Our latest reader contributor, Scott Shepard of Memphis, Tennessee, responds to the previous reader who once earned six figures as a newspaper editor but is now unemployed, cash poor, and living in her son’s converted garage. Here’s Scott:
Linda’s tale is very nearly the same as mine. After more than 25 years in the newspaper business, I was downsized in 2008. (The managing editor told me privately that I was the highest paid person in the editorial department, so canning me would save the most money.)
After months of fruitless searching for another job, I accepted an invitation from a friend and moved to Taiwan to be an English teacher. A grand adventure, but after more than six years I yearned to be home. (Most foreign English teachers are from South Africa, so as an American I always had more work than I could handle; everyone prefers an American or Canadian.)
If Linda is interested in being a foreign teacher, I’d be glad to give her some guidance. Otherwise, go through the help wanted ads and see what is most in demand, and train for a new occupation. I’ve enrolled at my local community college to learn PC Networking, a field in which I know I can find work.
I’ve been back from Taiwan for a year, doing whatever I can find, from food service to working in a warehouse. I took training to be a forklift driver, but I’m left-handed, and you really have to be right-handed to drive those things. I’ve picked up some freelance work, but not much. I started two businesses that both failed to take off.
When I started at my last newspaper in 1989, there were 13 reporters. Today, there are three. Those jobs are not coming back. The Internet has completely changed the publishing industry. Nobody wants to pay a writer when there are thousands of others who will do it for free—quality be damned.
And increasingly, the best pay for journalists on the web is writing sponsored content, the form of advertising meant to resemble editorial content (though it’s clearly labeled here at The Atlantic, in contrast to less scrupulous actors like the one Fallows highlighted last year). If you haven’t yet seen John Oliver’s detailed look at sponsored content back in 2014, you really should:
And Jacob Silverman recently wrote for The Baffler “Confessions of a sponsored content writer,” centered on his experiences writing for our site. Here Silverman gives some perspective on the economics of the media industry right now:
But my new Atlantic contact gave me the lowdown: the magazine was looking to expand its sponsored offerings, and it would pay obscenely well—up to $4 per word in some cases, a rate that can be found these days only at the glossiest of glossy mags. I had written a few pieces for The Atlantic’s website before, at the measly rate of $150 each.
It’s definitely tough out there, and not just for legacy newspapers like the ones Linda and Scott worked for. From Ken Doctor’s latest diagnosis in NiemanLab:
At BuzzFeed, a 32 percent miss in 2015 revenue and a halving of its 2016 revenue target, according to the Financial Times.
The list of cutbacks — at The Huffington Post, at Gawker, at Al Jazeera, at International Business Times, and at Salon among others — keeps growing. And each round poses new questions for a news business struggling to find a way forward in this millennium. After all, even if the old world of news faded (like its readers) into older age, at least we could point to the cohort of digital-native outlets with a bit of optimism.
I feared this day would come — the new digital news companies bumping into a wall.
If, like Linda and Scott, you’ve also hit a wall and want to share your experience, drop us an email.
Many law school grads can relate to Brandon’s predicament:
To me, nothing summed up my experience better than your colleague Gillian’s July 2015 article, “Millennials Who Are Thriving Financially Have One Thing in Common ... Rich Parents.” My luck, or lack thereof, went even further. Specifically, I began law school in 2006 when the legal market was still booming, but the wheels fell off in the middle of my second year. By then, even the most qualified of my peers at a top-50 law school struggled to secure any legal position.
I don’t blame my parents, pre-law advisors, or anyone for that. Sometimes, stuff happens. And even three years earlier, I would have been fine. But, now being required to use 25 percent of my monthly salary (after taxes) to pay back law school loans has made life increasingly difficult. Unlike my friends who either have no debt, who have financial support from parents, or both, I literally can’t afford to make a mistake or be the victim of bad luck.
I thankfully will be able to take advantage of a public service loan forgiveness program through the federal government and be finished with my loans after five more years (I’ve been part of it for five so far). But I can’t imagine having to spend 25 years paying back loans and then have to pay taxes on the amount forgiven.
It’s a tough path to be on, and it has definitely contributed to me not saving or starting a family. But like I said, there's no one really to blame for that. Stuff just happens.
Our next reader has a whopping $200,000 of law school debt. This line especially stood out: “I’ve been shamed by people at my current work, including my boss, because I’ve admitted to being poor when I look, and my family looks, rich.” Here’s his full story, involving protein powder and a pooch in pain:
I’m 28, white male, an attorney in New Jersey, graduated law school in 2013 and was unemployed / working for free until the beginning of 2015. I went to a great law school but focused on a career in immigration that I ended up being unable to get a job in due to a lack of Spanish proficiency, and it was really strange and stressful to have most of my classmates going into jobs that started over six figures while I had to move back into my parent’s basement and slowly destroy my savings while looking for work.
I ended up taking what would have been a dream job at an immigration nonprofit, but I wasn’t paid to do it. My parents supported me, but they insisted I live in a much more expensive apartment than I wanted to and then didn’t help as much as they said they would, so I ended up going into thousands of dollars in credit card debt to pay for rent and groceries. I’m ok now, but only because I got a good job at the end of 2014 and spent the past 15 months paying off cards, bills, and many other debts.
I’m lucky enough that I was able to rely on my parents to help me keep “working,” even if unpaid, because without that job I almost certainly would have ended up long term unemployed—but even that luck didn’t feel great. I ended up buying protein powder, flour, and peanut butter to make high calorie/protein cookies to last me when I ran out of money for food; I couldn’t pay for repairs for my car and put all the gas on a credit card; and I had to delay a surgery for my dog for a year which left her in a lot of pain and distress.
I was also depressed during much of this time, and my long-term girlfriend, whom I was planning on proposing to, dumped me, saying she couldn’t deal with it any more. I went to a therapist, who was very helpful with the depression but also ended up being out of network for my insurance, so I had to go into more debt to pay for the treatments.
I’m out of it now, but my food buying patterns were frankly broken for most of 2015 as a result, and I’ve been shamed by people at my current work, including my boss, because I’ve admitted to being poor when I look and my family looks rich. I’m almost out of my credit card debt and was able to pay for my dog’s surgery but I don’t know how long it’ll take for me to be normal about money and groceries/food/normal daily life things. I also have no expectations of ever being able to afford to buy a home—ever—and I’m lucky because I don’t want kids; I have no idea how I could ever financially plan for a child’s expenses.
I have over $200,000 of law school debt, which thankfully I'm on an income-based plan for and will be able to deal with, so the odd thing is it's my smaller debts/bills that have been the real issue for me. The best advice I have for people going through what I went through, or worse, is to try to keep organized and normal. Mental health is just as hard to deal with as physical health, and if I had recognized that and been more put together I think I wouldn’t have the lasting effects that I have now in my approach to daily life.
Your readers—and Neal Gabler—need to know about Debtors Anonymous. It’s a 12-step program for people whose lives have become unmanageable over issues of money. It helped me out of a near-suicidal depression several years ago when I was so flattened by debt that death seemed the only way out of the pain. It gave me a community in which I could speak honestly about my money issues, along with genuine tools for maintaining a “sobriety” on money issues and a Pressure Relief group with which I met to keep me focused.
Now, I write down every expense, balance my checkbook weekly, save at least 10% from every check (on a freelance income) and have a “prudent reserve” for emergencies. Five years ago, I would have been flattened by the emergency payments that Gabler cited. Now, I could meet either one, or both, with perhaps a grimace but with a check that would not bounce.
Yes, I still have debt, but it’s secured and manageable. DA is where anyone who wants to get sane about money can go to share and learn, without any judgment—only love, understanding and support. To find a meeting (and there are phone and online meetings for those outside of areas with local groups), go to: www.DebtorsAnonymous.org.
As is standard in this arena, I will not use my name but sign off as:
I just want to say that what Mr. Gabler wrote in his article on the 49 percent of Americans who cannot afford a $400 emergency was shocking, enlightening, and extremely brave. I was appalled to read such horrible slams directed at him the comment section and I think they just validate his point that many people are in complete denial that many people are, or could be, at risk for “financial impotence.” Thank you for the insightful article and I will continue to read everything Mr. Gabler writes.
I’m actually in the middle of reading his 500-page tome An Empire of Their Own: How the Jews Invented Hollywood, an award-winning work I can’t recommend enough. It tells the inspiring story of the handful of Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe that built Hollywood in defiance of the exclusionary WASP establishment of New York City led by Thomas Edison and his monopolistic pals in the film industry. In a crazy coincidence, I started reading the book back in February, prompted by all the Oscar buzz and controversy over the Academy’s diversity, before I even heard that Gabler was writing an essay for us—his first, and hopefully not his last, for The Atlantic.
But back to our reader series, the following confessional from Linda Lee, an unemployed journalist, is just as brave as Gabler’s. And her agonizing story hits close to home for members of the media such as myself:
No matter how unhappy you are, never quit a job. I did, when I was being paid more than $100,000 a year as a newspaper editor, had a rent stabilized, one-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side, and owned a small—400-square-foot small—cottage in Columbia County, near Hudson, on two acres of land, nearly paid off.
I felt unappreciated. I felt stymied. I was in a rut. I’d been there for 17 years. The newspaper was not letting me grow. And I wanted to do something of my own.
All this was in 2004. Remember 2004, those days of economic optimism? Someone in Miami offered me even more money, and a three-year contract, to start a new magazine. So I jumped from a stable company and a cheap apartment in New York to an unstable company, and the house of my dreams—with a 30-year conventional mortgage—in Miami, the Wild West of high expectations and deceptive values.
Times were good. I eventually gave up my rent-controlled apartment, because my Miami house was accruing value, and I figured I could always sell it and use the profit to go somewhere else. The mortgage crisis hit Miami starting in 2007, long before other places, because Miami real estate was so out of control. People “bought” three or four pre-construction condos—“bought” in the sense of making a down payment—and then flipped them on completion, making $100,000 on a ten percent, $30,000 investment. And then they did it again.
I told my literary agent in New York that I wanted to write a book called “Tiny Bubbles,” about the crashing real estate market in Miami, Phoenix, Las Vegas and Orange County, California. I’d seen the whole thing first hand, from cocktail parties flowing with champagne and gorgeous girls in strapless dresses to announce the start of sales on some new building that existed only in computer renderings. I’d seen the grand openings of million-dollar “sales centers,” tarted up by designers like Philippe Starck with high-end amenities, to show people exactly what their apartment would look like—except for that clause way down in the small type saying that the developer could substitute different appliances and materials of “similar” quality.
The sales centers were Potemkin villages, not even on or close to the building site. They offered a false front on three double-wide pre-fab structures, all arranged to offer grand living spaces, fake views of the water, rain-forest shower heads, stainless steel appliances, Italian cabinetry, marble floors and, my favorite amenity, the second kitchen, in the master suite, so buyers would not have to walk to the kitchen.
Then there were the gushing announcements of buildings being sold out, the press releases, the media coverage, the pretentious names—Apogee, Aria, Icon, the Mansions at Aqualina. My favorite excess: the hot air balloon that would take potential buyers up to the height of the condo they were considering, so they could see the view.
My agent told me that no one wanted to read a book like that, that it was depressing, and that, besides, real estate in New York was just fine. This was, remember, 2007.
By 2008, Miami real estate had crashed and burned. And so had my magazine, because my advertisers were those same luxury condos and the appliance companies and furniture stores that sold things to people who were going to buy luxury condos. I lost my house to a short-sale that disappeared every cent I had put into it, my cash down payment, my thousands of dollars of improvements. And I exhausted all of my other cushions, my 401K, half of my pension, taking early Social Security, just to survive and find a new job.
That was nine years ago. There were no jobs in Miami, but I also could not find a job in New York. Newspaper, you know. And I couldn’t afford to live in New York anyhow. Nor can I get a job in any of the places I’ve tried: Washington, DC, Leesburg, VA, several places in New Jersey, Hudson, NY, Minot, ND, Pleasantville, NY, Philadelphia or Emmaus, PA or Harrisburg, PA. I am overqualified, and over-age—even though I would happily work for someone younger. Or anyone.
Recently, I’ve been interviewed for a Civil Service job that would pay me $40,000 a year. At the interview I asked straight out if I would be disqualified either because I’d previously made more money or because of my age. I was told that in civil service positions, that does not matter. But it’s been six weeks since the interview, and I’m still waiting.
Meanwhile, I am in a moment of financial dread. My bank account is almost empty and I’m waiting for a wire transfer of $2,000 from Paris, for a revision of a guidebook I wrote about Miami. The money was supposed to arrive at the end of March. It’s now April 20, and no money, despite countless emails to Paris.
I have payments of $308, $225, $200 and $54 (for two credit cards, a car payment and car insurance) due in the next five days. I have enough food for myself, and enough dog food, but the cat is beginning to eye his feeder suspiciously. I can’t afford to drink. Right now I have $12, which I’m holding onto for an emergency.
This is not what I expected my life to be like: I am living in a converted garage of a house I share with my son and daughter-in-law, a two-room living space with a half bath and no kitchen.
Most of my friends say, “You’ll figure something out. You always do.” But I haven’t and this time it’s possible I won’t.
One of the worst periods of my life was when I first returned to the U.S. after living abroad for several years. During the two-year period that followed, I spent more time unemployed than employed. Even worse, after I found a job after seven months of looking, I was laid off after a few months because it was a poor fit.
Being so financially insecure was devastating. Even though I had the benefit of staying with my parents, I spiraled into depression. I cried constantly. I was in my 30s, college-educated, and had never spent more than a month without a job. I called suicide hotlines, only to have them turn me away because I wasn’t going to kill myself right then and there. Didn’t it matter that I thought about it all the time? That I was a useless person who didn’t deserve to live because I couldn’t find a job?
My parents were actually pretty great. My mom always told me and tells me now, “Your generation suffers.”
Eventually, I did find a permanent job again in 2013. At that time, my savings account was bleak, and I was living off my credit cards.
But ever since my employment stabilized, I’ve been obsessively saving. Personal finance is my hobby. Even in expensive San Francisco, I live very frugally, and I love it. I changed my 401K deduction so that I would max it out. I got my tax refund and threw it into my Roth IRA, because guess what?—I’m maxing that out too.
This year, I’m aiming for a grand total of $100K in my savings account. I’m $23K short right now, but I’m confident I can reach my goal.
But even with that big round number, I don’t feel safe. I’m scared that one day, I’ll find myself facing the demon of depression again because of financial insecurity. So I’m doing everything I can to keep the demon away while I can.
Speaking of extreme savings, this email from Brian Surratt is really helpful:
Neal Gabler’s article was a bracing spotlight on the problem of middle-class financial insecurity. His candid account of his own financial history was a brave and important act. I hope it serves as a catalyst to change the financial habits of Americans for the better.
His story presents an opportunity to highlight the exact opposite of financial illiteracy: the small but growing financial independence, or FI, movement. (The movement is also known as financial independence/retire early (FIRE) or early retirement extreme (ERE).) It’s best known proponent is Mr. Money Mustache, who has been widely profiled in magazines such as The New Yorker. The movement appears to be growing. For example, the Reddit FI forum has been steadily growing in popularity and there seem to be new FI bloggers every day.
The central tenet of FI is to strive for a very, very high savings rate, essentially saving between 30 and 70% of income. This both encourages household frugality while increasing savings to a point where it is no longer necessary to work as a paid employee well before traditional retirement age.
The FI culture has much to offer those who are financially insecure. First of all, the time to become financially literate is now. It is never too late. As Megan McArdle has pointed out, if you are an older worker with insufficient savings, FI is a great way to ensure you save something for retirement.
Second, even if you simply don’t have enough income to achieve a 50% savings rate, by adopting some of the principles of FI, you may achieve at least a reasonable (say, 20%) savings rate.
Third, the broad range of incomes of FI adherents shows it is possible for the majority of Americans to save some amount. After all, whatever one’s income level, other households are getting by on less. It will require a change in lifestyle, but the FI movement shows that it is possible.
Over the past year, for the first time in my life, I’ve been saving, and saving aggressively—35 percent of my paycheck. Fifty percent is an appealing goal, especially after reading Gabler’s piece the other night and now absorbing all the emails coming in from readers who fell on really hard times. Having a significant savings account for the first time in my life is an extreme boon psychologically. (Still paying off those undergraduate loans, though, 12 years out.) If you happen to be part of the Financial Independence movement and want to offer any specific advice or tips to our readers, drop us an email.
A ton of reader emails have already come in responding to Becca’s callout for “true money stories.” The first one comes from a reader who prefers to stay anonymous. Her story of financial struggle is set in the mid-’90s, when the U.S. was having an economic boom:
In October, we had a very cheap wedding and put a down payment on a house instead of going on a honeymoon. We were in our mid-20s and both had college degrees. My husband had two part-time jobs. I had a full-time job with health insurance and a part-time job for Christmas money. What could go wrong?
In November, my company went under, leaving me with the 15-hour-a-week bookstore job. Luckily they took me on full-time for the holiday season.
In December, one of my husband’s part-time jobs went on hiatus for three weeks. The refrigerator quit. We turned the furnace down to 56, blocked the vents, and unplugged everything in all but our bedroom, the kitchen, and the basement (which luckily had a full bathroom). I returned for cash all the wedding gifts we hadn’t used. There were no Christmas gifts that year, of course. My dad sold some stock and gave us $400 so we could buy a cheap fridge. I cried.
Our food for the next year was from the damaged rack, and we ate quick-sale meat and dairy. We racked up $7,000 in credit card debt, trying to keep ourselves above water.
We’ve now been married 21 years, have two kids, and two more degrees. But I still shop from the damaged food section.
This next reader discloses how “my worst moments of financial insecurity, as a young husband, both involved food”:
The first happened at a grocery store in 1976. My bride and I were shopping for groceries, in the days before we had credit cards, and we realized that we didn’t have enough cash to pay for the pitifully few groceries we had put in the cart. Deciding what to put back was a combination of embarrassment and a feeling of impotence (of the “not man enough” variety).
The second was worse. Mary was cooking pasta and trying to drain it without a strainer. The lid slipped and the pasta went into the sink, some down the drain. She broke into tears because she had to fish our dinner out of the sink. We had nothing else to eat, and no money to eat out.
I was in graduate school at the time, on a fellowship that almost paid our rent. She had a BFA to teach, but jobs were nonexistent. We both had good prospects for the future, but a feeling of “we won’t survive to get there.”
I have friends whose fertility I know more about than their finances. Money—what we make, how we spend it, how much we owe—is perhaps the most personal information of all. And we’d like to ask you to share that information with The Atlantic and your fellow readers.
For me, the few times I have had open conversations about money with anyone besides my spouse, I have benefitted immensely.I have sorted out spending priorities, thought more deeply about charitable giving, and received crucial career advice. More than anything, it was just good to talk about it: Money is something that many (most?) of us think about all the time. Talking about it with friends normalized that fact, and made financial worries something we shared. I’m lucky that I’ve had even these few conversations—many people navigate their financial lives more or less entirely alone.
Neal Gabler, the author of our new cover story, has for a long time been in that camp. “To struggle financially is a source of shame, a daily humiliation—even a form of social suicide,”Gabler writes. “Silence is the only protection.” But this isolation did him little good. He floats through his financial troubles without the stories of friends—without their mistakes to learn from, their smart decisions to imitate, their counsel to guide him.
There’s a lot to be gained from these stories, and we’d like to hear them. Write to us with yours at email@example.com. Tell us about the things you did right and the things you did wrong; tell us the disadvantages you faced, the advantages you had, and those you wished you’d had; tell us if, like Gabler, you emptied your retirement accounts to fund tuition or a wedding; tell us your money stories. Over the next few weeks, we’ll post them here in Notes. Please let us know if you'd like to use your full name, first name, or remain completely anonymous.
Five years ago, the flight vanished into the Indian Ocean. Officials on land know more about why than they dare to say.
1. The Disappearance
At 12:42 a.m. on the quiet, moonlit night of March 8, 2014, a Boeing 777-200ER operated by Malaysia Airlines took off from Kuala Lumpur and turned toward Beijing, climbing to its assigned cruising altitude of 35,000 feet. The designator for Malaysia Airlines is MH. The flight number was 370. Fariq Hamid, the first officer, was flying the airplane. He was 27 years old. This was a training flight for him, the last one; he would soon be fully certified. His trainer was the pilot in command, a man named Zaharie Ahmad Shah, who at 53 was one of the most senior captains at Malaysia Airlines. In Malaysian style, he was known by his first name, Zaharie. He was married and had three adult children. He lived in a gated development. He owned two houses. In his first house he had installed an elaborate Microsoft flight simulator.
The mistakes of the past are fast creating a crisis for younger Americans.
The Baby Boomers ruined America. That sounds like a hyperbolic claim, but it’s one way to state what I found as I tried to solve a riddle. American society is going through a strange set of shifts: Even as cultural values are in rapid flux, political institutions seem frozen in time. The average U.S. state constitution is more than 100 years old. We are in the third-longest period without a constitutional amendment in American history: The longest such period ended in the Civil War. So what’s to blame for this institutional aging?
One possibility is simply that Americans got older. The average American was 32 years old in 2000, and 37 in 2018. The retiree share of the population is booming, while birth rates are plummeting. When a society gets older, its politics change. Older voters have different interests than younger voters: Cuts to retiree-focused benefits are scarier, while long-term problems such as excessive student debt, climate change, and low birth rates are more easily ignored.
These words came from an elderly woman sitting behind me on a late-night flight from Los Angeles to Washington, D.C. The plane was dark and quiet. A man I assumed to be her husband murmured almost inaudibly in response, something to the effect of “I wish I was dead.”
I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but couldn’t help it. I listened with morbid fascination, forming an image of the man in my head as they talked. I imagined someone who had worked hard all his life in relative obscurity, someone with unfulfilled dreams—perhaps of the degree he never attained, the career he never pursued, the company he never started.
An ethnic Russian serving in Estonia’s military had something to hide. Now he’s in prison as a convicted traitor.
TALLINN, Estonia—Deniss Metsavas was visiting his relatives in Russia in the summer of 2007 when the incident occurred.
While out with his cousin at a nightclub in Smolensk, Metsavas struck up a conversation with an attractive woman he hadn’t met before. They hit it off and spent the night flirting and dancing before retiring to a sauna in the early hours of the morning. Though saunas in much of Russia are bathhouses where men drink vodka and are flagellated with oak leaves, this one was a sex motel. He and the woman slept together there, but feeling awkward about what was inevitably going to be a one-night stand, Metsavas went out to buy her flowers. “I cannot leave her money,” he recounted to me. “She’s not a prostitute.” Metsavas laid the bouquet by the bed, then returned to his relatives’ home to steal a few hours of sleep.
In leaked audio, the home-goods retailer’s co-founder seemed surprised that his company was being forced to take a political stance.
Last week, as Americans reacted to news reports that children being held at the border werebeing denied food, water, and hygiene supplies, employees at a normally under-the-radar, Boston-based e-commerce company were having their own reckoning. According to someone familiar with the situation, during a “cursory review” of transactions on Wednesday, a worker at the home-goods retailer Wayfair noticed that the company had made a $200,000 sale of bedroom furniture to the government contractor BCFS. As it turned out, the furniture was to be used in a new detention center in Texas, where at least 1,600 migrant teenagers and children will reportedly be detained.
Workers began discussing the sale in person and on the company Slack, and by Friday had drafted a petition to management asking that Wayfair “cease all current and future business with BCFS” and “establish a code of ethics” for sales. Some 500 employees signed it that afternoon.
The TV legend possessed an extraordinary understanding of how kids make sense of language.
For the millions of adults who grew up watching him on public television, Fred Rogers represents the most important human values: respect, compassion, kindness, integrity, humility. On Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, the show that he created 50 years ago and starred in, he was the epitome of simple, natural ease.
But as I write in my forthcoming book, The Good Neighbor: The Life and Work of Fred Rogers, Rogers’s placidity belied the intense care he took in shaping each episode of his program. He insisted that every word, whether spoken by a person or a puppet, be scrutinized closely, because he knew that children—the preschool-age boys and girls who made up the core of his audience—tend to hear things literally.
An elite-college education is one of the few expensive things that is for sale, but that not everyone is allowed to buy.
Burner phones, FBI stakeouts, search warrants—Season 6 of The Wire? No, just our social betters street fighting their children’s way into elite colleges. In March, we got Operation Varsity Blues, which charged a group of wealthy parents and an alleged conman with conspiring to get lackluster students into posh colleges in a scheme so improbably complex that it triggered the use of the RICO statute. Earlier this month, Sidwell Friends School, bastion of the Washington, D.C., elite, was the site of a fantastical, Real Housewives of the Independent Schools cavalcade of hideous parental behavior, which apparently included a “verbal assault” on college counselors, secretly taping conversations with them, calling them from blocked phone numbers to run down other kids in the applicant pool, and trying to obtain copies of other students’ records.
“The United States has not been willing to walk away from the Gulf, so other allies may not step up to do anything because they know that if they don’t, the U.S. will.”
Donald Trump spent much of the month lobbing threats at Iran, condemning the country’s leadership for tanker attacks near the Strait of Hormuz, stepping up to the brink of war after Iran shot down a drone in nearby waters, warning that the country could be “obliterated” if it attacked anything American. But he also wondered aloud on Twitter why the area is America’s problem at all.
A major part of the reason: to secure the world’s oil supplies—about 20 percent of which flow through the strait. But the U.S. itself doesn’t get most of its oil from the Gulf; most Gulf oil flows to Asia. So why, Trump asked, was the U.S. footing the bill to keep the Chinese supplied? The U.S. has shouldered the burden for protecting the free flow of energy supplies in the region since the Carter administration, when America’s chief adversary was the Soviet Union and the U.S. needed guaranteed access to oil so its military could fight a land war in Europe if needed.
Ahead of the first presidential debates, the nationwide squeeze on affordable housing has barely registered on the campaign trail.
LOS ANGELES—The problem is anything but invisible. Tent cities line freeway underpasses mere blocks from some of the richest zip codes in the nation. Rat infestations and human waste from makeshift encampments—such as those just outside city hall’s iconic Art Deco tower and the main downtown police precinct—are suspected in cases of flea-borne typhus and typhoid fever spread by contaminated food.
Those are the Joe Friday facts.
Yet the news this month that Los Angeles County’s homeless population grew by 12 percent last year—to just under 59,000 people, enough to fill Dodger Stadium to overflowing—still managed to shock this city’s civic and political establishment. Within the Los Angeles city limits alone, the increase was 16 percent, to more than 36,000 people. Overall, about three-quarters of homeless residents are living completely outside, without adequate sanitation, sparking fears of a public-health crisis and the spread of medieval diseases.
The president, in attempting to downplay E. Jean Carroll’s rape allegation against him, isn’t talking about attraction. He’s talking about protection.
“I’ll say it with great respect. Number one, she’s not my type. Number two, it never happened. It never happened, okay?”
That was Donald Trump, speaking yesterday with reporters from The Hill. The president was addressing, in part, the latest allegation of sexual assault to be brought against him, this time from the advice columnist and author E. Jean Carroll: In the mid-1990s, Carroll alleged in a recent essay, Trump, cornering her in a dressing room of the department store Bergdorf Goodman, raped her.
The Hill prefaced the headline of its published interview with an all-caps “EXCLUSIVE,” which is technically true but not fully: Trump, after all, has deployed the logic of “She’s not my type” many times before, in attempting to defend himself from charges of sexual misconduct. He used a similar dismissal as a presidential candidate in October 2016, after the former People magazine journalist Natasha Stoynoff accused him of attacking her—“He was pushing me against the wall and forcing his tongue down my throat,” she said—during an interview she had conducted with him at Mar-a-Lago, in 2005: