There's an editorial in the Times today about a class-action suit that's been filed "on behalf of applicants who say they were unfairly turned down for census jobs based on an opaque screening policy that relies on F.B.I. checks for any criminal histories."

I've taken some guff before for defending the garden society's reference to CORI checks on their application on the basis that it reflects real concern about the unknown quantity in the urban community of which the garden is a part.  It's not that that concern is not valid, but the CORI (or the threat of it) is probably not be the best way to address it.  

There are plenty of good reasons to want to know who wants to join your garden club, that's for sure. Back in the day, you'd know, because everybody had their nose in everybody else's business.  The CORI is an imperfect solution to a modern problem, but the problem is real, and clearly some solution is needed.  You don't want some psycho with shears moving in next to you.  At least I don't.

The Times is right to ask for more transparency from the Census and the FBI when it comes to the criteria of their background checks.  The problem is, the government hardly has the time and manpower to conduct the Census, much less develop and pursue a better screening method for those charged with conducting it. 

The element of trust with the Census is, as everybody should know by now, extremely fragile. Even institutions — colleges and universities — that enumerators like me have to deal with treat Census workers with undue suspicion, and sometimes with outright hostility.  That's why it's important to recruit people from the communities in which the counting's being done, and for those people to, frankly, not be scary (or, where that's not entirely feasible, to be as not-scary as possible).

Not only that, there is a level of seriousness to taking the oath, and dealing with confidential information in accordance with Title 13.  And there are other elements of trust involved.  A lot of the work of an enumerator is done without supervision, from site visits to the reams and reams of paperwork each one generates, and while the position requires daily physical meetings with a supervisor, there is a level of personal responsibility you don't encounter in most temp jobs.

Now, none of this is to say that the FBI isn't a little OTT.  Each applicant is finger-printed not once, but twice (my prints didn't turn out the first time, which meant I got to do it four times).  That, in itself, is excessive.  But just because unemployment is up, it doesn't follow that those who can't find a job elsewhere have the right qualities for a job with the Census.  It ain't rocket science, but it does require men and women with certain qualities and a specific skill-set.

The first homeless shelter I enumerated was a "wet shelter" — you could stumble in three sheets to the wind and the shelter wouldn't turn you away.  Well, neither would the Census.  There were all sorts of folks coming through — some you could see were clinging to their dignity with every vestige of their ragged being.  Others had bid it adieu — forever.  

It was my job to conduct short interviews with the men.  Most were perfectly pleasant, and more or less sober. One nattily dressed middle-aged black man with a gorgeous French name told me he would come in for his interview after he'd had a cup of tea and graded some papers.  True to his word he came in to the office we'd commandeered about twenty minutes later.  He was perfectly delightful. 

When we got to the question about race, I went through the options.  As with gender, even if the answer seems obvious we are required to ask, which can elicit a range of interesting reactions from interviewees — from incredulousness to bemusement.  But you have to stick to the script. 

So when I got to "Black, African American, or Negro—" he interrupted me:

"I am a nigger," he said with a glint of mischief.

There was an awkward silence.

Finally I was like: "OK, um, so, would you like me to write that in the 'other' category, or...?"

We settled on "Black, African American, or Negro."

One very tall, fairly handsome African American man was utterly banjaxed.  He was a sad, goodhearted drunk. And he kept carrying on that he had been online, and filled out a form.

I was like: "Um, OK.  But why don't we just take a minute to do it here, just in case."

He kept slurring, "No, man, you aren't listening to me.  I went online, and they wouldn't hire me!"

I said, "Oh, I'm sorry.  I don't have anything to do with the hiring..."

He said, "No man, it's because of the CORI.  I got a record.  They won't hire me."

He went on and on about it, just short of rending garments and gnashing teeth.  And I felt for the guy.  I really did.

But you have to admit, sometimes screening works.