When I began my master’s degree in history in 2016, I knew what I wanted to study. To me, the most important event in Western history is the economic revolution that occurred in Europe beginning about 1750—the Industrial Revolution. I was steeped in knowledge about its impact from reading books like The Rise of the Western World, How the West Grew Rich, The Relentless Revolution: A History of Capitalism, and The Great Divergence.
Indeed, my master’s thesis concentrated on details of that revolution. But my history studies taught me much more. My academic adventure evolved into a struggle to understand why “change over time” (that’s how historians define history) occurs as it does. That is one of the reasons I created this blog: I was looking for a theory of history.
Before discussing Jane Jacobs, let’s look at the problem. Consider Raleigh, North Carolina.
Like many cities, Raleigh has been planning, subsidizing, and revising its downtown for decades. In 1977 it turned a downtown thoroughfare, Fayetteville Street, into a pedestrian mall. That didn’t work out—in 2006 Fayetteville became a street again. Raleigh supported a gourmet restaurant (the Mint) with $1 million. It failed. In 2008 taxpayers paid for a downtown convention center and wooed a name-brand hotel with $21 million.
This wasn’t good, either. “The only way the RCC [the convention center] attracts users is by offering deep discounts on rooms and services and even paying large subsidies to attract conventions and meetings,” wrote two policy analysts in 2008.[1] Now the government is planning another convention center at an estimated price of $387 million.
I could go on . . . but if you live in an American city, you probably have seen (and paid for) something similar—public efforts to bring people downtown. Continue reading “Let’s Not Blame Jane Jacobs”
For nearly 200 years there has been a controversy in the United States over how to teach reading.
In colonial days the New England Primer and, later, McGuffey’s Reader had an “alphabetic column.” It listed the alphabet (in capitals and lower case), the vowels, and syllables using the vowels. Children were to learn the sounds of letters before learning whole words.
In 1841, Horace Mann, the first Massachusetts Secretary of Education, complained about this method of teaching children: “[T]he alphabetic column presents an utter blank. There stands in silence and death, the stiff, perpendicular row of characters, lank, stark, immovable, without form or comeliness and, as to signification, wholly void.” These characters made the children “feel so deathlike.” [1]
Mann preferred a “far better and more philosophical mode,—whole words should be taught before teaching the letters of which they are composed.”[2] In his view, reading would be more rewarding if children could capture words and their meanings, without having first to go through the drudgery of memorizing the sounds of each letter of the alphabet and sounds of their combinations.
It may have been drudgery, but historian Albert Fishlow calculates that about 90 percent of white adults throughout the nation could read and write by 1840.[3]
Booker T. Washington (1856–1915) was the most prominent black American at the beginning of the twentieth century. He began and ran the Tuskegee Institute, an innovative industrial school for blacks, which is today Tuskegee University. He dined with President Theodore Roosevelt in the White House—the first time a black man had met with a president in the White House since Frederick Douglass met with Abraham Lincoln. He was a champion of education and moral betterment for all blacks (not just an elite). Thousands of boys were named Booker in his honor.
Washington’s fame declined after his death, however. W.E.B. Du Bois, an intellectual with a Harvard PhD, seems to have taken over the mantle of black leadership, after Washington’s death in 1915—if not before. Du Bois was much younger; he died in 1963.
Today Washington is sometimes disparaged as an “Uncle Tom” because he did not politically resist the growing Jim Crow restrictions of the South.
You’ve probably heard that Henry Ford II resigned from the board of the Ford Foundation because it had veered far away from its donor’s intent. In his 1976 resignation letter, Ford (grandson of Ford Sr.) wrote:
“In effect, the foundation is a creature of capitalism—a statement that, I’m sure, would be shocking to many professional staff people in the field of philanthropy. It is hard to discern recognition of this fact in anything the. foundation does.
“It is even more difficult to find an understanding of this in many of the institutions, particularly the universities, that are the beneficiaries of the foundation’s grant programs.”[1]
