PLAYBOY: Didn't you have any compunction
about consorting with -- if not actually assisting -- murderers?
ALINSKY: None at all, since there
was nothing I could do to stop them from murdering, practically all of
which was done inside the family. I was a nonparticipating observer in
their professional activities, although I joined their social life of food,
drink and women: Boy, I sure participated in that side of things -- it
was heaven. And let me tell you something, I learned a hell of a lot about
the uses and abuses of power from the mob, lessons that stood me in good
stead later on, when I was organizing.
Another thing you've got to remember
about Capone is that he didn't spring out of a vacuum. The Capone gang
was actually a public utility; it supplied what the people wanted and demanded.
The man in the street wanted girls: Capone gave him girls. He wanted booze
during Prohibition: Capone gave him booze. He wanted to bet on a horse:
Capone let him bet. It all operated according to the old laws of supply
and demand, and if there weren't people who wanted the services provided
by the gangsters, the gangsters wouldn't be in business. Everybody owned
stock in the Capone mob; in a way, he was a public benefactor. I remember
one time when he arrived at his box seat in Dyche Stadium for a Northwestern
football game on Boy Scout Day and 8000 scouts got up in the stands and
screamed in cadence, "Yea, yea, Big Al. Yea, yea, Big Al." Capone didn't
create the corruption, he just grew fat on it, as did the political parties,
the police and the overall municipal economy.
PLAYBOY: How long were you an honorary
member of the mob?
ALINSKY: About two years. After
I got to know about the outfit, I grew bored and decided to move on --
which is a recurring pattern in my life, by the way. I was just as bored
with graduate school, so I dropped out and took a job with the Illinois
State Division of Criminology, working with juvenile delinquents. This
led me into another field project, investigating a gang of Italian kids
who called themselves the 42 Mob. They were held responsible by the D.A.
for about 80 percent of the auto thefts in Chicago at the time and they
were just graduating into the outer fringes of the big-time rackets. It
was even tougher to get in with them than with the Capone mob, believe
me. Those kids were really suspicious and they were tough, too, with hair-trigger
tempers. I finally got my chance when one of the gang's leaders, a kid
named Thomas Massina, or Little Dumas, as he called himself, was shot and
killed in a drugstore stick-up. The minute I heard about it, I went over
to the Massina house, hoping to get in good with Dumas' friends. But they
were as leery as ever.
By
a stroke of luck, though, I heard Mrs. Massina, Dumas' mother, weeping
and wailing, repeating the same thing over and over in Italian. I asked
one of the kids what she was saying and he said she was bemoaning the fact
that she didn't have any pictures of Dumas since he was a baby, nothing
to remember him by. So I left right away, picked up a photographer friend
of mine and rushed down to the morgue. I showed my credentials and the
attendant took us in to the icebox, where Dumas was laid out on a slab.
We took a photograph, opening his eyes first, then rushed back to the studio
to develop it. We carefully retouched it to eliminate all the bullet holes,
and then had it hand-tinted. The next morning, I went back to the wake
and presented the photograph to Mrs. Massina. "Dumas gave this to me just
last week," I said, "and I'd like you to have it." She cried and thanked
me, and pretty soon word of the incident spread throughout the gang. "That
Alinsky, he's an all-right motherfucker," the kids would say, and from
that moment on they began to trust me and I was able to work with them,
all because of the photograph. It was an improvised tactic and it worked.
PLAYBOY: It was also pretty cynical
and manipulative.
ALINSKY: It was a simple example
of good organizing. And what's wrong with it? Everybody got what they wanted.
Mrs. Massina got something to hold onto in her grief and I got in good
with the kids. I got to be good friends with some of them. And some of
them I was able to help go straight. One of the members is now a labor
organizer and every time things get hot for me somewhere, he calls me up
and growls, "Hey, Saul, you want me to send up some muscle to lean on those
motherfuckers?" I just thank him and say I can handle it, and then we chat
about the old days. Anyway, after I finished working with the 42 Mob, I
left the division of criminology and went to work as a criminologist at
the state prison in Joliet, but I was already getting bored with the whole
profession and looking for something new.
PLAYBOY: Why were you getting bored
this time?
ALINSKY: There were a lot of
factors involved. For one thing, most of the people I was working with
-- other criminologists, wardens, parole officers -- were all anesthetized
from the neck up. God, I've never in my life come across such an assemblage
of morons. I was beginning to think the whole field was some kind of huge
outpatient clinic. And on a human level, I was revolted by the brutalization,
the dehumanization, the institutionalized cruelty of the prison system.
I saw it happening to me, too, which was another important motivation for
me to get out. When I first went up to Joliet, I'd take a genuine personal
interest in the prisoners I'd interview; I'd get involved with their problems,
try to help them. But the trouble with working in an institution, any institution,
is that you get institutionalized yourself. A couple of years and 2000
interviews later, I'd be talking to a guy and I was no longer really interested.
I was growing callous and bored; he wasn't important to me as a human being
anymore; he was just inmate number 1607. When I recognized that happening
inside me, I knew I couldn't go on like that.
I'll tell you something, though, the
three years I spent at Joliet were worth while, because I continued the
education in human relationships I'd begun in the Capone mob. For one thing,
I learned that the state has the same mentality about murder as Frank Nitti.
You know, whenever we electrocuted an inmate, everybody on the staff would
get drunk, including the warden. It's one thing for a judge and a jury
to condemn a man to death; he's just a defendant, an abstraction, an impersonal
face in a box for two or three weeks. But once the poor bastard has been
in prison for seven or eight months -- waiting for his appeals or for a
stay -- you get to know him as a human being, you get to know his wife
and kids and his mother when they visit him, and he becomes real, a person.
And all the time you know that pretty soon you're going to be strapping
him into the chair and juicing him with 30,000 volts for the time it takes
to fry him alive while his bowels void and he keeps straining against the
straps.
So then you can't take it as just another
day's work. If you can get out of being an official witness, you sit around
killing a fifth of whiskey until the lights dim and then maybe, just maybe,
you can get to sleep. That might be a good lesson for the defenders of
capital punishment: Let them witness an execution. But I guess it wouldn't
do much good for most of them, who are probably like one of the guards
at Joliet when I was there -- a sadistic son of a bitch who I could swear
had an orgasm when the switch was thrown.
PLAYBOY: Did you agitate for penal reform
while you were at Joliet?
ALINSKY: There wasn't much I
could do, because as a state criminologist, I wasn't directly involved
in the actual prison administration. Oh, I made a lot of speeches all over
the place telling well meaning people that the whole system wasn't working,
that rehabilitation was a joke and our prisons wer vanguard of the 14th
Century, and they all applauded enthusiastically and went home with their
souls cleansed -- and did nothing. Those speeches got me a reputation as
a troublemaker, too. You know, all the experts in criminology and all the
textbooks agreed that the primary causes of crime were social conditions
-- things like poor housing, racial discrimination, economic insecurity,
unemployment -- but if you ever suggested doing something to correct the
root causes instead of locking up the results, you were considered something
of a kook. A number of times my superiors called me aside and said, "Look,
Saul, don't sound off like that. People will think you're a Red or something."
Finally, I quit Joliet and took a job with the Institute for Juvenile Research,
one of those outfits that were always studying the causes of juvenile delinquency,
making surveys of all the kids in cold-water tenements with rats nibbling
their toes and nothing to eat -- and then discovering the solution: camping
trips and some shit they called character building. Frankly, I considered
that job pretty much a sinecure to free me for more important work.
PLAYBOY: Such as?
ALINSKY: The causes that meant
something in those days -- fighting fascism at home and abroad and doing
something to improve the life of the masses of people who were without
jobs, food or hope. I'd spend all my free time raising funds for the International
Brigade in the Spanish Civil War and for Southern sharecroppers, organizing
for the Newspaper Guild and other fledgling unions, fighting the eviction
of slum tenants who couldn't pay their rent, agitating for public housing,
when it was still considered a subversive concept. This was the time I
began to work alongside the C.I.O. You know, a lot of kids today are bored
when their old man tells them what he went through in the Depression, and
rightly so in most cases, because it's generally used as a cop-out for
doing nothing today. And God knows, too many people who were radicals in
the Thirties have since finked out, from either fear of McCarthyism in
the Fifties or co-optation by the system or just plain hardening of the
political arteries. But there are still a lot of lessons to be learned
from those days, lessons that apply explicitly and directly to what's happening
today. |