Another missive. Enjoy.

Madiba K. Saidy,
Vancouver, Canada.
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Glenn Loury's About Face

January 20, 2002

By ADAM SHATZ

One Sunday evening early in the fall, Glenn C. Loury
arrived at the Charles Hotel in Cambridge, Mass., where a
group of distinguished black intellectuals, including
Cornel West, Lani Guinier and Henry Louis Gates Jr., was
gathering to discuss the Sept. 11 attacks. The Rev. Jesse
Jackson, the keynote speaker, had flown in to talk about
possible shuttle diplomacy with the Taliban. Loury, an
economist at Boston University who first achieved
prominence as one of the nation's leading black
conservatives in the Reagan years, was there on a
diplomatic mission of his own: to mend the rift that has
long separated him from liberal blacks like Jackson. He
knew he might elicit more than a few hostile glances.
''I've been trying to figure out who you were for the
longest time,'' one woman said coldly when they were
introduced, according to Loury. But he decided to brave it.

Shortly before the meeting, Loury walked into a conference
room where Jackson was chatting with Gates. As Loury shook
hands with Jackson -- a man he had taken to task in print
throughout the 1980's -- Gates effusively praised Loury's
book ''The Anatomy of Racial Inequality,'' which will be
published early next month by Harvard University Press. In
it, Loury makes a striking departure from the self-help
themes of his earlier work, defending affirmative action
and denouncing ''colorblindness'' as a euphemism for
indifference to the fate of black Americans.

Jackson said to Gates: ''This man is smart. Whatever his
politics, he's always been smart.'' When the conversation

turned to the Middle East, Loury sheepishly reminded
Jackson of an article he wrote more than 15 years ago in
Commentary attacking him for embracing Yasir Arafat.

''You probably don't remember the piece,'' Loury said.

''Oh, yes I do,'' Jackson fired back.

''I looked him in the eye,'' Loury recalled a couple of
weeks later, ''and said: 'I really wish I hadn't written
that. It was a mistake, and I really regret it.' Jackson
didn't say anything directly in response to it, but during
his formal presentation he made a point of singling me out.
He said: 'To say that Glenn Loury isn't black because he
disagrees with me, well that's just stupid. We can't afford
to leave brilliant minds like that by the wayside.'''

The next day, Loury e-mailed Charles Ogletree Jr., the
Harvard Law professor who had organized the meeting. ''I
came close to not showing -- for a variety of invalid
reasons that have more to do with my scarred psyche than
with anything in the real world,'' he wrote. ''You should
know that I was deeply gratified by my reception on Sunday.
Jesse was very generous. (I guess my 'political
rehabilitation' is more or less complete now!)''

''That meeting was the defining moment for Glenn,'' his
friend Orlando Patterson, a Harvard sociologist, later
said. Or, as another scholar put it to me, ''Glenn is
finally able to walk into a room full of black people who
don't all hate him.''

Glenn Loury beamed as he told me this story in the backyard
of his Brookline, Mass., home, where he lives with his
wife, Linda, a labor economist at Tufts, and their two
young sons. It was a crisp New England afternoon in early
October; the leaves had turned a brilliant red and yellow.
Loury's house -- listed, he notes casually, in The National
Registry of Historic Places -- is a large Federal-style
structure built in 1854 by Amos Adams Lawrence, a wealthy
abolitionist.

Loury, 53, is a tall, stocky man with a high forehead and a
graying goatee that seems to add little age to a face that
will probably always look youthful. On this afternoon, he
was wearing a sweatshirt that said ''Professor Man'' -- a
superhero he invented to amuse his sons. At once polished
and insecure, he rarely misses a chance to mention when
someone important has found him ''brilliant'' or ''smart.''


The quality of Loury's mind has never been in question.
What his critics have expressed doubts about is his
judgment. His career as a public intellectual has been a
long and occasionally reckless journey of self-discovery
and reinvention, a dizzying series of political
transformations and personal crises that have left him with
more ex-friends than friends. He is both a genuine maverick
thinker and a shrewd political operator, and therefore a
source of fascination and bewilderment, even to himself.

Loury was reared by working-class parents on the South Side
of Chicago, where the color line was an inescapable fact of
life. He vividly remembers being chased by a group of white
kids when he rode his bike across that line. Loury fathered
two children out of wedlock while he was still a teenager,
and he dropped out of college and got a job at a printing
plant. But before his eight-hour night shift he took
courses at Southeast Junior College, and from there he won
a scholarship to Northwestern University, where he studied
mathematics and economics. He did his graduate work in
economics at M.I.T., under the supervision of the Nobel
laureate Robert M. Solow.

In his 1976 dissertation, Loury pioneered the study of
''social capital'' -- the informal relationships and
connections that, as much as money or brains, pave the way
for success in the labor market. As long as whites enjoyed
superior access to ''social capital,'' he predicted, racial
inequalities would continue to plague American society long
after the end of legal discrimination. Loury's argument,
coming 12 years after the passage of the Civil Rights Act,
had profound implications for public policy. For if racial
inequality is grounded in something more diffuse, and less
amenable to remedy, than legal discrimination, how can it
be combated? Is it the responsibility of the government, or
of black people themselves?

As America's inner cities fell prey to a scourge of
violence, drug addiction and out-of-wedlock births in the
late 1970's, Loury came to believe that the greatest threat
to racial equality was no longer the ''enemy without'' --
white racism -- but rather the ''enemy within'': problems
inherent in the black community. Unless this ''enemy'' was
confronted head-on, he argued, blacks would fail to achieve
lasting social and economic equality. This was not his only
pointed challenge to what he called the civil rights
orthodoxy; Loury was also a critic of affirmative action
and an outspoken supply-sider, promoting solutions to
ghetto poverty rooted in entrepreneurialism rather than
government aid.

In 1982, at the age of 33, Loury became the first tenured
black professor in the Harvard economics department.
Despite his sterling qualifications, he immediately began
worrying about what his colleagues -- his white colleagues
-- really thought of him. Did they know how smart he was?
Or did they think he was a token? Before long, he was on
the verge of what he calls a ''psychological breakdown.''
As he remembers: ''I did not carry that burden well. One
wants to feel that one is standing there on one's own. One
does not want to feel one is being patronized.'' In 1984,
he moved over to the John F. Kennedy School of Government,
which had been assiduously courting him almost from the
moment he arrived.

''Glenn had no doubt that he was smart,'' Patterson says.
''But I think he was always doubtful as to whether the
economics department had hired him because of his
Afro-American connections. It was that anxiety about what
his colleagues really thought that led him to doubt the
value of affirmative action.'' His criticisms of
affirmative action reflected these insecurities,
emphasizing the stigma it imposed on people like himself.

Loury seemed to relish his chosen role as a thorn in the
side of the civil rights establishment. In 1984, he
delivered a paper in Washington at a meeting of the
National Urban Coalition. The room, Loury recalls, was full
of movement veterans, including Coretta Scott King; John
Jacob, the National Urban League president; and Walter
Fauntroy, former chairman of the Congressional Black
Caucus. In a speech calculated to provoke his audience,
Loury began by declaring, ''The civil rights movement is
over.'' Blacks, he argued, were at risk of being dragged
down by problems that could not simply be laid at the door
of white racism. The spread of a vast underclass, the poor
performance of black students, the explosion of early unwed
pregnancies among blacks and the alarming rates of
black-on-black crime -- here was evidence, he said, of
failures in black society itself. It was time, he said, for
blacks to assume responsibility for their own problems;
blaming racism for their ills might be emotionally
gratifying, but it was also morally obtuse.

When he was finished, Loury recalls, Coretta Scott King
wept.


Word of the brilliant, contrarian black economist from the
South Side of Chicago traveled fast. Conservative magazines
solicited articles from him; The New Republic published his
thoughts on race under the title ''A New American
Dilemma.'' He befriended William Bennett and William
Kristol, his colleague at the Kennedy School. He sat at
President Reagan's table at a White House dinner, and he
socialized with Clarence Thomas. (Although the two no
longer speak, Loury still keeps a picture in his office of
himself with Thomas.) While his liberal colleagues were
boycotting South Africa, Loury traveled there in 1986 on a
trip financed by the white diamond magnate Harry
Oppenheimer.

Loury's alliance with the right was rooted in part in his
deep aversion to the intellectual conformity he felt the
left imposed on black intellectuals; the right offered not
only prestige, resources and acceptance but also, it
seemed, the freedom to speak his mind. (He was also partly
motivated, like many rebels, by seething class resentment:
he says that as the son of a low-level civil servant, he
felt ''contempt'' for middle-class civil rights leaders.)
But during this period, Loury says, he continued to see
himself as ''a race man.'' Unlike some other black
conservatives, he never called for abolishing the welfare
state, and he rejected the idea that America had finished
paying its debts to its black citizens.

Loury says he wanted to forge an intellectual middle
ground, but his willingness -- indeed, his eagerness -- to
assail black leaders like Jackson and to align himself with
the Reagan administration made him persona non grata in
liberal black circles. He was called an Uncle Tom, a
''black David Stockman'' and a ''pathetic mascot of the
right.''

''It seemed like a classic sellout case to me,'' remembers
Patterson, who went 10 years without seeing Loury. Loury's
Uncle Alfred -- a proud race man, a steelworker and the
patriarch of the family -- thought I was basically selling
out to the white man,'' Loury recalls.

The hostility of fellow blacks would eventually take its
toll, but at the time Loury took pride in their scorn.
While enjoying considerable patronage in the form of
corporate consulting fees and grants from conservative
foundations, he cast himself -- and was portrayed by his
white conservative patrons -- as a brave dissident who
rejected the ''loyalty trap'' of reflexive racial
solidarity.

And yet in his personal life, Loury continued to feel the
pull of race. At the same time as he was lunching with
fellows from the American Enterprise Institute, he began to
immerse himself in a black urban world much like the
neighborhood in which he grew up. He started playing pickup
chess on tabletops in Dudley Square, an African-American
commercial district in Boston. There, his views on social
policy were unknown, and he was welcomed, not ostracized,
by working-class black men -- the kinds of men he had known
on the South Side, the kind of man he nearly became while
working at the printing plant. ''There was a feeling for me
that I was really blacker than a lot of these liberal black
intellectuals who were denouncing me as a traitor to my
race,'' he remembers.

As a black critic of racial liberalism, Loury rose rapidly
in Republican public-policy circles. In March 1987, he was
offered a position as under secretary of education to
William Bennett. On June 1, 1987, however, Loury's life
veered off-track. He withdrew his nomination, citing
''personal reasons''; three days later, those personal
reasons became public: Loury's mistress, a 23-year-old
Smith College graduate who had been living, at his expense,
in what Boston papers called a ''love nest,'' brought
assault charges against him. (She later dropped all
charges.)

Loury's meltdown had just begun. After the scandal, his
trips to Dudley Square became all-nighters. He was staying
out on the street until 2 a.m. and venturing into ''some
really rough spaces.'' He began freebasing cocaine and
picking up women, spending much of his time in public
housing projects. ''It was pathological,'' he says. ''I was
castigating the moral failings of African-American life
even as I was deeply caught up in it.'' All the while, he
managed to maintain appearances at Harvard -- according to
colleagues, he was lecturing more brilliantly than ever --
and to keep his other life a secret from his wife.

''I was bridging the extremities of two worlds,'' he
recalls. ''Nobody at the Kennedy School could have known
about this other world, and nobody in that world where I
was a familiar character because I came regularly with a
pocketful of money could have imagined the sophistication
and power of the society of which I was a part. So you
achieve a kind of uniqueness moving back and forth between
those worlds. It was fun. There was a sense of power. There
was a real rush. You weren't just breaking the rules. Rules
didn't have anything to do with you. This was new
territory.''

In late November 1987, Loury was arrested on charges of
cocaine possession. After spending several months in the
hospital and in a halfway house, he was released, and in
January 1989, his wife gave birth to the first of their two
sons. Loury's Harvard colleagues implored him to stay, but
the scandal haunted him. In 1991, he left for Boston
University, which offered him a tenured position and a
salary Harvard couldn't match. For the next year, he
devoted himself to his research in theoretical economics,
which had languished for years, and ''got out of the race
business.''

Loury's conservative friends stood by him, and Loury
remained loyal. During the Anita Hill hearings, he prayed
over the phone with Clarence Thomas. In 1995, he founded
the Center for New Black Leadership with a group of
conservative black intellectuals that included his friend
Shelby Steele, the essayist.

''We were fellow travelers, Shelby and I,'' Loury recalls
wistfully. ''We were partners in an enterprise. We fancied
ourselves men of ideas who had found our way to this
position out of our willingness to break ranks. It's a
lonely business, this black conservative stuff.''

In the wake of his arrest, however, Loury had experienced a
personal transformation that was to have far-reaching
intellectual consequences. Five months after beating his
cocaine addiction, Loury was dipped into a pool of water at
a ceremony in Dorchester, Mass., and was born again. He
started going to church regularly and was, he says,
''getting caught up in the rapture of these services where
people were falling out onto the floor.'' The people who
forgave him his sins -- his family, his fellow churchgoers
and his wife -- were black, and Loury did not fail to
notice this. According to Patterson, ''Religion was Glenn's
entry back into the black community.''

''The experience did nothing to my politics,'' Loury
insists, but the ''processing of my own frailties'' that it
engendered, that did have an effect. Now that he was among
''the fallen,'' he found it difficult to keep telling
people -- his people -- to ''just straighten up, for crying
out loud,'' as he had been for years. It struck him, he
says, as ''unbelievably shallow, spiritually, and
politically problematic.'' In one of the more revealing
passages of his new book, he criticizes the way successful
blacks sometimes develop an ''antipathy'' toward the black
poor: ''If only THEY would get their acts together, then
people like ME wouldn't have such a problem.'''

After his brush with the law, Loury became increasingly
alarmed by the right's punitive rhetoric on issues ranging
from racial profiling to the criminal justice system and
wary of the ways in which, as a black man, he was being
used as a screen for an antiblack agenda. He was horrified
by Charles Murray and Richard Herrnstein's 1994 book, ''The
Bell Curve,'' a social Darwinist tract arguing that black
poverty was rooted in inferior intelligence. He was even
more appalled by ''The End of Racism,'' the lurid assault
on ''black failure'' written by Dinesh D'Souza when he was
a fellow at the American Enterprise Institute.

Not only did his conservative friends not share his rage;
they were taken aback by it and tried, he says, to muzzle
him. Commentary, which had welcomed Loury's writing in the
past, refused to publish his critique of ''The Bell
Curve.'' And though The Weekly Standard ran Loury's caustic
review of D'Souza's book, it also published a lengthy
response from the author. In 1995, Loury resigned from the
American Enterprise Institute over its support of D'Souza.

In a column called ''What's Wrong With the Right,''
published in the January-February 1996 issue of The
American Enterprise journal, Loury wrote that while
''liberal methods'' on questions of race were certainly
flawed, ''liberals sought to heal the rift in our body
politic engendered by the institution of chattel slavery,
and their goal of securing racial justice in America was,
and is, a noble one. I cannot say with confidence that
conservatism as a movement is much concerned to pursue that
goal.''

''The thing about Glenn is that he was always a race man,''
says Anthony Appiah, a Harvard professor of philosophy and
Afro-American studies. ''I suspect that the Reaganites he
was consorting with never really knew that.''

Loury's break with the right became final in the fall of
1996 during the battle over the California Civil Rights
Initiative, also known as Proposition 209. Aggressively
promoted by Ward Connerly, a black conservative member of
the University of California's Board of Regents,
Proposition 209 sought to eliminate race- and sex-based
preferences in state contracting, hiring and college
admissions. The Center for New Black Leadership wanted
Loury, the group's chairman, to publicly endorse the
referendum, the culmination of the right's efforts to ban
affirmative action. Loury expressed tepid support for 209
but refused to lobby on behalf of it.

''We're the Center for New Black Leadership, and we will be
leading no black people if we make this our issue,'' he
told his associates. But the board disagreed, and Loury
resigned.

A few days later, Steele phoned him. ''Where do you stand
on race?'' Loury says Steele asked him. ''It's as if you're
a racial loyalist here. I thought we all agreed.''

''No, Shelby and I didn't agree,'' Loury says now. ''I was
always aware that, whatever I thought about race, I'm still
black. Shelby's position. . . . '' Loury starts to laugh.
''I was about to say, Shelby's position was that we had to
completely transcend race, though I can imagine saying
those words, too. But my heart wasn't in them, whereas he
really meant it. How could it have been otherwise? His
mother was a white woman. His wife is a white woman. When
he looked at his own children's racial identity and
wondered about an oppressive world that would say to those
children, 'Choose sides' -- a dilemma I'd never faced --
Shelby's angle of vision was really quite different from my
own. So in all honesty, it was I who betrayed him, not he
who betrayed me.'' The two men have not spoken since that
conversation. (Steele declined to be interviewed for this
article.)

Writing in The New Republic on the eve of the referendum's
passage, Loury declared that it was ''flawed both in letter
and spirit,'' and went on to excoriate ''colorblind
absolutists'' and to argue that ''some 'discrimination'
against whites'' may well be ''the inevitable -- and
defensible -- consequence of measures to identify and limit
discrimination against blacks.''

''There came a point when I couldn't look my own people in
the face,'' Loury says, explaining his evolution.
''Everyone else had a place to go. Some would go to
Jerusalem. Others would go to Dublin. You see the metaphor.
Where would I go? I came back to Chicago and talked to my
uncle about what I was doing. There was a reproachful look
in his eyes, a sadness. He said to me, 'We could only send
one, and we sent you, and I don't see us in anything you
do.' Eventually I realized I couldn't live like that.''

So where did Loury end up? Not -- and this is what makes
him distinctive -- as a traditional liberal. Despite his
new appreciation of racial solidarity, Loury remains
fiercely independent. His outlook today is an
unclassifiable, pragmatic blend of entrepreneurialism,
black nationalism, Christian faith and social
egalitarianism. Though he has relaxed his opposition to
affirmative action, he quibbles with the way it is
practiced, recommending instead what he calls developmental
affirmative action -- programs intended to improve minority
performance while upholding common standards of evaluation.
It's a lonely position that infuriates his former allies on
the right without endearing him to black liberals like
Henry Louis Gates Jr. and Cornel West, who recently
threatened to resign from Harvard if Lawrence H. Summers,
the school's new president, failed to issue a sweeping
defense of affirmative action. The private Loury is as hard
to pin down as the public intellectual: an affluent
homeowner in a largely white suburb who retains a deep
respect for the Nation of Islam; a churchgoer who jogs
while listening to gangsta rap on his Walkman.

''The Anatomy of Racial Inequality,'' based on lectures he
gave in 2000 at the Dubois Institute at Harvard, offers a
bracing philosophical defense of his new views. Returning
to an argument he first presented in his dissertation,
Loury argues that blacks are no longer held back by
''discrimination in contract'' -- discrimination in the job
market -- but rather by ''discrimination in contact,''
informal and entirely legal patterns of socializing and
networking that tend to exclude blacks and thereby
perpetuate racial inequality. At the root of this
unofficial discrimination, he says, is ''stigma,'' a subtle
yet pervasive form of antiblack bias. According to Loury,
stigma explains why many white Americans, as well as some
blacks, view the imprisonment of 1.2 million
African-American men as a ''communal disgrace'' rather than
as ''an American tragedy.''

Of course, Loury himself once perceived the plight of the
underclass in similar terms. As he wrote in 1985,
''Whatever fault may be placed upon racism in America, the
responsibility for the behavior of black youngsters lies
squarely on the shoulders of the black community itself.''
In his new book, by contrast, Loury asserts that the
miseries of the ghetto can ''only be seen as a domestic
product . . . for which the entire nation bears a
responsibility.''

For Loury's former friends on the right, he is guilty of
nothing short of apostasy. Writing in National Review in
1999 ''with a heavy heart,'' Norman Podhoretz -- an
ex-leftist who achieved eternal notoriety among liberals by
publicly changing his mind -- accused Loury of ''having
fallen, or perhaps deliberately leaped, into 'the loyalty
trap' he once worked so hard to escape. . . . The loss to
his fellow blacks, and to the rest of us as well, is
incalculable.''

Loury's change of mind has been greeted by liberals with
considerable skepticism. Loury's account of his defection
was ''too pat to be true, especially for a man of Mr.
Loury's considerable intelligence,'' Brent Staples wrote in
The New York Times. ''Race-baiting, Willie Hortonizing and
homophobia were part of the package from the start and
actually in fuller use in the 80's than now. That Mr. Loury
failed to detect a 'conservative party line' on race while
cozying up to the Reagan administration -- and as a star on
the conservative lecture circuit -- is simply
implausible.''

It's a fair point. After all, Loury was always sensitive to
the left's rigidities on race. Why did it take him so long
to rebel against those of the right?

I asked him this directly, and he said: ''Why the 90's and
not the 80's? I'm going to give you an honest answer. I'd
say, You're dealing with a 35-year-old kid in 1983.'' It's
not an especially satisfying reply. After all, this
''35-year-old kid'' was a tenured professor at Harvard.
Loury's conversion narrative is compelling stuff, but
there's something missing. The story fails to explain why
he began to notice things that were perhaps there all
along. It fails to explain how the disapproval of blacks
went from being a badge of pride to one of shame.

You get the sense that the new Loury would just as soon not
be reminded of the old Loury. As he admitted to me in an
e-mail message, ''The ghost or shadow of the 'old' Loury
follows me, and I can still detect people reacting to this
presence.''

Though he has to a certain extent ingratiated himself with
the black intellectual circles that once shunned him, the
reaction of many blacks to his new incarnation remains one
of caution. ''There are still people who won't forgive
Glenn for sleeping with the enemy,'' Patterson says.

Loury's embrace of his black identity is striking and, to
some of his black friends, a touch overeager. ''Glenn is
into sports now,'' says Patterson, who formed a close
friendship with Loury again in the mid-90's. ''He's into
basketball. He's developed a sort of pride in things black,
and a sensitivity about any negative comments made about
the group. I became a little concerned when Glenn started
listening to gangsta rap. I thought there was a little
overcompensation involved.''

It's hard not to conclude that Loury's intellectual
positions today reflect shifting personal needs as much as
shifting intellectual convictions. As Patterson points out,
''Glenn had argued so powerfully against affirmative action
that the shift in position struck me more as a signal to
the black community that he wanted back in, rather than a
strongly intellectual change of heart.''

Loury, for his part, doesn't disagree: ''I don't know if I
want to concede the point to Orlando, that there's no
intellectual substance to the change of mind. But I think
that's a pretty astute observation on his part.'' Still, he
says, ''as long as I can give a more-or-less cogent account
of what the current position is, I don't worry about the
insincerity problem.'' When I asked him why he constantly
changes his mind, he fell silent, pounding his fist on his
desk. Leaning back in his chair, he stared quietly at the
ceiling. Nearly a minute passed. This was the first time I
had seen him at a loss for words. ''There may be something
in my personality that doesn't feel comfortable getting
along,'' he finally said -- an answer that nicely omits his
equally strong desire to belong.

The question of belonging, of course, is one that all
public intellectuals face, but it weighs especially heavily
on black intellectuals who write about race. If you're a
white college professor, you can float half-formed ideas
and say controversial things; that's what you're paid to
do. To be a black intellectual in the race debate is to
have an audience with expectations, even demands; an
audience anxious to know which side you're on.

You might imagine that the ambiguities of the
post-civil-rights era -- in which the problems may be clear
but the solutions are not -- would reduce the pressures
toward intellectual conformity, but Loury's career suggests
that the opposite is true. Debates over affirmative action
and reparations are often so polarized as to leave little
room for iconoclasts. To dissent, on either side, means you
may find yourself in a lonely place, your loyalty -- even
your blackness -- in question.

Throughout our conversations, I had the odd sense that both
Loury and I were after the same thing: an understanding of
Glenn Loury -- or, more precisely, how the old Loury became
the new Loury. He often talks about his past self as if he
were someone else, as if the only thing the two Lourys had
in common were a body. Loury has been through therapy, and
he often talks like a classic analysand, putting himself on
the couch and registering genuine bafflement at how he got
there. ''Friends of mine sometimes have joked to me that
the old Loury and the new Loury should have a
conversation,'' he says, chuckling ruefully.

When you spend time with Loury, you feel that he's still
sorting out his past, still trying to figure out what has
led him away from and toward the embrace of his race. He is
incredibly self-conscious, and yet all his introspection
has failed to yield any answers that satisfy him. The day
after I interviewed him for the first time, we were walking
along Commonwealth Avenue, just outside his office. ''I
feel like I spilled my guts yesterday,'' he confessed.
''But you know, what I said was something of a revelation
to me too. Because parts of my life are still a blur to me.
I don't have a coherent narrative yet.''



Adam Shatz is a writer who lives in New York
City.

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