Showing posts with label gentrification sucks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gentrification sucks. Show all posts

Monday, June 20, 2016

Ramen Noodle Nation Review: "Evicted" (Matthew Desmond)





"There are losers and winners. There losers because there are winners. 'Every condition exists,' Martin Luther King Jr. once wrote, 'simply because someone profits by its existence. This economic exploitation is crystallized in the slum.'"
(Matthew Desmond, Evicted)

If you want an answer to that pesky question, "Why are things so bad for so many?", start by visiting the online pride of Milwaukee: its Consolidated Court Automation Program, which displays evictions and misdemeanors for 20 years (and felonies for 50 years). Let that image stick in your brain for a moment. Got it? Good.

Now replace that picture with a different one: an inner city landlord who lets properties go into foreclosure when they accumulate too many fines or repairs. She escapes liability by registering each property under a different LLC (Limited Liability Company) created online with the city's Department of Financial Institutions.

However, her name never appears on the paperwork, so the city never seems to realize it's dealing with one person who owns multiple properties (an oversight that could be eliminated by changing the LLC rules, and requiring the creator to give their name -- but I digress).  
If this isn't gaming the system -- once the associated costs to the city and its taxpayers are considered -- what it is?

Suffice to say, these details aren't part of Milwaukee's online scarlet letter. It's one of many unsettling details that you'll find in Matthew Desmond's book,
Evicted, which is written in a classic old school approach. The author (who's an academic and social researcher, not a journalist) spent roughly a year getting to know two major landlords -- including the one cited above, who specializes in the inner city, and her white male counterpart, who lords over a trailer park -- and those who rent from them.

What Desmond found, and what the reader will encounter, is a perfect storm of one-sided lawmaking, legal loopholes, and economic forces that leave his subjects living in conditions that might make Charles Dickens blush. Between 2009 and 2013, for example, roughly half of Milwaukee's renters experienced a major housing problem. About one-third lived with clogged plumbing that lasted a day or more, for example. One in five dealt with broken appliances or windows for three days (or longer). Households with African-Americans and children were the most likely to face these problems.

The biggest costs are often the psychological ones, as Desmond suggests -- citing the eight-person family forced to constantly "bucket out" their kitchen sink and toilet, which their inner-city landlord refuses to fix. The experience of "living in degrading housing in dangerous neighborhoods sent a clear message about where the wider society thought they belonged," Desmond writes. "People who were repulsed by their home, who felt they had no control over it, and yet had to give most of their income to it -- they thought less of themselves" (p. 258).


At its core, however, Evicted is a simple snapshot of economic power -- who has it, and who doesn't. In Milwaukee, these imbalances seem far more one-sided than most cities, starting in the 1930s, when the death rates for its African-American residents were about 60% higher citywide, due to poor housing conditions....because the provisions of FDR's New Deal didn't apply to them (pp. 251-52). This is not an accident. This is policy, plain and simple.

Conditions grew markedly worse during the 1990s, as the city's industrial base hollowed out -- just in time for the welfare-to-work movement. As a result, 1 in 2 African-American men are unemployed, such as Lamar, a legless ex-veteran who coughs up $550 of his $628 monthly welfare check for rent...leaving him with the princely sum of $78, which he supplements (like many of Evicted's subjects) with various off-the-book endeavors (p. 78). 

As Desmond suggests, America could correct this imbalance with a federal voucher program that would allow renters to stop spending so much money to rent -- which would pump more money into the economy, and make cities more livable again. One in five of renting families in America spends half its income on housing, yet 67% don't get any federal help. This is an unacceptable state of affairs when -- contrary to neoliberal urban legend -- resources do exist to address it.

Of course, when a one-sided marketplace is allowed to fester, new sub-economies spring up to take advantage of someone else's misery, which Evicted also vividly documents. Consider Eagle Moving & Storage, which only did one or eviction moves per week when it started up in 1958. Today, as Desmond reports, 40% of its business comes from eviction moves, fueled by 35 employees and a 308,000-square-foot building that -- wait for it -- that a now-defunct furniture factory once occupied (p. 113).

Eagle makes additional bank by charging hefty storage fees and insurance to store evicted renters' property, which most of them wind up losing. How would you afford additional fees when all your stuff is sitting on the sidewalk? It's a reminder of the one-sided dynamics that spring up when the powers that be figure (rightly, in most cases) that nobody's really paying attention. "Exploitation. Now, there's a word
 that has been scrubbed out of the poverty debate," Desmond asserts.."It is a word that speaks to to the fact that poverty is not just a product of low incomes. It is also a product of extractive markets." (p. 305)

The crushing irony here, according to Desmond, is that half of all evictions in Milwaukee are informal ones -- which those on the receiving end prefer, because there's no formal record to stop them from moving into an equally Dickensian space, a situation that's never addressed through the assembly line rough justice dished out by the city's eviction court. "Something 
has gone very wrong with our justice system when it makes more sense for tenants to skip court and quietly move out when their landlord says go than it does for then to plead their case themselves," Desmond states, "which often leads to an order to move and an eviction on their record" (footnotes, p. 398).

However, this problem could be corrected by giving low-income people the right to civil representation -- as they've already done in many obvious places (France, Sweden), and some not so obvious (Azerbijan, India, Zambia), Desmond notes. Putting pressure on the powers that be also reaps some badly-needed social dividends. For example, Desmond's research persuaded Milwaukee in 2011 to exclude 911 calls involving domestic violence, stalking and sexual abuse from its so-called "nuisance ordinance." Otherwise, renters who find themselves calling the cops in those situations would still potentially face eviction -- or homelessness -- by having those crises going on record, and (fucked-up as it is) count against them.


Of course, this problem isn't confined to Milwaukee. Consider Lagos, Nigeria, where 60% of those residents living in Africa's largest city spend most of their money on rent, with the vast majority confined to one-room units. As the world grows more urbanized, and less affordable, Evicted offers a timely reminder to redress the balance -- especially when many of the protections that Americans take for granted nowadays (child labor laws, the minimum wage, workplace safety regulations) only came about "when we chose to place the well-being of people above money," Desmond contends.

Keep those words in mind, and burn them into your memory bank forever. The first step in correcting injustice is the admission that it exists -- which is only one of many reasons why neoliberalism, which has singularly failed in addressing economic injustice, belongs in the dustbin. On that level, Evicted offers an appropriate starting point to marshal our collective outrage, and put it to good use. --The Reckoner

Thursday, December 31, 2015

Greetings From (A Town Called Malice)


Better stop dreaming of the quiet life
'Cause it's the one we'll never know
And quit running for that runaway bus
'Cause those rosy days are few

And stop apologizing for the things you've never done
'Cause time is short and life is cruel but it's up to us to change

This town called Malice
--
The Jam, "A Town Called Malice"
<i.>
Released in February 1982, "A Town Called Malice" ranks among the more durable 45s released during the Jam's so-called "soul mining" period (mind you, anybody with ears would have heard those influences from the start, but that's a discussion for another time). The song shot straight to #1 UK -- holding the top spot for three weeks -- and marked the Jam's sole US chart entry, too (#31 on Billboard's Modern Rock Tracks). "Malice" also won New Musical Express's "Best Single" award that year, as well.

The song has retained a strong foothold in pop culture, turning up in movies like National Lampoon's European Vacation (1985), Billy Elliot (2000), and The Matador (2005). You can also hear it showcased in TV shows like the sci-fi cop drama, Ashes To Ashes (episode 3.5), and the BBC cop drama, Criminal Justice (first and last episodes) -- plus the "Rock Band" video game.

All in all, not a bad return for a song that the Jam's frontman, Paul Weller, cited as a snapshot of his experiences as a teenager in Woking, and a play on Nevil Shute's 1950 novel, A Town Like Alice (though he claimed not to have read the book) -- which recounts a woman's struggles to bring prosperity to a isolated Australian outback town (using her inheritance as the springboard for its development). The novel, in turn, has been adapted for a six-part mini-series (1981) and radio drama (1997).




<ii.>
Rows and rows of disused milk floats
Stand dying in the dairy yard
And a hundred lonely housewives clutch empty milk
Bottles to their hearts

Hanging out their old love letters on the line to dry
It's enough to make you stop believing when tears come fast and furious
In a town called Malice, yeah

For my money, "A Town Called Malice" stands among the savviest statements of the Jam's later career. Built around an uptempo, fingerpoppin' guitar and organ groove, the song carries an irresistible melody that dares not to clap along -- until you stop and hear what it's actually about. It's an old songwriter's trick that works quite well, as this writer can attest.

However, it's also remiss to consign "Malice" to the that-was-then bin -- by writing it off as "the sound of the precints," or some such nonsense (as I recall one reviewer doing). Today's world bears an eerie resemblance to the one that Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher and their free market acolytes drooled about -- corporate power left to wreak unrelenting havoc, thanks to a perfect storm of shredded safety nets, gutted unions and a working world that looks like a 19th century robber baron's wet dream of a permanently insecure underclass (ithe 99%).

More relevantly, "Malice" talks about the forced austerity that keeps people forever powerless and marginalized, simply becuase they don't have enough money to make everything right. For the Squawker and myself, the last six months have served up snapshots that feel all too familiar: pay this medical bill now, or buy a couple more packages of chicken? Put off the radiator hose another week, or pay the phone bill in full now, so they're not dogging us later? And so on, and so forth....wash, rinse, repeat.

Many people around the world are struggling with these issues -- as in Greece, where media coverage of the recent rioting there focused mostly on corruption and a social system that allows people to retire at 45. What went largely unmentioned, however, was that even the International Monetary Fund questioned the bailout loan terms as overly burdensome. If an agency like the IMF -- which is in no way a radical entity -- has problems with the arrangement, someone should listen, right?

No such luck, of course. And that's why the next Grecian riots are only a question of time, since the people know the austerity they're being forced to accept is one that will come solely off their back. For the people on top, the endless blur of country villas, imported foods and never-ending limo rides will roll on uninterrupted. For them, austerity isn't likely to enter the conversational equation any time soon. If ever.



Struggle after struggle, year after year
The atmosphere's a fine blend of ice I'm almost stone cold dead
In a town called Malice, ooh yeah

A whole street's belief in Sunday's roast beef
Gets dashed against the cop
To either cut down on beer or the kids' new year,
It's a big decision in a town called Malice, ooh yeah
Ooh, the ghost of a steam train echoes down my track
It's at the moment bound for nowhere just going round and round


<iii.>
Even then, no matter how carefully you plan, it often feels like some malevolent force is rolling the bones against you dream. The Squawker and I got that impression when an ice storm left roughly one-eighth of our county (31,000 customers, give or take) without electricity this week. Monday ticked by in a blur of "what the f#ck" decision-making: tough it out,, 'cause we don't wanna spend half our latest emergency stash ($100) on a motel? Or get a room now, where there's at least some warmth (and a bit of electrical current)?

So we  spent the night shivering under a heap of blankets, even as our apartment complex quickly took on the aura of a ghost town, once most of our neighbors reckoned the lights weren't coming back up too soon. Eventually, we gave up on sleep altogether, and drove around town....first, dining out at McDonalds, then cooling our heels in the hospital ER till 1 a.m.-ish, hoping that things might work out.

We returned to a still-dark, still-freezing complex -- which we braved a few hours more, till 7 a.m. -- and finally agreed that a warm motel room beat the hell out of whatever we were enduring now. I called a friend, who agreed to fund a second night, if needed. As it turned out, the power came back up at 9:20 p.m. Tuesday, just as I was gathering more pillows and blankets for the Squawker...who was (finally) getting to sleep off the ill effects of the previous night.

Just then, the kitchen lights kicked back on, and the TV revved up for another mindless volley of infomercials, past-their-prime sitcoms, and God knows what else. We ended up finishing out the night, and dragging ourselves back home Wednesday morning. Between food and lodging, we spent roughly $150 that we didn't really have, which meant I'd come up short on two bills -- the car registration, and the phone -- whose deadlines loomed only a week away.

So i called a relation who was willing to lend a hand this time, which meant that I could pay the basic monthly bills (electricity, Insurance, Internet) without a hitch. This is the struggle that plays out daily in every Town Called Malice, without pause, without missing a beat -- and will continue to roll on, for the short run, until some previously unseen social force or collective expression of popular will finally changes the tide.

For now, at least, we're finally grateful to have gotten a few days of peace and quiet. So goes life in this Town Called Malice. --The Reckoner

Playground kids and creaking swings
Lost laughter in the breeze
I could go on for hours and I probably will
But I'd sooner put some joy back in this town called Malice, yeah ooh
In this town called Malice, ooh yeah

Friday, September 4, 2015

The Message

 

The Message
By Grandmaster Flash
& the Furious Five, Grandmaster Flash


It's like a jungle sometimes
It makes me wonder how I keep from goin' under

Broken glass everywhere
People pissin' on the stairs, you know they just don't care
I can't take the smell, can't take the noise
Got no money to move out, I guess I got no choice
Rats in the front room, roaches in the back
Junkies in the alley with a baseball bat
I tried to get away but I couldn't get far
Cause a man with a tow truck repossessed my car

[Chorus]

Don't push me cause I'm close to the edge
I'm trying not to lose my head

It's like a jungle sometimes
It makes me wonder how I keep from goin' under

Standin' on the front stoop hangin' out the window
Watchin' all the cars go by, roarin' as the breezes blow
Crazy lady, livin' in a bag
Eatin' outta garbage pails, used to be a fag hag
Said she'll dance the tango, skip the light fandango
A Zircon princess seemed to lost her senses
Down at the peep show watchin' all the creeps
So she can tell her stories to the girls back home
She went to the city and got so so seditty
She had to get a pimp, she couldn't make it on her own


[Chorus]


It's like a jungle sometimes
It makes me wonder how I keep from goin' under

My brother's doin' bad, stole my mother's TV
Says she watches too much, it's just not healthy
All My Children in the daytime, Dallas at night
Can't even see the game or the Sugar Ray fight
The bill collectors, they ring my phone
And scare my wife when I'm not home
Got a bum education, double-digit inflation
Can't take the train to the job, there's a strike at the station
Neon King Kong standin' on my back
Can't stop to turn around, broke my sacroiliac
A mid-range migraine, cancered membrane
Sometimes I think I'm goin' insane
I swear I might hijack a plane!

[Chorus]

It's like a jungle sometimes
It makes me wonder how I keep from goin' under

My son said, Daddy, I don't wanna go to school
Cause the teacher's a jerk, he must think I'm a fool
And all the kids smoke reefer, I think it'd be cheaper
If I just got a job, learned to be a street sweeper
Or dance to the beat, shuffle my feet
Wear a shirt and tie and run with the creeps
Cause it's all about money, ain't a damn thing funny
You got to have a con in this land of milk and honey
They pushed that girl in front of the train
Took her to the doctor, sewed her arm on again
Stabbed that man right in his heart
Gave him a transplant for a brand new start
I can't walk through the park cause it's crazy after dark
Keep my hand on my gun cause they got me on the run
I feel like a outlaw, broke my last glass jaw
Hear them say "You want some more?"
Livin' on a see-saw

[Chorus]

It's like a jungle sometimes
It makes me wonder how I keep from goin' under

A child is born with no state of mind
Blind to the ways of mankind
God is smilin' on you but he's frownin' too
Because only God knows what you'll go through
You'll grow in the ghetto livin' second-rate
And your eyes will sing a song called deep hate
The places you play and where you stay
Looks like one great big alleyway



You'll admire all the number-book takers
Thugs, pimps and pushers and the big money-makers
Drivin' big cars, spendin' twenties and tens
And you'll wanna grow up to be just like them, huh
Smugglers, scramblers, burglars, gamblers
Pickpocket peddlers, even panhandlers
You say I'm cool, huh, I'm no fool
But then you wind up droppin' outta high school


Now you're unemployed, all non-void
Walkin' round like you're Pretty Boy Floyd
Turned stick-up kid, but look what you done did
Got sent up for a eight-year bid
Now your manhood is took and you're a Maytag
Spend the next two years as a undercover fag
Bein' used and abused to serve like hell
Til one day, you was found hung dead in the cell


It was plain to see that your life was lost
You was cold and your body swung back and forth
But now your eyes sing the sad, sad song
Of how you lived so fast and died so young... so


[Chorus]

It's like a jungle sometimes
It makes me wonder how I keep from goin' under...

--The Squawker

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

Property Ownership = Power: A Punk Rock Realty Lesson


<i>
Never forget: property ownership is power in America. The STORE CLOSING banner hanging outside my local Dollar General store provided yet another reminder of that particular lesson...if I needed one.

At first, I presumed this latest sour development had something to do with the continuing creeping yuppification of our town. 
After all, this Dollar General store sits across the street from a CVS pharmacy that's springing up as I write. That project that aroused quite a bit of local opposition, since it's situated in a largely residential neighborhood. But that's not the main reason, as a cashier -- soon to join the ranks of the unemployed -- assured me.

"Then what's going on?" I asked. "There's people coming through here almost every day, so I can't imagine that this store isn't profitable..."


"Oh, it is," the cashier responded. "We're always really busy. The landlord saw how much business we're getting, and decided that we could pay a little bit more." She paused for the punchline. "But the company doesn't want to pay it."

"So what happens now?" I asked.


"They might build another store here..." She finished ringing up my bottle of dishwashing liquid and pair of two-liter diet pops.  "This town can definitely support one."

"Good luck to you, then," I responded. "We'll just have to wait and see, I guess..."

"Yeah, I guess."





<ii.>
Another reminder comes from my current reading of 924 Gilman (see the last post). Tucked away in this sprawling 400-page tome is a Punk Planet article ("924 No More?": May/June 1999) that focuses on how gentrification has hurt the Bay Area punk scene. One of its sources is an October 1998 San Francisco Bay Area Guardian article ("The Economic Cleansing of San Francisco"), which quotes the average rent for a one-bedroom apartment as rising from $845 to $1,200, or 56 percent, over a four-year period.

Based on that statistic, a person earning $6 an hour paying the standard one-third for rent would have to work 143 hours a week to afford the median rent! I'd hate to imagine how that figure looks nowadays. The article further cites a tenants' union survey which shows that, among people who changed addresses in the past year, half left the city entirely.

Granted, these are 20-year-old statistics, but the point hasn't really changed, since the whole problem has grown exponentially worse. After all, rent is the reason why CBGB -- for all its cultural significance -- disappeared, once the disputes with its landlord (Bowery Residents' Committee), proved too toxic to overcome. (For an update, see the New York Times link below on promises of a revival...which will apparently focus on finding a building to buy: "We don't want to be a tenant. We don't want to be a victim of what happened before.")

These issues matter, for reasons that often escape people who don't pay attention, until it's too way late...take it away, Punk Planet: "The face of the region is culturally strip-mined. Rent control laws, once some of the strongest in the country, have been gutted. Artists, the poor, young activists and people of color are being displaced as the white-collar cyber-yuppies sweep in like a plague of locusts (emphasis mine)." And so it goes...wash, rinse, repeat.



Warning: 
You've Been Gentrified, OK? 
Now Pack Up Your Shit
And Leave.

<iii.>
I got another reminder of the "property ownership=power" equation several years ago, when a venue I'd played in the past several times shut down. Like many small businesses, things had gotten off to a fast start. The first couple bills I'd played, i counted roughly 40-50 people on a Friday or Saturday night.

The next couple of times, the audiences dropped off to around 30 people (including the performers and their friends). The last couple times, we had the proverbial "five people and a dog" to witness our efforts. It was painful, and you didn't need a detective to see the end coming. Sadder still, of course, was the loss of a sympathetic home for offbeat acts -- avante-garde, folk-punk, garage -- that would never get a foothold otherwise.

One of my strongest memories is the guy whose set consisted of Gameboy devices that he manipulated back and forth, to create truly otherworldly sounds...if you combined Joe Meek's EP, I Hear A New World, with video game noises run through a concrete mixer, this is what you'd get. Whether I dug all of it is beside the point...but it sure beats sitting through a generic cover band any day.

Once the venue closed, I casually inquired about the rent. I was curious how much money the owner had spent keeping his dream afloat. It's a small town, right? I figure. How much can it really cost?  Then came the sticker shock. "It's $850 per month," the agent told me. I practically dropped the phone receiver.


Still Here? 
OK...Start Working Your 
Five Part-Time Jobs 
To Pay Off The Landlord.

<iv.>
For those who think that gentrification is purely an urban phenomenon, get a reality check -- it's probably happening right around the corner...and may be way too late to confront by the time you finally notice it. We need to explore ways of controlling our destiny -- whether it's micro-lending, pooling the few resources we do have, or forming a punk rock realty company to pursue our best interests. None of these things will be easy or convenient, obviously.

However, unless we put our own skin in the game -- and get involved, somehow, at a basic economic level -- the hustle will accelerate at a faster clip, but nothing will change. I got another reminder of this concept when I interviewed a local music store owner, who's operated since the mid- or late '60s. These days, that's a lifetime in retail.

During our interview, he paused  to point out an antique shop across the street. He mentioned that the owner had been having a hard time, because her monthly nut is so crushing.

"How much are they asking her to pay?" I inquired.  "Last I heard, she's paying $2,500 per month." He paused to deliver the punchline.  "All I can say is, I'm glad that I bought this building...otherwise, I'd have been out of here a long time ago."  And so it goes -- wash, rinse, repeat. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Click Before Your Rent Skyrockets!):