I found what you will see below last night, when I resumed the ongoing, off-and-on, project of cleaning out our two-car garage enough that I can at least park one vehicle in out of the weather.
The problem isn’t the household items one or another of our kids have stored there, or the tools accumulated over the years. The toughest category of clutter is the result of my own packrat tendencies — mostly, the boxes of paper and other items that I packed up and brought home with me when I left The State 16 years ago.
It was a huge mountain to begin with, taking me two full weeks of hauling home in the bed of my truck every night of those last two weeks. (I had a big office, but that was just the beginning. The editorial department had a roomful of filing cabinets almost entirely devoted to my files, and I had a box here and there in other locations. There wasn’t time to sort through it all; I just brought it home.) This is my third time sifting through it all. Each of the first two times, I reduced the pile somewhat. This time, I’ve been throwing away most of what I find. But occasionally, I open a box that’s harder to give up, and I have to make my way through it sheet by sheet, reading some of the letters, notes and such all the way to the end. Those I tend to keep.
I was particularly interested to find this one. I think I’ve mentioned it before, but couldn’t find it to post. I wrote a lot of columns in long draft form over the years that I ended up trashing. Sometimes I found the premise just didn’t work once I had developed it. But usually it was simply that a better idea emerged at the last minute, and I wrote and ran that instead.
But this is the only one I can remember actually completing and having ready to go, and then spiking even though I didn’t write another one to replace it with. I think maybe it was already on the page and I yanked it off and replaced it with a syndicated piece. But I’m not sure, now that 30 years have passed.
I wouldn’t have done that a year or two later. But this was very early in my time on the editorial board. I wasn’t the editor yet, or even an associate editor. This was less than two years after I left news for opinion writing, and I was just an editorial writer. And at that early stage, I couldn’t see publishing an opinion piece that didn’t offer a solution. All I was doing here was describing the problem, and that seemed incomplete. I though it was my duty to prescribe a cure.
I should have run it. It was a decent piece. It had its flaws that jump out at me now, such as that jarring, sudden switch from past to present tense in the fourth graf. But it was worth running, and I wish I had — especially since it identified a problem that at that time was just starting to tear the country apart. It hadn’t fully metasticized yet. If I had known then how bad things would get — it’s one of the things that led both to Trumpism and to the Democratic Party being completely unable to counter it — I would have run it and perhaps even campaigned (unsuccessfully, of course, due to the fundamental division between news and editorial) to have it placed on the front page.
At that time, we were already becoming a country that couldn’t pull together to solve problems. Oh, a few things came along later that harked back to the “we’re all in this together” spirit of the Second World War or LBJ’s extraordinary string of domestic policy victories in the middle ’60s — such as Teddy Kennedy initially supporting George W. Bush’s effort to add prescription coverage to Medicare, or the bipartisan successes Joe Biden had in Congress early in his all-too-brief time in the White House.
But mostly, we have hardened the divisions between “my group vs. your group” that would do our country in. Young people have never known a time when we were regularly able to see each other as fellow Americans and pull together in common cause. For older people, the memories are dimming. Sometimes the problem is simply the rapidly growing party division that started getting bad in the ’80s, and just got worse and worse each decade. Sometimes it’s the inexplicable cult of Trump. Other times, it’s about what this column was about — the growing power of identity, which has fed both of those other two problems.
Look at it either way — that my black colleagues in that gym were blinded by identity, or I was, as the white guy who couldn’t wrap my head around how they could possibly identify with that rich celebrity who had so little in common with them or me. Either way, I found the cognitive divide between my co-workers and me shocking. I thought it was a problem we needed to talk about. I should have run the column.
To place this unpublished column in time: The Simpson verdict was announced on October 3, 1995 — my 42nd birthday. When I left that gym, I showered, headed up to the third floor and wrote the column quickly enough for it to run in the next day’s paper. But it didn’t.
Here it is, as it came off the dot matrix printer, like so many other things I saved from those times:

































