Busing Programs and Luxury Beliefs
An Attempt to Equalize Outcomes of Disparate Groups Using the Forceful Hand of Government
In his book Troubled: A Memoir of Foster Care, Family, and Social Class, Rob Henderson describes “luxury beliefs” as “ideas and opinions that confer status on the upper class at very little cost, while often inflicting costs on the lower classes.”1
Henderson’s concept of luxury beliefs is closely related to various political philosophies that tinker with human lives by way of public policy. This tinkering is often spoken of as “scientific,” “progressive” or “democratic,” and is usually intended to equalize outcomes between disparate groups, or promote outcomes of preferred groups. Experience has shown however, that these attempts often fail to produce their intended outcomes. (For example see here, here, here, here and of course here). Just as with luxury beliefs, these public programs “can have long term detrimental effects for the poor and working class.”2 And while these ideas can be costly for the rich, Henderson writes, “they often inflict even greater costs on everyone else.”
The following is a story from my childhood illustrating the effects of a Los Angeles Unified School District (LAUSD) busing program on my family. Busing programs were intended to promote better educational outcomes for children in low-income neighborhoods, and quite possibly they did—for some. But at what cost?
These programs bused children from low-income neighborhoods to public schools in middle-class neighborhoods. I attended one of these schools.
In the 6th grade, I lived with my mother in a rented condo overlooking the 10-lane, 118 freeway in Porter Ranch, California. Every weekday she would patiently and gently wake me up, wish me a good day, and then commute 30 minutes to her secretarial job in Burbank. After the garage door closed, I would get out of bed, dress, have a bowl of cereal and ride my red Schwinn Thrasher over the Wilbur Ave overpass, and glide down to Beckford Avenue School—a public elementary school in the Los Angeles Unified School District (LAUSD). I was the new kid on the block. In the evening, around six, she would arrive back home; we would have dinner and usually watch TV before going to bed.
In between those hours when she was gone, and when I wasn’t at school, I was on my own, usually watching my favorite TV shows on Nickelodeon: Double Dare, Mr. Wizard’s World, and You Can’t Do That on Television.
That Thrasher I rode to Beckford was actually my sister’s bike, and even though it was red, I preferred it over my white Huffy BMX. My sister—two years older than me, and the one constant in my life until the 6th grade—was now living 500 miles away with my father. She would have started 8th grade that year in the LAUSD, but two weeks before the start of school, she decided to live with Dad for the year. This was a shock to me. I was heart-broken. I said, “It’s our year to live at Mom’s.” I understand her reasoning now—the importance of being with her friends in Northern California and avoidance of being the new kid in a LAUSD junior high—but at the time I thought, “How can you do this to Mom? And to me?”
My parents divorced when I was four years old, and per the custody arrangement of the El Dorado County Superior Court in Northern California my sister and I would live one year with Mom and the next year with Dad; moving back and forth each year between our dad’s house in Northern California and our mom’s house in Southern California. Since the divorce, my sister and I had lived with my mom in San Diego County when I was in Kindergarten, 2nd and 4th grade, and we had lived with my dad in El Dorado County when I was in 1st, 3rd, and 5th grade.
For my 6th grade year, my mom moved from San Diego to Los Angeles for a number of very important reasons: better work opportunities; to be closer to her family; and to get away from the milieu of a violent criminal event that occurred when I was in the 4th grade, in which she was nearly murdered.
My 6th grade year would be the last year that I would live with my mother.
Each morning as I locked up my Thrasher at Beckford, six full-size school buses would arrive—three from Panorama City and three from 99th St in South Central Los Angeles. Though I had been one of the top students in my 5th grade class in Northern California, my 6th grade year at Beckford was a mess. I was now in a mixed 5th/6th grade class comprised of students with hugely varying family situations. It was difficult to learn in that classroom due to the dual-grade level and because too many students were wildly disruptive and disrespectful.
This was 1988. The movie Colors would be released in April of that year and many of the boys bused in from Panorama City and South Central not only identified with the street gang culture in that film, but actually lived among the street gangs depicted in that film. For months, they proudly sang the film’s theme song:
Colors, colors, colors
Colors, colors, colors
Colors, colors, colors
Colors, colors
I am a nightmare walkin', psychopath talkin'
King of my jungle, just a gangster stalkin'
Livin' life like a firecracker, quick is my fuse
Vendettas of death back; the colors I choose
Red or Blue, Cuz or Blood, it just don't matter…
The gangs of L.A. will never die, just multiply colors
I’m not sure on the exact percentage, but I would guess that anywhere between 30 and 50 percent of my class was made up of students from these inner-city neighborhoods. Except for one student born in Afghanistan, these students were Black (99th St) or Hispanic (Panorama City); they identified with either the Bloods or Crips—the two prominent street gangs in their neighborhoods. The school prohibited red and blue clothing. They commonly addressed each other as “Blood” or “Cuz,” and me as “white boy.”
I’ve only met Bryan Caplan once, but he grew up in Porter Ranch—probably within a mile of our condo. I’m not sure what elementary school he attended, but it wasn’t Beckford, and I doubt students were ever bused from the inner city to his elementary school. I certainly could have used a good friend that year, but had I met Bryan back then, it’s not clear we would have been friends. For one, he was a junior at Granada Hills High School, and two, he was a teenage misanthrope. Bryan writes
Why was I such a misanthrope? If you asked me at the time, I probably would have said, “Because almost everyone is terrible.”
I don’t know why Bryan perceived almost everyone as terrible, but part of his perspective was probably influenced by the consequences of the ideas of the luxury belief class of that time—whatever those might have been. For myself, I can say that many of these bused-in students behaved terribly in our classroom. That busing program was terrible for me—so terrible that I opted not to live anywhere within the LAUSD again. I had a way out—to live with my dad in Northern California—and my dad was an alcoholic, so it wasn’t an easy decision.
That year I learned that male friends are extremely important for middle-school boys immersed in street-gang culture—especially for those raised by single mothers.
What does it take to survive in that environment? Having tough friends helps, and it seems that doing bad things helps. This is a way of signaling to others, “not to mess with you.”
My experience that year at Beckford changed my life. The street-gang mentality that was bused-in from South Central and Panorama City—that menaced me and disrupted Beckford’s classrooms—negatively influenced my decision making in middle and high school. In order to “survive,” I started doing (more) bad things. Rather than inculcate good character or bring people together, that busing program brought more disorder to my life, and probably to others.
Certainly there were other factors contributing to my decision to live out the rest of my childhood in Northern California, but that busing program was a big one. That busing program pushed me away from my mom. That busing program probably hurt her more than it did me.
Who benefitted from the busing program? Possibly some of the students riding those buses, but it’s not entirely clear. 99th St in South Central Los Angeles—where half of those students were bused from—is a 60 minute commute to Porter Ranch. That extra 2 hours on the bus each day, probably made those kids more restless in class and at home. Waking-up 60 minutes earlier didn’t help either. They could have been doing something productive with that time, playing sports or doing homework in an after-school program. I doubt their bus ride was pleasant. Based on my experience riding school buses, I bet it was bad.
That busing program probably conferred status on its designers and promoters—members of the luxury belief class—who sought to integrate public schools and equalize racial outcomes. It advanced their social standing, but it hurt families in Porter Ranch—families like mine that couldn’t afford to move to a more expensive neighborhood, outside of the busing program. The upper class can afford to move to a better neighborhood, or put their children in private school—they have school choice—so the busing program costs them less than it does for lower classes. As Rob Henderson writes
luxury beliefs can have long term detrimental effects for the poor and working class. However costly these beliefs are for the rich, they often inflict even greater costs on everyone else.
Like Rob, I too “am immensely grateful for the way my life has turned out…I don’t want pity.” I’m writing this to help kids out there who are growing up in unstable, single-parent homes; to remind people out there that the busing program in the Los Angeles Unified School District of 1988 cost the middle and working class in Porter Ranch a great deal more than it cost the upper class.3
Rob - Thank you for your book and for starting this conversation.
In his book Troubled: A Memoir of Foster Care, Family, and Social Class, Rob Henderson describes the origins of “luxury beliefs” as follows:
My childhood habit of visiting school libraries had not abated. I came to Yale to major in psychology, but my generative curiosity soon overflowed the boundaries of my degree. In my attempt to understand class distinctions, I spent a lot of time thinking and reading about class divides and social hierarchies and compared what I'd learned with my experiences on campus. Gradually, I developed the concept of "luxury beliefs," which are ideas and opinions that confer status on the upper class at very little cost, while often inflicting costs on the lower classes. The upper class includes (but is not necessarily limited to) anyone who attends or graduates from an elite college and has at least one parent who is a college graduate.
In his article “Luxury Beliefs are Status Symbols” Rob Henderson writes:
The chief purpose of luxury beliefs is to indicate evidence of the believer’s social class and education.
Members of the luxury belief class promote these ideas because it advances their social standing and because they know that the adoption of these policies or beliefs will cost them less than others.
Advocating for defunding the police or promoting the belief we are not responsible for our actions are good ways of advertising membership of the elite.
Why are affluent people more susceptible to luxury beliefs? They can afford it. And they care the most about status.
In short, luxury beliefs are the new status symbols.
They are honest indicators of one’s social position, one’s level of wealth, where one was educated, and how much leisure time they have to adopt these fashionable beliefs.
And just as many luxury goods often start with the rich but eventually become available to everyone, so it is with luxury beliefs.
But unlike luxury goods, luxury beliefs can have long term detrimental effects for the poor and working class. However costly these beliefs are for the rich, they often inflict even greater costs on everyone else.
Rob finishes Troubled on a high note, which I really like; and then he reminds us why he wrote the book—to help other kids out there.
Today, I am immensely grateful for how my life has turned out. Really, it feels like I've woken up from a nightmare. People have told me that my story has brought them to tears. That's never been my intention—I don't want pity. I'm one of the lucky ones. There are many kids who have suffered far more. Some of them never recover from what they've endured.
This hit home. I lived close to a school much like the one you describe, and there was no option on where to attend. My school, however, had the white kids bussed in to better the horrible outcomes. The best thing that came out of it was the magnet program they put in place as a sop to the white families - I managed to secure a spot in that class and it was a transformational opportunity to engage with ideas. In other classes it was crucial to keep your head down to avoid attracting attention - and violence. I remember a kid flicking a lighter under my sister’s long blond hair. I remember kids streaming out the door to chase me down with the intent to beat me up. I remember the black kids with their switchblades and the Asian kids with their nunchucks getting ready to fight after school. I remember desperately holding in my pee because you just didn’t go to the bathroom. So many humiliating and terrifying experiences. I’ve never forgotten any of them. Luxury beliefs indeed. The presence of those privileged bussed in white kids just exacerbated the already present racial tensions to a boiling point.