motherjones--2020-07-02--How North Carolina Transformed Itself Into the Worst State to Be Unemployed

This story was published in partnership with ProPublica , a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power .
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By March , when the coronavirus began accelerating through the United States , Shawn Hill-Watkins had been working as a cashier at a Food Lion supermarket in High Point , North Carolina , for seven months , taking three buses to work and back each day .
She couldn ’ t afford the groceries she was ringing up for customers , but she had always @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the mood upbeat .
Older regulars at the market sought out her line .
They knew her by the colorful silk flowers she had sewn for herself , which she would wear behind her ear .
Hill-Watkins is 50 , with six children and nine grandchildren .
For years she ’ s lived around Virginia and in Philadelphia , making ends meet as a hairdresser , a seamstress and a house cleaner .
Last June she came to North Carolina with her youngest son , Devan , after one of her daughters , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ called her for help .
Her daughter later left , but Hill-Watkins decided to remain .
She had gotten the grocery job and eventually moved into a room with a kitchenette in an extended stay hotel just off Interstate 40 in Greensboro .
Devan , who is 15 , had made friends on a local football team .
Hill-Watkins had been running around trying to help her children for two decades , she said , “ and I felt like I couldn ’ t run with them anymore.
” Despite the rising risk @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cashiers were not wearing masks in early spring .
It wasn ’ t long before she came down with something that seemed to be the virus .
She was too sick to work—sleeping for hours and coughing up phlegm—but not sick enough to go to the hospital for testing .
By the time she got back on her feet , a week and a half later , the store had reduced her hours to zero , where they ’ ve stayed ever since .
( Food Lion said it doesn ’ t comment @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and that it “ continues to follow guidance ” from all health authorities . )
On April 20 , Hill-Watkins filed for unemployment .
For two months , she didn ’ t hear a word from the Division of Employment Security , or DES , the agency that operates North Carolina ’ s unemployment insurance system .
By June 19 , when her $ 1,261.60 monthly rent was due , she had $ 30 to her name .
“ There is a real possibility that we will be outside tomorrow , ” Hill-Watkins @ @ @ @ @ @ @ deadline .
“ I wake up thinking about it .
I go to sleep thinking about it.
” Hill-Watkins ’ attempts to chase elusive benefits will sound familiar to the estimated 44 million Americans who have had to follow the absurdist script that often constitutes the application process : The obtuse online forms .
The bewildering notifications and empty emails .
The understaffed hotlines with half-day wait times .
The fleeting transfers to a human operator , followed by a sudden disconnection .
Much of this bureaucratic ineptitude predates the pandemic .
Nearly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the 50 states , has been plagued by outdated technology and administrative hurdles—and all have been overwhelmed by the sudden and historic spike in claims .
But as real as those problems are , they ignore a more fundamental issue : Some state unemployment systems have long been designed to exclude applicants .
“ People are frustrated and complaining everywhere .
But there are degrees of how well states are handling this based on their approach to the program , ” said Andrew Stettner , a senior fellow at The Century Foundation @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The states that are doing the worst at this have historically done a bad job of it.
” Among the worst , historically and at present , is North Carolina .
At the end of 2019—when the economy was humming and pandemics were the stuff of horror fiction—fewer than 1 in 10 jobless people in North Carolina received unemployment benefits .
That ’ s the lowest rate in the country and well below the average of 26 percent .
The maximum number of weeks someone in the state can draw benefits is currently @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of 26 weeks .
And those who receive benefits get less money than they used to : Between 2008 and 2019 , the percentage of a worker ’ s wages replaced has fallen from 53 percent to 38 percent .
North Carolina also ranks as the worst state for getting benefits to workers in a timely manner .
These outcomes are the result of a long campaign by North Carolina legislators to restrict and reduce benefits .
In 2013 , only a few years after the last economic cataclysm , the state ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ any unemployment insurance system in the country .
“ It ’ s fair to say that we don ’ t want people on unemployment in North Carolina and that we want them to have jobs , ” state Rep. David Lewis , a Republican who helped draft the 2013 legislation , told ProPublica .
The overwhelming need for benefits today , and the delays that millions of Americans like Hill-Watkins have in getting them , has set off a national awakening about the sorry state of unemployment insurance systems .
That reckoning is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ people will be particularly vulnerable when the $ 600 weekly unemployment payments from the federal CARES Act expire at the end of July .
Before the pandemic , the state averaged 3,000 claims a week , according to the DES .
In the first six weeks of the pandemic , its system was flooded with an average of 136,000 claims a week .
“ Despite those challenges , if there are no issues with a filed claim , a person usually receives their first payment within 14 days of filing , ” said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
In the same statement , he also noted that “ in the last five years , DES lost 20 % , or $ 10 million , of its administrative funding.
” Hill-Watkins is certain that she would not have been as eager to remain in North Carolina had she known what was to come .
If she ’ d been working in , say , Massachusetts when her hours were reduced to zero , she might have quickly received her benefits , which average $ 557 a week , for up to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the country .
In Massachusetts , 66 percent of new applicants got their unemployment insurance payments in March , compared with 29 percent nationally and fewer than 10 percent in North Carolina , according to a Pew study .
“ I could have been anywhere else in the country , ” Hill-Watkins said .
“ And here I am in the worst place to be.
” Among economists , it ’ s generally accepted that unemployment insurance is one of the most effective and cost-efficient policies to aid recovery .
The premise is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in good times , which distributes benefits to employees laid off for economic reasons .
The temporary cash payments only partially replace lost wages and are spent on basic necessities , providing a direct stimulus to local economies .
Economists may agree on this point , but politicians don ’ t .
Democrats tend to highlight the positives : The benefits help families and promote consumer spending .
Republicans typically point to the negatives : The tax is a burden on employers and a potential disincentive for employees to return to work .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ and regional contrasts : Many Southern states have reduced benefits , while other parts of the country have maintained or even expanded their payments .
For decades , North Carolina ’ s program was in the middle of the pack .
Then came the rise of the Tea Party and James Arthur Pope , a retail heir who ’ s been a major funder for the state ’ s libertarian movement .
In 2010 , Republicans took control of both houses in the legislature and in 2012 , secured the governorship , putting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ state for the first time since Reconstruction .
Among the first items on the new administration ’ s agenda was an overhaul of the state ’ s unemployment program .
In less than two weeks , the GOP supermajority passed HB 4 , a bill that made the deepest cut to any state ’ s unemployment compensation in American history .
“ In terms of governing , this was the Republicans ’ coming out party , ” said Mac McCorkle , a former Democratic political consultant who now teaches at Duke University .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ and lowered maximum weekly payment amount from $ 535 to $ 350 .
It also changed how benefits were calculated—from the highest quarter of a claimant ’ s earnings in the last year to an average of the most recent two quarters .
Since many workers have their hours and pay reduced in the quarter prior to layoffs , this resulted in smaller payouts .
At the end of 2019 , the national average for weekly payments was $ 378 ; in North Carolina , it was $ 277 .
The key impetus @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and two other Republican legislators who supported HB 4 , was to pay back the debt—some $ 2.5 billion — that the state owed the federal government .
In the wake of the 2008 financial crisis , 35 states , including North Carolina , had to borrow from the federal government to sustain their unemployment payments .
Those loans came with interest and in 2012 , the federal government triggered an increase in the amount that each state ’ s employers had to pay into the state ’ s unemployment trust fund .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ made North Carolina less attractive to a potential employer because you didn ’ t have to only factor in business expenses , but you also had to factor in your percentage of repaying this debt.
” The goal , he said , was to create “ a business climate that is good for business and employees.
” In truth , unemployment insurance taxes in North Carolina were already low .
The year before HB 4 was passed , The Tax Foundation , a policy think tank , ranked the state as having @ @ @ @ @ @ @ employers .
( It scored less favorably in other categories . )
Not all states that owed money to the federal government took the same path as North Carolina .
Some , like Rhode Island , temporarily raised the amount of taxes employers paid into the system .
Others slowly paid off the debt without making changes , added programs that expanded eligibility or supported short-term compensation for reduced hours ( known as work sharing ) .
“ We were fully aware that there might have to be some cuts to pay back @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the deputy director of the North Carolina Justice Center , a progressive policy organization .
“ But we were shocked about how severe and permanent they were .
Anything that had previously benefited workers was taken out of our law.
” HB 4 also limited “ attached claims , ” a feature that had previously streamlined the application process by allowing employers to file in bulk for an entire group of workers who have been laid off .
And the bill disqualified people who had lost a job for “ good-cause ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to follow a spouse who has to relocate for work , from collecting unemployment .
“ You couldn ’ t just say my husband has been transferred , ” said state Rep. Julia Howard , a Republican who was one of the bill ’ s primary sponsors .
“ We made it reasonable , so it was not just a gim me .
” When the law went into effect on July 1 , 2013 , the effect on people collecting benefits was immediate and made national headlines .
Before HB 4 , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ federal government ’ s 2009 stimulus package .
But this federal aid , which lasted through 2013 , required that states maintain their benefits structure .
By rushing to implement their changes , rather than waiting until the end of the year , North Carolina ’ s Republicans forfeited their constituents ’ eligibility for this program , stripping an estimated 170,000 people of benefits .
It was the only legislature to do so .
That decision was “ deeply unpopular ” in the state , according to The American Conservative , in a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s Republicans Forgot the Working Class.
” That analysis noted that North Carolinians were collecting extended unemployment not because it was comfortable but because “ there are simply no jobs to be found.
” At the time , the state had the fifth highest unemployment rate in the nation .
The cuts to the state ’ s unemployment program were part of a broader makeover by free-market ideologues , according to Gene Nichol , a law professor at the University of North Carolina .
“ Between 2013 and 2017 , there was a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ role of government , some might generously call it , ” he said , noting the general assembly ’ s elimination of the state ’ s earned income tax credit , an anti-poverty program popular with conservatives , and its decision not to expand Medicaid through the Affordable Care Act .
“ I call it waging a war on poor people.
” Still , a central goal for the law was achieved : North Carolina was able to pay off its debt to the federal government by 2015—four to five years earlier than @ @ @ @ @ @ @ quickly than those who had crafted the bill had anticipated .
At that point , Democrats hoped the assembly would restore benefits to their previous levels , according to three state Democrats .
Instead , the Republican majority cut deeper .
It pared taxes on employers and added provisions to further restrict eligibility by requiring claimants to contact five potential employers each week .
North Carolina was not the only state to slash benefits .
The “ realignment , ” as Howard , the Republican state representative , put it , was adopted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ We have had numerous other states call us and ask us if we would send them a one-sheeter on what we did and how we did it.
” Between 2011 and 2015 , eight other states , mostly in the south , reduced how long people can collect benefits .
These cuts can have a disproportionate impact on Black workers , who average 25.9 weeks of unemployment , compared with the average white worker who remains unemployed for 19 weeks , according to the National Employment Law Project .
It ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Harry Holzer , a professor of public policy at Georgetown University and former chief economist for the Labor Department .
There is a real risk , he said , that employees may find unemployment to be too comfortable and that employers might flee to states with lower taxes .
But “ so many states now go way too far in the direction of not wanting to upset the employer community , ” he said .
“ And the states that let the pendulum swing so far are doing permanent damage to workers and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ type of person who is easily discouraged by bureaucracy and paperwork .
She used to volunteer with a tenants union and is meticulous with records .
She sent the DES every piece of information it requested .
Every week she uploaded her schedule , listing zero hours .
She called the hotline , messaged the chatline .
“ No one wants this for me more than I do , ” she said .
In May , Hill-Watkins said , she waited for hours on hold to talk to someone at the DES , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ When it was her turn , she was told there was nothing anyone there could do for her over the phone : The agency already had the materials to process Hill-Watkins ’ claim , it said .
She just needed to wait for someone to do so .
“ I know there ’ s a lot of people going through the same situation I ’ m going through , ” Hill-Watkins said .
“ But it ’ s ridiculous that the wait time is 14 days to six weeks .
And that ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ even eligible.
” When asked about the delays that Hill-Watkins faced , Rhoades , the DES spokesman , said the agency does not comment on individual cases .
Generally , he said that the agency was prioritizing claims that were filed earliest , having adjudicated 96 % of claims filed since mid-Mid March and delivered 82.8 % of its first payments within the 14-day standard .
The massive influx in the volume of claims , short staffing levels , and new procedures introduced by the CARES Act have slowed down the timeliness of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had never filed for unemployment before .
“ I worked , ” she told me in early June .
“ No matter what it is , I work.
” She was holding the phone with one hand and cooking dinner for her son—some chicken , onions and bell pepper she ’ d picked up from the food bank—with the other .
“ I raised six children on my own.
” Before working at the supermarket , she had earned a living as an independent contractor by tapping into a network of longtime clients @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who needed a babysitter , who wanted a dress made or who was due to get braids done .
If there weren ’ t a virus to worry about , she knew she would have been able to make do on her own after her hours were cut .
The problem was that “ there ’ s no social distancing in any of those jobs , ” and with high blood pressure , she couldn ’ t take the risk .
Since losing work , every day had become a blur of emails @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
She shared her resume with employers on Indeed .
She scoured the lists of food banks , local charities and low-income housing opportunities .
She wrote to social service agencies and social workers , to legislators and churches .
The subject line read : “ Scared single mother.
” Few people responded and when they did , there always seemed to be a catch .
Like the homeless agency that told her she didn ’ t qualify for a shelter because she was already living in a hotel .
Or the fact @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for remote work—providing customer service from home—required her to get her own landline .
To get a landline , she needed an apartment , but without a job , she couldn ’ t fill out an apartment application .
These dead ends left her at the mercy of the state .
“ I never wanted to be sitting and waiting for somebody to justify giving me money to survive , ” she said .
“ I would rather be out there scraping and scratching and hustling than waiting for someone to validate my @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the few consolations for Hill-Watkins was that she wasn ’ t alone .
Several other workers—and even state legislators trying to file on behalf of their constituents—described the same difficulties she had with the program ’ s application process .
For instance , if applicants make a single mistake , it ’ s not possible to go back into the form to change it .
Instead , they have to call a hotline , with a wait time that often ranges between two and seven hours .
And when someone from the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , more often than not the applicant will get disconnected .
The DES confirmed that , in order to prevent fraud , it limits the changes claimants can make to their application .
A contractor working with the DES call center , who asked to remain anonymous , confirmed that these frustrations are in fact standard features of the system .
“ If the whole queue is full , then the line gets dropped , ” she said , and applicants “ have no choice but to call back and go through this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ unemployment system , she said , is just as opaque and chaotic for those working inside it as it is for those on the outside .
Call center employees do not have the authority to adjudicate claims in North Carolina , the contractor said ; they are merely a conduit through which residents can vent their frustration .
Some of the people she speaks with have lost their houses and jobs and want to scream about it .
Others just want to sit on the phone with her and cry .
“ I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ talk to , ” she said .
All she can do is listen and tell them to keep waiting .
( The DES responded , “ We are training call center representatives to build their skill sets so they can assist as many people as possible .
However , more complex issues may need to be handled by the more experienced staff.
” ) These headaches are not surprising to experts like Michele Evermore , a senior policy analyst with the National Employment Law Project .
The coronavirus may have been unexpected , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ unemployment systems in many states was not .
Evermore published a prescient report in early March , warning that the depth of North Carolina ’ s cuts to its unemployment benefits and staffing had left the state unprepared for the next recession .
“ These systems that were undermined for the past decade are very hard to turn around , ” she said , comparing the process to steering a barge .
Such an attempt to reverse course is precisely what ’ s happening in North Carolina right now .
Since March , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Democratic governor , has signed several executive orders to temporarily remove some of the obstacles from the application process .
The orders waive the requirement that applicants search for work ; eliminate the one-week waiting period between filing for unemployment and receiving benefits , and allow employers to file claims for entire groups of workers who have been laid off .
( The DES , according to Rhoades , its spokesman , has also acted to “ improve its processes , technology and staffing levels to respond to the surge in claims , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ feature and increasing staff from 500 employees to 2,600 . )
The orders show , Evermore said , that “ when the government decides to clear away the roadblocks to paying benefits , it can.
” Still , none of those changes are permanent ; they expire when the governor rescinds his declaration of the state of emergency .
North Carolina Democrats hope the crisis will create an opportunity to make permanent changes , just as the 2008 recession did for their Republican counterparts .
So far the signs have not been promising @ @ @ @ @ @ @ rejected a Democratic measure , previously passed in the senate , to temporarily increase the maximum benefit amount from $ 350 to $ 400 .
( The extra costs would have been fully covered by the federal government as part of its extension of state benefits . )
“ I ’ ve pushed back pretty hard about making changes during this time frame , ” Howard said .
“ I do not think that now is the time—when the ship is on fire—that we need to be trying to change things.
” On @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she had applied , Hill-Watkins received an update on her unemployment application .
The notice , which she accessed through the state ’ s online portal , was the sort of oddity that is common in the unemployment process .
It laid out the amount she would receive— $ 150 per week for up to 12 weeks—if she were deemed eligible for state benefits .
The notice was silent as to whether she would be found eligible and made no mention of when that decision might come .
Whether due to a glitch @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , she was sent this same correspondence three more times : once at 1:30 a.m. and twice at 5 a.m. To Hill-Watkins , the agency ’ s timing was curious .
The day before , ProPublica had asked the DES about Hill-Watkins ’ application .
“ Am I not worthy of this unless someone else speaks up for me ?
” she wondered , “ I did the work .
And I ’ m the one sitting here without the money.
” ( The DES did not respond directly when asked whether ProPublica @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s timing or decision ; its spokesperson said that Hill-Watkins ’ claim was referred to a team “ dedicated to resolving the oldest and most complicated claims.
” ) Hill-Watkins tried calling the DES to find out more .
She wanted to know when she might obtain or qualify for these payments and whether she would also receive the additional $ 600 per week from the CARES Act .
As usual , she couldn ’ t get anyone on the phone .
Each of the four times she called , the automated message @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ I don ’ t have any more time , though , is the thing , ” she told me on June 19 , the day her rent was due .
She wondered if she would have to wait another eight weeks for the unemployment office to find her eligible .
Or to pay her .
“ It ’ s unbelievable they can keep you waiting for this long , ” she said , “ and expect you to survive.
” By this point , she had missed her rent payment .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ and asked her to leave the room .
She told them that , because she had stayed in the hotel for more than 30 days and it was her primary residence , she believed she qualified as a tenant and was entitled to the same protections against evictions .
That argument did not appear to sway the manager .
Hill-Watkins ’ keycard for the room was deactivated .
Unsure if she and Devan would be able to get back in if they left for even five minutes , they stayed in the room @ @ @ @ @ @ @ manager did not respond to a request for comment . )
On Monday , June 22 , came the news Hill-Watkins had been waiting two months to hear : She was eligible for unemployment benefits .
At 12:21 that afternoon , $ 750 was directly deposited into her bank account .
Hill-Watkins compared the feeling to the moving of a great mountain .
She allowed herself a moment of optimism .
She has long dreamed of saving up enough money to buy an RV .
If she had it her way , she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , she and Devan could shelter in place in any state .
She wouldn ’ t have to worry about a checkout date or the hazards of social distancing .
The next time one of her children called her for help , she could ride to them and then ride away .
They would never have to worry about being homeless again .
As this story was about to be published , ProPublica learned that the freelance photographer ProPublica hired to take photographs of Shawn Hill-Watkins for this article was so moved by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of her work to benefit Hill-Watkins and sent her $ 2,000 .
The funds arrived later on June 22 , after Hill-Watkins received her unemployment benefits .
In addition , the photographer promoted a GoFundMe page for Hill-Watkins , which prompted $ 9,740 in contributions from other people as of June 29 .
The photographer did not inform ProPublica that she was helping to raise funds for Hill-Watkins .
As laudable as the photographer ’ s intentions were , paying sources violates ProPublica ’ s editorial guidelines .
For that reason , we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ taken for this story .
( We did pay her for her work . )
Ultimately , we concluded that because the photographer ’ s fundraising occurred after the reporting and writing for this article was completed ( only fact-checking and editing remained at that point ) , this couldn ’ t be construed as paying Hill-Watkins for access .

This story was published in partnership with ProPublica, a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power. Sign up for The Big Story newsletter to receive stories like this one in your inbox.
By March, when the coronavirus began accelerating through the United States, Shawn Hill-Watkins had been working as a cashier at a Food Lion supermarket in High Point, North Carolina, for seven months, taking three buses to work and back each day. She couldn’t afford the groceries she was ringing up for customers, but she had always been outgoing and knew how to keep the mood upbeat. Older regulars at the market sought out her line. They knew her by the colorful silk flowers she had sewn for herself, which she would wear behind her ear.
Hill-Watkins is 50, with six children and nine grandchildren. For years she’s lived around Virginia and in Philadelphia, making ends meet as a hairdresser, a seamstress and a house cleaner. Last June she came to North Carolina with her youngest son, Devan, after one of her daughters, who was in an abusive relationship, called her for help. Her daughter later left, but Hill-Watkins decided to remain. She had gotten the grocery job and eventually moved into a room with a kitchenette in an extended stay hotel just off Interstate 40 in Greensboro. Devan, who is 15, had made friends on a local football team. Hill-Watkins had been running around trying to help her children for two decades, she said, “and I felt like I couldn’t run with them anymore.”
Despite the rising risk of COVID-19, Hill-Watkins and her fellow cashiers were not wearing masks in early spring. It wasn’t long before she came down with something that seemed to be the virus. She was too sick to work—sleeping for hours and coughing up phlegm—but not sick enough to go to the hospital for testing. By the time she got back on her feet, a week and a half later, the store had reduced her hours to zero, where they’ve stayed ever since. (Food Lion said it doesn’t comment on “any specific associate matters” and that it “continues to follow guidance” from all health authorities.)
On April 20, Hill-Watkins filed for unemployment. For two months, she didn’t hear a word from the Division of Employment Security, or DES, the agency that operates North Carolina’s unemployment insurance system. By June 19, when her $1,261.60 monthly rent was due, she had $30 to her name. “There is a real possibility that we will be outside tomorrow,” Hill-Watkins told me a day before her rent deadline. “I wake up thinking about it. I go to sleep thinking about it.”
Hill-Watkins’ attempts to chase elusive benefits will sound familiar to the estimated 44 million Americans who have had to follow the absurdist script that often constitutes the application process: The obtuse online forms. The bewildering notifications and empty emails. The understaffed hotlines with half-day wait times. The fleeting transfers to a human operator, followed by a sudden disconnection.
Much of this bureaucratic ineptitude predates the pandemic. Nearly every unemployment system, run by each of the 50 states, has been plagued by outdated technology and administrative hurdles—and all have been overwhelmed by the sudden and historic spike in claims.
But as real as those problems are, they ignore a more fundamental issue: Some state unemployment systems have long been designed to exclude applicants. “People are frustrated and complaining everywhere. But there are degrees of how well states are handling this based on their approach to the program,” said Andrew Stettner, a senior fellow at The Century Foundation, a progressive think tank. “The states that are doing the worst at this have historically done a bad job of it.”
Among the worst, historically and at present, is North Carolina. At the end of 2019—when the economy was humming and pandemics were the stuff of horror fiction—fewer than 1 in 10 jobless people in North Carolina received unemployment benefits. That’s the lowest rate in the country and well below the average of 26 percent.
The maximum number of weeks someone in the state can draw benefits is currently 12, compared with the national standard of 26 weeks. And those who receive benefits get less money than they used to: Between 2008 and 2019, the percentage of a worker’s wages replaced has fallen from 53 percent to 38 percent. North Carolina also ranks as the worst state for getting benefits to workers in a timely manner.
These outcomes are the result of a long campaign by North Carolina legislators to restrict and reduce benefits. In 2013, only a few years after the last economic cataclysm, the state’s Republicans made the deepest cuts to any unemployment insurance system in the country. “It’s fair to say that we don’t want people on unemployment in North Carolina and that we want them to have jobs,” state Rep. David Lewis, a Republican who helped draft the 2013 legislation, told ProPublica.
The overwhelming need for benefits today, and the delays that millions of Americans like Hill-Watkins have in getting them, has set off a national awakening about the sorry state of unemployment insurance systems. That reckoning is acute in North Carolina, where jobless people will be particularly vulnerable when the $600 weekly unemployment payments from the federal CARES Act expire at the end of July.
Before the pandemic, the state averaged 3,000 claims a week, according to the DES. In the first six weeks of the pandemic, its system was flooded with an average of 136,000 claims a week. “Despite those challenges, if there are no issues with a filed claim, a person usually receives their first payment within 14 days of filing,” said David Rhoades, spokesman for the DES. In the same statement, he also noted that “in the last five years, DES lost 20%, or $10 million, of its administrative funding.”
Hill-Watkins is certain that she would not have been as eager to remain in North Carolina had she known what was to come. If she’d been working in, say, Massachusetts when her hours were reduced to zero, she might have quickly received her benefits, which average $557 a week, for up to 30 weeks, the longest duration in the country. In Massachusetts, 66 percent of new applicants got their unemployment insurance payments in March, compared with 29 percent nationally and fewer than 10 percent in North Carolina, according to a Pew study. “I could have been anywhere else in the country,” Hill-Watkins said. “And here I am in the worst place to be.”
Among economists, it’s generally accepted that unemployment insurance is one of the most effective and cost-efficient policies to aid recovery. The premise is simple: Employers pay into the system in good times, which distributes benefits to employees laid off for economic reasons. The temporary cash payments only partially replace lost wages and are spent on basic necessities, providing a direct stimulus to local economies.
Economists may agree on this point, but politicians don’t. Democrats tend to highlight the positives: The benefits help families and promote consumer spending. Republicans typically point to the negatives: The tax is a burden on employers and a potential disincentive for employees to return to work. These divides have led to stark partisan and regional contrasts: Many Southern states have reduced benefits, while other parts of the country have maintained or even expanded their payments.
For decades, North Carolina’s program was in the middle of the pack. Then came the rise of the Tea Party and James Arthur Pope, a retail heir who’s been a major funder for the state’s libertarian movement. In 2010, Republicans took control of both houses in the legislature and in 2012, secured the governorship, putting the GOP in full command of the state for the first time since Reconstruction.
Among the first items on the new administration’s agenda was an overhaul of the state’s unemployment program. In less than two weeks, the GOP supermajority passed HB 4, a bill that made the deepest cut to any state’s unemployment compensation in American history. “In terms of governing, this was the Republicans’ coming out party,” said Mac McCorkle, a former Democratic political consultant who now teaches at Duke University.
The bill slashed the duration of benefits and lowered maximum weekly payment amount from $535 to $350. It also changed how benefits were calculated—from the highest quarter of a claimant’s earnings in the last year to an average of the most recent two quarters. Since many workers have their hours and pay reduced in the quarter prior to layoffs, this resulted in smaller payouts. At the end of 2019, the national average for weekly payments was $378; in North Carolina, it was $277.
The key impetus for these cuts, according to Lewis and two other Republican legislators who supported HB 4, was to pay back the debt—some $2.5 billion — that the state owed the federal government. In the wake of the 2008 financial crisis, 35 states, including North Carolina, had to borrow from the federal government to sustain their unemployment payments. Those loans came with interest and in 2012, the federal government triggered an increase in the amount that each state’s employers had to pay into the state’s unemployment trust fund. These higher taxes, Lewis said, “made North Carolina less attractive to a potential employer because you didn’t have to only factor in business expenses, but you also had to factor in your percentage of repaying this debt.” The goal, he said, was to create “a business climate that is good for business and employees.”
In truth, unemployment insurance taxes in North Carolina were already low. The year before HB 4 was passed, The Tax Foundation, a policy think tank, ranked the state as having the seventh most favorable unemployment tax for employers. (It scored less favorably in other categories.)
Not all states that owed money to the federal government took the same path as North Carolina. Some, like Rhode Island, temporarily raised the amount of taxes employers paid into the system. Others slowly paid off the debt without making changes, added programs that expanded eligibility or supported short-term compensation for reduced hours (known as work sharing). “We were fully aware that there might have to be some cuts to pay back the debt,” said Bill Rowe, the deputy director of the North Carolina Justice Center, a progressive policy organization. “But we were shocked about how severe and permanent they were. Anything that had previously benefited workers was taken out of our law.”
HB 4 also limited “attached claims,” a feature that had previously streamlined the application process by allowing employers to file in bulk for an entire group of workers who have been laid off. And the bill disqualified people who had lost a job for “good-cause” reasons, such as family caregiving or to follow a spouse who has to relocate for work, from collecting unemployment. “You couldn’t just say my husband has been transferred,” said state Rep. Julia Howard, a Republican who was one of the bill’s primary sponsors. “We made it reasonable, so it was not just a gimme.”
When the law went into effect on July 1, 2013, the effect on people collecting benefits was immediate and made national headlines. Before HB 4, residents had received extended benefits through the federal government’s 2009 stimulus package. But this federal aid, which lasted through 2013, required that states maintain their benefits structure. By rushing to implement their changes, rather than waiting until the end of the year, North Carolina’s Republicans forfeited their constituents’ eligibility for this program, stripping an estimated 170,000 people of benefits. It was the only legislature to do so.
That decision was “deeply unpopular” in the state, according to The American Conservative, in a 2013 article titled “How Raleigh’s Republicans Forgot the Working Class.” That analysis noted that North Carolinians were collecting extended unemployment not because it was comfortable but because “there are simply no jobs to be found.” At the time, the state had the fifth highest unemployment rate in the nation.
The cuts to the state’s unemployment program were part of a broader makeover by free-market ideologues, according to Gene Nichol, a law professor at the University of North Carolina. “Between 2013 and 2017, there was a real shift in the theory of the role of government, some might generously call it,” he said, noting the general assembly’s elimination of the state’s earned income tax credit, an anti-poverty program popular with conservatives, and its decision not to expand Medicaid through the Affordable Care Act. “I call it waging a war on poor people.”
Still, a central goal for the law was achieved: North Carolina was able to pay off its debt to the federal government by 2015—four to five years earlier than it otherwise would have and even more quickly than those who had crafted the bill had anticipated.
At that point, Democrats hoped the assembly would restore benefits to their previous levels, according to three state Democrats. Instead, the Republican majority cut deeper. It pared taxes on employers and added provisions to further restrict eligibility by requiring claimants to contact five potential employers each week.
North Carolina was not the only state to slash benefits. The “realignment,” as Howard, the Republican state representative, put it, was adopted by other states in the region. “We have had numerous other states call us and ask us if we would send them a one-sheeter on what we did and how we did it.”
Between 2011 and 2015, eight other states, mostly in the south, reduced how long people can collect benefits. These cuts can have a disproportionate impact on Black workers, who average 25.9 weeks of unemployment, compared with the average white worker who remains unemployed for 19 weeks, according to the National Employment Law Project.
It’s a “troubling trend,” said Harry Holzer, a professor of public policy at Georgetown University and former chief economist for the Labor Department. There is a real risk, he said, that employees may find unemployment to be too comfortable and that employers might flee to states with lower taxes. But “so many states now go way too far in the direction of not wanting to upset the employer community,” he said. “And the states that let the pendulum swing so far are doing permanent damage to workers and households.”
Hill-Watkins has never been the type of person who is easily discouraged by bureaucracy and paperwork. She used to volunteer with a tenants union and is meticulous with records. She sent the DES every piece of information it requested. Every week she uploaded her schedule, listing zero hours. She called the hotline, messaged the chatline. “No one wants this for me more than I do,” she said.
In May, Hill-Watkins said, she waited for hours on hold to talk to someone at the DES, with 189 people ahead of her. When it was her turn, she was told there was nothing anyone there could do for her over the phone: The agency already had the materials to process Hill-Watkins’ claim, it said. She just needed to wait for someone to do so. “I know there’s a lot of people going through the same situation I’m going through,” Hill-Watkins said. “But it’s ridiculous that the wait time is 14 days to six weeks. And that’s just to know whether you are even eligible.”
When asked about the delays that Hill-Watkins faced, Rhoades, the DES spokesman, said the agency does not comment on individual cases. Generally, he said that the agency was prioritizing claims that were filed earliest, having adjudicated 96% of claims filed since mid-Mid March and delivered 82.8% of its first payments within the 14-day standard. The massive influx in the volume of claims, short staffing levels, and new procedures introduced by the CARES Act have slowed down the timeliness of some payments, he said.
Hill-Watkins had never filed for unemployment before. “I worked,” she told me in early June. “No matter what it is, I work.” She was holding the phone with one hand and cooking dinner for her son—some chicken, onions and bell pepper she’d picked up from the food bank—with the other. “I raised six children on my own.” Before working at the supermarket, she had earned a living as an independent contractor by tapping into a network of longtime clients, references and friends. She knew who needed a babysitter, who wanted a dress made or who was due to get braids done. If there weren’t a virus to worry about, she knew she would have been able to make do on her own after her hours were cut. The problem was that “there’s no social distancing in any of those jobs,” and with high blood pressure, she couldn’t take the risk.
Since losing work, every day had become a blur of emails sent, numbers dialed, calls unanswered. She shared her resume with employers on Indeed. She scoured the lists of food banks, local charities and low-income housing opportunities. She wrote to social service agencies and social workers, to legislators and churches. The subject line read: “Scared single mother.”
Few people responded and when they did, there always seemed to be a catch. Like the homeless agency that told her she didn’t qualify for a shelter because she was already living in a hotel. Or the fact that the most promising lead she found for remote work—providing customer service from home—required her to get her own landline. To get a landline, she needed an apartment, but without a job, she couldn’t fill out an apartment application.
These dead ends left her at the mercy of the state. “I never wanted to be sitting and waiting for somebody to justify giving me money to survive,” she said. “I would rather be out there scraping and scratching and hustling than waiting for someone to validate my life with their little change.”
One of the few consolations for Hill-Watkins was that she wasn’t alone. Several other workers—and even state legislators trying to file on behalf of their constituents—described the same difficulties she had with the program’s application process. For instance, if applicants make a single mistake, it’s not possible to go back into the form to change it. Instead, they have to call a hotline, with a wait time that often ranges between two and seven hours. And when someone from the hotline says they are transferring the call, more often than not the applicant will get disconnected. The DES confirmed that, in order to prevent fraud, it limits the changes claimants can make to their application.
A contractor working with the DES call center, who asked to remain anonymous, confirmed that these frustrations are in fact standard features of the system. “If the whole queue is full, then the line gets dropped,” she said, and applicants “have no choice but to call back and go through this process over and over again.”
The unemployment system, she said, is just as opaque and chaotic for those working inside it as it is for those on the outside. Call center employees do not have the authority to adjudicate claims in North Carolina, the contractor said; they are merely a conduit through which residents can vent their frustration. Some of the people she speaks with have lost their houses and jobs and want to scream about it. Others just want to sit on the phone with her and cry. “I’m the only voice they can talk to,” she said. All she can do is listen and tell them to keep waiting. (The DES responded, “We are training call center representatives to build their skill sets so they can assist as many people as possible. However, more complex issues may need to be handled by the more experienced staff.”)
These headaches are not surprising to experts like Michele Evermore, a senior policy analyst with the National Employment Law Project. The coronavirus may have been unexpected, Evermore said, but the collapse of unemployment systems in many states was not. Evermore published a prescient report in early March, warning that the depth of North Carolina’s cuts to its unemployment benefits and staffing had left the state unprepared for the next recession. “These systems that were undermined for the past decade are very hard to turn around,” she said, comparing the process to steering a barge.
Such an attempt to reverse course is precisely what’s happening in North Carolina right now. Since March, Roy Cooper, the state’s Democratic governor, has signed several executive orders to temporarily remove some of the obstacles from the application process. The orders waive the requirement that applicants search for work; eliminate the one-week waiting period between filing for unemployment and receiving benefits, and allow employers to file claims for entire groups of workers who have been laid off. (The DES, according to Rhoades, its spokesman, has also acted to “improve its processes, technology and staffing levels to respond to the surge in claims,” including by adding an online chat feature and increasing staff from 500 employees to 2,600.) The orders show, Evermore said, that “when the government decides to clear away the roadblocks to paying benefits, it can.”
Still, none of those changes are permanent; they expire when the governor rescinds his declaration of the state of emergency. North Carolina Democrats hope the crisis will create an opportunity to make permanent changes, just as the 2008 recession did for their Republican counterparts.
So far the signs have not been promising. In May the Republican-controlled state assembly rejected a Democratic measure, previously passed in the senate, to temporarily increase the maximum benefit amount from $350 to $400. (The extra costs would have been fully covered by the federal government as part of its extension of state benefits.) “I’ve pushed back pretty hard about making changes during this time frame,” Howard said. “I do not think that now is the time—when the ship is on fire—that we need to be trying to change things.”
On June 17, nearly two months after she had applied, Hill-Watkins received an update on her unemployment application. The notice, which she accessed through the state’s online portal, was the sort of oddity that is common in the unemployment process. It laid out the amount she would receive—$150 per week for up to 12 weeks—if she were deemed eligible for state benefits. The notice was silent as to whether she would be found eligible and made no mention of when that decision might come. Whether due to a glitch in the system or an overzealous administrator, she was sent this same correspondence three more times: once at 1:30 a.m. and twice at 5 a.m.
To Hill-Watkins, the agency’s timing was curious. The day before, ProPublica had asked the DES about Hill-Watkins’ application. “Am I not worthy of this unless someone else speaks up for me?” she wondered, “I did the work. And I’m the one sitting here without the money.” (The DES did not respond directly when asked whether ProPublica’s questions influenced the agency’s timing or decision; its spokesperson said that Hill-Watkins’ claim was referred to a team “dedicated to resolving the oldest and most complicated claims.”)
Hill-Watkins tried calling the DES to find out more. She wanted to know when she might obtain or qualify for these payments and whether she would also receive the additional $600 per week from the CARES Act. As usual, she couldn’t get anyone on the phone. Each of the four times she called, the automated message politely suggested she call back another time.
“I don’t have any more time, though, is the thing,” she told me on June 19, the day her rent was due. She wondered if she would have to wait another eight weeks for the unemployment office to find her eligible. Or to pay her. “It’s unbelievable they can keep you waiting for this long,” she said, “and expect you to survive.”
By this point, she had missed her rent payment. Managers at the hotel had come by and asked her to leave the room. She told them that, because she had stayed in the hotel for more than 30 days and it was her primary residence, she believed she qualified as a tenant and was entitled to the same protections against evictions.
That argument did not appear to sway the manager. Hill-Watkins’ keycard for the room was deactivated. Unsure if she and Devan would be able to get back in if they left for even five minutes, they stayed in the room the entire weekend. (The hotel manager did not respond to a request for comment.)
On Monday, June 22, came the news Hill-Watkins had been waiting two months to hear: She was eligible for unemployment benefits. At 12:21 that afternoon, $750 was directly deposited into her bank account. Hill-Watkins compared the feeling to the moving of a great mountain.
She allowed herself a moment of optimism. She has long dreamed of saving up enough money to buy an RV. If she had it her way, she would camp forever. With the car, she and Devan could shelter in place in any state. She wouldn’t have to worry about a checkout date or the hazards of social distancing. The next time one of her children called her for help, she could ride to them and then ride away. They would never have to worry about being homeless again.
Editor’s note:
As this story was about to be published, ProPublica learned that the freelance photographer ProPublica hired to take photographs of Shawn Hill-Watkins for this article was so moved by Hill-Watkins’ plight that she sold some of her work to benefit Hill-Watkins and sent her $2,000. The funds arrived later on June 22, after Hill-Watkins received her unemployment benefits. In addition, the photographer promoted a GoFundMe page for Hill-Watkins, which prompted $9,740 in contributions from other people as of June 29. The photographer did not inform ProPublica that she was helping to raise funds for Hill-Watkins.
As laudable as the photographer’s intentions were, paying sources violates ProPublica’s editorial guidelines. For that reason, we decided not to publish the original photographs taken for this story. (We did pay her for her work.)
Ultimately, we concluded that because the photographer’s fundraising occurred after the reporting and writing for this article was completed (only fact-checking and editing remained at that point), this couldn’t be construed as paying Hill-Watkins for access.
Ariana Tobin contributed reporting.


motherjones--2020-07-02--You Aren’t the Ones Who Are Struggling to Breathe

They ’ re everywhere these days—in our grocery stores , at our post offices , and attending our city council meetings .
They ’ re furious and victimized by a great social injustice that has befallen this nation .
Outraged white people are in full rebellion over mask mandates .
And the self-professed victims have co-opted the racial justice movement to make their point .
It is a movement grounded in the history of this country ’ s systemic persecution of Black people and other people of color .
Over Memorial Day weekend , George Floyd , a Black Minneapolis @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and said he couldn ’ t breathe while white police officer Derek Chauvin pressed his knee into his neck for nearly nine minutes .
It sparked a nationwide protest movement , but it was far from the first time a cop had killed someone who was gasping for air .
In 2014 , Eric Garner was killed by New York City police officer Daniel Pantaleo who put him in a chokehold and ignored his dying words : “ I can ’ t breathe.
” In fact , the New York Times found 70 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ died in police custody after crying out for air .
The tragic phrase has become a rallying cry , splashed on posters at protests and across the chests of celebrities .
And now it has become part of the rallying cry of white people who object to the public health effort to slow the spread of COVID-19 .
Some states and localities immediately implemented rules requiring the wearing of masks , while others floundered .
Officials have reassured anyone who would listen that even though wearing a mask can be a little uncomfortable @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Nonetheless , almost immediately , the mask mandates turned into a new front in the culture war .
Only liberal sheep wore masks to protect the public from coronavirus ; real conservatives and libertarians would never stoop to something so feminine and weak !
Just look at the president !
Meanwhile , as the coronavirus has surged in the South and West , so too has the intensity of the mask war .
The anti-mask cohort has adopted a slogan they saw was very effective , insisting that when wearing a mask @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Just look at last week ’ s county commission meeting in Palm Beach , Florida , where coronavirus infections have been rising rapidly .
One woman claimed commissioners seeking a mask mandate were doing the devil ’ s work .
Another woman said she doesn ’ t wear a mask for the same reason that she doesn ’ t wear underwear : “ Things need to breathe.
” Still another resident claimed wearing a mask would “ throw God ’ s wonderful breathing system out the door.
” But this movement is not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Three-thousand miles away , a white woman went on a tirade in a Southern California Trader Joe ’ s grocery store after being asked to leave because she was not wearing a mask .
“ That man harassed me for not wearing a mask , ” the woman says in the video .
“ I have a breathing problem , my doctor will not let me wear a mask .
So anyone harassing me to wear a mask , you guys are violating federal law.
” It does not seem to have occurred @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to shop for her or order her groceries .
The logic of the masks being that they protect others .
Last month in Montgomery , Alabama , city council members debated an ordinance that would require residents to wear masks in public places .
While white council members rebuffed the idea because it would be hard to enforce , Dr. William Salinsky described the scene at his hospital , saying that 90 percent of patients on ventilators , unable to breathe on their own , were Black .
A member of the audience @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had lost six family members to the disease already .
Do Black lives matter to the city council of Montgomery , Alabama ?
The mask ordinance vote failed , but Mayor Steven Reed implemented it by executive order the next day .
It takes an incredible amount of privilege and stunning lack of self-awareness to complain about breathing in this country .
Who is really struggling to breathe ?
For communities of color , struggling to breathe is nothing new .
Black people are more disproportionately affected by COVID-19 because , as my @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a pre-existing condition .
But the inability to breathe is not restricted to the coronavirus and police brutality .
By design , Black and brown neighborhoods suffer from more air pollution than wealthier , white neighborhoods .
A 2017 study found that Black people are 75 percent more likely to live near toxic and oil and gas facilities .
More than 1 million Black people live within half a mile of an oil or gas facility and face serious health risks like asthma and other respiratory diseases .
All of a sudden , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ breathe is everywhere .
In April , I found out my uncle , my father ’ s 79-year-old brother in Brooklyn , died from COVID-19 .
I happened to be on the phone with my mom .
After she told me the news , she paused mid-sentence to say something to my father who I could only hear faintly in the background .
Then she said she ’ d call me back .
I hung up the phone , sobbing and gasping for air .
As I see the maskless people insisting on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ struck by the irony of how , I too , was struggling to breathe , and how that fact was lost on me until now .
I imagine that ’ s how other Black people feel , constantly fighting to breathe after another knee plants on our necks , or when someone we love is admitted to the ICU , or as we encounter one of the other million little ways this country sucks the breath out of us .
So , before you launch into a public temper tantrum about your alleged @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , take a look around .
You ’ re actually breathing just fine .

They’re everywhere these days—in our grocery stores, at our post offices, and attending our city council meetings. They’re furious and victimized by a great social injustice that has befallen this nation. Outraged white people are in full rebellion over mask mandates. And the self-professed victims have co-opted the racial justice movement to make their point.
It is a movement grounded in the history of this country’s systemic persecution of Black people and other people of color. Over Memorial Day weekend, George Floyd, a Black Minneapolis man, cried out for his mother and said he couldn’t breathe while white police officer Derek Chauvin pressed his knee into his neck for nearly nine minutes. It sparked a nationwide protest movement, but it was far from the first time a cop had killed someone who was gasping for air. In 2014, Eric Garner was killed by New York City police officer Daniel Pantaleo who put him in a chokehold and ignored his dying words: “I can’t breathe.” In fact, the New York Times found 70 cases in the last decade where individuals died in police custody after crying out for air. The tragic phrase has become a rallying cry, splashed on posters at protests and across the chests of celebrities.
“I can’t breathe.”
And now it has become part of the rallying cry of white people who object to the public health effort to slow the spread of COVID-19. Some states and localities immediately implemented rules requiring the wearing of masks, while others floundered. Officials have reassured anyone who would listen that even though wearing a mask can be a little uncomfortable, it doesn’t inhibit breathing. Nonetheless, almost immediately, the mask mandates turned into a new front in the culture war. Only liberal sheep wore masks to protect the public from coronavirus; real conservatives and libertarians would never stoop to something so feminine and weak! Just look at the president! Meanwhile, as the coronavirus has surged in the South and West, so too has the intensity of the mask war. The anti-mask cohort has adopted a slogan they saw was very effective, insisting that when wearing a mask, they can’t breathe.
I put on a mask and literally within seconds, I am struggling to breathe. — Bill Mitchell (@mitchellvii) June 30, 2020
Just look at last week’s county commission meeting in Palm Beach, Florida, where coronavirus infections have been rising rapidly. One woman claimed commissioners seeking a mask mandate were doing the devil’s work. Another woman said she doesn’t wear a mask for the same reason that she doesn’t wear underwear: “Things need to breathe.” Still another resident claimed wearing a mask would “throw God’s wonderful breathing system out the door.”
But this movement is not limited to conservative enclaves in Florida. Three-thousand miles away, a white woman went on a tirade in a Southern California Trader Joe’s grocery store after being asked to leave because she was not wearing a mask.
“That man harassed me for not wearing a mask,” the woman says in the video. “I have a breathing problem, my doctor will not let me wear a mask. So anyone harassing me to wear a mask, you guys are violating federal law.” It does not seem to have occurred to her to simply find someone else to shop for her or order her groceries. The logic of the masks being that they protect others.
Last month in Montgomery, Alabama, city council members debated an ordinance that would require residents to wear masks in public places. While white council members rebuffed the idea because it would be hard to enforce, Dr. William Salinsky described the scene at his hospital, saying that 90 percent of patients on ventilators, unable to breathe on their own, were Black. A member of the audience, a Black man, said he had lost six family members to the disease already. Do Black lives matter to the city council of Montgomery, Alabama?
Man speaking now says he’s lost six family members during the pandemic. “The question on the table is whether black lives matter.” pic.twitter.com/lXGcO8bKJy — Brad Harper (@BradMGM) June 16, 2020
The mask ordinance vote failed, but Mayor Steven Reed implemented it by executive order the next day. It takes an incredible amount of privilege and stunning lack of self-awareness to complain about breathing in this country. Who is really struggling to breathe?
For communities of color, struggling to breathe is nothing new. Black people are more disproportionately affected by COVID-19 because, as my colleague Edwin Rios wrote, racism is a pre-existing condition. But the inability to breathe is not restricted to the coronavirus and police brutality. By design, Black and brown neighborhoods suffer from more air pollution than wealthier, white neighborhoods. A 2017 study found that Black people are 75 percent more likely to live near toxic and oil and gas facilities. More than 1 million Black people live within half a mile of an oil or gas facility and face serious health risks like asthma and other respiratory diseases.
All of a sudden, it seems as if the struggle to breathe is everywhere. In April, I found out my uncle, my father’s 79-year-old brother in Brooklyn, died from COVID-19. I happened to be on the phone with my mom. After she told me the news, she paused mid-sentence to say something to my father who I could only hear faintly in the background. Then she said she’d call me back. I hung up the phone, sobbing and gasping for air.
As I see the maskless people insisting on their right to breathe, I am struck by the irony of how, I too, was struggling to breathe, and how that fact was lost on me until now. I imagine that’s how other Black people feel, constantly fighting to breathe after another knee plants on our necks, or when someone we love is admitted to the ICU, or as we encounter one of the other million little ways this country sucks the breath out of us.
So, before you launch into a public temper tantrum about your alleged breathing troubles because of wearing a mask, take a look around. You’re actually breathing just fine.


motherjones--2020-07-02--Trump Picks the Dumbest Possible Fight With Congress Over a Must-Pass Defense Bill

The House Armed Services Committee unanimously approved a draft defense policy bill early Thursday morning , setting up a clash not between Democrats and Republicans—who seem to mostly agree on the fundamentals of the legislation—but with Donald Trump over the naming of military bases after Confederate generals .
Before the House panel finished its all-day markup , Trump threatened to veto the final bill if it included a provision to rename bases .
The amendment that drew Trump ’ s ire initially appeared in a Senate version of the bill , where it was introduced by Sen. Elizabeth Warren ( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The presence of a similar provision in the House bill all but ensures it will survive in the final version that reaches Trump ’ s desk .
“ The Confederate soldiers who betrayed the United States to fight for the Confederacy were fighting for the institution of slavery , ” Warren said Monday on the Senate floor .
“ It is time to put the names of those leaders who fought and killed US soldiers in defense of a perverted version of America where they belong , as footnotes in our history @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s most significant military installations.
” To Senate Republicans , this is all needless fluff from Trump .
Would he really give Joe Biden the chance to run attack ads , weeks before the election , noting that Trump vetoed a pay raise for the troops ?
“ The veto would take place sometime probably in November , ” Senate Armed Services Committee Chair James Inhofe ( R-Okla. ) told Politico .
“ And we have a long , long time between now and November .
So we ’ ll see.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Trump kickstart another culture war over a bunch of racist symbols , but in this case it ’ s especially strange because the defense policy bill is one place where he can usually claim victory .
Last year , after House Democrats attempted to pass a progressive bill reining in his military authority and blunting his ability to fund a border wall , Trump took a victory lap upon defeating those measures .
In a statement released after its passage in December , the White House applauded the bill for “ rejecting progressive @ @ @ @ @ @ @ authorities as Commander in Chief.
” This year ’ s House bill was more of a conscious compromise , avoiding many of the battles over defense spending and war powers that defined last year ’ s drafting process .
The overall defense spending figure—a subject of heated debate between Democrats and Republicans last year—increased to $ 741 billion without much of a fight , due to a deal brokered last year by congressional leaders .
Progressives repeatedly tried to make an issue out of the overall spending figure , but never made much @ @ @ @ @ @ @ which neatly presented an opportunity to rethink traditional spending priorities , didn ’ t lead to any large-scale changes .
An amendment introduced by Rep. Ro Khanna ( D-Calif. ) , which would have taken $ 1 billion from a fund for the next generation of intercontinental ballistic missiles ( ICBM ) and put it toward pandemic preparedness , was roundly rejected in a 44–12 vote .
( Northrop Grumman , the contractor working on the new missile program , has poured nearly $ 6 million into lobbying members of the Armed Services @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bases in their states . )
House Armed Services Committee Chair Adam Smith ( D-Wash. ) supported Khanna ’ s unsuccessful amendment , but has been reluctant to relitigate last year ’ s fight , which led to the rare instance of a defense policy bill clearing the House on a party-line vote .
Even with Democrats holding a large majority in the House , outside the progressive wing there seems to be little appetite to stop the inevitable ballooning of the Defense budget .
In April , with Smith inclined toward a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stage was set for a progressive backlash .
Khanna hinted as much in a conference call with reporters that month .
“ The leadership is going to have to make a choice , ” he said .
“ They ’ ll either pass a progressive NDAA or pass a bill with Republican votes.
” Instead , the bill was sent to the House floor unanimously .
Some amendments are not likely to survive the eventual compromise process with the Senate .
A thin majority supported Khanna ’ s push to end logistical support @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Yemen , reviving a years-long fight by a bipartisan caucus in Congress to reduce American involvement in that catastrophic war .
Other amendments , including a bipartisan one to block Trump ’ s plans to withdraw troops from Germany , will meet resistance from the White House and potentially be stripped out .
But the bill eventually passed by the Democratic House is sure to include the amendment requiring names of Confederate generals to be stripped from military bases .
The Republican-controlled Senate Armed Services Committee has already adopted the measure , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ) pointed out on Twitter , 60 votes would be needed to reverse it on the Senate floor .
Trump , never one to forgo an opportunity to ignite a culture war , seems fixated on playing the dummy in this stupid , racist fight .
A bill sure to please Republicans , anger progressives , and keep the national security establishment humming might falter all because Trump wants to keep a bunch of secessionist rebels ’ names on some bases .
Like the Confederacy , he doesn ’ t seem to know @ @ @ @ @ @

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The House Armed Services Committee unanimously approved a draft defense policy bill early Thursday morning, setting up a clash not between Democrats and Republicans—who seem to mostly agree on the fundamentals of the legislation—but with Donald Trump over the naming of military bases after Confederate generals.
Before the House panel finished its all-day markup, Trump threatened to veto the final bill if it included a provision to rename bases. The amendment that drew Trump’s ire initially appeared in a Senate version of the bill, where it was introduced by Sen. Elizabeth Warren (D-Mass.) and won bipartisan support. The presence of a similar provision in the House bill all but ensures it will survive in the final version that reaches Trump’s desk. “The Confederate soldiers who betrayed the United States to fight for the Confederacy were fighting for the institution of slavery,” Warren said Monday on the Senate floor. “It is time to put the names of those leaders who fought and killed US soldiers in defense of a perverted version of America where they belong, as footnotes in our history books, not plastered on our nation’s most significant military installations.”
To Senate Republicans, this is all needless fluff from Trump. Would he really give Joe Biden the chance to run attack ads, weeks before the election, noting that Trump vetoed a pay raise for the troops? “The veto would take place sometime probably in November,” Senate Armed Services Committee Chair James Inhofe (R-Okla.) told Politico. “And we have a long, long time between now and November. So we’ll see.”
It’s not unusual to see Trump kickstart another culture war over a bunch of racist symbols, but in this case it’s especially strange because the defense policy bill is one place where he can usually claim victory. Last year, after House Democrats attempted to pass a progressive bill reining in his military authority and blunting his ability to fund a border wall, Trump took a victory lap upon defeating those measures. In a statement released after its passage in December, the White House applauded the bill for “rejecting progressive attempts to limit the President’s authorities as Commander in Chief.”
This year’s House bill was more of a conscious compromise, avoiding many of the battles over defense spending and war powers that defined last year’s drafting process. The overall defense spending figure—a subject of heated debate between Democrats and Republicans last year—increased to $741 billion without much of a fight, due to a deal brokered last year by congressional leaders. Progressives repeatedly tried to make an issue out of the overall spending figure, but never made much progress. Even the coronavirus pandemic, which neatly presented an opportunity to rethink traditional spending priorities, didn’t lead to any large-scale changes. An amendment introduced by Rep. Ro Khanna (D-Calif.), which would have taken $1 billion from a fund for the next generation of intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBM) and put it toward pandemic preparedness, was roundly rejected in a 44–12 vote. (Northrop Grumman, the contractor working on the new missile program, has poured nearly $6 million into lobbying members of the Armed Services committees and other lawmakers who have ICBM bases in their states.)
House Armed Services Committee Chair Adam Smith (D-Wash.) supported Khanna’s unsuccessful amendment, but has been reluctant to relitigate last year’s fight, which led to the rare instance of a defense policy bill clearing the House on a party-line vote. Even with Democrats holding a large majority in the House, outside the progressive wing there seems to be little appetite to stop the inevitable ballooning of the Defense budget. In April, with Smith inclined toward a bipartisan bill, it seemed like the stage was set for a progressive backlash. Khanna hinted as much in a conference call with reporters that month. “The leadership is going to have to make a choice,” he said. “They’ll either pass a progressive NDAA or pass a bill with Republican votes.” Instead, the bill was sent to the House floor unanimously.
Some amendments are not likely to survive the eventual compromise process with the Senate. A thin majority supported Khanna’s push to end logistical support for Saudi Arabia’s war in Yemen, reviving a years-long fight by a bipartisan caucus in Congress to reduce American involvement in that catastrophic war. Other amendments, including a bipartisan one to block Trump’s plans to withdraw troops from Germany, will meet resistance from the White House and potentially be stripped out.
But the bill eventually passed by the Democratic House is sure to include the amendment requiring names of Confederate generals to be stripped from military bases. The Republican-controlled Senate Armed Services Committee has already adopted the measure, and, as Sen. Brian Schatz (D-Hawaii) pointed out on Twitter, 60 votes would be needed to reverse it on the Senate floor.
Trump, never one to forgo an opportunity to ignite a culture war, seems fixated on playing the dummy in this stupid, racist fight. A bill sure to please Republicans, anger progressives, and keep the national security establishment humming might falter all because Trump wants to keep a bunch of secessionist rebels’ names on some bases. Like the Confederacy, he doesn’t seem to know when the cause is lost.


motherjones--2020-07-02--The Coronavirus is Knocking Progressive Priorities Off the Ballot

In 2016 , Republican candidates did what they often do in Idaho : They swept .
Donald Trump defeated Hillary Clinton by 32 percent .
Sen. Mike Crapo ( R-Idaho ) earned a fourth term with nearly 70 percent support , as did Rep. Raul Labrador ( R-Idaho ) , a leading Tea Partier who dragged his party to the hard right when he entered Congress .
In statehouse elections , Republicans took 88 of the 105 statehouse seats up for grabs that year .
These lawmakers were no friends of the Affordable Care Act .
Crapo ran ads promising @ @ @ @ @ @ @ health care that works.
” Labrador told his constituents that “ nobody dies because they don ’ t have access to health care ” after he cast his “ yea ” vote for the House ’ s ACA repeal bill in May 2017 .
And Trump , of course , backed a lawsuit aimed at repealing Obamacare through the courts .
But two years later , Idahoans broke with their preferred party—even as they again sent Republicans to Congress and statewide offices .
More than 60 percent of them voted to accept a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ coverage to low-income people younger than 65 through a referendum on the 2018 ballot .
That sort of ballot measure—referendums that citizens can place on their statewide ballots to be passed by a popular vote—has become an increasingly popular tactic for pushing progressive policy in GOP strongholds like Idaho .
“ What we normally see in our political system is hyper-incrementalism at best , ” says Jonathan Schleifer , the executive director of the Fairness Project , an organization that leads liberal ballot initiatives on health care and economic equality .
” What @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pass really progressive policy in blue states and progressive policy in red states.
” Idahoans had been gearing up for another ballot measure in 2020 to raise the state ’ s minimum wage from $ 7.25 to $ 12 an hour .
By the beginning of March , organizers had collected 35,000 of the roughly 55,000 signatures required for a measure to be on the November ballot .
But then the pandemic struck , and all signature collection ceased .
“ We studied the data coming from CDC and concluded that going out @ @ @ @ @ @ @ get signatures would put our volunteers at high risk , ” Rod Couch , an organizer for Idahoans for a Fair Wage , tells me via email .
Across the country , coronavirus and the efforts to contain it have made it impossible to meet the requirements for putting measures on the ballot .
The pandemic will stymie a cycle ’ s worth of progressive policy that , in some instances , would have directly addressed the medical and financial hardships it has worsened .
To be clear , referendums aren ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in several blue states have decreased their tax payments through ballot measures over the last 40 years .
But for liberal causes , ballot measures have forced federal lawmakers to act on policy before their party would demand it .
Gay marriage , for example , advanced through a combination of ballot measures that legalized it in some states and refused to ban it in others .
Activists fighting for a $ 15 minimum wage—which has languished at the federal level but made progress through ballot initiatives in several states—hope to repeat that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ like the one they ’ d planned for Idaho this fall .
“ The birth of the ballot process was to hold power accountable and given power to the people , ” says Chris Melody Fields Figueredo , executive director of the Ballot Initiative Strategy Center .
“ That ’ s why direct democracy is such a critical part of a thriving democracy.
” Twenty-seven US states and territories allow for ballot measures , and in order for a proposed measure to make it onto the ballot , organizers need to collect some @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Normally it is a very grassroots enterprise of walking up to someone on the street , or going into the grocery store and asking people to sign a petition , ” explains Schleifer .
“ Obviously , that ’ s not safe during a pandemic.
” Indeed , the months of shelter-in-place orders and limited reopening of businesses and public spaces killed off a number of efforts underway for the 2020 elections .
In addition to Idaho ’ s minimum wage campaign , activists in Arizona suspended their signature-gathering for a measure that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ increased health care worker pay .
In Oregon , a petition for safe gun storage has stopped , as well , as has a push to legalize marijuana in Missouri .
Most of these efforts can reboot for the 2022 cycle , but some can not : A Oklahoma campaign to establish an independent redistricting committee –an effort to combat gerrymandering—will have lost its window of opportunity by then .
In some states , organizers have tried to press forward , asking leniency in either the number of required signatures or the in-person @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and Montana have been met with success , but others have run into the buzzsaws that often smash liberal dreams : Conservative judges .
By July 1 , organizers for Raise the Wage Ohio needed to collect nearly 443,000 signatures in order for their measure to gradually raise Ohio ’ s minimum wage to $ 13 an hour to appear on the November ballot .
When the pandemic made that task all but impossible , the campaign filed an injunction in county court to reduce the signature threshold or allow for electronic signature @ @ @ @ @ @ @ containment efforts required for combatting coronavirus .
The court rejected their request , citing the risk of fraud .
( The campaign appealed the ruling , but decided not to move forward on soliciting more signatures because of the legal stalemate . )
If the measure succeeds , 1.4 million Ohioans would receive a raise , the importance of which is heightened in the midst of the pandemic-induced recession .
A number of those low-wage workers are putting their lives at risk in essential jobs , and their peers who have lost their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ because of Ohio ’ s low minimum wage .
If a similar measure had made its way onto the ballot in Idaho , it would have raised the income of minimum wage-earning Idahoans to a level above the federal poverty line .
But the state ’ s deadline for collecting signatures was May 1 , and organizers , unable to resume collection , did not turn any in .
Though they ’ d planned to just regroup for the next cycle , a federal judge ruled on Tuesday that Idaho must accept electronic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ weeks to accommodate another ballot initiative that would raise $ 170 million in education funding through higher taxes .
It ’ s not yet clear if that ruling applies to the minimum wage campaign , but even so , the campaign won ’ t resume .
* *This piece has been updated to reflect the decision of Idahoans for a Fair Wage to not resume their campaign during the 2020 cycle .

In 2016, Republican candidates did what they often do in Idaho: They swept. Donald Trump defeated Hillary Clinton by 32 percent. Sen. Mike Crapo (R-Idaho) earned a fourth term with nearly 70 percent support, as did Rep. Raul Labrador (R-Idaho), a leading Tea Partier who dragged his party to the hard right when he entered Congress. In statehouse elections, Republicans took 88 of the 105 statehouse seats up for grabs that year.
These lawmakers were no friends of the Affordable Care Act. Crapo ran ads promising to replace “Obamacare mandates with affordable health care that works.” Labrador told his constituents that “nobody dies because they don’t have access to health care” after he cast his “yea” vote for the House’s ACA repeal bill in May 2017. And Trump, of course, backed a lawsuit aimed at repealing Obamacare through the courts.
But two years later, Idahoans broke with their preferred party—even as they again sent Republicans to Congress and statewide offices. More than 60 percent of them voted to accept a core provision of Obamacare and expand Medicaid coverage to low-income people younger than 65 through a referendum on the 2018 ballot.
That sort of ballot measure—referendums that citizens can place on their statewide ballots to be passed by a popular vote—has become an increasingly popular tactic for pushing progressive policy in GOP strongholds like Idaho. “What we normally see in our political system is hyper-incrementalism at best,” says Jonathan Schleifer, the executive director of the Fairness Project, an organization that leads liberal ballot initiatives on health care and economic equality. ”What ballots allow us to do is to pass really progressive policy in blue states and progressive policy in red states.”
“Normally it is a very grassroots enterprise of walking up to someone on the street, or going into the grocery store and asking people to sign a petition. Obviously, that’s not safe during a pandemic.”
Idahoans had been gearing up for another ballot measure in 2020 to raise the state’s minimum wage from $7.25 to $12 an hour. By the beginning of March, organizers had collected 35,000 of the roughly 55,000 signatures required for a measure to be on the November ballot. But then the pandemic struck, and all signature collection ceased. “We studied the data coming from CDC and concluded that going out in public and interacting with Idahoans to get signatures would put our volunteers at high risk,” Rod Couch, an organizer for Idahoans for a Fair Wage, tells me via email.
Across the country, coronavirus and the efforts to contain it have made it impossible to meet the requirements for putting measures on the ballot. The pandemic will stymie a cycle’s worth of progressive policy that, in some instances, would have directly addressed the medical and financial hardships it has worsened.
To be clear, referendums aren’t just used for progressive causes: Voters in several blue states have decreased their tax payments through ballot measures over the last 40 years. But for liberal causes, ballot measures have forced federal lawmakers to act on policy before their party would demand it. Gay marriage, for example, advanced through a combination of ballot measures that legalized it in some states and refused to ban it in others. Activists fighting for a $15 minimum wage—which has languished at the federal level but made progress through ballot initiatives in several states—hope to repeat that movement’s success with a push like the one they’d planned for Idaho this fall. “The birth of the ballot process was to hold power accountable and given power to the people,” says Chris Melody Fields Figueredo, executive director of the Ballot Initiative Strategy Center. “That’s why direct democracy is such a critical part of a thriving democracy.”
Twenty-seven US states and territories allow for ballot measures, and in order for a proposed measure to make it onto the ballot, organizers need to collect some minimum number of handwritten signatures. “Normally it is a very grassroots enterprise of walking up to someone on the street, or going into the grocery store and asking people to sign a petition,” explains Schleifer. “Obviously, that’s not safe during a pandemic.”
Indeed, the months of shelter-in-place orders and limited reopening of businesses and public spaces killed off a number of efforts underway for the 2020 elections. In addition to Idaho’s minimum wage campaign, activists in Arizona suspended their signature-gathering for a measure that would have stopped surprise medical billing and increased health care worker pay. In Oregon, a petition for safe gun storage has stopped, as well, as has a push to legalize marijuana in Missouri. Most of these efforts can reboot for the 2022 cycle, but some cannot: A Oklahoma campaign to establish an independent redistricting committee –an effort to combat gerrymandering—will have lost its window of opportunity by then.
In some states, organizers have tried to press forward, asking leniency in either the number of required signatures or the in-person collection demands. Such requests in Massachusetts and Montana have been met with success, but others have run into the buzzsaws that often smash liberal dreams: Conservative judges. By July 1, organizers for Raise the Wage Ohio needed to collect nearly 443,000 signatures in order for their measure to gradually raise Ohio’s minimum wage to $13 an hour to appear on the November ballot. When the pandemic made that task all but impossible, the campaign filed an injunction in county court to reduce the signature threshold or allow for electronic signature gathering, adjustments they argued reflected the containment efforts required for combatting coronavirus. The court rejected their request, citing the risk of fraud. (The campaign appealed the ruling, but decided not to move forward on soliciting more signatures because of the legal stalemate.)
If the measure succeeds, 1.4 million Ohioans would receive a raise, the importance of which is heightened in the midst of the pandemic-induced recession. A number of those low-wage workers are putting their lives at risk in essential jobs, and their peers who have lost their jobs are now receiving paltry unemployment sums because of Ohio’s low minimum wage.
If a similar measure had made its way onto the ballot in Idaho, it would have raised the income of minimum wage-earning Idahoans to a level above the federal poverty line. But the state’s deadline for collecting signatures was May 1, and organizers, unable to resume collection, did not turn any in. Though they’d planned to just regroup for the next cycle, a federal judge ruled on Tuesday that Idaho must accept electronic signatures and extend the deadline by seven weeks to accommodate another ballot initiative that would raise $170 million in education funding through higher taxes. It’s not yet clear if that ruling applies to the minimum wage campaign, but even so, the campaign won’t resume.*
*This piece has been updated to reflect the decision of Idahoans for a Fair Wage to not resume their campaign during the 2020 cycle.


motherjones--2020-07-02--Trump Hotel Tells People to Wear Masks. But Its Owner Won’t.

Donald Trump did it again .
Or , that is , didn ’ t do it again .
On Thursday morning , he appeared in the White House briefing room to take credit for the newest jobs numbers and to talk up the economy .
He discussed the coronavirus pandemic almost as an afterthought .
He didn ’ t acknowledge the recent nationwide surge in cases and instead said there were “ some areas where we are putting out the flames of the fire.
” Not really .
The flames are spreading .
And once more Trump did not advise @ @ @ @ @ @ @ say , “ Wash your hands.
” But there was no encouragement from him about donning face coverings—the most basic action that can be taken to thwart the pandemic and save the lives of tens of thousands of Americans .
Needless to say , he wasn ’ t wearing a mask himself .
Trump just can ’ t seem to bring himself to support this fundamental step championed by medical experts , scientists , and the entire public health community .
Not even if his own business does .
The Trump International Hotel @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bars and restaurants are open for business these days .
But if you want to enter the establishment—which Trump and his family own through the Trump Organization—you need to wear a mask , as required by the DC government .
Here ’ s what the hotel ’ s website says : Trump International Hotel Washington , D.C. remains open for our guests due to its designation as an essential business .
The safety of our guests and employees remains our top priority .
Benjamin Bar & Lounge is now fully open !
In @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 2 authorization , we will be serving breakfast , lunch , dinner and cocktails in our expansive Grand Lobby setting .
In-Room Dining for our hotel guests remains available .
Please note that face coverings are required when entering the hotel and in all common areas , except when eating or drinking .
We will only seat groups of up to six people at this time .
For the safety of all , guests should remain mindful of social distancing and frequent hand washing .
In this ever-changing environment , please know that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this site for any and all changes to our policies as we continue to abide by all government requirements and recommendations .
Learn more about our commitment to health and safety HERE .
So the Trump Organization is committed to health and safety , even though its owner is not .
Of course , this commitment is not a choice of the hotel ’ s management : In the spring , DC Mayor Muriel Bowser ordered the use of masks within businesses .
Fortunately for its employees and customers , the Trump Hotel @ @ @ @ @ @ @ public officials , not the example set by its namesake .

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Donald Trump did it again. Or, that is, didn’t do it again. On Thursday morning, he appeared in the White House briefing room to take credit for the newest jobs numbers and to talk up the economy. He discussed the coronavirus pandemic almost as an afterthought. He didn’t acknowledge the recent nationwide surge in cases and instead said there were “some areas where we are putting out the flames of the fire.” Not really. The flames are spreading.
And once more Trump did not advise Americans to wear masks. He did say, “Wash your hands.” But there was no encouragement from him about donning face coverings—the most basic action that can be taken to thwart the pandemic and save the lives of tens of thousands of Americans. Needless to say, he wasn’t wearing a mask himself.
Trump just can’t seem to bring himself to support this fundamental step championed by medical experts, scientists, and the entire public health community. Not even if his own business does.
The Trump International Hotel in Washington, DC, and its bars and restaurants are open for business these days. But if you want to enter the establishment—which Trump and his family own through the Trump Organization—you need to wear a mask, as required by the DC government.
Here’s what the hotel’s website says:
Trump International Hotel Washington, D.C. remains open for our guests due to its designation as an essential business. The safety of our guests and employees remains our top priority. Benjamin Bar & Lounge is now fully open! In line with the city’s Phase 2 authorization, we will be serving breakfast, lunch, dinner and cocktails in our expansive Grand Lobby setting. In-Room Dining for our hotel guests remains available. Please note that face coverings are required when entering the hotel and in all common areas, except when eating or drinking. We will only seat groups of up to six people at this time. For the safety of all, guests should remain mindful of social distancing and frequent hand washing. In this ever-changing environment, please know that we will continue to post updates at this site for any and all changes to our policies as we continue to abide by all government requirements and recommendations. Learn more about our commitment to health and safety HERE.
So the Trump Organization is committed to health and safety, even though its owner is not. Of course, this commitment is not a choice of the hotel’s management: In the spring, DC Mayor Muriel Bowser ordered the use of masks within businesses. Fortunately for its employees and customers, the Trump Hotel is following the guidelines set by responsible public officials, not the example set by its namesake.


motherjones--2020-07-02--Tell-All Book by Trump’s Niece Moves Forward, Delighting President’s Enemies

In a surprise development late on Wednesday , a New York judge lifted a temporary restraining order impeding the publication of a tell-all book by Mary Trump , the president ’ s niece .
The memoir is expected to paint a damning and unflattering portrait of the president and his family during a critical moment in his reelection bid .
The ruling allows Mary Trump ’ s publisher , Simon & Schuster , to move forward with its efforts to release the memoir on July 28 .
The president ’ s brother , Robert Trump , had attempted to halt @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and Never Enough : How My Family Created the World ’ s Most Dangerous Man , claiming that his niece ’ s decision to publish the explosive account was in violation of a 19-year-old non-disclosure agreement that had been tied to an inheritance agreement .
But on Thursday , Judge Alan Scheinkman ruled that the publisher was not bound by the same confidentiality agreement and could , therefore , proceed with its release plans .
“ She ’ s not allowed to write a book , ” Trump had told Axios ‘ Jonathan @ @ @ @ @ @ @ non-disclosure agreement .
“ It covers everything.
” The book by Trump ’ s niece , a clinical psychologist , is set to detail rampant trauma and abuse within the family ’ s history .
She ’ ll also reportedly out herself as the source of documents and other information behind the New York Times ‘ explosive 2018 investigation into the Trump family ’ s taxes , which found a “ pattern of deception and obfuscation ” and “ legally dubious ” practices .
Scheinkman ’ s decision is likely to infuriate the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ across the country , remains preoccupied with a range of other topics and interests .
Another person who was once close to Trump and who is planning the release of his own book hailed the news .
Remember this guy ?

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In a surprise development late on Wednesday, a New York judge lifted a temporary restraining order impeding the publication of a tell-all book by Mary Trump, the president’s niece. The memoir is expected to paint a damning and unflattering portrait of the president and his family during a critical moment in his reelection bid.
The ruling allows Mary Trump’s publisher, Simon & Schuster, to move forward with its efforts to release the memoir on July 28.
The president’s brother, Robert Trump, had attempted to halt Simon & Schuster from releasing Too Much and Never Enough: How My Family Created the World’s Most Dangerous Man, claiming that his niece’s decision to publish the explosive account was in violation of a 19-year-old non-disclosure agreement that had been tied to an inheritance agreement.
But on Thursday, Judge Alan Scheinkman ruled that the publisher was not bound by the same confidentiality agreement and could, therefore, proceed with its release plans. “She’s not allowed to write a book,” Trump had told Axios‘ Jonathan Swan, claiming an iron-clad and total non-disclosure agreement. “It covers everything.”
The book by Trump’s niece, a clinical psychologist, is set to detail rampant trauma and abuse within the family’s history. She’ll also reportedly out herself as the source of documents and other information behind the New York Times‘ explosive 2018 investigation into the Trump family’s taxes, which found a “pattern of deception and obfuscation” and “legally dubious” practices.
Scheinkman’s decision is likely to infuriate the president, who despite surging coronavirus cases across the country, remains preoccupied with a range of other topics and interests.
Another person who was once close to Trump and who is planning the release of his own book hailed the news. Remember this guy?