motherjones--2020-08-25--How Feds and States Make It Impossible for Tribal Epidemiologists to Do Their Jobs

When the H1N1 pandemic struck in 2009 , epidemiologist Aurimar Ayala was working at the Maricopa County Public Health Department in Arizona .
The department serves millions of people in the greater Phoenix area and handles about 80,000 reports of communicable disease infections per year .
Each time someone in the county tested positive for the virus , Ayala ’ s team would see the result in a statewide data system , which included information allowing them to call patients and identify anyone they may have infected .
Though they couldn ’ t investigate each one , the team ended @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , helping them track and limit the virus ’ s spread through their county .
With that data , Ayala was able to do good epidemiology .
Today , she leads a similar team at the California Tribal Epidemiology Center , one of 12 offices serving Native American communities across the United States .
Yet in this role , her work is not so simple .
While both county health departments and tribal epidemiology centers ( TECs ) are classified as “ public health authorities ” eligible to receive sensitive data under federal @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shares its full infectious disease data with counties , leaving Ayala ’ s team to scrounge through the redacted data that ’ s publicly shared online .
Because that data omits names , phone numbers , and consistent race and ethnicity information , the TEC is “ completely unable ” to trace and contain COVID-19 outbreaks in the under-resourced tribes that rely on the center ’ s support , Ayala says .
“ We know we are missing a lot of communities that are seeing increased transmission.
” She ’ s not alone @ @ @ @ @ @ @ other communities of color bear the brunt of COVID-19 , tribal epidemiologists across the US are struggling to access potentially life-saving information : several of the 12 TECs have reported paltry responses to their requests for data .
These centers are prepared to fight the virus with public health messaging , contact tracing , and population surveillance in Native communities—if only they knew where to focus .
Without the data , the virus is allowed to spread not only within tribes , but throughout the general public as well .
And tribal advocates @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sovereignty and treaty rights ; some leaders are prepared to take legislative and legal action to get the information they need .
Tribal epidemiology centers were founded in 1996 to help Native communities measure the success of local health programs and track progress in meeting disease reduction goals set by Congress .
TECs function like other public health departments : They help tribes in their regions collect and analyze statistics on everything from COVID-19 and diabetes , to flu shots and dental care .
When a tribe is struggling with a health issue @ @ @ @ @ @ @ help fund a community-based intervention or identify which demographics are most affected .
TECs ’ important place in the health of Native communities was recognized in 2010 , when the Affordable Care Act designated tribal epidemiology centers as “ public health authorities ” for the first time .
Data is crucial to this work .
It is used to locate disease hot spots , track the spread of infections , and understand which health interventions are successful in specific communities .
When the Great Plains Tribal Epidemiology Center found high rates of substance @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reservations in 2017 , it worked with local officials to create culturally relevant behavioral health programs for Indigenous women leaving jail .
And when the Northwest Tribal Epidemiology Center identified that Native voices had not been heard in the input process used to establish Oregon ’ s statewide health priorities , it helped launch a survey to correct the under-representation .
TECs ’ data services help tribes address cancer rates , poor nutrition , falls among the elderly , and more .
But gathering data is harder than it seems , says Christy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ United South and Eastern Tribes TEC , which serves a population of more than 80,000 Native Americans in a region covering 13 states and more than 36 tribes .
That ’ s partly because Natives receive care from a patchwork of federal , tribal , and private facilities , many of which don ’ t share Native patients ’ results with TECs , if they identify Native patients at all .
When a patient is tested for the coronavirus , for instance , the lab sends their results to their state , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and the facility where the patient was seen .
Tribal-run facilities are likely to , in turn , report that result directly to their regional TEC .
But many Natives are seen at federal Indian Health Service clinics , which rely on a system that Duke describes as antiquated and hamstrung by lack of federal funding .
The computer software is clunky and difficult to use , and on top of that , IHS clinics don ’ t report directly to TECs but to the national IHS system ; cases are often missed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that regional reports from the IHS miss too many cases for good epidemiological analysis .
And if a Native patient is seen at a private facility , their result may never reach tribal epidemiologists at all .
Since such facilities are unlikely to be aware of , let alone report to , their regional TEC , their results often only end up in the hands of states and the CDC—which aren ’ t sharing critical information with tribal centers .
That ’ s been the experience of Abigail Echo-Hawk , who directs the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the 71 percent of Natives who live in cities .
Echo-Hawk says the CDC has given her team just a “ sliver ” of the COVID-19 data they ’ ve asked for .
In May , she and several members of her team had a conference call with the CDC ’ s Case Surveillance Task Force to discuss the data collection problems .
But in response to their requests , a member of the task force tried to explain basic epidemiology—to Echo-Hawk ’ s team of highly trained epidemiologists .
The incident exemplifies @ @ @ @ @ @ @ people are treated in this country , ” a major barrier to productive collaboration , says Echo-Hawk .
In an email she shared , sent two months after the call , a CDC staffer cited privacy concerns as their reason for withholding identifiable case information and said an agreement with the Council of State and Territorial Epidemiologists permits data be sent only to the Indian Health Service , which is not allowed to share it with others—even though , as Echo-Hawk points out , the CDC itself published a report stating the 2010 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ authorities ” removed all obstacles to giving them data .
Two CDC staff members disregarded appeals to this special legal status of TECs , and in May , one CDC epidemiologist asked Echo-Hawk if data collection was an issue for other TECs , blatantly unaware of the huge frustrations shared nationwide .
( The CDC did not return a request for comment . )
Echo-Hawk could be using that information to identify where Native-specific interventions are needed to stop the virus ’ s spread .
“ I have one of the best teams @ @ @ @ @ @ @ analysis , ” she says .
“ If they could just do that , and I could just direct that—instead of having to spend all this time fighting for the data—how much more could we be doing for our communities ?
” Some tribal centers have data-sharing agreements with state and local agencies , and they all get some information from the CDC and IHS .
But there are often unexplained discrepancies , such as when the CDC recently reported 49 new deaths of American Indians and Alaska Natives in California for a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Another problem is the rampant misclassification of Indigenous people in health records .
The Northwest Portland Area Indian Health Board found about half of Natives were wrongly identified ( most often as “ white ” ) by hospitals in Washington and Oregon , a figure corroborated by a national CDC analysis of death certificates .
When Native communities are under-represented in statistics , they don ’ t receive enough funding or PPE .
“ How is it even possible that our policymakers are making data-driven decisions for allocation of resources when their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Echo-Hawk .
With better data and more access to the raw data , Duke , of the United South and Eastern Tribes TEC , says her center could help its communities create targeted health messaging , apply for grants , and replace ineffective pandemic response programs with those more likely to succeed .
Ayala could leverage her decade of experience to do contact tracing and real-time surveillance instead of lagging behind the curve .
But the CDC won ’ t trust her or other TECs with the names or contact info of patients @ @ @ @ @ @ @ its epidemiologists said that “ to capture outcomes more accurately , ” it could only share month-old data .
It ’ s not just a matter of making life harder for Native epidemiologists : They argue that the federal government has a Constitutional obligation to collect and share this data .
That ’ s because in acquiring Indigenous lands , US leaders inked hundreds of treaties promising to provide basic services , including health care , to tribes .
These treaties led to the creation of the federal IHS , which along with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ free health services .
Yet report after report shows Congress failing to support Native health .
In 2015 , the National Congress of American Indians estimated that the IHS receives less than 60 percent of the money it needs to support its basic services .
This year , the agency ’ s own workgroup found its $ 6 billion budget would have to be increased eightfold to bring Native health care into parity with the rest of the country ’ s .
( The CARES Act gave the IHS an extra $ 1 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Indian Country with an almost total lack of pandemic response infrastructure , says Oglala Lakota doctor Donald Warne , director of the University of North Dakota ’ s Indigenous Health program .
“ Most of it needs to be built from the ground up.
” Tribal epidemiology centers , Warne says , would be a good place to start .
Even pre-pandemic , Indigenous leaders argued that data sovereignty , the ability to both access and control the release of data about their populations , is already implied in their hard-won legal rights @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in South Dakota , where Gov .
Kristi Noem is pushing two Lakota tribes to dismantle health checkpoints on their reservation borders .
She says it ’ s illegal for them to slow traffic on state and federal highways , while tribes say the checkpoints have protected their communities from the kind of disastrous outbreak faced by the Navajo .
In a pending federal lawsuit , the Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe holds that efforts to stop the checkpoints infringe on their right to govern their people and lands as a sovereign nation .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ taking legal action to access disease data , especially after CDC Director Robert Redfield testified before a House Committee on June 23 that centers would get what they requested “ within the next one to two weeks.
” ( They still haven ’ t . )
Litigation “ shouldn ’ t be our only option , ” says Echo-Hawk .
“ But it might be.
” Meanwhile , eight senators and twelve representatives signed a July letter asking Redfield and the secretary of Health and Human Services to improve data-sharing with TECs , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ House coalition introduced legislation to force action on the issue within 30 days .
The centers “ should be spoken in the same breath as the CDC and state and local health departments , ” says Duke .
She ’ s grateful that the United South and East Tribes TEC received $ 2 million of CARES Act funding for the next two years of pandemic response , but it ’ s not enough to build the long-term infrastructure they ’ d need for any future crisis .
Just two staff members support health @ @ @ @ @ @ @ center ’ s 13-state region ; with more funding , Duke envisions a much greater effort , with initiatives like mentoring Indigenous youth for careers in health .
Like Echo-Hawk , Ayala says red tape shouldn ’ t be obstructing efforts to save Indigenous lives .
California health officials “ need to recognize that tribes were here before the state was here , [ and ] should be part of the conversation , ” she says .
“ This is an emergency .
I don ’ t need data five years after the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I need it yesterday .
”

When the H1N1 pandemic struck in 2009, epidemiologist Aurimar Ayala was working at the Maricopa County Public Health Department in Arizona. The department serves millions of people in the greater Phoenix area and handles about 80,000 reports of communicable disease infections per year. Each time someone in the county tested positive for the virus, Ayala’s team would see the result in a statewide data system, which included information allowing them to call patients and identify anyone they may have infected. Though they couldn’t investigate each one, the team ended up with a dataset of 6,000 cases, helping them track and limit the virus’s spread through their county. With that data, Ayala was able to do good epidemiology.
Today, she leads a similar team at the California Tribal Epidemiology Center, one of 12 offices serving Native American communities across the United States. Yet in this role, her work is not so simple. While both county health departments and tribal epidemiology centers (TECs) are classified as “public health authorities” eligible to receive sensitive data under federal law, the state of California only shares its full infectious disease data with counties, leaving Ayala’s team to scrounge through the redacted data that’s publicly shared online. Because that data omits names, phone numbers, and consistent race and ethnicity information, the TEC is “completely unable” to trace and contain COVID-19 outbreaks in the under-resourced tribes that rely on the center’s support, Ayala says. “We know we are missing a lot of communities that are seeing increased transmission.”
She’s not alone in her frustration. As Indigenous and other communities of color bear the brunt of COVID-19, tribal epidemiologists across the US are struggling to access potentially life-saving information: several of the 12 TECs have reported paltry responses to their requests for data. These centers are prepared to fight the virus with public health messaging, contact tracing, and population surveillance in Native communities—if only they knew where to focus. Without the data, the virus is allowed to spread not only within tribes, but throughout the general public as well. And tribal advocates say data withholding may violate tribes’ sovereignty and treaty rights; some leaders are prepared to take legislative and legal action to get the information they need.
Tribal epidemiology centers were founded in 1996 to help Native communities measure the success of local health programs and track progress in meeting disease reduction goals set by Congress. TECs function like other public health departments: They help tribes in their regions collect and analyze statistics on everything from COVID-19 and diabetes, to flu shots and dental care. When a tribe is struggling with a health issue, it might ask its TEC to help fund a community-based intervention or identify which demographics are most affected. TECs’ important place in the health of Native communities was recognized in 2010, when the Affordable Care Act designated tribal epidemiology centers as “public health authorities” for the first time.
Data is crucial to this work. It is used to locate disease hot spots, track the spread of infections, and understand which health interventions are successful in specific communities. When the Great Plains Tribal Epidemiology Center found high rates of substance abuse among incarcerated women from South Dakota reservations in 2017, it worked with local officials to create culturally relevant behavioral health programs for Indigenous women leaving jail. And when the Northwest Tribal Epidemiology Center identified that Native voices had not been heard in the input process used to establish Oregon’s statewide health priorities, it helped launch a survey to correct the under-representation. TECs’ data services help tribes address cancer rates, poor nutrition, falls among the elderly, and more.
“I don’t need data five years after the pandemic. I need it now. I need it yesterday.”
But gathering data is harder than it seems, says Christy Duke, the long-time director of the United South and Eastern Tribes TEC, which serves a population of more than 80,000 Native Americans in a region covering 13 states and more than 36 tribes. That’s partly because Natives receive care from a patchwork of federal, tribal, and private facilities, many of which don’t share Native patients’ results with TECs, if they identify Native patients at all.
When a patient is tested for the coronavirus, for instance, the lab sends their results to their state, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, and the facility where the patient was seen. Tribal-run facilities are likely to, in turn, report that result directly to their regional TEC. But many Natives are seen at federal Indian Health Service clinics, which rely on a system that Duke describes as antiquated and hamstrung by lack of federal funding. The computer software is clunky and difficult to use, and on top of that, IHS clinics don’t report directly to TECs but to the national IHS system; cases are often missed or inputted incorrectly. All this means that regional reports from the IHS miss too many cases for good epidemiological analysis.
And if a Native patient is seen at a private facility, their result may never reach tribal epidemiologists at all. Since such facilities are unlikely to be aware of, let alone report to, their regional TEC, their results often only end up in the hands of states and the CDC—which aren’t sharing critical information with tribal centers.
That’s been the experience of Abigail Echo-Hawk, who directs the Urban Indian Health Institute, which serves the 71 percent of Natives who live in cities. Echo-Hawk says the CDC has given her team just a “sliver” of the COVID-19 data they’ve asked for. In May, she and several members of her team had a conference call with the CDC’s Case Surveillance Task Force to discuss the data collection problems. But in response to their requests, a member of the task force tried to explain basic epidemiology—to Echo-Hawk’s team of highly trained epidemiologists.
The incident exemplifies the “paternalistic attitude with which Indigenous people are treated in this country,” a major barrier to productive collaboration, says Echo-Hawk. In an email she shared, sent two months after the call, a CDC staffer cited privacy concerns as their reason for withholding identifiable case information and said an agreement with the Council of State and Territorial Epidemiologists permits data be sent only to the Indian Health Service, which is not allowed to share it with others—even though, as Echo-Hawk points out, the CDC itself published a report stating the 2010 designation of TECs as “public health authorities” removed all obstacles to giving them data. Two CDC staff members disregarded appeals to this special legal status of TECs, and in May, one CDC epidemiologist asked Echo-Hawk if data collection was an issue for other TECs, blatantly unaware of the huge frustrations shared nationwide. (The CDC did not return a request for comment.)
Echo-Hawk could be using that information to identify where Native-specific interventions are needed to stop the virus’s spread. “I have one of the best teams in the country to do small populations analysis,” she says. “If they could just do that, and I could just direct that—instead of having to spend all this time fighting for the data—how much more could we be doing for our communities?”
Some tribal centers have data-sharing agreements with state and local agencies, and they all get some information from the CDC and IHS. But there are often unexplained discrepancies, such as when the CDC recently reported 49 new deaths of American Indians and Alaska Natives in California for a period when the state reported only 32. Another problem is the rampant misclassification of Indigenous people in health records. The Northwest Portland Area Indian Health Board found about half of Natives were wrongly identified (most often as “white”) by hospitals in Washington and Oregon, a figure corroborated by a national CDC analysis of death certificates. When Native communities are under-represented in statistics, they don’t receive enough funding or PPE. “How is it even possible that our policymakers are making data-driven decisions for allocation of resources when their data is that bad?” asks Echo-Hawk.
With better data and more access to the raw data, Duke, of the United South and Eastern Tribes TEC, says her center could help its communities create targeted health messaging, apply for grants, and replace ineffective pandemic response programs with those more likely to succeed. Ayala could leverage her decade of experience to do contact tracing and real-time surveillance instead of lagging behind the curve. But the CDC won’t trust her or other TECs with the names or contact info of patients who test positive, and one of its epidemiologists said that “to capture outcomes more accurately,” it could only share month-old data.
It’s not just a matter of making life harder for Native epidemiologists: They argue that the federal government has a Constitutional obligation to collect and share this data. That’s because in acquiring Indigenous lands, US leaders inked hundreds of treaties promising to provide basic services, including health care, to tribes. These treaties led to the creation of the federal IHS, which along with the CDC funds tribal centers that provide free health services. Yet report after report shows Congress failing to support Native health. In 2015, the National Congress of American Indians estimated that the IHS receives less than 60 percent of the money it needs to support its basic services. This year, the agency’s own workgroup found its $6 billion budget would have to be increased eightfold to bring Native health care into parity with the rest of the country’s. (The CARES Act gave the IHS an extra $1 billion.)
Chronic neglect has left Indian Country with an almost total lack of pandemic response infrastructure, says Oglala Lakota doctor Donald Warne, director of the University of North Dakota’s Indigenous Health program. “Most of it needs to be built from the ground up.” Tribal epidemiology centers, Warne says, would be a good place to start.
Even pre-pandemic, Indigenous leaders argued that data sovereignty, the ability to both access and control the release of data about their populations, is already implied in their hard-won legal rights.
Sovereignty has also been at issue in South Dakota, where Gov. Kristi Noem is pushing two Lakota tribes to dismantle health checkpoints on their reservation borders. She says it’s illegal for them to slow traffic on state and federal highways, while tribes say the checkpoints have protected their communities from the kind of disastrous outbreak faced by the Navajo. In a pending federal lawsuit, the Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe holds that efforts to stop the checkpoints infringe on their right to govern their people and lands as a sovereign nation.
Native leaders and health advocates are considering taking legal action to access disease data, especially after CDC Director Robert Redfield testified before a House Committee on June 23 that centers would get what they requested “within the next one to two weeks.” (They still haven’t.) Litigation “shouldn’t be our only option,” says Echo-Hawk. “But it might be.” Meanwhile, eight senators and twelve representatives signed a July letter asking Redfield and the secretary of Health and Human Services to improve data-sharing with TECs, and on August 7, a bipartisan House coalition introduced legislation to force action on the issue within 30 days.
The centers “should be spoken in the same breath as the CDC and state and local health departments,” says Duke. She’s grateful that the United South and East Tribes TEC received $2 million of CARES Act funding for the next two years of pandemic response, but it’s not enough to build the long-term infrastructure they’d need for any future crisis. Just two staff members support health communications and education for tribes in the center’s 13-state region; with more funding, Duke envisions a much greater effort, with initiatives like mentoring Indigenous youth for careers in health.
Like Echo-Hawk, Ayala says red tape shouldn’t be obstructing efforts to save Indigenous lives. California health officials “need to recognize that tribes were here before the state was here, [and] should be part of the conversation,” she says. “This is an emergency. I don’t need data five years after the pandemic. I need it now. I need it yesterday.”


motherjones--2020-08-27--Is Anyone Else Having End Times Anxiety? Because, Hoo Boy!

I can not sleep ; at night , my mind cycles through an Arya Stark-esque list of foes that ’ s too big for a clear revenge plan .
A global pandemic .
The fires ravaging California , where I live , and Colorado , where my sister lives .
The bad actors pulling our democracy apart on multiple levels , taking center stage on TV each night .
The officers killing Black men in front of their children .
A hurricane that was predicted by experts to be “ unsurvivable ” that has swept through Texas and Louisiana ( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be less severe than initially feared ) .
Oh , and an asteroid— ?
!
?
!
?
!
?
!
—that is potentially heading toward Earth .
( It has been clarified that there is a less than one percent chance of impact , but still . )
Which leads me to the potential signs of the end of the world , the Second Coming of Christ , the damn apocalypse : pestilence , affliction .
Hellfire on earth .
The war being waged over the vast racial inequality in this country @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The roaring of the sea .
Signs in the moon and stars sounds a little more subtle than a freaking asteroid , but far be it from me !
I was taking comfort in that there hadn ’ t been an earthquake…until my Utahn colleague Stephanie Mencimer ( herself an expert on the signs of the end times in the age of Trump ) reminded me that in March , Salt Lake City was rocked by a 5.7 that knocked the angel Moroni right off his spire at the top of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this is not the only earthquake to happen in the world since March , but this one feels particularly loaded , don ’ t you think ? )
When I was growing up , we watched the first Left Behind movie in Sunday school ; I think I was 10 or 11 .
If you are not familiar , then your therapist is probably grateful .
Essentially , the film is an imagining of the end times from a Christian perspective , specifically that of two men , the ones who wrote the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the film is based , Jerry B. Jenkins and the late evangelical minister Tim LaHaye .
For weeks , I had nightmares about people I love disappearing into thin air—vanishing on the spot , out of their clothes , leaving me alone to obsessively ruminate on why I had been abandoned , what horrible things I must have done to have been separated from my friends and family .
In a sense , that has happened .
I am separated from my family , and I don ’ t know when I will @ @ @ @ @ @ @ seen my friends , it has been at a distance , with our faces covered and our attention split between trying to be together and gauge risk at the same time , or their faces look into mine from a screen , disembodied , so they feel somewhat real but far removed from what we once had .
My body feels all wrong , from being confined to a tiny granny flat where I live with my dog , my husband , and my husband ’ s experimental mustache ( and in that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with it ) ; my carefully honed exercise routine has been shattered , replaced by half-hearted yoga sequences done in a futile attempt to unfurl my spine .
My anxiety lives in my neck , my jaw , and my shoulders , and especially my hips , and lately , what it really wants to know is , “ Oh god , what if I was really , really wrong and this is the end of the world and I am actually going to hell ?
” I ’ m writing about this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in cheek , but this is a very real fear .
Most of my family members are still very devoted to their faith—and I am devoted to them—but I am agnostic , I suppose .
I feel too small to possibly know the universe so intimately that I could know what is out there .
Their faith says that I am bound for hell , that my soul will burn for eternity because I am not Christian .
It is what it is .
It ’ s not something we talk about , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fear and anxiety I ’ ve heard in their voices .
I understand it ; I am not mocking it .
And lately , the more things go wrong , the more I feel that old fear creeping around the edges of my consciousness .
When I was younger , when belief in a protective higher power came more easily , I vacillated between two minds—one in which I was having a terrible day and I couldn ’ t wait for the world to end so that I could just go to paradise @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in which I wanted to grow up and get married and have children of my own , a life of my own , before everything was taken away .
Time is so different when you ’ re a child , and there ’ s so much more of it that can be devoted to just thinking and imagining and wondering .
As an adult , there is less time for considering my own mortality or contemplating the mysteries of the universe ; I have become , as I once would have said , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ choice to leave my religion , and what if the cost really is eternal damnation ?
It ’ s 2020 .
Anything feels possible .

I cannot sleep; at night, my mind cycles through an Arya Stark-esque list of foes that’s too big for a clear revenge plan. A global pandemic. The fires ravaging California, where I live, and Colorado, where my sister lives. The bad actors pulling our democracy apart on multiple levels, taking center stage on TV each night. The officers killing Black men in front of their children. A hurricane that was predicted by experts to be “unsurvivable” that has swept through Texas and Louisiana (though now, the damage seems to be less severe than initially feared). Oh, and an asteroid—?!?!?!?!—that is potentially heading toward Earth. (It has been clarified that there is a less than one percent chance of impact, but still.) Which leads me to the potential signs of the end of the world, the Second Coming of Christ, the damn apocalypse: pestilence, affliction. Hellfire on earth. The war being waged over the vast racial inequality in this country, the unrest in the Middle East. The roaring of the sea. Signs in the moon and stars sounds a little more subtle than a freaking asteroid, but far be it from me!
My mind cycles through an Arya Stark-esque list of foes that’s too big for a clear revenge plan.
I was taking comfort in that there hadn’t been an earthquake…until my Utahn colleague Stephanie Mencimer (herself an expert on the signs of the end times in the age of Trump) reminded me that in March, Salt Lake City was rocked by a 5.7 that knocked the angel Moroni right off his spire at the top of the Mormon temple there. (I realize this is not the only earthquake to happen in the world since March, but this one feels particularly loaded, don’t you think?)
When I was growing up, we watched the first Left Behind movie in Sunday school; I think I was 10 or 11. If you are not familiar, then your therapist is probably grateful. Essentially, the film is an imagining of the end times from a Christian perspective, specifically that of two men, the ones who wrote the first book in a series on which the film is based, Jerry B. Jenkins and the late evangelical minister Tim LaHaye. For weeks, I had nightmares about people I love disappearing into thin air—vanishing on the spot, out of their clothes, leaving me alone to obsessively ruminate on why I had been abandoned, what horrible things I must have done to have been separated from my friends and family.
In a sense, that has happened. I am separated from my family, and I don’t know when I will see them again. If I have seen my friends, it has been at a distance, with our faces covered and our attention split between trying to be together and gauge risk at the same time, or their faces look into mine from a screen, disembodied, so they feel somewhat real but far removed from what we once had. My body feels all wrong, from being confined to a tiny granny flat where I live with my dog, my husband, and my husband’s experimental mustache (and in that last case, I do mean live with it); my carefully honed exercise routine has been shattered, replaced by half-hearted yoga sequences done in a futile attempt to unfurl my spine. My anxiety lives in my neck, my jaw, and my shoulders, and especially my hips, and lately, what it really wants to know is, “Oh god, what if I was really, really wrong and this is the end of the world and I am actually going to hell?”
Lately, what my body really wants to know is, “Oh god, what if I was really, really wrong and this is the end of the world and I am actually going to hell?”
I’m writing about this like I’m being completely tongue in cheek, but this is a very real fear. Most of my family members are still very devoted to their faith—and I am devoted to them—but I am agnostic, I suppose. I feel too small to possibly know the universe so intimately that I could know what is out there. Their faith says that I am bound for hell, that my soul will burn for eternity because I am not Christian. It is what it is. It’s not something we talk about, but it’s an edge of fear and anxiety I’ve heard in their voices. I understand it; I am not mocking it.
And lately, the more things go wrong, the more I feel that old fear creeping around the edges of my consciousness. When I was younger, when belief in a protective higher power came more easily, I vacillated between two minds—one in which I was having a terrible day and I couldn’t wait for the world to end so that I could just go to paradise and experience perfection, and the other in which I wanted to grow up and get married and have children of my own, a life of my own, before everything was taken away. Time is so different when you’re a child, and there’s so much more of it that can be devoted to just thinking and imagining and wondering. As an adult, there is less time for considering my own mortality or contemplating the mysteries of the universe; I have become, as I once would have said, of the world. I made a choice to leave my religion, and what if the cost really is eternal damnation? It’s 2020. Anything feels possible.


motherjones--2020-08-27--As Trump Accepts His Party’s Nomination, Republicans Double Down on Cheating

As President Donald Trump prepares to formally accept the Republican Party ’ s nomination for his reelection contest with a speech at tonight ’ s convention , the last-ditch dismantling of the US Postal Service before the 2020 election lays bare his latest campaign strategy : cheating .
Behind in the polls for months , a popular vote win for the president in November looks impossible .
A narrow Electoral College victory , like the one that saw Trump win the White House in 2016 , appears feasible , but polls show Trump behind in critical swing states .
As @ @ @ @ @ @ @ steal the election with mail-in ballots , it ’ s now clear that disenfranchising those voters is a key part of his panicked attempt to hold onto power .
It didn ’ t have to be this way .
But it was also predictable , even preordained .
As Trump shirked his responsibility to respond to the coronavirus pandemic and refused to work with Democrats to pass more economic stimulus this summer , polls showed his chances of reelection dim .
When turning to racist scare tactics didn ’ t improve the numbers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ step .
But there was one force that was supposed to keep the president from resorting to such eleventh hour schemes : a competent campaign .
Trump ’ s reelection effort is , by its own account , the most well-funded , digitally savvy , data-soaked operation in American history .
But the campaign has proved unable to pull Trump out of this quagmire because it has fallen victim to the same pitfalls that have defined Trump ’ s presidency : corruption and incompetence .
Just as these ineptitudes prevented Trump from stopping @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they appear to have kept Trump ’ s campaign from actually doing a good job trying to reelect him .
If Trump ’ s campaign hadn ’ t been so ineffective , maybe the president wouldn ’ t be destroying the postal service right now .
No insider ’ s secret confession is needed to know the campaign has been a disaster .
It ’ s all out in the open , in its public financial records , in its digital ads , and in its haphazard messaging .
I ’ ve been @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a year , wondering when it would mature into a general election juggernaut , curious about all the secretive entities on its financial disclosure forms , and trying to follow the money .
But even without a forensic accounting , it is easy to see that it is going to incompetent people profiting off a flailing effort .
In the midst of the catastrophic events of 2020 , the presidential candidates ’ campaigns may themselves ultimately play a small role in the election ’ s outcome .
Early this spring , Joe Biden @ @ @ @ @ @ @ doing almost nothing , rarely leaving his house , and with his campaign short on cash and low on staff .
Whether they deserve it or not , the winning campaign team usually gets credit .
In 2016 , press and politicians alike looked to the Trump campaign ’ s Facebook strategy to explain Trump ’ s surprise victory , when it could have just as easily been explained by voter suppression , James Comey ’ s clumsy last minute intervention in the election , Russia ’ s malign interference , racism , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ strategic blunders .
It ’ s important to understand the Trump campaign ’ s failures this year , because if he wins in three months , observers will be tempted to find a secret genius hidden in their strategy .
But the evidence suggests there ’ s no miracle worker ready to rescue Trump .
If he prevails , look for the explanation in his cheating and purposeful unraveling of our democracy .
Trump officially filed his reelection paperwork the day he was sworn into office on January 20 , 2017 .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a campaign apparatus , hold campaign events , and begin raising money .
It also meant that while Trump ’ s 2020 challenger would only have months to put together a general election campaign , Trump would have four years .
His first high-dollar fundraiser in June 2017 was held at Trump ’ s DC hotel—an early sign that the campaign would work toward the president ’ s reelection while enriching his businesses .
It also set a precedent that the campaign ’ s finances could serve multiple purposes .
If Trump could @ @ @ @ @ @ @ surely other campaign executives would be forgiven for doing the same .
And for a long time , they were .
In early 2018 , Trump chose Brad Parscale , his digital guru in 2016 , to run the reelection campaign .
Parscale , who ’ d run a web marketing firm in San Antonio , was still new to campaigns .
In fact , he ’ d learned everything he knew about politics from Trump , and from cozying up to Jared Kushner and Trump ’ s children .
So under his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the campaign began to resemble the president and the way he does business .
Parscale directed significant sums to his own companies for various digital services , and used money funneled into his businesses to pay Trump ’ s daughter in law , Lara Trump , and Kimberly Guilfoyle , Don Jr. ’ s girlfriend .
He became close with two longtime Republican operatives , Katie Walsh and Mike Shields , a husband and wife duo who also began to profit handsomely from Republican contracts .
The campaign became a family business , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ loyal few .
The question was whether it could simultaneously be a good campaign .
It could not .
Parscale proved a little green when it came to preparing for 2020 .
For all the hundreds of millions of dollars the campaign spent on Facebook to energize voters and accumulate small dollar donations , it failed to create the robust fundraising base that it had hoped for .
As a consequence , the campaign has been forced to continually spend large sums on small dollar fundraising .
With less than three months until @ @ @ @ @ @ @ still spending around 40 percent of its Facebook ad budget outside of battleground states to maintain his fundraising base .
In June , for example , the Biden campaign raised nearly three times as much money from small dollar donors—those who give less than $ 200—than the Trump campaign .
To try to keep up , Trump is spending millions advertising to Facebook users in blue states like California and New York instead of people who live in battleground states .
By early March 2020 , it was clear that Joe Biden would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ waited for the Trump campaign to mobilize its massive operation to attack Trump ’ s challenger .
But even now , just a few months from the election , the full might of the “ Death Star , ” as Parscale unironically dubbed the campaign , has never materialized .
This summer , as Biden ’ s campaign came together and began to outraise the president ’ s , the Trump campaign began throwing spaghetti against a wall .
Some Facebook ads portrayed Biden as too old and senile , though some advisers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lose further ground among seniors already upset over Trump ’ s handling of the coronavirus .
Some attacked him with false allegations about his work in Ukraine as vice president .
As the Black Lives Matter protests heated up , the campaign attacked him as a radical leftist who wanted to defund the police .
Though none of the spaghetti appeared to stick , the same themes returned throughout the Republican convention .
To understand how bizarre this situation is just months out from the election , it ’ s helpful to compare @ @ @ @ @ @ @ In 2011 , a small band of Obama administration staffers formed a super PAC to help reelect their boss in 2012 .
Before Mitt Romney had clinched the Republican nomination , the group began plotting to portray Romney as a far-right politician .
But the message didn ’ t work .
As Robert Draper reported in the New York Times magazine in 2012 , when the operatives told focus group participants that Romney supported a plan that would “ end Medicare as we know it ” while cutting taxes for the wealthy—which was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ unmoved .
They “ simply refused to believe any politician would do such a thing , ” Draper wrote .
Voters did not see Romney , the awkward rich guy , as an extremist .
So the pro-Obama group pivoted , instead portraying Romney as a corporate raider who had grown rich by destroying the jobs of working class Americans through private equity .
In the spring and summer of 2012 , before Romney had the time or resources to fight back , this messaging defined Romney and helped Obama to a second @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that same sitting duck .
All the incumbent Trump campaign—and its own supporting super PAC flush with cash—had to do was find an effective attack and run it .
But Trump ’ s super PAC , America First Action , was caught flat-footed .
As Democratic groups began releasing ads in March slamming Trump for his handling of the coronavirus , Trump ’ s outside supporters took another month to begin hitting Biden .
( Public financial disclosures show the super PAC had spent little to actually prepare for the general election before @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they arrived at shows that the campaign and its allies never figured out how to attack Biden .
Just as voters didn ’ t buy that Romney was a right-wing extremist , voters don ’ t seem to be buying that Biden is a radical leftist .
Neither do they seem to believe he is the kind of conniving politician who wages foreign policy for personal gain as the Trump campaign claimed with its Ukraine attacks .
That gambit comes off as an incredible expression of projection in which they assumed that just @ @ @ @ @ @ @ gain , others must do the same .
This failure to find and prepare a coherent attack has so far extended to Biden ’ s vice presidential pick , California Sen. Kamala Harris .
Though Biden ’ s search for a running mate lasted months , Harris was always a frontrunner .
Yet if team Trump prepared for a Biden-Harris ticket , it ’ s response didn ’ t show it , as the campaign responded to her pick by releasing contradictory messages portraying her as both a radical stooge of the far-left @ @ @ @ @ @ @ know if the focus groups thought this confused message was best .
Democratic digital minds are also scratching their heads at the Trump campaign ’ s online message .
It ’ s a trite but true adage , they say , that incumbent presidents win re-election if the campaign is about their opponent , but lose if it ’ s a referendum on him .
By this logic , Trump should be using his ad dollars to attack Biden , not draw attention to himself .
On TV , the Trump campaign has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ some of its most effective ads portraying Biden as a 47-year Washington veteran with a record of failure .
( In a revealing move , the campaign pulled its TV ads this week to conserve money while the GOP convention generates coverage . )
But , according to an analysis by Bully Pulpit Interactive , a Democratic digital firm , rather than reinforce those attacks online , a majority of Trump Facebook ads from June through early August are about him ; just 35 percent mention Biden .
The firm also found that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ about health care and the economy , Trump ’ s campaign has spent more catering to his base with digital messages about “ socialism ” and “ fake news.
” These patterns only make sense for a campaign geared toward inciting Trump ’ s base , raising money off of them , and ignoring the rest of the country ’ s problems—just as Trump has done as president .
The Trump campaign often brags that it has massive amounts of data on American voters which gives them a leg up when it comes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I ’ ve spoken with don ’ t dispute that the RNC , which poured significant resources into its data bank after 2012 , probably has more and better data .
But there ’ s little outside evidence that that the data is being deployed well .
The two Republican firms that led the Trump campaigns ’ data targeting in 2016 are no longer on the payroll .
Instead , in January , the Trump campaign contracted Matt Oczkowski as a data consultant to help target media buys , direct surrogates , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s path to victory , according to Politico .
Since then , the Trump campaign has paid Oczkowski $ 150,000 .
It ’ s not a large sum all considered , but Oczkowski is an odd choice for such key tasks .
He worked on Trump ’ s 2016 campaign as a product manager from Cambridge Analytica , but was not in the room when key decisions about data analysis and targeting were being made .
Oczkowski currently holds a full-time job running two firms under a penny-stock company in San Antonio that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Trump campaign is truly outsourcing this work to Oczkowski , it may not be getting the most sophisticated advice .
But that may not be the point of an arrangement that ensured a friend of Parscale was placed on the payroll .
Either way , it ’ s an illustration of a campaign that is probably not being run , as Trump once bragged , by the best people .
Trump ’ s campaign was presented a chance to make changes when Parscale was demoted in mid-July and a new campaign manager @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Upon gaining control , Stepien announced an audit of the campaign ’ s vendors and finances .
He paused all TV ads for several days in order to review how they were being targeted , even thought that is something the campaign was supposed to have been really good at .
The New York Times reported that the campaign would stagger its TV buys so that states with early voting get ads earlier—but with a war chest like his , shouldn ’ t they have the money to target all key states now @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Stepien requires people to show up early and work late .
He holds regular meetings .
In sum , he has made managerial changes—not messaging changes .
Back in May , with Trump down in the polls and the coronavirus spreading uncontrollably , the Republican National Committee announced it was doubling its funding of voter suppression lawsuits to $ 20 million .
Across the country , RNC lawyers are now launching lawsuits that would make it harder to vote by , for example , litigating against moves to send absentee ballots to all @ @ @ @ @ @ @ boxes , while forcing requirements like witness signatures on absentee ballots .
In other cases , the RNC ’ s lawyers have intervened to try and stop Democratic efforts to expand access to the ballot .
The party , like the campaign whose job it is to support , knows that Trump ’ s ability to win is tied to how many people it can stop from voting .
Trump didn ’ t need low poll numbers to induce him to cheat .
A president whose corruption goes unchecked by his own party—even @ @ @ @ @ @ @ asking a foreign government for help with his re-election—is a president who will continue to cheat as that election nears .
Trump ’ s campaign welcomed Russian election aid in 2016 , so it ’ s no surprise that Trump made requests for help in 2020 not only to the president of Ukraine but also , reportedly , the leaders of China and Brazil .
A president who has obsessed over voter fraud conspiracies was always likely to invoke them to cast doubt on the legitimacy of the election .
An administration that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ government functions was always likely to sabotage the postal service .
At the end of the day , Trump has run his campaign like he has run the country , in a way that enriches himself while only being accountable to his base .
That might be just enough to re-elect him .
But Republicans ’ anti-democratic actions suggest that this time , they think they will need a little something extra .

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As President Donald Trump prepares to formally accept the Republican Party’s nomination for his reelection contest with a speech at tonight’s convention, the last-ditch dismantling of the US Postal Service before the 2020 election lays bare his latest campaign strategy: cheating. Behind in the polls for months, a popular vote win for the president in November looks impossible. A narrow Electoral College victory, like the one that saw Trump win the White House in 2016, appears feasible, but polls show Trump behind in critical swing states. As Trump rages that Democrats are trying to steal the election with mail-in ballots, it’s now clear that disenfranchising those voters is a key part of his panicked attempt to hold onto power.
When turning to racist scare tactics didn’t improve Trump’s numbers, disenfranchising voters was an obvious next step.
It didn’t have to be this way. But it was also predictable, even preordained. As Trump shirked his responsibility to respond to the coronavirus pandemic and refused to work with Democrats to pass more economic stimulus this summer, polls showed his chances of reelection dim. When turning to racist scare tactics didn’t improve the numbers, disenfranchising voters was an obvious next step. But there was one force that was supposed to keep the president from resorting to such eleventh hour schemes: a competent campaign.
Trump’s reelection effort is, by its own account, the most well-funded, digitally savvy, data-soaked operation in American history. But the campaign has proved unable to pull Trump out of this quagmire because it has fallen victim to the same pitfalls that have defined Trump’s presidency: corruption and incompetence. Just as these ineptitudes prevented Trump from stopping the pandemic and rescuing the economy, they appear to have kept Trump’s campaign from actually doing a good job trying to reelect him. If Trump’s campaign hadn’t been so ineffective, maybe the president wouldn’t be destroying the postal service right now.
No insider’s secret confession is needed to know the campaign has been a disaster. It’s all out in the open, in its public financial records, in its digital ads, and in its haphazard messaging. I’ve been closely watching the campaign for more than a year, wondering when it would mature into a general election juggernaut, curious about all the secretive entities on its financial disclosure forms, and trying to follow the money. But even without a forensic accounting, it is easy to see that it is going to incompetent people profiting off a flailing effort.
In the midst of the catastrophic events of 2020, the presidential candidates’ campaigns may themselves ultimately play a small role in the election’s outcome. Early this spring, Joe Biden held a polling lead despite spending months doing almost nothing, rarely leaving his house, and with his campaign short on cash and low on staff. Whether they deserve it or not, the winning campaign team usually gets credit. In 2016, press and politicians alike looked to the Trump campaign’s Facebook strategy to explain Trump’s surprise victory, when it could have just as easily been explained by voter suppression, James Comey’s clumsy last minute intervention in the election, Russia’s malign interference, racism, sexism, or Hillary Clinton’s strategic blunders. It’s important to understand the Trump campaign’s failures this year, because if he wins in three months, observers will be tempted to find a secret genius hidden in their strategy. But the evidence suggests there’s no miracle worker ready to rescue Trump. If he prevails, look for the explanation in his cheating and purposeful unraveling of our democracy.
Trump officially filed his reelection paperwork the day he was sworn into office on January 20, 2017. The move allowed him to immediately set up a campaign apparatus, hold campaign events, and begin raising money. It also meant that while Trump’s 2020 challenger would only have months to put together a general election campaign, Trump would have four years. His first high-dollar fundraiser in June 2017 was held at Trump’s DC hotel—an early sign that the campaign would work toward the president’s reelection while enriching his businesses. It also set a precedent that the campaign’s finances could serve multiple purposes. If Trump could direct campaign dollars into his company, surely other campaign executives would be forgiven for doing the same. And for a long time, they were.
His first high-dollar fundraiser was held at Trump’s DC hotel—an early sign that the reelection would enrich his businesses.
In early 2018, Trump chose Brad Parscale, his digital guru in 2016, to run the reelection campaign. Parscale, who’d run a web marketing firm in San Antonio, was still new to campaigns. In fact, he’d learned everything he knew about politics from Trump, and from cozying up to Jared Kushner and Trump’s children. So under his leadership, it was no surprise that the campaign began to resemble the president and the way he does business. Parscale directed significant sums to his own companies for various digital services, and used money funneled into his businesses to pay Trump’s daughter in law, Lara Trump, and Kimberly Guilfoyle, Don Jr.’s girlfriend. He became close with two longtime Republican operatives, Katie Walsh and Mike Shields, a husband and wife duo who also began to profit handsomely from Republican contracts. The campaign became a family business, an apparatus that awarded money to a loyal few. The question was whether it could simultaneously be a good campaign. It could not.
Parscale proved a little green when it came to preparing for 2020. For all the hundreds of millions of dollars the campaign spent on Facebook to energize voters and accumulate small dollar donations, it failed to create the robust fundraising base that it had hoped for. As a consequence, the campaign has been forced to continually spend large sums on small dollar fundraising. With less than three months until Election Day, the Trump campaign is still spending around 40 percent of its Facebook ad budget outside of battleground states to maintain his fundraising base. In June, for example, the Biden campaign raised nearly three times as much money from small dollar donors—those who give less than $200—than the Trump campaign. To try to keep up, Trump is spending millions advertising to Facebook users in blue states like California and New York instead of people who live in battleground states.
By early March 2020, it was clear that Joe Biden would be the Democratic nominee, and I waited for the Trump campaign to mobilize its massive operation to attack Trump’s challenger. But even now, just a few months from the election, the full might of the “Death Star,” as Parscale unironically dubbed the campaign, has never materialized. This summer, as Biden’s campaign came together and began to outraise the president’s, the Trump campaign began throwing spaghetti against a wall. Some Facebook ads portrayed Biden as too old and senile, though some advisers worried the message would cause them to lose further ground among seniors already upset over Trump’s handling of the coronavirus. Some attacked him with false allegations about his work in Ukraine as vice president. As the Black Lives Matter protests heated up, the campaign attacked him as a radical leftist who wanted to defund the police. Though none of the spaghetti appeared to stick, the same themes returned throughout the Republican convention.
To understand how bizarre this situation is just months out from the election, it’s helpful to compare it to a campaign done right. In 2011, a small band of Obama administration staffers formed a super PAC to help reelect their boss in 2012. Before Mitt Romney had clinched the Republican nomination, the group began plotting to portray Romney as a far-right politician. But the message didn’t work. As Robert Draper reported in the New York Times magazine in 2012, when the operatives told focus group participants that Romney supported a plan that would “end Medicare as we know it” while cutting taxes for the wealthy—which was indeed a plan Romney supported—the group was unmoved. They “simply refused to believe any politician would do such a thing,” Draper wrote. Voters did not see Romney, the awkward rich guy, as an extremist. So the pro-Obama group pivoted, instead portraying Romney as a corporate raider who had grown rich by destroying the jobs of working class Americans through private equity. In the spring and summer of 2012, before Romney had the time or resources to fight back, this messaging defined Romney and helped Obama to a second term.
Democratic digital minds are scratching their heads at the Trump campaign’s online message.
This spring, Biden was that same sitting duck. All the incumbent Trump campaign—and its own supporting super PAC flush with cash—had to do was find an effective attack and run with it. But Trump’s super PAC, America First Action, was caught flat-footed. As Democratic groups began releasing ads in March slamming Trump for his handling of the coronavirus, Trump’s outside supporters took another month to begin hitting Biden. (Public financial disclosures show the super PAC had spent little to actually prepare for the general election before March.) And the spaghetti approach they arrived at shows that the campaign and its allies never figured out how to attack Biden. Just as voters didn’t buy that Romney was a right-wing extremist, voters don’t seem to be buying that Biden is a radical leftist. Neither do they seem to believe he is the kind of conniving politician who wages foreign policy for personal gain as the Trump campaign claimed with its Ukraine attacks. That gambit comes off as an incredible expression of projection in which they assumed that just because Trump used foreign policy for personal gain, others must do the same.
This failure to find and prepare a coherent attack has so far extended to Biden’s vice presidential pick, California Sen. Kamala Harris. Though Biden’s search for a running mate lasted months, Harris was always a frontrunner. Yet if team Trump prepared for a Biden-Harris ticket, its response didn’t show it, as the campaign responded to her pick by releasing contradictory messages portraying her as both a radical stooge of the far-left and a centrist phony. Only they know if the focus groups thought this confused message was best.
Democratic digital minds are also scratching their heads at the Trump campaign’s online message. It’s a trite but true adage, they say, that incumbent presidents win re-election if the campaign is about their opponent, but lose if it’s a referendum on him. By this logic, Trump should be using his ad dollars to attack Biden, not draw attention to himself. On TV, the Trump campaign has done that, including what are likely some of its most effective ads portraying Biden as a 47-year Washington veteran with a record of failure. (In a revealing move, the campaign pulled its TV ads this week to conserve money while the GOP convention generates coverage.) But, according to an analysis by Bully Pulpit Interactive, a Democratic digital firm, rather than reinforce those attacks online, a majority of Trump Facebook ads from June through early August are about him; just 35 percent mention Biden. The firm also found that even though voters say they care most about health care and the economy, Trump’s campaign has spent more catering to his base with digital messages about “socialism” and “fake news.” These patterns only make sense for a campaign geared toward inciting Trump’s base, raising money off of them, and ignoring the rest of the country’s problems—just as Trump has done as president.
The Trump campaign often brags that it has massive amounts of data on American voters which gives them a leg up when it comes to messaging and targeting. Most Democrats I’ve spoken with don’t dispute that the RNC, which poured significant resources into its data bank after 2012, probably has more and better data. But there’s little outside evidence that the data is being deployed well.
These patterns only make sense for a campaign to incite Trump’s base, raise money, and ignore the rest of the country’s problems.
The two Republican firms that led the Trump campaigns’ data targeting in 2016 are no longer on the payroll. Instead, in January, the Trump campaign contracted Matt Oczkowski as a data consultant to help target media buys, direct surrogates, and determine which states would provide Trump’s path to victory, according to Politico. Since then, the Trump campaign has paid Oczkowski $150,000. It’s not a large sum all considered, but Oczkowski is an odd choice for such key tasks. He worked on Trump’s 2016 campaign as a product manager from Cambridge Analytica, but was not in the room when key decisions about data analysis and targeting were being made. Oczkowski currently holds a full-time job running two firms under a penny-stock company in San Antonio that is connected to Brad Parscale. If the Trump campaign is truly outsourcing this work to Oczkowski, it may not be getting the most sophisticated advice. But that may not be the point of an arrangement that ensured a friend of Parscale was placed on the payroll. Either way, it’s an illustration of a campaign that is probably not being run, as Trump once bragged, by the best people.
Trump’s campaign was presented a chance to make changes when Parscale was demoted in mid-July and a new campaign manager, Bill Stepien, took over. Upon gaining control, Stepien announced an audit of the campaign’s vendors and finances. He paused all TV ads for several days in order to review how they were being targeted, even though that is something the campaign was supposed to have been really good at. The New York Times reported that the campaign would stagger its TV buys so that states with early voting get ads earlier—but with a war chest like his, shouldn’t they have the money to target all key states now? According to New York magazine, Stepien requires people to show up early and work late. He holds regular meetings. In sum, he has made managerial changes—not messaging changes.
Back in May, with Trump down in the polls and the coronavirus spreading uncontrollably, the Republican National Committee announced it was doubling its funding of voter suppression lawsuits to $20 million. Across the country, RNC lawyers are now launching lawsuits that would make it harder to vote by, for example, litigating against moves to send absentee ballots to all voters or to set up ballot drop-off boxes, while forcing requirements like witness signatures on absentee ballots. In other cases, the RNC’s lawyers have intervened to try and stop Democratic efforts to expand access to the ballot. The party, like the campaign whose job it is to support, knows that Trump’s ability to win is tied to how many people it can stop from voting.
Trump didn’t need low poll numbers to induce him to cheat. A president whose corruption goes unchecked by his own party—even when he is caught and impeached for asking a foreign government for help with his re-election—is a president who will continue to cheat as that election nears. Trump’s campaign welcomed Russian election aid in 2016, so it’s no surprise that Trump made requests for help in 2020 not only to the president of Ukraine but also, reportedly, the leaders of China and Brazil. A president who has obsessed over voter fraud conspiracies was always likely to invoke them to cast doubt on the legitimacy of the election. An administration that has generally sought to dismantle and privatize government functions was always likely to sabotage the postal service.
At the end of the day, Trump has run his campaign like he has run the country, in a way that enriches himself while only being accountable to his base. That might be just enough to re-elect him. But Republicans’ anti-democratic actions suggest that this time, they think they will need a little something extra.


motherjones--2020-08-27--We Obtained the Staff Handbook for Trump’s DC Hotel. Try Not to Laugh at the Ethics Policy.

This may come as a surprise to those closely tracking the ethical horror show that is the Trump presidency , but the Trump Organization takes conflicts of interest and nepotism very seriously .
At least that ’ s what it says in an employee handbook for staffers at its DC hotel , which was obtained by Mother Jones .
If the handbook ’ s ethics policies were applied to the hotel ’ s owner , Donald Trump , he would likely be out of a job .
The hotel ’ s policy prohibiting “ actual or potential ” conflicts isn @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the fact that Trump ’ s DC hotel is itself a gleaming monument to conflicts of interest where special and foreign interests can ( and do ! )
channel money straight into the president ’ s pockets via hotel stays , restaurant and bar sales , and ballroom rentals .
The hotel—which this week is serving as an unofficial Republican National Convention venue—also operates out of a building leased from the federal government , making Trump both the hotel ’ s owner and its landlord .
The absurdity of this arrangement was brought @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Organization , battered by the pandemic , asked the Trump administration for a break on its lease payments .
Trump ensured an unprecedented mingling of his personal and political interests when he refused to relinquish ownership and control of his business empire after the 2016 election .
“ The law ’ s totally on my side , meaning , the president can ’ t have a conflict of interest , ” he told the New York Times at the time .
This is , at best , a mangling of the facts .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ from conflict-of-interest rules that apply to federal government employees , but that doesn ’ t mean the conflicts don ’ t exist or that they aren ’ t problematic .
Trump went on to tell the Times that he knew critics would fixate on his then–brand new DC hotel , located blocks from the White House : They ’ ll say I have a conflict because we just opened a beautiful hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue , so every time somebody stays at that hotel , if they stay because I ’ m president @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s a conflict of interest .
It ’ s a conflict of interest , but again , I ’ m not going to have anything to do with the hotel , and they may very well .
I mean it could be that occupancy at that hotel will be because , psychologically , occupancy at that hotel will be probably a more valuable asset now than it was before , O.K.
?
The brand is certainly a hotter brand than it was before .
I can ’ t help that , but @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the hotel fast became a hot spot for lobbyists , foreign dignitaries , and all manner of Trump cronies and hangers-on seeking to curry favor .
Whether Trump acknowledges it , many guests openly say they are proud to patronize a business putting money in his pockets .
Ironically , unseemly business dealings by Trump employees are forbidden at the hotel , according to its employee handbook .
A section titled “ Avoiding Conflict of Interest ” instructs employees to steer clear of anything that might create even the appearance of a conflict @ @ @ @ @ @ @ obligation to conduct business within guidelines that prohibit actual or potential conflicts of interest.
” And the policy goes on to state : An actual or potential conflict of interest occurs when an associate is in a position to influence a decision that may result in a personal gain for that associate or for a relative as a result of the Hotel ’ s business dealings .
For the purposes of this policy , a relative is any person who is related by blood or marriage , or whose relationship with the associate @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are related by blood or marriage .
While Trump has said that he ’ s turned control of the hotel ’ s day-to-day operations over to his adult sons , Eric and Donald Jr. , he remains the majority owner of the hotel and is able to withdraw money from the business when he wants , which would seem to clash with the handbook ’ s guidelines for the hotel staff .
On that note , another arguably relevant section is the ban on nepotism : “ The Hotel maintains a policy of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of current associates ” since these relationships “ can create an actual , potential , or perceived conflict of interest in the employment setting.
” Trump , of course , disregarded such concerns , when he installed his daughter , Ivanka , and son-in-law , Jared Kushner , in senior White House roles .
The Trump hotel ’ s ethics rules are not the only area where its owner isn ’ t exactly leading by example .
The handbook forbids “ immoral or indecent behavior that has the potential to publicly embarrass the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ discourteous , abusive , or rude language or action.
” So much for that .

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This may come as a surprise to those closely tracking the ethical horror show that is the Trump presidency, but the Trump Organization takes conflicts of interest and nepotism very seriously. At least that’s what it says in an employee handbook for staffers at its DC hotel, which was obtained by Mother Jones. If the handbook’s ethics policies were applied to the hotel’s owner, Donald Trump, he would likely be out of a job.
The hotel’s policy prohibiting “actual or potential” conflicts isn’t all that unusual save for the fact that Trump’s DC hotel is itself a gleaming monument to conflicts of interest where special and foreign interests can (and do!) channel money straight into the president’s pockets via hotel stays, restaurant and bar sales, and ballroom rentals. The hotel—which this week is serving as an unofficial Republican National Convention venue—also operates out of a building leased from the federal government, making Trump both the hotel’s owner and its landlord. The absurdity of this arrangement was brought into relief this spring when the Trump Organization, battered by the pandemic, asked the Trump administration for a break on its lease payments.
Trump ensured an unprecedented mingling of his personal and political interests when he refused to relinquish ownership and control of his business empire after the 2016 election.
“The law’s totally on my side, meaning, the president can’t have a conflict of interest,” he told the New York Times at the time. This is, at best, a mangling of the facts. The president and vice president are exempted from conflict-of-interest rules that apply to federal government employees, but that doesn’t mean the conflicts don’t exist or that they aren’t problematic. Trump went on to tell the Times that he knew critics would fixate on his then–brand new DC hotel, located blocks from the White House:
They’ll say I have a conflict because we just opened a beautiful hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue, so every time somebody stays at that hotel, if they stay because I’m president, I guess you could say it’s a conflict of interest. It’s a conflict of interest, but again, I’m not going to have anything to do with the hotel, and they may very well. I mean it could be that occupancy at that hotel will be because, psychologically, occupancy at that hotel will be probably a more valuable asset now than it was before, O.K.? The brand is certainly a hotter brand than it was before. I can’t help that, but I don’t care.
Indeed the hotel fast became a hot spot for lobbyists, foreign dignitaries, and all manner of Trump cronies and hangers-on seeking to curry favor. Whether Trump acknowledges it, many guests openly say they are proud to patronize a business putting money in his pockets.
Ironically, unseemly business dealings by Trump employees are forbidden at the hotel, according to its employee handbook. A section titled “Avoiding Conflict of Interest” instructs employees to steer clear of anything that might create even the appearance of a conflict, noting: “Associates have an obligation to conduct business within guidelines that prohibit actual or potential conflicts of interest.” And the policy goes on to state:
An actual or potential conflict of interest occurs when an associate is in a position to influence a decision that may result in a personal gain for that associate or for a relative as a result of the Hotel’s business dealings. For the purposes of this policy, a relative is any person who is related by blood or marriage, or whose relationship with the associate is similar to that of persons who are related by blood or marriage.
While Trump has said that he’s turned control of the hotel’s day-to-day operations over to his adult sons, Eric and Donald Jr., he remains the majority owner of the hotel and is able to withdraw money from the business when he wants, which would seem to clash with the handbook’s guidelines for the hotel staff. On that note, another arguably relevant section is the ban on nepotism: “The Hotel maintains a policy of not hiring the relatives or family members of current associates” since these relationships “can create an actual, potential, or perceived conflict of interest in the employment setting.”
Trump, of course, disregarded such concerns, when he installed his daughter, Ivanka, and son-in-law, Jared Kushner, in senior White House roles.
The Trump hotel’s ethics rules are not the only area where its owner isn’t exactly leading by example. The handbook forbids “immoral or indecent behavior that has the potential to publicly embarrass the Hotel” and bans “profane, discourteous, abusive, or rude language or action.” So much for that.
ASSOCIATE HANDBOOK (PDF)
ASSOCIATE HANDBOOK (Text)


motherjones--2020-08-27--The 8 Types of People You Meet at the Trump Hotel

The Trump hotel has been called a “ waiting room to the White House , ” likened to the Mos Eisley cantina from Star Wars , and described as a “ breeding ground ” for Republican powerbrokers and wannabes .
During the ( largely online ) Republican National Convention this week , the hotel ’ s role as a GOP social hub was on full display as it served as an auxiliary convention site , playing host to a familiar retinue of Trumpworld figures , including Rudy Giuliani , Donald Trump Jr. , Eric Bolling , and many others .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ collection of lobbyists , superfans , and cronies who have frequented the hotel over the years , shoveling money into the president ’ s pockets .
In April 2018 , the day after his company announced it was merging with Sprint , T-Mobile ceo John Legere was spotted schmoozing in the hotel ’ s lobby .
T-Mobile spent $ 195,000 at the hotel as their deal was reviewed by federal regulators .
Legere was seen chatting with former Trump campaign manager and T-Mobile adviser Corey Lewandowski there on the day the ceo testified @ @ @ @ @ @ @ : The deal was approved .
Other companies , trade groups , and special interests that have booked the hotel : Unilever , the National Mining Association , the Mississippi Farm Bureau Federation , and the Border Patrol Foundation .
Nearly two-thirds of Republican senators have been seen at the hotel or reported spending campaign funds there .
( Look—there ’ s Sen. Ted Cruz by the Christmas tree ! )
Members of Congress have patronized the hotel at least 253 times , according to Citizens for Responsibility and Ethics in Washington .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ Republicans on a House subcommittee with oversight of the hotel ’ s lease , including Rep. Greg Pence ( R-Ind . )
, the veep ’ s brother ( whose campaign spent $ 45,000 at the hotel ) .
Democratic lawmakers have largely steered clear of the hotel , with Sen. Joe Manchin ( D-W.Va. ) a notable exception .
Republican and conservative groups have paid financial tribute to Trump by holding fundraisers , conferences , and other events at the hotel .
Among them : Vice President Mike Pence ’ s Great @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 237,000 there ; the Republican National Committee ( $ 640,000 ) , the rnc ’ s Trump Victory committee ( $ 250,000 ) , and the Trump campaign itself ( $ 178,000 ) .
Combined with the pro-Trump America First Action and Minority Leader Kevin McCarthy ’ s ( R-Calif. ) fundraising apparatuses , those groups have funneled $ 2 million-plus into the hotel .
Virginia Women for Trump holds annual Tea for Trump birthday parties at the hotel ( “ hats mandatory ” ) .
Its 2018 confab featured a runway show @ @ @ @ @ @ @ national anthem .
On any given day before the pandemic , there was a fair chance of bumping into Trump ’ s personal lawyer Rudy Giuliani at the hotel ’ s bar or steakhouse , blt Prime .
He ’ d even display a plaque at his usual table : “ Rudolph W. Giuliani , Private Office.
” You might have seen him smoking a cigar in a wine-stained tux after Steven Mnuchin ’ s wedding or dining with members of Trump ’ s legal defense team .
But Giuliani did his real @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Lev Parnas called “ our blt office on the second floor.
” And Parnas and alleged co-conspirator Igor Fruman dined with Giuliani at the Trump Hotel just hours before they were arrested at Dulles Airport with one-way tickets to Vienna .
As the center of the maga social scene , the hotel is a frequent party venue for Trump sycophants and surrogates .
Diamond and Silk premiered their film Dummycrats there and once held a benefit for their long-dormant nonprofit Stepping Into Self Truth Awareness and Success ( sistas ) .
During better @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lawyer Michael Cohen posed with the duo by the hotel ’ s Christmas tree after joining them for coffee and cookies .
Sean Spicer celebrated the release of his book at the hotel , as did Turning Point usa ’ s Charlie Kirk .
( Ivanka Trump , Jared Kushner , and Rep. Matt Gaetz were among his guests . )
Sarah Huckabee Sanders held her goodbye party in the Franklin Study .
At least six administration members have gotten married at the hotel , including Omarosa and Stephen Miller ( not to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t been all good times .
Singer Joy Villa , who attended the Grammys in a sequined maga gown , accused Lewandowski of assault after he allegedly slapped her on the butt during a 2017 party at the hotel ( Lewandowski maintained his innocence and the district attorney declined to prosecute ) .
And Cameron Dorsey , a onetime Trump appointee at the Commerce Department , alleges her chin was gashed by a piece of glass from a sabered champagne bottle .
She ’ s suing the hotel .
Ten days after @ @ @ @ @ @ @ diplomat told the Washington Post , “ Why wouldn ’ t I stay at his hotel blocks from the White House , so I can tell the new president , ‘ I love your new hotel !
’ ” Many foreign officials , embassies , and other overseas interests similarly wagered that the best way into Trump ’ s good graces was through his wallet .
Weeks before Trump took office , the embassy of Azerbaijan hosted a Hanukkah party in the Lincoln Library .
The Kuwaiti Embassy held parties there for three @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Philippines also booked events .
Also spotted : Brexit Party leader Nigel Farage ; Brazilian President Jair Bolsonaro ’ s son ; Ukrainian politician and businessman Vitaliy Khomutynnik ( who drew scrutiny from Robert Mueller ) ; Ontario ’ s premier ; Nigeria ’ s main opposition candidate ; Ecuador ’ s trade minister ; and Pakistan ’ s federal minister for maritime affairs .
Trumpiness is next to godliness—at least as far as a number of evangelical groups and Christian right mainstays are concerned .
The hotel has played host to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 2018 : Commissioned by Fire ; The Turnaround : An Appeal to Heaven National Gathering ; and the Family Research Council ’ s 2019 Christian Heritage Tour and Summit .
In 2017 , the Museum of the Bible held its $ 2,500-per-person opening gala at the hotel ; Education Secretary Betsy DeVos and Jerry Falwell Jr. were guests .
In 2020 , Trump addressed a gathering of evangelicals , including megachurch pastor turned White House staffer Paula White .
The audience laid hands on Trump during a prayer , and the president spoke @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lectern .
[ Related : Stay to Play : Inside the Sordid History of Trump ’ s DC Hotel ] At least 27 of the 35 people who have served in Trump ’ s Cabinet have been spotted at their boss ’ s hotel .
When he moved to DC , Treasury head Steve Mnuchin moved into the hotel .
Former Small Business Administration head Linda McMahon also lived there .
Last year , Attorney General William Barr booked a $ 30,000 holiday party there .
( It reportedly was postponed . )
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Interior sec David Bernhardt , Commerce sec Wilbur Ross , and Labor sec Alex Acosta .

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The Trump hotel has been called a “waiting room to the White House,” likened to the Mos Eisley cantina from Star Wars, and described as a “breeding ground” for Republican powerbrokers and wannabes. During the (largely online) Republican National Convention this week, the hotel’s role as a GOP social hub was on full display as it served as an auxiliary convention site, playing host to a familiar retinue of Trumpworld figures, including Rudy Giuliani, Donald Trump Jr., Eric Bolling, and many others. What follows is a guide to the collection of lobbyists, superfans, and cronies who have frequented the hotel over the years, shoveling money into the president’s pockets.
The Lobby Lobby
In April 2018, the day after his company announced it was merging with Sprint, T-Mobile ceo John Legere was spotted schmoozing in the hotel’s lobby. T-Mobile spent $195,000 at the hotel as their deal was reviewed by federal regulators. Legere was seen chatting with former Trump campaign manager and T-Mobile adviser Corey Lewandowski there on the day the ceo testified before Congress about the merger. Surprise: The deal was approved. Other companies, trade groups, and special interests that have booked the hotel: Unilever, the National Mining Association, the Mississippi Farm Bureau Federation, and the Border Patrol Foundation.
The day after his company announced a merger with Sprint that federal regulators are sure to review, T-Mobile's CEO John Legere was at the Trump Hotel DC. https://t.co/dyfGLgkklt pic.twitter.com/FJtbH4ZU7Y — Zach Everson (@Z_Everson) May 1, 2018
Checks and Balances
Nearly two-thirds of Republican senators have been seen at the hotel or reported spending campaign funds there. (Look—there’s Sen. Ted Cruz by the Christmas tree!) Members of Congress have patronized the hotel at least 253 times, according to Citizens for Responsibility and Ethics in Washington. Those visitors include four of the six Republicans on a House subcommittee with oversight of the hotel’s lease, including Rep. Greg Pence (R-Ind.), the veep’s brother (whose campaign spent $45,000 at the hotel). Democratic lawmakers have largely steered clear of the hotel, with Sen. Joe Manchin (D-W.Va.) a notable exception.
No reservations
Republican and conservative groups have paid financial tribute to Trump by holding fundraisers, conferences, and other events at the hotel. Among them: Vice President Mike Pence’s Great America Committee, which has dropped $237,000 there; the Republican National Committee ($640,000), the rnc’s Trump Victory committee ($250,000), and the Trump campaign itself ($178,000). Combined with the pro-Trump America First Action and Minority Leader Kevin McCarthy’s (R-Calif.) fundraising apparatuses, those groups have funneled $2 million-plus into the hotel. Virginia Women for Trump holds annual Tea for Trump birthday parties at the hotel (“hats mandatory”). Its 2018 confab featured a runway show scored in part to the North Korean national anthem.
Rudy the Regular
On any given day before the pandemic, there was a fair chance of bumping into Trump’s personal lawyer Rudy Giuliani at the hotel’s bar or steakhouse, blt Prime. He’d even display a plaque at his usual table: “Rudolph W. Giuliani, Private Office.” You might have seen him smoking a cigar in a wine-stained tux after Steven Mnuchin’s wedding or dining with members of Trump’s legal defense team. But Giuliani did his real dirty work at what his indicted associate Lev Parnas called “our blt office on the second floor.” And Parnas and alleged co-conspirator Igor Fruman dined with Giuliani at the Trump Hotel just hours before they were arrested at Dulles Airport with one-way tickets to Vienna.
Even an All Star legal team has to eat. pic.twitter.com/DmcRfU2hHK — Rudy W. Giuliani (@RudyGiuliani) March 28, 2019
Red carpet treatment
As the center of the maga social scene, the hotel is a frequent party venue for Trump sycophants and surrogates. Diamond and Silk premiered their film Dummycrats there and once held a benefit for their long-dormant nonprofit Stepping Into Self Truth Awareness and Success (sistas). During better days, Trump’s former personal lawyer Michael Cohen posed with the duo by the hotel’s Christmas tree after joining them for coffee and cookies. Sean Spicer celebrated the release of his book at the hotel, as did Turning Point usa’s Charlie Kirk. (Ivanka Trump, Jared Kushner, and Rep. Matt Gaetz were among his guests.) Sarah Huckabee Sanders held her goodbye party in the Franklin Study. At least six administration members have gotten married at the hotel, including Omarosa and Stephen Miller (not to each other). But it hasn’t been all good times. Singer Joy Villa, who attended the Grammys in a sequined maga gown, accused Lewandowski of assault after he allegedly slapped her on the butt during a 2017 party at the hotel (Lewandowski maintained his innocence and the district attorney declined to prosecute). And Cameron Dorsey, a onetime Trump appointee at the Commerce Department, alleges her chin was gashed by a piece of glass from a sabered champagne bottle. She’s suing the hotel.
US Secretary of Education Betsy DeVos poses with Liberty University president Jerry Falwell Jr. at Trump Hotel DC for Museum of the Bible opening gala https://t.co/SRap91vULs pic.twitter.com/YvVXZL1YuC — Zach Everson (@Z_Everson) November 17, 2017
Embassy Suites
Ten days after Trump’s election, an Asian diplomat told the Washington Post, “Why wouldn’t I stay at his hotel blocks from the White House, so I can tell the new president, ‘I love your new hotel!’” Many foreign officials, embassies, and other overseas interests similarly wagered that the best way into Trump’s good graces was through his wallet. Weeks before Trump took office, the embassy of Azerbaijan hosted a Hanukkah party in the Lincoln Library. The Kuwaiti Embassy held parties there for three years. The governments of Bahrain and the Philippines also booked events. Also spotted: Brexit Party leader Nigel Farage; Brazilian President Jair Bolsonaro’s son; Ukrainian politician and businessman Vitaliy Khomutynnik (who drew scrutiny from Robert Mueller); Ontario’s premier; Nigeria’s main opposition candidate; Ecuador’s trade minister; and Pakistan’s federal minister for maritime affairs.
Prophet Sharing
Trumpiness is next to godliness—at least as far as a number of evangelical groups and Christian right mainstays are concerned. The hotel has played host to various multiday religious gatherings, including Revolution 2018: Commissioned by Fire; The Turnaround: An Appeal to Heaven National Gathering; and the Family Research Council’s 2019 Christian Heritage Tour and Summit. In 2017, the Museum of the Bible held its $2,500-per-person opening gala at the hotel; Education Secretary Betsy DeVos and Jerry Falwell Jr. were guests. In 2020, Trump addressed a gathering of evangelicals, including megachurch pastor turned White House staffer Paula White. The audience laid hands on Trump during a prayer, and the president spoke to them from behind a Trump Hotel lectern.
[Related: Stay to Play: Inside the Sordid History of Trump’s DC Hotel]
Barr Flies
At least 27 of the 35 people who have served in Trump’s Cabinet have been spotted at their boss’s hotel. When he moved to DC, Treasury head Steve Mnuchin moved into the hotel. Former Small Business Administration head Linda McMahon also lived there. Last year, Attorney General William Barr booked a $30,000 holiday party there. (It reportedly was postponed.) Also spotted: Energy sec Rick Perry, Interior sec David Bernhardt, Commerce sec Wilbur Ross, and Labor sec Alex Acosta.