Tuesday, October 19, 2021

Joe Manchin is betraying West Virginia

Ryan Cooper, National correspondent
THE WEEK
Tue, October 19, 2021

Joe Manchin. Illustrated | Getty Images, iStock

Sen. Joe Manchin (D-W.Va.) has demanded President Biden excise the core of his climate policy. Manchin says he won't vote for the $150 billion Clean Electricity Performance Program, which would pay energy suppliers to move away from carbon power and impose penalties on those that don't.

Manchin's move is a terrible disaster for many reasons. This program is the main mechanism of Biden's climate plan — removing it would mean no significant American action on climate until 2030 or later. Moreover, if Manchin gets his way, the president will go to upcoming climate talks in Scotland with nothing in hand, which would seriously harm the meeting's prospect of success.

But beyond all that, in his capacity as a senator, Manchin's demand is a grotesque betrayal of the people of West Virginia.

It may not look that way on the surface. Manchin is doing this because there are quite a few coal jobs in his state (and because he is personally heavily invested in coal business). But even on that ground, it's a wretched decision. As historian Adam Tooze demonstrates, while coal is still relatively important to the West Virginia economy, it's declining fast, and the state has no rising industry to replace coal as a core social and economic prop. West Virginia's health care industry is growing because so many people are on Medicaid or hooked on opioids, but it can't take coal's place in the state's economy. The jobs Manchin is trying to save are doomed, and he should be focused on bringing in new energy work, not saving what can't be saved.

The demise of the coal industry is long since obvious. In 2007, the American electrical system hit a peak of 2,016 terawatt-hours produced from coal power plants. Since then it has fallen by 62 percent to 774 terawatt-hours in 2020. Even before 2007, West Virginia had shed most of its coal jobs thanks to heavy automation and new techniques like blowing whole mountains up to get at the coal (which causes cataclysmic environmental contamination) instead of digging it out.

Now, the biggest reason for coal's decline is cheap natural gas (up from 897 terawatt-hours in 2007 to 1,617 terawatt-hours in 2020), but the second-biggest reason is cheap renewable power. Utility-scale solar and wind power production have skyrocketed from 35 terawatt-hours in 2007 to 429 terawatt-hours in 2020 — a twelve-fold increase. That's largely because the price of wind power fell by 70 percent over the last decade, while the price of solar fell by 89 percent — but that of coal power barely budged. Those trends are expected to continue, and sooner or later renewables will out-compete both coal and natural gas (though not soon enough to ward off catastrophic climate change without government action).

Neither will exports save coal. Globally, other countries are laying plans to move away from coal as well — partly from price movements but also because it's a dirty, dangerous power source whose pollution kills millions annually. Whether or not Manchin kills his own party's climate plan, West Virginia's coal industry has maybe a decade of life left, at the outside.

West Virginia today is a poor, unhealthy state. That's significantly because nobody in Washington did anything when slanted trade deals destroyed about a third of its manufacturing jobs and energy innovation destroyed most of its coal jobs and, soon, the entire coal industry. As Tooze writes, coal wasn't just a source of jobs; it was a source of meaning — an image of a rugged society where strong men and women did the tough jobs necessary to keep the country on its feet. Without that fund of social cohesion, the state is seeing an epidemic of "deaths of despair" similar to what Russia experienced after the collapse of the Soviet Union.

Compounding all these problems, West Virginia is among the states most vulnerable to climate change. Its steep, narrow valleys create ideal conditions for floods in the biblical downpours becoming ever more common, and its generally rugged terrain leaves little room for residents of those valleys to relocate. No "state in the contiguous United States is more exposed to flood damage than West Virginia," reports Christopher Flavelle at The New York Times, citing an analysis from the First Street Foundation. "Sixty-one percent of West Virginia's power stations are at risk, the highest nationwide and more than twice the average. West Virginia also leads in the share of its roads at risk of inundation, at 46 percent," he writes. Beyond being dangerous to mine and deadly to burn, coal contributes to the climate change that produces extreme flooding. No longer a major source of money or meaning, it has become bad for West Virginia in every way.

Digging the West Virginian economy out of its collapsed coal pit would be no small task. But we could imagine a new model based on green energy (West Virginia is one of the windiest states east of the Mississippi), tourism (it is spectacularly beautiful), and perhaps even some cutting-edge manufacturing. Better infrastructure links and high-speed internet; regulations and subsidies to induce domestic economic production; and a stronger national welfare state to increase the incomes of the state's residents would be a good start.

In other words, we're talking about the Biden agenda. Half the point of the Build Back Better plan, for all its flaws, is to kick-start just this kind of forward-looking economy in places like West Virginia so that hopeless and destructive industries like coal are replaced with something rather than nothing.

Naturally, in addition to killing Biden's climate policy, Manchin is also demanding Biden slash the rest of his agenda to the bone. He recently demanded cuts to Biden's child allowance so the poorest parents without jobs — a disproportionate number of whom live in West Virginia — get nothing. Manchin is ruining his state's prospects coming and going.

West Virginia doesn't have to stay an impoverished, backward mess, in thrall to a dying, filthy industry. But if the state can be helped into a better future, Manchin won't have anything to do with it.


Joe Manchin Hates Spending More Than He Loves Children

Max Burns
Mon, October 18, 2021

MICHAEL MATHES/AFP via Getty Images

The child tax credit represents one of the most effective youth anti-poverty efforts in modern history, a sweeping program that has fulfilled the too often made promise to lift all boats. Sen. Joe Manchin is trying to drown it in the Potomac.

For a few heady days last week, it looked like House Progressives and the Senate’s two conservative Democrats might actually find a consensus price tag for Joe Biden’s signature Build Back Better package.

But that was before Manchin tacked another hundred yards onto the football field Sunday with a new, GOP-approved demand that Democrats incorporate aggressive means testing and strict work requirements to keep a proposed expansion of the popular child tax credit as narrow as possible. While a broader credit would pay off children in West Virginia, the senator hates spending more than he cares about that.

McConnell Talks About Taking Down Biden’s Agenda—Manchin and the Moderates Are Doing It

The child tax credit itself isn’t new, but it has always been politically controversial even as it has proven its worth. Originally passed as part of the landmark Taxpayer Relief Act of 1997, the same law that gave us Roth IRAs and education savings accounts, the child tax credit offered $400 per child under age 17. The law was and is popular: Nearly six-in-10 American families support it, including 41 percent of Republicans. That’s why lawmakers juiced the credit to $2,000 in 2020 and again to $3,600 under Biden’s American Rescue Plan a year later.

Part of the child tax credit’s popularity comes from how broadly it distributes tangible gains to families in need. According to research by Reuters, the 10 states with the biggest average monthly payments all went with Trump, and nine of them have Republican governors. Just missing out on the top 10, with an average credit received of $431: West Virginia.

The child tax credit isn’t some directionless handout, as Manchin seems to think. It’s had a measurable impact on our fight to reduce poverty, especially in Manchin’s home state. The Brookings Institution projected Biden’s expanded child tax credit will slash child poverty nearly in half across all racial groups, from 14 percent to just 7.5 percent. They weren’t far off. In July, the first of Biden’s expanded tax credit payments lifted some 3 million American kids out of poverty, a 25 percent reduction, and moved millions of struggling families away from total financial collapse.

Those real benefits shouldn’t be lost on Manchin, who serves a state with the sixth-highest poverty rate even before COVID-19. Since the pandemic, West Virginia has tumbled further. Yet Manchin is now dead set on ensuring as few people as possible benefit from a tax credit designed to be utilized as a broad brush—even if his demands kill the entire Build Back Better agenda in the process.

Our most recent congressional crisis stems from the ongoing battle within the Democratic party between the House Progressive Caucus led by Rep. Pramila Jayapal, which is fighting for the passage of Biden’s full Build Back Better agenda at its original $3.5 trillion price tag, and Senate conservatives Manchin and Kyrsten Sinema, who are pointedly not advocating anything that can be considered “the Biden agenda.”

Biden was clear: The child tax credit should be applied as broadly as possible to expand on Democrats’ landmark poverty reduction victories. Manchin, on the other hand, insists the child tax credit only go to families earning under $60,000. The median household income in America is only about $63,000, and plenty of families making the median income will tell you it feels an awful lot like poverty. In a dozen states, the household median income is functional poverty.

If progressives were angry before, the chance of Biden once again compromising to his right is likely to send the caucus into a fury. Biden promoted his expanded Child Tax Credit on Twitter just last week. Now Jayapal and progressives worry that Biden’s desire to come away with something ahead of the looming midterm election cycle will mean stripping out everything that makes the Build Back Better agenda such a powerful legislative package.

If the past is any indication, Jayapal and the Progressive Caucus have reason to be worried. In a presidency defined by its compromises, almost all of Biden’s concessions have gone to mollify conservative holdouts Manchin and Sinema. To satisfy the two senators, Jayapal’s Progressive Caucus, which represents 96 lawmakers and aligns much more closely with Democratic voter preferences, is being asked to take one for the team.

Now Jayapal and the left are wondering: which team? Biden sacrificed $800 billion in progressive priorities to pass his bipartisan infrastructure deal. Last week, he cleared the way for nearly $2 trillion in possible compromise cuts for the Build Back Better package—all to gut core progressive spending policies Biden himself vocally supported. Meanwhile, centrist priorities are protected by presidential decree even when they run directly counter to Democratic Party values and run counter to the will of 66 percent of American voters

Manchin claims his position is “moderate,” but it risks leading Biden down a fraught and ultimately losing path built on the delusion that a single West Virginia senator knows the needs of an entire nation better than its own people. House progressives are right to protect the American people from Manchin’s hyper-partisan grasping, even if that means slamming the door on Manchin’s emaciated shadow of a spending package.

Chris Wallace Nails GOP Senator: Wouldn't Your State ‘Benefit From’ Biden’s Spending Bill?

Manchin’s demand would drop millions of families from the program and right back into financial peril, including tens of thousands in West Virginia. For Manchin, who holds forth on the Sunday talk shows about the importance of “moderate” governance, stripping millions of Americans off a popular and effective program represents a demand as radical and out-of-touch as any on the right. And in the case of neutering the child tax credit, Manchin goes even further than most Senate Republicans.

Manchin also thinks Americans have gotten lazier over the past year. Despite supporting Biden’s child tax credit in March with no work requirement, Manchin now demands any extension come with a firm rule that all recipients look for work. There’s just one problem: Work requirements have never actually worked. What’s lazy here isn’t families who could use the help, but Manchin’s thinking.

“Agencies that administer public benefit programs are ill-equipped to identify people who should not be subject to work requirements,” CBPP’s LaDonna Pavetti, Ph.D., wrote in 2018. “A study by Tennessee’s TANF agency, for example, found that about 30 percent of sanctions in the state were imposed in error.”

It should be no surprise that “work requirements” originated as a GOP attack on the "welfare state" in the 1990s, and The Century Foundation notes that work requirements have never actually been proven to work. At all. As Century Foundation Senior Fellow Jeff Madrick notes, that’s because most federal aid recipients are already likely to return to work within a year. There’s simply no proof a work requirement improves motivation—but it does prevent a lot of eligible people from seeking the help they need.

By pushing the Build Back Better plan ever further to the right, Manchin hopes to pin the package’s failure on progressives who refuse to support any plan hollowed out by GOP poison pills like means testing and work requirements.

But Manchin has picked a fight with one of the most popular elements of Biden’s American Rescue Plan. If Biden compromises now, he’ll be undercutting his single most significant domestic policy achievement, and possibly sink the whole deal. The public and the party are behind a robust child tax credit.

It’s time the White House learned that the better part of diplomacy is being able to reject a damaging, unserious offer. Manchin’s ego will recover. Struggling American families will not.

Read more at The Daily Beast.


West Virginia Leads U.S. in Flood Risk, Adding to Manchin's Climate Dilemma

Christopher Flavelle
Mon, October 18, 2021,

Mary Anne and Bob Marner in their basement of their Morgantown, W.Va. home on Oct. 5, 2021, which flooded twice recently, sending raw sewage into their house both times. (Erin Schaff/The New York Times)

FARMINGTON, W.Va. — In U.S. Sen. Joe Manchin’s hometown, a flood-prone hamlet of about 200 homes that hugs a curve on a shallow creek, the rain is getting worse.

Those storms swell the river, Buffalo Creek, inundating homes along its banks. They burst the streams that spill down the hills on either side of this former coal-mining town, pushing water into basements. They saturate the ground, seeping into Farmington’s aging pipes and overwhelming its sewage-treatment system.

Climate change is warming the air, allowing it to hold more moisture, which causes more frequent and intense rainfall. And no state in the contiguous United States is more exposed to flood damage than West Virginia, according to data released last week.

From the porch of his riverfront house, Jim Hall, who is married to Manchin’s cousin, recounted how rescue workers got him and his wife out of their house with a rope during a flood in 2017. He described helping his neighbors, Manchin’s sister and brother-in-law, clear out their basement when a storm would come. He calls local officials when he smells raw sewage in the river.

“These last few years here in West Virginia, we’ve had unbelievable amounts of rain,” Hall said. “We’ve seriously considered not staying.”

Manchin, a Democrat whose vote is crucial to passing his party’s climate legislation, is opposed to its most important provision that would compel utilities to stop burning oil, coal and gas and instead use solar, wind and nuclear energy, which do not emit the carbon dioxide that is heating the planet. Last week, the senator made his opposition clear to the Biden administration, which is now scrambling to come up with alternatives he would accept.

Manchin has rejected any plan to move the country away from fossil fuels because he said it would harm West Virginia, a top producer of coal and gas. Manchin’s own finances are tied to coal: He founded a family coal brokerage that paid him a half-million dollars in dividends last year.

But when it comes to climate, there’s also an economic toll from inaction.


The new data shows that Manchin’s constituents stand to suffer disproportionately as climate change intensifies. Unlike those in other flood-exposed states, most residents in mountainous West Virginia have little room to relocate from the waterways that increasingly threaten their safety.

Adding to the problem, West Virginia officials have struggled to better protect residents, despite a surge of federal money, experts say. They point to a reluctance among state officials to even talk about climate change and to housing that is not built for the challenge, leaving West Virginia less able than other parts of the country to adapt.

The measure that Manchin opposes, a clean electricity program, may be the last chance for Congress to reduce planet-warming emissions before the effects of climate change become catastrophic.

A clean electricity program would reward utilities that switch from burning oil, gas and coal to using wind, solar and nuclear energy, and penalize those that don’t. It is designed to get 80% of the country’s electricity from clean sources by 2030, up from 40% now.

A spokesperson for Manchin, Sam Runyon, said the senator “has long acknowledged the impacts of climate change in West Virginia. That is why he’s worked hard to find a path forward on important climate legislation that maintains American leadership in energy innovation and critical energy reliability.”

Others say that by blocking efforts to reduce coal and gas use, Manchin risks hurting his state.

“Not having a credible policy in the U.S. makes it nearly impossible to negotiate real change at a global scale,” said Evan Hansen, a Democratic state representative. “What that means is that West Virginians are going to continue to face greater and greater impacts from climate change.”

Schools, Power Stations and Businesses at Risk

The new flood data comes from the First Street Foundation, a nonprofit that uses more granular techniques to gauge flood risk than the Federal Emergency Management Agency.

First Street measures risk not only from rivers but also from smaller creeks and streams — the sort of waterways that expose towns such as Farmington to so much flooding yet are generally left off FEMA’s flood maps.

First Street calculated the portion of all kinds of infrastructure at risk of becoming inoperable because of a so-called 100-year flood — a flood that statistically has a 1% chance of happening in any given year. The group compared the results for every state except Alaska and Hawaii. In many cases, West Virginia topped the list.

Sixty-one percent of West Virginia’s power stations are at risk, the highest nationwide and more than twice the average. West Virginia also leads in the share of its roads at risk of inundation, at 46%.

The state also ranks highest for the share of fire stations (57%) and police stations (50%) exposed to a 100-year flood.

And West Virginia ties with Louisiana for the greatest share of schools (38%) and commercial properties (37%) at risk.

“The geography and topography of the state results in many homes, roads and pieces of critical infrastructure being built along rivers, around which we show extensive flooding,” said Michael Lopes, a spokesperson for First Street.

But topography isn’t all that raises West Virginia’s flood risk. Surface mining for coal has removed soil and vegetation that once absorbed rain before it reached creeks and rivers, and has pushed rocks and dirt into those waterways, making them less able to contain large volumes of water.

“As the stream corridors fill up with sediment and debris, there’s simply less storage capacity,” said Nicolas Zegre, director of the West Virginia University Mountain Hydrology Laboratory. “It takes less water to spill over.”

Flood, Repair, Repeat

The effects of increased flooding can be seen where Manchin built his political career.

Just northeast of Farmington is Morgantown, where houses perch on narrow streets that wiggle down hillsides, intersecting at erratic angles. Manchin represented the city in the state Senate; it’s also home to West Virginia University, his alma mater.

In June, Morgantown got more than 2 inches of rain in less than an hour, according to Damien Davis, city director of engineering and public works. It turned a main thoroughfare, Patteson Drive, into a river and reversed the flow of sewers, pushing waste into basements.

In July, it happened again: The city got more than 3 inches of rain in an hour, Patteson became a river, and raw sewage rushed into basements.

“We had never experienced anything like that,” Davis said.

Muhammet Ariturk owns a small restaurant, Istanbul, on Patteson Drive. He blocked his doors, but his restaurant flooded both times. “We started trying to stop the water coming here, but we couldn’t,” he said.

A mile north, Mary Anne Marner lives in a white bungalow near a creek. The first flood sent sewage into her basement, ruining her husband’s recliner, among other damage.

“The sewage came up out of the bathtub and out of the toilet,” she said. Marner and her husband replaced the recliner. Then the basement flooded again, and out went the new recliner.

State climatologist Kevin Law said research showed “an increase in extreme precipitation across West Virginia,” the result of a changing climate.

‘It Puts Nothing but Fear in You’


Twenty miles southeast is Tunnelton, where Dave Biggins owns a convenience store in a building constructed on top of an underground creek. Until recently, the creek rarely rose high enough to damage the foundation — maybe once a decade, Biggins guessed.

Then, two years ago, the equipment space under his store flooded three times in a single year. That was nothing compared with last month, when the remnants of Hurricane Ida left his store in knee-deep water, causing as much as $80,000 in damage.

“After this, every time it says it’s going to rain pretty hard, it puts nothing but fear in you,” said Biggins, who lacks flood insurance.

East of Tunnelton is Terra Alta, one of the highest towns in Preston County. In September, heavy rains put 3 inches of water inside Terra Alta’s town hall and flooded a handful of basements in town, according to Mayor James Tasker.

“It comes through the wall,” Tasker said. “It’s our drainage system, which we can’t afford to update.”

Half an hour south, Rowlesburg Mayor Eric Bautista is trying to find money to rebuild the town’s outdated stormwater system, which releases raw sewage into the Cheat River during downpours. “It’s a lousy system that is extra lousy when there’s any rain,” Bautista said.

The consequences reach beyond the county, according to Amanda Pitzer, executive director of Friends of the Cheat, an environmental nonprofit.

“This water goes to Pittsburgh,” Pitzer said, standing at the Cheat’s edge recently. “You have to think downstream.”

‘That’s The Risk We’re Willing to Take’


After West Virginia was hit by particularly severe flooding in June 2016, it created a state resiliency office to help protect against future flooding.

But this year, the head of that office left. He was replaced by his deputy, Robert Martin Jr., who during a hearing before state lawmakers last month compared the role to drinking from a fire hose.

He wants to update the state’s flood-protection plan. “It hadn’t been looked at in around 20 years,” Martin said. “A lot of the things were really antiquated in it.”

Martin didn’t respond to requests for comment. The state declined to make any officials involved with disaster recovery or resilience work available for an interview.

Stephen Baldwin, a Democratic state senator whose district was devastated by the 2016 floods, said the state has moved too slowly. The sluggishness reflects the political taint attached to global warming, he said.

“Nobody wants to talk about the real driving factor here, which is the climate,” Baldwin said.

As flooding gets worse, West Virginia’s leaders, including Manchin, should stop viewing the state’s identity as tied to coal, said Jamie Shinn, a geography professor at West Virginia University who focuses on adapting to climate change.

“I don’t think he’s defending the future economy and viability of this state,” Shinn said. “The state has so much potential beyond fossil fuels.”

That point of view remains a tough sell for many West Virginians, despite repeated disasters.

“I’m a big advocate for using the natural resources that we have,” said Hall, the Farmington resident and cousin-in-law of Manchin’s.

Forced to choose between burning less coal or suffering through worsening floods, he said worsening floods were the lesser danger.

“You can replace a house,” Hall said. “That’s the risk we’re willing to take.”

© 2021 The New York Times Company


NORTH AMERICAN FIRST NATIONS
Journalist unearths family history while reporting on boarding school trauma, family, cultural destruction



Sierra Clark, 
The Record-Eagle, Traverse City, Mich.
Sun, October 17, 2021

Oct. 17—TRAVERSE CITY — Ten names.

They stared back from the glowing screen of my laptop. I felt my shoulders drop, my jaw tighten.

Those 10 names gathered, among the thousands of others, confirmed family rumors that swirled since before I was born. Ten names buried in the 220-page roster of children funneled through the Mount Pleasant Indian Industrial Boarding School during the 40-plus years it operated.

Name, birth date, year enrolled, year discharged. All children as young as my own. All subjected to a brutal system that now has fallen under intense scrutiny after thousands of bodies — most of them children — were found in unmarked graves at sites of now-shuttered boarding schools.

The Mount Pleasant school was one of a fleet of 350 that once were spread across the U.S. and were funded by the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs, three of them located in Michigan. The often church-run, but government funded and regulated, facilities were part of a sweeping effort by governments both in the U.S. and Canada to erase Indigenous culture and practices, one generation at a time.

The horrors that unfolded at the schools have been long known and discussed in Indigenous communities, but garnered fresh attention from the mainstream media in May when Canadian officials announced that at least 200 unmarked gravesites were rediscovered on the grounds of a former residential boarding school in Kamloops, British Columbia. Inspections at other former boarding school sites have since pushed the number of unmarked graves discovered into the thousands.

For Indigenous communities of the U.S. and Canada, the nightmares were never forgotten. For decades, Native Americans have been calling for action on the behalf of our families.

I dug out those 220 pages because of my work as an Indigenous affairs journalist. I was assigned to document and explain the history of Indian boarding schools in Michigan.

The boarding schools — some which continued operating into the 1980s and 1990s — had a long-known and deep impact on my community, but I didn't expect to find my roots so intertwined with those institutions.

My first article on the schools published in early June, and a flood of emails followed from Anishinaabek all over Michigan.

People reached out to share their stories, their experiences with residential boarding schools.

I spent the months that followed driving to elders, and community members who reached out — many of their stories I haven't yet written about. Many I may not write about because I wasn't there to collect traumas for the sake an article, I wanted to listen to my community.

I am Kichi Wiikwedong Odawa first and I have a duty to my history and family.

The stories of residential boarding schools are complex and wide-ranging — unique and lasting impacts to each student, family, tribal nation, and administration — but they are a common thread that runs through nearly every Indigenous person, both in the U.S. and Canada.

I found myself traversing through collective trauma as a person both reporting on it, and hurting from it. It is simply not good enough to collect stories without listening.

Residential schools changed the course of my family devastatingly, but until now, I didn't know the magnitude. The phrase "it runs in the family," was consistent in explaining the colonial pain that followed us.

As I am called to do, I looked to my elders for guidance and answers.

On a sunny afternoon in late September, I pulled up to my uncle Tom Antoine's house, just down the road from where I grew up on the Peshawbestown reservation. Nestled in tall, overlooking pine trees, his house is a symbol of comfort and love for me — a place where we share laughs and a lot of love.

Inside I was greeted by the familiar smells of freshly lit cedar and sage. He sat in his recliner, a cup of coffee next to him, and greeted me with his usual, soft "hello."

The weight of stacked manila folders containing hundreds of pages of names escaped my arms as he hugged me.

My uncle Tom is tall and big as a grizzly bear, but his hands are gentle. He carefully opened the folders containing his father's, aunts', uncles', and grandparents' names and enrollment records. His eyes widened as I sat down and showed him what I found. They all attended the Mount Pleasant Indian Industrial Boarding School.

A lump crept into his throat as he read, he swallowed hard and said "I never knew this. He never spoke of it ... none of them did."

Growing up, Tom said that his father, Cletus, or aunts and uncles never mentioned the boarding schools. They seldom talked about their life growing up.

"I knew we were different, but I didn't understand back then," he said.

He began to tell stories of his childhood as I tried to make sense of where our family lost our traditions, and language.

It's then that I recalled my mother's stories of her growing up, and the fear that arose when unannounced visitors came to the door. That fear followed her from our uncle's time, he said when they were hidden as children when a knock was at the door. And somehow it presented itself when I was a child, being told to "go wait in our rooms," until my mother knew who was on the other side.

Until the 1978, Indigenous parents could be jailed for refusing a government agent's decision to take their children to the boarding schools.

Simple games like that take on darker meaning when you understand the fear from which they sprouted generations before.

My uncle Tom's mother, Helena Smith, and his grandmother, Della Smith, spoke our language.

He said he would hear the adults whispering it in the kitchen late at night, but they were quick to close their lips when children wandered within earshot. He asked his father if he could learn the language, too.

"He told me 'no,' that there was no need for it anymore because we were living in a white man's world," he said.

They never spoke of it after that.

Tom said he would catch pieces of our culture through small acts, like the red tea his grandmother Della would brew, made of red willow, a traditional medicine in our tribe.

Della would do "odd things," during certain times of the year, and make medicines, tinctures, and teas out of what he thought were weeds. Younger family members never understood fully what she was doing, he laughed.

Tom explained to me that it wasn't until adulthood, when he began seeking out our culture, that he understood more of what Della was doing.

"She knew our medicines," he said, she was the last traditional person in our family, and it's such a shame she never was able to show us that," he said.

He said the newfound records explain some of his memories of his parents hiding parts of their "Indigenity" from the outside world, why they never spoke of it and why our family was hurting so much.

As I listened to my uncle recall a childhood devoid of our traditions and culture, I realized my family lost our roots because of a need to endure in a world that wanted to "kill the Indian, save the man."

"They were surviving," Tom said. And the long-term impacts exist today in our family — trauma passed down that became ingrained in the bloodline, he explained.

I asked if he believed the residential boarding schools succeeded in assimilating our family.

"Yes, oh yes," he replied in a bleak tone.

The experiences he recounted and the anguish in his voice that afternoon mirrored what I heard from dozens of others during the past few months. That thread ties together Indigenous families and communities nationwide — legacy effects of federal boarding school policies and initiatives that carried on for more than 150 years.

In the post-Civil War era, BIA modeled many of the schools after the Carlisle Indian Industrial School in Pennsylvania. That school was founded by Civil War Lt. Richard Henry Pratt, who embraced and popularized the motto "Kill the Indian, Save the Man."

Many of the facilities operated from the early 1800s through the 1980s and 1990s — the last residential school in Michigan, the one in Harbor Springs, didn't close until the 1980s.

The firsthand experiences retold to me by several elders who attended the schools are nothing short of horrific — vivid descriptions of a brutal system built to cleanse them of their culture.

On Sept. 30, the first national day of Remembrance for Indian Boarding Schools, "The Truth and Healing Commission on Indian Boarding School Policies in the U.S Act" was introduced by U.S. Sen. Elizabeth Warren.

The bill aims to create a special commission for the federal government to investigate, document, and address the generational trauma for Indigenous people affected by the schools.

The bill follows an announcement made earlier this year by Secretary of the Interior Deb Haaland launching an effort to collect, document and preserve records from the schools. Many of the remaining records are held in private church archives maintained by the institutions that once ran the schools, including the Catholic Diocese of Gaylord.

In the spring, Warren Petoskey, an elder of the Waganakising Odawa and Minneconjou Lakotah tribes, shared his story with me to educate the public about how generational trauma inflicted by the boarding schools impacted him and his family.

"I am a blessed man to have survived the effects of generational trauma my family has faced," he said.

His father and aunts were separated and enrolled in boarding schools in Mount Pleasant and Carlise, Pennsylvania. Petoskey said as a child, his father wouldn't speak their language around him or engage with him in traditional practices.

Growing up, he didn't understand what "normal" family life looked like, and fighting with his alcoholic and abusive father was constant.

By age 14, Petoskey said due to the physical conflict with his father, he was placed in a foster care home, where he became a farm laborer. It wasn't until years later, after his father quit drinking, that the two reconciled their relationship.

Petoskey was an adult before his aunts explained the abuse they and his father endured at the schools. It was then that he began to realize how the trauma had reached beyond his father's generation.

His father was removed from his community, stripped of the language, culture, and denied a loving relationship from his own parents.

"He was hurting and in pain, and was medicating himself in alcohol," Petoskey said.

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, American Indians and Alaska Natives are at six-times higher risk of developing an alcohol use disorder, three times higher risk of depression, and two times higher risk of suicide, than the general population.

Dr. Maria Yellow Horse Brave Heart, an associate professor in the Department of Psychiatry and the director of Native American and Disparities Research at the University of New Mexico in the Center for Rural and Community Behavioral Health, said the result of centuries of genocide and anti-Indigenous policies has resulted in unresolved trauma that impacts Indigenous health in the 21st century.

In her research beginning in the early 1990s, Brave Heart focused on Indigenous collective trauma, grief and loss, historical trauma, healing intervention, and mental health in Indigenous populations.

She writes that the generational trauma documented in her research is "echoing through generations by symptoms of survivor guilt, anger, depression, self-destructive behaviors and a number of other disorders."

Petoskey said he has seen a positive shift in his community as older generations confront the legacy left by the schools.

Both Petoskey and his wife, Barbara, run Dawnland Native Ministries, which, he said offers programs to address historical trauma in impacted communities. They aim to heal younger and older generations collectively.

Petoskey said Indigenous communities working to heal and demanding accountability and action sparks hope. He sees it in younger generations taking back their culture, and language, and in the nation's boarding school history being pulled into conversations throughout communities.

When I last saw Petoskey at his home in Charlevoix, his family was preparing for a naming ceremony for his two younger nieces, an Anishinaabek tradition that can simply be summed up as a rite of passage.

He said it was monumental to witness the great courage of younger generations taking back what their ancestors were denied.

Being Odawa and a journalist has made reporting on residential boarding schools challenging. Finding my own history while scouring records for work was devastating.

Maybe that's why I found myself traveling to meet elders to hear their stories and guidance, and talking with community members doing the work to heal.

The notion weighs heavy that as I continue to do this work, each surfaced document, or story, brings the potential to unearth more of my own family history.

My uncle requested later that day we go down one of our normal dirt roads to visit his sage spot and collect cedar. The familiar bumps and curves of the two-track led to a small clearing between the trees that once held traditional ceremonies.

Now, only the skeletal remains of the lodge stand, mostly fallen and weathered, surrounded by little evidence that the lodge was once packed "shoulder to shoulder, with Anishinaabe from all over" my uncle recalled.

I spent the rest of my time with my uncle interweaving traditional knowledge about medicinal plants and stories of our family.

As I watched my uncle offering asemaa (tobacco) to the sage patch, I reached down to my own asemaa pouch. I smiled as I stared at in in my hands. My uncle taught me how to sew the deer-hide together with sinew. He gifted me the knowledge of how to properly take care of it, and the teachings that follow.

I pulled it open to take out a pinch of the medicine.

Maybe the residential schools were not so successful after all and maybe it is never too late to reclaim what was once denied to us.

Sierra Clark's reporting is supported by a partnership between the Traverse City Record-Eagle and Report for America. Go to www.record-eagle.com/RFA to support this and other work by RFA reporters in the Record-Eagle newsroom.
A Tennessee judge created and used policies - and a nonexistent law - to jail children, investigation finds

Katie Balevic
Sun, October 17, 2021

Judge Donna Scott Davenport is accused of creating policies that led to children being illegally arrested and detained.
rutherfordcountytn.gov


A court judge used policies to jail and detain kids without sufficient cause, a probe found.


A county settled an $11 million suit after lawyers alleged the policy departed from Tennessee law.


The policy has ended, and Donna Scott Davenport remains judge at Rutherford County Juvenile Court.

A Tennessee juvenile-court judge orchestrated a system to arrest and jail children, many of whom were Black and some who were as young as 8 and 9 years old, an investigation by ProPublica and Nashville Public Radio found.

The report, published on October 8, said juvenile-court Judge Donna Scott Davenport of Rutherford County created a "process" that involved arresting children, taking them into custody at a detention center, and then filing charges against them.

This differed from the norm in Tennessee, where police would typically serve court summonses to children and their parents instead of arresting children and taking them into custody, the investigation found.

Davenport declined an interview with ProPublica and did not immediately respond to Insider's request for comment. Representatives from Rutherford County and from the state judicial system also did not respond to Insider's requests for comment.

Under Davenport's system, in 2016, 11 Black children were arrested and 10 were charged with "criminal responsibility for conduct of another" after they were said to have failed to stop a fight that was captured on video. But the attorney who represented some of the children said "criminal responsibility for conduct of another" is not a charge under Tennessee law.

Rather, it's a prosecutorial theory, the attorney Frank Ross Brazil told ABC News.

"So, that being applied as a charge in and of itself is unlawful," said Brazil, who did not immediately respond to Insider's request for comment on Sunday.

Davenport cultivated a public profile as a disciplinarian, discussing her work in interviews and on her monthly segment on WGNS radio. She even referred to herself as the "mother of the county," the joint investigation found.

"I know I'm harsh, I'm very harsh. I like to think I'm fair, but I'm tough," Davenport said in a 2015 profile in the Daily News Journal. "Juvenile Court is all about urgency - we are not dealing with the offense, we are dealing with the offender. We work on rehabilitation."

Davenport's "process" was challenged in a class-action lawsuit that involved over 1,000 children that alleged that Rutherford County violated children's rights by arresting and detaining them without sufficient cause. A judge involved in the case said that "children in Rutherford County are suffering irreparable harm every day" from a policy that "departs drastically" from the norm, Nashville Public Radio reported.

The case was settled in June, and the ruling permanently halted the juvenile court's use of Davenport's policies. Rutherford County agreed to pay up to $11 million, including $7.75 million to the children who were arrested and detained, the investigation found.

About 200 of the 1,500 children included in the class-action lawsuit have filed a claim to get the settlement money, News 4 Nashville reported last week.

Following ProPublica and Nashville Public Radio's investigation, Tennessee Gov. Bill Lee said that "the appropriate judicial authorities should issue a full review" of Davenport.

As of October 12, Davenport was no longer teaching at Middle Tennessee State University, her alma mater, where she was an adjunct professor, Nashville Public Radio reported.

The outlet also reported that the president of the university said Davenport, "whose actions overseeing Rutherford County Juvenile Court have recently drawn attention in national media reports, is no longer affiliated with the University."

Read the original article on Insider
Nurses say patients are getting more abusive, and simple questions can set them off
Allana Akhtar
Mon, October 18, 2021

31% of hospital nurses across the country have reported a small or significant increase in workplace violence as of September 2021. 
Brandon Bell/Getty Images


31% of hospital nurses have reported an increase in violence, up from 22% in March 2021.


Nurses told Insider the tense politics around vaccines and masks may be leading to patient aggression.


1 in 4 nurses faces physical violence on the job, and the hospital is one of the most dangerous workplaces in the country, according to OSHA.


Kevin Romanchik, an emergency room nurse in Michigan, said he's been punched, hit, kicked, spat on, and called "every name in the book" during his 13 years on the job.

Romanchik said he thinks abuse towards nurses has escalated recently because patients are easily agitated. Asking a simple question like whether a patient has received a COVID-19 vaccine can induce anger and aggression, he told Insider.

Once dubbed "heroes" of the pandemic, frontline workers in America are reckoning with increased violence and aggression on the job. Flight attendants are seeing a historic rise in unruly passengers. Shoppers have even killed retail workers for enforcing local mask mandates.

Nurses are not excluded from the worrisome trend. On top of dealing with short staffing and burnout, 31% of hospital nurses across the country have reported a small or significant increase in workplace violence, up from 22% in March 2021, according to a recent survey from the National Nurses United union.


"These nurses are there to help. That's a trauma in itself to feel that now they are unsafe at work and there's that risk of violence against them," Kerry Peterson, an associate professor at the University of Colorado College of Nursing, told Insider. "That can have detrimental consequences."

Why violence has increased towards nurs
es during the pandemic

Despite being places of healing, hospitals are one of the most dangerous places to work.

Hospitals recorded more than 221,000 work-related injuries in 2019 according to the US Occupational Safety and Health Administration, and had a workplace injury rate almost double the average for all private employers.

Nurses, who spend the most time at a patient's bedside, can bear the brunt of the violence. One in four nurses is physically assaulted on the job, according to a 2019 survey by the American Nurses Association. Assaults range from getting cursed at to grabbing and kicking, a 2014 survey of more than 5,000 nurses found.

Erica, a hospital nurse in Nevada, said she suspects the rate of injury towards nurses is even higher, but thinks many nurses do not end up reporting incidents due to fear of retaliation. (Insider agreed to identify Erica only by her first name for her personal safety.)

Last year during the pandemic, Erica co-founded The Last Pizza Party, a nurse advocacy group with 14,000 Facebook followers, to support professionals dealing with the onslaught of COVID-19 cases.

A 2020 NBC investigation found 77% of hospitals in California reported making no safety improvements after receiving an assault report. The assaults against healthcare workers ranged from bruising to fractures to cuts, and happened primarily in in-patient rooms and ERs.

Erica said instead of preventing assaults from happening, some hospitals have resorted to stopgap measures, like giving nurses rape whistles and panic buttons.

Better solutions to decrease workplace violence come from system-wide changes, Erica said. Nurse unions and advocates have drafted legislation to states and the federal government that would criminalize nurse abuse. Erica said hospitals must also provide nurses with enough resources and mental health support to effectively carry out their roles.

Erica encouraged other nurses to get involved with anti-abuse groups, such as The Last Pizza Party, the Silent No More Foundation, and Nurses Take DC. The momentum Erica has seen on social media - including TikTok, where she has 200,000 followers and over 3.5 million likes - during the pandemic gives her hope.

"What COVID did is it highlighted all of the issues in nursing that have been around forever, but it's made them impossible to ignore," Erica said.

Without addressing the growing crisis, however, Romanchik expects more nurses to leave the job, which will lead to the quality of care worsening overall.

"Nursing has been one of the most trusted professions for years now," he said. "So when nurses are telling you that there are problems or things are difficult, the best thing that the public hospital administration can do and local leaders can do is listen."
JUST LIKE EL SALVADOR
Group decries sentencing of Oklahoma woman for miscarriage



SEAN MURPHY
Mon, October 18, 2021,

OKLAHOMA CITY (AP) — A national advocacy group for women on Monday blasted the sentencing of a 21-year-old Oklahoma woman to prison for a manslaughter conviction after she suffered a miscarriage while using methamphetamine.

Brittney Poolaw, of Lawton, was sentenced to four years in prison this month after a jury convicted her of first-degree manslaughter.

An autopsy of Poolaw's fetus showed it tested positive for methamphetamine. But there was no evidence that her meth use caused the miscarriage, which the autopsy indicated could have been caused by factors including a congenital abnormality and placental abruption, a complication in which the placenta detaches from the womb, said Lynn Paltrow, executive director of the National Advocates for Pregnant Women.


According to the medical examiner's report, the fetus was between 15 and 17 weeks old, which means it wouldn't have been able to viably survive outside the womb yet.

“This prosecution went forward against somebody who had a pregnancy loss before the fetus was considered viable," Paltrow said. “In this case, you not only have a miscarriage rather than a stillbirth early in pregnancy, but the medical examiner's report doesn’t even claim that methamphetamine was the cause."

Comanche County District Attorney Kyle Cabelka and Poolaw's court-appointed trial attorney, Larry Corrales, didn't immediately reply to messages seeking comment. The National Advocates for Pregnant Women said it helped retain another attorney, John Coyle, to assist with an appeal.

Such prosecutions of women who lose their pregnancies have become more common in recent years. According to a study commissioned by the NAPW, there were 413 such criminal prosecutions from 1973 to 2005. Data from 2006 to 2020 shows there were about 1,250 such criminal cases, said Dana Sussman, NAPW's deputy executive director.

“So we’re looking at three times as many cases in less than half the period of time as this first study," Sussman said. “This is far more common than I think most people would ever believe or understand."

There were at least two dozen such cases in Oklahoma, Sussman said, most involving pregnant mothers who used drugs, although in most cases women were charged with child abuse or neglect.

Just last year, the Oklahoma Court of Criminal Appeals ruled that embryos and fetuses are included in the definition of a “child" for the purposes of prosecuting child neglect cases.
Jordan Klepper Exposes MAGA Morons Who Still Think ‘Trump Won’

Matt Wilstein
Mon, October 18, 2021, 

Comedy Central

Jordan Klepper hadn’t attended a Trump rally since he inadvertently found himself in the middle of the Capitol riot on Jan. 6, “a day no one will ever forget, unless you’re a Republican member of Congress,” the Daily Show contributor joked in his latest dispatch. But this past week, Klepper boldly returned to the scene, trolling the crowd at the former president’s big Iowa event for the most embarrassing devotees he could find.

What he discovered more than anything was banners, flags, and deluded supporters all proclaiming that “Trump Won” as loudly as they could. “And even though Trump won, they’re hoping he runs again,” Klepper explained. “Are we ready for this? I mean, the last guy hasn’t even conceded yet.”

He tracked down one couple that warned former Vice President Mike Pence would not be welcome in the crowd. “Do you think Mike Pence will show up here today or does he not want to hang?” Klepper asked, the double meaning seeming to go over their heads.

“I think he would be afraid to show up here today,” the woman responded. When he asked why, she shot back, “Because he was a coward and he didn’t do the right thing, that’s why!” She denied, as Klepper suggested, that he might want to stay away because “these people tried to kill him.” The man beside her, who was wearing a t-shirt that showed former President Donald Trump giving two middle fingers above the words “One for Biden, One for Harris,” saw no irony in his complaints that the current administration was “giving the middle finger” to the whole country.

And then there were the two men holding a “Trump 2024: Take America Back” banner who were particularly concerned about the “border crisis.” Klepper asked them, “And you’re from Iowa? So you’re worried about people coming in from Minnesota?”

How ‘Daily Show’ Contributor Jordan Klepper Became the King of Humiliating Trump Fans

Another man calmly explained that he believes Trump is secretly still running the military but blanched when Klepper suggested he would then have to take the blame for the mess in Afghanistan. None of them seemed to believe that their MAGA brethren were responsible for Jan. 6, instead claiming “antifa,” the “corrupt FBI,” and the “deep state” were actually behind the attack.

Two other women in matching MAGA hats and American flag overalls similarly pushed back on the notion that Trump supporters are a “cult,” while at the same time saying, “I feel like whatever he spews out of his mouth, I just love it.”

“It doesn’t matter what he says?” Klepper asked them. “But this isn’t a cult?”

“I don’t think so,” one replied with a straight face.

For more, listen to The Daily Show’s Jordan Klepper on The Last Laugh podcast.


THIRD WORLD USA
UTAH
Workers near Zion homeless amid housing crunch, tourism bump

LONG READ

By K. SOPHIE WILL
October 17, 2021

Ashley Gathman, a server at the Bit and Spur restaurant, discusses her choice to live out or a van Thursday, Sept. 9, 2021, in Virgin, Utah. Gathman can not find any affordable housing in the small gateway town of Springdale, where she works. Instead, she chooses to live in the 1976 orange and white El Dorado that blends in with the Bureau of Land Management area she camps on in Virgin.
(Chris Caldwell /The Spectrum via AP)

VIRGIN , Utah (AP) — A hot wind whipped across the red sand just outside of Zion National Park where a woman and her dogs live in a 1970s camper because she can’t find housing in Springdale, where she works.

After four years of working at Springdale’s Bit and Spur restaurant, 28-year-old Ashley Gathman can not find any affordable housing in the small gateway town, the Spectrum newspaper reported.

Instead, she chooses to live in the 1976 orange and white El Dorado that blends in with the Bureau of Land Management area she camps on in Virgin. With a bed, a small kitchenette, some storage and an unplugged window air conditioning unit, she has a mobile home.

“I’d rather just suffer through it, I guess,’” Gathman said. “It’s easier for me than it would be for a friend who got kicked out of their house and is now trying to find more housing.”

But her old “neighbor,” 27-year-old Sophie Frankenburg, had to suffer through it though she was the town’s associate planner and homeless.

“There were some frustrating parts of sitting in that chair and in conversations happening about affordable housing and the people that work here can’t live here,” Frankenburg said.

And that’s not for a lack of trying on her coworkers’ part. She said the staff at the Town of Springdale would connect them if they knew of an opening.

“I think the majority of people that I came into contact with every single day while I was at my job … they would have had no idea that we were living in a 20-foot trailer in the middle of the desert with no running water,” Frankenburg said. “You just wouldn’t even know.”

At the mouth of the nation’s third most popular national park, the three-mile-long and one-mile-wide town only has slightly more than 300 housing units and over 1200 hotel rooms, officials said, most of which are occupied.

While they’re aiming to add 150 more housing units and 600 more hotel rooms, which will reach their maximum build-out, the question is, where do they put it?

“We don’t have a ton of room to be able to grow and develop ... but it’s definitely not unlimited,” Springdale Director of Community Development Tom Dansie said.

With towering canyon walls on either side of the canyon, some have thought the solution is to build high-density housing vertically like the red rock did thousands of years ago.

But residents resoundingly say no.

“We don’t want high-density housing, we don’t want a lot of apartments, we don’t want to feel urban and crammed and dense and developed,” Dansie said.

With a median age of about 60, some of Springdale’s residents remember a time when the canyon was silent and belonged to the locals.

Now, the 346 residents of Springdale see over four million people pass through their tiny town on the way to Zion yearly, which is thousands a day.

And those tourists need the service industry — from hotels to restaurants to gas stations and more.

About 30% of Springdale workers are in retail, with another 34% are in arts, entertainment, recreation, accommodation and food services — meaning over 64% of Springdale’s workers are focused on serving tourists.

Statistics from the Kem C. Gardner Policy Institute at the University of Utah show that one in seven jobs in Washington County was supported by visitor spending in 2019.

In October 2020, Springdale hired Zions Public Finance, Inc. to make a housing strategy against the housing crisis, which found that over 1,000 employees commute to Springdale daily to work.

“Springdale does not necessarily have to rectify the differences in housing costs with neighboring communities, but it should understand the reasoning of such and potential economic development tools that may help address the issue,” the report said.

Yet these employees feel pushed out by the rooted residents of Springdale and the “amenity migration” of newly remote workers, while there are vacant second homes and a perceived priority given to tourists.

“You know pretty soon you’re not gonna have a town, you’re not gonna have workers to cater to all of these tourists that you want to come into town,” Gathman said. “Pretty soon, you’re going to have to stop kicking us out and turning things over to Airbnb.”

While nearby St. George is one of the fastest-growing cities in the country, and even the city is having to deal with the crowding.

“St. George is facing similar strains,” Lawyer Bruce Jenkins of Jenkins, Bagley, Sperry said. “Where is the workforce going to live? They’re going to be pushed farther out farther away and have to drive farther to come into work.”

And while housing might be cheaper farther away, the added cost of commuting takes a toll on a low income. The Gardner Institute estimates that the monthly wage for leisure and hospitality in Washington County is $1,572.

“The majority of jobs available in Springdale are tourism-oriented service sector jobs, which makes it even more difficult to find adequate housing that’s affordable to people who are employed in those jobs,” Dansie said.

The labor market is red hot right now, Utah Department of Workforce Services Regional Economist Lecia Langston said, and desperately asking for more workers.

Langston said Washington County started growing jobs in August of last year, “which is pretty unusual,” partially due to the surge in tourism and tourism jobs.

“Partly because there is COVID, and we didn’t have the restrictions of our neighbors, so we’ve seen really rapid growth,” she said. “I think Washington County really benefited from the shutdowns in Nevada and California … I think that really benefited us in tourism.”

Yet the entire country is struggling with a labor shortage right now, despite opportunity and relatively high wages, and housing is compounding the issue.

“It’s difficult for people to find employees, but I think it’s more acutely in Springdale and I think part of that is because of the housing issue,” Dansie said.

Businesses are greatly concerned about the lack of housing for their employees, Nate Wells, chamber of commerce Zion Canyon Visitors Bureau president said.

“We’ve had several from outside of the area who have wanted to come and work for us, they were excited about the opportunity, and it ended up not working out because housing was so difficult to find or, or even impossible to find,” Wells said.

After four years of being a Springdale employee, Gathman thinks the town needs to change its paradigm and act fast.

“A lot of the employers in town are realizing that employee housing is a major, a major thing and that they need it because otherwise they’re gonna lose their employees,” Gathman said. “Unfortunately, I wish the town of Springdale would understand that, but they’re kind of on the bandwagon of more AirBnbs and more hotels; keep inviting all the tourists in.”

Regardless, people still obviously work in Springdale, but the commute contributes to the crowding and climate change.

“Obviously that has impacts on traffic and it has impacts on parking,” Dansie said.

The Census said most people in Springdale drive alone to get to work. More cars equal more pollution from exhaust straight into a national park. More need for parking without adequate parking spaces forces cars off-road, damaging the land and wildlife.

In terms of the green in your pocket, Langston said business owners and local officials have to think about the cost to commute to Springdale when someone could make the same, or more, in St. George with virtually no commute.

“You’ve got to cover that plus you need to attract people away from the St. George jobs, and you have to make it worth their while to have a commute,” she said. “People are spending time on the road that they might not otherwise.”

And commuters like renters, some officials say, don’t have the investment in the community that residents want to build community.

“If all the people who work in Springdale at the end of their shift, they go home, they’re less invested in the community, there’s less of a connection between the employees and the businesses and the community,” Dansie said. “And it becomes more of an us versus them businesses versus residents kind of situation.”

But experts like Dejan Eskic from the Gardner Institute wants to remind people that most everyone was a renter at one time.

“You can’t just say I want owners in my town and I don’t want renters because that’s going to have negative impacts in other places of the economy that you’re going to have to play whack a mole with,” Eskic said. “I think we are heading more into a renter market where it’s harder and harder to attain homeownership.”

While people flock to the great outdoors, they are paying greatly for their new indoors, forcing locals out.

“So we’ve now had an influx of people with massive resources coming into this little tiny county offering $150,000 cash above asking price and paying cash for all these homes,” Christensen said. “So what are you doing? You’re pricing out the community members that live there, right?”

And construction in 2021, especially in relatively remote Springdale, is more expensive and more delayed than in years past due to COVID-related supply shortages, adding to the cost.

Last November, Springdale Mayor Stan Smith lost his business as the Bumbleberry Inn crumbled in flames from an overnight kitchen fire. Even then, Smith said the supplies and equipment he needed to rebuild were delayed.

While the Springdale study noted that wildfires in the west drove newcomers and visitors to the town in droves, it also destroyed some of the lumber supply needed for construction.

“Lumber has increased four-fold in 2020, and this has further exasperated the gap between housing costs and what a median-income earning household can afford,” the report said.

Together, combined with the more expensive land right as it is next to the popular national park, all make for a hefty price tag.

“A notable consideration is that construction costs are moderately higher in Springdale than in most other competitive markets. This, in combination with limited available land, results in total overall costs that are too high for a significant portion of the market,” it said.

While costs might be high for locals, they might not be for newcomers.

A study from Harvard University this year found that without the requirement to commute due to pandemic-driven work-from-home practices, “many more” will look for lower-cost housing away from employment centers.

“People from the coast who are now able to work wherever because they’re all working remotely, and they’re able to keep their California wages or Washington wages or New York wages, they’re saying well, geez, all I need is internet in the computer,” Tai Christensen, chief diversity officer for Cedar City-based CBC Mortgage. “And a lot of people want to live outside of Zion.”

Additional space in occupied homes or vacant ones in Springdale and St. George are being converted into short-term rentals for tourists or seasonal workers.

“There’s kind of a shared demand for those homes that would otherwise be rented to employees are now available as short term,” Wells said of Springdale.

The Gardner Institute estimates that over the past five years the number of short-term rental units in Washington County jumped around 141%, from about 1,300 in 2017 to over 3,000 this year.

“The biggest problem with short-term rentals, especially the ones that are not licensed, is they take inventory off the market,” Adam Lenhard, St. George City manager said.

In St. George in that same time period, there were about 6,600 vacant units, and about 72% of those were seasonal use properties like second homes, the CDBG report said.

“If those illegal short-term rentals were turned into long-term rentals, we would immediately have several hundred affordably priced units on the market, or at least more units on the market that could be rented out long term,” Shirlayne Quayle, St. George’s director of economic vitality and housing said.

“I just can’t wrap my mind around it,” Gathman said. “if you’re only going to be there a couple of months out of a year, or whatever, like there are so many people who could use that space for even if it is just a few short months.”

But in some zones, short-term rentals are illegal, though Lenhard said the only way they’ve enforced that is through community reporting.

“I think it’s a mistake, frankly, to not allow the city to ban the listing of short-term rentals in zones that don’t allow for that,” Lawyer Jenkins said.

Over 3.6 million visitors went to Zion last year, breaking fall records even during pandemic-restricted travel. But a different demographic showed up on the roads of Springdale, the spontaneous, and often uneducated, tourists.

“Last year was very difficult,” Gathman said. “And I was pissed and frustrated and so depressed because of the lack of respect that people had for the land.”

With closures and a desire to social distance in the great wide open, thousands of campers pushed local transient residents from their usual haunts and in some ways destroyed the parcels of land they call home.

“In one of my favorite spots, someone cut down a tree just to pull in their camper,” Gathman said. “That was my hammock tree that I loved.”

In July, The Spectrum released an investigation into illegal camping in the area outside Zion that agencies have been slow to stop.

Though Washington County increased patrols and passed more rigid laws in response last month, Gathman said there are sometimes when she is forced to illegally camp outside of designated parcels.

“I’ve had no choice. There are places that I go to that I’m not supposed to be. But there’s nowhere else for me to go when it gets that busy,” she said.

Gathman feels that tourists are prioritized over residents, a perceived practice that is doomed to fail, she said.

“I think tourism brings interest to our area, we live in a beautiful place. And I think the more that gets discovered, the more demand there will be for housing,” Wells said.

Springdale’s housing strategy report recognized the need for increased housing and looked for solutions, while also dedicating pages to polls on how locals want to protect the town that exists from crowding.

From these polls, locals said they would be in favor of high-density housing up to eight units only.

“In some cases, the solution in Springdale will not necessarily be lowered, more achievable prices, but rather more opportunities for a balanced residential market that provides a greater variety of housing options,” it said.

Now a Salt Lake City resident, Frankenburg is removed from the struggle over space and reflects on being an essentially homeless city planner.

“There was a lot of irony behind that,” Frankenburg said. “I cared a lot about that community and it was really hard to see maybe some people that didn’t care enough, in my opinion.”

__

The Spectrum reporter Sean Hemmersmeier contributed reporting to this article.

'No genocide': Tibet activists sidetrack Beijing Winter Olympics flame ceremony

 

Activists grabbed the spotlight at the flame-lighting ceremony for the 2022 Beijing Winter Olympics in Greece on Monday by unfurling a Tibetan flag and a banner that said "no genocide" at the Games. The demonstrators pulled out the flag and banner during the ceremony in Olympia attended by International Olympic Committee (IOC) president Thomas Bach and several dozen dignitaries including Chinese officials.

Activists urge IOC to postpone 'genocide' Beijing Games

Issued on: 19/10/2021 -
Activists have called for the 2022 Winter Olympics in Beijing to be postponed
 ARIS MESSINIS AFP

Athens (AFP)

Activists on Tuesday called for the postponement of the Beijing 2022 Winter Olympics as China prepared to receive the Olympic flame, a day after a protest disrupted the lighting ceremony in Olympia.

"This is sports-washing. There are no legitimate reasons to host the Games during a genocide," Zumretay Arkin, advocacy manager of the World Uighur Congress, told a news conference in the Greek capital.

"For sure there will be protests (in China) by Uighurs, Tibetans," said Arkin, who said she has had no contact with her family since 2017.

Lit on Monday in Ancient Olympia, the cradle of the ancient Games, the flame will be handed over to the delegation from Beijing 2022 at the Panathenaic Stadium in Athens, where the Olympics were revived in 1896, and will be flown to China.

During the ceremony in Olympia on Monday, the activists unfurled a Tibetan flag and a banner that said "no genocide" at the Games. A similar protest was held at the Acropolis in Athens.

Tibet has alternated over the centuries between independence and control by China, which says it "peacefully liberated" the rugged plateau in 1951 and brought infrastructure and education to the previously underdeveloped region.

But human rights campaigners and exiles say the Chinese central government practises religious repression, torture, forced sterilisation and cultural erosion through forced re-education.

Campaigners believe that at least one million Uighurs and other Turkic-speaking, mostly Muslim minorities are incarcerated in camps in Xinjiang.

After initially denying the existence of the Xinjiang camps, China later defended them as vocational training centres aimed at reducing the appeal of Islamic extremism.

"Who is going to guarantee that none of my relatives are actually now working in forced labour factories producing clothing and uniforms for the Olympic Games," Arkin said Tuesday.

"Can anyone tell me where my relatives are? I don't think so."

The activists on Tuesday said Hong Kong residents, Tibetans and Uighurs faced "Orwellian" surveillance in China, which they said was "emboldened" after hosting the Summer Games in 2008.

The IOC is legitimising "one of the worst violations of human rights in the entire 21st century" and defiling the spirit of the Games, said Pema Doma, campaigns director for Students for a Free Tibet.

"These Games cannot go ahead as planned, they must be postponed," she said.

IOC chairman Thomas Bach has batted off talk of a potential boycott, claiming the International Olympic Committee's political neutrality and saying it was up to governments to live up to their responsibilities.

A victim of the 1980 Moscow Games boycott, the former fencer has said such moves only punish athletes, and insists the IOC was addressing the rights issue "within our remit".

Around 2,900 athletes, representing approximately 85 National Olympic Committees, will compete in the Winter Games between 4 and 20 February 2022.

Arkin said the campaign "to train light on all the different abuses" was stronger than that of 2008, bringing together "Uighur communities, Hong Kong communities, Tibetan, Southern Mongolian, Chinese and Taiwanese communities".

"No one can stop us. Not the IOC, not governments, not sponsors, not athletes. We will not stop," she said.


Protesters Disrupt Torch Lighting For Beijing Winter Olympics


AP
Mon, October 18, 2021

ANCIENT OLYMPIA, Greece — Three activists protesting human rights abuses in China sneaked into the archaeological site where the flame lighting ceremony for the 2022 Beijing Winter Olympics was being held Monday and ran toward the newly lit torch holding a Tibetan flag and a banner that read “No genocide games.”

The protesters managed to enter the grounds and attempted to reach the Temple of Hera, where the ceremony was being held. They were thrown to the ground by police and detained.


A security officer tries to stop protesters holding a banner and a Tibetan flag as they crash the flame lighting ceremony for the Beijing 2022 Winter Olympics. 
(Photo: ARIS MESSINIS via Getty Images)

“How can Beijing be allowed to host the Olympics given that they are committing a genocide against the Uyghurs?” one protester said, referring to the treatment of Uyghur Muslims in China’s northwest region of Xinjiang.

The flame was lit at the birthplace of the ancient Olympics in southern Greece under heavy police security.

With the public excluded amid pandemic safety measures, and a cloudless sky over the verdant site of Ancient Olympia, the flame was ceremoniously kindled using the rays of the sun before being carried off on a mini torch relay.

Earlier, other protestors were detained by Greek police before they could reach the site. Pro-democracy protests also had broken out during the lighting ceremony for the 2008 Beijing Summer Games.


A police officer rushes to stop protesters holding a banner and the Tibetan flag (unseen) as they crash the start of the flame lighting ceremony for the Beijing 2022 Winter Olympics at the Ancient Olympia archeological site. 
(Photo: ARIS MESSINIS via Getty Images)

Despite widespread international criticism of China’s human rights record, the International Olympic Committee has shied away from the issue, saying it falls outside its remit.

In his speech in the ancient stadium of Olympia, where in antiquity male athletes competed naked during a special truce among their often-warring cities, IOC President Thomas Bach stressed that the modern Games must be “respected as politically neutral ground.”


Security officers stop three protesters holding a banner and a Tibetan flag as they crash the flame lighting ceremony for the Beijing 2022 Winter Olympics at the Ancient Olympia archeological site.
 (Photo: ARIS MESSINIS via Getty Images)

“Only this political neutrality ensures that the Olympic Games can stand above and beyond the political differences that exist in our times,” he said. “The Olympic Games cannot address all the challenges in our world. But they set an example for a world where everyone respects the same rules and one another.”

This article originally appeared on HuffPost and has been updated.