Gentrification is not an “Experiment”


On Monday, the Cincinnati Enquirer ran a story about Republic street, focusing on the divisive elements of the changing social makeup of OTR. Last fall, I wrote about the same location, more or less, focusing on the northern half block bounded by Vine, Republic, 12th and 13th.

The article is interesting, and goes into more detail that I was able to, being constrained somewhat by a requirement in the assignment to base the presentation I gave (the notes of which the piece was adapted from) on quiet observation of the space in the spirit of Bill Cronin’s “place paper” assignment. (Incidentally, this is the second time Bill Cronin has been impactful in my life: in 2011 he blew the lid off ALEC’s role in the anti-union legislation in Wisconsin and elsewhere. When the right-wing backlash to his research exploded, a few of us in Cincinnati organized the first protest against ALEC, after which we were leaked all of the organization’s model legislation–leading to an expose in The Nation and other liberal media outlets).

The Enquirer’s story radically diverges from mine in what it draws out of the space. By claiming the street, along with the rest of the neighborhood, is an “experiment,” it conveys a sense that it’s premature to make conclusions about the course and future of gentrification in the area. “This is the type of street where the city could lose its soul,” the article states. It goes on to explore about the divisions between old residents and new ones, but misses the mark when it ignores the reality of the separation. While the new residents interviewed wax poetically about the changes occurring, the story neglects both the ideological role it has played in the transformation, especially in the obfuscation of the workings of gentrification (probably somewhat due to the presence of the paper’s editor on the board of 3CDC, the corporation overseeing the redevelopment), and the fact that Republic street is an anomaly in the neighborhood south of Liberty street, one of the last places where there are large developments of affordable housing still in existence.

The language is equaling troubling; here’s how the story summarizes the immigrant history of the neighborhood: “It is a street of beginnings. It is where German immigrants first arrived. It is where the Appalachians unpacked their bags when they moved to the city. It is where poor blacks came to replace them both.” In other words, Germans built the space, Appalachians stopped off for a stay in the vacant neighborhood, but blacks actively replaced them. There is a subtle hint of the language of dispossession, necessary for understanding the history of the neighborhood, no doubt, but it implies that blacks were the agents of that dispossession.

But we can see the more recent, arguably more relevant black history being overwritten. As I noted in my earlier piece, the remaking of this space included the bulldozing and paving over the memorial to Timothy Thomas in the alley where he was shot, while a plaque commemorating the de-Germanification hangs on a pole just 100 feet away.

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The residents of the affordable housing on the block tell a different tale. Antoinette Jones, highlights the divide and draws attention to what the Enquirer misses about gentrification even while it’s right in front of them. “She said the restaurants and bars on Vine can sound and feel like an amusement park dropped into her neighborhood. “You see them coming out and they’re having their fun,” Jones said. “Where’s our fun at?”” While the fate of Republic is apparently is still being determined, this is not the case for any of the other North-South streets running parallel. With the pending relocation of the Drop Inn Center to Queensgate, with the Washington Park renovation and 3CDC’s move from Elm to Walnut, renting out their old office space to startups and restaurants, the blocks west are all but gentrified. And none of that compares to the scale and effectiveness of the transformation from apparent slum to high price playground of Vine and Main streets, and seeping into the cracks (Walnut and Clay) between. We know what gentrification leads to. We can analyze the data before our very eyes. Capital has won, poor people have lost.

But I don’t know that we should expect republic to be much different than anywhere else. The clashing divisions written about in the story are today really shades of what they once were, and, perhaps, are more farcical proof of diversity than the reality of such divisions. Two blocks east of Republic illustrate this best, perhaps, with 3CDC’s new offices on the corner of Walnut and 12th opening up just across the corner from the offices of the Homeless Coalition, the most advanced social service agency in the neighborhood, both in terms of the radical nature of the staff and their willingness to challenge the powers behind gentrification (pick up any copy of streetvibes to understand this). Now they are to be permanent neighbors. But bubbling beneath the surface is the contradictions of the neighborhood as a microcosm of society, these two organizations are diametrically opposed and dialectically intertwined; one grows out of the other, just as the poverty of the residents in the section 8 housing on Republic flows from the wealth of their neighbors living in condos one building over. This diversity can’t be permanent. Nothing is.

First Lady, First Time Traveler


I recently discovered that Stephen King wrote a book about time travel and the Kennedy assassination. I wrote a short story with a similar plot line months before that book was published. I have no way of proving this, and this has nothing to do with the usual content of the blog, but here is the story. The substance (and quality) is more “Kilgore Trout” than “Kurt Vonnegut.” Also, Dear Stephen King: go to hell.

First Lady, First time Traveler

Jackie Kennedy Onassis Fan Fiction by Ben Stockwell

“Mrs Kennedy, it’s time.”

“Okay, I’m coming. Just one. Last. Adjustment.” She moved the pillbox cap across her head, centering it just so. Always one to look good, especially when she knew there would be cameras.

“We leave in a few minutes, we’re all waiting for you.” That’s the way he always spoke to her. Affirmative, strong. “Any longer and we’ll miss the chance.”

“I said okay,” Jackie shouted back as she walked out of the powder room and past the man. “Where do we go from here?” she asked, still walking, aggressive, and yet unsure of where she where she needed to be. She turned back around, “I guess I’m just a bit-” she paused, the pillbox cap was slipping. Adjusting it, she went on, “unsteady.”

“Right through the door, darling, and down the hall,” John smiled at her, “the hat looks fine, but we’re going to be late.” He grabbed her waist. “We don’t want to have to rush, now do we? The whole world is watching.” He kissed her.

“Dallas at least.”

A third voice called from the other side of the door, “The governor is ready, Mr. President.”

Jackie held onto John’s hand and looked at him smirking as they walked through the door and down the hall. “Almost 3 years as first lady and I still don’t get it, why would the world be interested in a short drive we’re going to be taking down a street in Dallas?” She wasn’t complaining.


“Mrs. Kennedy, it’s time.”

“Okay, I’m coming. Just one. Last. Adjustment.” She moved the pillbox cap across her head, centering it just so. Always one to look good, even when it wouldn’t matter.

“You leave in a few minutes, people, the world, are waiting for you.” That’s the way he always spoke to her. Affirmative, strong. “Any longer and we’ll miss the chance.”

“I said okay!” Jackie shouted back. She looked at herself in the mirror; her life had come to this. Still hurting from her husbands death, really the deaths of both of her husbands, though nothing hurt as bad as Jack’s. And now with everything that had happened, they expect her to just go along with whatever plan they might have. She paused, collected herself, and walked out of the room and straight past the man she’d only just met. She turned toward him, “I guess I’m just a bit-” she paused, the pillbox cap was slipping. Adjusting it, she went on, “unsteady.”

The man looked at her fondly, this was the woman who had been there the when it happened, right next to him. What she must have seen and heard. He regretted having to put her through this, to have to make her relive the event. As if she hadn’t already had to relive it in her mind a thousand times from the moment it all occurred. She had told them to call her Mrs. Kennedy after the shock of the whole circumstances rolled over her. If she was successful, then there “was never going to be a Mrs. Onassis,” she declared weeks before. “Alright, Mrs. Kennedy, it’s alright. You’ll be done in no time, and you’ll forget this ever–”

“I won’t ever forget that day.” She quipped, her eyes watering half out of the anxiety of the moment, half out of her permanent sadness.

“I understand. I’m sorry.” He moved towards the door and opened it for her. “But you have to understand that you very well may forget it, our scientists believe, as do I, that should you succeed, well, maybe you’ll wake up next to President Kennedy, and everything will be normal to you. We’re not even sure how it all works, since you’re the first one. Hell, if you change things enough, we might not even get around to inventing this.”

They entered a large room white room, 20 or 30 meters across, containing only a matte black tube, just big enough to fit a small woman like Jackie, and a thick cable of wires snaking from the object to a panel on the wall across the room. The tube stood foreboding in the center of the room and seemed to suck in all the light that hit it making appeared bigger than it actually was. Next to the door was a one-way mirror which Jackie assumed contained all sorts of men, probably some Russians, who always wore lab coats and chain-smoked Pall Malls. Jackie peered around and braced herself as a another wave of anxiety washed over her. She’d been in the room before in the weeks she had spent with the man and his “colleagues,” but this was the last she would see of this time. She hadn’t noticed how the linoleum floor creaked and cracked as she walked across it, or how the wire formed a wave, oscillating this way and that. She’d hated the emptiness of the room itself. Why would such an important place have nothing to signify its status? she wondered. She took a few steps and then stopped. “How does that thing work?” she asked for the hundredth time.

“Well,” the man said, reading some notes off of a clipboard, “as I’ve told you before, and you learned in the briefings–the researchers know more than I do. Well let’s just put it this way, it’s my understanding that it ‘shifts’ you.”

“‘Shifts’ me?” Jackie asked. A group of scientists and secret service agents had explained the process to her just a day prior, but she couldn’t grasp the concept.

“Right. Moves you to another universe. Technically, this universe ceases to be, because it’s different, and another one is put in its place, everything besides whatever is in the machine here moves to that one, and to this moment. While the new universe is created, the contents of the machine get dropped off in time and space wherever they need to be.” He looked at her enthusiastically, “You get to experience all of creation and destruction–all of time–in the blink of an eye.”

She had known that she was going to be moving somewhere else, but she didn’t know how, and it wasn’t any clearer now that she’d gotten the wide-eyed, sci-fi explanation. “Well, if the machine is ready to send me, I’m ready to go,” she lied. For the entire time she had been at the facility, Jackie had been dealing with waves of shock at the ] whole situation, in the previous week, her level of anxiety had shot been unlike any she had experienced in her life. First, her husband had been taken from her, now, thirty years later, she was supposed to fix it? They began walking toward the tube again. “I just need to know that everything will be taken care of here.”

“Mrs. Kennedy.” The man paused, knowing what to say but uncertain if he should say it. “You died, they had your funeral on national television. Things have already been taken care of.” He had watched the funeral, the procession and seen the guard lowering of her casket at Arlington National Cemetery just two weeks before. By that time the trip was finalized, and there would be no turning back. He was amazed that they were able to convince an otherwise healthy woman that they knew still had a good twenty years of her life ahead of her, to fake her own death. Of course, after Mr. Onassis died, she just hadn’t been the same in public, and he wondered how her private life had been for the almost twenty years she lived without a husband. Putting the clipboard down on a console next to the machine, he looked at her again, the anxiety and, if he was judging correctly, sorrow, filled her eyes. “But, you have my word, if anything comes up on this end, I’ll take care of it personally.” The man waved toward the one-way mirror and a moment later the door to the tube swing open revealing an even deeper black inside.

There were no controls for Mrs. Kennedy to operate, no switches to flip, there wasn’t even a seat for the trip. The tube fit her dimensions almost perfectly, any bigger, and it would have been a squeeze. Well, I certainly won’t be bringing anybody back with me, she thought. Not that that was an option anyway. She knew all the theories postulated that the machine wouldn’t even come with her; she would probably just be dropped off as it “whizzed toward infinity,” as one particularly eccentric physicist told her.

Jackie stood in front of the opening, she stared in and pure blackness stared back at her. “So, this is it, then.” She shrugged. This is it. Come on, Jackie old girl, your whole life you’ve been wanting to change what happened, and this is your chance. Without giving it another thought, she rushed into the tube, and shouted “Go!”.

The agent entered another set of command into the console and gave a thumbs up toward the one-way mirror. “Okay, Mrs. Kennedy, remember, you have one hour to get set up. You’ll end up just south of Dealey.” He moved away, and just as the door was sealing Jackie inside, he shouted “Good luck!”

She closed her eyes and clutched her purse, uncharacteristically oversized, filled with the extra luggage she would need. Enough cash for her to settle anywhere, just in case things don’t go as planned; keys to several cars that the CIA had determined were in the area for a getaway if needed; and most importantly, the rifle she had been trained to use over the course of the past week. The rifle that had technology that would be decades ahead of anything around in 1963. The rifle that would take out Lee Harvey Oswald, and change history.

She saw a bright flash, then nothing, then daylight.


Agent Martin watched Jackie exit along with the lead tube that would deposit her in the past. He stood on the spot that the tube had sat in for several years, the last time the section of floor had been exposed was when the pilot program was beginning in the mid-eighties. The development was a slog since they were relying on the nearly incoherent ramblings of an incoherent old woman to put the thing together. Back then, they knew they had a lot of work to do in a short amount of time, but that they could do it. Technically they already had. If he’d had it his way, they would have just arranged to send the tube back in time to themselves, solving their own problem. Almost a decade of work was now complete, and his own future, though guaranteed to be interesting thanks to his experience, was uncertain. Where do you go after time travel?

Good, Martin,” said an older man entering the room. It was Martin’s boss, Rick Murphy, a retired Navy Admiral, the manager of the project and the only person other than Martin to see the program though from beginning to end. “We’re still here, I guess that about does it.”

“Yes, sir, the timeline worked out the way it was supposed to.”

Rick raised his hands in the air, channeling Charlton Heston as Moses, and walked toward Martin and shouting, “The prophecy has been fulfilled!”

“Alright, alright, amen,” Martin muttered, “wanna go for a drink?”


Jackie emerged from the darkness exactly where she expected, a place she remembered. That afternoon on Dealey Plaza hadn’t faded at all over the years, but had rather been burnt in. The memory was darker and more gruesome with each passing year, she’d only wanted to erase that one thing, the day her life, and her family’s life changed forever.

The day was just like she remembered. The sky was blue and the people had begun to gather along the side of the road. Right about this time, an hour before Jack died, she was with him, speaking together with the Governor and first lady of Texas. She remembered what she was wearing, but so did everybody else because of the playback the famous recording had gotten in the 30 years since the shooting. No, you mustn’t think of that, Jackie. It’s not 30 years later, it’s now, it’s before. You can change it.

She surveyed the plaza for another few minutes, taking time to look for a place to move, but deciding the best place to be to get a clear shot at the depository would be where she was. She knew exactly where Oswald would reveal himself in the window and would only need to let her rifle to lock on. The gun would basically shoot itself and that was good, because she had never gotten used to shooting. Even back when she had training from the secret service, she never really caught on, probably because she never really cared. She stationed herself a few meters beyond a wall that bordered the plaza but was away from the road, deciding nobody would be coming there, especially when they could be right up on the sidewalks below.

She looked at her watch, specifically built to display a countdown until zero hour. There was still 30 minutes until the president and his wife would roll around the bend in their car and she would be able to get a clear shot at her husband’s killer. The crowd was larger than she remembered, certainly the different vantage point gave her a better perception of the entire situation. She hadn’t noticed that large police presence as she was always buffeted by the secret service, nor had she seen, until now, the vast expanse that her husband’s last drive covered. She wondered, in hindsight, why they had taken the trip in the first. She knew it was for publicity, she had practically invented political publicity, but why? It was the same question she has asked herself everyday for 30 years.

The crowds lining the streets were getting restless and her watch showed that there was only a few minutes left. She could see by the rustling that up the road, just north of Dealey, that the crowd had identified the president’s car and it would be within view soon enough. Not long after, Oswald would peek out of the window and take his shots. The motorcade creeped down the hill toward her, and for the first time in 30 years, she saw Jack alive. A rush of emotion filled her like nothing she had ever felt, she had to save him. She had to save her other self, also coming into view, from the pain and torture of burying her husband. From the struggle of explaining death to her young children. She had to save herself from this nightmare she’d been living in. Promises by the agents told her that she would be transferred into almost another dimension where the shooting never happened, but it was up to her to make the history change.

She picked up her rifle and pointed it at the assassin’s window. The gun was already loaded with the futuristic rounds that were still simple enough not to be suspect in the 60’s. She watched as the motorcade moved closer to it’s location of death, almost as if she was watching an opera that had haunted her for years. In exactly 5 seconds, Oswald would begin to make his move, coming close enough to the window to get a clear shot, and also open himself up to Jackie’s targeting. She braced herself for the most important split second of her life.

There he was, Oswald moved into view and raised his gun to shooting position. They both took their final aim. She pulled her trigger before he did. Her first shot rang out and she was thrown back by the recoil. It missed. It missed‽ She braced herself again for her second shot. Running out of time to aim, she just pointed the gun, and pulled the trigger. And that was it. The president was dead, and it was his wife that killed her.

“What have I done,” she screamed. But her screams were lost in the thousands who witnessed the terror on Dealey. At least they would only have to see it once. Both Jackies entered a state of shock at what had just happened.


“It’s just amazing how well it worked out. I mean, it’s like theater. We found her, we questioned her, and we developed our own scheme,” said Admiral Murphy, whisky in hand.

“It is interesting how much she believed us, being entrenched in lies for years,” replied Martin. “She actually believed that she could change things.” He thought about the crime on Mrs. Kennedy’s intelligence they had perpetrated and years of manipulation of the elder Jackie, the one they had discovered and captured in 1980.  She died, for real, a few years later, and they reconnected with her again in the early 90’s. Though they didn’t know the elder Jackie, she knew them. She recognized their faces and the program and resisted, but after a short time, stockholm syndrome set in, and she willingly gave out all of the details they would need, even hinting how the time machine worked. Captured wasn’t really the right word for what they did to her, you don’t capture octogenarians so much as you coerce them into companionship. By the time she died, the woman had accepted that this was the role she would play in her life. That this is how it had been before, and somehow it was probably how it would be again.  “I’m just amazed that she had never been able to make contact with herself.”

“Well, she tried, but the secret service had always thrown the notes out, deciding they were written by a lunatic.” The Admiral laughed, “It’s actually quite funny. I never told you this, but right after the event, the President got reports of a crazed woman who we can now identify as Mrs. Kennedy. We could have found her out then and there. Then again without the letters, she would have never made herself known to us, and we wouldn’t be here.”

Martin shrugged, “I like to think history has a way of fixing itself. The President would have been killed that day, whether or not we sent Mrs Kennedy back in time, only to find her later.”

Murphy took a drink and thought for a second. “Maybe so, but it’s interesting how the whole drama played itself out in the end. I like to think of us as the playwrights in all of this, crafting a story like nothing ever before it.”

Agent Martin motioned for another round. “It’s just too bad that’s all we get with the time travel, you’d think we could have used that to change something bigger, like World War II.”

“But realize we didn’t change anything, this is where your course correction falls flat. No, our actions were what caused everything to happen, we had to do it. Because of this program, you can say that, yes, the CIA was behind the death of the president–the CIA 30 years later. We sent our trained assassin to the grassy knoll to shoot the man dead. She thought she was saving him, but she put too much trust in technology. This is CIA technology after all. Because of us, things are the way they are supposed to be.”

The bartender filled their glasses, and Murphy drank to “normalcy.”

August 2010

Occupy Cincinnati General Assembly Rules


I previously posted the rules for GA as originally adopted (and later amended). Since then, a new rules has been formulated and adopted to address some of the issues with the first set. The education committee took the process from several different occupations and combined them to be as democratic as possible. This new process helps address the issues of time spent at GA (which easily run up to and over 2 hours) and also provides a forum for minority voices who wish to have a platform to air grievences with the occupation itself. My original post has some better definitions for a few of the hand symbols, but other than that, this version is complete.

Goals: To create productive celebrations of democratic process that allows full participation from all, while aligning our procedures with other Occupation GAs. To create rituals within that process honor each other, address our needs, and spur our growth.

  1. Assemble: Mod Team uses people’s mic: “We the People/Have Found Our Voice” three times
  2. Welcome: Intro of Mod team. Temp Check to approve Team. Introduce Consensus Process:
    1. Our process flows out of our stated dedication to equality, justice, solidarity and peace.The process is designed to help us communicate clearly while allowing participation from all, therefore we encourage Step Up/Step Back & use Progressive Stacking.*
  3. Consensus Instruction: Signs(can be used throughout), no clapping, wait to be called on, etc.
  4. Challenges: Individual challenges to group, committees, or self. Open Stack, Mod. controls time.
  5. Set Agenda: Individual Proposals added (post Comm. reports) if agreed to by GA consensus.
  6. Recent Proposals: Reading of Proposals recently passed by GA.
  7. Reports &Proposals from each Committee:
    1. Proposals made using People’s Mic, Mod. takes Temp Check & Friendly Amendments.
    2. Point of Process, Direct Response & Clarifying Question (all 3 non opinion based)
    3. Mod. may call for consensus or ask Facilitators to create progressive stack of concerns.
    4. Mod. may call for consensus, more discussion, amendments, or small group discussions where people sit. If consensus is not reached, proposal may be taken back to committee to be worked on and brought back to a future GA.
  8. Announcements: Moderator controlled.
  9. Acknowledgements: Open stack. Mod. controls time.
  10. Closing Inspiration: Brief quote from history, or other uplifting item to send us off

 “Show me what Democracy Looks Like” – “This is what Democracy Looks Like.”


Use of signs prevent speakers from being drowned out & allows our process to move forward continuously.

  • Consensus, Temperature Check & Group Feedback
    • Twinkle up = yes / Twinkle flat = maybe / Twinkle down = no
    • Hands rotating around each other = wrap it u
    • Hand cupped at ear and moving out horizontaly = Speak Up!
    • Arms crossed at chest = block (blocker explains, only sign in group used just for voting)
  • Signs that Interrupt Stack – Non-Opinion Based
    • Hands form triangle with fore-fingers and thumbs = Point of Process (not opinion based)
    • Hands moving in alternation at side of head = Direct Response (not opinion based)
    • Hand in “C” = Clarifying Question (not opinion based)
  • Concern Sign – Opinion Based
    • Hand up

*Progressive stack: a process by which stack-takers are empowered to elevate certain traditionally marginalized voices, or voices that we have not heard from. Additionally, we encourage the process of Step Up, Step Back. If you’ve been talking a lot, try to step back. If you haven’t said much, please try to step up. We’d like to hear from everyone.

Occupy Cincinnati General Assembly

Every Day – 6pm – Piatt Park (Vine & Garfield)

This is what Democracy looks like