vox--2020-10-29--FBI warns that hackers are targeting hospitals while coronavirus admissions surge

As though hospitals across America didn ’ t have enough to handle with the recent resurgence of Covid-19 causing overflows and straining their resources , they ’ re now the possible targets of a new onslaught of ransomware attacks .
An alert from the FBI , the Department of Health and Human Services ( HHS ) , and the Cybersecurity and Infrastructure Security Agency ( CISA ) said on Wednesday that there is an imminent threat of ransomware attacks on American hospitals and health care providers .
Ransomware is malware that locks up a system ’ s computers and data @ @ @ @ @ @ @ alert didn ’ t specify who the agencies thought might be responsible for the attacks , but HHS has said in the past that the ransomware associated with the current threat is linked to Russian criminal groups .
The alert also didn ’ t say how many — if any — health care institutions had already been affected , but Reuters reports that there were attacks in New York , Oregon , and Washington state .
The threat identified by the FBI , CISA , and HHS comes from the “ Ryuk ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has cost companies and municipalities at least tens of millions of dollars in ransom payments , in addition to whatever costs were incurred for IT fixes and lost business .
“ Ryuk is a relatively young ransomware family that was discovered in August 2018 and has made significant gains in popularity in 2020 , ” Dmitriy Ayrapetov , of internet security company SonicWall , said in a statement to Recode .
“ The increase of remote and mobile workforces appears to have increased its prevalence , resulting not only in financial losses , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ attacks on hospitals.
” Ryuk is believed to be behind the recent ransomware attack on Universal Health Services ( UHS ) , which owns 400 facilities across the United States and the United Kingdom .
The company was forced to take down systems across all 250 of its American facilities .
UHS said the attack didn ’ t harm any of its patients , but employees told the Associated Press that it delayed getting crucial information about patient care and communication with other health professionals .
A new report from SonicWall blamed Ryuk @ @ @ @ @ @ @ attacks identified in the last year , and there ’ s been a significant increase in ransomware attacks in general over the last several months .
Hackers have taken advantage of the coronavirus pandemic in other ways , too , sending phishing emails from spoofed addresses relating to health organizations or addresses that closely mimic those organizations .
Hospitals make good targets for ransomware because victims are more likely to pay the ransom as quickly as possible given the possible consequences of any delay in accessing their systems .
A 2017 ransomware attack @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Service cost tens of millions of dollars , and nearly 20,000 patient appointments had to be canceled while the system was offline , compromising their care .
An attack on a German hospital in September of this year is believed to have caused a woman ’ s death , the first known death linked to ransomware ( somewhat ironically , the attackers only meant to shut down the university associated with the hospital and not the hospital itself ) .
Chris Wysopal , co-founder and chief technology officer of cybersecurity software company Veracode @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hospitals and local governments are good “ soft targets ” for ransomware attacks because they often don ’ t have the money or dedicated personnel needed to sufficiently protect their systems from hackers .
There have also been reports of hacking attempts from China , Russia , and Iran on institutions and companies developing coronavirus vaccines and doing other virus-related work , but in those cases it is more likely the countries are hoping to steal the research for themselves .
Open Sourced is made possible by Omidyar Network .
All Open Sourced @ @ @ @ @ @ @ our journalists .
Help keep Vox free for all Millions turn to Vox each month to understand what ’ s happening in the news , from the coronavirus crisis to a racial reckoning to what is , quite possibly , the most consequential presidential election of our lifetimes .
Our mission has never been more vital than it is in this moment : to empower you through understanding .
But our distinctive brand of explanatory journalism takes resources .
Even when the economy and the news advertising market recovers , your support will @ @ @ @ @ @ @ resource-intensive work .
If you have already contributed , thank you .
If you haven ’ t , please consider helping everyone make sense of an increasingly chaotic world : Contribute today from as little as $ 3 .

As though hospitals across America didn’t have enough to handle with the recent resurgence of Covid-19 causing overflows and straining their resources, they’re now the possible targets of a new onslaught of ransomware attacks.
An alert from the FBI, the Department of Health and Human Services (HHS), and the Cybersecurity and Infrastructure Security Agency (CISA) said on Wednesday that there is an imminent threat of ransomware attacks on American hospitals and health care providers. Ransomware is malware that locks up a system’s computers and data until a ransom is paid. The alert didn’t specify who the agencies thought might be responsible for the attacks, but HHS has said in the past that the ransomware associated with the current threat is linked to Russian criminal groups. The alert also didn’t say how many — if any — health care institutions had already been affected, but Reuters reports that there were attacks in New York, Oregon, and Washington state.
The threat identified by the FBI, CISA, and HHS comes from the “Ryuk” ransomware, which emerged in mid-2018 and has cost companies and municipalities at least tens of millions of dollars in ransom payments, in addition to whatever costs were incurred for IT fixes and lost business.
“Ryuk is a relatively young ransomware family that was discovered in August 2018 and has made significant gains in popularity in 2020,” Dmitriy Ayrapetov, of internet security company SonicWall, said in a statement to Recode. “The increase of remote and mobile workforces appears to have increased its prevalence, resulting not only in financial losses, but also impacting health care services with attacks on hospitals.”
Ryuk is believed to be behind the recent ransomware attack on Universal Health Services (UHS), which owns 400 facilities across the United States and the United Kingdom. The company was forced to take down systems across all 250 of its American facilities. UHS said the attack didn’t harm any of its patients, but employees told the Associated Press that it delayed getting crucial information about patient care and communication with other health professionals.
A new report from SonicWall blamed Ryuk for a third of all known ransomware attacks identified in the last year, and there’s been a significant increase in ransomware attacks in general over the last several months. Hackers have taken advantage of the coronavirus pandemic in other ways, too, sending phishing emails from spoofed addresses relating to health organizations or addresses that closely mimic those organizations.
Hospitals make good targets for ransomware because victims are more likely to pay the ransom as quickly as possible given the possible consequences of any delay in accessing their systems. A 2017 ransomware attack on the UK’s National Health Service cost tens of millions of dollars, and nearly 20,000 patient appointments had to be canceled while the system was offline, compromising their care. An attack on a German hospital in September of this year is believed to have caused a woman’s death, the first known death linked to ransomware (somewhat ironically, the attackers only meant to shut down the university associated with the hospital and not the hospital itself).
Chris Wysopal, co-founder and chief technology officer of cybersecurity software company Veracode, told Recode back in January that hospitals and local governments are good “soft targets” for ransomware attacks because they often don’t have the money or dedicated personnel needed to sufficiently protect their systems from hackers.
There have also been reports of hacking attempts from China, Russia, and Iran on institutions and companies developing coronavirus vaccines and doing other virus-related work, but in those cases it is more likely the countries are hoping to steal the research for themselves.
Open Sourced is made possible by Omidyar Network. All Open Sourced content is editorially independent and produced by our journalists.


vox--2020-10-29--Is this the end of American optimism?

Is this the end of American optimism?

It ’ s hard to remember now , but 2020 — a year , a meme , an interminable parade of grief — opened with a sense of cautious optimism .
US unemployment was at a record low and consumer confidence was high .
Hollywood had just invested almost $ 2 billion in a “ revolutionary ” new streaming platform called Quibi ; Future and Drake ’ s new single “ Life is Good ” was charting ; and Tokyo was ready to host the summer Olympics .
Even for those still feeling wary of the future , an impending @ @ @ @ @ @ @ political change .
But the coronavirus pandemic has quickly turned the world inside out , intersecting with a laundry list of other anxiety-inducing developments , including accelerating climate change and a record-scorching California wildfire season ; police brutality exemplified by the killings of George Floyd , Breonna Taylor , and others ; and growing fears of voter suppression or intimidation in the run-up to an election that , many argue , will shape American democracy itself .
This spring , unemployment reached a record high , and for many , government relief quickly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s death in September concluded “ an era of faith in the courts , ” according to the Atlantic .
To top it all off , we still don ’ t have any clue when — or if — the pandemic will end .
Even if there is a vaccine , a growing number of Americans , wary of the rapid pace of development , say they will refuse to be innoculated .
As people try to endure their unwilling ride on this grim existential rollercoaster , optimism — the belief that somehow @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is on the wane .
Between June and August , the percentage of Americans feeling optimistic about the rest of 2020 dropped precipitously , from 54 percent to 46 percent , according to a survey from market research firm YouGov .
In its wake , we ’ ve seen the rise of nihilistic , cynical , and pessimistic perspectives that increasingly seem like the most rational ( and , perhaps , most psychologically protective ) response to a world in crisis .
The consequences of all this uncertainty are clear : mental health @ @ @ @ @ @ @ thoughts of suicide have recently soared , according to the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention .
For Gen Z , a demographic that hasn ’ t known a world without peril , nihilism is already de rigueur .
It takes many forms , from teen climate activist Greta Thunberg ’ s defense of pessimism to K-pop star Kim Han-bin ’ s tattoo of the word “ nihilism ” across his left pec .
But in this moment , a sense of meaninglessness knows no generational bounds .
The cheery insistence that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the world entered lockdown was served with a side of darkness — the conviction that , ecologically , humans “ are the virus.
” This summer , actress Reese Witherspoon memed her most famous characters into a calendar of anguish : By June , Elle Woods ’ s toothy grin gives way to the disorientation of Wild and stays there — time as frozen as a screengrab .
And Twitter users became part of an ongoing effort to ridicule the phrase “ I hope this email finds you well ” into oblivion .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ believing in a better tomorrow can seem delusional , especially when unfounded optimism might be fueling anti-mask scofflaws convinced the coronavirus will magically disappear , or isn ’ t that bad to begin with .
And when trauma is this widespread — and the resulting pain is largely unacknowledged by the government — it ’ s a common symptom to feel that the future is foreshortened .
“ There is a survival aspect to this , ” says Mary Alvord , a psychologist specializing in resilience .
“ We ’ re thinking about @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to the next day ?
” As we turn to our collective crystal ball for comfort , we find it clouded by killer microbes , wildfire smoke , and malaise .
Though many people still get out of bed and , in inspired fits , even volunteer to work the polls or test a Covid-19 trial vaccine , every act is freighted with the question of whether individual action still matters .
Nowhere is this heavy sense of foreboding more prominent than in politics .
Many Americans perceived the 2016 election polls as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ indicated a Clinton win .
This time around , there ’ s little trust in the data , even among some industry wonks .
“ National polls are absolutely , utterly useless and worthless , ” Democratic strategist Chris Kofinis told Vanity Fair .
The notion that Biden is in the lead , he added , “ puts out a false narrative that gives people either a false sense of security or a false sense of dread.
” The Republican Party and the Trump administration have capitalized on the dread many Americans already @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and , increasingly , voter depression — a phrase that works on several levels , but technically means tactics intended to convince likely voters there ’ s no point in even casting a ballot .
From the controversy around the United States Postal Service to the threat of impending militia violence , many people are experiencing a sense of “ electoral fatalism , ” Sekou Franklin , a political scientist at Middle Tennessee State University , told Vox .
“ I want my vote to count so badly , but I ’ m @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to .
And it ’ s actually frightening me , ” Anna Headley , a voter in Pennsylvania , told the Washington Post .
At that point , her ballot had been sitting unopened for two weeks .
“ I keep looking at it as if it ’ s a bomb.
” This year “ has revealed a whole raft of failures — of politics , of institutions , of ideals — that did not emerge with the pandemic , but have been brought into starker relief by it , ” Ansgar Allen @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cynicism , told Vox via email .
“ It has provided plenty of reason to be cynical , and that ’ s not necessarily a bad thing.
” “ Cynicism can perform a conservative function , as an excuse for inaction , as a reason not to bother to improve things , ” Allen adds .
“ But it can also perform a disruptive function , tearing down the veil on false promises and conceits.
” It all depends on what we do next .
Cultures have experienced the end of the world @ @ @ @ @ @ @ : The fall of the Roman Empire , the Black Death , the rapid depopulation of the New World by European disease and violence , and two world wars are just a few of the historical calamities that have pushed societies to the brink .
For most of human history , apocalypse was a local phenomenon — a threat to a specific place or population .
But advances in science have scaled our existential anxieties to the species level , writes Thomas Moynihan in his new book , X-Risk : How Humanity Discovered @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , for example , people began to think of Homo sapiens in a “ global aggregate.
” By the 1770s , just as interstellar risks like asteroids came into focus , scientists began to understand that humans are critically dependent on earthly environments .
In the 1840s , fearing overpopulation and the depletion of natural resources , writers began to contemplate “ omnicide ” — the extinction of our species spurred by our own actions .
More recent technological developments have created their own perils , from nuclear war to runaway climate change @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wipe all of us out at once .
At the same time , every contemporary crisis is perceived as a harbinger of what is to come : The coronavirus is emblematic of all future potential pandemics , and wildfire season is representative of every coming flame .
So far , our responses haven ’ t measured up .
We ’ ve met a global mental health crisis with sourdough and self-care tips , and epic burns with local firefighting but no systemic challenge to the carbon economy .
This leaves many people stuck @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , an art project , calls “ shadowtime ” : an “ acute consciousness of the possibility that the near future will be drastically different than the present.
” One appealing response is to stick our heads in the sand , says Alvord , the psychologist and co-author of several books , including Conquer Negative Thinking for Teens .
“ Avoidance is very powerful , ” she says .
“ If we [ face an issue ] head-on and we commit to doing something , we take a risk.
” In this sense @ @ @ @ @ @ @ feel protective , even if it ’ s really making the issue worse .
When avoidance isn ’ t possible , catastrophizing — imagining the worst of all possible futures — can feel pretty good .
“ There ’ s almost a comfort in thinking about the worst-case scenario and it not happening , ” Alvord says .
If you run through enough hypotheticals , and adopt a pessimistic worldview , it starts to feel like nothing can catch you by surprise again .
Kaitlyn Creasy , a philosopher at California State University @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the German philosopher who identified nihilism — the perspective that life is meaningless .
When things still don ’ t work out the way we want them to , we may tell ourselves they never really mattered , she says .
This can manifest as things like burnout — a state of profound mental and physical exhaustion , usually triggered by prolonged stress .
Even when people actively engage with the world , they are often looking for simple solutions , says Nolen Gertz , a philosopher at the University of Twente @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s Joe Biden , or Anthony Fauci , or even Claudia Conway , Gertz argues that many Americans are seeking a Messiah — the “ adults in the room ” who can fix everything and absolve us of our individual responsibility .
But a complacent approach is what created a sense of crisis in the first place .
Many of the issues we face today predated the pandemic .
But some Americans have ignored the voices of marginalized groups , who have been sounding the alarm on voter suppression and police brutality for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and other experts , who warned that a pandemic was inevitable .
These issues have our attention now , but “ it ’ s important for people to know , post-2020 , we still have a struggle on our hands , ” says Franklin , the political scientist .
In this sense , waning optimism may not be such a bad thing , especially if it ’ s replaced by determination .
In times of crisis , cultures have often turned to religion and spirituality .
Jacqueline Mattis , a psychologist at Rutgers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the lives of African Americans .
In Black liberation theology , she says , faith is grounded in “ real issues like freedom and what it means to care and forgive in the real world.
” Adherents acknowledge oppression , while actively working against it , maintaining not just optimism , but hope , which Mattis defines as “ optimism with a plan.
” Hope exists outside of faith traditions , too , says David Newheiser , a research fellow in religion and theology at Australian Catholic University and the author of Hope @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a core component of many Americans ’ conceptions of democracy as an ideal toward which we must continually strive .
But the easy , effervescent feeling of Barack Obama ’ s 2008 presidential campaign — with its “ Yes we can ” slogan and Shepard Fairey “ Hope ” posters — “ isn ’ t robust enough to do what we need to do ” now , Newheiser says .
Trying to revive it won ’ t work .
Instead , he says , we must invest in hope as a “ deep @ @ @ @ @ @ @ propels us forward in moments of pessimism .
Newheiser believes the capacity for hope is in each of us , but says that it is within communities of mutual support and shared goals that hope — that optimism with a plan — is sustained .
Many people know this intuitively , as evidenced by the recent swell in participation in mutual aid networks and other ecosystems of care that have blossomed in the pandemic .
Now we have an opportunity to maintain these practices , even if — or when — our sense @ @ @ @ @ @ @ philosopher , knows 2020 is a year few will remember fondly , but he believes we can carry its lessons into the future .
“ It ’ s important to not get used to the world coming to an end , ” he says .
Perhaps , he says , we need to “ get used to the idea that there are things we can all do all the time to save each other ’ s lives.
” Eleanor Cummins reports on the intersection of science and popular culture .
She ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and writes a newsletter about death .
She previously wrote about the “ death-positive generation ” and the new political family for The Highlight .
Help keep Vox free for all Millions turn to Vox each month to understand what ’ s happening in the news , from the coronavirus crisis to a racial reckoning to what is , quite possibly , the most consequential presidential election of our lifetimes .
Our mission has never been more vital than it is in this moment : to empower you through understanding .
But our @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Even when the economy and the news advertising market recovers , your support will be a critical part of sustaining our resource-intensive work .
If you have already contributed , thank you .
If you haven ’ t , please consider helping everyone make sense of an increasingly chaotic world : Contribute today from as little as $ 3 .

It’s hard to remember now, but 2020 — a year, a meme, an interminable parade of grief — opened with a sense of cautious optimism. US unemployment was at a record low and consumer confidence was high. Hollywood had just invested almost $2 billion in a “revolutionary” new streaming platform called Quibi; Future and Drake’s new single “Life is Good” was charting; and Tokyo was ready to host the summer Olympics. Even for those still feeling wary of the future, an impending US presidential election presented an opportunity for political change.
But the coronavirus pandemic has quickly turned the world inside out, intersecting with a laundry list of other anxiety-inducing developments, including accelerating climate change and a record-scorching California wildfire season; police brutality exemplified by the killings of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and others; and growing fears of voter suppression or intimidation in the run-up to an election that, many argue, will shape American democracy itself.
This spring, unemployment reached a record high, and for many, government relief quickly ran out. Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s death in September concluded “an era of faith in the courts,” according to the Atlantic. To top it all off, we still don’t have any clue when — or if — the pandemic will end. Even if there is a vaccine, a growing number of Americans, wary of the rapid pace of development, say they will refuse to be innoculated.
As people try to endure their unwilling ride on this grim existential rollercoaster, optimism — the belief that somehow, everything will turn out okay — is on the wane.
Between June and August, the percentage of Americans feeling optimistic about the rest of 2020 dropped precipitously, from 54 percent to 46 percent, according to a survey from market research firm YouGov. In its wake, we’ve seen the rise of nihilistic, cynical, and pessimistic perspectives that increasingly seem like the most rational (and, perhaps, most psychologically protective) response to a world in crisis.
The consequences of all this uncertainty are clear: mental health issues, substance use, and reported thoughts of suicide have recently soared, according to the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. For Gen Z, a demographic that hasn’t known a world without peril, nihilism is already de rigueur. It takes many forms, from teen climate activist Greta Thunberg’s defense of pessimism to K-pop star Kim Han-bin’s tattoo of the word “nihilism” across his left pec. But in this moment, a sense of meaninglessness knows no generational bounds.
The cheery insistence that the environment was “healing” as the world entered lockdown was served with a side of darkness — the conviction that, ecologically, humans “are the virus.” This summer, actress Reese Witherspoon memed her most famous characters into a calendar of anguish: By June, Elle Woods’s toothy grin gives way to the disorientation of Wild and stays there — time as frozen as a screengrab. And Twitter users became part of an ongoing effort to ridicule the phrase “I hope this email finds you well” into oblivion.
When all signs point to catastrophe, believing in a better tomorrow can seem delusional, especially when unfounded optimism might be fueling anti-mask scofflaws convinced the coronavirus will magically disappear, or isn’t that bad to begin with. And when trauma is this widespread — and the resulting pain is largely unacknowledged by the government — it’s a common symptom to feel that the future is foreshortened.
“There is a survival aspect to this,” says Mary Alvord, a psychologist specializing in resilience. “We’re thinking about, how are we going to get to the next day?”
As we turn to our collective crystal ball for comfort, we find it clouded by killer microbes, wildfire smoke, and malaise. Though many people still get out of bed and, in inspired fits, even volunteer to work the polls or test a Covid-19 trial vaccine, every act is freighted with the question of whether individual action still matters.
Nowhere is this heavy sense of foreboding more prominent than in politics. Many Americans perceived the 2016 election polls as an epic failure after they almost universally indicated a Clinton win. This time around, there’s little trust in the data, even among some industry wonks. “National polls are absolutely, utterly useless and worthless,” Democratic strategist Chris Kofinis told Vanity Fair. The notion that Biden is in the lead, he added, “puts out a false narrative that gives people either a false sense of security or a false sense of dread.”
The Republican Party and the Trump administration have capitalized on the dread many Americans already feel with efforts aimed at voter suppression and, increasingly, voter depression — a phrase that works on several levels, but technically means tactics intended to convince likely voters there’s no point in even casting a ballot.
From the controversy around the United States Postal Service to the threat of impending militia violence, many people are experiencing a sense of “electoral fatalism,” Sekou Franklin, a political scientist at Middle Tennessee State University, told Vox. “I want my vote to count so badly, but I’m really not sure it’s going to. And it’s actually frightening me,” Anna Headley, a voter in Pennsylvania, told the Washington Post. At that point, her ballot had been sitting unopened for two weeks. “I keep looking at it as if it’s a bomb.”
This year “has revealed a whole raft of failures — of politics, of institutions, of ideals — that did not emerge with the pandemic, but have been brought into starker relief by it,” Ansgar Allen, author of a short history of cynicism, told Vox via email. “It has provided plenty of reason to be cynical, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
“Cynicism can perform a conservative function, as an excuse for inaction, as a reason not to bother to improve things,” Allen adds. “But it can also perform a disruptive function, tearing down the veil on false promises and conceits.” It all depends on what we do next.
Cultures have experienced the end of the world — or something like it — before: The fall of the Roman Empire, the Black Death, the rapid depopulation of the New World by European disease and violence, and two world wars are just a few of the historical calamities that have pushed societies to the brink.
For most of human history, apocalypse was a local phenomenon — a threat to a specific place or population. But advances in science have scaled our existential anxieties to the species level, writes Thomas Moynihan in his new book, X-Risk: How Humanity Discovered Its Own Extinction.
In the 1720s, for example, people began to think of Homo sapiens in a “global aggregate.” By the 1770s, just as interstellar risks like asteroids came into focus, scientists began to understand that humans are critically dependent on earthly environments. In the 1840s, fearing overpopulation and the depletion of natural resources, writers began to contemplate “omnicide” — the extinction of our species spurred by our own actions. More recent technological developments have created their own perils, from nuclear war to runaway climate change. Now, each apocalypse threatens to wipe all of us out at once.
At the same time, every contemporary crisis is perceived as a harbinger of what is to come: The coronavirus is emblematic of all future potential pandemics, and wildfire season is representative of every coming flame. So far, our responses haven’t measured up. We’ve met a global mental health crisis with sourdough and self-care tips, and epic burns with local firefighting but no systemic challenge to the carbon economy. This leaves many people stuck in what the Bureau of Linguistical Reality, an art project, calls “shadowtime”: an “acute consciousness of the possibility that the near future will be drastically different than the present.”
One appealing response is to stick our heads in the sand, says Alvord, the psychologist and co-author of several books, including Conquer Negative Thinking for Teens. “Avoidance is very powerful,” she says. “If we [face an issue] head-on and we commit to doing something, we take a risk.” In this sense, refusing to acknowledge a problem can feel protective, even if it’s really making the issue worse.
When avoidance isn’t possible, catastrophizing — imagining the worst of all possible futures — can feel pretty good. “There’s almost a comfort in thinking about the worst-case scenario and it not happening,” Alvord says. If you run through enough hypotheticals, and adopt a pessimistic worldview, it starts to feel like nothing can catch you by surprise again.
Kaitlyn Creasy, a philosopher at California State University, San Bernardino, studies Friedrich Nietzsche, the German philosopher who identified nihilism in his own time — the perspective that life is meaningless. When things still don’t work out the way we want them to, we may tell ourselves they never really mattered, she says. This can manifest as things like burnout — a state of profound mental and physical exhaustion, usually triggered by prolonged stress.
Even when people actively engage with the world, they are often looking for simple solutions, says Nolen Gertz, a philosopher at the University of Twente in the Netherlands. Whether it’s Joe Biden, or Anthony Fauci, or even Claudia Conway, Gertz argues that many Americans are seeking a Messiah — the “adults in the room” who can fix everything and absolve us of our individual responsibility. But a complacent approach is what created a sense of crisis in the first place.
Many of the issues we face today predated the pandemic. But some Americans have ignored the voices of marginalized groups, who have been sounding the alarm on voter suppression and police brutality for decades, and the voices of scientists and other experts, who warned that a pandemic was inevitable. These issues have our attention now, but “it’s important for people to know, post-2020, we still have a struggle on our hands,” says Franklin, the political scientist.
In this sense, waning optimism may not be such a bad thing, especially if it’s replaced by determination.
In times of crisis, cultures have often turned to religion and spirituality. Jacqueline Mattis, a psychologist at Rutgers, researches the role of religion in the lives of African Americans. In Black liberation theology, she says, faith is grounded in “real issues like freedom and what it means to care and forgive in the real world.” Adherents acknowledge oppression, while actively working against it, maintaining not just optimism, but hope, which Mattis defines as “optimism with a plan.”
Hope exists outside of faith traditions, too, says David Newheiser, a research fellow in religion and theology at Australian Catholic University and the author of Hope in a Secular Age. It is a core component of many Americans’ conceptions of democracy as an ideal toward which we must continually strive.
But the easy, effervescent feeling of Barack Obama’s 2008 presidential campaign — with its “Yes we can” slogan and Shepard Fairey “Hope” posters — “isn’t robust enough to do what we need to do” now, Newheiser says. Trying to revive it won’t work. Instead, he says, we must invest in hope as a “deep, dark, critical” practice that propels us forward in moments of pessimism.
Newheiser believes the capacity for hope is in each of us, but says that it is within communities of mutual support and shared goals that hope — that optimism with a plan — is sustained. Many people know this intuitively, as evidenced by the recent swell in participation in mutual aid networks and other ecosystems of care that have blossomed in the pandemic. Now we have an opportunity to maintain these practices, even if — or when — our sense of optimism returns.
Gertz, the philosopher, knows 2020 is a year few will remember fondly, but he believes we can carry its lessons into the future. “It’s important to not get used to the world coming to an end,” he says. Perhaps, he says, we need to “get used to the idea that there are things we can all do all the time to save each other’s lives.”
Eleanor Cummins reports on the intersection of science and popular culture. She’s a former assistant editor at Popular Science and writes a newsletter about death. She previously wrote about the “death-positive generation” and the new political family for The Highlight.
ntribute today from as little as $3.


vox--2020-10-29--The invisible struggle of the Asian American small-business owner

Roy Kim knew back in December that something had changed .
The operating manager of Dong Il Jang , the 41-year-old restaurant in Los Angeles ’ s Koreatown neighborhood and one of the city ’ s longest-running Korean restaurants , was noticing declining clientele , beginning with their Chinese regulars .
The profits he ’ d expected the business to make during the Christmas rush never materialized , and the loss set the tenor for what was to come .
As news of the coronavirus began to radiate out from China and dominate the news cycle , fear of its @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s small businesses , like in other Asian enclaves across the country , began to feel the economic fallout at least a month before shutdown orders began in March , as associations between Asians and contagion began to foment .
Alongside media outlets singling out Asians as the “ face ” of the coronavirus in early coverage , the use of racist terms like “ China virus ” has also grown , further linking the virus to anything and anyone with Chinese identity — and , by extension , anyone who can @ @ @ @ @ @ @ city closed dining rooms twice , first in March and again in July , Kim and his parents — who founded the restaurant in 1979 — made the decision to close the business for good in August .
It joins a steadily growing list of longtime and celebrated Koreatown restaurants that have shuttered due to the pandemic .
Asian-owned and Asian American small businesses , like Kim ’ s , have been uniquely impacted by the Covid-19 crisis .
But the prevailing “ model minority ” myth , which characterizes this group by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ their struggles easy to dismiss and further cements their invisibility .
One bright spot of closing the restaurant , Kim says , was the community response .
A longtime patron raised $ 8,050 on GoFundMe to provide a little extra financial support to the restaurant ’ s 23 employees — some of whom , Kim says , had been with the restaurant for more than 20 years .
“ I ’ ve seen various communities come together to help out local businesses successfully and thought , why can ’ t we do that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” wrote Jessica Yu , who organized the fundraiser .
Asian American communities have long relied on mutual aid to ensure their own survival , and then as now , communities around these small businesses are mobilizing to support them .
The question this time is , will it be enough ?
Although the economic impact of the pandemic has been keenly observed , we are only now beginning to examine its longer-term consequences and disaggregating the data to observe its disproportionate impact on certain communities , including Asian Americans .
A UCLA @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the virus began to progress in the US , the Asian American unemployment rate increased faster than that of white Americans , surging from around 3 percent in February — one of the lowest unemployment rates of any racial group — to a whopping 15 percent in May of this year .
( By comparison , the unemployment rate for white people went from about 3 percent in February to 12 percent in May , according to the study . )
Myriad factors can help account for this spike — what University of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as a “ perfect storm ” — including the geographic concentration of Asian populations in some of the hardest-hit states , racial discrimination tying the virus to Chinese identity , and the overrepresentation of ethnically Asian workers in service-facing industries .
But little attention has been given to how these factors converge , and even less to how to remedy the consequences .
The most stubborn misconception about this population is that its members can be uniformly measured at all .
A population of 20 million strong , representing more than 50 distinct @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the widest variances in corporate success , education , and income .
Within ethnic groups under the Asian American umbrella , the income inequality is dramatic ; for example , Indians have one of the highest median household incomes ( $ 100,000 ) , whereas Burmese households have one of the lowest ( $ 36,000 ) .
Even then , the diversity of Asian Americans is lazily painted in broad strokes as the “ model minority.
” When it comes to small businesses , the myth translates as the immigrant entrepreneur who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ went from “ rags to riches.
” Consequently , the assumption that Asian Americans are highly educated , high-income earners serves to disadvantage them in times of crisis : It ’ s presumed that Asian Americans aren ’ t marginalized , which dismisses the possibility they would ever need aid .
“ It is imperative that we disentangle the narratives among [ these ] different groups , ” says Susanna Park , a PhD candidate in global health at Oregon State University and a researcher at the AAPI Covid-19 Project , a collective @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shaping the lives of Asians , Asian Americans , and Pacific Islanders .
“ We are incredibly diverse , and our economic struggles are far from the monolithic narrative that we are all ‘ well off.
’ ” It ’ s presumed that Asian Americans aren ’ t marginalized , which dismisses the possibility they would ever need aid Self-employment and small businesses have long been prominent in the Asian American economic landscape .
Most Asian- and Asian American-owned small businesses are understood as small , family-run companies , predominantly in service-oriented industries @ @ @ @ @ @ @ laundromats , convenience and liquor stores , taxicabs , and motels — enterprises wherein Asian groups either found an opportunity to accumulate wealth or were forced into when historic discrimination drove them out of other professions .
Second-generation Asian Americans have since diversified that portfolio into more professional fields like tech and finance , businesses in which owners could shed their ethnic distinctiveness and enter the mainstream economy .
But for more traditional small businesses , being faceless — and therefore unidentifiable as Asian — is not an option .
“ Small businesses @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and thus are more exposed to certain types of risks , ” says Vivian Shaw , the lead researcher and co-principal investigator for the AAPI Covid-19 Project .
“ [ They ] can ’ t simultaneously opt out of exposure if they want to continue making money.
” The racialized face of the pandemic In certain situations , that exposure endangers them .
Since the pandemic has been racialized , some Asian Americans have found themselves further exposed to both infection and abuse .
Well before shelter-in-place orders began in March , community @ @ @ @ @ @ @ canceling Chinese New Year festivities and wearing face masks , making them more visible targets .
Carl Chan , president of the Oakland Chinatown Chamber of Commerce , told Vox about several instances of abuse early in the year involving seniors in his community , including one incident in which an elderly woman was punched in the face .
Concurrent with such attacks was the retreat of business as shoppers and restaurant-goers began avoiding Chinatown , a phenomenon experienced in sibling Chinatowns across the nation as well as in other Asian ethnic enclaves @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the state ’ s 11,000 nail salons are owned and operated by Vietnamese Americans , with a workforce predominantly made up of low-income , female Vietnamese immigrants and refugees .
Many of these salons also observed a drop in business before shelter-in-place orders forced the entire industry to a standstill .
Dung Nguyen , outreach and program coordinator for the California Healthy Nail Salon Collaborative , a grassroots advocacy organization , told Vox that in addition to the economic fallout , some of the collaborative ’ s members reported being asked by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Covid-19 .
The suspicion was further validated when California Gov .
Gavin Newsom announced that the first case of community spread in California was at a nail salon .
These businesses were already considered “ dirty , ” a stigma that has become culturally synonymous with “ Asianness ” at various points in history , explains Shaw .
In light of the pandemic and compounded by xenophobic fears , nail salon owners and workers were starved of income for months .
Even when salons were able to reopen over the summer , some @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to tread carefully .
In Orange County , California , home to Little Saigon — which hosts one of the largest populations of Vietnamese outside of Vietnam — anti-mask movements abounded , and customers often came in without masks despite clear signage on salon doors .
Still , says Nguyen , “ In order to avoid confrontation , they would just let them in.
” The fear of provoking an attack has also left Asian American small-business owners , as well as their staffs , powerless to enforce the rules , leaving them @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ ve heard horror stories , ” says Johnny Lee , co-owner of the Koreatown Pizza Company in Los Angeles .
“ Luckily , we haven ’ t had any of that , but I think it ’ s because we purposefully dodge those by looking like we were okay with it .
It sucks because you ’ re putting us in danger , you ’ re putting our staff in danger , but we need your business.
” Kim was also tired of seeing maskless customers , not only at Dong Il @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Our employees are more important than anything , ” he says .
“ I didn ’ t want them to get sick .
And it ’ s not just our employees that might get sick : What if they take it to their mother , father , or grandparents ?
” Many Asian Americans live in multigenerational households , for both cultural and economic reasons , presenting a challenge in containing the virus should a family member bring it home .
Although reports of anti-Asian violence and assaults have made national headlines @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in which racial discrimination affects Asian American populations , barring them from access to aid and sidelining them to the fringes .
For some small-business owners who come from communities that have been historically disenfranchised , distrust puts up barriers to financial support from the government .
To Koreatown ’ s east , Little Tokyo — one of three remaining historic Japantowns left in the nation and , at more than 130 years old , LA ’ s second-oldest neighborhood — has weathered Japanese American incarceration , phases of redevelopment and displacement , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and waves of gentrification .
It ’ s home to more than 400 businesses , many of which are legacy institutions or family-run businesses that are 20-plus years old .
“ Communities who have limited English-speaking skills are largely left out of a lot of the resources or are usually the last to know ” “ They don ’ t trust government , ” Kristin Fukushima , managing director of the Little Tokyo Community Council , says of walking some of the neighborhood ’ s older business owners through applying for stimulus programs @ @ @ @ @ @ @ So it ’ s convincing people that this isn ’ t a bad or scary thing , and that they should just go for it.
” Although nail salon owners were not shy about applying for government assistance , says Nguyen , some found the process too complicated and many weren ’ t qualified when they applied .
“ Some folks felt lied to , ” says Nguyen .
According to a California Healthy Nail Salon Collaborative survey , three in four nail salon owners had applied for financial assistance through grants or @ @ @ @ @ @ @ because they had misclassified workers as independent contractors instead of as employees .
A third of those who did not apply expressed confusion as to where to get information , and another third expressed concerns about interest rates .
For other Asian American business owners , proving their “ need ” was the main barrier .
The tiny population of Hmong flower farmers in Washington state , whose businesses have kept them segregated from the mainstream economy over the last 40 years , was rendered practically invisible to financial assistance when the pandemic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ethnic group whose homelands are spread across southern China , Vietnam , Laos , Thailand , and Myanmar — came to the US in the ’ 70s and ’ 80s as refugees during the Vietnam War .
The sparse 2,400 who ended up in Washington ’ s Puget Sound area were integrated into floriculture as part of a program to encourage refugee enterprise .
But for the same reasons Hmong farmers have thrived as small-business owners in this industry , they are now acutely vulnerable during the Covid-19 crisis .
Cynthia Yongvang , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Washington ( HAW ) , says the farmers ’ lifelines were severed when the state ’ s stay-at-home orders went into effect in March , at which point Gov .
Jay Inslee had not yet designated floriculture as an essential business .
Although HAW tried to help the farmers apply for grants and loans , the criteria presented hurdles : For example , those who needed funds to pay rent did not qualify because rent is not considered a business-related expense .
Many of the farmers also employed family members , so there @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who operate in cash , it was nearly impossible to prove a loss of income .
What ’ s more , says Yongvang , many of the older farmers aren ’ t fluent in English , relying on their young children to translate complicated business procedures that they themselves don ’ t have the fluency in Hmong to explain .
HAW had to step in to mitigate frustration with the process .
Navigating a process that doesn ’ t accommodate their unique needs also sows resentment .
According to the McKinsey report “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” in-language resources for small businesses are few — none of the four financial-relief services offered by the Small Business Administration provide any Asian-language translations on their websites .
“ Communities who have limited English-speaking skills are largely left out of a lot of the resources or are usually the last to know — or know too late — about support services or of assistance , ” says Chanida Phaengdara Potter , founder and executive director of the SEAD Project , a Minneapolis-based community organization for the Southeast Asian diaspora .
The past @ @ @ @ @ @ @ crisis .
“ For as long as Little Tokyo has been around , there ’ s been a huge concern about how the community will continue and what it takes to do so , ” says Fukushima .
The community already had programs in place to support small businesses , and the Little Tokyo Service Center launched its Small Business Relief Fund on GoFundMe in August .
It recently released its first round of $ 2,000 small-business grants to 25 businesses , beginning with legacy institutions .
It ’ s a nominal stipend @ @ @ @ @ @ @ small businesses that they are a valued foundational pillar of the neighborhood .
Meanwhile , the Oakland Chinatown Chamber of Commerce launched the Chinatown Recovery and Resiliency Fund , which raised a total of $ 42,000 to maintain street cleaning , promote businesses , further racial education , and reimburse 14 small businesses that suffered damage in the lootings that took place in Chinatown in May and June .
The California Healthy Nail Salon Collaborative has also launched a community care fund that provided $ 250 in emergency aid to manicurists across the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has raised nearly $ 154,000 to support more than 625 manicurists .
The amount fundraised was enough to provide assistance to everyone who applied .
But not all organizations were set up to weather the financial challenges of a pandemic .
HAW , which was already operating on a shoestring budget , has been volunteer-run for years .
The organization has no office space , website , or phone .
Still , the organization managed to raise $ 15,500 on GoFundMe and established a new neighborhood sales channel to help the farmers sell @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ We ’ re a community where we support each other , ” says Yongvang .
“ A lot of these farmers wouldn ’ t have survived if it weren ’ t for the community coming together.
” Where funds were unavailable , community members have also mobilized to provide services .
The SEAD Project relies heavily on digital organizing and mobilizing to reach people in the community ’ s younger generations , who are digitally savvy and can act as intermediaries between their elders and their peers .
The organization ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ undocumented and low-income individuals who , due to their status , slip through the cracks of aid .
“ The beautiful thing about seeing mutual aid happen and unfold is it ’ s all community led and run .
There are no barriers , there ’ s no red tape , and there ’ s no bureaucracy , ” says Potter .
“ People are getting resourced for basic needs like food , housing , and hygiene.
” Even the seemingly positive narrative of Asian American resilience and overcoming adversity often serves to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Still , many business owners and advocates Vox has spoken to say their communities are resilient as a matter of survival .
“ It ’ s in our DNA , ” says Potter .
“ But it doesn ’ t mean that we ’ re not struggling .
The absence of resources is the reason why we ’ re so resilient.
” Ethnic communities ( especially Asian American communities ) , which have been isolated by language , culture , or invisibility from mainstream public life and economy , have learned to rely @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of hardship .
Many come from groups whose histories are dotted with migration , war , pandemics , and imperialism .
“ At the end of the day , we ’ re a community that comes from war-torn countries , ” says Yongvang , speaking to her confidence in Hmong flower farmers ’ ability to lean on one another to outlast the pandemic .
Of course , the future for these and many other small businesses remains uncomfortably uncertain , but for Kim ’ s part , he ’ s using this time @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I don ’ t even know what tomorrow is gon na bring , let alone six months from now , ” he says .
“ But that ’ s for everybody .
Once Covid has dissipated a bit , my family will sit down and talk about where we go from here.
” At the very least , whatever his family decides is the next step , they know their community stands at the ready to support them .
Help keep Vox free for all Millions turn to Vox each month to understand @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , from the coronavirus crisis to a racial reckoning to what is , quite possibly , the most consequential presidential election of our lifetimes .
Our mission has never been more vital than it is in this moment : to empower you through understanding .
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Roy Kim knew back in December that something had changed. The operating manager of Dong Il Jang, the 41-year-old restaurant in Los Angeles’s Koreatown neighborhood and one of the city’s longest-running Korean restaurants, was noticing declining clientele, beginning with their Chinese regulars.
The profits he’d expected the business to make during the Christmas rush never materialized, and the loss set the tenor for what was to come. As news of the coronavirus began to radiate out from China and dominate the news cycle, fear of its spread in the US followed.
Koreatown’s small businesses, like in other Asian enclaves across the country, began to feel the economic fallout at least a month before shutdown orders began in March, as associations between Asians and contagion began to foment. Alongside media outlets singling out Asians as the “face” of the coronavirus in early coverage, the use of racist terms like “China virus” has also grown, further linking the virus to anything and anyone with Chinese identity — and, by extension, anyone who can be mistaken for Chinese.
After the city closed dining rooms twice, first in March and again in July, Kim and his parents — who founded the restaurant in 1979 — made the decision to close the business for good in August. It joins a steadily growing list of longtime and celebrated Koreatown restaurants that have shuttered due to the pandemic.
Asian-owned and Asian American small businesses, like Kim’s, have been uniquely impacted by the Covid-19 crisis. But the prevailing “model minority” myth, which characterizes this group by its economic success and assimilation, makes their struggles easy to dismiss and further cements their invisibility.
One bright spot of closing the restaurant, Kim says, was the community response. A longtime patron raised $8,050 on GoFundMe to provide a little extra financial support to the restaurant’s 23 employees — some of whom, Kim says, had been with the restaurant for more than 20 years.
“I’ve seen various communities come together to help out local businesses successfully and thought, why can’t we do that for our beloved Dong Il Jang?” wrote Jessica Yu, who organized the fundraiser.
Asian American communities have long relied on mutual aid to ensure their own survival, and then as now, communities around these small businesses are mobilizing to support them. The question this time is, will it be enough?
Struggling through the monolith
Although the economic impact of the pandemic has been keenly observed, we are only now beginning to examine its longer-term consequences and disaggregating the data to observe its disproportionate impact on certain communities, including Asian Americans.
A UCLA study published in July indicates that as the virus began to progress in the US, the Asian American unemployment rate increased faster than that of white Americans, surging from around 3 percent in February — one of the lowest unemployment rates of any racial group — to a whopping 15 percent in May of this year. (By comparison, the unemployment rate for white people went from about 3 percent in February to 12 percent in May, according to the study.)
Myriad factors can help account for this spike — what University of Massachusetts Boston economist Marlene Kim referred to as a “perfect storm” — including the geographic concentration of Asian populations in some of the hardest-hit states, racial discrimination tying the virus to Chinese identity, and the overrepresentation of ethnically Asian workers in service-facing industries. But little attention has been given to how these factors converge, and even less to how to remedy the consequences.
The most stubborn misconception about this population is that its members can be uniformly measured at all. A population of 20 million strong, representing more than 50 distinct ethnic groups, Asian Americans have some of the widest variances in corporate success, education, and income. Within ethnic groups under the Asian American umbrella, the income inequality is dramatic; for example, Indians have one of the highest median household incomes ($100,000), whereas Burmese households have one of the lowest ($36,000).
Even then, the diversity of Asian Americans is lazily painted in broad strokes as the “model minority.” When it comes to small businesses, the myth translates as the immigrant entrepreneur who pursued the American dream of prosperity and went from “rags to riches.” Consequently, the assumption that Asian Americans are highly educated, high-income earners serves to disadvantage them in times of crisis: It’s presumed that Asian Americans aren’t marginalized, which dismisses the possibility they would ever need aid.
“It is imperative that we disentangle the narratives among [these] different groups,” says Susanna Park, a PhD candidate in global health at Oregon State University and a researcher at the AAPI Covid-19 Project, a collective study that examines how the pandemic is shaping the lives of Asians, Asian Americans, and Pacific Islanders. “We are incredibly diverse, and our economic struggles are far from the monolithic narrative that we are all ‘well off.’”
It’s presumed that Asian Americans aren’t marginalized, which dismisses the possibility they would ever need aid
Self-employment and small businesses have long been prominent in the Asian American economic landscape. Most Asian- and Asian American-owned small businesses are understood as small, family-run companies, predominantly in service-oriented industries such as restaurants, nail salons, laundromats, convenience and liquor stores, taxicabs, and motels — enterprises wherein Asian groups either found an opportunity to accumulate wealth or were forced into when historic discrimination drove them out of other professions.
Second-generation Asian Americans have since diversified that portfolio into more professional fields like tech and finance, businesses in which owners could shed their ethnic distinctiveness and enter the mainstream economy. But for more traditional small businesses, being faceless — and therefore unidentifiable as Asian — is not an option.
“Small businesses frequently rely on being physically public facing and thus are more exposed to certain types of risks,” says Vivian Shaw, the lead researcher and co-principal investigator for the AAPI Covid-19 Project. “[They] can’t simultaneously opt out of exposure if they want to continue making money.”
The racialized face of the pandemic
In certain situations, that exposure endangers them. Since the pandemic has been racialized, some Asian Americans have found themselves further exposed to both infection and abuse.
Well before shelter-in-place orders began in March, community members in Oakland’s Chinatown were canceling Chinese New Year festivities and wearing face masks, making them more visible targets. Carl Chan, president of the Oakland Chinatown Chamber of Commerce, told Vox about several instances of abuse early in the year involving seniors in his community, including one incident in which an elderly woman was punched in the face.
Concurrent with such attacks was the retreat of business as shoppers and restaurant-goers began avoiding Chinatown, a phenomenon experienced in sibling Chinatowns across the nation as well as in other Asian ethnic enclaves.
In California, approximately 80 percent of the state’s 11,000 nail salons are owned and operated by Vietnamese Americans, with a workforce predominantly made up of low-income, female Vietnamese immigrants and refugees. Many of these salons also observed a drop in business before shelter-in-place orders forced the entire industry to a standstill.
Dung Nguyen, outreach and program coordinator for the California Healthy Nail Salon Collaborative, a grassroots advocacy organization, told Vox that in addition to the economic fallout, some of the collaborative’s members reported being asked by customers whether they were Chinese or had Covid-19.
The suspicion was further validated when California Gov. Gavin Newsom announced that the first case of community spread in California was at a nail salon. These businesses were already considered “dirty,” a stigma that has become culturally synonymous with “Asianness” at various points in history, explains Shaw. In light of the pandemic and compounded by xenophobic fears, nail salon owners and workers were starved of income for months.
Even when salons were able to reopen over the summer, some business owners reported feeling like they needed to tread carefully. In Orange County, California, home to Little Saigon — which hosts one of the largest populations of Vietnamese outside of Vietnam — anti-mask movements abounded, and customers often came in without masks despite clear signage on salon doors. Still, says Nguyen, “In order to avoid confrontation, they would just let them in.”
The fear of provoking an attack has also left Asian American small-business owners, as well as their staffs, powerless to enforce the rules, leaving them vulnerable to infection themselves.
“I’ve heard horror stories,” says Johnny Lee, co-owner of the Koreatown Pizza Company in Los Angeles. “Luckily, we haven’t had any of that, but I think it’s because we purposefully dodge those by looking like we were okay with it. It sucks because you’re putting us in danger, you’re putting our staff in danger, but we need your business.”
Kim was also tired of seeing maskless customers, not only at Dong Il Jang but also in other restaurants. “Our employees are more important than anything,” he says. “I didn’t want them to get sick. And it’s not just our employees that might get sick: What if they take it to their mother, father, or grandparents?” Many Asian Americans live in multigenerational households, for both cultural and economic reasons, presenting a challenge in containing the virus should a family member bring it home.
Cultural and historical barriers to assistance
Although reports of anti-Asian violence and assaults have made national headlines, less explored are the covert ways in which racial discrimination affects Asian American populations, barring them from access to aid and sidelining them to the fringes.
For some small-business owners who come from communities that have been historically disenfranchised, distrust puts up barriers to financial support from the government. To Koreatown’s east, Little Tokyo — one of three remaining historic Japantowns left in the nation and, at more than 130 years old, LA’s second-oldest neighborhood — has weathered Japanese American incarceration, phases of redevelopment and displacement, economic depression following the 1992 uprisings, and waves of gentrification. It’s home to more than 400 businesses, many of which are legacy institutions or family-run businesses that are 20-plus years old.
“Communities who have limited English-speaking skills are largely left out of a lot of the resources or are usually the last to know”
“They don’t trust government,” Kristin Fukushima, managing director of the Little Tokyo Community Council, says of walking some of the neighborhood’s older business owners through applying for stimulus programs like the Paycheck Protection Program. “So it’s convincing people that this isn’t a bad or scary thing, and that they should just go for it.”
Although nail salon owners were not shy about applying for government assistance, says Nguyen, some found the process too complicated and many weren’t qualified when they applied. “Some folks felt lied to,” says Nguyen.
According to a California Healthy Nail Salon Collaborative survey, three in four nail salon owners had applied for financial assistance through grants or loans, but some did not qualify because they had misclassified workers as independent contractors instead of as employees. A third of those who did not apply expressed confusion as to where to get information, and another third expressed concerns about interest rates.
For other Asian American business owners, proving their “need” was the main barrier.
The tiny population of Hmong flower farmers in Washington state, whose businesses have kept them segregated from the mainstream economy over the last 40 years, was rendered practically invisible to financial assistance when the pandemic hit.
Many Hmong people — an ethnic group whose homelands are spread across southern China, Vietnam, Laos, Thailand, and Myanmar — came to the US in the ’70s and ’80s as refugees during the Vietnam War. The sparse 2,400 who ended up in Washington’s Puget Sound area were integrated into floriculture as part of a program to encourage refugee enterprise.
But for the same reasons Hmong farmers have thrived as small-business owners in this industry, they are now acutely vulnerable during the Covid-19 crisis.
Cynthia Yongvang, executive director of the Hmong Association of Washington (HAW), says the farmers’ lifelines were severed when the state’s stay-at-home orders went into effect in March, at which point Gov. Jay Inslee had not yet designated floriculture as an essential business. Although HAW tried to help the farmers apply for grants and loans, the criteria presented hurdles: For example, those who needed funds to pay rent did not qualify because rent is not considered a business-related expense. Many of the farmers also employed family members, so there was no payroll. And for those who operate in cash, it was nearly impossible to prove a loss of income.
What’s more, says Yongvang, many of the older farmers aren’t fluent in English, relying on their young children to translate complicated business procedures that they themselves don’t have the fluency in Hmong to explain. HAW had to step in to mitigate frustration with the process.
Navigating a process that doesn’t accommodate their unique needs also sows resentment. According to the McKinsey report “Covid-19 and advancing Asian American recovery,” in-language resources for small businesses are few — none of the four financial-relief services offered by the Small Business Administration provide any Asian-language translations on their websites.
“Communities who have limited English-speaking skills are largely left out of a lot of the resources or are usually the last to know — or know too late — about support services or of assistance,” says Chanida Phaengdara Potter, founder and executive director of the SEAD Project, a Minneapolis-based community organization for the Southeast Asian diaspora.
Communities provide a safety net
The past has prepared some communities for the current crisis. “For as long as Little Tokyo has been around, there’s been a huge concern about how the community will continue and what it takes to do so,” says Fukushima.
The community already had programs in place to support small businesses, and the Little Tokyo Service Center launched its Small Business Relief Fund on GoFundMe in August. It recently released its first round of $2,000 small-business grants to 25 businesses, beginning with legacy institutions. It’s a nominal stipend, says Fukushima, but it reminds small businesses that they are a valued foundational pillar of the neighborhood.
Meanwhile, the Oakland Chinatown Chamber of Commerce launched the Chinatown Recovery and Resiliency Fund, which raised a total of $42,000 to maintain street cleaning, promote businesses, further racial education, and reimburse 14 small businesses that suffered damage in the lootings that took place in Chinatown in May and June.
The California Healthy Nail Salon Collaborative has also launched a community care fund that provided $250 in emergency aid to manicurists across the state. To date, the collaborative has raised nearly $154,000 to support more than 625 manicurists. The amount fundraised was enough to provide assistance to everyone who applied.
But not all organizations were set up to weather the financial challenges of a pandemic. HAW, which was already operating on a shoestring budget, has been volunteer-run for years. The organization has no office space, website, or phone.
Still, the organization managed to raise $15,500 on GoFundMe and established a new neighborhood sales channel to help the farmers sell bouquets while the farmers markets remained closed. “We’re a community where we support each other,” says Yongvang. “A lot of these farmers wouldn’t have survived if it weren’t for the community coming together.”
Where funds were unavailable, community members have also mobilized to provide services. The SEAD Project relies heavily on digital organizing and mobilizing to reach people in the community’s younger generations, who are digitally savvy and can act as intermediaries between their elders and their peers. The organization’s focus right now is to reach undocumented and low-income individuals who, due to their status, slip through the cracks of aid.
“The beautiful thing about seeing mutual aid happen and unfold is it’s all community led and run. There are no barriers, there’s no red tape, and there’s no bureaucracy,” says Phaengdara Potter. “People are getting resourced for basic needs like food, housing, and hygiene.”
“Resilience in our DNA”
Even the seemingly positive narrative of Asian American resilience and overcoming adversity often serves to distance Asian Americans from public assistance. Still, many business owners and advocates Vox has spoken to say their communities are resilient as a matter of survival.
“It’s in our DNA,” says Phaengdara Potter. “But it doesn’t mean that we’re not struggling. The absence of resources is the reason why we’re so resilient.”
Ethnic communities (especially Asian American communities), which have been isolated by language, culture, or invisibility from mainstream public life and economy, have learned to rely on one another, particularly in times of hardship. Many come from groups whose histories are dotted with migration, war, pandemics, and imperialism.
“At the end of the day, we’re a community that comes from war-torn countries,” says Yongvang, speaking to her confidence in Hmong flower farmers’ ability to lean on one another to outlast the pandemic.
Of course, the future for these and many other small businesses remains uncomfortably uncertain, but for Kim’s part, he’s using this time to take a much-needed break. “I don’t even know what tomorrow is gonna bring, let alone six months from now,” he says. “But that’s for everybody. Once Covid has dissipated a bit, my family will sit down and talk about where we go from here.”
At the very least, whatever his family decides is the next step, they know their community stands at the ready to support them.
ntribute today from as little as $3.


vox--2020-10-29--3 small-business owners on life after shutting down

D ’ mai Urban Spa was no stranger to Park Slope ’ s thriving Fifth Avenue brick-and-mortar scene in Brooklyn , New York .
Customers used to fill the shop ’ s schedule with appointments for luxury massages and facials .
Having survived the economic recession in 2008 , Daniella Stromberg — a longtime Park Slope resident and owner of the small luxury spa — never lost faith in her business .
But all that changed when the Covid-19 pandemic forced her to shut it down .
Now she does advocacy work to protect independent business owners .
Since March @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lockdown measures to keep the novel coronavirus at bay , small businesses have taken a hit .
In September , Yelp released its latest economic impact report showing that 60 percent of the business closures on its platform were permanent .
Not even federal or local assistance such as a loan from the government ’ s Paycheck Protection Program ( PPP ) under the CARES Act was enough to help small businesses stay afloat .
Without customers and income , owners struggled to not only pay their employees , but also negotiate their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Stromberg , are facing huge fines and legal battles with landlords for breaking leasing contracts .
“ I try not to feel hopeless .
I ’ ve tried to feel like we will get through this , ” Stromberg said .
“ But my heart is really broken right now .
My business was very special to me , and very special to the community , so I ’ m a little bit raw.
” Across the country , small-business owners face uncertainties for the future .
Many are waiting for the perfect @ @ @ @ @ @ @ again , while others are pivoting to different professions like real estate or political lobbying .
In some places , local businesses have long been embedded in the social fabric of a neighborhood .
Black-owned businesses , in particular , which serve as success stories amid rampant racial discrimination nationwide , have had to make the heartbreaking choice to permanently shutter a historical legacy in their community .
With the pandemic exposing the cracks in society , some owners like Stromberg have turned to community activism .
Vox talked to three small-business owners @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ventures due to Covid-19 ’ s economic challenges and learned what they plan to do next .
“ I ’ m kind of like , do I want to rebuild an industry that ’ s treated that way , or should I get into something safer ?
” Eric Bowler , 42 , owner of Fortune club and Revelry restaurant in Portland , Oregon My background is actually as a DJ .
About eight years ago , my wife and I decided that we wanted to move back to Portland from Los Angeles @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for my club , Fortune , came up about six years ago , and from there , we just kind of grew our little company up to six different businesses .
Fortune closed partially due to a years-long dispute with our landlords , which we were able to fight pre-pandemic because we were open and able to make money to fund the legal site .
But with no revenue coming in during the pandemic , we couldn ’ t afford a pair of lawyers to stay open anymore .
There really haven ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I know in Oregon and Portland , they extended the eviction moratorium for residential people .
They also put some protections in place for mortgage holders , which is great for building landlords .
But when it trickled down to the tenants , we are just taking the brunt of the whole thing .
I also owned another restaurant called Revelry that won Best New Restaurant in Portland in 2016 , but we had to completely close that permanently earlier in the year due to Covid-19 , too .
So I ’ m @ @ @ @ @ @ @ We got PPP , and that gave us a brief glimmer of hope .
But that was basically a two-month fix , and we ’ re in month eight now .
It ’ s crazy to see the charts of how the rich have gotten so much richer during the pandemic , and then everyone else was kind of left fighting for scraps .
It ’ s frustrating to see other industries get total bailouts , while hospitality places , live music venues — which we ’ re kind of like a hybrid @ @ @ @ @ @ @ out .
A lot of places are able to reopen with online sales or other ways to do what they do , but we survive on putting people in a place to socialize , and I agree that that ’ s not safe right now .
But there needs to be some sort of a bailout or assistance for places that fall into that category , because they ’ re a huge part of the economy .
I ’ ve worked in hospitality for almost 20 years , so it ’ s such @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and what I do , and being a small-business owner , you definitely put in a lot of extra hours , which is a huge part of your life .
I ’ m kind of like , do I want to rebuild an industry that ’ s treated that way , or should I get into something safer ?
Since we closed , I ’ ve definitely rebranded myself as the 24/7 dad guy , and I love it .
My oldest daughter also started kindergarten , so collaborating with my wife on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ My wife is my business partner in everything .
I ’ m also studying to get my real estate broker ’ s license so that I have something I can do while I ’ m at home watching the kids .
It ’ s something I potentially would want to pivot to the longer this goes on .
I ’ m like , “ Okay , do I wait another three or four months for the vaccine ?
Or is it going to be years from now before I ’ m back to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I want to at least have some sort of backup , just in case it takes years .
“ I feel like a part of my identity is gone in the process .
It ’ s pretty much all I ’ ve done.
” Nick Muscari , 39 , owner of Nick ’ s Sports Grill and Lounge in Lubbock , Texas I started the business in 2010 , and before that , I bartended .
I just always wanted to have a bar , and my partners approached me to run a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shut us down for the first time in March , we did to-go stuff , but that was a struggle financially .
When we finally got to reopen , things were pretty good , because we had our regulars .
I had the PPP loan , and my landlord at the time was kind of working with me on rent .
But all of a sudden , the state shut us down again .
Everything changed .
I was about to have to start paying full rent , and the PPP money was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reopening , it just didn ’ t make financial sense .
There ’ s no way I ’ m going to be able to pay rent , pay the staff , and do it all over .
We weren ’ t like a hardcore bar .
We were a sports bar .
Lubbock thrives on Texas Tech [ University ] and football season , but now our stadiums are limited to a certain percent capacity .
There ’ s a lot of small businesses — hotels and restaurants — that depend on those @ @ @ @ @ @ @ carry them throughout the year , and the way things are is just really bad right now .
Ultimately , I decided to close and move all my stuff out before I had to pay rent .
I didn ’ t expect the pandemic to last as long as it did .
I feel like a part of my identity is gone in the process .
It ’ s pretty much all I ’ ve done .
I ’ m only 39 , and I opened when I was 29 .
It ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Right now , I ’ m just on unemployment .
I ’ m also trying to help some friends who have another restaurant , though I don ’ t want to get involved in too much stuff right now with no real food for the future .
At the same time , I also have a pending lawsuit since I broke my lease .
So owning anything really isn ’ t in the cards right now .
I ’ ve just been going to the gym , doing stuff around the house @ @ @ @ @ @ @ really .
My parents live in Florida , so I went to visit them for a week .
I ’ m just trying to make time go by .
I would definitely like to be a small-business owner again , once I figure out how to clear up the lawsuit as well as my business debt .
I really have never done anything else except work in small-business restaurants — it ’ s really all I know .
And I know I didn ’ t close down because of something I did .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ made a mistake and won ’ t do it again .
“ The loss of my business is more than just the loss of a business .
It ’ s the loss of significant revenues in a community.
” Daniella Stromberg , 55 , owner of D ’ mai Urban Spa in Brooklyn , New York I ’ m a resident of Park Slope , my business was in Park Slope , and it was immediately embraced by Park Slope .
My day spa was really a neighborhood institution for over 17 years @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a natural extension for me .
I have been working in holistic wellness on the private side with individual clients , and I really wanted to be part of the very vital , independent entrepreneurial movement that was happening on Fifth Avenue in Park Slope .
I wanted to walk to work , and I wanted to have a brick-and-mortar and be part of an exciting , young experience .
I never did have a worry , until the pandemic hit .
I knew early on that it was going to be a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
It was a fucking nightmare .
I shuttered my business on March 13 , and I immediately reached out to my landlord , because rent was the biggest worry I had .
And I sent him a very rational kind of , “ We ’ re in this together , looks like the pandemic is gon na hit long and hard , we should talk as soon as you have a free moment about how you and I are gon na get through this.
” But no , he really had no @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at all .
In fact , he held me to my scheduled rent increase .
With my business being close contact , I didn ’ t reopen until phase 4 in July , and it was a struggle .
I ’ m mourning a loss .
The loss of my business is more than just the loss of a business .
It ’ s the loss of significant revenues in a community .
But I feel like my brand is strong , and I have a lot of day spa in me .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ right place to continue my business , but I ’ m just not sure when or where .
In the meantime , I ’ ll continue to stay focused on seeing how we can save our independent businesses .
I ’ m doing advocacy work with small-business owners on the local level .
I ’ m not going to work for a couple of months , and I want Covid-19 to settle down .
I ’ m married to someone who works at Kings County Hospital , so being in a partnership helps @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t easy , but we prioritize and cut back .
For now , what I need to do is to focus on legislation , because an entrepreneur should not be left to find a nice landlord .
Legislation should change because the landlord should not be allowed to find loopholes to mandate a renter to stay , in the final months of relief , during an extraordinary time such as a pandemic .
There should be government protections for that .
And there is a bill sitting on the state floor that should @ @ @ @ @ @ @ legislation would suspend all rent payments for small-business commercial tenants who were forced to shut down their business , and certain mortgage payments for landlords for 90 days in response to Covid-19 . ]
I plan to write postcards and make phone calls .
We are sort of past the two-party system , and there ’ s a global united group of very , very wealthy people working together and robbing resources from our planet and from the rest of us .
And we need those resources to stay healthy .
This never @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have been saved .
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D’mai Urban Spa was no stranger to Park Slope’s thriving Fifth Avenue brick-and-mortar scene in Brooklyn, New York. Customers used to fill the shop’s schedule with appointments for luxury massages and facials. Having survived the economic recession in 2008, Daniella Stromberg — a longtime Park Slope resident and owner of the small luxury spa — never lost faith in her business. But all that changed when the Covid-19 pandemic forced her to shut it down. Now she does advocacy work to protect independent business owners.
Since March, when much of the country imposed lockdown measures to keep the novel coronavirus at bay, small businesses have taken a hit. In September, Yelp released its latest economic impact report showing that 60 percent of the business closures on its platform were permanent. Not even federal or local assistance such as a loan from the government’s Paycheck Protection Program (PPP) under the CARES Act was enough to help small businesses stay afloat.
Without customers and income, owners struggled to not only pay their employees, but also negotiate their rent. Many business owners, like Stromberg, are facing huge fines and legal battles with landlords for breaking leasing contracts.
“I try not to feel hopeless. I’ve tried to feel like we will get through this,” Stromberg said. “But my heart is really broken right now. My business was very special to me, and very special to the community, so I’m a little bit raw.”
Across the country, small-business owners face uncertainties for the future. Many are waiting for the perfect time and location to start all over again, while others are pivoting to different professions like real estate or political lobbying. In some places, local businesses have long been embedded in the social fabric of a neighborhood. Black-owned businesses, in particular, which serve as success stories amid rampant racial discrimination nationwide, have had to make the heartbreaking choice to permanently shutter a historical legacy in their community. With the pandemic exposing the cracks in society, some owners like Stromberg have turned to community activism.
Vox talked to three small-business owners who had to permanently shut down their ventures due to Covid-19’s economic challenges and learned what they plan to do next.
“I’m kind of like, do I want to rebuild an industry that’s treated that way, or should I get into something safer?”
Eric Bowler, 42, owner of Fortune club and Revelry restaurant in Portland, Oregon
My background is actually as a DJ. About eight years ago, my wife and I decided that we wanted to move back to Portland from Los Angeles, so we did. The opportunity for my club, Fortune, came up about six years ago, and from there, we just kind of grew our little company up to six different businesses.
Fortune closed partially due to a years-long dispute with our landlords, which we were able to fight pre-pandemic because we were open and able to make money to fund the legal site. But with no revenue coming in during the pandemic, we couldn’t afford a pair of lawyers to stay open anymore. There really haven’t been protections for commercial tenants. I know in Oregon and Portland, they extended the eviction moratorium for residential people. They also put some protections in place for mortgage holders, which is great for building landlords. But when it trickled down to the tenants, we are just taking the brunt of the whole thing.
I also owned another restaurant called Revelry that won Best New Restaurant in Portland in 2016, but we had to completely close that permanently earlier in the year due to Covid-19, too. So I’m pretty well-versed in shutting things down. We got PPP, and that gave us a brief glimmer of hope. But that was basically a two-month fix, and we’re in month eight now.
It’s crazy to see the charts of how the rich have gotten so much richer during the pandemic, and then everyone else was kind of left fighting for scraps. It’s frustrating to see other industries get total bailouts, while hospitality places, live music venues — which we’re kind of like a hybrid of those — are just totally left out. A lot of places are able to reopen with online sales or other ways to do what they do, but we survive on putting people in a place to socialize, and I agree that that’s not safe right now. But there needs to be some sort of a bailout or assistance for places that fall into that category, because they’re a huge part of the economy.
I’ve worked in hospitality for almost 20 years, so it’s such a huge part of what I am and what I do, and being a small-business owner, you definitely put in a lot of extra hours, which is a huge part of your life. I’m kind of like, do I want to rebuild an industry that’s treated that way, or should I get into something safer?
Since we closed, I’ve definitely rebranded myself as the 24/7 dad guy, and I love it. My oldest daughter also started kindergarten, so collaborating with my wife on kindergarten lessons has been pretty awesome. My wife is my business partner in everything.
I’m also studying to get my real estate broker’s license so that I have something I can do while I’m at home watching the kids. It’s something I potentially would want to pivot to the longer this goes on. I’m like, “Okay, do I wait another three or four months for the vaccine? Or is it going to be years from now before I’m back to what I was doing?” So I want to at least have some sort of backup, just in case it takes years.
“I feel like a part of my identity is gone in the process. It’s pretty much all I’ve done.”
Nick Muscari, 39, owner of Nick’s Sports Grill and Lounge in Lubbock, Texas
I started the business in 2010, and before that, I bartended. I just always wanted to have a bar, and my partners approached me to run a place for them.
When the governor shut us down for the first time in March, we did to-go stuff, but that was a struggle financially. When we finally got to reopen, things were pretty good, because we had our regulars. I had the PPP loan, and my landlord at the time was kind of working with me on rent.
But all of a sudden, the state shut us down again. Everything changed. I was about to have to start paying full rent, and the PPP money was gone. With no timetable set for reopening, it just didn’t make financial sense. There’s no way I’m going to be able to pay rent, pay the staff, and do it all over. We weren’t like a hardcore bar. We were a sports bar.
Lubbock thrives on Texas Tech [University] and football season, but now our stadiums are limited to a certain percent capacity. There’s a lot of small businesses — hotels and restaurants — that depend on those six home games a year to really carry them throughout the year, and the way things are is just really bad right now.
Ultimately, I decided to close and move all my stuff out before I had to pay rent. I didn’t expect the pandemic to last as long as it did. I feel like a part of my identity is gone in the process. It’s pretty much all I’ve done. I’m only 39, and I opened when I was 29. It’s pretty much my whole adult life.
Right now, I’m just on unemployment. I’m also trying to help some friends who have another restaurant, though I don’t want to get involved in too much stuff right now with no real food for the future. At the same time, I also have a pending lawsuit since I broke my lease. So owning anything really isn’t in the cards right now. I’ve just been going to the gym, doing stuff around the house, and not a whole lot, really. My parents live in Florida, so I went to visit them for a week. I’m just trying to make time go by.
I would definitely like to be a small-business owner again, once I figure out how to clear up the lawsuit as well as my business debt. I really have never done anything else except work in small-business restaurants — it’s really all I know. And I know I didn’t close down because of something I did. I believe that the government knows they made a mistake and won’t do it again.
“The loss of my business is more than just the loss of a business. It’s the loss of significant revenues in a community.”
Daniella Stromberg, 55, owner of D’mai Urban Spa in Brooklyn, New York
I’m a resident of Park Slope, my business was in Park Slope, and it was immediately embraced by Park Slope. My day spa was really a neighborhood institution for over 17 years. I opened it because it was a natural extension for me. I have been working in holistic wellness on the private side with individual clients, and I really wanted to be part of the very vital, independent entrepreneurial movement that was happening on Fifth Avenue in Park Slope. I wanted to walk to work, and I wanted to have a brick-and-mortar and be part of an exciting, young experience.
I never did have a worry, until the pandemic hit. I knew early on that it was going to be a really serious, life-changing economic changing event. It was a fucking nightmare. I shuttered my business on March 13, and I immediately reached out to my landlord, because rent was the biggest worry I had. And I sent him a very rational kind of, “We’re in this together, looks like the pandemic is gonna hit long and hard, we should talk as soon as you have a free moment about how you and I are gonna get through this.”
But no, he really had no sense of “in it together” at all. In fact, he held me to my scheduled rent increase. With my business being close contact, I didn’t reopen until phase 4 in July, and it was a struggle.
I’m mourning a loss. The loss of my business is more than just the loss of a business. It’s the loss of significant revenues in a community. But I feel like my brand is strong, and I have a lot of day spa in me. I’m still looking for the right place to continue my business, but I’m just not sure when or where. In the meantime, I’ll continue to stay focused on seeing how we can save our independent businesses. I’m doing advocacy work with small-business owners on the local level. I’m not going to work for a couple of months, and I want Covid-19 to settle down. I’m married to someone who works at Kings County Hospital, so being in a partnership helps with the bills. It isn’t easy, but we prioritize and cut back.
For now, what I need to do is to focus on legislation, because an entrepreneur should not be left to find a nice landlord. Legislation should change because the landlord should not be allowed to find loopholes to mandate a renter to stay, in the final months of relief, during an extraordinary time such as a pandemic. There should be government protections for that. And there is a bill sitting on the state floor that should have been voted on. [The legislation would suspend all rent payments for small-business commercial tenants who were forced to shut down their business, and certain mortgage payments for landlords for 90 days in response to Covid-19.] I plan to write postcards and make phone calls.
We are sort of past the two-party system, and there’s a global united group of very, very wealthy people working together and robbing resources from our planet and from the rest of us. And we need those resources to stay healthy. This never had to happen. Small businesses could have been saved.