By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Eric Nicholson
It's a different city now. Fundamentally. Here's why.
Last weekend the city secretary ruled that a citizens group had met the legal test for calling a referendum on building a major high-speed, limited-access toll road through the proposed river park downtown. But don't get all lost in that. You'll hear plenty about the toll road in the months ahead.
Right now the thing to know about the city is much bigger than the toll road issue. It's about what kind of city this is and what Dallas is going to be like to live in from here on out, compared with being here before last weekend.
Sunday night, at an intimate, very emotional victory celebration for the people who had gathered petitions for the referendum, I heard an excellent and pithy description of the way Dallas has always been. A wise man who cannot be named—one who plays at the top in Dallas but also has lots of experience around the country—was quoted by his wife as saying, "This city is no more corrupt or less corrupt than New York or L.A. or Chicago or any other big American city. It's just that in Dallas far fewer people share in the spoils."
Take the Trinity River project and try to imagine a fictitious scenario in which Dallas worked like other cities. Imagine that the old Dallas river-bottom landholding families could pull their own kind of insider country club strings to get a highway built through their land along the river downtown.
But imagine, too, that a bloc of ward-heeling laborites could use a different kind of under-the-table sleaze-ball pressure to get a big park by the river. And then imagine that the well-organized old inner-city black community could put the squeeze on through the Legislature to force some juicy contracts out of the deal. And imagine that Hispanics were able to leverage some campaign contributions for a shiny new Latino recreational center.
So in the end you would get a kind of corruption standoff in which there would be a road, park, economic development, rec center kind of thing. Under the American system of politics, that would be a real-world version of fair. Everybody gets a shot at a piece. Nobody gets the whole pie. Nobody gets left out.
In terms of pure political theory, it ain't pretty, but it happens to be the best way anybody has ever come up with yet of resolving complex, conflicting ambitions in a diverse, fast-moving molten society.
That's not how it worked here, before last weekend. We don't have ward-heeling laborites. We don't have a well-organized black political presence. We don't have any effectively organized Hispanic presence at all in spite of a growing Latino population.
All we have ever had was Colonel Belo.
Until right now—until this weekend when the TrinityVote petitions were certified by the city secretary, forcing a referendum on the Trinity toll road—Dallas has always operated under the Colonel Belo system of politics. Colonel Belo is up in his office tower looking out over "my little village," surrounded by a half-dozen of his dear old Confederate true-hearts.
He puffs on his cigar, thoughtfully strokes his snowy white goatee and then decides, no, by Jehoshaphat, we're not going to build all those lakes and geegaws the people voted for back in '98. It's just not going to be done. Instead we're going to have us a highway.
"I know we promised the little people some play-purties down there by the river, and I know it's their money, but sometimes we just have to do what we have to do."
Is it a crime against nature that Colonel Belo wants to corrupt the system? Not really. It's nature itself. The crime is that nobody else can corrupt the system back at him.
And then you have the devastating effects of the syndrome I call A.D., or "arrogant dementia." Colonel Belo-types suffering from arrogant dementia begin to identify getting their own way on everything with "clean politics." As long as they can bait and switch an entire bond issue and lie to the voters to get what they want for themselves, they believe that "our system is free from the sordid taint of politics."
But you let some outsider come shuffling up to the door, hat in hand, asking about the lakes and amphitheaters he was promised before the election: Well, that's nothing short of damned Yankee-style corruption.
That's what I call A.D.
Until last weekend when TrinityVote met the legal test for a referendum, there was never any real push-back here for "Colonel Belo," a name I have made up to represent the Dallas Citizens Council and the old elite. This place was run like a one-horse hick town.
It was run, of course, like every other major Southern city in America before the Civil Rights Movement. In all of these cities, small, tight-knit cadres at the top, imbued with cultural and historical disdain for democracy, used social and business pressure to guard local pyramids of power against the encroachments of loathsome voters.