Salon Newsreal | My dinner with Jerry

T A B L E+T A L K
1998 was a crazy year in Washington, D.C. What will 1999 hold? Cast your predictions in the Politics area of Table Talk

___________________
Check out barnesandnoble.com for more about California's wild and woolly politics
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R E C E N T L Y
Letter from Havana
By Frank Smyth
Gays, Catholics and transvestites find their place in the new Cuba
(01/04/99)
Oral history
By David Friend
Sound bites from three scandals
(12/24/98)
Blood money
By Suzi Parker
An Arkansas prison-plasma business protected by Clinton cronies led to a scandal that almost toppled the government -- of Canada
(12/23/98)
Portrait of a political "pit bull"
By Russ Baker
Rep. Dan Burton has a few questions to answer about his own history of womanizing and alleged campaign finance irregularities
(12/22/98)
What if it were President Packwood?
By Andrew Ross
Liberals must face up to their hypocrisy in backing a president who lied under oath in a sexual harassment lawsuit
(12/22/98)
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My dinner with Jerry
Jerry Brown

A year after a sharp exchange over rice and beans with Jerry Brown, a reporter reflects that the ex-governor's idiot-savant approach to race may carry Oakland into a multicultural future without rancor.
BY JOAN WALSH
Watching former California Gov. Jerry Brown being sworn in as mayor of Oakland on Monday, it was hard not to think about the day I spent with him in desolate West Oakland, where we interrupted a drug buy in progress, chatted up local prostitutes who fondly remembered his "daddy," ex-Gov. Pat Brown, and sat in a local dive drinking white wine and arguing about black poverty until it got dark. I knew that day he was going to be the city's next mayor, and it both scared and exhilarated me, because he didn't seem to have a clue as to what the hell he'd do when he got there.
It was over a year ago, and I was covering Brown's incipient candidacy, back before anyone took it quite seriously. He was starting to drop in on black churches of a Sunday morning, sitting quietly in the back -- a pilgrim, a penitent -- waiting to be called to the pulpit. On this Sunday, after a two-hour service, a brief speech and lunch in the basement -- Brown, a vegetarian, just picked at his heaping plate of turkey, potatoes, stuffing and beans, while I tried to make up for it by asking for seconds, to show that some white people had the manners to eat what they're offered -- he surprises our host, Rev. Richard Williams of Morning Star Baptist Church, by asking for a tour of the neighborhood. Williams balks, but Brown is out on the sidewalk before he can say no.
He is particularly curious about an apartment house two doors down from the church, a fading-blue Victorian with a black wrought-iron fence around the perimeter and a rowdy crowd outside: young men and women and pit bulls and the occasional toddler milling about. It's known locally as "The Palace." Brown asks Williams who lives there.
"It's just a den of thieves, governor," the reverend says.
"Really?" Brown is intrigued. "Will you introduce me to them?" But he doesn't wait for an answer, he just strides down the block on his own. The reverend starts off behind him, and so do I, just in time to interrupt a drug deal in progress. Small items change hands fast, and then all but one of the young men scurry in all directions and disappear, like cockroaches under a kitchen light.
Brown approaches the lone youth left behind, who stands glaring at us, carrying a small pit bull puppy in one large hand. "What's your name?" Brown asks, and the young man, not quite 20, looks at him hard. Brown just smiles and thrusts his hand out. "I'm Jerry Brown. I used to be governor of California." The young man isn't charmed. "Never heard of you," he says, maintaining his cold stare, no handshake.
"Well, there you go!" Rev. Williams says. He throws up his hands, turns on his heel and walks back toward his church, laughing sardonically. "Next time you walk the neighborhood, governor, bring some big men with you. You need an entourage." The tour is over. Williams goes back inside the church, leaving Brown alone. The governor has worn him out.
But Brown isn't through. "Come on," he says to me as he bounds across the street to shake some hands. Again, I follow, thinking he's a little crazy venturing where Williams wouldn't go, but also knowing that God blesses drunks, children and patrician white men who used to be governor. Besides, I've spent a fair amount of time in West Oakland -- I lived in Oakland for three years and worked on poverty issues in the city for over a decade. The street's starting to hop. People have gotten the word Brown's in the neighborhood, and they've come out from behind barred windows and doors, on to their porches and lawns to see him.
"What do you need in this neighborhood?" he asks one small group, and he hears a litany of troubles. Too many drugs. Not enough jobs. A school janitor complains of taxes. Now that he's got his entourage, people are flocking to see him. A woman in hair curlers asks if I'm his wife. "Nah," her male friend corrects her. "You know he's always been a bachelor!" Several people ask how Linda Ronstadt is. "She's just fine," he tells them. Someone tells me I look like Linda Ronstadt "before she got heavy" and winks conspiratorially.
Next a woman named Wanda comes flying down the street at us pushing a baby stroller. "I knew I knew you!" she says, clutching Brown's hand and not letting go. "I gotta tell my daddy! He's a die-hard Democrat. He loved your daddy. I loved Linda Ronstadt. She sings like she black." Wanda follows as we continue down the street, and we run into a friend of hers, a scrawny, toothless prostitute. Wanda gives the woman some turkey neck bones wrapped in a greasy napkin she's got stored in a back pocket of her baby's stroller. "I try to help everyone out," she tells me.
We stand outside a market owned by Yemeni immigrants. Brown goes inside to greet the storeowners, but they don't remember him. When he comes out, another prostitute joins our group. She remembers his "daddy," too. The late Pat Brown is still a legend in Oakland for appointing black judges and politicians and paying attention to Oakland, a tradition his son continued, inviting Oakland's Black Panthers to the statehouse they'd recently marched on fully armed and funding an Oakland freeway the Panthers pushed despite his anti-freeway mania.
"Do you go to this church?" Brown asks the women, pointing across the street to Morning Star. "No, they think they better than us," Wanda tells him. "Say they Christian, but they only feed us on Thursday." Wanda used to live in a shelter, now she rents an apartment for $425 from "poor white trash." She used to have a crack problem, she confides. Brown asks them about welfare reform. They all know it's coming, but not what to do about it. He urges them to get jobs, get training. He points to some more neck bones Wanda's got clutched in her hand. "You could be a cook!" he tells her. Wanda seems offended, but he doesn't know why. He's thinking Alice Waters; she's thinking Aunt Jemima.
The sun is fading and it's getting cold. Wanda asks me and Brown for money "for some Pampers" as we say goodbye; Brown looks flummoxed and I give her two dollars before he can respond. He finally seems overwhelmed by his day on the street.
"Let's go get a drink," he says, and I'm ready for one.
N E X T+P A G E+| "Rich data, poor people"

T A B L E+T A L K 1998 was a crazy year in Washington, D.C. What will 1999 hold? Cast your predictions in the Politics area of Table Talk ___________________ Check out barnesandnoble.com for more about California's wild and woolly politics ___________________ R E C E N T L Y Letter from Havana By Frank Smyth Gays, Catholics and transvestites find their place in the new Cuba (01/04/99) Oral history By David Friend Sound bites from three scandals (12/24/98) Blood money By Suzi Parker An Arkansas prison-plasma business protected by Clinton cronies led to a scandal that almost toppled the government -- of Canada (12/23/98) Portrait of a political "pit bull" By Russ Baker Rep. Dan Burton has a few questions to answer about his own history of womanizing and alleged campaign finance irregularities (12/22/98) What if it were President Packwood? By Andrew Ross Liberals must face up to their hypocrisy in backing a president who lied under oath in a sexual harassment lawsuit (12/22/98) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Browse the Newsreal Archives - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
		My dinner with Jerry A year after a sharp exchange over rice and beans with Jerry Brown, a reporter reflects that the ex-governor's idiot-savant approach to race may carry Oakland into a multicultural future without rancor. BY JOAN WALSH Watching former California Gov. Jerry Brown being sworn in as mayor of Oakland on Monday, it was hard not to think about the day I spent with him in desolate West Oakland, where we interrupted a drug buy in progress, chatted up local prostitutes who fondly remembered his "daddy," ex-Gov. Pat Brown, and sat in a local dive drinking white wine and arguing about black poverty until it got dark. I knew that day he was going to be the city's next mayor, and it both scared and exhilarated me, because he didn't seem to have a clue as to what the hell he'd do when he got there. It was over a year ago, and I was covering Brown's incipient candidacy, back before anyone took it quite seriously. He was starting to drop in on black churches of a Sunday morning, sitting quietly in the back -- a pilgrim, a penitent -- waiting to be called to the pulpit. On this Sunday, after a two-hour service, a brief speech and lunch in the basement -- Brown, a vegetarian, just picked at his heaping plate of turkey, potatoes, stuffing and beans, while I tried to make up for it by asking for seconds, to show that some white people had the manners to eat what they're offered -- he surprises our host, Rev. Richard Williams of Morning Star Baptist Church, by asking for a tour of the neighborhood. Williams balks, but Brown is out on the sidewalk before he can say no. He is particularly curious about an apartment house two doors down from the church, a fading-blue Victorian with a black wrought-iron fence around the perimeter and a rowdy crowd outside: young men and women and pit bulls and the occasional toddler milling about. It's known locally as "The Palace." Brown asks Williams who lives there. "It's just a den of thieves, governor," the reverend says. "Really?" Brown is intrigued. "Will you introduce me to them?" But he doesn't wait for an answer, he just strides down the block on his own. The reverend starts off behind him, and so do I, just in time to interrupt a drug deal in progress. Small items change hands fast, and then all but one of the young men scurry in all directions and disappear, like cockroaches under a kitchen light. Brown approaches the lone youth left behind, who stands glaring at us, carrying a small pit bull puppy in one large hand. "What's your name?" Brown asks, and the young man, not quite 20, looks at him hard. Brown just smiles and thrusts his hand out. "I'm Jerry Brown. I used to be governor of California." The young man isn't charmed. "Never heard of you," he says, maintaining his cold stare, no handshake. "Well, there you go!" Rev. Williams says. He throws up his hands, turns on his heel and walks back toward his church, laughing sardonically. "Next time you walk the neighborhood, governor, bring some big men with you. You need an entourage." The tour is over. Williams goes back inside the church, leaving Brown alone. The governor has worn him out. But Brown isn't through. "Come on," he says to me as he bounds across the street to shake some hands. Again, I follow, thinking he's a little crazy venturing where Williams wouldn't go, but also knowing that God blesses drunks, children and patrician white men who used to be governor. Besides, I've spent a fair amount of time in West Oakland -- I lived in Oakland for three years and worked on poverty issues in the city for over a decade. The street's starting to hop. People have gotten the word Brown's in the neighborhood, and they've come out from behind barred windows and doors, on to their porches and lawns to see him. "What do you need in this neighborhood?" he asks one small group, and he hears a litany of troubles. Too many drugs. Not enough jobs. A school janitor complains of taxes. Now that he's got his entourage, people are flocking to see him. A woman in hair curlers asks if I'm his wife. "Nah," her male friend corrects her. "You know he's always been a bachelor!" Several people ask how Linda Ronstadt is. "She's just fine," he tells them. Someone tells me I look like Linda Ronstadt "before she got heavy" and winks conspiratorially. Next a woman named Wanda comes flying down the street at us pushing a baby stroller. "I knew I knew you!" she says, clutching Brown's hand and not letting go. "I gotta tell my daddy! He's a die-hard Democrat. He loved your daddy. I loved Linda Ronstadt. She sings like she black." Wanda follows as we continue down the street, and we run into a friend of hers, a scrawny, toothless prostitute. Wanda gives the woman some turkey neck bones wrapped in a greasy napkin she's got stored in a back pocket of her baby's stroller. "I try to help everyone out," she tells me. We stand outside a market owned by Yemeni immigrants. Brown goes inside to greet the storeowners, but they don't remember him. When he comes out, another prostitute joins our group. She remembers his "daddy," too. The late Pat Brown is still a legend in Oakland for appointing black judges and politicians and paying attention to Oakland, a tradition his son continued, inviting Oakland's Black Panthers to the statehouse they'd recently marched on fully armed and funding an Oakland freeway the Panthers pushed despite his anti-freeway mania. "Do you go to this church?" Brown asks the women, pointing across the street to Morning Star. "No, they think they better than us," Wanda tells him. "Say they Christian, but they only feed us on Thursday." Wanda used to live in a shelter, now she rents an apartment for $425 from "poor white trash." She used to have a crack problem, she confides. Brown asks them about welfare reform. They all know it's coming, but not what to do about it. He urges them to get jobs, get training. He points to some more neck bones Wanda's got clutched in her hand. "You could be a cook!" he tells her. Wanda seems offended, but he doesn't know why. He's thinking Alice Waters; she's thinking Aunt Jemima. The sun is fading and it's getting cold. Wanda asks me and Brown for money "for some Pampers" as we say goodbye; Brown looks flummoxed and I give her two dollars before he can respond. He finally seems overwhelmed by his day on the street. "Let's go get a drink," he says, and I'm ready for one. N E X T+P A G E+\| "Rich data, poor people"