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By S. Durm
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She calls herself a fiery Lebanese, he drag races and collects pottery. He learned from mopping, she's painted a pig.
The creative class poster boy and the proletariat's advocate. A man obsessed with numbers and a man offended by the color of city vehicles.
These aren't bad blind dates -- they're some of this year's challengers for seats on Cincinnati City Council.
Twenty-six candidates are vying for the part-time job of legislating and press conferencing and pacifying and prodding this river town like a leaking ship through debris-strewn waters of racial discord, a federally mandated collaborative agreement on police reform, a civil rights boycott, a panhandling ordinance, an increased focus on the so-called "creative class," controversial corporate subsidies and taxing a decreasing population.
Some candidates look as though they never leave the podium. Others look as though they got lost and stumbled up there. Some look just about right.
And you wonder: Who are these people behind their platform statements?
So CityBeat asked not only where they stood on issues but also what shoes they wore. We asked about their music, magazines, books, attendance at arts productions and favorite local eateries, coffee shops or bars. We asked about their fathers. You should have seen the looks. But the stories we heard weren't told at candidates' forums, on fliers or in radio spots.
Most likely only one, maybe two, of the 18 non-incumbents will make it to council. Councilwoman Minette Cooper, barred by term limits from running again, leaves one seat vacant. Historically, incumbent candidates get re-elected.
So in CityBeat's tradition of rallying behind the underdogs, we devote this story to non-incumbents. We interviewed 17 of the 18 candidates -- Sam Britton wouldn't make himself available -- but focus here on those whose ideas and sincerity impressed us the most.
Among them, Democrats are under-represented. That's because they ran a short ticket, unlike the Hamilton County Republican Party, which endorsed enough candidates to fill every seat on council. The Hamilton County Democratic Party endorsed its five council incumbents and challenger Howard Bond, then wasted an endorsement on Britton, who hasn't shown any sign of realizing he's supposed to be campaigning.
Some non-incumbent candidates didn't show the initiative to return our questionnaire. (Incumbent Jim Tarbell, interestingly, got his hands on it. He answered yes to a question about introducing a motion to repeal Article 12 of the city charter if elected. Uh, Jim? You've been elected for a while now.)
In interviews and at public forums, some challengers revealed a lack of specific or original ideas. Republican Sam Malone didn't demonstrate the ability to think without the presence of his campaign manager, who perhaps should run instead.
Get out of the office
Definite themes emerge, many drawn along party lines.
Most Republican candidates support the Convergys and Kroger subsidies approved by council this year -- $52 million to Convergys and $12 million to Kroger. They back an ordinance requiring panhandlers to register and speak of increasing safety by hiring more police and giving them more leeway.
Most Democrats, Charterites and independents vehemently disagree. Many point out that, with 52 neighborhoods in Cincinnati, the $52 million Convergys deal could instead have translated into a $1 million boost for each.
Most Democrats, Charterites and independents want not more police, but better -- better training, better communication and full implementation of the collaborative agreement.
Charter Committee candidates Nick Spencer and John Schlagetter think drug enforcement officers need to target buyers who look like them -- white and middle class. Supply will always follow demand, they say.
Opinions on a proposal to elect city council by districts rather than at-large were mixed and often unclear.
In forums, only Charterite Christopher Smitherman brings up the civil rights boycott initiated by independent candidate Rev. Damon Lynch III. Smitherman says the boycott must be resolved by the opening of the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center in 2004.
Lynch points out that Convergys and Kroger used the very same tactics as the boycott -- applying economic pressure, threatening that "if we don't get what we want, we will hurt your economy." But the city's responses were different, caving to the corporations while refusing to negotiate with boycotters.
"And the morality of it is different," Lynch says.
Independent candidate Brian Garry thinks creative class brain drain is a racist concept. The message, he says, is that "we don't value young black creative people," that "poor people and black people are not creative" because they're not the ones leaving Cincinnati.
Lynch, however, recognizes an exodus of young African-American talent to Atlanta and Washington, D.C.
Some of the challengers' ideas agree across party lines. Pete Witte, a Republican, agrees with Lynch on the importance of healthy neighborhoods. When neighborhoods deteriorate, "the backbone of the city goes with it," Witte says.
"Unless we have a handle on our neighborhoods, we're not really a city," he says.
Most candidates support a museum to honor King Records but prefer it be built through private investment.
City council members need to leave their offices and talk to people in the community, the majority of challengers say.
The theology of change
Lynch sits at the far end of the long hall of his campaign office, hunched over a desk in the vast empty space. A vase of flowers is on his desk. An equally sparse back room features a couple card tables, yard signs and, incongruously, a dollhouse.
One bathroom is labeled, "This throne is occupied by a king." The other substitutes "queen."
The most demonized man in Cincinnati clearly doesn't trust the press. Lynch towers but doesn't loom. He radiates gentleness. A man of God, a controversial man, he electrified Cincinnati by becoming a last-minute candidate.
He's been pastor at New Prospect Baptist Church in Over-the-Rhine for 14 years. Prior to that he worked as a community organizer "to empower people to be able to make decisions that impact and affect their lives."
Lynch is president of the Black United Front, which called for the boycott of downtown Cincinnati following the 2001 uprising in Over-the-Rhine.
"A lot of the reason I am the way I am and do the things I do" is because of his theological training, Lynch says. He admires the church in Central America, the churches of the 1950s and '60s and the prophets of the Bible "who all stood up for social change." He says he believes in a social gospel and a liberation theology.
His father, an ex-Marine, was a stern disciplinarian who taught Lynch and his sister many truisms.
Lynch illustrates. When his father asked him to mop the kitchen floor, Lynch started from the door and mopped himself into a corner. He looked up and saw his dad standing in the doorway, shaking his head.
"If you use your head, your feet can rest," his father said. "Now you're gonna walk across the floor and I'm gonna make you mop it again."
Remembering, Lynch's stoic face breaks into a boyish grin.
His platform emphasizes neighborhoods and the redevelopment of the empowerment zone.
"As those communities go, so goes the city," he says.
He says some people, especially those leaving Cincinnati, talk out of both sides of their mouths; they won't take the initiative to rebuild communities, then claim to leave out of fear.
"I mean, give me a break," Lynch says. "You can't have it both ways."
He would improve the police department by fully implementing the collaborative agreement on police reform. He says taking a seat on council won't end the boycott -- rather, it'll allow him to address issues left unresolved.
"I will talk to people in the community who have grievances," he says.
He thinks the refusal of city officials to talk to people who are grieving is "the height of arrogance."
In response to the flight of the creative class, Lynch dares to say what no other candidate will: Cincinnati might never be an exciting Midwest town. It's more of a sleepy river town, a city of old money and old politics, and that doesn't necessarily have to be pejorative, he says.
He calls current political leaders automatons who are interchangeable with corporate heads. He sees no powerful, colorful leaders who can excite and motivate people.
He admits that he sees himself as such a leader, though he knows saying so will get him "in trouble."
"I know that I can unify this city in the interest of all people," he says.
Little big man
Nick Spencer, a 25-year-old senior at Xavier University, bears the distinction of being the youngest challenger. But he's no political virgin, having already worked with the campaigns of U.S. Sen. John McCain and U.S. Sen. George Voinovich and in the office of City Councilman Pat DeWine.
The founder of Cincinnati Tomorrow, which seeks to make the city more attractive to younger people, Spencer might be the poster boy for the creative class. Asked why young people leave Cincinnati, he says, "I don't know. What do you think?"
He takes his bearings from talking to sales clerks, students, anybody.
"They never say anything good" about Cincinnati, Spencer says.
Which is not to say he doesn't have his own ideas -- many of them -- or that he doesn't share them. After all, he chose "Little Man, Big Ideas" for a campaign motto.
Cincinnati's segregation keeps a lot of people from moving here, he says. He thinks most young people are trying to move to cities where neighbors aren't exactly like them.
The saddest day of the year, he says, is the Procter & Gamble alumni reunion: the "brightest, best, most diverse young people" who have completed a Cincinnati "tour of duty" and gone on to "make a real difference someplace else."
So what keeps him here?
"I think it's just stubbornness," he says.
Main Street needs to cultivate more authenticity, according to Spencer. It was never intended to be a tourist trap -- that's what Fountain Square and the riverfront are for.
Main Street's "a meat market but for a few bright and shiny examples of just the opposite," such as Main City Bar, Plush and Mr. Pitiful's, he says.
He doesn't buy into Cincinnati's ultra-conservative rap. Look at the local political successes of Roxanne Qualls, Bobbie Sterne and Jerry Springer, he says.
"If we're so conservative, how is it for a long time these people were running the show?" he says.
Maybe Cincinnati's progressive contingent has been driven into hiding.
"If the right people can talk to them, they'll show up again," Spencer says.
The "right people" are "reasonable, practical progressives who know how to behave themselves in public and who can work with other members of council," he says.
He thinks overall there's a depressing culture in the city and that the wrong people -- those speaking out -- get blamed.
A registered Republican, Spencer is a fiscal conservative who's come down hard on council for approving corporate subsidies. The first ordinance he'd introduce would ban members from bringing paperwork from their day jobs to council meetings.
"I have a real problem with council not listening to people," he says.
Spencer is annoyingly, achingly honest. After an interview, he asks to see the notes.
"You know what I realized reading this?" he says. "I'm completely full of shit."
Don't print that, he says. You sound like a human being, let's keep it, a reporter suggests.
"I don't know if people vote for human beings," he says.
Charting the problem
John Schlagetter says information is democracy and that withholding information is power. In that case, he's the most democratic person in Cincinnati.
The self-employed architect somehow finds time to keep up with the intricacies of nearly every issue facing city council. He draws charts and diagrams as he talks. It's clear he's a teacher -- two nights a week he teaches the classes "people have to take but don't want to" at the College of Mount St. Joseph.
He's figured out that if each council member adopted nine square miles and devoted the first two hours of every weekday, Cincinnati in its entirety could be covered weekly in what he calls a "visual management" concept.
"If city and council had put the Convergys subsidy back into manufacturing and distribution, we'd get a 360 percent greater return in job creation," he says.
If elected, he'd work full-time. Council members make $57,000 a year, plus benefits, which is considered part-time work. Most hold other jobs in law firms or other companies.
"For anyone campaigning to say it's a part-time job I find offensive," he says.
As for Main Street, Schlagetter suggests blocking it off on weekends. But he's not enthusiastic about city initiatives there.
"When the city involves itself in development, the results are less than spectacular," he says. "We keep looking for physical solutions to cultural problems in this city."
The articulate, immaculately dressed man fidgets with his mail while he talks.
He says in the past decade Cincinnati has lost 10 percent of its population, increased its annual budget by 40 percent and increased per capita debt by 60 percent. In the past three years, unemployment has gone up 40 percent.
"The elephant in the room is going to be our ability to pay the bills," he says.
Depopulation and vacant housing, not low-income housing, creates crime, he says.
"The theory that low-income people are inherently criminals and litterbugs is nonsense," he says.
Cincinnati doesn't tap into its potential as a tourist destination, he says.
"We don't realize that, being one day's drive from 60 percent of the country's population, we could have a tourist economy," Schlagetter says.
The problem isn't too much concentrated poverty but too little distributed wealth, he says. People don't realize that economic opportunity isn't a zero-sum game, he says.
He's positively exhausting. His platform is 26 pages long. Problem is, he makes sense.
'Clawing back'
Brian Garry would like everyone to know that the reason he changed his name from Brian Garry Crum "doesn't have a damn thing to do" with his relationship with his father.
"I changed my name because I didn't like my old name," he says. "Would you like the last name Crum?"
Garry speaks slowly and quietly. It's not usually difficult to get answers out of candidates.
He has scribbled notes all over the back of his hand.
Garry sees himself as the advocate for the working class. He wants to "stand up for the rights of the people."
That means he'd repeal the impaction ordinance restricting additional low-income housing; repeal Article 12 of the city charter, which codifies discrimination against gays and lesbians; repeal the loitering and panhandling ordinances; and "claw back" the Convergys and Kroger subsidies.
"I would not allow big business and rich people to run the city," Garry says. "They're going to represent their own interests and not the interests of the working class."
Garry challenges Mayor Charlie Luken to a debate -- anytime, anywhere -- on the issues of class and race.
He rephrases a question about the flight of the creative class: "Why are the white yuppies leaving Cincinnati?"
It's a racist and classist attitude to think we need them here, he says. He certainly doesn't want them gentrifying Over-the-Rhine.
"They can have every fourth house, but they can't take over the neighborhood in a hostile invasion, which they do," he says.
He thinks Cincinnati's biggest problem is institutional, systematic racism and classism. Over-the-Rhine is Palestine, he says.
A phone technician installs a line at his campaign headquarters, a donated space on Vine Street. An image of Bob Marley on a Jamaican flag hangs above the door.
"One last thing," Garry says as the technician finishes up. "Give us your political philosophy in 25 words or less."
Then Garry listens, bright hazel eyes intent. He nods slowly and thanks the man.
'Busting a cap'
The first thing Terry Deters says is, "Why does CityBeat want to talk to a conservative pro-life Republican?"
He doesn't pull his punches. "I'm pretty square, frankly," he says.
That introduction out of the way, the owner of Ralph Meyer & Deters Funeral Home loosens up. But something doesn't click. How can a pro-lifer favor the death penalty? He explains that it's the taking of innocent life to which he objects.
"I'd have no problem busting a cap in somebody I found in my house," says the National Rifle Association member and deer hunter.
Besides, as a funeral home director, he says he's seen plenty of dead bodies. "It doesn't bother me a bit," he says.
Deters says he wants to return support to the police.
"This police department will never again exercise aggressive proactive policing unless it feels it has the full support of city council," he says.
He doesn't want to introduce any more ordinances to city council. He'd rather get rid of half of them and enforce the other half.
"I believe in as little government as possible," he says.
In fact, he says, he's nearly a libertarian. "I mean, libertarians, they're neither fish nor fowl," he says.
Deters doesn't know why young creative people leave Cincinnati. "I would think it would be a very inviting, conducive atmosphere for someone in the arts," he says.
Maybe some people just like a more urban setting, he says.
"I'm a West sider," he says. "You know, we never leave. We just move further west."
He complains that Section 8 subsidized housing is killing the West side. His main concerns are safety, police and crime. He thinks about expanding his funeral home but doesn't want to invest another dime until he sees what happens with the city. If crime in his neighborhood keeps increasing, he might move to Green Township or Deer Park.
The conservative man in the suit also drag races. He's proud to start his '79 Mustang; its 460 motor is deafening. On Fridays he takes it to a drag strip at Edgewater Raceway, near Cleves. His record stands at 12.4 seconds for a quarter-mile at 109 miles per hour.
Then he lovingly shows his collection of Rookwood pottery, painted in colors with such names as "oxblood" and "cobalt."
Asked to describe his father, he says, "Ward Cleaver."
Representing Elder
For someone who's made an utter nuisance of himself during the race, Pete Witte is surprisingly open and likeable.
First he challenged Lynch's eligibility to run, dragging the minister and his wife to a hearing before the Hamilton County Board of Elections, which quickly dismissed his claims. Now he's filed an objection in federal court to a ban on campaign donations from other candidates' campaign committees.
He might consider tattooing "West side" on his forehead. He is "the ONLY Elder Grad in the Race! (Go Panthers!)," according to campaign literature. He's never lived more than a block off West Eighth Street in Price Hill.
"I don't know if I should be proud or ashamed," he says.
After mononucleosis ended a brief stint at the University of Cincinnati, Witte took over Baron Engraving from his father. His company designed the entrance sign to the new Scooby-Doo! ride at Kings Island. A "My Cincinnati" collage of photographs and newspaper clippings going back to the 1930s decorates one wall.
This is not a slick politician.
"I just try to get to the point," he says. "I sit in these candidates' forums and I just die. They take 10 minutes to say two minutes' worth. It's just annoying as hell."
Witte prefers the old model of practicing politics on the side. "I think being grounded and running a business is important, too," he says.
Like other Republicans, he harps on safety, crime and cleanliness. But then he's experienced five broken windows in six months.
Neighborhood deterioration and the loss of the middle class concern him. He wants to work with the state to attract technology to Cincinnati, which appeals to the younger set.
The first ordinances he'd introduce include district representation -- and new colors for all city vehicles. Teal, maybe. Anything other than "that dog-ugly yellow," he says.
Sculpting an example
This genteel, charming, sincere, delightful woman ought to be elected Queen of Cincinnati. Barbara Trauth, a mother of five and Hyde Park artist whose work has been described as "realistic expressionism," says there's something ethereal about the Ohio River and Cincinnati's culture that moves her.
Trauth's statue, "Dance of Tears" -- a life-size bronze of three feminine figures representing body, mind and soul -- sits on Xavier University's campus. She decorated a pig for the Big Pig Gig that now lives with the head honcho of P&G.; She designed two children's books based on Handel's Messiah.
A fifth-generation Cincinnatian, Trauth has "lived everywhere in this city." She wants to hire 100 more police officers. She would implement a program to statistically isolate crime-ridden areas, concentrate police presence and prevent crime.
"We need to support our police and allow them to do their job," she says.
Right now she says police are like firefighters, rushing to the scene of a crisis and stretched too thin to form close ties to the community.
Registering panhandlers leads them to assistance, Trauth says. She thinks the city needs more jobs in information technology and the biotech industry to "retain our brain trust."
Trauth's father contracted multiple sclerosis when she was a teen. The oldest of his eight children, she was inspired by his perseverance: "He didn't give up" when bedridden for six months, and his disease retreated to remission.
She hates to say that, though, because a lot of people with MS never give up but still don't get any better.
The woman who looks like a silver-haired movie star says she doesn't like speeches, having her picture taken or asking people for money. She decided to run after County Commissioner Phil Heimlich asked her.
"It was not on my radar screen to do this," she says.
But as an artist, Trauth is always looking for a stretch to develop her talent.
"It's just made me a stronger person," she says.
Her father told her, "Barbara, you have to be responsible and you have to set a good example."
By running for council, she sets an example, she says, for "people afraid to get involved in public service."
'To hell with consequences'
A native of West Virginia, Leslie Ghiz wants to stop the political nonsense at City Hall. Every council member looks toward another political office, she says.
"I have no desire to be in this for the rest of my life," she says.
Her best-case scenario is to serve on council for eight years and be done with it.
Ghiz says she's a hot-tempered Lebanese who's very good at pushing buttons. What council needs is "someone to shake it up and say, 'To hell with the consequences,' " she says.
In that respect and many others, Ghiz was quite the daddy's girl.
"He was tough," she says. "I get a lot of that from him."
He died three weeks after her 21st birthday. She quickly learned to be independent. Before that, Ghiz says, she didn't blow her nose without calling him.
Her legal experience as chief negotiator for the city would serve her well.
"Nobody on council knows the first things about collective bargaining," she says.
Public schools need council's attention, she says. "Safety is going to continue to be poor as long as people aren't educated," she says.
This Republican doesn't always sound very conservative. She admits that other than being "very tight-fisted," she's a social moderate.
"You can be conservative and still be respectful of other people and let other people have their own ideas," she says.
In fact, her Democrat grandfather served a term as West Virginia's governor and two as its attorney general.
Like her father, Ghiz identifies most with the Republican Party. "I don't like taxes," she says. "I don't like helping people who won't help themselves."
She supports the panhandling law, saying she feels intimidated by panhandlers.
She's ready for a photo in a gray T-shirt and jeans. In the middle of an interview, she discovers a spot of poison ivy on her ankle and starts brainstorming home remedies. Firefighters taught her to use bleach.
The woman from West Virginia -- who still retains a delicate accent-- made it to the big time when she came to Cincinnati. "I came here, and I love the city," she says. "I will be staying here forever."
She understands why some people leave; the city can be very exclusive, making it hard for outsiders to find a place.
"Unfortunately, you have to make your own fun," she says. "I've done fine, but I'm an extrovert."
It's up to you
The three-ring circus that is the city council election race will get busier before it ends . Go to any public event before Nov. 4, and some candidate will want to shake your hand . Ask them about something that matters to you, but be prepared to cut them off before your hot dog gets cold.
One last thing: A friend used to say that repetition is comedy. Repetition is comedy. Repetition is comedy. It wasn't, but repetition is effective. That's why candidates speak of themselves in third person; that's what makes a series of dinky yard signs so powerful.
Vote. Vote. Vote.
Concerned Citizens for Justice hosts the Non-Incumbents Forum at 6 p.m. Monday at Temple Bible College, 3210 Reading Road. The Urbanists candidates' mixer is at 6 p.m. Oct. 15 at Barrelhouse Brewery in Over-the-Rhine. The Hyde Park Candidates Night is at 7 p.m. Oct. 21 at Clark Montessori School.
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