By Kevin D. Williamson
Thursday, February 6, 2020
Camp R.A.T.T.,
Texas
In the 1990s, when the Great
Millennial Tech Boom was really just getting going and the sudden
presence of fresh shiny silver and black Volkswagen Jettas announced the
arrival of an unexpected new kind of energetic high-momentum young money on the
streets of Austin — formerly a sleepy college town famous for the stylishly
unambitious young white people captured with anthropological precision in
Richard Linklater’s Slacker — Interstate 35 formed the great imposing
socioeconomic Berlin Wall between the high-on-irony undergraduate Caucasians
eating spinach enchiladas and taking seven years to get a bachelor’s degree
over at the University of Texas and the earnestly and unironically poor and
brown and dangerous precincts of East Austin. Big Tech Money changed all that,
and by the end of the 1990s Austin had a higher apartment-occupancy rate than
New York City’s. Students looking for rentals would go around with brokers and
their checkbooks (or their parents’ checkbooks) ready to sign a lease on the
spot as soon as they found a half-decent place they could afford, while the
young graduates working at Dell and AMD had oodles of new money to spend.
Suddenly, all that sprawling East Austin real estate adjacent to the university
and downtown became much more attractive, and the city’s residential developers
and Realtors™ and hipsters and slackers all did the Berlin Wall thing in
reverse, crossing the border from west to east, following a small vanguard of
college students and artists who preceded them in search of low rents and
joblessness opportunities.
But the Jetta people, too, grew more and more wealthy and
discriminating and finicky, and East Austin is now a whole ’nother thing
entirely, a sunny warm little Brooklyn of vegan restaurants and yoga studios
and fashionable craft-cocktail bars, with a clubhouse for the runners who work
at Favor and a bunch of those weird cool-kid retail establishments that sell
three unrelated things and have such names as “Jacoby’s Mercantile.” There’s a
short line out the door on Saturday morning for an establishment offering
“plant-based meals” and an understandably longer one — 30 deep at least —
outside la Barbecue, which sells $15 Frito-pie sandwiches (“pulled pork,
chopped beef, chipotle slaw, beans, Fritos, cheese and jalapeños, served on a
Martin potato bun”) and brisket at $22.95 a pound.
There’s another line down the street as the residents of
a homeless camp on Cesar Chavez Boulevard line up for their Saturday-morning
visit from Mobile Loaves & Fishes, a joint ministry of several downtown
churches and volunteers that sends trucks into Austin’s streets 365 days a year
with food, clothing, and other supplies. The scene is as bleak and ugly and
oh-the-humanity as you’d expect, but there isn’t any evidence of the piles of
feces and used heroin needles that Texas governor Greg Abbott described in his
October ultimatum to Austin mayor Steve Adler, demanding that the city
“demonstrate consequential improvement in the Austin homelessness crisis” by
November 1 or expect intervention from the state government. There’s a “No Solicitation Area” sign nearby, a
reminder of East Austin’s previous incarnation as a zone of infamy with
street-corner drug dealers and open prostitution, but the encampment itself is
quiet enough. (The neighborhood is, at least on this Saturday morning, heavily
policed.) And while it is not exactly what you’d call spick-and-span, it isn’t
the stuff of talk-radio horror stories, either. What it is, really, is simply
out of place, a little island of filth and despair and old-fashioned human
agony in the midst of all that carefully subtle hipster consumerism.
Conservatives used to bitterly joke that homelessness is
a problem in America only when there’s a Republican president — or that’s what
you’d think, they said, if you knew the world only through the pages of the New
York Times. The political tables have turned, with conservatives pointing
to homelessness in cities from Washington to Los Angeles and San Francisco as
the reification of despair in Democratic-run cities.
Austin, a lost city as far as Republicans are concerned,
has become Texas’s rhetorical whipping boy for homelessness and urban
untidiness in part because it is a famously smug and insufferable citadel of
Molly Ivins–style progressivism in the state that has been stereotyped as the
heart of belligerent Trump-style Republicanism, making the capital city a
culturally attractive target for Governor Abbott and other like-minded
conservatives even though the situation here is not much different from what
one sees in other Texas cities. A spokesman for Governor Abbott disputes that
and maintains that the situation in Austin is dramatically different from that
of, say, Houston or San Antonio. “We are not going to let Austin become another
San Francisco,” he says. However Austin compares with the other big cities in
Texas, it is worth keeping in mind that those cities are no less dominated by
Democrats than Austin is. Donald Trump won only 35 percent of the vote in
Dallas County and 26 percent in El Paso County. (He scored down in the teens
in border counties such as Starr, worse than he did in Austin.) Houston hasn’t
seen a Republican mayor since the 1980s. Julián Castro is at least as typical
of Texas politics as Ted Cruz is. Austin and every other big city in Texas has
big-city politics and big-city problems.
Senator Cruz may not be all that popular nationwide, but
Austin sure as hell is. The local builders can’t build fast enough to keep up
with demand: Austin has led the country in population growth every year for
almost a decade — 6.7 percent of the people living in Austin in 2018 lived
somewhere else in 2017. Overall, the population has grown by more than 20
percent in just eight years. Unlike much of the rest of Texas, Austin is a
relatively difficult place for middle-income people. Like San Francisco and
similar cities, Austin is run by nice rich white liberals who grow richer and
whiter by the day. Median household income, already well above the national
average, is growing at 6.6 percent annually.
In 1990, African Americans made up 12.4 percent of
Austin’s population. Today, they make up less than 8 percent of its residents —
but 42 percent of its homeless.
In reality, neither Austin nor Texas is quite what
outsiders think: Austin’s politics is a progressivism of pronouns and
greenwashed NIMBYism, a blend of campus-radical posturing and NPR-listening
lifestyle liberalism that is a good deal less politically serious than the
traditional city-machine politics and aggressive anti-capitalism that
characterizes left-wing politics in larger Texas cities such as Houston and San
Antonio.
And Texas is, as everybody knows, a solidly Republican
state, except for Austin . . . and Houston, San Antonio, Dallas, El Paso, and
practically every other city of any consequence: Ted Cruz lost Fort Worth to
Robert Francis O’Rourke in 2018, leaving Lubbock as the largest reliably
Republican-voting city in the state. Texas is in many ways a New Deal state,
one that was until the 1990s mostly run by relatively conservative Democrats
(Rick Perry dutifully flacked for Al Gore’s presidential campaign in 1988
before switching parties, though it is a fiction that he was Gore’s Texas
chairman) and capable of electing a genuine progressive such as Ann Richards to
its highest office. The new terror over homelessness is at least in part a
Republican political indictment of cities per se and of urban political and
cultural habits — which are the major long-term threat to Republican power in
Texas and nationally.
As local groups providing services to the homeless run
the numbers, Austin has less homelessness relative to its population
than do similar cities such as Denver and Seattle. Austin counts about 2,200
homeless out of a population of just under 1 million; San Francisco, with a
population of 884,000, counts more than 8,000 homeless.
But while the severity of Austin’s problem may be
exaggerated, those homeless camps are a real thing. Republicans aren’t making
them up. You see them in quickly developing neighborhoods such as the area
surrounding the intersection of State Highway 183 and Burnet Road, where a
young woman in a black sports bra and cargo pants the color of sadness goes
wheeling and staggering madly through traffic outside an encampment of tents
and carefully locked-up bicycles under the overpass. Nearby, seedy-looking CBD
shops and massage parlors do business.
Mainly, though, the homeless are being pushed out of the
shiniest parts of town, into places such as Montopolis, a 19th-century village
on the site of a former freedmen’s community that eventually was absorbed into
East Austin and populated largely by low-income black and Latino residents.
“One could trace, like rings in a tree, the modern history of Montopolis by the
types of affordable housing built in each decade,” Michael Barnes wrote in a
2016 essay in the Austin American-Statesman. The nearby Bastrop Highway,
which is currently undergoing a major expansion, looks set to become the city’s
new Berlin Wall of money and college credentials. Take a right at the
intersection with Montopolis Drive, which runs through the heart of the old
community, and you’ll arrive at a roadside sign discreetly announcing Camp
R.A.T.T.
***
‘I’m a weekend mom, now,” says T-Boog. She’s building a
firepit in front of her tent for cooking and warmth, assembling stray bricks
and fragments of cinderblock. Her daughter, who is listening to music on the
stereo of a car parked nearby, turns the music down and turns her face away.
T-Boog has been living here at Camp R.A.T.T. — “Responsible Adult Transition
Town” — for a few weeks. It is a new facility, though “facility” is probably
not quite the right word. As the political volleys between Governor Abbott and
Mayor Adler went back and forth, with the city resolving and then unresolving
to enforce its “urban camping” ordinance — as though this were about camping
— the inevitable question came up: If Austin clears out the homeless camps,
then where do the homeless go? The answer the state came up with is five acres
of blasted dusty state-owned land near Montopolis Drive, walled and gated and
concertina-wired and overseen by two smiling and friendly agents from the
state’s Division of Emergency Management who normally are tasked with managing
the aftereffects of hurricanes and tornadoes rather than the slow-motion
man-made disaster whose effects are being funneled here into Camp R.A.T.T.,
which the residents originally had called “Camp Abbott” before settling on the
more aspirational name they’ve given their community.
This is not T-Boog’s first experience with tent life.
Before, she lived in an encampment “in the woods,” she says. A couple of large
settlements have been discovered over the years in Austin’s greenbelt. Camp
R.A.T.T. gives its residents some respite that they do not enjoy elsewhere.
They are living here with the state’s begrudging consent, so they do not have
to worry about being chased away from whatever semipermanent arrangements they
can make, and there are daily deliveries of water and food in the form of MREs.
Like all of the Camp R.A.T.T. residents I speak to, T-Boog is not an Austin
native. She comes most recently from Orlando but prefers the less swampy
climate here. One of her neighbors comes from San Diego but has in recent years
traveled all over the country, from California to the Carolinas. T-Boog says
she has a hard time keeping a job because she always wants to try new things.
She applied for an online degree program in “entrepreneurship” but was unable
to enroll because she doesn’t have regular access to an Internet connection.
Things went bad for her after a divorce. Her daughter comes to visit her on the
weekends, but she doesn’t let her stay overnight. “It’s not safe,” she says.
T-Boog is a classic kind of American delusional.
“Socialism never took root in America because the poor see themselves not as an
exploited proletariat but as temporarily embarrassed millionaires,” Ronald
Wright wrote in his History of Progress. T-Boog is living in a tent but
imagines reinventing herself as a serial entrepreneur. Another resident speaks
of his plans to do something “with media.”
There are obvious downsides to tent life, T-Boog says,
but there are parts of it she likes, too. “I like the self-sufficiency,” she
explains. “Like building this firepit. I like doing things myself.” It’s a
funny kind of “self-sufficiency,” of course, with daily rations delivered by
the state, but T-Boog insists that in Camp R.A.T.T. she is “free” in a way that
she can’t be “out there.”
And maybe she is.
The people in Camp R.A.T.T. have established a political
committee and put forward a few community leaders to represent them and their
interests, though their agenda remains, for the moment, pretty vague. They have
organized a committee to canvass for donations and another to organize work
details in the camp. The state agents say they do not know anything about this,
being aware only that the organization effort exists. “That’s something they
came up with themselves,” one says.
Among the residents of Camp R.A.T.T., there is a great
deal of the painfully familiar passive language (and passive thinking)
characteristic of the American underclass: One Camp R.A.T.T. resident speaks of
losing his previous rental arrangement after “the altercation . . . that occurred,”
as though he had been only a spectator. And there also is a great deal of the
sudden veering turns into crackpottery typical of conversation with people who
are suffering from untreated mental illness. Barry, an older man living at Camp
R.A.T.T. who is hopeful that he will soon transition into a stable housing
arrangement, is friendly and calm when telling his story, and then casually
remarks that U.S. cities have gone into “lockdown” because of “something
happening in Iraq.”
Matt Mollica, the director of ECHO, a nonprofit that
works with the homeless, contests the widely held view that homelessness is
mainly a mental-health and addiction issue. Of course homelessness and mental
illness overlap, he says, but homelessness is itself something like an
addiction in the sense that certain people are “predisposed to it, like being
predisposed to a medical condition.” Bearing in mind all of the usual caveats
that apply to self-reported data, we might say that homeless people in Austin
are much more likely to report a physical disability keeping them from work
than mental-health or substance-abuse problems. At the same time, there are
millions of people who lose their jobs, experience mental-health problems,
become disabled, or get thrown out of their apartments without becoming
homeless. Some people bounce back, some people fall and can’t get up. The
overwhelming majority of people who are homeless in Austin would prefer to be
in regular housing of some kind, but they cannot quite get there.
“Folks don’t understand homelessness,” Mollica says.
“It’s hard for them to put themselves in that experience.”
Properly understood, what the 100-plus residents of Camp
R.A.T.T. — living here on state land, next to a mobile-home dealership that the
people who drank craft cocktails last night in East Austin see only from a
distance on their way to the airport — have built is a refugee camp for
a particularly American kind of refugee. Maybe they are, as Mollica says,
victims of “structural inequities in our society” — refugees from heartless
American capitalism. Maybe they are refugees from the notionally well-meaning
and certainly well-heeled lifestyle liberalism of Austin (and San Francisco and
Seattle, etc.) where the Bernie Bros and Elizabeth Warren donors flit between
English-usage crusades and sexual crusades and social-justice crusades, with
breaks for meals at Jeffrey’s (Petrossian caviar, 50g, $300) and Oaxacan
negronis at Midnight Cowboy (make a reservation, and be sure to turn off your
cell phone), while keeping a careful and not entirely dissatisfied eye on
soaring local property values. Certainly some of the homeless have been failed
by our lamentably dysfunctional mental-health system, which has been hobbled
both by shallow liberationist who-are-we-to-judge? counterculture attitudes and
by the anti-tax penny-pinching that has piggybacked on it.
But there’s something else happening here, too: These are
refugees from America anno Domini 2020, Americans who cannot or simply will not
deal with the complexities and administrative burdens of modern life, whether
those are the bureaucratic intricacies of the welfare state or the lack of
subsistence-wage jobs for people who cannot quite bring themselves to be
punctual, polite, or halfway respectable-looking. They’ve always been there,
but the contrast grows sharper next to the burgeoning prosperity and
ever-more-precious early-empire refinement of cities such as Austin. The
philanthropists behind Mobile Loaves & Fishes have built a “village”
outside of Austin in which the homeless can rent tiny houses and trailers, with
many of them earning their rent money from on-site jobs. Their hearts are in
the right place, but what they are building isn’t a village any more than Camp
R.A.T.T. is a town — these are reservations for poor people, a way to
keep America’s 21st-century misfits and zero-marginal-product workers from
taking a dump on the sidewalk in front of places with good breakfast tacos or
“plant-based meals” or locally brewed pilsners. The people who are fighting and
winning the class war in these United States have Bernie Sanders campaign signs
in front of their tastefully modern $1.5 million Dwell-worthy East
Austin homes. Rich white progressive America is America without mercy.
From the credit-reporting system to the criminal-justice
system, our country, generous and dynamic as it often is, can be a remarkably unforgiving
place: Try renting an apartment from the kind and gentle and empathetic people
in Austin with a felony conviction on your curriculum vitae, even if it is 20 years
old, or as a 50-year-old marginally employed man without any real convincing or
solid references. The self-congratulatory Keep Austin Weird ethic looks very
odd indeed, and contemptible, too, when it is coldly contemplated from the
intersection where Montopolis Drive meets the Bastrop Highway, on a lovely
cloudless Austin winter morning as a white Bentley Continental (those
Volkswagens no longer adequately represent Austin’s nouveaux riches)
goes zooming toward the airport, whooshing past the wretched unassimilated old
man panhandling on the corner, silent and stoical and signifying exactly what
he intends with his big dirty placard reading “Running
on Empty.”
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