A dynamo unleashed on moribund agency

Don't let the 5-foot-2, 100-pound package fool you. Rue Landau knows how to throw her weight around.

Four weeks into her tenure as head of Philadelphia's Commission on Human Relations, the elfin activist is swinging a heavy hammer in her mission to revitalize the beleaguered city agency, which investigates discrimination complaints.

Eight of nine appointed commissioners will be replaced this week by Landau's handpicked candidates, confirms Douglas Oliver, Mayor Nutter's chief spokesman. As per Nutter's mandate, the Rev. James S. Allen Sr. will remain chairman.

Even for a woman with self-described "brass ovaries," it's a gutsy move.

"I've been told I have a very loud bark for my small size," says Landau, 39, a cat owner. "My personality is larger than my outside container."

No container could contain her. A staff attorney in Community Legal Services' Housing Unit for 10 years, Landau juggled 70 cases at a time, fighting for low-income tenants facing eviction. She usually won.

"Rue is an amazing person. Her talents need to be shared with the city," says Nadia Hewka, 40, a CLS staff lawyer and friend. Landau's weakness, Hewka adds, is that she takes on too many projects. "She works too fast, and sometimes things fall through the cracks."

In a break in protocol, Landau last winter spent two days cleaning the cluttered apartment of a tenant with a hoarding problem because it had become a fire hazard. Why? "She was desperate. It seemed like a doable task."

Is cleaning the commission clutter a doable task?

Created in 1951 to mediate community disputes and enforce civil-rights laws, the agency has been on a downslide for years due to dramatic reductions in staff and budget, internal dissension, and weak leadership.

Morale is so low that 23-year commission spokesman Jack Fingerman describes the executive director's job as "trying to coach the Bad News Bears."

Landau has a $2.1 million budget and crew of 33, down from a high of 50-plus in 1988. Because there is no staff attorney, the city's overloaded law department must prosecute cases, resulting in long delays. Office computers are outdated. The photocopier and shredder can't be used at the same time.

"It's pretty frustrating," says Landau, a Temple Law School graduate, whose $93,000 salary is a 50 percent bump from her previous paycheck.

"Government bureaucracy is slow. It's inefficient. The law department is overwhelmed. There are a lot of things the agency can do that it's not doing now."

Naming new commissioners is a start. The current members "aren't active in the community and don't take the job seriously," Landau says. "My people will."

Allen, pastor of Vine Memorial Baptist Church in West Philadelphia and a 22-year commission appointee, acknowledges that the agency "has been through a fluctuating time. I'm certain there's room for improvement. I hope this is the beginning of that improvement."

Vice chairman Burt Siegel, director of the Jewish Community Relations Council, labels the commission's performance as "a mixed bag. Attendance at [monthly] meetings has been sporadic, no question about that."

Siegel, appointed 16 years ago, isn't surprised at his departure. "We serve at the pleasure of the mayor," he says. "It probably makes a lot of sense to let people go rather than keeping them on forever."

Allen says he's "honored" by his retention. "It says something about how Mayor Nutter feels about me, I guess. Maybe I should work a little bit harder to justify that."

Had Landau been in charge for the agency's highest-profile case, the imbroglio over the "speak English" sign at Geno's Steaks would have been

finito

before it began.

For starters, Landau wouldn't have taken the case against the cheesesteak emporium, she says. In her view, there wasn't enough evidence that non-English-speaking customers understood the sign to mean they wouldn't be served.

On the other hand, Landau labels the placard as "offensive" and says it violates the city's Fair Practices Act.

"The ordinance is clear," she says. "You can't post a sign in a public place suggesting customers of certain national origins are unwelcome."

A commission panel voted, 2-1, in March to dismiss the Geno's complaint. The decision stands, Landau states.

Regardless, "it's not the kind of energy I would want any establishment in Philadelphia to have," Landau says. "We should be working on inclusion and understanding each other."

Discrimination against the growing immigrant population is among the city's most pressing human relations issues, Landau says.

"Most Philadelphians, like people in communities across the country, are suspicious of anyone who is not like them. It's due mostly to ignorance of other cultures."

To that end, Landau will "strongly suggest" that every city agency undergo diversity training, particularly involving transgender people. Philadelphia is one of only 13 municipalities in the state to ban discrimination based on sexual orientation or gender identity.

Landau estimates that 90 percent of complaints filed with the commission involve employment discrimination. Of 336 cases in 2007, only one - Geno's, in December - made it to a public hearing.

Thus far this year, it's zero. Landau's goal is to hold more hearings, possibly every three months. Commissioners, appointed by the mayor to open-ended terms, receive $100 per meeting. Landau attends meetings but cannot vote.

Landau also plans to lobby City Council for an increase in the commission's penalties and fines. Now it can only issue a cease-and-desist order and/or levy a $300 fine per violation.

Landau lives large - sometimes literally. When nine months pregnant, she was campaigning door to door for Nutter.

"It was almost like she was made of elastic," says Ray Murphy of the Liberty City Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Democratic Club, an influential political group Landau formerly cochaired.

Eli, her first child, was born four days after Nutter's election in November. Her partner, Kerry Smith, 36, a staff lawyer at CLS, will carry the next round.

"Rue and I have chosen to live our lives with no secrets," says Smith. "Maybe we're living in a little bubble in Philadelphia."

As an open lesbian, Landau has been the target of insults and hate speech. In her new role, she has had "total support thus far. It may be an issue at some point. I'll deal with it when it happens."

It already has. The American Family Association of Pennsylvania last month said Landau's appointment would lead to "a greater push for all Philadelphians to 'celebrate' the homosexual lifestyle."

Landau labels the comment "bigoted and homophobic," adding that it underscores the need for the commission and its mission to promote understanding among different cultures.

The Landau-Smith family lives in a trinity in Bella Vista within blocks of Landau's identical twin, Suzanne, an independent producer, and brother, Rich, 41, owner of Horizons, a vegan restaurant.

It's no accident that Rue came into the world eight minutes before her sister. "I planned it," she says. "I bullied my way out first because I'm so aggressive and driven." Her family nickname was Bossy Baby Girl.

Like many identical twins, Rue (short for RuthEllen) and Suzanne are exceptionally close. They finish each other's sentences and check in five or six times a day. A few years ago, they attended the annual Twins Days Festival in Twinsburg, Ohio.

"We do everything intensely," says Suzanne, a heterosexual wife and mother of two. "From our beer-drinking days in college we always say, 'There are sippers and guzzlers in this world. We are guzzlers.' "

Laundau's metabolism keeps her locked in overdrive. A human vacuum cleaner, she has been known to scarf down a pound of pasta in one sitting. "Once she sits down for a meal, there's no holding her back," Smith says.

Landau thinks fast. She talks fast. She even walks fast. Her friends call it "the Landau strut."

"It's a lot of mojo with a little bit of Mummer," says Gloria Casarez, the city's newly named liaison with the LGBT community. Casey Cook, 37, head of the Bread and Roses Community Fund, says she can spot Landau four blocks away.

The talking can be problematic. At Cheltenham High School, it got Landau thrown out of class more than a few times. It's not a big hit at home, either. Her beloved won't go to the movies with her anymore.

"She's a bundle of energy," says Casarez, 36. "There's a lot going on in that factory up there."

In the serpentine corridors of City Hall, however, the factory is savvy enough to operate on the quiet cycle.

"Rue's like a pool shark," says Liberty City's Murphy. "You don't see her coming until she's already beaten you."

Rack 'em up, Philadelphia.