thenation--2020-09-16--California’s Desert Fauna Will Never Recover

In Greener Than You Think—a 1947 novel by left-wing science fiction writer Ward Moore—a mad woman scientist in Los Angeles , one Josephine Francis , recruits a down-and-out salesman named Albert Weemer , described as having “ all the instincts of a roach , ” to help promote her discovery : a compound called “ Metamorphizer ” that enhances the growth of grasses and allows them to thrive on barren and rocky soils .
She dreams of permanently ending world hunger through a massive expansion of the range of wheat and other grains .
Weemer , a scientific ignoramus , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ peddling the stuff door to door as a lawn treatment .
Desperately needing cash to continue her research , Francis reluctantly agrees , and Weemer heads out to the yellowed lawns of tired bungalow neighborhoods .
To his surprise the treatment , which alters grass genes , works—only too well .
In the yard of the Dinkman family , crabgrass is converted into a nightmare “ Devil Grass , ” resistant to mowing and weedkillers , that begins to spread across the city .
“ It writhed and twisted in nightmarish unease…inexorably enveloping @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the roadway disappeared under it , a shrub was swallowed up , a patch of wall vanished.
” It continues to eat pavements and houses and finally consumes the city : a monstrous new nature creeping toward Bethlehem .
Greener Than You Think is both hilarious and slightly unnerving .
But its absurd premises are being turned into current events by climate change : In reality , Devil Grass is actually Bromus , a tribe of invasive and almost ineradicable grasses bearing appropriately unsavory names such as ripgut brome , cheat grass @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Mediterranean and the Middle East , some species have been around California since the Gold Rush , when overgrazing allowed the bromes and European oat grass to aggressively replace native species .
But now fire and exurban sprawl have become their metamorphizers as they colonize and degrade ecosystems throughout the state .
The Eastern Mojave Desert is a grim example .
En route from Los Angeles to Las Vegas , 20 minutes away from the state line , there ’ s an exit from I-15 to a two-lane blacktop called Cima Road @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to one of North America ’ s most magical forests : countless miles of old-growth Joshua trees mantling a field of small Pleistocene volcanoes known as Cima Dome .
The monarchs of this forest are 45 feet high and hundreds of years old .
In mid-August an estimated 1.3 million of these astonishing giant yuccas perished in the lightning-ignited Dome Fire .
This is not the first time that the Eastern Mojave has burned .
A megafire in 2005 scorched a million acres of desert , but it spared the Dome , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ last generation , an invasion of red brome has created a flammable understory to the Joshuas and transformed the Mojave into a fire ecology .
( Invasive cheatgrass has played this role in the Great Basin for decades . )
Desert plants , unlike California oaks and chaparral , are not fire-adapted , so their recovery may be impossible .
Debra Hughson , the chief scientist at the Mojave National Preserve , described the fire as an extinction event .
“ The Joshua trees are very flammable .
They ’ ll die , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Our burning deserts are regional expressions of a global trend .
Mediterranean vegetation has coevolved with fire ; indeed , oaks and most chaparral plants require episodic fire to reproduce .
But routine extreme fire in Greece , Spain , Australia , and California is now overriding Holocene adaptations and producing irreversible changes in the biota .
Although Australia is a close contender , it is California that best illustrates the vicious circle in which extreme heat leads to frequent extreme fires that prevent natural regeneration—and with the help of tree diseases @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sparse grasslands and treeless mountain slopes .
And with the native plants , of course , go the native fauna .
At the beginning of this century , water planners and fire authorities here were primarily focused on the threat of multiyear droughts caused by intensified La Niña episodes and stubbornly persistent high-pressure domes—both of which could be attributed to anthropogenic warming .
Their worst fears were realized in the great drought of the last decade , perhaps the biggest in 500 years , leading to the death of an estimated 150 million @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the firestorms of 2017 and 2018 .
The great die-off of pines and conifers has been accompanied by an exponentially expanding fungal pandemic known as “ sudden oak death ” that has killed millions of live oaks and tanoaks in the California and Oregon Coast Ranges .
Since the tanoaks , especially , grow in mixed forests with Douglas firs , redwoods , and ponderosa pines , their dead hulks should probably be accounted as million-barrel fuel-oil equivalents in the current firestorms raging in coastal mountains and Sierra foothills .
In addition to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a new phenomenon , the “ hot drought.
” Even in years with average 20th century rainfall , extreme summer heat , our new normal , is producing massive water deficits through evaporation in reservoirs , streams , and rivers .
In the case of Southern California ’ s lifeline , the lower Colorado River , a staggering 20 percent decrease in the current flow has been predicted within a few decades , independent of whether precipitation declines .
But the most devastating impact of Death Valley–like temperatures ( it was 121 degrees @ @ @ @ @ @ @ weeks ago ) is the loss of plant and soil moisture .
A wet winter and early spring may mesmerize us with extravagant displays of flowering plants—but they also produce bumper crops of grasses and herblike plants ( forbs ) that are then baked in our furnace summers to become fire starter when the devil winds return .
Bromes and other annual exotic grasses are the chief byproducts and facilitators of this new fire regime .
Years of research at experimental plots , where the scientists burn different types of vegetation and study @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Darwinian edge .
They burn at twice the temperature of herbaceous ground cover , vaporizing soil nutrients and thus inhibiting the return of native species .
Bromes also thrive on air pollution and are more efficient than most plants in utilizing higher levels of carbon dioxide—big evolutionary advantages in the current struggle between ecosystems .
How to Save the Postal Service A research group at Oregon State ’ s College of Forestry that is studying grass invasions in West Coast forests , a hitherto neglected subject , warned earlier this year that once @ @ @ @ @ @ @ established , it becomes a “ perfect storm.
” Like Weemer ’ s Devil Grass , the invaders defy human will .
“ Management actions such as thinning and prescribed fire , often designed to alleviate threats to wildfires , may also exacerbate grass invasion and increase fine fuels , with potential landscape scale consequences that are largely under-recognized.
” Only a constant sustained effort to remove grass biomass—something that would require a large army of full-time forest workers and the full cooperation of landowners—could theoretically postpone the weed apocalypse .
It would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , as well as post-fire rebuilding in endangered woodlands .
A majority of new housing in California over the last 20 years has been built , profitably but insanely , in high-fire-risk areas .
“ Exurbanization , ” much of it white flight from California ’ s human diversity , everywhere promotes the botanical counter-revolution .
But residents usually don ’ t see the grass for the forest .
How should we think about what is happening ?
In the late 1940s the ruins of Berlin became a laboratory where natural scientists studied @ @ @ @ @ @ @ years of firebombing .
Their expectation was that the original vegetation of the region—oak woodlands and their shrubs—would soon reestablish itself .
To their horror this was not the case .
Instead escaped exotics , some of them rare garden plants , established themselves as the new dominants .
The botanists continued their studies until the last bomb sites were cleared in the 1980s .
The persistence of this dead-zone vegetation and the failure of the plants of the Pomeranian woodlands to reestablish themselves prompted a debate about ‘ Nature II.
’ The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ incendiaries and the pulverization of brick structures had created a new soil type that invited colonization by rugged plants such as “ tree of heaven ” ( Ailanthus ) that had evolved on the moraines of Pleistocene ice sheets .
An all-out nuclear war , they warned , might reproduce these conditions on a vast scale .
( For more about this , see my book Dead Cities . )
Fire in the Anthropocene has become the physical equivalent of nuclear war .
In the aftermath of Victoria ’ s Black Saturday fires @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that their released energy equaled the explosion of 1,500 Hiroshima-sized bombs .
Even greater energy has produced the pyrocumulus plumes that for weeks have towered over Northern California .
The toxic orange fog that has shrouded the Bay Area for weeks is our regional version of nuclear winter .
A new , profoundly sinister nature is rapidly emerging from our fire rubble at the expense of landscapes we once considered sacred .
Our imaginations can barely encompass the speed or scale of the catastrophe .
A previous version of this article stated that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Fire in California are 1,000 years old .
That may be the case , but researchers say that “ hundreds of years ” would be more accurate .

This article appears in the November 2/9, 2020 issue.
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In Greener Than You Think, a 1947 novel by the left-wing sci-fi writer Ward Moore, a mad woman scientist in Los Angeles recruits a down-and-out salesman named Albert Weener, described as having “all the earmarks of a castiron moocher,” to help promote her discovery: a compound called Metamorphizer that enhances the growth of grasses and allows them to thrive on barren and rocky soils. The scientist dreams of permanently ending world hunger through a massive expansion of the range of wheat and other grains; Weener, a scientific ignoramus, thinks only of making a quick buck peddling the stuff door-to-door as a lawn treatment. Desperately needing cash to continue her research, she reluctantly agrees, and Weener heads out to the yellowed lawns of tired bungalow neighborhoods.1
To his surprise, the treatment, which alters grass genes, works—only too well. In the yard of the Dinkman family, crabgrass is converted into a nightmare “Devil Grass,” resistant to mowing and weed killers, that begins to spread across the city. “It writhed and twisted in nightmarish unease…inexorably enveloping everything in its path. A crack in the roadway disappeared under it, a shrub was swallowed up, a patch of wall vanished.” It continues to eat pavement and houses and finally consumes the city: a monstrous new nature creeping toward Bethlehem.2
Greener Than You Think is both hilarious and slightly unnerving. But its absurd premise is being turned into current events by climate change. Our Devil Grass is Bromus, a genus of invasive and almost ineradicable grasses bearing appropriately unsavory names like ripgut brome, cheatgrass, and false brome. Originating in the Mediterranean and the Middle East, some species have been around California since the Gold Rush, when overgrazing allowed the bromes and European oat grass to aggressively replace native species. But now fire and exurban sprawl have become their Metamorphizers as they conquer virtually every ecosystem in the state.3
The Eastern Mojave Desert is a grim example. If you drive from LA to Vegas, 20 minutes from the state line, there’s an exit from Interstate 15 to a two-lane blacktop called Cima Road. It’s the unassuming portal to one of North America’s most magical forests: countless miles of old-growth Joshua trees mantling a field of small Pleistocene volcanoes known as the Cima Dome. The monarchs of this forest are 30 feet high and centuries old. In mid-August an estimated 1.3 million of these astonishing giant yuccas perished in the lightning-ignited Dome Fire. This wasn’t the first time the Eastern Mojave burned. A megafire in 2005 scorched a million acres of desert, but it spared the Dome, the heart of the forest. Over the last generation, an invasion of red brome has created a flammable understory to the Joshuas and transformed the Mojave into a fire ecology. (Invasive cheatgrass and wire grass have played similar roles in the Great Basin and the Pacific Northwest.)4 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
Most desert plants, unlike California oaks and chaparral, are not fire-adapted, so their recovery may be impossible. Debra Hughson, the chief of science at the Mojave National Preserve, described the fire as an extinction event in an interview with the Desert Sun. “The Joshua trees are very flammable. They’ll die, and they won’t come back.”5
Our burning deserts are regional expressions of a global trend: the fire-driven transformation and replacement of native land cover from Greenland to Hawaii. Even the Antarctic Peninsula now has an invasive weed problem. In most cases, exotic plants—especially annual grasses and forbs (herblike plants)—are the culprits. In southeastern US forests the devil is cogongrass from East Asia; in Australia, buffel grass from India; and in Hawaii, guinea grass from Africa.6
Bromes, superbly adapted to the Anthropocene, rule the West Coast. As Travis Bean, a weed scientist at the University of California, Riverside, warned last year, “We have all of the nasty nonnative Bromus species here in California, and these weeds are key drivers of increasing fire frequency.” Increased fire frequency, in turn, opens spaces for the propagation of these fast-growing and easily dispersed species. Whereas recovering mountain chaparral, for instance, requires 20 years to mature before it can burn, bromes need only one or two winters’ rain to produce enough flammable biomass to sustain a large fire. Once established, the ensuing invasive-grass and fire cycle is almost irreversible.7 Current Issue View our current issue
This is especially true in Mediterranean biomes, despite the fact that their vegetation has evolved with fire and requires episodic burns to reproduce. The current wave of annual extreme fires in the Iberian Peninsula, Greece, Australia, and California is overriding Holocene adaptations and pushing native ecosystems, many of them already degraded, past their survival tipping points.8
Although Australia is a close contender, California best illustrates the vicious circle in which extreme heat leads to frequent extreme fires that prevent natural regeneration—and with the help of tree diseases, accelerate the conversion of iconic landscapes into parched grasslands and treeless mountain slopes. And with the loss of native plants goes much of the native fauna, from lizards to songbirds.9
Climate change drives landscape conversion in several ways. At the beginning of this century, state water planners and fire authorities were primarily focused on the threat of multiyear droughts caused by intensified La Niña episodes and stubbornly persistent high-pressure domes. Their worst fears were realized in the great drought of the last decade, perhaps the worst in 500 years, which contributed to the death of an estimated 150 million bark-beetle-infested trees that subsequently provided fuel for the firestorms of 2017 and 2018.10
Similarly, over the past 20 years, an exponentially spreading fungal pandemic called sudden oak death has killed millions of live oaks and tan oaks from Big Sur to southwestern Oregon. Climate change, which increases heat and drought, facilitates this disease and drives its spread. Since the tan oaks, especially, grow in forests with Douglas firs, redwoods, and ponderosa pines, their dead hulks act as force multipliers in the firestorms raging in coastal mountains and the Sierra foothills.11
In addition to ordinary droughts, scientists now talk about a new phenomenon, the hot drought. Even in years with average 20th century rainfall, extreme summer heat—our new normal—is producing massive water deficits through evaporation from reservoirs, streams, and rivers. In the case of Southern California’s lifeline, the lower Colorado River, a staggering 20 percent decrease in the current flow has been predicted within a few decades, independent of whether precipitation declines.12
But the most devastating impact of the Death Valley–like temperatures (it was 121 degrees in the San Fernando Valley in early September) is the loss of plant and soil moisture. A wet winter and early spring may mesmerize us with extravagant displays of wildflowers, but they also produce bumper crops of grasses and forbs that are then baked in our furnace summers to become fuel when the devil winds return.13 More From Mike Davis Create a Coronavirus Commission With Sharp Teeth December 7, 2020 Anthony Fauci: The Last American Hero? July 7, 2020 A Call to Revolt June 1, 2020
The bromes and other pyromaniacal weeds like black mustard are the chief by-products and facilitators of this new fire regime. Years of research at experimental plots, where scientists burn different types of vegetation and study their fire behavior, has confirmed their Darwinian edge. They burn at twice the temperature of herbaceous ground cover, vaporizing soil nutrients essential to the regeneration of native species. Bromes also thrive on air pollution (a nitrogen fertilizer), can quickly evolve resistance to herbicides, and are more efficient than most plants in utilizing higher levels of carbon dioxide—big evolutionary advantages in the current struggle between ecosystems.14
Until recently, it was widely believed that the West Coast’s closed-canopy forests were largely invulnerable to the brome threat because they are too cool and shaded. But now a group of researchers from Oregon State University’s College of Forestry and the US Forest Service that is studying the question warns forest managers that false brome adapts well to the forest gloom, and cheatgrass immediately colonizes forest burn sites. Once a durable feedback loop with fire is established, a forest grass invasion becomes, in the researchers’ words, a “perfect storm.”15
And like Moore’s Devil Grass, the invaders defy human will. “Management actions such as thinning and prescribed fire, often designed to alleviate threats related to wildfires, may also exacerbate grass invasion and increase fine fuels, with potential landscape scale consequences that are largely underrecognized,” the group reported. In other words, some of the textbook prescriptions for reducing fire hazards may only reproduce them in a new form—something that is poorly understood by public officials.16
This is the Achilles’ heel of the emergency legislation that California Senator Dianne Feinstein, with the support of the state’s governor, Gavin Newsom, is trying to push through Congress. The bill would override federal environmental regulations to accelerate the removal of dead trees and the clearance of chaparral and brush—yet the cleared landscapes would be inviting to bromes, which have the ability to generate huge fuel loads annually. (Also the deadwood would presumably be burned, contrary to carbon reduction mandates.)17
Only a sustained annual effort to reduce grass biomass reseeding—something that would require a large army of full-time forest workers and the cooperation of landowners—could, theoretically, postpone the weed apocalypse. It would also require a moratorium on new construction as well as on postfire rebuilding in the most hazardous areas, measures that are hardly palatable in the state capital, Sacramento, even in the era of a Democratic supermajority.18
After every fire emergency, Newsom and other liberals call for urgent action to reduce emissions. But in doing so, they deliberately elide the question of what needs to be done on the ground, here and now. Such an agenda would have to directly confront the sprawl along what fire experts label the wildland-urban interface.19
A large share of new housing in California over the past 20 years has been built, profitably but insanely, in high-fire-risk areas like the Sierra foothills. By one estimate, a quarter of the state’s population now lives in these interface areas—with scores of new developments and master-planned communities in the pipeline. (In San Diego County alone, supervisors recently approved 10,000 new homes in extreme-fire-hazard locations in the backcountry.) Since 40 percent of the state’s 33 million acres of forest are privately owned (57 percent is federal land, and only 3 percent under state or local control), there are few constraints on future development.20
The expansion of the residential frontier into disaster-prone landscapes isn’t just a California trend; think of the building boom on Atlantic and Gulf Coast barrier islands that become submerged in hurricane storm surges. According to geographers Laura Taylor and Patrick Hurley, “Despite the common perception that the United States has become a ‘suburban nation,’ exurbia has emerged as the dominant settlement pattern across the country, characterized by different patterns of development and different lifestyle expectations from cities, towns, and suburbs, with houses in scenic, natural areas on relatively large acreages (often with one house per 10, 20, or 40 acres or more).”21
But there are two very different kinds of migrants to the exurbs. Some, like the inhabitants of Paradise, the Sierra foothill city incinerated in 2018, are rent refugees from the state’s housing crisis or ordinary folks, especially retirees, who want to own a tiny piece of California’s beauty. But they are minor players compared with the influx of wealth from the coast. Rural areas that were once ruggedly blue-collar and derided as “Appalachia” (an insult long attached to eastern San Diego County, where I grew up) now boast starter castles, high-end subdivisions, and spa retreats. From Mendocino on the north coast to the San Diego mountains in the south, upper 5 percent migration has been gentrifying the urban hinterlands, especially those areas with high-value amenities like ocean views, wineries, and forest lakes.22
An equally prized amenity is their racial homogeneity. “Exurbanization” is often a euphemism for white flight from metropolitan diversity. As California’s suburbs turn Technicolor and become more Democratic, the exurbs (with some exceptions) are hard-core Donald Trump country and are fiercely anti-government—except in fire season. One of their leading voices was Duncan Hunter Jr., now on his way from Congress to prison, who represented the exurban corridor along I-15 from San Diego to Riverside. For years he fought restrictions on backcountry development with the same zeal that he opposed Latino immigrants and unions.23
This is a mindset, blind to the consequences, that allies itself with the botanical counterrevolution. Relentless land clearance and home construction fragment habitats, introduce myriad fire ignition sources, and promote weed invasion. Yet the newcomers are unwilling to pay taxes for increased fire protection—and raise hell when foresters attempt prescribed burns. Meanwhile, shorthanded fire crews are under tremendous pressure to defend individual homesites, which has led to increased deaths and injuries.24
Exurbanites seem incapable of learning the obvious lessons from recent megafires. In 2003 a firestorm destroyed more than 1,000 homes in the unincorporated towns of Alpine and Crest in the mountains east of San Diego. When I took a film crew there last year, the lost homes had been replaced by even larger ones, and residents assured us that thanks to brush clearance, the fire hazard had been mitigated. But the quest for defensible space, zealously marketed by developers and local officials, is a dangerous mirage. Firestorms that create their own tornadic weather systems and can hurl fiery debris a kilometer ahead of the flame front are not deterred by a 300-foot circumference of brush clearance or a few carefully watered beds of ice plant.25
How should we understand the large-scale ecological consequences of the invasive-grass and wildfire cycle? One perhaps surprising analogue is the aftermath of the firebombing of Germany during World War II. In the late 1940s the ruins of Berlin became a laboratory where natural scientists studied plant succession. The expectation was that the original vegetation of the region—oak woodlands and their shrubs—would soon reestablish itself. To the scientists’ horror, this was not the case. Instead escaped exotics, some of them rare garden plants, established themselves as the new dominants.26
The botanists continued their studies until the last bomb sites were cleared in the 1980s. The persistence of this dead-zone vegetation and the failure of the plants of the Pomeranian woodlands to reestablish themselves prompted a debate about Nature II. The contention was that the extreme heat from firebombing and the pulverization of brick structures had created a soil type that invited colonization by rugged plants such as tree of heaven (Ailanthus altissima) that had evolved on the moraines of Pleistocene ice sheets. An all-out nuclear war, they warned, might reproduce these conditions on a vast scale.27
Fire in the Anthropocene has become the physical equivalent of nuclear war. In the aftermath of Victoria’s Black Saturday fires in early 2009, Australian scientists calculated that their released energy equaled 1,500 Hiroshima-size explosions. Even greater energy has produced the pyrocumulus plumes that for weeks have towered over Northern California and Oregon. Likewise the toxic orange fog that shrouded the Bay Area for weeks might be considered a miniature nuclear winter.28
As a result, a new, profoundly sinister nature is rapidly emerging from our fire rubble at the expense of landscapes we once considered sacred. Our imaginations can barely encompass the speed or scale of the catastrophe.29


thenation--2020-09-16--‘We Are Civilization’s Anchor. We Are the Compass for Humanity and Conscience.’

hiladelphia—Philadelphia has always been my home .
“ Born and raised ” is what we say .
I ’ d like to imagine that there is something about this area that has always acted as a magnet for cultural and social revolution .
Our nation was partly born here .
Over hundreds of years , there have been many moments of explosive clarity and solace in this city .
We are no strangers to armed revolt and violent government oppression .
We also have more art and natural open space than most cities .
Thousands of murals adorn walls , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and two rivers run through it , the Schuylkill and the Delaware .
The area around the Delaware River is one of the largest estuaries in the United States , where many waters meet and funnel out into the sea—an environmental transition zone where , even now , there is sailing and shipbuilding along the waters .
More in this series The life of the city has changed during the pandemic .
There are more murders ; there are more overdoses ; there is more death .
There is also somehow more @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sisterly affection .
It is dangerous to be near one another .
Yet still , we comfort those in need , we feed one another , we rely on one another .
The importance of the connections we make every day anchor us to this place and to each other .
Philadelphia has always had its confines and places of refuge .
Mine is the New Jersey shore .
I know I ’ m luckier than most .
Though we all live less than an hour ’ s drive from the beckoning shore @ @ @ @ @ @ @ my fellow Philadelphians will go their entire lives without setting foot on the beach .
In good years , I ’ ve gone to the ocean more than once .
Floating in the saltwater , I am adrift , but at peace .
Once there was a time when boatloads of people came to our ports , looking upon this land after being out to sea for so long .
That port became a destination of restaurants and newly designed piers .
Now , some places are nearly abandoned while others thrive .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
We must remake connection before any more get caught up in the currents and swept out to sea .
In the 1960s , Paul Robeson moved to Philadelphia .
He was ill and came to live here in the care of his sister , Marian Forsythe , with whom he stayed in relative seclusion for the remainder of his life .
“ Artists are the gatekeepers of truth.
” Robeson once said .
“ We are civilization ’ s anchor .
We are the compass for humanity and conscience.
” Last week @ @ @ @ @ @ @ you connected to ?
My answer was water , and the peace I feel floating .
Then I was asked : What is your anchor ?
I was not sure .
Being held down with too much weight has never been enticing .
But I thought of Robeson ’ s meditation on art , and the words I use to set my place .
And I thought of this city , the volatile fragility , the intense beauty .
The place I have called home my entire life .
Stability has so often @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that makes me feel as if , even in the depths , I have an anchor within me ; as if I was always being prepared for where we all are right now , alone at sea , lighting up signals in the dark .
Scenes From a Pandemic is a collaboration between The Nation and Kopkind , a living memorial to radical journalist Andrew Kopkind , who from 1982–94 was the magazine ’ s chief political writer and analyst .
This series of dispatches from Kopkind ’ s far-flung network of participants @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is edited by Nation contributor and Kopkind program director JoAnn Wypijewski , and appears weekly on thenation.com and kopkind.org .

P hiladelphia—Philadelphia has always been my home. “Born and raised” is what we say.
I’d like to imagine that there is something about this area that has always acted as a magnet for cultural and social revolution. Our nation was partly born here. Over hundreds of years, there have been many moments of explosive clarity and solace in this city.
We are no strangers to armed revolt and violent government oppression. We also have more art and natural open space than most cities. Thousands of murals adorn walls, more than any city in the world, and two rivers run through it, the Schuylkill and the Delaware.
The area around the Delaware River is one of the largest estuaries in the United States, where many waters meet and funnel out into the sea—an environmental transition zone where, even now, there is sailing and shipbuilding along the waters. Scenes From a Pandemic Untethered, or The Year of Living Virtually Patricia J. Williams The Art of the Meal Mary Lewis Maybe We Shouldn’t Go Back to Normal Bri M.
The life of the city has changed during the pandemic. There are more murders; there are more overdoses; there is more death. There is also somehow more hope, more brotherly love, and sisterly affection.
It is dangerous to be near one another.
Yet still, we comfort those in need, we feed one another, we rely on one another. The importance of the connections we make every day anchor us to this place and to each other.
Philadelphia has always had its confines and places of refuge. Mine is the New Jersey shore. I know I’m luckier than most. Though we all live less than an hour’s drive from the beckoning shore of the Atlantic Ocean, some of my fellow Philadelphians will go their entire lives without setting foot on the beach.
In good years, I’ve gone to the ocean more than once. Floating in the saltwater, I am adrift, but at peace.
Once there was a time when boatloads of people came to our ports, looking upon this land after being out to sea for so long. That port became a destination of restaurants and newly designed piers. Now, some places are nearly abandoned while others thrive.
The same is true for the people. We must remake connection before any more get caught up in the currents and swept out to sea.
In the 1960s, Paul Robeson moved to Philadelphia. He was ill and came to live here in the care of his sister, Marian Forsythe, with whom he stayed in relative seclusion for the remainder of his life.
“Artists are the gatekeepers of truth.” Robeson once said. “We are civilization’s anchor. We are the compass for humanity and conscience.”
Last week, I was asked: What are you connected to? My answer was water, and the peace I feel floating.
Then I was asked: What is your anchor? I was not sure. Being held down with too much weight has never been enticing.
But I thought of Robeson’s meditation on art, and the words I use to set my place. And I thought of this city, the volatile fragility, the intense beauty. The place I have called home my entire life.
Stability has so often escaped me. Yet there is something that makes me feel as if, even in the depths, I have an anchor within me; as if I was always being prepared for where we all are right now, alone at sea, lighting up signals in the dark.
Scenes From a Pandemic is a collaboration between The Nation and Kopkind, a living memorial to radical journalist Andrew Kopkind, who from 1982–94 was the magazine’s chief political writer and analyst. This series of dispatches from Kopkind’s far-flung network of participants, advisers, guests, and friends is edited by Nation contributor and Kopkind program director JoAnn Wypijewski, and appears weekly on thenation.com and kopkind.org.


thenation--2020-09-16--A Movement for Housing Justice Is Camped Out on Philly Streets

On the morning of September 9 , close to 200 people gathered at the intersection of 22nd Street and the Benjamin Franklin Parkway in Philadelphia and clustered between a group of police officers and city liaisons and a multicolored sprawl of dozens of camping tents .
It was supposed to be eviction day for the James Talib-Dean Encampment for Permanent Equal Housing , or Camp JTD , a site for the homeless and for protest , and these encampment residents , activists , organizers , and supporters were not going to let that happen .
The camp ’ s protectors @ @ @ @ @ @ @ encampment , and at around 9 am—the City-imposed deadline to vacate—they held a press conference .
Still wearing her protective goggles , Tanya Scott addressed reporters .
“ I don ’ t understand why [ the city is ] trying to remove us , ” she said , explaining that she had experienced homelessness on and off for four years .
“ What are we doing that ’ s so wrong ?
Are we invading your home ?
Are we disturbing your peace , your privacy ?
These people don ’ t have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ behind her .
“ This is more than just Black Lives Matter .
You got homeless people , you got LGBTQ , you got the whole motherfuckin ’ nation out here .
This to us , this is our family.
” The presence of so many people apparently spooked the police .
Officers left that morning , giving little indication of what they planned to do about the eviction order .
Organizers assumed they would return later that night , or perhaps early the next morning , so they urged those not residing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to come and go in shifts to ensure a constant , sizable assembly .
They were determined to preserve the space .
For Philadelphia , Camp JTD is where long-brewing , overlapping crises—the Covid-19 crisis , police brutality , and a lack of affordable and public housing—have boiled over .
It ’ s where years of housing rights activism and the energy of the ongoing protest movement against racism and policing have united .
In JTD , the city ’ s poor , homeless , young , Black , and left have found @ @ @ @ @ @ @ systems they experience and decry .
“ We ’ re not going anywhere , ” said Scott .
The group responsible for erecting Camp JTD , a small coalition known as Philadelphia Housing Action , formed this past winter , around the time local officials appeared to launch a campaign to dismantle homeless encampments around the city .
Some of the encampments had been around for years , according to activists , and provided many with an alternative to shelters and other homeless services that were inaccessible , overly strict , or , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ As the City destroyed residents ’ spaces and funneled some of them into forms of temporary housing that they had already rejected , it became clear that poor and homeless people urgently needed better alternatives .
“ What we really wanted was to have houses where people were building something that was their own , ” said Sterling Johnson , a housing lawyer and member of the Black and Brown Workers Cooperative , a Philadelphia-based direct action group .
So he and other activists began articulating demands for permanent housing—namely , the ownership @ @ @ @ @ @ @ empty Philadelphia Housing Authority–owned buildings to a community land trust .
The buildings would be occupied by members of the city ’ s largely Black poor and homeless population and administered by community committees .
Organizers say the community land trust idea is a rejection of the paternalism and policing that permeates government and nonprofit-run homeless services .
Entry logs , surveillance , security measures that remind people of jail , detox requirements for those with drug addictions— “ People don ’ t want to feel like they ’ re going to be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ If the only thing that you have for a person that ’ s poor and Black is an institution , that doesn ’ t make any sense .
Why can ’ t they just be free ?
They should be able to live in a house.
” As a step toward their goal of securing buildings for a community trust , Philadelphia Housing Action activists had to , as Johnson put it , “ have proof of concept.
” They researched squatting laws and tactics used by the National Union of the Homeless @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , when it staged housing takeovers in the 1980s and ’ 90s .
And in late March—as the City continued to destroy homeless encampments against the advice of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention—they began moving people into vacant small buildings owned by the municipal public housing authority .
They made repairs to about a dozen sites and helped register utilities for the 50 or so inhabitants , who have been living openly in the homes since .
How a Collective of Mothers Flipped the Script on Housing Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor Says There @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s Just Housing Under Capitalism ’ Activists in Philadelphia Have Reclaimed Control of the City ’ s Schools Then , as summer came around and the protest movement after the police killing of George Floyd grew , the time came for more visible activism .
Some organizers , including Johnson ’ s cousin James Talib-Dean Campbell , cofounder of Philadelphia ’ s Workers Revolutionary Collective , were especially keen on establishing an encampment—as a protest against the city ’ s housing and homelessness police , but also for homeless folks to have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ among and care for one another .
It was to be Philadelphia ’ s version of the autonomous zones that popped up across the country , like those in Seattle , New York City , and Los Angeles .
It was just Campbell and a few others who set up the encampment in front of a public baseball diamond on the parkway on June 10 .
But in a couple of weeks , as many as 200 people were staying there on a given night , according to organizers .
Donations poured in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , supplies , and Covid-19 testing .
Residents rigged electricity for charging stations , and tapped into public water sources for a piping system that runs through the trees and feeds the camp ’ s shower and three sanitation sinks .
Campbell wasn ’ t able to see all of this growth ; less than a week after setting up the first tents , he died of a drug overdose .
The surviving organizers named the space after him .
Even as the weeks went on and Camp JTD began to attract more @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it was clear to organizers that city officials were not taking their demands—particularly their demand for a community land trust—seriously .
So they again decided to escalate—with a second , smaller encampment .
Camp Teddy , named for a beloved encampment resident and protest chant leader , has routinely housed about two dozen people , and is located on a plot in North Philadelphia owned by the Philadelphia Housing Authority ( PHA ) .
It ’ s ringed by a makeshift fence made of wood pallets—a reluctant design choice resulting from the PHA @ @ @ @ @ @ @ encampment with bulldozers .
Nearby sits the new $ 45 million , 136,000 square foot glass PHA headquarters , which is surrounded by boarded up buildings , as well as some new units , styled in the cheap modernist designs of gentrification chic .
Camp Teddy ’ s setting illustrates why Philadelphia Housing Action is specifically targeting the PHA .
Whereas many cities ’ public housing takes the form of massive complexes , the PHA also owns thousands of “ scattered sites ” —small properties , including many of the boarded up North @ @ @ @ @ @ @ city .
These units , according to the PHA , are difficult to manage , and , since housing demand plummeted in the decades after the authority purchased them in the 1960s and ’ 70s , many have fallen into disrepair .
Today , poor people need those houses .
The PHA ’ s public housing waiting list—which has essentially been closed since 2013—has nearly 50,000 people on it .
And many more would apply if they were able .
Even before the pandemic , more than half a million Philadelphians lived in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ rent , and 69 percent of those households brought in less than $ 30,000 a year .
But the PHA doesn ’ t seem to be trying to boost public housing—in fact , it ’ s further privatizing the City ’ s stock by auctioning off vacant properties to private developers , while using eminent domain to gobble up space for large redevelopment projects that housing activists say will spur the displacement of low-income residents .
“ The housing authority is being utilized to refine our neighborhoods through gentrification , ” said Jennifer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Camp Teddy .
Bennetch has been fighting for years—attending board meetings , keeping lists of the PHA ’ s vacant properties , camping outside the PHA headquarters , and now facilitating the takeover of vacant PHA units—against what Philadelphia Housing Action sees as a city authority acting counter to its mission .
To organizers , the PHA ’ s approach to public housing represents exactly the kind of policies that stand in the way of housing liberation—and the encampments are only the most recent attempt to redirect its resources toward safe , permanent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The encampments are “ not something that just fell out of the air , ” Bennetch said .
“ The fight against this housing authority and its role in displacing Black and brown and poor people is years long , and this is the culminating point of it.
” The cops didn ’ t show up ( at least not in full force ) the night after last Wednesday ’ s eviction defense , as protectors kept lookout in the rain .
Nor did they show up the next morning .
Since then @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Teddy have been playing a cat and mouse game , with police and the PHA sending patrol cars , preparing floodlights , or showing other signs that raids are imminent , but not following through .
Nonresident protectors mostly went home after the initial defense , but groups quickly return when the camp sends out social media or text alerts .
Organizers have planned activities like movie nights and craft stations to build community during these tense days ( they half-trollingly invited Philadelphia Mayor Jim Kenney , who has labeled the encampments “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on Monday , to which he predictably didn ’ t show ) .
But the constant state of alarm the city is imposing upon the encampments is exhausting , and has put many residents on edge .
Irvin Murray , who left a crowded and strict shelter in early July to live at Camp JTD , is concerned about the future of the encampments .
But like many residents , he is still fully on board with the cause , including the community land trust .
“ The city is saying they don @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” he said .
“ We need that housing .
”

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On the morning of September 9, close to 200 people gathered at the intersection of 22nd Street and the Benjamin Franklin Parkway in Philadelphia and clustered between a group of police officers and city liaisons and a multicolored sprawl of dozens of camping tents. It was supposed to be eviction day for the James Talib-Dean Encampment for Permanent Equal Housing, or Camp JTD, a site for the homeless and for protest, and these encampment residents, activists, organizers, and supporters were not going to let that happen.
The camp’s protectors positioned barricades around the entrance to the encampment, and at around 9 am—the City-imposed deadline to vacate—they held a press conference. Still wearing her protective goggles, Tanya Scott addressed reporters. “I don’t understand why [the city is] trying to remove us,” she said, explaining that she had experienced homelessness on and off for four years. “What are we doing that’s so wrong? Are we invading your home? Are we disturbing your peace, your privacy? These people don’t have privacy.”
She gestured to the crowd behind her. “This is more than just Black Lives Matter. You got homeless people, you got LGBTQ, you got the whole motherfuckin’ nation out here. This to us, this is our family.”
The presence of so many people apparently spooked the police. Officers left that morning, giving little indication of what they planned to do about the eviction order. Organizers assumed they would return later that night, or perhaps early the next morning, so they urged those not residing at the camp to stay, or to come and go in shifts to ensure a constant, sizable assembly. They were determined to preserve the space.
For Philadelphia, Camp JTD is where long-brewing, overlapping crises—the Covid-19 crisis, police brutality, and a lack of affordable and public housing—have boiled over. It’s where years of housing rights activism and the energy of the ongoing protest movement against racism and policing have united. In JTD, the city’s poor, homeless, young, Black, and left have found a way to physically resist the violent systems they experience and decry.
“We’re not going anywhere,” said Scott.
The group responsible for erecting Camp JTD, a small coalition known as Philadelphia Housing Action, formed this past winter, around the time local officials appeared to launch a campaign to dismantle homeless encampments around the city. Some of the encampments had been around for years, according to activists, and provided many with an alternative to shelters and other homeless services that were inaccessible, overly strict, or, especially after Covid-19 hit, unsafe. As the City destroyed residents’ spaces and funneled some of them into forms of temporary housing that they had already rejected, it became clear that poor and homeless people urgently needed better alternatives. 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 Current Issue View our current issue
“What we really wanted was to have houses where people were building something that was their own,” said Sterling Johnson, a housing lawyer and member of the Black and Brown Workers Cooperative, a Philadelphia-based direct action group. So he and other activists began articulating demands for permanent housing—namely, the ownership transfer of some of the thousands of empty Philadelphia Housing Authority–owned buildings to a community land trust. The buildings would be occupied by members of the city’s largely Black poor and homeless population and administered by community committees.
Organizers say the community land trust idea is a rejection of the paternalism and policing that permeates government and nonprofit-run homeless services. Entry logs, surveillance, security measures that remind people of jail, detox requirements for those with drug addictions—“People don’t want to feel like they’re going to be institutionalized,” said Johnson. “If the only thing that you have for a person that’s poor and Black is an institution, that doesn’t make any sense. Why can’t they just be free? They should be able to live in a house.”
As a step toward their goal of securing buildings for a community trust, Philadelphia Housing Action activists had to, as Johnson put it, “have proof of concept.” They researched squatting laws and tactics used by the National Union of the Homeless, which had its roots in Philadelphia, when it staged housing takeovers in the 1980s and ’90s. And in late March—as the City continued to destroy homeless encampments against the advice of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention—they began moving people into vacant small buildings owned by the municipal public housing authority. They made repairs to about a dozen sites and helped register utilities for the 50 or so inhabitants, who have been living openly in the homes since. Related Articles How a Collective of Mothers Flipped the Script on Housing Jonny Coleman Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor Says There Is No Housing Crisis: ‘It’s Just Housing Under Capitalism’ Nawal Arjini Activists in Philadelphia Have Reclaimed Control of the City’s Schools Jimmy Tobias
Then, as summer came around and the protest movement after the police killing of George Floyd grew, the time came for more visible activism. Some organizers, including Johnson’s cousin James Talib-Dean Campbell, cofounder of Philadelphia’s Workers Revolutionary Collective, were especially keen on establishing an encampment—as a protest against the city’s housing and homelessness police, but also for homeless folks to have a safe, cop-free space to live among and care for one another. It was to be Philadelphia’s version of the autonomous zones that popped up across the country, like those in Seattle, New York City, and Los Angeles.
It was just Campbell and a few others who set up the encampment in front of a public baseball diamond on the parkway on June 10. But in a couple of weeks, as many as 200 people were staying there on a given night, according to organizers. Donations poured in, allowing the encampment to provide food, supplies, and Covid-19 testing. Residents rigged electricity for charging stations, and tapped into public water sources for a piping system that runs through the trees and feeds the camp’s shower and three sanitation sinks. Campbell wasn’t able to see all of this growth; less than a week after setting up the first tents, he died of a drug overdose. The surviving organizers named the space after him.
Even as the weeks went on and Camp JTD began to attract more attention from the press and public, it was clear to organizers that city officials were not taking their demands—particularly their demand for a community land trust—seriously. So they again decided to escalate—with a second, smaller encampment.
Camp Teddy, named for a beloved encampment resident and protest chant leader, has routinely housed about two dozen people, and is located on a plot in North Philadelphia owned by the Philadelphia Housing Authority (PHA). It’s ringed by a makeshift fence made of wood pallets—a reluctant design choice resulting from the PHA’s early attempt to raze the encampment with bulldozers. Nearby sits the new $45 million, 136,000 square foot glass PHA headquarters, which is surrounded by boarded up buildings, as well as some new units, styled in the cheap modernist designs of gentrification chic.
Camp Teddy’s setting illustrates why Philadelphia Housing Action is specifically targeting the PHA. Whereas many cities’ public housing takes the form of massive complexes, the PHA also owns thousands of “scattered sites”—small properties, including many of the boarded up North Philly buildings, dotting neighborhoods across the city. These units, according to the PHA, are difficult to manage, and, since housing demand plummeted in the decades after the authority purchased them in the 1960s and ’70s, many have fallen into disrepair.
Today, poor people need those houses. The PHA’s public housing waiting list—which has essentially been closed since 2013—has nearly 50,000 people on it. And many more would apply if they were able. Even before the pandemic, more than half a million Philadelphians lived in households that were “cost-burdened” by rent, and 69 percent of those households brought in less than $30,000 a year. But the PHA doesn’t seem to be trying to boost public housing—in fact, it’s further privatizing the City’s stock by auctioning off vacant properties to private developers, while using eminent domain to gobble up space for large redevelopment projects that housing activists say will spur the displacement of low-income residents.
“The housing authority is being utilized to refine our neighborhoods through gentrification,” said Jennifer Bennetch, founder of Occupy PHA and Camp Teddy. Bennetch has been fighting for years—attending board meetings, keeping lists of the PHA’s vacant properties, camping outside the PHA headquarters, and now facilitating the takeover of vacant PHA units—against what Philadelphia Housing Action sees as a city authority acting counter to its mission.
To organizers, the PHA’s approach to public housing represents exactly the kind of policies that stand in the way of housing liberation—and the encampments are only the most recent attempt to redirect its resources toward safe, permanent shelter for those who need it.
The encampments are “not something that just fell out of the air,” Bennetch said. “The fight against this housing authority and its role in displacing Black and brown and poor people is years long, and this is the culminating point of it.”
The cops didn’t show up (at least not in full force) the night after last Wednesday’s eviction defense, as protectors kept lookout in the rain. Nor did they show up the next morning. Since then, the city and Camps JTD and Teddy have been playing a cat and mouse game, with police and the PHA sending patrol cars, preparing floodlights, or showing other signs that raids are imminent, but not following through.
Nonresident protectors mostly went home after the initial defense, but groups quickly return when the camp sends out social media or text alerts. Organizers have planned activities like movie nights and craft stations to build community during these tense days (they half-trollingly invited Philadelphia Mayor Jim Kenney, who has labeled the encampments “hostile,” to a catered brunch on Monday, to which he predictably didn’t show). But the constant state of alarm the city is imposing upon the encampments is exhausting, and has put many residents on edge.
Irvin Murray, who left a crowded and strict shelter in early July to live at Camp JTD, is concerned about the future of the encampments. But like many residents, he is still fully on board with the cause, including the community land trust.
“The city is saying they don’t give a damn about us,” he said. “We need that housing.”


thenation--2020-09-16--Jails Are Designed to Keep Inmates Hidden

In New York , a city famous for its historic bridges , one in lower Manhattan escapes notice : a “ Bridge of Sighs ” at the Manhattan Detention Complex .
Known locally as “ the Tombs , ” the complex houses male detainees before they face trial .
It stands just south of Canal Street , abutted by Columbus Park and surrounded by a cluster of court houses and bail bond shops .
The “ Tombs ” sobriquet predates the current facility , stretching back to an earlier version of the jail : an Egyptian Revival–style building that stood @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Resembling an ancient tomb , it was immediately infamous .
When Charles Dickens visited in 1842 he concluded with horror , “ Such indecent and disgusting dungeons as these cells , would bring disgrace upon the most despotic empire in the world !
” Chronically plagued by violence and brutal conditions , the Tombs has been demolished and rebuilt or remodeled four times around its original site .
Every version of the Tombs has had a bridge .
They ’ ve served a variety of functions , most infamously to deliver prisoners @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the gallows in the 19th century .
Today , a pedestrian bridge spans White Street , joining the Manhattan Detention Complex ’ s North and South towers .
From the street , one can see people crossing the bridge behind thick glass .
Like the Bureau of Prisons , the NYC Department of Correction goes to great lengths to keep inmates out of sight and mind , particularly during the pandemic , when facilities have been under varying degrees of lockdown .
The skybridge is an exception , allowing a fleeting look inside @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the day , but when the bridge is illuminated at night , the shadowy forms become clearer .
The glass is too distorting to make out details or facial expressions ; instead , gaits , gestures and patches of color come into focus .
Inmates in tan jumpsuits are escorted across the bridge at half speed , strictly spaced and trailed by a guard in blue .
Sometimes they run a hand along the glass or stretch to touch the ceiling .
Police and Department of Correction Emergency Service Unit officers cross the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ white walk with purpose .
A custodian pushing a cart streaks by .
Masks in white , black , and pale blue are distinguishable as smudges .
The rhythm of the bridge becomes predictable and monotonous , broken only when an inmate looks out the window .

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In New York, a city famous for its historic bridges, one in lower Manhattan escapes notice: a “Bridge of Sighs” at the Manhattan Detention Complex.
Known locally as “the Tombs,” the complex houses male detainees before they face trial. It stands just south of Canal Street, abutted by Columbus Park and surrounded by a cluster of court houses and bail bond shops. The “Tombs” sobriquet predates the current facility, stretching back to an earlier version of the jail: an Egyptian Revival–style building that stood across the street from 1838 to 1902. Resembling an ancient tomb, it was immediately infamous. When Charles Dickens visited in 1842 he concluded with horror, “Such indecent and disgusting dungeons as these cells, would bring disgrace upon the most despotic empire in the world!” Chronically plagued by violence and brutal conditions, the Tombs has been demolished and rebuilt or remodeled four times around its original site.
Every version of the Tombs has had a bridge. They’ve served a variety of functions, most infamously to deliver prisoners on death row from their cells to the gallows in the 19th century. Today, a pedestrian bridge spans White Street, joining the Manhattan Detention Complex’s North and South towers. From the street, one can see people crossing the bridge behind thick glass.
Like the Bureau of Prisons, the NYC Department of Correction goes to great lengths to keep inmates out of sight and mind, particularly during the pandemic, when facilities have been under varying degrees of lockdown. The skybridge is an exception, allowing a fleeting look inside. Figures appear fuzzy and distorted during the day, but when the bridge is illuminated at night, the shadowy forms become clearer. The glass is too distorting to make out details or facial expressions; instead, gaits, gestures and patches of color come into focus. Inmates in tan jumpsuits are escorted across the bridge at half speed, strictly spaced and trailed by a guard in blue. Sometimes they run a hand along the glass or stretch to touch the ceiling. Police and Department of Correction Emergency Service Unit officers cross the bridge casually, unhurried. Nurses in white walk with purpose. A custodian pushing a cart streaks by. Masks in white, black, and pale blue are distinguishable as smudges. The rhythm of the bridge becomes predictable and monotonous, broken only when an inmate looks out the window.
(Hannah La Follette Ryan)
(Hannah La Follette Ryan)
(Hannah La Follette Ryan)
(Hannah La Follette Ryan)
(Hannah La Follette Ryan)
(Hannah La Follette Ryan)


thenation--2020-09-15--Why Are Democratic Super PACs Wasting Millions?

Why do we settle for mediocrity when we should be insisting on excellence ?
Having spent the past few weeks working on a report card grading the Democratic super PACs and the more than $ 600 million they ’ re planning to spend on the fall elections , my main takeaway is that we tolerate far too much mediocrity in progressive politics .
The grades given in the report cards span the spectrum from D+ and C- ( American Bridge 21st Century and Senate Majority PAC ) to A and A- ( Fair Fight , Next Gen Climate Action , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and the underlying analysis clearly shows that tens of millions of dollars are being wasted on spending strategies that are unsupported by—if not directly contradictory to—what the empirical evidence says we should be doing .
A summary chart is below , and you can read the full report here .
Beyond the specific grades of the particular groups is the much larger issue of how low the standards of excellence are in political investing .
From minimal transparency and accountability about strategy and spending to the incorrect and inadequate use of data to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ communities they are targeting , progressives fall far short of proven best practices .
This reality is problematic enough when super PACs are being entrusted with the smart spending of hundreds of millions of dollars , but the situation is especially dire when those dollars needed influence an election where millions of lives are in peril depending on who wins in November .
Transparency and accountability are cornerstones of any high-functioning organization .
By clearly and forthrightly articulating a plan of action , the underlying rationale for that plan , and the expected @ @ @ @ @ @ @ can avail themselves of the best thinking , insight , and feedback from their critical stakeholders .
Democrats Won Virginia by Investing in People of Color As Starbucks expanded globally , for example , the company realized that its success was predicated on being open to and receiving feedback from a broad cross section of interested parties .
Former Starbucks CEO Howard Schultz explained , “ We ’ re…trusting that the people in the marketplace know better than the people in [ the headquarters in ] Seattle.
” If you invest $ 100 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ two shares of stock and then you will receive quarterly reports about the company ’ s revenue and expenses , plans and strategy for the next year , and an extensive narrative report from the management discussing and analyzing how things have been going .
If you invest $ 1 million in a Democratic super PAC , on the other hand , you generally get no further updates , plans , explanations , or written analyses ( I happen to know people who have , in fact , made million-dollar contributions to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Those wanting to know how their money is being spent are forced to scour Federal Election Commission filings , read between the lines of vague e-mails and press releases , and piece together whatever information they can find from friends or on the Internet .
If they ’ re lucky—and rich enough—they might get a call from a super PAC ’ s principal offering a general oral explanation , but rarely are written plans or election debriefs offered .
Notably , Barack Obama ’ s 2008 candidacy was quite transparent , as campaign @ @ @ @ @ @ @ strategy and plans via YouTube .
Perplexingly , no one has carried on this tradition in the progressive ecosystem .
As a result , the decisions about how to spend hundreds of millions of dollars are made by a tiny handful of people who are insulated from the kinds of meaningful feedback and accountability that sharpen , refine , and improve an organization ’ s plans and operations .
This is no way to run a railroad , let alone a political party .
One would think that progressive millionaires would insist on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that they receive for their investments in the private sector , but they don ’ t .
And it ’ s not just millionaires .
Much of the money that flows to progressive organizations comes through small-dollar donations from ordinary people .
These folks are investors too , and they deserve better .
The whole movement deserves better .
When big decisions are made by a small group of people who are shielded from scrutiny , it can result in the kinds of methodological sloppiness , intellectual laziness , and political plans that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Effective organizations root their decision-making in rigorous data analysis about what works and what doesn ’ t , which markets to target and which ones to avoid .
If you ’ re selling Black hair-care products , for example , it doesn ’ t make sense to blanket white neighborhoods with advertising for Afro Sheen .
Democrats need to flip four Republican-held seats in order to gain control of the US Senate .
A data-driven approach to determining where to concentrate resources to achieve that goal should analyze and incorporate multiple , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the 2016 election , competitiveness of the 2018 mid-terms , recent changes in the composition of the eligible electorate , and current polling data .
Such an analysis would logically lead to placing Georgia in the top tier of target states , especially since the Peach State has two Republican-held Senate seats on the ballot this year , effectively creating a “ two for one ” opportunity in terms of dollars invested in boosting Democratic voter turnout .
Despite this clear road map revealed by the underlying data , the largest Democratic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had invested $ 0 in winning Georgia as of August 1 , while plowing $ 8 million into the contest in Iowa ( in September , Senate Majority PAC did begin making some investments in one of the Georgia races ) .
The following table comparing the respective states shows how the Iowa investment—and the Georgia omission—are completely unsupported by the underlying data .
Reflect and Know Your Target Market In successful organizations , the leadership and management have real and deep insight into the minds of the people who comprise their core @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lived experience and accumulated knowledge to develop carefully targeted strategies and plans .
Apple , for example , sells more iPhones in China—the largest market in the world—than it does in the United States .
It ’ s no accident that the head of its China operation , Isabel Ge Mahe , comes from China , knows the people , and speaks the language .
Cultural competence and experiential insight are critical components of success .
In the Democratic ecosystem , nearly half of all Democratic voters are people of color ; logic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the people in leadership come from those cultural communities .
Unfortunately , the near-apartheid state of the top of the Democratic ecosystem sadly persists .
Of the 10 largest Democratic super PACs , nine are run by Caucasians , little improved over the state of affairs I flagged in the wake of the 2016 election debacle .
And this despite the widespread protestations of fealty to diversity and people of color that freely flowed a few months ago in the wake of the murders of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor .
As @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , but actions are better .
In terms of smart spending in order to win critical elections that depend on large and enthusiastic support from people of color , giving check-writing authority to people who come from the communities being targeted is the best course of action .
The world is falling apart around us , and people are counting on progressives to win this election and pave the path for the kinds of large-scale changes this country ’ s multiple crises demand .
The forces arrayed against us are enormous and ferocious @ @ @ @ @ @ @ top of our game in order to prevail .
That means embracing and adopting best practices in how we spend the hundreds of millions of dollars that people are entrusting to the leaders of the Democratic Party and its allied super PACs .
The times demand excellence .
Mediocrity is unacceptable .

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Why do we settle for mediocrity when we should be insisting on excellence? Having spent the past few weeks working on a report card grading the Democratic super PACs and the more than $600 million they’re planning to spend on the fall elections, my main takeaway is that we tolerate far too much mediocrity in progressive politics.
The grades given in the report cards span the spectrum from D+ and C- (American Bridge 21st Century and Senate Majority PAC) to A and A- (Fair Fight, Next Gen Climate Action, and the Progressive Turnout Project), and the underlying analysis clearly shows that tens of millions of dollars are being wasted on spending strategies that are unsupported by—if not directly contradictory to—what the empirical evidence says we should be doing. A summary chart is below, and you can read the full report here.
Beyond the specific grades of the particular groups is the much larger issue of how low the standards of excellence are in political investing. From minimal transparency and accountability about strategy and spending to the incorrect and inadequate use of data to elevating leaders with little insight into the communities they are targeting, progressives fall far short of proven best practices. This reality is problematic enough when super PACs are being entrusted with the smart spending of hundreds of millions of dollars, but the situation is especially dire when those dollars needed influence an election where millions of lives are in peril depending on who wins in November.
Transparency and Accountability
Transparency and accountability are cornerstones of any high-functioning organization. By clearly and forthrightly articulating a plan of action, the underlying rationale for that plan, and the expected outcomes, an organization and its leaders can avail themselves of the best thinking, insight, and feedback from their critical stakeholders. Related Article Democrats Won Virginia by Investing in People of Color Steve Phillips
As Starbucks expanded globally, for example, the company realized that its success was predicated on being open to and receiving feedback from a broad cross section of interested parties. Former Starbucks CEO Howard Schultz explained, “We’re…trusting that the people in the marketplace know better than the people in [the headquarters in] Seattle.”
If you invest $100 in Coca-Cola company, you will get two shares of stock and then you will receive quarterly reports about the company’s revenue and expenses, plans and strategy for the next year, and an extensive narrative report from the management discussing and analyzing how things have been going. If you invest $1 million in a Democratic super PAC, on the other hand, you generally get no further updates, plans, explanations, or written analyses (I happen to know people who have, in fact, made million-dollar contributions to the party and its super PACs). 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
Those wanting to know how their money is being spent are forced to scour Federal Election Commission filings, read between the lines of vague e-mails and press releases, and piece together whatever information they can find from friends or on the Internet. If they’re lucky—and rich enough—they might get a call from a super PAC’s principal offering a general oral explanation, but rarely are written plans or election debriefs offered. Current Issue View our current issue
Notably, Barack Obama’s 2008 candidacy was quite transparent, as campaign manager David Plouffe gave regular updates on strategy and plans via YouTube. Perplexingly, no one has carried on this tradition in the progressive ecosystem. As a result, the decisions about how to spend hundreds of millions of dollars are made by a tiny handful of people who are insulated from the kinds of meaningful feedback and accountability that sharpen, refine, and improve an organization’s plans and operations.
This is no way to run a railroad, let alone a political party. One would think that progressive millionaires would insist on the same kinds of transparency and accountability that they receive for their investments in the private sector, but they don’t. And it’s not just millionaires. Much of the money that flows to progressive organizations comes through small-dollar donations from ordinary people. These folks are investors too, and they deserve better. The whole movement deserves better.
Data-Driven Decision-Making
When big decisions are made by a small group of people who are shielded from scrutiny, it can result in the kinds of methodological sloppiness, intellectual laziness, and political plans that are based on feelings and not facts. Effective organizations root their decision-making in rigorous data analysis about what works and what doesn’t, which markets to target and which ones to avoid. If you’re selling Black hair-care products, for example, it doesn’t make sense to blanket white neighborhoods with advertising for Afro Sheen.
Democrats need to flip four Republican-held seats in order to gain control of the US Senate. A data-driven approach to determining where to concentrate resources to achieve that goal should analyze and incorporate multiple, state-based data points, including the closeness of the 2016 election, competitiveness of the 2018 mid-terms, recent changes in the composition of the eligible electorate, and current polling data. Such an analysis would logically lead to placing Georgia in the top tier of target states, especially since the Peach State has two Republican-held Senate seats on the ballot this year, effectively creating a “two for one” opportunity in terms of dollars invested in boosting Democratic voter turnout.
Despite this clear road map revealed by the underlying data, the largest Democratic super PAC, Senate Majority PAC, had invested $0 in winning Georgia as of August 1, while plowing $8 million into the contest in Iowa (in September, Senate Majority PAC did begin making some investments in one of the Georgia races). The following table comparing the respective states shows how the Iowa investment—and the Georgia omission—are completely unsupported by the underlying data.
Reflect and Know Your Target Market
In successful organizations, the leadership and management have real and deep insight into the minds of the people who comprise their core market. Those managers draw on their lived experience and accumulated knowledge to develop carefully targeted strategies and plans. Apple, for example, sells more iPhones in China—the largest market in the world—than it does in the United States. It’s no accident that the head of its China operation, Isabel Ge Mahe, comes from China, knows the people, and speaks the language. Cultural competence and experiential insight are critical components of success.
In the Democratic ecosystem, nearly half of all Democratic voters are people of color; logic would therefore dictate that a commensurate percentage of the people in leadership come from those cultural communities. Unfortunately, the near-apartheid state of the top of the Democratic ecosystem sadly persists. Of the 10 largest Democratic super PACs, nine are run by Caucasians, little improved over the state of affairs I flagged in the wake of the 2016 election debacle. And this despite the widespread protestations of fealty to diversity and people of color that freely flowed a few months ago in the wake of the murders of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor.
Clockwise, from upper left, J. B. Poersch of Senate Majority PAC; Abby Curran Horrell of House Majority PAC; Stephanie Schriock of Emily’s List; Alex Morgan of Progressive Turnout Project; Guy Cecil of Priorities USA; Stacey Abrams of Fair Fight, Tom Steyer of NextGen America; Steve Schale of Unite the Country; Gene Karpinski of the League of Conservation Voters; and Bradley Beychok of American Bridge
As a general principle, words are nice, but actions are better. In terms of smart spending in order to win critical elections that depend on large and enthusiastic support from people of color, giving check-writing authority to people who come from the communities being targeted is the best course of action.
The world is falling apart around us, and people are counting on progressives to win this election and pave the path for the kinds of large-scale changes this country’s multiple crises demand. The forces arrayed against us are enormous and ferocious, so we must be at the top of our game in order to prevail. That means embracing and adopting best practices in how we spend the hundreds of millions of dollars that people are entrusting to the leaders of the Democratic Party and its allied super PACs. The times demand excellence. Mediocrity is unacceptable.


thenation--2020-09-15--It’s Going to Be a Long November

It’s Going to Be a Long November

EDITOR ’ S NOTE : Each week we cross-post an excerpt from Katrina vanden Heuvel ’ s column at the WashingtonPost.com .
Read the full text of Katrina ’ s column here .
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Twenty years ago , this country faced @ @ @ @ @ @ @ unprepared .
The Democratic campaign had no what-if plan in 2000 .
Ultimately , all it took to seal our nation ’ s fate was the Republican Party shutting down the Miami-Dade recount .
That can ’ t be allowed to happen again .
With many states navigating newly expanded mail-in voting procedures and potentially record-breaking voter turnout , election officials are anticipating significant delays—and results could still be questioned .
“ We are in one of the most perilous and fraught moments for American democracy since the mid-19th century , ” Chris @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for The Nation .
If 2020 has taught us anything , it ’ s that we must prepare for all outcomes .
Read the full text of Katrina ’ s column here .

EDITOR’S NOTE: Each week we cross-post an excerpt from Katrina vanden Heuvel’s column at the WashingtonPost.com. Read the full text of Katrina’s column here.
Subscribe to The Nation Subscribe now for as little as $2 a month! Subscribe now for as little as $2 a month!
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Twenty years ago, this country faced a drawn-out electoral dilemma—and we were woefully unprepared. The Democratic campaign had no what-if plan in 2000. Ultimately, all it took to seal our nation’s fate was the Republican Party shutting down the Miami-Dade recount.
That can’t be allowed to happen again.
With many states navigating newly expanded mail-in voting procedures and potentially record-breaking voter turnout, election officials are anticipating significant delays—and results could still be questioned.
“We are in one of the most perilous and fraught moments for American democracy since the mid-19th century,” Chris Hayes told me in a recent interview for The Nation.
If 2020 has taught us anything, it’s that we must prepare for all outcomes.
Read the full text of Katrina’s column here.