Top Down

Karen Ferguson explores the consequences of the counterintuitive and unequal relationship between the elite liberal Ford Foundation and black power activists, arguing that codeveloped initiatives in education, community development, and the arts contributed to the recreation of racial liberalism in the neo-conservative era and beyond.

Top Down
The Ford Foundation, Black Power, and the Reinvention of Racial Liberalism

Karen Ferguson

2013 | 336 pages | Cloth $49.95
American History | African-American Studies/African Studies
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Table of Contents

Introduction

PART I. SIZING UP THE URBAN CRISIS
Chapter 1. Modernizing Migrants
Chapter 2. The Social Development Solution

PART II. TRANSFORMING THE GHETTO
Chapter 3. Developmental Separatism and Community Control
Chapter 4. Black Power and the End of Community Action

PART III. CULTIVATING LEADERSHIP
Chapter 5. Multiculturalism from Above
Chapter 6. The Best and the Brightest

Epilogue. The Diminishing Expectations of Racial Liberalism

Notes
Index
Acknowledgments


Excerpt [uncorrected, not for citation]

Introduction

On August 2, 1966, McGeorge Bundy made his first major policy statement as Ford Foundation president in a speech to the National Urban League in Philadelphia. Entitled "Action for Equal Opportunity," Bundy's address was a clarion call for a new era at the Ford Foundation, by far the largest and most influential philanthropy in the world. Bundy declared that the Foundation's most prestigious and costly programs would experiment boldly by dealing with the ongoing black freedom struggle, especially black power's challenge to the nation. Pegged for Foundation president in 1965, the year of both the Voting Rights Act and the Watts riot, Bundy, along with his program officers and the Foundation's trustees, was keenly aware that the legislative victories of the civil rights movement had not solved what he still called the "Negro problem" of black assimilation into American society. In fact, as the struggle for equal opportunity had turned from "rights to reality," Bundy saw that "the agenda for the immediate future [was] as full and pressing as it [had] been at any time in the past." Over the next ten years, the Foundation would ramp up its spending on "rights for minorities," granting more than $100 million in this area from 1965 to 1969 alone, in amounts reaching 40 percent of the entire budget for domestic programs by 1970.

Making a speech about equal opportunity to the National Urban League, a venerable and unimpeachably mainstream and moderate black organization, was hardly controversial; however, what Bundy did next was. In a deeply counterintuitive move he sought to relegitimize racial liberalism's promise of color-blind opportunity and inclusion, not by attacking black power's repudiation of this American creed but by directly engaging black activists and their call for separatism and self-determination. As a result of Bundy's contrariness, the Ford Foundation played a pivotal role in establishing many of the hallmark legacies of the black power era, such as ghetto-based economic development initiatives, university black studies programs, multicultural and "affective" school curricula, and race-specific arts and cultural organizations. In fact, Ford played an instrumental part not simply in bankrolling such initiatives but in originating many of these projects itself, all of which served its interests in finding a way to deal with the challenge that the black freedom struggle presented to the nation's dominant ideas, practices, and institutions. In doing so, Bundy and his officers played a vanguard role in a nationwide effort by the so-called liberal establishment to engage black power.

The perplexing story of how elite, liberal whites, those from the Ford Foundation prominent among them, worked to institutionalize elements of a black power project seemingly antithetical to their worldview has fascinated a wide range of commentators over the last decades. This confounding relationship has held particular interest because it arose at a critical juncture for both white liberalism and the black freedom struggle that would ultimately see the decline of both. Scholars of black power most often blame, but sometimes credit, expedient white liberals and their institutions for neutralizing the threat of the movement's liberationist potential—essentially helping to kill it through soft power while law-and-order hard power attacked it from the right. In return, many students of American politics and intellectual life have held black power, along with the Vietnam War, responsible for pushing liberalism beyond the brink, thereby resulting in the "unraveling" of the consensus that had unified the nation in the postwar period. As the story goes, liberals' variously motivated accommodation of bottom-up African American insurgency brought about the death of the postwar and civil rights period's incipient integrationism, equal opportunity, and color-blindness and ushered in the birth of multiculturalism, welfare entitlement, affirmative action, and identity politics—developments that in turn sparked a white backlash that helped propel the conservative turn in American politics.

Even though these arguments are mutually opposed, they both have validity. However, as their contradiction suggests, they each miss the full story of liberalism's engagement with black power. In this book I seek to capture the complexity of this episode by widening the historical lens on the relationship between elite liberals and the actors and ideas that animated black power. This perspective has allowed me to uncover, among other things, strong and surprising affinities between Foundation officers' postwar formulation of racial liberalism and the racial separatism of Ford's black grantees, which helps to explain how and why Bundy's Foundation engaged so strongly with black power, beyond a straightforward emergency response. Similarly, moving forward from the 1960s to the 1970s and beyond permits a more complete understanding of the legacy of the Foundation's engagement with black activists. As it turns out, while Ford's liberals were bloodied by this experience, they nevertheless survived the 1960s and went on to pioneer social policy deep into the conservative era, suggesting both their pragmatism and the ideological affinities that allowed them to continue to operate successfully in a new political climate. Indeed, mine is a story not of the death of racial liberalism but of its constant re-creation during the second half of the twentieth century.

Understanding how racial liberalism was remade from the top down is essential to understanding current American racial politics and its paradoxes. To take an obvious example: How could an African American like Barack Obama, along with a tiny minority of his elite black peers, rise to the highest ranks of American government, business, and media, while a majority of his black brethren still face glaring inequalities? Why was it essential to his political success that the biracial Obama simultaneously assert his African Americanness culturally and establish his ability to thrive and rise in an ostensibly color-blind American meritocracy? How did his claims both to an Ivy League education and to grassroots community organizing operate together to legitimate his leadership potential as a black man within today's white liberal establishment? How is it that the first African American president came to office in the neoliberal era, when the egalitarian social democratic vision that animated the twentieth-century black freedom struggle has largely become a historical relic? I posit that a crucial element of the answer to these questions lies in the history of elite whites' engagement with black activism, beginning in the 1950s. Whites reshaped racial liberalism in their effort to forge a national consensus on race in the wake of the seismic changes wrought by both the legislative victories of the civil rights movement and the urban crisis of postindustrial, ghettoized cities that spurred black power. The Ford Foundation helped lead the way in this quest to manage racial conflict and inequality during the civil rights era and beyond.

The first black U.S. president was still a long way off in August 1966, when Bundy made his policy statement to the National Urban League. What made the issue of "Negro equality" the "most urgent domestic concern of this country" for Bundy and the Foundation's trustees and officers was not just the crisis of capital and white flight and black ghettoization that plagued postwar American cities. Given the Foundation's and the larger American white elite's historic neglect of and ignorance about African Americans' lives, especially outside of the South, Bundy and his peers would never have responded to the urban crisis in this way if not for the fact that black people were so vocally and actively fighting against their marginalization in an ongoing freedom struggle that white elites now understood to extend beyond the South and to include far more than formal rights when defining equality. Once African Americans had reestablished their formal, century-old constitutional equality through the nonviolent direct action of the Southern civil rights movement, the focus of the black freedom struggle moved into a new phase, centered in and on the cities, most often outside of the South, and also outside of the parameters of American liberalism. Black Americans began to make their claims through methods like property damage and looting of urban rebellions, and concepts like self-defense, anticolonialism, and racial nationalism. Such actions and ideologies directly challenged the erstwhile American promise of the perfectibility and egalitarian possibility of the nation, which had been reasserted in the postwar period by elite players like the Ford Foundation but had so miserably failed ghettoized black urbanites.

This challenge to the American "system" dealt a severe blow to the presumptions about social progress that undergirded postwar liberalism's promise, and it also girded the loins of white elites like Bundy to demonstrate that these putative truths still prevailed in the context of the late 1960s. In their optimism about the possibilities of the affluent society, most white liberals in the 1940s and 1950s believed that the modernization inevitably wrought by an ever-expanding corporate capitalism would be a rational and color-blind process that would lead to the peaceful assimilation of all minorities into the American mainstream, leaving behind the irrational practices of both white prejudice and supposed black primitivism. From this worldview, racial inequality was an anachronism that would be inexorably dissolved with blacks' and whites' incorporation into the industrial modernity of the city. However, instead of this inevitable, conflict-free process, African Americans either faced massive white resistance to their efforts to dismantle Southern Jim Crow or found themselves further marginalized and impoverished if they voted with their feet by leaving the rural South for the dead-end "second ghetto" of postwar American cities. Thus, the relevance of race did not disappear as postwar racial liberals had imagined; instead, African Americans' struggle against American society's postwar betrayal of their freedom dreams resulted in their emergence as a visible and vocal public in American life as well as in the advent of race as a potent and inescapable element in American politics.

This book examines the response of elite white liberals to the new racial politics spawned by the urban crisis and African Americans' claims to power and self-determination. After exploring the crucial history of the Ford Foundation's postwar origins, I focus on the era between about 1965 and 1975, an interval that began with the seminal legal victories of the civil rights movement and ended with national economic retrenchment and political reaction. In this period, the critical national project for the American liberal establishment was to domesticate black power and its challenge to liberalism, reforging a social consensus on race. Not coincidentally, this period also corresponded to the endgame for what has been called the "long" civil rights movement, or that continuous strain within the twentieth-century black freedom struggle, including many elements of black power, that had sought social transformation outside the bounds of the nation's individualist, egalitarian creed. While the iron fist of the emergent right surely played a decisive role in effectively silencing this radical vision, so did liberals' velvet-glove efforts to incorporate and ultimately assimilate the challenge of black power into the American way.

The Ford Foundation led the way in this liberal crusade, and what it did mattered. It was established in 1936 by Henry Ford, the founder and president of Ford Motor. However, the Foundation did not become a major national and international force until 1948, when Ford's grandson, Henry II, used a massive bequest of family-held Ford Motor stock to catapult it from a Michigan-based, family-controlled philanthropy to the largest private foundation in the world. It maintained this status throughout the period covered by this book; by 1966, its annual budget was around $200 million, and its $3.3 billion endowment was more than three times that of the Rockefeller Foundation, its nearest rival. The younger Henry intended that this vast enrichment of the Foundation's coffers would allow it to act on the confident social-engineering ethos of postwar liberalism of which he was an adherent. Henry was not alone in his beliefs. He belonged to an elite formation of corporate, government, military, university, media, and philanthropic leaders, which played a pivotal role after the Second World War to perpetuate the nation's unprecedented prosperity and to expand its international dominance. Often called the "liberal establishment," based on their shared social, economic, and political vision, and presumed stewardship of the nation, these leaders held a whiggish faith in the postwar American "system" that they had helped create. They believed wholeheartedly in a boundless and beneficent corporate capitalism undergirded by the Keynesian security state and a technocracy of trained experts to manage the nation's social, economic, and political modernization. Henry Ford II and the group of philanthropic and business leaders whom he amassed to remake the Foundation as "the central agency of establishment philanthropy" were convinced that they had the resources and expertise to advance human welfare, as Ford's mission put it.

In working toward these ends the Ford Foundation found itself in a very different position than its forebears, those industrial philanthropies like the Rockefeller Foundation and the Carnegie Corporation that had been founded during the Gilded Age, long before the expansion of the state and state provision during the New Deal and Second World War. Rather than big government supplanting the role of philanthropy in this new era, American foundations now led by Ford instead positioned themselves at the forefront of American foreign, social, and cultural policy during the pinnacle of the activist state of the Cold War and affluent society. For example, the Ford Foundation spearheaded philanthropic support for the most influential applied research that made modernization theory, behavioral science, and systems analysis the dominant conceptual tools for American policymakers in the postwar period. The Foundation partnered with the United States Agency for International Development as the most generous private institution promoting the Green Revolution and population control as major tools of so-called third world development. The Foundation also acted as a kind of domestic policy incubator for the Kennedy and Johnson administrations, initiating and testing out social programs, including those at the center of LBJ's Great Society, which were then applied nationwide. In addition, Ford led the way in spreading nonprofit culture throughout the United States, singlehandedly establishing symphony orchestras and dance and regional theater companies across the nation and playing a major role in the establishment of public television. In all of these efforts the Foundation promoted its ideas and approaches as technocratic techniques to fix the roadblocks to what its leaders believed could become a perfect society of universal social peace, affluence, security, and cultivation, achievable through liberalism and corporate capitalism. In short, as the Board of Trustees boasted in 1962, the Ford Foundation fully exploited its position as "probably the only private institution which can . . . make a critical difference in the course of events" at home or abroad.

Included in these events was the urban crisis. During the decade leading up to 1965, the Foundation's Public Affairs program garnered kudos for its pioneering initiatives to fix one of the kinks in the American system: the postwar migration of millions of poor, nonwhite rural folk, mostly from the South but also from the Caribbean and Mexico, to cities in the North and West. This urbanization created complex social and political problems centered on the "gray areas" of degrading, rapidly deindustrializing inner cities where the migrants settled. For the Foundation's officers, what made this rural-to-urban movement an issue was the challenge it presented to the migrants' assimilation into the American mainstream. How could impoverished former agricultural workers adapt to modernity, be accepted into America's institutional life, and experience the upward mobility of the American dream when the industrial city, the erstwhile crucible of immigrant assimilation, was gone or rapidly disappearing? African Americans' escalating protest against the ghettoization in which they found themselves trapped only steeled the Foundation's resolve that its officers must find an answer to this question. In pursuing this goal, the Ford Foundation became a preeminent postwar actor to work for the eventual incorporation of urban African Americans into the existing political economy. Consequently, while other agents of white power resisted all phases of the postwar black freedom struggle repressively and often violently, the Foundation found itself paralleling and even intersecting with the goals of black activism in an effort to shape the movement's outcome.


The Foundation made its engagement with the black struggle explicit with Bundy's appointment at Ford during the concurrent rise of black power. At that moment, Ford began applying a model to achieve its assimilationist objectives that intersected with some of the key goals, if not the ultimate aims, of the dominant strains of black power—most notably racial separatism and black leadership development. Thus the Foundation promoted a balkanizing ethic for the black urban poor that emphasized the need for the continuing isolation of minority communities so that they could experience a cultural revitalization that would lead to what Bundy called "social development" and eventual assimilation into the mainstream American political economy. At the same time, the Foundation fostered the creation of a new black leadership class that could be integrated into its elite model of American pluralism.

The Foundation's advocacy of ongoing racial separatism for all but a small black elite emerged out of experiences in the early 1950s when it faced political attack for advocating school desegregation even before the Brown Supreme Court decision. Cowed by the right-wing firestorm that resulted, the Foundation quickly abandoned racial integration as a policy choice. Actions like this one and others that followed demonstrated the Foundation's aversion to controversy and ultimately damaging unwillingness to face down its conservative opponents. However, the Foundation's reluctance to stand up for desegregation also calls into question its leadership's commitment to this principle in the first place and, more broadly, the commonplace portrayal of assimilation through integration as a shibboleth of postwar racial liberalism.

Instead, the Foundation chose to address its ongoing commitment to racial assimilation through a counterintuitive and seemingly paradoxical policy of racial separatism. In fact, this strategy tapped into a long-standing reaction by white elites in the United States hoping to reconcile declarations of American freedom with the fact of the racial repression that imbued the nation. In fact, the white fantasy that African Americans could best develop into full citizens by being separated from whites stretched back to the Early Republic when many powerful white Americans worked to square the universalism of the Declaration of Independence with their distaste for racial mixing. A century later, one of the first goals of industrial philanthropy in the Gilded Age was how to achieve this same goal within the context of African American emancipation. Almost two hundred years after the first expression of this ethos, Ford Foundation officers continued to look toward racial separatism as a key to solving this so-called "Negro problem" in the face of widespread black ghettoization and marginalization despite the victories of the civil rights movement. As with these earlier cases of American elites seeking this improbable goal, Bundy and his peers found allies among African Americans intent on the parallel, albeit very different, objective of self-determination through their separation from whites.

This historical impulse dovetailed with the developmentalism of postwar racial liberals to reinforce the Ford Foundation's racial separatist and ghetto-based solutions to the urban crisis. While white liberals had abandoned a long-standing belief in African Americans' innate racial inferiority, notions of black cultural and psychological pathology that replaced biological racism served a similar function in buttressing the commonplace notion—stretching back to such diverse origins as Jim Crow segregation and the social ecology model of the Chicago School of sociology—that black people needed an indeterminate period of separate development before being able to assimilate successfully into mainstream American life. By the 1960s, a growing belief in the myth of white ethnic succession bolstered this apparent need for racial cloistering. According to this credo, the success of the grandchildren of the European immigrants of the industrial era could be attributed to the self-help and cultural resilience of the ethnic communities that their forebears had fostered in the new country. It followed that the black ghetto could similarly be a vital crucible for recent black migrants to the city, who like their now fully assimilated white-ethnic forbears, could benefit from a period of separate development in which to foster a strong cultural identity and contribute to American pluralism. Further, the model the Foundation chose to apply to racial minorities in order to overcome their "deprivation" and engineer the same success (which was supposedly experienced organically by white immigrant groups earlier in the century) connected the ultimate assimilation of minority racial groups at home to another of the Foundation's guiding tenets: the Cold War modernization ethos that ruled American third world development policy.

Modernization theory developed in large part as a response to global postwar decolonization, a process that American policymakers repeatedly used to make sense of the situations of racial minorities at home. This tendency was especially pronounced in Bundy's Foundation given that the new president's expertise lay not in domestic race relations, about which he knew virtually nothing before 1966, but rather in foreign policy, because he had served as national security advisor for Presidents Kennedy and Johnson. Nevertheless, Bundy and his staff were not alone in comparing African Americans to third world nationals, suggesting how communities of color were perceived by postwar white liberals as foreigners to the nation and hence outside of its citizenry. In the United States and abroad, a key postcolonial issue for the Ford Foundation—which since 1950 had played just as vital a role in incubating American international development efforts as it did domestic social policy—was to play an effective role broadly in the national Cold War mission to attract the recently unfettered global masses to the American way. A Foundation solution in both cases was to accommodate the call for self-determination at home and abroad by identifying and training a cadre of indigenous leaders, whether in India, Indonesia, or Bedford-Stuyvesant, who would act as peaceful and rational brokers and spokespeople for their nation or race in a U.S.-dominated postcolonial global scene or the corporate capitalism of postwar America. Thus, from the Foundation's perspective, the African American community deserved representation in a pluralistic and meritocratic body politic, but such power should be exercised by the "best and brightest" of the black community as defined by the "best and brightest" of the white community.

A dynamic of racial brokerage was nothing new in African American history. However, the Foundation's leaders and the liberal establishment more generally were ready to afford this new black elite an unprecedented level of influence and power. They hoped to end the era's disunity by bringing about social peace in an American society that was increasingly complex, pluralistic, and corporate, in order to facilitate continued national prosperity and growth. Among the instruments the Foundation promoted to this end was the "systems reform" of American institutions so that they might better serve their role in the modern context. Most important for achieving this goal from the Foundation's point of view was the development of an expanded leadership class in the United States that had the managerial talent and expertise required to lead these reforms. The elite theory of pluralism to which the Foundation subscribed posited that this meritocratic expansion would also serve to deal with the conflicts wrought by African Americans' emergence in the 1960s as a visible and vocal political force; by expanding the notion of the nation's leadership class from white Anglo-Saxon Protestants, first to white ethnics and then African Americans and finally to other people of color, the Foundation sought to build consensus for its social vision through the diversification of the American elite. Thus it was no surprise that in 1979 the Ford Foundation chose a black president, Franklin Thomas, in a move widely seen by commentators at the time as a vanguard action in the opening of the American establishment. The growth of the black professional and leadership class since then, culminating in Barack Obama's election as president almost thirty years later, suggests that those observations were right.

The Foundation's model of developmentalist assimilation and elite pluralism diverged sharply from the social vision of its black-power grantees. Broadly speaking, they, like other advocates of black self-determination, rejected the national democratic myth and individualist prescriptions for social reform that animated postwar liberalism. Instead, they advocated for collective action and group-based solutions, in the idealistic hope that they could emerge as potent political actors to transform the United States according to their redistributive social-democratic vision. However, despite the radical transformations they sought through black self-determination, the thinking of these black power activists was still often shaped by a mainstream liberal conception of pluralism, race, and social change, particularly as it pertained to their model of how the black community might be "developed" and mobilized to achieve their vision. This conceptual convergence brought the Ford Foundation and its black grantees together in the first place. However, the social conflict wrought by activism for black liberation pursued under the auspices of the Foundation demonstrated to Bundy and his officers that they would never be able to create racial consensus through grassroots black activism, resulting ultimately in their top-down and conservative strategy of leadership development to manage the black community.

The relationship between the Ford Foundation and black power provides an opportunity to consider black power not only in terms of its radical vision and resultant activism but also in terms of what in 1969 a critical Robert L. Allen called the "domestic neocolonialism" that was its outcome, or what in 2009 a sympathetic Devin Fergus called "liberalism's capacity to reform revolution." What both scholars were referring to was the domestication of black power through its accommodation within the confines of the existing social order. This was the "new regime of race relations management"—as Adolph Reed, Jr., put it—or more generally an example of the "incorporation of the restless and cheeky"—as Joan Roelofs has defined the role of philanthropy in American capitalism—that emerged out of the desire of powerful white interests, including the Ford Foundation, to restore social stability in the era of the riots not simply through the iron fist but also by the velvet glove of black leadership development.

In short, the asymmetry of the power relationship between the Ford Foundation and its black grantees meant that the Foundation's social vision prevailed. Thus this book reminds us that black power developed within a larger American context that was shaped largely by the imperatives of elite white power, including the Ford Foundation's. What resulted from this process were the limited forms of institutionalized multiculturalism and diversity with which we live today, undoubtedly inspired by the call for black self-determination but also indelibly shaped by the prerogatives of powerful white interests and their deep investment in the status quo.


The period covered by this book represents a key period of transition in twentieth-century American history, as the Fordist, Keynesian, and statist New Deal era began to move into postindustrial, trickle-down, and laissez-faire neoliberalism. Among the consequences of this sea change was the end of the civil rights movement. Reliant upon a responsive, redistributive, and expansive federal government as the target of its most successful activism, the black freedom struggle began to fragment and shrivel into isolated community-scale struggles, just as outsourcing and globalization pushed the urban black poor further down into chronic unemployment or onto the bottom rung of the service sector. Meanwhile, as the economy restructured, conservatives skillfully repositioned the public discourse from the reasons behind black poverty and the urban crisis to notions of individual responsibility and morality.

This intellectual and policy transition was predicated on a growing consensus about the utter failure of the larger 1960s urban liberal project, in which the Ford Foundation was a key player. In this telling, "limousine liberals," the Foundation's president and officers among them, had fomented black urban unrest in their unholy alliance with African American militants; according to this critique, liberal social engineering had deepened rather than solved the urban crisis. This narrative of mismanagement and wrong thinking produced a straw man for the conservative counterrevolution, which continues to use the trope of the "liberal elite" to explain what brought down urban America. This story of liberal-induced decline has helped the political right toward its goal of a new urban order that eschews statist solutions for free-market economics, the privatization of social services, law-and-order policing, and workfare to provide for the poor.

Among the many historical inaccuracies of this account of liberal misrule is the fact that the Ford Foundation was actually an active participant in this transition by helping to establish the basis of a new urban and racial liberalism that was little different from what conservatives would claim as their new urban model. Bundy and his officers made this shift the hard way, when their active engagement with black power did not produce the assimilationist results that their developmental separatism had presumed. Learning from their putative mistakes, as their demonstration-based research was intended to allow them to do, Foundation staff refined and narrowed their vision and ambitions for creating black equality.

First, despite its instrumental role in the conception of Johnson's Great Society, the Foundation came to reject this plan for its failure to quell the urban crisis and the social conflict it created. For example, Bundy and his officers began to rethink their commitment to community action, a Foundation innovation that became a hallmark feature, and key source of criticism, of LBJ's War on Poverty. They came to this conclusion through a difficult experience: after the utter failure of their instrumental support of the decentralization and grassroots community control of ghetto schools in New York City based on a conception of community action through participatory democracy. Instead of creating an assimilating "reconnection" of the black community to the public schools as Ford intended through its support of community control, the Foundation found itself at the center of the political firestorm that was to become known as the New York City schools crisis, itself a key harbinger of a new conservative urban politics. While the schools crisis would prove to be an emblematic tipping point in the neoconservative backlash against 1960s urban liberalism, it was also one that led the Foundation itself to reconsider the underpinnings of its urban activism and to pull back from this short-lived experiment.

Furthermore, the backlash against community action, whether practiced by Lyndon Johnson nationwide or by McGeorge Bundy in New York City, obscured the many goals behind Ford's involvement in the schools—including the dismantling of an entrenched public bureaucracy and unionized workforce, and the promotion of local control, self-help, and private-sector involvement in the public schools—which presaged conservative urban public policy. In addition, the Foundation's engagement with black activists for control of their own schools was made on the basis of the same assumptions of black pathology and African Americans' inability to replicate the white ethnic pattern of upward mobility that also shaped conservatives' perspective and action on the urban crisis.

Meanwhile, Bundy and his officers, like their political antagonists, began to look toward the private sector's resources and know-how for the solutions that the federal government had failed to create, an unsurprising direction for a philanthropy based on one of the nation's great industrial fortunes and on whose Board of Trustees in 1970 sat the presidents or chairmen of Ford Motor, Royal Dutch Petroleum, the World Bank, and the investment firm Donaldson, Lufkin & Jenrette. In making this switch, the Foundation also rejected the public turmoil and controversy stirred up by the participatory democracy of its community-action/control approach in order to move to an apolitical and elitist model of economic development to deal with the urban crisis from the top down. Joining with another establishment liberal, Robert F. Kennedy, the Foundation pursued this new strategy by pioneering the community-development corporation, an enduring hallmark institution of the devolved welfare state of competitive nonprofits that began in the Lyndon Johnson era and that has flourished from the Nixon presidency until today. Predating Nixon's election and his call for "black capitalism" to deal with ghetto turmoil, the Foundation's community-development corporations (CDCs) borrowed heavily from the corporate private sector, relying on it for its hierarchical and bottom-line institutional and management model, as well as for the public-private partnerships that became the bread and butter of community development in the neoliberal era.

In reducing its once expansive efforts to foster black equality to the community-development strategy, the Foundation became a leader in fostering other elements of liberalism after the conservative turn. Despite the fact that Ford acknowledged that its CDCs produced no appreciable benefit to the free-falling, postindustrial neighborhoods in which they were located, the Foundation celebrated these agencies for their success in cultivating individual black "public entrepreneurs," including its future president, Franklin Thomas, who then launched themselves successfully into the American meritocracy on the basis of their corporate apprenticeship in the ghetto. Thus the Foundation reduced its once lofty assimilationist goals for African Americans to one of elite development and individual upward mobility. In this way, along with other major Foundation initiatives for minorities, like its commitment to high-art black cultural expression, university black studies programs, and minority postsecondary and graduate education, the Foundation helped to foster the multiculturalism with which we live today, which has little to do with the racial equality that was the ultimate goal of black power advocates. In this formulation, diversity has become merely a value-added feature for elite educational or cultural institutions, or a source of competitive advantage for the private sector in a global marketplace. Meanwhile, back in the inner city, poor black children are fed the thin gruel of multiculturalism to foster racial self-esteem in a model of affective education, first promoted by the Foundation in the 1960s, which became a cheap substitute for policy and programs attacking the material and structural sources of academic underachievement.

Thus, the ambivalent legacy of postwar American liberalism not only created many political opportunities for the conservative ascendancy but also allowed liberals to fit comfortably within the ideological and policy mainstream of neoliberal America. This surprising confluence reminds us that the differences between American liberals and conservatives play out within the narrow scope of the rhetorical conventions and policy alternatives of American politics, all of which have been inexorably shaped by the legacy of the paradoxes of American history, not least those of the eighteenth-century American liberalism from which today's putative "conservatives" and "liberals" are both descended.

Connecting the Foundation's legacy to the present political and economic context also helps to position American philanthropy today, which has reached an important juncture as a new group of West Coast philanthropists, whose wealth is based on the information economy, has superseded older, East Coast foundations, like Ford, whose wealth and influence were based on industrial fortunes gained during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. In this new era, the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation has taken the place of the Ford Foundation, both as the richest philanthropy in the world and in terms of its enormous policy influence at home and abroad. While the Gateses and other latter-day philanthropists claim a new model for U.S. philanthropy, on closer inspection their microfinance and charter-school schemes, their assimilationist goals for the poor and outcasts based on the principle of equal opportunity for individuals within the capitalist system, and their belief in themselves as catalysts for social change all resonate deeply with the Ford Foundation's experience and actions in the McGeorge Bundy era.


New York City in the 1960s played an emblematic role in the historical processes explored in this book, both in being the nation's largest city and in its transition from an industrial center into the headquarters of global capitalism. First, New York was home to Harlem, the iconic "everyghetto" of the popular imagination and a metonym for black America. Traditionally the biggest and most densely populated urban black community in the country, Harlem was formed by oncoming waves of black in-migration to New York City, along with the ongoing poverty and marginalization of its residents. Harlem became a symbol for the urban crisis and the so-called "Negro problem" of black assimilation to the city and modern life. Conversely, this very ghettoization made Harlem a most promising potential site of racial regeneration and African American self-determination. In fact, it was often credited for being the birthplace of black power, having been the site of the greatest successes of black nationalism to date, that of Marcus Garvey in the 1920s and Malcolm X in the 1950s and 1960s. While it retained its symbolic value, by the 1960s Harlem was not the city's only significant black community. However, the growth of enormous postwar "second ghettoes" in Central Brooklyn and the Bronx simply reinforced New York City's position as the capital of black America.

Meanwhile, New York served an equally emblematic role in the history of liberalism. With a long history of labor activism and radical politics, a population made up largely of the white ethnic working class and their upwardly mobile children, and a highly unionized workforce, New York City embodied the statist and redistributionist New Deal liberalism of the Fordist era, as well as the electoral coalition that solidified this approach. All of that began to change during the period covered by this study, when deindustrialization and the city's rise as a center of finance capital radically transformed its economy. The response of John Lindsay, the liberal reform mayor swept into office in 1966 to deal with the resultant urban crisis, was very much in keeping with Lyndon Johnson's welfarist War on Poverty. However, by the end of Lindsay's tenure as mayor in 1973, this approach had been effectively discredited by its opponents for bankrupting the city and he left office with the electorate bitterly divided by race over the entitlement of the poor to state aid. The fiscal crisis that followed Lindsay's mayoralty ushered in a new era of political and policy conservatism, symbolized by the election of Mayor Edward Koch in 1977, which supported the city's repositioning as a preeminent hub of world finance and tourism. Thus, New York City encapsulated the tectonic shifts happening in cities all over the United States and the rest of the industrialized world in the last quarter of the twentieth century, in terms of both its global prominence and the extremity of its political and policy pendulum swing. In fact, as the embodiment of both liberal and neoliberal American urbanism, New York's narrative of transition has served as a morality tale for commentators from both the right and the left.

Amid this transition, Bundy and his officers sought a solution to the urban crisis and black power's challenge to liberalism by using New York City as a high-profile testing ground. New York City performed a metropolitan function for Bundy's Foundation. It located demonstrations of new policy initiatives in New York, especially as they pertained to African Americans, in order to influence the rest of the nation. At the core of the book are case studies of three such demonstrations, which exemplified the political, cultural, and economic programs for "minority rights" actually initiated, and not simply funded, by the Ford Foundation. These were also the three focal points of the black power project for African American self-determination. The first case study examines the Foundation's fundamental and decisive role in the convulsive citywide crisis over school decentralization. In supporting black activists' bid for community control of New York City's school system, the Foundation fostered an educational model that was antithetical to school integration but still developmentalist and assimilationist in intent. The second case explores the Foundation's engagement with the Black Arts movement through the funding of all-black theater. In particular, I compare the Ford Foundation experiences with the off-Broadway Negro Ensemble Company and the separatist and afrocentric New Lafayette Theatre in order to explore the Foundation's multiple agendas in fostering multiculturalism. The third case outlines the Foundation's role in pioneering community-development corporations, helping to create a nationwide model to deal with the crises of the inner city, primarily through the development of a strong leadership class. In this section, I examine grants to Brooklyn's Bedford-Stuyvesant Restoration and Development and Service Corporations, the Foundation's first and greatest commitment in its national CDC initiative.

This New York strategy worked for the Foundation in part because of the attention these grants garnered precisely because they were located within the city. Thus Bundy and the Foundation were able to collaborate closely with both John Lindsay and New York's Senator Robert Kennedy, the two most celebrated establishment liberals of the era. Dozens of other eminent figures were promoters of or commentators on Ford's New York efforts, or they found fame because of their involvement with them. President Kennedy's widow, Jacqueline Onassis, promoted an African textile business, and architectural superstar I. M. Pei designed a superblock in Bedford-Stuyvesant funded by the Restoration and Development and Services Corporations, on whose corporate board sat luminaries of the intertwined postwar policy, corporate, and financial establishment—C. Douglas Dillon, André Meyer, William S. Paley, Benno E. Schmidt, Thomas J. Watson, Jr., Roswell Gilpatric, and David Lilienthal. Virtually every prominent public intellectual in America, from the left's I. F. Stone to the right's Norman Podhoretz, had something to say about the New York schools crisis. Meanwhile, the Ford Foundation delighted in the success stories of the individuals its minority programs had helped bring to national attention. For example, Denzel Washington, Samuel Jackson, Phylicia Rashad, and scores of other prominent African American actors, playwrights, and directors first came to wider attention thanks to their work with the Negro Ensemble Company, whose New York City location meant that it was at the heart of the nation's theater scene. Meanwhile, Franklin Thomas, Bundy's successor, initially gained prominence in Brooklyn as the president of the Bedford-Stuyvesant Restoration Corporation, while the "graduates" of other Foundation CDCs from other parts of the country, including former mayors Wilson Goode of Philadelphia and Henry Cisneros of San Antonio and Congressman Esteban Torres of Los Angeles, followed in his footsteps to eminence.

Cisneros and Torres's inclusion on this list calls attention to the fact that the Foundation dealt not only with African Americans in pursuing its pluralistic vision for the nation but also with other nonwhite groups as well as women. However, the Foundation's work with African Americans largely set the stage for these other groups. Just as New York City served as a demonstration area for Ford's programs, the Foundation's pioneering work on what its officers once called the "Negro problem" remained their reference point in work with other "minorities" and their claims. So, for example, Ford helped found and underwrite the Mexican American and Puerto Rican Legal and Education Funds, the Southwest Council of La Raza, and a number of CDCs, all in recognition of Latino claims. However, these institutions and initiatives were modeled on black "leadership" organizations like the NAACP and its own Legal Defense and Education Fund or the National Urban League or on the Foundation's existing community-development efforts in black ghettoes, in an effort to help organize Hispanics into what Foundation officers considered a "recognizable" interest group in the black mold. As late as 1977, Bundy would still "shorten matters," as he put it, by making "black" synonymous with "minority," even when referring to racial equality issues in California, where Chicanos greatly outnumbered African Americans.


The story of the Ford Foundation's engagement with the question of black assimilation begins in its formative years as a central institution of and actor for the postwar liberal establishment, and thus this time frame is representative of this powerful group's social-engineering ethos and vision for the nation. At that moment, all social problems were solvable, at least according to the Foundation's can-do trustees and officers, who believed wholeheartedly in the ability of the modern American social and economic system to lift all boats. Their self-confidence and optimism spurred the activism that by the 1980s would allow Foundation officers to boast that they and their predecessors had played an important role in diversifying the nation's highest reaches, thus reinvigorating American institutional life and providing the black community and other minorities with representation in the American body politic according to their model of pluralism. In fact, this strategy could claim its ultimate victory in the 2008 election of Barack Obama. The Foundation could also boast that it had made an instrumental contribution to the diversification of mainstream American culture, thanks to its multicultural agenda for education and the arts.

However, despite these achievements this book tells the story of racial liberalism's diminishing expectations in the post-civil rights era. Bundy's Foundation began its tenure seeking fundamental institutional reform through the redistribution of political power in order to pursue its assimilative model of social development for the ghetto. By the late 1970s, the Foundation had abandoned any notion of genuine transformation in the inner cities, where economic conditions and social marginalization had worsened since the 1960s. By that point, the Ford Foundation openly acknowledged its failure in this regard and had stripped down its objectives largely to bolstering its ongoing success in fostering individual minority leadership. In so doing, the Foundation was simply acknowledging the limitations of its racial liberalism, as well as its corresponding unwillingness or inability to confront the intractable structural problems facing the inner city. Economic and political power were not unlimited resources to be shared without conflict among all members of American society once the barriers to opportunity were removed, contrary to what the Foundation had once believed.