Discussion:
How San Francisco Became A Failed City
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Blue Death
2024-01-03 05:25:03 UTC
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Thank Nancy Pelosi and all the East Coast Democrats for ruining
California.
"There is a sense that, on everything from housing to schools, San
Francisco has lost the plot—that progressive leaders here have been
LARPing left-wing values instead of working to create a livable city.
And many San Franciscans have had enough," writes Nellie Bowles.

San Francisco was conquered by the United States in 1846, and two years
later, the Americans discovered gold. That’s about when my ancestors
came—my German great-great-great-grandfather worked at a butcher shop on
Jackson Street. The gold dried up but too many young men with outlandish
dreams remained. The little city, prone to earthquakes and fires, kept
growing. The Beats came, then the hippies; the moxie and hubris of the
place remained.

My grandmother’s favorite insult was to call someone dull. I learned
young that it was impolite to point when a naked man passed by,
groceries in hand. If someone wanted to travel by unicycle or be a white
person with dreadlocks or raise a child communally among a group of gays
or live on a boat or start a ridiculous-sounding company, that was just
fine. Between the bead curtains of my aunt’s house, I learned you had to
let your strangeness breathe.

It was always weird, always a bit dangerous. Once, when I was very
little, a homeless man grabbed me by the hair, lifting me into the air
for a moment before the guy dropped me and my dad yelled. For years I
told anyone who would listen that I’d been kidnapped. But every
compromise San Francisco demanded was worth it. The hills are so steep
that I didn’t learn to ride a bike until high school, but every day I
saw the bay, and the cool fog rolling in over the water. When puberty
hit, I asked the bus driver to drop me off where the lesbians were, and
he did. A passenger shouted that he hoped I’d find a nice girlfriend,
and I waved back, smiling, my mouth full of braces and rubber bands.

So much has been written about the beauty and mythology of this city
that maybe it’s superfluous to add even a little more to the ledger. If
he ever got to heaven, Herb Caen, the town’s beloved old chronicler,
once said, he’d look around and say, “It ain’t bad, but it ain’t San
Francisco.” The cliffs, the stairs, the cold clean air, the low-slung
beauty of the Sunset, the cafés tucked along narrow streets, then Golden
Gate Park drawing you down from the middle of the city all the way to
the beach. It’s so goddamn whimsical and inspiring and temperate; so
full of redwoods and wild parrots and the smell of weed and sourdough,
brightly painted homes and backyard chickens, lines for the oyster bar
and gorgeous men in chaps at the leather festival. But it’s maddening
because the beauty and the mythology—the preciousness, the
self-regard—are part of what has almost killed it. And I, now in early
middle age, sometimes wish it weren’t so nice at all.

But I do need you to love San Francisco a little bit, like I do a lot,
in order to hear the story of how my city fell apart—and how it just
might be starting to pull itself back together.

Because yesterday, San Francisco voters decided to turn their district
attorney, Chesa Boudin, out of office. They did it because he didn’t
seem to care that he was making the citizens of our city miserable in
service of an ideology that made sense everywhere but in reality. It’s
not just about Boudin, though. There is a sense that, on everything from
housing to schools, San Francisco has lost the plot—that progressive
leaders here have been LARPing left-wing values instead of working to
create a livable city. And many San Franciscans have had enough.

On a cold, sunny day not too long ago, I went to see the city’s new
Tenderloin Center for drug addicts on Market Street. It’s downtown, an
open-air chain-link enclosure in what used to be a public plaza. On the
sidewalks all around it, people are lying on the ground, twitching.
There’s a free mobile shower, laundry, and bathroom station emblazoned
with the words dignity on wheels. A young man is lying next to it,
stoned, his shirt riding up, his face puffy and sunburned. Inside the
enclosure, services are doled out: food, medical care, clean syringes,
referrals for housing. It’s basically a safe space to shoot up. The city
government says it’s trying to help. But from the outside, what it looks
like is young people being eased into death on the sidewalk, surrounded
by half-eaten boxed lunches.

A couple of years ago, this was an intersection full of tourists and
office workers who coexisted, somehow, with the large and ever-present
community of the homeless. I’ve walked the corner a thousand times. Now
the homeless—and those who care for the homeless—are the only ones left.

During the first part of the pandemic, San Francisco County lost more
than one in 20 residents—myself among them. Signs of the city’s pandemic
decline are everywhere—the boarded-up stores, the ghostly downtown, the
encampments. But walking these streets awakens me to how bad San
Francisco had gotten even before the coronavirus hit—to how much
suffering and squalor I’d come to think was normal.

Stepping over people’s bodies, blurring my eyes to not see a dull needle
jabbing and jabbing again between toes—it coarsened me. I’d gotten used
to the idea that some people just want to live like that. I was even a
little defensive of it: Hey, it’s America. It’s your choice.

If these ideas seem facile or perverse, well, they’re not the only ones
I’d come to harbor. Before I left, I’d gotten used to the idea of
housing so expensive that it would, as if by some natural law, force
couples out of town as soon as they had a kid. San Francisco now has the
fewest children per capita of any large American city, and a $117,400
salary counts as low-income for a family of four.

I’d gotten used to the crime, rarely violent but often brazen; to
leaving the car empty and the doors unlocked so thieves would at least
quit breaking my windows. A lot of people leave notes on the glass
stating some variation of Nothing’s in the car. Don't smash the windows.
One time someone smashed our windows just to steal a scarf. Once, when I
was walking and a guy tore my jacket off my back and sprinted away with
it, I didn’t even shout for help. I was embarrassed—what was I, a
tourist? Living in a failing city does weird things to you. The normal
thing to do then was to yell, to try to get help—even, dare I say it,
from a police officer—but this felt somehow lame and maybe racist.

A couple of years ago, one of my friends saw a man staggering down the
street, bleeding. She recognized him as someone who regularly slept
outside in the neighborhood, and called 911. Paramedics and police
arrived and began treating him, but members of a homeless advocacy group
noticed and intervened. They told the man that he didn’t have to get
into the ambulance, that he had the right to refuse treatment. So that’s
what he did. The paramedics left; the activists left. The man sat on the
sidewalk alone, still bleeding. A few months later, he died about a
block away.

It was easier to ignore this kind of suffering amid the throngs of
workers and tourists. And you could always avert your gaze and look at
the beautiful city around you. But in lockdown the beauty became
obscene. The city couldn’t get kids back into the classroom; so many
people were living on the streets; petty crime was rampant. I used to
tell myself that San Francisco’s politics were wacky but the city was
trying—really trying—to be good. But the reality is that with the
smartest minds and so much money and the very best of intentions, San
Francisco became a cruel city. It became so dogmatically progressive
that maintaining the purity of the politics required accepting—or at
least ignoring—devastating results.

But this dogmatism may be buckling under pressure from reality. Earlier
this year, in a landslide, San Francisco voters recalled the head of the
school board and two of her most progressive colleagues. These are the
people who also turned out Boudin; early results showed that about 60
percent of voters chose to recall him.

Read: Why California wants to recall its most progressive prosecutors

Residents had hoped Boudin would reform the criminal-justice system and
treat low-level offenders more humanely. Instead, critics argued that
his policies victimized victims, allowed criminals to go free to
reoffend, and did nothing to help the city’s most vulnerable. To
understand just how noteworthy Boudin’s defenestration is, please keep
in mind that San Francisco has only a tiny number of Republicans. This
fight is about leftists versus liberals. It’s about idealists who think
a perfect world is within reach—it’ll only take a little more time, a
little more commitment, a little more funding, forever—and those who are
fed up.

If you’re going to die on the street, San Francisco is not a bad place
to do it. The fog keeps things temperate. There’s nowhere in the world
with more beautiful views. City workers and volunteers bring you food
and blankets, needles and tents. Doctors come to see how the fentanyl is
progressing, and to make sure the rest of you is all right as you go.

In February 2021, at a corner in the lovely Japantown neighborhood, just
a few feet from a house that would soon sell for $4.8 million, a
37-year-old homeless man named Dustin Walker died by the side of the
road. His body lay there for at least 11 hours. He wore blue shorts and
even in death clutched his backpack.

I can’t stop thinking about how long he lay there, dead, on that corner,
and how normal this was in our putatively gentle city. San Franciscans
are careful to use language that centers people’s humanity—you don’t say
“a homeless person”; you say “someone experiencing homelessness”—and yet
we live in a city where many of those people die on the sidewalk.

Here is a list of some of the organizations that work with the city to
fight overdoses and to generally make life more pleasant for the people
on the street: Street Crisis Response Team, EMS-6, Street Overdose
Response Team, San Francisco Homeless Outreach Team, Street Medicine and
Shelter Health, DPH Mobile Crisis Team, Street Wellness Response Team,
and Compassionate Alternative Response Team. The city also funds
thousands of shelter beds and many walk-in clinics.

The budget to tackle homelessness and provide supportive housing has
been growing exponentially for years. In 2021, the city announced that
it would pour more than $1 billion into the issue over the next two
years. But almost 8,000 people remain on the streets.

Alison Hawkes, a spokesperson for the Department of Public Health, said
money spent on the well-being of the homeless goes to good use: Many
people “end up remaining on the street but in a better situation. Their
immediate needs are taken care of.”

But many are clearly in an awful situation. San Francisco saw 92 drug
deaths in 2015. There were about 700 in 2020. By way of comparison, that
year, 261 San Franciscans died of COVID.

Read: ‘I don’t know that I would even call it meth anymore’

Of course, you can’t blame the plague of meth and opioids on my
hometown. Fentanyl is a national catastrophe. But people addicted to
drugs come from all over the country in part for the services San
Francisco provides. In addition to the supervised drug-use facility in
the plaza, San Francisco has a specially sanctioned and city-maintained
slum a block from City Hall, where food, medical care, and counseling
are free, and every tent costs taxpayers roughly $60,000 a year. People
addicted to fentanyl come, too, because buying and doing drugs here is
so easy. In 2014, Proposition 47, a state law, downgraded drug
possession from a felony to a misdemeanor, and one that Boudin said he
wouldn’t devote resources to prosecuting.

This approach to drug use and homelessness is distinctly San Franciscan,
blending empathy-driven progressivism with California libertarianism.
The roots of this belief system reach back to the ’60s, when hippies
filled the streets with tents and weed. The city has always had a soft
spot for vagabonds, and an admirable focus on care over punishment.
Policy makers and residents largely embraced the exciting idea that
people should be able to do whatever they want to do, including live in
tent cities and have fun with drugs and make their own medical
decisions, even if they are out of their mind sometimes. But then
fentanyl arrived, and more and more people started dying in those tents.
When the pandemic began, the drug crisis got worse.

In 2019, someone posted a picture in a Facebook group called B.A.R.T.
Rants & Raves, where people complain about the state of the regional
transportation system. The photo was of a young man, slumped over on a
train. People were chiming in about how gross the city was.

A woman named Jacqui Berlinn wrote in the comments, simply: “That’s my
son.”

His name is Corey Sylvester and he’s 31 years old. She posted a photo of
him when he was sober: “May he return there soon.”

Berlinn has five children, and is also raising Sylvester’s daughter.
Since she posted that comment, she’s become an activist, calling on the
city to crack down on drug sales, put dealers in jail, and arrest her
son so he’s forced to become sober in jail, which she sees as the only
way to save his life. She told me that she feels San Francisco has
failed people like him: “Nothing that is being done is improving the
situation.” Her work is nonpartisan, she said, but “I’d be lying if I
didn’t say I really want to see Boudin recalled.”

Not long ago, we met on a stoop by the Civic Center, where her son used
to hang out. She hadn’t seen him in months, but she spoke with him
periodically. She cried as she talked about his journey into drugs. She
said he was a heroin addict. He’d get sober after stints in jail, but it
wouldn’t last. “I’d see him sometimes, and he didn’t look that bad, and
that was how it was for 10 years,” she told me. “But then the dealers
started putting fentanyl in everything, and being on fentanyl, it’s
changed him, deteriorated him so rapidly … Before, he looked pretty
healthy and smiling. And now he’s got this stoop. He walks almost at a
40-degree angle, like an old man.”

He’s been stabbed twice. He got an infection in his thumb, and she
thought he might lose the hand. “They need to stop ignoring the fact
that there are people out here selling fentanyl on the streets,” she
said. “When it was just heroin—I can’t believe I’m saying ‘just heroin.’
Fentanyl is different. We’re normalizing people dying.”

One day, Berlinn was out looking for Corey in the Tenderloin
neighborhood when she came across someone else’s son. “He was naked in
front of Safeway … And he was saying he was God and he was eating a
cardboard box.”

She called the police. Officers arrived but said there was nothing they
could do; he said he didn’t want help, and he wasn’t hurting anyone.
“They said it’s not illegal to be naked; people are in the Castro naked
all the time … They just left him naked eating cardboard on the street
in front of Safeway.”

What happened to the man at the Safeway, what happened to Dustin
Walker—these are parables of a sort of progressive-libertarian nihilism,
of the belief that any intervention that has to be imposed on a
vulnerable person is so fundamentally flawed and problematic that the
best thing to do is nothing at all. Anyone offended by the sight of the
suffering is just judging someone who’s having a mental-health episode,
and any liberal who argues that the state can and should take control of
someone in the throes of drugs and psychosis is basically a Republican.
If and when the vulnerable person dies, that was his choice, and in San
Francisco we congratulate ourselves on being very accepting of that
choice.

Last year, I bought my wife her wedding ring at a beautiful little
antique store a few blocks from my childhood home. It was ransacked at
the end of December. The shaken owner posted a video; the showcases were
empty and the whole place was covered in glass.

You can spend days debating San Francisco crime statistics and their
meaning, and many people do. It has relatively low rates of violent
crime, and when compared with similarly sized cities, one of the lowest
rates of homicide. But what the city has become notorious for are crimes
like shoplifting and car break-ins, and there the data show that the
reputation is earned. Burglaries are up more than 40 percent since 2019.
Car break-ins have declined lately, but San Francisco still suffers more
car break-ins—and far more property theft overall—per capita than cities
like Atlanta and Los Angeles.

The head of CVS Health’s organized-crime division has called San
Francisco “one of the epicenters of organized retail crime.” Thefts in
San Francisco’s Walgreens are four times the national average. Stores
are reducing hours or shutting down. Seven Walgreens closed between last
November and February, and some point to theft as the reason. The city
is doing strikingly little about it. About 70 percent of shoplifting
cases in San Francisco ended in an arrest in 2011. In 2021, only 15
percent did.

Annie Lowrey: The people vs. Chesa Boudin

The movement to decriminalize shoplifting in San Francisco began in 2014
with Proposition 47, the state law that downgraded drug possession and
also recategorized the theft of merchandise worth less than $950 as a
misdemeanor. It accelerated in 2019 with the election of Boudin as
district attorney.

It is difficult to remember now, but the Boudin election was thrilling
for the city. It occurred during the heights of rage against President
Donald Trump, when more and more people were becoming aware of police
violence against Black people and demanding criminal-justice reforms.
London Breed, the city’s first Black female mayor, wanted a liberal
moderate for D.A., but Boudin ran to the left as a fierce progressive
ideologue whose worldview was shaped by his imprisoned parents, members
of the Weather Underground. He was a public defender, not a prosecutor
at all. He had worked in Venezuela and in 2009 congratulated the former
dictator Hugo Chávez for abolishing term limits. Boudin was a
charismatic figure. His campaign manager called him “a national movement
candidate.”

The Police Officers Association fought hard against him, spending
$400,000 on a barrage of attack ads, according to the San Francisco
Examiner. They didn’t work. At Boudin’s election party, a city
supervisor led the crowd in a chant of “Fuck the POA.” During his
campaign, Boudin said he wouldn’t prosecute quality-of-life crimes. He
wanted to “break the cycle of recidivism” by addressing the social
causes of crime—poverty, addiction, mental-health issues. Boudin was
selling revolution, and San Francisco was ready. In theory.

But not in fact. Because it turns out that people on the left also own
property, and generally believe stores should be paid for the goods they
sell.

It has become no big deal to see someone stealing in San Francisco.
Videos of crimes in process go viral fairly often. One from last year
shows a group of people fleeing a Neiman Marcus with goods in broad
daylight. Others show people grabbing what they can from drugstores and
walking out. When a theft happens in a Walgreens or a CVS, there’s no
big chase. The cashiers are blasé about it. Aisle after aisle of
deodorant and shampoo are under lock and key. Press a button for the
attendant to get your dish soap.

The rage against Boudin was related to that locked-up soap, but it went
far beyond it.

Under Boudin, prosecutors in the city could no longer use the fact that
someone had been convicted of a crime in the past to ask for a longer
sentence, except in “extraordinary circumstances.” Boudin ended cash
bail and limited the use of gang enhancements, which allow harsher
sentences for gang-related felonies. In most cases he prohibited
prosecutors from seeking charges when drugs and guns were found during
minor traffic stops. “We will not charge cases determined to be a racist
pretextual stop that leads to recovery of contraband,” Rachel Marshall,
the district attorney’s director of communications, told me.

Boudin is a big proponent of “collaborative courts” that focus on
rehabilitation over jail time, such as Veterans Justice Court and
Behavioral Health Court, and under his tenure they tried more cases than
ever before. In 2018, less than 40 percent of petty-theft cases were
sent to these programs, compared with more than 70 percent last year.
Marshall said it was the judges who decided which cases to divert, not
Boudin, and eligibility rules for the collaborative courts have loosened
in recent years. But critics also pointed out that Boudin got fewer
convictions overall: 40 percent in 2021, compared with about 60 percent
under his predecessor.

About 60 prosecutors had left since Boudin took office—close to half of
his team. Some retired or were fired, but others quit in protest. I
talked with two who joined the recall campaign. One of them, a homicide
prosecutor named Brooke Jenkins, told me she left in part because Boudin
was pressuring some lawyers to prosecute major crimes as lesser
offenses. (Marshall said this was “a lie.”) She couldn’t be part of it.
“The victims feel hopeless,” Jenkins told me. “They feel he has lost
their opportunity for justice. Right now what they see and feel is that
his only concern is the criminal offender.” (I wouldn’t be surprised to
see Jenkins run for D.A. herself, though this isn’t something she’s
floated yet.)

A 2020 tweet from the Tenderloin police station captured the frustration
of the rank and file: “Tonight, for the fifteenth (15th) time in 18
months, and the 3rd time in 20 days, we are booking the same suspect at
county jail for felony motor vehicle theft.”

Boudin has a rugged jawline and fast, tight answers for his critics. His
office vehemently rejected the argument that he wasn’t doing enough to
tackle crime. “The DA has filed charges in about 80 percent of felony
drug sales and possession for sales cases presented to our office by
police,” Marshall pointed out. After all, he could prosecute people only
if the police arrested them, and arrest rates had plummeted under his
tenure. So how could that be his fault? But why had arrest rates
plummeted? The pandemic was one reason. But maybe it was also because
the D.A. said from the beginning that he would not prioritize the
prosecution of lower-level offenses. Police officers generally don’t
arrest people they know the D.A. won’t charge.

In 2020, I interviewed Boudin while working on a story for The New York
Times. When we talked about why he wasn’t interested in prosecuting
quality-of-life crimes, he explained that street crime is small potatoes
compared with the high-level stuff he wants to focus on. (“Kilos, not
crumbs” is a favorite line.) He has suggested that many drug dealers in
San Francisco are themselves vulnerable and in need of protection. “A
significant percentage of people selling drugs in San Francisco—perhaps
as many as half—are here from Honduras,” he said in a 2020 virtual town
hall. “We need to be mindful about the impact our interventions have …
Some of these young men have been trafficked here under pain of death.
Some of them have had family members in Honduras who have been or will
be harmed if they don’t continue to pay off the traffickers.”

Read: His dad got a chance at clemency. Then his baby was born.

Of course there is good in what Boudin was trying to do. No one wants
people incarcerated for unfair lengths of time. No one wants immigrants’
relatives to be killed by MS-13. Few of Boudin’s policy
ideas—individually, and sometimes with reasonable limitations—are
indefensible. (Ending cash bail for truly minor offenses, for instance,
protects people from losing their job and more while in jail.) But as
with homelessness, the city’s overall take on criminal-justice reform
moved well past the point of common sense. Last month a man who had been
convicted of 15 burglary and theft-related felonies from 2002 to 2019
was rearrested on 16 new counts of burglary and theft; most of those
charges were dismissed and he was released on probation. It really
didn’t inspire confidence that the city was taking any of this
seriously.

Boudin’s defenders liked to dismiss his critics as whiny tech bros or
rich right-wingers. One pro-Boudin flyer said stop the right-wing
agenda. But the drumbeat of complaints came from plenty of good
liberals, and so did the votes against him. If it were only the rich,
well, the rich can hire private security, or move to the suburbs. And
many do. They’re not the only people who live here, and they’re not the
only ones who got angry.

It may not have been so clear until now, but San Franciscans have been
losing patience with the city’s leadership for a long time. Nothing did
more to alienate them over the years than how the progressive leaders
managed the city’s housing crisis.

Consider the story of the flower farm at 770 Woolsey Street. It slopes
down 2.2 acres in the sunny southern end of the city and is filled with
run-down greenhouses, the glass long shattered—a chaos of birds and wild
roses. For five years, advocates fought a developer who was trying to
put 63 units on that bucolic space. They wanted to sell flowers there
and grow vegetables for the neighborhood—a kind of banjo-and-beehives
utopian fantasy. The thing they didn’t want—at least not there, not on
that pretty hill—was a big housing development. Who wants to argue
against them? In San Francisco the word developer is basically a slur,
close to calling someone a Republican. What kind of monster wants to
bulldoze wild roses?

Decades of progressive governance in San Francisco yielded a thicket of
regulations—safety reviews, environmental reviews, historical reviews,
sunlight-obstruction reviews—that empower residents to essentially
paralyze development. It costs only $682 to file for a discretionary
review that can hold up a construction project for years, and if you’re
an established club that’s been around for at least two years, it’s
free. Plans for one 19-unit-development geared toward the middle class
were halted this year because, among other issues raised by the
neighbors, the building would have increased overall shadow coverage on
Dolores Park by 0.001 percent.

The cost of real estate hit crisis levels in the 2010s, as ambitious
grads from all over the world crammed into the hills to work in the
booming tech industry. Soon, there was nowhere for them to live. Tech
workers moved into RVs, parked alongside the poor and unhoused. Illegal
dorms sprang up. Well-paid young people gentrified almost every
neighborhood in town. In 2018, when London Breed was elected mayor at
the age of 43, she had only just stopped living with a roommate; she
couldn’t afford to live alone.

Existing homeowners, meanwhile, got very, very rich. If all other
tactics fail, neighbors who oppose a big construction project can just
put it on the ballot. If given a choice, who would ever vote to risk
their property value going down, or say “Yes, I’m fine with a shadow
over my backyard”? It doesn’t happen.

Rage against this pleasant status quo has come from a faction of young
renters. I once went to a training session in the Mission District run
by a pro-housing group called YIMBY—for “Yes in My Backyard.” I watched
a PowerPoint presentation (“And here’s another reason to be mad at your
grandparents! Next slide.”) and then joined the group for drinks.

“The elderly NIMBYs literally hiss at people,” said Steven Buss, who now
runs a moderate organizing team called GrowSF, about the tension at
community housing meetings. (One foggy night, at one of those meetings,
I heard the hissing, and it was funny, and the project they were talking
about never got built.)

Gabe Zitrin, a lawyer, popped in: “Like 770 Woolsey. I love kale too,
but you could house 50 kids and their families on that site. It’s about
priorities. They want a farm. They’re selfish and they’re vain. A farm
does not serve the common good. I can’t tell them not to want it—but I
can tell them that housing is what we need more. I don’t want to end up
surrounded by a bunch of super-rich people and a farm.”

The city’s progressives seem to feel that it is all just too beautiful
and fragile to change. Any change will mean diminishment; any new,
bigger building means the old, charming one is gone, and the old,
charming resident is probably gone too. The flow of newcomers is out of
control; they should just stop coming here. The community gardens have
to stay, along with the sunlight spilling across the low buildings. No
one thinks about it as damning teachers and firefighters to
mega-commutes. No one thinks of it as kicking out the middle class.
Given the choice between housing people in sidewalk tents or in new
buildings that might risk blocking an inch of their view of the bay, San
Franciscans, for years, chose the tents.

The anger directed at Chesa Boudin probably could have been contained.
The petty crime was frustrating, but it wasn’t what lit the city up for
revolution. The housing crush is miserable, but it’s been that way for
more than a decade now. The spark that lit this all on fire was the
school board. And the population ready to rage was San Francisco’s
parents.

The city’s schools were shut for most of the 2020–21 academic
year—longer than schools in most other cities, and much longer than San
Francisco’s private schools. In the middle of the pandemic, with no real
reopening plan in sight, school-board meetings became major events, with
audiences on Zoom of more than 1,000. The board didn’t have unilateral
power to reopen schools even if it wanted to—that depended on
negotiations between the district, the city, and the teachers’ union—but
many parents were appalled to find that the board members didn’t even
seem to want to talk much about getting kids back into classrooms. They
didn’t want to talk about learning loss or issues with attendance and
functionality. It seemed they couldn’t be bothered with topics like
ventilation. Instead they wanted to talk about white supremacy.

One night in 2021, the meeting lasted seven hours, one of which was
devoted to making sure a man named Seth Brenzel stayed off the parent
committee.

Brenzel is a music teacher, and at the time he and his husband had a
child in public school. Eight seats on the committee were open, and
Brenzel was unanimously recommended by the other committee members. But
there was a problem: Brenzel is white.

“My name’s Mari,” one attendee said. “I’m an openly queer parent of
color that uses they/them pronouns.” They noted that the parent
committee was already too white (out of 10 sitting members, three were
white). This was “really, really problematic,” they said. “I bet there
are parents that we can find that are of color and that also are queer …
QTPOC voices need to be led first before white queer voices.”

Someone else called in, identifying herself as Cindy. She was calling to
defend Brenzel, and she was crying. “He is a gay father of a mixed-race
family,” she said.

A woman named Brandee came on the call: “I’m a white parent and have
some intersectionality within my family. My son has several
disabilities. And I really wouldn’t dream of putting my name forward for
this.” She had some choice words for Cindy: “When white people share
these kinds of tears at board meetings”—she pauses, laughing—“I have an
excellent book suggestion for you. It’s called White Tears/Brown Scars.
I’d encourage you to read it, thank you.”

Allison Collins, a member of the school board, dealt the death blow: “As
a mixed-race person myself, I find it really offensive when folks say
that somebody’s a parent of somebody who’s a person of color, as, like,
a signifier that they’re qualified to represent that community.”

Brenzel remained mostly expressionless throughout the meeting. He did
not say a word. Eventually the board agreed to defer the vote. He was
never approved.

The other big debate on these Zoom calls was whether to rename schools
named for figures such as Abraham Lincoln and Dianne Feinstein, the
first female mayor of San Francisco. The board labeled these figures
symbols of a racist past, and ultimately voted to rename 44
“injustice-linked” schools—though after a backlash, the board suspended
the implementation of the changes.

The board members were arguably doing what they had been put there to
do. Collins and her two most progressive colleagues were elected in
2018, the year before Boudin, and it was a headier time, when Trump’s
shadow seemed to loom over even the smallest local office. Collins had a
blog focused on justice in education, and there was a sense that she
would champion a radical new politics. But during the endless lockdown,
enthusiasm began to wane, even among many people who’d voted for her.
They found themselves turned off by the board’s combative tone—as well
as by its actual ideas about education.

In February 2021, board members agreed that they would avoid the phrase
learning loss to describe what was happening to kids locked out of their
classrooms. Instead they would use the words learning change. Schools
being shut just meant students were “having different learning
experiences than the ones we currently measure,” Gabriela López, a
member of the board at the time, said. “They are learning more about
their families and their cultures.” Framing this as some kind of
“deficit” was wrong, the board argued.

That same month, the board voted to replace the rigorous test that
screened applicants for Lowell, San Francisco’s most competitive high
school, with a lottery system. López had explained it this way: “Grades
and standardized test scores are automatic barriers for students outside
of white and Asian communities.” She said they “have shown to be one of
the most effective racist policies, considering they’re used to attempt
to measure aptitude and intelligence. So the fact that Lowell uses this
merit-based system as a step in applying is inherently racist.”

Collins echoed that: “‘Merit’ is an inherently racist construct designed
and centered on white supremacist framing.”

If you didn’t like these changes, tough. A parent on Twitter accused
López of trying to destroy the school system, and she replied with the
words “I mean this sincerely” followed by a middle-finger emoji. In
July, on the topic of the declining quality of life in San Francisco,
she wrote, “I’m like, then leave.”

Gabriela López must have thought that history was on her side. Boudin,
too. But things are turning out differently. If there was a tipping
point in this story, it was when the city’s Asian American parents in
particular got really, really mad.

As Allison Collins’s profile rose during the pandemic, critics started
looking through her old tweets. There were bad ones. In 2016, she had
written: “Many Asian Americans believe they benefit from the ‘model
minority’ BS. In fact many Asian American teachers, students and parents
actively promote these myths. They use white supremacist thinking to
assimilate and ‘get ahead.’”

She also complained about Asian Americans not speaking out enough about
Trump: “Do they think they won’t be deported? Profiled? Beaten? Being a
house n****r is still being a n****r. You’re still considered ‘the
help.’”

The San Francisco Bay Area is 52 percent white, 6.7 percent Black, and
23.3 percent Asian. And many Asian San Franciscans were horrified by the
tweets.

“Her comments deeply insulted my family and the entire Chinese community
in San Francisco,” Kit Lam told me. Lam is an immigrant from Hong Kong
with two children in public school. He works for the school district, in
the enrollment department, though he just learned that his job will be
eliminated next month. He said he knew what richer parents were doing
during the pandemic because he saw the paperwork: They were pulling
their kids out and sending them to private schools. Lam didn’t have that
choice.

In April 2021, he started going on 1400 AM, the Bay Area’s
Chinese-language radio station, to express his outrage. He spoke out
against school closures and the decision to get rid of the admissions
test for Lowell. Asian students have traditionally been overrepresented
at Lowell; getting in is one of the best ways for high-achieving poor
and middle-class kids in San Francisco to rise up the economic ladder.

Many people from his community agreed with him. They began gathering
signatures and raising money for a campaign to recall Collins, López,
and another progressive board member, Faauuga Moliga. Siva Raj, one of
the recall organizers, told me that roughly half of those volunteering
for the campaign spoke Chinese.

After the tweets came to light, a member of the board asked Collins to
voluntarily step down. But she refused. Instead, she sued five of her
fellow members. She also sued the district. She asked for $87 million,
citing, among other afflictions, “severe mental, and emotional
distress,” “damage to self-image,” and “injury to spiritual solace.”

Her case was tossed. And in February 2022, San Franciscans voted
decisively to remove all three from the board. A landslide 76 percent
voted to recall Collins, and the other two were recalled by about 70
percent each. They have been replaced by moderates, appointed by the
mayor. Collins and López slammed their opponents as agents of white
supremacy, but the turnout was diverse, and impressive, especially for a
special election: More people voted to recall the board members than had
cast votes for them in the first place.

Boudin’s opponents, likewise, came from all over the city. He liked to
say they were funded by elites, and the recall campaign did raise about
twice as much money. But wealthy people have donated to the pro-Boudin
campaign, too. The racial group that was most likely to say they wanted
Boudin recalled? Asian Americans. Their allies included many from the
remnants of the city’s middle class, as well as the same sort of
swayable liberals who went from voting for Collins to recalling her.

Now a number of groups are trying to address quality-of-life issues in
the city. There is the new California Peace Coalition, which opposes the
open-air drug markets, and includes parents of drug users who are at
risk of or have died from overdose. There’s Innovate Public Schools and
Stop Crime SF, which are self-explanatory. Shine On SF is “reigniting
civic pride” by cleaning up the city’s streets. SF.Citi is advocating
for the interests of tech workers.

For a long time, says Michelle Tandler, a start-up founder who
documented downtown’s collapse on Twitter, “San Francisco progressives
and Democrats were so focused on Trump that they weren’t paying
attention.” Suddenly, they’re paying attention.

And Mayor Breed is responding. She was elected during the Trump
administration, like Boudin and the school board, and her approval
numbers are also faltering. But she’s in a different mold. Breed is a
canny politician who knows which way the wind is blowing, and is open to
changing course depending on the results.

Just a few years ago, she had proudly embraced the “defund the police”
movement; no longer. This spring, after the city’s gay-pride parade
banned police officers from marching in uniform, Breed announced that
out of solidarity, she wouldn’t march either.

I took a stroll with her back in February. She had just given a press
conference on anti-Asian hate crimes outside a senior center in
Chinatown. As in places like New York, the city had seen a spike in the
reporting of hate crimes against Asians. People were scared. Breed grew
up in the city’s projects and knows residents who have had family
members shot and killed recently. “I know a lot of people who supported
Chesa because there was a strong push for criminal justice,” she told
me. “I don’t think people believed that it meant that justice would not
occur.” She added, “That’s not justice reform, if everyone who commits
the crime is getting off for the crime.” Now she’ll have a chance to
replace him.

As we talked, we walked through Chinatown, then up past the $7 million
homes of Russian Hill and down into North Beach. The bay lay ahead; the
cable-car drivers waved to the mayor; the city’s problems seemed far
off. But Breed was angry, disappointed with the progressive faction and
how it had let the city down. A few months earlier, Breed had announced
a new approach to crime, starting with the Tenderloin, whose streets and
sidewalks are full of fentanyl’s chaos. She declared it to be in a state
of emergency and approved three months of funding for increased law
enforcement there.

The order was mostly symbolic—the drug problem isn’t limited to a few
bad blocks. Often a sweep of the homeless just means pushing the tents
and dealers down the road. And anyone who lives in San Francisco knows
the Tenderloin has been an emergency for years. But it allowed the mayor
to trot out some new rhetoric: “What I’m proposing today and what I will
be proposing in the future will make a lot of people uncomfortable, and
I don’t care.” It was time, she said, to be “less tolerant of all the
bullshit that has destroyed our city.”

My hometown isn’t turning red on any electoral maps. But the shift is
real. The farm at 770 Woolsey? The developer finally has approval to
turn it into housing. If progressives have overplayed their hand, gotten
a little decadent in culture-war wins and stirring slogans, without the
good government to back them all up, San Francisco is showing the way
toward an internal reformation.

Before the school-board vote, the last local recall in San Francisco was
in 1983. There has not been this level of conflict at farmers’ markets,
where dueling signature-gatherers face off across from the
organic-dog-treat kiosk, in almost 40 years. This is, in part, because
until recently many San Franciscans were afraid. If a tech worker
complained, they were reviled. If an aging hippie complained, they were
a racist old nut. It was easier to blame all of our issues on
outsiders—those Silicon Valley interlopers who came in and ruined the
city. The drugs, the homelessness, the crime—blame the Google employees
who skewed the city’s condo market and brought in their artisanal
chocolates, their scooters, their trendy barbers. If not for them and
the inequality they created, San Francisco would still be good.

There’s some truth to that: You cannot tell the story of the housing
crunch without the tech boom. But people started looking at City Hall,
and at the school board. They realized there were no tech bros there.
The fentanyl epidemic and the pandemic cracked something. With the city
locked down endlessly, with people dying in the streets, with schools
closed, it was slowly becoming okay to say Maybe this is ridiculous.
Maybe this isn’t working.

Of course, it’ll take more than a couple of recall votes to save San
Francisco. When I asked Breed about the new center for addicts in the
plaza—the creation of which she supported—she seemed a little
uncomfortable and soon after wanted to wrap up our interview. She said
something vague about how not all change can happen at once.

NIMBYism and fentanyl are as much a part of the San Francisco landscape
now as the bridge and the fog. And the school board is still
school-boarding. At the end of May, it announced that the district would
no longer use the word chief in any job titles, out of respect for
Native Americans (despite the fact that the word actually comes from the
French chef).

The other day I walked by Millennium Tower. Once a symbol of the push to
transform our funky town into a big city, it’s a gleaming 58-story
skyscraper in the heart of San Francisco, and it’s been sinking into the
ground—more than a foot since it was finished in 2009. A group of men in
hard hats was just standing there, staring up at it. The metaphor is
obvious, but San Francisco has never been a subtle city. I’d like to
believe those guys finally had a plan to fix the tower. At least they
seemed to accept that it needed fixing.

For so long, San Francisco has been too self-satisfied to address the
slow rot in every one of its institutions. But nothing’s given me more
hope than the rage and the recalls. “San Franciscans feel ashamed,”
Michelle Tandler told me. “I think for the first time people are like,
‘Wait, what is a progressive? … Am I responsible? Is this my fault?’”

San Franciscans are now saying: We can want a fairer justice system and
also want to keep our car windows from getting smashed. And: It’s not
white supremacy to hope that the schools stay open, that teachers teach
children, and, yes, that they test to see what those kids have learned.

San Franciscans tricked themselves into believing that progressive
politics required blocking new construction and shunning the immigrants
who came to town to code. We tricked ourselves into thinking psychosis
and addiction on the sidewalk were just part of the city’s diversity,
even as the homelessness and the housing prices drove out the city’s
actual diversity. Now residents are coming to their senses. The recalls
mean there’s a limit to how far we will let the decay of this great city
go. And thank God.

Because Herb Caen was right. It’s still the most beautiful city you’ll
ever see.

https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2022/06/how-san-francisco-becam
e-failed-city/661199/
p***@protonmail.com
2024-01-04 02:10:39 UTC
Permalink
Thank Nancy Pelosi and all the East Coast Democrats for ruining
California.
If you want failure on a massive scale go check out Floriduh or Texass,
the flagship shithole states of the deep south.


https://www.thirdway.org/report/the-two-decade-red-state-murder-problem


The murder rate in the 25 states that voted for Donald Trump has
exceeded the murder rate in the 25 states that voted for Joe Biden in
every year from 2000 to 2020. Over this 21-year span, this Red State
murder gap has steadily widened from a low of 9% more per capita red
state murders in 2003 and 2004 to 44% more per capita red state
murders in 2019, before settling back to 43% in 2020. Altogether, the
per capita Red State murder rate was 23% higher than the Blue State
murder rate when all 21 years were combined. If Blue State murder
rates were as high as Red State murder rates, Biden-voting states
would have suffered over 45,000 more murders between 2000 and 2020.
Even when murders in the largest cities in red states are removed,
overall murder rates in Trump-voting states were 12% higher than
Biden-voting states across this 21-year period and were higher in 18
of the 21 years observed.

Republicans have made crime a major selling point over the past several
elections. In 2020 and 2022, they ran ads accusing Democratic candidates
of wanting to “defund the police”– a position held by only a handful of
fringe Democratic officeholders. In October 2022, one-quarter of ads from
Republican candidates and PACs focused on crime. Republican-aligned Fox
News aired, on average, 141 segments on crime across weekdays in the two
months leading up to the midterms. In the week after the midterm, their
coverage of violent crime dropped by 50%.

In March of 2022, we released a report that found murder rates in 2020
were 40% higher in Trump-voting states than Biden-voting states. In this
follow-up report, we studied homicide data going back to 2000 to see if
this one-year Red State murder epidemic was an anomaly. It was not.
Despite a media narrative to the contrary, a wide and widening Red State
murder gap has spanned the past two decades.

In this study, we collected homicide data from 2000 through 2020 for all
50 states from the Center of Disease Control Wonder’s National Center for
Health Statistics Mortality Data. Data is based on death certificates
collected by state registries and provided to the National Vital
Statistics System. We chose CDC data over FBI data because it’s more up to
date and does not rely on voluntary reporting from counties and states.
All states are required to report mortality data to the CDC; they’re only
encouraged to report crime data to the FBI. The United States Department
of Justice has acknowledged that CDC data is more accurate. (There were
four states with several years of missing data–New Hampshire, North
Dakota, Vermont, and Wyoming. In these instances, we relied on FBI numbers
from the Uniform Crime Statistics.)1 To allow for comparison, we
calculated the state’s per capita murder rate, the number of murders per
100,000 residents, and categorized states by their presidential vote in
the 2020 election, resulting in an even 25-25 state split.

We found that the murder rate in Trump-voting states has exceeded the
murder rate in Biden-voting states every year this century. Cumulatively,
overall murder rates since 2000 were on average 23% higher in Trump-voting
states. For the past 21 years, the top 10 murder rate states have been
dominated by reliably red states, namely Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama,
and Missouri. Even when we removed the county with the largest city in
Trump-voting states (and kept them in for Biden-voting states), murder
rates were still significantly higher in these red states.

And while media reports give the impression that murder rates are
skyrocketing in blue areas, murder rates have actually increased at far
higher rates in Trump-voting states over the past two decades, widening
the Red State murder gap from a low of 9% in 2003 and 2004 to a high of
44% in 2019, before falling to 43% in 2020. Since 2000, murder rates have
increased 39.4% in red states and just 13.4% in blue states.

There is a media and political narrative that crime is a Democratic
problem, occurring mostly in big blue cities and fueled by lax policies.
While murder is by no means the only crime in America, it is the most
serious. And as far as murder is concerned, it is a bigger problem in red
states than blue states and only becoming more so. As we noted in our last
report, Republicans do a much better job blaming others for crime than
actually stopping it. The murder rate in Trump-voting states has exceeded
Biden-voting states every year this century.

Despite the “Democrat-caused crime crisis,” murder rates in Trump-voting
states have been higher than Biden-voting states every single year this
century (see graph below). In 2000, the murder rate in Trump-voting states
was 6.35 per 100,000 residents compared to Biden states’ 5.47 per 100,000
residents, 16% higher. At its lowest, in 2003 and 2004, murder rates in
Trump states were 9% higher than in Biden states. At its highest, in 2019,
murder rates in Trump states were 44% higher than in Biden states.

Overall, when looking at 2000-2020, murder rates were on average 23%
higher in Trump states. The average murder rate in Trump states between
2000 and 2020 was 6.44 per 100,000 residents compared to 5.23 per 100,000
residents in Biden states. If Biden states had the same murder rate as
Trump states, they would have seen 5,000 more murders in 2020 alone.
Between 2000 and 2020, they would have suffered an additional 45,400
murders.

If Biden states had the same murder rate as Trump states, they would have
seen 5,000 more murders in 2020 alone. Between 2000 and 2020, they would
have suffered an additional 45,400 murders.

Tweet This

The top 10 murder rate states are increasingly dominated by Trump-voting
states.

Solidly red states have dominated the top 10 murder rate states for the
past decade—some for each of the last 21 years. Louisiana had the highest
murder rate in the country from 2000 to 2018, until it was surpassed by
Mississippi. Before becoming the state with the highest murder rate in
2019, Mississippi held the number two spot for 16 years between 2000 and
2018. Alabama has been in the top 5 for 20 out of the last 21 years. South
Carolina has been in the top 10 for each of the past 21 years. All of
these states have voted for the Republican presidential candidate in every
election since 2000. The red states of Arkansas, Tennessee, and Missouri
have also consistently been in the top 10 since 2004.

A handful of Biden states have as well, but not to the same degree as
Trump states. Maryland has been among the top 10 for 20 out of 21 years,
New Mexico for 16 years, and Georgia for 10 years. States often mentioned
in the media as crime havens, like California and New York, have not
graced the top 10 once. New York has never even been in the top 25 for
murder rates this century.

Between 2000 and 2010, red states and blue states roughly split the top
10, with four or five of the states being blue. But after 2010, murder
rates fell in blue states relative to red states. Beginning in 2011, red
states have held 7 or 8 spots in the top 10 every year.

The murder rate gap between Trump and Biden states has widened over the
course of two decades.

Murder rates in Trump states have been increasing at much higher rates
than Biden states. Back in 2000, murder rates in Trump states were 16%
higher and fell to a 9% gap in 2003 and 2004. By 2007, the Red State
murder gap reached 20% and would exceed 20% in every year but one
thereafter. In 2014, the Red State murder gap exceeded 30% for the first
time (32% in 2014) and would remain above that threshold throughout. The
Red State murder gap crossed the threshold of 40% in 2019, when murder
rates in Trump states were 44% higher than Biden states, before receding
slightly to 43% in 2020.

Over the period studied, murder rates jumped 39.4% in Trump-voting states
(6.35 murders/100,000 population in 2000 to 8.84/100,000 in 2020). Murder
rates increased just 13.4% in Biden-voting states (5.47 murders/100,000
population in 2000 to 6.20/100,000 in 2020).

Ironically, as the media frenzy over “soft on crime” Democrats reached its
peak, the Red State murder gap widened to its deepest gulch, contrary to
the popular narrative.

Ironically, as the media frenzy over “soft on crime” Democrats reached its
peak, the Red State murder gap widened to its deepest gulch, contrary to
the popular narrative.

Tweet This
Even when large cities are removed from red states, murder rates are still
higher.

Some on the right argue that murder rates in red states are higher because
of the blue cities in those red states. Of course, blue states have more
blue urban areas than red states. That is what makes most states blue. The
fact is that murder rates have increased in urban, suburban, and rural
areas.

But to answer these critics, we performed an exercise to give red states a
special boost. For this exercise, we removed all of the murders in the
county with the largest city for 19 of 25 red states. In six rural red
states home to no cities with large numbers of murders, this calculation
was not possible based on available CDC data.2 Blue states would get no
such advantage. But even with the largest city removed from red states,
the Red State murder gap persisted.

Over the course of the full 21 years between 2000 and 2020, the Red State
murder rate was still 12% higher than the Blue State murder rate, even
when murders in the largest cities in those red states were removed. And
the murder rate was still higher in 18 of 21 years.

Between 2010 and 2020, even after removing New Orleans and Jackson,
Louisiana and Mississippi continued to hold the number one and two spots
for highest murder rates. Alabama, Kentucky, Missouri, South Carolina, and
Tennessee were still consistently in the top 10 after removing their
largest city.

In 2020, the states with the highest murder rates stayed roughly the same
after making this change: Mississippi in first, then Louisiana, Alabama,
South Carolina, Missouri, Illinois, Maryland, Arkansas, Tennessee, and
Georgia. Why are Murder Rates Persistently Higher in Red States?

Crime and murder are complicated issues that are, unfortunately, ripe for
demagoguery. This paper is not intended to provide definitive causes for
the growing and persistent Red State murder gap; rather it is meant to
show that it exists. But here are some thoughts on why red states have
higher murder rates.

Guns: Gun ownership rates are far higher in red states than blue
states. Studies have estimated that gun ownership rates are as much as
twice as high in a typical red state than a typical blue state. Since
79% of all homicides are committed with a firearm, it stands to reason
that more guns will produce more murders, not less. Poverty: Studies
have found a correlation between poverty and violent crime. Red states
tend to have higher poverty rates than blue states. Educational
Attainment: Those who have a high school diploma or less tend to be
overrepresented among victims and perpetrators of homicide.
Increasingly, there is an educational attainment gap between red and
blue states as well. Social Service and Police Resources: Despite
accusations that Democrats “defund the police,” we found that cities
with Democratic mayors fund police at far higher levels on a per
capita basis than cities run by Republican mayors. In 2020, the 25
largest Democrat-run cities spent 38% more on policing per capita than
the 25 largest Republican-run cities. In addition, blue states may be
more likely to fund social service programs that help steer people
away from violent crime than red states.

Conclusion

On a typical day, about 65 Americans are murdered. If we watch the cable
networks, we’re likely to hear about one of them. The one that is chosen
often fits a narrative that is as familiar as it is shallow. It may cohere
with a political point a network wants to make – chaos in Democratic
cities, an illegal immigrant committing a brazen and lethal act. Usually,
it’s a murder in New York City or Los Angeles, two cities that actually
have murder rates far lower than many states.

These crime stories aren’t inaccurate, but they are curated. And when we
see them every day they create an impression of crime and murder in
America that tells only a part of the story. When we released “The Red
State Murder Problem” in March 2022 showing that murder rates in
Trump-voting states in 2020 were far higher than Biden-voting states, the
reaction was incredulity. That is because the news stories we see each day
tell us something different.

But the numbers don’t lie. It is our hope that with this report we can
create a more accurate political discussion about crime. And perhaps with
a more holistic political discussion, we can do more to actually reduce
violent and lethal crime. Methodology

We collected murder data for all 50 states from 2000 to 2020. Our primary
source was the Center of Disease Control Wonder’s National Center for
Health Statistics Mortality Data. We chose to use CDC data over FBI data
because it tends to be more accurate. This is because states are required
to report mortality data to the CDC while states are only encouraged to
report crime data to the FBI. As mentioned above, there were four states
that were missing a few years of data in the CDC database. New Hampshire
was missing data for 2002, North Dakota was missing data for 2001, 2002,
and 2008, Vermont was missing data for 2002 and 2009-2013, and Wyoming was
missing data for 2006 and 2010. For these, we used FBI data. Using the CDC
data and population data from the US Census Bureau, we calculated the per
capita murder rate for each state for every year. We split states into
“red” and “blue” states based on their vote in the 2020 Presidential
election—Trump versus Biden. For each year, we averaged the number of
homicides and populations for “red” and “blue” states and calculated the
average per capita murder rate. When we removed the largest cities from
red states, we removed the following counties: Alabama- Madison County
(Huntsville), Arkansas- Pulaski County (Little Rock), Kentucky- Jefferson
County (Louisville), Louisiana- Orleans Parish (New Orleans), Mississippi-
Hinds County (Jackson), Missouri- Jackson County (Kansas City), South
Carolina- Charleston County (Charleston), Tennessee- Davidson County
(Nashville), Alaska- Anchorage Borough (Anchorage), Florida- Duval County
(Jacksonville), Indiana- Marion County (Indianapolis), Kansas- Sedgwick
County (Wichita), Nebraska- Douglas County (Omaha), North Carolina-
Mecklenburg County (Charlotte), Ohio- Franklin County (Columbus),
Oklahoma- Oklahoma County (Oklahoma City), Texas- Harris County (Houston),
Utah- Salt Lake County (Salt Lake City), West Virginia- Kanawha County
(Charleston). The following states had less than 10 murders in their
largest city (the CDC doesn’t disclose murders under 10 for privacy
reasons): Idaho, Iowa, Montana, North Dakota, South Dakota, and Wyoming.
Data is attached.
X***@Y.com
2024-07-09 19:21:28 UTC
Permalink
Thank Nancy Pelosi and all the East Coast Democrats for ruining
California.
If you want failure on a massive scale go check out Floriduh or Texass, the
flagship shithole states of the deep south.


https://www.thirdway.org/report/the-two-decade-red-state-murder-problem


The murder rate in the 25 states that voted for Donald Trump has
exceeded the murder rate in the 25 states that voted for Joe Biden in
every year from 2000 to 2020. Over this 21-year span, this Red State
murder gap has steadily widened from a low of 9% more per capita red
state murders in 2003 and 2004 to 44% more per capita red state
murders in 2019, before settling back to 43% in 2020. Altogether, the
per capita Red State murder rate was 23% higher than the Blue State
murder rate when all 21 years were combined. If Blue State murder
rates were as high as Red State murder rates, Biden-voting states
would have suffered over 45,000 more murders between 2000 and 2020.
Even when murders in the largest cities in red states are removed,
overall murder rates in Trump-voting states were 12% higher than
Biden-voting states across this 21-year period and were higher in 18
of the 21 years observed.

Republicans have made crime a major selling point over the past several
elections. In 2020 and 2022, they ran ads accusing Democratic candidates
of wanting to “defund the police”– a position held by only a handful of
fringe Democratic officeholders. In October 2022, one-quarter of ads from
Republican candidates and PACs focused on crime. Republican-aligned Fox
News aired, on average, 141 segments on crime across weekdays in the two
months leading up to the midterms. In the week after the midterm, their
coverage of violent crime dropped by 50%.

In March of 2022, we released a report that found murder rates in 2020
were 40% higher in Trump-voting states than Biden-voting states. In this
follow-up report, we studied homicide data going back to 2000 to see if
this one-year Red State murder epidemic was an anomaly. It was not.
Despite a media narrative to the contrary, a wide and widening Red State
murder gap has spanned the past two decades.

In this study, we collected homicide data from 2000 through 2020 for all
50 states from the Center of Disease Control Wonder’s National Center for
Health Statistics Mortality Data. Data is based on death certificates
collected by state registries and provided to the National Vital
Statistics System. We chose CDC data over FBI data because it’s more up to
date and does not rely on voluntary reporting from counties and states.
All states are required to report mortality data to the CDC; they’re only
encouraged to report crime data to the FBI. The United States Department
of Justice has acknowledged that CDC data is more accurate. (There were
four states with several years of missing data–New Hampshire, North
Dakota, Vermont, and Wyoming. In these instances, we relied on FBI numbers
from the Uniform Crime Statistics.)1 To allow for comparison, we
calculated the state’s per capita murder rate, the number of murders per
100,000 residents, and categorized states by their presidential vote in
the 2020 election, resulting in an even 25-25 state split.

We found that the murder rate in Trump-voting states has exceeded the
murder rate in Biden-voting states every year this century. Cumulatively,
overall murder rates since 2000 were on average 23% higher in Trump-voting
states. For the past 21 years, the top 10 murder rate states have been
dominated by reliably red states, namely Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama,
and Missouri. Even when we removed the county with the largest city in
Trump-voting states (and kept them in for Biden-voting states), murder
rates were still significantly higher in these red states.

And while media reports give the impression that murder rates are
skyrocketing in blue areas, murder rates have actually increased at far
higher rates in Trump-voting states over the past two decades, widening
the Red State murder gap from a low of 9% in 2003 and 2004 to a high of
44% in 2019, before falling to 43% in 2020. Since 2000, murder rates have
increased 39.4% in red states and just 13.4% in blue states.

There is a media and political narrative that crime is a Democratic
problem, occurring mostly in big blue cities and fueled by lax policies.
While murder is by no means the only crime in America, it is the most
serious. And as far as murder is concerned, it is a bigger problem in red
states than blue states and only becoming more so. As we noted in our last
report, Republicans do a much better job blaming others for crime than
actually stopping it. The murder rate in Trump-voting states has exceeded
Biden-voting states every year this century.

Despite the “Democrat-caused crime crisis,” murder rates in Trump-voting
states have been higher than Biden-voting states every single year this
century (see graph below). In 2000, the murder rate in Trump-voting states
was 6.35 per 100,000 residents compared to Biden states’ 5.47 per 100,000
residents, 16% higher. At its lowest, in 2003 and 2004, murder rates in
Trump states were 9% higher than in Biden states. At its highest, in 2019,
murder rates in Trump states were 44% higher than in Biden states.

Overall, when looking at 2000-2020, murder rates were on average 23%
higher in Trump states. The average murder rate in Trump states between
2000 and 2020 was 6.44 per 100,000 residents compared to 5.23 per 100,000
residents in Biden states. If Biden states had the same murder rate as
Trump states, they would have seen 5,000 more murders in 2020 alone.
Between 2000 and 2020, they would have suffered an additional 45,400
murders.

If Biden states had the same murder rate as Trump states, they would have
seen 5,000 more murders in 2020 alone. Between 2000 and 2020, they would
have suffered an additional 45,400 murders.

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The top 10 murder rate states are increasingly dominated by Trump-voting
states.

Solidly red states have dominated the top 10 murder rate states for the
past decade—some for each of the last 21 years. Louisiana had the highest
murder rate in the country from 2000 to 2018, until it was surpassed by
Mississippi. Before becoming the state with the highest murder rate in
2019, Mississippi held the number two spot for 16 years between 2000 and
2018. Alabama has been in the top 5 for 20 out of the last 21 years. South
Carolina has been in the top 10 for each of the past 21 years. All of
these states have voted for the Republican presidential candidate in every
election since 2000. The red states of Arkansas, Tennessee, and Missouri
have also consistently been in the top 10 since 2004.

A handful of Biden states have as well, but not to the same degree as
Trump states. Maryland has been among the top 10 for 20 out of 21 years,
New Mexico for 16 years, and Georgia for 10 years. States often mentioned
in the media as crime havens, like California and New York, have not
graced the top 10 once. New York has never even been in the top 25 for
murder rates this century.

Between 2000 and 2010, red states and blue states roughly split the top
10, with four or five of the states being blue. But after 2010, murder
rates fell in blue states relative to red states. Beginning in 2011, red
states have held 7 or 8 spots in the top 10 every year.

The murder rate gap between Trump and Biden states has widened over the
course of two decades.

Murder rates in Trump states have been increasing at much higher rates
than Biden states. Back in 2000, murder rates in Trump states were 16%
higher and fell to a 9% gap in 2003 and 2004. By 2007, the Red State
murder gap reached 20% and would exceed 20% in every year but one
thereafter. In 2014, the Red State murder gap exceeded 30% for the first
time (32% in 2014) and would remain above that threshold throughout. The
Red State murder gap crossed the threshold of 40% in 2019, when murder
rates in Trump states were 44% higher than Biden states, before receding
slightly to 43% in 2020.

Over the period studied, murder rates jumped 39.4% in Trump-voting states
(6.35 murders/100,000 population in 2000 to 8.84/100,000 in 2020). Murder
rates increased just 13.4% in Biden-voting states (5.47 murders/100,000
population in 2000 to 6.20/100,000 in 2020).

Ironically, as the media frenzy over “soft on crime” Democrats reached its
peak, the Red State murder gap widened to its deepest gulch, contrary to
the popular narrative.

Ironically, as the media frenzy over “soft on crime” Democrats reached its
peak, the Red State murder gap widened to its deepest gulch, contrary to
the popular narrative.

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Even when large cities are removed from red states, murder rates are still
higher.

Some on the right argue that murder rates in red states are higher because
of the blue cities in those red states. Of course, blue states have more
blue urban areas than red states. That is what makes most states blue. The
fact is that murder rates have increased in urban, suburban, and rural
areas.

But to answer these critics, we performed an exercise to give red states a
special boost. For this exercise, we removed all of the murders in the
county with the largest city for 19 of 25 red states. In six rural red
states home to no cities with large numbers of murders, this calculation
was not possible based on available CDC data.2 Blue states would get no
such advantage. But even with the largest city removed from red states,
the Red State murder gap persisted.

Over the course of the full 21 years between 2000 and 2020, the Red State
murder rate was still 12% higher than the Blue State murder rate, even
when murders in the largest cities in those red states were removed. And
the murder rate was still higher in 18 of 21 years.

Between 2010 and 2020, even after removing New Orleans and Jackson,
Louisiana and Mississippi continued to hold the number one and two spots
for highest murder rates. Alabama, Kentucky, Missouri, South Carolina, and
Tennessee were still consistently in the top 10 after removing their
largest city.

In 2020, the states with the highest murder rates stayed roughly the same
after making this change: Mississippi in first, then Louisiana, Alabama,
South Carolina, Missouri, Illinois, Maryland, Arkansas, Tennessee, and
Georgia. Why are Murder Rates Persistently Higher in Red States?

Crime and murder are complicated issues that are, unfortunately, ripe for
demagoguery. This paper is not intended to provide definitive causes for
the growing and persistent Red State murder gap; rather it is meant to
show that it exists. But here are some thoughts on why red states have
higher murder rates.

Guns: Gun ownership rates are far higher in red states than blue
states. Studies have estimated that gun ownership rates are as much as
twice as high in a typical red state than a typical blue state. Since
79% of all homicides are committed with a firearm, it stands to reason
that more guns will produce more murders, not less. Poverty: Studies
have found a correlation between poverty and violent crime. Red states
tend to have higher poverty rates than blue states. Educational
Attainment: Those who have a high school diploma or less tend to be
overrepresented among victims and perpetrators of homicide.
Increasingly, there is an educational attainment gap between red and
blue states as well. Social Service and Police Resources: Despite
accusations that Democrats “defund the police,” we found that cities
with Democratic mayors fund police at far higher levels on a per
capita basis than cities run by Republican mayors. In 2020, the 25
largest Democrat-run cities spent 38% more on policing per capita than
the 25 largest Republican-run cities. In addition, blue states may be
more likely to fund social service programs that help steer people
away from violent crime than red states.

Conclusion

On a typical day, about 65 Americans are murdered. If we watch the cable
networks, we’re likely to hear about one of them. The one that is chosen
often fits a narrative that is as familiar as it is shallow. It may cohere
with a political point a network wants to make – chaos in Democratic
cities, an illegal immigrant committing a brazen and lethal act. Usually,
it’s a murder in New York City or Los Angeles, two cities that actually
have murder rates far lower than many states.

These crime stories aren’t inaccurate, but they are curated. And when we
see them every day they create an impression of crime and murder in
America that tells only a part of the story. When we released “The Red
State Murder Problem” in March 2022 showing that murder rates in
Trump-voting states in 2020 were far higher than Biden-voting states, the
reaction was incredulity. That is because the news stories we see each day
tell us something different.

But the numbers don’t lie. It is our hope that with this report we can
create a more accurate political discussion about crime. And perhaps with
a more holistic political discussion, we can do more to actually reduce
violent and lethal crime. Methodology

We collected murder data for all 50 states from 2000 to 2020. Our primary
source was the Center of Disease Control Wonder’s National Center for
Health Statistics Mortality Data. We chose to use CDC data over FBI data
because it tends to be more accurate. This is because states are required
to report mortality data to the CDC while states are only encouraged to
report crime data to the FBI. As mentioned above, there were four states
that were missing a few years of data in the CDC database. New Hampshire
was missing data for 2002, North Dakota was missing data for 2001, 2002,
and 2008, Vermont was missing data for 2002 and 2009-2013, and Wyoming was
missing data for 2006 and 2010. For these, we used FBI data. Using the CDC
data and population data from the US Census Bureau, we calculated the per
capita murder rate for each state for every year. We split states into
“red” and “blue” states based on their vote in the 2020 Presidential
election—Trump versus Biden. For each year, we averaged the number of
homicides and populations for “red” and “blue” states and calculated the
average per capita murder rate. When we removed the largest cities from
red states, we removed the following counties: Alabama- Madison County
(Huntsville), Arkansas- Pulaski County (Little Rock), Kentucky- Jefferson
County (Louisville), Louisiana- Orleans Parish (New Orleans), Mississippi-
Hinds County (Jackson), Missouri- Jackson County (Kansas City), South
Carolina- Charleston County (Charleston), Tennessee- Davidson County
(Nashville), Alaska- Anchorage Borough (Anchorage), Florida- Duval County
(Jacksonville), Indiana- Marion County (Indianapolis), Kansas- Sedgwick
County (Wichita), Nebraska- Douglas County (Omaha), North Carolina-
Mecklenburg County (Charlotte), Ohio- Franklin County (Columbus),
Oklahoma- Oklahoma County (Oklahoma City), Texas- Harris County (Houston),
Utah- Salt Lake County (Salt Lake City), West Virginia- Kanawha County
(Charleston). The following states had less than 10 murders in their
largest city (the CDC doesn’t disclose murders under 10 for privacy
reasons): Idaho, Iowa, Montana, North Dakota, South Dakota, and Wyoming.
Data is attached.

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