thenation--2020-09-28--Undocumented Immigrants Are Still Suffering With No Federal Relief

Driving along Throckmorton street off Route 9 in central New Jersey , one sees the railroad tracks appearing almost out of nowhere , side by side with the road , out of the shrubbery and trees that have grown like a hood around it .
The immigrant workers of Freehold Borough call it La Via—the Way ; for years they have walked along these tracks into the center of town to gather and look for work .
You see them walking or sitting along the embankment—Hispanic men carrying backpacks , our pandemic era signaled now by the blue surgical masks @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Covid-19.1 Editor ’ s Note : Because of their undocumented status , many of the subjects in this article are identified by their first name and the initial of their last name .
Freehold Borough—famous as Bruce Springsteen ’ s childhood home—is a tiny , historic town with a revolutionary past .
A sign along the railroad on Throckmorton street commemorates the Battle of Monmouth , fought nearby in June 1778 .
In the 90s , Freehold became a hub for immigrant farm labor .
By 2010 , nearly half of its 12,000 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ families , crowded into the town ’ s barely two-square-mile radius.2 In the early 2000s , Freehold ’ s day laborers congregated in the town ’ s unofficial “ muster zone , ” a shady patch alongside the tracks where workers waited to be picked up by contractors , landscapers , and anyone else hiring day labor .
This irked some townsfolk who pressed the town council to prevent them from gathering .
Things came to a head in 2003 when the incumbent mayor campaigned on an anti-immigrant platform , pushing for random @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stop looking for work .
When protests and negotiations failed , the laborers filed a federal lawsuit against the Borough of Freehold and won .
The court ruling permitted the men to return to the muster zone without fear of being ticketed by local police for loitering and panhandling , but when the pandemic hit in March 2020 , there was still no town-sanctioned site where the workers could gather and safely seek work .
These days , they cluster in the parking lot of a 6/12 convenience store that abuts the railroad @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Rita ’ s Italian Ice franchise adjacent to it.3 Like it did elsewhere in the country , the pandemic shattered the fragile ecosystem of daily wage work in Freehold , subjecting its undocumented community to extreme loss of income .
Studies have established that minorities and low-income communities are at persistently higher risk of falling severely ill from the coronavirus because of poor access to health benefits and economic challenges .
The virus ’ s impact in Freehold is no different—by June , 72 percent of the town ’ s 404 positive @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , a local all-volunteer grassroots group that advocates for Freehold ’ s immigrant workers , began organizing food drives .
Though the town stepped in to support the workers by providing free food and household supplies , and access to free hospital care , the CARES Act , the federal government ’ s bailout to aid families affected by the pandemic , completely passed them by.4 The act has not only failed low-income , undocumented immigrant populations but , according to its critics , was designed to do so .
It was widely @ @ @ @ @ @ @ citizens who are married to undocumented taxpayers and file taxes jointly , but in immigrant communities such as Freehold ’ s , it was a slap in the face to undocumented taxpayers because it excluded their dependent children who are American citizens .
This exclusion of “ mixed-status ” families is particularly egregious because , in addition to denying relief to their American children , the CARES Act effectively penalizes undocumented workers for their compliance with federal law and for acting in good faith to document their residency in this , their adopted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ activists have struggled to assuage stigma around the virus .
Health educator Angelica Espinal-Garcia found herself advising concerned employers and encargados—middlemen who rent apartments to workers who live in shared spaces—against evicting sickened workers .
Since encargados are not the actual homeowners , they can get away with charging high rents—as much as $ 500 per room—and can take over their renters ’ lives , even holding their mail until the rent is paid .
Even with the federal eviction moratorium in place , workers are afraid to come out and self-identify , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ afraid of the police , of being fired.
” One infected worker was told to move out within a week by his encargado , who feared he would infect other tenants .
Casa Freehold had to intervene to prevent the eviction.6 Men usually wire money on a monthly basis to their families back home from the local 6/12 store .
Its owner told me that since the pandemic , the number of men coming in to do so has dropped ; instead , in April and May , many came in to collect @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
He ’ s never seen this happen on such a scale .
In the parking lot where the workers gather , I watched a car pull in and a group of young workers scramble to get in , ignoring an activist handing out free masks ; the promise of paid work far outweighed the threat of the virus.7 Oscar J. arrived in Freehold in 2007 from Mexico City .
He crossed over to the United States over eight days , walking through the desert , leaving his then-wife and two children behind @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 12 and his son 10 , and he has not seen them since ( he is now remarried ) .8 For years , he worked for various construction crews , and in 2019 , he began working independently .
“ I always liked my job , the people I worked with liked my work .
I wanted to depend on myself , since I am good at what I do , ” he said .
In early March , he began feeling ill and had trouble breathing .
A week later , feeling @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Medical Center in Freehold , where he was diagnosed with Covid-19 .
He was admitted and kept in isolation , and because he has type-2 diabetes , he was at higher risk for severe illness from the virus—at one point he had to be intubated .
He learned about the lockdown and the surge of the pandemic in New Jersey from television screens in hospital.9 “ It was very sad ; I didn ’ t know what to think .
I thought I wasn ’ t going to make it .
I had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from the hospital , ” he said .
His wife , a domestic worker who cleans houses in Lakewood ( many of the Orthodox Jewish community ’ s homes in Lakewood are cleaned by Freehold ’ s Hispanic women ) , continued working while he was in the hospital , but came down with a milder case of Covid-19 after he was released from hospital .
Between her earnings and their savings , they are able to support their family .
Meanwhile , the hospital bills are coming in , some with a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ $ 1,500 , ” he said and shook his head .
He hopes to pay them off in installments.10 Alicia Valeriano is from Mexico City , and when the pandemic began , she was working almost 80 hours every week at three different jobs—waitressing , painting tiles , and as a cashier—alongside her work towards a GED .
As the economy shut down , she lost both her part time jobs , but she still has 40 hours of work a week as a permanent employee at a major pharmaceutical chain .
Before @ @ @ @ @ @ @ worry about providing dinner for her three children .
But as the pandemic worsened in Freehold , her husband , a day laborer , contracted Covid-19 and lost two months of work .
Despite having paid taxes for 18 of the 20 years she ’ s been in the United States , and despite the fact that two of her children are US citizens , her family did not qualify for financial relief under the federal government ’ s CARES Act.11 “ The children see that you ’ re nervous about the money @ @ @ @ @ @ @ forth , and they notice it , ” she said.12 Though the CARES act hurt her , nothing has disappointed Valriano more than having to postpone her dream of buying a home .
Valeriano had a down payment ready and was approved for a mortgage taken in her nephew and her 23-year-old daughter ’ s names ; her daughter is a recipient of the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals status .
When the lockdown occurred , her realtor told her their lenders would not proceed unless she could show stronger credit .
In @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
She was ready to put down a larger down payment and take the loan in her name now .
But the realtor had more bad news for her : The rules had changed since the pandemic , and the lender was no longer working with buyers who did not have Social Security numbers .
Valeriano is soft-spoken and reserved , and in her quiet voice , insisted to me over the phone , that she was disappointed but not deterred .
“ I ’ m not going to let anyone come between @ @ @ @ @ @ @ said .
“ I ’ m going to find a way to buy a house.
” 13 Gregoria R. , a domestic worker , left Puebla , Mexico , in 1992 and entered the United States through California .
She came directly to Freehold to join her father , who was already here , working as a day laborer .
Her first job was at a greenhouse in Colt ’ s Neck , then as a busgirl at a local restaurant .
In her first months in Freehold , she walked around town @ @ @ @ @ @ @ could not speak much English , ” she said , “ but when I met people I asked—you need me ?
” She worked for 10 years in the dry cleaning business , keeping eight-hour days , six days a week , operating pressing machines for men ’ s shirts in very hot conditions .
Since 2010 , she has worked cleaning homes for members of the Orthodox Jewish Community in Lakewood , N.J. , south of Freehold .
So many Hispanic women clean houses in Lakewood that Casa Freehold offers classes on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Before the pandemic , Gregoria was able to work five days a week , cleaning two or three houses a day .
In March , when the lockdown began , her employers called and told her to stay home .
“ I lost all my former employers , ” she said , “ They just don ’ t call me.
” Feeling desperate , she texted a woman she used to work for , asking if she could come back .
With her help , Gregoria returned to work in the first @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , now she has no guarantee of a schedule.14 Gregoria raises her two school-age daughters in the second-floor apartment of a tiny house on Court Street .
Sixth-grader Mari translated for us .
Gregoria was able to pay rent for April , but not May .
New Jersey Governor Phil Murphy ’ s anti-eviction order protects renters who fallen behind on their rent during the lockdown , but the rent is not forgiven .
“ I feel stressed all the time—there is stress in my head , ” she said .
She takes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ paying $ 3.80 for a ticket each way .
She and the other women from Freehold walk from house to house , earning an hourly wage between $ 10 and $ 14.15 I later found out that Gregoria ’ s husband was deported to Mexico on charges of domestic violence .
Casa Freehold intervened on her behalf to file a “ U ” visa , which is awarded to victims of domestic violence .
In 2011 , on the date she was to appear in court , Gregoria went to work , missing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her on a path to citizenship .
She is not alone in this : Many undocumented immigrants are too overwhelmed or simply frightened to choose between putting a day ’ s wages on the table and showing up in court to speak for themselves .
Does she regret it ?
“ Yes , ” she nodded , “ but I didn ’ t understand at that time how important it was , and I had the pressure of working to pay my bills.
” She added , “ Now I know.
” 16 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , where he upholstered car interiors .
Despite the perils of crossing the border , Federico is among many migrants who travel back and forth between the United States and Mexico , staying for years at a time .
His second trip through the Sonoran Desert lasted five days and was a brush with death : “ My legs gave out , ” he said .
His food and water ran out and he fell behind , unable to stand up and join the other men .
His smuggler came back for him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the energy to walk .
He was told to follow a trail of garbage and items shed by those who came before him—or risk getting lost .
He crossed over into the states somewhere east of the border with Tijuana.17 In mid-March he was infected by the virus and checked into CentraState Medical Center in Freehold , where he was intubated and treated .
The nurses pitched in to pay for his taxi-ride home when he was released from hospital .
Casa Freehold arranged for funds to pay for his medicines and delivered @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
News travels fast in a town as small as Freehold , and it was not long before word spread among fellow workers that Federico had been sick .
“ After they know you have Covid , they don ’ t want to have anything to do with you , ” he said .
Leaving the hospital with no prospects for work , no home to go to , and no money to send his family was a moment of reckoning .
At the end of this year , Federico plans to return @ @ @ @ @ @ @ all , fulfilled his dream of building a house for his wife and four children , and has paid for their education .
“ I feel like a cat with nine lives .
I got two chances at life—once in the desert , and now after Covid , ” he said .
“ Going home to Mexico will give me another chance to live , another start.
” 18 Eleazar H. came from Oaxaca and worked in the same restaurant on Main Street in downtown Freehold since 2004 .
It has changed hands @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reeled off the names of some of the cuisines he ’ s learned—American , Italian , Indian .
Though he could earn more as a day laborer , he prefers the security of kitchen work .
He got his first and only raise six years ago , from $ 250 a week to $ 550.19 In 2016 , when the restaurant changed hands once again , Eleazar ’ s new employers paid his wages a week late , so that he was always short one week of pay—saying they were withholding wages in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” a common practice with undocumented workers that is actually a bond intended to keep workers loyal .
During the lockdown , Eleazar asked for his deposit to tide him over for the month of March , but was refused .
Still , he went back to work on take-out orders .
A week and a half later , feeling feverish and cold , he went to a doctor and found out he had Covid-19 .
He has since recovered , but he suffered malaise and panic , with sleepless nights spent pacing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ two friends.20 In June , after two months at home without pay , he got a call from the chef at the restaurant .
The restaurant was reopening , the chef said , but Eleazar needed to prove that his “ body was clean ” before he could come back to work .
He asked Eleazar to get tested again .
By now , with help from Angelica Espinal-Garcia , a health educator , Eleazar refused to get retested .
There was no guarantee that the results would be negative , even though @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , I told him , no more.
” He wasn ’ t coming back , he told the surprised chef—despite their owing him $ 700 in back pay .
He was more than a cook at the restaurant ; he was their handyman , plumber—an all-in-one guy—but his wages never reflected this except for occasional extra cash .
He is now working a new job at a restaurant in Manalapan and paying off bills for his treatment.21 As news of the novel coronavirus began to spread in February , Angelica Espinal-Garcia , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of health and president of the board of Casa Freehold , began holding information sessions at local churches and in the offices of Casa Freehold on Jackson Street .
“ There was a lot of interest , ” she said , “ I felt that people were looking for me.
” She advised them on what symptoms to look for , and what precautions to take , using guidance from the CDC , before the pandemic was declared a national emergency .
Now , she is a liaison with the Hispanic community , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ when they call her or Casa Freehold with questions about the virus .
“ I try to listen , ” she said , “ so they can tell me .
Trust is very valuable in the Hispanic community.
” At the end of the initial surge of cases in Freehold Borough , however , Angelica found herself dealing with a unique situation among workers who had recovered from Covid-19 : Social stigma and fear within the community was preventing them from returning to their jobs and their living quarters as employers and the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that the workers were not contagious .
“ I get calls all the time , ” she said , from desperate workers .
She reaches out to their encargados : “ Your renters are not the only people you can get it [ the virus ] from , ” she tells them .
“ We ’ re Hispanic , we should support each other.
” 22 Angelica is from Honduras : Her parents separated and her mother left for the United States to escape political violence when Angelica was 7 , leaving Angelica @ @ @ @ @ @ @ She arrived in the States when she was 16 on a petition from her father , who is a citizen .
Now an American citizen herself , Angelica was able to sponsor her siblings , who came to New Jersey last year—that was the first time that Angelica ’ s sister had seen her mother in 29 years.23 “ When I see inequities in the health system , to be honest , I see my parents , because I have seen them struggle , ” she said .
“ I feel I ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ talking to the patients ’ co-workers , and to their encargados .
They ’ re scared , they want to get the people out of the house if they tested positive .
I feel I ’ m making a difference.
” 24 “ I am afraid of the water , ” Mario said with an apologetic smile , about his decision to avoid coming to the United States by crossing the Rio Grande .
We met in the backyard of the house where he rents a single room .
He keeps the tools @ @ @ @ @ @ @ laborer—the wheelbarrow and other implements—against a wall , beside the herbs and flowers he tends .
There were patches of mint and an evergreen pruned to a perfect spiral , which he had brought home one day when a client didn ’ t want it anymore .
“ It was too pretty to throw away , ” he said .
He chose the desert and its hazards over the water and crossed into the United States in 2006.25 In 2019 , he was walking home from Casa Freehold when local police stopped him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ When he hesitated to immediately disclose it , they took him to the police station , where he called Rita Dentino , executive director of Casa Freehold and an old friend .
She went to the police station immediately and filed a complaint with the ACLU .
Mario , who has no criminal record , was released without either party pressing charges.26 Since the lockdown , his work has dropped to one or two days a week .
Before the pandemic , he was able to wire up to $ 400 a month @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
This April he sent them $ 100 , in May , $ 150 .
The pandemic has forced him to consider returning to Mexico within a year—he is simply not able to make ends meet .
“ I am tired , ” he said .
He has a wife , eight children , and some grandchildren back home .
He plans to leave when he has earned enough to buy a plane ticket home .
“ This country is beautiful .
But for immigrants , it ’ s not easy.
” Tears @ @ @ @ @ @ @ people are listening to the president , and so they say , ‘ Mexicans are no good.
’ Sometimes I am scared.
” 27

Driving along Throckmorton street off Route 9 in central New Jersey, one sees the railroad tracks appearing almost out of nowhere, side by side with the road, out of the shrubbery and trees that have grown like a hood around it. The immigrant workers of Freehold Borough call it La Via—the Way; for years they have walked along these tracks into the center of town to gather and look for work. You see them walking or sitting along the embankment—Hispanic men carrying backpacks, our pandemic era signaled now by the blue surgical masks they’ve donned to protect against Covid-19.1 Editor’s Note: Because of their undocumented status, many of the subjects in this article are identified by their first name and the initial of their last name.
Freehold Borough—famous as Bruce Springsteen’s childhood home—is a tiny, historic town with a revolutionary past. A sign along the railroad on Throckmorton street commemorates the Battle of Monmouth, fought nearby in June 1778. In the 90s, Freehold became a hub for immigrant farm labor. By 2010, nearly half of its 12,000 residents were undocumented Hispanic workers and their families, crowded into the town’s barely two-square-mile radius.2
In the early 2000s, Freehold’s day laborers congregated in the town’s unofficial “muster zone,” a shady patch alongside the tracks where workers waited to be picked up by contractors, landscapers, and anyone else hiring day labor. This irked some townsfolk who pressed the town council to prevent them from gathering. Things came to a head in 2003 when the incumbent mayor campaigned on an anti-immigrant platform, pushing for random home inspections that forced day laborers to stop looking for work. When protests and negotiations failed, the laborers filed a federal lawsuit against the Borough of Freehold and won. The court ruling permitted the men to return to the muster zone without fear of being ticketed by local police for loitering and panhandling, but when the pandemic hit in March 2020, there was still no town-sanctioned site where the workers could gather and safely seek work. These days, they cluster in the parking lot of a 6/12 convenience store that abuts the railroad, or outside the bus station and the Rita’s Italian Ice franchise adjacent to it.3
Like it did elsewhere in the country, the pandemic shattered the fragile ecosystem of daily wage work in Freehold, subjecting its undocumented community to extreme loss of income. Studies have established that minorities and low-income communities are at persistently higher risk of falling severely ill from the coronavirus because of poor access to health benefits and economic challenges. The virus’s impact in Freehold is no different—by June, 72 percent of the town’s 404 positive cases self-reported as Latino/Hispanic. Casa Freehold, a local all-volunteer grassroots group that advocates for Freehold’s immigrant workers, began organizing food drives. Though the town stepped in to support the workers by providing free food and household supplies, and access to free hospital care, the CARES Act, the federal government’s bailout to aid families affected by the pandemic, completely passed them by.4
The act has not only failed low-income, undocumented immigrant populations but, according to its critics, was designed to do so. It was widely criticized for denying financial relief to American citizens who are married to undocumented taxpayers and file taxes jointly, but in immigrant communities such as Freehold’s, it was a slap in the face to undocumented taxpayers because it excluded their dependent children who are American citizens. This exclusion of “mixed-status” families is particularly egregious because, in addition to denying relief to their American children, the CARES Act effectively penalizes undocumented workers for their compliance with federal law and for acting in good faith to document their residency in this, their adopted country.5
Meanwhile, local health workers and activists have struggled to assuage stigma around the virus. Health educator Angelica Espinal-Garcia found herself advising concerned employers and encargados—middlemen who rent apartments to workers who live in shared spaces—against evicting sickened workers. Since encargados are not the actual homeowners, they can get away with charging high rents—as much as $500 per room—and can take over their renters’ lives, even holding their mail until the rent is paid. Even with the federal eviction moratorium in place, workers are afraid to come out and self-identify, she said. “They’re afraid of the police, of being fired.” One infected worker was told to move out within a week by his encargado, who feared he would infect other tenants. Casa Freehold had to intervene to prevent the eviction.6
Men usually wire money on a monthly basis to their families back home from the local 6/12 store. Its owner told me that since the pandemic, the number of men coming in to do so has dropped; instead, in April and May, many came in to collect money that their families wired to them. He’s never seen this happen on such a scale. In the parking lot where the workers gather, I watched a car pull in and a group of young workers scramble to get in, ignoring an activist handing out free masks; the promise of paid work far outweighed the threat of the virus.7 Current Issue View our current issue
Oscar J.
Day Laborer
Oscar J. arrived in Freehold in 2007 from Mexico City. He crossed over to the United States over eight days, walking through the desert, leaving his then-wife and two children behind in Mexico City. His daughter was 12 and his son 10, and he has not seen them since (he is now remarried).8
For years, he worked for various construction crews, and in 2019, he began working independently. “I always liked my job, the people I worked with liked my work. I wanted to depend on myself, since I am good at what I do,” he said. In early March, he began feeling ill and had trouble breathing. A week later, feeling very weak, he went to CentraState Medical Center in Freehold, where he was diagnosed with Covid-19. He was admitted and kept in isolation, and because he has type-2 diabetes, he was at higher risk for severe illness from the virus—at one point he had to be intubated. He learned about the lockdown and the surge of the pandemic in New Jersey from television screens in hospital.9
“It was very sad; I didn’t know what to think. I thought I wasn’t going to make it. I had no strength left after I was released from the hospital,” he said. His wife, a domestic worker who cleans houses in Lakewood (many of the Orthodox Jewish community’s homes in Lakewood are cleaned by Freehold’s Hispanic women), continued working while he was in the hospital, but came down with a milder case of Covid-19 after he was released from hospital. Between her earnings and their savings, they are able to support their family. Meanwhile, the hospital bills are coming in, some with a notice of delinquency. “One is $1,500,” he said and shook his head. He hopes to pay them off in installments.10
Alicia Valeriano
Shift Supervisor/Pharmacy worker
Alicia Valeriano is from Mexico City, and when the pandemic began, she was working almost 80 hours every week at three different jobs—waitressing, painting tiles, and as a cashier—alongside her work towards a GED. As the economy shut down, she lost both her part time jobs, but she still has 40 hours of work a week as a permanent employee at a major pharmaceutical chain. Before the pandemic, Valeriano had only to worry about providing dinner for her three children. But as the pandemic worsened in Freehold, her husband, a day laborer, contracted Covid-19 and lost two months of work. Despite having paid taxes for 18 of the 20 years she’s been in the United States, and despite the fact that two of her children are US citizens, her family did not qualify for financial relief under the federal government’s CARES Act.11
“The children see that you’re nervous about the money. They see you walking back and forth, and they notice it,” she said.12
Though the CARES act hurt her, nothing has disappointed Valriano more than having to postpone her dream of buying a home. Valeriano had a down payment ready and was approved for a mortgage taken in her nephew and her 23-year-old daughter’s names; her daughter is a recipient of the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals status. When the lockdown occurred, her realtor told her their lenders would not proceed unless she could show stronger credit. In June, Valeriano called her realtor again. She was ready to put down a larger down payment and take the loan in her name now. But the realtor had more bad news for her: The rules had changed since the pandemic, and the lender was no longer working with buyers who did not have Social Security numbers. Valeriano is soft-spoken and reserved, and in her quiet voice, insisted to me over the phone, that she was disappointed but not deterred. “I’m not going to let anyone come between me and my dream,” she said. “I’m going to find a way to buy a house.”13
Gregoria R.
Domestic worker/ House cleaner
Gregoria R., a domestic worker, left Puebla, Mexico, in 1992 and entered the United States through California. She came directly to Freehold to join her father, who was already here, working as a day laborer. Her first job was at a greenhouse in Colt’s Neck, then as a busgirl at a local restaurant. In her first months in Freehold, she walked around town, hustling for work. “I could not speak much English,” she said, “but when I met people I asked—you need me?” She worked for 10 years in the dry cleaning business, keeping eight-hour days, six days a week, operating pressing machines for men’s shirts in very hot conditions. Since 2010, she has worked cleaning homes for members of the Orthodox Jewish Community in Lakewood, N.J., south of Freehold. So many Hispanic women clean houses in Lakewood that Casa Freehold offers classes on how to work in observant Jewish households. Before the pandemic, Gregoria was able to work five days a week, cleaning two or three houses a day. In March, when the lockdown began, her employers called and told her to stay home. “I lost all my former employers,” she said, “They just don’t call me.” Feeling desperate, she texted a woman she used to work for, asking if she could come back. With her help, Gregoria returned to work in the first week of June. Unlike before Covid-19, now she has no guarantee of a schedule.14
Gregoria raises her two school-age daughters in the second-floor apartment of a tiny house on Court Street. Sixth-grader Mari translated for us. Gregoria was able to pay rent for April, but not May. New Jersey Governor Phil Murphy’s anti-eviction order protects renters who fallen behind on their rent during the lockdown, but the rent is not forgiven. “I feel stressed all the time—there is stress in my head,” she said. She takes a bus to Lakewood and back, paying $3.80 for a ticket each way. She and the other women from Freehold walk from house to house, earning an hourly wage between $10 and $14.15
I later found out that Gregoria’s husband was deported to Mexico on charges of domestic violence. Casa Freehold intervened on her behalf to file a “U” visa, which is awarded to victims of domestic violence. In 2011, on the date she was to appear in court, Gregoria went to work, missing the single appointment that could have put her on a path to citizenship. She is not alone in this: Many undocumented immigrants are too overwhelmed or simply frightened to choose between putting a day’s wages on the table and showing up in court to speak for themselves. Does she regret it? “Yes,” she nodded, “but I didn’t understand at that time how important it was, and I had the pressure of working to pay my bills.” She added, “Now I know.”16
Federico M.
Day Laborer
Federico M. is from Puebla, Mexico, where he upholstered car interiors. Despite the perils of crossing the border, Federico is among many migrants who travel back and forth between the United States and Mexico, staying for years at a time. His second trip through the Sonoran Desert lasted five days and was a brush with death: “My legs gave out,” he said. His food and water ran out and he fell behind, unable to stand up and join the other men. His smuggler came back for him with water and medicines that gave him the energy to walk. He was told to follow a trail of garbage and items shed by those who came before him—or risk getting lost. He crossed over into the states somewhere east of the border with Tijuana.17
In mid-March he was infected by the virus and checked into CentraState Medical Center in Freehold, where he was intubated and treated. The nurses pitched in to pay for his taxi-ride home when he was released from hospital. Casa Freehold arranged for funds to pay for his medicines and delivered food to the house where he quarantined. News travels fast in a town as small as Freehold, and it was not long before word spread among fellow workers that Federico had been sick. “After they know you have Covid, they don’t want to have anything to do with you,” he said. Leaving the hospital with no prospects for work, no home to go to, and no money to send his family was a moment of reckoning. At the end of this year, Federico plans to return to Puebla. He has, after all, fulfilled his dream of building a house for his wife and four children, and has paid for their education. “I feel like a cat with nine lives. I got two chances at life—once in the desert, and now after Covid,” he said. “Going home to Mexico will give me another chance to live, another start.”18
Eleazar H.
Kitchen worker
Eleazar H. came from Oaxaca and worked in the same restaurant on Main Street in downtown Freehold since 2004. It has changed hands over those 16 years, and Eleazar reeled off the names of some of the cuisines he’s learned—American, Italian, Indian. Though he could earn more as a day laborer, he prefers the security of kitchen work. He got his first and only raise six years ago, from $250 a week to $550.19
In 2016, when the restaurant changed hands once again, Eleazar’s new employers paid his wages a week late, so that he was always short one week of pay—saying they were withholding wages in the form of a “deposit,” a common practice with undocumented workers that is actually a bond intended to keep workers loyal. During the lockdown, Eleazar asked for his deposit to tide him over for the month of March, but was refused. Still, he went back to work on take-out orders. A week and a half later, feeling feverish and cold, he went to a doctor and found out he had Covid-19. He has since recovered, but he suffered malaise and panic, with sleepless nights spent pacing outside the basement apartment he shares with two friends.20
In June, after two months at home without pay, he got a call from the chef at the restaurant. The restaurant was reopening, the chef said, but Eleazar needed to prove that his “body was clean” before he could come back to work. He asked Eleazar to get tested again. By now, with help from Angelica Espinal-Garcia, a health educator, Eleazar refused to get retested. There was no guarantee that the results would be negative, even though he had recovered: “No more, I told him, no more.” He wasn’t coming back, he told the surprised chef—despite their owing him $700 in back pay. He was more than a cook at the restaurant; he was their handyman, plumber—an all-in-one guy—but his wages never reflected this except for occasional extra cash. He is now working a new job at a restaurant in Manalapan and paying off bills for his treatment.21
Angelica Espinal-Garcia, MPH, MCHES
Health Educator
As news of the novel coronavirus began to spread in February, Angelica Espinal-Garcia, a health educator for Freehold’s department of health and president of the board of Casa Freehold, began holding information sessions at local churches and in the offices of Casa Freehold on Jackson Street. “There was a lot of interest,” she said, “I felt that people were looking for me.” She advised them on what symptoms to look for, and what precautions to take, using guidance from the CDC, before the pandemic was declared a national emergency. Now, she is a liaison with the Hispanic community, helping them navigate the health care system when they call her or Casa Freehold with questions about the virus. “I try to listen,” she said, “so they can tell me. Trust is very valuable in the Hispanic community.” At the end of the initial surge of cases in Freehold Borough, however, Angelica found herself dealing with a unique situation among workers who had recovered from Covid-19: Social stigma and fear within the community was preventing them from returning to their jobs and their living quarters as employers and the middlemen who rent to them required assurance that the workers were not contagious. “I get calls all the time,” she said, from desperate workers. She reaches out to their encargados: “Your renters are not the only people you can get it [the virus] from,” she tells them. “We’re Hispanic, we should support each other.”22
Angelica is from Honduras: Her parents separated and her mother left for the United States to escape political violence when Angelica was 7, leaving Angelica’s grandmother to raise her. She arrived in the States when she was 16 on a petition from her father, who is a citizen. Now an American citizen herself, Angelica was able to sponsor her siblings, who came to New Jersey last year—that was the first time that Angelica’s sister had seen her mother in 29 years.23
“When I see inequities in the health system, to be honest, I see my parents, because I have seen them struggle,” she said. “I feel I’m doing the right job. Just talking to the patients’ co-workers, and to their encargados. They’re scared, they want to get the people out of the house if they tested positive. I feel I’m making a difference.”24
Mario R.
Day Laborer
“I am afraid of the water,” Mario said with an apologetic smile, about his decision to avoid coming to the United States by crossing the Rio Grande. We met in the backyard of the house where he rents a single room. He keeps the tools he needs as a landscaper and day laborer—the wheelbarrow and other implements—against a wall, beside the herbs and flowers he tends. There were patches of mint and an evergreen pruned to a perfect spiral, which he had brought home one day when a client didn’t want it anymore. “It was too pretty to throw away,” he said. He chose the desert and its hazards over the water and crossed into the United States in 2006.25
In 2019, he was walking home from Casa Freehold when local police stopped him without cause and asked his name. When he hesitated to immediately disclose it, they took him to the police station, where he called Rita Dentino, executive director of Casa Freehold and an old friend. She went to the police station immediately and filed a complaint with the ACLU. Mario, who has no criminal record, was released without either party pressing charges.26
Since the lockdown, his work has dropped to one or two days a week. Before the pandemic, he was able to wire up to $400 a month to his family in Puebla, Mexico. This April he sent them $100, in May, $150. The pandemic has forced him to consider returning to Mexico within a year—he is simply not able to make ends meet. “I am tired,” he said. He has a wife, eight children, and some grandchildren back home. He plans to leave when he has earned enough to buy a plane ticket home. “This country is beautiful. But for immigrants, it’s not easy.” Tears sprang into his eyes. “The people are listening to the president, and so they say, ‘Mexicans are no good.’ Sometimes I am scared.”27


thenation--2020-09-28--Colombians Take On Their Militarized Police

It ’ s been less than a year since Colombia ’ s national strike , in which millions marched en masse to protest unpopular economic reforms , deep-seated corruption , and military abuses .
On September 9 , protesters took back to the streets .
A 2016 peace agreement ending over 50 years of armed conflict with a leftist guerilla group remains unimplemented , activists and social leaders are still being massacred with impunity , and unemployment remains high .
Now , a new grievance has been added to the list : police violence .
Early in the morning of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Javier Ordóñez , a 45-year-old law student and father of two , pinned to the ground by police officers in Bogotá .
According to reports , the officers went on to beat and tase Ordóñez at least 12 times .
Reports claim Ordóñez was detained and beaten by the officers for violating a curfew in place for Covid-19 .
( Later reports suggested he was initially detained for alcohol consumption in public . )
“ Por favor , ” Ordóñez is heard pleading in the video .
He died from multiple bodily and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ video of Ordóñez ’ s arrest immediately went viral , and within hours , had drawn hundreds of protesters out onto the streets , where some incinerated cars , motorcycles , and police stations while demanding justice for Ordóñez ’ s death .
The police responded aggressively .
In dozens of videos , police are captured firing live ammunition and tear gas directly at protesters and beating unarmed protesters with batons .
At least 14 people died and hundreds suffered injuries .
Four women accused the police of sexual assault during the protests @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from public officials , and drew battle lines similar to the ones that have emerged in the US in the wake of nationwide Black Lives Matter protests .
Bogotá Mayor Claudia López remarked that the event amounted to a “ massacre against our youth ” and called for reform from the national government , which has jurisdiction over Colombian police through its Defense Ministry .
Senator Gustavo Petro , an influential leftist political figure , went further , demanding the resignation of Defense Minister Carlos Holmes Trujillo .
In response , President Íván @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bona fides with former president Alvaro Uribe , who led a scorched-earth campaign against the FARC guerrillas and is currently awaiting trial for alleged witness tampering of paramilitary leaders , defended police from what he called efforts to “ stigmatize the institution ” for the actions of a few individuals .
Defense Minister Trujillo called the protests “ the most egregious example of organized crime , ” and other conservative officials attributed them to left-wing guerrilla groups .
Despite the recent national attention paid to police violence in Colombia , demands for institutional @ @ @ @ @ @ @ than a year ago , protesters called for the reform of Colombia ’ s notorious riot police , known as the Esmad , after an armed officer killed Dilan Cruz , an 18-year-old high school student , during the anti-government national strike .
At the time , President Duque commented that “ these types of events should not occur , ” but fell short of promising any reforms .
The attorney general ’ s office and the military justice court have since reported that more than 100 cases of potential police abuses during @ @ @ @ @ @ @ investigated , but as of January , not a single officer had been charged .
The Esmad officer accused of Cruz ’ s death remains under investigation , but has not been detained or fired from the police force .
For decades , Colombia ’ s police has been shaped by the country ’ s long history of political turmoil and relentless war , making any sort of reform difficult .
Unlike other police forces around the world , the country ’ s national police operate under the Defense Ministry as opposed to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
As a result , the police also follow a hierarchical structure with military ranks and a strict chain of command , which traces back to the military dictatorship of Gustavo Rojas Pinilla in the 1950s , according to Jerónimo Castillo , director of security and crime policy research at the think tank Foundation Ideas for Peace .
The move to include national police in the department of defense was originally intended to prevent elites from using the police for their political interests , but has since made it nearly impossible to hold @ @ @ @ @ @ @ committed by police are usually tried by military courts , which experts say have shielded most offending officers from any serious punishment .
In a forthcoming study , the nonprofit Temblores reported almost 40,000 cases of police violence from 2017 to 2019 , including 289 homicides .
Police violence also disproportionately targeted populations at risk , such as drug users and Afro-Colombians .
Many of these cases never make it to trial .
Records on cases that are brought to court have not been made publicly available , but Temblores believes most are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ In all the cases we ’ ve followed , the military justice has acquitted the defendant or the judge has handed down a small sentence , ” says Alejandro Lanz Sánchez , Temblores ’ s co-director .
Impunity is also rife in the Esmad , the police ’ s riot control unit .
Since its inception in 1999 , when the Colombian government was in talks with the United States over Plan Colombia , a $ 10 billion counterinsurgency and counternarcotics agreement , the Esmad has killed 34 people , according to a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ been activists within Indigenous , student , or peasant movements .
None of these cases have resulted in a conviction .
Colombia ’ s 50-year armed conflict with leftist guerrillas has also been used by government officials to justify police violence .
During a 2013 agrarian strike , in which Esmad forces killed four protesters , Colombia ’ s defense minister accused the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia ( FARC ) , a Marxist rebel group that signed a peace treaty in 2016 , of infiltrating the marches .
Although the FARC has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ led by conservative president Iván Duque , has also attributed recent protests to left-wing guerrillas .
The high commissioner for peace , Miguel Ceballos , claimed without evidence that FARC dissidents and the National Liberation Army , another smaller guerilla group , worked out “ a clear and premeditated plan ” to destroy various police stations .
Colombia ’ s close relationship with the United States and the longevity of the armed conflict has meant that Cold War–era thinking is still entrenched in the military , according to Arlene Tickner , an international @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Unlike the military , the police are not instructed on counterinsurgency tactics and the National Security doctrine that was exported from the United States to Latin America in the 1960s , but since they also fall under the Defense Ministry ’ s umbrella , it ’ s unclear to what extent that mentality is also prevalent within police ranks , says Tickner .
Colombia ’ s protests are not only the result of long-standing concerns over police accountability .
They are part of a long list of grievances , including the government ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ deal with the FARC , which has led to power vacuums in former FARC territories and are now being violently contested by other paramilitary and guerrilla groups .
Along with a surge in violence in rural areas , frustrations over high unemployment and the government ’ s weak handling of the pandemic has led to explosive protests in Colombia ’ s major cities that show little sign of subsiding .
Dozens of police officers are now under investigation by the National Police and the attorney general ’ s and inspector general ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the attorney general announced last week the launching of an investigation into Ordóñez ’ s case for possible human rights violations committed by police .
( In the weeks since Ordóñez ’ s death , new reporting on his case suggests that the officers who killed Ordóñez had been targeting him weeks earlier , had tried to fabricate assault charges to keep him in custody , and destroyed a cell phone used to record the moment when they arrested and assaulted him . )
Meanwhile , the Supreme Court recently ordered the Esmad @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and Defense Minister Trujillo to apologize for police abuses from last year ’ s national strike .
President Duque ’ s government is appealing the decision .
Human rights groups like the National Movement for State Crime Victims have also emitted a list of demands that includes reforming the country ’ s security doctrine , abolishing the Esmad , and placing the police under the Interior Ministry ’ s rule .
Support for these demands may be increasing : According to a poll from the Universidad de los Andes ’ Democracy Observatory , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ percent this year .
Miguel García , codirector of the Observatory , believes that the excessive force seen during last year ’ s national strike may be the reason .
Police violence can also signal to citizens that their government is unwilling to listen to their grievances .
“ A lot of the times what protesters want is a dialogue with the government .
They don ’ t want to talk to police ; they want to talk to people in the ministries .
Bringing in the police represents a refusal to do @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a defense expert at the Washington Office on Latin America .
After nearly a year , the second wave of Colombia ’ s national strike has returned .
Last week , hundreds marched in Bogotá , carrying images of slain social leaders and seeking justice for the 14 people killed in recent protests .
An old rallying cry returned : “ Stop massacring us.
” As protests resume , Colombians are watching to see how the government responds : whether it will hear out protesters ’ demands , or once again deploy police @ @ @ @ @

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It’s been less than a year since Colombia’s national strike, in which millions marched en masse to protest unpopular economic reforms, deep-seated corruption, and military abuses. On September 9, protesters took back to the streets. A 2016 peace agreement ending over 50 years of armed conflict with a leftist guerilla group remains unimplemented, activists and social leaders are still being massacred with impunity, and unemployment remains high. Now, a new grievance has been added to the list: police violence.
Early in the morning of September 9, a video surfaced showing Javier Ordóñez, a 45-year-old law student and father of two, pinned to the ground by police officers in Bogotá. According to reports, the officers went on to beat and tase Ordóñez at least 12 times. Reports claim Ordóñez was detained and beaten by the officers for violating a curfew in place for Covid-19. (Later reports suggested he was initially detained for alcohol consumption in public.) “Por favor,” Ordóñez is heard pleading in the video. He died from multiple bodily and head injuries later that morning.
The video of Ordóñez’s arrest immediately went viral, and within hours, had drawn hundreds of protesters out onto the streets, where some incinerated cars, motorcycles, and police stations while demanding justice for Ordóñez’s death. The police responded aggressively. In dozens of videos, police are captured firing live ammunition and tear gas directly at protesters and beating unarmed protesters with batons. At least 14 people died and hundreds suffered injuries. Four women accused the police of sexual assault during the protests.
The police violence drew immediate censure from public officials, and drew battle lines similar to the ones that have emerged in the US in the wake of nationwide Black Lives Matter protests. Bogotá Mayor Claudia López remarked that the event amounted to a “massacre against our youth” and called for reform from the national government, which has jurisdiction over Colombian police through its Defense Ministry. Senator Gustavo Petro, an influential leftist political figure, went further, demanding the resignation of Defense Minister Carlos Holmes Trujillo. In response, President Íván Duque, a conservative well-known for his bona fides with former president Alvaro Uribe, who led a scorched-earth campaign against the FARC guerrillas and is currently awaiting trial for alleged witness tampering of paramilitary leaders, defended police from what he called efforts to “stigmatize the institution” for the actions of a few individuals. Defense Minister Trujillo called the protests “the most egregious example of organized crime,” and other conservative officials attributed them to left-wing guerrilla groups.
Despite the recent national attention paid to police violence in Colombia, demands for institutional reform are not necessarily new. Less than a year ago, protesters called for the reform of Colombia’s notorious riot police, known as the Esmad, after an armed officer killed Dilan Cruz, an 18-year-old high school student, during the anti-government national strike. At the time, President Duque commented that “these types of events should not occur,” but fell short of promising any reforms. The attorney general’s office and the military justice court have since reported that more than 100 cases of potential police abuses during last year’s protests were being investigated, but as of January, not a single officer had been charged. The Esmad officer accused of Cruz’s death remains under investigation, but has not been detained or fired from the police force. Popular "swipe left below to view more authors"Swipe → The Evisceration of a Public University The Evisceration of a Public University Lisa M. Corrigan The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks Chris Lehmann “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash Dave Zirin How the “Brooks Brothers Riot” Set the Stage for Insurrection How the “Brooks Brothers Riot” Set the Stage for Insurrection Chris Lehmann Popular "swipe left below to view more authors"Swipe → The Evisceration of a Public University The Evisceration of a Public University Lisa M. Corrigan The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks Chris Lehmann “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash Dave Zirin How the “Brooks Brothers Riot” Set the Stage for Insurrection How the “Brooks Brothers Riot” Set the Stage for Insurrection Chris Lehmann
For decades, Colombia’s police has been shaped by the country’s long history of political turmoil and relentless war, making any sort of reform difficult. Unlike other police forces around the world, the country’s national police operate under the Defense Ministry as opposed to the Interior Ministry or the Justice Ministry. As a result, the police also follow a hierarchical structure with military ranks and a strict chain of command, which traces back to the military dictatorship of Gustavo Rojas Pinilla in the 1950s, according to Jerónimo Castillo, director of security and crime policy research at the think tank Foundation Ideas for Peace.
The move to include national police in the department of defense was originally intended to prevent elites from using the police for their political interests, but has since made it nearly impossible to hold police accountable. For example, crimes committed by police are usually tried by military courts, which experts say have shielded most offending officers from any serious punishment. In a forthcoming study, the nonprofit Temblores reported almost 40,000 cases of police violence from 2017 to 2019, including 289 homicides. Police violence also disproportionately targeted populations at risk, such as drug users and Afro-Colombians. Many of these cases never make it to trial. Records on cases that are brought to court have not been made publicly available, but Temblores believes most are granted some level of impunity. “In all the cases we’ve followed, the military justice has acquitted the defendant or the judge has handed down a small sentence,” says Alejandro Lanz Sánchez, Temblores’s co-director.
Impunity is also rife in the Esmad, the police’s riot control unit. Since its inception in 1999, when the Colombian government was in talks with the United States over Plan Colombia, a $10 billion counterinsurgency and counternarcotics agreement, the Esmad has killed 34 people, according to a 2019 Temblores report. Most victims have been activists within Indigenous, student, or peasant movements. None of these cases have resulted in a conviction.
Colombia’s 50-year armed conflict with leftist guerrillas has also been used by government officials to justify police violence. During a 2013 agrarian strike, in which Esmad forces killed four protesters, Colombia’s defense minister accused the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC), a Marxist rebel group that signed a peace treaty in 2016, of infiltrating the marches. Although the FARC has since demobilized, the current administration, led by conservative president Iván Duque, has also attributed recent protests to left-wing guerrillas. The high commissioner for peace, Miguel Ceballos, claimed without evidence that FARC dissidents and the National Liberation Army, another smaller guerilla group, worked out “a clear and premeditated plan” to destroy various police stations.
Colombia’s close relationship with the United States and the longevity of the armed conflict has meant that Cold War–era thinking is still entrenched in the military, according to Arlene Tickner, an international relations professor at Universidad del Rosario. Unlike the military, the police are not instructed on counterinsurgency tactics and the National Security doctrine that was exported from the United States to Latin America in the 1960s, but since they also fall under the Defense Ministry’s umbrella, it’s unclear to what extent that mentality is also prevalent within police ranks, says Tickner.
Colombia’s protests are not only the result of long-standing concerns over police accountability. They are part of a long list of grievances, including the government’s refusal to implement the 2016 peace deal with the FARC, which has led to power vacuums in former FARC territories and are now being violently contested by other paramilitary and guerrilla groups. Along with a surge in violence in rural areas, frustrations over high unemployment and the government’s weak handling of the pandemic has led to explosive protests in Colombia’s major cities that show little sign of subsiding.
Dozens of police officers are now under investigation by the National Police and the attorney general’s and inspector general’s offices. In a rare move, the attorney general announced last week the launching of an investigation into Ordóñez’s case for possible human rights violations committed by police. (In the weeks since Ordóñez’s death, new reporting on his case suggests that the officers who killed Ordóñez had been targeting him weeks earlier, had tried to fabricate assault charges to keep him in custody, and destroyed a cell phone used to record the moment when they arrested and assaulted him.) Meanwhile, the Supreme Court recently ordered the Esmad to suspend its use of 12-gauge shotguns and Defense Minister Trujillo to apologize for police abuses from last year’s national strike. President Duque’s government is appealing the decision.
Human rights groups like the National Movement for State Crime Victims have also emitted a list of demands that includes reforming the country’s security doctrine, abolishing the Esmad, and placing the police under the Interior Ministry’s rule. Support for these demands may be increasing: According to a poll from the Universidad de los Andes’ Democracy Observatory, trust in Bogotá police sunk to 25.6 percent this year. Miguel García, codirector of the Observatory, believes that the excessive force seen during last year’s national strike may be the reason. Police violence can also signal to citizens that their government is unwilling to listen to their grievances. “A lot of the times what protesters want is a dialogue with the government. They don’t want to talk to police; they want to talk to people in the ministries. Bringing in the police represents a refusal to do that,” says Adam Isacson, a defense expert at the Washington Office on Latin America.
After nearly a year, the second wave of Colombia’s national strike has returned. Last week, hundreds marched in Bogotá, carrying images of slain social leaders and seeking justice for the 14 people killed in recent protests. An old rallying cry returned: “Stop massacring us.” As protests resume, Colombians are watching to see how the government responds: whether it will hear out protesters’ demands, or once again deploy police to suppress potential dialogue.


thenation--2020-09-28--Trump’s Tax Evasion Is an Indictment of American Plutocracy

In 2016 , while running for president , Donald Trump paid Stephanie Clifford , the actor who stars in adult films under the name Stormy Daniels , $ 130,000 to keep quiet about a sexual encounter ; for that entire year , Trump paid a total of $ 750 in federal income tax .
The following year , his first as president , his income tax again totaled $ 750 .
Those two years were unusual for Trump , because normally in the past decade he hasn ’ t paid income tax at all .
The New York Times , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ documents concerning Trump ’ s taxes going back two decades before 2018 , has found that in 11 of 18 years , Trump paid no taxes .
That ’ s a remarkable achievement for a putative billionaire .
The Times exposé shows that Trump has pulled off the enviable trick of living like a king while paying taxes like a pauper .
He ’ s done this through a complex shell game where taxes for the profitable part of his financial empire ( largely his work as a reality-show star on The Apprentice @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ) earn a lavish fortune that is not taxed because other enterprises , notably golf courses , regularly post large losses .
But beyond this juggling game , Trump has also avoided taxes with actions that skirt the edges of the law and demand investigation , notably the practice of paying consulting fees to the three adult children ( Ivanka Trump , Donald Trump Jr. , and Eric Trump ) who also help manage the Trump Organization .
This self-dealing is combined with many questionable write-offs for personal expenses , including $ 70,000 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for a hair stylist used by Ivanka Trump .
While this chicanery is keeping Trump afloat , the Times observes that his business empire is suffering a heavy debt load that could capsize it .
“ What ’ s more , the tax records show that Mr. Trump has once again done what he says he regrets , looking back on his early 1990s meltdown : personally guaranteed hundreds of millions of dollars in loans , a decision that led his lenders to threaten to force him into personal bankruptcy .
“ This @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for loans and other debts totaling $ 421 million , with most of it coming due within four years .
Should he win re-election , his lenders could be placed in the unprecedented position of weighing whether to foreclose on a sitting president.
” This $ 421 million only includes short-term debt due in the next few years .
Commenting on the Times story , Dan Alexander , a reporter for Forbes , calculates , based on available public record , that Trump has a total of $ 1.1 billion in debt .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ of debt raises the disturbing question : Who owns the president ?
As Sarah Longwell , publisher of the conservative magazine The Bulwark , argues , “ People are focused on how little Trump paid in taxes , but to me this is the bigger story .
He was deeply in debt and looking for a way to reinvigorate his brand .
So he ran for President .
And he ’ s been a walking conflict of interest ever since.
” Four years into the Trump presidency , many of his opponents have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ new revelations can hurt him .
After all , in polls he ’ s held on to his 43 percent base despite everything that has happened , ranging from countless offensive statements to impeachment for Ukrainegate to Covid-19 to the economic meltdown .
But there ’ s reason to think that a tax scandal might have a salutary political impact .
Simply in terms of electoral politics , it helps the Democrats to have something that keeps the focus on Trump .
Joe Biden has led in the polls against Trump for over @ @ @ @ @ @ @ recent decades of presidential politics .
Trump ’ s only hope is for arguments against Biden to start dragging down the Democratic nominee .
But as long as the focus of attention is on Trump ’ s misdeeds , this shift can ’ t happen .
The tax scandal helps Biden run out the clock in the last sprint of the election .
More importantly , the tax scandal helps undermine a myth that has been a core part of Trump ’ s success : the false belief that he ’ s a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in 2019 , three political scientists from the University of Maryland ( Jared McDonald , David Karol , Lilliana Mason ) adduced polling that showed “ that voters are not simply uninformed about President Trump ’ s biographical background , but misinformed—and that misinformation has serious political consequences.
” All too many Americans , including some Democrats , believed that Trump was “ a self-made billionaire , a business tycoon of unfathomable success.
” “ Large swaths of the public believe the Trump myth , ” their research found .
“ Across three @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 2018 , we found that as many as half of all Americans do not know that he was born into a very wealthy family.
” But these researchers offered some hope for Democrats , because evidence indicates that being told the truth about Trump ’ s business history changes how voters think about him .
Being told that Trump inherited his fortune has “ noticeable and statistically significant effects on evaluations of Trump ’ s character .
For Democrats , who already see Trump as lacking empathy , this information makes them think @ @ @ @ @ @ @ But among Republicans , the information is even more damning , reducing perceptions of empathy by more than 10 percentage points.
” There ’ s ample political reason for the Biden campaign to start advertising Trump ’ s tax corruption .
But this scandal clarifies larger problems that go beyond the presidential election .
As Elizabeth Warren notes , “ This is about more than one man ’ s personal tax scams .
Donald Trump is a liar , a cheater , and a crooked businessman , yes .
But he ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ corrupt , and unequal system that ’ s built for people like him to do what he did.
” As the old adage goes , the real scandal is usually what is legal .
Trump might well have crossed legal lines in order to avoid taxes .
He should certainly be investigated .
But much of what he ’ s done is standard operating procedure for the American rich and perfectly within the law .
That ’ s a problem that needs more than an election to fix .
If Biden does win @ @ @ @ @ @ @ position where she can help craft a wealth tax .

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In 2016, while running for president, Donald Trump paid Stephanie Clifford, the actor who stars in adult films under the name Stormy Daniels, $130,000 to keep quiet about a sexual encounter; for that entire year, Trump paid a total of $750 in federal income tax. The following year, his first as president, his income tax again totaled $750. Those two years were unusual for Trump, because normally in the past decade he hasn’t paid income tax at all. The New York Times, which in a blockbuster report based on documents concerning Trump’s taxes going back two decades before 2018, has found that in 11 of 18 years, Trump paid no taxes. That’s a remarkable achievement for a putative billionaire.
The Times exposé shows that Trump has pulled off the enviable trick of living like a king while paying taxes like a pauper. He’s done this through a complex shell game where taxes for the profitable part of his financial empire (largely his work as a reality-show star on The Apprentice and a few older real estate holdings) earn a lavish fortune that is not taxed because other enterprises, notably golf courses, regularly post large losses. But beyond this juggling game, Trump has also avoided taxes with actions that skirt the edges of the law and demand investigation, notably the practice of paying consulting fees to the three adult children (Ivanka Trump, Donald Trump Jr., and Eric Trump) who also help manage the Trump Organization. This self-dealing is combined with many questionable write-offs for personal expenses, including $70,000 for haircuts and more than $95,000 for a hair stylist used by Ivanka Trump.
While this chicanery is keeping Trump afloat, the Times observes that his business empire is suffering a heavy debt load that could capsize it. “What’s more, the tax records show that Mr. Trump has once again done what he says he regrets, looking back on his early 1990s meltdown: personally guaranteed hundreds of millions of dollars in loans, a decision that led his lenders to threaten to force him into personal bankruptcy.
“This time around, he is personally responsible for loans and other debts totaling $421 million, with most of it coming due within four years. Should he win re-election, his lenders could be placed in the unprecedented position of weighing whether to foreclose on a sitting president.” More From Jeet Heer The Indigenous Roots of Robbie Robertson’s Rock and Roll Revolution August 14, 2023 Why Does This Racist Keep Getting Silicon Valley Money? August 11, 2023 When Phallocrats Go Limp August 4, 2023
This $421 million only includes short-term debt due in the next few years. Commenting on the Times story, Dan Alexander, a reporter for Forbes, calculates, based on available public record, that Trump has a total of $1.1 billion in debt.
That Trump is sitting on a mountain of debt raises the disturbing question: Who owns the president? As Sarah Longwell, publisher of the conservative magazine The Bulwark, argues, “People are focused on how little Trump paid in taxes, but to me this is the bigger story. He was deeply in debt and looking for a way to reinvigorate his brand. So he ran for President. And he’s been a walking conflict of interest ever since.” Popular "swipe left below to view more authors"Swipe → The Evisceration of a Public University The Evisceration of a Public University Lisa M. Corrigan The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks Chris Lehmann “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash Dave Zirin How the “Brooks Brothers Riot” Set the Stage for Insurrection How the “Brooks Brothers Riot” Set the Stage for Insurrection Chris Lehmann Popular "swipe left below to view more authors"Swipe → The Evisceration of a Public University The Evisceration of a Public University Lisa M. Corrigan The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks Chris Lehmann “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash Dave Zirin How the “Brooks Brothers Riot” Set the Stage for Insurrection How the “Brooks Brothers Riot” Set the Stage for Insurrection Chris Lehmann
Four years into the Trump presidency, many of his opponents have become too jaded to believe that any new revelations can hurt him. After all, in polls he’s held on to his 43 percent base despite everything that has happened, ranging from countless offensive statements to impeachment for Ukrainegate to Covid-19 to the economic meltdown. Current Issue View our current issue
But there’s reason to think that a tax scandal might have a salutary political impact. Simply in terms of electoral politics, it helps the Democrats to have something that keeps the focus on Trump. Joe Biden has led in the polls against Trump for over a year, an unprecedented dominance in recent decades of presidential politics. Trump’s only hope is for arguments against Biden to start dragging down the Democratic nominee. But as long as the focus of attention is on Trump’s misdeeds, this shift can’t happen. The tax scandal helps Biden run out the clock in the last sprint of the election.
More importantly, the tax scandal helps undermine a myth that has been a core part of Trump’s success: the false belief that he’s a successful self-made businessman. Writing in Politico in 2019, three political scientists from the University of Maryland (Jared McDonald, David Karol, Lilliana Mason) adduced polling that showed “that voters are not simply uninformed about President Trump’s biographical background, but misinformed—and that misinformation has serious political consequences.” All too many Americans, including some Democrats, believed that Trump was “a self-made billionaire, a business tycoon of unfathomable success.” “Large swaths of the public believe the Trump myth,” their research found. “Across three surveys of eligible voters from 2016 to 2018, we found that as many as half of all Americans do not know that he was born into a very wealthy family.”
But these researchers offered some hope for Democrats, because evidence indicates that being told the truth about Trump’s business history changes how voters think about him. Being told that Trump inherited his fortune has “noticeable and statistically significant effects on evaluations of Trump’s character. For Democrats, who already see Trump as lacking empathy, this information makes them think of him as even less empathetic. But among Republicans, the information is even more damning, reducing perceptions of empathy by more than 10 percentage points.”
There’s ample political reason for the Biden campaign to start advertising Trump’s tax corruption. But this scandal clarifies larger problems that go beyond the presidential election. As Elizabeth Warren notes, “This is about more than one man’s personal tax scams. Donald Trump is a liar, a cheater, and a crooked businessman, yes. But he’s also taking advantage of a broken, corrupt, and unequal system that’s built for people like him to do what he did.”
As the old adage goes, the real scandal is usually what is legal. Trump might well have crossed legal lines in order to avoid taxes. He should certainly be investigated. But much of what he’s done is standard operating procedure for the American rich and perfectly within the law. That’s a problem that needs more than an election to fix. If Biden does win, he should appoint Warren to a position where she can help craft a wealth tax.


thenation--2020-09-28--One Black Lives Matter Protest in Rural New York Opens the Door to Change

reene ounty , —Ever since the Black Lives Matter march in Catskill in June , I ’ ve been regularly checking out a Facebook page started by the organizers .
My main interest has been to find out whether the event has produced any concrete changes .
Recently , I had my answer : Mercedes Brantley , one of the six young Black women who organized the march—which was peaceful , racially mixed , and attracted about 1,000 people—announced on the page that she was considering running for office .
“ I never thought about it until the march , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I don ’ t think many people of color have ever thought about it .
But I realize now that I have a voice and I ’ m not afraid to use it.
” Brantley , a Catskill native who works as the business manager for an assisted living facility , says that she still has to meet with the local Democratic Party to make sure she would have their endorsement , but that the likelihood is that she ’ ll vie for a seat on Catskill ’ s currently all-white village board @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s total population of roughly 12,000 is about four-fifths white . )
“ I do think there is a difference ” since the march , she says .
“ A lot more people are speaking out , even if just in their regular daily lives.
” Brantley ’ s decision to run for office represents a changed attitude toward the ballot box from the one frequently expressed by young activists a generation ago : that voting is a waste of time .
( I ’ ve never forgotten interviewing three young activists in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ criticisms of the Clinton administration , then learning that none of them had voted in the election that brought him to power . )
Today ’ s young people seem to feel that voting is essential to the struggle .
As Democrats Leave Cities , Rural Areas See an Uptick in Voter Registration Where I Live , Hostility Toward Black Lives Matter Is Often Indirect Rural New York Is in the Streets , Marching for Black Lives More in this series I think that another sign of the impact of the Black Lives @ @ @ @ @ @ @ County officials have been relatively quick in setting up a police reform committee .
These committees were mandated in June by the governor to examine police practices and adopt reform plans .
Their responsibility extends to local police and sheriffs ’ departments , but regrettably not the State Police .
Our committee is hardly ideal in its makeup : heavy on clergy and public officials and lacking in young people .
But there was one name that jumped out at me when I first read it a couple weeks ago in a story @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
I ’ d heard of Gary Slutzky , who lives in Hunter , a town not far from mine , as a member of the family who started the Hunter Mountain ski resort , but I also knew he was a white , progressive Democrat .
So I wondered what he was doing there .
The usual answer : friends .
Slutzky told me he ’ s known Republican Sheriff Pete Kusminsky , who tapped him for the commission , for over 30 years .
They got to know each other when @ @ @ @ @ @ @ around here , including by Democrats , as a good guy , was in the State Police and Slutzky was a member of the Hunter volunteer fire department .
“ I ’ m a real outsider , ” he says , referring to the other members of the commission .
But friends with the sheriff or not , Slutzky made it clear in our conversation that he ’ s serious about his new role .
Maybe because of his mother ’ s influence , he says , or maybe because he grew up @ @ @ @ @ @ @ occasionally experiencing anti-Semitism , he thinks its work is important .
When I asked him whether unthinking racism is a problem in Greene County , he said , “ Oh yeah , absolutely.
” Kusminsky himself , who took office only a few months ago , shies away from any talk of systemic racism , saying , “ My guys have all undergone implicit bias training.
” And when I asked him about the comments of two county officials who have said publicly that there is little need for the commission , he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ agree ” with them .
But he said he ’ s willing to listen to community concerns , noting that he ’ s working on a plan to recruit more people of color to the sheriff ’ s department , which currently has only one Black officer out of 32 .
Good intentions are all very well , but I wish Kusminsky would speak to some people like Thomas Kearney , and better yet , get people like him appointed to the commission .
Kearney , 39 , who is Black , told @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a teenager in Catskill when a policeman pointed a gun at him after he refused to leave a park .
“ He was red-faced and upset , ” Kearney recalls .
“ How can you not be aware that shoving a gun in a 16-year-old ’ s face is wrong ?
And if you aren ’ t aware , you don ’ t deserve your badge.
” Kearney , who served time in prison as a result of what he says was a fight that got out of hand while he was in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ recovery program .
Talking with people like Kusminsky and Kearney is a reminder that in rural America , perhaps even more than in urban America , white people and Black people experience the world very differently .
That ’ s why it seems to me that Mercedes Brantley ’ s running for office is so important : It ’ s a start toward inserting previously unheard voices into local political discussions , not just about policing but also other issues .
So , despite continuing examples of racism ( just a few days @ @ @ @ @ @ @ road signs near where I live ) and a growing backlash against BLM ( often in the form of demonstrations in support of the police ) , I feel reasonably positive .
I think Mercedes Brantley is right that the BLM movement is stirring things up , and I think she herself is an example of where that can lead .

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G reene C ounty, N.Y. —Ever since the Black Lives Matter march in Catskill in June, I’ve been regularly checking out a Facebook page started by the organizers. My main interest has been to find out whether the event has produced any concrete changes.
Recently, I had my answer: Mercedes Brantley, one of the six young Black women who organized the march—which was peaceful, racially mixed, and attracted about 1,000 people—announced on the page that she was considering running for office. “I never thought about it until the march,” she later told me. “I don’t think many people of color have ever thought about it. But I realize now that I have a voice and I’m not afraid to use it.”
Brantley, a Catskill native who works as the business manager for an assisted living facility, says that she still has to meet with the local Democratic Party to make sure she would have their endorsement, but that the likelihood is that she’ll vie for a seat on Catskill’s currently all-white village board next year. (The town’s total population of roughly 12,000 is about four-fifths white.) “I do think there is a difference” since the march, she says. “A lot more people are speaking out, even if just in their regular daily lives.”
Brantley’s decision to run for office represents a changed attitude toward the ballot box from the one frequently expressed by young activists a generation ago: that voting is a waste of time. (I’ve never forgotten interviewing three young activists in the 1990s and hearing their impressively argued criticisms of the Clinton administration, then learning that none of them had voted in the election that brought him to power.) Today’s young people seem to feel that voting is essential to the struggle. All Politics Is Local My Neighbors Certainly Didn’t Celebrate Biden’s Win, but They Also Didn’t Publicly Mourn Trump’s Loss Karen Rothmyer Trump’s Response to Losing the Vote Calvin Trillin As Democrats Leave Cities, Rural Areas See an Uptick in Voter Registration Karen Rothmyer
I think that another sign of the impact of the Black Lives Matter march in Catskill is that Greene County officials have been relatively quick in setting up a police reform committee. These committees were mandated in June by the governor to examine police practices and adopt reform plans. Their responsibility extends to local police and sheriffs’ departments, but regrettably not the State Police.
Our committee is hardly ideal in its makeup: heavy on clergy and public officials and lacking in young people. But there was one name that jumped out at me when I first read it a couple weeks ago in a story about the committee in the local newspaper. I’d heard of Gary Slutzky, who lives in Hunter, a town not far from mine, as a member of the family who started the Hunter Mountain ski resort, but I also knew he was a white, progressive Democrat. So I wondered what he was doing there. Popular "swipe left below to view more authors"Swipe → The Evisceration of a Public University The Evisceration of a Public University Lisa M. Corrigan The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks Chris Lehmann “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash Dave Zirin How the “Brooks Brothers Riot” Set the Stage for Insurrection How the “Brooks Brothers Riot” Set the Stage for Insurrection Chris Lehmann Popular "swipe left below to view more authors"Swipe → The Evisceration of a Public University The Evisceration of a Public University Lisa M. Corrigan The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks The Patronizing Moralism of David Brooks Chris Lehmann “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash “The Blind Side” Was Always Trash Dave Zirin How the “Brooks Brothers Riot” Set the Stage for Insurrection How the “Brooks Brothers Riot” Set the Stage for Insurrection Chris Lehmann
The usual answer: friends. Slutzky told me he’s known Republican Sheriff Pete Kusminsky, who tapped him for the commission, for over 30 years. They got to know each other when Kusminsky, who’s generally seen around here, including by Democrats, as a good guy, was in the State Police and Slutzky was a member of the Hunter volunteer fire department. “I’m a real outsider,” he says, referring to the other members of the commission. Current Issue View our current issue
But friends with the sheriff or not, Slutzky made it clear in our conversation that he’s serious about his new role. Maybe because of his mother’s influence, he says, or maybe because he grew up not just hearing racist remarks but also occasionally experiencing anti-Semitism, he thinks its work is important. When I asked him whether unthinking racism is a problem in Greene County, he said, “Oh yeah, absolutely.”
Kusminsky himself, who took office only a few months ago, shies away from any talk of systemic racism, saying, “My guys have all undergone implicit bias training.” And when I asked him about the comments of two county officials who have said publicly that there is little need for the commission, he said he “would have to mostly agree” with them. But he said he’s willing to listen to community concerns, noting that he’s working on a plan to recruit more people of color to the sheriff’s department, which currently has only one Black officer out of 32.
Good intentions are all very well, but I wish Kusminsky would speak to some people like Thomas Kearney, and better yet, get people like him appointed to the commission. Kearney, 39, who is Black, told me about an incident when he was a teenager in Catskill when a policeman pointed a gun at him after he refused to leave a park. “He was red-faced and upset,” Kearney recalls. “How can you not be aware that shoving a gun in a 16-year-old’s face is wrong? And if you aren’t aware, you don’t deserve your badge.” Kearney, who served time in prison as a result of what he says was a fight that got out of hand while he was in college, now works in a drug recovery program.
Talking with people like Kusminsky and Kearney is a reminder that in rural America, perhaps even more than in urban America, white people and Black people experience the world very differently. That’s why it seems to me that Mercedes Brantley’s running for office is so important: It’s a start toward inserting previously unheard voices into local political discussions, not just about policing but also other issues.
So, despite continuing examples of racism (just a few days ago someone wrote racist graffiti on some road signs near where I live) and a growing backlash against BLM (often in the form of demonstrations in support of the police), I feel reasonably positive. I think Mercedes Brantley is right that the BLM movement is stirring things up, and I think she herself is an example of where that can lead.