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    California Panel Calls for Billions in Reparations for Black Residents

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    A task force recommended that legislators enact a sweeping program to compensate for the economic harm from racism in the state’s history.A California panel approved recommendations on Saturday that could mean hundreds of billions of dollars in payments to Black residents to address past injustices. The proposals to state legislators are the nation’s most sweeping effort to devise a program of reparations.The nine-member Reparations Task Force, whose work is being closely monitored by politicians, historians and economists across the country, produced a detailed plan for how restitution should be handled to address a myriad of racist harms, including housing discrimination, mass incarceration and unequal access to health care.Created through a bill signed into law by Gov. Gavin Newsom in the wake of the nationwide racial justice protests after the murder of George Floyd in 2020, the panel has spent more than a year conducting research and holding listening sessions from the Bay Area to San Diego.It will be up to legislators to weigh the recommendations and decide whether to forge them into law, a political and fiscal challenge that has yet to be reckoned with.The task force’s final report, which is to be sent to lawmakers in Sacramento before a July 1 deadline, includes projected restitution estimates calculated by several economists working with the task force.One such estimate laid out in the report determined that to address the harms from redlining by banks, which disqualified people in Black neighborhoods from taking out mortgages and owning homes, eligible Black Californians should receive up to $148,099. That estimate is based on a figure of $3,366 for each year they lived in California from the early 1930s to the late 1970s, when federal redlining was most prevalent.To address the impact of overpolicing and mass incarceration, the report estimates, each eligible person would receive $115,260, or about $2,352 for each year of residency in California from 1971 to 2020, during the decades-long war on drugs.In theory, a lifelong state resident who is 71 years old, the average life expectancy, could be eligible for roughly $1.2 million in total compensation for housing discrimination, mass incarceration and additional harms outlined in the report.All of these estimates, the report notes, are preliminary and would require additional research from lawmakers to hash out specifics. The costs to the state were not outlined in the report, but totals from harms associated with housing and mass incarceration could exceed $500 billion, based on estimates from economists.While the panel members considered various methods for distributing reparations — some favored tuition or housing grants and others preferred direct cash payments — they ultimately recommended the direct payments.“The initial down payment is the beginning of a process of addressing historical injustices,” the report reads, “not the end of it.“Kamilah Moore, the chair, and Amos Brown, the vice chair, at the task force meeting on Saturday.Jason Henry for The New York TimesLast year, the task force, which is made up of elected officials, academics and lawyers, decided on the eligibility criteria, determining that any descendant of enslaved African Americans or of a “free Black person living in the United States prior to the end of the 19th century” should receive reparations.Still, on Saturday, there was sometimes contentious debate over clearly expressing the criteria in certain sections of the report — particularly regarding compensation.Should lawmakers pass legislation for payments, the panel suggested that a state agency be created to process claims and render payments, with elderly individuals getting priority. Nearly 6.5 percent of California residents, roughly 2.5 million, identify as Black or African American.“This is about closing the income and racial wealth gap in this country, and this is a step,” Gary Hoover, an economics professor at Tulane University who has studied reparations, said in an interview. “Wealth is sticky and is able to be transferred from generations. Reparations can close that stickiness.”In voting on its final report on Saturday on the Oakland campus of Mills College at Northeastern University, the panel also suggested that state legislators draw up a formal apology to Black residents. A preliminary report made public last year, outlined how enslaved Black people were forced to California during the Gold Rush era and how, in the 1950s and 1960s, racially restrictive covenants and redlining segregated Black Californians in many of the state’s largest cities.In emotional testimony for much of the past year, Black residents have stood before the panel often revealing personal stories of racial discrimination, lack of resources in communities because of redlining and trauma that has had negative effects on health and well-being.While the task force marked the first such effort by a state, a similar measure aimed at creating a commission to explore reparations has stalled in Congress for decades.Representative Barbara Lee speaking during the task force meeting on Saturday.Jason Henry for The New York TimesIn brief remarks before the panel on Saturday, Representative Barbara Lee, a Democrat whose district spans Oakland, lauded the work members have done.“California is leading on this issue,” said Ms. Lee, who is running for the U.S. Senate. “It’s a model for other states in search of reparative damage, realistic avenues for addressing the need for reparations.”The median wealth of Black households in the United States is $24,100, compared with $188,200 for white households, according to the most recent Federal Reserve Board Survey of Consumer Finances. In California, a recent report from the nonpartisan Public Policy Institute of California found for every $1 earned by white families, Black families earn 60 cents — the result of disparities in, among other things, education, and discrimination in the labor market.Assemblyman Reggie Jones-Sawyer, who is one of two state lawmakers on the panel, said he had spoken with Mr. Newsom in recent weeks and expressed optimism that legislation would be approved based on the panel’s report.“The reality is Black Californians have suffered, and continue to suffer, from institutional laws and policies within our state’s political, social, and economic landscape that have negated Blacks from achieving life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness for generations,” said Mr. Jones-Sawyer, who represents a Los Angeles district. “This really is a trial against America’s original sin, slavery, and the repercussions it caused and the lingering effects in modern society.”Mr. Jones-Sawyer said he expected to present some form of legislation early next year.But the efforts and support for racial justice that followed Mr. Floyd’s death are now confronted with an economy that is shadowed by fears of a recession. In January, Mr. Newsom announced that the state faced a $22.5 billion deficit in the 2023-24 fiscal year, a turnaround from a $100 billion surplus a year ago.Nationwide, opinions on reparations are sharply divided by race. Last fall, a survey from the Pew Research Center found that 77 percent of Black Americans say the descendants of people enslaved in the United States should be repaid in some way, while 18 percent of white Americans say the same. Democrats were even split on the issue, with 49 percent opposed and 48 percent in support. Other polls on the issue have found similar splits.Even so, cities across the country have moved forward with reparations proposals. In 2021, officials in Evanston, Ill., a Chicago suburb, approved $10 million in reparations in the form of housing grants.More recently, the San Francisco Board of Supervisors has expressed support for reparations that could offer several million dollars. And in nearby Hayward, Calif., city officials are hearing proposals for reparations for land taken from Black and Latino families in the 1960s.Kamilah Moore, a lawyer who is chair of the California task force, said she was confident that the Legislature would “respect the task force’s official role as a legislative advisory body and work in good faith to turn our final proposals into legislation.”“It will soon be in their hands to act,” Ms. Moore said. More

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    California Economy Is on Edge After Tech Layoffs and Studio Cutbacks

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    As recession fears persist, the troubles in major industries have hurt tax revenues, turning the state’s $100 billion surplus into a deficit.California has often been at the country’s economic forefront. Now, as fears of a national recession continue to nag, the state is hoping not to lead the way there.While the California economy maintains its powerhouse status, outranking even those of most countries, the state’s most-powerful sectors — including tech companies and supply chain logistics — have struggled to keep their footing, pummeled by high interest rates, investor skittishness, labor strife and other turmoil.Even the weather hasn’t cooperated. Severe flooding throughout much of the winter, caused by atmospheric rivers, has left farming communities in the Central Valley devastated, causing hundreds of millions of dollars in crop losses.Thousands of Californians have been laid off in the last few months, the cost of living is increasingly astronomical, and Gov. Gavin Newsom revealed in January that the state faced a $22.5 billion deficit in the 2023-24 fiscal year — a plummet from the $100 billion surplus a year ago.“It’s an EKG,” Mr. Newsom said at the time, comparing a graph of the state’s revenue to the sharp spikes and drops of the heart’s electrical activity. “That sums up California’s tax structure. It sums up the boom-bust.”The structure, which relies in large part on taxing the incomes of the wealthiest Californians, often translates into dips when Silicon Valley and Wall Street are uneasy, as they are now. Alphabet, the parent company of Google, one of the state’s most prominent corporations, said in January that it was cutting 12,000 workers worldwide, and Silicon Valley Bank, a key lender to tech start-ups, collapsed last month, sending the federal government scrambling to limit the fallout.This has coincided with a drop in venture capital funding as rising interest rates and recession fears have led investors to become more risk-averse. That money, which declined 36 percent globally from 2021 to 2022, according to the management consulting firm Bain & Company, is critical to Silicon Valley’s ability to create jobs.“The tech sector is the workhorse of the state’s economy, it’s the backbone,” said Sung Won Sohn, a finance and economics professor at Loyola Marymount University. “These are high earners who might not be able to carry the state as much as they did in the past.”Gov. Gavin Newsom, center, said in January that the state faced a $22.5 billion deficit in the 2023-24 fiscal year, after a $100 billion surplus a year ago.Lipo Ching/EPA, via ShutterstockEntertainment, another pillar of California’s economy, has also been in retreat as studios adjust to new viewing habits. Disney, based in Burbank, announced in February that it would eliminate 7,000 jobs worldwide.In California alone, employment in the information sector, a category that includes technology and entertainment workers, declined by more than 16,000 from November to February, according to the latest Bureau of Labor Statistics data, which predates a recent wave of job cuts in March.A recent survey from the nonpartisan Public Policy Institute of California found widespread pessimism about the economy. Two-thirds of respondents said they expected bad economic times for the state in the next year, and a solid majority — 62 percent — said they felt the state was already in a recession.When Mr. Newsom announced the deficit earlier in the year, he vowed not to dip into the state’s $37 billion in reserves, and instead called for pauses in funding for child care and reduced funding for climate change initiatives. Joe Stephenshaw, director of the California Department of Finance, said in an interview that he and top economists had begun to spot points of concern — persistent inflation, higher interest rates and a turbulent stock market — on the state’s horizon during the second half of last year.“Those risks became realities,” said Mr. Stephenshaw, an appointee of the governor.He acknowledged that the problem was driven largely by declines in high earners’ incomes, including from market-based compensation, such as stock options and bonus payments. As activity slowed, he said, interest rates rose and stock prices fell.But the state’s problems aren’t limited to the tech industry.Cargo processing at the Port of Los Angeles in February was down 43 percent from the year before.Alex Welsh for The New York TimesCalifornia’s robust supply chain, which drives nearly a third of the state’s economy, has continued to buckle under stresses from the pandemic and an ongoing labor fight between longshoremen and port operators up and down the West Coast, which has prompted many shipping companies to rely instead on ports along the Gulf and East Coasts. Cargo processing at the Port of Los Angeles, a key entry point for shipments from Asia, was down 43 percent in February, compared with the year before.“The longer it drags on, the more cargo will be diverted,” said Geraldine Knatz, a professor of the practice of policy and engineering at the University of Southern California, who was executive director of the Port of Los Angeles from 2006 to 2014. Still, wherever the economic cycle is leading, California heads into it with some strengths. Although unemployment in February, at 4.3 percent, was higher than in most states, it was lower than the rate a year earlier. In the San Francisco and San Jose metropolitan areas, unemployment was below 3.5 percent, better than the national average.Over decades, California’s economy has historically seen the highest of highs and the lowest of lows, part of the state’s boom-bust history. During the recession of the early 1990s, largely driven by cuts to aerospace after the end of the Cold War, California was hit much harder than other parts of the country.Zeeshan Haque is looking for a job after losing his position as a software engineer at Google. “It’s just very competitive at this time because of so many layoffs,” he said.Mark Abramson for The New York TimesIn March, the U.C.L.A. Anderson Forecast, which provides economic analysis, released projections for both the nation and California, pointing to two possible scenarios — one in which a recession is avoided and another in which it occurs toward the end of this year.“Even in our recession scenario we have a mild recession,” said Jerry Nickelsburg, director of the Anderson Forecast.Regardless of which scenario pans out, California’s economy is likely to be better off than the national one, according to the report, which cited increased demand for software and defense goods, areas in which California is a leader. Mr. Nickelsburg also said the state’s rainy-day fund was healthy enough to withstand the decline in tax revenues. But that shortfall could complicate the speed at which Mr. Newsom can carry out some of his ambitious, progressive policies. In announcing the deficit, Mr. Newsom scaled back funding for climate proposals to $48 billion, from $54 billion.The fiscal outlook also casts a cloud over progressive proposals, widely supported by Democrats, who have a supermajority in the Legislature.A state panel that has been debating reparations for Black Californians is set to release its final report by midyear. Economists have projected that reparations could cost $800 billion to compensate for overpolicing, housing discrimination and disproportionate incarceration rates. Once the panel releases its report, it will be up to lawmakers in Sacramento to decide how much state revenue would support reparations — a concept that Mr. Newsom has endorsed.Through all this, one thing has remained constant: Many Californians say their biggest economic concern is housing costs.The median value for a single-family home in California is about $719,000 — up nearly 1 percent from last year, according to Zillow — and recent census data shows that some of the state’s biggest metro areas, including Los Angeles and San Francisco Counties, have continued to shrink. (In Texas, where many Californians have relocated, the median home value is about $289,000.)Still, some Californians remain optimistic.Zeeshan Haque, a former software engineer at Google, learned in January that he was being laid off. His last day was March 31.“It was out of nowhere and very abrupt,” said Mr. Haque, 32, who recently moved from the Bay Area to Los Angeles.He bought a $740,000 house in the city’s Chatsworth neighborhood in February and spent time focusing on renovations. But in recent weeks, he has begun to look for a new job. He recently updated his LinkedIn avatar to show the hashtag #opentowork and said he hoped to land a new job soon.“It’s just very competitive at this time because of so many layoffs,” he said.Ben Casselman More

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    Can the United Farm Workers of California Rise Again?

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    Veronica Mota marched under the sweltering sun, hoisting a cloth banner of Our Lady of Guadalupe above her head for miles.“Sí, se puede,” she chanted in unison with dozens of other farmworkers, who waved U.S. and Mexican flags as they walked along two-lane roads lined by dense orange groves in the Central Valley of California.The banner, flags and rallying cry — “Yes, we can” — echoed back more than half a century to when Cesar Chavez, a co-founder of the United Farm Workers union, led agricultural workers on a pilgrimage along a similar route to meet lawmakers in Sacramento.“We are a legacy of Cesar Chavez,” said Ms. Mota, 47, who, when blisters began to form on her feet during the 24-day trek in August, gathered strength by thinking of how the march in the 1960s led to groundbreaking farmworker reforms and propelled the U.F.W. to national prominence.“We can achieve what we want,” Ms. Mota said.What the farmworkers wanted last summer was for Gov. Gavin Newsom to sign into law a bill that they argued would make it easier and less intimidating for workers to vote in union elections — a key step, they believed, in rebuilding the size and influence of a now far less prolific U.F.W. But changing a rule is not the same as changing the game. The question now is whether the U.F.W. can show it has not irretrievably lost its organizing touch and can regain the ability to mobilize public opinion on its behalf as it did under Mr. Chavez.The union is a shadow of what it was decades ago. Membership hovers around 5,500 farmworkers, less than 2 percent of the state’s agricultural work force, compared with 60,000 in the 1970s. In the same period, the number of growers covered by U.F.W. contracts has fallen to 22 from about 150. The march last summer stood as a reckoning of sorts for a union desperate to regain its relevance.California’s fields provide about half of the produce grown in the United States for domestic consumption.Mark Abramson for The New York TimesFarmworkers at an orange grove outside Fresno.Mark Abramson for The New York TimesU.F.W. officials say they have secured contracts focusing on health coverage.Mark Abramson for The New York TimesLabor organizing has rebounded nationwide in the last few years, with unions winning elections at an Amazon warehouse on Staten Island and at least 275 Starbucks stores, and among white-collar workers in the tech and media industries. But in California’s fields, which supply about half of the produce grown in the United States for the domestic market, such efforts have found little traction.It has been more than five years since the U.F.W. mounted an organizing drive and election petition in the state — at Premiere Raspberries in Watsonville. The U.F.W. unionization vote succeeded, but the company refused to negotiate a contract and in 2020 announced plans to shut down and lay off more than 300 workers.Ms. Mota, who has worked seasonal jobs around the state for two decades, has seen her wages drop by about $6,000 over the last several years. She is now earning around $15,000 a year. She said that on farms without union contracts, bosses sometimes make veiled threats about cutting hours, refuse to give workers breaks in 100-plus degree weather and turn a blind eye to dangerous conditions.“Where we do not have a union contract, there is no respect,” she said in Spanish on a recent morning from her ranch-style home in the farming town of Madera.But the bill backed by Ms. Mota, which Mr. Newsom signed into law after the marchers arrived in Sacramento, has fueled a cautious optimism. Backers say the ability to more freely organize will help them gain more influence.“There is new energy, new legislation and attention from the public in terms of workers’ rights,” said Christian Paiz, a professor of ethnic studies at the University of California, Berkeley, who has researched farm labor in the state. “We could be on the front lines of a renaissance.”The Shadow of Cesar ChavezFarmworkers have, for generations and by design, existed on the fringes of the American work force.The National Labor Relations Act of 1935 excluded farm and domestic workers from federal protections — a decision, rooted in racism, that ensured that the Black, Latino and Asian people whose work opportunities were largely limited to those two industries were not covered.But by the 1960s, momentum for change was building.Farm workers on their march from Delano to Sacramento in 1966.Jon Lewis/Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale UniversityMr. Chavez, who was a farm laborer picking avocados and peas before becoming a grass-roots organizer, teamed up with Dolores Huerta, a young workers’ rights activist from the Central Valley, and in 1962 they founded the National Farm Workers Association. It became the U.F.W.Labor Organizing and Union DrivesA New Inquiry?: A committee led by Senator Bernie Sanders will hold a vote to open an investigation into federal labor law violations by major corporations and subpoena Howard Schultz, the chief executive of Starbucks, as the first witness.Whitney Museum: After more than a year of bargaining, the cultural institution and its employees are moving forward with a deal that will significantly raise pay and improve job security.Mining Strike: Hundreds of coal miners in Alabama have been told by their union that they can start returning to work before a contract deal has been reached, bringing an end to one of the longest mining strikes in U.S. history.Gag Rules: The National Labor Relations Board has ruled that it is generally illegal for companies to offer severance agreements that require confidentiality and nondisparagement.Three years later, it was a key force behind the Delano grape workers’ strike, in which thousands of Mexican and Filipino farmworkers walked off their jobs, demanding raises from $1.25 to $1.40 an hour, as well as elections that could pave the way for unionization.As the striking farmworkers made their way along the 335-mile trek in 1966, which started in Delano, the group grew steadily, and other unions began to pledge their support.In the Bay Area, longshoremen had refused to load shipments of grapes that hadn’t been picked by unionized workers and, before long, a statewide pressure campaign had become a national one.Weeks after the march began, a lawyer for Schenley Industries, a large Central Valley grape grower that was a target of the boycott, contacted Mr. Chavez, and the company soon agreed to negotiate a contract. It officially recognized the U.F.W., making it the first major corporation to acknowledge a farm union.The grape workers’ strike stretched into the summer of 1970, when widespread consumer boycotts forced major growers to sign on to collective bargaining agreements between the union and several thousand workers.In the years that followed, Mr. Chavez forged a relationship with Gov. Jerry Brown, a Democrat, and helped champion the California Agricultural Labor Relations Act of 1975, which established the right to collective bargaining for farmworkers and created a board to enforce the act and arbitrate labor fights between workers and growers. It was the first law in the country guaranteeing protections to farm workers.Cesar Chavez, center, leader of the National Farm Workers Association, outside a farm in 1966, with supporters bearing signs proclaiming “Strike.” The association was a predecessor of the United Farm Workers.Paul Fusco/Magnum PhotosBut the union’s gains soon began to erode. Mr. Brown’s Republican successor, George Deukmejian, and his appointees made changes to the farm labor board in the 1980s and cut funding, arguing that the adjustments were necessary to correct an “easily perceived bias” in favor of farm workers and the U.F.W. and against growers. And even when the union has won elections, it has often faced legal challenges from growers that can drag on for years.The law that Mr. Newsom signed last year, Assembly Bill 2183, was the union’s biggest legislative victory in years. It paved the way for farmworkers to vote in union elections without in-person election sites. For years, U.F.W. officials argued that dwindling membership numbers stemmed from fears about voting in person at sites often held on properties owned by the growers.The bill faced opposition from growers, who contended that the measure would allow union organizers to unfairly influence the process. Mr. Newsom initially voiced reticence, but signed the measure into law after then-House Speaker Nancy Pelosi and President Biden publicly pushed him to do so.“In the state with the largest population of farmworkers, the least we owe them is an easier path to make a free and fair choice to organize a union,” Mr. Biden said at the time.Supporters of the measure highlight how the demographics of farmworkers have changed over the years. In the 1970s, under Mr. Chavez, many farmworkers were U.S. citizens, but migration from Mexico and Central America in the decades that followed created a work force composed primarily of undocumented workers. Because they lack immigration papers, supporters say, they are especially vulnerable. (Undocumented workers can be covered by labor agreements.)In signing the measure, Mr. Newsom and the U.F.W. agreed to support follow-up compromise legislation that would guard farmworker confidentiality during elections and place limits on card-check voting, a method in which employees sign cards in favor of unionizing.‘We Are Ignored’Last summer, as she marched past vineyards and groves of mandarin oranges, Ms. Mota thought of the harvest cycle that has defined much of her life.She reflected on the dormant season, in December and January, when she prunes pistachio and almond trees, and the rainy months, when it’s sometimes hard to find work. But then comes the prosperous citrus and grape harvests, through the spring and the fall, which always make her think of the families who will eventually toast with wine squeezed from the fruit she plucked from the vine.“I love for my hands to harvest a fruit and then seeing those fruits and vegetables in the restaurant,” Ms. Mota said.U.F.W. supporters marched last year to urge Gov. Gavin Newsom to sign a bill that would make it easier for workers to vote in union elections.Jessica Christian/San Francisco Chronicle, via Associated PressShe thought, too, about the invisibility and dangers of her work — the tiny teeth marks etched into her leather boot by a snake bite, the molehill where she badly sprained her ankle, the co-worker airlifted to San Francisco with injuries.“We are ignored,” she said.Still, she didn’t feel that way during the march, where in many towns people greeted them with snacks, Gatorade and full meals. While the group was in Stockton, an inland port city, Ms. Huerta, now 92, stood before the crowd wearing a baseball cap emblazoned with the words, “Sí se puede.”“You all have made me so proud,” she told them.Ms. Huerta, who helped negotiate the first farmworker contract with Schenley, left U.F.W. leadership more than two decades ago to pursue other causes. But in an interview, she said the need for unionization remained as high as it was when she helped start the union.“Farmworkers wanted the support and still want the support,” said Ms. Huerta, who attributed the dearth of contracts to a refusal by growers to bargain in good faith.Despite setbacks in recent decades, U.F.W. officials say they have continued to secure contracts that focus on health care benefits, wage increases and cultivating a respectful culture between farmworkers and employees. At Monterey Mushrooms, which has operated under a contract since the 1980s, U.F.W. officials say the average annual income for a mushroom picker is $45,000 and includes vacation time and a pension. (The statewide average for farmworkers is between $20,000 and $25,000 a year, according to the U.S. Labor Department.)“With a union contract, workers are educated about their rights and empowered to defend them,” said Teresa Romero, the union’s president.Issues might vary from farm to farm, Ms. Romero said. “In one workplace it may be low wages, in another it may be unsafe conditions, in still another it may be the workplace culture — having to pay bribes or endure sexual harassment to get work or having a particular supervisor who is racist or cruel,” she said. “We understand the immense risks that workers are taking when speaking up on the job; it takes courage for workers to form their union.”Dolores Huerta, a founder of the U.F.W., at a rally in the 1970s.Cathy Murphy/Getty ImagesMs. Romero said she was confident that the new state law — along with a streamlined federal process to protect workers involved in labor disputes surrounding immigration threats from employers — would translate into more bargaining power and more contracts.A Question of StrategySome labor watchers are skeptical of the union’s ability to reinvigorate itself.Miriam Pawel, an author who has written extensively about the union and Mr. Chavez, said the U.F.W.’s decline reflected a shortfall in organizing efforts in the communities where farmworkers live.“It’s evolved more into an advocacy organization and walked away from the more difficult work of organizing,” Ms. Pawel said. Referring to the 1975 labor relations act, she added, “They have the most favorable labor law in the country and have barely taken advantage.”Ms. Pawel cited a 2016 state law mandating that agricultural employers pay overtime if people worked more than eight hours in a day. The union lobbied for the measure, but growers warned that they couldn’t afford to pay overtime and would adjust schedules to avoid doing so. The new overtime rule has been phased in over the years, and some farmworkers have voiced anger about losing hours.“If the union were stronger in the fields, and at organizing, it could have won elections and demanded better overtime provisions in contracts,” Ms. Pawel said.Ms. Romero pushed back against such criticism, arguing that, until Mr. Newsom signed A.B. 2183 in September, many farmworkers had justified fears that, if they sought unionization, their bosses would fire them or even try to get them deported.Indeed, a report by the University of California, Merced, Community and Labor Center found that 36 percent of farmworkers said they would not file a report against their employer for failing to comply with workplace safety rules and that 64 percent cited fear of employer retaliation or job loss.And since the bill’s passage, the Farm Employers Labor Service, a trade group that staunchly opposed the law, has placed advertisements on Spanish-language radio stations, warning about what it means to be in a union. In one ad, a man shouts: “Signing a union petition can lead to the union stealing 3 percent of your salary! Do not let them!”Those messages deeply concern Ms. Romero.“Filing for an election when workers are not protected from genuine risks of retaliation will only lead already poor people into further hardship,” she said. “This is the implicit threat that the growers’ power depends on.”‘They Just Want to Work’Joe Del Bosque at his melon farm in Firebaugh, Calif. He has never had a union contract and plans to keep it that way.Mark Abramson for The New York TimesMany California growers say they can be better bosses without unions.On a recent afternoon off Interstate 5 in the small city of Firebaugh, Joe Del Bosque stared out at bare fields on the melon farm he has owned since 1985. A thick fog hung over the area, and the ground was puddled from rain water. It was the quiet season on the farm, where he employs more than 100 farmworkers annually.Mr. Del Bosque said that when he was a boy, his parents, legal U.S. residents, traveled from a town near the California-Mexico border to the Central Valley to pick melons every summer. As a farm owner, he has never had a union contract, and aims to keep it that way.He provides his employees with good conditions and fair wages, he said, without their having to pay union dues. “From my experience, workers who are moving around from season to season do not want the extra hands involved,” he said of the union. “They just want to work.”He said he had little trouble finding field hands, including migrants who move from farm to farm with each season. And he noted that in the Salinas Valley — closer to the coast, where housing is more expensive — many growers rely on H-2A visas, which let them bring workers, often from Mexico, for just a few months of the year.That impermanence, he said, works against the U.F.W. “If the workers are here only a few months a year and then leave the state, how are you going to organize?” he said.Mr. Del Bosque said that he respected the U.F.W.’s history and the groundwork of Mr. Chavez and Ms. Huerta, but that he opposed A.B. 2183. The law, he contends, will allow the U.F.W. to unfairly sway farmworkers at their kitchen tables and behind closed doors.“That’s the intimidation factor,” Mr. Del Bosque said.A New Spirit of ActivismAsuncion Ponce began harvesting grapes in the late 1980s. He says bosses on unionized farms “don’t mess with you.”Mark Abramson for The New York TimesWhile the impact of the law remains unclear, it has buoyed the spirits of some farmworkers.Asuncion Ponce started harvesting grapes along the rolling green hills of the Central Valley in the late 1980s. Through the decades, Mr. Ponce has worked on several farms with U.F.W. contracts. Bosses on those farms, he said, seemed aware that if they harassed or mistreated workers, the union would step in.“They don’t mess with you any more,” he said, “because they think there could be problems.”Even so, he has seen his financial security decline. He averaged $20,000 a year in the 1990s and 2000s, he said, but these days he brings in around $10,000 a year picking grapes and pruning pistachio trees. His eight-hour shifts are no longer supplemented by overtime, as growers have cut hours — partly as a result of the overtime bill U.F.W. leaders supported.Occasionally, Mr. Ponce said, he relied on third-party contractors, who growers sometimes employ, to find him available work. But he said he was optimistic that with the new legislation he would land a full-time job on a union farm.On a recent evening, the 66-year-old sipped coffee and decompressed after a shift at a farm outside of Fresno. His feet ached and his flannel shirt was stained with fertilizer, but he is happy that his job lets him spend all day outdoors — a passion born in his hometown in the Mexican state of Puebla, where he harvested corn and anise.He smiled softly under his white mustache as he spoke about the legacy of Mr. Chavez, which inspired him to join for several legs of the pilgrimage last summer.“I marched for many reasons,” he said in Spanish. “So we are not as harassed and mistreated as we are now in the fields, so benefits and better treatment come our way.”For Ms. Mota, joining the march helped awaken a new spirit of activism.Over the years, she said, she felt afraid to talk about unionizing at work, but now she tells any colleagues who will listen about the advantages she sees: the ability to negotiate a better salary, benefits and a respect for seniority.Her viewpoint was shaped in her early years as a farmworker. “Throughout the years I have realized that we are marginalized,” she said. “They don’t value us.”Once, she said, she watched as a farmer grabbed a knife used to harvest cantaloupe and put it to the cheek of another worker. He glared into the farmworker’s eyes, she said, and called the workers his slaves.“You feel humiliated,” she said, fighting back tears.She is convinced that having a strong union is the only answer. “We deserve a dignified life in this country,” she said.“Throughout the years I have realized that we are marginalized,” Veronica Mota said.Mark Abramson for The New York Times More

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    This Is What It Looks Like to Try to Count America’s Homeless Population

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    To fix a problem, you need to know its scope. To do that, you need sheriffs, social workers, volunteers, flashlights and 10 days in January.They go into the streets in search of data. Peeking behind dumpsters, shining flashlights under bridges, rustling a frosted tent to see if anyone was inside. This is what it takes to count the people in America who don’t have a place to live. To get a number, however flawed, that describes the scope of a deeply entrenched problem and the country’s progress toward fixing it.Last year, the Biden administration laid out a goal to reduce homelessness by 25 percent by 2025. The problem increasingly animates local politics, with ambitious programs to build affordable housing getting opposition from homeowners who say they want encampments gone but for the solution to be far from their communities. Across the country, homelessness is a subject in which declarations of urgency outweigh measurable progress.Officially called the Point-in-Time Count, the annual tally of those who live outside or in homeless shelters takes place in every corner of the country through the last 10 days of January, and over the past dozen years has found 550,000 to 650,000 people experiencing homelessness. The endeavor is far from perfect, advocates note, since it captures no more than a few days and is almost certainly a significant undercount. But it’s a snapshot from which resources flow, and creates a shared understanding of a common problem.This year, reporters and photographers from The New York Times shadowed the count, using a sampling of four very different communities — warm and cold, big and small, rural and urban — to examine the same problem in vastly different places.Volunteers and employees of the Downtown Women’s Center prepare to count people who are unhoused, in the Skid Row neighborhood of Los Angeles.Mark Abramson for The New York TimesOn any given evening, the forces that drive someone to sleep outside or in a shelter are myriad and complex. A long-run erosion in wages. A fraying social safety net. The fact that hard drugs are cheap and mental health care is not. Year after year, the count finds people experiencing homelessness to be disproportionately Black, disproportionately old and disproportionately sick. Members of the L.G.B.T.Q. community are overrepresented as well.There is one factor — the high cost of housing and difficulty of finding anything affordable — that rises above the rest. The numbers bear this out, explaining why expensive West Coast cities like Los Angeles have long had the nation’s worst homeless problems, why growing cities like Phoenix are now seeing a troubling rise, and why it is seemingly easier to solve homelessness in places like Rockford, Ill., a once-thriving factory town that has lost a lot jobs but where housing remains cheap.“Housing has become a competition for a scarce resource, and when you have that the people who are most vulnerable are going to lose,” Gregg Colburn, a professor at the University of Washington and a co-author of “Homelessness Is a Housing Problem,” said in an interview.The 2023 count will provide a crucial understanding of the legacy of the Covid-19 pandemic and the success of government efforts in blunting its effects. Last year’s count showed homelessness was essentially flat from two years ago, a fact that Jeff Olivet, executive director of the U.S. Interagency Council on Homelessness, attributed to widespread eviction moratoriums, billions in rental assistance and an expansion of federal housing vouchers that fortified the safety net. The question for this year, Mr. Olivet said, is “whether we were able to flatten the curve and even start pointing downwards.”Behind each number are tens of thousands of volunteers, outreach workers and public safety officers who spend the wee hours looking for the most destitute members of their community.Sometimes, people gladly answer questions and thank volunteers for what they are doing, with a hope that accurate figures will bring more funding for housing and services. Other times, they feel violated and gawked at.“What are you doing?” a man on a bicycle in Los Angeles asked a team of volunteers in day glow vests as they walked past a downtown sidewalk covered in tents.“Counting.”“Counting what?”“Counting people.”— Conor DoughertyLos Angeles, Jan. 25-26‘Once you enter this whole cycle, you are always on the edge’On the last night of the count, volunteers, along with those working for the Downtown Women’s Center, walk around the Skid Row neighborhood of downtown Los Angeles to count people who are unhoused.In the capital of the capital of homelessness, the people who live outside are used to seeing outsiders. This is especially true in Skid Row, a 50-block neighborhood in downtown where some 3,000 people live in the tents, shanties and recreational vehicles that so thoroughly clog the sidewalks that much of the pedestrian traffic is in the streets. So when dozens of volunteers in reflective vests left the Downtown Women’s Center to count on a recent evening, the people they were counting rarely so much as looked up.“They constantly have visitors, whether it’s proselytizers, outreach teams, people offering them something to eat, people offering them drugs — people doing a homeless count,” said Suzette Shaw, a volunteer who helped with the tally this year. “This community never sleeps.”Ms. Shaw is a 58-year-old student who lives in the neighborhood and was once homeless herself. She lived in various forms of transitional housing — hotels, shelters — until she found a permanent subsidized unit in 2016, whose rent is partially covered with a Section 8 housing voucher. Joining the count is one way she tries to make sense of a neighborhood whose scenes of ragged fabric and open fires are some of the bleakest pictures America has to offer.Volunteers counting people who are unhoused near Skid Row in Los Angeles.Members of the Los Angeles Homeless Services Authority counted people who are unhoused at an encampment near the Los Angeles River.Given that it has nation’s worst homeless problem, Los Angeles’s count requires assembling a small army that spends three days and several thousand hours amassing their figures. This ranges from volunteers like Ms. Shaw who comb sidewalks for a few hours, to officers like Lt. William Kitchin, of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, who along with a team of deputies and outreach workers spent a recent Wednesday driving a stretch of the Los Angeles River to tally the residents who live under overpasses and along the banks.More on CaliforniaIn the Wake of Tragedy: California is reeling after back-to-back mass shootings in Monterey Park and Half Moon Bay.Fast-Food Industry: A law creating a council with the authority to set wages and improve the conditions of fast-food workers was halted after business groups submitted enough signatures to place the issue before voters next year.Medical Misinformation: A federal judge has temporarily blocked enforcement of a new law allowing regulators to punish doctors for spreading false or misleading information about Covid-19.Oil From the Amazon: If you live in California, you may have a closer connection to oil drilling in the Amazon rainforest than you think.Unlike smaller cities, which often pair the Point-in-Time Count with interviews and outreach, for sensitivity and safety reasons organizers in Los Angeles discourage volunteers from interacting with the people on the streets.Some walk, some drive, but for the most part it happens briskly and the numbers they come back with are large. According to last year’s count, about 20 percent of the entire nation’s unsheltered population — about 50,000 people — lived in Los Angeles County.This has left voters despondent: Surveys consistently show housing and homelessness are the biggest concern of California voters, while a recent poll by the Los Angeles Business Council Institute found residents are furious at the city’s inability to make so much as a dent, with many voters saying they feel unsafe and have considered moving because of the homeless problem.Deputies from the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department talk with Reyna Paula, who has built a temporary home, in which she has been living for five years, under a bridge along Coyote Creek.Mark Abramson for The New York TimesSeveral deputies accompanied workers from the Los Angeles Homeless Services Authority as they counted people who are unhoused staying along the riverbed and under bridges in Los Angeles.After a campaign last year that focused almost entirely on homelessness, Karen Bass, the city’s new mayor, declared a state of emergency on her first day in office. This gives her office expanded powers to speed the construction of affordable housing by lifting rules that impede it. “Tonight we’re counting the people on the street, but we also know that it is most important that we prevent new people from falling into homelessness,” the mayor said to a crowd at a kickoff event in the San Fernando Valley. She joined the count shortly after, along with the actor Danny Trejo.Ms. Bass summed up the central problem for Los Angeles and other high-cost U.S. cities: Even as they spend billions on new housing and expanded services, more people continue to fall into homelessness faster than these programs can help people already on the streets. Nationally, some 901,000 people exited homelessness each year between 2017 and 2020 on average. That figure would be a huge accomplishment, but for one detail: About 909,000 people entered homelessness each year over the same period.“Once you enter this whole cycle, you are always on the edge,” Ms. Shaw said.Phoenix, Jan. 25‘I stayed there till they kicked me out’​​Advocates say Phoenix’s streets are increasingly filled with people who simply could not afford an increasingly pricey Arizona.Daniel Greene never thought he would end up homeless in Phoenix, a city that enticed him from Idaho a decade ago with balmy winters and cheap housing. But when his lease was up for renewal in December, Mr. Greene said his landlord raised the monthly rent on his one-bedroom apartment to $1,400 from $700. Arizona has few restrictions on rent increases. Now, Mr. Greene is sleeping in a park while he tries to scrape together a deposit.“I would need $4,000,” he said on Tuesday morning, as a volunteer counted Mr. Greene as part of the city’s portion of the annual Point-in-Time Count.Mr. Greene, 54, is one of thousands of newly homeless people who have been coughed out of the tailpipe of Arizona’s economic engine, casualties of growth that has drawn new factories and hundreds of thousands of new residents, while sending housing costs spiraling.Advocates say Phoenix’s streets are increasingly filled with people who simply could not afford an increasingly pricey Arizona: Average rent in the Phoenix area has risen by about 70 percent over the past five years, and the number of people in shelters or living on the street has gone up by 60 percent.“The cost of housing is the biggest thing we see,” said Kenn Weise, the mayor of the suburban city Avondale, Ariz., and chairman of the Maricopa Association of Governments, which runs the Point-in-Time Count.The path that brought Mr. Greene to a park in downtown Phoenix, repairing a beater bicycle, began, he said, when he fell from a scaffold at his carpentry job a few years ago. Work was impossible after he crushed his leg, but he said he survived on monthly disability checks.The rent on his apartment near the palms of Encanto Park crept up from $525 to $700 before doubling in December, part of the disappearance of modestly priced rentals around Phoenix. A decade ago, almost 90 percent of apartments around Phoenix rented for $1,000 or less. Now, just 10 percent do.“I stayed there till they kicked me out,” Mr. Greene said.Gustavo Martinez, who is unhoused in Phoenix. He lost his job during the pandemic, he said, and feels safer sleeping outside than in a shelter.The Point-in-Time Count is part census, part deeply intimate personal history. Volunteers here ask for people’s name, age and ethnicity, but also whether prison time, drug use or mental illness is a factor in their homelessness. He shoved his furniture and most of his clothes into a $100 monthly storage unit and decided to live outside to try to rebuild his finances. A weekly motel might have been safer, but he figured the open air was free. He is camping out with three other men and spends a lot of time scouring roommate websites.“I’m doing this on my own,” he said.As the first of nearly 1,000 volunteers crisscrossed downtown Phoenix starting before sunrise on Tuesday morning, they met people sleeping in makeshift tents beside new art spaces and camping out in the shadow of construction cranes.One volunteer, Katie Gentry, regional homelessness program manager for the Maricopa Association of Governments, walked up to a gas station downtown where people had come to ask for quarters to buy coffee and escape from the chill; she approached them to ask a litany of deeply personal questions with a matter-of-fact cheerfulness.Daniel Pawlak and Rochelle Putnam have been living in an encampment known as “The Zone.”Alisha Coleman bikes away after being questioned during a Point-in-Time Count.The Point-in-Time Count is part census, part deeply intimate personal history. Volunteers here ask for people’s name, age and ethnicity, but also whether prison time, drug use or mental illness is a factor in their homelessness. One question asks whether people had ever traded sex for shelter.Gustavo Martinez, 56, said he lost his job as a concessionaire for spring-training baseball games during the early days of the pandemic, and he lost his subleased apartment a few months later. He has been bouncing from friends’ couches to shelter beds to living on the streets ever since. He said that he earned a little money cleaning up after the downtown Phoenix farmers market, and that he often spent his time marveling at how anyone could afford to live downtown in the new high-rises sprouting up around him.“Everything is just going up and up and up.”Cleveland, Mississippi, Jan. 25-27‘They were born there, raised there, and they have become homeless there’Kerria Whitley, an intern at the Bolivar Community Action Agency, takes photographs of a vacant home that has been occupied by unhoused folks for documentation.One of Florida McKay’s colleagues had passed on a tip: There was a woman living in a trailer without heat, light or water in Shelby, Miss., a little hamlet surrounded by the soybean and cotton fields north of town. On a cold and gray morning, Ms. McKay and Robert Lukes, who was helping to administer the Point-in-Time Count in the Mississippi Delta, drove past acres of mud-bogged farmland to find her.“The Delta’s a little different from other areas in terms of homelessness,” said Ms. McKay, the director of homeless services for the Bolivar County Community Action Agency, a nonprofit organization. There are plenty of people in need here — the median household income in Bolivar County is less than half of the nation’s and the poverty rate is roughly triple — but they are scattered across the region, making the Point-in-Time Count a sprawling exercise in detective work.On a street corner in Shelby, they parked near a blue and white trailer sagging into the grass. A woman opened the tattered door, hugging herself in the cold, and welcomed Ms. McKay and Mr. Lukes inside. Blankets were stapled over the windows and a rusty propane tank squatted at the end of a bed.Mr. Lukes began the questionnaire: name, age, how long had she been homeless. Vickey Wells, she said, born on Christmas Day, 1971. She had been living in this dark, cold room for most of a year. Asked how long she had been in the community, Ms. Wells seemed puzzled. She grew up down the street. “This is my home,” she said.“The Delta’s a little different from other areas in terms of homelessness,” said Florida McKay, the director of homeless services for the Bolivar County Community Action Agency, a nonprofit organization.Robert Lukes, center, and Ms. McKay with Vickey Wells inside a trailer she has been living for a year without gas, electricity and water.Rural areas are different in terms of homelessness and the Delta is perhaps more different still. In this vast expanse of rural Mississippi, one of the poorest regions of the country, there are very few shelters, very few multifamily housing developments and, relative to the rest of the country, fewer places for rent.It is a landscape of cropland and modest stand-alone homes, where families have lived — or did live — for generations. Some homes have been empty for years, left behind by a Great Migration of Black people out of the Delta that began early last century and has never really stopped. In contrast to big cities, where those who are homeless are often people who have moved there in search of opportunities, many of the people without a place to stay in the Delta are those who have never left. In some cases they seek shelter in the homes left by those who went elsewhere.“People in the Delta that are homeless are from the Delta,” said Hannah Maharrey, the director of the Mississippi Balance of State Continuum of Care, a federally funded program to address homelessness. It’s also the organization that Mr. Lukes works for. “They are literally homeless in their hometown. They lived there, they’re from there, their roots are there, they were born there, raised there, and they have become homeless there.”Some have been kicked out by family or marooned after the death of a parent; some are escaping abuse; some have fallen prey to addiction in a place where the margin for error is virtually nonexistent. Some never left their homes at all, staying as the structures around them decayed and utilities were cut off, becoming homeless without ever moving. The Point-in-Time Count relies on these local ranks and their network of sources — court clerks, gas station attendants, motel owners, police officers, longtime contacts within the homeless community itself. Kimberly Martin, 33, of Eudora, Ark., in a vehicle that she and her partner, Jason Matlock, have been living in for six months, in Greenville, Miss.Jobs in the Delta are scarce, government services are limited and the nonprofit infrastructure is thin, Ms. Maharrey said. The burden of helping the desperate falls largely to churches, neighbors and community groups.The Point-in-Time Count relies on these local ranks and their network of sources — court clerks, gas station attendants, motel owners, police officers, longtime contacts within the homeless community itself. On cold nights, those seeking shelter find sanctuary anywhere they can, in cars, abandoned homes and vacant strip malls. The only way to really know who is staying where is to live in these communities and know the people firsthand.The fact that the rural homeless population is harder to see is what makes the yearly census so important, Ms. Maharrey said. “When I talk to other communities, they find it difficult to believe that there’s homelessness in rural Mississippi, or that there’s homelessness in rural America,” she said. “The Point-in-Time Count gives us a reference point.”In Greenwood, Miss., population around 14,000, the team drove into a wooded lot where Donjua Parris, 43, had been living with her partner since the summer. Four years ago, her partner lost his maintenance job at the apartment building where they lived, she said, and when they were evicted, her family wouldn’t take them in. Ms. Lukes ran through the census questions with Ms. Parris, who shivered in the cold, then he asked her where they should go to find others.“There is a place,” she said, gesturing toward an area on the riverside of a nearby levee, where she said a pregnant woman was living. “She needs help.”A few minutes later, Mr. Lukes had climbed down the levee and found a campsite abandoned. If the woman had been there, she was gone now.Rockford, Illinois.‘Right now, I don’t got to worry anymore’Kathleen Combs speaks to a person seeking shelter for the night at a warming center at Second First Church in Rockford, Ill.Jamie Kelter Davis for The New York TimesEmpty bridges, empty alleys, an empty shanty behind a strip mall parking lot. Angie Walker ticked off a list of where people have been known to sleep. Outside, it was in the mid-20s with a light layer of snow upholstered on fences and grass.“Our hope is that nobody is outside,” said Ms. Walker, who oversees the homeless program for Rockford’s Health and Human Services Department. “We don’t usually get that lucky.”They did not, but they were close. After a three-hour search in a Chevy Suburban that at times went off-road and on bike paths, Ms. Walker and her team, which included a retired police officer and a member of the Fire Department, found only one person — a shivering man in a tent who clasped his hands as she ran through a list of survey questions — on the night of Rockford’s count.As Ms. Walker had predicted earlier in the evening, most of the night’s numbers consisted of the three-dozen people who laid on rectangles of padding parceled across a gym floor at Second First Church. On winter nights, the church becomes a warming center, providing a captive audience for Ms. Walker and the dozen others who spent an hour counting bodies and performing surveys after the drive.Not having to worry anymore: That is the goal of the tens of billions that city, state and federal governments spend each year in their so far futile effort to end homelessness.“Right now, I don’t got to worry anymore,” said Shirley Gill, 63, who was in for the evening.Douglas Webb, 54, a Marine Corps veteran, was unhoused and used to sleep in the warming center at Second First. Now he works at the center in the winter.Rockford is one of the country’s biggest success stories, having effectively ended the condition for veterans and chronically homeless individuals, or those who have experienced homelessness for at least a year, who have severe addiction problems or live with a disability of some kind.The road to those accomplishments was a program called “Built for Zero,” a coalition of 105 local governments nationwide whose members commit to reorganizing their social services and gathering monthly data with a goal of drastically reducing their homeless population. (In 2021, Community Solutions, the New York nonprofit that created “Built for Zero,” was awarded a $100 million grant from the MacArthur Foundation to expand the program.)Central to the work is a concept called “functional zero,” or the point at which the number of people going into and out of homelessness is equal each month, and anyone who experiences it isn’t homeless for more than a few weeks. This does not mean no one will ever be seen sleeping on the streets: Community Solutions instead likens its strategy to a hospital that can take care of everyone who shows up, even if the medical staff can’t prevent them from getting sick.“Before we get to a place where no one ever has to experience homelessness, we need some milestone that shows we have a system that can be responsive,” said Beth Sandor, chief program officer at Community Solutions.Rockford is one of the country’s biggest success stories, having effectively ended the condition for veterans and chronically homeless individuals.Shannon Kopp and Angie Gibbons talking to a man sleeping in a tent behind a shopping mall in Rockford. He has refused to sleep in a warming center but agreed to accept some supplies and food.Back at the warming center on the night of the count, Douglas Webb, a 54-year-old Marine Corps veteran, provided an example of good news. The first time Mr. Webb visited the warming center at Second First, he said, was after an outreach worker found him under a mass of blankets in a parking garage. Now he works at the warming center in the winter.“I was able to pull myself out of it,” he said.Mr. Webb is part of what is perhaps the most encouraging story in homelessness. Measured by the Point-in-Time Count, homelessness among veterans nationwide has plunged 55 percent since 2010, as the federal government has poured money into housing and support programs for them.Mr. Webb noted that he paid $620 for a one-bedroom apartment, low by national standards. (Rockford’s rents are about half the national level, according to a rental index compiled by Zillow.) This is a reflection of the city’s economic malaise. In the hours before the count, Ms. Walker gave a brief tour of Rockford, with sights that included an abandoned factory that used to provide good paying jobs, the anchor storefront that used to be a Kmart, the boarded-up school where people sometimes live.An abandoned shelter, often used by people without homes, near a highway in a wooded area in Rockford.The city of 147,000 is a picture of Rust Belt decline, with problems that are a magnification of the country’s stratifying economy: Over the past several decades, its base of middle-class manufacturing jobs has withered and been replaced by low-wage retail work, creating a cycle of poverty, despair and crime.As Ms. Walker surveyed a deserted encampment made with tarps and PVC piping, she noted that some of the city’s success in fighting homelessness could be attributed to its decline. In other words, because there’s been so much disinvestment, Rockford’s housing is cheaper and more plentiful than elsewhere. And such is the irony of homelessness: Economically speaking, it’s easier to solve it in places where things are going poorly than where things are going well. More

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    California Voters to Decide on Regulating Fast-Food Industry

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    Pre-empting a law signed last year, business groups forced a ballot initiative on state oversight of wages and working conditions.LOS ANGELES — A California law creating a council with broad authority to set wages and improve the working conditions of fast-food employees has been halted after restaurant and trade groups submitted enough signatures to place the issue before voters next year.Officials from the California secretary of state’s office announced late Tuesday that Save Local Restaurants, a broad coalition of small-business owners, large corporations, restaurateurs and franchisees, had turned in enough valid signatures to stop the law from taking effect.The group, which has raised millions of dollars to oppose the law, had to submit roughly 623,000 valid voter signatures by an early December deadline to place a question on the 2024 ballot asking California voters if the law should take effect.Legislation signed in September by Gov. Gavin Newsom, a Democrat, would set up a 10-member council of union representatives, employers and workers to oversee the fast-food industry’s labor practices in the state.The panel would have the authority to raise the minimum wage of fast-food workers to as much as $22 an hour — well above the statewide minimum of $15.50. In addition, the council would oversee health, safety and anti-discrimination regulations for nearly 550,000 fast-food workers statewide.More on CaliforniaA Wake of Tragedy: California is reeling after back-to-back mass shootings in Monterey Park and Half Moon Bay.Storms and Flooding: A barrage of powerful storms has surprised people in the state with an unrelenting period of extreme weather that has caused extensive damage across the state.New Laws: A new year doesn’t always usher in sweeping change, but in California, at least, it usually means a slate of new laws going into effect.Wildfires: California avoided a third year of catastrophic wildfires because of a combination of well-timed precipitation and favorable wind conditions — or “luck,” as experts put it.Opponents including the International Franchise Association and the National Restaurant Association argued that the measure, Assembly Bill 257, singled out their industry and would in turn burden businesses with higher labor costs that would be passed along to consumers in higher food prices.Matt Haller, president of the International Franchise Association, said the bill “was a solution in search of a problem that didn’t exist.”“Californians have spoken out to prevent this misguided policy from driving food prices higher and destroying local businesses and the jobs they create,” Mr. Haller said.Last year, the Center for Economic Forecasting and Development at the University of California, Riverside, released a study that estimated that employers would pass along one-third of labor compensation increases to consumers.But Mr. Newsom, in signing the measure, said it “gives hardworking fast-food workers a stronger voice and seat at the table to set fair wages and critical health and safety standards across the industry.”Mary Kay Henry, president of the Service Employees International Union, a staunch proponent of the measure, assailed fast-food corporations.“Instead of taking responsibility for ensuring workers who fuel their profits are paid a living wage and work in safe, healthy environments, corporations are continuing to drive a race to the bottom in the fast-food industry,” Ms. Henry said. “It’s morally wrong, and it’s bad business.”The effort to put the issue before voters follows a playbook used by large corporations to circumvent lawmakers in Sacramento. In 2019, state lawmakers passed a measure that required companies like Uber and Lyft to treat gig workers as employees. The companies opposed the measure and helped get a proposition on the 2020 ballot allowing them to treat drivers as independent contractors. The measure passed with nearly 60 percent of the vote.The fast-food law has been closely watched by the industry’s workers across California, including  Angelica Hernandez, 49, who has worked at McDonald’s restaurants in the Los Angeles area for 18 years.“We are undeterred, and we refuse to back down,” Ms. Hernandez said. “We can’t afford to wait to raise pay to keep up with the skyrocketing cost of living and provide for our families.”Alison Morantz, a professor at Stanford Law School who focuses on employment law, said what made the law unusual was “its holistic approach to addressing a wide range of problems in a traditionally nonunionized industry — not just low and stagnating wages, but also employment discrimination and poor safety practices.”“If it takes effect, it will be closely watched and could become a harbinger of similar efforts in other worker-friendly jurisdictions,” Ms. Morantz said. More

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    What Comes Next for the Most Empty Downtown in America

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    The coffee rush. The lunch rush. The columns of headphone-equipped tech workers rushing in and out of train stations. The lanyard-wearing visitors who crowded the sidewalks when a big conference was in town.There was a time three years ago when a walk through downtown San Francisco was a picture of what it meant for a city to be economically successful. Take the five-minute jaunt from the office building at 140 New Montgomery Street to a line-out-the-door salad shop nearby.The 26-story building, an Art Deco landmark that was once the tallest in the city, began its life as the headquarters for the Pacific Telephone & Telegraph Company. Decades later, it served as the home of the local search company Yelp. The nearby salad store was part of a fast-growing chain called Mixt.Yelp and Mixt had little more than proximity in common, which at that time was enough. Yelp was an idea that became billions of dollars in value on the internet. Mixt was a booming business serving lunchtime salads to the workers who traveled on electrified trains and skateboards to their jobs in downtown cubicles.Their virtuous cycle of nearness, of new ideas becoming new companies, feeding other ideas that become other companies, was the template for urban growth.Businesses like Yelp took root in the high-energy, high-density city; chains like Mixt flourished alongside them as their workers ventured out for lunch. As downtowns have emptied out, their once-symbiotic relationship is coming undone.“This area was always packed with people,” recalled Maria Cerros-Mercado, a Mixt manager who built her career in food service downtown. “People would get off the BART, buy coffee, buy this, buy that. There was always just so much walking.”Today San Francisco has what is perhaps the most deserted major downtown in America. On any given week, office buildings are at about 40 percent of their prepandemic occupancy, while the vacancy rate has jumped to 24 percent from 5 percent since 2019. Occupancy of the city’s offices is roughly 7 percentage points below that of those in the average major American city, according to Kastle, the building security firm.Yelp had its offices in this 26-story building at 140 New Montgomery Street in San Francisco but left after the pandemic began.More ominous for the city is that its downtown business district — the bedrock of its economy and tax base — revolves around a technology industry that is uniquely equipped and enthusiastic about letting workers stay home indefinitely. In the space of a few months, Jeremy Stoppelman, the chief executive of Yelp, went from running a company that was rooted in the city to vacating Yelp’s longtime headquarters and allowing its roughly 4,400 employees to work from anywhere in their country.“I feel like I’ve seen the future,” he said.Decisions like that, played out across thousands of remote and hybrid work arrangements, have forced office owners and the businesses that rely on them to figure out what’s next. This has made the San Francisco area something of a test case in the multibillion-dollar question of what the nation’s central business districts will look like when an increased amount of business is done at home.“Imagine a forest where an entire species suddenly disappears,” said Tracy Hadden Loh, a fellow at the Brookings Institution who studies urban real estate. “It disrupts the whole ecosystem and produces a lot of chaos. The same thing is happening in downtowns.”The city’s chief economist, Ted Egan, has warned about a looming loss of tax revenue as vacancies pile up. Brokers have tried to counter that narrative by talking up a “flight to quality” in which companies upgrade to higher-end space. Business groups and city leaders hope to recast the urban core as a more residential neighborhood built around people as well as businesses but leave out that office rents would probably have to plunge for those plans to be viable.Below the surface of spin is a downtown that is trying to adapt to what amounts to a three-day workweek. During a recent lunch at a Mixt location in the financial district, the company’s chief executive, Leslie Silverglide, pointed to the line of badge-holding workers and competition for outdoor tables. It was also, she noted, a Wednesday — what passes for rush hour. On Wednesdays, offices in San Francisco are at roughly 50 percent of their prepandemic levels; on Fridays, they’re not even at 30 percent.A park in downtown San Francisco. On any given week, office buildings are at about 40 percent of their prepandemic occupancy.The lunchtime business downtown is not, and may never, be what it used to be. But if workers aren’t going to return to buying their $17 salads downtown, Mixt will follow them home.Which is why on a recent Wednesday morning, one of Mixt’s managers, Ms. Cerros-Mercado, 35, stood on a mostly empty sidewalk waiting for an Uber (another company that told most of its employees they can work half their time from home).More on CaliforniaBan on Flavored Tobacco: The Supreme Court refused to block a California law banning flavored tobacco, clearing the way for the ban to take effect.L.A.’s New Mayor: Vice President Kamala Harris swore in Karen Bass as the first female mayor of the nation’s second-largest city in a ceremony that celebrated her historic win but also underscored the obstacles ahead.Employee Strike: Postdoctoral students and academic researchers at the University of California said that they would return to work, partly ending a weekslong strike to demand higher pay. Some 36,000 workers remain on strike.A Piece of Black History Destroyed: Lincoln Heights — a historically Black community in a predominantly white, rural county in Northern California — endured for decades. Then came the Mill fire.Ms. Cerros-Mercado lives in San Francisco and used to walk downtown for work but now manages a Mixt branch in Mill Valley, a Marin County suburb that has 14,000 people and $2 million starter homes.Many of the former office workers who live there have yet to return downtown en masse, but their purchases over the past three years have shown that they still want downtown perks and services like a freshly prepared lunch. Mixt opened the Mill Valley location this year as part of a push to generate more business in residential neighborhoods and suburbs.Just before 7:30 a.m. on that recent Wednesday, Ms. Cerros-Mercado watched her Uber pull up outside a downtown Whole Foods so she could start her commute to the suburbs. It proceeded along the sleepy streets where she used to work — past coffee-shops and dim sum restaurants, past the glass towers and the boarded-up storefronts — and sped across the Golden Gate Bridge toward Marin.The Creative ClassAs it happens, Yelp was inspired by a flu.Mr. Stoppelman, 45, contracted the virus shortly after returning to the Bay Area from business school. This was in 2004, back when the internet had enough information that you could find something about anything, yet was also still new enough that the information was rarely more detailed than what you could find in the Yellow Pages. When Mr. Stoppelman went online to find a doctor and was confronted by a bunch of phone and suite numbers but little about the actual physicians, it gave him an idea.Jeremy Stoppelman, chief executive of Yelp, decided to allow its 4,400 employees to work from anywhere in the country.Aaron Wojack for The New York TimesYelp began as a word-of-mouth email service before morphing into the local review and directory site that is now worth about $2 billion. That he had a good idea was less important to the company’s success than the Bay Area’s tech ecosystem — the experience and social connections Mr. Stoppelman gained from his previous job at PayPal helped him procure $1 million in start-up funding.Another factor, Mr. Stoppelman said, was a crucial decision, unusual at the time, to locate the company in a San Francisco office building instead of a Silicon Valley office park.“I’m not sure that Yelp would have succeeded if we weren’t in the city,” he said. “When you’re in a city, there’s lots of places you might go, and an efficient way to sort through the possibilities is important. Yelp was a killer app for the city.”San Francisco is about 40 miles from the heart of Silicon Valley, which for the most part consists of low-slung suburban cities that sit along U.S. 101 and have sprawling office campuses surrounded by acres of parking. Until fairly recently, however, the city was considered a subpar place for start-ups.The downtown business district had historically revolved around banks and insurance companies. And the wave of tech companies that sprouted up in San Francisco during the dot-com boom of the late 1990s became symbols of that period’s delusions when they went out of business during the dot-com bust. Mr. Stoppelman said the surplus of fly-by-night companies gave credence to a joke that circulated around PayPal: Start-ups do better in the suburbs because their workers have less to do outside the office.But the bust provided an opportunity in the form of cheap office space that proliferated through the city’s South of Market neighborhood, which sits next to the financial district. Besides, for a new generation of start-up founders like Mr. Stoppelman, who was in his 20s and single when Yelp started, the city just seemed more fun.In San Francisco, and around the country, a growing preference for urban living was showing up in surveys, condo prices and pour-over coffee shops. Economists like Edward Glaeser at Harvard and Richard Florida at the University of Toronto distilled this movement into a sort of new urban theory that said cities were benefiting from several converging trends, including a more tech-driven economy, plunging crime rates and the bubble of young millennials entering the work force.Downtown San Francisco in December. Until 2020, the area was packed with people.In his 2002 book, “Rise of the Creative Class,” Mr. Florida posited that instead of seeking lower taxes and operating costs or locating near suburban enclaves with good schools, companies like Yelp were sprouting in cities rich with the design and engineering workers their businesses needed to grow. He parlayed the book’s success into a consulting firm, the Creative Class Group, which advises cities on strategies for attracting young workers.The advice — find educated workers, create dense fun neighborhoods and embrace social liberalism — could be reduced, effectively, to “become more like San Francisco.”An irony of San Francisco’s emerging status as an economic bellwether was that until the Great Recession, when a plunge in tax revenue prompted the local government to go scrambling for ways to stimulate growth, the city had made no special effort to attract tech companies. In the wake of the downturn, however, the city altered its tax code to be more welcoming to start-ups, while office owners started offering the shorter leases start-ups desire and open floor plans that allow companies to cram more people together.Less than a decade later, a city that was never more than a Silicon Valley satellite was the epicenter of a new boom, with companies like Twitter, Lyft, Uber, Dropbox, Reddit and Airbnb all setting up inside the city limits. And the employees who worked there needed lunch.Ms. Cerros-Mercado, who grew up in the city, watched this unfold while building her career at Specialty’s, a local cafe and sandwich chain known for its giant cookies. She started working there for about $10 an hour and regarded it as a stopping off point that would help support her children as she went through college, with the hopes that she would later go to nursing school.But she came to like it and rose from being a cashier to a kitchen manager and then general manager who made $80,000 with time off, along with dental and health benefits. The main location where she worked was downtown, next to a Mixt restaurant whose lines spilled onto the street.The Creative Class and Its DiscontentsEmpty seats at a restaurant in downtown San Francisco, perhaps the most deserted business district in America.For the optimized office worker looking for the trifecta of fast, healthy and filling, few meals are more efficient than a pile of veggies and some dressing swirled with tofu or grilled chicken. Unfortunately, the aspirations of a salad are often dashed by the difficulty of making one that is actually good. The ingredients come from every corner of the supermarket, and if they aren’t combined in the right proportions, or if they are made too far in advance, every bite is a drag.Ms. Silverglide, 42, the chief executive of Mixt, tried to solve this problem with a setup in which customers proceeded down a counter and called out ingredients like grilled chicken and roasted brussels sprouts while stipulating exactly how much dressing they wanted. She said the naysayers of the time told her that there weren’t enough salad eaters to sustain her company, or that only women would eat there.Instead, lines extended down the block, and Yelp’s users gave the business three and a half stars. People like Mike Ghaffary discovered a healthier kind of lunch in a restaurant where customization was encouraged.Mr. Ghaffary is a former Yelp executive and serial optimizer who went to Mixt in search of a vegan meal that was high in protein and low in sugar. The salad he came up with paired lentils, chickpeas and quinoa with greens and a cilantro jalapeño vinaigrette.Over the next several years, as Yelp grew and went public, Mixt thrived alongside it, adding a dozen locations through downtown and other city neighborhoods. Mr. Ghaffary became something of a Mixt evangelist (“He was very proud of the beany salad he came up with,” Mr. Stoppelman said) and ordered his vegetal concoction so frequently that the salad was added to the permanent menu and still sits on the board under the name “Be Well.”In the city, however, well-being was taking a hit.The tech companies that San Francisco had tried so hard to attract were now the target of regular protests, including some by demonstrators who at the end of 2013 began blocking commuter buses from Google and other companies to show their rage at rents that now sit at a median of $3,600. This was an opening gesture in what would become an ongoing debate about gentrification and the effect of tech companies on the city — a debate that played out in arguments over homeless camps, votes to stop development and countless more protests.All of this was rooted in the cost of housing, which had been expensive for decades but had morphed into a disaster. A local government that had all but begged tech companies to set up shop there was now pushing a raft of new taxes to deal with its spiraling affordable housing and homelessness problems. In 2017, the year the Salesforce Tower eclipsed the Transamerica Pyramid as the city’s tallest skyscraper, Mr. Florida published another book. It was called “The New Urban Crisis.”Ramps to the Salesforce Transit center in San Francisco. The vacancy rate for downtown offices has risen to 24 percent from 5 percent since 2019.An axiom of the post-Covid economy is that the pandemic didn’t create new trends so much as it accelerated trends already in place. Such is the case with Yelp, which long ago started moving employees in response to San Francisco’s rising cost of living, opening sales offices around the country and new engineering hubs in London and Toronto.Still, it was hard to see how that might pose any kind of threat to the city, whose greatest challenge seemed to be dealing with the too many jobs it already had.Expansions aside, Yelp was still ensconced in its headquarters at 140 New Montgomery, and by early 2020, it had every intention of signing a new lease. The company’s ties to San Francisco, the hold of the creative class and all that, were too strong to imagine anything in its place.Headquartered in the Cloud“Have you heard about Covid?”Ms. Cerros-Mercado remembers asking a regional manager at Specialty’s that question sometime in February or early March of 2020. The virus had been in the news for weeks, but it didn’t seem like more than a seasonal bug until her 19-year-old daughter’s school trip to Spain was canceled. The manager she asked wasn’t so sure.“He’s like, ‘Oh, it’s just a flulike virus; it will go away,” she said. “And I’m looking at him and telling him, ‘No, this is actually really serious.’”Ms. Cerros-Mercado described the following weeks as a blur of plunging sales and eerie moments like standing in a coffee shop with no customers or hearing from a janitor that the offices above them were clearing out. By May, Specialty’s had filed for Chapter 7 bankruptcy after a conference call in which she and other managers were thanked for their service and told they would be employed for three more days, during which they would deliver the news they had just received to the people who worked for them.“One of the hardest conversations was having to talk to my team,” she said. “I had some team members that were crying because they weren’t sure where their income was going to come from.”In that moment, the question was when life would return to how it was. But as Mr. Stoppelman discovered that he could run a publicly traded company from his home with no loss of business, he decided that for his company, anyway, the new normal was better. Yelp abandoned its headquarters when the lease at 140 New Montgomery lapsed, joining a growing list of tech companies that had replaced free cafeterias and Ping-Pong breakrooms — which for more than a decade had been rationalized by a belief that a social company was a more innovative company — with slogans like “headquartered in the cloud.”Yelp ended up adding back about 50,000 feet for employees who want an occasional desk, but for the city that figure is even smaller than it seems. The new offices are one-third of its former footprint; Yelp subleased the space from Salesforce — the city’s largest private employer, which is also cutting back on local offices.The emptying of American downtowns after Covid was followed by a boom in exurban housing and in cities like Austin and Spokane, trends reflected in where Yelp’s work force has landed. Cortney Ward, 41, a Yelp product designer, bought a home in Austin after leaving her one-bedroom apartment in San Francisco’s Nob Hill. Yelp workers also invented new habits and left holes in the businesses that relied on them. When Diego Waxemberg, 30, a software engineer, left the Bay Area for Charlotte, N.C., he started lunching on leftovers instead of sometimes buying a $17 Mixt salad with tri-tip steak. Mackenzie Bise, 30, who works in user operations, moved to the Sacramento area, and during a recent online search discovered that her favorite San Francisco lunch spot had gone out of business.Maria Cerros-Mercado preparing the Mixt salad shop in Mill Valley to open for the day.During the height of the pandemic, Ms. Cerros-Mercado went through a spell of unemployment before landing at another restaurant chain and later at Mixt. But downtown business was still somewhere between lagging and nonexistent. Mixt laid off hundreds of workers, closed most downtown stores for more than a year and subsisted on business from neighborhood and suburban stores.“If we didn’t have the neighborhood restaurants, we wouldn’t have survived — point blank,” Ms. Silverglide said.But for all the daily rhythms that were upended by home offices, the desire for a specially prepared lunch seems to have endured. Consider Mr. Ghaffary, creator of the Be Well salad, who used the pandemic as a challenge to recreate Mixt’s setup in the kitchen of his Marin County home. He started with fresh ingredients but got tired of his frequent trips to the grocery store and shifted to preparing them in bulk.“I’d make like four or five days of Tupperware,” he said. “First I tried making the whole salad, and then it would get soggy. Then I made half the salad and would finish the rest at the end.”“I was very proud of my streamlined production methods,” he continued. “And then I was kind of like, ‘I don’t want to be making these salads.’”Mr. Ghaffary told this story over salad at Mixt’s Mill Valley store, the one Ms. Cerros-Mercado manages, which opened in July and had lines of customers in athleisure. Operations are slightly more difficult because some employees commute an hour or more to get there, most relying on buses and one sometimes trying to catch a ride in Ms. Cerros-Mercado’s Uber. When a worker misses the bus, Ms. Cerros-Mercado spends her morning trying to cover for holes in the setup line.But the business was steady, and according to Ms. Silverglide it extends until 9 at night, catering to families and a growing salad-for-dinner segment that pairs plates of greens with the various wines and craft beers recently added to the menu. She is fairly confident that Mixt’s “neighborhood locations,” like the Mill Valley one, will drive the business’s expansion. Business in downtown San Francisco has been picking up — but it’s unclear how long that will last, or how close to prepandemic traffic it will ever reach. The offices, after all, haven’t even hit 50 percent.Better TogetherThe building at 140 New Montgomery Street is empty but still an Art Deco landmark.A wood reception desk that used to greet Yelp’s visitors sits empty in its former office. The mounted iPad where visitors once checked in is gone, along with the bright jars of candy and the rows of desks that sat beyond them. But there are still views.“You can see that you get good natural light all around,” said Stacey Spurr, a regional director for Pembroke, which owns 140 New Montgomery, during a recent tour of the quiet and empty but still quite gorgeous building.Ms. Spurr began the tour by pointing out the gold ceilings in the lobby before proceeding to the basement, where there are showers and bike racks. The empty floors upstairs are layered with boastful stickers like the one about the building’s A-plus air filtration system.The nearly 160,000 square feet that Yelp left empty is about half of the building’s space, and about half of that has been re-leased. The good news for Pembroke seems less good for the city. Some of the new tenants are finance and venture capital firms that have clung to the gravitas of a physical office for client meetings and the occasional conference but are unlikely to contribute regular foot traffic, according to building owners across the city.In a typical downturn, the turnaround is a fairly simple equation of rents falling far enough to attract new tenants and the economy improving fast enough to stimulate new demand. But now there’s a more existential question of what the point of a city’s downtown even is.Downtown San Francisco is trying to adapt to what amounts to a three-day workweek. On Wednesdays, offices are at 50 percent of their prepandemic levels; on Fridays, they’re not even at 30 percent.The city, and business groups like Advance SF, are trying to reframe the urban core as a more residential and entertainment district that draws from throughout the region and may in the future involve the conversion of office buildings to residential use. The motto is “Better Together,” and Advance SF recently hosted a forum with a guest economist to discuss new ideas for downtown. The guest was Richard Florida.“When I started with the creative class, places didn’t care about young people, they were only trying to attract a family with children to the lovely suburbs, and I’m saying, ‘No, no, no, no, no,’” Mr. Florida said in an interview. “Twenty years later, people forgot about the families. And now here’s a whole generation leaving cities again, for metropolitan or virtual suburbs.”The more businesses invest with that new reality in mind, the more likely that reality becomes self-fulfilling.A year after being consumed by bankruptcy, Specialty’s, the cafe chain where Ms. Cerros-Mercado began her career, was reincarnated. The first new store sits in the Silicon Valley town of Mountain View, and as the company plots its next expansion it is eschewing the office-adjacent locations on which the original company was built for a more delivery-centric business that has a world of half-empty buildings in mind.Back at 140 New Montgomery, the owners are experimenting with new ideas to get office workers to come in. The building has been hosting gatherings like an Oktoberfest celebration that included a raffle to win a beer stein with the building’s logo.On the afternoon of the Oktoberfest party, a cluster of workers from a software company stood around eating sausages and soft pretzels.“We hear a lot of buzz about this building,” said Veronica Arvizu, a senior property manager at the real estate company CBRE. “We hear it’s the busiest in the city.”A few feet away from her, another group of young workers was playing Jenga. One by one, they took blocks away from the structure, making way for the inevitable collapse. More

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    California Panel Sizes Up Reparations for Black Citizens

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    In the two years since nationwide social justice protests followed the murder of George Floyd, California has undertaken the nation’s most sweeping effort yet to explore some concrete restitution to Black citizens to address the enduring economic effects of slavery and racism.A nine-member Reparations Task Force has spent months traveling across California to learn about the generational effects of racist policies and actions. The group, formed by legislation signed by Gov. Gavin Newsom in 2020, is scheduled to release a report to lawmakers in Sacramento next year outlining recommendations for state-level reparations.“We are looking at reparations on a scale that is the largest since Reconstruction,” said Jovan Scott Lewis, a professor at the University of California, Berkeley, who is a member of the task force.While the creation of the task force is a bold first step, much remains unclear about whether lawmakers will ultimately throw their political weight behind reparations proposals that will require vast financial resources from the state.“That is why we must put forward a robust plan, with plenty of options,” Dr. Lewis said.The effort parallels others on a local level, in California and elsewhere, to address the nation’s stark racial disparities and a persistent wealth gap. The median wealth of Black households in the United States is $24,100, compared with $188,200 for white households, according to the most recent Federal Reserve Board Survey of Consumer Finances.In a preliminary report this year, the task force outlined how enslaved Black people were forced to California during the Gold Rush era and how, in the 1950s and 1960s, racially restrictive covenants and redlining segregated Black Californians in many of the state’s largest cities.Californians eligible for reparations, the task force decided in March, would be descendants of enslaved African Americans or of a “free Black person living in the United States prior to the end of the 19th century.” Nearly 6.5 percent of California residents, roughly 2.5 million, identify as Black or African American. The panel is now considering how reparations should be distributed — some favor tuition and housing grants while others want direct cash payments.The task force has identified five areas — housing discrimination, mass incarceration, unjust property seizures, devaluation of Black businesses and health care — in discussions for compensation. For example, from 1933 to 1977, when it comes to housing discrimination, the task force estimates compensation of around $569 billion, with $223,200 per person.Final figures will be released in the report next year; it would then be up to the Legislature to act upon the recommendations and determine how to fund them.The state and local efforts have faced opposition over the potentially steep cost to taxpayers and, in one case, derided as an ill-conceived campaign to impose an “era of social justice.”More on CaliforniaJaywalking Law: California has had one of the strictest jaywalking laws in the nation. Starting Jan. 1, that will no longer be the case.Remaking a River: Taming the Los Angeles River helped Los Angeles emerge as a global megalopolis, but it also left a gaping scar across the territory. Imagining the river’s future poses new challenges.A Piece of Black History Destroyed: Lincoln Heights — a historically Black community in a predominantly white, rural county in Northern California — endured for decades. Then came the Mill fire.Employee Strike: In one of the nation’s biggest strikes in recent years, teaching assistants, researchers and other workers across the University of California system walked off the job to demand higher pay.A two-day public meeting of the state task force this fall, in a makeshift hearing room tucked inside a Los Angeles museum, included a mix of comments from local residents on how they had been personally affected and how the disparities should be addressed, along with testimony from experts who have studied reparations.While even broad-scale reparations would be unlikely to eliminate the racial wealth gap, they could narrow it significantly, and proponents hope California’s effort will influence other states and federal legislators to follow suit.“Calling these local projects reparations is to some degree creating a detour from the central task of compelling the federal government to do its job,” said William A. Darity Jr., a professor at Duke University and a leading scholar on reparations. Even so, Dr. Darity, who is advising the California task force, said “there is an increasing recognition” that the lasting effects of slavery must be addressed.Every year for almost three decades, Representative John Conyers Jr. of Michigan introduced legislation that would have created a commission to explore reparations, but the measure consistently stalled in Congress. After Mr. Conyers retired in 2017, Representative Sheila Jackson Lee of Texas began championing the measure, which passed a House committee for the first time last year, but stalled on the floor.Underscoring the political hurdles, opinions on reparations are sharply divided by race. Last year, an online survey by the University of Massachusetts Amherst found that 86 percent of African Americans supported compensating the descendants of slaves, compared with 28 percent of white people. Other polls have also shown wide splits.Still, several efforts have gotten off the ground recently.In 2021, officials in Evanston, Ill., a Chicago suburb, approved $10 million in reparations in the form of housing grants. Three months later, officials in Asheville, N.C., committed $2.1 million to reparations. And over the summer, the Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors approved a plan to transfer ownership of Bruce’s Beach — a parcel in Manhattan Beach that was seized with scant compensation from a Black couple in 1924 — to the couple’s great-grandsons and great-great-grandsons.“We want to see the land and economic wealth stolen from Black families all across this country returned,” said Kavon Ward, an activist who advocated on behalf of the Bruces’ descendants and has since started a group, Where Is My Land, that seeks to help Black Americans secure restitution.“We are in a moment that we cannot let pass.”A so-called blight law from 1945, the task force’s interim report explains, paved the way for officials to use eminent domain to destroy Black communities, including shuttering more than 800 businesses and displacing 4,700 households in San Francisco’s Western Addition beginning in the 1950s.After work on Interstate 210 began later that decade, the report goes on, the freeway was eventually built in the path of a Black business district in Pasadena, where city officials offered residents $75,000 — less than the minimum cost to buy a new home in the city — for their old homes.And there is Russell City, an unincorporated parcel of Alameda County near the San Francisco Bay shoreline where many Black families fleeing racial terror in the Deep South built lives during the Great Migration. Testimony to the task force by Russell City residents recounts the community’s rise and ultimate bulldozing.A mural honoring the history of Russell City in what is now Hayward, Calif.Jim Wilson/The New York TimesMonique Henderson-Ford grew up hearing stories from her elders about Russell City, where many Black families fleeing racial terror in the Deep South built lives during the Great Migration.Jim Wilson/The New York TimesThe town was demolished to make way for an industrial park.Jim Wilson/The New York TimesUnlike neighboring Hayward and San Leandro, Russell City didn’t have racist housing covenants stipulating that only white families could own certain homes. After World War II, it grew into a small but tight community of Black and Latino families that once included seven churches.On weekends, children played on the unpaved streets as their parents, many of whom worked in the shipyards, sat on porches, and on some foggy nights, Ray Charles and Big Mama Thornton played shows at one of the town’s music venues, called the Country Club.“It was vibrant,” said Monique Henderson-Ford, who grew up hearing stories about Russell City from her mother, grandmother and cousins.After leaving Louisiana in the 1950s, her grandparents lived briefly in San Francisco but were displaced by an urban renewal project. Using savings from years of work at Pacific Gas & Electric, her grandfather paid $7,500 for their property and home in Russell City, and the family soon added three small houses to the homestead for their sons.“This was their American dream,” Ms. Henderson-Ford said in an interview.But it didn’t last long.Lacking sewer lines and reliable electricity, the area was designated as a blight, and officials called for its destruction and the area to be turned into an industrial park. Russell City was annexed into Hayward, and the city and county bought up some properties and seized others through eminent domain. Residents, including Ms. Henderson-Ford’s grandmother, pleaded with officials to be allowed to remain in their homes.“I got a nice place,” she told the Alameda County Board of Supervisors during a public meeting in 1963, according to a transcript. “Allow me a break.”In exchange for their property and homes, county officials gave the family roughly $2,200, less than a third of what it had originally paid, according to Ms. Henderson-Ford.On a recent morning, Ms. Henderson-Ford and her cousin joined a reporter on a walk through what was once Russell City but is now an industrial park.They passed the spot where their grandfather used to fish, yanking up striped bass from the bay as he peered northwest and watched San Francisco’s skyline take its distinctive shape.“Imagine if the houses were still here,” Ms. Henderson-Ford said. “We would all be sitting on a fortune.”Amid the uproar in 2020 over the murder of Mr. Floyd, a Black man, in police custody in Minneapolis, Artavia Berry, who lives in Hayward, knew she had to do something.“We could not look away from what happened right here,” said Ms. Berry, who learned the history of Russell City after moving to the region from Chicago a decade ago.Ms. Berry, who leads the Community Services Commission, a municipal advisory body, composed what would become a formal apology from the City of Hayward to onetime residents of Russell City. Last November, the City Council approved the resolution, as well as several follow-up steps.An aerial view of the area as the industrial park that replaced Russell City, lower right, was under construction in 1971.Hayward Area Historical SocietyA kindergarten class on the playground at a school in Russell City in 1949.Hayward Area Historical SocietyBut in a public letter to city officials, Hayward Concerned Citizens, the group that railed against an “era of social justice,” said the apology was misguided, arguing that Alameda County, not the City of Hayward, had pushed residents out.“We are strongly opposed to any direct financial reparations,” the group wrote.For Gloria Moore, who grew up in Russell City, the words stung.Now 79, she was 3 when her parents arrived in Russell City from Texarkana, Ark. Her mother worked as a cook at a local elementary school and her father worked for Todd Shipyards in the Bay Area. She still has vivid memories of walking to school in the mud when it rained, because the streets weren’t paved and there was no public transportation.After their home was taken for about $2,200, the family members struggled to regain the financial stability and community they had built in Russell City.By the 1970s, Ms. Moore had moved to Los Angeles to begin a career in city government, and she remembered noticing how many of her co-workers owned their own homes. She was renting.Over the years, she and other former residents of Russell City have gathered at a park in Hayward for a Labor Day reunion, where they share stories and often tears.“Sometimes things were suppressed because it was too painful,” she recalled. “But no one ever forgot.” More

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    ‘No Jobs Available’: The Feast or Famine Careers of America’s Port Drivers.

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    Just before 4 o’clock on a Tuesday morning, the sky still black save for the reddish glow of the freeway, Marshawn Jackson rolls over in his bed at his home in Southern California and reaches for his iPhone.He clicks on an app used by truck drivers seeking assignments. The notification he absorbs is both familiar and disheartening: “No jobs available.”Mr. Jackson is paid per delivery. No work means no income. His day is already booked with two assignments, but the rest of his week is dead. Over the next 15 hours, he refreshes the app constantly, desperate to secure more jobs — an exercise in vigorous futility.He refreshes after he pulls his tractor-trailer into a nearby storage yard to pick up an empty shipping container, and again while he rolls down the freeway, toward the Port of Los Angeles — one hand on the wheel, one hand on his phone.He refreshes as he drops off the empty box, and a dozen more times while he waits for a crane to deposit another container on the chassis behind his rig, this one loaded with toys from factories in Asia. He refreshes while he fuels his truck.Each time, the same result.“You reach a point where you’re like, ‘Man, am I even making money?’” Mr. Jackson says. “Is it worth even getting up in the morning?”The sudden disappearance of work is an unexpected turn for Mr. Jackson, 37, and the rest of Southern California’s so-called dray operators — the drivers who transport shipping containers between the twin ports of Los Angeles and Long Beach and the sprawl of warehouses filling out the Inland Empire to the east.For much of the pandemic, as the worst public health crisis in a century tore at daily life, these drivers were inundated with work, even while they contended with excruciating delays at the ports. Americans sequestered in their homes filled bedrooms with office furniture and basements with exercise equipment, summoning record volumes of goods from factories in Asia. The flow overwhelmed the ports of Los Angeles and Long Beach, the gateway for roughly two-fifths of the nation’s imports.As dozens of ships sat at anchor miles off the coast, awaiting their chance to unload, dray operators like Mr. Jackson idled for hours on land before they could enter port gates. They waited hours more to pick up their containers, and yet again before they could drop them off at warehouses.These days, the lines are mostly gone, and loading and unloading goes smoothly. But the same truck drivers who endured the worst of the Great Supply Chain Disruption are now suffering another affliction as the docks reverts to a semblance of normalcy. The frenzied chaos that dominated the first years of the pandemic has been replaced by an uneasy stillness — not enough work.Like many truck drivers, Mr. Jackson works long hours.Brandon Pavan for The New York TimesHe checks his phone many times during the day to try to secure more jobs for his two employees and himself.Brandon Pavan for The New York TimesIncoming shipments are diminishing at Southern California’s two largest ports. This is partly because American demand for kitchen appliances, video game consoles and lawn furniture is finally waning. It also reflects how major retailers are bypassing Southern California, instead shipping to East Coast destinations like Savannah, Ga., to avoid potential upheaval as West Coast dockworkers face off with port managers over a new contract.Mr. Jackson’s journey through a maze of traffic-choked freeways exemplifies the bewildering, often-perilous road confronting tens of millions of workers in a global economy still grappling with the volatile effects of the pandemic along with soaring inflation.As central banks raise interest rates to choke off demand for goods and services in an effort to lower consumer prices, they are reducing income for legions of workers who are paid per assignment. The situation is especially fraught for the nation’s 75,000 dray operators and other foot soldiers of the supply chain.Dockworkers, who wield equipment to load and unload containers at ports, are protected by fierce and disciplined unions that have succeeded in commanding some of the higher wages in blue collar American life. Dray operators work primarily as independent contractors, buying their own fuel and insurance.Their status leaves them subject to constant shifts in economic fortune. In good times, like last year, dray operators command whatever the market must pay to keep them rolling. In lean times, they are guaranteed nothing.As he navigates five lanes of traffic on the way to the port, Mr. Jackson dons headphones to conduct a series of phone calls.More on CaliforniaBullet Train to Nowhere: Construction of the California high-speed rail system, America’s most ambitious infrastructure project, has become a multi-billion-dollar nightmare.A Piece of Black History Destroyed: Lincoln Heights — a historically Black community in a predominantly white, rural county in Northern California — endured for decades. Then came the Mill fire.Warehouse Moratorium: As warehouse construction balloons nationwide, residents in communities both rural and urban have pushed back. In California’s Inland Empire, the anger has turned to widespread action.He talks to his wife, sharing worries that they might not be able to close on their purchase of a newly built home. His income has fluctuated wildly in recent months. The mortgage company is demanding more documents, filling him with dread.He speaks with two men who drive a pair of trucks that he owns. He coordinates their schedules and helps them navigate unfamiliar shipping terminals. He frets that they may not bring in enough to cover the expenses on his other rigs.He passes billboards for beachfront homes in Baja, flights to Las Vegas, spa resorts. He wonders when he will be able to take his wife and 13-year-old daughter on a vacation.He contemplates the tenuous nature of American upward mobility, the forces tearing at the life he has constructed.“The way we’re living is hard times right now,” Mr. Jackson says. “You’ve still got to smile through it. You’ve still got to be positive. But, man, I’m dealing with a lot right now.”Container ships waited to enter the Port of Los Angeles during a large backlog last year.Erin Schaff/The New York Times‘Pray you can make it out.’Raised in South Central Los Angeles, Mr. Jackson says he embraced trucking as a form of liberation from a community he described as chronically short of good jobs and bedeviled by gang violence.“You get used to seeing things,” he says. “All you can do is pray you can make it out.”Growing up, he helped his grandmother with a hair care products business, packing boxes in a warehouse when he was only 10. But when the company failed in the aftermath of the long recession that began in 2007, Mr. Jackson sought a reliable way to support his partner and their then-infant daughter.A friend told him there were good jobs in long-haul trucking. He signed up for a training program arranged by Swift, a giant in the industry.He hopped the Greyhound to Phoenix for the three-week program, sharing a motel room full of scorpions with two other trainees. They practiced on aging rigs that lacked air conditioning despite summer heat reaching 117 degrees.He was soon earning $1,000 a week hauling trailers from a Dollar Store distribution center in Southern California to Phoenix and back.But as the routes grew longer, the strains on his family life intensified. He was hauling refrigerated trailers full of lettuce from the fields of central California to a distribution center in North Carolina. He was routinely away for two and three weeks at a stretch.When his daughter graduated from kindergarten in 2016, he pleaded with the company to schedule him to be home, just for that day. One dispatcher — a gruff, former Marine — mocked him.“This is what you signed up for,” he said.Mr. Jackson did not make it to the ceremony.“I felt like I was letting my whole family down,” he says. “It changed my whole outlook.”He drove back to California and turned in the keys on the truck he leased from the company. He used savings to buy a used rig and began picking up routes as an independent contractor, limiting his time away to no more than three days.Then he figured out how to sleep at home every night. He began working in and out of the port.He eventually bought the other trucks and took on the pair of drivers, paying them a share of the proceeds on the loads they deliver.“It was one of those things where you’ve got to take a risk,” he says. “Why wouldn’t I bet it all on myself? It was something I knew I could do.”He and his family moved into a rented apartment in the Inland Empire, east of Los Angeles, and then into a modest house they bought just off the freeway. They vacationed in Mexico and Hawaii.His daughter’s name, Bailey Jackson, is painted in white letters on the door of his rig. She is the reason he keeps rolling, he says. He takes her shopping — for clothes, for books.“That girl is always reading,” he says. “Some days, she’ll finish more than one book.”This year, he signed off on buying a four-bedroom home with space for a swimming pool in a quiet community carved into the desert in Riverside County.It was a five-minute drive from the yard where he parks his truck.It was a lifetime away from South Central Los Angeles.Dray operators like Mr. Jackson have to idle for hours on land before they can enter port gates.Brandon Pavan for The New York Times’We’ve got to survive.’Though the Inland Empire lies roughly 60 miles from the ports, its clusters of warehouses are an extension of the docks.Here, major retailers stash the bounty delivered from Asia via container ships. Distribution centers supply consumers across much of the American West.In the same way that massive slaughterhouses turned Chicago into a rail hub in the late 19th century, the Inland Empire has burgeoned into a dominant center of warehousing in the age of big box retail and e-commerce.At 5:43 a.m., the sun still a vague suggestion to the east, Mr. Jackson sits behind the wheel of his enormous blue Kenworth tractor. He guides it into a Shell station and climbs down to the pavement.Diesel is selling for $6.19 a gallon, an eye-popping number. He puts $100 in the tank, enough to get to Los Angeles to drop off the empty trailer he has picked up this morning from a warehouse for a home appliance company.Fifteen minutes later, as the sun glimmers through hazy skies, he is headed west on I-60.He wonders what the day will bring.A year ago, he could take his pick from scores of jobs at the Dray Alliance, the online platform where he secures assignments. Not anymore. Whenever a new job appears, he clicks immediately, knowing that dozens of other drivers are also keeping vigil on the site.The uncertainties of the trade are wearying. Three times in the past week, Mr. Jackson has wound up on so-called dry runs — journeys aborted because of a glitch. Sometimes, the paperwork is not in order. Other times, a pickup appointment has been made incorrectly. He heads home with a $100 fee from the shipper. It barely covers the cost of gas.Last year, when dozens of container ships were waiting their turns to unload, he sometimes sat parked in lines for as long as five hours to pick up and drop off, even as the Dray Alliance’s app steered him to jobs with the least congestion. He would grab his neck pillow and pass out in the front seat.Now, no app can redress a basic reduction in demand. Not only are jobs scarce, but compensation has fallen.Less than a year ago, Mr. Jackson was earning about $700 to haul a container from San Bernardino to the port of Los Angeles, a 70-mile journey that can take more than two hours when traffic is bad. This morning’s job brings $500, even though the price of fuel has increased.Trucks waiting to enter a terminal at the Port of Los Angeles in June.Stella Kalinina for The New York TimesStill, every job draws fierce interest, because drivers are stuck with bills.“They know we’ve got to keep working,” Mr. Jackson says. “That’s how they take advantage. We’ve got to survive.”At 7:20, a vivid sun gathering force, Mr. Jackson pulls into the container storage yard near the port, rumbling over bumpy pavement. He backs into a space between two other containers, steps out of the cab, and turns a crank handle to lower the landing gear on the chassis. Then he detaches the box.He quickly finds the empty container he is picking up. But he notices that the chassis below it is painted pale yellow — an indication that it is old. This could trigger an inspection.He drives to port, entering the gates of APM Terminals at 7:40. The terminal is controlled by Maersk, a Danish company that is one of the two largest container shipping operations on earth.The security guard waves him through. A few minutes later, a dockworker driving a top loader — a machine that lifts containers — motions for Mr. Jackson to pull up to an appointed space so he can pluck the box off the rig and add it to a stack.Mr. Jackson scans the app on his phone for his next destination: space E162, the letters painted white on the dock. He pulls in tight, his passenger-side mirror grazing the container to his right. A crane lifts a box off the stacks and deposits it onto his chassis. It lands with a thunderous boom.The morning is proceeding so smoothly that Mr. Jackson indulges visions of dropping the container, at a Mattel warehouse, with time enough to spare for a proper meal — his first of the day — before heading back to the port.But then a dockworker notices the old chassis. He diverts him to a special maintenance area. There, Mr. Jackson sits for more than an hour while a mechanic administers a repair.He pulls in to a truck stop in Long Beach, and adds another $400 worth of diesel to his tank.He walks across the lot, stepping between other tractor-trailers, on his way to the restroom — his first pit stop since dawn.One of his drivers calls to report that he has accepted an assignment from Dray Alliance to drop off an empty container at the port, and is now headed back to the Inland Empire, pulling nothing.Mr. Jackson is distressed. He had arranged for the driver to pick up a load at the port this evening. He should have waited to do both jobs on a single journey. Instead, he is burning gas on two round trips — at Mr. Jackson’s expense.“How does that cover the cost of me paying you?” Mr. Jackson asks. “The rates are down. It’s slow, bro’.”Mr. Jackson is an independent contractor who owns his truck and two others.Brandon Pavan for The New York Times‘I’m taking care of business.’At 11 in the morning, he is on the freeway again, headed back to the Inland Empire to drop off the container. He shovels a handful of popcorn into his mouth. Then he puts the bag on his console, and picks up his iPhone to refresh. No jobs.Fat clouds hang low over the Arrowhead Mountains as Mr. Jackson arrives at the Mattel warehouse just after noon. He drops the container, picks up an empty, and returns to the freeway, headed back to the port for the second half of his long day.Many truck drivers obsessively consume caffeine, perpetually fearful that they might otherwise descend into a dangerous state known as highway hypnosis.Mr. Jackson abstains. “I drink a lot of this,” he says, taking a swig from a bottle of Fiji water.To stay alert, he relies on the vibrations of his $6,000 sound system. He cranks up the dial on an old Isley Brothers classic, “Work to Do.” “I’m taking care of business, woman can’t you see. I’ve gotta make it for you, and gotta make it for me.”He rolls past a billboard for Fastevict.com, past tent cities full of homeless people, past self-storage units.He makes it to the port in time for a meal before his 3 p.m. pickup.He winds through the cracked streets of Long Beach, looking for a curb long enough to park a tractor-trailer. He finds a spot around the corner from the truck stop. He waits for an Uber Eats driver, who arrives bearing a Chipotle bowl — brown rice, chicken and avocado.He drops the container, picks up another, and parks again in Long Beach, taking a nap in the back in the cab while waiting for rush hour traffic to ease.At 6:30 in the evening, twilight settling over the parched land, he rolls toward home while again on the phone with his wife.The mortgage underwriter does not understand the division between Mr. Jackson’s personal finances and his business — a blurry line. The closing appears in danger. (He will eventually pull it off, though that will leave him staring at mortgage payments with diminished income.)Darkness fills his cab. Brake lights flicker ahead. He and his wife struggle to understand where their road leads.“People are like, ‘If you get through this point, you’ll be OK,’” Mr. Jackson says. “And I’m like, ‘How long is this point going to last?’”Major retailers are bypassing Southern California, instead shipping to East Coast destinations like Savannah, Ga., shown here, to avoid potential upheaval.Erin Schaff/The New York Times More