ethnic diversity as either a positive characteristic of their community or as a goal to work toward. Further, only 10 of 65, or 15 percent, mentioned economic diversity as either a positive attribute or goal. When one considers the fact that during this period, the city’s population consisted of roughly 65 percent White residents and 20 percent residents in poverty, it is clear that most neighborhoods that opposed increasing economic diversity were, in fact, neither predominately low-­income nor predominately minority.

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To be sure, a handful of already diverse neighborhoods explicitly stated the value they placed on specific types of population diversity. For example, one plan for a neighborhood with a poverty rate of 19 percent and a White population of 50 percent stated: “We envision a neighborhood that welcomes and incorporates people from all classes and races, where people are able to find housing, employment, and support services equal to their needs. . . . People live in the neighborhood because they enjoy the diversity” (Powderhorn Park Neighborhood Association 1994, vii). Another neighborhood consisting of 15 percent residents in poverty and 66 percent White residents made a similar argument, and characterized its neighborhood vision as follows: “A pedestrian, city-­oriented community; welcoming a diverse range of incomes, ethnic, racial, and nationality mix” (Stevens Square/ Loring Heights Neighborhood Association 1993, v). In cases such as these, housing that is affordable for people at and below median income, including those in poverty, fits in well with neighborhood values. But neighborhoods such as these—­economically and racially diverse neighborhoods that placed a high value on their diversity—­were the exception rather than the rule. Most neighborhood plans mentioned increasing homeownership rates/ owner-­occupied housing units or maintaining/increasing property values as important neighborhood goals. Overall, 35 of 65 plans (or 54 percent) mentioned at least one of these items as a positive characteristic of their neighborhood or as a goal, with numerous plans mentioning more than one. Certainly it is understandable why neighborhoods would seek to maintain or increase property values and increase homeownership rates, particularly in lower-­income residential areas. But in light of the fact that a significant number of people associate affordable housing with decreasing property values ( Campaign for Affordable Housing 2004, 46–­47), then they will see the construction of affordable housing and maintaining or increasing property values as incompatible goals. The findings of this content analysis are largely consistent with Goetz and Sidney’s (1994, 331) research on community development and the “ideology of property” in the Twin Cities, which equates neighborhood decline with the “continued development of rental housing.” This type of thinking has substantial consequences on living patterns across the city, and further demonstrates the many connections between housing availability and other critical aspects of life, such as schooling options and public safety. Yet I do not intend to suggest that Minneapolis residents are uninterested in the housing situation of moderate-­and lower-­income citizens. The fact that affordable

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housing has had a presence on the local political agenda in recent years is indicative of at least some level of public concern about this problem. Rather, it is to say that the Phase I NRP planning documents indicate that most residents do not desire increasing the amount of affordable housing and the population diversity that accompanies it in their neighborhoods. Affordable housing advocates need to remain aware of the public’s priorities when crafting arguments in favor of increasing the affordable housing supply.

Affordable Housing and the Sayles Belton Administration A handful of issues dominated Sharon Sayles Belton’s first term after her 1993 election, such as crime and the future of the public schools. In addition, the increasingly challenging housing situation for lower-­and moderate-­income residents was an important issue for many of Sayles Belton’s supporters, and the new mayor was therefore expected to advance this issue. In her State of the City speech in 1995, the same speech in which she called for a return to community schools, the mayor placed the issue of affordable housing squarely on the agenda of local and regional policy makers. After having several meetings throughout the first half of 1995 with concerned groups and citizens, Sayles Belton convinced the city council to adopt the following four housing principles: “1. The variety of housing types throughout the city, its communities and the metropolitan area shall be increased, giving prospective buyers and renters greater choice in where they live. 2. The management, quality and balance of subsidized housing throughout the city and metropolitan area shall be improved. 3. Housing markets that are already strong shall be preserved and strengthened. 4. The quality of Minneapolis’ housing stock shall be improved” (Minneapolis Planning Department 1995, 5–­6). A 1995 report by the Minneapolis Planning Department discussed the four housing goals in some depth, and directly tied the goals to the newly adopted community schools policy (15). The Planning Department’s report labeled the community schools policy an “impact measure,” or a “desired result which indicates that the Housing Principles are being achieved” (3). The public’s support for and willingness to send their children to community schools, then, would be an indication of the success of the administration’s housing principles. By pushing the community schools policy, Sayles Belton had alienated

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some elements within the civil rights establishment who had strongly backed her candidacy in 1993, which led to the NAACP’s lawsuit in 1995 against the state. But her steadfast support of affordable housing—­both in terms of increasing the supply and deconcentrating affordable housing throughout the city and region—­revealed her commitment to an issue of fundamental importance to minority and lower-­income communities. The obvious impediment to the newly adopted housing principles, however, was the fact that they were nonbinding, unlike the neighborhood plans adopted by the NRP, which were authorized to spend public monies on the implementation of dozens of smaller projects around the city. The city’s new housing principles essentially emphasized goals regarding the deconcentration of affordable housing throughout the city and region with no mechanism for enforcement, another clear indication of the success of suburban resistance to deconcentrating affordable housing throughout the metropolitan area. Further, affordable housing did not feature prominently in her 1997 reelection campaign, and so advancing a new substantive policy initiative on this issue would be even more challenging. During the summer of 1998, with little progress on the issue, the Affordable Housing Coalition began to pressure the city to take concrete steps on this issue. The coalition, which included housing advocates, various agencies, neighborhood groups, religious congregations, and low-­income citizens, had several specific demands, including the creation of an affordable housing task force (Minneapolis Affordable Housing Task Force Report 1999, 35). But there was not a consensus among affordable housing advocates as to how to advance their agenda. Specifically, a debate emerged regarding whether to push the city to take action itself, and in the process send a message to the suburbs that Minneapolis was serious about its role in affordable housing, or whether to advocate for a more regional approach from the outset (Goetz 2000, 167). This debate was a central component of the settlement negotiations of a 1992 federal lawsuit against the Minneapolis Public Housing Authority (MPHA), the federal Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD), the Minneapolis Community Development Agency, the City of Minneapolis, and the Metropolitan Council, charging that these agencies discriminated in the location of public housing developments. In the case, Hollman v. Cisneros, the plaintiffs claimed that the defendants concentrated public housing for families in the Near North neighborhood, the historic center of the Black community. The justification for the case was similar to the famous Gautreaux case in Chicago and numerous subsequent

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cases targeting HUD and municipal housing authorities around the country. Whereas the plaintiffs’ initial concern was the restrictions on the housing choices of public housing residents, the issues in Hollman evolved during settlement negotiations. The goals of the case became “an effort to de-­ concentrate poverty, facilitate a greater geographic spread of assisted units and assisted families, and reduce the number of public housing units on that site” (Goetz 2003, 12). The case was settled in January 1995, and the parties involved agreed to rebuild housing on the original site that caused the suit, but also affirmed that additional public housing units would be built throughout other areas of Minneapolis and the Twin Cities metropolitan area. The events of the Holl­man case revealed an important division within the minority community, especially within the African American community, which Goetz has articulated in some detail (2000, 168–­69). One group of Black leaders emphasized the long history of housing segregation and discrimination, which systematically denied African Americans opportunities in education and employment. From this perspective, policy should be aimed at deconcentrating affordable housing in an effort to provide access to economically more advantaged communities. However, other African American leaders viewed the “demolition of public housing as a second round of urban renewal aimed at moving out low-­income blacks and preparing the neighborhood for middle-­ to upper-­income (and non-­minority) newcomers” (169). In the end, the Holl­ man case helped to push the issue of affordable housing and the related policy of deconcentrating poverty onto the local and regional policy agendas. Yet the case was also another indication of the complex politics associated with these issues, including not only the opposition from many predominately White, middle-­class communities (both within and outside of Minneapolis) but also critical ideological divisions among civil rights leaders and groups about the proper direction of affordable housing policy. In the fall of 1998, the city council ultimately rejected the prospect of taking immediate action on affordable housing, but did appoint a housing task force. The Minneapolis Affordable Housing Task Force included representatives from banking and finance, housing advocates, developers (both for profit and nonprofit), city residents of both market rate and subsidized affordable housing, and representatives from other governmental units, including, among others, the Metropolitan Council and the Minneapolis School Board. Mayor Sayles Belton appointed john powell, the director of the University of Minnesota’s Institute on Race and Poverty and one of the

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region’s leading advocates for racial and economic justice, as chair of the Task Force (Goetz 2000, 36). The Task Force issued a detailed report with seven specific recommendations, including the preservation of existing affordable housing, increasing the development of new affordable housing, increasing investment in affordable housing, educating the public about the value of affordable housing for all citizens, providing city and community oversight of the implementation of an affordable housing plan, and supporting the needs of “homeless and precariously housed” citizens. The report also called for “leading by example” on this issue, with the implication that the city should advance the affordable housing agenda immediately, and not wait for suburban action (Minneapolis Affordable Housing Task Force 1999, 19–­25). The report was hard hitting, and talked explicitly about the relationship between affordable housing and race: “A second powerful message from the community is that we must acknowledge the impact of race and discrimination on the availability of affordable housing for people of color” (3). Data supported the report’s emphasis on race. For example, between 1980 and 1990 the percentage of African Americans living in high-­poverty areas in the Twin Cities increased from 27 percent to 47 percent (Goetz 2003, 14), demonstrating a lack of residential mobility for substantial numbers of African Americans. This pattern was most evident in Minneapolis because it possessed the largest number of African Americans in the Twin Cities metropolitan area. In addition, the report’s discussion of homelessness was also important because it framed this issue as a problem of affordable housing as opposed to the popular notion that homelessness is strictly a social problem. The Task Force’s report extensively documented the lack of affordable housing in the city and throughout the region, estimating that the need for affordable housing units in Minneapolis for persons at or below 30 percent of AMI over the next fifteen years was roughly 20,000 units at a cost of $2 billion (Minneapolis Affordable Housing Task Force Report 1999, 3). This figure squared with other estimates about the burgeoning need for new affordable housing units in the years after 2000. For example, in 2000, HUD found that about 94,000 of the families in the Twin Cities at 50 percent or below of the AMI were paying more than 30 percent of their income for housing, thousands of whom lived in Minneapolis. Using data from the 2000 census, the Metropolitan Council projected that the Twin Cities region would need an additional 51,000 new housing units affordable at various percentages of AMI by the year 2020 (Housing Preservation Project 2007a). Compounding

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the problem was the fact that the central cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul possessed 53 percent of the 2,300 affordable housing units destroyed in the Twin Cities metropolitan area during the previous two years (Minneapolis Affordable Housing Task Force Report 1999, 13). These units were destroyed for a variety of reasons, but mostly as a result of redevelopment projects around the metro area. Although the estimates of various organizations and agencies varied somewhat, all parties concurred that there was a substantial shortage of affordable housing in Minneapolis and the Twin Cities region. In light of the fact that the city had spent less than $80 million in total over the previous five years on affordable housing, the Task Force recognized that local institutions (both governmental and in the private sector) could not by themselves adequately address the affordable housing crisis. Thus it also recommended implementing the affordable housing plan in two phases. Phase one would focus on local investment, and phase two would focus on increasing federal and state aid for affordable housing (Minneapolis Affordable Housing Task Force Report 1999, 4). The Task Force’s report went to the city council for action in September 1999, and the council considered legislation based on its recommendations. Eight of the 13 members of the city council, however, were clearly opposed to legislation, and several offered various amendments intended to derail the adoption of the Task Force’s recommendations. Supporters of affordable housing on the council offered their own amendments consistent with some of the recommendations. For example, council member Jim Niland, one of the strongest advocates of affordable housing, offered an amendment in an attempt to get the city to commit to increasing the amount of funding for affordable housing each year over the next several years until it reached $18 million in 2005 (Minneapolis City Council Official Proceedings 1999). But this amendment and several others consistent with the Task Force’s recommendations were voted down by the council. The city council did adopt an affordable housing policy that day, however, by the same 8–­5 vote that defeated the amendments offered by affordable housing supporters. Although this new policy recognized the problem of a lack of affordable housing, it was vague in terms of specific commitments regarding city expenditures and the number of housing units. One bright spot for affordable housing advocates was the requirement that in all city-­ assisted rental housing developments of ten units or more, at least 20 percent of the units must be affordable at 50 percent or below of AMI (Minneapolis City Council Official Proceedings 1999). But overall the policy was a

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marginal accomplishment for affordable housing advocates, including the mayor. Although affordable housing had made it onto the policy agenda, achieving substantive policy change in this area would prove to be very difficult. The actions of the city council on affordable housing seemed to mirror what was happening in the NRP neighborhood planning process across the city during this period: while some neighborhoods clearly supported policies that created and maintained population diversity, such as the construction of affordable housing, the evidence suggests that this sentiment was not held by most city residents. Affordable housing was an issue of concern mainly to lower-­income residents, who were disproportionately racial minorities. And the city’s demographics remained a major impediment to the more sweeping policy change advocates were hoping for.

From Boom to Bust: R. T. Rybak and the Disappearance of Affordable Housing All in all, things seemed to be going well in 2001 in Minneapolis. According to a variety of indicators, Sharon Sayles Belton had reason to be confident about her chances for reelection. The city increased in population between 1990 and 2000, reversing four decades of decline. Poverty was roughly constant, with just under 20 percent of city residents living below the poverty line. Unemployment remained low, at about 4.3 percent in June 2001. Crime was down from the mid-­1990s, when the city was infamously labeled “Murderapolis.” Downtown was growing, with new office buildings and housing construction. And according to a June 2001 poll, 60 percent of city residents had a favorable opinion of Sayles Belton while a striking 70 percent thought the city was headed in the right direction (Olson 2001a), numbers that had to be encouraging for the incumbent. Despite many seemingly positive trends, the Minneapolis DFL Party failed to endorse Sayles Belton or any mayoral candidates at its May 2001 convention. The lack of endorsement made the multiple-­candidate race immediately more competitive, giving lesser known candidates some hope. Political newcomer R. T. Rybak, a former reporter, Internet consultant, and self-­ described political activist, received a large number of votes for the DFL endorsement, and became the main beneficiary of the party’s deadlock. Over the summer, Rybak’s campaign picked up momentum and received increasing media coverage, propelling him to a first-­place finish in the Septem-

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ber primary over Sayles Belton. Rybak captured 34 percent of the primary vote to Sayles Belton’s 27 percent. The primary results came as a shock to many, and set the tone for the rest of the campaign in which Sayles Belton, the two-­term incumbent, ran as an underdog. Shortly after the September primary, polling results were increasingly mixed. With Rybak and Sayles Belton statistically tied, 61 percent of Minneapolis residents said the city was headed in the right direction, while only 25 percent believed it was on the wrong track (Olson 2001b). Voters seemed pleased about the state of the city, but apparently many were not willing to give Sharon Sayles Belton much credit for current local conditions. Rybak, a White male, presented a much different image than the two previous candidates whom Sayles Belton had defeated, John Derus and Barbara Carlson. Whereas Derus was more conservative across the spectrum of issues, and Carlson was an outspoken fiscal conservative and social liberal who stressed a law and order approach to crime, Rybak was difficult to pin down ideologically. His rhetoric often stressed the need to address pressing social problems, most notably the city’s lack of affordable housing, implying a commitment to activist government. But he spoke primarily of streamlining various government processes and seeking assistance from the private sector as ways of addressing such problems, and did not actively support new city policies or programs, which increased his appeal to more economically conservative Whites. Rybak continually stressed the theme of increasing governmental efficiency, often arguing that the city had to “learn how to do more with less.” His public comments frequently sounded as if they were taken directly from a seminar or text on reinventing government. Rybak’s energetic campaign enabled him to broaden his appeal. He did not come across as a stiff technocrat, but rather as someone with a lot of experience outside of politics that he would bring to the mayor’s office if elected. This contrasted significantly with Sayles Belton’s low-­key approach, which reflected many years of real-­world political experience, in which consensus is often difficult to achieve. Rybak received consistently favorable media coverage, which was likely influenced by his background. He was a former reporter for the Star Tribune, worked for the local CBS television affiliate, and did consulting work for both Public Radio International and Minnesota Public Radio (Hughes 2001a). During the general election campaign, Rybak made several specific criticisms of the Sayles Belton administration. For example, he used the downgrading of the city’s AAA bond rating by Moody’s as evidence that city hall

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spending had gone out of control and had to be reined in, and he argued against any tax increases. Rybak also criticized Sayles Belton for supporting public funding for two major downtown development projects—­a Target retail store and headquarters, and the Block E entertainment complex. The city subsidized the Target project with roughly $62 million in public funds, and Block E received an additional $30 million. This argument, however, had much more appeal in economically better-­ off, predominately White neighborhoods, a point that was highlighted by Bill English, the head of the Coalition of Black Churches in Minneapolis. When discussing the Target subsidy in an interview with Minnesota Public Radio, English stated: “The only people in the city who are peeved by that and are using that as an issue are people in the southern part of the city. The more affluent wards . . . What I know is the laboring people in this city appreciate it. The lesser people in the city appreciate it. The northern part of the city appreciates it. And I think they’re going to pull her [Sayles Belton] through” (Hughes 2001b). English’s remark revealed some of the demographic differences in attitudes toward public subsidies for certain types of development. A downtown Target store would necessarily appeal more to the people who work and travel through downtown, many of whom are racial minorities and moderate-­and lower-­income residents. Further, many lower-­income city residents likely viewed the Target store as an opportunity for employment. Today, a large percentage of employees at the downtown Target store are members of racial minority groups.5 In addition, many minority residents tend to live in neighborhoods closer to downtown that are underserved by retail development, which would also help explain their apparent lack of opposition to this subsidy. Yet Sayles Belton’s strong support for downtown development also put her at odds with many NRP neighborhood organizations for favoring business at the expense of residential communities. Rybak seized this opportunity and actively sought the support of neighborhood organizations around the city. And since the city council’s rather modest actions on affordable housing policy in 1999, the dynamics of the affordable housing issue had transformed significantly. The years 2000 and 2001 saw even greater increases in housing costs in the Twin Cities. This development made affordable housing a major campaign issue in 2001, and revealed the primary ideological differences between the candidates. By June 2001, affordable housing was cited more often than any other issue as the biggest concern of city residents. Further, the resident survey that year showed that only 40 percent of Minneapolis resi-

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dents were satisfied with the city’s efforts in the area of affordable housing (National Research Center 2008, 35). Yet at the same time, only 20 percent of Minneapolis residents said that affordable housing was the most important issue facing the city (Brandt 2001), indicating that there was not widespread sentiment for major governmental action on the issue. During the campaign, Sayles Belton supported the adoption of a special city tax to help fund affordable housing, but Rybak opposed such a tax. Instead, echoing the themes of reinventing government, Rybak emphasized the need for regulatory reform, streamlining the city’s housing-­related agencies, and greater involvement of business, nonprofits, and the public. He also stressed the notion that small investors and targeted tax breaks should be an important part of attempting to solve the affordable housing crisis (Brandt 2001). This talk was somewhat vague, however, particularly coming from the candidate who on more than one occasion during the campaign claimed that affordable housing was the city’s “number one issue.” A Star Tribune article published shortly before the 2001 election compared Rybak’s nongovernmental approach to the issue with Sayles Belton’s greater reliance on public policy: “R.T. Rybak pledges that if he becomes the next mayor of Minneapolis, he’ll get residents personally involved in creating affordable housing. He’ll encourage them to pick up a hammer, open their wallets and get their places of worship involved. And look for a big thermometer-­style sign outside City Hall to record the number of affordable houses finished.  .  .  . If Mayor Sharon Sayles Belton wins a third term, she vows to keep persuading and arm-­twisting on affordable housing from City Hall to Capitol Hill. She says she’s already collaborated with suburban and rural mayors, the Metropolitan Council, mortgage bankers and Congress to try to pry loose money to deal with the city’s affordable housing shortage” (Brandt 2001). Rybak made similar arguments when discussing other policy issues, which contrasted him with Sayles Belton’s more traditional, ideologically liberal policy approach emphasizing an activist government as the lead player in addressing social problems. In the end, Sayles Belton was beaten rather soundly by the challenger. Rybak captured an impressive 65 percent of the vote, with Sayles Belton receiving the remaining 35 percent. Despite her low overall vote totals, ward-­ based returns illustrate a significant racial divide, which had also been apparent in two preelection polls (Minnesota Public Radio 2001b; Olson 2001c). The 2001 mayoral election showed that in a contest in which race plays no apparent role, a significant racial divide can still develop among the elector-

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ate. Although some of this divide was likely explained by racial attitudes per se, much of it seems to have reflected the different ideological and policy positions between Whites, who responded more favorably to arguments about increasing government efficiency and limiting taxes, and African Americans, who appeared more skeptical of these types of arguments. And clearly these differences are heavily shaped by the different economic positions of these two groups within the wider political economy. The debate about affordable housing, which Rybak labeled the “number one issue,” revealed some of these ideological differences. Because of the economic differences among races, a much greater percentage of Black and other minority voters were directly affected by the lack of affordable housing than Whites. As she had done throughout her administration, Sayles Belton advocated for a much more activist role for government (including the imposition of a new citywide tax), in order to address the lack of affordable housing. Rybak, on the other hand, primarily stressed nongovernmental approaches to the problem. When considering the way that Rybak repeatedly discussed affordable housing during the campaign, it is fair to conclude that most city voters did not support the more ideologically liberal policy approach advanced by Sayles Belton and were more supportive of a limited government role in addressing this problem. To his credit, Rybak has moved some of the affordable housing agenda forward. One accomplishment, albeit a rather modest one, was the creation of an Affordable Housing Trust Fund during his first term. Initially it was not clear where the money would come from for the new fund. But the city council and mayor came together and found several sources of money, most of which involved the federal government. Roughly 85 to 90 percent of the Affordable Housing Trust Fund’s $10 million comes from a federal Community Development Block Grant, the federal HOME Program, and federal Emergency Shelter Grant funds. The remainder comes from local sources, including bonds and the city budget. This approach to funding affordable housing, which required a modest amount of local funds and the imposition of no new taxes, was consistent with Rybak’s 2001 campaign discussion of this issue, and provided little political risk. And there are several indications that a majority of Minneapolitans supported Rybak’s more modest approach to the issue. Resident surveys throughout the first several years of his administration showed that an increasing number of citizens were satisfied with the city’s efforts with regard to affordable housing. For example, in 2003, 51 percent of residents were sat-

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isfied, up 11 points from 2001. And by 2005, an election year, 55 percent of city residents were satisfied (National Research Center 2008, 35). And despite not receiving his party’s endorsement, Rybak coasted to reelection victory in 2005 with over 61 percent of the vote over the challenger, Hennepin County commissioner Peter McLaughlin, in an election in which affordable housing received very little attention.

Condominium Conversions and the Loss of Affordable Housing The most substantive policy debate about affordable housing during Rybak’s second term was the discussion about the conversion of rental units to market-­rate condominiums. At the time of the mayor’s reelection in 2005, homeownership among city residents continued to increase, and even though housing was still appreciating, the rate at which it was increasing in value had slowed considerably. As housing prices increased rapidly in the early 2000s, many developers in the Twin Cities saw an opportunity to convert apartments into market-­rate condominiums. This type of development is much cheaper than new construction. Rather than having to finance the costs of the construction of a new building, an existing apartment building is purchased, remodeled as necessary, and the tenants are notified that their units are now for sale. Although state law in Minnesota affects some aspects of converting condominiums, developers have had substantial leeway in this process, which got the attention of several affordable housing advocacy groups. The conversion of apartments to market-­rate condominiums had a significant impact on the housing supply in Minneapolis. Between 2000 and 2007, at least 3,106 units of rental housing were converted to condominiums, which represented nearly 4 percent of the city’s total rental housing stock (Housing Preservation Project 2007b). Further, many converted apartments were previously affordable at various income levels below AMI. The Minneapolis Affordable Housing Coalition summarized the collective impact of the condo conversions on the city’s housing supply and neighborhoods: “This activity has changed neighborhoods in Minneapolis by decreasing both the amount of affordable rental housing and the economic diversity of these neighborhoods by pushing out low income residents” (Minneapolis Affordable Housing Coalition 2007). Another study by a local

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housing organization showed that nearly 1,700 units of housing affordable for Minneapolis renters at either 30 percent or 50 percent of AMI (among the lowest income groups) had been converted to market-­rate condominiums by 2005 (Housing Link 2005, 4). During this period, the city’s own documents showed that the overall supply of units affordable for the lowest-­income individuals, those at 30 percent of AMI, was grim. For example, the 2005–­2009 Minneapolis Consolidated Plan showed that the city had a shortage of nearly 13,500 housing units in this category. In addition, as of January 2007 approximately 11,000 households were on the waiting list for public housing with the Minneapolis Public Housing Authority (Gordon 2007), another clear indication of the overall lack of affordable housing, especially for lower-­income citizens. Because the pace of converting condominiums was actually faster than the rate of the creation of new affordable housing units, the conversions worked at cross-­purposes with the city’s stated goals for affordable housing. In 2004, the city funded the construction or rehabilitation of 214 affordable rental housing units, but that year 402 rental units affordable at various percentages of AMI were taken off the market through condo conversions. According to the Minneapolis Community Planning and Economic Development Office, the cost of replacing the converted units with new affordable housing was about $197,000 per unit, for a total cost of $37 million (Minnesota Affordable Housing Coalition 2007). During a time when money for affordable housing was scarce and policy makers rejected proposals for raising revenues designated for this purpose, the problems that condo conversions posed for the supply of local affordable housing had become clear. In light of these events, in 2004 and 2005 affordable housing advocates and some city council members began to suggest a moratorium on condo conversions. During the 2005 campaign, however, both Mayor Rybak and the challenger, Peter McClaughlin, expressed opposition to a moratorium, and so the Minneapolis Affordable Housing Coalition took its case to the city council. The debate continued throughout 2006, and in 2007, Green Party council member Cam Gordon authored an ordinance outlining several concrete steps on this issue, including providing displaced tenants with relocation assistance, providing for the partial preservation or replacement of affordable apartments lost due to condo conversions, and providing protections for condo buyers against problems such as major unexpected repairs to building systems or common areas (Housing Preservation Project 2007b). There was substantial opposition to the ordinance on the council,

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however. Council member Barbara Johnson, arguably the most powerful member of the legislative body, claimed that the city actually did not have a shortage of affordable housing (Gordon 2007). At a minimum, this was a confusing argument considering that the city was allocating public monies toward affordable housing each year, and had set up an Affordable Housing Trust Fund (which Johnson voted against), thereby granting official recognition to this problem. During a public hearing on the condo conversion moratorium ordinance, a local realtor spoke against the proposal, and defended the process of converting apartments to market-­rate condominiums: “We should not be surprised, and we should not fear the conversions. . . . When markets are left alone and not manipulated by outside influences, they always do what’s best for the majority of the participants and stakeholders” (Collins 2007). This statement was rather telling and, in light of the wider context of the issue, likely reflected the views of a majority of city residents. Whereas 55 percent of Minneapolis residents were satisfied with the city’s efforts with regard to affordable housing in 2005, by 2008 this number had increased to 66 percent of residents (National Research Center 2008, 35), which provided the backdrop for the debate about council member Gordon’s ordinance. The moratorium would have been a direct intervention into market forces, which apparently an increasing number of residents believed were benefitting them. Not surprisingly, the council rejected Gordon’s proposal by a 7–­6 vote. By 2007, the rate of condo conversions had slowed considerably, to about 300 units a year, compared with a high of 1,100 in 2004 (Collins 2007). And most of the discussion related to housing had turned to the foreclosures that had begun to proliferate in many neighborhoods around the city. The housing market was officially in free fall.

Conclusion This chapter has analyzed the politics of affordable housing in Minneapolis. Escalating housing prices, in combination with a favorable political culture, helped to push the issue onto the agenda of local policy makers. But translating the apparent concern expressed by citizens about the relative lack of affordable housing into concrete proposals is another matter. Chapter 2 described a consistent theme in survey research on affordable housing: the

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public’s general understanding of the problem of the lack of affordable housing and belief in increasing the overall supply, but its simultaneous lack of support for specific affordable housing projects. In a neighborhood planning document, an economically better-­off, predominately White community in Southwest Minneapolis openly struggled with this very contradiction: “While residents may verbally or philosophically support affordable, senior, and rental housing; opposition often arises regarding specific proposals and locations for the increased density and number of stories of such housing” (Bryn Mawr Neighborhood Association 2006, 10, emphasis in original). This plan went on to discuss how the neighborhood would initiate several forums to “address the pros and cons of higher density and to dispel fears and misconceptions” (ibid). This is a tall order, however, considering many citizens’ preconceived notions about affordable housing. The analysis of the Minneapolis Neighborhood Revitalization Program’s first round of neighborhood planning documents provides a closer look into the neighborhood politics of affordable housing. The NRP is neighborhood democracy in action.6 Yet the priorities expressed by neighborhood organizations through the NRP are another illustration of the political difficulties faced by affordable housing advocates. As revealed in the first phase of the NRP planning documents, a relatively small number of communities expressed interest in diversifying their neighborhoods—­either economically or in terms of race or ethnicity—­while a solid majority of communities sought to increase homeownership, owner-­occupied housing, or property values. Further, only a minority even mentioned affordable housing at all, and these discussions were often not about affordability for those at or below median income. These priorities reflect the common perceptions of the potentially negative effects of affordable housing. But the actual effects of affordable housing on property values are complex and depend on a number of variables. In an extensive review of existing studies of this issue, a leading expert summarized the relationship in the following manner: “The impact of affordable and multifamily housing on prices of nearby single-­family homes will depend in an interactive way on concentration, context, and type of development” (Galster 2004, 199). This scholar goes on to argue that “[d]eveloping more affordable and multifamily housing in a metropolitan area—­both in the suburbs and in the core—­clearly can be done in ways that enhance proximate property values” (200–­201). Again, this is not to say that NRP neighborhood organizations have always reflected the sentiment of the majority of the residents in their neigh-

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borhoods. The lack of political participation and knowledge of certain segments of the population, including those of lower income as well as renters, presents a recurring problem for any neighborhood-­based organization attempting to gauge community priorities. But housing is different than many other neighborhood-­based issues. The unique nature of housing decisions is manifest in the public’s well-­documented conflicting views on the issue of affordable housing. Seeing a direct link between housing and community demographics and old-­fashioned NIMBYism leads many citizens who may or may not have well-­formed positions on other issues to express concrete views on housing policy. In any given neighborhood, when it comes to housing policy decisions, I suggest that the issue public will necessarily be larger than it may be in other policy areas. I concede the possibility that neighborhood groups, such as NRP boards, take public positions on issues less salient than housing that may go against neighborhood sentiment. But I would argue that the views expressed by NRP planning organizations (which are run by elected boards) with respect to housing-­related matters reflect the preferences of, at minimum, a sizeable percentage of neighborhood residents. This does not mean that there have been no affordable housing units built in the many neighborhoods that did not express support for creating such housing in their Phase I NRP plans. Rather, if affordable housing units were built in any of these dozens of neighborhoods, the process would not have been initiated, and quite possibly not supported by, their neighborhood planning organizations. Moreover, on several occasions a majority of local elected officials have balked at taking more significant citywide measures to address the lack of affordable housing, which has contributed to the ongoing shortage of such units. Although the overall lack of support for stronger measures regarding affordable housing has been the major stumbling block, the divisions among affordable housing advocates have also played a role, in a pattern similar to the divisions among critics of the MPD and, to some extent, among critics of the MPS as well. These divisions became apparent during the Sayles Belton administration vis-­à-­vis the Affordable Housing Task Force and the debate among civil rights and housing activists regarding the Hollman v. Cisneros lawsuit. Some critics of the city’s existing efforts on affordable housing have argued for a more regional approach in the short-­term, whereas others have emphasized that Minneapolis ought to lead and not wait for ambivalent suburbs to agree to take action. These important policy differences have made the achievement of stronger measures even more challenging. The 2001 election was a key moment in the politics of affordable housing

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in Minneapolis, and R. T. Rybak’s campaign and subsequent administration have, in many ways, embodied the apparent dichotomy in public opinion discussed previously. City voters knew what they were getting when they elected Mayor Rybak: he made his position on the shortage of affordable housing clear throughout his 2001 campaign and acted on his positions once in office. He has repeatedly argued that the shortage of affordable housing is a major problem, but that government is only one part of the solution. Rather, for Rybak, resources from the private sector, the business community, nonprofits, religious congregations, and state and federal governments need to be utilized in order to effectively deal with the affordable housing issue. Government, especially local government, is not the lead player. His support for measures such as the Affordable Housing Trust Fund and his opposition to a moratorium on condominium conversions were consistent with his overall approach. By the time Rybak coasted to reelection again in 2009, affordable housing had largely faded from view in the local media, as shown below in table 5.1. Although the Star Tribune covered the issue frequently during the peak years of the housing boom, beginning in 2003 the number of articles on the

TABLE 5.1. Number of Mentions of “Affordable Housing” in a Headline in Star Tribune newspaper, 1997–­2010 “Affordable Housing” in Year Star Tribune Headline 1997 6 1998 22 1999 32 2000 28 2001 33 2002 47 2003 13 2004 6 2005 9 2006 12 2007 9 2008 9 2009 7 2010 3 Source: Star Tribune 1997–­2010.

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subject was minimal. By this time, most of the press and the public had become much more concerned with declining housing values, a trend substantially shaped by the growing number of foreclosures. An important factor helping to explain the politics of affordable housing in recent years in Minneapolis has been the city’s increasing homeownership rate. Minneapolis and the Twin Cities region were caught up in the national trend toward homeownership that began in the late 1990s. From President George W. Bush’s emphasis on the “ownership society,” to homeownership initiatives at the Department of Housing and Urban Development, to local and state homeownership programs across the nation, to the increasingly risky and deregulated mortgage lending market, increasing the number of homeowners was a goal of a wide variety of policies and institutions. From 1995 to 2005, the U.S. homeownership rate increased from 64 to 69 percent (Zandi 2009, 48). Aside from a brief decline in 2002, the homeownership rate in Minneapolis consistently increased beginning in the late 1990s, and climbed to over 54 percent by 2006 (U.S. Census Bureau 2000–­ 2006). Clearly Minneapolis has been no different from other cities in its emphasis on homeownership, even for those of modest income. This was evident in the NRP planning documents, as numerous neighborhoods stressed the positive attributes of homeownership, with many arguing in favor of increasing the homeownership rate as a primary goal of their plan. Increasing the number of homeowners, particularly in neighborhoods where rental housing is concentrated, can certainly be a worthy and reasonable goal. Owners remain in a neighborhood longer, have a greater stake in their surroundings, and, as a result, tend to maintain their properties better. Further, for most people, their home is their biggest asset, which gives them a built-­in incentive to take care of it. But an emphasis on homeownership distorts the overall debate about affordable housing. For many individuals, especially those below an area’s median income, homeownership ranges from a questionable decision to one that can bring about tremendous economic hardship. These individuals will always need access to decent, affordable rental housing, regardless of the booms and busts associated with the housing market in a particular area. The lack of interest in seriously addressing the issue of condominium conversions exhibited by both mayoral candidates and by a majority of city council members in 2005 vividly revealed the political problems faced by affordable housing advocates: in a community where a majority of residents

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are homeowners (and because of the bias in voting patterns, a significant majority of voters are homeowners), property values are still appreciating, and obtaining a mortgage is relatively easy, calls for increasing or even maintaining the supply of affordable housing, especially rental housing, will fall on many deaf ears. Moreover, because many homeowners believe that affordable housing will be detrimental to their property values, indifference or outright opposition to affordable housing proposals will most likely increase if the number of homeowners in a community increases. The U.S. housing market began to crash in 2006, and not long afterward Minneapolis started to experience an increasing number of foreclosures, particularly in the lower-­income neighborhoods of north Minneapolis. Between 2005 and 2008, the annual figures for citywide foreclosure sales were 863, 1,610, 2,895, and 3,007 sales, respectively. Over half of recent foreclosures citywide have been in north Minneapolis (City of Minneapolis 2008, 36; 2009). Accompanying increasing numbers of foreclosures has been a significant increase in vacant and boarded-­up residential properties, which further contributes to neighborhood decline, increases the costs of basic city services, and also weakens political support for affordable housing measures. In terms of the overall supply and demand for affordable housing in Minneapolis, recent statistics continue to reveal a significant need. According to data from the Census Bureau’s American Community Survey published in 2005, of the city’s nearly 68,000 rented units, over 31,000 cost over 30 percent of the renter’s income (U.S. Census Bureau 2005). In light of the fact that over 35,000 renters paid less than $750 a month for housing, it is fair to conclude that a large number of those persons paying more than 30 percent for housing were of moderate incomes and below. By 2010, the National Low Income Housing Coalition released data showing that the mean renter’s hourly wage in the Twin Cities was $14.54, whereas one would need an hourly wage of $17.29 in order to be able to spend only 30 percent of one’s wages for an apartment priced at the median rent (Spencer 2010). And with increasing foreclosures in lower-­income neighborhoods, the demand for affordable rental units will only increase. In spite of this apparent demand, the creation of new and the preservation of existing affordable housing units in the past several years has proceeded slowly. For example, a leading advocacy organization calculated that between 2002 and 2007 in Minneapolis, financing for 5,641 units of housing affordable for persons at 60 percent of AMI and below had closed, indicating that the projects would be completed (Family Housing Fund 2008). These .

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numbers reveal that especially for those with incomes below AMI, finding affordable housing is still a significant challenge. Considering the common perceptions of the negative effects of affordable housing, the increasing number of foreclosures and decline in housing values across the city and region will continue to be a blow to the cause of creating more affordable housing as homeowners become increasingly anxious about the value of their home. To be sure, affordable housing is in fundamental ways a regional issue, and the Minnesota legislature began to take steps many years ago to prod reluctant suburban communities in the Twin Cities area to take on their fair share of the region’s overall affordable housing supply. Since the 1970s, the Minnesota Land Planning Act (MLPA) has required municipalities in the Twin Cities to plan for the building of affordable housing in the Comprehensive Plans they are required to create every ten years. The Minnesota Livable Communities Act (LCA), passed in 1995, allowed communities to qualify for funds administered by the Metropolitan Council if they negotiated housing goals with the council in advance. This was intended not to mandate housing goals, but rather to provide incentives for communities to participate in addressing the region’s supply of affordable housing. The Metropolitan Council, however, is appointed by the governor, and different Met Councils have interpreted the provisions of both the MLPA and the LCA in different ways regarding municipalities’ affordable housing obligations. Although the Met Council has clearly been instrumental in the construction of affordable housing in many resistant suburban communities, in the absence of stronger state legislation its powers remain limited and run up against the cherished local governing principle of home rule. The political and economic power of many suburban jurisdictions is an ongoing impediment to the creation and implementation of a more equitable regional affordable housing policy. In the City of Minneapolis’s “Goals and Expectations” statement passed in 2003, the following statement appears: “Housing Affordability: The City will identify gaps in housing affordability and will target our affordable housing efforts to address those gaps. The City will continue to provide leadership, along with our partners, in order to ensure a range of housing affordability levels in all of our communities, particularly in adding affordable housing in non-­concentrated areas. The City will focus its investments on projects that ensure long-­term affordability, meet specific guidelines for leveraging private funding sources, and optimize the number of units pro-

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duced” (City of Minneapolis 2003, 6). Although admirable, these goals will amount only to rhetoric unless they are followed up with concrete proposals and projects that can be implemented in a variety of neighborhoods across the city. There needs to be more of a public, explicit, and ongoing recognition among all those involved in the process of affordable housing construction of the relationship between housing and basic life chances. This recognition is even more important at times like the present, when affordable housing has essentially disappeared from the political dialogue. After all, children still need to be educated, and citizens still desire safe neighborhoods with decent opportunities and services, despite the fact that a significant number of city homeowners’ mortgages are underwater. In order for this process to begin, support for an expanded role for local government has to develop beyond individuals and organizations that advocate on behalf of the disadvantaged.

Chapter 6

The Popularity of Gambling Meets the Need for Economic Development

This chapter examines the process of locating riverboat casinos in Gary in the mid-­1990s. The two main issues addressed are the level of public support for the casino proposal as well as the tangible impact of the casinos on the city and region. In recent decades, several forms of legalized gambling have become increasingly common across the United States. Further, as discussed in chapter 2, during the 1990s public support increased for casino gambling, and a sizeable majority of Americans have come to believe that casinos contribute to local economic development. Although the economic decline of Gary has been more severe than most municipalities, the city is a clear example of these larger national trends with regard to public support for casino development. At a time when casinos were still prohibited by state law, Indiana authorized a nonbinding referendum in Gary in 1989 asking residents whether traditional land-­based casinos should be allowed to be built. The referendum passed by a comfortable margin. This event, as part of a growing procasino movement, led the Indiana legislature shortly thereafter to begin considering various bills legalizing limited numbers of casinos in the state. After several failed attempts, in 1993 the legislature passed a law authorizing a restricted number of riverboat casinos on Lake Michigan and the Ohio River, including two in Gary. In 1995, the city elected Scott King, its first White mayor in several decades, and one of King’s first major tasks was negotiating a development agreement with the owners of the two riverboats. Both development agreements ultimately stated that the riverboats would strive to hire significant numbers of Gary residents, and pledged substantial monies and other economic benefits for the city, county, and state. Even though many of 162

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these benefits have been realized, the riverboats have consistently fallen short with respect to the employment goals for Gary residents. And because of nagging delays in the use of casino revenue to fund a downtown hotel, Mayor King diverted existing revenues to cover additional costs for the construction of a downtown ballpark. This act was very unpopular with local legislators and citizens, and contributed to King’s eventual departure from office. On balance, the riverboats have provided some economic benefits for Gary and the surrounding region and by several indications have had the support of city residents. Yet much more needs to be done to revive this formerly thriving urban area. Clearly riverboat casinos alone cannot begin to replace the employment and wealth generated over a period of decades by the many manufacturing facilities that no longer exist in Gary and northwest Indiana. But the prospect of riverboat casinos represented a viable form of economic development in a deindustrialized city, and while public support for this measure reflected the hard realities of life in Gary, it also reflected the increasing popularity of gambling across the country.

The Rise of Gambling in the United States Legalized gambling has exploded in the United States. After the tax revolt in the 1970s in California, state governments began to examine alternative forms of raising revenue, and gambling advocates argued forcefully for the adoption of lotteries and casinos as well as other gambling operations. By the turn of the twenty-­first century, roughly three-­quarters of the states had overturned previous bans on lotteries (Mason and Nelson 2001, 6), and all but two states had some form of legalized gambling (National Gambling Impact Study Commission 1999, 1–­1). Although the increase in lotteries has been dramatic, several types of casino-­related gambling have also become increasingly important revenue sources for state and local governments. By 2006, twelve states had created legislation that authorized non–­ Native American land-­based or riverboat casinos, and twenty states allowed Native American casinos (Policy Analytics 2006, 20). During the 1990s, Indiana became part of this nationwide trend of casino gambling. As Elaine Sharp has written, casino gambling is a “politically attractive alternative to conventional tax increases on existing businesses and residents when governments desperately need new infusions of revenue” (Sharp 2005, 68).

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However, the proliferation of gambling in the United States has not been without controversy. After New Jersey voters legalized casino gambling in 1976, seventeen states attempted to follow suit between 1978 and 1988. But initially only South Dakota passed legislation authorizing casinos. Casino opponents were well funded, and successfully advanced arguments about the potential for increases in crime and other problems associated with gambling operations (Mason and Nelson 2001, 34). With the passage of the 1988 federal Indian Gaming Regulatory Act, however, the prospects for casino gambling improved considerably. Prior to the act’s passage, Indian tribes in several states had run various gambling operations. In 1980, California attempted to shut down gambling operations run by tribes. The issue went to federal court, and was eventually decided by the Supreme Court in 1987. Several states which also had Indian gambling operations joined California with amicus curiae briefs. But in the 1987 case California v. Cabazon Band of Mis­ sion Indians, by a vote of 6–­3 the Supreme Court sided with the tribes, arguing that “unless a state consistently treats gambling as either a crime or a violation of its constitution, it cannot forbid gambling on tribal lands” (60). This decision set the stage for congressional passage of the Indian Gaming Regulatory Act, which was intended to contribute to tribal economic development and to increasing self-­sufficiency. The concept of policy diffusion helps to explain the proliferation of casino gambling in the United States. Specifically, the policy process associated with the expansion of casinos has been one of reactive diffusion, or the “process in which a state copies a policy from another state in an effort to fend off the unwanted consequences of that state’s policy” (Mason and Nelson 2001, 42). In 1989, Iowa legalized riverboat casinos on the Mississippi, a decision that was substantially influenced by the fact that tribal casinos were about to open in Minnesota and Wisconsin. Illinois and Missouri followed Iowa’s lead, and so Indiana felt pressure to compete with these neighboring states. By 1999, there were “nearly 100 riverboat and dockside casinos in six states and approximately 260 casinos on reservations” (National Gambling Impact Study 1999, 2–­6). The debate about casinos in Indiana began in the northwest part of the state, which has been hit the hardest by the loss of industry. After peaking at roughly 30,000 in the early 1970s, the late 1980s and early 1990s, less than 10,000 of those previously employed in steel continued to work in the industry. There was little new economic activity in Gary and surrounding municipalities. In addition to the loss of industry, a variety of smaller businesses,

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especially in and around downtown Gary, had either left the city or shut their doors for good. Compounded by continuing population loss, by 1990 Gary was struggling. As State Senator Earline Rogers later told the National Gambling Impact Study Commission, “We knew something had to be done when we found ourselves championing our economic development successes at a ribbon cutting for a McDonald’s restaurant in Gary, Indiana” (National Gambling Impact Study 1999, 7–­6, 7).

Gary Moves Casino Gambling onto the State Agenda In 1988, Indiana voters approved a constitutional amendment that allowed for the creation of a state lottery, which marked the beginning of a lengthy debate about the possibility of casinos in the state. This debate centered on the more economically depressed areas, including Gary. Casinos represented one of the simplest ways to use government to attempt to foster economic development, and they were being developed in several neighboring states. Local leaders in Gary began to argue in favor of bringing casinos to the city several years before they were authorized by the state legislature. State legislators from the region, Mayor Thomas Barnes, and representatives from the gaming industry began a public campaign for casinos in Gary in 1989. According to Robert Catlin, “[Barnes] and State Senator Carolyn B. Mosby actively campaigned for the referendum to bring national attention to this issue” (Catlin 1993, 184). Because Gary does not have the direct initiative or general referendum, in 1989 the Indiana legislature sanctioned a nonbinding referendum in Gary on the question of whether casinos should be allowed in the city. As a nonbinding measure, the purpose of the referendum was to advise the state legislature of the views of city residents on this controversial issue. Although the referendum was advisory, anticasino activists, led by two local ministers, organized against it. In their literature, opponents cited eight reasons for their opposition to casinos, including an increase in crime and organized crime activity, the problem of gambling addiction, cannibalization of local businesses by casinos, the lack of significant positive effects on the unemployment rate, and the increasing cost of governmental services associated with casinos (No Casinos for Gary 1989). Despite organized opposition, however, the referendum passed by a comfortable margin, with just over 60 percent of voters supporting the prospect of casinos in the city

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(Associated Press 1989). No other major organizations actively campaigned against the referendum. Opponents seized on the fact that only about 32 percent of city voters participated in the referendum. Yet supporters saw turnout as fairly strong, since the referendum was a stand-­alone vote. Also, considering the rather modest organized opposition that materialized during the debate, it seems reasonable to conclude that the referendum results would not have been much different if turnout had been higher. Casino Bills in the State Legislature The 1989 Gary referendum essentially propelled the issue of casinos onto the state legislative agenda. The Indiana legislature first considered a bill authorizing casinos in the fall of 1989, but it was defeated in the House of Representatives and never came to a final vote in the Senate. In the early stages, casino supporters had significant support, from the Indiana Chamber of Commerce and USX Steel Corporation (formerly U.S. Steel) (Britt 1990). Several elected officials, along with executives from the steel industry, lobbied the state Chamber of Commerce to win its endorsement. Democratic governor Evan Bayh and Secretary of State Joe Hogsett, however, took public positions against casino gambling, which contributed to the bill’s demise in the legislature. Robert Catlin, a professor of Urban Planning and Gary resident for much of the 1980s, discussed how these actions were interpreted by Gary voters: “This angered Gary residents, and some younger dissidents within the city’s Democratic party committee called for a boycott of Hogsett when he would come up for election in November 1990” (Catlin 1993, 184). Mayor Barnes, however, ultimately put down the revolt against the governor and his administration in an attempt to maintain the governor’s support for a proposed Gary airport. And it was clear that despite the early legislative defeat, casino gambling was gaining momentum, both in Gary and statewide. In the state legislative elections of 1990, Democrats took control of the House, which was a victory for casino supporters since most opposition had come from Republicans. With control of the House and with the Senate nearly evenly divided with only a two-­vote Republican majority, casino supporters were in a better position to press their case. And in January 1991, Representative Charlie Brown of Gary introduced his version of the casino gambling bill for consideration. Public opinion on the casino issue in Gary has to be pieced together, since no polls exist of only Gary residents on this issue. The best indicator

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was the nonbinding referendum, which was supported by slightly over 60 percent of city voters. The referendum did not specify riverboats because the early debate was about the creation of traditional, land-­based casinos. Presumably, then, because riverboats are much less obtrusive and not necessarily permanent, public support would have been even higher had the referendum gauged the public’s views on them specifically. In an attempt to assess public opinion during the early stages of the debate in the state legislature, a local reporter made random telephone calls to city residents in November 1990, and found residents roughly split on the issue. Yet the response of one resident was telling: “The city is slowly dying because of a lack of jobs. A job that pays $5 an hour is not a job. I’ve said it over and over: If a casino is going to lift Gary one notch closer to recovery, then it’s needed” (Indich 1990).1 A statewide poll taken by Indiana University in February 1991 showed that a slim majority (about 51 percent) of state residents supported legalization of casinos, but that this support increased to nearly two-­thirds under certain conditions. For example, if casinos would create new jobs, increase tax revenues, and be limited to specific areas in the state, voters were much more likely to support them. A significant majority of the opposition to gambling was based on religious and moral grounds (Inkley 1991a). The poll seemed to confirm what many had suspected—­that opposition was primarily religious and not based on economic arguments, and was mainly articulated by Republican Party supporters. And because Gary is overwhelmingly Democratic, it is reasonable to conclude that a larger percentage of city residents supported casinos than residents statewide. In the midst of the debate about casinos in Gary, former mayor Richard Hatcher reemerged to challenge incumbent Thomas Barnes. Hatcher immediately began speaking out against the casino bill in the state legislature, calling it a “sellout.” At a press conference, Hatcher argued that “[u]ntil there are changes in this bill, no one from Gary should support this bill. It reeks of paternalism, racism, and looks down its nose at the people of Gary” (Britt 1991). Hatcher pointed out that the bill gave USX and NIPSCO (a utility company) large tax breaks, and that the city would get a small percentage of casino profits, which would be divided statewide by county on the basis of population. Just one month later, the bill was defeated in the State Senate Finance committee on a party-­line vote of 8–­6. Gary’s local Republican Party, which represents perhaps 10 to 15 percent of the city’s population, also worked hard against legalizing casinos. In April 1991, just after the bill’s defeat in the Senate, city Republican chairman Calin Hawkins proclaimed:

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“We plan to be vigilant and make sure casino gambling stays out of the city” (Holecek 1991). The initial debate about casinos in Indiana, as reflected in the various bills that failed to pass in the state legislature in 1990 and 1991, focused on land-­based casinos. In the early 1990s, however, the idea of riverboat casinos began to become more popular, both because of their historical appeal and because they would likely be a more popular alternative to land-­based casinos. Further, the neighboring states of Illinois and Iowa had already passed riverboat casino legislation. Representative Charlie Brown of Gary, who had authored previous legislative attempts at casino bills, reintroduced legislation in early 1993 to include a mix of land-­based and water-­based casinos in the state, and to require that referenda be held in communities designated to be eligible for casinos before gambling would be allowed there. In the meantime, anticasino forces organized in Gary again, led by an organization called You Rally Against Gambling (a coalition of area churches, and the same group that distributed the No Casinos for Gary pamphlet mentioned earlier). They organized a rally attended by roughly 130 opponents of casino gambling in late January 1993. The effort was spearheaded entirely by religious leaders, one of whom argued that their organization was in favor of job creation and increased money for schools and cities, but that they were “convinced that casino gambling offers only false hope to the masses” (Hayhurst 1993). Unlike much of the opposition in many more rural areas of Indiana, casino opponents in Gary made clear that they were not against all forms of gambling, such as the lottery. Rather, they focused on casinos. Casino opponents in Gary framed their arguments in terms of the many problems they believed would accompany casinos. To buttress their case, they maintained that if anyone wondered what the effects of casinos would be, they need only look at Atlantic City, where poverty, crime, and many other social problems had proliferated after the construction of casinos there. But this was the only organized opposition to the casino proposal. The steel corporations, the broader business community, and organized labor had already endorsed the adoption of casinos. Just one month later, as Representative Brown’s bill progressed through the legislature, the House Ways and Means Committee held a public hearing on the matter in February 1993. According to newspaper accounts, of the numerous people who testified at the hearing, casino supporters outnumbered opponents by 2–­1 (Cadou 1993a). Representative Brown continued to maintain that casinos would benefit Gary economically, while one of the Gary

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ministers leading the opposition testified against the legislation, arguing that other forms of economic development were available. Again, Brown referred to the fact that 60 percent of city residents supported casinos in the 1989 referendum, and suggested that the percentage would be even higher in the event of another referendum (Cadou 1993a). All parties agreed that the significant reduction of jobs and population in the city sparked by the decline of the steel industry made economic development the primary policy goal. Differences emerged regarding the best way to bring about economic development. Opponents continued to organize in Gary, but acknowledged that they were fighting an uphill battle. In an article about one of the anticasino rallies organized by local religious leaders, a journalist noted that opponents “cited Scripture to illustrate their point that God doesn’t need a large majority to win battles” (Evans 1993). In early March, in an attempt to build more support in the state legislature, Representative Brown introduced an amendment that redirected 15 percent of the casino revenue to the state’s general fund, which passed the House by a large margin. Although the amendment contained no language mandating these funds go toward education, Brown said that they would be used for educational funding (Cadou 1993b). In an unusual move, the board of managers of the Lake County Bar Association, which represented more than 700 lawyers, a substantial minority of whom practiced in Gary, urged the Senate to pass the casino bill (Kiesling 1993), which broadened the procasino coalition even more. Yet the regular legislative session ended in April with the casino bill being rejected once again by the Senate. When the legislature met again in June to pass the budget, casino legislation was reintroduced, but this time the casinos would be riverboats only, and limited to a few areas of the state. The change from land-­based to riverboats was a significant concession to opponents. Whereas land-­based casinos appeared permanent, the argument for riverboats was that they would not necessarily be permanent, and could move from place to place if necessary. Riverboat supporters also linked the concept to the history and culture of the Midwest. As a leading riverboat advocate in the Iowa legislature argued, “We’re selling the lore of Mark Twain” (Mason and Nelson 2001, 36). After several years of failed attempts at casino legislation, the state legislature passed the measure in June 1993. The legislation allowed for ten riverboat licenses to be granted on Lake Michigan and the Ohio River. Each municipality had to approve a riverboat casino with a referendum, and every county, except Lake County, was allowed only one riverboat. Five riverboats

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were approved for Lake Michigan: two in Gary, one each in East Chicago and Hammond, with one location to be determined later. Gary was by far the largest city in the region, which is why it was allocated two riverboats. Ultimately all of the members of the Senate and House of Representatives from Lake County voted in support of the measure. The law authorizing riverboats also required that the first license be given to Gary, and allowed Gary to proceed without holding another referendum, which would be required in the other communities. The rationale expressed for not requiring a second referendum was that Gary voters had already approved casinos in the 1989 advisory referendum, and that the costs associated with another referendum would likely be incurred by the city. Supporters argued that the entire debate about casinos, riverboat or otherwise, originated in Gary in the late 1980s, and so another referendum would be redundant. Even though opponents wanted the city to hold another referendum, there is no evidence that it would have turned out differently than the 1989 vote on the issue. Moreover, the other two older, deindustrialized cities in the region—­East Chicago and Hammond, also in Lake County—­both voted nearly 2–­1 in support of riverboat casinos in referenda in November 1993, indicating broad support in Lake County (Wyman 1993). Although these cities have smaller African American populations than Gary, they are fairly similar in terms of economic characteristics. The casino legislation also created the Indiana Gaming Commission, which would be responsible for granting riverboat licenses and regulating the riverboats once they were in operation. By the end of 1996, the Gaming Commission had received 66 license applications for the 11 available licenses, each of which paid an application fee of $50,000 (Indiana Gaming Commission 1997, 6). Early in the process, the Gaming Commission tentatively approved the first two licenses for riverboats in Gary. One license was owned company run by Don awarded to a regional, African American–­ Barden, and the other license went to Donald Trump’s Hotels and Casino Resorts. The Trump name lent the casino project much more publicity, and helped generate more interest around the region. But the tentative approval depended on successful negotiations with Gary city officials regarding the specifics of the riverboat development projects. In the meantime, disagreements emerged on a range of issues, including several lawsuits involving the riverboat projects, which created delays in negotiations with the city. Since the boats would be docking in the same location, Trump and Barden also had conflicts with each other over land, which

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led the Gaming Commission to threaten both owners with the loss of their licenses unless they could work out their differences. With this threat as an incentive, by September 1995 the two owners had settled their major differences. By this point, the main issue had become the negotiation of the development agreements between the casinos and the City of Gary. In the interim, in November 1995, the city elected its first White mayor in three decades.

Mayor Scott King and the Casino Development Agreements Mayor Thomas Barnes chose not to run for reelection in 1995 because of many scandals involving members of his administration, and several candidates subsequently emerged seeking the office of mayor. Because of the Democratic Party’s dominance in the city, the election would be decided, in effect, during the May 1995 Democratic Party primary. Scott King, a White local attorney who had first run for mayor in the 1991 Democratic primary, emerged as a major contender in 1995. In 1991, King finished third behind only Barnes and former mayor Richard Hatcher. In the 1995 race, however, King emerged victorious in the six-­way Democratic primary by gaining a solid 44 percent plurality of the vote, and finished 12 points ahead of the next closest challenger. All five of King’s opponents were African American, and because the city was roughly 81 percent African American at the time, it is clear that many voters crossed racial lines to support his candidacy. By the mid-­1990s, King was a known entity in local politics, and had established contacts with many prominent citizens inside and outside of the Democratic Party. Although Mayor Barnes was more publicly visible as a proponent of casinos early in the process, in the late 1980s and early 1990s King had “become involved in a number of grass roots civic activities such as the attempts to revive Gary’s economy by the development of marinas and gambling casinos” (Catlin 2002, 2). In the 1991 election he was backed by a coalition of white liberals, younger disaffected blacks, and the police and fire unions. During the 1995 campaign, King emphasized the city’s high property tax rate, which he argued was detrimental to economic development (Beler and Inkley 1995). King also received the endorsement of the Post Tribune, the city’s major daily newspaper. Further, there was a “desire on the part of the

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electorate for change regardless of race” (Catlin 2002, 3), which led many Blacks to vote for King. Gary had declined for several decades, and a sizeable number of local residents and institutions thought that a new, qualified candidate from outside the political system should be given a chance to move the city in a positive direction. Thus a vote for King was a vote for change, and one of the new mayor’s first important tasks was to advocate for the city in negotiations with the casino developers. Mayor King had been a public supporter of casinos in Gary since the 1991 mayoral primary. By the time he was elected in 1995, the plans for two riverboat casinos were well under way. The last major hurdle to cross was negotiating the development agreements with the two riverboat operators, and negotiations with the two corporations intensified in early 1996. The law authorizing riverboat casinos stated that the intent of the legislation was “to benefit the people of Indiana by promoting tourism and assisting economic development” (Indiana Code 1993). The development agreements would establish the specific responsibilities of the casino operators, and the process of negotiating these agreements was the city’s chance to obtain whatever concessions it could from casino owners. It is important to note that the development agreements would not be legally binding. In other words, Gary had no legal recourse if the goals outlined in the agreement were not reached. Ultimately, these were political documents. However, the riverboat operators had significant incentives to appease local officials in their negotiations and make every effort to satisfy the goals laid out in these agreements. The Indiana Gaming Commission is responsible for issuing and renewing riverboat licenses, and has the authority to terminate the licenses of riverboat operators that were not at least attempting to satisfy the goals laid out in the development agreements. The two casino owners received licenses in a competitive bidding process involving numerous corporations, and so presumably the riverboat operators were entering negotiations with Gary officials with concrete, tangible plans as to how their casinos would benefit the city and local residents. And it was clearly in the interests of Gary officials to gain as many concessions as possible from the casino operators. Development agreements that were not favorable to the city would likely doom King’s administration from the start. Negotiations between the two casino owners and the city proceeded during the early spring of 1996, and Gary officials reached an agreement with Barden regarding the Majestic Star Casino on March 26, 1996. The fourteen-­ page agreement had numerous provisions, including the developer’s mone-

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tary and nonmonetary obligations to the city. The monetary obligations included several specific infrastructure improvements as well as payments to the city. The total monetary obligations came to $116 million (Development Agreement Between the City of Gary and the Majestic Star Casino, LLC 1996, 4). Whereas some of these obligations would be shared by the joint venture formed by Barden and Trump, Buffington Harbor Riverboats, LLC, the two riverboats remained separate legal entities. The agreement also stated that the developer would pay the city 3 percent of its adjusted gross receipts for each month the riverboat was in operation (5), which was also a requirement spelled out in the original license granted by the Gaming Commission. The major sticking point in negotiations with both developers, however, involved the number of jobs that would be provided to city and regional residents. Urban scholars have long argued that city officials all too frequently move forward on development schemes that provide few decent jobs for local residents, and many research projects have documented this pattern. Thus there was significant pressure on the city to make sure that the riverboat project tangibly benefitted as many local residents as possible. In the end, the City’s agreement with Barden stated that the developer “shall endeavor to create 800 new full-­time jobs in connection with the Project,” and “shall have as a goal and endeavor to fill sixty-­seven percent (67%) of such jobs with Gary residents and ninety (90%) of such jobs with residents of Lake County” (Development Agreement Between the City of Gary and the Majestic Star Casino, LLC 1996, 7). The agreement went on to state that the developer “shall have as a goal and shall endeavor to employ a permanent workforce comprised of seventy percent (70%) from racial minority groups and fifty-­two percent (52%) females” (7). Majestic Star also pledged to “maximize the use of unionized labor” for construction related to the casino project, and emphasized the use of “minority-­owned (‘MBE’) and women-­owned (‘WBE’) business enterprises” in contracting decisions with local vendors, “provided that such suppliers and vendors can provide quality goods and/or services at competitive prices” (8). Unlike the investment and hiring goals, the specifics of union labor and contracting decisions were vague and did not provide any numerical goals related to these matters. Gary officials also negotiated a section spelling out specific actions regarding payments to the city that the developer would have to make in the event of abandoning the project after receiving the final license (11–­12). The agreement between Gary and the Trump Corporation took longer to negotiate, and a final agreement was not reached until a little over a month

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before the riverboats were scheduled to open. The Trump agreement was similar to the Majestic Star agreement in several ways. Trump committed to several investments in and around the riverboat site, amounting to $153 million in total. Although this figure sounds rather large, it included $46 million for the cost of the boat itself and related equipment. Trump also pledged to construct a 300-­room hotel, “commensurate with an ‘AAA ***’ (three diamond),” which was to include restaurants. The agreement stated that the hotel construction would commence no later than September 15, 1997, over a year after the casino opened (Development Agreement Between the City of Gary and Trump Indiana, Inc. 1996, 4). The employment targets for Trump were identical to those outlined in the Majestic Star agreement. The agreement stated that the casino would attempt to hire 67 percent of its employees from Gary and 90 percent from Lake County and that 70 of its employees would be minorities and 52 percent would be women (Development Agreement Between the City of Gary and Trump Indiana, Inc. 1996, 9). The Trump agreement was also similar in terms of the use of unionized labor and local vendors, as well as monetary damages for abandonment (9, 12–­13). In addition, the agreement stated that the developer would “endeavor to create” 1,200 new full-­time jobs (9). The King administration repeatedly made the argument that it drove a hard bargain with the casino owners, and the fact that negotiations dragged on for several weeks lent some credibility to this position. Overall, the agreements were about as favorable to the city as could be expected. The Gaming Commission approved the final licenses for the two corporations on June 3, and the riverboats opened on time on June 10, 1996.

The Impact of the Riverboat Casinos on the Gary Region The significance of tourism for local governments, including gambling operations, has received increasing attention among urban scholars in recent years (Judd 2003; Judd and Fainstein 1999). Further, the precise economic and social impacts of gambling on local communities have been the subject of considerable debate. As Felsenstein and his colleagues have succinctly stated, “Like many other forms of economic activity, gambling generates both negative and positive effects” (Felsenstein, Littlepage, and Klacik 1999, 411). Researchers have used a range of methodologies to examine the impact of casinos on local communities, some of which employ sophisticated statis-

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tical and modeling techniques. Earl Grinols, a professor of Economics at Baylor University, has argued consistently that the costs of casino gambling outweigh the benefits (Grinols 2003, 2004; Grinols and Omorov 1996–­97). Grinols’s work emphasizes the many negative externalities of gambling in comparison to the revenue raised for governments. He has argued that equating the creation of jobs with economic development is misleading: “Jobs are not a benefit, and more jobs in an area may even be harmful to existing residents” (Grinols 2003, 71). Although Grinols makes a persuasive argument about common misconceptions about and misuse of the term “economic development,” it is unlikely that very many Gary residents would agree with the claim that jobs are not a benefit. Much of the literature, however, is characterized by cautious conclusions pointing toward the net benefits outweighing the costs of casinos (Borden, Fletcher, and Harris 1996; Gazel, Thomson, and Rickman 1995; Rephann et al. 1997; Stokowski 1999a, 1999b). In an elaborate study based on data from 77 counties with casinos, Rephann and his colleagues found that while casinos certainly have some negative effects, they represent “an attractive development strategy for economically lagging counties” (Rephann et al. 1997, 181). In their study of the impact of casinos on the Missouri economy, Leven and his colleagues concluded that “significant additions to the Missouri economy have been achieved” (Leven, Phares, and Louishomme 1998, 75). In their overview of gambling in the United States, Barker and Britz have concluded: “While it may intuitively appear that the introduction of gambling increases all sorts of social ills, empirical research does not support the majority of such presumptions” (2000, 163). Although hardly a ringing endorsement of gambling, Barker and Britz’s conclusion appears to be a more accurate description of the impact of casinos in Gary. Advanced statistical analyses designed to assess the impact of the two riverboats on Gary are beyond the scope of this book. Rather, I rely on the work of others along with an analysis of aggregate economic data before and after the introduction of the riverboats, interviews, and personal observations to explore the impact of the riverboats. Reports provided to the Indiana Gaming Commission by the Center for Urban Policy and the Environment of Indiana University’s School of Public and Environmental Affairs in Indianapolis are an important source utilized in this analysis. These reports are comprehensive and rely on numerous different methodologies in order to assess the impact of the riverboats. If judged in terms of the numbers of paying customers, the casinos have

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been successful. Table 6.1 lays out the total number of paid admissions at both of the casinos in each of their first several years of operation. Being located about 30 miles outside of the city of Chicago has certainly helped the casinos in terms of attendance. In interviews with 262 riverboat patrons in March 2001, researchers found that 58 percent were from outside Indiana, 18 percent from places in Indiana other than Lake County, and only 7 percent from Gary and 17 percent from Lake County (Klacik et al. 2001a, 4). The vast majority of riverboat attendees are not Gary residents.2 (The Trump riverboat was sold to the parent company of Majestic Star in 2005 and renamed Majestic Star II). When looking at the original employment goals, the original Majestic Star riverboat has exceeded goals in some categories, while falling short in others. Table 6.2 outlines the casino’s employment numbers from the year after it opened through 2010. The figures for the employment at Majestic Star II (Trump) are similar, and are presented in table 6.3. Although both casinos have done fairly well in terms of hiring women and minorities, the main area they have fallen short is the percentage of the workforce that lives in Gary. Both developers signed agreements that specified that two-­thirds of their employees would be Gary residents, but both are well under this goal according to recent data. In an attempt to better understand employment patterns at the casinos TABLE 6.1. Gary Riverboat Casino Attendance, 1996–­2010, in Millions Year

Majestic Star

Majestic Star II (Trump)

1997 1.7 1998 1.8 1999 1.8 2000 1.7 2001 1.7 2002 1.8 2003 1.7 2004 1.8 2005 1.8 2006 1.7 2007 1.6 2008 1.6 2009 1.4 2010 1.4

2.2 1.8 2.0 1.9 1.7 1.8 1.6 1.8 1.7 1.7 1.6 1.6 1.4 1.4

Source: Indiana Gaming Commission 1997–­2011.

TABLE 6.2. Majestic Star I Casino Employment, by Gender, Race, and Place of Residence, Select Years, 1997–­2010 Year

Women

Minority

Gary

Lake County

Goals 52% 70% 67% 90% 55% 60% 46% 71% 1997 1998 58% 65% 48% 77% 1999 65% 70% 49% 80% 2000 60% 73% 46% 84% 2003 58% 70% 37% 81% a 2005 69% a 80% a 2006 75% a 85% a 2007 75% a 75% a 2008 75% a 78% a 2009 74% a 78% a 2010 73% a 77% Sources: Indiana Gaming Commission 2005–­11; Klacik et al. 2001a; Klacik et al. 2004a; Development Agreement between the City [of Gary] and the Majestic Star Casino, LLC 1996. a Data not provided in reports.

TABLE 6.3. Majestic Star II (formerly Trump) Casino Employment, by Gender, Race, and Place of Residence, Select Years, 1997–­2010 Year

Women

Minority

Gary

Lake County

Goals 52% 70% 67% 90% 1997 55% 63% 44% 73% 1998 56% 64% 45% 78% a 1999 60% 69% 79% a 2000 61% 70% 82% 2003 58% 69% 44% 82% a a a a 2004 a 2005 68% a 77% a 2006 72% a 80% a 2007 74% a 79% a 2008 74% a 79% a 2009 74% a 80% a 2010 74% a 80% Source: Indiana Gaming Commission 2005–­11; Klacik et al. 2001b; Klacik et al. 2004b; Development Agreement between the City of Gary and Trump Indiana, LLC 1996. a Data not provided in reports.

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researchers surveyed employees at both establishments in early 2004, asking questions about their reasons for taking the job, length of employment, wages, previous work experience and education, and so forth. A significant percentage of employees were either working part-­time or unemployed before their employment at the casinos. At the Trump casino, 12 percent worked part-­time and 29 percent were unemployed prior to working at the casino (Klacik et al. 2004b, 27), while the same figures for Majestic Star workers were 15 and 35 percent, respectively (Klacik et al. 2004a, 29). Respondents were also asked the reason they took a job at one of the riverboats, and responses were divided into five possible categories: closer to home, better benefits, advancement opportunity, better hours, and more money. For both sets of employees, more money was by far the most common response for taking the job at the casino. Of all the respondents who answered this question, 40 percent of Trump employees and 54 percent of Majestic Star employees said higher wages was their main reason for taking the job. The second most common reason expressed by employees at Majestic Star was improved benefits (10%), whereas at Trump it was advancement opportunity (21%) (Klacik et al. 2004a, 30; 2004b, 32). The riverboat jobs represented an improvement in employment prospects for many local residents. Overall, the current employment picture at the two riverboats is somewhat of a mixed bag. When Don Barden bought the Trump Casino in December 2005, as shown in table 6.4, the total number of jobs provided by the two boats was reduced by a sizeable margin. When commenting on the acquisition of the Trump riverboat, Barden remarked that his firm “would immediately benefit from combining the two operations by realizing significant efficiencies” (Casino City Times 2005), and the numbers in table 6.4 show that Barden made good on his promise. Yet as also shown in table 6.4, the total number of employees at the boats has increased somewhat since bottoming out in 2006. And labor unions have made progress in terms of organizing workers at the two riverboats, which sets the gaming industry apart from much of the retail sector in the United States. As of 2005, nearly one-­fifth of the employees of the two riverboats had been unionized (Erler 2005). However, one cannot help but notice the loss of over eight hundred jobs on the boats since their early years of operation. Although it is difficult to pinpoint the precise effects of the riverboat casinos on the overall economy of Gary and Lake County, looking at aggregate data before and after the introduction of the two riverboats can shed some light on the relationship between the casinos and local economic condi-

179

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tions. By 2005, the two casinos had become the fourth largest employer in the city, behind only the Gary Works steel plant, the Gary schools, and Methodist Hospital (Gary Chamber of Commerce 2005). If opponents were correct in their predictions about the negative economic effects, aggregate data would likely reveal some of these negative impacts after the introduction of the riverboats in the mid-­1990s. The data, however, do not illustrate an adverse economic impact overall. Between 1993 and 2003, the poverty rate in Gary fell 20 percent, from 35 to 28 percent. This was a larger decrease than in the United States as a whole during the same period, in which the number of individuals living in poverty fell from 15.1 percent to 12.5 percent, a 17.2 percent overall decline. In 1990, the city’s unemployment rate was 17 percent, and by 2000 had fallen slightly to 15 percent (U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development 2007). As table 6.5 illustrates, unemployment in Lake County initially declined after the introduction of the casinos, began to increase in 2000, began to decline slightly again in 2003, and increased again during the nation’s major economic recession that began in 2008, roughly 13 years after the introduction of the riverboats. While these numbers certainly do not indicate an overall economic recovery, they do illustrate that the riverboats did not precipitate an overall decline in the city and regional economy. The reports that have been done for the State Gaming Commission by Indiana University are extremely thorough in assessing the economic and TABLE 6.4. Total Jobs at Majestic Star I and Majestic Star II (formerly Trump) Casinos, Select Years, 1997–­2010 Year

Majestic Star

Majestic Star II

1997 1,132 1998 1,051 1999 1,058 2000 1,259 2001 1,333 2003 1,148 2005 960 2006 654 2007 1,140 2008 1,039 2009 964 2010 960

Total

1,073 2,205 1,280 2,331 1,261 2,319 1,234 2,493 1,234 2,567 970 2,118 895 1,855 626 1,280 649 1,789 544 1,583 417 1,381 389 1,349

Source: Indiana Gaming Commission 1997–­2011.

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fiscal impacts of the riverboats on their respective communities. This is only part of the story, however, as gambling can have a range of negative social effects, including adverse effects on the family, personal bankruptcies, alcohol and drug abuse, and crime. In 2006, an extensive report was completed for the Gaming Commission by Policy Analytics, an economic and public finance research firm. The 89-­page report is comprehensive, and relies heavily on the research of a variety of scholars to develop its arguments and conclusions. This report used two different methods to calculate the total costs of riverboat casinos for the state of Indiana resulting from bankruptcy, crime, unemployment and loss of productivity, poor health, and family problems such as divorce. One of the methods used in the study was pioneered by Grinols, while the other method was based on research by the National Opinion Research Center. Although the report did not assess the costs of riverboats on individual communities, the findings can provide some insight into how the possible social costs compare with the economic and fiscal benefits of riverboat casinos.

TABLE 6.5. Unemployment in Lake County, 1993–­2009 Year Rate 1993 7.7% 1994 7.2% 1995 6.6% 1996 5.7% 1997 4.5% 1998 4.2% 1999 4.3% 2000 4.6% 2001 5.3% 2002 6.8% 2003 6.0% 2004 6.3% 2005 6.2% 2006 5.8% 2007 5.0% 2008 6.2% 2009 10.5% Source: Klacik et al. 2004b; STATS Indiana 2011; U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development 2007.

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According to the Policy Analytics report, the total net costs for the state based on the Grinols’ approach were about $99 million, while the same figure based on the National Opinion Research Center valuation was roughly $76 million. The total benefits, however, were approximately $816 million, which added up to a range of between $717 million and $740 million net benefit for the state (Policy Analytics 2006, 2). Despite the significant net benefits for the state, the report did find several specific costs that ultimately would be incurred by local communities. For example, the report found that over 18,000 problem and pathological gamblers in Indiana could be attributed to the introduction of riverboat casinos (3). Further, the report also found that roughly “8 percent of crime in counties containing casinos is attributable to the presence of casinos” (4). In addition, the presence of casinos can explain 1.4 percent of the total bankruptcies statewide, and Policy Analytics calculated the range of costs associated with job loss, unemployment, heath care, mental health, gambling treatment, and divorce at between $19 million and $42 million (4). The location of the casinos was also a central component in the analysis. For example, the Policy Analytics study found that “proximity to casinos results in higher rates of problem gambling, bankruptcy, and crime” (Policy Analytics 2006, 5). But the fact that the riverboats are all located near the borders of the state was also an important part of the analysis. The report stressed what the Gaming Commission studies have found several times—­ that a majority of riverboat patrons come from out of state: “The location of Indiana’s casinos at or near the borders of the state serves both to increase the benefits, by importing taxes from out-­of-­state players; and acts to decrease the social costs by exporting the problems associated with out-­of-­state gamblers” (ibid.). Thus what benefits Indiana could become a cost for Illinois, Michigan, Ohio, and Kentucky. Increasing revenues for local governments is one of the most frequently discussed examples of the benefits of casinos. The 1999 National Gambling Impact Study Commission solicited the input of several mayors in cities in which casinos were located, including Gary mayor Scott King. The Commission found that local elected officials consistently expressed the view that casinos provided increased revenues for local governments which allowed them to initiate a variety of local improvement projects (National Gambling Impact Commission 1999, 7–­ 5). From the time the riverboats opened through 2003, the two Gary riverboats paid over $92 million in taxes and incentive payments to the city (Klacik et al. 2004a, 17). The city raises reve-

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nues from the casinos in gaming, admissions, and property taxes, with the remainder of taxes collected going to county and state governments. In the license renewal studies for both casinos, researchers estimated how Gary has allocated these funds based on earlier data, and table 6.6 outlines these figures through 2003. Trump pledged to provide the city with several incentive payments involving various infrastructure improvements and by the end of 2000 had provided over $33 million in such payments (Klacik et al. 2004b, 21). Through 2000, Majestic Star had paid the city roughly $40 million in gaming, admissions, and property taxes, as well as approximately $15 million in incentive payments (Klacik et al. 2001a, 20, 27). These monies allowed local government to undertake several small-­scale yet significant public works projects that likely would have been difficult to accomplish otherwise.3

Mayor King’s Corporate Regime and Ballpark Construction Although the original development agreement stated that Trump would finance the renovation of the abandoned downtown Sheraton Hotel and a new police substation, Trump dragged his feet on hotel renovation for several years after the riverboats had been open. As a result, the King administration decided to reallocate these funds to cover the increasing costs of the new Gary U.S. Steel Yard minor league baseball stadium and related roadway improvements (Klacik et al. 2001b, 21). This move was supported by the construction interests associated with the stadium development, but had little support elsewhere. The stadium’s total cost topped $40 million, and, in focus groups, researchers found that many residents were not happy with Mayor

TABLE 6.6. Estimated Expenditures of Casino Revenues by Gary through 2003 Expenditure

Amount Spent (in millions)

Equipment $12.9 Construction $24.9 City Programs $10.1 Parks/Landscaping $6.4 Infrastructure $37.8 Source: Klacik et al. 2004b.

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King’s unilateral decision to divert casino funds for the construction of the ballpark (Klacik et al. 2004b, 24). The lack of public approval for this use of casino funds was also confirmed by the author’s interviews and informal conversations with residents. King’s corporate regime, apparently feeling that it could move ahead with ballpark construction without fear of retribution, did not attempt to involve the city council or the public in this decision. Rather, the move was undemocratic, by all accounts made through the “informal arrangements” identified by regime theory, with nothing resembling public processes or political coalition building. Ballpark construction was unpopular with local residents because of the nominal economic impact that the ballpark would have on the city. The ballpark is a visible sign to those passing by on the interstate of an impressive new structure built in Gary. In this way, the construction of the Steel Yard stadium was more of a public relations move than actual economic development. Other than the restaurant that was built as part of the stadium, however, the ballpark has not generated any secondary development in the area. Mark Rosentraub’s definitive work on the impact of sports on local economies states: “Sports may attract a great deal of attention, but they are not an economic engine, nor will they generate a great number of jobs, and they will not revitalize a city’s economy” (Rosentraub 1997, 451). This assessment is profoundly accurate in the case of Gary, particularly in light of the fact that the team that uses the stadium is a Single A, minor league baseball team, and the stadium only holds 6,000 people. The ballpark brings in residents who live elsewhere in northwest Indiana for a limited number of sporting events each year, but unlike the casinos it cannot create significant numbers of jobs or increased revenues for the city. This discussion is not intended to denigrate the positive psychological impact of the construction of a fairly large new building in downtown Gary. But rather it is to say that city residents will not gain much economically from the stadium, and being aware of this, Gary residents expressed their displeasure with King’s unilateral decision to move forward with it. The unpopularity of Mayor King’s tactics with the ballpark substantially increased the tension between him and the city council, and contributed to the council’s failure to back some of his other economic development proposals. It also contributed to his estrangement, and departure, from the local Democratic Party and eventual resignation from the mayor’s office in 2006. King’s fate was rather remarkable considering he had been reelected quite easily in 1999 and 2003.

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The contrast between the politics of the ballpark and the riverboat casinos is striking. There was an extended public debate about casinos in Indiana that took place in many communities statewide over a period of several years. The media devoted considerable coverage to the pros and cons of the various proposals, and the legislature heard testimony on the issue from a variety of parties. The use of casino revenues for the construction of the Steel Yard stadium, on the other hand, was initiated by Mayor King, with formal input from a very limited number of individuals. Neither the development agreement nor state law precluded the mayor from diverting funds for another project, which essentially gave him the legal authority to proceed. Yet King paid a political price, and the ballpark episode was the beginning of the end of a once very popular mayor’s time in office.

Conclusion The 1989 casino referendum results, subsequent election results of officials active on the casino issue, anecdotal public opinion assessments, and focus groups performed by the researchers from Indiana University all indicate that riverboat casinos have had the support of the majority of city residents. The National Gambling Impact Study Commission noted the public support and sanctioning of the recent wave of commercial casinos in the United States: “The public has voted either by a statewide referendum and/or local option election for the establishment or continued operation of commercial casino gambling in 9 of 11 states where commercial casinos are permitted” (National Gambling Impact Study Commission 1999, 1–­4). And public opinion does not appear to be primarily influenced by the money spent by casino supporters. Even though casino opponents were outspent by a ratio of nearly 10:1, Florida voters rejected casinos in 1994 by a margin of nearly 24 percentage points (Pierce and Miller 2004, 123). Focus groups reported in the casinos’ eight-­year license renewal applications illustrate that even though many Gary residents have criticisms of the riverboats, overall they seem pleased with their impact. Researchers conducted focus groups with Gary community leaders, local business leaders, and social service providers from Lake County. The focus groups included individuals in a range of occupations in a position to know about the effects of the casinos on the community. Participants discussed several positive effects of riverboats, including the “thousands of well paying jobs with good

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benefits,” in addition to construction jobs, and increased revenues for local governments. In addition, focus group participants said the riverboats were “good corporate citizens”; provided a “safe, comfortable gathering place for seniors in the community”; increased tourism; and had a “positive environmental impact on the lakefront” (Klacik et al. 2004b, 23). Some of the negative effects of the riverboats mentioned in the focus groups included the criticism that “small businesses have not seen the positive spin-­offs” anticipated; the increasing prevalence of bankruptcies, home foreclosures, pawnshops, and payday loan businesses; the misperception of state legislators that the riverboats have provided local government with “an abundance of funds”; the lack of coordinated regional planning for a long-­term strategy for the lakefront; and, as already noted, the frustration with Mayor King for reallocating the riverboat funds for the baseball stadium without the approval of the city council or the voters (23, 24). Yet none of the criticisms mentioned in the focus groups suggested that the riverboats have had a negative aggregate effect on the local economy. Rather, the major criticism was that they have not assisted small businesses to the degree anticipated. And the argument that the city and region lack any sort of coordinated approach to lakefront planning has little to do with the effects of the riverboats at all. Rather, this pattern reflects the history and political culture of the United States in which land use planning is a decentralized governmental function. Further, the anger directed at the mayor for unilaterally shifting casino revenue is much more of a criticism of King’s political tactics and this specific policy choice than of the riverboats themselves. Election results are another indicator that the riverboat casinos were a popular idea among Gary residents. In 1999, Mayor King was easily reelected. He received nearly 70 percent of the vote in a six-­candidate Democratic mayoral primary, despite facing competition from a prominent African American state representative in a racially charged campaign. King went on to win the general election unopposed, without even token Republican opposition. Allies of King won a 5–­4 majority on the city council as well. King benefited from the fact that the city had reversed its $7 million deficit from 1994 to a $17 million surplus in 1997, which was publicized in April 1999 when Gary released its first financial report since the mid-­1980s (Carroll 1999). At least some of this surplus can be attributed to the revenue generated from the casinos. King was again reelected in 2003, but faced increasing criticism shortly thereafter. In late 2003, federal officials announced they were investigating several city officials, including King’s closest political ally and campaign ad-

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viser. In 2004, local property taxes increased significantly as a result of changes in Indiana tax law. In addition, the cost overruns associated with the construction of the stadium and the resulting diversion of casino funds for the stadium caused increasing political problems for the mayor. In 2005, King officially left the Democratic Party and declared himself an independent after state Democratic Party officials selected one of his main rivals to be the Lake County Democratic Party chair. And then in March of 2006, King resigned from the mayor’s office, citing his desire to go back to the private sector in order to increase his salary so that he would be better able to pay for his children’s college educations. A number of factors led to his declining popularity, including his use of the casino funds for the stadium construction. This chapter is not intended to be any sort of endorsement of gambling in general or of casinos as the best approach to economic development in depressed cities such as Gary (or in any type of city, for that matter). Rather, my purpose has been to assess the context of the implementation of riverboat casinos in the city in the 1990s, including the level of public support for this proposal and the riverboats’ impact on the city and regional economy. Since the original introduction of the boats, the State of Indiana has authorized the creation of other types of land-­based casinos elsewhere in the state, but Gary remains the only location of two riverboats. When one considers the economic context within which the casinos were adopted, public support appears entirely rational. But it is also important to remember that casinos have been popular across the country, in many different types of states and communities, and therefore public support for the riverboats in Gary was not simply a function of the city’s economic condition. To suggest that the casinos had the support of the public, however, is not the same as concluding that the idea emerged from the grass roots. Few major policy prescriptions develop among common citizens. Rather, the idea largely resulted from the influence of the actions of the federal government and other Midwestern states, all of which occurred within the context of a city facing substantial economic decline. Yet with the exception of opposition rooted mainly in a handful of local religious congregations, the fact that all major groups and elected officials supported the introduction of casinos meant that the real debate about the issue was in Indianapolis, not in Gary. It is also important to note, however, that the riverboats are falling well short in terms of the number of Gary residents they employ. Data from 2008 show little improvement in this area, as only 37 and 39 percent, respectively, of the two casinos’ employees lived in Gary.4 Local and state officials should

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strongly encourage Barden, who now owns both riverboats, to make more of an effort to reach the goals outlined in the original development agreements with the city. In light of the many other corporations that would immediately seek one of the two riverboat licenses awarded to Gary should one become available, this type of political pressure could be enough to get the riverboats to make more of a concerted effort to hire a greater number of city residents. Is Gary better off with the riverboats than without? On balance, it seems that the city is somewhat better off economically with the casinos. Certainly the jobs and revenues from riverboat gambling cannot replace the wealth generated by manufacturing, for either employees themselves or for the city and region as a whole. Yet in an extremely depressed place such as Gary, which has been effectively abandoned by industry, higher levels of government, and the political process, any sort of economic development is essential, and riverboat casinos were a fairly decent option at a time when there seemed to be few options available. In the end, the riverboats have had a modestly positive impact on patterns of inequality in the city. Yet as anyone can readily observe as they exit Interstate 90 and drive south on Broadway, the city’s main north-­south thoroughfare, many more dramatic measures need to be pursued if Gary is ever to come back to a fraction of what it once was.

Chapter 7

Democratic Control in an Impoverished, Segregated Urban School District

This chapter discusses the story of the Gary schools over the last several decades. I highlight the unequal outcomes in the school system that first became apparent with the racial segregation of African American students in the mid-­twentieth century, but have more recently become associated with most schools as a result of the substantial levels of poverty and racial segregation throughout the district. Segregation in the schools first became a political issue in the 1940s, eventually leading to the federal desegregation case in 1963, the dynamics of which revealed the limits of antisegregation sentiment among the city’s White population. The opposition to the intentional segregation of African American students that was expressed in the political process during the 1940s and 1950s clearly did not go so far as to include support for deliberate measures aimed at desegregation. In fact, strong political support for a geographic zone-­based attendance policy in a segregated city effectively guaranteed segregated schools. Despite the objective reality of a heavily segregated district, in 1963, just nine years after Brown v. Board of Edu­ cation and before the wave of successful desegregation lawsuits in other cities, a federal court found that the district’s policies were not in violation of the Constitution. This finding placed the debate over school policy squarely back in the political process. Thus, it was not until the election of Richard Hatcher in 1967 that the mayoral-­appointed school board took steps toward school desegregation. As Gary’s economic decline escalated in the late 1960s and 1970s, the school district became increasingly made up of African American and lower-­income students until it essentially became a one-­race district. In addition to the changing racial composition of the schools was the substan188

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tial decline in the total number of students in the district. By the early 1990s, the district had half as many students as it did at its peak in the late 1960s, with a large majority of those students in poverty. At the same time, with citizens feeling as if school officials were unresponsive, voters overwhelmingly adopted a directly elected school board in 1991. Demographic and economic trends, in combination with the newly elected board, made the process of closing schools, which began in the 1990s, painfully long and complicated. Not until the sanctions of the No Child Left Behind Act for underperforming schools did the district seriously begin to reckon with its massive loss of students in terms of the number of school buildings it operated. More recently, because of the performance of many schools, the number of charter schools has increased, as many parents seek options outside the traditional public school system. Early results of charter schools confirm what a variety of researchers have argued, that they should be considered as only one way to address urban school reform. In sum, today a large majority of the Gary schools continually struggle with academic achievement. While Minneapolis enjoys fairly extensive political support for improving the city’s schools, the context of educational policy making in Gary is quite different. Historically, the local steel industry played a major role in education policy. But despite the fact that the district lists numerous “community partners” on its website, major organized groups such as business organizations and labor unions, with the exception of the teachers’ union, have not been active participants in the educational policy-­making process in recent years. Even though the trend has been toward increasing democratic control in the district, changing the political processes that affect the district has done little to improve educational outcomes for most of Gary’s schoolchildren, within a context of decentralized federalism and extreme economic disadvantage. The underlying dilemma is that the demographic context in which school policy making takes place is frequently not conducive to creating sustained improvement in student academic achievement. Significant changes are necessary, changes that would likely involve authorization from and cooperation with county and state governments. In light of the seemingly intractable demographic patterns of the district, the chapter concludes with a discussion of potential policy options for the Gary schools, most of which revolve around the deliberate deconcentration of low-­income students. Such an approach would necessarily involve expanding the debate about education policy in Gary beyond the city limits.

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Context The Gary schools face the dual obstacles posed by income and racial disadvantage. Lower-­income students face many key obstacles that create barriers for academic achievement as compared to students from more economically advantaged backgrounds (Rothstein 2004). Although economic class is a major predictor of academic success, racial minorities face additional obstacles, which are evident when comparing children of different races but similar economic backgrounds. Richard Rothstein has succinctly articulated the related yet distinct problems posed by poverty and racial minority status for lower-­income African American students: “The black-­white gap is partly the difference between the achievement of all lower-­class and middle-­class students, but there is an additional gap between black and white students even when the blacks and whites come from families with similar incomes” (1). These trends are especially troubling when examining a school district such as Gary. Although most districts have at least some racial and economic diversity among their students, the Gary schools are made up almost entirely of minority students who are disproportionately impoverished. As the city has become increasingly African American and lower income, the demographics of the schools have followed a similar, but even more striking, pattern. By 1990, the district had reached over 98 percent minority enrollment, and by 2005 that number had topped 99 percent, about 1 percent of whom were Hispanic (Indiana Department of Education 2005a). In 1997, the district had approximately 61 percent students in poverty, but by 2005 that number had increased to 71 percent (Indiana Department of Education 2006a). More recent data reveal that the district’s students are roughly 70 percent in poverty and 99 percent minority, 97 percent of whom are African Americans. The Gary Community School Corporation (GCSC) has essentially become a one-­race, economically disadvantaged district.1 Of the district’s 28 schools, 24 have poverty rates in excess of 50 percent (Indiana Department of Education 2008a). These figures give greater urgency to enlarging the policy discussion regarding the Gary schools.

Early Battles over Segregation As quite literally a company town, the Gary schools were established to provide an education for the city’s thousands of steelworkers, a large number of

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whom were immigrants. The school system was set up by William A. Wirt, who was brought to Gary from Bluffton, Indiana, by U.S. Steel. Highly regarded by the executives at the corporation and a committed anticommunist, he established the famous Gary plan for the city’s schools. Rather than creating a narrow curriculum focused on how to fit in on an assembly line, the Gary plan had several dimensions, including speaking, music, and citizenship (Rich 1996, 58). During his tenure, which lasted from 1907 to 1938, the Gary schools “gained the reputation as one of the most progressive school systems in the nation” (58–­59). But progressive is a term that seems appropriate only when discussing teaching methods and curriculum. The schools were run in a top-­down, racist manner, as U.S. Steel dominated school policy making until the mid-­ twentieth century. Further, Wirt’s views on race relations were very much consistent with his surroundings. For example, as the city became more diverse during World War I, reaching approximately 10 percent African American population by 1920, he maintained that “[w]e believe that it is only in justice to the Negro children that they be segregated” (Rich 1996, 59). Such views were illustrated and reinforced by a series of policy decisions that led to the desegregation case of the early 1960s. The issue of segregation in the school system first became a major public debate in the early 1940s. In 1945, there were a series of school strikes organized by White students who refused to attend school with African Americans. The school board maintained that it would not intentionally segregate Black students, and therefore would not give in to the strikers’ demands. At the time, the public was divided on the issue of mandated school segregation. Although many White parents supported segregation and the strikers, a number of residents and institutions, including the CIO, the Post Tribune newspaper, the Gary Bar Association, and many religious congregations opposed legally mandating school segregation (Lane 1978, 232–­39). Eugene Swartz, who backed the board’s policy against intentional segregation, was elected mayor in 1947. This was significant because the school board was still appointed by the mayor, and so it is reasonable to conclude that voters had school policy on their minds during the election, particularly in light of the highly publicized school strikes earlier that year. Reflecting the views of the newly elected Mayor Swartz, the school board then abandoned its policy of official segregation when it changed the district’s attendance policies to a system based entirely on geographic attendance zones. Because of segregated living patterns, however, strict geographic attendance zones necessarily

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meant a segregated district. But, as important, a geographic zone policy also insulated policy makers from the charge of intentionally segregating Black students. Although there was a fair amount of opposition to mandated segregation, this clearly did not translate into support for court-­ordered desegregation. Despite a relatively large minority of African Americans in Gary in the 1950s and early 1960s, the region’s history and culture precluded any serious consideration of school desegregation during the period after the Brown v. Board of Education decision in 1954. The Gary school strikes in the 1940s helped to place the issue of school segregation on the state legislative agenda. Subsequently, the State of Indiana repealed its “separate but equal” law in 1949 and passed a law “expressly prohibiting segregated schools on the basis of race, color, or creed” (Bell v. School City of Gary, Indiana 1963). But the fact that the state had such a law on the books until 1949 is a powerful illustration of the influence of Southern politics on Indiana, and further illustrates the parameters of the debate about school policy in Gary. The board’s abandonment of official segregation and adoption of a strict geographic zone policy constituted a middle ground on the issue, revealing a lack of support for concrete steps toward desegregation, while also reflecting the concerns of Blacks (and a decent number of Whites) who opposed official segregation in the schools. This middle ground policy—­geographic attendance zones—­was then ratified by the federal courts in their refusal to accept the plaintiffs’ arguments regarding intentional school segregation. In light of the fact that state law and school board policy ostensibly did not permit deliberate racial segregation in the schools, local officials presumably believed that they were in full compliance with Brown. And the federal court’s decision legitimated school officials’ actions, despite their contribution to segregation. This middle ground on school policy was similar to the manner in which many other civil rights policies in Gary were handled during this period, when African Americans still constituted a minority of the total population. In 1950, the city established a Fair Employment Practices Commission (FEPC) that was designed to “ensure that ‘no person shall be denied the right to work because of race, color, religion, national origin or ancestry.’” The FEPC was ineffective, however, because of a lack of funds and enforcement powers (Lane 1978, 277). The agency was replaced 15 years after its creation by the Human Relations Commission, dedicated to the cause of open housing. Local open housing legislation failed several times beginning in

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1962 (278–­82), and passed only after a sustained public campaign led by council member and future mayor Richard Hatcher, a man with exceptional political skills and a wide base of support. The city was nearly 50 percent African American by 1965, so minimal White support was necessary to pass the open housing legislation. But with the escalating departure of the White population from the city, the effects of fair housing legislation were necessarily limited.

The School Desegregation Case Gary became an attractive place for African American migrants during the mid-­twentieth century, and by 1960 the city consisted of nearly 40 percent Black residents. Despite the fact that a greater percentage of city residents were African American than in many other Northern cities during this period, Blacks were still discriminated against in many basic areas of life, including employment, housing, and education. The abandonment of the official segregation policy and change to strict geographic attendance zones did little to affect segregation levels in the schools. And persistent racial patterns in the GCSC led to desegregation litigation against the district. The facts of the Gary school desegregation case were not unlike numerous other school desegregation cases in the northern United States. In the early 1960s, African Americans were concentrated in the city’s central district, which led to overcrowding in the three high schools located there (Kaplan 1964, 128). Very few Black residents lived elsewhere in the city, which directly affected district-­wide attendance patterns. By 1961, because of the geographic attendance zone policy as well as continued white flight, 97 percent of Black students attended all–­African American schools (Mohl and Betten 1986, 59). Despite evidence that substantial de facto segregation existed, and that the district had adopted student attendance and transfer policies and initiated school construction projects that significantly influenced racial attendance patterns, in 1963 a federal district court found that the Gary schools were not in violation of the U.S. Constitution (Bell v. School City of Gary, Indiana 1963). The district court relied heavily on the fact that the district no longer had an official policy of segregating students, and basically concluded that any existing segregation was a by-­ product of policies that were not designed to segregate African American students:

194majoritarian cities From a consideration of all the evidence and the record, the Court cannot see that the Board of Education has deliberately or purposely segregated the Gary schools according to race. In the Court’s opinion the plaintiffs have failed to sustain their burden of showing that the School Board had so drawn the boundary lines of the school districts within the Gary school system so as to contain the Negroes in certain districts and the whites in others. (826)

The court’s decision was upheld on appeal. In retrospect, the failure of school desegregation should come as no surprise. The circumstances in Gary were much different than in Minneapolis, which went through court-­ordered desegregation several years later. Gary’s school desegregation case came just nine years after the Brown v. Board of Education ruling. As several scholars have noted, little desegregation occurred in the years between Brown and the passage of the 1964 Civil Rights Act and 1965 Elementary and Secondary Education Act, both of which gave the federal government much more authority to enforce desegregation (Brown 2005; Rosenberg 1993). Plaintiffs outside the South began to file dozens of school desegregation cases later in the 1960s, when the mood of the country had changed. But in 1963, northwest Indiana was not ready for court-­ordered desegregation, particularly in light of the lack of any direct evidence that the express intention of the GCSC was to segregate Black students. A federal judge desegregating schools in Gary in 1963 would have been seen as radical, and may well have been met with significant resistance and noncompliance. The context of desegregation in Minneapolis was different in important ways. The Minneapolis case came nearly ten years later, at a time when court-­ordered desegregation had become the norm throughout much of the country. In addition, the political context in Minneapolis was different in that the citizens of Indiana were less sympathetic to claims of discrimination in general. Despite losing the desegregation case, citizens opposed to de facto segregation in the schools kept up their campaign throughout the 1960s. School segregation came to a head again in 1964, when a group calling itself the Civil Rights Coordinating Committee sponsored a “Freedom Day boycott to protest against de facto segregation” (Rich 1996, 64). This action caused the school board to transfer some African American students to Horace Mann School, which had previously been all-­White. A few years later, two events sparked further debate about the de facto segregation in the schools. First, the Gary Human Relations Commission produced a report that again re-

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vealed the extent of de facto segregation in the city and therefore the school system. The report made eight specific recommendations designed to desegregate and improve education in Gary (64–­65). And then, with the election of Mayor Richard Hatcher in 1967, school policy could be used to more meaningfully address the issue because of the existence of an appointed school board. Hatcher was committed to desegregation of the schools, and his school board appointments took affirmative steps in this direction. The continuing growth of the Black population, which was very nearly 50 percent in 1967, was essential for Hatcher’s victory. In combination with a sufficient number of sympathetic Whites, a majority of Gary residents were now in favor of creating a desegregated school district. While school policy began to change with more African American appointments to the school board, the city’s economic and population decline began to escalate. By 1970, the city had become predominately African American and increasingly lower-­income. As discussed in chapter 2, this was a period during which Merrillville, located just south of the city, drew large numbers of Gary’s downtown and retail establishments as well as citizens. Among other things, White flight to places such as Merrillville was shaped by the presence of a school district possessing an ever-­increasing number of African American students and a mayor committed to using school policy to bring about desegregation. Lacking direct control over the board and losing more control of their community in the wake of economic restructuring, some Gary leaders began informal discussions about creating a directly elected school board.

The Creation of an Elected School Board School boards in the United States were generally appointed by elected executives up until the 1960s, when community control of local institutions began to take hold and demands were made that school boards, particularly in larger districts, become directly accountable to the voters. In more recent years, however, several of the nation’s largest cities have returned to a system in which the mayor is given substantially more authority over the schools, including in many cases the direct appointment of school boards: “Drawing on theories of public administration, analogies to corporate practice, and what has been heralded a proven success led by Chicago’s Mayor Richard M. Daley, more and more school reformers are looking to mayors for leader-

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ship” (Henig and Rich 2004, 4). This trend has been driven by citizens and elected officials who are perpetually frustrated with the performance of city schools, and the apparent inability of elected boards to correct the many problems associated with urban districts. Giving the mayor direct control of the school district, the thinking goes, will better insulate the board from political pressures that make significant reform more difficult to achieve. As Henig and Rich have argued, “the more serious efforts have involved a wholesale transfer of formal decision-­making authority to mayors, usually at the expense of elected school boards” (4). Policy change in Gary and in Indiana generally has tended to be slow and reactive in comparison to many other cities and states, a pattern illustrated in the changes that have occurred affecting the school board. The transformation to an elected board in Gary came much later than in many other urban districts, not occurring until 1991, during the administration of Mayor Thomas Barnes, Hatcher’s successor. This slow transition to an elected board reflected a pattern seen throughout much of Indiana. In 1991, 27 school boards in the state were still appointed by elected officials (Inkley 1991b). What became a major political issue in dozens of cities decades before became an issue in Gary only in the late 1980s, and this delay was not due to a lack of problems in the GCSC. During the 1970s and early 1980s, the schools declined in terms of both enrollment and academic achievement. In 1991, Representative Charlie Brown introduced a bill into the legislature to create an elected school board in Gary, subject to the approval of city voters. Supporters believed that a directly elected board would better represent the interests of city residents in school policy making. Both houses of the state legislature passed the bill overwhelmingly, and the residents of Gary voted on the proposal in the November 1991 election. The measure won easily, as 88 percent of city voters supported the idea of directly electing the school board (Blackwell 1991). The main argument in favor of an elected board, which the vast majority of voters agreed with, was that it would be more accountable to voters, and ultimately more responsive to the problems of the district. Despite the fact that the referendum passed overwhelmingly, many observers have expressed reservations about having an elected school board, thus echoing some of the more recent arguments elsewhere in support of mayoral control. For example, former mayor Hatcher has argued: “When you have a single appointing source, you can vote against the mayor. Now it is just who is the best politician? The five people elected are the best politi-

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cians. They are not the best five board members to make policy judgment. The appointment process gave us the best people. All you have done with an elected board is create another city council to run the schools” (Rich 1996, 131). This point was also echoed by another long-­time observer of Gary politics, who remarked to the author that “in a place like Gary, all you have to be is popular to be on the school board.”2 An analysis of the dynamics of educational policy making since the creation of the elected board shows that the board, in fact, dominates educational policy making, thereby illustrating the significance of the method of selection of its members. In Gary, while school superintendents can attempt to exercise influence, they are clearly subservient to the elected board. If superintendents attempt to initiate any independent decision making, they are brought under control by the board. But as we will see, the elected board has not made for more effective educational policy making. To the contrary, the elected board has had consistent problems keeping superintendents while also putting off the difficult yet inevitable decision of closing schools for many years in the face of sustained public pressure. Most important, there is little evidence that an elected board, despite being more representative of the people’s wishes, has had any significant positive impact on student performance.

The Long Road to Closing Schools As outlined in chapter 2, the population decline in Gary has been dramatic. Today the city is less than half its 1960 peak population of nearly 180,000. And all signs are that the city population will continue to decrease, albeit more slowly, in the near future. Because of such significant population loss, the schools have lost thousands of students, as shown in table 7.1.3 Although the issue had been informally raised several times previously, the debate about closing some of the schools became official in the early 1990s under the leadership of Superintendent James Hawkins. In early 1992, Hawkins established a 31-­member School Facilities Task Force to study the relationship between the district’s budget problems and enrollment (Blackwell 1992). The process of school-­closing recommendations originated with the task force. The members of the task force represented a variety of interests, including parents, organized labor, business, and the religious communities (Gary Community School Corporation 1993).

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The main job of the task force was to look at data, including financial data on school budgets and enrollment figures, and make recommendations. The enrollment data spoke for itself, and everyone was well aware that the district was much smaller than it had been a few decades before and that it was continuing to shrink. The budgetary data was more complicated, but the district’s perpetual fiscal troubles received extensive coverage in the region’s two daily newspapers during this time period. Once the task force issued its recommendations, public hearings would be held to gauge public support for school closings. After the public hearings, the superintendent would make his recommendations to the school board (Gary Community School Corporation 1993). The board’s decision on school closings would be final. Thus there were several points during the process when recommendations could be scaled back or eliminated entirely. Ultimately only the board’s decisions mattered. The task force met 16 times over a four-­month period, and the evidence suggests that it took its work very seriously. In late January 1993 the task force completed its work and presented its findings and recommendations to the superintendent. The major recommendations called for the closing of five elementary schools (Ambridge, Mary McLeod Bethune, William Merritt Chase, Ernie Pyle, and Miller), along with changing school boundaries to make better use of existing facilities and ultimately save the district money (Gary Community School Corporation 1993, 15). Aware that its suggestions

TABLE 7.1. Gary Public Schools, Student Population and Number of Schools, Select Years, 1951–­2005 Year

City Population

Student Population

1951 138,352 1961 178,013 1967 176,170 1978 156,613 1987 127,238 1994 111,086 2005 91,000

22,770 43,090 48,687 35,498 27,673 24,150 16,131

Total Schools 20 44 44 44 44 40 29

Source: Bell v. School City of Gary, Indiana, 213 F. Supp. 819 (1963); Gary Community School Corporation 1980; City of Gary 1967, 1978, 1988; Hayhurst 1994; Indiana Department of Education 2005a; Gary Community School Corporation 2006. Note: Gary population estimates for the years in the table are straight-­line projections based on decennial census data. The number of schools in the district in 2005 includes two charter schools.

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would be unpopular, the task force defended its recommendations: “Most Gary schools are old and extremely difficult to maintain. The Task Force was presented data which indicated that our schools are under-­utilized . . . The Task Force spent considerable time reviewing the use of school facilities and grade level configurations in order to recommend a design plan that will provide for greater efficiency” (15). The underlying assumption of the task force’s recommendations was that the five school closings would be the first step toward closing more schools, which would inevitably happen in subsequent years. Citizens made their views known at a meeting of the school board’s Buildings and Grounds Committee on February 26, 1993, that was filled to near capacity. One parent summarized the feelings of many city residents opposed to closing schools: “For many of our children, the school is the only stable environment they have” (Markley 1993). Parents stressed the positive aspects of the schools, which included their close proximity to the homes of many students who would be affected. Over the next two months, under increasing public pressure, the school closing plan was scaled back. Despite recommendations to close five schools, Superintendent Hawkins asked the board to close only three schools. In April 1993 the board decided to close three elementary schools at the end of the 1993 school year and to hold off on any additional school closings until the superintendent made additional recommendations (Blackwell 1993). It had become clear that closing schools would not be an easy task. One year later, Superintendent Hawkins proposed that twelve Gary schools be closed in two phases, including one high school and 11 elementary schools, along with the opening of four new elementary schools (Hayhurst 1994). This plan was not received favorably by the board, but the superintendent was clearly feeling the pressure of the district’s increasing budgetary problems. Hawkins also emphasized the fact that school closings were not simply a budgetary decision, but also had to do with improving Gary students’ future prospects by closing antiquated schools, modernizing existing ones, and constructing a small number of new schools: “Our schools are old, antiquated and obsolete. They are not adequate to meet the demands of the 21st century with the facilities we have. Maintaining and operating them is grossly expensive” (ibid.). In April 1995, however, the board again delayed school closings after substantial public opposition to any additional school closings was displayed at several public hearings on the issue. The opposition to closing schools ex-

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pressed by many city residents, a large number of whom were parents, contained several common themes. Arguments expressed at public meetings revolved around the fact that the schools, even with declining enrollments, were critical components of the neighborhoods of Gary. Sentimental attachments to various schools were also expressed by many parents and neighborhood residents. In addition, a number of parents expressed the fear that their children would be more likely to encounter crime if they had to travel further to get to school, and in light of the city’s chronic crime problem, this concern was clearly a reasonable one. Another issue that frequently came up in public meetings and discussions was the loss of jobs associated with school closings. Job loss, particularly the high-­quality jobs provided by a public school district in an economically depressed location such as Gary, could be potentially devastating. Early in the debate about school closings, Gary Teachers’ Union president Sandra Irons also expressed the organization’s opposition to the loss of jobs that might be associated with school closings: “We have no control over the decision to close city schools. The only way that we would get involved is if there were jobs that would be affected and I don’t think that many jobs will be affected by school closings” (Blackwell 1992). Because of the provisions of the teachers’ union contract, teachers with seniority at schools that were closed would be able to accept positions elsewhere in the district. The number of jobs associated with urban school districts has consistently been identified by scholars as a major impediment to reform (Henig et al. 1999; Orr 1998). And as table 7.2 indicates, the Gary schools were recently ranked as the second largest employer in the city, with over 3,100 total employees, behind only U.S. Steel (Gary Chamber of Commerce 2005). But as Marion Orr has pointed out in a study of Baltimore, the issue of jobs in urban districts, especially for the African American community, cannot be reduced only to self-­interest: “Although self-­interest is very important, it must be understood that what is happening is more than a small group of selfish elites trying to protect their privileged position. The economic role of the school system, and especially of black professional educators, is significant within the African American community. There is a general sense within Baltimore’s black community that black professional educators have a direct positive social impact on the local community” (Orr 1998, 113). This dynamic appears to have been a factor in Gary also as many who opposed the school closings argued that African American teachers are important role models for the schoolchildren of Gary. Yet at the same time, it is ultimately

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difficult to completely disentangle economic self-­interest from the significance of teachers as role models for Black youth. Clearly the self-­interest of those employed at schools with potential for closure was a factor in the strenuous opposition to closing schools as well. After several years of little movement on the school closing front, the issue came up again in 2003, and shortly thereafter a major school closing plan was again presented to the board. In March 2004, the plan was rejected yet again, however, because of significant public opposition to one part that called for transferring many affected seventh and eighth graders into high schools (Carlson 2004a). A revised version of the plan was then presented to the board that included closing 11 schools, including two high schools. Specific schools were targeted for closing because of their physical condition as well as the academic performance of their students. After numerous people spoke out against the school closings, the board decided to close eight of the 11 schools, and deadlocked on the remaining three, including one of the high schools (Carlson 2004b). The board also initiated construction of three new elementary schools, which would lessen the overall blow of school closings and begin to move the district toward more modern facilities. The poor academic performance of several schools ultimately provided the main justification for the 2004 school closings. The federal government’s No Child Left Behind (NCLB) law, signed into law in early 2002, provides increasingly harsh sanctions for schools that do not make Adequate Yearly Progress (AYP), and nearly all of the schools scheduled to be closed by the 2004 plan had failed to make AYP in the first years of implementation of TABLE 7.2. Ranking of Gary’s Largest Employers, 2005 Employer USS-­USX Corp (Gary Works) Gary Community School Corporation Methodist Hospital City of Gary Trump Indiana (casino) Majestic Star (casino) NIPSCO (utility) U.S. Postal Service Indiana University Northwest Post-­Tribune Publishing Source: Gary Chamber of Commerce 2005.

Total Employees 6,800 3,163 3,081 2,319 1,300 1,300 1,050 730 400 300

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NCLB. Therefore the national law provided the board with more ammunition and political cover when responding to angry parents and citizens about the school closing proposals. The provisions of the NCLB law made the school closing decisions appear much more inevitable. The school board responded to strenuous public opposition to school closings by delaying the inevitable for well over ten years. Critically, although the original committee that recommended school closings contained representatives from many constituencies, including business and labor, with the exception of the teachers’ union no major groups became actively involved in the school closing debate. This lack of group involvement amplified the voices of the many citizens who expressed their opposition to school closings at the many public hearings and in other communications with the district that had occurred since the early 1990s. We cannot now know whether the strenuous opposition to school closings constituted a majority of the city’s population. Yet clearly school board members feared retribution if they went ahead with the original school closing proposals as proposed by the superintendent, which indicates that the opposition was, at a minimum, perceived to be a significant percentage of the participants in the local political process. Long gone were the days where U.S. Steel could essentially dominate local educational policy making behind the scenes. And even the involvement of the teachers’ union on this issue was measured, notwithstanding the fact that several individual teachers were vocal opponents of proposed school closings. In light of the city’s high poverty and crime rates, the more short-­ term arguments expressed by many residents involving students’ travel time to and from school, neighborhood stability, and job loss were predictable and in many ways reasonable reactions to an increasingly difficult set of circumstances, and these arguments had an impact on policy. Despite being able to cite the No Child Left Behind Act as the main rationale for the rather extensive school closing plan of 2004, the school board clearly was not rewarded for its actions. In the May 2004 elections, all four of the school board incumbents seeking reelection were defeated. Voters were motivated by the district’s chronic underperforming schools, including the prospect of sanctions placed on many schools as a result of NCLB, as well as anger about the loss of jobs associated with the school closings. One of the newly elected board members, who campaigned door-­to-­door in order to win her seat, maintained that the “cutting of teacher positions, the closing and consolidation of schools without a comprehensive plan behind it and

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the low I.S.T.E.P. (Indiana Statewide Test for Educational Progress) scores” (Carlson 2004c), were all key factors in the defeat of the board’s incumbents. With the district continuing to shrink, more school closings will occur. However, of late the district has been more focused on meeting the stringent requirements of NCLB and on the increasing popularity of charter schools.

Opting Out: The Introduction of Charter Schools in Gary Like Minneapolis but on a smaller scale, one of the most visible effects of low-­performing schools in Gary has been the increasing popularity of charter schools. Without the option of an open enrollment law, charter schools represent the main public school option for Indiana students seeking to attend a school other than their assigned district school. After Minnesota enacted the nation’s first charter school authorizing law in 1991, many Western and Midwestern states followed shortly in subsequent years, but Indiana did not enact such a law until 2001, when it became the 37th state in the nation to authorize charter schools. In the fall of 2003, Gary’s first two charter schools opened—­the Charter School of the Dunes in the middle-­class, racially diverse Miller neighborhood, and the Thea Bowman Leadership Academy, on the site of a former Catholic school, Sister Thea Bowman Elementary. Many residents had high hopes for the two schools, and both had waiting lists before they opened. The Charter School of the Dunes was created by parents in the Miller neighborhood as a result of their perpetual frustration with the GCSC. Thea Bowman, on the other hand, was created as a result of the closing of an existing Catholic school, and so the infrastructure for the school was in place before it formally opened in 2003. Over the next several years, two more charter schools opened and several others were in the planning stages, including the KIPP (Knowledge Is Power Program) School. The charter schools have all had waiting lists, and parents appear to be very interested in the back to basics approach along with the discipline emphasized at charter schools. Although charter school enrollment in Gary is much smaller than it is in Minneapolis, charters represent another significant reason enrollment in the GCSC continues to decline. Because of the high-­poverty and low performance associated with most Gary public schools, charter schools are likely to become even more

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popular in the future as parents seek out alternative schooling options for their children.

Academic Achievement: Still Well Behind Despite a few examples of educational excellence, and the positive feelings associated with some new charter schools, generally speaking, the Gary schools face tremendous obstacles. With chronically high poverty rates, and within the wider context of economic decline, the schools continue to produce underperforming students. In terms of standardized tests, although the district has improved in comparison to Indiana statewide averages in recent years, the Gary schools remain well behind most other districts. In the 1996–­97 school year, just over 37 percent of the students in the GCSC passed the Indiana Statewide Test for Educational Progress (ISTEP) for English, in comparison to a statewide average of nearly 67 percent (Indiana Department of Education 2006a). More recent data shows that 50 percent of all Gary students have passed the ISTEP English test, in comparison to a statewide district average of approximately 72 percent (Indiana Department of Education 2009a). Results have been similar for math tests. In 1996–­97, over 31 percent of Gary students passed the ISTEP math test, in comparison to a statewide district average of about 62 percent (Indiana Department of Education 2006b). By the 2008–­09 school year, 52 percent of all Gary students had passed the math exam, while districts across Indiana averaged a student passing rate of 75 percent (Indiana Department of Education 2009a). Improvement in both the scores of Gary students and the scores of Indiana students statewide more than likely indicates the changing dynamics of teaching and learning in an era where so much is determined by a school’s performance on exams. In other words, these numbers could well point to the increasingly common practice of “teaching to the test.” And despite the progress for Gary students, there is still a sizeable gap between them and students statewide. The district’s results with respect to compliance with the No Child Left Behind benchmarks clearly demonstrate the hardships associated with high-­ poverty schools. In the current period, only four of the 28 schools in Gary had student poverty rates of less than 50 percent. Of the 23 of these schools for which testing data were available in 2008, only eight made Adequate

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Yearly Progress (AYP) based on the No Child Left Behind standards (Indiana Department of Education 2008b). The academic performance of the first two charter schools shows that they have improved, but are still not on a par with statewide averages. The Charter School of the Dunes showed consistent improvement over its first six years of operation, and reached an average of just over 57 percent of students in all grades passing the English and math ISTEP tests in 2008–­09. After four consecutive years of falling short of NCLB standards, in 2008 the school made AYP in all thirteen categories of measurement (Indiana Department of Education 2009b). The parents and students of the Charter School of the Dunes appear quite satisfied with their choice, and have a solid connection with the faculty and staff of the school. The other original charter school, Thea Bowman Academy, has fared better with respect to standardized tests, with average passage rates for all students in English and math at or above about 60 percent every year since 2006, its third year of operation. These scores illustrate that the school is closer to state averages and well above the averages for the Gary public schools. And in both 2007 and 2008, the school made AYP in all categories (Indiana Department of Education 2009c). It should be noted, however, that the poverty rate for Thea Bowman students, at approximately 50 percent, is much lower than both the poverty rate at the Charter School of the Dunes, which stands at 75 percent, and the poverty rate for the district as a whole, which is 70 percent. The school’s comparatively lower rate of poverty has to be taken into account when considering its academic achievement. Without question, there are other indicators of educational success aside from standardized tests. In the No Child Left Behind era, however, standardized tests are the critical variable used to measure a school’s performance, and so any discussion of educational policy today has to acknowledge this fact. Five other charter schools have opened in the city over the past four years, the success of which will be watched very carefully throughout the city and region. But as a leading scholar recently stated in an in-­depth study of charter schools, “[p]olicy makers need to know that charter schools are neither a panacea nor poison” (Henig 2008, 126). Although charter schools appear to offer a better education for some students, there are a host of variables that shape a particular charter school’s success, including the type of charter sponsor, the background of the students and teachers, the characteristics of the school’s particular location, as well as the ability of government

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to intervene if necessary (126). It would appear unwise, therefore, for the citizens of Gary to believe that charter schools are the solution to the district’s many challenges.

Conclusion The responsiveness of the Gary schools to local sentiment has been apparent for many years. In the years before Brown v. Board of Education, a heated battle developed regarding the district’s intentional segregation policy. In 1947, two years after the election of a mayor opposed to the policy, the appointed board abandoned it in favor of a traditional geographic zone attendance policy. As Lane (1978) and Mohl and Betten (1986) have discussed, however, with the city’s rigid racial living patterns it was evident that a geographic zones school attendance policy would result in segregated schools, which led to a federal desegregation lawsuit against the district in the early 1960s. After losing in the federal courts, desegregation supporters helped to elect the city’s first African American mayor, Richard Hatcher, in 1967, and the mayor appointed board members who worked toward desegregating the district. By this time, the racial composition of the city had been transformed, which not only helped to elect Hatcher but also made desegregation more politically realistic. Yet after several years, city residents became increasingly frustrated with mayors running the GCSC, which led to the creation of an elected school board in 1991, a measure that was overwhelmingly supported by Gary voters. Shortly after the creation of an elected board, public pressure delayed what were essentially inevitable school closings for over ten years. As shown in table 7.1, when the GCSC peaked in the late 1960s with over 48,000 students, it operated 44 schools. In the early 1990s, when the school closing debate began in earnest, the district possessed just over half this number of students, but still operated 40 schools. These numbers are striking, and reveal the incredibly slow pace at which the school closings progressed. Although the district was able to close a small number of schools in the 1990s, it was not until the sanctions imposed by the No Child Left Behind Act that district officials were able to implement more wide-­ranging school closings. The increasingly responsive nature of local educational policy making has not, and I suggest cannot, change the conditions under which students learn. The city still has a high rate of poverty, has lost tens of thousands of

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jobs and residents, and has chronically high crime rates. The corporate community, most notably U.S. Steel, which has merged with a number of other steel corporations and expanded its presence overseas, has essentially become a disinterested party in school policy debates. And Gary does not possess the range of other business or philanthropic organizations that could help to focus attention and resources on the school system. For example, as of early 2010, while the website of the Gary Chamber of Commerce discussed many facets of life in Gary (including transportation, architecture, and arts and culture), neither the Gary schools nor education in general were mentioned at all by the organization. On a daily basis, the city’s business community and local elected officials (with the exception of the school board itself) are understandably focused on economic development and crime control. These facts substantially circumscribe local policy debate and options, and local elections reflect this. Considering the context of the Gary schools, then, major policy action is necessary. Many activists and some scholars have argued for more funding for urban schools for several years. Ever since the publication of Jonathan Kozol’s Savage Inequalities in 1991, much of the debate about school funding has focused on how many of the nation’s poorest urban districts compare with their wealthier neighboring suburban districts. This spawned an extensive debate in the academic literature about the relationship between educational funding and academic achievement.4 Kozol revisited many of the themes more recently in The Shame of the Nation (2005). However powerful Kozol’s work is, it is somewhat misleading in the contemporary period because many states have revised their school funding formulas and have therefore increased spending on high-­poverty districts. Table 7.3 illustrates how the GCSC compares with statewide averages in several major statistics, including student demographics, teachers’ salaries, and per TABLE 7.3. Comparison of Gary Schools and Indiana Statewide Public School District Averages, 2008–­9 Indicators Students in Poverty Minority Students Teacher Salaries Expenditures per Pupil

Gary School District 70% 99% $57,524 $12,663a

Average for All Indiana Districts 40% 25% $49,469 $10,396b

Source: Indiana Department of Education 2009a, 2009d. a Expenditures during 2007–­8 school year. b Average for all public school expenditures per pupil from 2006 to 2008.

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pupil expenditures. The Gary schools have substantially more poverty and are, in effect, completely segregated. Yet the district also spends more per pupil, and its teachers earn significantly more, on average, than other teachers in the state. To be clear, as Kozol has eloquently argued, it is entirely rational for a low-­income district such as Gary to receive and spend more per pupil than economically better-­off districts because of the laundry list of needs that high-­poverty districts have. One could also argue that in order to attract qualified teachers, a district such as Gary has to pay its faculty demonstrably higher salaries simply to have the necessary staff. Thus, spending more public dollars in districts such as the GCSC is, indeed, sound public policy. But one still must face the public perceptions of these numbers when trying to formulate policy options designed to improve student achievement. More important, as discussed previously, it is not at all clear that simply increasing school funding alone will even improve student achievement (University of North Carolina Center for Civil Rights 2005, 6). As a report from the University of Minnesota’s Institute on Race and Poverty affirmed, “[n]or is simply spending more money for segregated schools producing results” (Institute on Race and Poverty 2008, 2). Thus, for both political and policy-­related reasons, relying on increasing school funding as the primary method of improving academic achievement in the GCSC would seem to be misplaced. One education reform that has gained popularity in a handful of the nation’s larger cities is mayoral control of school systems, a subject that has received extensive scholarly attention in recent years (see Chambers 2006; Henig and Rich 2004; Wong et al. 2007). While they do not recommend mayoral control of school systems in all cases, Kenneth Wong and his colleagues conclude that “the first wave of mayoral control has been a success” (Wong et al. 2007, 198). Mayoral control goes against the trend that we have seen in Gary toward making the district more directly accountable to voters. Yet there is also a sense of urgency in Gary with regard to the future of the schools, and so the right leadership could perhaps convince the voters and important constituencies that mayoral control should be tried. With one of the best known cases of mayoral control, Chicago, just a few short miles from Gary, it is also a reform with which many local citizens are already familiar, which could help lay the foundation for a more serious discussion of this policy. Another more substantive reform would be a state takeover of the district. Presumably this would lead to a closer monitoring of how funds are

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spent, and, in the process, begin to improve the district’s day-­to-­day operations. This option is within the realm of the politically possible, and could well be acceptable to a majority of Indiana’s citizens and legislators. Yet even with more direct control, state officials will face the same constraints that local officials face—­educating students in a racially and economically segregated district. More wide-­ranging policies involving the deliberate deconcentration of poverty in the Gary schools need to be considered. The increasing evidence that schools containing high concentrations of poverty are necessarily unequal to schools with less poverty could lend greater political support for policies that intentionally break up high-­poverty schools, including basic open enrollment policies. Currently, Indiana has an extremely restrictive interdistrict open enrollment law, which allows a student to request a transfer from a public school to another public school in a different district only if the student has a legal settlement with their current school, which can result from a variety of educationally adverse situations. And in some cases, parents must still pay tuition at the new school (Education Commission of the States 2008). Thus, reforming the state’s open enrollment law would be a necessary first step in breaking up high-­poverty schools in cities such as Gary. A more far-­reaching reform proposal would involve a deliberate attempt to deconcentrate the poverty of the GCSC. Because of the high rate of poverty throughout the city, this approach would necessarily involve the creation of some sort of county-­or metropolitan-­wide school district, which would ultimately have to be authorized by the Indiana legislature. Restructuring the school district in this manner is a more meaningful reform, albeit the one with the most political obstacles to overcome. A regional school district would provoke monumental opposition from neighboring communities, and it would not be an overnight panacea for the many low-­income students who could attend more mixed-­income schools as a result of this approach. Yet as discussed in chapter 3, there are several successful examples of U.S. school districts that have adopted policies deliberately geared toward deconcentrating poverty, and this approach would be a viable way to address the racial and economic segregation that impedes student achievement in Gary. There are several major obstacles built in to any proposal for a regional school district. First, there is the historically tenuous relationship between the Democratic, African American city of Gary and the Republican-­ dominated state government. Second is the uncomfortable relationship between Gary (as well as the more disadvantaged cities in Lake County such as

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East Chicago and Hammond) and the rest of northwest Indiana. Regional transportation illustrates the fragmentation of the region. Although the South Shore rail line transports thousands of commuters from northwest Indiana into Chicago each day, northwest Indiana does not have any internal transportation system that connects cities within it. And one of the main obstacles to the creation of regional transportation continues to be the racial fears of predominantly White, more prosperous communities. In light of the exceedingly slow progress on regional transportation, it seems apparent that any proposal regarding regional school districts would provoke tremendous opposition. The underlying theme of most of the political discussion in northwest Indiana is that Gary, and its schools, are, to be blunt, beyond hope. This claim is based on two years of living and working in neighboring Porter County, during which I followed the regional media on a consistent basis and had numerous conversations with residents. In these discussions, I was struck by the tone. When the subject of Gary came up, the implicit (and sometimes explicit) assumption seemed to be that the city is totally beyond help. Quite simply, most regional residents appear content to let whatever happens to the city run its course, provided that they do not have to either pay for or directly confront any of Gary’s many problems. As a highly educated, long-­time resident of northwest Indiana matter-­of-­factly said to me, perhaps Gary “should be bulldozed, and they just should start again.”5 But those seeking fundamental changes in the GCSC have the Indiana Constitution on their side. Article 8, Section 1 of the Indiana Constitution affirms the following: “Knowledge and learning, generally diffused throughout a community, being essential to the preservation of a free government; it shall be the duty of the General Assembly to encourage, by all suitable means, moral, intellectual, scientific, and agricultural improvement; and provide, by law, for a general and uniform system of Common Schools, wherein tuition shall be without charge, and equally open to all.” Using this statement as a basis, reformers in Gary and northwest Indiana should press the Indiana legislature to take action consistent with its constitutional mandate. In 1987, school reform advocates withdrew a school funding case after the legislature changed the funding formula to make funding more equitable between districts, and there has been no significant litigation since. But the Sheff case in Connecticut and the Minneapolis NAACP case both illustrate that urban school reform litigation based on state constitutional provisions need not be solely about school funding. Further, within the con-

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text of the many successful adequacy and equity lawsuits in state courts across the country, combined with data from the Gary schools, the Indiana Constitution could provide the basis for a discussion of more substantive school reform. The result would not have to be one county or regional school district; one can envision a vast array of methods of breaking up the concentrated poverty and racial segregation of the Gary schools. Even though litigation alone will not be sufficient to transform the current predicament that the Gary public schools face, it should be considered as one necessary component of a more comprehensive strategy. In sum, the future of the Gary schools needs to be fundamentally addressed now, because ignoring the district and its children will only harm their educational and life chances. Ultimately, we all bear the costs when a measureable number of our fellow citizens are compelled by law to attend chronically underperforming schools.

Chapter 8

Politics, Policy, and Inequality in Urban and Metropolitan America

The conclusion summarizes the major findings of the book and restates the argument. I also discuss implications of my argument in terms of urban policy and politics, and conclude with an analysis of the relationship between democratic processes and inequality in metropolitan America. This book has argued that, in recent years, major decisions made by local officials in Minneapolis and Gary have tended to reflect public opinion, and that popularly adopted decisions have, more often than not, reinforced existing patterns of economic inequality. The model used acknowledges the importance of several contextual variables, including local economic and demographic characteristics, state and federal policies, and interest groups, all of which significantly shape local opinion and the policy-­making process. Despite all of these other variables, local officials in every locality have choices about what policies to pursue and what policies not to pursue. And because of the nature of contemporary local political processes and communications, self-­interested local officials are increasingly aware of their constituents’ preferences on higher-­profile issues, which often leads them to act in ways that correspond to these preferences. Yet majoritarian local political processes pose tremendous challenges for those interested in meaningfully addressing economic and racial inequalities. The fact that some decisions in the two cities were supported by absolute majorities is clear because contemporaneous public opinion polls document this. In several instances, decisions were supported by at least those active in the political process as evidenced by the results of initiatives, referenda, and elections. In still other cases, local officials responded to what were very vocal minorities of the citizenry who expressed strongly held views at public 212

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meetings and the like. These types of citizens are not necessarily representative of wider patterns in public opinion. However, in combination with other methods, one can frequently deduce that such sentiment is more broadly held than a small number of outspoken, active citizens. For example, as I discussed in chapter 7, in the elections immediately following the first significant round of school closings adopted by the Gary school board, all incumbents lost their bids for reelection, indicating that opposition to school closings was held by more than those who attended several public meetings on the matter. This assertion is further supported by the objectively large role that the school district plays in the local economy, which many local citizens would rationally want to preserve. In addition, the resident surveys in Minneapolis and the reports issued by the Indiana Gaming Commission shed considerable light on many of the policy areas I have explored in detail. To recount one example: when R. T. Rybak was first elected, only 40 percent of Minneapolis residents were satisfied with the city’s affordable housing policy. Several years later, after the city council and Rybak adopted a modest Affordable Housing Trust Fund, roughly two-­thirds of residents were satisfied with affordable housing policy, which clearly showed most residents’ satisfaction with this rather limited effort. Considering the characteristics of contemporary public opinion, greater public involvement in local decision making, in the absence of a transformation in the public’s views, will not likely generate many more policies that can meaningfully address fundamental inequalities. Thus what is needed is an evolution in the public debate about inequality that begins to move citizens toward an enlarged understanding of the causes and effects of economic disadvantage, thereby expanding the discussion of possible policy prescriptions.

A Summary of the Book’s Argument The two chapters on education policy highlight some stark differences between the cities, but there are similarities when examining the Minneapolis and Gary school districts that place both within the larger discussion of urban school reform. In Minneapolis, local school leaders have been very attentive to the views of the public on the issue of attendance policies, as evidenced by the original segregation of the schools in the 1960s and early 1970s and by the 1995 community schools decision. Fervent support for

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community schools within the city dovetailed with suburban opposition to metropolitan school policy, both of which reflected the passionate belief in local control of schools that is a fundamental part of American political culture. Thus the forces in support of community schools in Minneapolis were substantial and went well beyond the city itself. The 1995 Minneapolis NAACP lawsuit, which resulted in a new suburban transfer program, came about because of the significant racial and economic differences between the MPS and surrounding suburban schools. These differences, reinforced by the community schools policy, highlighted the achievement gap between city and suburban schools and ultimately underscored the plight of higher-­ poverty MPS schools. Chapter 3 also chronicled other ways that the public’s views have affected MPS policies in recent years. Processes have been put in place, such as the excess school levy referendum, that better allow for the public’s will regarding taxes in relation to school spending to be translated into policy, and substantial majorities of city residents have consistently voted for higher taxes earmarked for the schools. In addition, the district has employed even more techniques to gauge the public’s priorities, including a survey mailed to every household with school-­age children as part of the strategic planning process. Despite these many connections between the public and the MPS, however, the correlation between higher-­poverty schools and lower academic achievement remains strong, enrollment has declined substantially, and many lower-­income and minority parents continue to remove their children from the district at a high rate. Yet at the same time, there is a widespread coalition for improving the Minneapolis schools, and so it appears that the city possesses the civic capacity necessary to achieve meaningful education reform. Further, the legal framework for open enrollment policies also exists, which, when combined with the apparent political will to improve academic achievement, could provide the foundation for moving forward with a specific policy agenda. The predicament of the Gary schools is straightforward: a high-­poverty, nearly totally segregated district that continuously struggles with educational achievement. The segregation of the district first became an issue for local debate in the 1940s. But after plaintiffs lost a federal desegregation lawsuit in 1963, policies to change segregation would not be enacted until after the election of Mayor Richard Hatcher in 1967. During the 1970s and ’80s, the population exodus from the city escalated, and the district became increasingly African American and lower income. Public frustration led to

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more democratic control of the schools with the adoption of an elected school board in 1991. Because the district is one of the city’s largest employers, the attempt to change school policy in any meaningful way, such as the process of closing schools, became a tremendous undertaking, as illustrated by the events of the 1990s and early 2000s. More recently, charter schools have increased as parents look for alternatives to the traditional public schools. And like all urban districts, the rules attached to the No Child Left Behind law significantly circumscribe how the district goes about its daily work. Meanwhile, much of the surrounding region does not appear particularly interested in the plight of Gary’s schoolchildren. Clearly, school officials have fewer options than those in Minneapolis, which suggests the need for consideration of administrative, legal, regional, or even state-­level policy options for the Gary Community School Corporation. Chapter 4 discussed the politics of local law enforcement reform in Minneapolis. Over the last several decades, three focusing events changed the politics of law enforcement policy in the city. The first of these was the unrest of the late 1960s, which led to the election of MPD officer Charles Stenvig as mayor. Stenvig’s appeal was based on the theme of law and order, a message that clearly resonated with a large number of city residents, and his election put off any discussion of police reform for many years. The second two focusing events, however, did not bring about the election of new mayors or city council members, and the policies that resulted from them were modest at best. The first of these events, the accidental police killing of an innocent elderly African American couple in a botched 1989 drug raid, moved the long-­ debated issue of police conduct and oversight onto the agenda of local officials. The city council created the Civilian Review Authority the following year. But the CRA has been hampered from the beginning. The agency has little independent authority and has never been seen by the MPD generally or by police chiefs in particular as a legitimate method of disciplining officers. As a consequence, chiefs have routinely ignored most of the CRA’s disciplinary recommendations, and many critics of the MPD have seemingly lost confidence in the agency. The 2002 unrest in north Minneapolis that followed another MPD drug raid led to federal mediation and the creation of the temporary Police Community Relations Council. The federal mediation agreement and the PCRC put the spotlight once again on the conduct and policies of the MPD. But when faced with the option of renewing the PCRC at the end of 2008, Mayor

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Rybak declined, and the issue of police reform was again off the radar. Because neither the tragedy of 1989 nor the unrest of 2002 was accompanied by any meaningful shift in the public’s attitudes toward the police, the resulting policies were limited in terms of creating meaningful police oversight. The Minneapolis resident surveys have consistently shown a very high level of satisfaction with police services, an illustration that a clear majority of citizens apparently do not see the need for greater monitoring of the actions of law enforcement officers. Yet by several indicators, disparities in how the MPD treats individuals of different races persist. For example, racial profiling by MPD officers has been well documented in a number of studies, and racial minorities consistently report incidents of potential misconduct to the Civilian Review Authority in numbers much greater than Whites, both of which show that the department needs to repair its relationship with communities of color. The process of reforming local law enforcement is much less visible than high-­profile debates about schools or riverboat casinos. In the absence of a highly publicized incident of police misconduct or a citizen uprising associated with law enforcement behavior, most city residents will probably not think about the proper mode of oversight of the police. In addition, in recent years there has not been a consensus among critics of the MPD about how to best reform law enforcement practices. Creating and maintaining a strong civilian review agency in Minneapolis has been a continuous battle from the moment the idea of civilian review was first formally discussed in the 1980s. And the actions of Mayor Rybak provide a vivid example of a prominent politician’s response to the sporadic increase in salience of the issue of the conduct of law enforcement officers. Once the focusing event that prompted the debate moves off the front pages of the newspapers, police reform again becomes an issue of concern to a much smaller number of citizens and groups, and substantive change in policing practices becomes far more elusive. But given the very different attitudes toward the police exhibited by citizens of different races in Minneapolis and elsewhere, improving relations between the police and minority communities must remain a vitally important, albeit longer term, policy goal of local communities. Chapter 5 chronicled the politics of affordable housing in Minneapolis. In the early 1990s, prior to the substantial appreciation in housing prices, affordable housing policy was pushed by various leaders and organizations representing lower-­income and working-­class citizens, a large number of whom were racial minorities. With a sympathetic mayor in office, Sharon

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Sayles Belton, the city officially recognized the issue and appointed an affordable housing task force, which produced extensive documentation of the problem. Specific policies, however, were limited, as the city council’s legislative responses in 1999 were much less than advocates had hoped for. At the time, the lack of affordable housing did not affect a majority of city residents, and so most elected officials opposed stronger measures, particularly those that would have cost public dollars. Moreover, the priorities of most neighborhoods, as illustrated in the Neighborhood Revitalization Program planning documents drafted throughout the 1990s and early 2000s, did not include either the creation of affordable housing units or an emphasis on the increasing population diversity that would frequently accompany them. By the year 2000, however, the politics of affordable housing began to change because of the rapid appreciation in housing prices across the city and region. Thus by 2001, with only 40 percent of city residents satisfied with local governmental efforts in this area, mayoral candidate R. T. Rybak could label affordable housing Minneapolis’s “number one issue.” But the policy differences on affordable housing articulated by candidates Rybak and Sayles Belton in 2001 were clear. Rybak, echoing the values of neoliberalism, wanted local government to be just one of many players involved in the process of increasing the number of affordable housing units. Sayles Belton, on the other hand, supported a much stronger local government response, including the implementation of a citywide tax earmarked for affordable housing construction. Affordable housing was a recurring issue during the campaign, and was covered extensively by the local media. Rybak went on to win the 2001 election rather easily. Yet as housing prices continued to go up throughout 2001 and beyond, so did the number of Minneapolis residents who began to take advantage of an increasingly unregulated mortgage lending market, which led to increasing rates of homeownership in the city. In light of the well-­documented skepticism of many homeowners about the effects of affordable housing, these trends eroded support for a more aggressive governmental response to the affordable housing crisis. As housing values in Minneapolis and across the Twin Cities began a downward spiral in 2006, affordable housing all but disappeared from the local political radar. Once again, it became a subject of concern primarily to lower-­income residents and the organizations that represent them. Further, there continue to be divisions among affordable housing advocates about whether geographically deconcentrating such housing or increasing the

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amount regardless of location should be the main policy priority. But after some rather modest measures taken during Rybak’s first term, the number of Minneapolis residents expressing approval with the city’s efforts in affordable housing began to consistently increase, and reached 66 percent by 2008. However, recent data continue to show a significant number of city residents living in housing that would be considered unaffordable, which clearly shows that the satisfaction with the city’s handling of the issue is not at all indicative that the shortage of affordable housing has been successfully addressed. Chapter 6 discussed the introduction of riverboat casinos in Gary in the 1990s. Because of the economic decline of northwest Indiana, it was not a question of whether economic development would be pursued vigorously by local officials in Gary. Rather, it was a question of what type(s) of economic development the city would pursue. Majorities of local residents supported the idea of casinos as a tool of economic development from the early stages of the statewide debate on the issue. As outlined in chapter 2, this view was illustrative of national trends in support of the use of casinos to spur local economies. Considering the few realistic economic development alternatives available to the city as well as the popularity of various forms of gambling among all income groups, support for the riverboats was predictable. Gary residents did not, however, approve of Mayor King’s use of casino funds for ballpark construction, a move that contributed to King’s declining popularity and resignation from the Democratic Party and eventually from the mayor’s office. Although they did not lead to a major economic revival of Gary, the riverboats have produced modest economic gains, and continue to be viewed positively by most local residents. But in light of decades of intense decline, unquestionably much more needs to be done to bring about economic development in the city.

Public Funding and Stadium Politics in Minnesota: Counterexample? Like most cities with major sports franchises, Minneapolis loves its big league teams, especially the Vikings and the Twins. Both teams played in the Metrodome, located in downtown Minneapolis, from the time the stadium first opened in 1982. But by the mid-­1990s, an intense local debate about the prospect of the Twins moving out of the Metrodome had begun. In fact, for

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several years there was a question as to whether the Twins would remain in the Twin Cities, or perhaps relocate to another city as part of a sale of the team. Initially, the Twins were unable to receive a commitment for public dollars from either Minneapolis or St. Paul for the construction of a new stadium. Minnesota state law requires a local referendum for any new sales tax to take effect, and in a 1999 referendum, St. Paul citizens voted against raising the city’s sales tax by 0.5 percent in order to fund a new Twins stadium there. By the early 2000s, numerous proposals for a new Twins stadium had been offered, with different financing schemes. The debate began to heat up in 2005, as various stadium plans were debated by the Hennepin County Board of Commissioners and state legislators. And in 2005, the Hennepin County Board of Commissioners voted 4–­3 in favor of a Twins stadium proposal that created a 0.15 percent sales tax in the county to fund the stadium. But before the stadium plan could go forward, either Hennepin County residents would have to vote in favor of the proposal in a referendum, or the state legislature could pass a law authorizing the creation of the county sales tax to finance the stadium without a public referendum. State lawmakers ultimately chose the latter option. In 2006, the Minnesota legislature passed the final stadium bill by a rather narrow margin (71–­61 in the House, 34–­32 in the Senate) that created an increase in the sales tax for Hennepin County residents of 0.15 percent while denying county residents the opportunity to vote on the matter. Had there been a referendum, it almost certainly would have failed. What happened in St. Paul in 1999 was not an anomaly. By the mid-­2000s, numerous public polls showed that a solid majority of residents of Minneapolis and of Hennepin County opposed any new sales tax for the purpose of funding a professional sports stadium, a fact that was not lost on state legislators. Four years later, the Twins’ new Target Field opened to great fanfare. The stadium sold out nearly all of its home games almost immediately. To say that the local media’s coverage of the stadium’s opening was glowing would be a tremendous understatement. Some critics on the left and right continued to try to make a political issue out of the fact that county residents were never allowed to vote on the new sales tax that funded the stadium. But by and large, the Twin Cities and greater Minnesota celebrated the new stadium because outdoor baseball was once again alive and well. The state legislature’s deliberate usurpation of legally established democratic process did not resonate as a problem with very many citizens. Is the stadium financing a counterexample that shows, as elite theory,

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growth machine theory, and much of the regime theory literature would predict, that economic elites get their way at the expense of what the public wants? Yes and no. Certainly the fact that the state legislature denied residents the chance to vote on the stadium financing is evidence of the power of professional sports teams and their owners in the world of stadium politics. Lobbying, campaign contributions, and public relations are all substantial advantages held by professional sports teams and their advocates, and opponents of public financing of stadiums and arenas generally have less of all of these resources. But I would argue that sports facilities are a much different issue than education, law enforcement, and housing. Although Hennepin County residents would have voted against paying the extra sales tax for a stadium, they (and citizens all over Minnesota for that matter) also love their Twins, and they would have been devastated if the team left the area. Minnesota residents will forever be bitter about how the Minnesota North Stars hockey franchise left for Dallas in 1993, a fact that St. Paul mayor Norm Coleman shrewdly exploited in his successful quest to get an NHL franchise back in the Twin Cities. As the old expression goes, citizen opposition to public financing of the new Twins’ stadium appears to have been about a mile wide and an inch deep. Contrast this with local school and housing politics, for example, which regularly give residents’ the motivation to leave an institution (such as a school district) or leave a community altogether, if local policy makers take actions that citizens deeply oppose. It is difficult to imagine very many Hennepin County residents relocating to another county because of the new .15 percent sales tax increase. Stadium politics, particularly when it involves a team that a community loves, is different.

Bringing the Public Back In Over fifteen years ago, Gerry Stoker observed that regime theory is “concerned more with the process of government–­interest group mediation than with the wider relationship between government and its citizens” (Stoker 1995, 60). Further, the normative implications of much of the research in regime theory have revolved around a more democratic and participatory local political process. In one of the first comprehensive statements of regime theory, Elkin (1987) called for expanded public participation as a method of counteracting the probusiness agendas of local regimes, a posi-

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tion that implicitly acknowledged the potential impact of local opinion on policy making. A more democratic local political order has also been the thrust of much of Clarence Stone’s recent work. Yet much of the recent literature in the field has tended not to focus on the many ways that the views of citizens affect what local governments do. In emphasizing the shortcomings of the early pluralist studies that focused heavily on the institutions of government and traditional political processes, many scholars representing different strands of political economy have, whether intentionally or not, often neglected an analysis of local government and its relationship with the public. This approach, I suggest, has been based largely on two assumptions: that citizens and elites have fundamentally different priorities; and that the priorities of elites drive the bulk of local policy making. These assumptions have led many urban scholars to focus on elites and their relationships with local government while simultaneously downplaying public opinion regarding key local policy decisions. There are, however, a number of recent works that do recognize, sometimes implicitly, the significance of variables such as public opinion, voting and political participation, and the institutions of local government. The works of Trounstine (2008), Hajnal (2010), and Erie, Kogan, and MacKenzie (2011) highlight the importance of voting and elections within the urban context, Lewis and Neiman (2009) demonstrate the consequences of local government officials’ views regarding economic growth and development, and Palus’s (2010) work on responsiveness in 26 urban areas confirms that local governments reflect the priorities of their constituents in terms of local spending patterns. To repeat, this is not to say that urban regimes do not exist. Rather, it is to say that a narrow focus on the internal dynamics of governing regimes does not adequately recognize the broader relationship between local governments and the citizenry and the many ways that local officials’ actions reflect the preferences of the public.

Local Policies, Urban Inequalities, and Democratic Processes Normative discussions about inequality ultimately revolve around two things—­policies and processes. One could identify policies intended to address inequality, but then the question becomes: How will government go about adopting those policies? Before discussing the question of political

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processes, I will first restate some of the arguments made in previous chapters regarding local policies that could begin to address some of the economic and racial inequalities that manifest themselves in the urban and metropolitan setting. Although cities are obviously limited in terms of the social problems they can address, local governments and school districts, sometimes with the assistance of state government, can take steps in the direction of mitigating existing patterns of disadvantage. Reducing high concentrations of low-­income students in schools needs to be an important component of urban education policy. As my discussion of Minneapolis education politics has shown, this approach will be daunting, even in locations where substantial political support exists for central city schools. Although open enrollment is still very popular in Minnesota, recent events there have illustrated this pattern. In Minneapolis, both “The Choice Is Yours” (CIY) program and the larger urban-­suburban desegregation consortium, the West Metro Education Partnership (WMEP), have come under increasing criticism. In 2009, MPS superintendent Bill Green even proposed removing Minneapolis from WMEP altogether, while leaving CIY intact. Green eventually backed away from this proposal after strenuous objections were raised by community members and the school board, but the future of these types of programs is very uncertain, particularly during a period of budget deficits brought on by economic recession. Other approaches to reforming urban schools, many of which revolve around teachers, have received much more attention by the media and policy makers. Relying exclusively on changes in teaching staff, however, does not sufficiently take into account the many educational disadvantages faced by lower-­income students. Certainly teachers and administrators can and do make a difference in the educational process of schoolchildren. Many adults can name the best teacher that they ever had, and often explain in great detail why that particular teacher stood out. Yet teachers and administrators are limited in what they can accomplish within the context of a school in which a large number of students are in poverty. In an assessment of the impact of socioeconomic class on educational outcomes, Richard Rothstein has discussed many of the tangible disadvantages low-­income students face, and concludes that “no matter how competent the teacher, the academic achievement of lower class children will, on average, almost inevitably be less than that of middle class children. The probability of this reduced achievement increases as the characteristics of lower-­class families accumulate” (Rothstein 2004, 2).

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Gerald Grant’s (2009) comparative analysis of the school districts in Raleigh, North Carolina, and Syracuse, New York, makes a similar point. Grant’s work is based on years of study, including in-­depth field research in both districts. He provides extensive documentation of the increasing academic achievement levels that have accompanied the creation of the consolidated Wake County schools—­ which, through its attendance policies, Raleigh–­ strives to prevent the creation of high-­poverty schools—­and compares this pattern to the chronic underperformance of students in the high-­poverty schools of Syracuse. Grant provides a persuasive and thought-­provoking argument as to why lower-­income students perform better in a more diverse economic environment. In order to effectively convey Grant’s argument, it is necessary to quote from his book at some length: The norms of behavior [at predominately middle-­class schools], the language spoken, and the expectations of teachers will be vastly different. Gangs will not run the schools. The learning curve will be higher. Students and teachers will no longer have to confront a culture that ridicules traditional school achievement. Sloppy and vulgar speech are less likely to be tolerated. The vocabularies of poor children will grow as they interact with advantaged classmates. More will learn to read sooner. Teachers will not be overburdened and burned out, as they often are in high-­poverty schools. Children will not have an easy time ducking homework assignments. Better teachers with even higher expectations for what counts as good work will be attracted to these high-­performing schools. Teacher turnover will decrease. Poor children in predominately middle class schools may not achieve at the level of students who start far more advantaged than they are. But more poor children will reach grade level, and they will graduate in far greater numbers. (Grant 2009, 160–­61)

Although some would argue that Grant’s reasoning amounts to victim-­ blaming, his overall point about the very different contexts of middle-­class versus high-­poverty schools is difficult to refute. Successful cases of system-­ wide socioeconomic integration such as Wake County need to be part of the larger debate about education policy in order to inform voters of the significance of the relationship between the demographics of a school’s student body and the school’s academic achievement. The results in Minneapolis’s suburban transfer program “The Choice Is Yours” in terms of academic achievement have been mixed. However, rather

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than contributing to a public debate about the many complex issues associated with transporting inner-­city, low-­income children to new suburban schools, the short-­term academic evaluation reports have been seized upon by opponents of the suburban transfer program as evidence of failure. Some influential opponents have also mischaracterized the program in the local media as a racial desegregation program rather than one that deconcentrates low-­income students of all races.1 And media and public misunderstanding of the basic purposes of the suburban transfer program flourish within a context in which busing has never been especially popular, and connecting the academic performance of a school to its poverty rate is an exercise that is much more common among educational professionals and researchers than among typical voters. Advocates of policies aimed at deconcentrating poverty in schools need to be aware of these types of sentiments, and frame their arguments accordingly. State constitutions and statutes can provide a legal foundation for these programs, but public perceptions still present a formidable barrier for breaking up schools with larger percentages of low-­income students. Although it is not a panacea, deconcentrating poverty in schools should be a significant component of school reform. External oversight of police departments is a policy that could generate more trust in local police among minority populations while also working to limit the practice of racial profiling. Yet, as we have seen, moving toward this type of policy is an extremely difficult political task. Complicating the process of reform even more is the fact that police agencies have a particular culture, one that is not conducive to outside influences. In his analysis of community policing initiatives in several Seattle neighborhoods, Steve Herbert concludes that relying on police reforms such as community policing, based on collaborations between neighborhood-­based groups and law enforcement, will ultimately be ineffective and may actually be counterproductive in terms of bringing about greater accountability by law enforcement: “This misplaced faith in community policing may help reduce police accountability. To presume that police-­community forums will work to ensure citizen oversight of the police is a mistake; the evidence suggests otherwise. A more productive strategy would be to bolster formal mechanisms of civilian oversight, such as civilian review boards. These may be more effective means to ensure that officers are held accountable to community expectations, as expressed through formal proscriptions on police behavior. The police successfully resist the idea that community forums are places where they can be called to task. Accountability must be pursued through other

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means” (Herbert 2006, 139). Even though partnerships between local communities and law enforcement agencies are desirable, it should not be expected that these partnerships will fundamentally alter the way police do their jobs. In spite of the general public’s high level of confidence in the police as well as the staunch opposition to civilian review exhibited by law enforcement agencies, changing the culture and practice of policing must remain a critically important goal of policy makers. Increasing the overall supply of as well as deconcentrating affordable housing will always be challenging in most any community in the nation in light of home rule and local democratic processes. Recognizing the political difficulties associated with affordable housing, the Twin Cities’ Metropolitan Council has even started using different terminology when implementing affordable housing programs. The council has begun using the term “lifecycle housing” when “referring to the housing stock that is affordable and appropriate to people of lower incomes” (Goetz 2008, 223). Yet because of the compelling evidence that has been marshaled over a period of decades about the harmful effects of concentrated poverty, the case for geographically dispersed affordable housing is clear. Given the correlation between one’s residential neighborhood and outcomes in essential areas of life, particularly education and employment, simply allowing the process of affordable housing construction and development to be subject to local democratic processes is not sound policy. This was similar to the approach that the federal government took beginning in the 1930s with the introduction of public housing. As a result, most public housing authorities and local elected officials, under intense pressure from citizens, built public housing in one or a handful of residential neighborhoods. This process eventually contributed to the isolation of public housing residents and their surrounding neighborhoods.2 Thus affordable housing is another policy area where leaders need to engage citizens in informed debate throughout the policy-­making and implementation process, emphasizing the numerous critical areas of life that are directly impacted by one’s place of residence. In her historical study of southwestern cities, Amy Bridges affirms that “[a]nother empirical question is how well unfettered pursuit of growth served the ordinary citizens” (Bridges 1997, 215). I suggest that the same line of inquiry can be applied to an analysis of all types of growth projects in contemporary city politics: the costs and benefits of each project are empirical questions. Local development policies need to be examined on an individual basis before trying to determine who will benefit from them. Certainly the experi-

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ences of other municipalities can help illuminate the possible effects of a proposed development project. This is not to suggest that assessing the pros and cons of growth projects will ever be uncomplicated. Rather, I argue that coming at the politically charged question of a proposed economic development project with assumptions about its necessarily positive or necessarily negative effects does not serve the interests of city officials or local citizens. The riverboat casinos in Gary have had a moderately positive effect on the city’s economy. This does not mean that this would be the case in every locality. Gary enjoys immediate proximity to Chicago, which is where the substantial majority of casino patrons come from. Without this easy access to one of the largest population bases in the country, it is not clear that the boats would have been nearly as successful as they have been. Because it is difficult to make normative recommendations about hypothetical growth projects, the costs and benefits of growth and development projects, including casinos, need to be examined with specific reference to the characteristics of the municipality in question. The current debate about regionalism had advanced a number of policy recommendations that are similar to the ones already mentioned (Dreier, Mollenkopf, and Swanstrom 2001, 2004; Orfield 1997, 2002; Rusk 1999, 2003). This work has forcefully argued for the deconcentration of poverty in housing and schools while also illustrating the many costs associated with the continuation of sprawl. Further, as new regionalists have also pointed out, local and state policy makers need to make these issues a priority in light of the harmful effects that concentrated poverty has on regional economic prosperity (Rusk 2002). As Peter Dreier and his colleagues have argued, “We must therefore adopt measures specifically aimed at de-­concentrating urban poverty within metropolitan areas. Though hard to achieve, such policies are consistent with the American political tradition of decentralized federalism and are well within our reach” (Dreier, Mollenkopf, and Swanstrom 2001, 222–­23). A regional policy approach could include the creation of metropolitan governing institutions, but such new institutions need not be adopted in all cases. The different circumstances of individual cities and regions need to be at the center of the discussion of any metropolitan policy and institutional options. Moreover, the creation of regional governing institutions raises very real questions involving the impact of such institutions on the relative power of various groups as well as the potential policy changes that could be produced by such new governing arrangements. In their study of the con-

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solidation of Louisville and surrounding Jefferson County, Savitch and Vogel show that not only has Black political power been reduced after the merger, but also that “the new metro government has already substituted much weaker ordinances for civilian-­police review procedures and diluted living wages for city workers” (2004, 781). Clearly these effects are not consistent with an overall goal of addressing regional inequalities. Thus any proposal for new regional governing institutions must take into account the effects of such institutions on existing city ordinances. Ultimately, the important result of any regional policy making would be deconcentrating poverty in schools, dispersing affordable housing more equitably, and spreading the benefits of growth and development as broadly as possible. With respect to the last of these three policies, the Twin Cities regional tax base sharing policy provides a glimpse into how the benefits of economic development can be made more equitable throughout a region. Enacted in 1971, in the fiscal disparities program implemented by the Metropolitan Council, all taxing jurisdictions in the seven-­county metropolitan region contribute 40 percent of the growth in their commercial-­industrial property tax base into a shared pool. These funds are then redistributed back to jurisdictions in an attempt to reduce existing fiscal disparities. Under the current fiscal disparities policy, twice as many jurisdictions have gained tax revenues than have lost revenues, and the ratio of the highest to lowest commercial-­ industrial tax base for cities with populations above 10,000 in the Twin Cities metropolitan area has also been reduced substantially (Metropolitan Council 2011a). These effects indicate that the policy has mitigated at least some of the impact of uneven development across the region by reducing incentives for participating municipalities to perpetually chase economic growth projects and engage in fiscal zoning. In sum, an honest recognition of the numerous connections between how the characteristics of neighborhoods and municipalities shape the basic services and overall quality of life of residents needs to be at the center of the discussion of using policies to address local and regional inequalities. The Role of Local Political Processes It is far easier to identify various policies intended to address inequalities than to elucidate the particular ways that such policies could be adopted. Yet in a democracy a discussion of specific political processes is a logical extension of normative policy recommendations. In the end, I suggest that ex-

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panding and advancing the discussion about local and regional inequalities can affect policy making in education, housing, law enforcement oversight, and development that constructively addresses such inequalities. However, as Stephen Elkin has pointed out, “the present character of local political life promotes a narrowness of concern on the part of citizens; concomitantly it does little to stretch self-­interest to a concern with broader, public interests” (Elkin 1999, 56). And the wider context of any discussion of inequality and economic disadvantage in the United States poses additional challenges to enlarging the debate on these difficult issues. More specifically, our living patterns and consumption habits, shaped significantly by the nation’s individualist tradition, serve to undermine a thoughtful consideration of issues such as economic and racial inequalities and their consequences. Consumerism and commercialism have come to dominate nearly every aspect of life, making the achievement of a public-­spirited citizenry increasingly challenging. Along these lines, Benjamin Barber has argued that contemporary consumerism has created an infantilist ethos that “points on the one hand to the dumbing down of goods and shoppers in a postmodern global economy that seems to produce more goods than people need; and that points, on the other hand, to the targeting of children as consumers in a market where there are never enough shoppers” (Barber 2007, 5). This shift toward consumerism and away from citizenship has had dramatic implications for governing, including at the local level. In his study of the Chicago heat wave of 1995, Eric Klinenberg observed that the city’s agencies “promote themselves as purveyors of information about city services and programs to citizens who are expected to become smart shoppers of public goods” (Klinenberg 2002, 157). Certainly this type of thinking about the role of government does not encourage individuals to think more broadly about the public interest. Thus, expanding the public discussion of issues such as housing, schools, and policing is a tall order indeed. Moreover, considering the contours of current opinion, relying on traditional democratic processes in typical communities, such as elections, initiative/referenda, and neighborhood-­based participatory processes, is not likely to yield policies that can meaningfully address many of the problems associated with economically disadvantaged populations. Indeed, this is the primary normative implication of this book. This is not to say that such processes should be curtailed in any fashion. Rather, it is to recognize that democratic processes run up against what Ian Shapiro has identified as the “well documented human reluctance to identify with disadvantaged groups”

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(Shapiro 2003, 123). But the answer is not to make cities less democratic. Instead, public discussion and debate need to be built on an explicit consideration of the larger public interest in an effort to transform the narrow self-­ interest that so frequently dominates contemporary policy discussions. An important task of leaders, then, is to engage citizens in a thoughtful discussion about the question recently posed by Clarence Stone: “What does a local political order look like from the bottom up?” (Stone 2009, 263). Although deliberative democratic processes sound promising, for several reasons this approach to making policy outcomes more equitable will fall short. First are the many substantial problems faced by disadvantaged neighborhoods themselves. As Steve Herbert has argued, “simply to devolve authority to ‘the community’ without cognizance of the immense obstacles many urban neighborhoods face in gaining greater economic, social, and political equality confounds justice rather than promotes it” (Herbert 2006, 147; also see Crenson 1983, 299–­300). Patterns of participation will necessarily be biased in favor of better-­off residents and neighborhoods, a pattern that inhibits decision making that is more responsive to a wider cross section of the community. In her recent book, The Just City, Susan Fainstein explicitly recognizes the tension between local democratic processes and just local outcomes.3 In a critique of planning literature that argues in favor of the primacy of local democratic processes, Fainstein points out: “Much of this critique is in my view appropriate but the remedy proposed—­a more open, more democratic process—­fails to confront adequately the initial discrepancy of power, offers few clues to overcoming co-­optation or resistance to reform, does not sufficiently address some of the major weaknesses of democratic theory, and diverts discussion from the substance of policy” (Fainstein 2010, 24). Therefore Fainstein goes on to delineate standards for evaluating the just city in terms of three distinct criteria—­equity, diversity, and democracy. There is also the question of the relationship between the demographic makeup of residential areas and their ability to engage in meaningful deliberation. In his advocacy of participatory democratic processes, Elkin recognized the need for a diversity of viewpoints in neighborhood assemblies: “The assemblies cannot be solidaristic or homogeneous if they are to be deliberative political institutions. For there to be politics, there must be a plurality of views and distance between persons. Otherwise, to take two possibilities, there is management or love” (Elkin 1987, 172). The racial and socioeconomic segregation of metropolitan areas present major barriers to

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thoughtful deliberative decision making in many different types of communities. Even within diverse urban areas, neighborhood-­and block-­level racial and socioeconomic diversity is the exception rather than the rule. As a result of the relative lack of demographic diversity in many communities, public discussions of policy issues are likely to reflect a narrow range of views. Homogeneity of viewpoints can lead to what the legal scholar Cass Sunstein has labeled the “law of group polarization,” or the process by which “members of a deliberating group predictably move toward a more extreme point in the direction indicated by the members’ predeliberation tendencies” (Sunstein 2002, 176). Significantly, group polarization can develop in a wide variety of contexts where like-­minded people deliberate, and Sunstein provides many different examples, including discussions among affirmative action supporters and gun control advocates. The common thread is that deliberation in a group in which there is very little, if any, diversity in viewpoints can harden the participants’ original views. Thus, it is not difficult to imagine a community meeting in a low-­income neighborhood in which participants agree on one or two approaches to improving schools, such as better teachers and more discipline, or a meeting in a more affluent community during which participants become even more convinced of the problems associated with the construction of affordable housing. A series of events in 2008 in a stable, middle-­class neighborhood in the other Twin City, St. Paul, provide an illustration of some of these dynamics. The account provided here is based on my firsthand observation of these events as a six-­year resident of the neighborhood in which these events took place. Over the past several years, I have talked with many of my neighbors about various issues, attended many public meetings on various subjects, and have also had several conversations with local elected representatives. Thus I believe I know the political leanings of the neighborhood fairly well. The neighborhood is not very diverse in terms of either race or income, especially in comparison to St. Paul as a whole: residents are roughly 87 percent White, and 8 percent live in poverty. The area is ideologically liberal by standard measures. Democrats have represented the community at every level of government for as long as anyone can remember, and prior to the November 2008 presidential election, Obama signs outnumbered McCain signs by roughly 3–­1. Residents are reasonably well-­educated, with 91 percent being high school graduates, 46 percent having a four-­year college degree or higher, and 17 percent possessing graduate degrees. The events in question began in 2007, when the owner of a nursing home

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located in the neighborhood decided to relocate the facility and therefore put the building up for sale. After approximately a year passed with no offers on the property, a Twin Cities’ nonprofit agency focused on creating housing for recovering drug addicts and alcoholics expressed interest in obtaining it. The organization, founded in 1971, describes its mission as providing “recovery, accountability and support services to facilitate individual, family and community movement from non-­productive behavior to responsible, self-­ sufficient lifestyles,” and has operated several successful apartment houses in the Twin Cities metropolitan area for over three decades. As soon as the agency floated the idea of purchasing the soon-­to-­be vacant nursing home, opposition from the neighborhood went into overdrive. Within the context of the city’s strong tradition of political participation, including the institutionalized system of district councils, the neighborhood had several advantages in terms of having its voice be heard. Opponents blanketed the community in the summer of 2008 with ominous fliers warning that if the sale went forward, crime and drugs would necessarily follow. The 11” x 17” black-­and-­white poster-­board flyers labeled the housing managed by the agency a “community prison,” stated that the nursing home would be turned into “housing for homeless alcoholics and drug addicts,” and concluded by imploring neighborhood residents to “CALL YOUR ELECTED OFFICIALS RIGHT NOW AND TELL THEM WHAT YOU THINK!” (caps in original). In fact, I first became aware of the housing proposal while driving home on a sunny Sunday morning in late summer 2008 when I noticed these alarming flyers posted on dozens of telephone poles in the neighborhood. Knowing the controversial and potentially illegal nature of their flyers, opponents posted them in the dead of night to remain anonymous. In order to facilitate citizen participation, the flyers also provided contact information for the relevant elected representatives. Anonymous opponents continued their work by creating a website to galvanize the neighborhood. The website depicted drug syringes and drunks passed out on benches, and asked questions such as “[h]ave you ever seen a public park restroom overwhelmed by drug users, dealers, and prostitutes?”4 As one long-­time neighborhood resident and activist recounted to me, this incident “brought out the worst in some of our neighbors.” Because of the extreme language and tactics utilized by the initial website and neighborhood flyers, several opponents of the project formed a splinter group to make the case against the housing in a less inflammatory, and nonanonymous, manner. Instead of simply trying to instill fear, the

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splinter group talked about the project’s possible negative effects, including declining property values, and pushed for other uses of the nursing home. Predictably, many neighborhood residents contacted their city council member and district council representatives in an effort to stop the project, and attended community meetings to express these views as well. In the end, the opponents won: the agency withdrew any interest in developing the property several weeks later. Opposition to the project was not surprising. Building affordable housing, especially for persons who may be going through drug or alcohol rehabilitation, will likely encounter stiff opposition just about anywhere. But the nature of the opposition was surprising, and revealed an unwillingness on the part of many residents to even listen to the specifics of the project itself or the developer’s successes elsewhere, even after both city council and district council representatives publicly stated that there should at least be a dialogue on the proposal. No polling or surveys were done on this proposal. But as a witness to these events, it was evident to me that most people who expressed positions (both in public meetings as well as in private communications) were opposed to it, many vehemently so. I did not discern any forceful advocates in favor of the proposal, other than the organization seeking to purchase the building. Whether there was virtually no support for the proposal, or whether supporters were understandably intimidated from speaking their minds in light of how the discussion developed, are legitimate questions that I cannot definitively answer. Yet considering Americans’ long-­standing views on affordable housing in general, it is fair to conclude that had there been any scientific poll of the neighborhood’s many thousand residents it would have shown a significant majority opposed to this specific housing proposal. When reflecting on this entire episode, I suggest that the various organized groups opposing the use of the former nursing home for housing for recovering addicts were simply conveying existing neighborhood sentiment, albeit in different ways. Some might argue that this incident represents an anomaly because of the nature of the housing proposed. Admittedly, this specific proposal was different than most affordable housing projects. But I have provided this account here to highlight a concrete case involving a specific, albeit controversial, affordable housing proposal. In this example, the influence of government and neighborhood officials was negligible, and a demographically similar group of citizens in a nondiverse community seemed to become less willing to even consider a specific proposal as the debate unfolded. In sum, there was never any meaningful discussion of the merits of the proposal, de-

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spite all of the deliberative processes involved (including several community meetings, extensive informal conversation among residents, websites, and e-­mail and phone communications with government officials). And affordable housing is precisely the type of issue that necessitates intelligent deliberation among citizens with different backgrounds because in the absence of meaningful dialogue, NIMBY-­type arguments will frequently dominate. Decentralized decision making processes can certainly facilitate local government responsiveness. Yet the relationship between responsiveness and equity in terms of policy outcomes is, at best, unpredictable, and, at worst, inverse. Until our residential communities become more demographically diverse, which would create greater diversity in viewpoints on policy issues, a reliance on deliberative processes is misplaced. This is not, of course, an argument against greater political participation. Rather, it is to argue that in typical communities, relying on expanded participation per se, particularly when crafting policies affecting schools and housing, is not likely to effectively address the needs of disadvantaged communities. Yet increasing participation in political processes, especially of lower-­income citizens and racial minorities, could indeed help to put issues such as law enforcement reform and affordable housing on the agendas of local and state governments. In terms of law enforcement reform specifically, rather than attempting to get a majority of the public to distrust the police, the goal should be to increase public understanding overall, especially among the roughly 79 percent of the public that has no direct contact with police in a given year. This discussion needs to focus on why certain segments of the population, specifically Black males, exhibit less trust in law enforcement and on the broader consequences of this lower level of trust. This does not mean that enacting reforms such as civilian review would be politically easy within the context of an expanded base of participants in the political system. But conveying to the wider public how racial minorities experience law enforcement officials on a daily basis is a necessary first step in increasing trust in law enforcement among all segments of the public and ultimately improving police-­community relations. When local officials are determining development and redevelopment policies, traditional democratic processes appear to be a viable way of accurately reflecting the public’s views, and citizens should have the tools of direct democracy at their disposal whenever significant public subsidies for development are involved. As discussed previously, a significant majority of Americans believe that casinos contribute to local economic growth and development, which helps to explain the events in Gary and many other com-

234majoritarian cities

munities around the country. Majorities of local citizens often support other types of economic development projects because of the perceived economic benefits that accompany them. This does not mean that voters always will be correct in their assessments of the costs and benefits of potential development projects. But scholars need to recognize public sentiment on these issues. When proposed projects are not likely to generate significant tangible benefits for a local community, or when they appear to be redistributing limited local resources upward rather than making some attempt to benefit the needs of a diverse group of constituents, scholars and local leaders need to point this out within the context of vigorous public debate. These local discussions must include explicit recognition of the immediate and longer-­ term costs of local development in terms of basic local service provision and taxes. In the absence of this type of public discussion, in at least some cases citizens will lend their support for projects that provide meaningful economic benefits for only a small segment of the community. In sum, local and state officials and community leaders need to initiate a public discussion aimed at pushing citizens toward a public-­spirited approach that takes into account not only the needs of others in different social situations—­or what the city looks like from the “bottom-­up”—­but also considers how the interests of all urban and metropolitan residents are fundamentally linked. The first step in the process of expanding the discussion about local and regional inequalities should consist of community leaders, scholars, the media, and other like-­minded individuals and institutions engaging with the public about the causes and effects of urban and metropolitan patterns of inequality. Emphasizing the numerous tangible connections between housing and life chances needs to be at the center of this discussion. This approach could be the foundation for a discussion of specific policies that can address these patterns.5 Admittedly, the process of expanding the debate about inequality will invariably be difficult. However, debating equity measures at the local and regional level is different than, say, debating social welfare policies. Local and regional equity-­based policies ultimately involve improving access for disadvantaged populations to certain neighborhoods, municipalities, and school districts, enacting measures to ensure nondiscrimination in the provision of law enforcement, and distributing the benefits of development more equitably. Conversely, social welfare programs generally involve cash or in-­kind benefits provided to individuals, an approach that has become increasingly less popular in an era of growing fiscal problems at every level of government.

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Suburban resistance to policies involving affordable housing and deconcentrating poverty in schools has, in fact, been a significant component of the analyses of some of the most prominent works by new regionalists. Many of these authors therefore tackle the process of political coalition building in an effort to address some of these fundamental issues. Toward the end of their influential book, Dreier, Mollenkopf, and Swanstrom address the politics directly: “Although the present rules of the game encourage many suburban jurisdictions to act selfishly by excluding the poor or even preventing multifamily rental housing from being built, upon reflection, residents of these areas may realize that the resulting high levels of economic segregation and sprawl harm the overall competitiveness and success of their metropolitan areas. They certainly understand that the resulting traffic congestion, lack of planning, and pollution undermine their quality of life” (Dreier, Mollenkopf, and Swanstrom 2001, 233). Ultimately I suggest that discussing potential policies in affordable housing, education, development, and law enforcement in terms of the principles of equality of opportunity and nondiscrimination is an approach that could engender the widest political appeal.

Conclusion: Future Directions for Research There are a number of areas of research that could help us to better understand the connection between the public and local policy making. For example, to what extent do local institutions such as businesses, unions, advocacy organizations, and neighborhood groups attempt to assess and shape local opinion, and are those efforts successful? On major issues, how often does local sentiment correspond with the expressed positions of influential groups? What local issues does the public not appear to have any clear views about? In the absence of scientific polls or other means, how do local elected and appointed officials attempt to gauge public opinion? And how does the public understand the causes and consequences of local and regional inequalities? These are just a few examples of the types of research that could help explain the relationship between the public and local governing institutions, and ultimately contribute to a more complete picture of local democracy in the United States. In recent years, academic discussion of urban politics has emphasized the role of elites and interest groups. It is time to bring the public, and its relationship with local government, back into this discussion.

Notes

Chapter 1 1. Minnesota was the first state to adopt both a charter school law and a statewide open enrollment policy. Open enrollment allows students to attend other public schools outside of their home district at no cost provided there is room at the receiving school and the student can provide their own transportation. 2. For example, none of the chapters in the most recent edited volume on the state of the field (Davies and Imbroscio 2009) explicitly addresses the issue of the responsiveness of local governments. 3. In the nation’s largest cities, public relations play a much bigger role in everyday governing. For example, the Daley administration’s handling of the fallout from the 1995 heat wave in Chicago has been critically examined in detail by Klinenberg (2002). 4. In addition to the classic community power studies by scholars such as Dahl, Edward Banfield and James Q. Wilson, Raymond Wolfinger, and Peter Bachrach and Morton Baratz, many other prominent works of this period dealt much more explicitly with the institutions of government, interest groups, political parties, and the role of citizens. Some of the best known of these works include Lowi (1964), Sayre and Kaufman (1960), and Wirt (1974).

Chapter 2 1. This is just a sampling of the voluminous literature on regionalism. 2. There is an extensive literature on Gary politics. On the election of Richard Hatcher, see Keiser (1997), Levine (1974), and Nelson and Meranto (1977); on the politics of Gary in the 1960s and 1970s, see Crenson (1971), and Greer (1979); on the politics of the 1980s, see Catlin (1993). 3. The common perception that this region is considered by many Indiana residents to be more a part of metropolitan Chicago than the state of Indiana was confirmed in several interviews and informal conversations with Indiana residents from outside the region.

237

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notes to pages 71–155

Chapter 3 1. For a summary of the literature on the negative effects of racial and economic segregation on academic achievement, see Orfield and Lee (2005). 2. The overall popularity of community schools across the city was also confirmed in several interviews with persons knowledgeable about and directly involved in this decision. 3. For an overview of the adequacy and equity school cases, see Reed (2001) and Schrag (2003). 4. The suburban districts were Richfield, Edina, St. Louis Park, Hopkins, Robbins­ dale, Wayzata, Columbia Heights, and St. Anthony. Eden Prairie was added later. 5. This was confirmed in several interviews. One person involved in the settlement negotiations stressed how much the MPS disliked the NAACP settlement. In another interview, an MPS official repeatedly downplayed the significance of the NAACP case, and acted annoyed when I wanted to discuss the case in more detail. 6. In 2008, the connection between the community and the MPS was further strengthened when city voters approved a structural change in the school board. By a 66 to 34 percent margin, voters approved a change from the existing board consisting of seven at-­large members, to a new board with nine members, six elected from districts with the remaining three at-­large.

Chapter 4 1. The mayor served two-­year terms until the early 1980s, when the Minneapolis City Charter was changed to establish a four-­year term. Davis describes the many hateful, racially motivated incidents that he and his family endured during the 1971 campaign in his autobiography, Overcoming: The Autobiography of W. Harry Davis, chapter 16.

Chapter 5 1. I say this as a St. Paul homeowner who, each year since roughly 2007, dreads opening his annual Ramsey County property tax statement, which includes the county’s current assessment of the value of our home. 2. Author’s interview with Robert Miller, director of the NRP, 10 July 2007. For additional background of the history of housing reforms in Minneapolis, see Sidney (2003), chapter 4. 3. Ibid. 4. Ibid. In addition, some neighborhoods had not yet completed Phase II plans as of late 2008 when this research was being carried out. 5. The racial composition of the workforce of private sector employers is generally not publicly available, and so this claim is based on my observations of the workforce at the downtown Target store on several occasions in 2007, 2008, 2009, and 2010. 6. In 2007, the city established the Department of Neighborhood and Com-

notes to pages 167–225

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munity Relations, and in 2008 the associated Neighborhood and Community Engagement Commission was created. The commission has 16 members and will direct the next phase of the NRP in addition to the city’s broader community engagement efforts.

Chapter 6 1. This type of support, rooted in the city’s economic decline, was emphasized by many people I talked with in both formal interviews and informal conversations. 2. The fact that most casino patrons are from outside of Gary and Lake County was also confirmed in interviews and conversations with regional residents. 3. This was also confirmed in several interviews and informal conversations with long-­time Gary residents and observers, including some involved in city government and politics. 4. Laura Littlepage, personal communication with author, 12 June 2008.

Chapter 7 1. Indiana state law designates school districts as corporations. 2. This comment was made to me in an interview. The person, a keen observer of the politics of Gary for decades, has since passed away, but I will still keep their identity anonymous. 3. The number of schools in the district in 2005 includes two charter schools. 4. For a thorough review of the school funding debate, see Schrag (2003, chapter 4). 5. Another example can further illustrate this type of sentiment. In a class of about 25 students, when I discussed the economic decline of northwest Indiana and how it has affected every facet of life there, I used the case of Gary because it is the most vivid example of this decline. In response to my question as to what might be a useful policy response to the decline of Gary, one student, speaking under her breath but in a manner that was clearly audible to most people in the room, said “Burn it.” Sadly, this thoughtless remark provoked little discussion, despite the fact that most students in the class were from the northwest Indiana and metropolitan Chicago areas.

Chapter 8 1. Katherine Kersten has been one of the most visible and, I would suggest, influential commentators in the Twin Cities media over the last several years. In a 2008 Star Tribune column about an evaluation report on “The Choice Is Yours” program, she confidently yet incorrectly characterized the basic premise of the settlement: “Last week, we saw more evidence of the wrong-­headedness of the premise behind busing—­that racial balance is the critical factor in minority academic achievement” (Kersten 2008). 2. The politics of the early period of public housing in U.S. cities has been

240

notes to pages 229–34

documented in numerous studies. For a detailed account of this process in Buffalo, New York, in the late 1930s and early 1940s, including the overwhelming pressure brought on local official by White neighborhoods, see Kraus (2000). 3. For a discussion of many equity-­related issues in contemporary metropolitan development, also see Hayward and Swanstrom (2011). 4. The incident received extensive media attention beyond St. Paul. This quote is from a Minnesota Public Radio story. 5. This debate is already under way in many communities around the country. In late 2010, the school board of Eden Prairie, a Minneapolis suburb, voted 4–­3 to redraw attendance boundaries for the district’s several elementary schools in an effort to reduce the increasing levels of economic and racial segregation within the district. The Twin Cities’ media paid close attention to this debate as it unfolded, and the ideas of community leaders such as Myron Orfield clearly influenced the school board’s decision.

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Index

Note: Page numbers in italics refer to figures and tables. Adequate Yearly Progress (AYP), 88, 201–­2, 204–­5 affordable housing: deconcentration of poverty and, 225; definition of, 135; discrimination and, 34; economic segregation and, 34; individual rights and, 34; “lifecycle housing” as term of use and, 225; public opinions data on, 48–­49; St. Paul and, 145–­46, 238n1; state or federal government and, 9, 34; in Twin Cities, 81, 132, 134, 141, 144–­46, 149, 152, 158–­ 60, 225 Affordable Housing Coalition in Minneapolis, 143, 152–­53 affordable housing in Minneapolis: overview of, 2–­3, 131–­32, 154–­61; Affordable Housing Coalition in Minneapolis and, 143, 152–­53; affordable housing defined and, 135; Affordable Housing Trust Fund and, 2, 151, 154, 157, 213; AMI and, 135, 139, 145, 152–­53, 158–­60; condominium conversions and, 152–­54, 158; data on, 159; deconcentration of poverty and, 144; Hollman case and, 143–­44, 156; homeownership rate in, 158; housing values and, 134; HUD and, 143–­44, 145; Metropolitan Council and, 143–­45, 150, 160, 225; Minneapolis Consolidated Plan of 2005 to 2009 and, 153; Minneapolis Planning Department and, 142; minority community’s division on, 144, 156; MPHA and, 143, 153; politics of, 1, 55, 77–­78, 81, 98, 147–­51, 156–­59, 157; population data for, 62, 63, 64, 64, 67,

94, 147; public opinions and, 1–­2, 11, 15, 32, 81, 149–­50, 155–­56, 213, 216–­18; public policy and, 7, 8–­9, 11, 132–­34; racial diversity and, 91, 117, 139–­42, 147, 217; Rybak administration and, 2, 132, 150–­ 52; Sayles Belton administration and, 2, 81, 132, 142–­43, 144, 150, 151; Task Force and, 143–­45, 146, 156; Whites and, 150–­ 51, 155. See also affordable housing; Neighborhood Revitalization Program (NRP); St. Paul; Twin Cities Affordable Housing Trust Fund, 2, 151, 154, 157, 213 African Americans: activist or liberal government approaches and, 150–­51; attitudes on inequality and, 44, 44–­46, 46; couples’ death during MPD drug raid and, 112–­13, 114, 127, 128; discrimination against, 37, 44, 44, 44–­45; education in Gary and, 188, 190–­95, 200–­201; on education reform, 47, 47–­48; employment discrimination and, 37, 44, 44; employment opportunities and, 44, 44, 45, 46; Gary and, 3, 54, 57, 59, 60, 61, 193, 195; law enforcement trust and, 8, 52, 233; law enforcement trust in MPD and, 102, 112, 114, 125–­26; mayors in Gary and, 58–­59, 61, 167, 171, 195; mayors in Minneapolis and, 1, 55, 76–­78, 81, 98, 107, 147–­51, 238n1; minority community’s division on issues and, 119–­20, 144, 156; MPD and, 104–­7, 112–­14, 119–­20, 127–­28, 238n1; patterns of inequality and, 42, 42, 44, 44–­46, 46; racial segregation in

263

264 African Americans (continued) Minneapolis and, 65; on racism, 44; suburban transfer program in Minneapolis and, 88–­89, 89, 90. See also racial minorities; racial segregation American Indians (Native Americans), 63, 89, 95, 126, 163–­64 AMI (area median income), 135, 139, 145, 152–­53, 158–­60 anti-­Semitism, in Minneapolis, 62 area median income (AMI), 135, 139, 145, 152–­53, 158–­60 Asians, 42, 63, 126; Settlement Agreement NAACP suburban transfer program and, 89, 89, 90. See also racial minorities attitudes of citizens. See public opinions AYP (Adequate Yearly Progress), 88, 201–­2, 204–­5 Bachelor, Lynn W., 54 Bachrach, Peter, 27, 237n4 Baratz, Morton S., 27, 237n4 Barber, Benjamin, 228 Barden, Don, 170–­73, 178, 179, 186–­87 Barker, Thomas, 175 Barnes, Thomas, 57, 165–­67, 171, 196 Bartels, Larry M., 43 baseball stadium (U.S. Steel Yard minor league baseball stadium) funds, 54, 182–­ 84, 185–­86 Bauerlin, Mark, 29–­30 Bell v. School City of Gary, Indiana (1963), 192, 193–­94 Berkman, Michael B., 19, 28, 72 Berry, Jeffrey M., 18–­19 Betten, Neil, 206 bifurcated populations, 53 Black Police Officers’ Federation in Minneapolis, 119, 122 Blacks. See African Americans Bouza, Anthony V., 113 Britz, Marjie, 175 Browning, Rufus P., 127–­28 Brown v. Board of Education (1954), 33, 47, 188, 192, 194, 206 Bush, George W., 158 California v. Cabazon Band of Mission Indi­ ans (1987), 164 Cambridge, Massachusetts, 92 Campaign for Affordable Housing, 48

index Carlson, Barbara, 148 cases. See litigation, and education in Minneapolis; and specific litigation casino gambling: economic and social impacts of, 174–­75, 186; Indian Gaming Regulatory Act and, 164; National Gambling Impact Study Commission and, 164–­65, 181, 184; public opinions and, 49–­50, 50, 162, 168–­69, 184; referenda in Indiana and, 166–­71; in U.S., 163–­65, 181, 184, 186. See also riverboat casinos in Gary Catlin, Robert A., 57, 59, 165, 166 Chamber of Commerce (Greater Minneapolis Chamber of Commerce), 72, 96 Charter School of the Dunes, 203, 205 charter schools, 2, 69, 88–­89, 189, 203–­6, 215, 237n1 “The Choice Is Yours” (CIY) program, 84, 94, 222, 223–­24 Citizens Housing and Planning Association, 49 civic capacity, and education in Minneapolis, 96–­97, 214 Civilian Review Authority (CRA) in Minneapolis, 101, 113–­15, 119–­23, 127, 129–­30 Civilian Review Authority (CRA) Redesign Action Group, 120–­22 civil rights. See individual rights Civil Rights Act of 1964, 194 CIY (“The Choice Is Yours”) program, 84, 94, 222, 223–­24 Commission on Civil Rights of Minneapolis, 112 Communities United Against Police Brutality (CUAPB), 117, 120 community schools (neighborhood schools) in Minneapolis, 1–­2, 6, 55, 75–­ 81, 238n2. See also education in Minneapolis condominium conversions (market-­rate condominiums), 152–­54, 158 consumerism, 24, 228 Crain, Robert L., 80 CRA (Civilian Review Authority) in Minneapolis, 101, 113–­15, 119–­23, 127, 129–­30 CRA (Civilian Review Authority) Redesign Action Group, 120–­22 crime and crime control: in Gary, 54–­55, 61, 207; law enforcement and, 8, 31, 54–­

index 55, 61, 207; MPD and, 103–­4, 115. See also law enforcement reform in Minneapolis CUAPB (Communities United Against Police Brutality), 117, 120 Dahl, Robert, 5, 11, 23, 25–­27, 36–­38, 237n4 Danielson, Michael N., 99 data on, 159 Davis, Harry, 107, 238n1 decision making by local government. See policy-­making by local government (public policy) deconcentration of poverty: affordable housing in Minneapolis and, 144; education and, 34, 95, 99, 209, 211, 224; regionalism and, 226–­27. See also poverty deindustrialization, 3, 10, 61, 64, 163, 170 democracy: NRP and, 137, 155; public opinions and, 4. See also responsiveness of local government Democratic-­Farmer-­Labor (DFL) Party, 66, 73, 77, 105–­8, 147, 238n1 Democrats: Gary and, 3, 56, 57, 167, 171, 207; law enforcement trust and, 51–­52; Minneapolis and, 66, 73, 77, 105–­8, 147, 238n1 Department of Civil Rights in Minneapolis, 105, 119, 120, 121 Department of Education (formerly State Department of Children, Families, and Learning), 76 Derus, John, 77, 115, 148 desegregation, 1–­2, 75–­76, 78, 78, 193–­94, 206. See also racial segregation Destination Excellence, 85 development agreements, and riverboat casinos in Gary, 171–­74 DFL (Democratic-­Farmer-­Labor) Party, 66, 73, 77, 105–­8, 147, 238n1 disciplinary authority, within MPD, 113, 121–­22 discrimination: affordable housing and, 34; African Americans and, 37, 44, 44, 44–­45; employment for African Americans and, 37, 44, 44; law enforcement and, 35, 38; by MPD, 102, 126; Whites’ attitudes and, 44–­45. See also racism Dolan, Tim, 129–­30 Domhoff, G. William, 23–­25 Dowding, Keith, 21 downtown business districts, 6, 11, 25, 149,

265 238n5. See also economic development; residential neighborhoods Dreier, Peter, 38, 41, 235 economic development: casino gambling impacts on, 174–­75, 186; deindustrialization and, 3, 10, 61, 64, 163, 170; downtown business districts and, 6, 11, 25, 149, 238n5; growth projects and, 24, 25, 225; in Indiana, 3, 164–­65, 167, 239n1; individual rights and, 35–­36, 225–­26, 233–­ 34; in Minneapolis, 7–­8, 11, 149, 238n5 economic development in Gary: overview of, 3, 11, 54–­55; baseball stadium funds and, 54, 182–­84, 185–­86; public opinions and, 2, 233; riverboat casinos impacts and, 3, 6, 11, 36, 175–­82, 176, 177, 179, 180, 182, 226, 239nn2–­3 economic inequalities. See patterns of inequality Economic Policy Institute, 71 economic segregation: affordable housing and, 34; education in Minneapolis and, 69, 71, 75–­76, 78, 82–­83, 94–­95, 95; Minneapolis and, 64–­65; public policy and, 4, 7; race and, 42, 42 economy, of Twin Cities, 64–­65, 73 Edelman, Murray, 23 education: Brown and, 33, 47, 188, 192, 194, 206; deconcentration of poverty and, 34, 95, 209, 222–­23, 224; Indiana public school districts and, 207, 207; individual rights and, 33–­34; mayoral control of school systems and, 208; NCLB and, 45; open enrollment law in Indiana and, 209; patterns of inequality and, 45, 46; public opinions on reform data and, 46–­ 48, 47; public policy and, 7, 9–­10; race and, 33–­34; staff accomplishments and, 222; state or federal government and, 33 educational achievement: Gary and, 204–­ 6; Minneapolis and, 71, 80–­81, 82–­83, 91; poverty correlation with, 2, 6, 33, 70–­71, 88, 92–­93; public opinions correlation with, 1–­2, 70, 72, 76, 85–­86, 95–­97, 238n6; standardized tests and, 82, 90; suburban transfer program correlation with, 90–­ 92 education in Gary: overview of, 188–­89, 206–­11; African Americans and, 188, 190–­95, 200–­201; AYP and, 201–­2, 204–­

266 education in Gary (continued) 5; charter schools and, 189, 203–­6, 215; Constitution in context of education and, 188, 193, 210–­11; deconcentration of poverty and, 209, 211; desegregation litigation and, 193–­94, 206; educational achievement and, 204–­6; funding for schools and, 207, 207–­9; GCSC and, 190, 239n1; geographic attendance zones and, 188, 191–­92, 193, 206; individual rights and, 194–­95; job loss due to school closings and, 200–­201, 202–­3; population data and, 197, 198, 239n3; poverty and, 190, 206–­8, 207; public opinions and, 6, 191, 196, 199–­200, 206, 214–­15; public policy and, 3, 7, 207; racial diversity and, 190; racial minorities and, 190; racial segregation and, 190–­93, 206; racism and, 191; reforms and, 208–­11, 239n5; school board elections and, 195–­ 97, 202–­3, 206, 213; school closings and, 197–­203; standardized tests and, 202–­3, 204; U.S. Steel company and, 190–­91, 200, 201, 202, 207; Whites and, 190, 192, 195 education in Minneapolis: overview of, 69–­71, 95–­100; AYP and, 88; Chamber of Commerce and, 72, 96; charter schools and, 2, 69, 88–­89, 237n1; civic capacity and, 96–­97, 214; CIY program and, 84, 94, 222, 223–­24; community schools and, 1–­2, 6, 55, 75–­81, 238n2; Constitution’s requirement for legislation on, 82; deconcentration of poverty and, 95, 99, 222, 223–­24; Department of Education and, 76; desegregation rule and, 1–­2, 75–­ 76, 78, 78; Destination Excellence and, 85; economic segregation and, 69, 71, 75–­76, 78, 82–­83, 94–­95, 95; educational achievement and, 70–­71, 82, 88, 90–­92; effects of, 87–­95; enrollment decline and, 2, 85–­88, 94; funding for schools and, 70, 72–­74, 87–­88; litigation on desegregation in 1970s and, 70, 74–­76, 97–­ 98; Minneapolis NAACP litigation on state’s oversight of suburban transfer program in 1995 and, 70, 74, 81–­83, 94, 98, 210; MPS and, 1–­2; NCLB and, 88; patterns of inequality and, 6, 70, 97, 240n5; politics and, 1, 66, 72–­74; poverty and, 70–­71, 88, 92, 94–­95, 95, 99–­100;

index public opinions and, 1–­2, 70, 72, 76, 85–­ 86, 95–­97, 213–­14, 238n6; public policy and, 1, 2, 7, 11, 237n1; race and racial segregation and, 1–­2, 6, 65, 69, 71, 74–­76, 78, 82–­83; racial and ethnicity data for students in, 78, 78, 94, 95; school closings and, 84–­85; Settlement Agreement and, 70, 83–­84, 89–­94, 97–­98, 143, 239n1; standardized tests and, 82, 90; strategic planning and, 85–­87; student racial and ethnicity data and, 78, 78, 94, 95; suburban transfer program and, 70, 83–­84, 89, 89–­94, 90, 97–­98, 143, 222–­24, 238nn4–­ 5, 239n1; WMEP and, 222. See also education Edwards, Ron, 119–­20 Elementary and Secondary Education Act of 1965, 194 elite theorists, 4, 6, 22, 25, 219–­20 Elkin, Stephen L., 5, 29, 220–­21, 228, 229 employment opportunities: for African Americans, 37, 44, 44; in Gary, 55–­59, 59, 61, 192; job loss due to school closings in Gary and, 200–­201, 202–­3; in Minneapolis, 65; racial minorities in MPD and, 105, 120, 122; riverboat casinos in Gary and, 173–­79, 179, 183, 184–­ 85, 187; in Twin Cities, 65 English, Bill, 149 enrollment decline, for schools in Minneapolis, 2, 85–­88, 94 ethnicity: Minneapolis and, 10, 12–­13, 53–­ 54, 67, 155; political culture and, 10, 53; public opinions and, 37; Twin Cities and, 64–­65, 75. See also race Fainstein, Norman, 29 Fainstein, Susan, 29, 136, 229 Fair Employment Practices Commission (FEPC), 192 the Federation (Police Federation) in Minneapolis, 101, 113–­16, 118–­22, 129 Felsenstein, Daniel, 181 FEPC (Fair Employment Practices Commission), 192 focusing events, and law enforcement reform in Minneapolis, 101, 102, 127, 129 Fourteenth Amendment, 33. See also individual rights Fraser, Don, 108, 109, 111–­16, 127 funding for schools: education in Minne-

index apolis and, 70, 72–­74, 87–­88; Gary and, 207, 207–­9 Gallup: education reform data and, 47, 47–­ 48; law enforcement survey and, 51, 51; public opinions on education and, 45; racism and, 44 gambling, 49, 163. See also casino gambling; riverboat casinos in Gary Gaming Commission (Indiana Gaming Commission), 3, 171, 172 Gary, Indiana: overview of, 9–­13; African American mayors in, 58–­59, 61, 167, 171, 195; African Americans and, 3, 54, 57, 59, 60, 61, 193, 195; casino gambling referenda and, 169–­71; crime control in, 54–­ 55, 61, 207; deindustrialization and, 3, 10, 61, 163, 170; Democrats and, 3, 56, 57, 167, 171, 207; employment opportunities and, 55–­59, 59, 61, 192; history of, 40, 53–­61, 59, 60, 68, 237n3; housing legislation and, 192–­93; Human Relations Commission in Gary and, 192, 194; individual rights and, 192–­93; politics and, 40, 53–­61, 54, 59, 60, 68, 182–­84, 185–­86, 237n3; population and, 58–­59, 60, 61, 193, 197, 198, 239n3; poverty in, 60, 61; public opinions and, 37, 237n3; racial segregation in, 57; racism in, 167; USS-­ USX Steel/Gary Works and, 56, 58, 179, 190–­91, 200, 201, 202, 207; white flight from, 58–­59, 193, 195. See also education in Gary; Indiana; riverboat casinos in Gary Gary Community School Corporation (GCSC), 190, 239n1. See also education in Gary Gary Works, 56, 58, 179, 201. See also USS-­ USX Steel Corporation Gendron, Richard, 24–­25 geographic attendance zones, and Gary, 188, 191–­92, 193, 206 Goetz, Edward G., 141, 144 Gordon, Cam, 153–­54 Grant, Gerald, 223 Greater Minneapolis Chamber of Commerce (Chamber of Commerce), 72, 96 Green, William, 85, 222 Grinols, Earl L., 175, 181 growth machine theory, 4–­6, 20, 23–­24, 219–­20

267 growth projects, 24, 25, 225. See also economic development Gutmann, Amy, 38 Harding, Allan, 30 Hatcher, Richard: casino gambling referenda and, 61, 167, 171, 188, 193, 195, 196, 206, 214; desegregation in schools and, 195; economic development and, 58–­59; on elected school boards, 196; housing legislation and, 193; mayoral-­ appointed school boards and, 188, 195, 206, 214; mayoral elections and, 58–­59, 61, 167, 171, 195; state rift with Gary and, 57 Henig, Jeffrey R., 196 Herbert, Steve, 229 Hero, Rodney E., 53 heterogeneous populations, 53 Hirst, Clifford, 136 Hispanics: attitudes about inequality and, 45, 46; law enforcement trust and, 8, 124–­25; patterns of inequality and, 42, 42, 45, 46; racial segregation in Minneapolis and, 65; Settlement Agreement NAACP suburban transfer program and, 89, 89, 90. See also racial minorities history: of Gary, 40, 53–­61, 59, 60, 68, 237n3; of Indiana, 55, 56–­57; of Minneapolis, 40, 53–­55, 61–­67, 63, 68 Hochschild, Jennifer, 43, 99 Hofstede, Albert, 107–­8 Holland, Dorothy, 19 Hollman v. Cisneros (1995), 143–­44, 156 homeownership: affordable housing support tension with, 139–­40, 155–­56, 158–­ 59; housing values in Minneapolis and, 132, 134–­35, 238n1 homo civicus, 25 homogeneous populations, 53–­54, 67, 229–­33, 240n4 homo politicus, 25–­26 housing: legislation in Gary and, 192–­93; nursing home relocation and, 230–­33, 240n4; values for, 132, 134–­35, 238n1. See also affordable housing; affordable housing in Minneapolis HUD (Housing Urban Development), 143–­ 44, 145 Human Relations Commission, 105, 192, 194

268 Humphrey, Hubert, 62 Hunter, Floyd, 22–­23 IAU (Internal Affairs Unit) in Minneapolis, 111–­12, 118, 122–­23 Indiana: casino gambling referenda and, 166–­71; Constitution in context of education and, 188, 210–­11; economic development in, 3, 164–­65, 167, 239n1; Indian Gaming Regulatory Act in, 164; NIPSCO utility company and, 166, 201; open enrollment law and, 209; politics and history of, 55, 56–­57; public school districts data for, 207, 207; racial segregation in, 57, 192; Republicans and, 57, 167–­68, 207; USX Steel Corporation and, 166, 167. See also education in Gary; Gary, Indiana; riverboat casinos in Gary; state and federal government Indiana Gaming Commission (Gaming Commission), 3, 171, 172 Indiana Statewide Test for Educational Progress (ISTEP), 202–­3, 204 individual rights: affordable housing and, 34; economic development and, 35–­36, 225–­26, 233–­34; education and, 33–­34, 194–­95; housing legislation in Gary and, 192–­93; law enforcement and, 34–­35; majoritarianism and, 32–­36; race and, 33–­36 inequality patterns. See patterns of inequality Internal Affairs Review Panel in Minneapolis, 111 Internal Affairs Unit (IAU) in Minneapolis, 111–­12, 118, 122–­23 ISTEP (Indiana Statewide Test for Educational Progress), 202–­3, 204 jobs, and job loss due to school closings, 200–­201, 202–­3. See also employment opportunities Johnson, Barbara, 153–­54 Jones, Bryan D., 54 Judd, Dennis R., 8 Kahlenberg, Richard D., 93, 95 Kantor, Paul, 22, 25, 29 Kelo v. City of New London (2005), 35–­36 Kersten, Katherine, 239n1 Key, V. O., 13–­15 Kinder, Donald, 13

index King, Scott, 54, 162–­63, 171–­74, 181, 182–­84, 185–­86, 218 Kingdon, John W., 17 KIPP (Knowledge Is Power Program) School, 203 Klinenberg, Eric, 228 Knowledge Is Power Program (KIPP) School, 203 Kozol, Jonathan, 207–­8 Lane, James B., 57, 206 Latinos. See Hispanics law enforcement: crime control and, 8, 31, 54–­55, 61, 207; discrimination and, 35, 38; individual rights and, 34–­35; police oversight and, 8, 224–­25; public opinions data on, 50–­52, 51; public policy and, 8, 11; race and, 8, 34–­35; racial minorities and, 8, 52; reforms and, 225. See also law enforcement trust law enforcement reform in Minneapolis: overview of, 101–­2, 127–­30; Commission on Civil Rights of Minneapolis and, 112; CRA and, 101, 113–­15, 119–­23, 127, 129–­ 30; CRA Redesign Action Group and, 120–­22; Department of Civil Rights in Minneapolis and, 105, 119, 120, 121; DFL Party and, 105–­8, 238n1; focusing events and, 101, 102, 127, 129; Human Relations Commission in Minneapolis and, 105; police oversight and, 101–­2, 108–­11, 112–­ 15, 216; public policy and, 7, 8, 11; racial minority incorporation and, 127–­28. See also law enforcement; Minneapolis Police Department (MPD) law enforcement trust: MPD and, 102, 106–­7, 110–­12, 114, 122–­27; police oversight and, 8, 101–­2, 108–­11, 112–­15, 216, 224–­25; public policy and, 28; race and racial minorities and, 8, 52, 233; Republicans and, 51; suburban residents and, 52; urban residents and, 52; Whites and, 8, 52. See also law enforcement; public opinions Lee, Natalie Johnson, 121 Lewis, Paul G., 7, 221 “lifecycle housing” as term of use, 225. See also affordable housing litigation, and education in Minneapolis, 70, 74–­76, 81–­83, 94, 97–­98, 210. See also specific cases and litigation

index local government model of policy-­making, 16–­17, 17. See also policy-­making by local government (public policy) Loewen, James W., 57, 62 Logan, John R., 23 majoritarianism, 13, 32–­36. See also policy-­ making by local government (public policy); public opinions; responsiveness of local government market-­rate condominiums (condominium conversions), 152–­54, 158 Marshall, Dale Rogers, 127–­28 Matsusaka, John, 26–­27 McClaughlin, Peter, 153 McManus, William, 122–­23 methods and research, 11–­13 Metropolitan Council, and Twin Cities, 143–­45, 150, 160, 225 Minneapolis, Minnesota: overview of, 9–­ 13; African Americans in mayoral elections in, 1, 55, 76–­78, 81, 98, 107, 147–­51, 238n1; Constitution’s requirement for legislation on education and, 82; crime control and, 147; deindustrialization and, 64; DFL Party and, 66, 73, 77, 105–­8, 147; downtown business districts and, 11, 149, 238n5; economic development in, 7–­8, 11, 149, 238n5; economic segregation and, 64–­65; employment opportunities and, 65; ethnic diversity in, 12–­ 13; ethnicity and, 10, 12–­13, 53–­54, 67, 155; Green Party and, 66, 121, 153; history of, 40, 53–­55, 61–­67, 63, 68, 68; homogeneous populations and, 53–­54, 67; housing values and, 132, 134–­35, 238n1; MPS and, 1–­2; politics in, 40, 53–­55, 61–­ 67, 63, 68, 217–­20; population statistics for, 62, 62, 63, 64, 64, 67, 94, 147; poverty and, 1, 2, 64, 64–­65, 147; public opinions and, 98, 218–­20; public policy and, 1–­2, 7–­8, 7–­9, 11, 132–­34, 237n1; race and, 10, 12–­13, 53–­54, 62, 63, 65, 67; racial appeals during mayoral elections and, 107, 238n1; racial diversity in, 10, 12–­13, 53–­ 54, 62, 64–­65; racial minorities in, 2, 2, 62, 63, 149, 238n5; racial segregation in, 2, 65; racism in, 62, 107, 117, 238n1; stadium politics in, 217–­20; suburban residents and, 71, 82–­83, 91, 98; urban residents and, 71, 82–­83, 91, 98; White mayors in, 2, 147–­52. See also affordable

269 housing in Minneapolis; law enforcement reform in Minneapolis; Minneapolis Police Department (MPD); St. Paul; Twin Cities Minneapolis Affordable Housing Task Force (Task Force), 143–­45, 146, 156 Minneapolis Branch of NAACP v. State of Minnesota (1995), 74, 81–­83, 94, 210. See also Settlement Agreement, Minneapolis Branch of NAACP et al. v. State of Minne­ sota et al. (2000) Minneapolis Community Planning and Economic Development Office, 153 Minneapolis Consolidated Plan of 2005 to 2009, 153 Minneapolis Planning Department, 142 Minneapolis Police Department (MPD): African Americans and, 104–­7, 112–­14, 119–­20, 127–­28, 238n1; Black Police Officers’ Federation and, 119, 122; couples’ death during drug raid by, 112–­13, 114, 127, 128; CRA and, 113–­14; crime and, 103–­4, 115; CUAPB and, 117, 120; disciplinary authority within, 113, 121–­22; discrimination against racial minorities and, 102, 126; division within minority community on, 119–­20, 156; employment opportunities for minorities and, 105, 120, 122; IAU and, 111–­12, 118, 122–­ 23; Internal Affairs Review Panel, 111; law and order message of politicians and, 106–­7, 108–­9; law enforcement trust and, 102, 106–­7, 110–­12, 114, 122–­27; mediation between minority community and, 102, 116–­20; PCRC and, 102, 117–­ 20, 127, 128–­29; Police Federation and, 101, 113–­16, 118–­22, 129; politics and, 103–­4, 106–­7, 108–­9, 114–­15, 238n1; Public Labor Relations Act and, 113; public opinions and, 15, 103–­4, 108, 119–­20, 123–­27, 124, 156, 215–­16; racial minorities and, 102, 105, 112, 116–­20, 122–­23, 125–­27, 156; racism and, 102, 107, 126, 238n1; receivership by Justice Department and, 116–­17; riot after drug raid in 2002 by, 102, 116, 128; social unrest during the 1960s and 1970s and, 101, 104–­9; Whites’ trust in, 102, 106–­7, 124–­25, 127. See also law enforcement reform in Minneapolis Minneapolis Public Housing Authority (MPHA), 143, 153

270 Minneapolis Public Schools (MPS), 1–­2. See also education in Minneapolis Minneapolis School Board, 1 model of policy-­making by local government, 16–­17, 17 Mohl, Raymond A., 206 Mollenkopf, John, 235 Molotch, Harvey, 23 Moss, Spike, 119–­20 Mossberger, Karen, 20–­22 MPD (Minneapolis Police Department). See law enforcement reform in Minneapolis; Minneapolis Police Department (MPD) MPHA (Minneapolis Public Housing Authority), 143, 153 MPS (Minneapolis Public Schools), 1–­2. See also education in Minneapolis Naftalin, Arthur, 105, 111 national data, on patterns of inequality, 40, 42 National Gambling Impact Study Commission, 164–­65, 181, 184 Native Americans (American Indians), 63, 89, 95, 126, 163–­64; Settlement Agreement NAACP suburban transfer program and, 89, 89, 90 NCLB (No Child Left Behind Act), 45, 88, 189, 201–­3, 204–­5 Neighborhood Revitalization Program (NRP): overview of, 66, 135–­39, 143; criticism of, 136; democracy and, 137, 155; homeownership issues and, 139–­40, 155–­56, 158; Phase II plans and, 137, 139, 238n4, 239n6; Phase I plans and, 131, 137, 139–­42, 155–­56; population diversity and, 140–­42, 147, 217; public opinions and, 139–­40, 155–­56. See also affordable housing in Minneapolis neighborhood schools (community schools) in Minneapolis, 1–­2, 6, 55, 75–­ 81, 238n2. See also education in Minneapolis Neiman, Max, 7, 221 NIPSCO utility company, 166, 201 No Child Left Behind Act (NCLB), 45, 88, 189, 201–­3, 204–­5 nondecision making theory, 27 NRP (Neighborhood Revitalization Program). See affordable housing in Minne-

index apolis; Neighborhood Revitalization Program (NRP) nursing home relocation, in St. Paul, 230–­ 33, 240n4 Oliver, J. Eric, 4 Olson, Robert, 116, 119 opinions and priorities of citizens. See public opinions Orfield, Myron, 41, 240n5 Orr, Marion, 27, 200 Palus, Christine Kelleher, 19, 220 Parents Involved in Community Schools v. Se­ attle School District #1 (2007), 33–­34 patterns of inequality: overview of, 40, 67; African Americans and, 42, 42, 44, 44–­ 46, 46; education and, 6, 45, 46, 70, 97, 240n5; Hispanics and, 42, 42, 45, 46; national data on, 40, 42; pluralism and, 20, 37, 221; public opinions and, 3–­4, 5–­ 7, 41–­42, 42–­46, 44, 46, 70, 97; public policy and, 4; public policy correlation with, 3–­4, 5–­7, 32, 36, 38–­39, 41, 221–­27, 234–­35; race and, 42, 42, 44; racial minorities and, 42–­45, 52–­53; regionalism and, 40–­42, 226–­27, 235, 237n1; riverboat casinos in Gary and, 6, 187; Whites’ and, 42, 42, 44, 44–­46, 46 Patterson, Thomas E., 13 PCRC (Police Community Relations Council), 102, 117–­20, 127, 128–­29 Peterson, Paul E., 5, 6, 27–­28 Peterson, P. K., 110–­11 Phase I NRP plans, 131, 137, 139–­42, 155–­56 Phase II NRP plans, 137, 139, 238n4, 239n6 Pinderhughes, Dianne M., 37 pluralism, 4, 5–­6, 20, 25–­27, 37–­38, 221 Plutzer, Eric, 19, 28, 72 Police Community Relations Council (PCRC), 102, 117–­20, 127, 128–­29 Police Federation (the Federation) in Minneapolis, 101, 113–­16, 118–­22, 129 police oversight, 8, 101–­2, 108–­11, 112–­15, 216, 224–­25. See also law enforcement trust policy-­making by local government (public policy): economic segregation and, 4, 7; education in Gary and, 3, 7, 207; elite theorists and, 4, 6; future directions and, 6–­7, 235; growth machine theory and, 4–­6; law enforcement trust and, 28;

index Minneapolis and, 1–­2, 7–­9, 11, 132–­34, 237n1; model of, 16–­17, 17; patterns of inequality correlation with, 3–­4, 5–­7, 32, 36, 38–­39, 41, 221–­27; pluralism and, 5–­6, 36, 221; politics and, 27–­28, 29; public choice theory and, 5–­6; public opinions and, 3–­4, 7, 32, 212–­13, 221, 234, 235, 240n5; racial segregation and, 7; regime theory and, 5, 6, 183, 219–­21; responsiveness and, 4–­5, 7; social inequalities and, 4; state and federal government programs and, 7, 9, 34; suburban residents and, 4, 5–­7; urban residents and, 4, 5–­7 political processes. See responsiveness of local government politics and political power: affordable housing in Minneapolis and, 1, 55, 77–­ 78, 81, 98, 147–­51, 156–­59, 157; education and, 1, 66, 72–­74; in Gary, 40, 53–­61, 54, 59, 60, 68, 182–­84, 185–­86, 237n3; homo politicus and, 25–­26; of Indiana, 55, 56–­ 57; law and order message of politicians and, 106–­7, 108–­9; Minneapolis and, 40, 53–­55, 61–­67, 63, 68; MPD and, 103–­4, 107, 108–­9, 114–­15, 238n1; public policy and, 27–­28, 29; race and, 53; Republicans and, 51, 57, 167–­68, 207; St. Paul and, 137; state or federal government and, 27, 29 populations: bifurcated, 53; Gary data and, 58–­59, 60, 61, 193, 197, 198, 239n3; heterogeneous, 53; homogeneous, 53–­ 54, 67, 229–­33, 240n4; Minneapolis data and, 62, 62, 63, 64, 64, 67, 94, 147; population diversity in NRP and, 140–­42, 147, 217; Twin Cities and, 1, 64, 64–­65, 75 Portnoy, Kent E., 18–­19 poverty: community schools in Minneapolis and, 2, 6; educational achievement correlation with, 2, 6, 33, 70–­71, 88, 92–­ 93; education and, 34, 94–­95, 95, 99–­ 100, 190, 206–­9, 207, 209, 224; in Gary, 60, 61; Minneapolis and, 1, 2, 64, 64–­65, 147. See also deconcentration of poverty powell, john, 144–­45 public choice theory, 5–­6, 20, 27–­28 Public Labor Relations Act, 113 public opinions: overview of, 13–­16, 52–­53; affordable housing and, 1–­2, 11, 15, 32, 48–­49, 81, 149–­50, 155–­56, 213, 216–­18; African Americans on inequality and, 44, 44–­46, 46; casino gambling and, 49–­

271 50, 50, 162, 168–­69, 184; community schools in Minneapolis and, 1–­2, 79–­80, 238n2; definition of, 13; democracy and, 4; economic development in Gary and, 2; educational achievement correlation with, 1–­2, 70, 72, 76, 85–­86, 95–­97, 238n6; education in Gary and, 6, 191, 196, 199–­ 200, 206, 214–­15; education in Minneapolis and, 1–­2, 70, 72, 76, 85–­86, 95–­97, 213–­14, 238n6; on education reform, 46–­ 48, 47; ethnicity and, 37; gambling data and, 49; Gary and, 37, 237n3; Hispanics on inequality and, 45, 46; homo civicus and, 25; homo politicus and, 25–­26; law enforcement and, 15, 50–­52, 51; majoritarianism and, 13, 32–­36; MPD and, 15, 103–­4, 108, 119–­20, 123–­27, 124, 156, 215–­ 16; NRP and, 139–­40, 155–­56; patterns of inequality and, 3–­4, 5–­7, 41–­42, 42–­46, 44, 46, 52–­53, 70, 97; public policy and, 3–­4, 7, 32, 212–­13, 221, 234, 235, 240n5; riverboat casinos in Gary and, 3, 11, 162–­ 63, 168–­69, 186, 218; St. Paul and, 66; stadium politics in Minneapolis and, 217–­ 20; state or federal government and, 30–­31; suburban residents in Minneapolis and, 98; urban residents in Minneapolis and, 98; Whites on inequality and, 44, 44–­46, 46. See also law enforcement trust public policy (policy-­making by local government). See policy-­making by local government (public policy); responsiveness of local government race: economic segregation and, 42, 42; education and, 1–­2, 6, 33–­34; growth machine theory and, 24; individual rights and, 33–­36; law enforcement and, 8, 34–­ 35; law enforcement trust and, 52; Minneapolis and, 10, 12–­13, 53–­54, 65, 67; patterns of inequality and, 42, 42, 44; politics and political culture and, 53; population data for Minneapolis and, 62, 63. See also ethnicity; racial minorities racial diversity: affordable housing in Minneapolis and, 91, 117, 139–­42, 147, 217; education in Gary and, 190; in Minneapolis, 10, 12–­13, 53–­54, 62, 64–­65; responsiveness of local government and, 229–­30, 233; St. Paul and, 64–­65; in Twin Cities, 65, 75. See also race

272 racial minorities: division on issues within, 119–­20, 144, 156; division on opinion of MPD within, 119–­20, 156; educational achievement and, 33; education in Gary and, 190; employment opportunities in MPD and, 105, 120, 122; individual rights and, 34; law enforcement and, 8, 52; law enforcement trust and, 8, 102, 110–­12, 114, 122–­23, 125–­27, 233; mediation between MPD and, 102, 116–­20; Minneapolis and, 2, 62, 63, 149, 238n5; MPD and, 102, 105, 112, 116–­20, 122–­23, 125–­27; patterns of inequality and, 42–­45, 52–­53; pluralism and, 37; poverty correlation with educational achievement and, 33; Twin Cities and, 64–­65, 75. See also race; racial diversity; and specific racial minorities racial minority incorporation, 127–­28. See also racial diversity; racial minorities; and specific racial minorities racial segregation: education in Gary and, 190–­93, 206; education in Minneapolis and, 1–­2, 6, 65, 69, 71, 74–­76, 78, 82–­83; in Gary, 57; in Indiana, 57, 192; in Minneapolis, 2, 65; public policy and, 7; in Twin Cities, 65. See also desegregation; race; racial diversity; racial minorities; Whites; and specific racial minorities racism: African Americans’ attitudes and, 44; education in Gary and, 191; in Gary, 167; in Minneapolis, 62, 107, 117, 238n1; MPD and, 102, 107, 126, 238n1. See also discrimination receivership for police departments, by Justice Department, 116–­17 Reese, Laura, 22 referenda, and riverboat casinos in Gary, 170–­71 reforms, and education in Gary, 208–­11, 239n5 regime theory: public policy and, 5, 6, 183, 219–­21; responsiveness of local government and, 5, 6, 19–­22, 29, 32, 220–­21; stadium politics in Minneapolis and, 219–­20 regionalism, and patterns of inequality, 40–­42, 226–­27, 235, 237n1 Republicans, 51, 57, 167–­68, 207 research and methods, 11–­13 residential neighborhoods: affordable

index housing and, 11; growth and, 24, 25; individual rights and, 33, 38; law enforcement trust and, 52; Minneapolis and, 71, 82–­83, 91, 98; public opinions and, 98; public policy and, 4, 5–­7; responsiveness and, 235. See also downtown business districts responsiveness of local government: consumerism and, 24, 228; elite theorists and, 4, 6, 22, 25; growth machine theory and, 4–­6, 20, 23–­24; homogeneous population correlation with, 229–­33, 240n4; nondecision making theory and, 27; patterns of inequality correlation with, 227–­35, 240n5; pluralism and, 4, 23, 25–­ 27; public choice theory and, 5–­6, 20, 27–­28; public policy and, 4–­5, 7; racial diversity and, 229–­30, 233; regime theory and, 5, 6, 19–­22, 29, 32, 220–­21; scholarship on, 4, 19–­32, 237n2, 237n4; suburban residents and, 235. See also policy-­making by local government (public policy) responsiveness of state and federal government, 9, 30–­31, 35. See also responsiveness of local government Rich, Wilbur C., 196 riot after MPD drug raid in 2002, 102, 116, 128 riverboat casinos in Gary: overview of, 3, 162–­63, 184–­87; Barden company and, 170–­73, 178, 179, 186–­87; baseball stadium funds and, 54, 182–­84, 185–­86; Democrats and, 167; development agreements and, 171–­74; economic and social impacts of, 3, 6, 11, 36, 175–­82, 176, 177, 179, 180, 182, 226, 239nn2–­3; effects of, 3, 6; employment opportunities and, 173–­79, 179, 183, 184–­85, 187; Gaming Commission (Indiana Gaming Commission) and, 3, 171, 172; patterns of inequality and, 6, 187; public opinions and, 3, 11, 162–­63, 168–­69, 186, 218, 233; referenda and, 170–­71; Trump companies and, 170, 173–­74, 176, 176–­78, 182, 201. See also casino gambling; Indiana Rosenfeld, Raymond A., 22 Rosentraub, Mark S., 183 Rothstein, Richard, 190, 222 Rusk, David, 41 Rybak, R. T.: affordable housing and, 2,

index 132, 150–­52, 151, 154, 157, 213; Affordable Housing Trust Fund and, 2, 151, 154, 157, 213; condominium conversions and, 152–­54; CRA and, 121; crime control and, 115; downtown economic development and, 149; limited government approach by, 2, 132, 148–­49, 150, 151; mayoral elections and, 2, 147–­52; minority community relations with, 122, 126; MPD mediation and relations with community and, 116–­18, 120–­21; PCRC and, 128–­29; public opinions as followed by, 36–­37, 237n3 St. Paul, 18, 64–­66, 137, 145–­46, 219–­20, 229–­33, 238n1, 240n4. See also Minneapolis, Minnesota; Twin Cities San Antonio v. Rodriguez (1973), 33 Sanders, Lynn M., 13 Savitch, H. V., 22, 25, 29 Sayles Belton, Sharon: activist government approach and, 2, 132, 150–­51; affordable housing and, 2, 81, 132, 142–­43, 144, 150, 151; community schools in Minneapolis and, 1, 55, 77–­78, 81, 98; CRA and, 113, 115, 120–­21; crime issue and, 115; downtown economic development and, 149; mayoral elections and, 1, 55, 76–­78, 81, 98, 147–­51; MPD political power and, 114–­15; politics and, 2, 76–­77, 81, 114–­15 schools. See education; educational achievement; education in Gary; education in Minneapolis Schumaker, Paul, 19 segregation. See economic segregation; racial segregation Settlement Agreement, Minneapolis Branch of NAACP et al. v. State of Minnesota et al. (2000), 70, 83–­84, 89–­94, 97–­98, 143, 239n1. See also Minneapolis Branch of NAACP v. State of Minnesota (1995) Shapiro, Ian, 43, 228–­29 Sharp, Elaine B., 163 Sheff v. O’Neill (1996), 83, 210 Sidney, Mara, 141 Smalley, Lloyd, 112 social development: casino gambling impacts on, 174–­75, 186; riverboat casinos in Gary impacts on, 3, 6, 11, 36, 175–­82, 176, 177, 179, 180, 182, 226, 239nn2–­3

273 social inequalities. See patterns of inequality social unrest, in Minneapolis during the 1960s and 1970s, 101, 104–­9 stadium politics, 54, 182–­84, 185–­86, 218–­ 20 standardized tests, and education, 82, 90, 202–­3, 204 state and federal government: affordable housing and, 9, 34; education and, 33; politics and, 27, 29; public opinions and, 30–­31; public policy and, 7, 9, 34; responsiveness of, 9, 30–­31, 35. See also Indiana; United States State Department of Children, Families, and Learning (now Department of Education), 76 Stenvig, Charles, 101, 104–­9, 127, 238n1 Stoker, Gerry, 21–­22, 220 Stone, Clarence N., 5, 19–­21, 96, 221, 229 strategic planning, and education in Minneapolis, 85–­87 students. See education; educational achievement; education in Gary; education in Minneapolis suburban residents, 4, 5–­7, 52, 71, 82–­83, 91, 98, 235. See also residential neighborhoods; urban residents suburban transfer program, in Minneapolis, 70, 83–­84, 89, 89–­94, 90, 97–­98, 143, 222–­24, 238nn4–­5, 239n1. See also education in Minneapolis Sunstein, Cass R., 230 Swanstrom, Todd, 8, 235 Swartz, Eugene, 191 Tabb, David H., 127–­28 Task Force (Minneapolis Affordable Housing Task Force), 143–­45, 146, 156 Thea Bowman Leadership Academy, 203, 205 Thompson, Dennis, 38 Thomsen, Ken, 18–­19 Trump companies, and riverboat casinos in Gary, 170, 173–­74, 176, 176–­78, 182, 201 Twin Cities: affordable housing in, 81, 132, 134, 141, 144–­46, 149, 152, 158–­60, 225; condominium conversions and, 152; deconcentration of poverty in, 227; economy of, 64–­65, 73; education in, 66, 224, 239n1, 240n5; employment opportuni-

274 Twin Cities (continued) ties in, 65; homeownership rate in, 158; housing values and, 134; “lifecycle housing” as term of use in, 225; media on education in, 224, 239n1, 240n5; Metropolitan Council and, 143–­45, 150, 160, 225; politics in, 66, 217–­20; population data and, 1, 64, 75; racial and ethnic populations and, 64–­65, 75; racial diversity in, 65, 75; racial segregation in, 65; St. Paul and, 18, 64–­66, 137, 145–­46, 219–­ 20, 229–­33, 238n1, 240n4; stadium politics in, 217–­20. See also Minneapolis, Minnesota United States: casino gambling in, 163–­65, 181, 184, 186; Constitution in context of education and, 193; homeownership in, 158. See also state and federal government U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD), 143–­44, 145, 158 U.S. Justice Department, 116–­17 University of North Carolina Center for Civil Rights, 71 urban residents, 4, 5–­7, 52, 71, 82–­83, 91, 98. See also residential neighborhoods; suburban residents U.S. Steel Yard minor league baseball stadium funds, 54, 182–­84, 185–­86 USS-­USX Steel Corporation, 56, 58, 166–­67, 179, 190–­91, 200, 201, 202, 207 Viteritti, Joseph, 96–­97

index Walker, Samuel, 109, 110 Weiss, Lillian, 112 Wells, Amy Stuart, 80 West Metro Education Partnership (WMEP), 222 Whites: activist or liberal government approaches and, 150–­51; affordable housing support from, 150–­51, 155; attitudes on inequality and, 44, 44–­46, 46; on discrimination, 44–­45; economic development support from, 149; education in Gary and, 190, 192, 195; on education reform, 47, 47–­48; employment opportunities and, 44, 44, 45; law enforcement trust and, 8, 52, 102, 106–­7, 124–­25, 127; mayors in Gary and, 54, 162–­63, 171–­74, 181, 182–­84, 185–­86, 218; mayors in Minneapolis and, 2, 147–­52; patterns of inequality and, 42, 42, 44, 44–­46, 46; Settlement Agree­ ment NAACP suburban transfer program and, 89, 89, 90; white flight from Gary and, 58–­59, 193, 195. See also racial segregation Whren v. U.S. (1996), 35 Wilson, Carter, 26 Wilson, James Q., 7, 109, 237n4 Wirt, William A., 191 WMEP (West Metro Education Partnership), 222 Wong, Kenneth, 208 Yates, Douglas, 18 You Rally Against Gambling, 168