To make fun of somebody like he did, on national TV! And when they asked him what hes ever done for the country, and he said, i built a hotel—how many jobs has he done for the. That he hasnt outsourced to people from other places? He went on, i dont see where were going, or how either of them is going to benefit us in the economy. The nineteenth-century the term for someone like frisbie was workingman. In the mid-twentieth century, it was blue collar. During the nixon years, people like him embodied the silent majority—seen by admirers as hardworking, patriotic, and self-reliant, and by detractors as narrow-minded, jingoistic, and bigoted. In the wake of the culture wars of the seventies and eighties, some downscale whites embraced the slur redneck as a badge of honor.
As we talked, two latinos were stuccoing a gas station across the highway. Immigrants, politicians, banks, criminals, the economy, medical bills. You heard Frisbies complaints all over the country, especially in small towns and rural areas. I soon forgot about Frisbie, but the rise of Donald Trump got me thinking about him again. When I called American Dream and asked Frisbie which Presidential candidate he was supporting, he said, do they have that line for None of the above? He had lost the house that had been in his family for generations, and he and his wife had been forced to live in his shop for several years, until they moved into a retirement trailer park. His health had grown worse—he was strapped to an oxygen tank—but he didnt trust Clintons promises to improve health care. As for Trump, his mockery of the disabled offended Frisbie.
Essay: Holy water Thirst pov pbs
The next day, the woman who owned it got a call from a man in georgia offering four hundred and fifty thousand. But she and Frisbie had already shaken on the deal, and she wouldnt back out. Barter and a handshake used summary to mean something, he said. It was the depth of the recession, and Frisbies customers had grown scarce, demanding, and unreliable. He was down from half a dozen employees to himself and his stepson, william Zipperer. (Frisbie had five children.) The government was killing him with regulations, and one law had required him to build a fence around his repair yard. Politicians did nothing to help him.
They all steal, he said. Theyre just in it for themselves. The house behind his shop was a drug den. His wife had lost her day-care center to bank foreclosure. Frisbie had spent four days at a local hospital for back and chest pain, running up a sixty-thousand-dollar bill. The doctor was Arab or Indian, and his accented English was barely intelligible to Frisbie, but he picked up on an accusation that he was shopping around for pain prescriptions. Mexicans were moving in; Frisbie and his wife wanted to move out.
When I pulled up, the owner eased himself down from a front-end loader, hobbled over, and leaned against a pole. He was in his fifties, with a heavy red face, dishevelled hair, and a bushy mustache going from strawberry blond to white. He wore a blue short-sleeved shirt torn at the tails and shorts that exposed swollen legs. He had powerful forearms, but his body was visibly turning against him. The corners of his mouth sloped downward, in an expression poised between self-mockery and disgust at the world. It was a face that invited human exchange—a saving grace in a ruined landscape.
His name was Mark Frisbie. When he was younger, a girlfriend had asked him, Are you the Frisbee from Wham-O? Frisbie retorted, sure, thats why i live in a trailer with no front porch and drive a pickup instead of a porsche. At the age of fifteen, Frisbie began working for a farm-equipment manufacturer; he stayed for three decades, until he launched American Dream. He went into business to please his father, he said—Then the bastard died. After spotting the metal warehouse, frisbie agreed to buy it, for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
Friday night Lights Prologue, chapter 1, & Chapter
I think we havent organized ourselves for the twenty-first-century globalization, hillary admitted. America had wrongly ceded manufacturing to other countries, she said, and allowed trade deals to hurt workers. Clinton has been in politics throughout these decades of economic stagnation and inequality, of political Balkanization, of weakening faith in American institutions and leaders. During this period, her party lost its working-class base. Its one of historys anomalies that she could soon be in a position to prove that politics still works—that it can better the lives of Americans, including those who despise Clinton and her kind. A few years ago, on a rural highway south of Tampa, i saw a metal warehouse with a sign that said homework american dream welding fabrication. Broken vehicles and busted equipment were scattered around the yard. The place looked sun-beaten and dilapidated.
In her acceptance speech at the Philadelphia convention, she said, Americans are willing to work—and work hard. But right the now an awful lot of people feel there is less and less respect for the work they. And less respect for them, period. Democrats, we are the party of working people, but we havent done a good enough job showing we get what youre going through. One didnt often hear that thought from Democratic politicians, and i asked Clinton what she had meant. We have been fighting out elections in general on a lot of noneconomic issues over the past thirty years, she said—social issues, welfare, crime, war. Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose, but we havent had a coherent, compelling economic case that needs to be made in order to lay down a foundation on which to both conduct politics and do policy. In the nineties, President Bill Clinton embraced globalization as the overarching solution to the countrys problems—the bridge to the twenty-first century. But the new century defied the optimistic predictions of élites, and during this election, in a nationalistic backlash, many Americans—along with citizens of other Western democracies—have rebelled.
jobs, who provide the support that is needed to get more fairness into the economy. Clinton has given a lot of thought to economic policy. She wants to use tax incentives and other enticements to nudge corporations into focussing less on share price and more on long-term investments, in research, equipment, and workers. She said, we have come to heavily favor the financial markets over the otherwise productive markets, including manufacturing, which have been pushed to a narrower place within the over-all economy while an enormous amount of intelligence, effort, and dollars went into spinning transactions. As she plunged into the details, her eyes widened, her color rose, and her finger occasionally gave the table a thump for emphasis. I want to really marry the public and the private sector, she said. Her ideas are progressive but incrementalist: raise the federal minimum wage to twelve dollars an hour, but not fifteen; support free trade, as long as workers rights are protected and corporations arent allowed to evade regulations. The thumps got harder when Clinton turned to the democratic Party.
Shes the officer who keeps on marching in mud. I sat down across from her. With only a wallpaper few weeks left until the election, i wanted to ask her about the voters shes had the most trouble winning. Why were so many downwardly mobile white Americans supporting Donald Trump? Its Pox on both your houses, Clinton said. It was certainly a rejection of every other Republican running. So pick the guy whos the outsider, pick the guy whos giving you an explanation—in my view, a trumped-up one, not convincing—but, nevertheless, people are hungry for that. Voters needed a narrative for their lives, she said, including someone to blame for what had gone wrong. Donald Trump came up with a fairly simple, easily understood, and to some extent satisfying story.
Hillary Clinton and the populist revolt The new Yorker
Democrats can reclaim the economic mantle, clinton said, adding, i want to really marry the public and the private sector. Photograph by Philip Montgomery for The new Yorker. The basement of a hotel on Capitol Hill. A meeting room with beige walls and headachy light, cavernous enough to accommodate three hundred occupants resume but empty, except for Hillary Clinton. She sat at a small round table with a cloth draped to the carpet. Her eyes were narrower than usual—fatigue—and she wore a knee-length dress jacket of steel-blue leather, buttoned to the lapels; its metallic shine gave an impression of armor, as if shed just descended from the battlefield to take a breather in this underground hideout. Politics, at times so thrilling, is generally a dismal business, and Clintons acceptance of this is key to her power.