Holy Smokes, but what a staggering fraud Elizabeth Warren is. I am almost embarrassed for her, and it’s probably good that someone is embarrassed for her, since she seems incapable of feeling it for herself:
Last week, news broke that Harvard Law had cited Warren as a minority hire — a Native American — when it was under criticism for lack of faculty diversity in 1996. Asked Friday for proof of her Indian ancestry, Warren’s said it’s part of her family “lore.”
She also said she couldn’t “recall” if she’d ever claimed minority status when applying for a job and that she’d never known of Harvard’s 1996 boast until Friday. When Brown’s campaign demanded that Warren apologize for taking part in a “diversity sham,” she said her campaign is searching for “evidence” of her Native American lineage.
Whoa, wait, hold on there:
The old AALS Directory of Faculty guides are online (through academic libraries) at Hein Online. The directories starting listing minority faculty in an appendix in 1986. There’s Elizabeth Warren, listed as a professor at Texas. I spot-checked three additional directories from when she was a professor at the University of Pennsylvania, including 1995-96, the year Harvard offered her a position. Elizabeth Warren, Elizabeth Warren, Elizabeth Warren.
So, we know one thing with almost 100% certainty: Elizabeth Warren identified herself as a minority law professor.
Read the rest, of which Insty remarks:
It’s almost as if, once she could no longer benefit from affirmative action, she didn’t want people to realize that she might have done so.
UPDATE I: You know, the “lore” in my family is that somewhere in our Irish lineage there is an African connection: we have a few pictures of Irish sailors with black women and children, and — anecdotally — my cousins and I have had dermatologists tell us that some of the growths on our skin are indigenous to African races. I suppose based on that, I have as much evidence to call myself a Woman of Color as Warren does to claim Native-American heritage. Maybe I should start!
But Warren’s disingenuity, as entertaining at is it is, there, demonstrates almost heart-stopping gumption elsewhere. Warren is literally approaching the Clinton Standard, here:
Last Friday, she released four years of tax returns. Over those four years, Warren and her husband, another Harvard Law prof, averaged $300,000 more than Sen. Brown and his spouse, a TV anchor. In 2009, the Warrens made $981,000 vs. the Browns’ $249,000.
Even the Globe had to admit that Warren was “in the top 1 percent of earners” — ironic, considering her bragging that she provided the “intellectual foundations” of Occupy Wall Street.
As recently as January, Warren was still crying poor, saying on MSNBC: “I realize there are some wealthy individuals — I’m not one of them — but some wealthy individuals who have a lot of stock portfolios.”
No, she has mutual-fund portfolios. Her financial disclosures put her worth between $4.6 and $14.5 million.
Well, being middle class is “not about a number,” she told one reporter. “It’s about a place in your heart.”
It’s about a place in the heart?
Well, yes, dahling I am worth between $4 and $14 million; my coupon clipping is of a different nature than those trying to save eighty cents on paper towels (which the EPA should be outlawing anyway), and I am a bit out-of-touch, I suppose, with those hardy workers whose “new” car is eleven years old and who are — as they so refreshingly put it — “stay-cationing” by their backyards and fire-hydrants this year, (Consuelo, you did pack my Fendi beachtote and my Armani sunglasses, when you sent the bags ahead to the Vineyard, didn’t you? Well, for your sake, I certainly hope so!) Sorry, dahling, so hard to find good help; you must keep on these people constantly, but hwhat was I saying? Oh, yes! I mean, really, dahling, it’s the heart that counts, and hwhat’s in it! Hwhat does it matter if I linger between Beacon Hill and Cambridge? It doesn’t mean I am not a Southie in my Heart, dahling, and I am! Those pub-licking beam-pullers and gas-jockeys need my representation because I know hwhat they want; I understand their dreams! Well, don’t be absurd, dahling, of course they dream; my job, as I see it, is to make sure they keep dreaming, but that their dreams all fall within reason, don’t you think? A dream that includes, oh, say, the Waffle Hut near Walt Disney World, but nothing like St. Barts! Ah, see you understand! It’s about hwhat’s in the heart — that’s what determines or divides the classes…”
Classes in the Heart. It sounds like a Tom Hanks picture, doesn’t it? “Coming soon to a theater near you: A DREAM DIMINISHED:
“In a world full of haves and have-nots, what becomes of a dream diminished? It dries not like a raisin in the sun, but sighs like journey that’s been done. Tom Hanks! Bob O’ Everyman! The son of a long-shoreman, he played by the rules: state college; a factory built with his own sweat! The unions neutered him; the EPA crucified him; Obamacare broke him! Ashton Kutcher as his son, Willoughby O, the aspiring rapper/designer now in his 7th year of a 4 year degree in Rhetorical Criticism at Amherst. In an statue-worthy performance, Hanks speaks to all of our hearts when his Everyman realizes that his dreams never did have to be about more than a sixpack of domestic suds, his dog and 56-inch tv in his livingroom. A DREAM DIMINISHED. The film the New York Times called “Hollywood’s profoundly teachable moment!”
And the faster the rest of us learn it, it seems, the better.