motherjones--2020-12-07--Why Bridging the Urban-Rural Divide Might Save Our Lives

As the world grapples with the devastation of the coronavirus , one thing is clear : The United States simply wasn ’ t prepared .
Despite repeated warnings from infectious disease experts over the years , we lacked essential beds , equipment , and medication ; public health advice was confusing ; and our leadership offered no clear direction while sidelining credible health professionals and institutions .
Infectious disease experts agree that it ’ s only a matter of time before the next pandemic hits , and that one could be even deadlier .
So how do we fix what @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this Mother Jones series , we ’ re asking experts from a wide range of disciplines one question : What are the most important steps we can take to make sure we ’ re better prepared next time ?
Months before Donald Trump won the 2016 presidential election , flipping the state of Wisconsin from blue to red , political scientist Katherine J. Cramer published The Politics of Resentment : Rural Consciousness in Wisconsin and the Rise of Scott Walker .
People outside of the state ’ s metropolitan areas , Cramer found @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to distrust that “ liberal elites ” had their best interests in mind .
“ Rural resentment—no less than partisanship , race , or class , ” the book argued , “ plays a major role in dividing America against itself.
” Four years later , those divisions are as solid as ever , and a pandemic has shown how deadly they can turn .
Cramer , a political science professor at the University of Wisconsin , Madison , watched the virus hit the state ’ s cities first .
Amid a tornado @ @ @ @ @ @ @ people in more rural—and more conservative—corners of the state became skeptical about whether the pandemic response they were hearing about was designed for them .
Stanching a pandemic relies on a delicate social contract ; you have to wear a mask , but you need your neighbor to wear a mask , too .
And even a new presidential administration with a crack pandemic response team can only get so far if half of its constituents won ’ t heed its advice .
I reached out to Cramer to hear her thoughts on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s now threatening all of our lives .
On what drives some rural residents to resent mask-wearing directives and coronavirus warnings : My research has involved inviting myself into the conversations of people in neighborhood gathering places , like diners and gas stations and such , in more rural communities in Wisconsin .
After about a year of doing that back in 2007–2008 , it became pretty clear that , regardless of where I was in the state , there was this sense of people feeling like they weren ’ t getting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ All the decisions were made in Madison , or Milwaukee , ’ they were saying , ‘ they ’ re made by people in cities .
And we don ’ t get a say in all these regulations that are imposed upon us.
’ They were also feeling like they weren ’ t getting their fair share of resources .
In their minds , the good jobs and all the wealth are in the cities .
And city people are just kind of oblivious to this , they don ’ t understand how @ @ @ @ @ @ @ also saying , ‘ We don ’ t get our fair share of respect , because the people making the decisions don ’ t understand our lives , don ’ t understand the challenges that we face .
And really just don ’ t even like us .
They think we ’ re racist , and sexist , and homophobic , Islamophobic.
’ They weren ’ t using those terms , but that was kind of the sentiment they were conveying .
So when the pandemic came along , and because of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ primarily in urban centers first , many people were resistant to the shutdowns and to the advice of public health measures because they were perceiving that these were decisions that were being made to fit urban situations .
Like a one-size-fits-all kind of solution .
‘ Those people in the cities making the decisions , they ’ re just clueless about the fact that it doesn ’ t make sense for me to wear a mask when I ’ m in my yard , because my yard is like 20 acres.
’ People @ @ @ @ @ @ @ me that whatever the government is doing is working for people like me .
We see a loss of business , we see a loss of people , we see a loss of farms , our community is challenged in so many ways.
’ I think what that means for the pandemic is they first felt the economic effects so hard and not the health effects .
This perception that government regulation is bad for small business , harms small businesses , has kind of stuck .
That ’ s still the basic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ COVID-19 rates , you can say , well , it ’ s not an urban problem anymore .
It ’ s spreading like wildfire across the state .
Part of what ’ s also going on is people are paying attention to the leaders that they trust .
And in a lot of these places those are Republican leaning .
The Republican leadership in the state is just very opposed to stay-at-home measures and even mask wearing .
Much like President Trump , their behavior has been to not wear masks .
On @ @ @ @ @ @ @ their rural neighbors : What has worked for me has been to be with people on their own turf , and just stop talking as quickly as possible .
And make it clear that you ’ re there , whether it ’ s virtually or in person , to listen and not to convince them of anything , not to persuade them to behave a certain way , but basically to say , ‘ What are your concerns ?
What are your challenges ?
What is life like here ?
’ It ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ways because it conveys respect .
It conveys that you actually care .
And it ’ s very possible that the ideas about what ’ s going to fix a pandemic in rural places have not been formed by understanding what ’ s going on in rural places .
I don ’ t know that for sure .
I ’ m not a public health official .
But—what do people in rural communities think would help ?
It just helps to listen .
On how public health experts could better bridge the divide @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Rural Wisconsin Health Collaborative .
It ’ s basically like a coalition of people in the medical industry in rural communities across the state .
What they ’ re trying to do is to be very careful to not impose messages from outside , work through kind of trusted influencers within communities to gently encourage people to do the 6-feet-apart and mask wearing in a way that shows clear awareness of how they spend their time .
Not ‘ when you go dine at an outdoor sidewalk cafe it ’ s probably @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t going to hear that .
‘ Okay , when you ’ re out harvesting , and on your tractor , just have a mask in the cab , so when someone comes along , he can just put it on quickly.
’ That just so clearly communicates : We get what your life is like , and this is gon na help you and your neighbors stay healthy .
What Biden ’ s pandemic response team should do : I would send the most down-to-earth ambassadors to local talk radio programs @ @ @ @ @ @ @ not kidding .
Radio has a lot of power in rural America .
A lot of times there ’ s no other local media .
And a lot of these folks have jobs for which they can have radio on in the background the whole time .
A lot of times these tractor cabs have satellite radio , all the bells and whistles for really good radio reception .
Also they drive a lot , whether it ’ s to shop or , when school is in session , to get their kids @ @ @ @ @ @ @ radio shows , they ’ re like little on-air communities where the callers seem to recognize each other , and the host recognizes the callers , and I think they ’ re really important sources of opinion leadership .
One thing I ’ ve noticed on the local conservative talk shows : Early on in the pandemic , looking back on it now , I ’ m surprised by how supportive they were of wearing masks , and how that changed over time .
I think there ’ s something to learn from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an example : A caller would call up and say , ‘ How can the grocery store tell me I have to wear a mask when I come in ?
’ And the host responded saying , ‘ Hey , it ’ s like secondhand smoke , you know , we all decided we were going to do this thing to keep each other healthy , where we ’ re not going to smoke indoors .
It ’ s basically the same thing.
’ And that kind of argument just sort of evaporated @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of it is just how partisan the issue became .
Another interesting thing that came up was veterans , one of the first things they learned is how to prevent other people in their corps from being killed .
And there ’ s a host out of Duluth , Minnesota/Superior , Wisconsin , who himself was a Marine Corps veteran and used this argument with some of his callers .
One of his callers said , ‘ Man , you ’ ve drunk the Kool-Aid , ’ and he responded , ‘ No @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Here ’ s the first thing I learned , the other people in your unit , you figure out how to not get them killed .
Wearing a mask is like that.
’ And looking back at it now—that ’ s a very progressive argument .
You don ’ t hear it too much in conservative circles anymore .

As the world grapples with the devastation of the coronavirus, one thing is clear: The United States simply wasn’t prepared. Despite repeated warnings from infectious disease experts over the years, we lacked essential beds, equipment, and medication; public health advice was confusing; and our leadership offered no clear direction while sidelining credible health professionals and institutions. Infectious disease experts agree that it’s only a matter of time before the next pandemic hits, and that one could be even deadlier. So how do we fix what COVID-19 has shown was broken? In this Mother Jones series, we’re asking experts from a wide range of disciplines one question: What are the most important steps we can take to make sure we’re better prepared next time?
Months before Donald Trump won the 2016 presidential election, flipping the state of Wisconsin from blue to red, political scientist Katherine J. Cramer published The Politics of Resentment: Rural Consciousness in Wisconsin and the Rise of Scott Walker. People outside of the state’s metropolitan areas, Cramer found through dozens of interviews, had grown to distrust that “liberal elites” had their best interests in mind. “Rural resentment—no less than partisanship, race, or class,” the book argued, “plays a major role in dividing America against itself.”
Four years later, those divisions are as solid as ever, and a pandemic has shown how deadly they can turn. Cramer, a political science professor at the University of Wisconsin, Madison, watched the virus hit the state’s cities first. Amid a tornado of misinformation and political polarization, many people in more rural—and more conservative—corners of the state became skeptical about whether the pandemic response they were hearing about was designed for them.
“‘When you’re out harvesting, and on your tractor, just have a mask in the cab, so when someone comes along, he can just put it on quickly.’ That just so clearly communicates: We get what your life is like, and this is gonna help you and your neighbors stay healthy.”
Stanching a pandemic relies on a delicate social contract; you have to wear a mask, but you need your neighbor to wear a mask, too. And even a new presidential administration with a crack pandemic response team can only get so far if half of its constituents won’t heed its advice. I reached out to Cramer to hear her thoughts on how to bridge the urban-rural divide that’s now threatening all of our lives.
On what drives some rural residents to resent mask-wearing directives and coronavirus warnings: My research has involved inviting myself into the conversations of people in neighborhood gathering places, like diners and gas stations and such, in more rural communities in Wisconsin. After about a year of doing that back in 2007–2008, it became pretty clear that, regardless of where I was in the state, there was this sense of people feeling like they weren’t getting their share of political power. ‘All the decisions were made in Madison, or Milwaukee,’ they were saying, ‘they’re made by people in cities. And we don’t get a say in all these regulations that are imposed upon us.’ They were also feeling like they weren’t getting their fair share of resources. In their minds, the good jobs and all the wealth are in the cities. And city people are just kind of oblivious to this, they don’t understand how good they have it. They were also saying, ‘We don’t get our fair share of respect, because the people making the decisions don’t understand our lives, don’t understand the challenges that we face. And really just don’t even like us. They think we’re racist, and sexist, and homophobic, Islamophobic.’ They weren’t using those terms, but that was kind of the sentiment they were conveying.
So when the pandemic came along, and because of the way it hit the United States, primarily in urban centers first, many people were resistant to the shutdowns and to the advice of public health measures because they were perceiving that these were decisions that were being made to fit urban situations. Like a one-size-fits-all kind of solution. ‘Those people in the cities making the decisions, they’re just clueless about the fact that it doesn’t make sense for me to wear a mask when I’m in my yard, because my yard is like 20 acres.’
People would say to me, ‘Tell me that whatever the government is doing is working for people like me. We see a loss of business, we see a loss of people, we see a loss of farms, our community is challenged in so many ways.’ I think what that means for the pandemic is they first felt the economic effects so hard and not the health effects. This perception that government regulation is bad for small business, harms small businesses, has kind of stuck. That’s still the basic sentiment.
Looking at the map of COVID-19 rates, you can say, well, it’s not an urban problem anymore. It’s spreading like wildfire across the state. Part of what’s also going on is people are paying attention to the leaders that they trust. And in a lot of these places those are Republican leaning. The Republican leadership in the state is just very opposed to stay-at-home measures and even mask wearing. Much like President Trump, their behavior has been to not wear masks.
On how urban dwellers can show up for their rural neighbors: What has worked for me has been to be with people on their own turf, and just stop talking as quickly as possible. And make it clear that you’re there, whether it’s virtually or in person, to listen and not to convince them of anything, not to persuade them to behave a certain way, but basically to say, ‘What are your concerns? What are your challenges? What is life like here?’ It’s so valuable in a lot of ways because it conveys respect. It conveys that you actually care. And it’s very possible that the ideas about what’s going to fix a pandemic in rural places have not been formed by understanding what’s going on in rural places. I don’t know that for sure. I’m not a public health official. But—what do people in rural communities think would help? It just helps to listen.
On how public health experts could better bridge the divide: There’s an organization called the Rural Wisconsin Health Collaborative. It’s basically like a coalition of people in the medical industry in rural communities across the state. What they’re trying to do is to be very careful to not impose messages from outside, work through kind of trusted influencers within communities to gently encourage people to do the 6-feet-apart and mask wearing in a way that shows clear awareness of how they spend their time. Not ‘when you go dine at an outdoor sidewalk cafe it’s probably best…’ People in rural places aren’t going to hear that. ‘Okay, when you’re out harvesting, and on your tractor, just have a mask in the cab, so when someone comes along, he can just put it on quickly.’ That just so clearly communicates: We get what your life is like, and this is gonna help you and your neighbors stay healthy.
What Biden’s pandemic response team should do: I would send the most down-to-earth ambassadors to local talk radio programs. I would, I’m not kidding. Radio has a lot of power in rural America. A lot of times there’s no other local media. And a lot of these folks have jobs for which they can have radio on in the background the whole time. A lot of times these tractor cabs have satellite radio, all the bells and whistles for really good radio reception. Also they drive a lot, whether it’s to shop or, when school is in session, to get their kids to and from school.
These talk radio shows, they’re like little on-air communities where the callers seem to recognize each other, and the host recognizes the callers, and I think they’re really important sources of opinion leadership.
One thing I’ve noticed on the local conservative talk shows: Early on in the pandemic, looking back on it now, I’m surprised by how supportive they were of wearing masks, and how that changed over time. I think there’s something to learn from that. Like, here’s an example: A caller would call up and say, ‘How can the grocery store tell me I have to wear a mask when I come in?’ And the host responded saying, ‘Hey, it’s like secondhand smoke, you know, we all decided we were going to do this thing to keep each other healthy, where we’re not going to smoke indoors. It’s basically the same thing.’ And that kind of argument just sort of evaporated over time. I think a lot of it is just how partisan the issue became.
Another interesting thing that came up was veterans, one of the first things they learned is how to prevent other people in their corps from being killed. And there’s a host out of Duluth, Minnesota/Superior, Wisconsin, who himself was a Marine Corps veteran and used this argument with some of his callers. One of his callers said, ‘Man, you’ve drunk the Kool-Aid,’ and he responded, ‘No, here’s the thing. Here’s the first thing I learned, the other people in your unit, you figure out how to not get them killed. Wearing a mask is like that.’ And looking back at it now—that’s a very progressive argument. You don’t hear it too much in conservative circles anymore.


motherjones--2020-12-04--“The Virus Isn’t Nocturnal”: The Folly of COVID Curfews

After a recent , massive spike in coronavirus cases slammed local hospitals , Tucson , Arizona , became the latest city to implement a COVID-19-related curfew .
The curfew , which goes into effect Friday evening and will run every night through December 23 , does not apply to essential workers , first-responders , health care workers , or homeless people , and it exempts those traveling to or from essential services .
Anyone in violation of the curfew could be given a civil citation and fined .
In choosing to roll up its streets at night to combat the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cities that includes El Paso , Denver , and Columbus .
But these efforts don ’ t compare to the stay-at-home orders from the beginning of the pandemic ; Tucson , for example , won ’ t be closing non-essential businesses during non-curfew hours .
So can these limited curfews work to slow the spread of COVID-19 ?
The short answer , according to the experts I spoke with this week , is not really—unless it ’ s paired with other changes to indoor activities and public gatherings .
“ There ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ point of view , so to speak—that changing the times that people are able to congregate in public spaces would really matter at all , ” said Dr. Angela Rasmussen , virologist at the Georgetown Center for Global Health Science and Security .
“ Curfews are a really limited value if you ’ re going to keep those businesses open in an unrestricted way the rest of the day , because the virus isn ’ t nocturnal.
” Back at the beginning of the pandemic , many cities and states implemented curfews to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ work to dramatically decrease community transmission .
But things looked significantly different then—everything was shut down .
Rasmussen said that the United States ’ public health response has been “ so distorted and such a huge failure ” that we ’ re stuck with half measures that may or may not work .
This second round of curfews isn ’ t the equivalent of a lockdown , she said , and isn ’ t going to have the same effect as the lockdowns of the spring .
Epidemiologist Saskia Popescu , an assistant @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Mason University , is concerned that curfews “ could condense people interacting or convening at businesses ” earlier in the day , rather than have fewer people go to bars or movie theaters .
She noted that while there have been a number of studies exploring curfews ’ effects on behavior , little research has been done on their impact on infectious disease transmission .
A study published in Nature showed that curfews and lockdowns work when cities are also “ closing and restricting places where people gather in smaller or large numbers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” without having to go into a full national lockdown .
“ Ultimately , the goal of a curfew is to minimize at-risk behavior , ” Popescu said .
“ The better focus would be to limit large indoor gathering.
” That ’ s not happening right now in Arizona , where I live .
For the last few months , the state has embraced Gov .
Doug Ducey ’ s open-it-up attitude : Movie theaters can fill to 50 percent capacity , indoor gyms are operating at 25 percent capacity , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they “ transformed to operate as restaurants.
” Even arcades and bowling alleys are open here .
Perhaps it ’ s no surprise that while restaurants are supposed to be operating at half capacity , I ’ ve seen numerous dining rooms packed with maskless diners as I ’ ve gone to pick up takeout orders .
Meanwhile , Arizona ’ s COVID-19 infections have been steadily increasing since November , and the number of patients hospitalized is almost as high as it was in the summer surge , when the state was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the last two weeks , the statewide daily average hit 4,300 new cases , a 70 percent increase from the previous two weeks .
The Arizona Department of Health reported that November 23 had the highest daily rate yet , with 5,630 confirmed cases in a 24-hour period , surpassing Arizona ’ s peak in June .
Earlier this week , health care leaders in Arizona wrote a letter urging the health department to immediately issue a statewide shelter-in-place order , end all indoor dining , and close athletic activities for at least @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
On Wednesday , Ducey held a press conference thanking Arizonans for being “ so responsible ” over the Thanksgiving weekend , even though his own state health department reported a spike after the holiday weekend .
He recognized that the numbers in Arizona were headed in the wrong direction but still held back from issuing a statewide mask mandate or addressing the recommendations from the health care leaders .
Ducey made no changes to indoor public spaces , where people don ’ t wear masks when they ’ re eating and drinking @ @ @ @ @ @ @ restaurants to set up more outdoor dining areas to take advantage of the state ’ s mild winter weather .
And in a grim admission of where things are heading , Ducey also signed an executive order that adds $ 60 million for local hospitals so they can hire an additional 500 nurses through the end of the month .
Regina Romero , Tucson ’ s Democratic mayor , said it would be “ much better ” for Ducey to have taken broader measures , but the city ’ s curfew is an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ clear direction or immediate action from the governor.
” ( Romero has been unsuccessfully pushing the governor to establish a statewide mask mandate for months ; in his Wednesday press conference , Ducey said he disagreed with Tucson ’ s curfew and didn ’ t think it was the “ right approach , ” and that Arizona should instead keep enforcing the same rules that have been in place for the last few months . )
“ Any step we take , ” Romero said , “ is much better than not doing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ otherwise .
For example , curfews end up disproportionately affecting people of color , who are both more likely to be stopped by police and who often have worse outcomes following interactions with cops .
Undocumented essential workers are more likely to end up detained over their immigration status , even if their jobs fell under the exempted categories .
“ Even if there ’ s no criminal penalty for violating curfew , if there ’ s any kind of civil penalty , that can really cause a lot of financial harm to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ So I think that curfews do potentially more harm than good.
” But with Republican governors around the country continuing to shrug their shoulders at skyrocketing infection rates , we may continue seeing more municipalities turn to curfews to mitigate COVID ’ s toll—and more tortured city council discussions about the details of those curfews .
On Tuesday night in Tucson , much of the city council ’ s debate revolved around what time the curfew should start—8 , 9 , 10 p.m. ?
Romero , the mayor , had proposed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ week on the recommendation of local hospital CEOs .
But when the medical leaders were asked to justify that starting time , the best they could do was point to another Nature article that suggested 8 o ’ clock .
And so the conversation continued on , with council members arguing over the potential economic blow to bars and restaurants depending on what hour the curfew went into effect .
One of the council members even said that 10 was better than 9 because “ Roadhouse Cinemas doesn ’ t get out until @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dine-in movie theater .
The city settled on a 10 p.m to 5 a.m. curfew but is likely to push it up an hour to 9 p.m. once the Pima County Board of Supervisors implements a countywide mandatory curfew that ’ s expected to start at 9 .
“ You don ’ t want to have a stay-home order forever , ” Rasmussen said .
“ You want to have it for long enough that you can get community transmission down to a level where it ’ s actually feasible to test people @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s how you break these chains of community transmission .
We didn ’ t do that .
And that ’ s why cases have gone back up .
It ’ s not because the first lockdown didn ’ t work .
It ’ s because we didn ’ t really put the measures we needed to in place to make sure we didn ’ t have to have a stay-home order again .
”

Fight disinformation: Sign up for the free Mother Jones Daily newsletter and follow the news that matters.
After a recent, massive spike in coronavirus cases slammed local hospitals, Tucson, Arizona, became the latest city to implement a COVID-19-related curfew. The curfew, which goes into effect Friday evening and will run every night through December 23, does not apply to essential workers, first-responders, health care workers, or homeless people, and it exempts those traveling to or from essential services. Anyone in violation of the curfew could be given a civil citation and fined.
In choosing to roll up its streets at night to combat the coronavirus, Tucson joins a group of cities that includes El Paso, Denver, and Columbus. But these efforts don’t compare to the stay-at-home orders from the beginning of the pandemic; Tucson, for example, won’t be closing non-essential businesses during non-curfew hours. So can these limited curfews work to slow the spread of COVID-19?
The short answer, according to the experts I spoke with this week, is not really—unless it’s paired with other changes to indoor activities and public gatherings. “There’s no reason to think—from the virus’ point of view, so to speak—that changing the times that people are able to congregate in public spaces would really matter at all,” said Dr. Angela Rasmussen, virologist at the Georgetown Center for Global Health Science and Security. “Curfews are a really limited value if you’re going to keep those businesses open in an unrestricted way the rest of the day, because the virus isn’t nocturnal.”
“There’s no reason to think…that changing the times that people are able to congregate in public spaces would really matter at all.”
Back at the beginning of the pandemic, many cities and states implemented curfews to flatten the curve, and they did work to dramatically decrease community transmission. But things looked significantly different then—everything was shut down. Rasmussen said that the United States’ public health response has been “so distorted and such a huge failure” that we’re stuck with half measures that may or may not work. This second round of curfews isn’t the equivalent of a lockdown, she said, and isn’t going to have the same effect as the lockdowns of the spring.
Epidemiologist Saskia Popescu, an assistant professor at the Biodefense Program at George Mason University, is concerned that curfews “could condense people interacting or convening at businesses” earlier in the day, rather than have fewer people go to bars or movie theaters. She noted that while there have been a number of studies exploring curfews’ effects on behavior, little research has been done on their impact on infectious disease transmission. A study published in Nature showed that curfews and lockdowns work when cities are also “closing and restricting places where people gather in smaller or large numbers for an extended period of time,” without having to go into a full national lockdown. “Ultimately, the goal of a curfew is to minimize at-risk behavior,” Popescu said. “The better focus would be to limit large indoor gathering.”
That’s not happening right now in Arizona, where I live. For the last few months, the state has embraced Gov. Doug Ducey’s open-it-up attitude: Movie theaters can fill to 50 percent capacity, indoor gyms are operating at 25 percent capacity, and bars can be open so long as they “transformed to operate as restaurants.” Even arcades and bowling alleys are open here. Perhaps it’s no surprise that while restaurants are supposed to be operating at half capacity, I’ve seen numerous dining rooms packed with maskless diners as I’ve gone to pick up takeout orders.
Meanwhile, Arizona’s COVID-19 infections have been steadily increasing since November, and the number of patients hospitalized is almost as high as it was in the summer surge, when the state was a national hot spot. Just in the last two weeks, the statewide daily average hit 4,300 new cases, a 70 percent increase from the previous two weeks. The Arizona Department of Health reported that November 23 had the highest daily rate yet, with 5,630 confirmed cases in a 24-hour period, surpassing Arizona’s peak in June. Earlier this week, health care leaders in Arizona wrote a letter urging the health department to immediately issue a statewide shelter-in-place order, end all indoor dining, and close athletic activities for at least a month to avoid full crisis mode.
On Wednesday, Gov. Doug Ducey held a press conference thanking Arizonans for being “so responsible” over the Thanksgiving weekend, even though his own state health department reported a spike after the holiday weekend
On Wednesday, Ducey held a press conference thanking Arizonans for being “so responsible” over the Thanksgiving weekend, even though his own state health department reported a spike after the holiday weekend. He recognized that the numbers in Arizona were headed in the wrong direction but still held back from issuing a statewide mask mandate or addressing the recommendations from the health care leaders. Ducey made no changes to indoor public spaces, where people don’t wear masks when they’re eating and drinking, but added $1 million for restaurants to set up more outdoor dining areas to take advantage of the state’s mild winter weather. And in a grim admission of where things are heading, Ducey also signed an executive order that adds $60 million for local hospitals so they can hire an additional 500 nurses through the end of the month.
Regina Romero, Tucson’s Democratic mayor, said it would be “much better” for Ducey to have taken broader measures, but the city’s curfew is an initial step “in the absence of clear direction or immediate action from the governor.” (Romero has been unsuccessfully pushing the governor to establish a statewide mask mandate for months; in his Wednesday press conference, Ducey said he disagreed with Tucson’s curfew and didn’t think it was the “right approach,” and that Arizona should instead keep enforcing the same rules that have been in place for the last few months.) “Any step we take,” Romero said, “is much better than not doing anything.”
Research, however, suggests otherwise. For example, curfews end up disproportionately affecting people of color, who are both more likely to be stopped by police and who often have worse outcomes following interactions with cops. Undocumented essential workers are more likely to end up detained over their immigration status, even if their jobs fell under the exempted categories. “Even if there’s no criminal penalty for violating curfew, if there’s any kind of civil penalty, that can really cause a lot of financial harm to people as well,” Rasmussen said. “So I think that curfews do potentially more harm than good.”
“I think that curfews do potentially more harm than good.”
But with Republican governors around the country continuing to shrug their shoulders at skyrocketing infection rates, we may continue seeing more municipalities turn to curfews to mitigate COVID’s toll—and more tortured city council discussions about the details of those curfews. On Tuesday night in Tucson, much of the city council’s debate revolved around what time the curfew should start—8, 9, 10 p.m.? Romero, the mayor, had proposed an 8 p.m. curfew earlier in the week on the recommendation of local hospital CEOs. But when the medical leaders were asked to justify that starting time, the best they could do was point to another Nature article that suggested 8 o’clock.
And so the conversation continued on, with council members arguing over the potential economic blow to bars and restaurants depending on what hour the curfew went into effect. One of the council members even said that 10 was better than 9 because “Roadhouse Cinemas doesn’t get out until 9:30,” referring to a local dine-in movie theater. The city settled on a 10 p.m to 5 a.m. curfew but is likely to push it up an hour to 9 p.m. once the Pima County Board of Supervisors implements a countywide mandatory curfew that’s expected to start at 9.
“You don’t want to have a stay-home order forever,” Rasmussen said. “You want to have it for long enough that you can get community transmission down to a level where it’s actually feasible to test people and to then contact-trace. That’s how you break these chains of community transmission. We didn’t do that. And that’s why cases have gone back up. It’s not because the first lockdown didn’t work. It’s because we didn’t really put the measures we needed to in place to make sure we didn’t have to have a stay-home order again.”


motherjones--2020-12-08--How Dozens of Trump’s Political Appointees Will Stay in Government After Biden Takes Over

This story was published originally by ProPublica , a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power .
Sign up for ProPublica ’ s Big Story newsletter to receive stories like this one in your inbox as soon as they are published .
Christopher Prandoni was just 29 when he joined President Donald Trump ’ s administration as associate director for natural resources at the Council on Environmental Quality .
Last year , he hopped over to the Interior Department and became a close adviser to Secretary David Bernhardt , sometimes attending multiple meetings a day with the agency head .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ only three years out of law school , to a $ 114,000-a-year position that ’ s part of the career civil service .
His appointment as a judge in the Interior Department ’ s Office of Hearings and Appeals , which arbitrates land-use disputes , drew sharp criticism from environmental groups concerned that Prandoni would infuse ideology into decisions and undermine the panel ’ s integrity .
“ The job that Prandoni was given was a gift ; it was payment for time served , ” said Brett Hartl , government affairs director @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ He never in a thousand years would have gotten this job if he hadn ’ t worked directly with David Bernhardt for months at a time implementing the Trump agenda.
” Prandoni , whose new job was reported over the summer by E & E News , didn ’ t reply to a request for comment .
He is among 32 political appointees whom the administration has sought to hire into civil service positions in the first three quarters of this year , a phenomenon known as “ burrowing ” that occurs @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Congress requires the Office of Personnel Management to provide summaries of such requests , since career jobs hold over from one administration to the next and generally have more protections against partisan attempts at removal .
Burrowing has a history that traces back to civil service reforms of the late 1880s , when Congress passed a law to try to ensure that jobs were awarded on merit rather than patronage .
The number of hires sought under Trump is so far roughly similar to the tally of other recent administrations .
The lists @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hires who met the agency ’ s standards for competitive , merit-based hiring but have clearly partisan or ideological credentials .
Along with Prandoni , a longtime staffer for the Grover Norquist-led small government group , Americans for Tax Reform , the Trump administration list includes a former chief of staff to conservative firebrand Sen. Ted Cruz , R-Texas , and a lawyer for energy and mining companies who got his start at a property rights think tank .
Although the incoming Biden administration has not yet addressed the issue , the party @ @ @ @ @ @ @ concern when members of the previous administration embed themselves within agencies , where they can slow implementation of the new president ’ s priorities .
After Trump won the 2016 election , Senate Republicans demanded weekly reports from OPM to track new transfer requests by the Obama administration .
Trump ’ s transition adviser , Chris Christie , had earlier threatened to change civil service laws to try to dislodge any Obama loyalists who may have found their way into the federal bureaucracy .
In 2010 , following public attention to a spate @ @ @ @ @ @ @ OPM began requiring such appointments to be submitted for approval on an ongoing basis .
Compliance hasn ’ t been perfect .
Between 2010 and March 2016 , the Government Accountability Office reported that OPM approved 78 out of 99 requests to convert political appointees into civil service jobs , but it didn ’ t retain enough information about the approvals for GAO to review them .
According to the Senate Homeland Security and Government Oversight Committee , in 2019 OPM approved 28 conversion requests , returned three without action and denied three @ @ @ @ @ @ @ new jobs in 2020 , only a few have names attached , since many of the hires were still under review by OPM at the time the lists were compiled ; the process is supposed to take 15 business days but is often extended .
A court ruled over the summer that if OPM eventually determines the transfer was improper , the employee can be fired .
Five such moves were denied in 2020 because the agency said it “ could not conclude the appointment was free of political influence and complied with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ accounts for several of the approved transfers in 2020 .
Gregory Sheehan was appointed deputy director of the Fish and Wildlife Service in June 2017 .
( Then-Interior Secretary Ryan Zinke tried to make him director , but Sheehan lacked the position ’ s required scientific degree . )
In that position , he opened hundreds of thousands of acres of federal land to hunting and fishing and shepherded through rules that substantially weakened protections for endangered species .
Sheehan served 14 months before resigning , a spokesman said , to spend more @ @ @ @ @ @ @ But in August , after the previous director retired , Sheehan was hired for a $ 166,910-a-year job as director of the Bureau of Land Management ’ s office in his home state .
Environmental groups slammed Sheehan as being too close to industry and local governments , which have long pushed for more access for mining and drilling , although as one of his first actions Sheehan canceled a set of oil and gas lease sales that had been scheduled near Arches and Canyonlands National Parks .
Sheehan referred questions to an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wrote in an email that the Interior Department “ evaluates all candidates for career civil service positions based on their merits and qualifications to execute Interior ’ s mission ; to which , Mr. Sheehan was selected.
” Another new BLM state director is Barry Bushue , a longtime leader of the American Farm Bureau Federation , the nation ’ s largest agriculture industry lobbying group .
Bushue was appointed to run the U.S. Department of Agriculture ’ s Farm Service Agency office for Oregon in 2018 .
Earlier this year , he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ BLM ’ s Oregon/Washington division—the site of fierce debates around the federal government ’ s authority over cattle grazing .
Susan Jane Brown , public lands and wildlife director for the Western Environmental Law Center , said Bushue ’ s background in agriculture does not necessarily mean he knows how to manage the diverse set of interests at play on public lands .
“ I don ’ t know why you ’ d put a farmer in charge of natural resources , because they ’ re different , ” she said .
She @ @ @ @ @ @ @ appointments , given the Trump administration ’ s penchant for high turnover and lingering vacancies .
“ Maybe they are attempting to burrow in some employees , but boy is that a little too late , ” Brown said .
“ It seems to me that they ’ re simply scraping the bottom of the barrel and finding anybody with a pulse to put into some of these positions for the remainder of the lame duck.
” An Interior Department spokesperson said that the hires of Prandoni , Sheehan , and Bushue were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ This takes place in every administration despite whatever false narrative is being spun by special interest groups who are seeking to disparage the character and qualifications of these dedicated public servants , ” spokesperson Benjamin Goldey said in an email .
A final high-profile political appointee converted to career status in the environmental sphere is Brandon Middleton , who got his start challenging regulations under the Endangered Species Act as an attorney for the property rights-oriented Pacific Legal Foundation .
He then worked for Sen. Jeff Sessions , R-Ala. , who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s environmental division in 2017 , where he continued to correspond with his former foundation colleagues about issues before the DOJ .
Later that year , he joined the Department of the Interior as deputy solicitor for water resources , until he was appointed to a career position as chief counsel at the Department of Energy ’ s Environmental Management Consolidated Business Center , which manages the contracting for cleaning up toxic waste dumps .
Neither Middleton nor the Department of Energy responded to requests for comment .
Conversion requests are typically @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Homeland Security , and the Trump administration has made plenty of those as well .
Among them : Prerak Shah , a memberof the right-leaning Federalist Society who served as a counselor to Texas Attorney General Ken Paxton , defending cases on conservative causes celebre like voter ID laws and school prayer .
He then became Cruz ’ s chief of staff before joining Trump ’ s DOJ , and earlier this year he was appointed as an assistant U.S. attorney in the northern district of Texas .
Jordan von Bokern clerked @ @ @ @ @ @ @ named to the U.S. Supreme Court , before being appointed counsel in the DOJ ’ s Office of Legal Policy , which directs initiatives such as coordinating judicial nominations with the White House .
In April , he was converted into a career trial attorney .
Michael Holley was a regional director for the Florida Republican Party , helped run the 2016 GOP convention and then worked on the inauguration before being hired for White House special projects .
In 2019 , he was appointed White House liaison for the Department of Homeland @ @ @ @ @ @ @ became a staff action officer in the Office of Intelligence and Analysis , a career position .
Shah , Holley , von Bokern , and the Department of Justice did not respond to a request for comment .
One of the highest-profile positions went to Tracy Short , who built his career in government litigating immigration cases , mostly in Texas .
In 2017 , he became principal legal advisor to Immigration and Customs Enforcement as it embraced a hard line on deportations .
And in July , he was appointed chief immigration @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Office for Immigration Review—a prosecutor now running a court system that decides asylum cases .
Denise Slavin , a former president of the National Association of Immigration Judges who retired last year after 24 years on the bench , said that under Short , the agency has accelerated filing deadlines in a way that gives judges less discretion to consider the facts of each case .
“ He just doesn ’ t have the courtroom experience to be a chief judge , ” Slavin said .
Short referred questions to EOIR spokeswoman Kathryn @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Just as former United States Attorneys are sometimes appointed to federal judgeships and former Solicitors General and Attorneys General have been appointed to the Supreme Court , there is nothing improper about appointing the former ICE Principal Legal Advisor to the CIJ position , particularly when that individual has had an extensive and exemplary career in public service , including nearly 20 years of immigration and management experience , ” Mattingly wrote in an email .
Short ’ s position , as well as other recent Trump appointees to the immigration apparatus @ @ @ @ @ @ @ transition .
It ’ s possible to dislodge career employees by transferring them elsewhere , but it will take a conscious effort by an administration that ’ s already got 4,000 political appointments to make even before it gets to the career service jobs .
The Trump administration could speed up the replacement of civil servants before inauguration because of an executive order the president issued in October .
It creates a new “ Schedule F ” category for career employees who have policy-making or policy-advocating roles , and it weakens their employment @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be booted for their political views .
Ron Sanders , a longtime federal government human resources executive who recently resigned from an OPM advisory body called the Federal Salary Council in protest of Schedule F , said the Trump administration still has plenty of time to act on that order in its final weeks .
“ I have been contacted by dozens of regular civil servants slated to be converted into Schedule F , ” Sanders said , “ which means they could be removed with little or no procedural protection or due @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by somebody else.
” Federal employee unions have supported a bill that would block implementation of Schedule F , but Sanders noted that Biden may want to keep it in place long enough to reverse any career appointments made in the waning days of Trump ’ s term .
Last week , House Democrats sent a letter to 61 federal agencies asking for more detailed information on political appointees who have been hired into career jobs , as well as positions newly designated as Schedule F. Senate Democrats have made similar requests to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ response has been incomplete .
OPM did not respond to a request for comment .
Overall , some progressive advocates don ’ t think the conversion of political appointees into career positions will be as deep or as influential as it was in the second term of the Bush administration , when 139 officials found their way into civil service jobs , the GAO reported .
However , even a few people can make a difference .
“ Bureaucrats can slow down the administration ’ s policy efforts .
It ’ s minor @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are , it ’ s sort of cumulative , ” Hartl said .
And even if the number of conversions doesn ’ t seem unusually high , the types of positions are more political than in the past .
But since the documents are not released publicly and so many names are redacted , it ’ s difficult to tell who ’ s ending up where until the transfer is approved .
For that reason , Troy Cribb , director of policy for the nonpartisan Partnership for Public Service , thinks the OPM @ @ @ @ @ @ @ transparent .
“ Having eyes on this is part of the accountability , ” Cribb said .
“ And not having these be public really undermines that .
”

Fight disinformation: Sign up for the free Mother Jones Daily newsletter and follow the news that matters.
This story was published originally by ProPublica, a nonprofit newsroom that investigates abuses of power. Sign up for ProPublica’s Big Story newsletter to receive stories like this one in your inbox as soon as they are published.
Christopher Prandoni was just 29 when he joined President Donald Trump’s administration as associate director for natural resources at the Council on Environmental Quality. Last year, he hopped over to the Interior Department and became a close adviser to Secretary David Bernhardt, sometimes attending multiple meetings a day with the agency head.
In April, Bernhardt named Prandoni, only three years out of law school, to a $114,000-a-year position that’s part of the career civil service. His appointment as a judge in the Interior Department’s Office of Hearings and Appeals, which arbitrates land-use disputes, drew sharp criticism from environmental groups concerned that Prandoni would infuse ideology into decisions and undermine the panel’s integrity.
“The job that Prandoni was given was a gift; it was payment for time served,” said Brett Hartl, government affairs director at the Center for Biological Diversity. “He never in a thousand years would have gotten this job if he hadn’t worked directly with David Bernhardt for months at a time implementing the Trump agenda.”
Prandoni, whose new job was reported over the summer by E&E News, didn’t reply to a request for comment. He is among 32 political appointees whom the administration has sought to hire into civil service positions in the first three quarters of this year, a phenomenon known as “burrowing” that occurs at the end of every administration. Congress requires the Office of Personnel Management to provide summaries of such requests, since career jobs hold over from one administration to the next and generally have more protections against partisan attempts at removal.
Burrowing has a history that traces back to civil service reforms of the late 1880s, when Congress passed a law to try to ensure that jobs were awarded on merit rather than patronage. The number of hires sought under Trump is so far roughly similar to the tally of other recent administrations.
The lists OPM provided to Congress include some recent hires who met the agency’s standards for competitive, merit-based hiring but have clearly partisan or ideological credentials. Along with Prandoni, a longtime staffer for the Grover Norquist-led small government group, Americans for Tax Reform, the Trump administration list includes a former chief of staff to conservative firebrand Sen. Ted Cruz, R-Texas, and a lawyer for energy and mining companies who got his start at a property rights think tank.
Although the incoming Biden administration has not yet addressed the issue, the party coming into the White House typically expresses concern when members of the previous administration embed themselves within agencies, where they can slow implementation of the new president’s priorities. After Trump won the 2016 election, Senate Republicans demanded weekly reports from OPM to track new transfer requests by the Obama administration. Trump’s transition adviser, Chris Christie, had earlier threatened to change civil service laws to try to dislodge any Obama loyalists who may have found their way into the federal bureaucracy.
In 2010, following public attention to a spate of burrowers from the Bush administration, OPM began requiring such appointments to be submitted for approval on an ongoing basis. Compliance hasn’t been perfect. Between 2010 and March 2016, the Government Accountability Office reported that OPM approved 78 out of 99 requests to convert political appointees into civil service jobs, but it didn’t retain enough information about the approvals for GAO to review them.
According to the Senate Homeland Security and Government Oversight Committee, in 2019 OPM approved 28 conversion requests, returned three without action and denied three. Of the total who may get new jobs in 2020, only a few have names attached, since many of the hires were still under review by OPM at the time the lists were compiled; the process is supposed to take 15 business days but is often extended. A court ruled over the summer that if OPM eventually determines the transfer was improper, the employee can be fired.
Five such moves were denied in 2020 because the agency said it “could not conclude the appointment was free of political influence and complied with merit system principles.”
The Interior Department accounts for several of the approved transfers in 2020.
Gregory Sheehan was appointed deputy director of the Fish and Wildlife Service in June 2017. (Then-Interior Secretary Ryan Zinke tried to make him director, but Sheehan lacked the position’s required scientific degree.) In that position, he opened hundreds of thousands of acres of federal land to hunting and fishing and shepherded through rules that substantially weakened protections for endangered species.
Sheehan served 14 months before resigning, a spokesman said, to spend more time with his family in Utah. But in August, after the previous director retired, Sheehan was hired for a $166,910-a-year job as director of the Bureau of Land Management’s office in his home state. Environmental groups slammed Sheehan as being too close to industry and local governments, which have long pushed for more access for mining and drilling, although as one of his first actions Sheehan canceled a set of oil and gas lease sales that had been scheduled near Arches and Canyonlands National Parks. Sheehan referred questions to an agency spokesperson, Richard Packer, who wrote in an email that the Interior Department “evaluates all candidates for career civil service positions based on their merits and qualifications to execute Interior’s mission; to which, Mr. Sheehan was selected.”
Another new BLM state director is Barry Bushue, a longtime leader of the American Farm Bureau Federation, the nation’s largest agriculture industry lobbying group. Bushue was appointed to run the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s Farm Service Agency office for Oregon in 2018. Earlier this year, he was transferred to a career position running BLM’s Oregon/Washington division—the site of fierce debates around the federal government’s authority over cattle grazing.
Susan Jane Brown, public lands and wildlife director for the Western Environmental Law Center, said Bushue’s background in agriculture does not necessarily mean he knows how to manage the diverse set of interests at play on public lands. “I don’t know why you’d put a farmer in charge of natural resources, because they’re different,” she said. She has an alternative explanation for the career appointments, given the Trump administration’s penchant for high turnover and lingering vacancies.
“Maybe they are attempting to burrow in some employees, but boy is that a little too late,” Brown said. “It seems to me that they’re simply scraping the bottom of the barrel and finding anybody with a pulse to put into some of these positions for the remainder of the lame duck.”
An Interior Department spokesperson said that the hires of Prandoni, Sheehan, and Bushue were appropriate and conducted according to standard procedures.
“This takes place in every administration despite whatever false narrative is being spun by special interest groups who are seeking to disparage the character and qualifications of these dedicated public servants,” spokesperson Benjamin Goldey said in an email.
A final high-profile political appointee converted to career status in the environmental sphere is Brandon Middleton, who got his start challenging regulations under the Endangered Species Act as an attorney for the property rights-oriented Pacific Legal Foundation. He then worked for Sen. Jeff Sessions, R-Ala., who brought him to the Department of Justice’s environmental division in 2017, where he continued to correspond with his former foundation colleagues about issues before the DOJ.
Later that year, he joined the Department of the Interior as deputy solicitor for water resources, until he was appointed to a career position as chief counsel at the Department of Energy’s Environmental Management Consolidated Business Center, which manages the contracting for cleaning up toxic waste dumps.
Neither Middleton nor the Department of Energy responded to requests for comment.
Conversion requests are typically most common at the DOJ and Department of Homeland Security, and the Trump administration has made plenty of those as well.
Among them: Prerak Shah, a memberof the right-leaning Federalist Society who served as a counselor to Texas Attorney General Ken Paxton, defending cases on conservative causes celebre like voter ID laws and school prayer. He then became Cruz’s chief of staff before joining Trump’s DOJ, and earlier this year he was appointed as an assistant U.S. attorney in the northern district of Texas.
Jordan von Bokern clerked for Judge Amy Coney Barrett, recently named to the U.S. Supreme Court, before being appointed counsel in the DOJ’s Office of Legal Policy, which directs initiatives such as coordinating judicial nominations with the White House. In April, he was converted into a career trial attorney. Michael Holley was a regional director for the Florida Republican Party, helped run the 2016 GOP convention and then worked on the inauguration before being hired for White House special projects. In 2019, he was appointed White House liaison for the Department of Homeland Security, and earlier this year he became a staff action officer in the Office of Intelligence and Analysis, a career position.
Shah, Holley, von Bokern, and the Department of Justice did not respond to a request for comment.
One of the highest-profile positions went to Tracy Short, who built his career in government litigating immigration cases, mostly in Texas. In 2017, he became principal legal advisor to Immigration and Customs Enforcement as it embraced a hard line on deportations. And in July, he was appointed chief immigration judge at the DOJ’s Executive Office for Immigration Review—a prosecutor now running a court system that decides asylum cases.
Denise Slavin, a former president of the National Association of Immigration Judges who retired last year after 24 years on the bench, said that under Short, the agency has accelerated filing deadlines in a way that gives judges less discretion to consider the facts of each case.
“He just doesn’t have the courtroom experience to be a chief judge,” Slavin said.
Short referred questions to EOIR spokeswoman Kathryn Mattingly, who disputed that characterization.
“Just as former United States Attorneys are sometimes appointed to federal judgeships and former Solicitors General and Attorneys General have been appointed to the Supreme Court, there is nothing improper about appointing the former ICE Principal Legal Advisor to the CIJ position, particularly when that individual has had an extensive and exemplary career in public service, including nearly 20 years of immigration and management experience,” Mattingly wrote in an email.
Short’s position, as well as other recent Trump appointees to the immigration apparatus at the DOJ, will survive the transition. It’s possible to dislodge career employees by transferring them elsewhere, but it will take a conscious effort by an administration that’s already got 4,000 political appointments to make even before it gets to the career service jobs.
The Trump administration could speed up the replacement of civil servants before inauguration because of an executive order the president issued in October. It creates a new “Schedule F” category for career employees who have policy-making or policy-advocating roles, and it weakens their employment protections to the point where they could be booted for their political views.
Ron Sanders, a longtime federal government human resources executive who recently resigned from an OPM advisory body called the Federal Salary Council in protest of Schedule F, said the Trump administration still has plenty of time to act on that order in its final weeks.
“I have been contacted by dozens of regular civil servants slated to be converted into Schedule F,” Sanders said, “which means they could be removed with little or no procedural protection or due process. And they could be replaced by somebody else.”
Federal employee unions have supported a bill that would block implementation of Schedule F, but Sanders noted that Biden may want to keep it in place long enough to reverse any career appointments made in the waning days of Trump’s term.
Last week, House Democrats sent a letter to 61 federal agencies asking for more detailed information on political appointees who have been hired into career jobs, as well as positions newly designated as Schedule F. Senate Democrats have made similar requests to OPM, but they say that the response has been incomplete. OPM did not respond to a request for comment.
Overall, some progressive advocates don’t think the conversion of political appointees into career positions will be as deep or as influential as it was in the second term of the Bush administration, when 139 officials found their way into civil service jobs, the GAO reported. However, even a few people can make a difference.
“Bureaucrats can slow down the administration’s policy efforts. It’s minor, but the more of them there are, it’s sort of cumulative,” Hartl said.
And even if the number of conversions doesn’t seem unusually high, the types of positions are more political than in the past. But since the documents are not released publicly and so many names are redacted, it’s difficult to tell who’s ending up where until the transfer is approved. For that reason, Troy Cribb, director of policy for the nonpartisan Partnership for Public Service, thinks the OPM’s burrowing lists should be more transparent.
“Having eyes on this is part of the accountability,” Cribb said. “And not having these be public really undermines that.”


motherjones--2020-12-08--The Supreme Court Just Ditched a Lawsuit That Sought to Overturn Biden’s Decisive Win in Pennsylvani

The Supreme Court Just Ditched a Lawsuit That Sought to Overturn Biden’s Decisive Win in Pennsylvania

Let our journalists help you make sense of the noise : Subscribe to the Mother Jones Daily newsletter and get @ @ @ @ @ matters .
In a major blow to Republicans ’ efforts to sue their way to @ @ @ @ @ the Supreme Court on Tuesday threw out a GOP lawsuit that sought to overturn the @ @ @ @ @ In a lawsuit filed last month , Rep. Mike Kelly ( R-Penn . )
and @ @ @ @ @ Pennsylvania ’ s vote-by-mail system violates the state ’ s constitution and that millions of @ @ @ @ @ during the election were , therefore , invalid .
In a brief , lawyers for @ @ @ @ @ ( D ) and Democratic lawmakers derided Kelly ’ s lawsuit , calling its claims @ @ @ @ @ Pennsylvania ’ s state Supreme Court threw out Kelly ’ s lawsuit , the congressman @ @ @ @ @ , which threw out the case .
Joe Biden won Pennsylvania—and its 20 electors—by more @ @ @ @

“A VOICE OF REASON.” “A DAILY DOSE OF SANITY.”
“A daily dose of sanity.” “Like chatting with a friend who actually knows what they’re talking about.” That’s how readers describe our free Mother Jones Daily newsletter. See why: Sign up today to get reporting that helps you cut through the noise, plus deep dives on underreported topics.
“Like chatting with a friend who actually knows what they’re talking about.” That’s how readers describe our free Mother Jones Daily newsletter. See why: Sign up today to get reporting that helps you cut through the noise, plus deep dives on underreported topics.
Close Thank you for subscribing!
By signing up, you agree to our privacy policy and terms of use, and to receive messages from Mother Jones and our partners.


motherjones--2020-12-09--Georgia Didn’t Turn Blue Overnight. Just Ask the State’s Newest Member of Congress Nikema Williams.

If Nikema Williams knew November 13 , 2018 , would end the way it did , she says she would ’ ve worn a different outfit .
That morning , donning a printed dress , red jacket , heeled boots , and a multistrand pearl set , the Georgia state senator said goodbye to her husband , made plans to pick up their 3-year-old later that afternoon , and headed to the Capitol .
It was less than a week after Republican Brian Kemp had declared victory in a hotly contested governor ’ s race , and Democrat Stacey Abrams @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was in special session to approve funding for hurricane victims , and by the time the Senate had adjourned , dozens of demonstrators were in the rotunda demanding to “ count every vote.
” Unlike her friend and mentor Rep. John Lewis , the storied civil rights leader known for getting arrested more than 40 times , Williams , who represented a diverse swath of Atlanta , hadn ’ t meant to stir up trouble ( good or bad ) that day .
She was sitting on a third-floor bench with friends , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ noticed more police officers roaming around than usual .
“ I ’ m like , why are you standing here with zip ties ?
Never once imagining that in just a few minutes one of these is going to be on me.
” She went downstairs to see what the fuss was about .
“ I noticed one of my constituents standing firmly in her place and not saying a word .
And I went and I stood with her… I wanted her to know that she was seen , that I heard @ @ @ @ @ @ @ there to raise her voice.
” Before long , Williams recalls , “ my hands are being put behind my back.
” Once at the county jail , officers told Williams to lift up her dress so they could search her vaginal cavity .
She refused .
They made her exchange her boots for a flimsy pair of “ little jail shoes.
” During the intake process , officers warned Williams that her blood pressure was dangerously high .
“ You want me to calm down ?
” Williams remembers thinking .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the Capitol where I ’ m a senator ?
” Each of the protesters faced a misdemeanor charge of disrupting the General Assembly ; the charges , including those against Williams , were eventually dropped .
( Williams and some of the protesters later sued , claiming the law they were arrested under was nearly identical to one that had been deemed unconstitutional . )
The incident signaled a frightening new chapter in Georgia ’ s long history of voter suppression and put Williams on the national radar .
Afterward , Williams @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reacted to her at the Capitol .
White cops , for instance , tended to approach her cautiously , uncertain of how she ’ d use her new visibility .
Black people , particularly building staff , regarded her with respect .
When I visited about three months later , I saw a Black janitor pull Williams aside to talk , all familiar , with big smiles and warm hugs .
“ Thank you for standing up for our people , ” she told Williams .
Almost two years later , Williams ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Late into a Friday night in July , she was finally going through boxes from a move a year earlier when she got a text message from Jon Ossoff , a friend who had run unsuccessfully for a US House seat in 2017 ( and is currently running for US Senate against Republican Sen. David Perdue ) .
Was it true ?
Ossoff asked .
Had John Lewis really died ?
That was how Williams found out that the 80-year-old congressman had passed away from pancreatic cancer .
Not only had the “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , he ’ d played an outsize role in her personal life : It was while volunteering for Hillary Clinton ’ s 2008 presidential campaign that Williams met her husband , Leslie Small , an aide to the lawmaker .
On top of all that , Williams , who has served as chair of the state Democratic Party since early 2019—the first Black woman to do so—notes there was just one business day to inform the secretary of state whether they planned to replace Lewis on the November ballot .
Fellow party leaders @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , effectively making her the next representative of the heavily Democratic 5th District—a seat Lewis held for more than 30 years .
Lewis ’ death was another gut punch in a year filled with them : As the pandemic ripped through Black communities , Williams and three other state senators caught COVID after an infected Republican legislator came to work while awaiting his test results , and as Kemp fought bitterly with Democrats over mask mandates .
And after a month of protests in Atlanta over the police killing of Rayshard Brooks , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ It was a very difficult time for us , ” Williams says .
“ I was comforting my grieving husband and trying to figure out what we needed to do as a party to move forward.
” Abrams is most people ’ s avatar of a Georgia Democrat these days .
Williams represents a different path to power—a consistent and strategic march that may not be as compelling as Abrams ’ groundbreaking run for governor , but is arguably as effective in helping to transform a state that the national party has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
In November , Joe Biden narrowly won Georgia , and two Democrats , Ossoff and the Reverend Raphael Warnock , are both in runoffs for Senate seats in early January .
Regardless of how their races end , this moment is the culmination of years of grassroots work by Abrams , Williams , and a network of progressive organizers and party officials .
I first met Williams in the Before Times , in the winter of 2019 .
It was somewhat funny to her that her biggest claim to fame until then @ @ @ @ @ @ @ life , as she tells it , has been the result of methodical planning .
Before winning a seat in the state Senate in a special election in 2017 , before working as a lobbyist for Planned Parenthood , before attending Talladega College and Jacksonville State University , before pearls became part of her uniform , Williams was a country girl , raised by her grandparents just across the state line in what she calls “ the booming metropolis of Smiths Station , Alabama , ” population 5,391 .
She remembers how her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the back of his pickup truck and drive around Lee County to deliver slate cards listing who was running in that year ’ s elections .
In 2002 , she packed up her old Honda Accord and moved to Atlanta , where she juggled three jobs to stay afloat—as an aide to students with disabilities ; a salesperson at Banana Republic ; and a counselor at a residential group home back in Alabama , to which she commuted every weekend .
She came across a book called Who ’ s Who in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ page of people who ’ d “ made it , ” scouring the organizations and clubs they ’ d joined .
That ’ s how she found the Young Democrats , which was about to hold a convention in Savannah .
“ I drove down , and from that point on , I never have not been involved in the Democratic Party , ” she says .
Georgia had started to undergo dramatic demographic shifts as the numbers of immigrants and voters of color swelled .
But political change was slow going .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ focused on converting disaffected , mostly white , sometimes Republican voters—until Abrams blew up that model , pushing to expand the party ’ s base by registering and mobilizing new and unlikely voters , often young and of color , instead .
For Williams , Georgia ’ s 2018 election—and the way victory was stolen from Abrams—was its own political education .
Though a study in contrasts , Williams and Abrams are close allies and friends ; they have known each other since Abrams was in the statehouse and Williams was lobbying for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ herself , Williams is also the deputy director of the National Domestic Workers Alliance and the deputy director for Care in Action , the group ’ s political arm .
( Georgia legislators are only in session three months a year . )
Care in Action endorsed Abrams in 2018 , sent out hundreds of members to canvass for her , and turned its senior advisers , including renowned activists Alicia Garza and Ai-jen Poo , into some of Abrams ’ most powerful surrogates .
But Kemp , then secretary of state , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to vacate even as he ran for governor ) to launch a specious investigation against Democrats , purge more than 668,000 Georgians from the voter rolls in a single year , hold up registration for 53,000 mostly African American voters , and close hundreds of polling stations .
“ Death by a thousand paper cuts , ” one of Abrams ’ colleagues told Mother Jones at the time .
That she came so close only to be robbed simply fueled Williams ’ resolve to move the party toward something different .
“ Our @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in 2018—voters did their part , ” Williams tells me .
“ The systems failed them .
Now we have to change the systems.
” In November 2018 , Care in Action joined Abrams and her new voting rights organization , Fair Fight Action , to file a suit against the Georgia state election board , accusing it of gross mismanagement that “ deprived citizens , and particularly citizens of color , of their fundamental right to vote , ” in violation of the Constitution and the Voting Rights Act .
“ I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ over again , there ’ s a huge voter suppression apparatus , ” says Jess Morales Rocketto , executive director of Care in Action , referring to the state ’ s oppressive “ exact match ” ID law .
“ By 2019 , we were mounting significant voter education efforts.
” This pivot in strategy marked a subtle but crucial difference : focusing not just on something being taken away , but on expanding the idea of who is included to participate in the first place .
And , as Williams learned in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ truck , voter turnout means very little if those votes aren ’ t protected—and won ’ t happen at all if people don ’ t know what they ’ re voting for .
Over the past year , Care in Action , along with several other progressive groups , has focused on educating voters about key issues like bail reform and Medicaid , but it has also taught people how to detect misinformation , submit absentee ballots , and act as watchdogs against election interference .
When Abrams endorsed Williams for party chair @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for our party , working hard , guiding us through tough times.
” The tough times would compound far beyond both their expectations .
But now , as Williams heads to Capitol Hill , she is almost serene when reflecting on what it means to fill Lewis ’ shoes .
“ It is my obligation to make sure that I ’ m not just continuing the things that Congressman Lewis started , ” she says , “ but that I am creating , charting my own path and creating other opportunities for this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of America that we all deserve .
”

If Nikema Williams knew November 13, 2018, would end the way it did, she says she would’ve worn a different outfit.
That morning, donning a printed dress, red jacket, heeled boots, and a multistrand pearl set, the Georgia state senator said goodbye to her husband, made plans to pick up their 3-year-old later that afternoon, and headed to the Capitol. It was less than a week after Republican Brian Kemp had declared victory in a hotly contested governor’s race, and Democrat Stacey Abrams was refusing to concede. The legislature was in special session to approve funding for hurricane victims, and by the time the Senate had adjourned, dozens of demonstrators were in the rotunda demanding to “count every vote.”
Unlike her friend and mentor Rep. John Lewis, the storied civil rights leader known for getting arrested more than 40 times, Williams, who represented a diverse swath of Atlanta, hadn’t meant to stir up trouble (good or bad) that day. She was sitting on a third-floor bench with friends, chatting about Thanksgiving plans, when she noticed more police officers roaming around than usual. “I’m like, why are you standing here with zip ties? Never once imagining that in just a few minutes one of these is going to be on me.” She went downstairs to see what the fuss was about. “I noticed one of my constituents standing firmly in her place and not saying a word. And I went and I stood with her… I wanted her to know that she was seen, that I heard her, and I appreciated her being there to raise her voice.”
Before long, Williams recalls, “my hands are being put behind my back.”
Once at the county jail, officers told Williams to lift up her dress so they could search her vaginal cavity. She refused. They made her exchange her boots for a flimsy pair of “little jail shoes.” During the intake process, officers warned Williams that her blood pressure was dangerously high. “You want me to calm down?” Williams remembers thinking. “And they just arrested me for being in the Capitol where I’m a senator?” Each of the protesters faced a misdemeanor charge of disrupting the General Assembly; the charges, including those against Williams, were eventually dropped. (Williams and some of the protesters later sued, claiming the law they were arrested under was nearly identical to one that had been deemed unconstitutional.) The incident signaled a frightening new chapter in Georgia’s long history of voter suppression and put Williams on the national radar.
Afterward, Williams sensed a stark shift in how people reacted to her at the Capitol. White cops, for instance, tended to approach her cautiously, uncertain of how she’d use her new visibility. Black people, particularly building staff, regarded her with respect. When I visited about three months later, I saw a Black janitor pull Williams aside to talk, all familiar, with big smiles and warm hugs. “Thank you for standing up for our people,” she told Williams.
“You want me to calm down? And they just arrested me for being in the Capitol where I’m a senator?”
Almost two years later, Williams’ career would take another abrupt turn. Late into a Friday night in July, she was finally going through boxes from a move a year earlier when she got a text message from Jon Ossoff, a friend who had run unsuccessfully for a US House seat in 2017 (and is currently running for US Senate against Republican Sen. David Perdue). Was it true? Ossoff asked. Had John Lewis really died?
That was how Williams found out that the 80-year-old congressman had passed away from pancreatic cancer. Not only had the “conscience of Congress” been a mentor, he’d played an outsize role in her personal life: It was while volunteering for Hillary Clinton’s 2008 presidential campaign that Williams met her husband, Leslie Small, an aide to the lawmaker.
On top of all that, Williams, who has served as chair of the state Democratic Party since early 2019—the first Black woman to do so—notes there was just one business day to inform the secretary of state whether they planned to replace Lewis on the November ballot. Fellow party leaders quickly picked Williams to take his spot, effectively making her the next representative of the heavily Democratic 5th District—a seat Lewis held for more than 30 years.
Lewis’ death was another gut punch in a year filled with them: As the pandemic ripped through Black communities, Williams and three other state senators caught COVID after an infected Republican legislator came to work while awaiting his test results, and as Kemp fought bitterly with Democrats over mask mandates. And after a month of protests in Atlanta over the police killing of Rayshard Brooks, Kemp sent in the National Guard. “It was a very difficult time for us,” Williams says. “I was comforting my grieving husband and trying to figure out what we needed to do as a party to move forward.”
Abrams is most people’s avatar of a Georgia Democrat these days. Williams represents a different path to power—a consistent and strategic march that may not be as compelling as Abrams’ groundbreaking run for governor, but is arguably as effective in helping to transform a state that the national party has often neglected in the last two decades. In November, Joe Biden narrowly won Georgia, and two Democrats, Ossoff and the Reverend Raphael Warnock, are both in runoffs for Senate seats in early January. Regardless of how their races end, this moment is the culmination of years of grassroots work by Abrams, Williams, and a network of progressive organizers and party officials.
I first met Williams in the Before Times, in the winter of 2019. It was somewhat funny to her that her biggest claim to fame until then was the arrest; most of her life, as she tells it, has been the result of methodical planning. Before winning a seat in the state Senate in a special election in 2017, before working as a lobbyist for Planned Parenthood, before attending Talladega College and Jacksonville State University, before pearls became part of her uniform, Williams was a country girl, raised by her grandparents just across the state line in what she calls “the booming metropolis of Smiths Station, Alabama,” population 5,391. She remembers how her grandfather would load her and her cousins in the back of his pickup truck and drive around Lee County to deliver slate cards listing who was running in that year’s elections.
In 2002, she packed up her old Honda Accord and moved to Atlanta, where she juggled three jobs to stay afloat—as an aide to students with disabilities; a salesperson at Banana Republic; and a counselor at a residential group home back in Alabama, to which she commuted every weekend. She came across a book called Who’s Who in Black Atlanta and scrolled through page after page of people who’d “made it,” scouring the organizations and clubs they’d joined. That’s how she found the Young Democrats, which was about to hold a convention in Savannah. “I drove down, and from that point on, I never have not been involved in the Democratic Party,” she says.
Georgia had started to undergo dramatic demographic shifts as the numbers of immigrants and voters of color swelled. But political change was slow going. The Democratic Party’s strategy largely focused on converting disaffected, mostly white, sometimes Republican voters—until Abrams blew up that model, pushing to expand the party’s base by registering and mobilizing new and unlikely voters, often young and of color, instead.
She came across a book called Who’s Who in Black Atlanta and scrolled through page after page of people who’d “made it.”
For Williams, Georgia’s 2018 election—and the way victory was stolen from Abrams—was its own political education. Though a study in contrasts, Williams and Abrams are close allies and friends; they have known each other since Abrams was in the statehouse and Williams was lobbying for Planned Parenthood. Now an elected official herself, Williams is also the deputy director of the National Domestic Workers Alliance and the deputy director for Care in Action, the group’s political arm. (Georgia legislators are only in session three months a year.) Care in Action endorsed Abrams in 2018, sent out hundreds of members to canvass for her, and turned its senior advisers, including renowned activists Alicia Garza and Ai-jen Poo, into some of Abrams’ most powerful surrogates. But Kemp, then secretary of state, used his office (which he refused to vacate even as he ran for governor) to launch a specious investigation against Democrats, purge more than 668,000 Georgians from the voter rolls in a single year, hold up registration for 53,000 mostly African American voters, and close hundreds of polling stations. “Death by a thousand paper cuts,” one of Abrams’ colleagues told Mother Jones at the time. That she came so close only to be robbed simply fueled Williams’ resolve to move the party toward something different. “Our turnout was higher than the 2016 election in 2018—voters did their part,” Williams tells me. “The systems failed them. Now we have to change the systems.”
In November 2018, Care in Action joined Abrams and her new voting rights organization, Fair Fight Action, to file a suit against the Georgia state election board, accusing it of gross mismanagement that “deprived citizens, and particularly citizens of color, of their fundamental right to vote,” in violation of the Constitution and the Voting Rights Act. “I remember in 2018 telling people over and over again, there’s a huge voter suppression apparatus,” says Jess Morales Rocketto, executive director of Care in Action, referring to the state’s oppressive “exact match” ID law. “By 2019, we were mounting significant voter education efforts.”
This pivot in strategy marked a subtle but crucial difference: focusing not just on something being taken away, but on expanding the idea of who is included to participate in the first place. And, as Williams learned in the back of her grandfather’s truck, voter turnout means very little if those votes aren’t protected—and won’t happen at all if people don’t know what they’re voting for. Over the past year, Care in Action, along with several other progressive groups, has focused on educating voters about key issues like bail reform and Medicaid, but it has also taught people how to detect misinformation, submit absentee ballots, and act as watchdogs against election interference.
When Abrams endorsed Williams for party chair, she called her “a stalwart for our party, working hard, guiding us through tough times.” The tough times would compound far beyond both their expectations. But now, as Williams heads to Capitol Hill, she is almost serene when reflecting on what it means to fill Lewis’ shoes. “It is my obligation to make sure that I’m not just continuing the things that Congressman Lewis started,” she says, “but that I am creating, charting my own path and creating other opportunities for this country to live up to the promise of America that we all deserve.”