Trailer Park America: Reimagining Working-Class Communities 9781978829466, 9781978829473, 9781978829480, 9781978829497

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TRAILER PARK AMER­I­CA

TRAILER PARK AMER­I­CA RE I M A G IN I N G WO R KING -­C LA S S C OM M U N I T I E S

LEONTINA HORMEL

RUTGERS UNIVERSITY PRESS New Brunswick, Camden, and Newark, New Jersey London and Oxford

​ utgers University Press is a department of Rutgers, The State University of R New Jersey, one of the leading public research universities in the nation. By publishing worldwide, it furthers the University’s mission of dedication to excellence in teaching, scholarship, research, and clinical care. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Hormel, Leontina, author. Title: Trailer park America : reimagining working-class communities / Leontina Hormel. Description: New Brunswick, Camden, and Newark, New Jersey ; London : Rutgers University Press, [2023] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2023012703 | ISBN 9781978829466 (paperback) | ISBN 9781978829473 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781978829480 (epub) | ISBN 9781978829497 (pdf) Subjects: LCSH: Dilapidations—Idaho—Syringa Region. | Abandonment of property—Idaho—Syringa Region. | Community organization—Idaho— Syringa Region. | Landlord and tenant—Idaho—Syringa Region. | Mobile home parks—Idaho—Syringa Region. | Syringa Mobile Home Park—Trials, litgiation, etc. Classification: LCC HD7303.I2 H67 2023 | DDC 363.5/56109796— dc23/eng/20230421 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023012703 A British Cataloging-­i n-­P ublication rec­ord for this book is available from the British Library. Copyright © 2024 by Leontina Hormel All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. Please contact Rutgers University Press, 106 Somerset Street, New Brunswick, NJ 08901. The only exception to this prohibition is “fair use” as defined by U.S. copyright law. References to internet websites (URLs) w ­ ere accurate at the time of writing. Neither the author nor Rutgers University Press is responsible for URLs that may have expired or changed since the manuscript was prepared. The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—­Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992. rutgersuniversitypress​.­org

​ or Syringa’s residents F Your lives ­matter and make a difference in this world. Rest in Peace, Jim Ware, 1962–2023

CONTENTS f oreword by dawn tachell ix c hronology xv

IN T RODUC T ION Crisis 1

1

W HO BELONGS ON T HE PA LOUSE ?  27

2

IN V E N T ING WOR K ING-­C L A S S COMMUNI T IE S  55

3

M A K ING A FUNC T ION A L COMMUNI T Y A MID DISOR DER  77

4

VOLUN TA RY COMPLI A NCE

5

R ED TAGS

6

SY R INGA R EFUGEE S  173

7

DE AT H OF A COMMUNI T Y  205

8

T R A ILER PA R K POLI T IC S

9

T R A ILER PA R K A MER­I­C A

Flushing the Public Good  117

The Letter of the Law Kills  151

Recognizing Working-­Class ­People’s Knowledge and Mobilization 229

Syringa Residents’ Lessons to the Public  251

viii Contents

appendix: methodological approach  273 acknowl­e dgments  283 notes  289 references  311 index  331

FOREWORD

Do you have ­water? Do you have shelter? Do you trust the ­people who govern your local area, the state? And how about “the eye in the sky,” Big B ­ rother? Do you feel that you exercise control over your everyday life? If you answered yes to all ­these questions, then congratulations! You are one of a kind. Who am I and why should it m ­ atter to you, the reader? I am a female veteran that has complex post-­traumatic stress disorder (C-­PTSD) and several other disabilities. I came back to the Pacific Northwest region ­a fter 18 years away carry­ing two suitcases and a small check to get me started in achieving my dreams—­and to keep a promise I made 30 years ago. The only ­people I knew that would accept me ­were my ­family and a few friends in my hometown. I had no job, no home, and no hope. I was starting from scratch. I was also confronting a big issue in my life. I needed work to take control of my life. My ­brother told me about a fellow who would be able to help me, a tall slender gentleman who wanted to support ­those who truly needed a helping hand-up and not a handout. I was just that lady. I wanted an honest, fair start to fulfill my promise. I started collaborating with my ­brother and this gentleman to clean out homes, including mobile homes. A year a­ fter I began, a mobile home became available in Syringa Mobile Home Park in Latah County, Idaho. It was a single-­w ide with three bedrooms and a single bathroom. That home, a rent-­to-­own, was ix

x For e wor d

a start, a good step forward. I paid for the lot rent and for the mobile home all in one payment. I was in the back of the park with a view of the local mountain, my “million-­dollar view.” It became my sanctuary so that I could deal with my disabilities and work ­a fter coming home ­a fter so many years. It was truly a safe haven. It had a small yard that I could fence in so that I could have a dog—or six of them. I had enough room for my mom and a guest if need be. I even started making friends. I was gaining strength ­every day, standing on my own two feet and feeling freedom for the first time. I could breathe and no one looked down on me for being dif­fer­ent. I could just be me. I was starting to understand that it was okay to be dif­fer­ent. I was even strong enough to take my next step. Syringa opened that door for me by providing shelter and support. I was afraid, scared, and ­nervous, but, as I had promised myself 30 years ago, I was able to begin classes at the University of Idaho. During my early years at the university, the park was well maintained. The lawns ­were kept, and the community came together and had barbeques at the indoor pool. No one was left out and every­one was accepted. If you needed something, all you had to do was to ask your neighbor. If you needed help with a vehicle, someone knew someone who could help. If you could not pay for it then, we would figure something out. We all came together for support. We w ­ ere a community. At that time, the park was peaceful and full of joy. In my fifth year of university studies, the man­ag­er who had hired me left the park, and a new man­ag­er came in. He was a good man­ag­er, but the individualized touch was gone. The maintenance ­budget got cut. I lost the extra money I had been earning. My ­brother’s health began to decline. I needed food for support. I tried the food banks in town, but their opening hours conflicted with my school schedule. The same semester, I was in a class with a professor teaching sociology. Her name was Professor Hormel. In her class I learned about how relationships ­were networked and about subsets of social actions and reactions. Hormel stood out to me as a strong w ­ oman that I could trust with a prob­lem. This became impor­tant in my f­ uture years in Syringa. I also became aware of prob­lems within the park.

For e wor d xi

I was learning and searching for answers. I had shelter and clothing, but I could not access the ­services I needed. I had no solution for food. The ­people in the park had my back, so I leaned on ­those I could trust. I made it. I even helped create ­services at the university for students like me in similar circumstances. L ­ ittle did I know how impor­tant this would become. In the park, the pieces started to slowly crumble. The man­ag­ers became intermittent and weaker and weaker. Th ­ ere was even a man­ag­er that poured bleach in the ­water to keep the ­water clean. Red tags ­were fixed to our homes by Latah County that forbade us from entering them to fix and rebuild within the community, which essentially condemned the community. W ­ ater shutdowns and boil o­ rders became the new normal in the park. We had no ­water to drink or to bathe in. We did not flush, afraid what it might do to a failing septic system. But we took care of our homes. We stayed strong in ways most p­ eople would not understand ­unless they have lived through the destruction of their home and community. Spring came. I was graduating in just a few months. Imagine, if you ­w ill, that you are in your ­senior year and living a dream more than 30  years in the making. And yet, I had no w ­ ater. I could not shower, brush my teeth, cook, or flush in a home that I owned. I had to adjust to the circumstances that ­were in my everyday life. I had to ­humble myself to use the university showers that ­were available for the indoor swimming pool. I had interviews and meetings in the coming semester. I had to stand tall even amid the park failures. I packed a bag everyday so that I could be ready for anything. It was extremely hard for me during this time. One day, I had to sneak in when the swim ladies ­were showering. ­There I was, naked, scared, and afraid—­and hoping that they would not ask any questions. I was worried that they would laugh at me for being older and not on the swim team. My C-­PTSD kicked in: I was anxious, scared, and ashamed. I placed myself in therapy and the sessions helped. Shortly a­ fter this, the park received word that we would close. Th ­ ere was no timeline given. We ­were left in the dark about what was happening to our lives that we built, together, as a community. We needed to

xii For e wor d

act, but to whom could we go? The media? No. We did not know who to contact. The city? No. We w ­ ere located outside the city limits. The county? Yes. We elected them to office. The county commissioners came to the park. They listened. The county provided some Honey Huts—­a brand of portable toilets—­a ­couple of pallets of ­water, and some dumpsters. They gave us permission to use an outdoor spigot to get ­water in the city several miles away. Some of the residents did not even have a vehicle to drive. The park still needed assistance, and no one knew what to do. The park residents reached out to our local news, both TV and the local paper, to raise awareness of the prob­lems. I spoke on NPR, in a three-­part series. Professor Hormel became involved, starting research and opening access to s­ervices that we had not known existed. We reached out to the public so that they would hear our needs. No solutions w ­ ere found, and us residents ­were left to fend for ourselves. During this time, I wrote the “The Turning Edge”: The turning edge is when times are hard within the soul of life. Culture turns on the means that drives the lower class to the edge of uninhabited land. Local systems that are “­there to help” place never-­ending forms in front of you. Sometimes it takes weeks or months to tap into the resources which ­w ill bring you to your knees in tears. Some ­w ill break and fall, while ­others ­w ill fall into a tumble onto a wheel that ­w ill only cycle the physical be­hav­iors that w ­ ill keep it on a level of low income. With no way out for ­those who strug­gle on the turning burning edge we call life. Stability of one income ­w ill turn the edge to the struggling edge. Only a few ­w ill see the edge who can change the edge to their advantage. That edge is the internal a­ cceptance of other economic standards of that class only. The individual proceeds to push the heart and soul to the brink of unknown, scared and afraid of the new turning burning edge of the unknown. Every­thing you know is now wrong, life is wrong, and the flame burns deep. The ­people around you do not know the confusion of frustration that is seen through the eyes of the turning burning edge. Friends and f­ amily become examples of what not to do.

For e wor d xiii

Only you can choose a direction of new growth or the edge of life. The flame burns and hope is lost. New networks/foundations build the unknown new guidelines. Strug­gles of the old cut deep into the minds, nothing works. You feel broke and yet you are not. Eco­nom­ically you are strapped, and your bark becomes soft and weak. You stumble, you fall. You catch yourself falling into the emptiness of the void that was once filled with love, hope, and dreams. You stammer yet you step on the turning burning edge for the better. ­A fter time you begin to rise, the inner steps of new guidelines set forth by o­ thers who now see you on the level of the turning burning edge of a wheel that spins on ­others’ opinions and their self-­worth. Where do you spin and where would you go on the turning edge? The wheel spun for many and got nowhere. We residents lived in the void of nothingness, except for what we had as a community. But a few months ­later, we lost our community, and the community lost a steppingstone for individuals, for a step up in life. We endured abandonment and death. But we mattered, and we tried to make the best out of what we had. I had good times, bad times, and loss. But I ­w ill continue. I ­w ill step up as needed. I am who I am, and I have no regrets.

Professor Hormel was a turnkey that helped the community—in the park and outside of it. We now have t­ hese pages to learn from and help us to help ­others. We are never alone in our ­battles. Speak and let the voices be heard. May ­ these pages find you in a place that brings knowledge, kindness—­and hugs if you need them. Thank you for reading my words. Dawn Tachell

CHRONOLOGY

1966 1971

April 8, 1992

July 20, 2012

December 2013

December 2013 to March 2014 August 16, 2016

Syringa Mobile Home Park opens. Staff from Regional Public Health of Idaho issue first warning to park o­ wner Clarence Olson that a well’s location near sewage pipes puts it at risk of contamination. Two residents report giardia symptoms to the Idaho Department of Health and Welfare’s Division of Environmental Quality. Local media cover the park’s w ­ ater issues and play on “trailer trash” ­stereotypes. Idaho Conservation League files a citizen lawsuit against Magar E. Magar, alleging untreated w ­ ater from sewage lagoons overflowed into South Fork Palouse River. Idaho Department of Environmental Quality ­water quality tests show unsafe levels of E. coli (fecal m ­ atter) and lead in Syringa’s drinking ­water. Boil order is sustained for 93 days in Syringa Mobile Home Park. Shannon Musick resigns as on-­site man­ag­er. No on-­site or local man­ag­er is ever hired to replace her. Instead, residents send checks to Shelley xv

xvi Chronology

Magar’s Vancouver, Washington, address. Emergencies w ­ ere reported to Ms. Magar via phone and email. September 25, 2017 Shelley Magar submits ­legal documents issuing her intent to close Syringa Mobile Home Park. October 9, 2017 The University of Idaho ­Legal Aid Clinic team holds meeting with Syringa residents to discuss bankruptcy proceedings and park closure. October 23, 2017 Steve Bonnar, executive director of Sojourners’ Alliance, holds strategy meeting with nonprofit and local government leaders. November 13, 2017 Bankruptcy hearing held. Settlement reached for class-­action lawsuit, Idaho Conservation League lawsuit, and Idaho Department of Environmental Quality lawsuit. June 5, 2018 Syringa Mobile Home Park formally closed. December 2018 Latah County Sheriff’s Department announces complete closure. Entering the park ­w ill now constitute illegal trespassing.

TRAILER PARK AMER­I­CA

map 1. Map showing Syringa Mobile Home Park’s proximity to Moscow, Idaho, and major features of the surrounding area. Cartographer: Chelsea McRaven Feeney.

Introduction Crisis

I

magine a place where a ­family earning a modest income can own a home and live in a place with a community recreation center where you and your neighbors have barbeques and swim all year round in an indoor swimming pool. Not only that, when you are sitting on your home’s back porch, you have a full view of a g­ ently sloped, tree-­covered mountain that reaches nearly 5,000 feet. Your small community is nestled within a pastoral setting of rolling agricultural fields whose harvests of wheat, canola, peas, and lentils have been traded in national and global markets for the past ­century. This was the charmed atmosphere that families—­both young and old—­enjoyed in Syringa Mobile Home Park between the 1960s and the early 2010s.1 While conducting ­sociological research over the past seven years, I’ve heard working-­class residents describe Syringa Mobile Home Park as an affordable “stepping stone” ­toward their American Dream of homeownership. By purchasing an inexpensive mobile/manufactured home and paying a modest rent each month for a plot of land owned and managed by the park’s ­owner, a f­ amily trying to work its way up to a middle-­class lifestyle could eventually save enough money to obtain their own parcel of land and a conventional or “stick-­built” single-­family home. Retirees liked the ability to own a home outright, then simply pay no more than a ­couple hundred dollars a month for lot rent. A person on a fixed income, usually social security for s­ eniors or p­ eople with disabilities, could manage finances ­under t­ hese arrangements. Syringa served many 1

2 Introduction

individuals and families over t­ hese d­ ecades, and this book aims to show that its residents not only had ­houses to live in; they also had a community where ­people shared similar identities and ­were able to dream of a bright ­f uture. Syringa 2013 Miranda Reynolds worked in hospice care in Moscow, Idaho, and moved to Syringa with her four-­year-­old child and her long-­term boyfriend Austin Katz.2 Austin was born with hypertrophic obstructive cardiomyopathy, a ge­ne­tic heart condition. This meant he needed to be mindful of exertion, which made employment rocky for him. Employers ­were required by law to let him have more frequent breaks during work—­a requirement Austin felt explained his inability to get regular work. Most of the time the f­ amily lived off Miranda’s income as a hospice worker and the small amount Austin was granted for government disability. Syringa was the only place the c­ ouple could imagine affording if they wanted to own a home and raise their child. On the bright side, Austin was handy with a variety of ­things, including automotive repair, carpentry, and landscaping. He could fix up the trailer and keep their vehicle operating, while Miranda was the steady income earner in the ­family. Another ­couple, Zack and Rachel Delaney, moved into Syringa with their two c­ hildren in 2013. Rachel lived with depression and anxiety and drew disability benefits. Both of their kids had special needs, too. Thankfully, Zack had a good, steady job at Walmart, which enabled the ­family to buy a home in Syringa, cover the monthly lot rent, and pay for electricity. Not only that, their two kids could continue g­ oing to the same elementary school in town. The school bus, in fact, ­stopped at the park, which meant they enjoyed some continuity and stability as a ­family. In the same year, Tony and Trinity Hardin moved in with their two kids, aged nine and 14 years. They looked forward to planting flowers along their front walkway and decorating their home for Halloween and Christmas. The ­family loved their pets: four dogs, four cats, a guinea pig, and several rabbits.

Introduction 3

Paula Wilson also moved in to Syringa in 2013. She and her boyfriend ­were raising her three kids. Three friends also stayed in Paula’s mobile home, having no place e­ lse to afford in the area. In October 2013, Scott Morrison figured out how to buy the mobile home he had been renting for a while in Syringa Mobile Home Park. He was 45 years old when he and his wife moved up from California, fleeing from a place they associated with drug d­ ependency, a felony rec­ord from the early 1990s, and dead-­end jobs. While Idaho was a long way away from California, the faith community in this part of the Northwest provided the support Scott needed to rehabilitate and reinvent himself and think about his ­f uture. By living in Syringa, he could afford to complete a four-­year college degree in social work and to turn his personal experiences with substance use disorder into something good. Scott wanted to help ­others in ­those circumstances see their worth in the world. Tami and Daniel Thomas moved in to Syringa with their two kids, aged seven and nine, in November 2013. Even though renting their lot was cheap, the ­couple raised rabbits for food to help their ­budget. Living with post-­traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and depression, Tami was able to have ­service animals and pets in their ­house without the paperwork and fees they would have to provide if they rented in Moscow, the closest town located three miles away. Moreover, their home was right by the bus stop, so it was easy for the ­children to catch the school bus and to return home at the end of the school day. Altogether, six families comprising 25 p­eople bought homes in Syringa Mobile Home Park in 2013. ­These six new families, along with the 90 h­ ouse­holds already living in Syringa with hopes to live a stable, normal life ­were, unbeknownst to them, about to see their lives slide backward.3 Syringa, December 2013 December 2013 started out bitterly cold in northern Idaho, with one day reaching only 10 degrees Fahrenheit. As locals braced themselves for a long winter, Syringa Mobile Home Park was about to make headlines. For 93 days, residents—­military vets, ­service workers, ­women

4 Introduction

heads of ­house­holds, ­people with disabilities, ­children, and retirees—­ living in one of the most vulnerable communities in northern Idaho went without ­water to drink, bathe, or even flush their toilets. This catastrophe would come to signify the mortal wound for this community, an event that reflected the convergence of several ­factors leading to Syringa’s death through park closure. Complaints about low w ­ ater pressure and shutdowns of ­water by management had escalated in 2012, but t­ hings had reached a tipping point by the end of 2013. On December 9, 2013, the Idaho Department of Environmental Quality (Idaho DEQ) received an anonymous complaint from someone living in Syringa. The tap ­water’s pressure had dropped so much that this person ­wasn’t able to wash their hair in the shower and, according to the filed complaint, this had been ­going on for several weeks. According to Idaho DEQ’s rec­ords, several more complaints ­were issued to the north district office over the rest of December: December 12, 2013. Complainant stated that the system has been in a low pressure and depressurized state for several days. The ­water was turned on December 11, 2013, at approximately 7:00 p.m., but depressurized again sometime during the night or morning. The complainant stated the system was re-­pressurized during the after­noon on December 12, 2013. The complainant stated that public notification was poor during this time and ­they’re unclear if the ­water is safe to drink. Complainant stated the ­water ‘smells ­really bad’ and has a ‘purple hue.’ Complainant stated this is a recurring issue with an extended depressurization event over the summer. December 13, 2013. Complainant stated ­water was turned on yesterday but is being turned off at night and during the day. Complainant stated ­water has been off since 9:00 a.m. this morning which depressurized the system. Complainant stated that the w ­ ater smelled like a ‘dirty diaper’ and had a ‘purple hue.’ December 13, 2013. Complainant states that ­water has not been available for four (4) days and has not been pressurized during that time. Complainant stated that their s­ ervice was not pressurized this morning from 4a[m]–9a[m] as indicated by the onsite representative. The complainant was asked if it was pos­si­ble that the individual s­ ervice connection piping was frozen or broken; the complainant responded that it was

Introduction 5

recently replaced, was not broken, and was not frozen. Complainant stated that ­water has not been safe for consumption during the past three years. December 19, 2013. Complainant stated that the w ­ ater system depressurized at approximately 7:00 a.m. December 19, 2013, and was still off at the time of the complaint, approximately 4 p.m. December 19, 2013. Complainant stated ­she’d be willing to provide additional information pertaining to ­future depressurization events at the park. [December  20, 2013. MRR [DEQ staff] installed a pressure recorder at the residence.] December 20, 2013. Complainant called to notify DEQ of a large pool of ­water b­ ehind unit #117. The complainant did not notify park management. December 23, 2013. Complainant states w ­ ater is shutting off randomly even though the cisterns have been filled.

Tests conducted on December 18 by Idaho DEQ confirmed residents’ suspicions, detecting high levels of coliform bacteria, signaling the presence of fecal m ­ atter, and significant levels of lead in residents’ drinking w ­ ater. For an unknown number of weeks, before Idaho DEQ’s test results, the maintenance person for the park’s well system also increased the chlorination load, which added more dangers. According to a court document submitted six months ­later, “Residents saw someone on Mr. Magar’s maintenance team randomly dump chlorine into the ­water system. ­There was no regulation on how much chlorine was being put into the drinking ­water. If the ­water usage was high, ­t here w ­ ere low levels of chlorine in the w ­ ater, which meant higher levels of coliform bacteria. If the ­water usage was low, then ­t here ­were higher levels of chlorine in the w ­ ater. Residents reported that the w ­ ater tasted like bleach and that their skin burned from showering in the heavily-­chlorinated ­water.”4 This excessive chlorine load into the well system is believed to explain residents’ reports of skin burns and rashes, as well as abdominal cramps, diarrhea, and vomiting at this time.5 Unbeknownst to park residents, though, the onsite man­ag­er was about to abandon the park, driving away during the night with rent payment files and keys to the wells’ pump­house. All of this happened just days before Christmas.

6 Introduction

A New Park Man­ag­er Steps In Shannon Musick learned about the onsite man­ag­er’s nighttime flight from the park during a surprise phone call from the park’s ­owner, Magar E. Magar. Magar had obtained Shannon’s number from her ex-­ husband, who supported the idea of recruiting her to be the new on-­site man­ag­er to ­handle this emergency. Shannon explained, “So he [Magar] calls me . . . ​and he says, ‘Well I’m wondering if ­you’re interested in being management.’ I said, ‘Yep!’ At this point, I d­ idn’t realize the old management had left. They just, ‘poof!’ ­There was no ­water. They ­were gone.” A single ­mother in her early forties with two kids and taking online college courses, the prospect of being the on-­site park man­ag­er offered Shannon an opportunity to work mostly at her home. It seemed like a good deal. ­Water shutoffs and boil ­orders ­were not entirely unusual in Syringa, a­ fter all. Having been a homeowner t­here since 1999, Shannon assumed the pre­sent ­water issue would pass and park residents would just go about their business as they had for the past three ­decades u­ nder Magar’s owner­ship. A ­ fter a few days as park man­ ag­er, though, she learned the severity of the park’s w ­ ater prob­lems. One of the most pressing issues Shannon discovered on December 23, her first day managing Syringa, was that the former man­ag­er had fled with all the residents’ lease rec­ords and all the keys to park facilities, including the key to the well system’s pump h­ ouse. Shannon started her job in emergency conditions that required immediate action to fix the well system, but she had no knowledge or prior experience of this. Missing keys to the pump station for the wells made ­matters even worse. Magar, the ­owner, unfortunately lived in Vancouver, Washington, near Portland, Oregon, which was at least a six-­hour drive from his Syringa property. He was accustomed to prob­lems eventually smoothing out or being forgotten, which may explain why he did not hurry to intervene in person. Another challenge for Shannon was the timing of all this. The prob­lem with restoring access to drinking ­water had to be figured out over a holiday when most p­ eople ­were able to take a break from work. ­Every turn seemed riddled with hurdles for her to leap over. As Shannon recalled about this time, “DEQ stepped in and went, ‘Okay, this is the prob­lem. ­We’re g­ oing to end it if you ­don’t get this taken care

Introduction 7

of. Y ­ ou’re g­ oing to get sued.’ When I got a hold of them on the third [of January  2014], they w ­ ere like, ‘Okay, so we have to hear from Magar that y­ ou’re taking over [as park man­ag­er].’ I’m like, ‘I ­don’t know anything. I need somebody to come up and show me what I’m d­ oing. Give me rules. Give me w ­ hatever.’ ” Shannon’s conversation with Idaho DEQ took place 10 days ­a fter she had agreed to be the on-­site man­ag­er. Over the course of her management, which lasted ­until August 2016, she learned to wear many hats: she learned the engineering and maintenance of the ­water system and sewage lagoon system; she faced contempt-­of-­court charges serving as Magar’s key park representative in court hearings; and all the while she had to convince ­people in Syringa that they needed to pay rent as newspapers and lawsuits focused on the park o­ wner’s egregious violations against them. This ­wasn’t necessarily the job she thought she had agreed to do, but Shannon was committed to proving she had what it took to save the park and her community. Who’s to Blame? The park man­ag­er who fled Syringa late at night with keys and lease rec­ords—­was she to blame for the deterioration of the park’s w ­ ater and sewage system? The simplest answer is “no”; rather, the blame is easily directed at the negligent park o­ wner, Magar  E. Magar. When news reports about Syringa w ­ ere published, they focused attention on how Magar had run his park into the ground for over three ­decades. As years passed with l­ ittle investment, overseeing the park became increasingly difficult as new man­ag­ers cycled in and out. Local businesses equipped to maintain and repair the park’s infrastructure had had bad experiences with Magar, which earned him a reputation of being difficult to work with, and for stiffing them in the end. Over time t­ hese businesses withdrew their s­ ervices. Without reliable s­ ervices from local businesses, and not much of a ­budget to work with, a park man­ag­er like Shannon had to find handy ­people who ­were good at maintaining and creatively repairing facilities that included w ­ ater wells, sewage lagoons, and at one time an indoor swimming pool (it had been closed off in the early 2000s). Amid all

8 Introduction

this, an on-­site man­ag­er’s livelihood relied on a 10 ­percent commission based on the total monthly collection of rent money. It is no won­der aging wells and sewage lagoons would be addressed mostly only during emergencies, and only ­a fter the ­water system’s pressure failed or was shut down, and even then, only if enough residents called in complaints to the Idaho DEQ. It was collecting rent money, and not ­doing park maintenance, that paid man­ag­ers’ bills. As would soon become clear, Magar’s hands-­off approach to park management was not sustainable. A closer analy­sis of the Syringa community’s decline and collapse following its 2013–2018 w ­ ater crisis points to long-­term forms of negligence beyond that of the one “bad apple” Magar E. Magar. Instead, the park’s conditions declined over many years and its deterioration served to reinforce locals’ negative s­tereotypes and prejudices about trailer parks and the p­ eople who live t­ here—at least for t­ hose onlookers who knew nothing about the real lives of the ­people living in Syringa. Syringa’s history with w ­ ater and sewer issues and its overall degradation are mirrored elsewhere in Idaho and the United States, suggesting a large-­ scale, systemic prob­lem facing mobile home parks and, more broadly, working-­class communities.6 The events that unfolded in Syringa are compelling enough to describe ­because the park o­ wner’s choices to limit investments in the park led directly to the tragedy of community collapse in this rural part of the western United States. But limiting this book to a description of one particularly selfish individual w ­ ill not give us sufficient information for solving big prob­lems, like the deepening dilemmas large numbers of ­people face with housing insecurity and environmental injustices, ­ ater crisis and closure. Moreover, the both of which s­ haped Syringa’s w ­hazards at Syringa, as is seen time and again across the United States and globally, are unequally borne by minoritized groups including woman-­headed ­house­holds and families with loved ones who are disabled. Th ­ ese vulnerable members of society made up a large percentage of ­those who faced eviction ­a fter four years of trying to keep their community at Syringa intact. If we are interested in stripping away the tools negligent ­owners like Magar can use to thwart laws and procedures intended to protect the public good, then we must look to institutional and systemic pro­cesses that—­whether intentionally, or not—­serve

Introduction 9

them over the ordinary p­ eople who are looking for a fair chance at living in a stable and healthy community. ­A fter seven years visiting Syringa Mobile Home Park, listening to park residents, interviewing local community leaders, and reading archived documents and relevant scholarship, I have been able to piece together what happened at this local mobile home park and why its 2013–2014 ­water crisis was not an anomaly. Instead, Syringa residents’ exposure to unhealthy ­water and broken wastewater systems is one case among myriad water-­quality prob­lems in mobile home parks and rural communities in Idaho and across the country.7 I also found this case disturbing ­because a significant number of ­people from some of the most vulnerable demographics in the United States ­were living in Syringa. Mobile home parks and rural communities throughout the United States are places where a disproportionate share of racial minorities, woman-­headed ­house­holds, and p­ eople with disabilities live, meaning they have ­limited access to resources when compared to many urban and suburban areas.8 ­W hether intentionally or not, Syringa Mobile Home Park may be understood as a rural county’s way to segregate ­people who are perceived as undesirable neighbors in an increasingly gentrified town. For t­ hese reasons, this study joins the power­f ul and growing body of work by environmental justice scholars and activists and offers an impor­tant and necessary examination of how environmental and economic justice intersect, with w ­ ater and shared habitus as the main connections.9 This book examines the vari­ous institutional rules and practices that enable members of the property-­rich wealthy class like Magar E. Magar to violate both the h­ uman and the environmental rights of their tenants. As chapter 1 shows, ­these institutional practices have been developed over two centuries, starting with settler colonialism’s role in Indigenous p­ eople’s genocide and dispossession, heralding the introduction of private property owner­ship and industrial-­scale agriculture. History offers lessons for understanding that our experiences are often ­shaped by larger social pro­cesses. If we limit our understanding of a prob­lem to a single individual’s be­hav­iors, we lose sight of the fact that land allotment acts, national housing policies, municipal zoning and planning, landlord-­tenant laws, environmental regulation policies, and

10 Introduction

county and city governing practices have all been s­ haped by t­ hose with access to ­political decisionmakers, often the same ­people who own money and prime real estate. As described in chapter 4, for instance, the system of environmental regulation is weakened to such an extent in states like Idaho that the courts, through litigation, are often the only means environmental agencies and o­ rganizations have to force violators to comply. Chapter 5 turns our attention to the weak instruments governing bodies have at their disposal when land-­wealthy property ­owners, in this case Syringa Mobile Home Park’s o­ wner, are noncompliant. Patterns of neglect, public health disasters, and community erasure all continue when the question of “who’s to blame?” is individualized to one person’s greed or compartmentalized at the local level. By contrast, sociologists like me are interested in connecting local issues to larger ­political economic and cultural pro­cesses. My greatest lessons while conducting the research for this book came from the ­people living in Syringa. We seldom take time to learn from the experiences of ­people whose lives are separated from ours. The practice of researchers in the social sciences and humanities is to understand that ­people’s distinct experiences are impor­tant sources for knowledge and solutions, but we have a history of being blind to this. Indigenous writers shed light on settler colonialism’s role in erasing Native ways of knowing, which Yellowknives Dena scholar Glen Sean Coulthard describes as “harbor[ing] profound insights into the maintenance of relationships within and between ­human beings and the natu­ral world built on princi­ples of reciprocity, nonexploitation and respectful coexistence.”10 ­These are the lessons derived from the power­ ful work of impor­tant sociologists like W.E.B. Du Bois and Patricia Hill Collins, and Brazilian educator and ­philosopher Paulo Freire. I map out the prob­lems in this book, but the other impor­tant lesson we should take from the case of Syringa is how its community members, p­ eople with l­imited means financially and po­liti­cally, built up the courage to speak up and act in a variety of strategic ways to push back on the pro­ cesses that ­were erasing their community. ­These actions are not minor but represent a legacy of marginalized p­ eople “asserting their right to a decent home” and to all the t­ hings a community does to nurture us.11 ­These lessons are illustrated in chapters 8 and 9.

Introduction 11

The remaining sections of this introduction outline the dif­fer­ent ways I contextualize this case study of Syringa. Throughout the book, curious readers may follow the endnotes for suggested readings to deepen their understanding of subjects that pique their interest. The appendix details my research methodology. The research I have conducted throughout my c­ areer follows community-­defined prob­lems and solutions that inspire us to reflect and then act on what we learn. Thus, my aim is to ensure as many p­ eople as pos­si­ble can use this book as an inspiration and a tool for community advocacy. Banana Peels Before I ever knew I would be getting acquainted with Syringa Mobile Home Park residents, I was familiar with its beautiful location. Like many ­people living in Moscow I frequently passed by Syringa while recreating by car, bike, or foot out in the countryside along Robinson Park Road. While ­r unning a loop on Robinson Park Road between Syringa and Moscow one day I noticed banana peels lying on its shoulder that ­were discolored and deformed by vari­ous stages of decay. Most of the peels had been tossed onto a narrow gravel strip just a few hundred yards from the Slurp-­n-­Burp Tavern. A ­ fter first spotting ­these banana peels along the road it became part of my routine to look for them e­ very time I ran this countryside loop. During an interview with Kate, whose ­family left Syringa shortly ­a fter the w ­ ater crisis, I described how much I enjoyed r­ unning and biking near Syringa and mentioned the banana peels that all seemed to land in nearly the same place on the shoulder of the road. Kate remarked, “Oh yeah, I know who was leaving ­those along the road. Trina would usually eat a banana for breakfast along the way. Th ­ ose are prob­ably the peels from her morning commute.” Without a reliable vehicle for transportation, Trina walked at least six miles each day she needed to commute between Syringa and her workplace. This was not only a long work commute on foot, but it was hazardous. Trina had to walk along a narrow, paved road with no sidewalk. In many places along the road, in fact, no shoulder is available at all since some of the road banks drop steeply for several feet. Growing up in

12 Introduction

rural eastern Washington as a kid who liked to run, I learned that it is imperative you walk or run on the left side of such roads so you can face traffic and leap off the road if cars d­ on’t see you or swerve t­ oward you. The banana peels’ location suggested Trina also faced traffic while she walked to work and ate her breakfast along this road. Trina’s commute by foot illustrates one of several ways members of the working-­class effectively shoulder extra costs as housing costs rise nationally and globally. As rural and urban spaces gentrify and workers’ wages and employment conditions continue to stagnate and decline, the ­people serving communities as ­service workers are pushed further away from their places of employment and ultimately take on more costs in terms of time and money to accommodate living in marginalized spaces and more hazardous forms of housing. Living several miles away from work and ­services is common for working-­class ­people and hardens the economic pinch they experience. Syringa Mobile Home Park Was a Working-­Class Community Stories like Trina’s illustrate why Syringa Mobile Home Park needs to be understood as a low-­income working-­class community. My first inclination when preparing this book was to lump Syringa residents into a broad category of “low-­income ­house­holds.” Yet I grew concerned that the term “low-­income” might lead readers to assume that many of the residents d­ idn’t work, h­ adn’t ever worked, or ­didn’t want to work. Lost in the term “low-­income” is the fact that increasing numbers of workers in the United States have seen an overall stagnation and decline in their purchasing power over the past 50 years. In June 2022, the Economic Policy Institute found that, in terms of ­actual buying power relative to costs, “the current federal minimum wage of $7.25 per hour is now worth less than at any point since February 1956.”12 Twenty states, including Idaho, still use the federal minimum wage, which ­hasn’t been raised since 2009. It is quite pos­si­ble to be poor and be a member of the working class in the 2020s. Current pushback and vitriol against “socialism” in American public discourse suggests this basic ­battle for economic and l­ abor justice is still far from won.

Introduction 13

Between the 1970s and early 2000s, the costs for basic h­ ouse­hold necessities ­rose throughout the United States. Rather than merely being one option among ­others, mobile home parks like Syringa increasingly became the last affordable kind of community available for American working-­class families to live in.13 Over the past 50 years, two trends in the United States have operated together to alter the conditions for everyday working-­class retirees and youn­ger ­house­holds. The first trend has seen workers’ purchasing power decline as lower-­wage s­ ervice sector employment has grown. According to one U.S. Bureau of ­Labor Statistics study, from 1939 to 2015 employment in goods production fell from 37 to 14 ­percent, while ­service provision grew from 50 ­percent to 71 ­percent of total nonfarm employment.14 The decline in manufacturing was steepest from 1979 to 2015. The second trend has seen increases in the prices for p­ eople’s basic necessities outpace wage levels in s­ ervice sector jobs. To compensate for stagnating and declining wages, families have relied more on credit to keep up with the inflating costs of basic needs, or what is sometimes called the Four H’s: housing, high-­quality childcare, higher education, and health insurance. According to one study, between 1973 and 2003 prices for housing ­rose by 515  ­percent, high-­quality childcare by 736 ­percent, higher education by 679 ­percent, and health insurance by 1,755  ­percent.15 ­These eye-­popping inflation trends for the Four H’s have continued.16 American families’ dependence on credit is most obvious in the increased total U.S. h­ ouse­hold debt associated with home mortgages, auto loans, and credit cards.17 This rise in debt levels is not unrelated to ­these increased costs, particularly in housing. For example, Atif Main and Amir Sufi show that the 2002–2006 mortgage lending boom in the United States fueled housing prices right before the ­Great Recession hit ­toward the end of 2007.18 Thus, the stagnation and decline of working-­class ­people’s purchasing power contributes to increasing ­house­hold debt that helps sustain a continuous cycle of inflation. It may be tempting to believe that families who are unable to make payments each month ­toward utilities or rent are making bad choices. I have heard well-­meaning individuals suggest that “­people in poor financial situations simply need to learn not to spend more than they make.”

14 Introduction

Or, “They should learn to save.” Such preconceptions miss the declining power of the dollar that more and more working-­class Americans are facing. Men earning incomes in the bottom half of the U.S. workforce have seen a 3 ­percent decline in wages between 1979 and 2019, a historically rare form of downward mobility tied to so-­called deaths of despair, including alcohol, drugs, and suicide. In this case, the narrowing gap between ­women’s and men’s pay that is often touted as a signal of pro­gress ­toward gender equity is partly ­because working-­class men’s incomes have declined over this time, not necessarily b­ ecause w ­ omen’s incomes have caught up.19 Moreover, this broad downward spiral for the working class shows not that w ­ omen or p­ eople of color a­ ren’t “taking the good jobs,” but that “good” jobs that include health insurance, health care coverage, or social support for c­ hildren and f­amily members with disabilities are simply evaporating. This is one of several reasons gender-­, race-­, and ability-­inclusive improvements to pay and working conditions are critical to real improvements for workers in the United States and worldwide. Inclusive programs and policies seek to overcome the illusion of gains when, all the while, working-­class h­ ouse­holds have been experiencing declining purchasing power. At the same time, inclusive policies are widely attacked as “PC policing” and “reverse racism,” particularly in relation to “affirmative action” in hiring and college admissions. This conservative bugbear has thrived for several d­ ecades and is still ­going strong as a culture-­war wedge issue, especially for white suburban voters with kids. Meanwhile, credit cards, student loans, housing mortgages, and car loans all forestall and conceal workers’ reduced purchasing power. On the surface, ­people’s ability to buy consumer goods like inexpensive clothing, computers, and smartphones looks like prosperity. I have heard students remark in my classes, for instance, that the fact poor ­people have t­ hese t­ hings shows how much better off they are h­ ere in the United States than in other socie­ties. “It is easier to be poor h­ ere than in other countries,” I’ve heard other­w ise well-­meaning individuals say. Yet, this perspective ignores that disposable consumer goods do not offer a roof over one’s head, regular meals, and a “good” job. High ­house­hold debt and cheap consumer goods mask the real­ity: the United

Introduction 15

States has among the highest levels of income ­inequality when compared to other advanced cap­i­tal­ist socie­ties, ranking 34th among the 38 Organisation for Economic Co-­operation and Development countries in 2019—­only one spot ahead of Turkey.20 For perspective, neighboring Canada ranked 17th. The chipping away of working-­class families’ purchasing power is affected by changes to employment sectors and working conditions, which tend to worsen as fewer jobs are protected by ­union repre­sen­ta­ tion and collective bargaining agreements. Low-­wage s­ ervice sector work—­including retail, goods distribution, and food s­ervice—­has replaced higher-­wage u­ nionized manufacturing work. While the public understands the cities in the Rust B ­ elt as hard-­h it manufacturing regions, the larger real­ity involves rural regions throughout the United States being hurt in this ­process, too, when ­human ­labor is replaced with machinery in timber, agriculture, and mining, with few equivalent employment opportunities serving as substitutes for displaced workers.21 Automation, outsourcing, downsizing are all familiar pro­cesses the news media and politicians’ election rallies highlight to explain workers’ mass layoffs, unemployment, and underemployment. Relatively high-­wage manufacturing jobs that men traditionally filled in rural Amer­i­ca have been replaced with a growing number of low-­wage jobs, a large number of which w ­ omen do.22 Increasingly, low-­ wage jobs are the main options for ­women and men, especially ­those with only high school degrees, creating what gender scholars call a “feminization of ­labor.”23 In addition to the growing participation of ­women in the workforce, workers more generally are experiencing increased “flexibilization,” meaning reductions in hours, protections, and status, including part-­time instead of full-­time work hours, private contracting, and temporary employment s­ervices—­and less secure work arrangements, overall.24 Exacerbating the growing expense of basic necessities for the working class is the agenda to reduce government investment in social programs, which former president Ronald Reagan pop­u­lar­ized to the point that both Republicans and many ­Democrats have enshrined this model of disciplined “lean” government as core orthodoxy. The social programs cut most significantly ­under Reagan w ­ ere ­those that benefited

16 Introduction

low-­income families with dependents and el­derly members, including food stamps, Aid to Families of Dependent C ­ hildren, Medicaid, and Medicare.25 One of the most austere and comprehensive cuts to social programs was the 1996 Welfare Reform Act that President Bill Clinton signed into legislation on August 22, 1996.26 In chapters  2 and 3 I describe how Syringa’s reputation shifted from being what one resident called a “country club” to a low-­class housing opportunity. The park’s identity as a working-­class community ­d idn’t change that much, though. Syringa Mobile Home Park pretty much remained a working-­class community over the ­decades, but its increasingly stigmatized reputation reflected larger societal trends of declining investment in public housing and social ­services, declining economic power and growing debt for working-­class p­ eople, and a consequent downward slide into poverty living conditions for millions of Americans. Sociologists and social psychologists have shown in their research that high-­status community members try to explain poverty by dehumanizing poor p­ eople, explaining away being financially impoverished as an outcome of personal moral failings, and Syringa residents certainly felt this.27 Chapters  3 and 6 explore the experiences residents had with feeling scorned and invisible. Housing Financialization and Community Segregation Since the high-­risk, speculation-­driven 2008 U.S. housing ­bubble burst, researchers and advocacy groups have raised concerns over currently escalating costs of housing that are leading to historic levels of housing poverty in the early 2020s. This is a global crisis. Recent United Nations reports warn that housing financialization (or commodification) is leading to distorted markets that ­favor luxury, rather than affordable, housing.28 Such observations in places as far away as London show how the decisions residents in Syringa Mobile Home Park made—­whether to move to the park, stay in the park, or to leave before park closure—­are inseparable from a national and international context in which housing has become increasingly embedded within financial markets, or what is called “housing financialization” or “housing commodification.”29 This financialization crisis may also be a potential

Introduction 17

tipping point for pos­si­ble populist-­progressive shifts t­oward more socialist approaches to housing, especially as a basic h­ uman right. While many ­factors account for the rising costs of housing in local, regional, and national housing markets in the United States, it is evident that mortgages, partial homeownership at the cost of long-­term indebtedness, have become a means for banks to expand opportunities for a broader range of individuals and families to pursue homeownership. Gregory W. Fuller notes 45 ­percent of U.S. homeowners carried a mortgage in 1945; that figure had grown to 62  ­percent in 1990 and 71  ­percent by the early 2010s.30 Housing financialization is shaping markets in other countries like Canada and the United Kingdom, which is raising concerns that housing commodification is exacerbating the displacement of poor families in the midst of, and indeed consequent to, this global housing investment rush.31 Owning a h­ ouse in the United States is one of the most significant means for a person or f­ amily to acquire wealth and is in many ways the most vis­i­ble expression of wealth ­inequality in our society.32 In socie­ ties like the United States and Canada, homeownership signals financial success as well as one’s moral standing.33 Thus, the ability to purchase a ­house, or to at least acquire a mortgage for that purpose, enables one to accrue wealth through the appreciation of the ­house’s market value as well as via the social and moral capital accrued vis-­à-­v is one’s zip code and/or neighborhood. Since h­ ouses are commodities and money can be made through mortgage lending, the financial sector seeks to grow markets to reach as yet untapped consumers. This be­hav­ior was clear in the disproportionate number of subprime loans approved to Black and Latino ­house­holds and prospective home buyers, which led to racial disparities in foreclosure rates following the housing crash in 2008.34 ­Women are also viewed as a pool of potential homebuyers who can help expand the financialized housing market; lenders can then also claim to be promoting w ­ omen’s financial inclusion.35 Yet researchers find t­here are gender disparities in asset building and potential predatory treatment of ­women in lending practices. In 2019, single w ­ omen accounted for 20 ­percent of home purchases, a rate over twice that for single men at 9  ­percent.36 Researchers find, however, that men’s ­houses are sold at

18 Introduction

8 ­percent greater returns than ­houses ­women own.37 This gender gap in housing values and rates of appreciation is identified in Idaho, too.38 Further, Lu Fang and Henry  J. Munneke find evidence of gender ­inequality in mortgage lending, noting higher interest rates for ­women who are sole borrowers than for men and w ­ omen as joint borrowers. They conclude that gender explains t­hese disparities, with discrimination being one of the likely f­actors.39 Th ­ ese patterns suggest that w ­ omen’s ability to accrue wealth through homeownership still lags b­ ehind that of men, and that ­women are more likely to move into housing that is potentially less safe and secure. Even for t­hose who, on paper, can afford to take out mortgages to purchase a new home face increasing levels of risk, ­because the growth of financialized housing means homeownership is no longer a safe way for working families to acquire wealth, and is now another opportunity to experience insecurity.40 Manuel Aalbers finds that as housing financialization has deepened in the United States, the spatial “dislocation” of housing is reproduced and reinforced and is apparent in the decentering of affordable housing options from the places of employment where working-­class individuals are most likely to work.41 Dislocation results in long and often stressful and unpleasant commutes, now also expensive due to inflation and rising gas and energy costs. All ­these pro­cesses play into the forces concentrating marginalized groups—­ women, ­people with disabilities, racial minorities, and ­those with low incomes—­into spaces segregated from middle-­and upper-­class communities and also from easy access to their own workplaces. Mobile Homes Filling the Affordable Housing Gap Filling in as a substitute, mobile homes have become a primary form of unsubsidized, affordable housing for low-­ income working-­ class Americans, and one-­third of ­these homes in the United States are in mobile home parks.42 Being a “halfway homeowner,”43 owning the home you live in but not the piece of land it sits on, leaves the mobile home park resident vulnerable to a park ­owner’s decisions and to environmental harms, especially in rural Amer­i­ca where regulations about health, sanitation, and safety are weakly enforced.44

Introduction 19

Mobile home park tenants are essentially held captive to the whims of park o­ wners, the more so the lower the reputation of their park. The landlord-­tenant power disparity leads some to compare mobile home park living arrangements to a feudal system.45 In such circumstances and without strong protective regulations in place, ­there is ­little to shield environmental and ­human health from contaminated ­water and sewage mismanagement. Research on mobile home park residents’ access to clean w ­ ater finds that they are three times more likely to experience at least one incident of ­water shutoff over a given year.46 In a society where levels of housing poverty are increasing dramatically, it is unlikely mobile home park residents w ­ ill complain to environmental or public health agencies since it is too expensive to move and they have few if any options left.47 Options for affordable housing in mobile home parks may shrink even more, however. Over the past d­ ecade mobile home parks have become a lucrative investment for global equity firms and corporate investors, sparking concerns that this significant source of affordable housing in the United States may increasingly become out of reach for working-­class families.48 Housing Crisis in Rural Idaho Across the United States, towns and cities are witnessing staggering increases in average home prices. Nationally, nearly a third of all rural ­house­holds c­ an’t afford housing, including half of ­those who rent. For instance, U.S. home prices r­ ose 29 ­percent between 2018 and 2021, surpassing the last highest peak that occurred in 2006.49 For a variety of reasons, Idaho has seen significant population growth between 2010 and 2020, ranking it as the second-­fastest-­growing state in the United States over this period.50 Over the past three years, Idaho’s reputation as a destination for affordable housing dissolved as single-­family housing prices in the state climbed 67.3  ­percent, a price acceleration that exceeded all other states.51 In 2013 when Syringa’s ­water crisis unfolded, mobile homes made up 6.3  ­percent of the country’s housing. During the same year in Latah County, the largely rural county where Syringa Mobile Home Park was located, mobile homes made up 11.2 ­percent of all housing units, close

20 Introduction

to double the national percentage.52 Rural housing construction, especially affordable housing construction, typically falls ­behind urban levels of construction, which means mobile homes, no ­matter how old, have proven an easy remedy. But this high rate of mobile home occupancy may at the same time be explained by workers’ declining purchasing power. According to a 2019 report on housing insecurity developed by the University of Idaho McClure Center for Public Policy Research, workers’ wages over the past four d­ ecades have increased by a paltry 1.6 ­percent in Idaho, while housing costs since 2011 have increased 149  ­percent.53 This likely explains why 55 ­percent of Latah County residents w ­ ere found to be e­ ither cost burdened or severely cost burdened in 2018, ranking among the top five most cost-­burdened counties for renters in the entire state.54 In Moscow, Idaho, the town where this study takes place, home values increased 105  ­percent from 2012 to 2022.55 Housing prices outpaced average per capita income growth, which only increased by 14.7 ­percent over this same period.56 Moscow, though, holds the distinction of being a campus town, which means more residents live in rental properties than in owner-­occupied housing. According to the 2020 U.S. Census data, 61 ­percent of Moscow residents lived in rental properties, substantially more than Idaho’s statewide renting population of 29 ­percent.57 While it makes sense to think that the renters are students studying at the university, reports looking at rental trends indicate that an increasing number of higher-­income ­house­holds are now renting, rather than purchasing single-­family homes.58 Th ­ ese trends may indicate a shift ­toward rentals as a housing preference for young professionals, but it may also reflect how a growing population, which includes professionals who only a few years ago could expect to purchase a first-­time home, is losing access to housing as an asset in places like Latah County in the state of Idaho.59 During 2013, the year when Syringa’s ­water crisis began, 24 ­percent of ­house­holds ­were living below the poverty threshold in Latah County, exceeding the national level by 7.3 ­percent. While 9.5 ­percent of all families in Latah County this same year lived below the poverty threshold, for families headed by w ­ omen the percentage living below the poverty threshold jumped to 27.8  ­percent.60 Economic disparities are further

Introduction 21

exacerbated for ­people with disabilities, who accounted for 28.7 ­percent of all government benefits distributed in Idaho in 2013.61 Housing is particularly difficult to find for low-­income p­ eople on Supplemental Security Income (SSI), whose average incomes in Idaho ­were $721 per month for individuals. Such low incomes limit housing options.62 In fact, individuals on SSI are among the poorest groups in the United States.63 Compounding the material disadvantages ­people with disabilities experience, they also face high rates of housing discrimination. Of the 26,000 housing discrimination complaints filed in the United States in 2016, 55 ­percent of them w ­ ere related to discrimination on the basis of disability.64 All of ­these ­factors mirror global trends that are raising alarms about the increasing precarity p­ eople are experiencing both in the United States, and throughout much of the rest of the world. Housing Is a H ­ uman Right ­ ose who view housing as a ­human right are alarmed by a global, Th systemic shift ­toward treating housing like an ordinary commodity. At a time when nation-­states and individuals are accumulating the highest levels of wealth ever witnessed in world history, housing precarity continues to grow.65 As has been argued recently, including by presidential candidate Senator Bernie Sanders who was echoing vari­ous international voices and campaigns, housing should instead be understood as a ­human right; it is fundamental to families’ efforts to build financial security, enjoy positive self-­esteem, be healthy, and form a community of shared experiences. As with basic health care or adequate food access, it is nearly impossible to function successfully as a citizen without secure housing—­made most evident in the fact that being homeless shaves 20 years off the average U.S. resident’s life expectancy.66 Diminished housing status is often coupled with poor access to necessary resources such as stable employment, good schools, medical s­ ervices, and grocery stores. Perhaps most importantly, housing is where social reproduction happens. Social reproduction refers to vari­ous ­things we do within our homes and communities that serve society as h­ uman life is reproduced and p­ eople’s capacity to be healthy—­physically, mentally, socially, and

22 Introduction

emotionally—is renewed and sustained. Within our current ­political and economic structure, however, the life-­sustaining power of social reproduction is considered distinct and separate from the activities of paid employment. Socially reproductive activities, conceived as ­things that families—­mostly w ­ omen—do are taken for granted by society and its accounting of eco­nom­ically valuable and rewarded kinds of work. As a consequence, this ­labor is done for ­free, and thus is mistakenly judged as having no bearing on the profit-­making side of economic activities, our jobs. Social reproduction may be broken into three dif­fer­ent dimensions: the capacity to biologically reproduce p­ eople, the capacity to reproduce the l­abor force, and paid care work that individuals and institutions execute (e.g., nannies, domestic workers, and nurses).67 The third dimension of social reproduction reveals how, on top of health care and housing, even the caring and nurturing activities intimately intertwined with f­ amily and community bonding are commodified and incorporated into waged work. Moreover, ­these kinds of paid care work are often remunerated with low wages and carried out by low-­ income, racial-­minority, and immigrant ­women who comprise the wide base of a hierarchical professional pyramid topped by a guild-­protected and highly credentialed tier of physicians and surgeons. This fact brings to light how con­temporary society accepts the economic practice of attaching lower monetary value to social reproduction activities and the kinds of work ­women of color are typically hired to perform, while at the same time social conventions reinforce the idea that t­ hese “mothering” activities are vital to a functional and happy f­amily life and are happily and “instinctively” performed by w ­ omen workers.68 The first dimension of social reproduction involves the biological reproduction of ­people, a kind of work or ­labor that is utterly necessary to sustain any society but is also in tension with w ­ omen’s fundamental right to quality ­family planning ­services, a healthy pregnancy, a safe birth, and the ability to support the health and longevity of a child through adulthood. The ability for w ­ omen to safely carry and birth a child is endangered by societal and institutional norms that treat biological reproduction as a private, individual responsibility. Increasingly socie­ties like the United States view biological reproduction as the burden ­women must shoulder privately, while at the same time politics and

Introduction 23

state-­sponsored efforts enforce childbearing by criminalizing birth control options, which include abortion and emergency contraceptive pills. The  U.S. Supreme Court’s overturning of Roe vs. Wade has increased the private burdens of ­those with the capacity to be pregnant by forcing childbirth and turning their bodies into public property.69 Housing is integral to this most basic dimension of social reproduction having to do with childbirth. Anyone with the capacity to biologically reproduce p­ eople is affected by housing policies that, ­whether intentionally or not, create scarcity in housing affordability and access. Research, for instance, finds that pregnant w ­ omen living with depression, anxiety, and stress, all of which unsurprisingly affect ex­pec­tant ­mothers facing housing insecurity, are more likely to have preterm and low-­weight births.70 Both the lack of housing affordability and minimal support for a pregnant individual’s decisions in f­ amily planning inordinately hurt working-­class p­ eople, and this is further compounded for ­those who are Black, Latino, or Indigenous. The second dimension of social reproduction, having to do with reproducing or recharging the l­abor force, is built into the first dimension, most especially within cap­i­tal­ist economies that are focused on commodity production and profit growth. This dimension refers to the capacity for reproducing the ­labor force, which not only involves the biological dimension but also the practices and norms that help nurture, socialize, educate, train, and sustain ­people for paid work that is mostly performed outside the home for an employer. This dimension of our home and community lives may sound odd to ­those who ­haven’t thought about social reproduction and its central role in supporting the economic system of capitalism, but this form of reproduction and caring for h­ ouse­hold members and reproducing workers is not lost on economists, employers, or governments. When I attended a housing roundtable in Moscow, Idaho, in March 2022, one of the presenters, trying to be persuasive to a business-­ focused audience, explained that housing is impor­tant for the economy ­because “housing is where jobs go to sleep at night.”71 Never mind the synecdoche reducing the ­human worker to a mere ­labor function, housing precarity is, indeed, bad for business since it might hamper workers’ productivity and thus businesses’ bottom line. For instance, in 1972

24 Introduction

p­ olitical economist Michael Grossman tied his concept “health capital” to h­ uman capital, positing that good health improves the productivity of workers, whose health depends largely on inputs in the home: “medical care, diet, exercise, recreation, and housing.”72 However, ­there are reasons to be concerned about housing precarity beyond the fact it may affect business and the economy. As one presenter representing the Disabilities Action Center of Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, remarked ­later during the roundtable discussions, “When ­w ill we care about p­ eople on their own terms, rather than showing concern only when it is about money?” For d­ ecades, social reproduction theorists have highlighted the connection between the social reproduction of workers and employers’ dependence on mostly unaccounted for and unpaid work, performed mostly by ­women in the home feeding, nursing, socializing, and educating f­ amily members participating or preparing to participate in paid employment.73 Secure housing enables p­ eople to feel at home; it provides opportunities to develop trusting, reciprocal relations with neighbors and helps financially strained families form durable and functional relationships and communities. Public policies that accept housing’s commodification undermine the power­ful benefits of socially reproductive activities ­because they ignore the ecol­ogy of mutual trust and care that communities provide, especially for w ­ omen and head caretakers of ­house­holds. Sylvia Federici introduces the concept “reproductive commons” to express the wide range of seemingly “­free” s­ ervices, since they are unrecognized and uncompensated, ­women and ecological systems provide, and she observes that poor, Black, and Brown communities throughout the world have coordinated to subsist outside of commodity exchange and without dependence on the state.74 For Federici, “The reproductive commons . . . ​give us a taste of a society in which the p­ olitical structure emanates from the reproduction of everyday life, and decision-­ making is a collective ­process.”75 Throughout this book, and most specifically in chapters 3, 6, and 7, I describe socially reproductive activities and ­services residents in Syringa performed, and the ways in which vari­ous socioecological interactions with their local environment and surroundings w ­ ere an impor­tant part of their lives. Th ­ ese mutually beneficial exchanges and caring activities

Introduction 25

are the bases for the reproductive commons. Borrowing from Federici’s conceptualization of how reproductive commons might operate outside of capitalism and in par­tic­u­lar the simultaneous commodification and economic erasure of socially reproductive ­labor, I focus more closely on the ways in which communities are produced in the first place ­because of institutional pro­cesses, notably including the feminization of l­abor and inflation of prices for basic h­ uman necessities.76 Feminized communities are concentrated spaces that have been sorted by institutionalized practices that are themselves inherently classed, gendered, racialized, and ableist; ­these marginalized communities then become targets for negative s­ tereotypes from outsiders. By foregrounding the socially reproductive activities within a specifically feminized community, we turn our lens away from the “disorder” typically believed to exist when the public thinks and talks about “trailer parks” and marginalized neighborhoods. Instead, we adjust our focus ­toward such communities’ capacity to provide refuge, networks of care, and empathy through shared identity. ­Because we all identify with and participate in communities in some way, the concept of feminized community enables us to generate tangible ideas about what neighbors in communities do for each other, especially when they share identities with one another and are able to build trust on that basis and ground. In highlighting ­these mutually beneficial aspects of community life among p­ eople whose lives ­every day are affected by stigma, precarious work conditions, and increasing expenses, we can formulate ways to enhance and support the ecol­ogy of community and home, rather than reduce ­these vital forms of life to simply having access to physical structures we call “­houses.”

CH A P T E R 1

Who Belongs on the Palouse? Dispossession is our relationship with the state, and like our Ancestors, we si­mul­ta­neously refuse dispossession as a foundational force in our lives. It means we have to think of dispossession in more complex terms than just land loss. We have to think of expansive dispossession as a gendered removal of our bodies and minds from our nation and place-­based grounded normativities. —­M ichi Saagiig Nishnaabeg writer, activist, and scholar Leanne Betasamosake Simpson, 2017

In “pre-­modern” states, the state and power­f ul landowners relied mostly on the mono­poly of vio­lence, but in advanced cap­i­tal­ist socie­ties the law is the institution par excellence to embed the ideology of private property rights in wider societal relationships. But if the institution of law turns out to be insufficient to enforce private property rights, property ­owners w ­ ill often try to mobilize the state’s mono­poly on vio­lence, e.g., in the case of evicting squatters. Private property is not only about power over an object, it is fundamentally about the ability to exclude o­ thers from the use of it (Davies 2007). —­Manuel Aalbers, 2016

W

hat conditions in your life are necessary to help you feel like you belong somewhere? Is it the familiarity of the ­things you expect are permanent features of that place? Do you search for prominent features in the landscape, like tall mountains, wide-­open fields, or paved streets and buildings of specific styles and sizes? Do dif­fer­ent plants, birds, and animals make you feel at home? Which seasons bring you comfort? Are you attached to dif­fer­ent smells and sounds? Who are the ­people you relate to? Have you been able to stay where you feel you most belong? Or have you been forced to leave a place that feels 27

28 Tr a i l er Pa r k A m er ica

like home, like community, for reasons beyond your control? Why is belonging impor­tant to our health and overall ability to cope with life’s challenges, and what happens when we lose our ability to belong? ­There are even more questions that I have asked myself when thinking about what happened to the residents at Syringa Mobile Home Park who ­were forced to relocate due to a landlord’s negligence—­not theirs. Syringa residents joined the historical continuum of dispossession that Indigenous ­peoples experienced first at this site. The ­process of dispossession, involuntary removal, and dislocation of ­people from a place they value as a home connected to a community has a long history that illuminates two systemic forces that define who belongs and who does not: the establishment of capitalism and settler-­colonialism. Moreover, Syringa residents’ experience is one of many con­temporary cases of involuntary removal from housing throughout the United States and abroad.1 Looking back in time, in E ­ ngland and ­Europe in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries lands where peasants had learned to subsist over centuries ­were turned into fenced private allotments tilled and grazed for mass production of marketable food. The ­people dispossessed in this ­process ­were scattered to factories and urban centers, then scattered further to places like the colonies of North Amer­i­ca. Lost in this ­process of privatizing land w ­ ere not only village peasants’ small-­scale food cultivation practices, but also their centuries-­old access to commons. The commons referred to shared lands that commoners could use for ­cattle grazing, berry and mushroom harvesting, and wood gathering. The commons had also instilled a “spiritual claim on the soil” and a “fellowship of mutual aid . . . ​partnership of s­ ervice and protection, which characterized the village community.”2 Moreover, practices of collection and preservation of common waste had opened opportunities for more vulnerable groups, including ­women and ­children. “The fuel, food and materials taken from common waste helped to make commoners of ­those without land, common-­right villages, or pasture rights.”3 Thus, vari­ous subjects in ­England, and by extension in ­Europe, could be agents in subsistence and mutual aid. The rise of capitalism, however, removed ­people’s means to subsistence and self-­sufficiency through the enclosure, or privatization, of the commons. ­A fter centuries of commoning—­a critical feature of ­people’s

W ho Belongs on th e Pa louse? 29

ability to stay in place, at home with their communities—­dispossessed rural ­people headed for factories and urban centers that promised a wage for their ­labor, or what many bitterly called “wage slavery.” Karl Marx called this primary accumulation: the separation of everyday ­people from their means to raise food and make ­things to do with as they needed, like selling in the market and producing for their own use (subsistence). This ­process of primary accumulation was the necessary condition for land, its fertility, and p­ eople’s ­labor capacity to be turned into “dead” abstract commodities; t­ hings that represented the money one might spend on them and not the qualities that honor their intrinsic value. This separation of living ­labor from living earth requires assertions—­culturally enforced formally through the state and its system of laws—of who is worthy of a home, of belonging to a community. When commodified, the living earth is disciplined by industrialized agriculture and committed to mass-­produced livestock and single-­species crops as commodities. By turning l­abor into a commodity, wage seekers learned they had to move t­ oward opportunity—­something white settlers in the United States and wherever settler colonialism took root w ­ ere trying to do. Unable to resist the cap­i­tal­ist revolutions in ­England and ­Europe, white settlers and their ancestors sought home and belonging elsewhere. Many white settlers may be i­magined as being part of a refugee crisis of dispossessed, surplus, and placeless ­people. The goal of acquiring land drove Euro-­A merican migration and westward movement, which was ultimately the long-­term invasion of Indigenous lands. Indigenous ­people’s existence on ­these lands, however, was a barrier to the goals of the settlers and was made more challenging since, as Australian historian Patrick Wolfe points out, “so far as Indigenous ­people are concerned, where they are is who they are, and not only by their own reckoning.”4 Thus, “all the native has to do is stay at home” to effectively resist the motivations for land privatization and owner­ship that drive settler colonialism. Unlike other forms of colonialism, in which invaders sought economic enrichment but not necessarily a new place to permanently live, settler colonialism is a structure in which settler invasion destroys what is in place as a means to (1) reconstitute how land is used and prosperity m ­ easured and (2) stay in place. Destruction takes vari­ous forms, including hom­i­cide, ecocide,

30 Tr a i l er Pa r k A m er ica

Christianization, domestication, assimilation through government-­r un boarding schools, and miscegenation. As Wolfe succinctly states, “Settler colonialism destroys to replace.”5 Yet, Indigenous ­people can resist by “stay[ing] at home,” revitalizing their language and spiritual and cultural practices, and restoring native ecosystems. As long as Indigenous ­people exist, settler colonialism’s proj­ect remains incomplete and is very much active in the pre­sent day. What replaces the p­ eople and ­things that are destroyed with settler-­ colonial practices? Settlers are the conduits that have historically imported beliefs and traditions from ­England and ­Europe to Indigenous lands and cultural areas. ­These beliefs and traditions are instituted and policed by states, such as the U.S., Canadian, and Australian governments. Con­temporary forms of such policing may be observed in the repressive, at times incredibly violent, police responses to the 2016– 2017 peaceful Indigenous protests against the Dakota Access Pipeline at Standing Rock in North Dakota; to Nimíipuu protests against “megaloads” in northern Idaho in 2013; and to Indigenous traditional fishing and hunting practices.6 The motivations of settlers are inspired by their own ancestors’ experiences at home, which include losing the centuries-­ old uses of the commons that enabled commoners to subsist without ­dependency on money for income. Thus, the pro­cesses of destruction and replacement are inherent in both capitalism and settler colonialism. Destruction and replacement ­shaped the global expansion of empires historically and continue to do so in vari­ous forms ­today, ranging from continued encroachment and destruction of remaining Indigenous lands and cultures to gentrification of urban and rural spaces centuries a­ fter original settler-­colonial incursion and appropriation.7 This chapter connects ­these two global systemic pro­cesses to the history of the Palouse, the par­tic­u­lar area where Syringa Mobile Home Park was initially conceived and built, and then fi­nally closed some ­decades l­ ater. Traveling to Syringa Mobile Home Park To get to Syringa, you need to travel a l­ ittle over three miles east from the quaint and visibly prosperous downtown of Moscow, Idaho. When-

W ho Belongs on th e Pa louse? 31

ever I headed out to visit residents I took White Ave­nue, which eventually becomes Robinson Park Road. This route took me past new housing developments near the outskirts of town where ­houses, between 2015 and 2018, sold anywhere from $200,000 to $500,000. Heading up a hill as I left town, I passed a daycare center that used to be a tavern called the Slurp-­n-­Burp. A ­ fter cresting the hill, the road drops t­ oward a small meadow called Haskins Flat and threads between its edge and the gentle, rolling hills of the Palouse. In June ­these hills are lush, as though blanketed in green velvet, as young crops of wheat, peas, hay, garbanzo beans, and lentils seek the sun’s energy. Looking north, you c­ an’t miss the breathtakingly beautiful view of Moscow Mountain, which stands ­behind ­these fields just a ­couple of miles away from the road. Rising from a base elevation of about 2,300 feet, Moscow Mountain reaches almost 5,000 feet. Moscow Mountain is about six miles north of the town of Moscow, its east-­west ridge is about 15 miles long, which provides habitat and a wildlife corridor for moose, black bear, mountain lions, and occasional wolves. The mountain also serves as the headwaters for the South Fork Palouse River, which meanders through this stretch of land, skirts the perimeter of Moscow, crosses over to Washington state, and eventually meets the main fork of the Palouse River near Colfax, Washington. The Palouse River carries the South Fork’s ­water to the Snake River, which ­later meets the Columbia River on the way ­toward the Pacific Ocean. Before you reach a bridge crossing the South Fork, Syringa Mobile Home Park appears to the left, on the north side of this country road and Haskins Flat. With stunning views and spectacular light and sky from dawn to twilight, it is hard to imagine a more idyllic setting for one’s home. Indigenous Communities: Human-­Nature Cooperative Living on the Palouse What many visitors and locals view as a spectacular agrarian landscape now would have looked significantly dif­fer­ent 200 years ago when Native p­ eoples and native ecosystems still freely interacted, and their communities ­shaped how the landscape looked and lived. The region is most famous for its deep, fertile loessial soil, which was built up by

32 Tr a i l er Pa r k A m er ica

winds carry­ing dust from the silt left b­ ehind by the G ­ reat Missoula Floods around 15,000–13,000  years ago, as the Cordilleran ice sheet, which had dominated the northern reaches of northern Washington, Idaho, and Montana, melted.8 As the glacial ice receded, dust was carried—­and continues to be carried—­f rom ­these places and continuously settled along ridges, eventually creating the rolling hills that famously characterize what is called “the Palouse.” Loessial soil is distinct and covers only 10 ­percent of the earth’s land surface, the largest deposit existing on the North American ­Great Plains.9 On the Palouse, the loessial soil reaches up to 75 meters (246 feet) in depth. The Palouse’s eastern edge, where Syringa and Moscow are located, enjoys higher rainfall levels than its western region in eastern Washington. The higher moisture and deep layers of fertile loess enabled a distinctive prairie ecosystem, or “meadow-­steppe,” to emerge. Prominent among the native flora ­were grasses like Idaho fescue and bluebunch wheatgrass and shrubs like snowberry, ser­v iceberry, and hawthorn—­ the roots of which sank deep into the soil in search of moisture, thereby protecting soil against the erosive powers of wind and ­water.10 Several creeks, the most significant being the South Fork-­Palouse River and Paradise Creek, meander throughout this stretch of prairie providing impor­tant habitat for dif­fer­ent plants, aquatic life, and mammals. For all ­these reasons, this specific place on the Palouse was impor­tant to the nations of the Palus, Nimíipuu (Nez Perce), Schitsu’umsh (Coeur d’Alene), and Spokan (Spokane) for gathering, hunting, and fishing.11 Though all ­these nations frequented sites throughout the Palouse, most of the following descriptions of Native p­ eople’s relationships to this special place, where Moscow and Syringa Mobile Home Park ­were built, w ­ ill mostly reflect ­those recorded about the Nimíipuu, as this par­tic­u­lar place is widely recognized as part of the Nimíipuu nation’s ancestral lands. Indigenous ­peoples enjoyed the bounty and beauty of this region for thousands of years before white E ­ uropean settlement. One ancient Nimíipuu village recently discovered by archaeologists on the Salmon River dates back 16,500 years and is considered the oldest h­ uman settlement on rec­ord in North Amer­i­ca.12 The depth of relationships Indige-

W ho Belongs on th e Pa louse? 33

nous ­peoples have with places in this region may be difficult to comprehend among white ­European descendants whose families immigrated to the United States and migrated westward with dreams of privately owning land to earn a living. Indigenous p­ eoples developed relationships with dif­ fer­ent living beings as a result of interacting with lands for millennia. Captains Meriwether Lewis and William Clark ­were the first white ­people on rec­ord to enter the area that is now Idaho, and on September 20, 1805, weary and hungry, they met the Nimíipuu. Though known commonly as the Nez Perce, the nation’s real name, Nimíipuu, means “the ­people of this place,” not from it, as their language shows in the last syllable of their name.13 Being of a place means Indigenous cultural identities and practices include nonhuman beings—­plants, aquatic life, and mammals—as ­family and valued members of their communities. ­Every being was seen as belonging to the community and the Palouse region in Nimíipuu culture, a perspective similarly shared among Indigenous ­peoples of places near to, and far away from, the region. Nimíipuu elder Allen Pinkham pre­sents a vivid way for non-­Native p­ eople to understand how deeply this affects Indigenous ways of knowing: Sometimes I try to get ­people to compare plant and animal species with their own body parts. For instance, the buffalo could be a fin­ger, the passenger pigeon another fin­ger, the peregrine falcon another fin­ger; the wrist could be the sockeye salmon. If you relate t­ hese body parts to ­these species, how many would you eliminate before you would say, “Stop.” You can get along pretty well if you lose a fin­ger, but if you keep ­doing that, when is it enough? I learned this philosophy from my elders. Even Joseph himself said, “I am of the earth.” Well, if you consider yourself part of the earth, you w ­ on’t sacrifice t­ hose body parts.14

The calendars developed by dif­fer­ent Indigenous ­peoples on the Columbia River Plateau follow the growth cycles of plants and the reproductive and migration cycles of fish and animals. The month of June in the Gregorian calendar is identified in the Nimíipuu calendar as a time to migrate to traditional fields to dig for camas root, a culturally impor­tant plant for Indigenous p­eoples throughout the Columbia River Plateau. The Nimíipuu call the area that surrounds Moscow

34 Tr a i l er Pa r k A m er ica

tátxin’ma.15 According to Nimíipuu elder Allen Slickpoo  Sr. the area “was a favorite place ­because of the mule deer who summered ­there, and the taxt, the mule deer fawns. The p­ eople would look up from digging and—­poof!—­a ­little taxt would leap out of the bushes. A few more roots in the basket, another look up to rest the back and—­poof!—­another ­little taxt would pop up. ­Every summer it went like that, and soon the Nimipu [Nez Perce] knew the name for this place—­Taxt-­hinma—­the place of the mule deer fawns.”16 In Native Site Guidelines, written by Palus-­Nimíipuu elder Gordon Fisher, t­ here ­were finer distinctions historically between the Paradise Valley area that surrounds Moscow, the city’s location, and the South Fork of the Palouse River. Fisher explains, The prefix tatx refers to a newly born fawn with white spots on its body. It is in the general vicinity of Moscow but it is closer to the Palouse Mountain Range. The reasoning is the Doe’s [sic] preferred a short distance from the forest to escape predators, as a long run by a very young deer lessened survival. Paptíicpa is also a suggested name. It is true a stream, the South Fork of the Palouse River, flows thru the S section of town, however elders called it Paptíicnime, the creek with many muskrats. Generally in site classification the oldest term available is used and other names are listed as secondary. U ­ nder this format Qi’níinwees, The Root Digging Place, would be the correct name for Moscow, as the site dates back in time when edible roots ­were first discovered thousands of years ago.17

Where Syringa Mobile Home Park would be constructed was likely a seasonally moist meadow, a low-­lying area nestled amid the undulating landscape of the prairie steppe. Seasonally moist meadows are typically dry in the summer and fall and collect ­water over the winter and spring. This dynamic swing between dry and wet periods would be a f­ actor in weakening the walls of Syringa’s wastewater lagoons, which in turn allowed raw sewage to occasionally leak into the South Fork Palouse River. It is likely, too, that camas (qémes in Nimipuutímt language) once thrived ­here, alongside northern bedstraw, field mint, and velvet lupine.18 Early accounts described t­ hese camas fields of blue flowers as resembling w ­ ater (Figure 1).19 Rec­ords indicate that the Palouse was a

figur e 1. Camas, or q’emes in Nimipuutímt (scientific name: Camassia quamash). Botanical artist: Janene S. Walkky.

36 Tr a i l er Pa r k A m er ica

culturally significant site for camas gathering for the Nimíipuu and was the southern-­most gathering area for the Schitsu’umsh.20 Camas growing in Nimíipuu gathering sites was considered especially high quality and lent a level of prestige to the nation’s p­ eople during trade with other nations in the region.21 With the benefit of thousands of years of intimate interaction with ­these places, Indigenous ­peoples like the Nimíipuu have learned effective ways to manage habitats to benefit the plants they depend on, including camas. Ample supplies of nutritionally dense camas and other edible roots would feed every­one through the winter.22 Camas is believed to have made up close to 50 ­percent of the annual diet of the Northwest region’s Indigenous ­peoples.23 By tradition, ­women and girls have been responsible for camas bulb harvesting. This requires careful digging and se­lection of bulbs using a curved stick called a tú-­ kes, its unique shape is known to minimize damage and aerate the soil.24 Traditional gathering also involves replanting a combination of small bulbs with some larger bulbs to encourage their proliferation.25 Traditional controlled field burns during dry seasons, coupled with the use of tú-­kes and selective bulb gathering, improve camas quality and yields.26 ­Because camas and other root foods are valued so highly among Indigenous cultures like the Nimíipuu, ­women and girls are, by association, highly valued and honored. W ­ omen’s stewardship and gathering role in relation to key plant foods and other culturally impor­ tant plant species factored into ­women’s honored status among nations in the region: “­Women dug and pro­cessed root foods, and the products of their l­ abor belonged to them. This gave them considerable economic power and status. For instance, they could trade surplus foods with distant groups to obtain h­ orses and other material possessions. Their status also extended to other spheres of life including ­political and spiritual realms.”27 ­Women’s ability to enjoy high economic, ­political, and spiritual status among their p­ eople is often glossed over in mainstream accounts of Indigenous gender relations.28 For t­ hese reasons, the Palouse was culturally significant for Indigenous p­ eoples in the region not only in the past, but also in the pre­sent day.

W ho Belongs on th e Pa louse? 37

White E ­ uropean Colonial Settlement: Inventing Property and Rules for Exclusion The earth was created by the assistance of the sun, and it should be left as it was. . . . ​The country was made without lines of demarcation, and it is no man’s business to divide it. . . . ​The earth and myself are of one mind. The ­measure of the land and the ­measure of our bodies are the same. . . . ​ Understand me fully with reference to my affection for the land. I never said the land was mine to do with as I choose. The one who has the right to dispose of it is the one who has created it. —­Chief Joseph (Nimíipuu), cited in Landeen and Pinkham, 1999

For the North American settlers to be able to create new communities ­organized by vastly dif­fer­ent politics, economics, and cultures, Indigenous ­peoples had to be eradicated or other­w ise removed from the Palouse. White E ­ uropean settlement and privatization of ­these rich and diverse lands for monocrop farming stripped the region’s Native nations of their ability to live sustainably and in­de­pen­dently as they had for thousands of years. At the same time, disease, hunger, and conflicts stifled cultural and spiritual practices Indigenous ­peoples had cultivated for millennia. Understanding themselves as the ­people of the land, the Nimíipuu ­were severely constrained as land allotments fragmented and plowed ­under the fertile and productive native ecosystems they had intimately known and managed sustainably. Area nations’ livelihoods and existence very much depended on their seasonal migratory patterns as they followed plant, fish, and animal growth cycles. This reliance on movement over large distances was observed by a member of Isaac Stevens’s exploring party, George Gibbs, in 1855: “They require the liberty of motion for the purpose of seeking, in their proper season, roots, berries, and fish, where t­hose articles can be found (Figure 2).”29 Thus, restricting Native p­ eople’s movements was understood by U.S. government officials as a threat to their means to stay alive, constituting one of several methods of genocide. Settlement and private land owner­ship changed relations between Native nations in the region. It stripped their ability to be self-­sufficient through access to food and medicinal plants that they had cultivated for centuries. Gender

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figur e 2. Lithograph of the Palouse for Washington territorial governor Isaac Stevens’s 1853–1854 Pacific Railroad Survey Reports. Courtesy of Latah County Historical Society (25-01-028). I first discovered this lithograph in Monroe (2003).

relations w ­ ere changed as native plants ­were killed off and new forms of land use and food production and harvest ­were introduced.30 In a recent Seattle Times interview, Shannon Wheeler, vice-­chairman of the Nez Perce Tribe Executive Committee, noted when discussing species loss, such as the steep decline in salmon, “By taking that away, you are taking away who we are.”31 Land remained impor­tant to the white settlers, but rather than value the systemic functions, functionality, and intrinsic value of intact ecosystems and ­services, they parceled out fragments of land to stake out privately owned property—­a practice that conformed to their beliefs about what they needed to belong on t­ hese new lands and prosper. The Presbyterian missionary Henry Spalding and his wife Eliza first arrived to Nimíipuu lands in 1836 to form a mission on Lapwai Creek, near what is now the town of Lapwai (derived from the Nimipuutímt

W ho Belongs on th e Pa louse? 39

word thlap-­thlap, the sound of fluttering butterflies’ wings).32 The mission sought to convert the Nimíipuu to Chris­tian­ity and shift their activities t­ oward a settled model of agrarian food production, culture, and community. Missionaries during this era in the 1830s set the foundation for the long-­held association of whites to “civilizing” through agrarian customs, ­women’s and girls’ domestication, and Christian values.33 British botanist Charles Geyer noted, “The missionaries have so far succeeded as to render the greater part of the tribe i­ndependent of hunting, by cultivating the soil, and rearing c­ attle and sheep.”34 By 1865, the government official and Lewiston resident A. L. Downer observed, “­There is an increasing disposition manifested by t­ hese Indians to raise more grain, vegetables, and depend less on wild roots, Kouse, and Kammas, for subsistence.”35 Efforts by missionaries like the Spaldings to “civilize and christianize ­these Indians” raised tensions within Native nations, as some members began identifying with the beliefs and practices imported from faraway places.36 Many Nimíipuu held firmly to their traditional beliefs and practices as they watched the rapid changes taking place across their ancestral lands and observed the vio­lence and suffering white settlers inflicted on their members and other nations near and far. Th ­ ese Nimíipuu rejected the missionaries’ and the U.S. government’s efforts to turn them into agricultural producers b­ ecause “the earth was still regarded as their m ­ other, and they would not tear its breast and farm.”37 Nineteen years ­a fter the Spaldings first settled in Nimíipuu lands, the nation joined other Native nations in the signing of the Treaty of 1855, the first U.S. government effort to set aside land for white settlement and constrict Native ­people’s movement in this region. Significantly, the members of Columbia Plateau nations that signed this treaty maintained their rights to gather, fish, and hunt in their usual and accustomed places. The Nez Perce reservation formed via the treaty constitutes an area that includes present-­day Moscow. White settlers’ hunger for land in the western United States was stoked further, however, when President Lincoln signed the 1862 Homestead Act, which allowed individuals to acquire 160 acres of government public land. Pressures for more land increased and led to another treaty proposal in 1863, signed without full consent from all of the Nimíipuu bands’ leaders. Nimíipuu

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still call this the “Steal Treaty” of 1863, ­because it reduced their lands from 6,932,270 acres to a paltry 748,996 acres. Similar U.S. government-­ led efforts resulted in catastrophic land losses for Native nations throughout the western United States during this period. The areas including Lewiston and Moscow ­were ceded in the Treaty of 1863, enabling white settlers to seize and occupy ­these lands and for large tracts to be used t­oward other federally designated purposes. Although the treaty is still rejected by Nimíipuu members, Moscow’s University of Idaho continues to benefit financially via a land grant that aided in the university’s establishment in 1889, from which it still reaps large revenues. Holding on to 33,000 acres of the land the United States granted to the university, plus 70,000 acres of mineral rights, in 2019 the University of Idaho generated more than $359,000  in revenues from land and rights that the Nimíipuu never agreed to cede to the U.S. government.38 The University of Idaho is only one of several colleges and universities in the United States to benefit from t­ hese settler-­colonial arrangements. ­These institutional practices serve as regular reminders to both the Nimíipuu and Native nations generally of the cultural, ­political, and economic losses they continue to suffer. Relatively progressive for its era, the Homestead Act allowed single, widowed, and divorced white w ­ omen to legally acquire land. The Act excluded married ­women, however, who represented the majority of ­women traveling westward.39 Yet even though w ­ omen w ­ ere part of ­these early westward migrations, men comprised most emigrants.40 Thus, the U.S. government’s policies to expand its territory through the Homestead Act of 1862 and the Dawes Act of 1887 and white settlement via Manifest Destiny established a system of private property owner­ ship that favored white men.41 It would be difficult to overestimate the harm white settlement and land privatization caused to the Native nations who had lived sustainably on plant harvests, fishing, and hunting in this area. While dismantling centuries-­old Indigenous practices of following food sources over the calendar year, white Euro-­A merican settlers—­aided by the U.S. government—­replaced the traditional system by parceling out land to individual Natives that may not have even been appropriate for agricultural cultivation, and certainly not sufficiently bountiful with the

W ho Belongs on th e Pa louse? 41

plants, fish, and animals that ­were necessary to feed their ­family and communities over the year. The policies and laws enabling private land acquisition and owner­ship w ­ ere not just biased in their assumptions of what constituted value in t­ hese allotments, they w ­ ere also prejudiced about who would be most responsible or worthy of owner­ship. White settlers relied upon a l­egal framework of property relations that integrated patriarchal assumptions and arrangements that had been layered into E ­ uropean laws over several centuries, then borrowed by the white men who w ­ ere eco­nom­ically and po­liti­cally power­f ul and positioned to engineer the constitutions and policies that legalized white settler colonialism in dif­fer­ent places throughout the world, notably including North Amer­i­ca and Australia.42 Thus, it is no surprise that most acreage acquired on the Palouse in the 1870s was concentrated in the hands of white men. Like the patterns of land acquisition and owner­ship observed in Australia, Indigenous w ­ omen and men, as well as most white ­women, ­were left with little-­to-no means to secure wealth within a cap­i­tal­ist society that reckoned the worth of land and ­people according to the money value attached to them.43 In her analy­sis of Australian Aboriginal history of settler colonialism, Goenpul Aboriginal scholar Aileen Moreton-­Robinson describes patriarchal whiteness as “an invisible unnamed ­organizing princi­ple that surreptitiously shapes social relations and economic relations.”44 The individuals who had the power to create and enact ­these policies ­were all white men, who—by their shared identities—­assumed men like themselves would have the physical ability and aptitude to carry out ­these policies of land acquisition and private property development. ­These power relations are viewed as simply “normal” from the perspective and experiences of ­those accustomed to t­hese societal arrangements ­organized by patriarchal whiteness. As Moreton-­Robinson also points out, settler colonialism not only resulted in white men overwhelmingly owning most of the land and gaining ­political power through this owner­ship, but their privileged access to economic and p­ olitical wealth typically resulted in communities associating being white and being a man as signifying strength, competence, and being naturally worthy of dominating high-­status, power­ful positions.45 This is an impor­tant point to wrap one’s head around since it helps us comprehend how

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white patriarchy affects present-­day Indigenous p­ eoples, as well as how social class, gender relations, and ableism among whites intersect, evolve, and grow from this history. Moreton-­Robinson’s argument is inclusive, recognizing not all white men acquired land that could sustain them during Manifest Destiny, and not all white ­women ­were left out of the benefits accrued through Euro-­A merican settlement. White patriarchy as a dominant way of viewing the world, though, shapes even propertyless white men’s expectations despite systemic practices of excluding them.46 Exclusion of Bio-­Communities Property owner­ship stripped down ecosocial relations, as Indigenous ­peoples’ movement was increasingly confined to reservations and single-­species plant production replaced native ecosystems that had sustained impor­tant and nutritious plants, like camas. Camas thrived in this region of the Palouse. Early white settlers first nicknamed the town that is now Moscow, Idaho, “Hog Heaven,” since the hogs they transported into the area ­were initially able to live off the plentiful supply of camas bulbs that had once fed Indigenous ­peoples for millennia. In a remarkably short period of time, the bountiful camas fields on the Palouse vanished, leading to the end of traditional Indigenous uses of this area and the devastation of the once diverse plant, fish, and animal communities that made this area so distinct. Haskins Flat, where Syringa Mobile Home Park was built, was one of the last places in Latah County where Nimíipuu ­women and girls ­were known to harvest.47 By the 1890s, abundant meadows of camas and other native plants ­were replaced with plowed fields converted into cultivation of single plant species, mostly in the form of hay production, at first. According to John B. Leiberg, settlement and hay production “ended the existence of the plant [camas], except as a weed in the farmers’ fields.”48 Dispossessing Native nations and containing them within reservations meant the non-­Native ­people now dwelling on Indigenous ancestral lands no longer culturally valued camas and other plants for their nutritional, medicinal, and useful qualities. Instead, native plants ­were considered weeds—­dispensable and treated in much the same way as Indigenous ­peoples.

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Bertie J. Weddell reports that meadows along the South Fork of the Palouse River w ­ ere converted to agricultural production in a m ­ atter of only 10 to 12 years, which shortly led to erosion that “was accompanied by high rates of siltation in streams and adjacent wetlands.”49 Rapid soil erosion from ­water runoff on the steep slopes of the Palouse’s rolling hills was identified in the early 1900s and further intensified as farmers moved ­toward more profitable wheat production en masse throughout the entire Palouse region. To reduce erosion, farmers followed conservation scientists’ advice to plant perennial grasses such as the notoriously aggressive reed canary grass (Phalaris arundinacea), which rapidly colonized stream banks, choked out native species along riparian zones, and continues to dominate streams and neighboring wetlands, including along the South Fork of the Palouse River.50 Thus, white settlement led to near-­complete ecocide and, consequently, erasure of Indigenous lifeways and culture tantamount to cultural genocide. Only rare patches of Palouse prairie are intact ­today; white Euro-­A merican settlement wiped out native plant, aquatic, and animal communities in the region. The devastation to the fertile loessial soil has been massive. Scientists ­were already documenting alarming decreases in soil fertility and soil erosion in the 1930s. By 1998, researchers estimated 40 ­percent of the Palouse’s soil had been lost since large-­scale agriculture began in the late 1800s.51 This ­process is what J. M. Bacon refers to as colonial ecological vio­ lence, a term that considers the “diverse ways settler colonialism disrupts Indigenous eco-­social relations, and generates specific risks and harms for Native ­peoples and communities.”52 Though white settlers did not know or value the nutritional and medicinal importance of camas, present-­day researchers are discovering that its bulbs are calorie-­, carbohydrate-­, and protein-­rich.53 Camas was not valued by non-­ Native settlers in their local and export-­oriented commodity markets, and consequently the new economic system of capitalism that was now supported alongside settler colonialism’s destruction of Indigenous ­peoples and nonhuman communities changed its status to “weed,” something that Ralph Waldo Emerson famously described as “a plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered.” Plants like camas and their “home,” the seasonally moist wetland meadows they thrived in,

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became a nuisance that interfered with white farmers’ abilities to maximize profits from their commodified food harvests. The ­process of stripping away Indigenous ecosocial relations not only takes away critical forms of food and medicine; it also denies Indigenous ­peoples’ abilities to pass on impor­tant morals, spiritual practices, and gender norms. This p­ rocess of cultural erasure is violent and ongoing. Nimíipuu elder Lucinda George Simpson explains how this loss is mourned still, since ­there was no retribution for almost a lost language and a religion that pre-­dates ­European Christian influence. ­There was a loss of tribal ­cattle, ­horses, weapons, canoes, cows and regalia of our tribal ­people. Th ­ ese ­things have never been paid for. The religion was taken under­ground, thank goodness, and practiced at certain secret places to communicate with the creator in peace. Luckily, some of the regalia was hidden in caches in vari­ous places but the rest was taken by Christians and sold. Many canoes and good ponies ­were never replaced or repatriated. . . . ​The Nez Perce ­people never [got] what was promised by the U.S. government’s treaties, be it the 1855 or 1863 treaty.54

Speaking to Karuk ­people’s experiences as traditional stewards of lands along the Klamath River in northern California, traditional Karuk dipnet fisherman and cultural biologist Ron Reed movingly explains how ecosystem and cultural loss are intimately intertwined: “You can give me all the acorns in the world, you can get me all the fish in the world, you can get me every­thing for me to be an Indian, but it ­w ill not be the same u­ nless I’m g­ oing out and pro­cessing, ­going out and harvesting, gathering myself.”55 In taking away ­these impor­tant ecosocial interactions and relationships, Indigenous understanding of gender identities and relations between p­ eople are altered, replaced with Euro-­A merican culture’s hierarchical ordering of men’s and ­women’s roles.56 Entangled in settler-­colonialism, the reordering of gender relations among Indigenous ­peoples may be expressed in increased gender vio­ lence. Blackfeet scholar Dianne Baumann connects Indigenous men’s gender identities to the centuries-­long cultural erasure imposed by settler colonialism “­because the use of force to perpetuate oppression is in

W ho Belongs on th e Pa louse? 45

itself vio­lence; vio­lence and masculinity become entangled and subconsciously connected.”57 Both Indigenous men and Indigenous ­women experience ­these kinds of settler-­colonial entanglements. Losing the ceremonies and practices involved in gathering, pro­cessing, and eating culturally significant plants like camas, ­women and girls have been stripped of impor­tant parts of the gender identity and attendant social status that makes them Nimíipuu, p­ eople of the land. Between the 1870s and now, camas field loss has meant greater effort and risk has become part of keeping Nimíipuu culture alive. In a study of Nimíipuu in the early 1960s, Lucy  J. Harbinger noted, “The only place where camas may be procured is . . . ​over difficult and dangerous roads. It is in an isolated area, and all supplies must be brought in. . . . ​Not every­one has an automobile, and not every­one can spare the time to camp t­ here. ­Women are brought by husbands or relatives and then left ­there, with no means of transportation and no means of communications, beyond a ranger station a few miles away.”58 Harbinger shed light on the risks Nimíipuu w ­ omen and their families took to continue the traditions that sustained their identities and livelihoods. To be left alone, away from ­family and means for communication, was a hardship considered less harmful than being denied the culturally significant act of digging camas root and being Nimíipuu. ­Earlier, I described how white patriarchy is an ­organizing princi­ple that normalizes the ongoing dominance of white men’s land owner­ ship and ­political power. When capacities to dominate eco­nom­ically and po­liti­cally are combined, the perception of white men’s inherent respectability seeps into p­ eople’s expectations and actions. In contrast, how are disinherited and landless p­ eople and nonhuman beings—­those without land owner­ship—­perceived historically and how does that shape con­temporary social relations and one’s sense of who belongs? On the Palouse, following the 1870s when white Euro-­A merican settlers acquired the bulk of the land, ­those owning little-­to-no land have been Native w ­ omen and men, most white ­women, and minoritized ­people, including Latino, Asian American, and Black populations, along with itinerant white workers. Even with the increased interest in native habitat restoration, including restoring native plants that are culturally impor­ tant to Indigenous ­peoples, this white patriarchal princi­ple appears to

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influence present-­day attitudes surrounding ­these efforts. For instance, a survey conducted in 2013 by Cleve Davis revealed that conservative, white men tended not to value culturally significant plants.59 In contrast, ­women, racial minorities, low-­income groups, and po­liti­cally liberal individuals w ­ ere interested in conserving culturally significant plants and knowledge associated with their uses. Moreover, ­those who identified the Palouse as part of their heritage likewise supported restoration efforts. Research I conducted with Nimíipuu Protecting the Environment, a grassroots group, in 2015 and 2016 further supports t­ hese findings. In a survey of 180 Nimíipuu members conducted from 2015 to 2016, the loss of native and medicinal plants ranked among the greatest concerns. Nimíipuu respondents noted that use of herbicides in industrial agriculture, heavy recreational uses and traffic, as well as climate change ­were among the critical ­factors in native plant decline. When presenting ­these findings at a University of Idaho event, an older white man approached me and asked why t­ hese concerns about native plants, fish, and animals mattered. He reasoned, “­These ­things are nearly all gone, anyway.” When I asked about his background, he explained he owned farmland within the Nez Perce Reservation.60 The survey results and related anecdotal experiences illuminate how actions to restore native habitats on the Palouse and Nimíipuu ancestral lands, more broadly, continue to stir reactions in opposition. A ­ fter all, restoration proj­ects of this sort may be perceived a risk to what Moreton-­Robinson calls the white “possessive”: “having an excessive desire to own, control, and dominate.” 61 In this light, the long history I summarize above suggests that land acquisition narrowed the answer to the question “Who belongs on the Palouse?” to a relatively small subset of white settlers and their descendants. Industrializing the Palouse: Sorting Out the “Alien” Classes from the Patriots The ­process of white Euro-­A merican settlement established white men’s privileged status since this group managed to benefit the most from U.S. government homesteading laws by acquiring land as private

W ho Belongs on th e Pa louse? 47

property. Land owner­ship, the main foundation for wealth even now, also equated to greater ­political repre­sen­ta­tion and voice in communities like Moscow. With the installation of railroad transportation in the 1890s,62 Palouse farming evolved into factories in the fields: increasingly mechanized mass production and harvesting of crops that could be exported to national and international markets.63 Railways w ­ ere also the means to circulate laborers to farmers and employers in other industries when needed. Lacking financial resources, many itinerant laborers ­were unable to afford passenger train travel, or “riding the cushions.”64 Instead, rail travel involved the dangerous practice of riding in, on top of, or ­under freight cars, which not only made laborers vulnerable to injuries while getting on and off trains, slipping while riding, and during fairly common derailments and wrecks, but also to criminals and ­those enforcing paid travel. In the period between 1901 and 1905, for instance, “twenty-­five thousand injuries and fatalities” affected itinerant laborers via the U.S. railroad system.65 Even with improved machine technologies in the early twentieth ­century, land-­rich dryland farmers on the Palouse relied heavi­ly on itinerant laborers who ­were often poor and included newly arrived immigrants, most following seasonal work opportunities w ­ hether through mining, timber, railroad construction, or late summer harvests on the Palouse and elsewhere.66 Many itinerant laborers stationed themselves in Spokane, Washington, which had become a major railroad hub for the Inland Northwest.67 Between 1900 and 1930, Washington farmers hired an estimated 35,000 itinerant laborers each year.68 Most of the mi­grant agricultural workers during this period in the Pacific Northwest ­were white, single men u­ nder the age of 40, though men representing dif­fer­ent racialized groups—­Chinese, Blacks, Filipinos, and men from Native nations in the region—­also traveled for ­these jobs.69 Itinerant agricultural laborers shared a similar class experience, since no ­matter one’s racial identity, none secured year-­round farm work, nor could they save the money necessary to eventually buy a home or farm of their own.70 In this way, itinerant laborers represented the lowest stratum of a caste system, as ­there existed few opportunities for upward mobility.

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For mi­grant agricultural laborers, the unpredictable, vagrant nature of the work meant it was nearly impossible to negotiate for better wages and the necessary conditions—­good food, safe lodging, and means to bathe—to use their employment to improve their prospects of staying in place and owning a home, the main asset for ordinary families, then and now. Most farmers included food provisioning of varying qualities and quantities, but ­after working anywhere from 12 to 16 hours in the late summer heat, laborers w ­ ere often left to sleep in the fields with blankets or to shut­tle over as a group to the “jungle,” a makeshift encampment for itinerant laborers. Worst of all, accommodations to bathe w ­ ere rarely made available, so encampments w ­ ere often located as near as pos­si­ble to a local creek, with no safe drinking w ­ ater or sanitation systems in place. According to Greg Hall, though the jungles presented laborers with challenging living conditions, they nonetheless offered opportunities to share food supplies and other h­ umble amenities, including protecting the collective from criminal ele­ments.71 ­These encampments would also serve as strategic destinations for l­ abor o­ rganizers to recruit and mobilize “harvest Wobblies” (see below). The history of ­union ­organizing among itinerant agricultural laborers between the years 1905 and 1930 is not well known among t­ hose of us living on the Palouse at pre­sent time. I first discovered that farmers in Moscow and surrounding areas grew concerned about ­ labor ­organizing when reading Katherine  G. Morrissey’s historical monograph ­Mental Territories: Mapping the Inland Empire.72 In her chapter “Outsiders in the Palouse,” she describes how the p­ opular and radical ­labor u­ nion the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW), nicknamed “Wobblies,” had gained influence among farm laborers in agriculture. History books about Spokane, Washington, and northern Idaho usually focus on the highly disruptive and rather effective ­labor ­organizing, clashes, and ­owner backlash that took place in and around the mines of the Silver Valley in Idaho’s northern panhandle. In 1899, t­ hese efforts culminated in the rounding up of over 1,000 miners suspected of ­union agitating and sabotage, who ­were detained in bullpens in communities located in the Silver Valley.73 Use of bullpens to neutralize and intimidate striking miners and ­labor o­ rganizers and agitators was not restricted to the northern pan-

W ho Belongs on th e Pa louse? 49

handle, however, since I discovered that a similar campaign to round up “alien anarchists” was ­organized in Moscow, Idaho, in 1917.74 Founded in 1905, the IWW gained ground in ­organizing laborers in factories and set its sights on o­ rganizing itinerant agricultural laborers working in the ­Great Plains wheat b­ elt and the agriculturally rich states of the American West: California, Oregon, and Washington. Moscow and its home county of Latah ­were part of ­these efforts, representing the eastern-­most branch of Palouse wheat production. At its convention in Kansas City, Missouri, on April 15, 1915, the IWW formed the Agricultural Workers ­Organization (AWO) to focus efforts on recruiting and o­ rganizing rights for ­these workers.75 The main strategy for the AWO was to address the material needs of itinerant agricultural laborers: a ten-­hour workday, overtime pay, a minimum wage, and improvements in the quality of food and lodging for workers.76 The IWW’s campaign to o­ rganize itinerant laborers on the Palouse was sharply curtailed, however, when the United States entered World War I in June 1917. National and state governments rallied the public around patriotism and fulfilling patriotic duties, and the goals of the IWW, which w ­ ere about improving working conditions and revolutionizing society away from the exploitation of workers for the sake of profits and the country’s prosperity. ­Because itinerant agricultural laborers’ work relied on their willingness to move from job to job, and ­because they w ­ ere often poor, destination communities perceived and treated them as outsiders.77 The outsider perception was amplified for ­those who ­were immigrants and who therefore may have had foreign names and accented speech. With the onset of World War I, the fear of  “aliens”—of outsiders “not part of the American community”—­ intensified.78 Anticipating potential ­labor supply scarcity as a consequence of ­wartime military deployments, the IWW viewed the summer wheat harvests on the Palouse as a prime opportunity to ­organize harvest Wobblies to strike and pressure farmers to improve their pay and work conditions. Rec­ords at the University of Idaho Library’s Special Collections show that news of the IWW’s intent to o­ rganize a strike spread quickly to the Palouse. Farmers and business leaders in Moscow and Latah County swiftly founded the Latah County Protective Association

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(LCPA), initiated by the Farmers’ ­Union president’s call for a meeting that took place on July 6, 1917, and gathered farmers, businessmen, and full-­time laborers from dif­fer­ent parts of the county.79 By July 14, leaders of the newly established LCPA assembled 600–800 “loyal residents of Latah County” to pre­sent and adopt the association’s constitution.”80 The LCPA Constitution included language for a pledge that all members w ­ ere expected to make: “I pledge to hold myself in readiness to support law and order and justice; to answer the call of the sheriff of the county or of the executive committee of the Association in enforcing the law, in protecting property, and in guaranteeing ­every person in this county the right to work, without intimidation or coercion or fear; and to remove from the county or restrain within the county any persons, or person, who are disloyal or who by any means or manner do, or threaten to do, any of the ­t hings which this Association is ­organized to prevent.”81 The association requested “the sheriff of the county to deputize ten or more men in each precinct of the County” and “recommend[ed] the initiation of steps immediately to arrest such person as are not employed or engaged in some useful and helpful vocation or cannot [show] they are good citizens, that idleness is temporary and for just and sufficient reason, such men to be held at the disposal of the Sheriff of the County.”82 The overriding concern shared among t­ hose joining the LCPA was the threat to harvests, e­ ither through worker strikes or sabotage, like burning fields. Though the IWW had not been found to commit “acts of terror,” which ­were mentioned in LCPA meetings and by local news outlets, the perception of violent threats was ever-­present in the public conscience of ­those trying to stop the IWW’s influence and presence.83 ­These fears resulted in immediate actions to arrest and detain men suspected of being harvest Wobblies or, at minimum, susceptible to the IWW’s cause. In less than a month, Moscow’s jail was filled, and a temporary bullpen was made at the county fairgrounds in the town. Leaders of the LCPA had not anticipated the possibility they might arrest innocent men with clean rec­ords, who made up the majority of the 50 men detained. In a letter dated August 10, 1917, addressed to Idaho governor Moses Alexander in Boise, the authors explain that the LCPA represented membership “now one thousand

W ho Belongs on th e Pa louse? 51

strong,” ­a fter o­ rganizing for only a l­ ittle over a month.84 The LCPA successfully rounded up suspicious individuals but requested the governor’s help in “­handling the men,” since “to restrain and feed ­these men is becoming a heavy burden of the tax payers of the county.”85 The letter continues, Upon investigation, . . . ​of the fifty men now held, thirtyseven [sic] are aliens. Another fact that makes the situation more serious is that ­there does not seem to be sufficient evidence to convict many of them. Such men as cannot be convicted if brought to trial ­w ill be turned loose and be f­ree to threaten and possibly injure the industries of the p­ eople of our county. ­A fter careful consideration, we feel that deportation of the aliens now ­under detention would be a hard blow to the ­organization and groups that are disturbing the peace of Idaho and neighboring states. Furthermore, the removal of the thirtyseven men out of the fifty would relieve the county of a heavy burden. In behalf therefore, of the Latah County Protective Association, we respectfully request that you request the Government of the United States that ­these aliens now held in Latah County, who are not alien enemies, be deported, and that t­ hose aliens now held who are alien enemies, be removed to permanent internment.

Though most of the men in detention appeared to have committed no crime, the LCPA sought ways to manipulate immigration law to e­ ither deport or intern foreign citizens, referring to them as “aliens” or potentially “alien enemies.” This incident illuminates one obvious way in which influential leaders—­all white men—­sorted out specific groups of men and categorized them as “aliens.” White men ­were the most likely to own property and, especially, significant amounts of land that made wheat cultivation profitable. But not all white men belonged on the Palouse. ­Those who missed early opportunities to acquire government-­subsidized land and followed jobs where they sprung up ­were also excluded from the communities, despite laboring in the fields with few protections. Thus, white patriarchal systems also exclude according to social class, for which economic and p­ olitical power is ­measured in owner­ship.

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Conclusion At the very beginning of this chapter, I described the importance of belonging, which is closely tied to ­people having a home and feeling part of a community. When I say “home” ­here, I am not talking about “housing,” which is the primary concern in con­temporary discussions of affordable housing scarcity in the United States and abroad. I am talking about home in the sense of feeling accepted, stable, and capable of fulfilling the basic needs of our lives, including t­ hose that cannot be secured by wages alone. Communities are impor­tant in that they enable ­people to have a home and not just the physical structure of a h­ ouse since they can support ­people’s endeavors to belong and help reinforce the care networks necessary for healthy lives. What Latah County’s history reveals to us is that ­people have been repeatedly denied the opportunity to belong, be at home, and enjoy communities built on support networks and reciprocity. Contextualized in this way, settler colonialism has been a ­process stripping the Nimíipuu of their livelihoods. This has been accomplished through multiple practices: ecocide, genocide, containment on reservations, and cultural genocide and erasure, including of traditional ecological knowledge. In t­ hese ways white settlement on the Palouse sought to erase the Nimíipuu. The invention of private property—­and the laws that prioritize private property and protect owner­ship as a “sacred” right—­ provided the ideas and resources that helped settlers justify complete exclusion of Indigenous ­people from their means to be self-­sustaining or having any legitimate place within this new proj­ect of industrial agriculture and cap­i­tal­ist economics. At the same time, privatization of lands stripped the sacred relationships of Indigenous ­peoples to the land. Native ecosystems and the plants, aquatic life, and mammals that thrived via reciprocal relations with Indigenous p­ eoples w ­ ere plowed ­under, choked out by colonizing plants the settlers introduced, and driven out as settlements ­were built over their homes, their habitat. ­These beings of nature ­didn’t belong, ­either. Settler-­colonial pro­cesses affected gender relations within Native nations, too, as traditional sites for harvesting highly valued plants like camas w ­ ere destroyed as set-

W ho Belongs on th e Pa louse? 53

tlers dramatically altered the ecosystem and landscape. For millennia Indigenous p­ eoples sustained themselves throughout the Columbia River Plateau without depending on private property relations, written laws to reinforce t­ hese relations, or selling crops to be sold and eaten somewhere ­else. Even ­those who followed the beliefs and practices that drove Manifest Destiny and the establishment of cap­i­tal­ist commodity relations ­didn’t necessarily belong. Although w ­ omen, on paper, w ­ ere allowed access to land via the Homestead Act, the exclusion of married w ­ omen meant most white ­women settlers would be dependent on their husband’s opportunity to acquire valuable land that the state or territory they moved to might or might not let them inherit. The gendered inequalities in relationship to property and status among white settlers was in fact quite dif­fer­ent from most Indigenous communities, since Indigenous ­women ­were often the ones who owned their homes and retained ­children.86 White settlement and the conversion of food cultivation into factories in the fields led to concentrated land owner­ship and influence enjoyed by a privileged class of predominately white men and their families. The p­ rocess of sorting out “who belonged” on the Palouse also affected men who worked as itinerant laborers in the region’s vast wheat fields. In the first two d­ ecades or so of the twentieth c­ entury, t­ hese laborers w ­ ere predominately white men, though Native, Black, Asian, and Latino men ­were part of the itinerant workforce in dif­fer­ent parts of the Northwest.87 Destination communities enforced formal and informal rules to exclude t­ hese workers. Scholars of history and institutionalized forms of discrimination observe that the patterns of sorting and segregating do not dis­appear over time but become the roots from which social relations keep generating social understandings of who seems to naturally belong in certain landscapes and communities. In just a ­couple ­decades, the Palouse landscape whitened, and in this p­ rocess, “home” transformed from a landscape with a vast wealth of diverse, rich ecosystems to a plot of land on which sat a building white settlers called a “­house.” Chapter 2 examines how the American Dream of ­house owner­ship replaced the drive for land that dominated the mission of Manifest

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Destiny and Latah County’s colonial settlement. World War II broadened interest in less expensive and more broadly affordable mobile and modular forms of housing, which opened the doors to government programs that in­ven­ted working-­class communities in the postwar era. Syringa Mobile Home Park was part of this national housing proj­ect.

CH A P T E R 2

Inventing Working-­Class Communities The Syringa (Philadelphus lewisii) was designated the state flower of Idaho by the legislature in 1931. The species name ‘lewisii’ honors Meriwether Lewis of the Lewis & Clark expedition. Lewis wrote of the plant in his journal. It is a branching shrub growing 3 to 10 feet tall, with clusters of white, fragrant flowers. The blossoms are similar to the mock orange. It grows in open coniferous forests, at forest edge and in moist draws in drier regions providing good coverage for wildlife. Native Americans used its branches for bows, arrows and cradles. —­Idaho Secretary of State’s Office, n.d.

P

aul and bonnie myles w ­ ere in their seventies when I interviewed them. They moved to Syringa Mobile Home Park in 1986, seven years ­a fter a l­awyer named Magar E. Magar living north of Portland, Oregon, bought it. The ­couple met in Moscow in the late 1960s, a magical encounter that Paul tenderly reminisced: A friend of mine that I worked with years e­ arlier lived in Spokane and he worked on the railroad. Once a week, yeah, once ­every week they would run a train down h­ ere. . . . ​Back in the day when they had a depot and every­thing right ­here. You know, I lived ­here, too, but sometimes I’d meet him right t­ here when the train pulled in and t­ hey’d come in at night. We had just enough time to run down to the local pub and get a beer before it closed. One day I met him down ­there and instead of ­going to the nearest pub, he invited me to come up to his room. They put him up overnight to be taking the train back the next morning. Okay. Went up ­there. He got on the phone to call somebody—­had no idea who—­and when he hung up he said, “Let’s go down to . . .” I forget the name of that place, but ­there was a ­little all-­night mom and pop shop restaurant downtown. Open all night, so—­Okay, went down ­there and 55

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got a coffee or something, a light breakfast, late breakfast, and he said that he had somebody that he wanted me to meet. Okay, in walked this girl, long hippie coat on, on crutches, and I thought, “Oh, God, what is this?”

Leontina: On crutches? Paul: She had, I found out, she had had a bicycle accident and sprained her ankle real bad. Leontina: Oh, dear. Paul: She sat down and right away we hit it off big time, ­because I was in college at this point. I had started school and in the summer I took just general interest classes like astronomy. I love astronomy and so does she. Leontina: Oh, wow, lovely. Paul: ­Th ings you can talk about. But then she—­she was just on break. She worked night shift for the railroad ­here in town and she—­A nyway, yeah. I just about blew it, just about blew it. She had to get back to work. She says, “One of you fellas like to walk me out to my car?” I’m sitting like a bump on a log or something, so he started to get up. I said, “Yeah, I’ll take you out t­ here.” That split moment was when we connected big time. Leontina: ­Really? Paul: Walked her out to her car. We talked for about five minutes. I asked her for a date and got one immediately. Leontina: Wow. It’s hard to ask for the first date, i­ sn’t it? Paul: Yeah. It’s been an in­ter­est­ing journey. Bonnie and Paul married in 1973. They moved to Sagle, Idaho, and Paul commuted to Sandpoint, Idaho, where he worked as a news reporter and radio DJ. ­A fter thirteen years of marriage, Bonnie and Paul planned to move somewhere where they could eventually afford to retire. Bonnie had a chunk of money she had inherited from her parents that helped the ­couple cover the cost of purchasing a double-­w ide home for $25,000. Costing only a $100 a month to lease the land, Syringa Mobile Home Park seemed the perfect place to retire and live off their fixed incomes from Paul’s military ­service and the social security payments

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representing their many years of work. The park had been around since the 1960s and had a good reputation. Living ­there, their money could stretch a long way for a long time. Not only was this option manageable in the long term, but they managed to snag a plot for their home that was situated on the northern edge of the park. From this location they could enjoy watching the colors of the famous rolling hills of the Palouse change with the seasons, from earthy brown to velvety green to harvest gold to frosted white. Just north of ­these hills—in full view from their back yard—­stood Moscow Mountain. As Paul described it: “It was premier. This was the premier trailer park in the w ­ hole area. Had a swimming pool, a recreation room, play area for the kids. It was ­great. W ­ ater, I mean their [­water] lines, ­were all pristine. You had to do your own lawn, and they insisted that you keep ’em short.” Syringa provided a place for the c­ ouple to enjoy the fruits of their l­ abor. As Bonnie remarked, h­ ere they enjoyed “peace and quiet. It’s a lot in the country.” Bonnie and Paul’s story highlights the Syringa Mobile Home Park’s relative prestige from the 1960s to the 1980s. Many who grew up in Moscow during ­these ­decades remember the park to be a much dif­fer­ ent place in the early years before it sadly went downhill. When I started visiting the park, local newspapers ­were focused on Syringa’s run-­down conditions and residents’ hardships. Many locals, even if they ­hadn’t been aware of Syringa’s golden past, followed and felt sympathy for park residents’ plight as they read the latest news about the park. Many more ­people, however, thought this was how Syringa had always been and relied on s­ tereotypes of trailer parks filled with poor, potentially dangerous ­people whose homes and yards looked messy, a reflection of their equally messy lives. What often is given insufficient attention is that residents lived in Syringa ­because Moscow’s home prices and rents far surpassed what their monthly incomes could cover. The out-­of-­reach expense of living in Moscow sent a message to residents that they d­ idn’t belong as a wanted part of the Moscow community—­a point I explore further in chapters  3 and 6. This chapter highlights how government policies developed ­after World War II to increase affordable housing helped a farmer’s vision to build a resort-­like housing proj­ect for working-­ class families and retirees. How governments approach housing affects housing affordability for the working class.

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Inventing a Working-­Class American Dream Mobile home parks became a ­popular form of working-­class housing throughout the United States and on the Palouse during and ­after World War II. Soaring unemployment rates during the G ­ reat Depression in the 1930s had crushed most American families’ ability to purchase housing. The economy, however, steadily re-­energized during World War II as industries turned to defense production, which abruptly created ­great housing demand in strategic manufacturing sites.1 Trailer housing reflected a revolutionary approach using standardized factory construction to minimize material and l­ abor costs. At the same time, t­ hese compact homes on wheels (or a permanent chassis) ­were easy to move from one place to the next. Trailer manufacturing allowed the federal government to acquire housing quickly and cheaply for workers migrating to ­these production hubs. Not only that, but trailer homes’ modular design meant sizable communities could be dismantled and moved elsewhere with relative ease ­after the need for workers in one place tapered off and shifted to another place. For instance, Orange, Texas, “swelled from 7,400 to 50,000” ­people immediately following the attack on Pearl Harbor in December  1941. Responsible for distributing housing for war workers, the National Housing Administration’s (NHA) coordinated trailer manufacturing and distribution to ­these strategic defense industry locations. NHA commissioner Herbert Emmerich noted that trailer homes w ­ ere “adequate shelter for war workers,” but that “the NHA has no intention of g­ oing below them.”2 This perception of trailer housing— as flexible, temporary, substandard—­would persist even as this type of housing evolved into mobile and manufactured homes. ­A fter World War II, prefabricated and trailer housing once again became a necessary stopgap for housing as a recovering economy and returning military veterans now had the means to acquire housing mortgages. Part of the increased housing demand arose from the G.I. Bill, which rewarded military ­service with subsidized housing and higher education for an estimated 15 million war veterans.3 Race played a significant role, though, in veterans’ access to housing and higher education. ­These impor­tant assets for social mobility and generating wealth ­were not equally distributed to Black or Native American veterans as

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they ­were to white veterans and their families.4 ­Women veterans who wore the U.S. uniform to serve in World War II w ­ ere also left out of the G.I. Bill, only being recognized in 1977 a­ fter many of ­these benefits—­ including college tuition—­had already expired.5 The reason for leaving ­women out was the belief they could rely on their husband’s benefits and incomes. Veterans Affairs–­backed mortgage loans w ­ ere eventually opened to ­women, though it would be too late to offer them a path to homeownership in the way it did for early veteran beneficiaries, the majority of whom ­were white men. In 1947 and 1948, trailer manufacturing r­ ose steeply. Allan D. Wallis notes that trailers h­ oused 7 ­percent of the U.S. population in 1948, a majority of whom w ­ ere veterans employed in civilian jobs.6 A large share (13,000) of the w ­ artime trailers the government used to meet defense production demand was sent to colleges and universities throughout the United States “to be used as housing for married students on campuses swollen by returning veterans.”7 If you walk the main hallway near the dean’s offices of the College of Letters, Arts, and Social Sciences in the University of Idaho Administration Building in Moscow, Idaho, you ­w ill see framed photo­graphs offering aerial views of the “Vets Village,” a trailer community that accommodated veteran students and their families (Figure 3). Between 1946 and 1947, Hanford Nuclear Reservation and other federal installations shipped 150 trailers and over 200 surplus prefabricated buildings to the University of Idaho to accommodate swelling student enrollment.8 Famous for its role in the Manhattan Proj­ect’s atomic weapons development during World War II, Hanford Nuclear Reservation is now renowned as one of the country’s most hazardous superfund sites. This might make one pause and won­der how safe t­ hese trailers ­were for university veterans and their families, having been located close to the nuclear production facilities for several years. As stated in University of Idaho president Jesse Buchanan’s 1946 letter addressed “To Faculty, Alumni, Extension Staff, and Friends of the University,” veterans, both men and w ­ omen, accounted for 2,182 (63 ­percent) of the 3,441 students who had enrolled, 77 ­percent of whom ­were men.9 President Buchanan added, “We did not deny a permit to any Idaho veteran. It is true that some became discouraged and left

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figur e 3. An aerial view of the University of Idaho’s Vets Village, 1948. Courtesy of University of Idaho Library, Special Collections (120-4).

b­ ecause they could not find what they considered adequate quarters. On the other hand, we did advise some ­women students not to come ­because we simply did not have enough quarters in w ­ omen’s dormitories, sororities, and other acceptable places to h­ ouse properly all the ­women who wanted to come.”10 Such responses reveal the assumption that men should be the first in line for G.I. Bill education subsidies, which accommodated the U.S. ­family ideal of male breadwinners and female domesticity, with ­women relying on their husband’s earnings while tending to their home and ­children. Archived photo­graphs and coverage shared in the University of Idaho’s yearbooks at the time prominently feature ­women’s domesticity and childrearing in the Veterans Village trailer homes. The trailers and prefabricated housing enabled the university to double its student enrollment, but they w ­ ere only a temporary fixture since the idea of permanently living in them seemed out of the question, just as it had for NHA commissioner Emmerich back in 1941. Authors of the 1948 University of Idaho Gem of the Mountains Yearbook described “life in

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figur e 4. A young w ­ oman and man wait for the bus in the ghost town of the University of Idaho’s Vets’ Village. Courtesy of University of Idaho Library, Special Collections (120-3).

the Village” this way: “Trailer and pre-­fab living is not all it might be, especially ­a fter the first surface of adventure has worn through and the substance of the difficulties to put up with begins to show. But our veterans and their wives and c­ hildren have shown remarkably well their ability to overcome ­these difficulties and to take an active part in the extra-­curricular ­angle of an active campus. Hats off to our ‘veteran villages’!”11 Just five years ­a fter this nationwide effort to h­ ouse and provide higher education to war veterans, the Veterans Village had turned into a ghost town of emptied trailers, their power shut off as students graduated or moved to new apartment housing constructed with a more permanent intent (Figure 4). Trailers played a vital role in accommodating the housing needs of laborers and veteran students over this period. Not only did this ensure an emergency supply of housing, a vast improvement from the primitive camps itinerant agricultural laborers

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used a­ fter grueling days of harvesting, but it also represented a boon to the manufacturers of trailers and prefabricated ­houses. The Mobile Home Industrial Complex Trailers and mobile homes have become an option for working-­class families to obtain affordable housing that may eventually lead to purchasing a conventional, stick-­built ­house l­ater on.12 The conception of “trailers,” “mobile,” “modular,” and “manufactured” homes are founded on the modern advantages of centralized factory production.13 Though “trailer” and “mobile home” are still common words when p­ eople point to park housing, the industry producing t­hese homes has evolved t­hese terms in an effort to overcome the negative associations with ­earlier forms. From around 1952, the term “trailer” was replaced with “mobile home.”14 ­Until June 15, 1976, factory-­built structures ­were called “mobile homes,” and afterward have been broadly categorized as “manufactured homes.” June 1976 is when the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) initiated the mandatory code for home manufacturing (HUD Code). Mass production makes t­hese kinds of homes affordable by constructing them with lighter materials and transportable by building in a permanent chassis (a frame that allows wheels to be attached) to make them “mobile.”15 Efforts to standardize home sizes and models sought the cost-­cutting advantages of efficient quick production. ­These homes ­were also built to be temporary and easily disassembled. However, despite offering the perks of being mobile, modular, and affordable, t­ hese housing forms suffered from a social perception that they ­were inherently inferior and disposable. The relatively brief life span of mobile and manufactured homes sustains a housing system that manufactures insecurity, b­ ecause it is a form of planned obsolescence: as part of the product design, the home ­w ill eventually need to  be scrapped and replaced with another.16 According to the HUD, mobile and manufactured homes h­ andle regular wear and tear for only 30 to 55 years, meaning they are not a wealth-­building asset u­ nless land is associated with it also. Instead, like motor vehicles, mobile and manufactured homes depreciate soon a­ fter purchase and continue to do so over time. Loan practices for ­these homes reflect this fact of diminish-

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ing value. According to Sonya Salamon and Katherine MacTavish, “A landless mobile home ­owner (85 ­percent) typically must use a personal property loan, or ‘chattel loan’ to purchase their home.”17 Though chattel loans may be easier to acquire than conventional home mortgages, which are associated with owner­ship of land u­ nder the h­ ouse, the loans usually stick debtors with high interest rates, averaging 13.5 ­percent and over.18 Failure to keep up with chattel loan payments also means your mobile home can be repossessed, much like a car. During Syringa’s early years, individuals and families purchased mobile homes and many of them seemed to stay in place between the 1960s and 1970s, or they w ­ ere replaced with used homes built around the same period. Rather than move their mobile homes, some o­ wners sold them; o­ thers rented theirs out. Though it is pos­si­ble that a number of new mobile homes w ­ ere moved into the park a­ fter t­ hese years, almost 70 ­percent of the ones that remained in Syringa in 2013—­right when the ­water crisis hit—­had been manufactured between 1961 and 1976. The ­limited number of new mobile and manufactured homes moving into Syringa likely reflects a ­couple of common practices: 1) ­people with newer homes a­ fter the 1960s and 1970s took their homes with them when they moved and 2) a significant number of homes remained in place ­after being sold or ­were rented to ­others. In chapter 6 I describe all the complications p­ eople confronted when working out ways to move their homes somewhere e­ lse. It is the very mobility of ­these homes that often explains why they deteriorate and must be left for scrap. Syringa Blooms Third-­generation Latah County farmer Clarence “Clancy” Olson planned and constructed Syringa Mobile Home Park over the years 1961 to 1969. The choice to call it “Syringa” seems to reflect his and his ­family’s attachment to Idaho. Syringa is a native shrub in the Northwest and its delicate, white petaled blossoms have earned its recognition as Idaho’s official state flower (Figure  5). The variety honored is Lewis’ mock orange (Philadelphus lewisii), which in Nimipuutímt language is called siséeqiy.19 One source notes that Indigenous ­peoples found many uses for syringa’s wood: “pipe stems, harpoon shafts, bows,

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figur e 5. Idaho’s state flower is the Lewis’ mock orange (Philadelphus lewisii). Photographer: Leontina Hormel.

arrows, root digging sticks, and snowshoes. The bark and leaves of syringa ­were used to make a soap.”20 More than anything, the name syringa invokes a sense of nature’s beauty, rootedness of place, and ability to withstand harsh conditions. Locals thinking about the worn-­down state of Syringa Mobile Home Park in the twenty-­first ­century likely have no idea that during its construction and early years, residents and their friends thought of it as a nice park. Some even called it a “resort,” one that indeed played an impor­tant role in enabling residents’ aspirations to live the American dream of homeownership. But why did a farmer leap into this ambitious housing proj­ect in the first place? Trailers and mobile homes, a­ fter all, have historically been viewed as substandard housing.21 The “temporary” formulation of this type of housing has cultivated negative public attitudes about its quality and the kinds of p­ eople who live in them.22 As mobile homes grew more p­ opular for working-­class families and retired p­ eople, communities feared the negative effects such homes would have on their home

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values and overall sense of safety. ­These “not in my backyard” (NIMBY) attitudes led to widespread use of zoning restrictions that prohibited trailer parks within municipal bound­aries throughout the United States. In a 1962 court case in New Jersey, justices ruled in ­favor of a rural township that wished to prohibit trailer parks within its municipal limits.23 Nancy Isenberg describes the concerns stated by the one judge who dissented: “ ‘Trailer dwellers’ had become a class of ­people . . . ​through which discrimination was tolerated ­under the vague language of protecting the ‘general welfare.’ For at least this one jurist, inherited social biases had reduced the ­owners of mobile homes to ‘footloose, nomadic ­people,’ a group of ‘migratory paupers.’ ”24 Similar ordinances w ­ ere codified in municipalities throughout the United States.25 Moscow’s Ordinance No. 982, which was approved and signed by city council and the city mayor on April 8, 1957, finely detailed the regulations trailer court construction needed to follow within municipal bound­aries. Unlike other ordinances, trailer courts w ­ ere not necessarily prohibited within the municipal area. However, the long list of regulations may have dissuaded trailer court developers from seeking such an opportunity in Moscow. For instance, trailer courts could not be located “close to swamps or potential breeding places for insects or rodents” or “exposed to constant nuisances, such as noise, smoke, fumes, and odors.”26 Also within this ordinance was a requirement that ­service buildings be constructed with materials and methods that “conform to local building codes for buildings of this nature.”27 Further, regulations required laundry facilities and stipulated requirements for ­women’s and men’s toilet and shower facilities. Per the ordinance: “Gang-­type shower compartments may be used for men. Individual shower stalls must be three (3) by three (3) feet. Showers for ­women must have a dressing compartment with stool or bench.” Though ­there are examples of mobile home parks within Moscow’s city limits t­ hese days, likely ­because of municipal annexation over the ­decades, most remain right at the town’s edge or a few miles beyond.28 Such ordinances f­ actor into the vulnerabilities rural mobile home park residents and communities like Syringa experienced several ­decades ­a fter their construction. Though the municipal zoning decisions do not fully answer “why” Clancy Olson constructed Syringa, it does help contextualize why it was more likely to be sited in rural Latah County

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and not within the city of Moscow. Most of the other mobile home parks in the area are rural, too, and fall within county governance only. Its rural location mattered a g­ reat deal in Syringa’s case since construction oversight was looser in rural locations and very few tools have been available to county commissioners or other county authorities to compel park o­ wners to comply with regulatory standards for wells and sewage systems, or other environmental quality standards. In his historical account of mobile homes in the United States, Allan Wallis found that between 1960 and 1974, the percentage of total new mobile home developments that ­were sited in rural locations rather than urban zones grew from 50 ­percent to 60 ­percent.29 This growth of rural mobile home park development is a trend Wallis attributes to the increasing costs to develop and meet the restrictive policies of urban placement and, at the same time, the restrictive practices that ­limited park development to undesirable locations, such as commercial and industrial zones.30 Rural mobile home developments became much less cumbersome and expensive options. As Wallis notes, “Not surprisingly, many park developers chose to locate adjacent to town or city bound­aries, where t­ here w ­ ere more lenient building and zoning regulations, or none at all.”31 Clancy Olson already owned the rural plot of land that he would develop, which also happened to be in a location that enjoyed more lenient building and zoning regulations. By the late 1950s, mobile home living increasingly served working-­class families and retirees. In 1955, the year the first mobile home park was built in Bradenton, Florida, a provision to help finance the construction of new parks was included through Section 207 of the Housing Act and enabled the Federal Housing Administration (FHA) to offer advantageous mortgage terms for investors to build new mobile home parks.32 Applications for FHA-­insured mortgages grew over the 1960s and peaked between 1970 and 1972.33 Clancy Olson opened Syringa in 1968, as applications for FHA-­ insured mortgages w ­ ere still rising nationwide.34 It seems he ­wasn’t the only one around Moscow developing proj­ects like this. In a North Central District Health Department letter summarizing ­water quality test results dated September 26, 1975, at least six courts that are still operating and are situated no more than a few miles outside of Moscow are listed: Country Homes, Palouse Hills Court, Empire Court, Stadium Drive Court (now

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Appaloosa Court), Terrace Gardens Court (now Abiel) and Valhalla Hills Court (now Woodland Heights).35 For this reason, it is likely that most rural mobile home parks throughout the Northwest w ­ ere built during the 1960s and 1970s, since this was a period when mobile home park developments ­were booming across the United States.36 The details b­ ehind the design of Olson’s housing proj­ect would have remained vague if it ­weren’t for the Idaho Department of Environmental Quality’s (Idaho DEQ ) history of filing lawsuits against the last of Syringa’s park o­ wners. When I was sifting through documents at the Idaho DEQ’s Lewiston office, the staff brought me a tube of larger documents rolled together. I carefully unrolled ­these papers and to my surprise found the original 1969 blueprints that detailed the park’s expansion plans: the locations of public park facilities, the network of ­water pipes to wells, the sewage piping sloped ­toward the sewage lagoon site, as well as the topography of the park’s site and immediate surroundings (Figure 6).

figur e 6. Blueprint of proposed addition to Syringa Mobile Home Park, 1969. Courtesy of the Idaho Department of Environmental Quality, North Central Office, Lewiston, Idaho.

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­ ese blueprints also helped answer another question, which may or Th may not have been obvious to o­ thers who followed the w ­ ater crisis and the degradation of the sewage lagoons. Why would a third-­generation farmer choose to develop this park when ­doing so meant forfeiting a prime piece of agricultural land? Financial backing was impor­tant to this decision, making it easier to accrue revenues more quickly. But another aspect that became clear when looking at the topographic map was the park’s location among agricultural fields. Syringa was built at the base of several sloping hills whose contours merge then flatten out as the land g­ ently descends to the banks of the South Fork Palouse River. I had been reading already about the seasonally moist meadows that w ­ ere predominant among the lands adjacent to the South Fork before white settlement and industrial agricultural development, so it seemed fair to conclude that the swings between seasons of very wet to very dry may have compromised the agricultural productivity of this specific spot. Dryland crops that dominate in this area may not have done as well on the Syringa site, and without vis­ib­ le clues from the native plants that would ordinarily thrive in ­these special wetlands, ­there w ­ ere few ways to anticipate the dynamic w ­ ater cycles of this spot. The soils and plant communities involved in t­hese cycles had been plowed u­ nder, then built over—­and though hidden, the w ­ ater cycles themselves w ­ ere too power­f ul to remove. Building and paving on top of dynamic ­water cycles could lead to flooding without the porous soil through which standing w ­ ater would ordinarily be filtered of contaminants. It is easy to imagine the park was an innovative way to turn this 4.9 acres of less productive agricultural land into a profitable investment. But nature’s dynamic relationship to this site eventually intervened, which w ­ ill be discussed further in chapter 3. The blueprints show plans to expand from 47 to 98 mobile home lots. A mailroom and office ­were already constructed at the main entry­way at the southern end of the park. But Clancy Olson was hatching another big addition: a large hexagonal recreational building that would accommodate an indoor swimming pool. This feature represented his vision to create a special resort-­like atmosphere. Syringa Mobile Home Park would be an affordable place for young families and retirees to enjoy a nice community, a place where ­people could socialize and enjoy the

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tranquil setting together. This park’s mission was not just to provide space for the physical structures, the mobile homes, but to design space that let ­people be neighborly and appreciate the closeness to nature that the countryside provides. Looking at the blueprints, the expansion preserved yard space for most of the homes. The outer edges of the cul-­ de-­sacs left wide open spaces ­toward the back of each home, and the most trea­sured spots to lease w ­ ere t­hose on the north edge, where a person could soak in the panoramic view of the Palouse’s rolling hills leading to Moscow Mountain. Th ­ ose on the south side of the park w ­ ere not left out since they could enjoy the view of Tomer Butte and Paradise Ridge on the horizon beyond Haskins Flat. Among the dif­fer­ent blueprints ­were the landscaping plans that mapped out the locations for planting several nonnative tree va­ri­e­ties: Norway maple, red maple, silver maple, h­ orse chestnut, western catalpa, thornless honey locust, a variety of dif­fer­ent junipers, flowering crabapple, dwarf mugo pine, flowering plum, and flowering cherry. Olson’s intent is illustrated most clearly in his obituary, where his ­family made sure to highlight that “­every Halloween he would have extravagant parties for the local kids.”37 The 1960s to 1980s: A Nice Place to Live In 1976 Clancy Olson sold Syringa, using part of the money made from the sale to “buil[d] a home on a never-­cultivated portion of the third-­generation farm.”38 Herbert Peuck, who lived in Spokane according to Idaho DEQ correspondences, owned it only briefly between 1977 and 1979. Magar E. Magar purchased Syringa in 1979,39 the same year witnesses reported Syringa’s sewage lagoons overflowing into the South Fork Palouse40 and eight years a­ fter Olson received the first warning from the Environmental Improvement Division (­predecessor to the Idaho DEQ ) about how he had set up the park’s wells.41 ­People who resided in or visited Syringa described it as a nice place to live, even as ­these infrastructural weaknesses w ­ ere detected. Through word of mouth, I was able to collect a few personal accounts of Syringa Mobile Home Park in the early 1980s before its reputation was damaged. While I was locating archived images at Latah County

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Historical Society, one of the librarians helped connect me with Chris and Steve Talbott. Steve is a member of the Historical Society’s Board of Trustees, and the librarian remembered him mentioning that he and his wife Chris had lived in Syringa in its early years. I found out from Chris and Steve that they had lived for a year in Syringa in 1979–1980 as they worked on building a h­ ouse in Moscow. Steve recalled, Well, you hear the old saying about trailer trash, and it certainly d­ idn’t feel that way out ­there. It was a nice park. ­There ­were other parks available, and the person we bought from was kind of an acquaintance through our church. This was a single ­woman who was wanting to move somewhere and had a good price on it. We d­ idn’t r­ eally look around at other trailer parks—or, mobile home parks, I guess is the right term. It was a pretty nice place, and they had a good man­ag­er ­there. He was kinda strict, ’cause he would come around and say, “Do this. Do that. ­Don’t do that.” I had an old derelict two-­ton Dodge truck that was very rusty that I had used to move back and forth to Ohio, and it sat out ­there immobile for prob­ably several months. He would come around about monthly and remind me, “How long is that gonna sit ­there? That ­doesn’t ­really look good. You have this extra shed. That’s a big shed that’s kinda grandfathered in. But havin’ that shed and then this big truck? I’d like to see that truck moved.” So, I made a concerted effort and sold the truck. Then ­there w ­ eren’t any prob­lems.42

Based on the Talbotts’ experiences, the management of the park kept track of every­one to make sure that ­there was a bit of re­spect for the way the park looked. When I asked about the other good t­ hings they noticed while living ­there, Chris pointed out that the swimming pool was nice to have around, even though she ­didn’t use it all that much. Both agreed, the peace and quiet ­really stood out. Another early resident, Anna Thompson, heard about my research with Syringa residents and de­cided to reach out to me via email. She and her husband had moved to Syringa in the early 1980s, right as Magar was settling in as the new park o­ wner. Anna described being able to start a f­ amily and use this affordable housing opportunity to put money aside. They eventually bought their own plot of land in the countryside. In her email, she explained some of the photos she had included and

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reminisced, “­Those ­were good years. My son was born out ­there. It was our first home that we purchased, we lived paycheck to paycheck. You see the wood, in the two big trucks in one picture, was our main source of heat. . . . ​We loved it out ­there ­because it was like country living and felt rich b­ ecause t­ here was also a pool. It was our first start in life as a married c­ ouple, was cool to look at the photos again brought back ­great memories.” Some of the photos Anna shared with me included the days they prepared their mobile home to be moved out of Syringa and onto the plot of land they had purchased. By Anna’s account, they enjoyed all the park’s amenities as Clancy Olson had hoped they would: swimming with their son and other young families in the recreation center’s indoor swimming pool, celebrating birthday parties and barbecues, and sitting outside on a nice day with neighbors as l­ittle kids played together in the yards next to their homes. When I interviewed Latah County commissioner Dave McGraw ­a fter the 2013 ­water crisis, he also reminisced about the good days of Syringa: “Back in high school we had friends that lived out—­ God, we used to go out and swim in the pool back 35 years ago.” Anna’s photos brought me back to my own memories of bell-­bottom denim jeans, men’s and w ­ omen’s feathered hairdos, and home life as an adolescent in the early 1980s (Figures 7 and 8). The p­ eople in the photos look relaxed and healthy and the c­ hildren’s ­faces are filled with complete joy as they swim and run around ­people’s yards. Around this time, Bob Bonsall also moved into Syringa: I was one of ­those graduating students coming out of Kansas State. I’ve been out at Syringa for 36 years. That’s the first home I bought and that’s all I know, okay? And, how I came out from Kansas State—­that’s where I got my gradu­ate degree. I drove in a 1967 Opel, stacked from the roofup with stuff, bicycle rack on the back, backseat loaded. I would park in parking lots, take enough [stuff] out so I could sleep at night, and then continue the trip on out h­ ere. So, I was one of ­those gradu­ate students and came out h­ ere. I mean I looked like . . . ​I d­ on’t know if you watched old Star Trek movies with the guy—­Captain Kirk—­that episode when half his face was black and the other white? Okay, that’s what I looked like: I was sunburned on one side. And I remember I walked into Rich Waldren’s place and he was,

figur e 7. Playing in the indoor swimming pool at Syringa’s recreation center, early 1980s. Courtesy of Anna Thompson.

figur e 8. Trucks loaded with firewood, looking north t­ oward Moscow Mountain, early 1980s. Courtesy of Anna Thompson.

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like, “Holy Moley!” Okay, so out of the kindness of his heart he set me up with my first mobile home and got me into Syringa, which at the time had a two-­month waiting list. And he got me in “­under the ­table,” okay. It’s a country club. And based on that he introduced me, ­a fter I moved in ­here, to Jim at the Furniture Center . . . ​and they literally came out to my place, new place when I bought it, and went through the home, took me to the store, showed me the furniture, brought it out, set it up. What I d­ idn’t need, they took back. And then on top of that let me pay it off on monthly payments. That’s the old Moscow that I remember. I thought, like, “What g­ reat p­ eople! You know, they d­ on’t even know me and my credit’s good? I ­don’t have to sign anything?” So that’s how I started out and I ­haven’t lived anywhere ­else since.43

Bob arrived at a new town where folks immediately welcomed him and gave him special VIP treatment. His choice to own a mobile home and reside in Syringa Mobile Home Park did not affect how ­people and businesses treated him in Moscow. In Bob’s words, Syringa in 1981 was a “country club,” a place that would have fit perfectly with his dreams as a single, young man just finishing gradu­ate school and looking to build his c­ areer. Bob held onto his place for 36 years, having spent his entire ­career as a researcher at Washington State University enjoying financial success as a single-­income earner—­owning a h­ ouse, putting aside savings and retirement, and vacationing on his boat up on the legendarily breathtaking lakes of northern Idaho. For Bob Bonsall and o­ thers, Syringa met their aspirations for financial security, homeownership, and residing somewhere with a good reputation. Yet even though the park was pristine, nice, well-­managed, and felt like a “country club,” ­things ­were not operating smoothly ­under the surface. For instance, the Talbotts remembered that p­ eople’s ­water use was watched carefully when they lived that one year in Syringa. Steve recollected, “He [the man­ag­er] would come around and make sure we ­weren’t overwatering, ­because I think at that time, too, ­there ­wasn’t an overabundance of ­water. So, it was kinda . . . ​I ­don’t know if ­there ­were any hours laid out that you c­ an’t ­water from h­ ere to h­ ere, but he just would remind you—­don’t overwater.”44 Residents lived t­ here to fulfill

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their needs. Some retired t­here since it was a nice place to live and worked with their fixed income. ­Others could start a ­career and a ­family, save money, and eventually buy land and, maybe, a conventional ­house. Some w ­ ere even students at University of Idaho who found buying or renting a home in Syringa was an effective way to afford the combined expenses of college and housing.45 Conclusion This chapter has shown how housing opportunities in the United States have been orchestrated by government initiatives to prioritize specific forms of housing and housing access targeting par­tic­u­lar groups of p­ eople. Mobile home manufacturing and park development grew once it was viewed as an opportunity to accommodate working-­ class housing. The FHA’s focus on insuring mortgages that assisted park development and rehabilitation in 1955 supported this goal. Mobile homeowners may not have easily overcome the stigmatized label of “trailer” and the dif­fer­ent assumptions balled up in ­stereotypes about who lived in them, but t­ here was nonetheless a flurry of development in the 1960s and early 1970s that envisioned, and in some cases actually created, park-­like settings. Clancy Olson clearly envisioned a place that would have resort-­like amenities, enabling Syringa residents to feel pride in their community and an opportunity to socialize in spaces like the swimming pool and open green areas. Chapter  3 shares how residents experienced life during Syringa’s decline—­from what some locals considered a “country club” to the dysfunctional and potentially dangerous park implied in local news coverage. What happened to Syringa, however, cannot be understood as a unique case, but as connected to degraded conditions that working-­ class communities have been experiencing throughout the United States and in other countries across the world.46 Syringa residents’ experiences of living in a messy trailer park that ­wasn’t worth revitalizing is a social phenomenon and reflects the ways the United States and other nations have abandoned the notion that housing is a h­ uman right. Housing has instead become a commodity and thus subject to the whims of consumer choice and the market’s much-­touted “natu­ral law”

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of supply and demand. In this ­process, housing has become another means for the financial sector, a sector that operates globally to make money without ­doing anything but collecting interest and gambling on ­house­holds’ abilities to pay their debts, which include both home mortgages as well as consumer debt like car loans, credit cards, and student loans. While this chapter has illustrated how working-­class families can work hard and at the same time enjoy social housing, chapter 3 shows how shifts ­toward privatization and deregulation seem connected to the deterioration of housing conditions. Eventually Syringa turned into one of the last remaining opportunities for the most vulnerable individuals and families in Latah County to own a home and have a shot at living in a community. At the same time, residents experienced stigma and sought ways to help one another overcome the daily experiences that divided them from t­hose living in the visibly prosperous city of Moscow, only minutes away. Most damning about this situation is that, despite being one of the last affordable places in the Moscow area for resource-­strapped h­ ouse­holds to live, Syringa became too much trou­ ble to save.

CH A P T E R 3

Making a Functional Community amid Disorder In languages spoken all over the world, the word for “home” encompasses not just shelter but warmth, safety, f­ amily—­the womb. —­Matthew Desmond, 2016

S

yringa mobile home park suffered a major blow to its reputation early in the 1990s when local news media started documenting the park’s trou­bles with ­water contamination and ­water shortages. This began when two residents reported giardia symptoms to the Idaho Department of Environmental Quality (Idaho DEQ ) on April 8, 1992. According to a Moscow-­Pullman Daily News article published two years ­later, the source of giardia was never confirmed at the park, but a boil order remained in place ­a fter the incident.1 Linda Bovard, one of the residents interviewed for this same story, explained the burden on residents: “We buy all our w ­ ater for drinking, but we still need w ­ ater for dishes, bathing and washing clothes. Sometimes I have to go to a friend’s ­house to bathe.” According to the article, park ­owner Magar E. Magar had already filed a lawsuit against the Idaho Department of Health and Welfare (IDHW) pressuring staff to lift the park’s boil order, but this only provoked IDHW to file a counterlawsuit against him. The IDHW and Magar pointed to entirely dif­fer­ent reasons for ­water quality and supply issues in Syringa. According to Idaho DEQ staff, park management had a history of solving ­water shortages by turning the ­water off completely. When this is done, pressure throughout the network of pipes loses pressure, increasing the chances of sewage backing up into the system. E ­ very time w ­ ater was turned off residents ­were at risk of ­water contamination, of “shit-­water,” as it was 77

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figur e 9. “Welcome to Syringa Trailer Court” cartoon published March 5–6, 1994. Courtesy of Moscow-­Pullman Daily News.

sometimes called. Magar, however, blamed residents, remarking, “I hate to say it, but ­there may be disgruntled ­people deliberately overusing ­water. If the consumption is excessive, we have to shut it down. What can you say? What can you do?”2 Though criticism in local news was largely aimed at the ­owner and the park’s management practices, in ­doing so media also unintentionally reinforced negative social perceptions of trailer parks and, by extension, the kinds of ­people who would be willing to live in one. Leafing through the Idaho DEQ’s rec­ords, I found a 1994 cartoon someone had cut out of the Moscow-­Pullman Daily News during ­these ­legal disputes that had started in 1992 (Figure 9). A man, ­either the o­ wner or man­ag­er of Syringa Trailer Court, stands ­behind a ­counter. He is dark, hairy, and overweight with an unshaven face, dressed in an undershirt that many at the time pejoratively called a “wife-­beater,” with a cigarette in his mouth and looking bored. He welcomes the c­ ouple, seem-

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ingly unaware of the disgusting impression he makes, saying “Okay, ­we’ve got the sewer and electricity covered. Now, about your w ­ ater . . . ​ Do you want regular or extra-­chunky?” The message sent was that Syringa had normalized shit-­water, which made clear that a two-­class system had evolved and now a line separated the park community from the rest of the Moscow community. A park resident at the time may have wondered what cartoons like this in the local media implied about their own character, lifestyle standards, and worthiness for choosing to live in Syringa. During this period on up to the pre­sent, though, the “choice” of living in par­tic­u­lar types of ­houses and neighborhoods has been narrowing for ­people working in low-­wage or precarious jobs as the ­political and economic commitment to socialized housing has continued to decline in rural and urban Amer­i­ca. Increasingly, individuals and families must choose between unsafe, substandard housing or homelessness.3 U.S. Disinvestment in Utopian Communities for the Working Class The Syringa case study from 1992 to the 2010s foreshadows a longer trend in U.S. housing that undermines the kinds of communities and affordability that working-­class families want and need. When housing developments like Syringa Mobile Home Park ­were first introduced, they ­were perceived as nice places to live and start a ­family, and a place you could invite ­others to enjoy on a weekend after­noon. They ­were “utopian” in the sense that they allowed ordinary working Americans to embody their hard work in the form of homeownership, a widely recognized symbol of living the American Dream. Most telling is the significant rise in U.S. homeownership, from 43.6 ­percent to 61.9 ­percent, between 1940 and 1960, as a result of higher ­wartime incomes that, according to a U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development report, ­were followed by “the FHA-­led revolution in mortgage financing, the GI bill of rights, improved interurban transportation, and development of large-­scale housing subdivisions with affordable ­houses.”4 ­These policies, however, largely excluded Black and Hispanic workers and their families, and woman-­headed ­house­holds, whose owner­ship rates fell well

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below t­ hose for white ­house­holds with a male breadwinner.5 Loosened restrictions in the housing market have contributed to the increased costs for housing, since private developers and contractors whose profit margins are necessary to keep their businesses afloat tend to ­favor constructing large, conventional single-­family homes that fetch higher prices over more affordable, smaller and/or multi-­unit dwellings. More recently, private equity firms are competing with families in purchasing affordable housing as speculative investments, which artificially creates housing scarcity and price hikes.6 When housing is treated as a commodity, a means to make money and accumulate wealth, its fundamental usefulness as a space where ­people can experience warmth, ­family, and safety loses priority and is thus compromised. As described in the introduction, the trends of stagnant incomes among the working class increased the cost of basic necessities, and government disinvestment in social programs has intensified since the 1980s. The deteriorating conditions park residents observed in Syringa ­toward the end of the 1990s and onward may be understood to reflect changes in U.S. policy that began in the 1980s. Leaders turned away from social programs that supported affordable development efforts, like Clancy Olson’s vision to create a utopian community for working-­ class retirees and families. Instead, housing and community development ­were to be solved by private companies that prioritize high-­demand market opportunities to reap greater financial gains.7 Syringa’s value as a community during this time was as impor­tant as ever, though. Syringa residents appreciated living with ­others who understood their challenges, like juggling paid work, f­amily care, and stigma’s wounds—­all while cobbling together l­imited financial resources and managing tight ­house­hold ­budgets. As shown in chapter 2, the U.S. government played an active role in promoting housing opportunities for working-­class h­ ouse­holds in the mid-­t wentieth ­century. The G.I. Bill for war veterans and Federal Housing Administration (FHA)-­backed loans enabled mostly white, male-­ headed ­house­holds in the late 1940s to 1960s the opportunity to move into a starter home; ­these programs boosted demand that benefited the housing and construction sectors in the U.S. economy. This is admittedly a kind of ­limited utopianism, albeit also a racist-­exclusionary one.

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Even ­a fter ­these ­decades, the p­ eople who moved to Syringa and became homeowners in the early 1980s enjoyed the benefit of government-­ insured loans for mobile homes when the National Housing Act’s Title I was approved in 1969. During the early 1980s, though, the federal government’s oversight and involvement in housing programs steadily shrank. One outcome arising from this shift was a steep drop in FHA applications for mobile home park development and park rehabilitation.8 Only a d­ ecade a­ fter easing the loan terms for purchasing mobile homes, federal government support for development and, importantly, rehabilitation of existing mobile home parks virtually ceased.9 During the postwar era, the favored housing option for families continued to be the conventional single-­family home on its own plot of land. Mobile home purchasers may easily access chattel loans, or loans with similar terms that are offered for purchasing cars. But, if the homeowner places their home on a lot in a mobile home park, they are then left dependent on the park o­ wner’s willingness and capacity to reinvest in the infrastructure—­drinking w ­ ater, wastewater, roads, and community amenities. The decline in FHA applications, most especially t­ hose intended for rehabilitating parks, correlates with the declining conditions, including poorly maintained ­water and sewage systems, documented in many parks throughout the United States since the 1980s.10 It also makes sense to suspect that lack of substantial investment, which ­these loans would have enabled ­owners to do, has helped reinforce negative ­stereotypes of mobile home parks as run-­down, and filled with so-­called trailer trash.11 All of this illustrates the vulnerability of housing initiatives devised and implemented through government programs intended to help low-­ and middle-­income ­people and communities. In the United States, housing initiatives are dependent on the ­political perspectives of decisionmakers that gain traction at any given time, dominant among ­these presently being the vari­ous campaigns of privatization and deregulation of public s­ ervices and programs seen around the world. Privatization refers to the ­process of turning public programs, like taxpayer-­paid public education, into s­ ervices provided by private enterprise. Rather than a guarantee of the same benefit to the public, privatized ­services operate based on the amount of money paid by clients or customers.

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Private entities are not beholden to public preferences, with the exception that they need to be responsive to consumer choice and are obliged to comply with government-­imposed regulations. As a result, proposals for deregulation are usually coupled with privatization, since private entities seek to limit the constraints and potential expense of complying with regulations. Fundamentally, regulations are intended to represent the public’s interest, notably including the preservation of public and environmental safety, health, and welfare. The importance of regulations and the ability for government agencies to monitor and enforce them can be seen no clearer than in the circumstances that led to the three court cases filed against Magar E. Magar in 2012 and 2014, which are reviewed in chapter 4. A core ele­ment of Republican and neoliberal Demo­cratic policy since the Reagan era, ­these ­organized and largely successful efforts to privatize and deregulate social programs continue to shape housing policies in the United States, which in turn affects how housing demand is met and, therefore, what constitutes ­legal practices in relation to housing purchases, sales, and owner­ship. Such approaches also affect the extent to which the government monitors and supports affordable housing options, including mobile home production, loan policies, and the development of new mobile home parks and park rehabilitation. International ­political economists identify the U.S. housing system as the most strongly commodified as compared to t­hose of all other advanced cap­i­tal­ist socie­ties, however insofar as globalization enables the sharing of such tricks of the trade, a growing number of other countries are trending in this same direction.12 When something is commodified, it is treated like any other product—or more aptly like an asset—­bought and sold in the market. Compare, for example, housing to other commodities like video games and home furniture, or to assets like a diamond ring or valuable work of art. When h­ ouses are commodified, questions surrounding what types of ­houses are manufactured, how many, where, and for what price are answered by private firms whose existence depends on effectively calculating what would be most profitable in the market. According to the logic of this approach, how existing and new housing is classified and then marketed is determined objectively by where the market demand is greatest and where returns

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can therefore be maximized. This is why communities throughout the United States, including Moscow, Idaho, continue to see new housing construction focusing on single-­family homes and apartment complexes marketed as upper-­scale, amenity-­rich living experiences. ­These efforts may be adding to housing supply, but as many housing rights advocates observe, they are not at all deepening the pool of housing that low-­income working-­class h­ ouse­holds are desperately searching for. Affordable housing scarcity is baked into a housing system in which the private parties who are looked to for solving the issue of deficient supply are themselves motivated primarily by maximization of profit. This ­isn’t a ­matter of personal character flaws of individual developers or contractors; it is simply the way cap­i­tal­ist markets operate: you can only reap rewards in such a system if you make savvy decisions that earn money ­a fter costs are accounted for. That said, “how much” money you insist on making and accumulating is, indeed, a moral decision and one that eighteenth-­century ­political economic theorist and “­father of modern economics” Adam Smith grew concerned about as markets expanded and society’s greater ­acceptance of both individual and institutionalized greed seemed to follow.13 ­Because the United States housing system is heavi­ly commodified, very ­little of the housing supply—­owned or rented—is available as social housing, or what is typically called “public housing.” Social housing refers to housing that government regulations and laws protect from market fluctuations, shielding o­ wners and tenants from the speculation and shortage-­driven sorts of price-­and rent hikes in housing that we are seeing in Idaho, nationally, and globally right now.14 The common perception of social, or public, housing in the United States is that it is substandard, and it is further stigmatized as a government “handout” to lazy or undeserving “­others,” a group of ­people who are often racialized and linked to negative ­stereotypes of single ­mothers. Opponents and critics of social housing typically ignore the numerous examples of successful social housing models that exist in other advanced cap­i­tal­ist socie­ties and how impor­tant safe and stable housing is for families and their c­ hildren’s health, employment stability, and overall safety.15 This creates a classic Catch-22: if poor working-­class families are perceived as “not working hard enough,” perspectives and policies that set up

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barriers to stable housing options vis-­à-­v is social housing only help reinforce such negative views by reducing opportunities for building communities where safe housing exists. In his research elucidating the negative social consequences of evictions in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Matthew Desmond explains, “Residential stability begets a kind of psychological stability, which allows ­people to invest in their home and social relationships. It begets school stability, which increases the chances that ­children ­w ill excel and gradu­ate. And it begets community stability, which encourages neighbors to form strong bonds and take care of their block.”16 When the basic building block to community stability—­ housing—is put out of reach, so too are the positive outcomes attributed to living in a safe and secure home. Looking at residents’ ways of life while living in Syringa from the late 1990s to 2018 demonstrates how affordable housing enables stability and the ability of residents to form a functional community. This connection is clear when considering Syringa residents’ everyday life experiences as seen via information I collected from visits to the park, interviews with residents, and analy­sis of news media. Tucked away in the countryside, Syringa functioned as a community for working-­class p­ eople who had been increasingly pushed spatially, financially, and culturally beyond the margins of the small but relatively affluent and expensive city of Moscow. Many of the individuals and families living in Syringa worked in Moscow or in the neighboring city of Pullman: checking out groceries for local customers, stocking shelves in dif­fer­ent types of stores, working as office receptionists and hospice care workers, and ­r unning a taxi ­service as a small business entrepreneur. O ­ thers ­were studying at one of the three colleges in the region so they could have a shot at a ­career that offered a retirement plan, health benefits, and good pay. A large number of Syringa’s residents ­were living with disabilities, ­either incapable of full-­time work or whose necessary accommodations narrowed employment options. Some had four-­year college degrees, two of whom worked in research facilities at one of the local universities. Syringa residents w ­ ere also military veterans and retirees. Many ­women and men lived alone. Several single ­women and men cared for ­children and elders as ­mothers, f­ athers, grandparents, ­daughters, friends,

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and neighbors. A large number of ­house­holds ­were headed by c­ ouples who w ­ ere looking for an inexpensive and stable housing situation so their c­ hildren could attend the same school over several years or as a means to save money for a better housing situation. In other words, Syringa Mobile Home Park residents ­were trying to lead regular everyday lives as ordinary p­ eople. Yet, as described in the introduction, park residents also represented a growing segment of the working class whose lives have been made increasingly less secure as social support in the form of guaranteed living wages, socialized housing, accessible health care, and childcare provision was further privatized, commodified, and not guaranteed as fundamental ­human rights. Stigma and Negative Assumptions of ­People’s Worth in “Disorderly” Communities ­ ere is no question that Syringa was a rare affordable housing Th option for the p­ eople who moved t­ here from the 1990s to 2013. Many residents brought pets ­because they ­were comforted by the mutual exchange of care between person and pet, and this was a place with no animal fees and no restrictions on how many lived in a home. I found, though, that onlookers often seemed unable to look past the seeming disorder of Syringa, seeing only what appeared to be broken-­down vehicles lining the streets, piles of trash in ­people’s yards, and the deteriorated infrastructure. For example, Jeremiah Klein, a business o­ wner who helped o­ rganize trash removal and basic maintenance in Syringa, remarked during an interview: I’m reasonably anti-­trailer parks ­because it’s almost like the proj­ects. You have a ­whole bunch of poor ­people living together in one area which typically turns out bad. With poverty comes social and economic issues frequently which result in drug use and alcoholism and some culturally bad ­things. If you put every­body in one place, this is my opinion, much like a city proj­ect, bad t­ hings happen and nobody does anything about the bad t­hings. B ­ ecause it’s a w ­ hole bunch of p­ eople who d­ on’t feel empowered enough to do anything b­ ecause they feel forgotten and like no one cares.

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On the one hand, Jeremiah notes the sense that ­people in places like Syringa feel invisible and disempowered. On the other hand, Jeremiah’s interpretation of trailer parks relies on similar assumptions under­ lying “broken win­dows” theory, which proposes that the presence of disorder—­graffiti, public intoxication, garbage, and abandoned cars—­ increases the odds of a community’s decline and the rise of negative deviant be­hav­iors, including criminal activities.17 Social psychologists Robert J. Sampson and Stephen W. Raudenbush find, however, that our social contexts—­including racial-­ethnic and socioeconomic experiences—­may significantly influence our perceptions of disorder. ­These social contexts inform our understandings of which attributes within a neighborhood or community objectively signal disorder, and, by extension, what kinds of ­people can be expected to tolerate them.18 Moreover, outside observers may see disorder when they believe a community is dominated by poor ­people and racial minority groups. This implicit bias linking disorder to specific groups of p­ eople, an outcome of stigma, does not have to be intentional. Instead, it can be a product of experiences normalized in society, such as segregation that spatially contains poor and racial minority groups within specific neighborhoods and communities, which is so common in the United States and elsewhere. The expectation that certain types of ­people live in “disorderly” communities is, thus, guilt by association. Being associated with a stigmatized, “disorderly” neighborhood or community “ecologically contaminates” any person living ­there.19 Taken further, I observed through vari­ous comments that locals and local elected officials who knew the park o­ wner Magar let Syringa fall apart still tended to blame residents for making bad choices. Other­w ise, why would they live t­here? Social psychologist Susan Fiske finds ­t here is a significant tendency for ­people with higher statuses to “scorn down” on t­ hose they perceive to be low status: “Scorn mostly fails to think. The scorned do not merit attention, being worse than useless. ­People do not expect to interact with them ­because they hold neither resources nor prestige.”20 Repeatedly in conversations and in social media commentary on news and my public posts about Syringa, p­ eople explained away the tragedies befalling park residents by casting blame and responsibilities on an ­imagined community of

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financially irresponsible, potentially criminal and drug-­addicted residents. Chapter 6 discusses the community-­level consequences of this dynamic. As noted ­earlier in relation to the Moscow-­Pullman Daily News cartoon, although spectators of the ­water contamination issue in Syringa in the 1990s w ­ ere sympathetic to park residents, the person depicted as the representative for the park is a caricature of what we imagine “trailer trash” to look like. Syringa’s issue with a negligent landlord and bad w ­ ater contaminated how residents themselves may have been viewed, and it is quite pos­si­ble this was felt among some of the residents at the time. This is certainly how some residents felt about news coverage of Syringa following E. coli detection in the park’s w ­ ater in 2013. Both Dawn Tachell and Shannon Musick often criticized the local news for making residents look bad. They suspected the constant depictions—­textual and visual—of the park’s poor condition led the public to ask, “What kinds of ­people would continue to live ­t here?” Syringa was both spatially removed and socially segregated from the city of Moscow proper. Its location was not intended originally to segregate and contain low-­income, working-­class h­ ouse­holds, but it ultimately functioned this way since it was easier for a developer to avoid regulations by constructing a park in the county and not in the city. The potential for Syringa to turn “bad” was a consequence of local laws and governance structure, which are similar to t­ hose instituted in cities and counties throughout the country. Fewer regulations got in the way of constructing the park, which worked well enough in the short term but not ­a fter years of ­limited investment in maintenance and improvements. In other words, rather than blame residents for making a place “bad,” we need to examine how private interests’ efforts to avoid regulations, which are the critical tools governments can use to protect ­people and the environments they live in. Residents described being guilty by association with Syringa’s address—­they ­were “viewed as possessing the moral liability of the neighborhood itself.”21 Once individuals learned that someone lived in the park, interactions changed, and opportunities ­were denied. Kate Williams, who moved out of Syringa shortly ­a fter the ­water crisis,

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described unsuccessfully looking for jobs and her experiences once she was working on the other side of the hiring ­process: Leontina: Did you look for employment while you w ­ ere living out at Syringa? Kate: Yeah. No one would hire me. Leontina: ­Because of your address? Kate: Yes. That’s prob­ably why no one would hire me. Now, I’m in a position where I hire ­people, and I see that address, and it makes me question like, “Are they one of the sketchy ­people at Syringa, or are they just somebody who’s down on their luck and needs a job?” I lived t­ here, so that makes me feel like a terrible hypocrite. But that address comes with stigma, a lot of stigma. Leontina: Which is way dif­fer­ent from its origins. Kate: Yeah. Yeah. It was supposedly ­really beautiful in the ’80s. I’m hiring for a ­really low-­paying, entry-­level job and if it still makes me question ­things, no won­der I never got hired for ­things like the court­house and the sheriff’s office. They would never ever take someone from that address. Leontina: With a bachelor’s degree? Kate: Yes, with a bachelor’s degree, which was ­really frustrating. It was difficult for outsiders, even former residents like Kate, to see the ­things that challenged the “trailer trash” s­ tereotype that has stubbornly defined Syringa and other mobile home parks throughout the country. When asked if her address has ever affected interactions in Moscow, longtime resident Aimee Pace answered, “That’s—­yes. Exactly. Instant label. It’s like, yes. I live out t­ here, but I d­ on’t deserve to be broken down into a dif­fer­ent category. I’ve definitely noticed with a lot of them. All you have to do is say, ‘Syringa’ and the conversation is down. They ­don’t want to listen. They d­ on’t want to. It’s just, ‘Oh, well, y­ ou’re from Syringa, so ­we’re done.’ ” How detrimental this community stigma was to the residents when they looked for housing during forced relocation in 2018 emerges as a major theme in this study and was a major challenge in resettling refugees from the crisis.

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Feminized Communities: Sharing Experiences, Dignified Living, and Care Networks Social stigma notwithstanding, residents who found a home in Syringa did so ­because it provided vital ­services and resources that ­were denied to them in cities like Moscow and society at large. ­Women and men w ­ ere able to build dignity through informal work, access dif­ fer­ent forms of care from neighbors, restore their m ­ ental health via the park’s idyllic setting, and find a relative sense of comfort and even solidarity living among ­others who shared similar circumstances. And while Syringa residents pro­cessed the injuries of class i­ nequality, much of which was tied to gender and ableist prejudices, they also found refuge and support in what I call a feminized community—­a community that in some re­spect was able to establish care networks for its members and counteract stresses tied to an increasing sense of being lower status ­because of the type of home they lived in and the negative stigma of their street address. Imagining working-­class communities as “feminized” is intended to foreground the caring qualities that neighbors provide one another, ­whether it is tutoring someone’s ­children ­after school or being available to fix a car prob­lem. And, while the tendency is for ­women to do the bulk of caring ­services, often for ­free, men can perform them as well, and do. If we open space to acknowledge and socially value ­these activities, maybe we can envision economic arrangements and policies that enable families and individuals to care and be supportive of o­ thers. This is why social housing is impor­tant to support and why simply getting p­ eople into a h­ ouse or shelter is insufficient. Stable and secure housing is vital to feminized communities that can sustain healthy social and environmental relations. In foregrounding ­these “feminine” qualities, I am not suggesting that residents d­ idn’t experience hardships in the park, including animosities between neighbors and concerns about “sketchy” ­people. As discussed e­ arlier, onlookers tend to be socially biased t­ oward seeing the disorder and conflicts in stigmatized communities, and ­toward scorning down.22 From this perspective, it seems irrational to choose to stay in a place like Syringa. But it is only irrational when the flesh and

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blood of community life is left in the abstract. The idea of feminized communities sharpens our focus on how residents—­women and men—­positively contributed to and benefited from positive work and caring interactions in Syringa. ­These interactions are what feminists consider part of social reproduction, the vital but often unpaid contributions to families’, communities’, and socie­ties’ sustenance without which the economy would fail.23 Th ­ ese are the ­services ­people do virtually for f­ ree, which may explain the role a stable home serves in enabling p­ eople to be part of a community with p­ eople who identify with one another and why this is especially impor­tant to low-­i ncome working-­class h­ ouse­holds. In the midst of contaminated ­water, boil ­orders, pending court settlements, and negative press ­coverage, positive and caring activities ­were nearly invisible to anyone not living in Syringa, and certainly not featured in any press coverage. Syringa’s Value Is the P ­ eople, Shared Experiences, and the Memories Aimee Pace had lived in Syringa since her childhood and was one of the home-­owning residents who stayed ­there ­until it closed in 2018. Her parents first moved to the park in the late 1970s: “I d­ on’t even remember exactly when we moved out h­ ere. I’m thinking I was four or five years old, ­because I actually grew up in a trailer down the street.” Shannon Musick, the w ­ oman who stepped in as on-­site man­ag­er as the 2013 ­water crisis unfolded, would eventually buy that same trailer in 1999. Aimee was considered the longest-­term resident in the entire park. The double-­w ide where Aimee lived was one her stepdad bought and set up on the eastern fringe of the park overlooking the lagoons. For a brief spell, Aimee lived in Moscow but chose to move back to Syringa in 1992. She explained, “It was home. And I ­could’ve rented something in town . . . ​but it was the concept of having my own place, having my own yard. It was . . . ​even at that point, it was still a ­really nice place to live.” I asked her to describe further what the park was like at that time:

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Aimee: Back then I would say it was ­really nice. I’m irritated with some of the comments I’ve read from ­people about it being “such a dive.” This and that. “It h­ asn’t been good since ’92.” I have issues with that b­ ecause my late husband did the maintenance for this trailer court u­ ntil 2011. Leontina: Did he start in the ’80s or in the early ’90s? Aimee: See, we [Bob Bonsall and Aimee] w ­ ere trying to figure that out. I ­can’t even remember exactly when he started. We broke it down to—he worked out h­ ere for about 15 years—so late ’90s. Late ’90s is when he started. Aimee’s husband, Chris Pace, was also Dawn Tachell’s b­ rother. Park residents appreciated him since he was one of the main reasons the facilities at the park kept g­ oing. His work was challenging and affected his ­family life. He served such an impor­tant role in sustaining the park over t­ hose 15 years that he was recognized during a March 2015 Latah County commissioners’ meeting with residents. At the meeting, longtime resident Cheryle Gonzales told every­one, “Chris was a good guy, folks.” Aimee looked back at ­these years with Chris and the years he dedicated to the park and his neighbors: I have a real hard time with some of the comments b­ ecause I know the hours. I know the work that he did. I know the circumstances that he did. I know the stress on the marriage that it caused—­because of Magar, himself, and his theory of fixing t­ hings. It was, “fix it.” It ­didn’t ­matter. “You fix it the cheapest, the fastest way you can fix it.” Which . . . ​on the surface, worked. It worked. It kept p­ eople. It kept their power on. It kept w ­ hatever g­ oing. In the long run? No. Prob­ably some ­were not the best choices to fix it, but the cheapest and fastest way. The tenants ­were always first [with Chris]. You never had to worry about frozen pipes. You never had to worry about a clogged toilet. You ­didn’t have to worry about getting stuck in your driveway. ­There was the last summer, or the last winter, that he worked. We w ­ ere frozen in h­ ere in my own ­house for two days straight. Let me tell you. Somebody called at 2:00 a.m. and said, “Hey, my pipes are frozen, and I’ve got w ­ ater ­going [out].” Right out the door he’d go b­ ecause this trailer court was his priority. That was his job. That was his responsibility. I have a real

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hard time. Every­body saying, “Oh, yeah. It went downhill since ’92. This and that.” It’s like, “Yeah? No.” He did what he could, given the circumstances.

In the mid-1990s Aimee’s m ­ other and stepdad got married in the recreation center a­ fter some of the ­family members helped repaint its interior. Aimee cherished many experiences in Syringa: her childhood, her parents, her life with Chris, and the loads of kids that played with one another. “I can only—oh my god. The Christmas parties e­ very year. Huge Christmas parties where we would buy gifts and wrap gifts and pizzas and Santa Claus. It was always a g­ reat turnout b­ ecause every­ body just—it d­ idn’t m ­ atter if you had an issue with your neighbor or ­whatever. Every­body would still show up ­because it was about the kids.” But Chris was still patching together facilities that had already been deteriorating for a d­ ecade or two before he started working for Magar. The giardia outbreak set a permanent stain on the park’s reputation and repairs w ­ ere not enough to set a new course on w ­ ater quality. Even so, kids played with their friends, ­couples married, and neighbors celebrated holidays and impor­tant life events at the recreation center. Informal Work and the Economic and Cultural Worth of Men with Disabilities My first interview with Jim Ware took place one hot, dry, and dusty August morning in 2016. Jim pulled out two chairs and placed them on the ­little sidewalk next to a set of stairs leading up to his home’s front door. His l­ ittle calico cat jumped onto my lap immediately, a move that prompted Jim to say, “You ­don’t have to have her on you, if you ­don’t want to. S­ he’ll get up t­ here and just pound you.” As if to prove his point, the adorable cat—­w ith g­ reat zeal—­started “kneading biscuits” on my lap, determined to have a cozy place for her late morning nap. As we got acquainted, I marveled at the number of hummingbirds sipping nectar from feeders Jim had hung in his yard. One year, I learned, around 25 to 30 hummingbirds had gathered to feast at his feeders. With August heat comes yellow jackets that get particularly aggressive and chase away the hummingbirds. “I’m sick and tired of ­those god-­awful ­things,” Jim

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grumbled, pointing t­oward his neighbors’ place: “This tin roof over ­here you see next to the feeder? ­Every one of ­those ­little bumps has got a hive in it, so t­ here’s just thousands of ­those damn bees living in t­ here.” The roof’s yellow jacket infestation was one fact of life that he had grown accustomed to, since many residents had by then chosen to let ­things go to protest the park o­ wner’s ongoing neglect. Jim grew up in Latah County and his ­family went back a few generations. As a young man he worked “­under the ­counter” for timber jobs and other forms of employment requiring manual ­labor. Resource-­based industries like timber had a history of providing good-­paying jobs in the area into the early part of the 1990s. By Jim’s late thirties, though, this heavy work had worn his body down and led to severe injuries to his back, a situation statistically more common for rural working-­class men than for their counter­parts in urban areas and for w ­ omen, both rural and urban.24 When talking about his back injury, Jim explained, “A lot of the ­people that are out ­here are wounded or damaged in some way. A lot of us, you know, that’s how we ended up out ­here.” As I learned more about residents, men and ­women, who lived in Syringa I found that Jim ­wasn’t exaggerating. The move to Syringa in 1999–2000 was a housing option of last resort for Jim, his wife, and their kids a­ fter he lost a job and was unable to keep up with rent payments in Moscow. Buying an older mobile home in the park was all they could afford at the time. The situation they arranged turned out well in the beginning. As Jim described it, “This ­family across the street w ­ ere sweethearts. They had kids our kids’ age. They ­were not into drugs. They ­were students. Every­thing was ­great. We had old folks living in this ­house [pointing to the place next door] so ­there ­wasn’t a bunch of drama. ­There was none of this bullshit ­going on. It was kind of nice. Every­ thing was a ­little weird ­because this was our own ­little oasis down ­here and we all kind of knew it.” While their spot in the park was a “­little oasis,” the real­ity of Syringa’s poor w ­ ater situation loomed large. Within the first month, Jim and his f­ amily noticed the w ­ ater ­didn’t seem right. Jim: You know when we moved out ­here all this [­water quality trou­ble] was supposed to have been taken care of. It ­didn’t take us more than a month ­a fter being h­ ere. The kids

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­ ouldn’t—­even if you made mac and cheese with the w w ­ ater, the kids ­wouldn’t eat it. Leontina: ­Really? Jim: It was that bad. And so, not even t­ oday, I w ­ on’t drink it. I just, you know. By the time I was interviewing Jim, he had been through a divorce from his wife and was living alone and unable to get a job due to his back injuries. In his early sixties, Jim’s monthly Social Security Insurance (SSI) income would have been about $721 and working u­ nder the ­table for 12  years of his work life meant he c­ ouldn’t count on much beyond that. “But I can survive out h­ ere,” Jim assured me. Living in Syringa for over 15 years, Jim had a home he could afford and knew how to manage other expenses. He avoided the high cost of heating his place in the winter, since mobile homes are not well insulated, by installing a woodburning stove and collecting firewood. H ­ ere, too, he could maintain his networks of friends and acquaintances. Many times when I visited Jim a­ fter this interview he reported having just returned from a visit with friends somewhere in the county, in Moscow, and down in the Lewiston-­Clarkston Valley. Jim had built for himself a repair shop on his lot: a structure enclosed with tarps that could be heated with an old woodburning stove he procured at some point. Being incredibly knowledgeable at auto mechanics and small machinery, Jim worked on fixing t­ hings that could be sold or swapped for t­ hings he needed. He stored useful items for his trade in the yard and near his shop, which any outsider may have misunderstood as piles of junk; one person’s trash, though, is another person’s ­treasure, a waste-­as-­input ethos familiar in most of the world outside the United States. Chris Pace had used ­these kinds of skills as a low-­paid maintenance person for Syringa, while Jim used them to sell and swap t­ hings to supplement his fixed income. Having a home base and trade kept Jim socially connected, too. Jim may have been unable to find a suitable place for full-­time employment, but he was fully capable of working so long as he could do so at his own pace and with some autonomy. Syringa was a space where he could afford a home, find a work identity, have a social life, and demonstrate his ability in skills traditionally attributed to men.

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Other men sought similar ways to work informally and demonstrate their skills that challenged the label of “disabled” ascribed to them. Informal work is the kind of work that is ­under the ­table or “off the books” and helps ­people living in places with difficult ­labor markets make ends meet. It is not registered or “official” employment and thus it is not accounted for in the tax structure, which explains why Jim c­ ouldn’t rely on much income beyond his modest SSI check each month.25 To clarify, informal work is not the same as engaging in criminal activities, like stealing or selling drugs.26 When Jim worked ­under the t­ able for timber companies and construction firms, he was participating in the informal economy. His employers ­were avoiding taxes and workers’ compensation. To make small amounts of money, too small to ­matter for a tax system, individuals often do informal work. Jim and other men who w ­ ere his neighbors also found ways to do informal work activities in Syringa, a way to perform positive activities that demonstrated their ability to work and, by extension, be men.27 Men ­weren’t the only p­ eople in Syringa engaged in informal economic activities, but the work of skilled machine repair and property maintenance was most apparent when I conducted my fieldwork. ­A fter serving time in prison for drug offenses and working through bouts of drug addiction and rehabilitation, Owen Hayes was left with severe kidney and liver damage. He was a man in his forties disabled from employment by his criminal rec­ord and the poor health that his history with drug addiction had dealt him. Like Jim, he could still work by fixing ­things for money or for bartering, but his health demanded he do this work at his own pace. He, too, collected t­ hings that might be useful for his work—­old cars to fix or scavenge for parts, broken power tools with small engines, and vari­ous materials for building ­things. He ­didn’t have the space for the type of work shed Jim had over on his larger lot, so ­things accumulated along the driveway to his home and vehicles sat along the street. In fact, Jim also kept several vehicles in vari­ous conditions in much the same way on the street near his home. Just a few homes over from Jim’s place lived the young, newly engaged ­couple Austin Katz and Miranda Reynolds, whom we met in the introduction. Austin was 31 years old and regularly felt stigmatized for his disability, a ge­ne­tic heart condition, hypertrophic obstructive

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cardiomyopathy. His heart condition seemed to get in the way of local employers taking his job applications seriously. Austin’s experience with negative prejudice as a job applicant with a disability is not uncommon and contributes to the higher likelihood of impoverishment and housing insecurity among p­ eople with disabilities compared to ­t hose without disabilities, both in Idaho and throughout the United States.28 At one point in our conversation, Austin expressed frustration with trying to find a job in a campus town: “This disability stuff, it’s kind of hurting my morale as a man, being that I—­around ­here, with how many h­ ouses are ­going in, but all the businesses are closing. Where are the jobs? Where are the jobs? Then, the ­people that are given the jobs are the college kids. Th ­ ey’re put first when they come back. If you h­ aven’t been ­there for a long amount of time, your se­niority ­doesn’t mean nothin’. Y ­ ou’re booted, and they hire someone for cheaper. How can anybody commit to a job when the employer ­won’t commit to them?” Austin felt demoralized by ­these experiences of rejection and precarious employment, especially since his work experience was not enough to overcome employers’ identification of him as “disabled.” When asked about his health, Austin reported that his heart condition meant “I can go heavy for forty-­five minutes to an hour and then I’ll need a ten-­minute break, fifteen-­minute break.” Being unable to earn a living alongside his fiancée Miranda who worked in hospice care challenged his sense of self as a man and a ­father: “I mean, I’m a law-­abiding, respectful citizen. I keep my ­house clean. I keep my d­ aughter in school. I keep her clean. She [nodding ­toward Miranda] goes to work. I’m on disability. We ­handle our responsibilities.” Moving to Syringa in 2013, Austin and Miranda had figured out a way to be homeowners and for Austin to work on home improvements and yard work, which helped him demonstrate his competence and ability to work and “go heavy.” It was not clear during our conversation if he performed the kinds of work that helped men like Jim and Owen earn a l­ittle cash on the side, but the work Austin performed gave him an opportunity to support his fiancée and show his ability to do the kinds of ­things men do. Austin and Miranda explained how they moved to Syringa in 2013 and all the improvements they put into the home:

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Austin: This place w ­ asn’t red tagged [indicating it was condemned]. We did it all legally. If we did do anything illegally, something would have happened in the last three years. We ­wouldn’t still be h­ ere. Then, we put money into the place, and then ­after we started putting money into the place we found out, “Oh, it’s actually closing,” ­because we had been getting told by Shelley it’s on the up-­and-up. Okay, so w ­ e’ll put money into our ­house, make it ours. We can actually turn it into our home. Miranda: Make it presentable. Austin: It’s not just a ­house anymore. We can turn it into our home. Then, when we got two rooms done, we have the carpet and pad for the third bedroom and the paint, but what’s the point now? I mean, all of our—­every­thing in ­here—[gestures it ­will be wiped out and lost]. The improvements to the home, the work of mowing their and their neighbors’ lawn, and keeping their pickup truck ­running ­were all activities that helped Austin positively contribute to his ­family while Miranda brought in the higher income with her hospice work. Performing activities traditionally associated with “men’s work”—­often working with one’s hands and working with machinery—is vital for constructing rural men’s identity.29 Syringa provided a space where Jim, Owen, and Austin could be observed d­ oing something impor­tant and beneficial to o­ thers and fulfilling their roles as men. Single ­Women Putting the Pieces Back Together: Homeownership and Building C ­ areers One mobile home in the park was accessible right off Robinson Park Road and its front porch faced southwest t­ oward Paradise Ridge. Someone passing by might have noticed a c­ ouple shut­t le vans with “A Wild Cat Taxi” painted on their sides and a large pawprint painted on their hoods. This was Denise James’s home. I met Denise via a private message on Facebook a­ fter Syringa’s closure was announced and I had begun using public announcements via social media to increase the chances of

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communicating with residents. Denise shared how deeply anxious she was as the prospect of losing her home and business began to sink in: ­ very time I think about this w E ­ hole deal, I just get more depressed than ever! I’ve been ­here since 2009. I’m a single mom, raised my son without child support and, ­because I owned a pit bull when I moved back to Moscow for work, I ended up in Syringa. The dog was part of our ­family at that time, and I just ­wasn’t willing to give him up to live in an apartment. And the rent was the most affordable for someone in my financial situation. Yes, I’ve tried to use this as a stepping stone. I’m kicking myself for believing Shelly when she said, “No worries. She was keeping the park open.” I was ­behind in rent to the guy who owned my trailer and he was threatening eviction. So, when Shelly said, “No worries,” my boyfriend paid off my back rent and the trailer was included in the price. Fi­nally, an opportunity to own my own trailer and fi­nally an easy rent to pay! Just lot rent. . . . ​Now that the loan to pay the trailer is almost paid off, I get to lose it.

Over eight years, Denise had raised her child, worked out a way to own her mobile home, and built her own taxi business. Her taxi business was well known among locals living along the Moscow-­Pullman corridor and, in fact, Denise was already acquainted with one of my colleagues who relied on A Wild Cat Taxi for airport transportation. Denise’s personality and generosity fit perfectly with this business. As one satisfied customer reported on her taxi ­service’s website: It was a challenging travel weekend as the weather made all flights in and out of [the] Pullman area late or cancelled. We ended up in Pullman without a car to get to the Lewiston airport. A call to Denise on Saturday night setup a r­ ide for Sunday morning. What could have been stressful turned out to be a fun trip. She showed up ahead of schedule and got us to the gates on time. The real bonus was her sharing information about the area, and her out­going personality. We’d love to have her take us on a drive around the area in the f­ uture so we can get to know it better. My wife and I absolutely recommend this ­family com­pany for your transportation in, and around, the Pullman/Moscow area. Thanks, Denise, for adding another bright spot to our weekend visit. 30

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Denise figured out how to piece together dif­fer­ent strategies that helped her raise her son, find support for eventually buying her mobile home, and at the same time build a business and customer base. As a small business ­owner, Denise had few options to improve her housing situation. She explained, for instance, her fruitless efforts to acquire state support: “Any time I’ve ever applied for assistance I was denied. They say I make too much money. But they ­don’t look at what gets paid out, just how much you make. I hate assistance! It’s never done a ­whole lot for me except help me with a power bill a time or two.” All of Denise’s victories ­were accomplished during a time when she was barely making it and faced the precipice of homelessness through eviction. The inexpensive lot rent of $260 per month left just enough money for the expenses associated with ­r unning taxis and insuring her business and then, of course, food, utilities, and life’s necessities. What lay ahead of her w ­ ere incredibly difficult challenges to surmount, which threatened the two critical pieces to her life that had helped her succeed: her home and self-­made business. As Denise put it, “­There is no place to move it [her mobile home] to without buying land, and we cannot afford even a 20 ­percent down [payment] to a ­giant loan like that! And no money to move it. Now, we have to find a way to get a new place that accommodates pets and has enough parking allowed for my taxi com­pany. Ugh, I’m so emotional and depressed I ­can’t even talk about this subject without tears and shaking! The thought of leaving my big yard trees and the wildlife around my place is killing me! Ugh.” Denise’s story serves as an example of how critical deeply affordable housing is for low-­income working-­class p­ eople—it can be the difference between being a small business entrepreneur and m ­ other of a child who has reached adulthood or being evicted and facing housing precarity b­ ecause of poor credit history. In the foreword to this book, Dawn Tachell describes the significant role Syringa served in her dreams of pursuing a university degree and having a c­ areer working with plants. She realized both of ­these dreams ­because Syringa was somewhere to put her feet, to rest, and to retreat. In her late thirties, Dawn returned to her hometown Moscow in 2001 ­because “my nephew needed help. His mom left him due to a divorce

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and his dad d­ idn’t want him. So I had to move to Moscow so he could go to high school [and have an adult looking ­a fter him]. Long story short, I made a promise to my nephew. If you go to school and stay, I ­will too.”31 Dawn met Jerry, Syringa’s man­ag­er at the time, and told him she needed work. As she described it: “Jerry asked me, ‘How good are you at getting dirty?’ And I answered, ‘Dirt ­don’t hurt.’ ” To prove herself, she offered to work on cleaning up a mobile home. Having passed the test, Jerry continued assigning large proj­ects, and even sent her to dif­ fer­ent counties in north Idaho to help him collect real estate information. All this work helped her save enough money to purchase her mobile home, one that was on the north edge of the park with a view of the entire stretch of Moscow Mountain just beyond the wheat fields. Dawn and her m ­ other Mary w ­ ere able to live together now, and they both enjoyed living near Chris, Dawn’s ­brother. Most of all, she now lived somewhere that gave her a sense of dignity and provided a stepping stone t­ oward a university degree and a ­career. Dawn describes her experiences over her years at Syringa when she took the plunge to enroll as a student at University of Idaho and engage in a variety of student activism on behalf of nontraditional students and veterans who needed more institutional support. During t­hese years, she also met and married Trapper, who moved in and helped with odd jobs in the home and yard. Since both Mary and Trapper w ­ ere considerably older than her, Dawn helped tend to their medical appointments and other ­house­hold and ­family logistics that required some advanced research and planning. Every­one in the ­house­hold looked out for one another. Like Denise, it is difficult to imagine what Dawn and her ­family could have managed without the stepping stone Syringa’s housing afforded them. Dawn told me Syringa provided a life with dignity, self-­respect, an “I can” attitude, and a network of self-­support.32 They, among several ­others in Syringa, connected with neighbors in a variety of ways that helped p­ eople respond to each other’s immediate needs and, for some, to share news that could protect the community during the ­water crisis and the drawn-­out l­ egal disputes afterward.

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Networks of Caring Up to this point I have described how w ­ omen and men w ­ ere able to pursue productive lives while living in Syringa. Th ­ ere ­were reasons men stored old, worn-­out equipment and cars around their homes that may have signaled disorder to passersby but w ­ ere actually potential inputs for fixing items that could then be swapped or sold. Likewise, in the midst of this same seeming disorder, single w ­ omen afforded the expenses of paying for a home and caring for f­amily, aiming high for their dreams and making them happen. When examining mobile home owner­ship rec­ords, I found that w ­ omen in fact owned two-­t hirds of the homes in Syringa before the w ­ ater crisis, and they still owned half of the homes occupied during the last months before the park’s closure. The above interview excerpts represent only a handful of the ­women and men who found ways to build eco­nom­ically productive lives and look a­ fter o­ thers in their homes at the same time. Another impor­tant facet involved neighborly interactions, which built community as residents supported each other’s specific needs, shared news and strategized responses, and simply accepted each other’s quirks and challenges. Ron Phelps lived down the street from Dawn and her ­family. In his early sixties, Ron was looking a­ fter his five grandchildren while working full time at a home and garden store in Moscow. Living on a single income with five grandchildren, Ron could not miss work. This situation led to a prob­lem: Who was g­ oing to look a­ fter his grandkids when they returned from school, not to mention during their summer vacation from school? The ­children’s parents stepped in to be with their kids sometimes, but Ron’s experience told him they w ­ ere not dependable. Other parents in Syringa also faced this dilemma of working full time but having ­children who ­were bused back to the park a ­couple hours before they w ­ ere back from their jobs. Stepping in to help, Dawn and her ­mother, who was nicknamed “Cookie Grandma,” invited the c­ hildren to their home. They could manage this ­because Dawn’s m ­ other was usually at home and Dawn could get home a­ fter her work shift a l­ittle ­a fter 3:00 p.m. most days.

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I learned about Dawn and her m ­ other Mary’s informal a­ fter school program when visiting their home in the late summer of 2017. When I arrived and entered the backyard, two ­children ­were assembled u­ nder the branches of a plum tree, another child was up inside and balancing on one of its branches. I could hear his voice, but it took some time before I could see him. Dawn stood facing the tree, and I heard her instructing the ­children to be gentle with the fruit if they found one that was ready to pick. She encouraged them to continue, “Make sure you get as many as you can, so we have enough to make pie for you and save some for l­ ater.” It was a ­little ­a fter 5 p.m., which I learned was close to the time the kids w ­ ere expected to head home. And, sure enough, within a few minutes I heard a w ­ oman’s voice from a nearby mobile home call out to one of the ­children, which provoked Dawn to say, “Chase, your mom is calling. It’s time to clean up your hands and head back home.” Chase was clearly having a blast and proud of the number of plums he had heaped into the bucket standing at the base of the tree. With Chase’s departure, Dawn prepared the two other ­children—­Ron’s grandchildren—to head back home, as well. Before they left, one of the ­children, June, s­ topped and grabbed both of Dawn’s hands, looking up at her and asking, “Do we get cookies for ­doing such a good job?” Dawn instructed her, “Describe the ­things you did that earned you a cookie.” June paused, then answered, “I picked a lot of plums for you.” “Are you g­ oing to practice reading when you get home?” asked Dawn. “Uh-­huh,” nodded June. With that, Dawn dis­appeared into her home, then came back out with two cookies, handing one to each of Ron’s grandkids. Once they both had cookies in hand, the two siblings opened the gate to Dawn’s backyard and headed home. “We look a­ fter t­ hese kids and make sure they are tutored a l­ ittle bit to help with reading and with learning t­ hings about gardening and responsibility,” she explained, once they ­were out of earshot. I met with Dawn at a local café to ask her about how the a­ fter school program worked.33 Dawn told me she and her m ­ other w ­ ere available for two and a half hours on most days when c­ hildren arrived from school. On the days they had to be away for appointments, Lynn and

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Johnny Anderson who lived near Jim Ware’s place, would look ­a fter the ­children. The aim of the program was to teach “teamwork, collaboration, playing nice and being respectful, and instill in them that education is good.” As incentive, Dawn and Mary came up with “The Cookie Program,” to motivate and reward the c­ hildren for meeting t­ hese goals. Dawn asked routine questions before the ­children left to return to their homes each day: What have you done to earn them [the cookies]? What did you learn in school ­today? Did you listen to the teacher ­today? Did you play nice t­ oday?

All together six ­children could be expected to show up for the ­a fter school program, three girls and three boys. Two of the boys w ­ ere ­brothers of the three girls and Dawn said the boys could be r­ eally bossy and mean to the girls. For this reason, she added specific expectations for the boys to instill greater re­spect for and, thus, better treatment of their s­ isters. She gave the boys regular reminders: “You need to re­spect the girls. Be courteous.” According to Dawn, one of the main goals of their a­ fter school work was “learning and respecting the leadership.” Dawn described this program as a “collaborative effort with the two families” who needed this help looking ­a fter the ­children in the after­ noons. She checked in with them to ask if ­t here ­were any difficulties that she and Cookie Grandma needed to know about so they could identify ways to support each of the ­children. ­Because of their workloads and the difficulties the two families experienced, the ­children did not always have structure once they ­were at their homes. To teach the ­children to follow up on their school lessons, Dawn and her ­mother also asked, “Did you do your homework? Did you bring your homework to show us what you did? What grade did you get on your homework?” In t­hese ways, the ­children had structure and a system of accountability. Without Dawn and her ­mother’s help, working parents/guardians like Ron and Chase’s ­mother would worry about their safety and, very likely, the ­children would have been told to stay in their homes ­until they got back from work. Instead, the c­ hildren had a c­ ouple of older

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­ omen in the community looking ­a fter them and even teaching them w skills to help them in school, and that could also be useful for their families or for earning money l­ ater on. Importantly, Dawn and Mary w ­ ere trusted, and each in turn respected and trusted Ron and Chase’s ­mother. For Dawn, whose childhood was difficult, the girls’ experiences particularly struck a chord with her. She observed that experiences of stigma and feeling unworthy w ­ ere already negatively affecting the girls’ self-­confidence and sense of their own intelligence. For her, it was imperative for her to positively affirm the girls’ views of themselves. Helping the girls was not only impor­tant for their well-­being; Dawn explained it benefited her psychological well-­ being, too. Working with the girls, seeing their minds spark with curiosity, and being part of their delight in accomplishing impor­tant tasks was a power­f ul antidote to the harmful psychological traps that seemed to beset the girls’ and Dawn’s daily lives. Networks of care only work if ­there is reciprocity, which was evident in residents’ interactions in both small and big ways each day in Syringa. Sharing News and Strategizing Responses In Allan Wallis’s book Wheel Estate, he describes the history of Trailer Estates, the first trailer park developed in the United States. At one point in his description, he shares an excerpt of an interview with Trailer Estates f­ounder Syd Adler, who notes, “The first ­factor in choosing the mobile home is the economy of providing comparable housing. The other significant f­ actor is community,” which he l­ater describes as the “intangible of the lifestyle that ­these parks provide.”34 Wallis then explains, “That intangible lifestyle includes close-­k nit neighborliness and the surveillance of strangers. Walk through the community on your own and residents ­w ill stop to inquire about your business; express an interest in where you live, and you receive a short history of the place.”35 Though Trailer Estates was conceived as a community in which residents owned, rather than rented, the land ­under their mobile homes, the observation that the lifestyle within the park included neighborliness and surveillance, as well as the experience of residents stopping you “to inquire about your business” sounded familiar to me.

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In my park visits, I observed that residents w ­ ere aware of visitors like me. Often when I visited specific residents, I asked if we could stroll through the park, b­ ecause I wanted to see what they w ­ ere seeing and, in ­doing so, to understand aspects of the park’s condition and neighbors’ experiences that may not come to mind by simply sitting at someone’s place. Most times when I was walking through the park, neighbors would show up on a stroll with a loved one and a dog and stop to discuss if anyone had heard of any new developments about the park they should know about. It was particularly lively when Shannon agreed to tour students from one of my classes throughout the park to explain the history and current status of Syringa. ­These could be very emotional encounters, especially as ­people ­were desperately trying to find housing in the spring of 2018. The emotional experiences of each h­ ouse­hold made ­these moments of neighborly sharing of news and strategies impor­tant to every­one’s collective m ­ ental and emotional health since all w ­ ere facing similar challenges and feeling the same negative effects of stigma ­every minute of the day. Neighborly, caring interactions help p­ eople ­process, or “metabolize,” the excess negative emotions that are heaped onto a person who is marginalized and feeling the effects of o­ thers’ “scorning down.”36 As individuals and families emptied their homes in preparation for moving out, one c­ ouple employed a strategy of writing large, publicly vis­i­ble graffiti and messages on their home’s exterior walls and posting signs in their front yard. In the special issue of the Moscow-­Pullman Daily News released on May 25, 2018, the journalist Garrett Cabeza described the rationale b­ ehind the graffiti: “C U IN HELL Magar,” was spray-­painted in red ­r unning paint on the home of Cindra Stark and her boyfriend, Robert Overturf. “I said (to Robert) just tell them how you feel. Just go for it, let it all out,” Stark said. The two have lived in the mobile home for 10 years, Stark said. Once only colorful on the inside—­walls of red, green, pink and black painted by Stark throughout the home—­the trailer is now tagged with colorful messages directed at Magar on the outside, the yard sprinkled with cardboard posters hurling accusations at the o­ wner. “We worked hard for our homes,” one sign read. “They gave us ­little money and tell us to walk away or we w ­ ill be arrested. WTF?”

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figur e 10. Emotional release expressed as messages spray-­painted on Cindra Stark and Robert Overturf ’s home, May 11, 2018. Courtesy of Dawn Tachell.

Robert wrote other messages, too: “It ­A in’t Right,” “RIP C Ya,” “RIP Syringa,” “Take Care Neighbors,” “Where are our RIGHTS? No where to move our homes,” “You gave Magar the right to take all our rights away!! And our homes!,” and “This is our home dam [sic] it!” A ­ fter Cindra and Robert let their feelings out via graffiti, many neighbors followed suit (Figures 10 and 11). Soon afterward, more and more homes w ­ ere spraypainted with messages expressing loss and residents’ anger directed at the park’s ­owner. A year before closing, however, residents like Shannon and Dawn ­were still worried about the park’s ongoing decline and continued speculative conversations about what they could do with the park, if residents w ­ ere the ones in charge. Dawn invited members from a local environmental nonprofit ­organization to look at the park’s open spaces and discuss how community gardens could be constructed and to inquire into how the ­organization might be able to help. They even went so far as to investigate tangible ways to r­ eally pursue owner­ship, most specifically through ROC USA, a “non-­profit social venture” that helps communities learn the steps to become a resident-­owned community (ROC).37 What Syd Adler

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figur e 11. Several homeowners had difficulty moving out of Syringa following its closure on June 5. One of the w ­ omen used humor: “­Free Beer To Anyone Who Brings Me Some,” June 13, 2018. Photographer: Leontina Hormel.

admired as the “intangible of the lifestyle” of trailer parks back in 1955 continued to serve Syringa’s residents all the way to its date of final closure. Reciprocal ­Acceptance It would be inaccurate to paint a romantic image of Syringa residents’ interactions as always cordial and caring. ­A fter all, even the closest ­family and friends ­w ill experience conflicts, and such tensions ­were usually pre­sent in Syringa. It would be impossible, however, to imagine that the stress of unpredictable ­water access and potential home loss ­wouldn’t increase tensions between even the closest of neighbors. Residents often ­were disappointed that ­others d­ idn’t agree with their assessment of the park ­owner’s intent, the role Idaho DEQ played in the crisis, or ­whether the class-­action lawsuit should have been avoided. Regarding the last of ­these issues, some residents wondered if they could have saved the park if the class-­action lawsuit h­ adn’t been filed.

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­ eople’s lifestyles conflicted with ­others’, too. Some complained about P one man who frequently drove through the park in his loud pickup truck, which sometimes had a large confederate flag waving from a pole standing in the ­middle of its bed. Residents felt he showed no concern for ­others’ desire to have peace and quiet. While interviewing Paul and Bonnie Myles, we needed to pause our conversation, as he passed their home. Paul grumbled, “Getting real tired of that, too. We hear that ­every morning.” Another man was considered a nuisance for nosing around and recording videos of ­people and their ­houses. He came up during my interview with Austin and Miranda. “­We’ve caught him in our yard taking pictures of our h­ ouse. I ­don’t have any re­spect for him,” complained Austin. One ­woman who earned money catching specimen butterflies to sell to research labs often startled a few of her neighbors who would find her chasing one down and waving around her butterfly net. Early one morning when Elaine Segal was alone packing up her belongings to move into an apartment in Moscow, she told me she heard “a bunch of clatter out ­behind my ­house.” ­Nervous to open her door to investigate, since many of the residents w ­ ere already moved out of Syringa, she cautiously walked to her backyard and “whoosh! ­There was Robin, dancing around with that ­little net of hers! My heart nearly ­stopped!” And it is true that t­ here ­were some ­house­holds that had many visitors, who neighbors suspected w ­ ere dropping by to sell or buy small amounts of drugs for personal use, or to simply to consume them. This activity both­ered many residents, though they tolerated ­these neighbors as long they kept to themselves about it. If they ­didn’t, p­ eople called the sheriff. Syringa was imperfect, as is life in any neighborhood and community.38 In ­every interview I conducted, residents had their complaints about neighbors and vari­ous kinds of disrepair that required attention, but they expressed sadness at the thought of moving out. ­These ­house­holds had built a life in their home, which spilled out into the park that had become community for them. When I was talking to Bob Bonsall on the phone four years ­a fter the park closed, he told me he still missed Syringa and was nostalgic about his life ­there. Unlike most every­one ­else, Bob lived in a considerably fancier home and neighborhood than he had in Syringa, but he still had trou­ble feeling relaxed and at home. He chuckled thinking about his neighbors in Syringa, who he could

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expect to be hanging out ­there with beers in hand and standing amid other cans that had casually been tossed in their yard. “­There would be ­music cranking outside sometimes, a real hillbilly fest,” he said with considerable amusement. “But we all did our own ­thing. I ­didn’t get into their business, and they left me alone, too. I miss it.” A Sanctuary in Nature Syringa’s idyllic setting amid the famous rolling hills of the Palouse and with a full view of Moscow Mountain and Paradise Ridge made up for many of the trou­bles residents experienced with a negligent park ­owner. ­There is no doubt residents faced considerable health ­hazards, most clearly the risk of exposure to contaminated w ­ ater and sewage backflows. Living in a community nestled amid large-­scale agricultural fields has other ­hazards, as well. Less often mentioned during my time with residents was the risk of chemical exposure from crop-­dusting, a risk that varied with the ­pilot operating the aircraft over dif­fer­ent years. Sara and Eric, a c­ ouple who lived in Syringa from 1996 to 2002, vividly described this during their interview: Eric: The crop-­dusting . . . Sara: [Chiming in] We just had to keep an ear open. Get your win­dows closed. It got to the point, the last ­couple years that we w ­ ere out t­ here—­I think they must have changed p­ ilots or something. The last ­couple of years we ­were out t­ here they would spray. You could see the paint peeling off your car within a ­couple of days. The seasonal crop-­dusting was a normal part of park life and residents only acknowledged it when I brought it up during conversations. Perhaps, it seemed so minor compared to losing w ­ ater and potentially losing one’s home. It is worth noting that many of the environmental harms residents faced could have been remedied quickly enough, had ­there been proper safety ­measures and mechanisms in place to monitor and protect environmental and ­human health. Most residents mentioned how the beautiful country location was impor­tant to their well-­being, feeling like it was a place to find peace.

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While Syringa spatially segregated a low-­income community from the visibly affluent city of Moscow, residents appreciated this detached space ­because p­ eople had the freedom to be themselves without the feeling of being watched and judged. The fact they could soak in the beauty of the area and appreciate wildlife—­moose, deer, coyotes, swans, red-­tailed hawk, ­giant salamanders, and hummingbirds—­was a significant source of ­pleasure and catharsis. They had something that a lot of ­people stuck in the city c­ ouldn’t enjoy, even in their much fancier homes. Another way to put this is that the park offered a rare chance for low-­ income working-­class p­ eople to enjoy environmental privilege. Lisa Park and David Pellow describe environmental privilege in the following way: “Environmental privilege is embodied in the fact that some groups can access spaces and resources, which are protected from the kinds of ecological harm that other groups are forced to contend with everyday. Th ­ ese advantages include organic and pesticide-­f ree foods, neighborhoods with healthier air quality, and energy and other products siphoned from the living environments of other p­ eoples.”39 The fact that such gorgeous views are largely reserved for ­houses built on 20-­or 40-­acre lots fetching prices around $1 million dollars was not lost on residents. As Dawn said many times, from her backyard she enjoyed a “million-­dollar view” (Figure 12). Dawn frequently described Syringa as her sanctuary, a place that allowed her to breathe and feel like a h­ uman with dignity as someone living with complex post-­traumatic stress syndrome, skin conditions, and peripheral blindness in one eye. Being around the noise and ­people in Moscow created stress. Her neighbor Elaine, in her seventies and diagnosed with lupus, also remarked how she enjoyed being on the edge of the park to enjoy the view of the mountain and the calm. On the other side of the park, nearer to the lagoons, Vincent Porter, who was a man with disabilities in his early thirties, remarked to me, “I enjoy the sound of the geese when they fly over my home to land on the ­water, or when they take off. I d­ on’t want to leave that. I w ­ ill miss it. When I hear them coming, I ­w ill step outside my ­house just to watch them and listen.” Nature-­human interactions are now understood to be a vital ­factor in improving and maintaining good psychological health, lead-

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figur e 12. Dawn Tachell posing with her pup Tippy22 in front of her home’s “million-­dollar view.” Photographer: Leontina Hormel.

ing researchers to call for urban planners to consider m ­ ental health wellness when evaluating benefits to green infrastructure.40 The double-­w ide home Aimee Pace lived in sat on a spacious and private lot right next to the sewage treatment lagoons. Most times of the year the lagoons looked more like a large pond, with ducks, geese, and even swans enjoying a carefree float on the w ­ aters. Supporting this fact, Shannon Musick described a day when she noticed a car parked just off Robinson Park Road and the presumed ­owner of it getting ready to fish on one of the lagoon’s banks. Chuckling, she recalled saying to the man, “I ­don’t think ­you’re ­going to want to eat the fish coming out of that pond. It’s full of shit!” The lagoons’ degradation meant the height and ­angles of the banks had softened over the ­decades, fooling just about anyone who d­ idn’t know any better that this was a natu­ral pond, teeming with waterfowl, muskrats, and even ­giant salamanders. In the height of summer, the algae built up, which could make the lagoons stink. Chris knew how to move the w ­ ater and add chemical treatment to avoid this, sometimes using a boat or floating sprinklers for aeration.41 Without ­these methods, the lagoons inevitably smelled bad

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during the late summer, but this could be ignored. Aimee had lived in this peaceful spot with her husband Chris for nearly two ­decades when she was forced to move out. A year before she had to move her home, she invested $1,500  in a deck that stretched from her back door. She could enjoy a morning coffee on it and see the sun rise over the ­water, watching the birds and absorbing its peace. Living just a few hundred yards from the lagoons, Denise James also lamented the very idea of having to move away from the open country and the interactions with nature—­the sights and sounds—­ she cherished in her home at Syringa. She sent me a Facebook message (with emoticons) at 7:30 p.m. in January 30, 2018, sharing a photo of the moon shining on the lagoons she had just taken on her mobile phone: Poop pond by night . . . ​ But as I hear the sounds of the geese stirring in the night and the coyotes howling in the distance, I think to myself . . . ​only 6 minutes to concrete jungle from ­here. . . . I’m so ­going to miss my home/spot ­here. Frogs crickets   the sounds h­ ere are amazing and the silence so peaceful. Makes me forget I live in a crappy park.

A Park O ­ wner Rewarded for Self-­Interest When a person owns a mobile home and pays rent for a lot in a park, they are dependent on a park ­owner’s priorities. While it is certainly pos­si­ble for a park ­owner to prioritize the safety and security of residents paying them lot rents each month, ­there is very ­little in landlord-­ tenant law that ensures an ­owner attends to ­these concerns for park residents, their tenants. Magar  E. Magar is an example of a landlord who ­limited his expenditures on his park and its residents’ security and well-­being. Years of patchwork maintenance led to a stained reputation for the park that reinforced the public’s negative perceptions of mobile home parks and the subsequent s­tereotypes about what kinds of ­people would choose to live ­there. The devolution of Syringa Mobile

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Home Park hurt and dismayed ­people who needed the affordability and the benefits of community identity and support. What looked like a disorderly place was a functional community for many residents, especially as they faced ongoing anx­i­eties due to negative publicity, contaminated ­water and random boil ­orders, and long overdue court settlements. No ­matter when p­ eople moved into Syringa, they wanted it to be a good place to live where they could form some kind of social connection and get on their feet in the hopes of living out some version of the American Dream. Magar, with l­ ittle oversight and l­egal incentive to do other­w ise, opted to collect rents and only minimally invest money back into the park’s ­water and sewage systems and other infrastructural improvements. When working as the only maintenance man­ag­er at Syringa between 1996 and 2011, Chris Pace could only do so much to patch ­things together. The stress of the work was felt in his marriage and affected his health. Unexpectedly, his heart gave out one day—­literally in mid-­stride—­while walking to someone’s home in Syringa. Chris was only 47 years old. His death was hard enough for Aimee and his f­ amily but was made worse by Magar’s insensitivity ­after the death of this loyal resident-­employee. Aimee Pace described her frustrations with Magar following her husband’s death: Aimee: ­A fter Chris passed, Magar actually talked to me about taking over and managing. He pretty much got told right where he could go. W ­ e’ll put it like this: he was a very uncompassionate employer. Leontina: What would be an example of that? Aimee: ­A fter Chris passed, I figure he worked for him for 15 years. Never got a gas card. Never got anything. We went through three vehicles on our own, ’cause ­there was no compensation. ­A fter he died, I managed to get one month’s worth of f­ ree lot rent. The next day, they cut the locks off of my personal sheds to see if I had trailer court property in them—­the same weekend that he passed! And then two weeks l­ ater I got a nice bill in the mail from them—of trailer court property that I needed to return, even as minor as shovels.

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Leontina: Wow. ­Here you are just dealing with the blows of—­ because I heard that it was a traumatic event. That this was unexpected. Aimee: Yeah. That’s what we got out of Magar. Conclusion Magar was undoubtedly responsible for letting Syringa decline. If he ­couldn’t afford to invest in the improvements, he always had the option to sell the property to someone ­else who might have applied for FHA-­backed loans to use t­ oward rehabilitating the park, which could have restored its infrastructural integrity and, by extension, the reputation of Syringa and its residents. The giardia cases in 1992 ­were proof of serious flaws in the park’s ­water and sewage systems, but stall tactics and insufficient improvements led to increased news media attention. This raised public awareness of Syringa’s prob­lems and undermined residents’ status, as though they ­were accomplices in the degradation. It certainly d­ idn’t help that Magar publicly accused “disgruntled p­ eople” of “deliberately overusing ­water.” His suspicions ­didn’t explain Syringa’s history with ­water shortage. It is difficult to say if another park ­owner would have invested more in Syringa, however. As we have seen, both Republican and neoliberal ­Democrat lawmakers increasingly advocated for the privatization of social programs and deregulation, with property o­ wners ultimately being left to self-­regulate. In a cap­i­tal­ist economic system, industries are driven by their ability to decrease costs so they may earn profits, and success is gauged by the ability to grow profits annually. This chapter suggests that in a system that emphasizes private enterprise and deregulation at the expense of social programs that protect working-­ class p­ eople, t­ here is ­little to systemically motivate landlords, including ­owners of mobile home parks, to do more than minimally invest in protecting environmental and ­human health. While it’s true that individual ­owners exist whose moral compass guides them t­ oward protecting their tenants, the prevalence of community w ­ ater system violations and mobile home park degradation throughout the rural United States indicates t­ hese individuals are the exception, not the rule.

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The degradation not only contaminates the physical space of parks and communities, but the reputations of the ­people and families living in places like Syringa, and further compounds the damages to residents physically, psychologically, and emotionally. Residents lost job opportunities and ­were snubbed simply by the “guilt” of having Syringa’s address. The ­people living in Syringa, though, shared similarities as a result of having the rare opportunity for affordable rent and to keep their pets. Many of them ­were low-­income working-­class ­people, and a large share lived with disabilities or ­were single caretakers who could put their lives together and live in dignity and peace in Syringa. They could prove their worth through informal work and building t­oward their ­career goals, respond to one another’s needs, enjoy refuge, and feel understood. All of ­these positive qualities constitute what I call a feminized community, which enacts the values of care, a­ cceptance, and dignity. In chapter  4, I pre­sent the three ­legal cases filed against Magar  E. Magar in 2012 and 2014, and the history of environmental violations at Syringa that puts into question the notion that the community’s tragedy was simply a ­matter of one particularly greedy individual. The chapter questions the ability of the dif­fer­ent ­legal codes in place to protect individuals from landlords’ abuses, particularly ­under the current system relying on property o­ wners’ voluntary compliance. Without adequate enforcement, ­there is greater risk of noncompliance, which ultimately reinforces a sense that the government never does anything right.

CH A P T E R 4

Voluntary Compliance Flushing the Public Good The tribes have always treated ­water as a medicine b­ ecause it nourishes the life of the earth, flushing poisons out of h­ umans, other creatures, and the land. We know that to be productive, w ­ ater must be kept pure. When ­water is kept cold and clean, it takes care of the salmon. —­Nimiipuu elder Levi Holt, cited in Landeen and Pinkham, 1999

Finding no genuine dispute as to any material fact, the Court concludes that Magar is liable ­u nder the CWA’s [Clean ­Water Act’s] citizen suit provision. Not only does Magar admit past illegal discharges from the Syringa sewage lagoons, he plans to continue illegally discharging if ­f uture weather conditions so require. Th ­ ese admissions are fatal to Magar’s defense. Worse, they demonstrate that Magar continues to regard the already-­i mpaired South Fork Palouse River as a sewer. —­Honorable Candy W. Dale, “Memorandum Decision and Order,” Idaho Conservation League v. Magar, June 5, 2014

The one that gets me, and I think p­ eople should ­really try to understand this if I get this right. We [referring to the Idaho Department of Environmental Quality as protector of the public interest] have issued [Magar] a certificate of compliance and in d­ oing so guarantees your safety ­because he has met this minimum standard. What’s hard to accept is I think Idaho has one of the lowest minimum standards in the nation. . . . ​­There’s r­ eally no enforcement. And that certificate of compliance in a court is a shield for the landowner against complaints and ­legal action from the tenants. I c­ an’t get this across to a lot of ­people when we sit down and have conversations about what I have tried to see done—­w ith of course no money, no l­ egal help. You would assume that when you go to talk to somebody, ­t hey’re gonna get up

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and make something happen on your behalf. It’s not true. It’s kind of a tough sell [chuckles]. —­Syringa homeowner Jim Ware at the “Syringa Speaks” public forum, January 29, 2018

December 2016—­Merry Christmas in Syringa On Wednesday, December 21, 2016, I received a photo in a Facebook message from Dawn. She and other residents had arrived home from work that day to find a l­ittle note duct-­taped to their doors. The note read: Dear resident, We are currently investigating a potential ­water line break in the park. ­There ­w ill be a leak test done tomorrow morning (Dec 22nd) between 8 a.m. and 10 a.m. ­going on u­ ntil the mid/late after­noon. This test is most effective when w ­ ater is not run through the system but we do not want to cut off the w ­ ater s­ ervice if it is not mandatory. So we are asking you to please keep ­water usage to a minimum during this time as we try to determine the source of the issue. We thank you for your help as we try to resolve this issue.

Though Dawn and some residents ­were usually at work during the hours outlined in the note, many other residents—­elderly and ­people with disabilities—­were stuck at home, most especially since it was the ­middle of winter. Like so many times before this, it looked like another day residents would need to use bottled ­water to drink, wash hands and dishes, and not much ­else. The next day, December 22, Dawn sent me another Facebook message that attached another photo. Once again, she arrived home to see a piece of paper duct-­taped to her door. This time it was a “Boil W ­ ater Advisory”: On 12/22/2016 we experienced a w ­ ater line break due to freezing temperatures. A drop in w ­ ater pressure is a signal of the existence of conditions that could include contamination to enter the distribution system through backflow, by backpressure, or back-­siphonage. As a result, ­there is an increased chance that the drinking ­water may contain disease-­ causing organisms.

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The advisory then explained the steps residents needed to follow to avoid illness from drinking the ­water and the actions the ­owner was taking to resolve the prob­lem. T ­ oward the bottom of the advisory was written the following assurance: “We w ­ ill inform you when you no longer need to boil your ­water. We anticipate resolving the prob­lem within 24–72 hours.” For residents, ­these boil ­orders induced a g­ reat deal of anxiety ­every time they w ­ ere posted, most obviously ­because they signaled an imminent threat to their physical health and well-­being, and to the health of any ­family members. In Dawn’s case, and for many ­others, she ­wasn’t just looking out for herself, but she was also caring for her husband, who was considerably older than her, and her el­derly ­mother—­both of whom had health conditions that qualified them for disability. Her unpaid social-­reproductive work of caring for loved ones with disabilities was not unique among residents living in Syringa. Trying to work full time, a half hour’s drive away, and look a­ fter her f­ amily was hard enough. Now, once again, Dawn had to anticipate how to make sure the ­family had enough ­water around that was safe to drink and bathe in, and, of course, that could be used to flush the toilets. Since she received the notice on a Thursday, she and every­one hoped the prob­lem could be fixed by the next day so they could have w ­ ater over Christmas weekend. I ­didn’t hear back from Dawn or other residents over the weekend, so I assumed that their w ­ ater had been restored. On Tuesday, December 27, 2016, I de­cided to spend some of my ­free time scrolling through Facebook. Amidst the images of ­tables filled with food, c­ hildren’s smiles as they showed off their pre­sents, and outdoor snow adventures, Latah County commissioner Tom Lamar’s post popped out: “­Today Dave McGraw and I delivered 500 gallons of ­water to Syringa. Their pipes froze again. W ­ ater came from Idaho Ice, paid for by Shelley Magar. Learn more about the situation on this NPR story by Daniel Zwerdling.”1 Lamar’s message included a link to an NPR story that had just appeared about Syringa and its ­water crisis, for which park residents and interested parties ­were interviewed in June. The gesture of hauling in cases of bottled w ­ ater was well intended, though this meant each ­house­hold would only receive 10 gallons of ­water when the average individual in the United States is estimated to use anywhere from 80 to 100 gallons of

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­ ater daily.2 In­ter­est­ing, too, was the detail that the bottled w w ­ ater had been “paid for by Shelley Magar,” Magar E. Magar’s d­ aughter, to whom he had transferred the park’s owner­ship about a year e­ arlier.3 According to a June 2014 mediation agreement, the o­ wner was obliged by the courts to supply supplemental clean ­water when park ­water was unsafe to drink or shut off. The detail that Shelley Magar had covered the cost also indicates a pre-­emptive assurance to county taxpayers that the commissioners ­hadn’t used county funds to provide the w ­ ater. It might have been reasonably assumed that the county would provide and cover the cost of emergency w ­ ater security for Syringa’s residents or residents in other county communities. However, by law, Syringa was considered private property—­a private business for which the o­ wner is held solely responsible for such ­things, even if the mobile home ­owners pay property taxes to the county each year. This separation between “private” and “public” responsibility frustrated broader, community-­level responses throughout the four years that Syringa residents waited for compensation for suffering damages of poor ­water and sewage systems. How residents shared their frustrations and pushed back is described in greater detail in chapters  5 and 6, which are about red tags and community eviction, respectively. Included in Commissioner Lamar’s ­water delivery announcement on Facebook w ­ ere images of Syringa from the NPR story’s webpage: one photo­graph featuring trash and abandoned propane tanks scattered in a yard and another that juxtaposed the trash with Dawn’s scenic-­verging-­on-­spectacular backyard view of Moscow Mountain. More images followed, which showed Lamar, Dave McGraw, and Shelley Magar’s boyfriend unloading cases of one-­gallon ­water jugs from the bed of a pickup truck into Syringa’s recreation center. The final image showed the cases stacked four deep, five wide, and four tall; three other cases topped the ­whole stack—­and one had been opened. All the cases w ­ ere neatly arranged in the m ­ iddle of the recreation center’s main room where the commissioner’s meeting with residents had taken place a ­little over a year and a half ago. This is the same room where Aimee Pace’s parents ­were married and held their wedding reception, where ­children’s birthday parties ­were held, and most likely where Clancy Olson threw extravagant Halloween parties for the community’s kids

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back in the early 1970s. The commissioners may not have been aware at the time, however, that Shelley Magar no longer left the recreation center open for residents’ use, and so once they drove away—­feeling like a good deed had been done—­the recreation center’s doors w ­ ere shut and locked tight. The cases of relief ­water ­were never distributed to the estimated 45 ­house­holds that w ­ ere ­going without w ­ ater in the park during this specific boil order. Shelley Magar did not fulfill the court agreement her ­father signed that promised to supply ­water to residents during emergencies. The commissioners’ intended good deed, gestured or not, was left unfulfilled, except as a photo op. Only a single day a­ fter the ­water was fi­nally restored to the park on December  28, 2016, Dawn wrote me again to tell me residents had received yet another boil order. Signaling her fatigue, she wrote, “It feels like it’s 2013 again.” The above vignette highlights the severity of Syringa’s drinking ­water prob­lems three years a­ fter the w ­ ater crisis hit the local newspaper’s front-­page headlines. Magar E. Magar had signed over the park to his ­daughter Shelley just a year ­earlier, but along with the park she also inherited three court decisions found against her ­father, all of which ­were being delayed at this point by bankruptcy proceedings he had initiated at the end of March 2015. The bankruptcy proceedings meant the value of her inheritance was likely g­ oing to be chipped away and, at the same time, any money she wished to withdraw from her estate’s account would have to be justified through a bankruptcy board. Meanwhile, residents who had no wealth to inherit to cover their rent, electricity, and other bills waited for the l­ittle bit of compensation her estate still owed them. All the while they never knew when another boil order would be duct-­taped to their doors. In the following sections, I summarize the three lawsuits filed against Magar E. Magar: a class-­action lawsuit representing Syringa’s residents, a community w ­ ater systems lawsuit filed by the Idaho Department of Environmental Quality (Idaho DEQ ), and a Clean ­Water Act (CWA) violation complaint filed by the Idaho Conservation League (ICL). The courts found in f­ avor of the plaintiffs for all three of ­these cases. During each of ­these lawsuits, Magar stalled on many of the court-­ordered actions required of him to resolve m ­ atters, which resulted in several court rulings of contempt. In all three lawsuits, the courts also ordered

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monetary fines against Magar that equated to hundreds of thousands of dollars. Most obvious to the media and the public throughout ­these four years of ­legal b­ attles was the severe and ongoing stress residents living in Syringa had to endure largely due to uncertainties about their daily living conditions and f­ uture circumstances. I begin my examination of the lawsuits with the class-­action suit that sought justice for Syringa’s residents. Class Action: What Are 93 Days without ­Water Worth? When Syringa’s drinking w ­ ater tests at the Idaho DEQ detected coliform bacteria in December  2013, the w ­ ater was declared unsafe for drinking and bathing. Shannon Musick agreed to be the on-­site man­ ag­er within five days of this and, at the same time, residents w ­ ere making calls to whomever they thought could help them in this dire situation. Among the o­ rganizations that could help was the University of Idaho ­Legal Aid Clinic (LAC). LAC’s purpose is to provide f­ ree l­ egal ­services to clients who are unable to afford them and to offer third-­year law students opportunities for practical training ­under the supervision of experienced law professors like Maureen Laflin and Jessica Long. Laflin, the director of LAC, recalled, “Well, we had calls from tenants as well as from legislators, and county commissioners, saying, ‘Can you do something about this?’ We talked to the prosecutor’s office. Nobody was ­really d­ oing anything at that point and so they asked if we would do something. And we said, ‘Okay.’ ”4 In agreeing to play an advocacy role, the LAC law faculty had to contemplate the time and money they could afford to mobilize to take on a class-­action suit on behalf of Syringa’s residents. But the gravity of Syringa residents’ circumstances proved too impor­tant to ignore—­they would make it work. Pursuing this lawsuit against the park ­owner was urgent, as Long, who was serving as LAC’s general practice supervisor, described:5 I mean . . . ​it started with just, we wanted ­people to have drinking ­water and Mr. Magar ­wasn’t providing drinking w ­ ater to the residents. They ­were just stuck out t­ here. P ­ eople w ­ ere walking three miles into town to fill ­water jugs, or filling w ­ ater jugs and just d­ oing sponge baths and

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­ hatever they could do. And so it r­ eally started just to get them w w ­ ater, which took about three months, or right around March 20th, or so, . . . ​ when the ­water fi­nally was declared safe to drink by DEQ. So, about a month ­a fter we filed our class action.

All told, from December 18, 2013, to March 20, 2014, Syringa’s residents went 93 days without any dependably clean drinking w ­ ater flowing through their faucets. The LAC team filed a class-­action lawsuit against Magar E. Magar and Syringa Mobile Home Park on February 26, 2014. According to the complaint filed, three individuals—­one renting a home from Magar and two homeowners—­represented “a class of ­people, similarly situated, who number around 150 residents, all of whom reside at Syringa.”6 The basis for the complaint read: “­There are questions of law and fact—­ including, but not l­imited to, inadequate ­water supply, contaminated ­water, poor sewage disposal s­ ervices, and Magar’s responsibility to the residents of Syringa—­that are common to the class.”7 LAC used state of Idaho and federal codes to substantiate the premise described in the class complaint. First, Idaho’s Manufactured Homes Residency Act says a landlord must “maintain in good working order, to the terminal point of ­service, electrical, ­water or sewer ­services applied by the landlord.”8 Further, landlords must ensure tenants’ safety and health, avoiding “a continuing violation of (i) any rule a­ dopted by the department of environmental quality governing public drinking ­water systems, and (ii) any rule a­ dopted by the department of environmental quality governing hazardous waste.”9 Second, Idaho Code requires landlords, generally, “to maintain in good working order the electrical, plumbing, heating, ventilating, cooling, or sanitary facilities supplied by the landlord.”10 In the case that the above l­egal protections are ­v iolated, residents are to give written notice “demanding specific ­performance to cure the violations” and a landlord must respond within three days.11 ­Later in this chapter, I describe the two environmental lawsuits, filed before the class-­action case, which helped LAC members substantiate the premise that residents ­were harmed and still at risk due to “inadequate w ­ ater supply, contaminated ­water, [and] poor sewage disposal ­services.”12

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The Three Tiers The LAC team proposed to the court that two subclasses of residents needed to be considered in seeking a settlement with the defendant.13 One subclass of residents specifically suffered financial losses in the county’s assessed values of their homes, b­ ecause of the decrepit ­water and sewage conditions in the park. I discuss this subclass further in chapter 5 in the context of the so-­called red tags that ­were used to at least temporarily condemn individual mobile homes. The other subclass of residents identified by LAC included all the estimated 150 residents who incurred losses during the 93 days they went without safe potable ­water. Residents had to travel to Moscow to fill jugs of ­water at dif­fer­ent locations in town or purchase jugs of ­water to transport back to the park. Some residents had no means to transport the w ­ ater, so they ­were dependent on ­others’ help, ­either friends or local charity groups. One can only imagine how challenging it would be to be clean and presentable for work u­ nder such conditions, one short step from being homeless. How do you do that, especially living three miles outside of the nearest town? Residents ­were forced to find facilities where they could bathe, including renting ­hotel rooms. To reiterate a passage in this book’s foreword where Dawn describes her experience preparing to gradu­ate from the University of Idaho at the end of spring term: “I had to ­humble myself to use the university showers that ­were available for the indoor swimming pool. I had interviews and meetings in the coming semester. I had to stand tall even amidst the park failures. I packed a bag everyday so that I could be ready for anything. It was extremely hard for me during this time. My PTSD [post-­traumatic stress disorder] kicked in. I was anxious, scared, and ashamed.” ­Others used the ­limited amount of bottled w ­ ater they had on hand to sponge bathe. Many ­were afraid of what was in the tap ­water. Amidst all this, the park’s ­water pipes froze during a severe cold snap when temperatures dipped to negative 15 degrees Fahrenheit. Apparently, this happened ­after someone working for the landlord Magar temporarily turned off the ­water. Between February 1 and 14, 2014, ­people ­couldn’t even use piped w ­ ater to flush their toilets. To add salt to the wounds,

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once the pipes ­were thawed, the restored pressure created a vacuum that forced sewage to back up through the drains in several residents’ homes, causing even more health risks. ­Those who ­were able to move out did so as soon as they could. The health risks w ­ ere too g­ reat. Kate was a member of one of the families that moved out in 2014, soon a­ fter the crisis. Sociologists who examine families’ responses to environmental threats and harms find that ­mothers typically take responsibility for protecting their c­hildren’s health and that in fact this is a social expectation of m ­ others.14 Concerns for her 18-­month-­old child’s health ­were the forefront of Kate’s motivations: “It made me just terribly uncomfortable to live somewhere with unsafe w ­ ater with a small child. That’s obviously not safe.” For Kate, figuring out how to access drinking and bathing w ­ ater before they could move out was incredibly challenging: I just bought w ­ ater at WinCo for $0.38 a gallon or w ­ hatever it is. Lots of p­ eople bought five-­gallon jugs with a spigot so they could use them on their ­counter. What should have happened, but never happened, was some sort of dishwashing solution. I took my dishes to Pullman and washed them at my aunt-­in-­law’s ­house ­because I ­wasn’t gonna wash dishes with that ­water [in Syringa]. Heating it up can concentrate some of the nasty algae stuff. I had a small child, so we e­ ither used paper plates or washed our dishes in Pullman. I feel like ­there has to be a fa­cil­i­t y, like, I ­don’t know, a church or something that has an industrial dishwasher that could have just opened it up for a l­ittle bit and let p­ eople wash dishes ’cause that’s ­simple. But that’s a ­g iant pain to not feel comfortable. At the time, I was a nanny, which was ­really helpful so I could bathe my child at work—­and myself—if every­one slept at the same time. My husband was looking for work and had nowhere to shower ’cause the ­water was turned off so often that you ­couldn’t guarantee that you could shower ever. Often, I would be ­going to work and step into the shower, and ­there was no ­water when ­there was the night before, or maybe ­there was at 2:00 a.m. when I checked to see if I could do a load of laundry. It made his job hunting way more difficult. He has a job now. He’s fine. He would come to campus and use the shower by the pool or the rec center or any—­you c­ an’t just ask random ­people for use of their showers.

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Leontina: That’s an excellent point, and it’s not like he was the only one that was needing a job that lives out of that park, right? Kate: No. ­People w ­ ere just stinky. No one’s gonna hire you if you come in stinky with dirty clothes. The LAC team recorded numerous accounts like Kate’s and Dawn’s. The three ­women who ­were the initial complainants when the class-­ action suit was filed reported t­ hese same types of experiences, which ­were not just incon­ve­nient but also compromised residents’ abilities to meet basic sanitary needs and conform to standards necessary for them to maintain social a­ cceptance at work and in everyday interactions. On February 5, 2015, District Judge John R. Stegner presided over the hearing to negotiate the Partial Settlement Agreement signed on February 4, 2015—­almost a year ­after the class action lawsuit had been filed by LAC. Early in 2014, Magar and his defense counsel ­were seemingly cooperative in seeking solutions. Their tone shifted dramatically with proposed settlement agreements. In August  18, 2014, the defendant’s counsel questioned how the LAC team calculated par­tic­u­lar costs to residents: “Although the Plaintiffs contend that residents at Syringa ­were forced to purchase alternative ­water by driving to town (though the Plaintiffs l­ ater claim in their brief that residents could not drive to town), local charities donated large amounts of ­water to the residents at Syringa during this period, which the charities obtained at hugely discounted prices, or at cost from Idaho Ice.” Court documents between 2014 and 2015 are filled with t­ hese types of qualifications and quibbles challenging the expenses and sacrifices Syringa’s residents tallied while living in homes with no safe ­water. This reluctance to accept ­legal responsibility for safe ­water provisioning was also evident in the ­owner’s failure to provide alternative safe ­water to residents the numerous times boil ­orders ­were issued from 2014 to 2018, as well. Magar’s be­hav­ior came across as flagrant abuse of his power as a park ­owner, or at minimum willful ignorance, leading Judge Stegner to issue a restraining order on July 2, 2014, and several court ­orders of contempt against Magar. Local newspapers followed the intrigue of Magar’s conduct in this case closely (Figure 13). A big step forward for residents took place in early February  2015. Both parties agreed to s­ ettle on two of three tiers that w ­ ere developed

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figur e 13. A student cartoonist’s summary of Magar E. Magar’s defense. Courtesy of University of Idaho student newspaper the Argonaut. Cartoonist: Aly Soto.

to reflect residents’ specific circumstances in Syringa. One group represented the residents—­both homeowners and renters—­who lived at the park when the crisis started and endured the 93-­day ­water crisis. The agreement covered the compensation for this group via a Tier One and a Tier Three, and is summarized as follows: Cover and Indignity Damages—­Tier One. Defendant s­ hall pay damages to current and former residents of Syringa in the amount of $2,000 per mobile home unit. Special Damages—­Tier Three. Referring to “any out-­of-­pocket ex­penses incurred due to Defendant’s inadequate operation and maintenance of the fresh w ­ ater and wastewater systems at Syringa. Examples of such

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expenses include, but are not ­limited to, purchase of potable ­water, hand sanitizer, ­hotel rooms, ­water filters, and hot ­water heaters.”15

The framing for Tier One “Cover and Indignity Damages” identified the financial costs to residents as well as the “indignities” they suffered b­ ecause of the crisis. Dawn described being “anxious, scared, and ashamed” when forced to shower among young, middle-­class ­women students at the university. Kate explained how p­ eople simply get “stinky” a­ fter so much time without bathing, which can interfere with professional appearance and for ­people like her husband who ­were job hunting. ­These personal accounts are just a few ways Syringa residents experienced losses to their dignity and possibly their livelihoods and employment also. In her examination of land dispossession during apartheid in South Africa, ­legal scholar Bernadette Atuahene describes how property loss, e­ ither b­ ecause of individual or state actions, affects p­ eople beyond the narrow m ­ easure of economic value.16 Emotional, cultural, and social losses are also woven into ­people’s property. For this reason, Atuahene proposes the sociolegal concept of dignity takings to conceptually broaden how we interpret property loss. Social bonds and emotional and cultural investments are valuable aspects of living in a home and a community. Esther S­ ullivan extends Atuahene’s concept of dignity takings to her research that followed residents forced to relocate from mobile home parks in Florida and Texas.17 ­People she interviewed described feeling “disposable” and like “trash” as they watched their homes being bulldozed or hauled away b­ ehind moving trucks.18 For Syringa residents, losing safe ­water and seeing no comprehensive response to ensure they ­were provided backup w ­ ater supplies led to their increasing awareness that they w ­ ere “invisible,” a feeling Dawn described to me often during our conversations. When you are invisible you do not ­matter, and no one is held accountable for having injured you. Residents’ property in Syringa comprised the mobile homes as physical structures, plus contents and functionalities, including the potable ­r unning w ­ ater piped into them. If residents ­were valued and seen, the ­owner would be held accountable for supplying safe ­water, ­whether the wells w ­ ere working, or not. ­Water and sewer, ­a fter all, ­were contractually included in the monthly rent they paid. By including “indignity damages” in Tier One

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of the Partial Settlement Agreement, the court recognized damages ­were not just economic but included the less vis­i­ble features onlookers might not perceive, notably the social, emotional, and cultural values integral to residents’ identities as mobile home o­ wners and renters within an ­actual community.19 My accounts of red tags and closure in chapters 5 and 6 develop the dimensions under­lying dignity takings further. The February 4, 2015, agreement was partial since settlement could not be reached for Tier Two. As explained in the proposed agreement:20 Loss of Property Value—­Tier Two. A settlement was not reached on the issue of damages claimed by the residents who own their mobile homes for an alleged loss in the value of their homes ­because of Defendant’s inadequate operation and maintenance of the fresh ­water and wastewater systems at Syringa. An evidentiary hearing on ­these damages ­will be held before the Honorable John R. Stegner on March 31 and April 1, 2015.

The evidentiary hearing slated for March  31 and April  1 never took place. On March 27, 2015, Magar E. Magar filed for bankruptcy ­under Chapter 13, which ­under ordinary circumstances “stays certain collection and other actions against the debtor and the debtor’s property.”21 Magar used a tactic that only wealthy corporations and individual defendants have at their disposal, to use bankruptcy to stall ­legal proceedings, and potentially reduce financial and other penalties against them.22 Just days before meeting to reach a final settlement, Magar’s filing for bankruptcy ceased all actions to collect court-­ordered awards from him, the defendant, to the plaintiffs, including Tier One that had been signed into the agreement on February 4. Residents ­wouldn’t see ­legal compensation for their financial and dignity losses for a long time still, not u­ ntil four years a­ fter Idaho DEQ had first found fecal coliform in Syringa’s ­water and declared it unsafe. The two environmental cases helped the LAC team substantiate their claims, enabling them to eventually reach a settlement for residents via bankruptcy court proceedings. In the following sections, I summarize ­these cases ICL and Idaho DEQ filed against Magar, then examine Idaho DEQ archival materials to illustrate how the agency’s reliance on ­owners’ voluntary compliance over ­decades frustrated its  mission to protect waterways and public health—an experience w ­ itnessed across the United

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States. When I spoke with Idaho DEQ regional administrator Michael Camin, he noted the difficulty of trying to protect residents when park ­owners focus on business—­their bottom line—­over what is good for the ­people leasing and living on their land: “Well, and even with the Magars, we eventually started working with his ­daughter Shelly as well, and she was much more open to resolving some of ­these situations. [But] she also looked at the numbers and said it’s cheaper to close than to comply, which that’s a business decision. W ­ e’re not gonna regulate business decisions. Unfortunately, in the situation, t­ hose business decisions affected ­people’s living conditions, but we ­can’t regulate that. That’s outside of our scope of work.” The upcoming sections illustrate what he meant when he said, “­We’re not gonna regulate business decisions.” The Two Environmental Cases The ­water crisis that unfolded December  2013 to March  2014 at Syringa is best understood as a tragedy that arose from structural weaknesses built into the park’s original infrastructure and functionality, along with d­ ecades of minimal investment in drinking w ­ ater and wastewater systems improvements at Syringa. At the same time, ­legal protections for tenants and the environment w ­ ere weak and lightly enforced. When combined, t­ hese weaknesses spelt imminent disaster for Syringa’s residents and the ecosystem where the park was sited. As chapter 3 explained, since very few mechanisms are in place for counties and agencies to encourage investments, the extent of rural park maintenance is dependent on a park ­owners’ own personal motivations. Two environmental lawsuits made headlines ­toward the end of Syringa’s life as a community. Both lawsuits w ­ ere based on a set of complaints reflecting dif­fer­ent forms of responsibility that all rural park ­owners are obligated by law to perform to protect the health and safety of their residents. What became clear to me as I reviewed reports and correspondences stretching from 1968 to 2008 was that Magar—as reluctant as he was to invest significantly in the park’s infrastructure—­ had purchased a park that had been built before public safety standards had been set and, as such, was riddled with ill-­conceived design. Moreover, county codes that applied when building rural mobile home parks

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­ ere less restrictive than their counterpart urban municipal codes. w Magar’s pinch-­penny approach to maintaining the park of course exacerbated existing prob­lems. It was a perfect storm, which ultimately ended with court ­battles, bankruptcy, and park closure. Idaho Conservation League v. Magar E. Magar

On July 21, 2012, the Boise-­based environmental nonprofit ICL filed the first of the three major lawsuits against Magar.23 ICL alleged that ­under the CWA Magar had unlawfully discharged pollutants into the South Fork Palouse River without the required National Pollutant Discharge Elimination System (NPDES) permit.24 ­These discharges ­violated the total maximum daily load for contaminants that Idaho DEQ set in 2007 for the river, which is identified as an “impaired waterway.” As an impaired waterway, “the South Fork Palouse exceeds the IDEQ’s standards for sediment, temperature, nutrients, and bacteria (e.g., E. coli).”25 When the complaint was first submitted in July 2012 and publicized in local news, ICL’s attorney David Bricklin explained, “The group filed the lawsuit ­because the Environmental Protection Agency [EPA] and Idaho Department of Environmental Quality ­don’t have the money to enforce anti-­pollution laws.”26 Idaho DEQ’s lack of financial resources is arguably a deliberate sabotage, via chronic underfunding, of government’s regulatory role as protector of citizens and the environment. As a representative of the public interest, ICL was able to step in and file a complaint as a citizen suit, an option made pos­si­ble in the CWA. Syringa’s wastewater system was designed to collect ­water via stormwater and sewage pipes installed throughout the park that eventually discharged into a network of three lagoons intended to progressively ­process contaminants (Figure  14). This system was built in the early 1960s and modified in 1967 to treat sewage for 100 homes. Since design, construction, and modifications w ­ ere completed before the EPA and Idaho DEQ existed, the lagoon was grandfathered in.27 In fact, in the height of construction of rural mobile home parks in Idaho during the 1960s and 1970s, lagoon systems ­were a ­popular, ­simple design of treating sewage by using soil and groundwater to filter, dilute, and disperse concentrated contaminants and prevent runoff into CWA-­protected waterways. Michael Camin explained,

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figur e 14. Facing west overlooking Syringa Mobile Home Park and its sewage lagoons, July 3, 2018. Drone photographer: BJ Swanson.

For a lot of ­these smaller trailer parks, just digging a lagoon was a ­popular option. Doc Wallace at [the University of Idaho] helped put a lot of ­these in during the ’70s—to his credit, honestly, ­because ­people ­were looking for cheap methods of wastewater disposal, and they worked. It’s got good treatment. ­You’ve got good evaporation. ­You’ve got lagoons that are 30–40 years old, and t­ here’s very l­ittle settling on the bottom of it if ­you’re ­doing proper maintenance. But, if you just ignore them and ­don’t do anything, what is it gonna do? The designers ­can’t take that into consideration, but we have a lot of ­these lagoon systems. Another one is, in the ’50s, ’60s, ’70s, they w ­ ere also built to seep into the groundwater. Well, we ­don’t allow that anymore.28

The maintenance of Syringa’s lagoon system ­didn’t keep up with the vari­ous destructive ele­ments. ­A fter years of weather and vari­ous critters like muskrats burrowing into the lagoons’ embankments, their structural integrity weakened. The system ultimately functioned as a single lagoon t­ oward the park’s l­ ater years. Yet, before the severe dilapidation of the lagoons’ embankments, ­there ­were already instances when untreated wastewater breached the southeastern corner of the system and discharged into the South Fork

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Palouse River. If such breaches are a risk, it is pos­si­ble for an ­owner to apply for an NPDES permit. Reviews for permits consider the existing health of the waterway and the treatment ­measures in place to reduce contaminant levels of the ­water introduced during breaches. Without a permit, discharges from wastewater treatment systems into waterways are considered violations of the CWA. According to ICL, the park’s sewage lagoons w ­ ere overflowing into the river during wet seasons, which elevated the E. coli bacteria levels in the South Fork Palouse River. This allegation was supported with an Idaho DEQ report, which assessed “that E. coli levels in the river downstream from the Syringa Mobile Home Park must be reduced by 41% to comply with Idaho’s w ­ ater quality standards and to support secondary contact recreation.”29 The court ruled in ­favor of the plaintiff on June 5, 2014, finding the defendant Magar in violation of the CWA’s mission to protect and restore U.S. waterways and showing an intention to discharge pollutants into the South Fork Palouse River in the f­ uture. Idaho Department of Environmental Quality v. Magar E. Magar

A ­little over a month ­a fter the w ­ ater crisis unfolded with fecal coliform levels first being found to exceed the maximum contaminant level (MCL) in Syringa’s drinking ­water, Idaho DEQ filed a complaint to Idaho District Court.30 Idaho DEQ’s complaint, submitted on January 31, 2014, alleged Magar had v­ iolated the Idaho Environmental Protection and Health Act, Idaho Rules for Public Drinking ­Water Systems, and Idaho Wastewater Rules. The complaint included 15 counts against Magar, all of which the court judged in ­favor of the plaintiff and ordered the actions recommended on June  11, 2014. Most of the counts ­were resolved according to the court order in June 2014, though the court still found Magar in contempt twice between November 2014 and January  2015 for failing to resolve all counts. In the second case of contempt, District Judge John Stegner found Magar committed three of the four instances alleged by Idaho DEQ. For both the ICL and Idaho DEQ lawsuits filed against Magar, the monetary awards established ­were delayed.

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How Mobile Home Parks O ­ ught to Operate ­ ere are basic, legally mandated rules and pro­cesses in place when Th someone owns and operates a ­water and sewage system in a rural mobile home park. Th ­ ese rules are acted on at the state level and must meet minimum standards outlined in federal law. The ­legal standards for w ­ ater quality and wastewater management fall u­ nder the CWA. Originally passed ­under the Nixon administration in 1972, the CWA seeks to limit the discharge of sewage and contaminants into U.S. waterways. When signed into law, the legislation stipulated federal financing of municipal wastewater treatment facilities, minimum standards for toxic discharges into U.S. waterways, and the “authority for ­legal actions by private citizens to enforce water-­quality standards.”31 The CWA also stated the following commitment: “Wherever attainable, an interim goal of ­water quality which provides for the protection and propagation of fish, shellfish, and wildlife and provides for recreation in and on the w ­ ater should be achieved by 1981.”32 ­Later, in 1974, Congress passed the Safe Drinking W ­ ater Act to protect and monitor the ­water quality of public drinking ­water systems in the United States. ­Under the rules developed to protect waterways of the United States and public drinking w ­ ater, Syringa Mobile Home Park is categorized as a “very small community ­water system [CWS]” ­because it has at least 25 ­water and sewage connections to homes that are used all year.33 According to the guidelines, the park falls within the rules supervisors of any public or community w ­ ater system must follow to be considered “in com­ ese laws, combined pliance,” or acting within the bounds of the laws. Th with state landlord-­tenant codes and the Idaho Manufactured Homes Residency Act as applied in the Syringa vs. Magar class-­action lawsuit, oblige park ­owners (landlords) to maintain health and safety. So even though laws exist to protect tenants residing in mobile home parks from landlord negligence that may put their health and safety at risk on paper, t­ hese protections appear inadequate. Tenants are still left with only litigation to correct landlords’ failures, which only the well-­fi nanced can afford to do. Syringa residents thus had l­ittle ­actual recourse, given their financial limitations—­a point made clear in Jim

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Ware’s comment at the beginning of this chapter. ­Later, I ­w ill pre­sent more about residents’ strategies and efforts to demand corrections. What Is Voluntary Compliance?

Since the ­owner of a rural mobile home park like Syringa owns the ­water and wastewater systems, they are responsible for monitoring and maintaining them. Idaho DEQ’s regional administrator Michael Camin explained in one interview: “So in regard to drinking ­water and wastewater, we actually d­ on’t do the monitoring ourselves. Th ­ ese are self-­regulating systems. Th ­ ere is a set of rules and regulations and whoever the ­owner of the system is, ­they’re responsible for compliance with all state and federal regulations.”34 ­Owners of drinking ­water systems are expected to follow the rules for monitoring bacteria and other contaminants. Since bacteria can cause serious illness, CWS ­owners are expected to conduct bacteria tests e­ very month. It is reasonable to assume that individuals who own properties with private drinking and wastewater systems may not know a lot about the systems’ technical operations. Thus, ­owners must designate state-­licensed operators for the well systems and for the wastewater treatment systems. In the case of Syringa, Magar was designated the operator for both systems in the park, despite living over six hours away by car. This was accepted as compliant by the agency, though Idaho DEQ’s initial complaint to the District Court in January 2014 noted two prob­lems with the arrangement: one, no substitute operators ­were designated in case Magar was difficult to contact during an emergency and, two, Magar was not formally licensed to serve as an operator for the wastewater treatment fa­cil­i­ty.35 The above arrangements make residents in rural mobile home parks like this vulnerable. If the o­ wner is completely responsible for monitoring and maintaining ­water and wastewater systems, your health and the health of the surrounding ecosystem are both equally in their hands and fully dependent on what their goals are in owning the park. As private property, rural mobile home parks are feudalistic in their design36—as a mobile home o­ wner you have control of the structure you live in, but the land, w ­ ater, and waste removal are nearly entirely up to the landlord. ­There are examples of landlords committed to using

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part of their monthly collected rents ­toward reinvestment in park facilities. Yet the light touch of “self-­regulation” or “voluntary compliance” enables a park o­ wner (the landlord) to pocket all the rent payments. Ongoing efforts by lobbyists and pro-­business legislators to loosen CWA restrictions federally further enable this kind of irresponsible be­hav­ior since they reduce penalties to ­owners who accumulate rent money and do the minimum necessary to keep facilities ­r unning safely. Even in the case of this one individual park o­ wner, Magar E. Magar, we can observe that current approaches to environmental compliance are inadequate. Magar had built a poor reputation as a mobile home park ­owner not just in Idaho, but in Oregon as well. News sources report he was fined at least twice in 2001 and 2008 for releasing raw sewage into the Columbia River from Riverwood Mobile Home Park located south of Rainier, a town west of Portland, Oregon.37 One article about his 2008 violations, which led to a $9,450 fine from Oregon DEQ , describes Magar as “an Oregon man long at odds with Rainier and Kelso officials about derelict properties.”38 While Syringa residents ­were pursuing a class-­action lawsuit against Magar, he was also facing 14 criminal indictments for violations associated with Riverwood in Oregon.39 Agencies and local officials ­were aware he had repeatedly allowed facilities to fall into disrepair, yet he continued to operate his parks unabated and stubbornly maintained his refusal to invest in long-­ lasting improvements. Magar’s case is not the only one in which CWA enforcement has fallen short, leading ­organizations like the National Association of Clean ­Water Agencies to call for a change in state and federal enforcement paradigms.40 ­These situations are difficult for regulatory agencies like the EPA and DEQs to fix, and this drew criticism from several residents in Syringa. Jim was a regular critic of Idaho DEQ , having over the years seen it repeatedly issue warnings to Magar with ­little evidence of the ­owner ever complying. When expressing his frustrations over the years with Idaho DEQ , Jim explained, “At the time that we moved in [in 2000], allegedly the Idaho DEQ had just gotten done forcing him [Magar] to do some t­ hings that would have improved the w ­ ater and sewer. We had repeatedly heard how ‘­things have been changed.’ ‘­We’ve all turned the corner.’ ‘Life’s good’ [chuckles]. Yeah, well, it d­ idn’t last long.”

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When I asked the Idaho DEQ regional administrator about this criticism directed at the agency, he explained candidly: Yeah. If you look at the regulation in general, specific to Syringa, Magar was the ­owner of a public wastewater system and the ­owner of a public drinking w ­ ater system. He was the responsible party for compliance with all applicable laws. It’s not DEQ’s responsibility for him to comply. It was his responsibility for him to comply. DEQ’s responsibility was to evaluate it and say, “Hey, Magar, y­ ou’re deficient ­here, h­ ere, and h­ ere. You need to get that back in order.” The ­process that we have, basically, is: Ask nicely. Ask tersely. Issue administrative penalties and try and get a consent order, which is still voluntary at that point ­because they would have to sign it. And, if all of ­those pro­cesses fail, then our next option is to go to District Court, and that is what happened in Magar’s case. We asked nicely. We asked tersely. We asked him to initiate a consent order. He did not sign the consent order. We initiated District Court. Then he filed for bankruptcy, and that was a w ­ hole new world that I’ve never experienced before. And ­we’re still in bankruptcy t­ oday.

You would think that the risks and complications associated with owning and monitoring a community ­water system would be seen as a major downside to purchasing a rural mobile home park. In my research, though, I learned that for ­those who run a park as a business, owning the ­water and wastewater systems can be seen as advantageous. When walking through Syringa with Shelley Magar during an interview in June 2016, I remarked that it must be a real headache having to deal with the ­water system instead of letting the city of Moscow manage it. She remarked, “Actually, it is way better to own it.” Her answer took me by surprise. When I asked Idaho DEQ engineers why more park o­ wners ­don’t try to connect to municipal ­water systems when ­viable, Michael Camin explained, ­There are benefits to tying into the city [­water system]. ­There are drawbacks to tying into the city [­water system]. It’s not one that we can just clearly say, “Oh, this is the best t­ hing ever.” Leontina: What are the drawbacks? Michael: Billing is usually the number one. It’s usually fairly expensive to tie in. ­There are also potential operational costs. ­Will the city take the pipes? If the city provides w ­ ater, are they

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gonna provide it to each resident individually, or are they gonna provide it to the outskirts of the system? Where does that line get drawn—­who’s responsible where? Some of that ambiguity becomes a challenge, so that would be something that [an o­ wner] would have to look at. The cost to tie in is prob­ably the number one issue. Sometimes it’s just not feasible. From the entrepreneurial park ­owner’s standpoint, the costs and complications associated with connecting to a stable, safer municipal w ­ ater source can be a deterrence. The circumstances Camin explained make it difficult for any park o­ wner to consider the investment, and this is evident when looking at the extent of ­water and wastewater crises we are facing both nationally and specifically h­ ere in the state of Idaho. A Flawed System Grandfathered In For several d­ ecades before the 2013–2014 ­water crisis, engineers from county-­and state-­level agencies warned ­owners and man­ag­ers of the serious design flaws of the existing well and sewage systems in Syringa. ­These significant prob­lems ­were not obvious to families residing t­ here early on; the park was beautiful and peaceful, but the infrastructure that should have ensured safe drinking ­water and sanitary sewage disposal was weak. As early as December 30, 1971, Regional Public Health Engineer Arthur  W. Vant Hul warned the original ­owner Clancy Olson, “Your ­water system is fairly serious.” 41 The engineer listed several wells that did not meet the code. Of the worst prob­lems, “Well #3 sets in between several trailers with the sewer on one trailer within 25–30’ of the well. This cannot be tolerated as no tight sewer is allowed closer than 50’ from a well. The area within a 50’ radius of the well should not contain sewers, buildings other than t­ hose connected with the well, trailers, or any other units which might contribute to the contamination of the well.”42 Not only did the well system have issues in the early years, but so did the sewage lagoons. A “Preliminary Staff Evaluation on Effluent Limitations for the Syringa Mobile Home Park,” dated March 26, 1979, noted that the park “has a self-­contained lagoon system which has recently

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been reported to overflow during heavy rains.”43 ­Later in this evaluation, the authors observed, “The nearest receiving ­water for any overflow is the S.F. Palouse River. The S.F. Palouse River is presently considered to be a Class A ­water and protected for all uses. However, the S.F. Palouse River suffers from many ­water quality prob­lems associated with runoff from dryland farming and other nonpoint sources.44 ­These prob­lems include turbidity, suspended sediment, nutrients, and bacteria.”45 ­A fter Magar purchased the park in 1979, incidents associated with weaknesses in the systems and the ­owner’s seeming noncompliance grew. On November 17, 1982, a w ­ ater pressure violation was identified during an extensive sanitation survey. In fact, Idaho DEQ rec­ords indicate that this likely happened regularly ­until sometime in 1986 when it was realized park management regularly shut off the well pumps at night to ration ­water usage and to restore ­water supplies in the storage tanks. One disturbing incident was reported by an agency staff member on December 4 and 5, 1985, which documented the events leading to a decision to issue a boil order at the park: 12-4-85—­ . . . ​I also inquired about the ­water that had been delivered and was informed by Mr. Peck that the McGregor Com­pany from Pullman delivered the w ­ ater (approximately 5,000 gal.). 12-5-85—­A nalyzed information gained from the pumping field tests. Mr.  Magar (­owner), Chuck Uhlenkott, Everett Peck, John Moeller (Lewiston Field Office Supervisor) w ­ ere notified of my findings. . . . ​At approximately 3:00 p.m. I contacted McGregor Com­pany of Pullman and discussed how the ­water was delivered. Mr. Pat Emery stated the ­water was taken from a private well and delivered in a liquid fertilizer tank that had been rinsed out, prob­ably twice. He also said he wrote on the ticket “not certified for ­human consumption” which Peck signed. The fertilizer type that had been in the tank was Ammonium Ortho-­ polyphosphate and Ammonium Thiosulphate. Mr. Emery said he tasted the ­water before it went out and he could not detect a salt taste that he associates with fertilizer. ­A fter discussing the situation with John and George it was de­cided to isolate the reservoir from the active ­water system and issue a boil order notice.46

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When I reviewed the Idaho DEQ rec­ords, I noticed that incidents like ­these grew in number over the 1980s—­and so did residents’ concerns. One of the first indications that residents w ­ ere getting apprehensive about their drinking w ­ ater was a public meeting the Idaho Division of Environment held at the park’s recreation center on April 29, 1986, to explain how w ­ ater quality was monitored and to assure residents of its safety. A ­woman living in Syringa, Sheri, sent a letter to the Division of Environment supervisor on July 7, 1986, explaining the distressing circumstances in the park: We have ­water most of the time but it is of questionable quality. We feel that the young engineer assigned to this prob­lem means well but is afraid to take definitive action against our absentee landlord. We, as tenants, feel that this has become a stalling game that e­ very one benefits from but us. We are the ultimate losers. On at least two occasions that we know of inferior w ­ ater has been introduced into our system. We shudder at the thought of the number of times that we d­ on’t know about. All of us out ­here have experienced losses. The losses are ­either the direct kind, loss of work days ­because of illness or loss of ­water heater ele­ments when the tanks are drained by the system or the indirect loss of value on our property. We feel neglected and ignored. Granted, our homes are “mobile,” but the truth is that ­there are no vacancies at decent mobile home courts in the Moscow area. The only other vacancies are in another court owned by Mr. Magar and it is, to put it mildly, a slum.47

Sheri sent another letter on July 22, 1986, to describe a meeting Magar had “with some of the tenants.”48 ­A fter remarking on vari­ous steps the park o­ wner said he would take to resolve w ­ ater shortages, some of them ignoring the Division of Environment’s instructions, Sheri warned, “He regards the Division of the Environment as being overly cautious. Please continue to be cautious for our sakes. Mr.  Magar d­ oesn’t live ­here and does not appear to be concerned about us.”49 This same year, the Idaho DEQ pursued a more serious step: a Consent Decree signed in December 1986 that included oversight over Magar from the state of Idaho Attorney General’s Office to enforce improvements to Syringa’s ­water well infrastructure.50 Even the Consent Decree ­didn’t lead to significant improvements, however. According to a letter addressed to the

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park man­ag­er on April  13, 1988, the Idaho DEQ s­enior w ­ ater quality specialist, George M. Dekan, warned ­there had been MCL violations for coliform bacteria. Dekan reported in the letter that the department conducted a sanitation survey of the park’s well system and found “that a number of deficiencies need correction” and “since the system is operating u­ nder a Consent Decree a copy of this report is being forwarded to the Attorney General’s office for further l­egal consideration.”51 The tone of the letter grew sterner: “We are concerned that the supply wells are of low capacity and declining. . . . ​Being without ­water would not only be a ­great incon­ve­nience to the 89 families that depend on this system but would also create health h­ azards and places the o­ wner of the system in violation of the Consent Order (copy attached) and subject to penalties.”52 Another w ­ oman living in Syringa, Deborah, wrote a letter addressed to Magar on August 26, 1988, describing that “last night” tenants ­were told they “­shouldn’t bathe, wash dishes or use any w ­ ater ­until midday ­today.”53 In her conclusion, Deborah advised, “I do think the time has come for you to do a bit of investing in this investment of yours.” In reading the reports and correspondences over the 1980s, it struck me that w ­ omen residents stuck their necks out to complain about their landlord’s negligence—­efforts that could have provoked retaliation. ­Women ­were also most likely to take proactive steps during and ­a fter the w ­ ater crisis—­the three individuals representing the initial class-­ action complaint w ­ ere, in fact, w ­ omen. I ­w ill examine this pattern further when discussing trailer park politics in chapter 8. The 1990s Court ­Battles Commence: We Asked Nicely. We Asked Tersely. Despite having multiple wells in the park and a lagoon system capable of h­ andling the wastewater, Syringa had serious deficiencies as a park home to 100 families: the w ­ ater supply was insufficient for 24-­hour use; the ­water system lacked safeguards against contamination; and, for some reason, the southeast end of the lagoons was prone to overflows during wet seasons. Th ­ ese flaws w ­ ere well known among environmental engineers as well as the park man­ag­ers who tried to address

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violations warnings. One assumes Magar understood the issues with the park as t­ hese agency warnings multiplied. All ­these concerns would largely be left out of the public’s view. Eventually, though, residents grew concerned, most especially when two of them fell ill from bacteria that entered the drinking ­water system and then their bodies. As I noted in chapter 3, two park residents reported giardia symptoms, which prompted the Idaho DEQ to institute a boil order and investigate Syringa’s drinking ­water and sewage systems. The investigation turned up numerous violations in the state w ­ ater quality code. For instance, in a tape-­recorded meeting with DEQ staff and Mary, one of Syringa’s on-­site man­ag­ers during the 1992 giardia reports, one engineer noted that the well Regional Public Health had told Clancy Olsen to disconnect over two d­ ecades e­ arlier on December 30, 1971, was still active.54 During the same meeting, engineers described their frustrations at having no maps for the “crazy” network of pipes and electrical conduit buried throughout the park. Without knowing how pipes w ­ ere assembled and what features ­were installed to prevent backflows within the ­water pipes, ­there ­were serious concerns about cross-­connection—­ the potential for residents’ drinking ­water to be connected to sources of contaminants like untreated ­water or raw sewage.55 Risks of contamination via cross-­connection are acute when well pumps are shut down, creating changes in pipe pressure. Early in his owner­ship, Magar and park man­ag­ers rationed residents’ ­water use simply by turning off the ­water. During the tape-­recorded meeting in April 1992, one engineer explained to the ­others: “It was a common prob­ lem before ’86. That was routine at times before Mary was man­ag­er. But, when the tanks went down to such a level, the pressure was cut off at night. ­People ­were just told they could not count on havin’ ­water at night. When this occurs, it’s a cross-­connection nightmare.” Man­ag­ers ceased using this risky method for rationing the park’s ­water, but it was near impossible to determine where systemic vulnerabilities existed under­ ground. Since Olsen had installed the pipes for ­water and electrical, he was pretty much the only person around Latah County who could help park man­ag­ers and engineers. Without his help, they would have to dig up the ­whole park to figure it out. During the April 1992 meeting, though,

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attendees noted Olson had been uncooperative with park man­ag­ers and engineers in the past. As one engineer described, “He simply clammed up” and ­wouldn’t share any information to help staff understand where weaknesses in the under­ground piping might exist. They hoped Mary would have better luck with Olson so they could map out the under­ ground structures—­buried reservoir tanks and types of piping. Ultimately, Mary was stuck trying to dig up the reservoir tanks ­after her days working another job. In a report filed ­after one of the engineers tried to check up on the park, he noted with some level of sympathy, “Mary has been digging up the two 14,000-­gallon storage tanks manually during the ­evenings. She says that another resident of the trailer park does help.”56 Two years a­ fter the giardia cases w ­ ere reported, the boil order was still in place, the ­owner and Idaho DEQ ­were embroiled in lawsuits, and the prob­lems ­were still serious. The introduction to a report issued on July 6, 1994, S­ enior W ­ ater Quality Specialist George Dekan stated, “NCIRO [North Central Idaho Regional Office] regulates 60 community drinking w ­ ater systems, of which Syringa MHP is the most out of compliance.” He continued by listing all five reasons for this assessment: 1. PRESSURE PROB­LEMS—­Syringa has lost pressure more times in the past year then [sic] all of the other systems combined. This is caused by both a lack of strong wells and poor repairs. 2. SAMPLING PROB­LEMS—­Syringa has the worse [sic] sampling rec­ord of any NCIRO’s systems. A large portion of the prob­lem is lack of payment on time at the vari­ous labs. 3. REPAIR PROB­LEMS—­Syringa has our worse [sic] rec­ord on making repairs and keeping the system repair of any NCIRO system. Their violations list is the longest ever assembled by this office. The Boil Notice is the longest ever posted by this office. 4. RESERVOIR PROB­LEMS—­Syringa has NCIRO’s only completely buried reservoirs. ­These include the only two wells that are completely unassessable for inspection. 5. WELL PROB­LEMS—­Syringa has more wells and weaker wells than any other NCIRO system. This makes for a complex system that is difficult to monitor and maintain.57

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Between 1994 and 2002, Magar filed for bankruptcy, which resulted in discussions taking place between the trustee of the bankruptcy proceedings, Idaho DEQ , and the private engineering contractors. By 2004, the ­legal b­ attles that the giardia cases in 1992 set into motion ­were officially closed. When I looked through Idaho DEQ’s archives, no more reports and correspondences exist a­ fter the lawsuits closed. As Jim Ware wryly noted about this time period between 2000 and 2012, “We had repeatedly heard how ‘­things have been changed.’ ‘­We’ve all turned the corner.’ ‘Life’s good.’ ” Environmental Cases Summarized The above history of Syringa Mobile Home Park shows that violation notices ­were issued to the ­owners and man­ag­ers over several ­decades and that ­these warnings ­were resisted or only partly addressed. It was only a m ­ atter of time before the wastewater discharges and faulty w ­ ater system would lead to the major environmental and public health crises. The ICL, Idaho DEQ , and LAC all won their complaints against Magar in the courts. Though filed in separate years by separate entities, the concerns expressed in the ICL and Idaho DEQ cases w ­ ere interrelated. For instance, residents in the class-­action suit reported seeing puddles of sewage—­contaminated surface w ­ ater—­near some of the homes during the crisis. Then, when ­water pressure was restored ­a fter pipes froze, sewage actually backed up through the drains in p­ eople’s homes. To make m ­ atters worse, in September  2013, just three months before the ­water crisis, Idaho DEQ’s extended sanitary survey recommended installing a cap on Well #2 promptly, more or less as an emergency health m ­ easure. Without a cap, the well was vulnerable to surface ­water contamination—­the puddles of sewage residents reported. Idaho DEQ’s and ICL’s cases also highlighted the park’s ­water and sewage systems’ severe degradation. For several d­ ecades, environmental engineers and staff identified significant flaws in ­these systems. Documents also show that the same engineers and staff ­were frustrated that Magar, and Olson before him, ­either seemed to ignore violation notices or invested insufficiently in repairs. Yet, an ­owner collecting lot

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rent from 98 mobile homes each month could be grossing over $300,000 per year (based on the average $260 lot rents residents paid t­ oward the end of Syringa’s existence). As noted in chapter 3, ­owners without the capital could apply for park rehabilitation loans insured by the Federal Housing Administration to finance system improvements. Despite this available assistance, large investments to improve known deficiencies in both the ­water and sewage systems ­weren’t made. By one estimate, the economic benefits Magar accrued through deferred improvement between 2007 and 2014 ranged somewhere between $644,000 and $7.6 million.58 This history of identified weaknesses and patchy repairs reveals the prob­lems environmental regulatory o­ rganizations routinely encounter when relying on individual property o­ wners to self-­regulate. Ongoing government collusion with landlords to avoid enforcement and rig the system for profit, at expense of h­ uman health and environmental quality, have progressively diluted the strengths and purposes of the original CWA.59 The EPA and Idaho DEQ have l­ittle power to enforce regulations, which is exacerbated by the fact that regional offices in states like Idaho have ­limited resources and are often short-­staffed. Idaho DEQ’s North Central Regional Office, for instance, has two engineers overseeing around 90 CWSs across five dif­fer­ent counties. It is difficult to regularly monitor dif­fer­ent communities without proactive communication from ­those managing ­these systems directly. Communication from communities may also be avoided if Idaho DEQ’s oversight is seen as bureaucratic and unnecessarily slow. Michael Camin reflected on this aspect of Idaho DEQ’s efforts and ­people’s frustrations with the ­process: I understand that time in delays is not always liked at all. Our hope is that by having that extra layer of regulatory oversight, that the quality that’s installed is a l­ittle bit better, it’s higher quality and built to last. One of the t­ hings we d­ on’t want to see is, some of the smaller systems that ­were un­regu­la­ted, when they become regulated, the equipment they have is not built to last. It’s not ­going to last as long, it’s not ­going to work as well. Th ­ ere’s g­ oing to be more finicky issues. We do take extra time, but, hopefully, that w ­ ill be realized with the quality of the work in the long run. Y ­ ou’re always g­ oing get what you pay for w ­ hether it’s regulated or not, but that’s the intent.60

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In other words, park ­owners may view compliance as involving undue expenses in money and time, which feeds the cycle of avoiding interaction and cooperation with environmental regulatory agencies. This leaves only one instrument for agencies like Idaho DEQ for enforcement, which is litigation. Without pursuing litigation through the courts, rural park o­ wners like Magar seldom feel l­ egal pressure to comply with m ­ easures to ensure safe drinking w ­ ater and proper wastewater treatment.61 Conclusion The prob­lems revealed in this chapter point to h­ uman errors and neglect. Standards set by environmental regulatory agencies ­were ­v iolated as w ­ ater wells w ­ ere installed in unsafe locations and untreated sewage was allowed to overflow into the South Fork Palouse River. It is pos­si­ble to consider t­ hese violations a result of honest h­ uman error, a misunderstanding of safety by Clancy Olson and Syringa’s original designers. But, based on discussions in chapter 2, it was common for park developers to choose to build mobile home parks in rural areas beyond municipal bound­aries. Building outside of municipal zones enabled developers and ­owners to avoid expenses and city oversight intended to ensure standards for both protection of ­human health and environmental quality ­were met. All three lawsuits filed by LAC, Idaho DEQ , and ICL shined a bright light on Magar’s noncompliance for ­decades, as he had grown accustomed to the lack of oversight by county and state regulatory agencies. Yet the trou­bles outlined in this history of development and the cases filed against Magar ­were also the likely consequence of where Syringa was built to begin with. What underlies all of this is the choice to build on top of a dynamic seasonally moist wetland. My first hint that Syringa’s location may be the root of the prob­lem was in my interview with Shannon, who noted that the lagoons ­were filled with more ­water than would be expected given the park size. This was typical during the winter and spring: “The lagoons fill up r­ eally fast. Somehow t­ here’s got to be groundwater getting into them. I worked on the ­water system, learned that the first year. I’m just now learning the lagoons. We had

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rain, for what, two weeks straight for a while right before winter and our lagoons filled up instantly, so groundwater is getting in ­there somehow.” When interviewing Michael Camin, I asked if it was pos­si­ble a spring was seeping into the lagoons. I pointed out the topography detailed in the blueprints for the 1969 park expansion showed the site was a lowland at the base of several hills and a natu­ral spring seemed to flow right in between the southern and northern lagoons. Camin noted, “I’m still curious if ­there’s a spring out t­here that was putting w ­ ater into the lagoon. I d­ on’t know. It w ­ ouldn’t surprise me if it was ­there.” When interviewing Steve and Chris Talbott, who lived in Syringa for a year from 1979 to 1980, the long history of ­water prob­lems at the park came up and the following conversation followed: Steve: Well, if you look back at it, r­ eally, that [mobile home park] never should have been put t­ here. . . . ​It prob­ably s­ houldn’t have been farmed, to start with. B ­ ecause it’s just a low-­lying area that drains in ­there. ­Unless you tile the heck out of it and drain that swamp. Prob­ably originally it would have been considered marshland and, at this time, the feds or the state prob­ably w ­ ouldn’t have allowed that to be farmed. It prob­ably would have been a beautiful camas ground. Leontina: Do you think it would have qualified as a protected wetland area? Steve Talbott: It could have been. I ­don’t know that. Chris: Steve used to work, what, two miles beyond out by Robinson Park. He had a shop out t­ here. Steve: I had a cabinet business for about 20 years. Chris: So, he would pass by t­ here ­every day and sometimes I would go with him, but, even when I ­didn’t go with him, he’d come home and say, “Oh I saw a bunch of geese out” . . . Steve: “Oh well ­there’s a spot that’s prob­ably too wet to farm. Just a ­little area that the geese would come in ­there. They had a swan that would show up. Chris: So, I am thinking if Syringa ­hadn’t been built t­ here it could have been a similar kind of spot.

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Upon close examination of the Palouse’s environmental history, I learned what the original landscape looked like where Syringa sits now, and I found that Haskin’s Flat had been one of the last of the rich camas fields in the vicinity where Nimíipuu ­women and girls ­were able to visit to gather winter food supplies for their families and community.62 In chapter 1, I described research showing that camas thrives in and near seasonally moist wetlands, which ­were prevalent in the land areas adjacent to the South Fork Palouse River. The insights and information dif­ fer­ent individuals shared with me, including the blueprints of the park, seem to support the idea that—­hindsight being 20/20—­Syringa was built in a spot that would be prone to flooding, which affected residents and most especially meant the lagoons w ­ ere unstable. Along with the seasonal fluctuations between extremely wet and dry soil, the kinds of animals that thrive in t­hese conditions still identify the South Fork Palouse River and the adjacent wetland area that included the lagoons as familiar habitat to establish their homes and sustain themselves. Indigenous and environmental justice scholars urge us to challenge ­humans’ conceptualization of nature as a passive and static entity that ­people can tame and manage.63 Instead, we need to understand that the nonhuman-­and ­human beings included in the concept of nature are all active participants in creating and responding to pro­cesses making up their world. Nonhuman members of our world are always necessarily involved in ­human experiences and must be recognized as such and taken into account in h­ umans’ decision-­making and planning. They are capable of resisting h­ uman activities that seek to control them and can make h­ umans act in response. For example, the decision Clancy Olson made to build Syringa on top of this marshy patch of farmland was a decision s­ haped by the dynamic movement of ­water over the dif­fer­ent seasons. It ­wasn’t ideal for farming, and it happened to be right next to a county road, so why not turn lemons into lemonade and create a housing opportunity for working-­class families and retirees? Further, the cyclical overflows from the sewage lagoons led to the habit of turning a blind eye to the southeast lagoon bank topping over—­even before the notorious Magar came to own the park. It was clear that untreated sewage would contaminate the South Fork Palouse River, but it usually

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happened when a lot of ­water was flowing, so who would notice a l­ ittle wastewater from the park? Years of lagoon breaches, deterioration as ­water and other ele­ments broke down the lagoons’ earthen walls, and burrowing mammals turning a human-­constructed structure into a familiar home for themselves led to lawsuits, penalties, and the eventual closure of the park. It also caused a g­ reat deal of confusion, stress, ­human incon­ve­nience, and genuine suffering for residents who had few options left in the county for housing. At pre­sent the sewage lagoons have been decommissioned entirely. Even if they had been updated, however, would that have been enough to solve the issue of overflow? In this way, nature has indeed ­shaped how h­ umans make decisions and has adjusted the way we interact with the land. Th ­ ese same conditions mobilized a group of residents in Syringa to seek justice.

CH A P T E R 5

Red Tags The Letter of the Law Kills A lot of p­ eople think [the county commissioners] have something to do with it, but we d­ on’t. It is not anything that we are controlling at all. [Syringa] is a private business. —­Tom Lamar, Latah County Commissioner, cited in Short, 2018

­Isn’t it about the ­humans? I­ sn’t it about the capacity of mercy at some time? The law kills. The letter of the law kills. —­Syringa resident Charles Gorton addressing Latah County commissioners, March 25, 2015

I

n a mobile home park like Syringa, ­every trailer has its stories. Let’s start with trailer #101, on a lot located on the west side of Syringa’s main entrance. According to several residents’ accounts, sometime in 2014 a young c­ ouple pulled in with their U-­Haul having arranged to rent the place. The two had driven this truck all the way from Utah, and they w ­ ere excited to have fi­nally arrived and to get settled in. The young man went up to the door of what he thought was his new home and was greeted with a red tag posted right next it, which read in bold print: “DO NOT ENTER. UNSAFE TO OCCUPY.” Even worse, as he read the smaller print, below, the newcomer learned he would be charged with a misdemeanor if he dared occupy the structure. The ­couple had hoped to buy this mobile home and enjoy the cheap lot rent as they started their studies at the nearby University of Idaho. Instead, t­ here they stood, faced with a red tag prohibiting them from moving in. They called the ­owner of the mobile home, demanding he come out to the 151

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park immediately and sort ­things out. Soon, the mobile home’s ­owner, Bruce, and a county official arrived to meet with the ­couple. The ­owner disputed the red tag, asking it be removed. Seeming a bit defensive, the county official responded, “­Until the park’s w ­ ater is deemed safe by the county, any mobile home left unoccupied is red tagged.” “But the home is in decent condition and fully inhabitable!” Bruce protested, “­People ­were living h­ ere just a few days ago. What has changed?” “Nobody is allowed to rent it or live in it once it is red tagged,” answered the county official. The ­couple stood bewildered as they listened to this heated exchange. The rental and housing market was super tight in Moscow, and renting this trailer was a cheap way to afford housing during their university studies. Now, as they stood ­there with a moving truck full of their belongings, other residents figured the c­ ouple felt completely conned. With no apparent alternatives, the two drove their U-­Haul truck out of the park. The mobile home’s o­ wner drove off in disgust. ­People in the park I spoke with wondered, “How could a trailer be considered condemned, uninhabitable, when only a short while ago ­people ­were living ­there with no cries of foul from the county? What difference did a few days’ vacancy make?” County assessor’s rec­ords suggest Bruce would soon find out that mobile home #101, the home he bought in the past year for $1,750, was now assessed by the county to be worth $260, the value of the lot’s monthly lease. In other words, through the ­simple act of attaching a red tag, the county had effectively reduced the value of his mobile home to nothing. Like other homeowners in the park, he likely had no idea if he could even move it or sell it, or if he was simply out nearly $2,000. Residents who witnessed this scene shook their heads when they shared this story, sad that a ­couple had worked so hard to get ­there and to have a chance at an affordable rental home only to be turned away upon arrival. This scene marked what many Syringa residents considered the park’s slow death spiral. Nobody could move into the park. Mobile homes throughout the park sat empty and w ­ ere eventually ruined, a­ fter scavengers and the weather picked them apart. Residents felt stuck in the park, afraid to leave their homes unattended for more than a day,

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figur e 15. A red tag. Photographer: Leontina Hormel.

worried they would be mistaken as unoccupied and then permanently marked with a red tag (Figure 15). ­These uncertainties reflected the red tag’s ambiguous meaning. In legal-­bureaucratic terms, the red tag denotes a dangerous place that ­either needs to be fixed to meet code or be condemned. Intending a humanitarian response, the county adapted the red tag’s meaning to legally prohibit ­people from moving into a park home that posed potential harm to residents’ health. Yet, the unilateral decision to revise the red tag’s meaning and purpose in this way led to unintended consequences for ­those residents who clung to their homes—­their major form of wealth and also, importantly, a significant symbol and expression of their worth as ­people and community members. For a resident, the county’s use of red tags felt like a negative moral valuation of their community and of the residents themselves as ­human beings.

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A red tag on a home signified the opposite or inverse of money. It was red, not green, a red rectangular object on public display whose removal was legally forbidden. It indicated the county’s determination, without consultation, that your home had no cash value, and arguably a negative value morally and socially. Without consultation, this meant you—­a Syringa resident—­had no value, ­either. As red tags w ­ ere posted on more and more homes around you, like coroners’ tags tied to the toes of cadavers in a morgue, they came to signify the growing number of decomposing and lifeless homes that had once ­housed living ­people you valued as your neighbors, and who likewise valued you as their neighbor. Before meeting Syringa residents I was comforted, as o­ thers likely ­were, to learn that ­people ­were looking out for them. When the crisis unfolded over the first few months, newspaper accounts described locals coming out to help thaw ­water pipes ­under p­ eople’s homes. Local faith-­based and community ­organizations mobilized members to conduct door-­to-­door needs assessment surveys, provide meals for ­children, and fulfill other neighborly tasks. With two high-­profile cases filed against the park’s absentee ­owner Magar E. Magar for his neglect of the well ­water system, and a third case against him for failing to fix leaky sewage lagoons, I felt assured the residents would get their day in court. Since Magar’s violations ­were so obvious, the residents w ­ ere sure to find justice. Or ­were they? Once I started research with Syringa community members, I grew less confident. Over the course of 15 months before I began research, the three court cases described in chapter 4 pushed the park’s o­ wner to fix damages to the well and sewage system and to remunerate residents for expenses incurred from losing w ­ ater for over 90 days. What seemed like cut-­and-­ dry cases seeking protection for Syringa residents, however, set in motion dif­fer­ent pro­cesses that obstructed the path ­toward justice. As one might expect, Magar resisted any efforts to hold him accountable, using his professional experience as an attorney to stall and manipulate the ­legal p­ rocess. Not only that, his power to threaten eviction and, worse still, park closure intimidated residents from speaking out. His power to threaten residents was not lost on the court and the residents’ attorneys.

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On July  2, 2014, District Court Judge Stegner issued a written restraining order for Magar to “cease and desist from communicating with plaintiffs and potential class members concerning participation” in the class-­action lawsuit.1 In early November the same year, Magar’s attorney hinted that closure was on the t­ able as the park was no longer profitable for its ­owner. The next day Judge Stegner and the residents’ ­legal counsel warned that this looked like retaliation. Even with the restraining order and the watchful eye of the court, most park residents kept to themselves to avoid looking like troublemakers at the park. For instance, during one interview with the Myles, one of the retired ­couples in Syringa, Bonnie described her hopes to fix up their place and ­either sell it or move it before t­hings got worse: “Yeah. Somebody—­ we’re not gonna let them have it just for nothing. I’ll call up somebody [to] come in h­ ere or fix it up so they can buy it. Yeah, but I d­ on’t want her [Magar’s ­daughter Shelley] to know all this stuff ­because I’m afraid she’s gonna give us a 90-­day notice, we gotta move out or something.”2 This uncertainty about Shelley Magar’s reactions created what another Syringa resident described as an “oppressive” climate in the park. But Magar, and ­later his ­daughter, was not the only one whose decisions negatively affected folks in the park. As the winter 2013–2014 ­water and sewage crisis unfolded on the ground and in local news media, county commissioners ­were figuring out what options they had for containing the prob­lem. News articles concentrated on emergency ­water access and other volunteer actions directed at disaster relief. One newspaper article published in early March announced the county had started issuing something called “red tags,” but no more reports followed this topic, nor asked what consequences this may have for residents in Syringa. By March the following year, though, red tags would become embroiled in controversy, with county commissioners at the center of much of the blame. The Anatomy of the Red Tag By January 2014, it was clear Syringa Mobile Home Park’s ­water was shut off in­def­initely. As Shannon Musick, the new on-­site park man­ ag­er, and Idaho Department of Environmental Quality (Idaho DEQ )

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staff scrambled to figure out how to fix the w ­ ater lines and well system, they learned the system required more than minor repairs. The uncertainty of the situation meant that local county leaders c­ ouldn’t stand on the sidelines. Latah County commissioners w ­ ere forced to ask, “How do we reduce the risk of residents’ exposure to poor ­water?” The swiftest solution at their disposal was to implement red tags, which for residents equated to condemning homes. Commissioner Dave McGraw explained: In my mind, we put them on, it was January, what, two years ago, or three years ago, whenever it was. It was 10 degrees. Th ­ ey’d been without ­water for 10 days, 15 days. We started red-­tagging trailers as p­ eople moved out. The idea was we ­didn’t want ­people moving back in. If the judge says, “Enough, enough!” Or, if Magar threw his hands up, said, “Screw this, I’m done with this!” Or, ­whatever happened and the [trailer] court got closed down, we wanted that population to be as small as pos­si­ble, so that Steve over at Sojourners’, Latah social s­ervices, social s­ervices of Lewiston, Spokane Court—we wanted as few numbers of p­ eople to deal with as pos­si­ble. As it was, before we started putting red tags on, somebody moving out, three more ­people would move back in. Two ­people would move out, two more ­people would move back in. That population was staying at 350, or ­whatever it was. The red tags ­were not—­were never put ­there—to punish Magar or force him to do anything, or anything ­else. ­They’re only ­there, in my mind, to make the population—if the judge pulls the plug on it, or if Magar pulls the plug on it—as small as it can be. I just gotta hope. I hope that’s one message every­body gets.3

­ fter our interview session, Commissioner McGraw took me to the A Latah County Planning and Building staff and asked them to share any documents that may shed light on the red tag’s purpose when the county started issuing them in Syringa. I was given a stack of documents, one of which was a “Notice and Order” sent via certified mail to Magar E. Magar on February 26, 2014. The notice identified 24 manufactured homes and three vacant spaces as “unsafe and/or dangerous, and . . . ​not in compliance with the Latah County Building Code Ordinance #315.” The conditions leading to this notice ­were:

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1. Contamination and inadequate distribution of the ­water supply system. Section 505/2009 IPMC (International Property Maintenance Code) 2. Failure of the approved sewage disposal system. Section 506/2009 IPMC The document continued, You are required to ensure compliance immediately a­ fter the date of this NOTICE AND ORDER. ­Until said NOTICE AND ORDER is complied with, the structures listed s­hall not be occupied, the vacant spaces in the manufactured home park s­ hall not be eligible for installation permits on t­ hose spaces, and any space or manufactured home that is not listed above that becomes vacant s­ hall not be re-­occupied or eligible for an installation permit u­ ntil said NOTICE AND ORDER has been fully complied with. In the event that the NOTICE AND ORDER has not been complied with within thirty (30) days and no appeal is filed within the time specified below, the Latah County Building Department w ­ ill take appropriate l­egal action, including recording a Certificate of Noncompliant/ Dangerous Building or Structure with the Latah County Recorder’s Office. Any person having any rec­ord title or l­egal interest in the identified building(s), structure(s), or premise(s) may appeal this NOTICE AND ORDER or any action of the Building Official to the Board of Appeals, in accordance with Section 111 of the International Property Maintenance Code, 2009 Edition. An appeal must be made in writing and filed with the Latah County Building Official within twenty (20) days from the date of ­service of this NOTICE AND ORDER. Failure to appeal w ­ ill constitute a waiver of all right to an administrative hearing and determination of this m ­ atter. The Board of Appeals s­ hall have no authority to waive any requirement of the Latah County Building Code, including the International Property Maintenance Code [IPMC], 2009 Edition.

The notice listed two sections from the IPMC that w ­ ere noncompliant in Syringa Mobile Home Park. The first, “Contamination and inadequate

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distribution of the ­water supply system,” ­v iolated Section  505 of the 2009 IPMC: [P] 505.2 Contamination. The ­water supply ­shall be maintained ­free from contamination, and all w ­ ater inlets for plumbing fixtures s­ hall be located above the flood-­level rim of the fixture . . . [P] 505.3 Supply. The ­water supply system ­shall be installed and maintained to provide a supply of ­water to plumbing fixtures, devices and appurtenances in sufficient volume and at pressures adequate to enable the fixtures to function properly, safely, and ­f ree from defects and leaks.

The second violation listed, “Failure of the approved sewage disposal system,” referred to Section 506 of the 2009 IPMC, which states, [P] 506.1 General. All plumbing fixtures s­ hall be properly connected to ­either a public sewer system or to an approved private sewage system. [P] 506.2 Maintenance. E ­ very plumbing stack, vent, waste and sewer line ­shall function properly and be kept ­free from obstructions, leaks and defects.

Given the three lawsuits filed against Magar, the county could easily substantiate the violations. The drinking ­water had been tested and showed indications of contamination and, if Magar proceeded in typical fashion, as he had over the past two d­ ecades, it was doubtful he would invest beyond a quick fix for the drinking w ­ ater’s well system. Before the December 2013 w ­ ater crisis, the Idaho Conservation League had already filed a case about the sewage lagoon breaches resulting in leaks into the South Fork Palouse River. Overhauling the sewage lagoons, in fact, was ­going to cost much more money than fixing the well system. Magar’s history as a profit-­driven, absentee landlord could not have led anyone to suspect he would be moved by this notice. The notice signified the first time the county made any attempt to enforce w ­ ater and sewage codes on Magar’s property and to hold him accountable. If ­these violations w ­ ere anybody’s responsibility, it was certainly the person who purchased this park knowing that he was responsible for properly maintaining ­these systems. The prob­lem with red tags, though,

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is they are a tool generally used to prohibit the use of a building u­ ntil the ­owner of it makes improvements that meet county building ordinance codes. Homeowners in Syringa Park had no control over the two violations listed in the Notice and Order Magar received from the county. Further, it became clear that homeowners did not know the details of the Notice and Order. Two t­ hings are disconcerting about the county’s conceptualization and use of red tags in Syringa. For one, why h­ adn’t the county commissioners been involved in enforcement of safety violations in the park two ­decades ago when Idaho DEQ first documented trou­bles with the well and sewage systems (described in chapter 4)? If this enforcement had been pursued much ­earlier when ­water quality issues first surfaced ­under Magar’s watch, then the costs of repairs may have been lower and more v­ iable. Or, maybe the pressure would have forced Magar to sell the park. Secondly, and most directly damaging to residents two ­decades ­later, is the fact red tags only indirectly punished the park’s ­owner, the person responsible for t­ hese violations and the only person who could solve the two issues listed in the Notice and Order. Instead, though intended to motivate the park o­ wner to comply with county and international codes, red tags stripped rights of owner­ship and wealth from the person holding the title to the tagged mobile home. Though o­ wners of property, Syringa mobile home ­owners in this situation ­were inadvertently rendered powerless. In this light, the red tag debacle exposed the vulnerabilities that have always been inherent to coding manufactured and mobile homes as ephemeral forms of housing located on leased land.4 This is the predicament of the halfway homeowner.5 While, yes, you technically own your own home in the form of a moveable dwelling, you are in fact landless. Though work was underway in February 2014 to get the well system fixed to resume s­ervice to residents, the sewage system was another ­matter that would require a longer timeline to meet compliance—­even if Magar voluntarily elected to invest in updating the lagoon system. Not surprisingly, the county received no response from him, prompting the county to deliver a Notice and Order to him on April 17, 2014, that his time to appeal the first notice had expired. Then, on June  3, 2014, a building official formally signed a “Certificate of Dangerous

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Building or Structure” that applied to the entire premises of the park property. The first round of red tags had been issued on February 10, 2014, and they would continue to be issued as homes emptied, right up ­until the l­egal closure of Syringa Mobile Home Park on June 5, 2018. Residents, though, did not bear the brunt of the punishment quietly. Residents Sounding the Alarm Dawn Tachell (née Trottier) and Shannon Musick came up with the idea to reach out to the local ­television station KLEW in Lewiston, Idaho, to raise awareness about red tags in the park. Shannon, apparently, made the call.6 According to Dawn’s recollection, they w ­ ere shouting encouraging phrases and pieces of information to one another across the yard between their two homes while Shannon talked with a KLEW staff member on the phone. Dawn was ­nervous about being aired on TV and being interviewed about this, ­because she was trying to o­ rganize a veterans’ outreach ­organization at the university and ­didn’t want to, in her words, “sully” her reputation on campus by being connected to the park and to its trou­bles. Following Shannon’s call, KLEW ­television station transcribed a news clip on its website titled, “Syringa Mobile Home Park residents deal with consequences,” in which four residents w ­ ere interviewed. The newscaster Jenee’ Ryan started her report: Some of the tenants I spoke with say one of the biggest prob­lems ­here at Syringa Mobile Home Park are ­these red signs, the county puts them up when a trailer is vacated so no one new can move in. “­These tag’s [sic] got to come off,” said Shannon Musick, park man­ ag­er. “It’s making to be the squatter city.” Musick said the empty homes also attract thieves and drug users and dealers. “I have sheriff’s department coming out multiple times a day trying to catch [them] and throughout the night,” said Musick. 37 of the 98 trailers in Syringa bare [sic] the red tags. Some p­ eople see this as a loss of $9,000 a month that could be collected through renting ­those plots.

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“It’s lost income, not just to Magar but to the homeowners and to the residents of the park itself,” said Dawn Trottier. “Which could have went into the park to fix the sewer system and the other proj­ects in the park that need to be fixed.”7

Dawn had been an older, “non-­trad” student in an Introduction to Sociology course I taught a c­ ouple years previously. She had pushed me to do a better job at being more inclusive in my lectures and course policies, and she had already built a good rapport with me, as she had with staff and faculty throughout campus. Dawn was no stranger to challenging the status quo. A military veteran and nontraditional student trying to improve the campus climate for p­ eople like her, she advocated for and initiated dif­fer­ent programs on campus to improve experiences for veteran, low-­income, and older students. H ­ ere, in the news, she was featured as one of the homeowners dealing with the ongoing b­ attles out at the park and challenging the county’s decision to implement red tags. The trending news stories about the red tags, home condemnation, and potential park closure provoked me to get in touch with her to find out if and how I should get involved. I met Dawn at a local coffee shop in mid-­March 2015. At this time she was unemployed and looking for jobs as a newly minted gradu­ate from the university, while caring for two f­ amily members with disabilities—­ her husband and her ­mother. She was financially strapped and had to be resourceful. Where ­else could she afford to live? Dawn brought a folder that included one of the court documents detailing the proposed terms for settling the class-­action lawsuit and an outline of events as they had unfolded at Syringa. She also shared the latest plan she had hatched over the past month—­arranging with the three Latah County commissioners to hold a meeting in the park’s recreation center to discuss veterans’ issues and red tags. This meeting was planned for 1:30 p.m. on Wednesday, March 25. Dawn had contacted all local news outlets and had already made a bunch of protest signs for the event at the University of Idaho ­Women’s Center on campus. I asked her how I could help. She said she wanted a large group of allies and community members ­there to witness the event. Conferencing with Dawn and another

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f­ormer Syringa resident, I figured out what a local sociologist like me could do: witness, document, and make sure residents’ experiences ­didn’t get lost as this case unfolded. Before the meeting, Dawn sent me a draft of her opening statement she planned to read to the commissioners. The history is long and confusing to ­those who ­don’t know it. I ­w ill make this short as pos­si­ble. It took 30 years to get ­here and it ­w ill take a long time to achieve what has been lost to this community. We have seen death and dismay, abandonment from previous man­ag­ers that left the residents without w ­ ater for only 90 days. Over 2 years have gone by and we still are in a state of unknown. The residents are not giving up the right of ­human dignity. We have persevered many ­things over and above the issue of the w ­ ater. The park has survived all t­ hese years, why should it close now? In the past, the park was maintained by the rental income that was coming in. Now however, the county commissioners have taken that away and the residents suffer the consequences. The red tags ­were never explained to the residents in any form. The red tags have taken away the dignity of all the residents. If you are living and breathing, the threat of being red tagged for being away from your home for a c­ ouple of days, has left us in a state of being frozen, and our hands are tied. The county commissioners state, “It is about Magar, not you. It is not to take away from you.” Well, in fact, it has. The income that was coming in from the rental units provided funds needed to keep the infrastructure up and ­r unning. The red tags need to go.

As someone who had no background studying county codes in planning and building, I was equally stumped about the red tags. Over the past year news reports had not clarified what vari­ous ramifications red tags posed for residents. When I read this draft statement, I had difficulty believing the county would be interested in implementing a policy that would harm an already embattled and struggling community. I figured the planned meeting with the county commissioners would help explain and perhaps help resolve some of the disquieting pieces of information I had picked up so far from residents’ accounts.

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The Commissioners’ Meeting I drove out to Syringa and arrived about 15 minutes before the meeting was to begin. I was already familiar with the park’s location but had never set foot on the premises. I chose to park in a lot near Syringa’s entry­way, since I wanted to walk the short distance to the recreation center to check out vari­ous signs Dawn had posted along the way (Figures 16 and 17). I entered the recreation center not certain what to expect. Inside, I counted around 20 ­people, most seeming to be in their fifties and sixties, sitting in chairs, and the majority w ­ ere Syringa residents. In front, facing the audience, was a ­table for the three commissioners and a speaker podium. The wall ­behind the commissioners’ ­table was plastered with posters mapping and listing all the red tagged ­houses in the park, newspaper pages with Syringa articles outlined in red marker, and lists of dif­fer­ent grievances and requests for support. Two other walls w ­ ere covered with protest signs repeating some of the messages I saw on my way to the meeting. You could sense this was an unfamiliar experience for every­one pre­sent. Other than the commissioners chatting with Dawn near the podium or among themselves, the rest of the ­people in the room remained quiet, with only an occasional whisper to a neighbor or the sound of someone clearing their throat. With voice recorder and camera ready, I stood next to Jenee’ Ryan, the KLEW reporter who first broke this story, while she videotaped the meeting. This meeting was an opportunity for residents to share their frustrations with commissioners, face-­to-­face and candidly. ­Later, in an interview with one of the commissioners, I learned they ­were not expecting residents to criticize them at the meeting, but rather thank them for all their help. If gratitude was what they anticipated, the commissioners ­were in for a surprise. One of the main concerns framing this meeting involved military veterans’ needs at the park. If the commissioners and the public ­were reluctant to help trailer park p­ eople, then perhaps centering attention on the fact that some of ­these folks ­were military veterans would add some weight to their calls for caring about the consequences of red tags

figur e 16. “We Need Action Not Lip ­Service” protest signs greet visitors attending the county commissioners’ meeting in Syringa on March 25, 2015. ­People congregated inside the park’s recreation center, the gray cinderblock building left-­of-­center. Photographer: Leontina Hormel.

figur e 17. Residents hold hands as one of the park’s veterans speaks to the county commissioners. Courtesy of Moscow-­Pullman Daily News. Photographer: Geoff Crimmins.

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on their lives. Dawn moderated the meeting and presented an overview of the impor­tant role the park played in supporting veterans: We have single veterans h­ ere, and we also have families. We have a veteran who has a f­ amily and c­ hildren that’s living h­ ere, and he works two jobs just to support his ­family. We also have two other veterans that are currently h­ ere in the park that d­ on’t have very long to live, and they choose to live ­here ­because it’s their home. They have lived h­ ere for many years; five years, six years. Some of them lived ­here in the late ’80s and came back h­ ere ­because it’s a safe place. This Syringa Trailer Park gives us a place where we can deal with our issues and our disabilities in a way that we can h­ andle them, and that’s why we choose to live out h­ ere. That’s why I choose to live out h­ ere. I have PTSD, and living in city limits is hard for me, and my PTSD comes out. Syringa Trailer Park gives me a sanctuary, a place where I can live and breathe and just be h­ uman. I mean, that’s what I’m asking for as a vet. I’m also needing help, b­ ecause of my ­limited income, to reach out to the community and say, “Hey, I’m okay. I choose to live ­here ­because this is how I deal.” I ask the county commissioners, why are you choosing me not to live the way that I need to live for being a disabled vet?

­ ere, Dawn focused the lens on the positive role the park played in H ­people’s lives. She noted “we choose to live out ­here,” placing agency in the hands of individuals who ­were perceived as victims and thus lacking the ability to act in their own interest or defense. Syringa, in her terms, was not a place of last resort for some of the veterans, but a “sanctuary, a place where I can live and breathe and just be ­human.” This theme was to be repeated by Dawn and o­ thers, as they raised public awareness via my research, newspapers, and public forums like this meeting with the commissioners. ­A fter her opening statement, Dawn invited several other veterans and residents to the podium. One of ­these individuals, Charles, had served as a military combat engineer. Along with Dawn, he highlighted how the red tags ­were dehumanizing to him and the Syringa residents. By stripping away homeowners’ ability to determine what to do with their homes, the commissioners had exacerbated the prob­lems they faced as ­owners of mobile homes stuck in a park owned by a negligent

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landlord. ­Toward the end of his statement, Charles implored the commissioners to stop the red tags: Are you willing to save a Brenda that asked you upfront, that bought a mobile [home], that lives in the park, works two jobs—­two jobs—­ trying to make the ends meet? Why ­can’t she move into that mobile? Can someone give me that answer? She c­ an’t move into that mobile to save $260 a month to make her life better. ­Isn’t it about the ­humans? ­Isn’t it about the capacity of mercy at some time? The law kills. The letter of the law kills. ­You’ve got ­these p­ eople who are frozen in time for just about a year and a half to two years. ­Can’t sell. ­Can’t buy. ­Can’t move. You c­ an’t do nothing in this park. How would you like to come into this park e­ very day and see ­every red tag? Oh, ­there’s another one over ­here. And all the trash in the park like she said. I want you to do something to prove that you mean business.

Charles pointed out the destructive effects that red tagging had on Syringa. By halting the practice of mobile homeowners renting to new tenants, red tags closed another affordable housing opportunity for low-­income workers and families. Not only that, nobody who owned a home understood what they ­were legally allowed to do with their homes if they chose not to occupy them. As far as residents understood the law, if you d­ idn’t want to lose your home—­the one form of wealth most every­one had as a homeowner in Syringa—­you “­can’t sell. ­Can’t buy. C ­ an’t move.” Bob Bonsall, a homeowner in Syringa, would l­ater comment at “Syringa Speaks,” another public forum held on January 29, 2018, “We ­were held hostage. We had no way out.” Making ­things worse, the consequences of red tags played into the negative s­ tereotypes equating ­people living in trailer parks with “trash.” Red tags marked their homes as disposable. Residents knew and felt this deeply. While they stood up and spoke to the commissioners, several—­ women and men—­broke into sobs as they shared their stories in front of every­one. Their community was crumbling. They had been squeezed into a losing position: on the one hand, they needed their landlord to pay them back for damages suffered due to his negligence, but on the other hand they needed him to make money on the park and keep investing in

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the place they called home and community. Right before the conclusion of the commissioners’ meeting, Commissioner Tom Lamar explained, It’s frustrating for all of us. It’s very difficult for all of us, but w ­ e’re paid to listen to you, to listen to other ­people in Latah County. But it’s also impor­tant to know that the money that’s available to us as commissioners is the money of the taxpayers of Latah County, for all of the county. The money that is supposed to be ­going to pay for this ­water system, for ­these roads, for trash removal for this place, or the sewer system in this place is supposed to be paid for by private dollars by a private o­ wner. To be fair to all the taxpayers of Latah County, we need to hold that private landowner accountable for this place. One of the l­ imited ­things that we could do as county commissioners was to put red tags on the place to reduce the continuing growth of the prob­lem, as Commissioner McGraw said, as Commissioner Walser said. We do have ­limited rules that we—or we have very strict rules—­ that we have to follow and a ­limited ability to do what we can. As Commissioner Walser said, we are gonna continue to look at this issue. We have been continuing to look at this issue.

This was a message the commissioners committed to throughout the years following this meeting. And it was true. They had very ­little capacity to make the park’s o­ wner comply. During the meeting, most residents who spoke—­along with the on-­ site man­ag­er—­convinced me they had been financially pummeled by red tags. They saw the conditions of their community significantly decline. As ­houses sat unoccupied, they rapidly fell apart; parts that could be sold or reused w ­ ere stripped and nature took its course on what remained (Figure  18). ­Those mobile homes that stayed in relatively good shape w ­ ere shelter for squatters, who had dif­fer­ent reasons for being t­ here. Some just needed a place to sleep, counting among the hidden homeless in the region.8 Drug trafficking and theft w ­ ere now a major concern for homeowners and renters living in the park, which added an ele­ment of instability and endangerment. Residents’ trust in the county’s motivations for red tagging was weak. It ­didn’t help that a year ­earlier, when they ­were still recovering from the

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figur e 18. Jim Ware waves “hi” near a deteriorating wheelchair ramp leading to the entry­way of a red tagged home, August 15, 2016. Residents staying in Syringa ­were increasingly surrounded by views of dilapidated homes, trash, and overgrown yards. Photographer: Leontina Hormel.

­ ater shutoff, an article in the local newspaper titled “An Exit Strategy w for Troubled Moscow Mobile Home Park,” quoted Commissioner McGraw as saying, “We ­don’t want ­people moving back in. That way the population ­w ill get smaller.” The red tagging, according to McGraw, was a worst-­case scenario kind of effort. “If at some point a judge or the ­owner decides that’s it and the w ­ hole place shuts down, we want to have to deal with as few ­people as necessary losing their homes.”9 The article raised concerns for longtime homeowners and renters. Did the county want the park to close? Commissioners said they ­were motivated to avoid park closure, but how would the slow grind of home devaluation and park degradation accomplish this? Ironically, Magar’s efforts to resume business as usual in the park, collecting rents on occupied lots but making as ­little investment as pos­si­ble meant he was perceived as a lesser threat to the community than the county and Idaho DEQ.

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Loss With no clear resolution to both the w ­ ater and sewage systems noted by county authorities, a steady trickle of families moved out as the red tag policy was initiated and remained in place. On February 10, 2014, when the first red tags ­were issued, out of the 96 formally designated sites in the park, the county identified 24 unoccupied manufactured homes and three vacant spaces in Syringa. Thirty-­seven homes had been red tagged by the time the commissioners’ meeting was held a ­little over a year ­later. By December 2016, fifty homes w ­ ere red tagged and six lots permanently vacant, which left only 40 occupied trailers in Syringa. In the fall semester of 2016, I taught a course at the University of Idaho titled “Sociology of Prosperity,” for which a significant part of students’ work focused on research about evictions generally, as well as the specific case of Syringa Mobile Home Park. T ­ oward the beginning of the term, I asked Commissioner Lamar if he would pre­sent on county and city government structure and hold a discussion with students about Syringa. B ­ ecause I was still trying to understand the logic of red tags and their purpose in the park, I asked Commissioner Lamar about them. He summarized the origin of red tags as detailed ­earlier in this chapter. When he invited questions from the students, one student remarked that she lived in a mobile home park in a neighboring town and was r­ eally upset about the commissioners’ decision to use red tags in this way. She pointed out that this was mainly ­going to hurt the residents and, b­ ecause they w ­ ere already poor, would set them back further financially and could lead them to homelessness. This was so obvious to her as a mobile home park tenant herself that she was visibly shaken by the idea. At the end of her comment, she asked, “Why are you punishing the residents? They ­didn’t cause this prob­lem.” This short exchange increased students’ interest in digging deeper into the practice of red tagging. One student, Lincoln Smith, acquired the county assessor’s rec­ords for all mobile homes located in the park and proceeded to document the values in a spreadsheet from 1999 to 2016. Mobile homes, unlike conventional site-­built homes, depreciate

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in value over time, a point made ­earlier in chapter  2. This trend was clear when we graphed out the changes in assessed home values in Syringa. The effect of red tags, though, led to a sharp and definitive decline between 2013 and 2014. ­Every home right a­ fter the crisis and as red tags ­were issued was assessed at half its value. As we saw at the start of this chapter, a red tagged home was assessed at $260, representing the price of one month’s lot rent. By the end of 2014, even if a mobile home ­wasn’t red tagged, the county assessed it at half its 2013 value. One of the more valuable homes in Syringa was assessed at $23,000 in 2013; the county lowered its assessed value to $11,500 in 2014. Receiving their new assessed values in late 2014, it is l­ ittle won­der homeowners in Syringa felt the county was against them and ­were motivated to call a meeting with them. Conclusion Red tags ­were considered the least drastic solution for limiting the  number of county residents exposed to environmental harms—­ water-­borne diseases and contaminants—­tied to Magar’s continued negligence of the park’s well and sewage systems. As I dug deeper into the Syringa case, it became increasingly clear the ­organization of law and government oversight in Latah County and the state of Idaho was not equipped to protect local, mostly low-­income, citizens and taxpayers from the drawn-­out degradation of their living conditions. U ­ nless harm is a result of criminal activity, such as physical vio­lence or theft, the ­legal structure does not give many tools to the courts or governing bodies to enforce violations of ­things like contracts or environmental laws. Katharina Pistor, professor of comparative law at Columbia Law School, notes, “Law is the cloth from which capital is cut; it gives holders of capital assets the right to exclusive use and to the ­f uture returns on their assets; it allows capital to rule not by force, but by law.”10 The power differentials between ­those who can own private property in the form of several acres of land and ­those who simply own the mobile, transitory structures on it was made starkly clear in the case of Syringa’s red tags. From the perspective of low-­income working-­class residents and homeowners in Syringa, it was easy to see the Latah County

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commissioners as part of the prob­lem. They devised a policy that sacrificed residents as a way of getting at an unresponsive absentee landlord. Time and again during the years following this meeting, commissioners reminded locals in the newspapers and in meetings that their hands ­were tied. They w ­ ere left with very few tools for providing aid to residents, whose homes ­were enclosed within private property. ­Toward the end of the county commissioners’ meeting with residents, Tom Lamar noted, I started looking at this issue when I was a city council member last year, not b­ ecause ­there was anything I could do as a Moscow City Council member but recognizing that if the o­ wner of this place de­cided to shut this ­thing down, we at the City of Moscow w ­ ere ­going to have to start helping to find places for p­ eople to live. It’s a very complicated situation. It’s not made easy by the fact that it’s privately owned. It’s oftentimes out of our control to be able to do anything, but we are ­going to continue to do what we can to improve the situation, so thank you.

At the levels of county and city governance, the ability to ensure basic rights for park residents over the negligent landlord was incredibly weak. Is this to say t­here was nothing more the commissioners could have done? Not necessarily, since, as Dawn Tachell (née Trottier) noted when speaking at the commissioners’ meeting, “Has anybody come and asked the residents what we want or the veterans want? No. Has anybody asked our needs? No, they ­haven’t. All we hear is, ‘No solution, no solution, no solution.’ Well, s­ imple fact is that when we go in to [meet] the county commissioners . . . ​you tell us to go find solutions and come back and talk to you. . . . ​Well, that’s not a way to talk to a person. We come to you b­ ecause w ­ e’re looking for direction. Y ­ ou’re the county commissioners. Planning, exploration, helping the p­ eople help themselves.” Due to state laws biased ­toward the rights and interests of landlords and other major property ­owners, in tandem with weak environmental laws, commissioners w ­ ere left with few l­egal tools to discipline the park’s ­owner, but they also tended ­toward a reactive rather than proactive role that could have pursued solutions with, instead of without, residents. The tools w ­ ere l­ imited, though one is left to won­der ­whether tapping into residents’ knowledge banks would

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have revealed innovative solutions other­w ise invisible from the vantage point of p­ eople who lack poor p­ eople’s experiences. As we observed in chapter  4, this reactive response on the part of local government is perpetuated in the courts. In fact, b­ ecause environmental enforcement agencies depend on private ­owners’ voluntary compliance, violators like Magar can defer maintenance in mobile home parks knowing very ­little follow-up, or regulatory enforcement, takes place in states like Idaho. The red tags would in fact prove useless in motivating the landlord to fix the prob­lems arising from deferring maintenance of the park’s wells and sewage lagoons. As lawsuits ­were filed, the park ­owner moved so slowly to remedy the drinking-­water issues that residents continued to live for years in a community with dubious drinking ­water quality and deteriorating sewage lagoons.

CH A P T E R 6

Syringa Refugees The good we secure for ourselves is precarious and uncertain, is floating in mid-­air, u­ ntil it is secured for all of us and incorporated into our common life. —­Jane Addams, 1893

T

he previous chapters have shown how par­tic­u­lar neoliberal approaches to working-­class housing, environmental and public health protection, and private property owner­ship s­ haped the rise and decline of Syringa residents’ living conditions over several ­decades. Environmental scholar Rob Nixon urges us to understand ­these experiences, which are disproportionately borne by the poor, as “slow vio­ lence,” an “elusive vio­lence of delayed effects.”1 ­Toward the end of ­these years, Syringa’s families watched their community slowly, violently die. ­Here, we return to the subject of belonging, and how the stigma of being from the community of Syringa influenced the ways residents’ relocation efforts w ­ ere supported, or not, by the city of Moscow. Syringa residents occasionally shared humiliating experiences they had while navigating Moscow, sometimes b­ ecause of how they looked and other times when they let someone know where they lived. While this could be shrugged off as simply individual anecdotes, Moscow’s community-­ level prejudice, or “scorning down,” against Syringa residents was never more evident than during the park’s closure.2 Though courts found Magar E. Magar in violation of his responsibilities to ensure residents’ safety in the park, residents ultimately received very l­ittle guidance from the city or county to support their efforts to be re­housed during the six months they w ­ ere given to relocate from Syringa Mobile Home Park. 173

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The shock that hit residents when they ­were told their park was ­going to close is an impor­tant part of this story. A small group of local nonprofit o­ rganizations and individuals cobbled together information and modest resources to help residents. Representatives of local government, at city and county levels, pitched in where they could, though in very ­limited ways. In the midst of this, the bankruptcy proceedings against park ­owner Magar ­were pending, ­a fter years of delays. All ­these dynamics amplified the intrinsic stresses of forced relocation. From September 2017 to December 2018 some of the most power­f ul examples of what Syringa meant and did for its residents as a community came into focus. Closure Announced Maureen Laflin’s name appeared on the screen of my cell phone as it rang. It was the after­noon of September 25, 2017. Cutting right to the chase a­fter I answered, Maureen said, “Shelley Magar is closing the park. We received the document ­today, and I w ­ ill email it to you shortly.” The news should have come as no surprise, but my heart sank hearing it. For the past two and a half years I had listened to residents’ fears of park closure, but word that it was actually happening raised tremendous feelings of despair. This news was g­ oing to shake them. Perhaps stuck in my own form of denial, only four days ago I had interviewed a resident-­owned cooperative c­ onsultant about forming a cooperative with residents in Syringa. Now, our heads would have to adjust to evacuation planning, and quickly. Anyone wanting to support the Syringa residents had to think on their feet. As far as any of us knew, neither Latah County nor the City of Moscow had any plans in place to manage relocating the estimated 38 ­house­holds still living in the park. The following day I met with the University of Idaho L ­ egal Aid Clinic (LAC) team to discuss the o­ wner’s decision to close Syringa. During the meeting we discussed the steps the o­ wner—­now Shelley Magar, who was communicating through an appointed bankruptcy trustee—­was legally bound to follow in closing the park. Fortunately, Idaho state representative Shirley Ringo sponsored a bill, passed in 2004, which mandated mobile home park o­ wners give no less than six

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months’ notice of park closure.3 I learned about Representative Ringo’s role in this effort while talking with Jean, a ­woman who worked for the University of Idaho’s campus facilities. Jean came by my office while she was emptying trash cans and asked me how p­ eople w ­ ere d­ oing in Syringa as they tried to move out. While conversing she mentioned her own previous experience with park closure and eviction and that, thanks to Ringo, she had had enough time to successfully find a new place and move. In fact, she was still living in the same place she had moved to several years e­ arlier. In parting, Jean told me she wished the best for every­one moving out of Syringa. Moments like t­hese have reminded me regularly that we are surrounded by ­people who make our lives better ­because of their work, yet they are living ­under a range of precarious conditions we see highlighted in the news and discuss in classroom lectures. Only about half of all states require landlords to provide at least six months’ notice to tenants of mobile home communities.4 Having assisted in such moves, it is difficult to imagine how tenants find places to live with anything less than this time. Less helpful, however, is the fact that Idaho has not established a funding assistance program to help residents cover costs associated with park closure and relocation. Across the United States, only one-­third of states provide such assistance.5 Esther S­ ullivan’s research on mobile park closures found that state-­sponsored funding assistance is not a guarantee of swift and affordable moving, but ­there are some states like Oregon that distribute funds directly to residents when they are forced to relocate ­because of park closure and given 365 days to relocate.6 Without ­these financial resources to support low-­income, working-­class h­ ouse­holds’ moving efforts, t­ here are few options for housing. When your options are practically nil, you need time to figure out an exit strategy. All of us at the LAC meeting acknowledged that the costs of moving made relocation untenable for many residents, especially if they wished to live in Moscow and move their mobile home. On top of the closure, the bankruptcy proceedings w ­ ere looming. Homeowners still h­ adn’t been compensated via the courts for losses to their home’s value. Bankruptcy proceedings w ­ ere the route to concluding the class-­action lawsuit and putting cash in residents’ hands. The LAC team de­cided to coordinate a meeting with residents to explain the bankruptcy status

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and to work through the complications of moving out of Syringa in time. The date was set for October 9, 2017. Two sociology undergraduate researchers, Denessy Rodriguez and Cynthia Ballesteros, assisted me in creating a needs-­assessment survey and conducted brief face-­to-­ face interviews before the LAC p­ resentations began. I recorded the meeting so we could track the dif­fer­ent concerns residents shared. The ­Legal Aid Clinic Meeting with Syringa Residents The LAC team began the meeting describing the most recent developments in the bankruptcy proceedings, which ultimately boiled down to ongoing delays and uncertainties about when a final settlement would be reached. According to one of the attorneys, the main reason the park closure became imminent was ­because an engineering c­ onsultant for the Environmental Protection Agency had determined that improvements to the sewage lagoons would exceed $1 million if the park ­owner wished to continue operations in Syringa. Though Magar owned property in prime locations, it was difficult for the ­legal team to determine how much money from the sales of ­these properties would be available to cover the costs of necessary sewage system improvements. Shelley Magar’s notification to the court of her intention to close the park underscored the urgency of the bankruptcy court proceedings. As LAC’s lead attorney Maureen Laflin told residents early in the meeting, “I’m concerned about requiring p­ eople to move u­ ntil they have some compensation which may help them.” For this reason, the LAC team was anxious to reach settlement on behalf of Syringa’s residents during the bankruptcy sessions scheduled the following month in mid-­November. Following the overview of the bankruptcy proceedings, residents and representatives of nonprofit ­organizations ­were invited to discuss the opportunities and challenges of moving from Syringa by April or May  2018. The first prob­lem to come up involved t­hose Syringa residents who wished to find a rental ­house or apartment in Moscow. Finding a rental would be quite difficult in ordinary circumstances, especially one that would be available by late March. Since Moscow is a campus town, a large proportion of the population (61%) resides in rental housing and 95 ­percent of all rentals are usually occupied at any

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given time.7 Plus, most rentals are administered through 12-­month lease agreements that coincide with the University of Idaho’s academic year, ­either June-­to-­June or August-­to-­August, for example. An early May deadline significantly reduced residents’ options in both Moscow and neighboring Pullman, Washington, which is another campus town with an even higher proportion of renters (71%).8 If someone met criteria for low-­income housing vouchers, the chances of finding a rental ­were even slimmer. A member of the Moscow Fair and Affordable Housing Commission informed residents that low-­income rentals ­were in short supply, with only two open at the time of the meeting: one two-­ bedroom apartment and one three-­bedroom apartment. Low-­income rentals are increasingly scarce throughout the state, in fact. Between 2011 and 2019, Idaho experienced a 40 ­percent decline in the supply of low-­rent units.9 A man in the audience quickly asked, “What about p­ eople that want to be homeowners? Is t­ here anything like that?” The dif­fer­ent individuals who tried to answer the man’s question proposed inquiring with Moscow Affordable Housing Trust and Palouse Habitat for Humanity, but quickly acknowledged that t­hese ­organizations w ­ ere not able to respond to residents’ housing needs in such a short timeline. Instead, the only option the facilitators of the meeting could propose was meeting with a realtor. The most complicated prob­lem concerned homeowners who wished to move their mobile home to another park in Moscow. The months of November to May are typically the wettest and iciest of the year, which meant it would be nearly impossible for professional movers to transport mobile homes from their lots at Syringa. A ­ fter all, Syringa Mobile Home Park was constructed on top of a wetland and prone to flooding, so if it ­wasn’t icy, it would be wet and muddy for most of this period. In other words, the closure announcement’s timing ­couldn’t have been worse in terms of the practical logistics for promptly moving a mobile home. ­People also wondered how many mobile home lots would be available in Moscow. One of the residents said she found only one lot for a double-­w ide trailer, but the question of lot space in other parks in town was largely unanswered. Another resident, Dale Kramer, loudly

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remarked, “The cost of moving the trailer is the biggest ­thing,” to which several residents nodded their heads and agreed. He continued, “­Because most of us ­wouldn’t have the money in order to be able to move the trailer. ­Because even if it was moved right ­here in the m ­ iddle of Moscow, it’ll prob­ ably cost at least $3,000 just to move it. That’s money we ­don’t have. That has to come from somewhere.” Joel Stiles, one of the men who earned money renting trailers in Syringa, informed every­one, “I’ll be looking into moving. I’ve got five mobile homes. I’ve been researching on moving them. I found anywhere from $5,000 to $15,000 to move them.” Hearing t­ hese prices, Dale muttered, “I d­ on’t have 15 g­ rand to move.” “Most of us worked all our lives to be able to have something,” lamented a ­woman. On top of all t­ hese concerns is the fact that older mobile homes are not all that mobile. The older the home, the more hoops ­owners have to leap through to move them. To this end, Syringa resident Tony Hardin reminded ­people that t­ here are other costs attached to moving a home to another park: If you do a lot of your work, you can get moved for $3–­$4,000, but ­there’s a lot of hidden costs. For me, moving my last mobile home cost me $1,500 for an electrician to hook up the power. Then also you have to buy new skirting, b­ ecause it’s usually not the same ground as you had before. I had to put new egress win­dows in it. If you have aluminum wire, ­you’ve got to change out e­ very single outlet in the place and pigtail out all your lights. ­There’s a huge list of stuff. Then, if you ­don’t, it’ll get red tagged [condemned as unfit/unsafe for habitation]. ­You’ve got to do that pretty quick.

Alan Wendell, another Syringa resident, pointed out, “More impor­tant than moving your home is, once you move it, is it g­ oing to be guaranteed that it’s ­going to be intact? ­Because my home, for instance? Yeah, ­they’ll move it. But I have to sign disclosures that [accept the terms]: ‘We [the movers] ­can’t guarantee that it’s not totaled by the time it’s on site.’ ” An unidentified man among the residents interrupted, “Even if you can move the trailer, ­will the park ­owner or man­ag­er accept it?” This was yet another impor­tant question, since most of the homes in Syringa w ­ ere reaching their maximum lifespan, which can be anywhere from 30 to 50 years.

S y r inga R efuge e s 179 1990-1999 1980-1989 1977-1979 1976*

1970-1975 1960-1969 0

5

10

15

20

25

30

35

40

Refugees' Homes 2018 All Homes 2014

figur e 19. Number of mobile homes by year constructed in Syringa at the beginning of the w ­ ater crisis (2014) and during forced relocation (2018). Source: Latah County Assessor’s Rec­ords, 1999–2017. Note: The year 1976 is separated since this is the year the term “mobile home” was changed to “manufactured home”; from June 15, 1976, manufactured homes had to comply with the Housing and Urban Development Code. Though rules differ by state and receiving park, homes built ­a fter this date may have still been okay to move from Syringa.

When I analyzed the year each home that still stood in Syringa was built, I found that over half of the ones that w ­ ere t­here in 2014 w ­ ere built before 1976 (see Figure 19). Even ­a fter 58 ­house­holds moved out between 2014 and 2017, nearly half of the homes still occupied in 2017 ­were built before 1976. The year 1976 was when the industry’s preferred term “mobile home” was changed to “manufactured home.” Most impor­tant for homeowners, homes built ­after June 15, 1976, ­were mandated to follow the Housing and Urban Development Code. Though rules differ by state and receiving park, homes built ­a fter this date ­were likely okay to move from Syringa to another park if their structural condition allowed it. A lot of strings would need to be pulled for residents wishing to move any homes built before 1976. Lynn Oglesby delivered a disturbing real­ity check that ­people had been avoiding up to this point: “I r­ eally hate to say it, but I think the bottom line is [for] many, if not most, of ­those trailers, it’s ­going to be way too expensive to move them.” Maureen Laflin stepped into the

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residents’ discussion and agreed, “Some of them just ­can’t move. I know that means you ­w ill be ­going from homeownership to potentially renting. That is not something I am happy to say. But it’s a real­ity that I think ­people have to come to recognize. Trailers ­aren’t in the condition to be moved, and the cost of repairing them to be able to move, and then finding a place for them. Y ­ ou’ve got to be moving someplace besides Latah County. ­There’s just not that many spaces.” At this point, Austin Katz, who bought a home in Syringa in 2013 and lived ­there with his fiancée Miranda Reynolds and her child, leaned forward in his seat and remarked with a tone of disgust and frustration, I also think it ­shouldn’t be up to the ­owner [referring to Shelley Magar’s ­father], how much he gives ­people. I think we need to take from him. The mediation needs to say, “You need to compensate ­these p­ eople for having to move their trailers. You guys are throwing p­ eople out on their butts.” Some of us are disabled. Some of us are on disability and do not get a lot of money allotted for us from our government. Some of us bust our butts, but d­ on’t get a lot of money. That’s why we live in a trailer. We d­ on’t have money. We d­ on’t have money to throw away. I mean it’s ridicu­lous that ­we’re getting tossed out on our butt, and we have to fold and mold to Magar’s standards. We ­don’t want to be like Magar. Since I’ve lived t­ here, I’ve taken care of my stuff. The reason why I have is ­because Shelly blew smoke up my butt for three years saying, “We are g­ oing to get this place up and r­ unning. We are g­ oing to get a functional w ­ ater system. We are g­ oing . . .” [sighing in total exasperation]. She made empty promises and I need to be compensated for it. I am done.

Austin’s anger that residents, not Magar or his ­daughter Shelley, should have to lose money and their homes was felt throughout the Syringa community. Why w ­ ere they being punished with the loss of home and community when the courts all agreed that their landlord was to blame? Figuring Out Disaster Response without a Plan As residents waited the ­whole month of October for official notices of park closure to appear in their mailboxes, Steve Bonnar, the executive director of Moscow’s homelessness prevention nonprofit Sojourn-

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ers’ Alliance, ­organized a lunch meeting with a group of representatives from local government and nonprofit o­ rganizations. The main goal was to figure out the resources available to help Syringa residents move out of their homes and into housing, e­ ither permanent or temporary. Many homeowners in the park wished to move their mobile homes to another park, but most homes ­were too old and likely structurally unfit to be lifted and hauled somewhere e­ lse. Th ­ ere ­were homes with holes in their floors where cats could come and go as they pleased. The ceilings inside ­others sagged and w ­ ere cleverly propped up with strategically placed two-­by-­fours. All but a few h­ ouse­holds w ­ ere too financially strapped to afford moving their homes, and all families ­were emotionally tapped ­a fter spending nearly four years waiting for a modest cash settlement decision from the class-­action lawsuit against Magar. The meeting was convened since no county or city guidelines had been developed to respond to a major community crisis like this. This came as a surprise for some since county officials had expressed Syringa’s closure would be an unfortunate, though pos­si­ble, outcome of the court decisions supporting the plaintiffs’ claims in the three lawsuits filed against Magar.10 The responsibility for emergency response to Syringa’s closure largely fell on the shoulders of private, nonprofit entities since t­hese ­organizations in Idaho and elsewhere in the United States have by default replaced state-­r un and publicly funded social welfare provisioning. This fact reflects one way in which privatization has increasingly ­shaped social protections and disaster response over the past 40 years in the United States and globally.11 During Syringa’s w ­ ater shutoff, for instance, with the exception of the City of Moscow offering ­free tap ­water ­behind the city’s w ­ ater department office building, most of the emergency responses ­were met by nonprofit ­organizations, religious ­organizations, and individual volunteers the park’s man­ag­er recruited. The October 2017 meeting represented another example of county and city governments’ l­imited role in community response strategies to disaster.12 Without a comprehensive plan, for example a list of actions to follow and where to go for s­ ervices, supporting Syringa residents was left to a patchwork of ­organizations and individuals that cobbled together ideas and modest resources at very short notice.

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This situation ­didn’t mean that city and county representatives w ­ ere satisfied with this ad hoc and unsatisfactory response to community disaster. However, the institutional o­ rganization of local government, especially as l­imited by state law, stifled many of the ideas that could have been proposed using local officials’ comprehensive knowledge of the communities they represented and the social networks they could have mobilized. For instance, a leader of a nonprofit ­organization arranged and led this meeting, not local government representatives. Local governments being unable and possibly unwilling to respond to community emergencies creates a ripe environment for ­political figures in states like Idaho to continue their criticisms of so-­called big government. If community responses fall short, p­ eople are understandably inclined to ask why government officials ­didn’t help. Yet, the lack of comprehensive response is arguably a prob­lem ­because of privatization and deregulation, since disaster responses require a plan in place and a central, formally recognized body to mobilize it. B ­ ecause of the nature of their responsibilities, local government officials and representatives are best situated to know where resources, expertise, and other opportunities are available. In a properly functioning democracy, moreover, constituents can hold government representatives accountable with their votes, a point of community pressure that is off the ­table if disaster response is devolved mainly into being the responsibility of private, nonprofit o­ rganizations. In the case of Syringa, elected officials explained that the responsibility fell to the private property o­ wner—­a major flaw in governing policy when the emergency at hand is a result of that o­ wner’s failure to comply with environmental and public health ­measures. When asked during this meeting, “Are ­there any discussions on the county side [about how to help residents move out of Syringa]?”, the county official responded, “No, the county is not talking about it. County commissioners do not see themselves as the o­ rganizers when a privately owned business is crashing. Th ­ ere are ­legal issues of government trying to bail out a local com­pany. The county is always ­there for social s­ ervices. We are not the coordinator. It [Syringa] is not one of our public systems. State law allows companies to have a private sewer system. It’s not that we a­ ren’t impacted, we are trying to find the best role.”13 Our discussions revealed that the county and city lacked the l­ egal authority to sup-

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port park residents. The main provisions the county could offer w ­ ere ­limited social s­ervices to cover medical and nonmedical expenses, though the local official emphasized that financial need could only be met if the individual or ­house­hold ­were able to show that the county was the “last resort,” with all other options tapped out. Anyone who had already come to the county’s social ­services in the past 12 months was ineligible. The county official noted that the key question county staff would ask individuals seeking assistance is, “Are they working on getting themselves out of the hole?” In other words, ­services could be denied if an individual or ­family was unable to show they had earnestly tried to overcome poverty, even while dealing with the precariousness of the ­water crisis, ­legal b­ attles with a nonresponsive landlord, and continuous uncertainty about boil o­ rders, lot leases, and pos­si­ble closure of the park altogether. At one point in the meeting, the representative for St.  Vincent de Paul noted that individuals with permanent disabilities w ­ ere eligible for a small amount of funds to cover dif­fer­ent fees tied to moving and housing applications. I followed up by asking the representative how St. Vincent de Paul defined “disability,” at which point the county official interrupted, “A broken leg or other similar injury d­ oesn’t count.” The St. Vincent de Paul representative nodded and answered, “It has to be a physical disability. ­Mental health ­doesn’t count.”14 The details highlighted from discussions during the meeting reveal the limitations of both government assistance and secular and religious nonprofit assistance programs. All of them relied on highly restricted eligibility criteria including narrow definitions of disability, presence of dependents age 18 and youn­ger, and evidence of “last resort” needs, as well as limiting distributions each year, even in the case of a disaster like the one Syringa residents faced. The specificity of criteria reflected an inherent suspicion of the predominantly low-­income residents,15 which belied the fact this was an emergency response to a community disaster the residents ­didn’t create. By the end of the meeting, it was clear that residents forced to relocate from Syringa ­were g­oing to need help beyond what t­ hese ­organizations could offer. As attendees dispersed, some of us congregated to continue our ­conversations about the situation at Syringa Mobile Home Park. The

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figur e 20. A U.S. flag waves over one of the homes, while residents wait out the winter as Syringa’s closure nears, January 6, 2018. Photographer: Denessy Rodriguez.

county official expressed frustration, knowing ­there was ­little the county could or would do to assist residents. But, as if to reconcile with the county’s ­limited involvement, the official remarked, “I ­don’t even understand why they are still out ­there. The writing was on the wall. Why ­haven’t they moved out already?” The county official was not the only person to ask why residents ­hadn’t moved out before the park closure was announced. In fact, this question came up several times as Syringa residents ­were issued notices of park closure and had to deal with forced relocation. I heard it from ­people who held community leadership positions and dif­fer­ent ­political viewpoints, and even from t­hose living in mobile home parks in the area. ­A fter all, 58 of the 96 ­house­holds did move out of Syringa before Shelly Magar filed notice of her intent to close it (Figure 20). Part of the answer to the question “Why h­ aven’t they moved out already?” was found in chapter 3’s discussion that placed Syringa Mobile Home Park’s degradation and closure within national discussions of

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working-­class income stagnation and decline that has been happening alongside housing financialization and the shrinking share of affordable housing in the United States. Alongside ­these ­political economic pro­cesses, it is impor­tant to recognize how status hierarchies—­class, gender, and ableism—­intersect in shaping why ­people lived in Syringa to begin with. It is critical to ask: What f­ actors intervened to compel t­ hese 38 ­house­holds in par­tic­u­lar to stay in the park even though “the writing was on the wall” in terms of the park’s impending demise? We must ask this from a perspective that understands that p­ eople make decisions based on the opportunities they can see and that make the most sense based on knowing their needs and what resources they have. Researchers of disaster and risk have studied p­ eople’s refusal to evacuate their homes when faced with wildfires, hurricanes, and floods.16 It is common for ­people to refuse to leave in ­these kinds of situations. I learned as a kid growing up in eastern Washington that disaster victims’ decision-­making and be­hav­ior can seem to defy commonsense. When Mount St. Helens was about to erupt, World War I veteran and lodge o­ wner Harry R. Truman refused to evacuate his home and perished during the eruption. Media fawned over Truman ­because he defied officials’ calls to evacuate, saying he loved the mountain and was emotionally attached to this place: “ ‘­They’ll never get me off this mountain,’ Truman said that earthquake-­fi lled April of 1980. ‘Spirit Lake and Mount St. Helens are a part of me—­they’re mine. Th ­ ey’re as much a part of me as my arms and legs.’ ”17 Equally to the point, we live in a society that ­measures our success and honored status through private property owner­ship, which for most of us is homeownership. I think about the LAC meeting with residents when one w ­ oman lamented, “Most of us worked all our lives to be able to have something.” Why would we be surprised that p­ eople who faced significant barriers to homeownership and sharing a sense of community with ­others would be reluctant to leave Syringa? In other words, we must answer the question “Why ­didn’t they leave already?” by trying to put ourselves in the shoes of ­those families and individuals who, from the perspective of ­those fortunate enough to be positioned outside of community disaster, appeared to defy practical common sense.

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Who W ­ ere the Syringa Refugees? Often, I mentioned to residents that a lot of the public was asking, “The writing was on the wall, so why ­didn’t you move out already?” When I presented this question to Scott Morrison, he worked through the following answer: Well, I think a lot of it is “He said, she said.” Th ­ ere’s a lot of stories: “Well, maybe [Shelley Magar’s] got a buyer.” “Maybe ­there’s somebody ­else gonna do this or that.” It takes a lot of money to move. A lot of ­people like the peace and serenity that is out ­here, even though ­there’s a good and bad to every­thing. ­There’s “this side” to it, and “this side,” but in the ­middle lies the truth. At least, on my part, I was just hoping ­there’d be a change, but I think every­body was just—­I d­ on’t know what they mean by, “the writing was on the wall,” ­because ­there was too many—­there was too many rumors. “Writing on a wall,” what does that r­eally mean? For me, I stayed, hoping something would change, but I guess it d­ idn’t, and ­here we are.

The past c­ ouple of years in the park had been filled with dread of forced relocation, and many residents had hoped that someone would simply take the park off Shelley Magar’s hands and save Syringa. Shelley was in her twenties, so some thought that someone with experience could lift it back up. Nobody would have to move. P ­ eople like Scott ­really d­ idn’t want to deal with a move. He was trying to finish his college degree in May, and his home was not likely in good enough shape to move. He loved the serenity of the place, and—as we ­w ill see ­later in this chapter—he worried he would be told to leave his pets b­ ehind. Scott was not the only one whose circumstances led them to hope that something would change, and ­they’d be able to stay in place. Between October  2017 and May  2018, I collected information about the ­house­hold characteristics of the approximately 38 ­house­holds still living in Syringa and whose lives ­were in flux b­ ecause of the park’s closure.18 Information was collected through a variety of methodological tools and activities, which are described in greater detail in the appendix. Collecting information from all ­these activities, I was able to rec­ord impor­tant

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­Table 1. Characteristics of Syringa h­ ouse­holds forced to relocate, 2017–2018 Head of h ­ ouse­hold characteristics (for 38 ­house­holds) House­holds headed by a ­couple House­holds headed by single-­mother or ­woman caretaker House­holds headed by single-­man caretaker House­holds comprised of a single ­woman only House­holds comprised of a single man only

Frequency (%) 14 (37%) 8 (21%) 2 (5%) 6 (16%) 8 (21%)

House­holds with members meeting specific characteristics House­holds with dependents ­u nder 18 years House­holds with members with disabilities House­holds with members coping with drug addiction and  rehabilitation House­holds with a member with criminal history   (verified cases)

9 (24%) 18 (47%) 10 (26%) 6 (16%)

Note: The 38 ­house­holds represented 88 individuals. All identified as white, non-­H ispanic, except three individuals. Another three individuals identified as LGBTQ+.

characteristics among ­those who stayed ­behind and, ultimately, who became what one park resident coined, “Syringa Refugees.” ­Table 1 provides information for 38 of the ­house­holds that remained in the park in the fall of 2017. Fourteen h­ ouse­holds with c­ ouples still lived in Syringa at that time. All together nine ­house­holds looked ­a fter 17 ­children ­under the age of 18: five families with single caretakers and four families with c­ ouples heading them. Five of the other ­house­holds headed by a single w ­ oman or man caretaker looked a­ fter adult dependents with a disability, substance use disorder, or who w ­ ere disabled by criminal histories. Caretakers are t­ hose individuals who took responsibility of h­ ouse­hold ­budgets, most often working as the sole breadwinner in the paid workforce. They paid the rent, covered the power bills, bought most of the groceries, made sure kids got to school, and made sure ­people got to the doctor. While in a number of cases the distribution

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of responsibilities for c­ ouples seemed to follow traditional gender roles, the fact was that ­couples often balanced some of the decision-­making and demands of managing their h­ ouse­holds. If one partner worked full time, a spouse with a disability would look ­a fter the ­children when they got back from school, for instance. Eight men and six w ­ omen lived alone in their homes. Single caretakers and single individuals represented the largest share of ­house­hold heads among the Syringa refugees who would need to find a new place to live. I found out that ­house­holds with dependents age 18 and youn­ger had more support opportunities than t­hose without dependents, since the Department of Health and Welfare and nonprofits like F ­ amily Promise of the Palouse are geared ­toward assisting families with c­ hildren. This meant that four of the ­house­holds looking ­a fter dependent ­children had a chance of getting some support from agencies and ­organizations to move and pay rent. The remainder faced more road bumps, ­either ­because they had already maxed out social support ­services over the past year or did not have dependents in their homes. One of the most striking facts about ­these final 38 refugee ­house­holds is that 18 (47%) had at least one member with disability, which is almost twice the national percentage of ­people with disabilities estimated by the U.S. Center for Disease Control (CDC).19 Disabilities include ­people with physical and cognitive disabilities, as well as substance use disorders that interfere with significant life activities as defined in the Americans with Disabilities Act.20 Criminal histories alone do not qualify a person as “disabled,” u­ nless they qualify using the other criteria mentioned e­ arlier. However, criminal histories—­especially felony rec­ords—­are “disabling” when seeking housing and employment.21 A small number of residents with substance use disorders ­were able to work full time and are not counted as members with disabilities. According to the Substance Abuse and M ­ ental Health S­ ervices Administration, in 2020 approximately 14.5 ­percent of ­people aged 12 or older in the United States had a substance use disorder ­either relating to illicit drugs or alcohol. In Idaho, 7.3 ­percent of ­people aged 12 or older had a substance use disorder.22 A ­l ittle over one-­quarter of the ­house­holds (26%) in Syringa had at least one member with a substance use disorder, which is almost twice the national estimate and nearly

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four times the state estimate. I was able to confirm that a member in six dif­fer­ent h­ ouse­holds (16%) had a criminal rec­ord, which is a number that falls below reported estimates that 1 in 3 adults in the United States have been arrested, which makes some form of criminal rec­ord as common as earning a four-­year college degree.23 In sum, it is true that a higher number of p­ eople living in Syringa ­were coping with substance use disorder, ­either alcohol or illicit drugs, yet the number of criminal rec­ords at minimum was no higher than the number of ­people—­men and w ­ omen—­w ith criminal rec­ords anywhere. Deaths of Despair Figure 21 pre­sents a graphic illustration of the aforementioned characteristics and links them to the types of p­ eople managing a home as a de facto “house­hold head.” Most remarkable in this graphic is the higher proportion of single caretakers (60%) whose ­house­holds had at least one ­house­hold member with a disability (60%) or working through drug addiction (40%). Though the CDC includes substance use disorder

Single Women

Single Men

Single Caretakers

Couples 0

2

Total Number

4 Disability

6 Addiction

8

10

Criminal Record

12

14

Age of DOD

figur e 21. Frequency of ­house­hold characteristics by type of h­ ouse­hold head in Syringa, 2017–2018. Note: The category “Single Caretakers” combines characteristics of eight single-­women and two single-­men caretakers.

16

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as a qualifying disability, not e­ very h­ ouse­hold member’s drug addiction “interfered with significant life activities,” which is a key ­measure in the agency’s definition.24 The majority of the single caretakers w ­ ere ­women (80%). Ninety p­ ercent of single caretakers ­were between 45 and 54 years of age. In relation to this age group, Anne Case and Angus Deaton (2020) note that “black mortality rates remain above ­those for whites but, in the past three d­ ecades, the gap in mortality rates between blacks and whites with less than a bachelor’s degree fell markedly. Black mortality rates, which ­were more than twice ­those of whites as late as the 1990s, fell as white rates ­rose, closing the distance between them to 20 ­percent.”25 This trend leads Case and Deaton to refer to ­these deaths as “deaths of despair,” noting that the rise in mortality rates can be correlated with increasing rates of pain, addiction, alcoholism, suicide, and downward socioeconomic mobility expressed as worse jobs and lower wages—­experiences increasingly affecting the working class across all races. Case and Deaton’s description emphasizes the per­sis­tent disparities in Black and white mortality rates, where even with sharp increases in deaths of despair among less educated whites ­there remains a 20 ­percent difference. Structural conditions that historically harmed Blacks disproportionately—­stagnant socioeconomic mobility expressed as low-­tier nonunion jobs, lower wages, poor housing—­are now expanding to hurt a larger percentage of whites who had ­until three ­decades ago enjoyed skilled jobs with u­ nion repre­sen­ta­tion and housing opportunities that signified relatively secure middle-­class status. As a majority of working-­class Americans are harmed by the declining conditions in work (aka the feminization of l­abor, as mentioned in the introduction), health care, retirement pensions, and housing, ­these worsening trends are approaching a tipping point in national politics, showing how impor­tant it is to work in solidarity with one another to build better ­f utures for the American working class. Ignoring t­ hese trends u­ ntil they affect a significant number of white working-­class Americans has only delayed the realization that skin color ­doesn’t immunize you from exploitative practices. Syringa residents’ experiences cannot be separated from the trends Case and Deaton warn can only get worse with a

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“business as usual” approach. The “deaths of despair” age cohort represented the largest age group among the 38 ­house­holds forced to relocate. Syringa residents’ experiences of housing precarity, community loss, and stigma are happening across the United States. Once I looked at the characteristics of the dif­f er­ent ­house­holds in Syringa, I realized that residents had plenty of reasons to explain why they did not move out when “the writing was on the wall.” Even without the stress of boil o­ rders and closure announcements, the p­ eople living in Syringa dealt with excruciating stress on a daily basis. If you are a single caretaker hoping your child can kick drug d­ ependency but have no money to get help for them other than time in jail, as was the case for a few residents, that is very stressful. Besides, ­w ill you be able to find housing for both you and your child, if they already have an arrest rec­ord? Some families had c­hildren with disabilities, which created stress about moving. Parents asked what any ordinary ­family would: “How ­will my child adjust to a new school?” Some of the men with disabilities figured out ways to work and earn money by setting up basic workshops in their yards—­perhaps feeding into outsiders’ impression that residents’ yards ­were full of junk. For t­hese men, this “junk” had value, since it could be useful for fixing or building something. ­These examples highlight how fundamental being in place was to provide both material and psychological security to residents. It was difficult enough to leave ­behind a ­house but losing Syringa was more than that. The executive director of Sojourners’ Alliance, Steve Bonnar, explained how vital communities like Syringa are in supporting ­people who experience stigma and hurdles in life, like t­ hose who stayed in the park ­until its b­ itter closure: So much of that not-­in-­my-­backyard stuff. ­Because of not dealing with it—in a way, that’s supporting “I’m not ­going to address this.” Syringa, as we w ­ ere talking about—­there w ­ ere a few drug h­ ouses t­here, but every­body who lived t­ here knew which ones they w ­ ere. They did. Community. It was community. Syringa and communities like it are a support system, friendships. That’s critical to anyone’s health and well-­being. When p­ eople are solo,

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flying alone in that isolation, it becomes a spiral where—­like in the community that existed in Syringa, t­here was folks that knew each other for years and years and years. I interacted with somebody that ­didn’t live ­there but had grown up ­there, and talked about growing up ­there, and still connected to that community. Most jobs come from friends, the networks.26

To emphasize Steve’s point, let me recount how a former resident I had not met before contacted me in February 2019. Gloria Dunn and her husband moved out in November 2017, leaving before winter hit hard and also to move away from friends in the park who enabled Gloria’s access to drugs. They felt living in Syringa prolonged her addiction. Not surprisingly, drug use was putting stress on their marriage. However, moving to a neighboring state several hours away from Moscow and Syringa did not entirely help Gloria and her husband. They experienced strug­gles with finances and missed the support of friends they had lost. Eventually, the ­couple moved to another town that was only an hour away, before subsequently moving back to Moscow—­ fortunate enough to acquire a housing voucher and to find a rare apartment with it. Gloria contacted me while she and her husband still lived an hour away from Moscow, and we met a c­ ouple weeks l­ater at a local diner. ­A fter spending a year and a half away from Syringa, Gloria explained she still c­ ouldn’t let go of her friends. She was rehabilitating okay, but the shared experiences she had with her neighbors in Syringa fulfilled an impor­tant role emotionally. Plus, her friend Derek was still ­really struggling with addiction and was homeless. She was among the few ­people around who could help him. In fact, one of the reasons she was in Moscow this day was to buy some food to bring out to her friend. Derek was still squatting in his former home in Syringa even though ­there was no plumbing or electricity. Since the Sheriff’s Department closed the park in December 2018, Derek was also illegally trespassing. Gloria listed other names of former residents whom she kept in touch with and whom she and her husband spent time with so they could catch up and relate to one another’s experiences of relocation, loss, and life successes. While we chatted, in fact, three dif­fer­ent friends who had

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lived in Syringa happened upon us at this diner in downtown Moscow. Two of them sat down with us to describe their latest experiences; one had ­adopted a puppy that helped him as he, too, worked through drug rehabilitation. This is another impor­tant facet of the Syringa story, with both h­ umans and nonhumans making up the support system and friendships Steve Bonnar insisted ­were integral to the community that was Syringa. Pets Are ­Family Pets w ­ ere a significant subject in emergency response planning and ­were part of our discussions in the October 2017 meeting with nonprofit and government leaders. According to the information I collected, 96 pets lived in the 38 ­house­holds still looking for housing in 2018. Of ­these pets, 41 w ­ ere dogs, 50 w ­ ere cats, and five w ­ ere other types of animals like guinea pigs, turtles, and rabbits. The total number amounted to at least one pet per individual who resided in the park still. One resident estimated, however, that at least 20 feral cats ­were sheltering in abandoned homes, and she reported feeding them what she could, while also caring for her own pets. It was clear domesticated animals played a significant role in residents’ lives. Most of ­these pets had stuck with their families during difficult times. One of Aimee Pace’s dogs, for example, had been her deceased husband Chris’s adored companion. During our conversation, she described their personality to me: Aimee: The pain in the rear [Chris’s dog] is in the bedroom. She’s a dominant. Leontina: Oh, is she? Aimee: Yeah. Well, she was Chris’s dog. Leontina: Oh, wow. Aimee: Yeah, and so yeah. She is very dominant. She is very bossy. She is very in charge. [pointing to another dog] She’s the baby. Both of them [the dogs in the living room] are her kids. The concept of separating them w ­ ill never happen. Yeah. Leontina: Yeah. Aimee: It’ll never happen. I ­w ill never separate them.

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As residents braced themselves for moving, they faced the possibility of landlords rejecting their pets, or that pet fees would be so exorbitant they would be faced with the choice of letting them go or having no home in order to keep them. For many, leaving any of their dear pets ­behind was not an option. They w ­ ere f­ amily. While some h­ ouse­holds w ­ ouldn’t contemplate leaving their beloved pets ­behind, many ­house­holds had no other choice. This had been the case for years, when park residents moved out, and also when the university students inevitably headed out of Moscow at the end of each term. Jim Ware mentioned the constant influx of cats and explained, They [the abandoned cats] just ­won’t go away. So, then you end up with all ­these goddamn cats out ­here. And it ­doesn’t help that when the students leave, if the pound ­doesn’t want them, ­they’ll drive out in the country and “Look! A trailer park! ­We’ll just throw [them out by] a tree!” Or ­they’ll go down ­here by Robinson Park and throw them out down ­there. My buddy lives next door to Robinson Park and he said all ­these cats ­w ill show up at certain times of the year. It’s ­really hard on the cats, too. Yeah, the coyotes ­w ill eat them. But then when you take an animal that has not a clue how to survive in the wild and you just drop them out in the m ­ iddle of nowhere, they just freak. I mean they ­haven’t, they ­haven’t got a clue. You know? It’s just terribly mean. You just might as well shoot them in the head, you know? But, anyway, that’s pretty typical of cats out ­here. And then like Roy says the coyotes come right into the park and get them. Yeah. And t­ hey’ll sit out h­ ere.

This experience was corroborated in a newspaper interview with Syringa resident Andrea Dickerson, who shared her grave concern for all the abandoned and feral cats stuck in the park as residents ­were moving out: “ ‘Once we all leave, t­hey’re g­ oing to start starving,’ Dickerson said. ‘­There’s not enough ­here. The coyotes are moving in, ­we’ve already got skunks and raccoons walking through the place. You know, t­hey’ll come in and take over without the dogs to help keep them out the door.’ ”27 Andrea raised this concern numerous times as the months wound nearer to the park’s official closure date. She was incredibly attached to the animals in the park, which was clear when a newspaper article about the park

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closure noted, “If she had the resources, Dickerson said she would start a ‘Syringa animal rescue’ and save the cats.”28 The Humane Society of the Palouse (HSoP)’s animal shelter was already at capacity in October 2017, and its staff members w ­ ere paying close attention to animals dropped off at their shelter in Moscow. Syringa’s cats ­were known to carry feline immunodeficiency virus, so they needed to be tested before coming anywhere near the shelter. Since it was at capacity, staff from HSoP hoped to find grant funding to support a mobile clinic to go out to spay/neuter abandoned cats, but they would have to stay at the property ­because t­ here was no room for all of them. This troubled a good number of p­ eople in Moscow who wished to rescue the cats, but ­there ­were few if any individuals willing to bring any of the animals into their barns or homes. During dif­fer­ent interviews with residents—­those who w ­ ere forced to relocate as well as the individuals who had lived in Syringa in the past—­the subject of being able to bring their animals with them when they moved into the park came up regularly. Animals play a significant role in ­people’s lives, and for many animals are not just companions but a form of therapy. This was most vividly demonstrated when Scott Morrison showed up to be interviewed for a video documentary University of Idaho undergraduate students Isabel Robles and Denessy Rodriguez ­were developing for the “Syringa Speaks” public forum in late January  2018. Following right b­ ehind Scott, one a­ fter the other, trotted his three cats. All three of us exclaimed our ­pleasure at seeing such an adorable sight. Scott looked most pleased of all and said that his cats usually followed him when he took walks through the park. During the interview, I asked Scott, “What ­else do you think is ­really impor­tant for ­people to understand about your experience, being out ­here, and the conditions?” He paused for a moment, then answered, Well, my biggest t­hing is if I go, I want to take my animals. To me, ­they’re my therapy. A lot of ­people ­don’t understand it. “Oh, ­they’re just animals! Just dump ’em or get rid of ’em all.” Well, I ­can’t do that. I ­don’t know if the camera sees it; I’ve got three of my cats that are ­r unning around that are just, “Hey, what are you ­doing?” To me, that means a lot, just having the animals. Being out h­ ere. Just like you said, having the

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freedom to be out in the country a l­ittle bit and be directly out of the city. It’s quiet, it’s c­ onvenient. This place has got a bad rap, which I can understand. I was born and raised in Los Angeles. I understand the rap and the ­things that go on ­here, but it can change if management ever came in and someone did buy it.

Pet owner­ship added a complicating ­factor in residents’ relocation decisions, pointing to the fact that moving involves not just financial decisions, but decisions that are tied to attachment to ­people, place, and to pets. ­These decisions are difficult even without the hardships of having few resources and stereotype-­based social stigmas to contend with. Bankruptcy Settlements Calculated and Distributed Residents received closure announcements in the mail on November 5, 2017, which meant they w ­ ere legally obliged to move out by May 5, 2018. Eight days ­later, the closure date would be moved one month ­later to June 5, thanks to a successful bankruptcy settlement. On November 13, 2017, the dif­fer­ent parties representing the three dif­fer­ent lawsuits filed against Magar  E. Magar met in the Spokane, Washington, Bankruptcy Court to deliberate and reach settlement agreements with Shelley Magar and her ­legal counsel. I joined Dawn Tachell, Jim Ware, and Bob Bonsall who w ­ ere to wait in a separate room, which happened to be the old courtroom—­its ornate woodwork and g­ iant chandeliers hanging from the tall ceilings made every­one feel respected. Maureen Laflin would stop by from time to time to apprise us of the details and ask the three residents if they felt okay about the LAC bankruptcy team’s direction. Negotiations took all day, and every­one was relieved to see Maureen enter the room to tell us, “It’s done. ­Here’s the deal.” We learned that Idaho Conservation League and the Idaho Department of Environmental Quality agreed that Shelley Magar should first meet financial obligations tied to the class-­ action settlement, ­after which their settlements would be met. This was a meaningful gesture from both of the ­organizations. The settlement moved forward all three tiers, as described in chapter 4. Shelley Magar paid $1,000 to anyone who lived in Syringa at the

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time of the ­water crisis. Another $1,000 was paid to ­those who ­didn’t owe rent, since some residents had already chosen to forego four months of rent payments to Magar when it was understood this would be part of the class-­action settlement. The largest reward sum was tied to the Second Tier, which compensated the homeowners in Syringa for the damages of lost home values resulting from the 93-­day ­water shutdown. Compensation to homeowners was calculated in the following way: they took the assessed value of the mobile before the Latah County assessor’s devaluation in 2014, subtracted the 2017 value from that, and then paid half of the difference. Let’s look at a ­couple examples of how this worked for a homeowner whose home was assessed at $5,000 before the w ­ ater crisis (see T ­ ables 2 and 3). The first example illustrates how compensation would be calculated for a ­house­hold that moved out by 2017. ­Every home that was emptied and red tagged was assessed at the lot’s monthly rent value of $260. The second example illustrates how compensation would be calculated for a h­ ouse­hold that stayed u­ ntil Syringa closed in 2018. Its 2017 assessed value would be more than $260, since the home was not red tagged, and the homeowner would be active and paying property taxes on their home still.

­Table 2. Compensation to ­house­holds that moved out by 2017 2013 assessed mobile home value 2017 assessed mobile home value ­A fter subtracting the 2017 value Total compensation (­a fter dividing in half)

$5,000.00 $260.00 $4,740.00 $2,370.00

­Table 3. Compensation to ­house­holds that stayed u­ ntil Syringa closed 2013 assessed mobile home value 2017 assessed mobile home value ­A fter subtracting the 2017 value Total compensation (­a fter dividing in half)

$5,000.00 $2,000.00 $3,000.00 $1,500.00

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Total compensation to the homeowner who moved out before 2017 would be $2,370. The homeowner who stayed ­until the park closed in 2018 would be compensated $1,500, which was $870 less than the ­people who saw “the writing on the wall” and moved out before 2018. In other words, ­people who stayed in the park ­were penalized financially, both by receiving smaller financial compensation and by still paying property taxes to the county for their devalued homes. As described ­earlier, however, the homeowners who stayed in Syringa had plenty of reasons to stay ­there, including tight finances. The compensation was less than what homeowners needed to cover the expenses to move their homes. Moscow City Council did agree to waive the $200.65 mobile home installation fee to help residents with expenses, but conversations in the October LAC meeting showed that this fee was modest compared to mobile home transportation and hookup costs to new plumbing and electricity systems upon arrival. If homeowners ­were expecting more compensation through the bankruptcy settlement, they would be disappointed. The bankruptcy settlement enabled LAC to get checks distributed to residents so they had cash in hand for relocation. The amount of money ­wasn’t even close enough to cover all the costs associated with moving. In 2018, the average rent for a two-­bedroom apartment was $828 per month. A three-­bedroom apartment deposit in Moscow could cost anywhere from $600 to $1,500, which is a very large sum of money to come up with at once on top of food, utilities, and other expenses tied to monthly necessities. For t­ hose working to move their mobile homes, moving companies ­were quoting costs at $4,500 to $8,000 for a single-­ wide home. Double-­w ides w ­ ere twice the cost to move. However, the looming settlement was fi­nally put to rest. This was a victory. Relocation: “Natu­ral Se­lection” of Neighbors Residents faced an uphill ­battle trying to relocate over the seven months they ­were given to move out before final park closure. Frank Stone, a homeowner and full-­time worker in town, faced considerable hassles trying to move his older, very well-­maintained, mobile home from Syringa. Few residents ever saw Frank or spoke with him over the

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several years he lived in the park. He kept to himself, raising his son—­ now an adult—as a single f­ ather. Yet, a­ fter facing many closed doors as he sought a new lot for his mobile home in town, he contacted me via email, a­ fter reaching a point of desperation: Apparently, ­there is a very negative stigma attached to telling a potential park man­ag­er that you are looking to acquire a space and are moving from Syringa. Or even if you ­don’t tell them you want to move from Syringa. Apparently, anyone looking currently is assumed by the park man­ag­ers that the looker is from Syringa. You can drive through ­these parks and see empty spaces and they ­w ill tell you they ­don’t have any. They might have some in the fall. They ­don’t state the spaces are already leased and just not yet installed. Of course, that is a­ fter the date when residents are supposed to have moved. Maybe a better description of this action is discrimination. I have never missed a rent payment at Syringa and always pay on time. I keep my yard and unit immaculate, and every­ t hing well maintained.29

­ ater in Frank’s email, he remarked, “I ­hadn’t heard of the apparent disL crimination for Syringa refugees at that point and never even thought of it mattering. But as near as I can determine. i.e., every­one looking for a space currently are considered a Syringa refugee—­whether they are or not—by park man­ag­ers and they are not leasing spaces.” The negative view of Syringa residents made their relocation even more demoralizing and embarrassing ­because ­these common perceptions ­were not just ways of thinking about them, they also led to inaction. As Susan Fiske has found in her research on stigma and “scorning down,” dehumanization through stigma helps justify avoidance and passivity among ­those who have the resources to help.30 In this case, the landlords and ­service workers who could have helped Frank out ­were able to step back, knowing he had no means to challenge them, and then assume the city’s community itself would sympathize with their reluctance. This community perspective was represented most clearly during my interview with Latah County commissioner Dave McGraw. Sympathetic to the experiences of Syringa residents following the w ­ ater crisis, he explained why the park was impor­tant to the county and why he and

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his colleagues w ­ ere interested in keeping the park open: “­There’s a lot of ­those ­people out ­there have felonies—­sex offenders, drug issues that ­couldn’t qualify to get an apartment in Moscow. I’ve always said Syringa serves a role. Syringa fills a need. Th ­ ere is a need out t­ here that Syringa fills, and it’s for the ­people who, no money, ­can’t afford the first and last months, no credit, ­can’t afford—­can’t pass a background check, ­can’t pass a credit check. Th ­ ey’re somebody you maybe w ­ ouldn’t let move into your duplex, if you owned a duplex next door to you, you know what I mean?”31 His explanation starts from the assumption that Syringa served ­people with crime rec­ords and drug issues; only l­ater does he mention their financial positions. In this way ­there is an equivalency between crime, addiction, and poverty that helps demarcate the purpose of a park like Syringa as a place for p­ eople with prob­lems, in contrast to the purpose of a city like Moscow. As he noted, “­They’re somebody you maybe w ­ ouldn’t let move into your duplex.” Frank, ­because he was moving out of Syringa, was assumed to be the kind of person you ­wouldn’t necessarily want as a neighbor, if we apply the assumptions shown in the commissioner’s remarks. Rubbing salt into their wounds, it was widely known that residents in Syringa Mobile Home Park had been wronged by a negligent landlord. Syringa had become so well known as a prob­lem among city residents and landlords that many barriers ­were raised when residents tried to relocate to town. In fact, of the residents I tracked from October 2017 to December 2018, nearly half had to relocate to other regions of the state or to other states. Community Action: Building Community Support While ­there was inaction among some groups and landlords in Moscow, t­ here ­were nonprofits and individuals who took proactive m ­ easures to support Syringa refugees. The visits I had with families in Syringa ­were vital to coordinating the efforts and strategically distributing the few resources available. I use the word “families” ­here to include both multimember and single-­member h­ ouse­holds. No ­matter who you ­were in Syringa, you ­were losing home and community—­you ­were part of the ­family. Thanks to residents sharing their circumstances with me, I was able to communicate specific details to relevant parties as we launched

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relocation and fund­rais­ing efforts. Steve Bonnar and the compassion-­ driven staff at Sojourners’ Alliance offered to be the direct line of communication with Syringa residents in determining ­house­holds’ eligibility for dif­fer­ent federal transitional and emergency housing programs. Lysa Salsbury, director of the University of Idaho ­Women’s Center, offered to work on fund­rais­ing efforts, including ­organizing a dance and potluck social held at the Unitarian Universalist Church of the Palouse. Anne Zabala, Moscow City councilor, offered to build an online GoFundMe fund­rais­ing drive. Over the month of May 2018, Sojourners’ Alliance staff members Steve Bonnar, Cliff McAleer, and Janna Jones gathered with me, Anne Zabala, and Lysa Salsbury a few times at the Sojourners’ Alliance conference room to swap information. Thanks to staff members’ experience as counselors for homelessness prevention, we learned which residents ­were ­going to have greater federal programming support compared to o­ thers. By understanding each ­family’s circumstances, we ­were able to determine who needed greater cash support from the fund­rais­ing effort. E ­ very person who contacted us about moving from Syringa received some amount of money from the fund­rais­ing effort, since we wanted p­ eople to have some money that had no strings attached to it. Government programs often set specific criteria that need to be met to qualify for support and, once met, you are ­limited in how you can use the funds. The fund­ rais­ing drive netted $13,175.87, a pot of money that was now available to help families who could spend the money the way they saw fit. The money was hardly enough to cover costs for every­one’s circumstances, but cash in hand allowed some flexibility. The view of ­those of us collaborating to build community support was basic: families need to be trusted to know what is best for themselves. Plenty of social support programs set limits, so we wanted to take away the stigmatizing experience that is inherent to many government and charity support criteria, such as requiring the presence of dependents or proof of permanent physical disability.32 Conclusion News that Syringa Mobile Home Park was g­ oing to close s­ houldn’t have been a surprise, since many following the case understood this

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was a real and even likely pos­si­ble outcome a­ fter several years of delays and stalled bankruptcy proceedings with Magar  E. Magar and subsequently his d­ aughter, Shelley Magar, who inherited the deed to the park. Though it was understood by leaders in the county and the city that ­wholesale closure was a real possibility, ­there ­were no emergency relocation plans in place to help guide park residents as they tried to move their mobile homes or find resources to assist them in finding affordable housing nearby. Instead, a patchwork of nonprofit o­ rganizations and community leaders ­were the main entities that put together strategies to share information with Syringa residents and to coordinate what ­little financial support could be cobbled together in a short number of months. ­Those who stayed experienced life circumstances that w ­ ere barriers to arranging a timely move from Syringa. Nearly 50  ­percent of the 38   house­holds had f­amily members with a disability, e­ ither physical, cognitive, or due to substance abuse disorders. Many of ­these ­house­holds ­were headed by a single caretaker, relying on one income mostly derived from ­service sector wages. Not only did most of the ­house­holds face financial limitations, but they also hoped their home and community would remain intact. As resident Scott Morrison had said, they kept thinking someone might buy Syringa and that t­hings would change. They would be able to hang on to friends, sanctuary, a ­house and a home, a place to enjoy pets, and a community. ­These are ­things that most anyone wishes for in life. Yet, the decision to stay in Syringa ­until it closed meant that surrounding p­ eople w ­ ere suspicious of residents’ ability to make good decisions and to pick themselves up by their bootstraps. A ­ fter all, the “writing was on the wall” a long time ago, so they could and should have moved ­earlier. This thinking could equally well be applied to local governments, since neither the county or city planned for this predictable and increasingly inevitable community disaster. The circumstances ­were ripe for residents to be treated, as Frank Stone aptly said, like Syringa refugees; they ­were turned away from other parks and needed ­services, leaving residents to feel that their address preceded their individual reputations. ­Those homeowners who stayed also received lower compensation than ­those who managed to move out ­earlier. Thus, ­house­holds that faced

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greater challenges ­were met with fewer resources, tight time pressures, and experiences of rejection. For t­ hese reasons, several ­organizations and individuals stepped in to provide guidance and raise and distribute funds to offer forms of support that destigmatized the experience of being forced out of one’s home and community. Chapter  7 grapples with the tragic circumstances of community decline and death during and ­a fter closure. Except for three individuals, ­every ­family had moved out by the end of the summer. And, as apocalyptic as conditions ­were a­ fter the networks of care dissolved when neighbors and friends moved out, nobody took their own life.

CH A P T E R 7

Death of a Community Buildings and neighborhoods and nations are insinuated into us by life; we are not, as we like to think, ­independent of them . . . ​We can, indeed, separate from our places, but it is an operation that is best done with care. When a part is ripped away . . . ​root shock ensues. —­M indy Thompson Fullilove, 2016

F

ollowing the 2013–2014 ­water crisis, and despite the first wave of homeowners and renters having already moved out of the park, Syringa still felt like a community. The recreation center’s lawn was kept mowed mostly. A few of the homeowners decorated their places with strings of Christmas lights and had flowers and fruit trees in their yards. ­Children jumped out of the bus in the late after­noon on school days, scattering off in dif­fer­ent directions to get to their homes, or to neighbors who looked a­ fter them while their relatives w ­ ere still at work. As I grew familiar with the ­people, the homes, and the culture of the park, Syringa felt like a community to me. I was able to see individuals and appreciate their differences. ­There ­were homes where I knew I could drop by and chat whenever someone was home and t­ here w ­ ere homes where I knew I would never get an answer at the door, no ­matter what the purpose of my visit. ­People are like this in any community. As ­people focused on the approaching park closure and the imperative of needing to be moved out by June 5, 2018, the recreation center’s lawn became overgrown. Tall grasses and patches of thistle took over ­people’s yards, hiding the daffodils, tulips, and irises ­people had carefully planted and watched bloom over the spring. The c­ hildren remaining played amidst growing piles of rubble that residents left in their yards and on the park’s streets as they sorted through belongings to 205

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decide what would come with them and what would stay b­ ehind. In a ­matter of four and a half years, Syringa had changed. But, over t­ hese last few months before closure the changes to the park’s appearance and emotional climate w ­ ere shocking. Starting in late May, my spouse Chris joined me as park visits turned into daily wellness checks with residents, asking about their sense of safety and to learn concerns and needs that might require reports to aid ­organizations, law enforcement, or via public Facebook updates intended to increase public awareness and support within the larger regional community. Incorporating some of ­these updates, I describe in this chapter how the closure on June 5 unfolded and the basic challenges facing residents who ­couldn’t move out by this date. The remainder of the chapter explores what a d­ ying community looked and felt like inside. It was apocalyptic and brutal, stretching residents’ ­w ill to survive. Syringa Facebook Update—­J une 6, 2018 Yesterday was the first day Syringa was officially closed. By my count, ten residents are still h­ oused in the park. Four are single w ­ omen, who are waiting for mobile homes to be moved (2), waiting for paperwork to move into an apartment (1), or are still uncertain what to do (1). Another ­woman is moving with her f­ amily to a parcel of land and trying to build a home from scratch. Five are single men who are waiting for mobile homes to be moved (3), waiting to get ­things moved out to then be formally considered “homeless” so he can get ­housed (1), and another waiting to see where the winds take him (1). All are placing their best foot forward to leave the lives they have known out at Syringa, a community that had worked for them and met their needs u­ ntil June 5. ­People have been confused about the status of s­ ervices and how the trustee for the property ­w ill proceed in closing the park. ­Will he [the park o­ wner’s trustee] tell Avista to turn the power off this week? What about the w ­ ater? ­Will residents be arrested for trespassing? Yesterday, I spoke with the Sheriff’s Department, and they are only interested in monitoring criminal activity to ensure safety for ­those who are still trying to get moved. In talking with an Avista representative, no ­orders have been made yet to turn off power and t­ here are hopes in the com­ pany’s offices that this request is not issued before every­one is out. No power could put resident’s lives at undue risk.

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Nobody has a clear answer about how the park ­w ill be enclosed ­a fter residents are all moved. One s­ ervice that has been removed is garbage removal—­a ll of the residents’ trash bins w ­ ere removed last Friday, June 1. The park yesterday was very empty and quiet. I spoke with a few folks still out ­there, and in some ways it felt a ­little more peaceful—­even as ­people bear even greater pressure to get out. More reports ahead, as our neighbors work to leave that place called Syringa Mobile Home Park, three miles outside Moscow, Idaho . . . ​1

No Lease. No ­Water. Late morning on June  7 we checked in with residents about their ­water access. Residents confirmed the park o­ wner followed through on her plan to shut off Syringa’s w ­ ater. It ­didn’t seem necessary to shut the ­water off already, since we learned that the trustee serving on behalf of the ­owner in overseeing the property agreed to extend the final moving date to June 22, 2018. It was clear that getting out of the park was too complicated for several ­people. With the l­egal closing date passed, however, the park o­ wner was ­under no obligation to provide ­water to residents. And, despite the importance of ­r unning w ­ ater for drinking, cooking, and flushing toilets, no ­organization—­local government or nonprofit—­had stepped in to aid ­those who remained in Syringa. Residents ­were accustomed to figuring out their ­water situation on their own. The ones we spoke with ­were, of course, angry, but they w ­ ere exhausted to the point of resigned ­acceptance. Chris and I w ­ ere utterly disturbed by this situation. I knew one way to put a Band-­A id on the situation before heading back to Moscow to start making calls to p­ eople’s offices and on the phone. Remember the story in chapter 4 about the cases of ­water the park ­owner bought to give to residents during the ­water shutoff in December 2016? Two days ­a fter Christmas, the ­owner’s boyfriend and two of the county commissioners had hauled ­these cases into the park and stacked them inside Syringa’s recreation center. The doors to the center ­were then padlocked shut and the ­water was never distributed to the residents. I discovered ­these cases while conducting a site visit with my research assistants on October 31, 2017. We had peered into the

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figur e 22. Cases of ­water meant for distribution to Syringa’s residents during the December 2016 boil order w ­ ere still waiting to be distributed to residents on October 31, 2017. Photographer: Cynthia Ballesteros.

win­dows of the recreation center’s activity room and noticed the stack of cases arranged nearly exactly as it had appeared in the images posted publicly on Facebook, though with scraps of lumber resting on them and a few cases set aside on the floor (Figure 22). We w ­ ere lucky to find someone working inside the center who allowed us to take photo­graphs of the cases. The news about the w ­ ater locked inside the recreation center was useful information for the county commissioners and the University of Idaho ­Legal Aid Clinic team, since the ­owner was mandated by the District Court to provide ­water to residents ­every time the park’s supply was shut off, or when a boil order was activated. When I informed both parties that the cases ­were still sitting inside the recreation center, 10 months ­a fter it was purchased for distribution to Syringa residents, neither the ­legal counsel nor county commissioners

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­ ere terribly surprised. Broken agreements ­were the rule, not the excepw tion, throughout the l­egal b­ attles surrounding Syringa. It was clear that giving ­these cases of ­water to residents who ­were stuck in Syringa without any r­ unning w ­ ater would be a quick, albeit insufficient, solution. The doors to the recreation center, however, w ­ ere still locked. Cases of bottled ­water remained untouched inside. We asked some of the residents if they knew who we could contact to get a key to open the doors. Nobody was sure who would have a key, and they had no contact information for the person who had been d­ oing park maintenance. Yet, we lucked out again. The same person who we found inside the recreation center the previous fall was moving his t­ hings out of it that day and was able to let us in. For an hour, Chris and I loaded cases into the back of our small station wagon and delivered them to the remaining residents’ doorsteps. So nearly 18 months ­later, t­ hese cases of “emergency relief” w ­ ater ­were fi­nally delivered to the p­ eople legally entitled to them back on December 27, 2016. Syringa Facebook Update—­J une 8, 2018 The mission t­ oday has been dedicated to trying to get w ­ ater to Syringa residents, who are stuck in the park for another week or two. A ­ fter visiting Latah County offices, talking on the phone with UI ­Legal Aid Clinic and North Central Idaho Public Health, I still had no encouraging information. You see, to get ­water turned back on, or to at minimum get porta potties delivered to the park, the trustee of the property has to authorize it. As a private individual, I knew I w ­ asn’t ­going to have enough clout to persuade the trustee that ­water shut-­off was making an already terrible humanitarian crisis even worse. Just as I was about to post on FB an update filled with dismay, I got a phone call from Paul Kimmell, Regional Business Man­ag­er for Avista Corporation and former county commissioner. He informed me that he had contacted Latah County Commissioner Tom Lamar and they reached a decision to have Tom work on contacting the trustee to reach an arrangement to protect residents still out in the park. If the decision is to allow porta potties on the premises, Avista is willing to cover the costs. Porta potties may not be optimal, but it restores at least a ­little dignity to ­those who just need that ­little extra time to piece their moving strategies together.

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I know every­one following Syringa’s closure is anxious to see ­every resident relocated safely and into housing that helps them restore more stability in their lives. It hurts to see ­water shut-­off take place when folks only need a week or two of gracious understanding. I am grateful to see this response and generous offer unfold ­today from Paul Kimmell, Avista, and Tom Lamar. H ­ ere’s to their success!2 Syringa Facebook Update—­J une 9, 2018 Got word that two portable toilets ­w ill be delivered to Syringa so that the remaining residents (about seven h­ ouse­holds) can deal more easily with having no ­r unning ­water. This is not how it should be, but I am relieved that at least this much was done over the past 48 hours. We have several hard lessons to take out of this experience and it w ­ ill be impor­tant for us to discuss how to protect similar communities more effectively, be it regulating bad ­owners more effectively (or avoiding them all together); improving fair and affordable housing access in Latah County and Moscow; and—at minimum—­having a relocation relief plan in place so t­ hings are not so ad hoc/piecemeal in the f­ uture. Impor­tant to this is to bring Syringa residents to the ­table and learn from their experiences.3 Syringa Facebook Update—­J une 11, 2018 Visited the park to check in on residents, to confirm the porta potties ­were in place and functioning, and to follow up for a resident to make sure their home was not burgled last night (Figure 23). All checked out positively. Spoke with one resident who ­couldn’t move his home out, since it was so rainy this weekend. He is hoping ­today or tomorrow ­w ill be the magic day. Another two residents are hoping to move their homes soon. Two residents are eyeballing living out of RVs for a while. And ­there are a c­ ouple residents that still have no clear exit plan. Though some are trying to stay relatively positive, I did run into one resident who is currently living in a h­ otel as Sojourner’s seeks an apartment and is feeling so lost and distraught. This person stayed in Syringa for 11 years and enjoyed having a fairly stable, predictable life. This person feels utterly betrayed by the park ­owners, ­a fter so many years of promises made to improve the basics out at the park. “Paying rent and utilities on time for 11 years meant nothing,” said this resident. Imagine how betrayed you would feel, if you w ­ ere the same person following the

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figur e 23. The newly arrived porta potties and washing station, June 11, 2018. Photographer: Leontina Hormel.

rules, yet you end up the person who loses their home—­the park ­owner has never lost his home, nor seen time in jail for all of this. Syringa looks more lonely by the day.4

Community Lost Before its official closure, Syringa’s conditions degraded dramatically as neighbors, some who w ­ ere longtime friends, left. For the first time I realized I would never be in Syringa again. The community that was Syringa—­the relationships, familiarity, the listening, and helping hands—­was nearly gone. On the after­noon of June 1, Chris and I walked through the park to Aimee Pace’s double-­w ide home next to the lagoons. We w ­ ere curious to see how far along the movers ­were in getting it ready to move, a surprisingly complicated ­process not unlike lifting a fragile ­house off its foundation and onto an enormous, wheeled dolly. The fact that Aimee had lived in Syringa for most of her life and lived with her husband in this home made this feel like an especially impor­tant moment. And, indeed,

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the movers ­were nearly done. We ­didn’t know at the time that Aimee’s home would be in its new location by the following morning, a­ fter one incident when the haulers slid off the windy gravel road that led to her new park on the north end of Moscow. Jim Ware pulled up to us in his pickup truck and offered to drive us back over to our car at the park’s main entrance. Taking Jim up on his offer, we hopped in, then rode slowly through the park as he pointed out more scars from vandalism and theft and reported the latest news about residents. At no point was this community’s destruction clearer to us than the moment Jim s­ topped near our car. We stayed in his pickup for a bit as he continued to share his frustrations about every­thing happening with the park. While Jim talked, his words melted away as I tried to make sense of a troubling scene unfolding in front of me. I watched three ­children, ranging from six to 12 years of age, weaving their bikes around heaps of discarded belongings along the park’s main roadway. As the ­children rode around on their bikes, two young men—­Derek Lund and Bruce Glover—­ aimlessly staggered and weaved near them. Every­one—­park residents and law enforcement officers—­k new ­t hese two strug­g led with drug addiction, likely methamphetamine, and their be­hav­ior h­ ere suggested they w ­ ere high. The c­ hildren seemed familiar with them too, or at least the men’s be­hav­ior did not seem to disturb their play. As Jim continued to talk, I glanced over at him and Chris to see if they noticed this worrying scene. They did. Jim’s words flowed generously, yet his eyes w ­ ere focused squarely on the activity. For better or for worse, Jim was known as the guy who watched every­one. The potential for this situation to develop into something bad ­wasn’t lost on him. I had my hand on the door h­ andle, ready to spring the passenger door open to steer the c­ hildren away. In that moment, perhaps also uncomfortable with the men’s strange be­hav­ior, all three c­ hildren bolted off together t­oward their home. I was relieved only when I saw all three reach their home, enter it, and close the door. Perhaps we should have jumped out of the truck sooner, but it was unclear if our abrupt involvement would provoke be­hav­ior we wished to avoid in front of the ­children. It was distressing. The young men seemed oblivious to the c­ hildren’s abrupt departure and continued to ramble about this small area of the road right in front

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of us—­oblivious ­there was an audience. They could have been harmless, but it shook me seeing ­children playing just feet away from them. Other than their grand­father Ron and their ­mother, who was not that reliable, ­there ­weren’t any ­people left in the park who could look a­ fter the kids. Dawn and her ­mother aka Cookie Grandma, both of whom had looked a­ fter and tutored c­ hildren when adults w ­ ere away at work, ­were no longer living ­there. They had moved out. The neighbors who listened to and tried to guide Derek and Bruce ­were almost all packed up and gone. Jim knew ­these young men and he also knew that strangers—­ bad influences—­were filling the friendship void as the familiarity of community dropped out from ­under the two men’s feet. Every­one remaining was preoccupied with keeping their lives together as they packed their possessions and wrapped their minds around losing their homes. The community, the network of p­ eople who kept t­ hings together and whose regular presence contributed to a sense of familiarity and security, was nearly completely gone. Dissolving Care Networks It was heartbreaking for Ron Phelps. He had figured out a way to give his grandchildren a stable home environment, and his friends down the street generously provided proper ­a fter school supervision. I learned through conversations with Ron that he slept on the living room couch to allow his five grandchildren to have bedrooms to sleep in. He remarked, “Now, if I can only get them to go to their bedrooms when I am ready to sleep!” It had been his grandchildren riding bikes amid the trash heaps and the aimless young men. The park was no longer fit for raising his grandchildren, and he ­couldn’t h­ ouse them anymore. Now that he was forced to move out of his home, Ron had to trust that his ­daughter would responsibly look ­a fter her c­ hildren and had to motivate her to get an apartment while he also had to find a new home for himself. Ron was squeezing into his days home-­hunting, packing, and hauling garbage to the dump, while working full time at a local home and garden store. During one visit to the park, we spotted Ron talking with a c­ ouple other men as they stood next to his white pickup. We s­ topped to say,

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“Hi,” and asked how t­ hings ­were g­ oing. Ron had the kindest face, but right now he was clearly distraught, and his face wore his pain. It also appeared he had been drinking a few beers to cope with it. He had thought he could buy the mobile home he had been renting for the past few years, but the ­owner of the home refused to sell it. His hopes to keep his home and move it to another park ­were ruined. “Where am I ­going to live?” Ron asked, “And how am I ­going to get every­thing done?” Disconnection and Addiction ­ ese small snapshots of a disintegrating community illustrate the Th importance of home and belonging for ­people’s livelihoods, a set of values and needs that reaches beyond the mere physical structure of a ­house. Neighbors can enhance feelings of stability and safety for both ­children and adults. Once they started to dis­appear in Syringa, be­hav­ iors began to change, creating an environment that felt hazardous. A large reason Chris started accompanying me to Syringa was my own heightened sense of risk now that so many familiar ­people ­were gone. Socially reproductive l­abor like baby­sitting and informal tutoring, keeping track of p­ eople’s wellness and whereabouts, and simply pausing to listen to someone all address the “natu­ral psychological needs” that Johann Ha­ri argues are just as impor­tant as physical needs: “Every­one . . . ​ knows they have natu­ral physical needs. You need food, and ­water, and clean air, and shelter. If I took ­those ­things away from you, you would be in terrible trou­ble. But ­there is equally strong evidence . . . ​that you have natu­ral psychological needs. You need to feel you belong. You need to feel your life has meaning and purpose. You need to feel you have a ­f uture that makes sense.”5 Physical and psychological health are interrelated and, since the U.S. health care system is privatized and leaves nearly 10 ­percent of Americans uninsured, and many underinsured, t­hese critical forms of health are typically sustained or “produced” in homes and communities.6 Addressing drug addiction specifically, Ha­ri challenges how the war on drugs has criminalized drug use to such a point that jails and prisons have served as last-­resort drug rehabilitation centers in place of ­nonexistent or woefully underfunded public-­access health-­care s­ ervices

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and public-­sector community building and support. This revolving door between strug­gles with drug abuse as Syringa wasted away and serving time in jail was a regular cycle in Derek’s and Bruce’s lives. Jail was no stranger to ­either of them before the park’s closure, but without friends and neighbors in the park to talk them through their experiences—­ treating them as good ­people worthy of caring attention—­their be­hav­ iors swung more wildly, most especially Derek’s, for whom losing community left only the jail system. Commonly, the role of social connection and care is ignored when drug addiction is criminalized. Instead, addiction is treated as the consequence of an individual’s weakness, and as a personal shortcoming, a bad moral choice. Yet, the current system ­isn’t working, as Ha­ri explains: “­There is overwhelming evidence that depression, anxiety, and addiction are responses to deep social forces. . . . ​ As your society becomes more unequal, you are more likely to feel insecure and humiliated, and therefore more likely to become depressed and anxious.”7 Bruce and Derek ­were living in an environment that was a physical expression of insecurity and humiliation. Abandoned homes ­were picked apart like carcasses strewn along the streets. When delivering cookies to residents on May  31, Dawn pointed out that p­ eople had already stripped empty homes of copper wiring, including wiring strung between utility poles lining the park roads. It reminded me of similar scenes I had observed when visiting rural villages in western Siberia in 2001 and central Ukraine in 2002, when the countries w ­ ere experiencing crushing economic collapse.8 But this time I was walking in a working-­ class community pushed into closure in a country boasting the world’s largest economy, with a gross domestic product of $20.49 trillion.9 This was the year 2018 in rural Idaho in the United States of Amer­i­ca. Spectators and scavengers came into Syringa from Moscow and the surrounding area; it ­wasn’t just out­going residents stripping homes and snagging valuable objects (Figure 24). As news updates announced the closing date and the near emptiness of the park, this outside traffic and theft increased. Sitting outside her neighbor Sandra’s home one after­ noon in late June, Shannon Musick complained, “­There are p­ eople, complete strangers, who keep driving through the park gawking at us and at the conditions we are living in now. I want to scream at them,

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figur e 24. A child’s teddy bear and bed mattress abandoned as residents move out of Syringa. Photographer: Leontina Hormel.

‘Hello! You enjoying having a good look at poor ­people? Does this make you feel good about yourself, coming h­ ere in your fancy car?’ ”10 Shannon w ­ asn’t exaggerating. The sense that Syringa was less safe was partly b­ ecause t­here w ­ ere always cars parked or driving around, most too new and expensive for any of the residents to own. It was difficult to know who was in the park at any given time. Th ­ ings only got worse as the weeks passed. A July 12, 2018, Moscow-­Pullman Daily News article reported, “Unfamiliar vehicles circle the park as looters look for what they can scavenge, ­either from abandoned trailers or the yards of ­those who are still in the p­ rocess of moving.” The report quoted Sheriff Richie Skiles: “­Every ­evening, a pair of deputies patrol the park . . . ​but it seems to have no effect. As soon as we leave, they come back out of the shadows.” It is tempting to assume the scavengers and ­people looking for valuables w ­ ere d­ oing so to supplement low incomes, but ­there ­were incidents that proved this was not the case. Frank Stone, for instance, said he spotted a truck with a local fence building com­pany’s logo on its door parked

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in front of one of his neighbor’s empty homes. Its driver was in the yard checking out the fence and removing sections of it. Throughout July, strangers kept appearing. Elaine Segal, a w ­ oman in her seventies living with lupus, was about to sign a lease for an apartment in Moscow, and we de­cided to visit her to make sure she was making pro­gress packing her ­things. When Chris and I approached her home, we noticed a large new pickup truck parked in Mike Perkins’s ­little cul-­de-­sac. A tall man was standing outside Mike’s home and talking with him. Dawn joined us that day, as well, and we w ­ ere all curious who would be visiting Mike. Mike lived alone and was very private, yet he was standing across from this man, leaning on his cane, and listening to him intently. Dawn and I walked over to introduce ourselves and ask what brought the stranger out h­ ere. The man introduced himself as Arno and said he was out to see if he could help lighten p­ eople’s loads, generously offering money to take t­ hings off their hands. Mike was working on moving his home, and it appeared the man may have been connecting him with movers. Arno was curious about who we ­were visiting, so he followed us over to Elaine’s home. Dawn and I ­weren’t very enthusiastic about this since we d­ idn’t understand his intent and he carried himself with what we felt was too much self-­importance. Elaine was already outside with her two l­ittle dogs—­one of them Chris and I admiringly nicknamed “Sock Doggie” b­ ecause he loved walking around with a knotted sock in his mouth. Without pause, Arno walked straight ­toward Elaine and inquired about her RV that was parked in a vacant lot next to her home. “I w ­ ill give you $100 for your RV,” proposed Arno, without exchanging any other words with Elaine. Looking puzzled about the unsolicited offer, Elaine paused, then said flatly, “Uh, I ­don’t plan to sell it. It’s worth a lot more than that, anyway. I drove it h­ ere from Montana and h­ aven’t moved it since then. Th ­ ere’s nothing wrong with it and I plan to keep it.” Arno pressed the idea one more time, but Elaine brushed him off. Breaking Th ­ ings as Community Falls Apart I now return the story of the ­children playing near Derek and Bruce, both of whom seemed high on drugs. Bruce was fortunate to live with a

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close friend, Molly Brooks. Molly treated him like a son, caring for him as he recovered then lapsed again, and helping him financially since she worked full time at a ­convenience store in Moscow. Derek lived alone, basically occupying a home that his ­mother had vacated years ago. It was technically a condemned, red tagged home. Every­one, including the county sheriff and deputies, knew him and w ­ ere aware of his strug­ gles with addiction. He had been arrested and served time in the county jail multiple times. I seldom saw him in the park, except when I saw him with Bruce, his friend and neighbor, that one day as they rambled aimlessly near their homes. Sometimes, though, I saw him walking to or from Moscow along that same road that Trina used to walk to work on, tossing her breakfast banana peels along the way (see the introduction). One time I saw him walking along a road one block away from the Latah County court­house. He seemed occupied in his thoughts, incapable of seeing ­people who passed him. Derek lived just a few homes north of Jim Ware’s place. A ­couple times when I visited Jim, he brought me over to Derek’s home to try to introduce me to him. Derek’s front door was gone. In its place someone had draped a dark green blanket, worn by time and weather. Boards partially blocked the home’s win­dows, their glass completely gone. In the driveway of Derek’s home stood two cars and a camper trailer, all completely destroyed by his habit of smashing them with a steel rod. Residents knew about Derek’s bouts with drugs and his habit of smashing his cars and the camper. During my interview with Miranda and Austin, they described their experiences with Derek: Miranda: And then t­ here’s Derek over h­ ere that’s bangin’ around all the time. Austin: Yeah, the mangled structure on that trailer, that’s all him. That’s all him! Miranda: That’s all him just losin’— Austin: Losin’ his shit ­because he’s a paranoid schizophrenic, and he’s off his meds. Leontina: So what’s been ­going on t­ here? Austin: He walks around with metal baseball bats—

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Miranda: Steel rods. Austin: Steel rods, inch-­thick rebar. H ­ e’ll walk around with it. He walks to the town with ’em. I mean, why i­ sn’t this guy locked up? He’s obviously— Miranda: Got issues. Austin: A danger to society and himself. Miranda and Austin w ­ ere clearly concerned about Derek’s condition and felt he was a danger, but they also let him be. They knew his routines, as unsettling as they w ­ ere. Jim, who usually complained about methamphetamine “tweakers” down the street and never held back if he lacked re­spect for individuals, left Derek alone and seemed to feel compassion for his circumstances. Though Jim was still around—he was one of the last residents to move out of Syringa in December 2018—­Derek’s be­hav­ior grew more erratic and his habit of smashing his cars and old camper expanded as the p­ eople in the park abandoned him. I found it remarkable that ­every­one—­including Derek—­had left the locked up and vacant recreation center alone. The center had large win­dows around most of its perimeter, but nobody messed with them, and nobody even used a bolt cutter to remove the center’s lock. When we distributed the cases of ­water that had been stored in the recreation center, every­one asked where to find a key. The recreation center was held as a special building for the community, and nobody wished to violate it. One night, though, Derek smashed the recreation center’s win­dows. The place where kids once splashed around during pool parties, where Aimee’s parents married, and where Clancy Olson held Halloween parties for Syringa’s kids was left in ruins (Figure 25). During my interview with Steve Bonnar, executive director of Sojourners’ Alliance, he described how drugs numb addicts’ pain and fill in as a substitute for losing home and support: “That stigma, that travels with them forever. Th ­ ey’re ­human beings. A roof overhead and food in their belly is the basics of what a person needs. When t­hose are threatened, ­people resort to survival mode, and ­whatever survival mode is to try to numb one’s self or feel better.”

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figur e 25. The indoor swimming pool left in ruins, October 14, 2018. Photographer: Leontina Hormel.

Changing of Hands: New Property Owner­ship ­A fter December 2018 the land on which Syringa Mobile Home Park was built was largely vacant, apart from homeless individuals squatting in the abandoned, deteriorating buildings. In Moscow, ­people rarely see evidence that poverty and homelessness is a prob­lem, since spaces tucked away in the margins, “zones of discard,” help keep them out of sight, which maintains the city’s sense of being dif­fer­ent from other places and “safe.”11 Even when the buildings ­were in a near-­complete condition of ruin ­people still strug­gled to make them and the park home. Derek kept returning to his home, which now constituted an unlawful act of trespassing. He would continue to cycle between his home, jail, and acquaintances who generally offered temporary places to sleep and access drugs. This rhythm changed with the sale of the land in summer 2020 to Phil Rheingans, a farmer and contractor who owned land adjacent to it.

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Phil has effectively decommissioned the sewage lagoons and has hired work crews to slowly remove trash and dismantle the decaying mobile homes. When I asked why he purchased the property, he answered, For me, Syringa was a side proj­ect where I could hire someone and in short order, get some m ­ easure of their intelligence, their work ethic—­ the t­ hings they liked to do and d­ idn’t like to do. Some p­ eople d­ on’t mind getting dirty. Some p­ eople ­really avoid it. How they approach a proj­ect, ­whether they have leadership ability so they could lead other guys or ­whether they d­ idn’t, w ­ hether they had issues socializing with the other guys or ­whether ­there ­were strains ­there, their level of patience. What I was trying to do was see if ­there was a match between them working at the construction site [in Moscow] or not, and then working over at Syringa. Syringa was a work test if you w ­ ill. It made it much easier to meet someone on a park bench downtown who was unemployed and say why ­don’t you come to work, ­because I’m an easy path to employment that way.12

Thus, Syringa is serving as a skill-­building proj­ect for men whose backgrounds serve as barriers to job opportunities. Ultimately, the property may once again be a place for working-­class housing, though the f­ uture is uncertain: I r­ eally d­ on’t have a real clear sense of vision. Its immediate utility was in terms of employment and clean up. Like I had mentioned, our goal is to trim the trees and keep t­hose. Th ­ ere’s one ­thing about—­you can always buy materials and build structures. Th ­ ere’s no way to buy a tree that’s got a 20-­inch trunk, that’s 50-­feet high, that’s a beautiful shade tree. And so ­there’s a number of ­really nice aspects to Syringa. Whenever you mention Syringa, every­body just thinks how awful it is, and oftentimes, I’ll take a new guy out t­ here, and he’s like, oh, this place is a mess, and I’m like, yes and no. Y ­ ou’ve got to have a vision. Essentially, every­thing that God made h­ ere is beautiful and every­thing that man did h­ ere is pretty much awful, and so all the structures have to go. ­We’re ­going get back down to bare grass and trees. Sometimes you’ll walk out ­there, and it’s just trash everywhere, and it’s a mess. Then you look down, and h­ ere’s tulips popping up out of the grass, and h­ ere’s

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some old raspberry bushes, and back in the corner a plum tree with plums we eat right off the tree. R ­ eally, every­thing that God made t­ here is beautiful, and we want to tend to it, put it back in order, and keep all of ­those ­things, and then every­thing that—­a ll the structures and all that, it’s all gotta go, with the exception of—­there’s a community building that’s hexagonal in the ­middle ­there. I think that’s salvageable.

The flowers and trees that residents cultivated to bring beauty to their lives and food to their t­ ables stood out to Phil and he wished to preserve them to be appreciated in the ­f uture. Not only that, but he expressed interest in keeping the recreation center intact, a place that carries some of the memories Syringa residents cherished. It struck me that by preserving ­these ­things, the property may carry forward the positive ele­ ments residents nurtured while living in Syringa that few onlookers could see in the midst of perceived disorder and chaos. It is uncertain to what extent the property ­w ill accommodate the real­ity of being placed on a seasonally moist meadow, though the decommissioning of the lagoons and the capping of existing wells certainly presses a “reset” button that could allow the wet and dry cycles to reveal themselves. Scattered Lives Through vari­ous communication channels I have checked in with former Syringa residents since the park closed in 2018. Most are out of communication, though I have been able to observe that they are ­going on with their lives, some feeling they are on more secure footing and some still denied home and community. Sandra Webb, Frank Stone, Max Nielson, Mike Perkins, Scott Morrison, Aimee Pace, Bonnie and Paul Myles, and Mary Ferguson moved to local mobile home parks. All of them moved their homes except for Mary, who purchased and cleaned up a home already located in the park where she moved. Through social networks in Moscow, Scott Morrison managed to locate a lot in one of the nearby mobile home parks and professional movers willing to move his old mobile home. When I interviewed him in January 2018, Scott was certain nobody would move his home. Keeping his home and simply relocating it to a dif­fer­ent park was a huge success and was one of the best college graduation pre­sents he could get.

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Scott graduated in the m ­ iddle of May, only two weeks before taking a photo of his home being transported along Robinson Park Road on the way to his new location. Though Mike Perkins moved his home to a nearby mobile home park, he never arranged to have his home’s electrical and plumbing connected. Instead, he abandoned it and lived nearly four years in a room in the Hillcrest Motel in Moscow. Several Syringa residents used the same motel as they waited for an apartment or other housing option to open up. Before Sandra Webb’s mobile home was all hooked up in its new location, she received funds from Sojourners’ Alliance to stay ­there for a while. Sojourners’ Alliance helped many Syringa refugees with this option, and still do from time to time. Ron Phelps stayed in the Hillcrest for several weeks as Sojourners’ Alliance helped him locate an apartment he could afford. It was a long search, and Ron drank more beer than usual to cope with his worries. As a solution, Ron and his ex-­w ife de­cided to live together so they both could afford an apartment, even though they had been divorced for a few years already. Ron’s grandchildren visited him from time to time, and he continued to work at a local sporting goods store ­until he sadly and unexpectedly passed away in late August 2021 at the age of 65. The place of his employment commemorated Ron’s passing on its electric billboard located on the busy highway connecting Moscow to Pullman, Washington. The billboard read: In Loving Memory Ron Phelps 1956–2021 Co-­worker • Friend

Four other residents have passed away since they moved from Syringa. Janet, Walter Jorgensen’s wife who was a military veteran with a disability, passed away in January 2021, about six months before Ron. She had been living in a ­senior care center in Pullman, Washington, and was 73 years old when she died. One month a­ fter Ron passed away another former resident, Wayne Oliver, died of complications from COVID-19  in September  2021. Wayne was only 54. He and his wife Terry moved to a mobile home in Lewiston, Idaho, that they rented from one of their adult ­children. Another of the veterans who had lived

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in Syringa for over 30 years, Paul Myles, passed away on December 18, 2020. Paul, who met his wife Bonnie on a blind date in a Moscow diner in the early 1970s, was 79 when he died. Shannon Musick purchased a cabin in a forested lot located about 50 minutes north of Moscow. The location is as beautiful as Idaho wilderness gets, but ­there is no ­water piped into the home and it needs a lot of updating. On top of that Shannon must travel a considerable distance for work and last time we communicated she was holding down two jobs to get by. Even with two jobs, Shannon c­ an’t afford to update her home, and even if she had some leftover money, where would she find the time to work on it? Dawn Tachell, her husband Trapper, and her m ­ other Mary, “Cookie Grandma,” also bought a h­ ouse and managed to stay in Moscow. ­A fter many phone calls and filling out paperwork, Dawn was able to mobilize her veterans’ benefits to secure a loan on a home. The shock of making mortgage payments, much larger than the lot lease she had grown accustomed to in Syringa, is stressful. She continues to categorize and cata­log dif­fer­ent bean species on the Washington State University Campus for the U.S. Department of Agriculture. Bob Bonsall moved to a small town in the state of Washington, a 20-­minute drive to Washington State University where he still works.13 He bought a large h­ ouse in a nice neighborhood, which during a phone call he jokingly called a “high aristocratic trailer park.” Bob misses his life in Syringa, the space, the view of the mountain, and how every­one left him alone. “Syringa was ­great,” he sighed. “The move practically killed me.” Even in his palatial h­ ouse in a nice middle-­class neighborhood with doctors and l­awyers, he told me that he would move back to his spot in Syringa “in a heartbeat.” He feels out of place in this new neighborhood, where p­ eople keep hinting he d­ oesn’t belong and pry into his business. The small town itself is fine but buying a nicer, expensive home is a culture shock to a man who practically “grew up in Syringa.” Three families acquired campers and RVs and moved them to a nearby RV park as a temporary arrangement to allow them more time to map out their next move. A ­couple of them remarked to me that the ­water tasted worse than Syringa’s, and they ­were b­ itter about paying

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more in rent to stay at an RV lot. Living in cramped RVs and campers was difficult. The RV park was a large gravel parking lot that had no shade trees to park ­under. During the hot summer months ­people tried to be away from their homes all day, or they sat ­under shade tarps stretched over their homes’ entry­ways. Winter was even more challenging ­because it was very difficult to safely heat the homes. ­A fter living in the RV park for three or four months one of the single ­women, Lynn Oglesby, sought help from her ­father, who moved her into his home in another state to help her recover from depression. Since moving from Syringa, she has faced severe health prob­lems, both physical and psychological, and misses the community she was forced to leave. Molly Brooks, the single w ­ oman who h­ oused Bruce Glover as though he ­were her son, moved a small camper trailer to the RV park a ­little a­ fter Lynn moved t­here. About six months l­ater, however, they ­were forced to seek housing when their camper caught on fire in February  2019. According to the local news article covering the incident, Molly was “the only person inside when the fire started and she was able to rescue one cat before exiting the vehicle.” Sadly, they lost their pet dog and three cats—­the fire spread so quickly Molly was unable to rescue them. Molly informed me when we crossed paths some weeks ­later that she had a conventional home lined up in a small town about 40 minutes out of Moscow. Dale Kramer and Roberta Vine lived in the RV park for several months but strug­gled with the arrangement. When former neighbors came across them in Moscow, they described Roberta as appearing disheveled and seemingly depressed. Discontent with the RV park and finding no better alternative in Moscow, the ­couple moved away, but it is unknown where they live now. Jim Ware was the last homeowner to leave the park. He bought an RV from the neighbor that lived b­ ehind his home in Syringa and spent two or three months working on its engine, the clutch, and repairing parts in the interior. This proj­ect put his expert skills in auto mechanics to the test, and he had to be creative about how to afford the parts that he c­ ouldn’t obtain simply by swapping items. Jim needed the RV to make it all the way to Montana to a parcel of land friends of his owned and had invited him to park it. By December 2018, Jim moved away. I

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ran into him in a grocery store in Moscow the following summer and he told me he was working on trimming down so his health would get back on track. That was the last I had heard from Jim u­ ntil I tested his phone number in early June 2022 by sending him a text, asking “Does this number still work for you? If so, I would love to talk soon and catch up!” Jim confirmed I had his correct number, so we talked on the phone shortly afterward. I learned that Jim had moved around to several dif­fer­ent places over the four years a­ fter moving from Syringa: Montana, Hawai‘i, then eventually to Lewiston, Idaho. Jim managed to make acquaintance with a man who could use his assistance with home maintenance. As part of the deal, he is able to park his RV at the man’s home. He is working early morning shifts for the local newspaper and odd jobs for the man letting him stay at his property. A ­Mother’s Day Wish from Derek Lund Derek Lund was the last of the community members to leave Syringa. I have been receiving updates about Derek’s welfare, thanks to his ­mother reaching out to me via electronic correspondence. In one update in late October 2020, she reported that Derek was in jail and described his experiences navigating homelessness, addiction, and corrections: He is homeless, so he gets clean in jail, comes out with nowhere to go, so he stays with friends who use and ends up back in jail. He was staying out in his trailer in Syringa. He and other semi-­homeless [­people] still sneak in ­there [Syringa]. It’s sad. It is hard to watch, I have [kids] at home still and we have a two-­bedroom apartment, so I just ­can’t let him stay ­here. I wish he could find treatment and help, but the jail just gives him time and releases him with no therapy, treatment, or help. He has been in and out of jail for the past 6 years.

One year ­later, in the early morning of October 16, 2021, police in Kennewick, Washington, reported shooting a man several times a­ fter he had recklessly rammed his vehicle twice into the patrol vehicle. Derek was the man who was shot. In early June 2022, I checked in with Der-

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ek’s m ­ other to learn how he was recovering from his wounds. She provided the following optimistic response: He’s actually d­ oing pretty good. He has four bullet wounds to the chest, a bullet lacerated his liver, and one bullet shattered his wrist. The fact that no vital organs ­were hit in his chest is nothing short of a miracle. He says he died, that he was dead and God told him it ­wasn’t his time yet. He’s ­really changed: he rarely gets upset, he ­doesn’t cuss, he’s very peaceful. . . . ​He is in jail getting ready to do four years in prison. He hopes to be sent to a minimum-­security prison so he can take college classes or learn a trade.

It seemed inevitable that Derek would spiral into this violent situation. Though t­ here w ­ ere many spectators of his strug­gles with addiction, homelessness, and jail time, without more resources to send someone like Derek to a rehabilitation center and, importantly, to connect with a sustained community of ­people who understood him to be a fundamentally good person, he was stuck in this endless cycle. When Derek was shot multiple times in the chest that early morning in October, his ­mother was certain he had no chance of surviving. He had been through so much physically and psychologically. However, Derek pulled through it, and she had hope that this near-­death experience might be the wakeup call he needed to clean up and find peace. She had reason to hope. Just a month e­ arlier for M ­ other’s Day, she received a card from her son in the mail that carried a special message for her: Happy M ­ other’s Day, Mama—­I love and miss you so much I c­ ouldn’t get a better m ­ other. Y ­ ou’re the best in the Universe. I cherish you and am so thankful and proud to be your son. With all my soul you make my heart ­whole. Hope you have a truly special day. I love you more than words can say. Blessed be your ­mother’s day. Your dearly loving son, Derek Carl Lund

CH A P T E R 8

Trailer Park Politics Recognizing Working-­Class ­People’s Knowledge and Mobilization Grassroots politics might be infused with a distinctive ethos that draws heavi­ly on ideas about community. U ­ nder neoliberal policies, individuals may have formal rights, yet t­ hese individual rights may be rendered meaningless in the context of group subordination. Within disadvantaged groups, individuals who lack material resources or the capacity to exercise their formal rights often only have each other. In such situations, a self-­oriented p­ olitical language of individual rights may be far less useful than a language of community that potentially provides a functional statement of collective ­political demand. —­Patricia Hill Collins, 2010

T

he p­ rocess of stigmatizing and dehumanizing groups like Syringa’s residents enables ­those with the capacity to help to instead justify their own inaction, and the ­limited guidance from county-­and city-­level governments, as well as from landlords and local ­service providers, is a clear illustration of how this can look at the community level.1 Stigmatized groups’ ­limited power assures little-­to-no social or ­political cost to t­ hose who look the other way. The experience of being “Syringa refugees” involuntarily displaced and unwelcome in the City of Moscow proper was a stark reminder that their home address mattered more than their status as h­ uman beings with rights to housing. ­There ­were no emergency relief plans to follow. Landlords felt l­ittle pressure to ­house refugees, beyond their own conscience. Mobile home movers, electricians, and plumbers w ­ ere not obligated to help, 229

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nor ­obligated to offer quality s­ ervices, nor even show up if they agreed to help. Residents’ reactions as they realized the extent to which they ­were negatively perceived w ­ ere consistent with Esther ­Sullivan’s concept of “collective indignation.” In her ethnographic research of urban mobile home park closures in Florida and Texas, S­ ullivan describes collective indignation as the “physical and ­mental toll of displacement” residents express and feel as their homes and lives are uprooted during eviction.2 As noted in chapter 4, ­Sullivan extends Bernadette Atuahene’s sociolegal concept of “dignity takings,” which accounts for the unquantifiable losses to communities when homes and property are stripped from them.3 Both scholars account for the ways in which loss of property, of community, is a dehumanizing, even infantilizing, ­process.4 ­These indignities w ­ ere starkly evident in the case of Syringa, too. What remains unanswered, though, is w ­ hether researchers and mainstream society fail to adequately acknowledge and honor low-­income, working-­class ­people’s genuinely ­political efforts to resist unjust treatment and indignity as community destruction takes place, both ­here in Idaho and elsewhere. Even if such efforts only serve to maintain one’s internal sense of dignity or to demonstrate concern for protecting your neighbors’ well-­ being, they are impor­tant to recognize and document. They pre­sent potential tools of ­resistance that vulnerable communities can learn from, improve, and apply. Recognizing and documenting ­these efforts can offer new insights to the public so we can do a better job as a society. Argentine sociologist Irene Vasilachis de Gialdino urges us to document the challenges poor ­people suffer, as well as their “aspirations” and how they resist “categorization, stereotyping, and definition.”5 This chapter features Syringa residents’ efforts to publicly air their concerns and humanize their experiences during the four and a half years between the initial ­water crisis in December 2013 and the park’s eventual closure in June 2018. Traces of their r­ esistance have been left in the stories shared in the previous chapters, which I now piece together to show residents’ community aspirations and the ways they sought to redefine who they w ­ ere and why they and Syringa w ­ ere to be valued as bona fide p­ olitical and economic actors within the community and not dismissed as incompetents, criminal deviants, wards of the state, or charity cases.

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Residents who held on to their livelihoods in Syringa channeled their collective indignation into what I call trailer park politics. Representing mostly white, low-­income working-­class families, they accessed the few tools they had—­what we might call “weapons of the weak.”6 Among the symbolic weapons employed was the defense of community, a conceptual device Patricia Hill-­Collins argues “potentially provide[s] a functional statement of collective ­political demand.”7 The goal of this chapter is to describe how Syringa residents’ trailer park politics connects to larger historical and global pro­cesses of social change observed in theoretical works by economic historian Karl Polanyi and feminist ­philosopher Nancy Fraser. In focusing the public’s attention on the harms to their community, not just to the old mobile homes they lived in, they sought to show that they ­were defending the social protections that came with stability and having “roots,” knowing their neighbors, and mutual support at the park.8 Residents acted on their own behalf to shake the ­stereotype of helpless and incapable victims during the ­water crisis and subsequent park closure. In other words, this was a small-­scale movement insisting that they w ­ ere just as ­human and deserving of dignity as every­one ­else. The chapter then maps out dif­fer­ent paths that Syringa residents accessed to publicly air their indignation and their grief. ­These outlets ­were a means to mobilize some of Moscow’s community members and ­organizations, and to make a well-­intentioned, middle-­ class-­identified community uncomfortable. Syringa residents’ efforts have outlived the park and the community and continue to shape the policy and decisions mobile home park ­owners and residents make, at least in Latah County. This influence on policy and landlord-­tenant relations reveals the power of ­those in Syringa Mobile Home Park who resisted the scorn and tried to shape the public’s view of what was happening to their community. This is trailer park politics. “This Community Counts”: Trailer Park Politics in the New Imperialism The resident-­organized meeting that took place in March 2015 with county commissioners was the first event Syringa’s residents used for publicizing their suffering, fears, and grievances. As chapter 5 explained,

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figur e 26. “This Community Counts. Why Red Tags????” Protest signs greet visitors attending the county commissioners’ meeting in Syringa on March 25, 2015. This is the recreation center and c­ hildren’s playground in the center of the park. Photo credit: Leontina Hormel.

the county’s implementation of red tags had devalued their homes and, ultimately, undermined residents’ sense of worth in the eyes of the commissioners and the public at large. County government was supposed to protect the public good, but red tags w ­ ere experienced more as punishment than protection. The feeling of not counting, of being invisible, was shared in one of the protest signs Dawn Tachell made for the event, the top of which stated, “This Community Counts” (Figure 26). Since this was my first interaction with Syringa residents inside their own community, my research was guided by the understanding that at the same time residents ­were experiencing and trying to deal with disappointments and hardships, they also tried—in more and less obvious ways—to push back specifically in hopes of restoring a sense of control, autonomy, and self-­worth. Residents ­were particularly indignant about institutional responses that failed to protect the Syringa community and its interests. I observed resident-­initiated counterresponses to stalled and insufficient ­legal, environmental, and governmental procedures as events unfolded over four years of research with the community.

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Helpful in seeing and understanding grassroots countermovements is the work of Karl Polanyi, who argued the course of social transformation in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries involved a “double movement,” with the princi­ple of economic liberalism, as the official cap­i­tal­ist state ideology, pressing against the countermovements of social protection waged by working classes.9 Social protection may be understood as the fundamental ele­ments of ­people’s lives necessary for good health and happiness, including access to safe housing, supportive environments for raising families, and clean air and w ­ ater. The dynamics percolating among several of the Syringa park residents constituted a similarly motivated, small-­scale countermovement against institutional pro­cesses that had no mechanisms for preserving the basic means for the community’s sustenance. In the nineteenth ­century, Polanyi observed, “the trading classes had no organ to sense the dangers involved in the exploitation of the physical strength of the worker, the destruction of f­amily life, the devastation of neighborhoods, the denudation of forests, the pollution of rivers, the deterioration of craft standards, the disruption of folkways, and the general degradation of existence including housing and arts, as well as the innumerable forms of private and public life that do not affect profits.”10 The case of Syringa’s death spiral, a place that ­housed families and individuals with modest means, offered a glaring example of how t­here seemed to be no emergency sensor system in place to protect them from eviction, not to mention the ongoing environmental consequences. Global capitalism in the twenty-­first ­century relies on similar p­ olitical economic pro­cesses and social relations as t­ hose shaping the double movements Polanyi studied in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, although David Harvey argues we are facing a new imperialism that relies increasingly on efforts to “accumulate by dispossession.”11 Social transformation in this changing landscape requires we recognize and ­organize through “dif­fer­ent vectors of strug­gle.”12 Syringa residents faced dispossession and, I contend, their public efforts reflect one of the vectors of strug­gle arising from shifting and deteriorating conditions in rural Amer­ i­ca in the midst of global capitalism’s new imperialism. Just as the dimensions of social protection w ­ ere defended in the history Polanyi studied, Syringa residents sought to protect the complex dimensions—­a sense of

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self-­sufficiency, care networks, shared experience, and efficacy—­that sustained and enriched their other­wise relatively ­humble livelihoods. Yet, when marginalized groups demand voice in their ­futures, are they only asking for social protections to be restored? ­A fter all, even in ­those periods of history when government has supported expanding property and housing access to groups like war veterans and working-­ class families, marginalized groups among ­these populations have encountered barriers. For example, as we saw in chapter 2, the G.I. Bill was instituted as a means of social protection, yet w ­ omen and Black veterans who served in World War II ­couldn’t access housing subsidies to nearly the same extent as veterans who ­were white men, if at all. In other words, in addition to a countermovement to market forces, what is the countermovement to the power­f ul interests that structure exclusion into a society committed to social protection? Nancy Fraser proposes incorporating a “­triple movement of emancipation” within Polanyi’s p­ olitical theory of double movement.13 Despite the goals to level social inequities vis-­à-­v is the seemingly objective laws of supply and demand in the market or state commitment to invest in social protections, neither movement has avoided serving the power­f ul who wish to advance their interests over o­ thers. The ­triple movement of emancipation, therefore, means emancipation from “forms of subjection rooted in society” and si­mul­ta­neously “mediat[ion] [of] e­ very conflict between marketization and social protection.”14 When residents challenged red tags, for instance, they challenged the county and state governments, entities that through demo­cratically elected officials are supposed to serve the public evenhandedly and protect them from harm. Instead, for residents the red tags represented punishment of the victims of an absentee park ­owner, not social protection. ­Those who ­were capable financially and psychologically of moving out of the park right away ­were protected and received more generous compensation for their lost homes. Syringa residents who stayed b­ ehind w ­ ere not protected to the same degree. Thus, publicly airing grievances about the county commissioners’ decision to slap red tags on vacant mobile homes was questioning structures of domination built into the institutions that are supposed to be protectors of the public.

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In twenty-­fi rst-­century rural Amer­i­ca, land, ­labor, and money are commodified without question. The durable and indeed perennial idea of community, however, conjures romantic thoughts that challenge the ­political economic arrangements that prioritize private property and ­organize social life around commodified t­ hings and relations. To push against a system favoring the “trading classes”—in this case, the p­ eople who represent wealth and living almost entirely outside the Syringa community proper—­residents raised their voices and tried to define the needs of their community in a way that emphasized its dif­fer­ent life-­ giving and sustaining dimensions. This paradigmatic shift in emphasis challenged the narrow interests of market value and insisted that something could in fact be done to forestall the collapse and disintegration of their community (see T ­ able 4). The experience of mapping out Syringa’s pos­si­ble conversion to a resident-­owned community was one of several instances when residents ­imagined and acted to save Syringa and improve its function as a community. Though many of the residents needed to focus their energy mainly on the day-­to-­day challenges of living in precarious conditions, they ­weren’t always passive about the circumstances. Class-­action lawsuits ­were filed against Magar E. Magar. The Idaho Department of Environmental Quality (Idaho DEQ ) kept getting complaints. Residents contacted local news media and identified themselves as Syringa trailer park residents to the public. Homeowners like Dawn Tachell and Shannon Musick ­were interested in pursuing alternative paths for their community, paths that would not only address the immediate issues of fixing and maintaining park facilities, but also foster a kind of community resilience that would in turn engender feelings of efficacy, self-­worth, and self-­sufficiency for its members. Though men in Syringa would speak about park issues, Dawn and Shannon ­were usually working on strategies for putting pressure on ­people and ­organizations to influence how ­people perceived them and, importantly, to initiate actions to support Syringa. ­These ­were essential, rationally self-­interested, ­measures ­toward securing a feminized community, as it was increasingly clear that such a space and living experience—­physical, ­mental, and emotional—­would

­Table 4. Dimensions of Syringa “trailer park politics” Dimensions

Institutional pro­cesses

Residents’ small-­scale countermovements

Commodified housing

Red tagging homes and subsequent home devaluation

Resident-­organized meeting with county commissioners -­ “This Community Counts” messaging

Experiential knowledge

Management interventions determined without residents’ input

Investigating the possibility of converting to a resident-­ owned community

-­ Digging a trench to control flooding -­ Dropping off donated w ­ ater without delivering directly to residents’ homes -­ Absentee ­owner and off-­site management

Identifying key park features to improve and how -­ Children’s play area, recreation center -­ On-­site expertise in ­water system -­Community vegetable gardens

Socioecological community development

Lawsuits with consequence of closure -­ Sewage spills into Palouse River’s South Fork -­ Decrepit well and w ­ ater infrastructure

Ideas about federal rural and community development grants -­ Community gardens, envisioning “closed loop” system using brown ­water for tree grove and fruit orchard

Destigmatizing efforts

Lack of comprehensive public response to closure

Identifying stigma and talking about it -­ Informal work and ­career building -­ Inviting public into Syringa to learn and humanize residents as regular ­people

History, relationships, and care networks

Public view as unsafe -­ “Syringe Park” -­ A place for ­people whom landlords ­don’t want to h­ ouse in town -­ Yards cluttered, full of trash

Syringa is a functional community -­ Kids grew up h­ ere, veterans live ­here -­ The Cookie Program -­ Every­one relates to one another, “equals” -­ Help available when needed

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­Table 4. (continued) Dimensions Ecosocial relationships

Institutional pro­cesses

Residents’ small-­scale countermovements

Public view as contaminated -­ Dirty ­water -­ Sewage lagoons in complete disrepair

Syringa is a refuge -­ “million-­dollar view” -­ Idaho ­g iant salamanders, moose, deer, swans, geese, ducks, coyotes -­ Park and garden plans

be challenging to find in Moscow and elsewhere in Latah County. Missing in all this ­were the ­people with the resources—­not just financial resources but also l­ egal know-­how and time—to help them pursue ­t hese goals. Rather than forfeit and silently accept the challenges of ­water crisis, the precarious life ­a fter ­water crisis, and eventual closure of the park, several residents spoke out and mobilized at dif­fer­ent points in time. Residents not only shared their dreams and frustrations with me, but also proactively contacted the press, Idaho DEQ , and county commissioners, and spoke at public events in efforts to be heard. Th ­ ese efforts ­were not necessarily collectively o­ rganized, but each resident’s efforts ­were in some sense directed ­toward the twinned goals of humanizing experiences in Syringa and somehow saving their community. Throughout this book, I have illustrated how the under­lying assumptions shaping the dif­fer­ent institutional responses—­governmental and ­legal—to Syringa reflect and help legitimate the hegemonic role of cap­ i­tal­ist, profit-­driven, ideology and the primacy that ideology accords to the protection of private property.15 In protecting and validating the accumulation of wealth and increasing inequalities, cap­i­tal­ist property relations are variously classed,16 racialized,17 and gendered.18 At the same time, ­these property relations are systemically destructive to the environment since they emphasize nature’s worth as a commodity to be extracted. “Extracting,” according to Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg activist and scholar Leanne Betasamosake Simpson, “is stealing—it is taking without consent, without thought, care or even knowledge of the impacts

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that extraction has on the other living t­hings in that environment.”19 ­These kinds of property relations, largely defined in terms of commodity extraction, s­ haped the place where Syringa was built for over a ­century before the park was established, and the community’s recent destruction documented in this book is a consequence of its forced participation in the “new imperialism” of dispossession and enclosure of the reproductive commons. Social reproduction and ecofeminist theorists insist we cannot understand cap­i­tal­ist relations without also recognizing capital’s dependence on the reproductive capacity of communities, which w ­ omen tend to be largely responsible for.20 Syringa was in fact a community where a very high percentage of ­women owned homes. As noted in chapter 3, about two-­thirds of the private homeowners in Syringa w ­ ere w ­ omen at the time the w ­ ater crisis took place. The w ­ ater crisis and park’s closure, of course, was devastating to every­one and hit w ­ omen homeowners who ­were single caretakers incredibly hard. Denise, for example, a single ­mother, lamented that she had fi­nally fully paid off her trailer, thanks to ­r unning her own taxi s­ ervice, to only lose it and her business with park closure. Thus, the loss of Syringa was a disaster hitting ­women who had figured out a way to afford housing as they juggled paid work and the reproductive work at home, often involving looking ­after neighbors as well as relatives in the ­family. The perspective of social reproduction provides us a valuable lens for understanding the dysfunctional effects of a society structured around the illusion that our economic lives are somehow separated from our home lives and that our health and happiness can be purchased instead of grown or socially cultivated.21 ­These complex aspects of community life in Syringa illustrate why residents’ efforts to define the meaning of community involved multiple dimensions. The institutional pro­cesses that w ­ ere supposed to protect them fell short specifically ­because they ­were not designed to help ­people who owned buildings on land owned by someone ­else. Yet, it was the affordability of ­t hose buildings that allowed a congregation of ­people to create over a period of several d­ ecades a space that served multiple purposes for its community residents. The remainder of this chapter highlights some of the residents’ small-­scale countermove-

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ments for social protections and emancipation that embody trailer park politics. Airing Grievances through the Press We learned in chapter 5 that residents notified the local press of the meeting they had initiated with the county commissioners regarding the negative effects of red tags to the community. The press was a significant ave­nue for publicizing the concerns of residents, some of whom tried to dispel the caricatures of trailer park life the newspapers leaned on to help generate provocative stories. Some residents expressed frustration with the local newspaper coverage of Syringa, which they felt was prejudiced against them and cast them in a personally negative light, as the cause of the community’s dysfunction. From a content analy­sis of local news coverage, it was clear that residents ­were not typically interviewed as sources for information about the park.22 Experts—­county commissioners, l­egal counselors, and government agency staff—­were nearly four times more likely than residents to be interviewed in articles. Photos of run-­down homes and crime reports from the park maintained the stigma of trailer park living, which was no help to residents who knew locals nicknamed their community “Syringe Park” due to rumors, occasionally substantive but by no means pervasive or emblematic, about drug use and even drug dealing in the park. It is true, Syringa ­housed some ­people with criminal rec­ords and ­others struggling with drug addiction. The park’s appearance to outsiders reinforced common perceptions of how “trailer trash” live, as over time many yards became overgrown and increasingly filled with debris and a variety of “rainy day” holdovers like automotive and appliance parts, and bikes—­both adult-­and kid-­size—­awaiting repair. Despite the perceived flaws of Syringa, though, p­ eople who lived in the park experienced life in complex ways that supported their needs. For instance, men like Jim Ware and Owen Hayes ­were able to make some money on the side by repairing vehicles and small appliances for friends and friends of friends.

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Dawn took t­ hings a step further by seeking interest from the national press. Early in 2016, she initiated communication with Daniel Zwerdling and NPR about Syringa. During his subsequent visit to the area in June 2016, he spoke with Dawn and asked her why so much stuff was heaped in ­people’s yards. She replied in an email to him: When a person has ­limited or low-­income resources, every­thing that they own becomes a necessity of daily living/ life. The clutter that surrounds them has a purpose, e­ ither for daily life or for the ­f uture, ­because they do not know what tomorrow may bring. I have noticed in my life that I collect ­things b­ ecause I am at the edge of life. The ­things I collect have a purpose for change, meaning I am changing for the better. I want to succeed in life. In many circumstances a forced condition places that person to flee/flight or fight condition and items are gathered for existence b­ ecause they may need it. I know for me. I saw this within myself, and I de­cided to stand for my sanctuary/home/life. I ­w ill not go quietly into the night anymore. You asked if is this part of the prob­lem? Yes, it is? [sic] However, one must realize the clutter is a response and condition and the one who is looking at the clutter sees clutter and not the p­ eople. I try to look beyond the clutter and see the person in front of me as an equal and not someone who is weaker/in a dif­fer­ent class. It is the same for all of us if this situation arises in their life.23

Dawn’s account, both ­sociological and humanistic in tone, highlights the importance of a community’s ability to define the prob­lems and the contexts for be­hav­iors and conditions that may well appear dysfunctional from an American middle-­class perspective. Dawn describes the experience of feeling “at the edge of life,” and how “clutter” is a means to prepare for and hedge against an uncertain f­ uture. This is the real­ity of having l­ imited resources. She warns against confusing the clutter with the ­people. Rather, she prefers “to look beyond the clutter and see the person in front of me as an equal and not someone who is weaker/in a dif­fer­ent class.” Talking with local and regional news media was a tool for explaining the experience of being invisible, “at the edge,” as a consequence of being a person who c­ an’t access or participate in the American Dream as it is currently defined and constituted.

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Syringa Speaks: Residents Defining What ­Matters In chapter 3, we met Aimee Pace, who requested an interview with me when she learned of the public event “Syringa Speaks” that was planned for the end of January 2018 and was being ­organized in collaboration with several residents. Aimee had one of the longest life experiences of anyone living in the park and was a second-­generation Syringa resident. She hoped an interview a few months before the closure could help get her story out and humanize ­people’s experiences living in the park. She still owed $13,000 on her double-­w ide trailer home, which was one of only four of that size in the park. She was afraid she would be forced to leave it ­behind if she c­ ouldn’t afford a mover. She expected moving would cost her another $15,000 and c­ ouldn’t find a bank willing to offer a loan. Her husband, Chris Pace, had kept the park facilities operating from the early 1990s ­until his sudden death of a heart attack in 2011 while working in Syringa. She described her emotional connection to the park, including her parents’ wedding ceremony in the recreation center, the morning coffees she enjoyed as she watched the ducks and geese land on the sewage lagoons, and the dif­fer­ent tales she remembered about dif­fer­ent residents still living in the park. During the interview, I asked Aimee if she and her deceased husband had purchased the basketball hoop that was now lying on the lot next to Aimee’s ­house. “We did,” she answered. “We purposely put it ­there, ­because they [park kids] would. . . . ​If they w ­ eren’t playin’ basketball, they w ­ ere playin’ in the field. ­They’re a big group of 15 kids. All dif­fer­ent ages, just all playin’ together. That’s what Syringa is. Syringa, no m ­ atter what, is still a community.”24 ­Later in the interview, Aimee dispelled one notion that town residents held about ­people in the park. When asked why she raised her f­ amily in Syringa, she answered, “ ‘Cause it was a safe zone, I guess is the best way to put it. It was a safe zone. Every­body knew every­ thing. Every­body knew where your kids w ­ ere.” As the long-­timer resident in Syringa, Aimee’s description of the park contradicted newspaper depictions and broader local and regional perceptions. Even sympathetic ears i­ magined an apocalyptic scene that was difficult to imagine restoring. Aimee and o­ thers, though, knew the context of their financial

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prospects and the feelings of safety that existed ­because of having a history in this place, in this community. Our goal for the Syringa Speaks event was to provide Syringa residents with an opportunity, in a neutral community-­forum event, to introduce themselves to the public in person, and explain what park closure meant to them in terms of community loss and lack of comprehensive response from the county and the City of Moscow, Idaho. Bob Bonsall, another resident introduced in chapter 2, was selective about when to speak up, but speaking at the event was an opportunity he wanted to take (Figures 27 and 28). With a gradu­ate degree in the sciences, Bob worked at Washington State University while living in the park. He had purchased a mobile home and scored a lot in Syringa in the early 1980s when Syringa was still considered a prized, affordable place to live among young professionals and working-­class families. The park’s dramatic decline shocked him, as he had ­every intention of living affordably, in a h­ ouse he owned, through his retirement, just as the Myles ­family across the road from him had also planned to do. County red tags and the subsequent halving of assessed home values ­were a source of humiliation, inducing anxiety about losing what he had assumed would be a stable investment. In a passionate moment during his ­presentation at Syringa Speaks, Bob explained, “The question is, are you on the good list, or are you on the bad list? ­You’re on the ‘good list,’ you are some of the special, privileged elite. Y ­ ou’re on the ‘bad list,’ or ­you’re on the list that ­doesn’t count, where t­ hese ­people live or die. They ­don’t do any contribution. ­They’re worthless. ­They’re lost. They ­don’t count. I feel like the Syringa residents are on the list that ­doesn’t count.” Denise James wrote me e­ arlier in the day to let me know she would attend the event but was not able to speak in front of ­people. She wrote, “I’m so emotional and depressed I ­can’t even talk about this subject without tears and shaking! I’d love to talk t­ onight but I’m afraid I would be a broken blubbering mess! The thought of leaving my big yard, trees, and the wildlife around my place is killing me! Ugh.” That ­evening she sat in the audience with several ­others who wanted to be ­there but ­were also too emotionally vulnerable and upset to speak in front of a public audience. The discussion was hard for Denise, so she left midway

figur e 27. Bob Bonsall speaks to the public as Jim Ware and Dawn Tachell listen during the “Syringa Speaks” public forum on January 29, 2018. Courtesy of Moscow Cares.

figur e 28. Syringa residents and members of the public listen to “Syringa Speaks” presenters. Courtesy of Moscow Cares.

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through our discussion. When I arrived home from the event, I checked my email and found she had sent me a message: Please give my phone number to the lady who sat in the m ­ iddle [Dawn]. Tell her to call in advance to schedule her r­ ides to WSU [Washington State University] with me. I’ll take her no charge u­ ntil her car is fixed. And to you. I’m sorry I left. The talk of money to move is just too much!

This email reflected the honesty and generosity I had observed several residents reveal as impending closure pressed harder onto their lives. As they felt increasingly stressed and helpless, they seemed even more committed to caring for and helping their community neighbors. As Denise was struggling to keep her taxi business afloat, she nonetheless wanted to help Dawn get to work in the mornings at WSU, which is in the town of Pullman, Washington, over 10 miles away from Syringa. She offered her help f­ree of charge at a time when high interest loans ­were knocking on her door. Denise’s correspondences with me revealed another dimension of what residents ­were trying to hold on to when resisting closure: the fact that they lived in an idyllic countryside setting where all forms of wildlife entered their lives against a backdrop of Moscow Mountain, or what Dawn called her “million-­dollar view” from her backyard. “They Are Taking Our Homes and Saying, ‘Leave’ ”: Public Mourning Much of the story shared in this chapter draws attention to the vis­i­ ble and not-so vis­i­ble forms of r­ esistance residents employed over the period between the w ­ ater crisis and the impending closure of the park. Though ­there was active ­resistance against the park’s decline and the negative prejudices many felt, many Syringa residents remained out of the public’s gaze as they managed the day-­to-­day life of park living. As noted in chapter 6, some of the most private individuals ­were so shocked at the ways they ­were treated during relocation that ­a fter years of silently coping they started to seek assistance from me, a few of my col-

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leagues at University of Idaho, and from the Moscow-­based emergency housing nonprofit Sojourners’ Alliance. Other residents, though, ­weren’t moved to speak up u­ ntil the inevitable fate of closure was clear. On May 22, 2018, I checked our local newspaper early in the morning to find the front-­page headline was “Syringa: 1966–2018.”25 I was stunned. The first three pages of the newspaper’s front section ­were dedicated to dif­fer­ent issues tied to Syringa’s closure scheduled to happen in just another 11 days. The first article ended, “­A fter d­ ecades of growing a community, the park ­w ill close June 5. The closure, while eco­nom­ically beneficial for Magar, has stripped residents of their homes and livelihoods.” The special issue featured six residents’ narratives about the park’s closure in the pages that followed. Four of ­these residents had not participated in news reporting u­ ntil this moment, suggesting the park’s closure had such serious consequences for them that they ­were willing to be identified as Syringa residents and explain some of the contours of the crisis more personally. Accompanying the front-­page headline was a photo of a w ­ oman sitting on a couch, leaning over her lap with her head in her hands. Though well known among some of the residents, Cindra Stark had not participated in research interviews and yet was bold enough to have her photo featured prominently on the first page of an issue dedicated to Syringa’s closure. The article featuring Cindra explained, “Some residents have spray-­painted their homes to voice their grievances and sink their teeth into Syringa o­ wner Magar, who filed for bankruptcy last year before announcing the park would close in May. That closing date was extended to June to allow residents time to move.” Cindra and her husband Robert’s settlement via the class-­action lawsuit amounted to $2,100, not nearly enough to cover the $4,000 value of their home, and only a fraction of what they would need if they wished to consider moving their home. Cindra remarked ­later in the article, “Do they even think about the ­people they are leaving homeless? . . . ​They are taking their homes and saying, ‘Leave.’ ” ” Indeed, it is difficult to imagine how residents would feel in t­hese circumstances, spending years hoping the person responsible for their worries and forced relocation would be compelled to set t­ hings right

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with the residents, who had made their monthly payments without any of it g­ oing back into park maintenance. In the same issue of the newspaper, on the third page, elected county officials w ­ ere quoted from interviews focusing on the financial ramifications of park closure. T ­ oward the end, the Moscow-­Pullman Daily News journalist Garrett Cabeza noted, “Latah County T ­ reasurer Lois Reed said the closure w ­ ill mean the county loses $1,300 a year in mobile home personal property taxes [from the homeowners], but it w ­ ill continue to collect the $20,000 a year in property taxes on the parkland itself. ‘The county is not ­going to lose a g­ reat deal from the closure of the park,’ Reed said.” The interview with the county’s ­treasurer is a stark example of how market embeddedness in our institutions, what Karl Polanyi wrote about in the 1940s, shapes the reasoning applied to community crisis. By focusing on what generates greater revenues, institutions prioritize market value and the accumulation of private property over the basic dimensions that make up social protection and that resist commodification. It is no won­der someone like Cindra Stark asks in exasperation, “Do they even think about the ­people they are leaving homeless?” Do Trailer Park Politics ­Matter? Syringa’s Experience “Changed the Game” Did Syringa residents’ experiences and sharing of stories ­matter? At first glance, it looks like the grievances about the four years of hassles, disappointments and betrayals c­ ouldn’t stop the momentum of predicted and inevitable park closure. Yet, another aspect of politics is to provoke action in ­others, to inspire praxis. Though a comprehensive plan of action was not in place for Syringa’s closure, a group of community members, leaders, and o­ rganizations did mobilize resources to try to soften the blows of relocation. Vocal residents made a difference, even if they risked the stigma, or “scorning down,” from some and avoidance from ­others.26 One piece of evidence unearthed while conducting interviews and archival research work at the regional office for the Idaho DEQ was that the local and regional news encouraged residents in other mobile home parks to issue complaints about w ­ ater issues. When interviewing Michael Camin at the Idaho DEQ office

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about the Syringa situation, he remarked, “I am interested in the t­ hings that happened with this, as well. Syringa made the papers and from that point forward w ­ e’ve actually gotten a lot more complaints from other similar situations—­other trailer systems, trailer courts, and wastewater systems—­and ­we’ve been responding to a lot more of ­those complaints now than we did 10 years ago.”27 Of course, it had to be tested ­whether Camin’s impressions held, so I requested the rec­ords of all mobile home park complaints submitted to the regional office for north Idaho from 2006 to early 2019 (Figure 29). Though the number of mobile home park complaints seem small, with the highest number of filed complaints (11) submitted in 2007, an in­ter­est­ing pattern emerges upon closer inspection. Complaints from Syringa dominated in 2012 and 2013, right before the w ­ ater crisis took place from December 2013 to March  2014. A ­ fter 2013, complaints from Syringa dropped and then completely dis­appeared, even though it remained open with full ­water and sewage utilities from 2014 to the end of June 2018. The number of complaints in 2015, 2016, and 2017 remain relatively steady at five or six complaints, and all but one complaint is from parks in Moscow and

12 10 8 6 4 2 0 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018 Syringa

Moscow Parks

North Idaho Parks

figur e 29. Frequency of ­water and sewer complaints to Idaho Department of Environmental Quality from mobile home parks in North Idaho District, 2006–­early 2019. Source: Idaho Department of Environmental Quality.

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other parts of north Idaho. It is impor­tant to understand that submitting complaints to Idaho DEQ is a means of last resort, in cases where residents are unable to reach acceptable solutions working with park man­ag­ers and ­owners directly. From Camin’s perspective, a correlation between the publicity surrounding Syringa’s ­water crisis and increasing reports from other mobile home parks seemed clear. Community members in Moscow are watching mobile home park conditions more carefully now, too. Appaloosa Court, called Stadium Way Trailer Court when it was originally constructed in the 1960s, gained considerable attention following Syringa’s closure. Between 2021 and 2022, members of the local nonprofit o­ rganization Food Not Bombs alerted community members on social media that residents in Appaloosa Court ­were experiencing ­water shutoffs, boil ­orders, and sewage leaks. Unlike Syringa, this mobile home park relies on one well to supply a smaller number of homes, totaling an estimated 42 h­ ouse­holds. Its sewage lagoon system, however, seems to have been engineered much like Syringa’s and constructed sometime in the 1960s, too. Fortunately, it appears the new ­owner has successfully redrilled the well to surpass the necessary supply of safe drinking ­water for Appaloosa’s residents. Moreover, as of this writing, the sewage system is about to be connected to Moscow’s municipal wastewater system to safely dispose of it through under­ground pipes.28 According to an article in the Moscow-­Pullman Daily News, “Property ­owner Gary Lester said the neglect that eventually led to the closure of Syringa Mobile Home Park near Moscow in 2018 put other mobile home parks u­ nder more scrutiny. ‘That Syringa ­thing r­eally changed the game,’ he said.”29 But, within months of this interview, Appaloosa Court and three other mobile home communities in the Moscow area w ­ ere sold to Hurst & Son LLC, a corporation based in Port Orchard, Washington, which raised residents’ concerns about increasing rent payments and suspect management practices—­a common experience for halfway homeowners living in corporate-­owned mobile home parks throughout the United States.30 Indeed, residents reported in January 2023 that they received 20-­page-­long leases that included notices of rent increases from 40 to 55  ­percent. Intermountain Fair Housing Council of Idaho initiated investigations in March 2023. This is another case unfolding and that

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I am following to witness and rec­ord and to advocate on behalf of the communities’ residents. Conclusion This chapter has highlighted residents’ responses to a long-­term and ultimately existential community-­w ide w ­ ater crisis that may not initially seem to constitute a concerted action of ­resistance. I propose we reconsider how we understand the actions of low-­income, working-­ class communities since the condition of ­limited resources means the ability to have the time, money, and connections to collectively ­organize is likewise l­ imited. What are the seemingly minor and mundane actions we miss that may actually be the “weapons of the weak” and countermovements asserting rights to social protection, a market that truly treats exchange as a contract between equals, and emancipation? In what ways are we missing the lessons from the seemingly modest efforts used to resist institutional forces that threaten communities’ right to exist?

CH A P T E R 9

Trailer Park Amer­i­ca Syringa Residents’ Lessons to the Public The species [Philadelphus lewisii Pursh, or syringa] is classified as fire-­ resistant b­ ecause it resprouts from the root crown following burn. . . . ​The species is useful in transitional areas of degraded riparian zones. —­U.S. Forest ­Service, 2004

Living proletarians must put their feet some place, must strike from some place, must rest some place, must retreat to some place. Class war does not happen on an abstract board toting up profits and losses, it needs a terrain. —­Sylvia Federici, 2019a

It is only when the oppressed find the oppressor out and become involved in the ­organized strug­gle for their liberation that they begin to believe in themselves. This discovery cannot be purely intellectual but must involve action; nor can it be l­ imited to mere activism but must include serious reflection: only then w ­ ill it be a praxis. —­Paulo Freire, 1994

A

pril  15, 2017: one of ­those wet and windy early spring days in northern Idaho when the damp chill gets into one’s bones even though the calendar says winter is over. Dawn Tachell invited Shannon Musick and me to her place to begin a strategy meeting for breathing life back into Syringa. Before this meeting, Shannon and Dawn often shared their ideas with me for restoring the park. Of course, their ideas began with finding and applying for grants to repair the w ­ ater and sewer infrastructure, the residents’ homes, and community buildings. Their vision went beyond the obvious, too. They i­magined developing 251

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gardens and a small fruit orchard for sustainable, community food provisioning that would serve a variety of residents’ needs, including strengthening their own collective physical and psychological health. To combat stigma, they wanted to make Syringa feel more like a green space and a recreational park, a place that locals from Moscow and the county would feel welcome to visit and enjoy. By welcoming nonresidents to visit, Shannon and Dawn believed Syringa residents could come to be seen and understood as regular p­ eople, just like every­one ­else. By their reasoning, if outsiders ­were integrated a ­little more into Syringa, Moscow locals would be more willing to destigmatize Syringa residents and would begin to care about them as real p­ eople rather than as dysfunctional ­stereotypes or borderline-­criminal “­others” and caricatures. ­These ideas ­were inspiring. For them, community was more than buildings and infrastructure. They ­imagined multiple dimensions to ensure housing security, good health, and sense of belonging. Watching Syringa decline represented not just the risk of losing a ­house, but also the loss of what I call a “feminized community”—­a space where they could “put their feet,” rest, retreat, and where the capacity to care for neighbors, and to be cared about by neighbors, still existed.1 Shannon and Dawn understood that the ­people living in Syringa ­were p­ eople who had served their country as active-­duty military, as service-­sector workers, and as caretakers of ­family members and neighbors. As Jim Ware pointed out, many of the individuals and families experiencing the damages or barriers of lives bound to precarious work conditions, low wages, or fixed incomes could fulfill their dignity and dreams in Syringa. The park remained affordable for them even as its reputation and conditions degraded in tandem with working-­class living standards generally. Syringa provided a feminized community where residents, ­women and men, shared similar experiences and allowed ­people the space to find refuge, recover dignity, and build relationships. Our mid-­April meeting was aimed at a more immediate possibility for saving Syringa from closure and dispersal, and we recognized even that was still a long reach. We sat inside Dawn’s covered porch, allowing us to enjoy a full view of a snow-­frosted Moscow Mountain. Friends had helped Dawn and her husband Trapper build this porch just a year before. The three of us

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cozied up around a l­ittle heater that resembled a woodstove. Shannon had been reluctant to meet. She was exhausted from holding her f­ amily together while cobbling together finances via a low-­wage job at a daycare center in town. Amid t­ hese challenges she had to watch the park she had once managed and gotten back into working order continue its backsliding into ever greater dysfunction triggered by the ­water crisis starting in 2013. In August  2016, just a ­little over a year ­after Magar’s ­daughter Shelley took on owner­ship of the park, Shannon resigned from her job as on-­site man­ag­er for Syringa. She was replaced with an off-­site park maintenance person living in Moscow who did not work directly with residents about needs and issues. Shelley Magar, who lived over 360 miles away in Vancouver, Washington, would alert him if anything needed to be looked at and fixed. Neglect prevailed. Just a month ­earlier, on March 9, Shannon and Dawn rallied in the ­middle of the night to help an el­derly ­couple deal with flooding around their ­house that both said was exacerbated by a big trench Shelley Magar’s boyfriend and someone ­else had dug with a backhoe thinking it would prevent flooding. Though residents warned them that the trench would only draw more ­water into the park, the two men ignored ­those warnings. As predicted, part of the park flooded and a pool of ­water completely surrounded the el­derly ­couple’s home. Indigenous p­ eople’s knowledge from centuries of experience being of the land has been ignored historically in much the same way. The Nimíipuu have followed ­water variations in dif­fer­ent locations across ancestral lands, understanding where food and the best shelter may be found, and how best to predict and coexist with ­those conditions. Rather than view land as inanimate and a t­ hing to own and dominate, Indigenous ­people’s understandings radically differ. As explained by Yellowknives Dene scholar Glen Coulthard, “Land as system of reciprocal relations and obligations can teach us about living our lives in relation to one another and the natu­ral world in nondominating and nonexploitative terms.”2 “Experts” have botched attempts to engineer ecosystems, most especially ­water via obviously unwise nonsustainable development schemes. P ­ eople’s experiences of being invisible when someone with more power steps in to make decisions has led to drawn-­out suffering and, understandably, distrust.3

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figur e 30. Shannon Musick proudly poses for a photo­g raph inside Syringa’s pump­house, one of several critical operations she learned ­under crisis conditions. Photographer: Leontina Hormel.

Shannon, Dawn, and other residents grew weary with interventions that ­were mishandled like this. They felt their advice—­based on time-­ tested experiences living in the park—­was usually ignored (Figure 30). Every­body e­ lse—­absentee ­owners, contracted engineers, government agents, local government leaders, you name it—­seemed to believe they knew better than the community residents. The experts and leaders ­didn’t live in the park, so their dismissive attitudes stung like insults to residents. Experiences like ­these led to our April meeting at Dawn’s place. The residents deserved a say in what happened at the park, and it was clear the park was not g­ oing to improve without something radically dif­fer­ent taking place. The hope of changing t­ hings encouraged both Dawn and Shannon to give this meeting with me a try. Specifically, we discussed w ­ hether we could muster the resources for residents to purchase Syringa, and in fact to convert the park to a resident-­owned cooperative (ROC). Conversions of single-­owner/lot-­rental trailer parks to ROCs began to crop up in the 1970s and the movement has seen considerable growth, espe-

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cially since the early 2000s. An estimated 1,000 mobile home parks in the United States are currently homeowner owned and managed.4 Research on mobile home parks notes the potential for ROCs to empower residents, since each homeowner purchases a share of the land where they reside and participates in decisions about community management and daily operations.5 The tenuous condition of being a halfway homeowner is thus removed from the equation.6 Regional nonprofit o­ rganizations like the Northwest Cooperative Development Center (NWCDC) are affiliated with ROC USA and help residents determine the financial and l­egal viability of purchasing parks from ­owners. We ­were interested in contacting the NWCDC and newly established ROCs to see if Syringa could be the first park in Idaho to be converted to a ROC. Dawn had mulled over this idea since the past summer, when journalist Daniel Zwerdling interviewed her in June of 2016 while preparing an in-­depth report for NPR about Syringa’s ongoing w ­ ater crisis. During that visit, Zwerdling encouraged Dawn to consider ROC conversion as a pos­si­ble ­future for the park and its residents. Six months ­later, the day a­ fter Christmas, Zwerdling’s report about Syringa’s case was aired on NPR.7 A day ­later, another report of his on NPR discussed the potential for mobile home park revitalization through establishing ROCs.8 This sparked curiosity among the Syringa residents and their allies, mixed with a ray of hope. We wondered if the NPR story’s national exposure might raise interest in logistically supporting and financing Syringa’s conversion to a ROC. Maybe the report would arouse sympathy from financial and nonprofit ­organizations that could help, and maybe the notoriety of the case would be viewed as a philanthropic opportunity to publicize their goodwill and support of disadvantaged families. Over the winter, I had begun compiling information about newly formed ROCs situated relatively nearby in the state of Washington, since at this point in time t­ here ­were no ROCs in Idaho. I found three: one in Mead, an unincorporated suburb of Spokane just two hours north of us and across the state line, and two in Moses Lake, about a two-­and-­a-­half hour drive northwest of us and only 20 minutes from my own hometown of Ephrata. I reached out to one park in Mead and

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one in Moses Lake, asking if we could visit them to collect information to help us weigh the challenges of ­organizing a ROC. Shannon and I met with Dawn at her place in April 2017 for about an hour, discussing several challenges. It seemed plausible to find sympathetic ears from potential funding sources, but it remained dubious that Shelley Magar and her f­ather would offer an acceptable price for the park, specifically, a price that reflected the court’s order that the sewage lagoons be completely updated to continue park operations, itself a very costly proposition. We wondered if ­there ­were government grants residents could apply for to help update the wells, and especially the ­network of ­water and sewage pipes throughout the park. And even if residents acquired the money necessary for a down payment in purchasing the park and financing the necessary updates to its infrastructure, would ­there be enough commitment from the current homeowners to successfully manage the park? It was obvious that Shannon had sufficient experience and knowledge to be able to educate resident ­owners on the daily operations of the well system and park facilities, but the NPR report and ROC websites we’d consulted made it clear t­ here had to be homeowner buy-in to make it work like a real cooperative. All ­these questions w ­ ere sobering, but we also knew that residents in other parks who had similar experiences with negligent ­owners and community stigma had nonetheless managed to successfully convert to ROCs. We also understood in the back of our minds that we w ­ ere likely about 10 years too late. Who would want to help residents invest in a park that needed perhaps $1.2 million to get its sewage and wells to work? The meeting with Dawn and Shannon about saving Syringa by converting to a ROC was hopeful, but the task ahead felt overwhelming and doomed. We concluded by agreeing to forge ahead with field trips to t­ hose other ROC-­converted parks to get advice from residents who had recently gone this route, and to see what t­hose newly converted ROCs looked like. We planned to meet resident ­owners in a newly formed ROC in Moses Lake the last weekend of April. B ­ ecause this was a mostly Spanish-­speaking community of farmworkers and their families, I recruited and hired Cynthia Ballesteros and Denessy Rodriguez, two bilingual University of Idaho sociology students, to join us, and also spoke with the university’s College Assistance Mi­grant Program

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staff members to ensure our interactions w ­ ere respectful and conducted with reciprocity in mind. Transportation and lodging for every­ one w ­ ere arranged. Shortly a­ fter t­hese arrangements w ­ ere made, however, they w ­ ere deferred, and then completely shelved. The idea felt good, but as community leaders Dawn’s and Shannon’s hopes had already been dashed so many times. And the roller-­coaster ­r ide of Syringa life ­d idn’t have a pause button. It was challenging keeping daily lives in order in Syringa—­never knowing when the power would shut down, ­whether spring snow melts would flood the park, or w ­ hether another boil order taped to their front doors would greet them when they fi­nally returned home from their jobs, or even a pos­si­ble eviction notice in the form of a red tag. Homeowner-­owned and -­managed parks are appealing b­ ecause ­there is fi­nally opportunity for residents’ knowledge and experiences to be recognized and applied, but Syringa residents felt discouraged at this point, over three years ­a fter initiating and winning a class-­action lawsuit against their landlord. The risk of ­going through all this effort to reach another dead end at this point felt too high. Concentrating on their day jobs and the ­people they loved was safer and more immediately rewarding. ­ iable Housing Models within the Current P V ­ olitical Economic System Currently three general housing models have been implemented that seek to address housing affordability for working-­class h­ ouse­holds. One model, market-­rate development, treats ­houses like commodities: if supplies fall short of demand, Econ 101 tells us housing prices ­w ill be high and, once supplies meet or surpass demand, prices ­w ill decline.9 Two other models—­limited equity cooperatives (LECs) and community land trusts (CLTs)—­also operate within the existing market system but strive to secure social housing and protect ­house­holds from some of the extreme forms of market be­hav­ior that push families out of secure and affordable housing. CLTs bear tremendous potential as a social housing model and have been initiated throughout the United States. Moscow Affordable

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Housing Trust is o­ rganizing local proj­ects, for instance, that are building momentum in this direction. The basic premise of CLTs is to purchase land—­the property that appreciates in value more so than the ­house on it—­then construct affordable housing that is thereby protected from the market fluctuations that ­w ill inevitably take place. If CLTs work as intended, low-­income ­house­holds within the CLT model ­w ill become part of the decisionmaking ­process of how to design the housing and then ­w ill help manage it while living ­there. The nature of real estate markets right now, however, short cir­cuits this ideal of inclusive, demo­cratic involvement for the would-be homeowner. During an interview I conducted with executive director of the Moscow Affordable Housing Trust Nils Peterson, the long-­term sustainability of existing CLT housing proj­ects in Moscow appeared uncertain since the trust only started in 2009 and the ­houses now occupied are still relatively new.10 The current CLT model grows from historical efforts to protect housing from price and rent hikes. For example, city decisionmakers in Vienna, Austria, in the “Red Vienna” period in the early twentieth ­century purchased land in the city center where apartment buildings ­were constructed as dedicated rent-­controlled housing for working-­and middle-­class families.11 The central location ­limited the levels of speculative be­hav­ior that other­w ise could have created a city center that excluded t­ hese h­ ouse­holds, while ensuring c­ onvenient access to employment and vari­ous ­services, like groceries and health care. Market-­R ate Development The prevailing market-­rate development model sees housing as a commodity. Its focus on privately owned housing means supply is met through market signals to developers and contractors. The basic assumption under­lying this perspective is that housing prices w ­ ill level out and start matching what consumers can afford once the supply of housing reaches a sweet spot. Of the total housing stock in the United States, 96.3 ­percent is privately owned housing—­that is, conventional ­houses on land, mobile homes, and rentals.12 As noted in chapter 3, this market approach to housing has done l­ittle to solve the prob­lem of

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housing affordability in the United States. For instance, once U.S. federal housing assistance support for mobile home park development and rehabilitation was reduced by the late 1980s and early 1990s, development and infrastructure investment in mobile home parks declined.13 The late 1990s and early 2000s represented an era when access to credit was expanded to less financially secure families, thanks to deregulation of financial instruments that opened opportunities for new forms of lending, including predatory lending through subprime loans. Subprime loans ­were sold as paving the way for families, including disproportionate numbers of Black and Latino working-­class h­ ouse­holds, to own a ­house. The rise of foreclosures among ­these ­house­holds during and a­ fter the ­Great Recession of 2008 catastrophically exposed the real­ity that a ­family signing a home loan is not the same as owning a ­house f­ ree and clear. Some impor­tant if painful lessons ­were learned from the ­Great Recession. For instance, new safeguards against the worst of predatory mortgage lending ­were implemented, yet the climate of deregulation and private solutions to housing affordability have remained in place overall, and new speculative instruments have been developed since the ­Great Recession that continue to affect housing supply and prices. For example, in 2014 a new instrument—­rent-­backed securities—­enabled individual and corporate investors to obtain large loans based on projected income property-­owning investors collect from tenants’ rents, w ­ hether via apartment complexes, rental ­houses, and mobile home parks. Though federal programs have stepped away from backing t­ hese loans, investors continue to use this tool to purchase land, ­houses, and buildings as rental properties. In places like Charlotte, North Carolina, investors purchased 25 ­percent of the ­houses sold in 2021, which shrunk the stock of affordable housing available to families to purchase.14 Since investors typically do not live in ­these ­houses and often live elsewhere, the ­houses are usually “flipped” to sell at a higher price or are turned into rentals.15 According to a Washington Post investigative study in 2022, many of the instances of investor purchases of h­ ouses in cities throughout the country w ­ ere concentrated in historically Black and Latino neighborhoods.16 In other words, investors concentrated on sweeping up lower-­priced

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housing and thereby artificially created scarcity, an environment where demand surpasses supply resulting in increased housing costs. Over the past d­ ecade, large investment companies have purchased land and existing properties in Moscow to supply rentals, so it is reasonable to assume this dynamic is hitting other small cities also, especially campus towns where ­there is a guaranteed level of demand. Local news reported in late fall 2021 that the Hillcrest Motel was to be purchased by an investment com­pany located in Beaverton, Oregon, which plans to convert it into a high-­end town­house complex. This same investment com­pany bought another h­ otel, the Idaho Inn, a year e­ arlier. Both the Hillcrest Motel and Idaho Inn w ­ ere two of only three places in Moscow that have offered long-­term accommodation for individuals and families facing housing barriers. In what feels like a blink of an eye, the last-­ditch housing options that the county corrections ­people have used for housing freshly discharged inmates, as well as poverty-­and crisis-­focused nonprofits like Sojourners’ Alliance, Alternatives to Vio­ lence of the Palouse, and the Latah Recovery Center, are vanis­hing. Only one ­hotel remains in Moscow that ­w ill ­house p­ eople who experience difficulty renting in the city ­because of disability, substance use disorders, or a criminal history that follows them all their life. The story of Syringa is the story of mobile home parks throughout the United States: as the government retreated from social housing starting in the 1980s, mobile and manufactured homes became the substitutes. For this reason, mobile home parks in the United States now, despite their declining numbers, count among the main unsubsidized low-­income housing options.17 Private equity firms and corporate buyers are purchasing mobile and manufactured home parks at increasing rates, which further exacerbates rent hikes and declining supplies of affordable housing.18 What, other than the rents they can collect, motivates private equity firms and investors to pursue purchases mobile and manufactured home parks? Sheelah Kolhatkar explains the perks: “Some of ­these firms are eligible for subsidized loans, through the government entities Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. In 2013, the Carlyle Group, a private-­equity firm that’s now worth two hundred and forty-­ six billion dollars, began buying mobile-­home parks, first in Florida and ­later in California, focusing on areas where technology companies had

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pushed up the cost of living. In 2016, Brookfield Asset Management, a Toronto-­based real-­estate investment conglomerate, acquired a hundred and thirty-­five communities in thirteen states.”19 Private investment firms and corporate buyers, who have amassed capital and assets to assure loan privileges, take advantage of government-­ subsidized loan opportunities to acquire ­these parks, which illustrates how wealthy private interests are generally favored in institutional practices. This would not m ­ atter if changes in owner­ship d­ idn’t change affordability for low-­income park residents, or equally on-­the-­ground living conditions. However, Kolhatkar notes ­later in this investigative report that t­ hese purchases lead to dramatic rent increases. While the market-­rate development approach carries the greatest level of attention for solving U.S. and global crises in affordable housing, ­there are signs that alternative housing models that creatively try to work with land and housing markets are gaining popularity. In 2022 a local landlord sold his five mobile home parks in the Moscow and Lewiston area to a com­pany based in Port Orchard, Washington. The com­pany, Hurst & Son LLC owns over 60 manufactured home communities. As noted in Chapter  8, residents ­were handed complicated leases that have raised questions surrounding their legality and that include sharp rent hikes averaging between 40 and 55 ­percent. Residents are understandably worried the new ­owner wishes to force low-­income families out of their homes. A large percentage of families in ­these communities include individuals with disabilities, el­derly individuals, and ­house­holds with c­ hildren age 18 or youn­ger.20 Syringa is still fresh in local memory. It is clearly pos­si­ble to lose home and community. Pushing back on the new leases and rent hikes, the four mobile home communities recently formed a community cooperative to strengthen their position as a collective. At minimum, the communities can collectively negotiate terms within their leases. They are also in a position to purchase the land ­under their homes, if Hurst & Son LLC chooses to sell it. ­Limited Equity Cooperatives ­ ere is another way to protect tenants from rent hikes and to Th empower them through self-­governance. LECs can be developed for

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both apartment complexes as well as mobile home parks. Put simply, ­there are two main steps in creating LECs. The first step is for the tenants to combine and agree to form a cooperative, an entity that facilitates pooling finances t­oward purchasing the land or building where they have been living. The second step, following a successful purchase, is building collective, demo­cratic governance and management of the property every­one shares. In this cooperative business model, residents own their mobile homes or apartments and retain the responsibility to maintain them. They also own an equal share in the land on which every­one’s homes are located. Collective or “cooperative” governance and management is necessary for maintaining the infrastructure of the larger property, such as improvements to ­water wells and wastewater systems. By owning the property where their apartment or mobile home is located, residents in LECs have a voice in setting the rates paid out in the maintenance of the property and in paying for the loan that financed the purchase. All the money goes t­ oward resident owner­ship and property investment, rather than to a landlord who uses the money at their own discretion. Resident-­ owners determine together what expectations should be met to live in harmony. This model creates openings for communities to raise community gardens, coordinate networks of caring, develop a community center where ­children might study ­after school, and construct workshops where men and ­women can apply their skills and work ­under conditions that adapt with their diverse abilities. Imagine, for example, if Syringa had formed a cooperative that coordinated with men like Jim, Owen, and Austin to support opportunities for them to work and live in dignity as men with disabilities. ROCs came up in the meeting with Dawn and Shannon on that chilly spring day in April b­ ecause nonprofit o­ rganizations like NWCDC, affiliated with ROC USA, facilitate residents’ pursuit of this option. As noted above, at the time of our meeting ­there ­were no ROCs established in the state of Idaho. Our hopes to create an ROC with Syringa ­were dashed, but since then two ROCs have been successfully formed in the state: Pleasant View Homeowners Cooperative, Inc., was formed in 2019  in Caldwell and Buddy Dancer Homeowners Cooperative was formed in 2020 in Garden City. ­These communities ­were built thanks to

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the help of LEAP ROC, a branch of LEAP Housing, a nonprofit based in Boise, Idaho. In Moses Lake, Washington, where Shannon, Dawn, and I had planned to visit one of the three existing ROCs, two more ROCs have formed. Moses Lake now has five resident-­owned mobile home cooperatives. ROCs appear to be gaining popularity ­because they put owner­ship and governing control in the hands of the ­people who live in mobile home parks and apartment complexes. Durango, Colorado, is an example of a beautifully located city that has become a high-­demand living destination for outdoor lovers and remote workers who are drawn to its amenities. Amenities-­d riven migration has exacerbated housing expenses and gentrification.21 Between 2021 and 2022, mobile home park residents in Durango ­organized by forming cooperatives—­A nimas View MHP Co-op and Westside Mobile Home Park—­and purchasing the park properties where they live. Animas View’s website explains, The ­process of the resident-­owned community buying the land beneath our neighborhood brought this community closer together. Not only do we know far more of our neighbors than ever before, but we look out for one another, too. And with no outside landlord to report to, ­we’re the envy of other nearby manufactured home communities. Our Member h­ ouse­holds elect our Board of Directors, which works with a property management firm and also appoints vari­ous volunteer committees to help with special proj­ects, cele­brations, community improvements and more. The Board submits a ­budget ­every year, and the entire Membership votes on it and any changes to the rent before the b­ udget becomes official. W ­ e’re r­ unning the business that is our community on our terms, by our rules, for the betterment of ourselves and our neighbors.22

The same issues that frustrated Syringa residents, who felt invisible and ignored, and who ­didn’t see any of their rents returned in the form of significant infrastructural maintenance and improvements, are anticipated and overcome with the ROC model according to the Animas View website. Feudalistic landlord-­tenant relations, in which a landlord owns the land and tenants are left vulnerable to the ­owner’s whims, priorities, and potential neglect are nullified by this cooperative-­r un

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model. In addition, resident-­owners at Animas View shed light on the destigmatizing effect since becoming an ROC, proudly emphasizing that other manufactured home communities wish to follow them. The model is also empowering in that resident-­owners are “­running the business of our community . . . ​for the betterment of ourselves and our neighbors.” About six months ­a fter Animas View MHP Co-op closed on its purchase, Westside Mobile Home Park’s residents, whose homes are also in Durango, formed their own cooperative on January 14, 2022. One of the lead o­ rganizers, Alejandra Chavez, described her park as “a good place to live—­a neighborhood where Latino, Native American and white families raise their kids together.”23 Westside’s residents, however, learned that an investment firm, Harmony Communities, was poised to purchase the park, with a sticker price of $5.46 million. Residents like Alejandra Chavez w ­ ere uncertain how they could pull off such a ­giant purchase, but ­were motivated since they ­were witnessing in Durango the same kinds of experiences other towns and cities throughout the country are witnessing. “The land rush has not spared mobile home parks, which speculators buy up as investment properties. Two such investors even started ‘Mobile Home University’ (MHU) to sell online courses in how to do it. In a blog post titled ‘How to Make Huge Returns on Mobile Home Parks,’ MHU co-­founder Frank Rolfe sums up the strategy: ‘It costs $3,000 to move a mobile home. . . . ​A s a result, tenants cannot leave when you raise their rents.’ ”24 Residents in mobile home parks understand they essentially can be held captive by landlords in this way, since it is well known that mobile home o­ wners c­ an’t just move somewhere ­else if they d­ on’t like the park they live in.25 Harmony Communities, a privately owned com­pany that concentrates investments in land-­lease properties, had already shown in 2021 that it was capable of raising rents by 50 ­percent ­a fter purchasing a park in Golden, Colorado, so Westside residents felt they had nothing to lose in trying to buy their park.26 In March  2022, just two months a­ fter forming their cooperative, the residents succeeded in purchasing the land where their homes sit. In a ­matter of one year two mobile home communities managed to take significant steps to enjoy social housing that protects them from the price inflation hitting Durango during a

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land rush that is being seen elsewhere in rural and urban areas across the West and the rest of the United States. We Need to Change Laws How did residents in two dif­fer­ent mobile home parks in the outdoor adventure haven of Durango, Colorado, manage to successfully pull off forming cooperatives and wrangling the finances to purchase their parks out from u­ nder big investment companies like Harmony Communities? The answer lies in new laws the Colorado legislature has successfully approved and a­ dopted. Over the past three years, Colorado legislatures have passed three critical H ­ ouse Bills (HBs) that build on the state’s 1985 Mobile Home Park Act.27 HB19-1309 was ­adopted in 2019 to increase the number of days from five to 10 days for tenants in a mobile home park to remedy nonpayment of rent and, in instances of court-­ordered eviction, to give tenants 30 days, instead of 48 hours, to vacate their lots. HB20-1196 was a­ dopted in 2020 to increase protections for tenants, among them prohibiting landlords from retaliating “against tenants who make a complaint, join a tenants association, or other­w ise invoke their rights.”28 The final bill, also ­adopted in 2020, is HB20-1201, which requires mobile home park residents be given the opportunity to purchase their park “when the park ­owner decides to sell or change the use of the park,” with the following qualifications: The required opportunity to purchase does not apply if the new o­ wner is a f­ amily member of the current ­owner or a co-­tenant of the property or if the sale is the result of eminent domain. The bill requires ­owners of mobile home parks to give notice of a pending sale. The notice must be sent to o­ wners of homes in the park, any resident or ­owner association, the local government, and the state Division of Housing. At least 12 months before a park ­owner changes use of the park, the ­owner must give notice to the same ­people and ­organizations. In both cases, the notice must include a description of the property and the asking price, terms, and conditions. Within 90 days of receiving e­ ither notice, a group of homeowners or an association representing at least 51 ­percent of the homeowners may submit an offer to purchase the park. The offer must include a binding

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commitment for any needed financing. The group or association may assign the right to purchase to a local or state government, a tribal government, or a nonprofit intending to continue the use of the mobile home park. If the park o­ wner sells the park to someone other than the homeowners, the bill requires the selling o­ wner to send the local government and the Division of Housing an affidavit of compliance with ­t hese regulations.29

The adoption of HB20-1201 helped move forward the cooperative model, enabling residents in at least two mobile home parks in Colorado to form a cooperative nonprofit business, purchase their park, and manage based on demo­cratic decisionmaking. All three bills ­adopted in Colorado are fundamental steps for other states to take to avoid the community disaster at Syringa Mobile Home Park. Are ­there other steps to take that can broaden protections for potential homeowners and renters and counteract the skyrocketing housing and rental costs that prevail in the United States and globally? One idea put forward involves legislating and effectively enforcing universal, nationwide rent control. During a discussion panel on the podcast Bad Faith, Washington H ­ ouse representative Rebecca Parson advocated for universal, nationwide rent control and explained, “­We’ve had rent control federally before u­ nder Richard Nixon and u­ nder FDR. FDR did it via an executive order, he did an executive order instituting the Office of Price Administration which was directed to do price controls including rent controls.”30 Indeed, on September  8, 1939, Franklin Delano Roo­se­velt signed Executive Order 8734 to establish the Office of Price Administration and Civilian Supply in tandem with the Office of Emergency, which ordered u­ nder Section G to “formulate programs designed to assure adequate standards for, and the most effective use of, consumer goods; stimulate the utilization of substitutes by civilians for consumer goods and commodities of ­limited supply; develop programs with the object of stabilizing rents; and promote civilian activities which ­w ill contribute to the purposes of this Order.”31 Language ­toward the beginning of this executive order explained the significance of short-­circuiting profiteering by stabilizing prices such as rents by

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connecting it to national security “for the purpose of avoiding profiteering and unwarranted price rises, and of facilitating an adequate supply and the equitable distribution of materials and commodities for civilian use, and finding that the stabilization of prices is in the interest of national defense and that this Order is necessary to increase the efficiency of the defense program.”32 ­Under Nixon’s administration, the legislature a­ dopted the Economic Stabilization Act of 1970 to again stabilize prices and rents, taking into account productivity and cost of living. Not surprisingly, ­these efforts by federal administration have since then been met with incredible ­resistance, particularly as neoliberal policies concentrating on privatization and deregulation have increasingly come to dominate our ­political landscape in the United States. Rent controls, while universally scorned in neoliberal policy circles, are an impor­tant tool for ensuring housing stability for low-­income, working-­class families. As described in chapters 3 and 6, a ­family’s success is more easily assured if they are able to live continuously in the same place for a long time. This continuity of habitation increases opportunities to secure long-­term employment, send ­children to a familiar school where they know friends and teachers, and form communities where neighbors know and look out for one another. Research analyzing the effects of localized rent controls shows that they have been effective in helping families enjoy greater housing stability and the vari­ous social benefits that derive from longer-­term continuity within a community.33 Localized rent controls, though, are not enough since without broad application, like a universal national rent control policy, ­there ­w ill only be pockets of ­people who enjoy living in rent-­ controlled housing, while a larger proportion of low-­income and racial minority groups ­w ill still be in unaffordable housing arrangements and vulnerable to evictions and homelessness.34 Recent, rapid increases in the average rental prices are also only pos­ si­ble ­because the cost of owning a home has increased sharply over the past five years, and even more so since the COVID-19 global pandemic. Explanations for skyrocketing housing prices point first to a lean housing stock and stymied housing construction, thanks to increased building supply costs arising from supply chain disruptions. The pandemic has shown that our global cap­i­tal­ist economy has certainly become

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overdependent on a centralized supply chain system, which is looking more and more like the much-­criticized and reviled state-­centered command economy of the old Soviet U ­ nion. Th ­ ere is no doubt that lack of new construction is contributing to the housing prob­lem, but that is only part of the prob­lem. Described ­earlier in this chapter, private equity firms and corporate buyers have discovered lucrative opportunities in low-­income community housing. They are buying large numbers of affordable homes located in working-­class communities where large numbers of Black and Latino ­house­holds have lived historically. Similarly, lucrative prospects are now also being found in the shrinking number of available mobile home parks, many of which are being redeveloped for dif­fer­ent land uses or shut down for compliance violations, much like Syringa’s experience.35 In both types of purchasing activities, ­houses are simply viewed as commodities and savvy investment strategies. Yet this activity means the housing is lost as an opportunity for homeownership and the stability that is vital to healthy and productive families. Instead, ­these investment moves shrink the housing stock, which then enables investors to increase rents as ­people who are interested in homeownership are forced to rent. Treating housing like a commodity plays an impor­tant role in fueling the housing supply crisis. Th ­ ese ­legal, but by Adam Smith’s reckoning also “immoral,” be­hav­iors of private equity firms, real estate investment trusts, and corporate investors have led “housing as a ­human right” advocates to call for a ban on corporate owner­ship of residential real estate and to change the tax regime that gives ­these private interests preferential treatment. Housing serves an impor­tant function in the security of society broadly, and it is by now amply clear that the ordinary low-­income working-­class h­ ouse­hold cannot hope to outbid private equity and investment firms with vast amounts of capital at their disposal. What Syringa Residents Have Taught Us We know that when socie­ties invest in the working class—­a group that represents the majority of the world’s ­peoples across gender,

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ethnicity, race, abilities, and age—­families ­w ill have commensurately more time to concentrate on caring for their themselves and their neighbors. Working for a living is axiomatic and morally ingrained in most socie­ties, and it is basic to ­human survival in the modern world. Work is a means for p­ eople to express their skills in a meaningful way and, ­because of this, work is an impor­tant expression of ­human dignity. For that ­matter, t­ here is ­little intrinsic to the dif­fer­ent forms of work we do that requires the growing disparities we are witnessing in what ­people are paid. Sure, not every­one is able to participate in full-­time, paid work. Some have worked a long time and have earned retirement— we all deserve to do this. Some have spent their bodies ­earlier than ­others on physically demanding manual jobs or have dif­fer­ent physical and cognitive abilities that require adjustments to the kind of work they can do. This diversity ­shouldn’t be punished with impoverishment and stigma. Caring for f­amily and community members is also work. We all know this. The ­people, a greater share of whom are ­women, who look ­a fter and care for o­ thers should be able to do so without the fear of impoverishment or suspicion and disparagement of their integrity and work ethic. What is the point of celebrating ­mothers and ­people who take care of us if promoting the physical, psychological, and emotional needs of society requires them to put themselves at risk even as they lift ­others up? Fi­nally, given the importance the environment—­our habitat—­plays in sustaining ­human populations, it is vital we pay attention to how socioecological relations shape our actions and potential longevity. Indigenous perspectives have warned against settler-­colonial tendencies to erase and exploit communities to serve commodity production over the health and sustainability of socioecological relations. Climate change is already forcing us to adjust to droughts, floods, and increasing temperature extremes. What do socioecologically responsive community proj­ects look like? ­These are all difficult questions I keep asking, and they have in fact motivated the writing of this book about Syringa. When I met p­ eople in Syringa and listened to their strug­gles, their disappointments, and their dreams, t­ hese w ­ ere the kinds of questions I kept

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coming back to. I believe they can inspire ambitious solutions to building twenty-­first-­century working-­class communities and, it appears, ­others ­here and abroad think so, too. Individuals and o­ rganizations are thinking about the very t­hings Shannon and Dawn w ­ ere tackling in imagining what Syringa could be. CLTs, LECs, and, by extension, ROCs are exciting and promising examples of how tenants in mobile home parks and apartment complexes can ­organize and sustain collectively owned and operated communities. O ­ rganizations like the Right to the City Alliance and the Homes for All Campaign have distilled the five key criteria fundamental to housing justice, which seeks not just the right to h­ ouses, but p­ eople’s right to form community and prosper: 1. Local, Community Control (­political enfranchisement, collective identification) 2. Affordability (the ability to realize opportunities for building wealth and healthy lives due to reduced stress) 3. Permanence (reproductive protection and autonomy) 4. Inclusivity (­political enfranchisement of and decision-­making roles for groups historically marginalized by diverse abilities, gender, race, and social class) 5. Health and Sustainability (social reproduction, eco-­social interrelations, sovereignty, collective identification)36 Residents in Syringa w ­ ere involved in a form of deliberative and at times adversarial, self-­defensive “trailer park politics” that involved asserting their voices in public forums and in news media. They insisted that their “community counts” and wished to be understood as having experiences that could offer lessons about how hard-­working and caring p­ eople could live in a place like Syringa and what steps they understood would improve their community meaningfully, constructively, and sustainably. They w ­ ere not reading all the lit­er­a­ture and research discussing housing systems, market, and advocacy platforms. And yet they reached conclusions that led to similar proposals, as we see in ­these five princi­ples. Ultimately, we should be making room for low-­

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income working-­class p­ eople in formally articulated decisionmaking pro­cesses and drawing from their experiences to unlearn the harmful practices that allow communities to be sacrificed through no fault of their own. Now that we know what losing community looks like, and how it affects real flesh and blood, it is time to act.

APPENDIX Methodological Approach

This proj­e ct might not have happened without the experience of teaching a 150-­student Introduction to Sociology course in 2009. I became acquainted with two students in the course, who l­ ater—­during chance encounters on campus—­I would learn ­were residents at Syringa Mobile Home Park. At the time, Syringa raised no more attention than any other mobile home park in Moscow and Latah County. This all changed four years l­ ater, though, when news broke of Syringa’s extended ­water shutdown. I ­didn’t immediately involve myself in this case, as I hoped that the class-­action suit was g­ oing to make significant steps to secure residents’ rights. Over a year l­ater, though, it was clear that residents w ­ ere on the losing side of any deals. On March 5, 2015, the local newspaper informed readers of Syringa residents’ issues with Latah County posting red tags on homes once they w ­ ere emptied, and described o­ wner Magar E. Magar’s threats to close the park. It was this snowballing set of events that provoked me to locate and contact my former students and ask them what I could do to help Syringa residents. They asked me to bear witness and document what Syringa residents ­were g­ oing through, and I confirmed that I would do so. For nearly two ­decades my research has involved community-­level examinations aiming to understand how social change shapes ­people’s lives, but I knew nothing about mobile home parks, environmental regulations of community ­water and wastewater systems, and housing policies and systems in the United States, Canada, and Western E ­ urope. 273

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­ ese topics are worth studying on their own, and yet ­here I was learnTh ing “by the seat of my pants” while following the stressful ebbs and flows of Syringa residents’ lives as the park gradually headed ­toward closure. My methods had to adjust with the ebbs and flows and moments of crisis that came up, too. My role as a professor who taught Introduction to Sociology to two of the residents in Syringa should not be brushed aside. When reading Dawn Tachell’s foreword, it is clear that being a professor carries power, which can intentionally or not be used to make ­people feel like they have to cooperate and agree with my wishes. At the time I started this research, I was also engaged in collaborative research with Nimíipuu environmentalists. ­These combined experiences w ­ ere incredibly inspiring, and both demanded I reflect on my privileges as a white ­woman who was a professor at a research university that is considered an elite institution in this region. Having listened to Nimíipuu research partners about the dif­fer­ent ways ­people like me have breached accepted tribal protocols and damaged Indigenous p­ eople’s trust in mostly white researchers’ intent, I was aware I could continue this cycle if I ­didn’t incorporate methods for checking my biases. Distrust of university researchers is also prevalent among members of working-­class communities, of course for dif­fer­ent reasons and following dif­fer­ent historical paths than t­hose for Indigenous ­peoples.1 Nonetheless, as noted in chapter  9 of this book, one characteristic be­hav­ior when stigmatizing and dehumanizing groups of p­ eople is to assume that you have the answers about their lives already and, thus “know better than they do” about “what is ‘good’ for them.” When Syringa residents shared their grievances about being treated like this, I understood I was also capable of similar, privileged be­hav­ior. As Susan Fiske’s research points out quite clearly, higher status ­people see no risk in ignoring and “scorning down” on ­people they perceive as “less than” themselves.2 My work as a sociologist demanded I incorporate methods to check my privilege. In light of the dangers described above, particularly the risk of speaking over Syringa residents’ voices, I have worked to challenge my assumptions by sharing what I have written with residents. I asked seven Syringa residents if they wished to consent to having their real

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names recorded in this book and attached to specific experiences and ­things they said. Of the seven, six consented. I communicated with several other residents, but their lives have not been as public as ­those individuals who have agreed to share their real names in this book. I have shared completed chapter manuscripts with a handful of residents and have invited them to comment on the contents, especially to show me errors in how they are represented. Importantly, I would like to highlight the unique context of this proj­ect. I had never conducted research in my own community. Living within the setting you are trying to describe effectively and with validity is an intimidating task. However, on top of the challenge of living in your research site, what happened to Syringa residents was highly controversial, and it involved ­human suffering. My commitment in this proj­ect was to highlight the knowledge, experiences, and positive contributions of low-­income working-­class neighbors, and to illustrate how the negative assumptions about them affected community response. With ­every word I have written, I have contemplated how it might affect real p­ eople’s lives. Being in my research site has held me accountable for what I say, b­ ecause I am talking about p­ eople who work and live only a stone’s throw away from me. As I have described ­people’s lives and reached conclusions, I have been very aware of the tangible, immediate consequences that could result from what I say. Sharing drafts to make sure at least some residents are aware of what I intended to share and enabling the opportunity for Syringa residents’ feedback acted as a validity check on my work. ­Because of its controversy and the ­human suffering involved, Syringa’s case also led to many criticisms of individuals who are well known in this visibly affluent, “safe” city. Most of ­these individuals are public figures who have shared their views numerous times in news media and recorded meetings. However, as a sociologist, I took care in my analyses and writings to connect ­these individuals’ biographies to the historical epoch in which their decisions and actions took place, just as C. Wright Mills “­sociological imagination” recommends we do. I believe this book’s critique of city, county, and government agency actions is substantiated and also balanced by practicing a s­ ociological imagination. We are by no means passively acting out the commands of social

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structures, nor are we the completely “­free agents” classical and neoclassical economists imagine ­humans to be. Recording Residents’ Lives My research formally began when I attended the Latah County commissioners’ meeting residents requested on March 25, 2015, which was held at the recreation center in Syringa Mobile Home Park. At first, my field visits ­were intermittent. Shannon Musick’s on-­site park management was proactive and her commitment to restoring the infra­ structure and neighborly relations meant ­things w ­ ere relatively calm between 2015 and 2016. Dawn and Shannon communicated with me via mobile phone texts, emails, and social media messages to share news that came up at the park. As one of my key ­informants, Dawn met (and still meets) with me to discuss her relationship to the Syringa experience, to offer updates on o­ thers from the park, and to look at the proj­ect as a ­whole. Residents’ lives ­were busy, so I incorporated “go-­along” interviews, which would last from 10 minutes to four hours. Numerous times I walked through the park with ­either Dawn, Shannon, or Jim Ware to hear what was happening to the park and to be shown what vis­ i­ble signs they felt indicated changes, good or bad. I conducted recorded interviews with residents willing to meet with me, though most residents preferred chatting informally when I encountered them during visits to Syringa. “By tracking the natu­ral sequence of places in practical everyday life,” explains Margarethe Kusenbach, “go-­alongs enhance our understandings of how individuals connect and integrate the vari­ ous regions of their daily lives and identities.”3 Go-­alongs ­were the only way to conduct interviews with Syringa refugees as they packed and hauled belongings during the final weeks of park closure. From mid-­ May to December  2018, I conducted go-­alongs with seven residents. Two of ­these go-­alongs took place while packing belongings, loading boxes and furniture in U-­Hauls, and unloading the contents. ­These full-­day adventures taught me a g­ reat deal about the ways p­ eople related to their homes and what belongings w ­ ere most precious to them. When recording formal interviews I arranged visits to p­eople’s homes, and one resident preferred sitting on the recreation center’s

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grounds to watch p­ eople coming and g­ oing while conversing. All my interviews ­were unstructured, so they felt like conversations, experiences that seemed familiar and comfortable for the residents. The conditions at the park wore on residents, which meant it took a while to establish a rapport with the few who agreed to a formal recorded interview with me. Altogether, I conducted eight recorded interviews with residents, and I did go-­alongs with 11 other residents.4 Needs assessment surveys ­were conducted at the University of Idaho ­Legal Aid Clinic (LAC) meeting with residents on October  9, 2017. Undergraduate researchers Cynthia Ballesteros and Denessy Rodriguez conducted most of ­these face-­to-­face surveys, and a c­ ouple law students working with the LAC team conducted some, too. A total of 24 needs assessment surveys ­were completed, and many of the families who completed the survey interviews ­were ­people I had not met yet. This survey, and follow-up conversations with residents afterward, w ­ ere critical to putting together ­Table 1 shared in chapter 6. ­People asked me to call them when they completed the survey interviews, and several used my contact information to reach out to me in electronic messages. A few residents shared contact information with neighbors who had missed the LAC meeting. The closure announcement motivated p­ eople to communicate with me. Community Advocacy Listening to Syringa residents’ frustrations with being invisible for years while w ­ ater issues and neglect prevailed in the park and seeing no solutions to help them, the park closure announcement compelled me to make sure community actions w ­ ere prepared and enacted to support refugees as they looked for homes elsewhere. The surveys signaled my desire to act on behalf of residents and to make sure their individual circumstances w ­ ere understood so solutions addressed their specific needs. I contacted nonprofit o­ rganizations and government taskforces whose missions and expertise would help in educating me on how to help residents and would lead to tangible resources for residents. With t­ hese dif­fer­ent individuals and ­organizations, we raised money, found porta potties and a hand-­washing station, found p­ eople to move residents’

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h­ ouse­hold belongings, broke down decks and moved them, lifted garden sheds and moved them, developed “How to Move Your Mobile Home” pamphlets, collected wood pallets to be used for home construction, and provided many more s­ ervices. Many of us lived out the positive work of social reproduction discussed in this book, forming caring networks whose commitment to reciprocity was mutually beneficial. This research has been an incredibly emotional experience. It is not pos­si­ble to watch ­human suffering and remain an impartial observer. Watching a community die and the consequences it had on p­ eople like Derek Lund is tragic, and t­ hose memories still bring me g­ reat feelings of sorrow and indignation. And, honestly, I ­couldn’t write about Syringa ­until I had pro­cessed ­these overwhelming emotions for a while. In fact, it took a few years to do this. However, ­there ­were positive experiences during this research, too. The ability to act and to find a caring community with Syringa residents and t­ hose in Moscow and Latah County who pitched in during the park’s closure was a ­great counterbalance. I have lasting relationships with several who ­were part of this significant event in this community’s history, and it was their encouragement to get this experience documented in writing that inspired me to get back to the computer and talk about this case. Recording Institutional Perspectives To study this case so­cio­log­i­cally, I worked to include a range of perspectives that could challenge and provide nuance to my analy­sis, especially given the emotional experiences I needed to balance out. Not all residents’ views aligned when I asked what issues w ­ ere most pressing and who was to blame for the bad w ­ ater and leaking sewage and the park’s decline. Moreover, individual residents w ­ eren’t always sure how to explain the prob­lems at the park from one day to the next. Of course, the range of perspectives broadened by three separate interviews with engineers from the Idaho Department of Environmental Quality (Idaho DEQ ) between 2016 and 2022, the first interview being conducted by my colleague Dr. Dilshani Sarathchandra. I also conducted two separate interviews with LAC team members, one in 2016 and the other in September  2017, immediately ­after learning about Shelley

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Magar’s intent to close the park. Latah County commissioner Dave McGraw agreed to an interview, which was conducted in January 2017. Institutional perspectives ­were most fruitfully recorded during meetings and forums. Th ­ ese settings allowed me to observe what leaders felt publicly comfortable saying about Syringa Mobile Home Park. The most prominent of ­these experiences include the Latah County commissioners’ meeting with residents in March 2015, the emergency gathering with government and nonprofit ­organization leaders in October  2017, the LAC meeting o­ rganized for residents in October 2017, as well as the “Syringa Speaks” public forum I ­organized with residents in January 2018. The closure brought me into contact with several nonprofit and government staff. I joined Ty Williams, Idaho Department of ­Human Health and Welfare resource and ­service navigator, and Katti Carlson, executive director of ­Family Promise of the Palouse, when conducting ­family needs assessment with two families. Several times I conversed with the Latah County sheriff Richard “Richie” Skiles when he checked in on Syringa residents during the final months of closure, from June to December 2018. I was also fortunate to have met with Mr. Magar’s ­daughter Shelley Magar a­ fter she was granted the deed to the park. Interviewing Ms. Magar and her boyfriend helped complicate the answer to the question, “Who’s to blame?” To consider the perspectives of ­those who own mobile home parks and significant forms of property in Latah County, I took time in the final months of manuscript preparation to meet with some prominent real estate and mobile home park entrepreneurs. During this same period, I also attended roundtables and workshops conducted by housing affordability leaders and advocates. Nils Peterson, executive director of Moscow Affordable Housing Trust, met with me several times at events and over coffee to discuss the goals and challenges of instituting land trusts. It is vital to be critical of community-­ level decision-­making, and it is just as impor­tant to examine the constraints that community leaders must work within. Archival Research To understand the ­legal constraints to government agencies and decisionmakers’ actions, I dug into hundreds of pages of l­egal documents

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­Table 5. Research actions Methods employed

Evolution of events and pro­cesses shaping Syringa residents’ lives

Phase One (2015–2018)

Interviews, ethnography

Residents’ experiences with the consequences of lawsuits filed against their landlord

Phase Two (2016–2017)

Interviews, ethnography

Investigating alternative management and owner­ship options, such as cooperative park owner­ship with residents

Phase Three (2017–2018)

Needs surveys, Residents’ responses to notices of park interviews, closure and relocation experiences ethnography, Social media updates and requests for public sociology support Fundraiser: total raised $13,175.87

Phase Four (2018–2022)

Interviews, public sociology

Residents’ experiences following relocation

for the three dif­fer­ent court cases filed against Syringa’s park ­owner Magar  E. Magar, plus his bankruptcy proceedings. In fact, I joined Syringa homeowners Dawn Tachell, Bob Bonsall, and Jim Ware in Spokane, Washington, on November  13, 2017, when final settlement was reached. I tried to move backward from the issues affecting Syringa in the pre­sent so I could trace “how we got ­here.” This involved sending lots of document requests to the north regional office of the Idaho DEQ to obtain several d­ ecades’ worth of rec­ords to help me understand the engineering and construction of the park and its infrastructure and to find the weaknesses in its design. Thankfully, Moscow ­houses the University of Idaho, which enabled me to regularly visit the university library’s Special Collections reading room to pore through archives examining settler history in the Moscow area, Native nations’ relationships to the area, locals’ detainment of suspected harvest Wobblies, and the construction of the “Vets Village” at the university right a­ fter World War II. All t­ hese topics could constitute a book of their own, and I admit to diving into some rabbit holes as I discovered odd ­things about this place that has been my home for nearly 20 years.

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During the course of this research, activities and aims changed, which required I adjust what kinds of methods and questions w ­ ere appropriate. The changes in ­people’s lives that led to red tag protests, dreams of resident-­owned cooperatives, and park closure demanded dif­fer­ent ways to work with residents and rec­ord events as they unfolded. The flexibility built into the research design documents the precariousness residents faced over t­hese five years, as research questions and tools needed to respond to the climate and news defining each of the phases that are summarized in T ­ able 5.

ACKNOWL­E DGMENTS

dawn tachell has been with me through thick and thin: initiating connections with key ­people in Syringa, sending me documents and photos, meeting with me often at One World Café and at Syringa, and opening her feelings of vulnerability, indignation, and loss as events unfolded. I know few p­ eople with the leadership skills, intelligence, and capacity to care that Dawn has. Thank you for letting me be part of your life, Dawn. Shannon Musick, Jim Ware, Scott Morrison, Bob Bonsall, Aimee Pace, and Denise James opened their lives to me during my visits to Syringa Mobile Home Park and their experiences have been life-­ changing for me. Thank you for your honesty, bravery, and generosity. Many other residents ­were my teachers during this research, too. You all make a difference. I hope the descriptions of your lives shared in this book look familiar and true to your experiences and viewpoints. All royalties earned from the sales of this book ­w ill be donated to Sojourners’ Alliance in Moscow, Idaho. Steve Bonnar, Cliff McAleer, Janna Johnson, and Rebecca Rucker of Sojourners’ Alliance provided critical support during Syringa’s closure, and many residents would have been homeless without their help. Given the acute shortages in housing affordability, Sojourners’ Alliance w ­ ill be a critical lifeline in the region for years to come. Maureen Laflin’s and Jessica Long’s leadership at the University of Idaho’s L ­ egal Aid Clinic provided the means for Syringa residents to find voice and power in the ­legal system. With no resources to afford 283

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private attorneys, it would have been impossible for residents to pursue justice and receive financial compensation of any kind. The law students who participated on the ­legal team, as well as the attorneys who joined forces with LAC, displayed an impressive commitment to justice for p­ eople who too frequently lack professional advocates in the court system. The support of Lysa Salsbury and Anne Zabala in coordinating ­people and ­organizations who provided money and facilities during our fund­rais­ing efforts was invaluable. I would also like to thank all the community leaders, o­ rganizations, and everyday p­ eople who donated resources to individuals and families throughout Syringa’s w ­ ater crisis and park closure. Local and regional news media are vital to informing the public of issues surrounding us ­every day and equipping ­people with tools to use to protect their interests. The Lewiston Tribune, the Moscow-­Pullman Daily News, and The Argonaut printed news of the events as they unfolded at Syringa and generously allowed me to include several images in this book. It is impor­tant for communities to support local news outlets dedicated to sharing information and promoting public dialog. Nimíipuu elder Lucinda George Simpson shared the historical and cultural research by her u­ ncle, Gordon Fisher (Yos yos Tulikeciin), with me while I was piecing together the Palouse’s Indigenous history, enriching discussion in chapter  1 and offering distinctions I had not learned before. I am grateful for Blackfeet scholar Dianne Baumann’s and Cherokee scholar Rebecca Tallent’s careful reviews of chapter  1. Rebecca Clausen alerted me to the latest resident-­owned community (ROC) developments in Durango, Colorado, at Animas View MHP Co-op and Westside Mobile Home Park, and I hope we can build on our research and writing ideas in the f­ uture. I am fortunate to work with highly dedicated colleagues at the University of Idaho who share my interests in securing care, equity, and justice for our world. Ryanne Pilgeram provided me emotional support at moments when the injustice of what was happening to residents overwhelmed me. Thank you, Kristin Haltinner, Dilshani Sarathchandra, and Deborah Thorne for sticking with me through this never-­

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ending proj­ect. I hope you all see your influence in the ideas shared in ­these pages. Producing this book relied on careful and professional attention from the staff at Rutgers University Press and I appreciate the guidance I received along the way from Peter Mickulas. I am grateful to the anonymous reviewers for offering both hearty optimism and constructive advice as I prepared the manuscript. Thank you, Elaine Coburn, for your detailed feedback and encouragement during the final stretch of writing the manuscript. I still had to make the final calls as I wrote and revised, which means I am solely responsible for any errors or oversights in ­these pages. Part of the research for and the writing of this book was funded by the University of Idaho ORED-­ CLASS Transformative Research Investment and Partnership program and the Idaho Humanities Council. Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this publication do not necessarily represent t­ hose of the University of Idaho, the Idaho Humanities Council, or the National Endowment for the Humanities. The College of Letters, Arts, and Social Sciences, ­under the leadership of Andrew Kersten, Sean Quinlan, and Traci Craig, provided impor­tant resources and encouragement. Brian Wolf, chair of the Department of Culture, Society, and Justice, has also supported my research and writing. I am indebted to the University of Oregon Social Science Feminist Research Interest Group, spearheaded by Joan Acker and Sandra Morgan, whose commitment to feminist education and research created a dynamic and noncompetitive environment for gradu­ate students to share ideas without fear of judgment. ­Little did I understand as a gradu­ ate student at the University of Oregon that I was forging long-­lasting intellectual connections and alliances with my peers. Though they may not have known it, Laura Earles, Lora Vess, Kari Norgaard, Mara Fridell, Allison Hurst, Sandra Ezquerra, Brett Clark, Barbara Sutton, Shannon Bell, and Paul Prew supported me in dif­fer­ent ways that enabled me to believe in this proj­ect and book. Th ­ ese talented and kindhearted colleagues and friends, as well as numerous o­ thers who I have befriended over this half c­ entury, have been sources of intellectual growth, motivation, and caring support at dif­fer­ent points in my c­ areer.

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I would have felt socially and professionally isolated without their willingness to respond to my social media posts, random emails, conversations over libations, and pleas for play time. Many University of Idaho undergraduate students participated in this research proj­ect. Research assistants Denessy Rodriguez and Cynthia Ballesteros ­were skillful, creative, and passionate during our efforts to support Syringa’s residents. Sociology of Prosperity students Haylee Brister and Lincoln Smith conducted ­legal research and reviewed county assessor’s rec­ords that formed an early foundation for this book’s ideas. The enthusiasm sociology majors Ashley Webb, Kelsey Stevenson, Kaela Watson, Makayla Sund­quist, and Jackie Sedano brought to the proj­ect motivated me to keep ­going. Tess Keenan, Carrie Graham, Corrie Grosse, Lynsie Clott, Aaron Freudenthal, Robert Anderson, Victor Canales, Lynn McAlister, Kayleigh Anderson, and Sam Raymond continue to inspire me with their intellect and successes. I am fortunate to have been part of their undergraduate education early in my ­career at Worcester State University and the University of Idaho. Serving as a professor in higher education has helped me understand what youth would like to see changed in our society, and ­these perspectives have influenced the ideas in this book. Recently, a perspective has gained traction in U.S. and Idaho politics that raises suspicion against educators in K-12 and higher education institutions. According to this perspective, “critical race theory” and “social justice” in school curricula have led youth down a dark path, as witnessed, for example, in the fact that Millennials and Gen Zers show increasing interest in solving climate change and social and environmental injustices. The criticisms aired against educators and young ­people’s shifting interests are mystifying, since they are premised on assumptions that social change is somehow abnormal and to be strenuously resisted. In the classroom, however, it is I who is often trying to catch up with the views students bring with them. Students’ experiences tell them that several aspects of social life are failing them, and they want solutions now. Moreover, many aspire to a world that values empathy—­arguably a priority under­ lying “CRT” as well as social and environmental justice. Learning from Amer­i­ca’s youth and transforming my own thinking and practices

Ack now l ­e dgm ents 287

accordingly makes my work exciting and a privilege. I am thankful for my conversations and experiences with students. Keep challenging me. I cherish my siblings Gretchen, John, Stephen, Teresa, and Julie who helped their l­ittle ­sister navigate this world. Our childhood memories, adult pursuits, and the passionate perspectives of our parents, Monty and Joellen Hormel, provide never-­ending food for thought and cathartic moments of laughter. My siblings have raised some of the most creative and loving c­ hildren, who are now young adults with dreams and who are carving out lives of their own. Our parents passed away as I researched and wrote this book, as did my eldest nephew Jacob Berkey, who left us and his c­ hildren Viva and Oso far too early. I like to imagine that my parents and Jacob would be proud of this book. Thank you, Chris Norden, for providing me masterful editing assistance, philosophical food, humor, and love. You like me for who I am. You love thinking and talking about politics, nature, and ­music—­plus a dash of sports—as much as I do. You are my lyubov’ navsegda.

NOTES

Introduction 1. Throughout this book, I use the terms “trailer” and “mobile home” interchangeably. Technically, the manufactured housing industry employed the term “mobile home” when referring to factory-­assembled ­houses produced before June 15, 1976, then used the term “manufactured home” for all prefabricated, modular housing produced a­ fter that year. All homes manufactured a­ fter June 15, 1976, have been subject to the Housing and Urban Development Code initiated in the 1974 National Manufactured Housing Construction and Safety Standards Act. The term “trailer” connotes lower status, both to t­ hose seeking to improve public impressions of manufactured housing and to ­t hose who live in mobile home parks. Residents in Syringa most often used the term “trailer,” though they also used the term “mobile home.” Several embraced the idea that they lived in a “trailer park,” as it was widely understood that t­ here w ­ ere fancier parks in the county that they considered “mobile home parks.” Importantly, p­ eople who h­ aven’t lived in mobile home parks may not necessarily make or perceive the distinction between nice mobile home parks and “messy trailer parks.” The stigma surrounding t­ hese communities leads many to ­stereotype them all as having the same status as “trailer parks.” 2. Most of the residents’ names throughout the book are pseudonyms, with names changed in the interest of protecting p­ eople’s identities. Residents whose names have not been changed are individuals whose connection to Syringa Park was regularly noted in local media and court case coverage, and they have given permission to keep their names preserved for historical rec­ords. 3. According to the University of Idaho L ­ egal Aid Clinic (LAC), 96 h­ ouse­holds occupied homes at the onset of the w ­ ater crisis (LAC Meeting with Residents, October 9, 2017). 289

290 note s to page s 5–13

4. “Brief on Calculating Damages in Class-­Action Lawsuits,” filed on July 23, 2014, CV 2014-00227. 5. “Declaration of Crystal Thompson in Support of Motion for Preliminary Injunction,” filed February 27, 2014, CV 2014-00227, and Cheryle Gonzales’s statement at the Latah County Commissioners’ Meeting at Syringa Mobile Home Park, March 25, 2015. 6. Arundel Mobile Home Park in Post Falls, Idaho, has been in the local news for ­water issues (M. Allen 2010; Vyido 2017), as well as Savory Mobile Home Park in Post Falls, Idaho (Walker 2012), and Chateau Mobile Home in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho (Buley 2020). Over 15 years ago, a Boise State University report on threats to mobile homes and mobile home parks noted that 18 of 50 mobile home parks w ­ ere in currently for sale or “in the immediate path of construction.” Citing Garrett et al. (2007), they warned, “A State of Idaho manufactured home advisory committee has estimated that 85 ­percent of the mobile home parks in Boise are threatened by redevelopment” (Boise State University College of Social Sciences and Public Affairs 2007, 5). 7. Allaire, Wu, and Lall (2018), Flowers (2020), Pierce and Gonzalez (2017), and Stanback (2019). 8. Flowers (2020, 131), Fedinick, Taylor, and Roberts (2019, 27), and United Nations ­Children’s Fund and World Health O ­ rganization (2019). 9. Con­temporary examples of environmental justice research include Bell (2016), Bullard (n.d.), Gilio-­W hitaker (2019), Gomez-­Barris (2017), Grosse (2022), Harrison (2019), Holleman (2018), Jampel (2018), Johnson (2017), McGee and Greiner (2020), Norgaard (2019), Park and Pellow (2011), Pauli (2019), Pellow (2017), C. Taylor (2018), and D. Taylor (2014). 10. Coulthard (2014, 12). 11. K.-­Y. Taylor (2019, 23). 12. D. Cooper, Hickey, and Zipperer (2022). 13. S­ ullivan (2018b, 15). 14. Ghambari and McCall (2016). 15. Block et al. (2006, 15). 16. Reed (2014) notes that during the late twentieth and early twenty-­fi rst centuries, “medical care and shelter prices r­ ose more quickly than the overall price level. Inflation in ­services outpaced that of commodities, with prices of durable goods remaining nearly flat over the w ­ hole timespan. Education and tobacco prices also ­rose sharply during the entire period.” Over this same period, Syringa’s reputation declined and became an impor­t ant housing opportunity for p­ eople whose livelihoods ­were damaged by inflation and feminization of work. 17. Federal Reserve Bank of New York (2022).

note s to page s 13–18 291 18. Mian and Sufi (2015, 85). One reason for this housing price effect is ­because a large number (estimate 50%) of existing mortgage holders borrowed against their equity as home prices r­ ose—­a form of debt spending that is folded into home loans and hides how lower-­income homeowners in conventional housing ­were keeping up with increased expenses over the 1990s and early 2000s (Mian and Sufi 2015, 86–88). According to Mian and Sufi (2015, 88), “Many home o­ wners borrowed against their home equity while having substantial debt outstanding on their credit cards. They d­ idn’t use the funds to pay down credit card debt, despite very high interest burdens. . . . ​Survey evidence from the Federal Reserve shows that over 50 ­percent of funds pulled out of home equity are used for e­ ither home improvement or consumer expenditures.” 19. Donovan and Bradley (2020, 2). 20. Organisation for Economic Co-­operation and Development (2022). The ­organization represents countries in ­Europe, the Amer­i­cas, and the Pacific. 21. See Sherman (2009, 2021), Pilgeram (2021), and K. E. Smith and Tickamyer (2011). 22. K. E. Smith and Tickamyer (2011, 11). 23. L ­ abor scholars employ slightly dif­fer­ent terms in reference to similar employment patterns: Standing (1989) uses “feminization of employment”; Bakker and Gill (2003, 81) use both “feminization of work” and “feminization of ­labor”; and Morini (2007) and Power (2009) both use “feminization of ­labor” in their discussions. 24. Morini (2007). 25. Danzinger and Haveman (1981, 15). 26. Sawmill, Weaver, and Haskins (2001) discuss the dramatic overhaul this legislation had on social programs for impoverished families and the debates about its effectiveness as p­ olitical leaders determined w ­ hether and what parts of it w ­ ere to be reauthorized. 27. Sherman (2009, 2021) and Fiske (2010). 28. United Nations General Assembly (2017). 29. Fuller (2019), Farha (2018), and Aalbers (2016). 30. Fuller (2019, 23). 31. Lauster (2016), Farha (2018), and Butler (2017). 32. Aalbers (2016). 33. Lauster (2016). 34. Rugh and Massey (2010). 35. Allon (2014, 13) and Montgomerie and Young (2010, 5). 36. Guerrero (2020). 37. P. Pinkham and Shue (2023). 38. Cotterell (2016). 39. Fang and Munneke (2020, 985–986).

292 note s to page s 18–23

40. Aalbers (2016, 43). 41. Aalbers (2016, 23). 42. S­ ullivan (2018b). 43. S­ ullivan (2014). 44. Pierce and Gonzalez (2017) and Fedinick, Taylor, and Roberts (2019, 27). 45. Kolhatkar (2021). 46. Pierce and Gonzalez (2017). 47. White (2022). 48. Kasakove (2022) and Kolhatkar (2021). 49. Peterson et al. (2021, 6). 50. Peterson et al. (2021, 5). 51. Peterson et al. (2021, 6) find that “Idaho was followed by the states of Arizona, Utah, Washington, and Maine.” 52. Housing Assistance Council (2013). 53. McClure Center for Public Policy Research (2019). 54. McClure Center for Public Policy Research (2019). 55. Bestplaces​.­net (n.d.). 56. Income per capita is adjusted for inflation; see University of Idaho Extension (2022). 57. U.S. Census Bureau (2020a). 58. Pazzanese (2022). 59. Aurand et al. (2021). 60. Housing Assistance Council (2013). 61. Saunders (2013). 62. Lake, Novack, and Ives-­Rublee (2021) and E. Cooper et al. (2009). 63. E. Cooper et al. (2009, 9). 64. Abedin et al. (2017). 65. United Nations General Assembly (2017). 66. National Co­a li­t ion for the Homeless (2018). 67. ­These dimensions are presented in Bakker and Gill (2003, 77) and Hopkins (2017, 131). Excellent texts that reflect on the vari­ous ways in which social reproduction theory may be employed are found in Bakker and Gill (2003) and Bhattacharya (2017). 68. For instance, in a PEW Research Center study conducted in 2014, 60% of respondents noted that ­children are better off with a parent at home to look a­ fter them (Cohn, Livingston, and Wang 2014). 69. See Harvard Law Review (2021). Haltinner (2021) describes how rural health ­organization makes rural ­women particularly vulnerable to birth trauma. 70. Leifheit et al. (2020). 71. ­Presentation by Erik Kingston at Latah County Housing Roundtable (March 23, 2022).

note s to page s 24–29 293 72. Found in Grossman (1972, 225), emphasis added. 73. See Collins (2000, 53). 74. Federici (2019a, 2019b, and 2012). 75. Federici (2019b, 721). 76. Sylvia Federici’s concept “reproductive commons” inspired the term “feminized community” used h­ ere. I use this term instead of reproductive commons for three reasons. One, I wish to emphasize the ways in which housing and communities are segregated b­ ecause of the growing feminization of ­labor since the 1980s, while at the same time price inflation for basic needs has mounted. To be clear, I am not arguing that only ­women have the capacity to care and nurture. Rather, the caring and supportive attributes of socially reproductive ­labor can be fulfilled by anyone, though patriarchal systems—by convention—­have treated it as “­women’s work” (clear examples of differential constructions of “feminine” are illustrated in Angela Davis’s ­Women, Race, and Class (1983). Two, the concept “reproductive commons” ­isn’t easily employed to capture some of the implicit ways gender and ableist systems s­ haped social relations in Syringa. For instance, Federici (2019a) uses examples of collective ­organizing in urban areas to illustrate how marginalized p­ eoples, most often led by w ­ omen, form reproductive commons (urban gardens, communal kitchens) to provide nonmarketized socially reproductive s­ ervices. Syringa residents’ efforts ­were smaller in scale (see chapter 8) ­because of the vari­ous forces that l­ imited their ability for broader collective response to marginalization. Three, Indigenous scholars (see Coulthard 2014, 12–13) argue against using the term “commons” to describe their relationships to land. From this point of view, the commons is premised on a specifically Western E ­ uropean histories and its use to describe Indigenous p­ eople’s kinship relations with land and ecosystems runs the risk of restructuring vis-­à-­v is settler colonial tools. In other words, the term “community” seems a more inclusive word for comprehending what is fundamental to having a home and not just a h­ ouse, a viewpoint shared in Collins (2000, 2010).

Chapter 1  Who Belongs on the Palouse? 1. See Desmond (2016) for a detailed ethnography on evictions in Milwaukee, Wisconsin; for a detailed account of the difficulties of calculating the number of evictions, or involuntary removal from housing, see pp. 328–333. S­ ullivan (2018b) examines involuntary removal from housing specifically situated in urban mobile home parks in the United States. For international context, see United Nations General Assembly (2017). 2. Linebaugh (2008, 51). 3. Linebaugh (2008). 4. Wolfe (2006, 388).

294 note s to page s 30–38

5. Wolfe (2006, 388). 6. For further reading about Standing Rock, see Lower Brule Sioux scholar Nick Estes (2019) and Colville scholar Dina Gilio-­W hitaker (2019). For a description of the Nimíipuu actions against the megaloads, see Hormel (2016), Grosse (2017), and the collaboratively authored chapter by Hormel, Moffett, Matthews, Simpson, and Norden (2019), “­Organizing and Mobilizing Nimiipuu Protecting the Environment.” Kari Marie Norgaard’s (2019) Salmon and Acorns Feed Our ­People pre­sents vivid illustrations of the U.S. and California governments’ criminalization of traditional Karuk gathering and fishing practices. 7. Pilgeram (2021). 8. Busacca and Sweeney (2005). 9. Busacca and Sweeney (2005). 10. A vivid description of the pre-­settlement Palouse prairie, or “meadow-­ steppe,” is available in Duffin (2010, 21–25). 11. Frey (2001, 23–24) and C. Davis (2019). 12. Daley (2019). 13. Mapes (2020). 14. Landeen and Pinkham (1999, 8). 15. All words included in Nimipuutímt language w ­ ere found in Sonneck and Sobotta (2004). 16. Cited in Monroe (2003, 29). 17. Fisher (2011, 5). Nimíipuu elder Lucinda Simpson shared this passage from Native Site Guidelines. Gordon Fisher is her ­uncle. 18. Weddell (2002b, 3). See the Palouse Prairie Foundation website (http://­ palouseprairie​.­org​/­) for research publications specifically about native plants of this region. 19. Weddell (2002a) and Baird (1999). 20. Palmer, Nicodemus, and Felsman (1986, 39). 21. Anastasio (1972) cited in Weddell (2002a, 4). 22. A. V. Pinkham and Evans (2013, 12) and Weddell (2002a). 23. Sun (2021). 24. Stucki, Rod­house, and Reuter (2021), 25. Stucki, Rod­house, and Reuter (2021). 26. Marshall (1999) and Stucki, Rod­house, and Reuter (2021). 27. Weddell (2002a, 3) citing Ackerman (1972). 28. P. G. Allen (1992), L. B. Simpson (2017), Baumann (2019), and Norgaard (2019). 29. Cited in Weddell (2002a, 2). 30. P. G. Allen (1992). 31. Mapes (2020).

note s to page s 39–44 295 32. Nez Perce County Historical Society and Museum (n.d.). 33. Woodworth-­Ney (2008, 123) refers to this as “female manifest domesticity.” 34. Geyer (1846, 517n) cited in C. Davis (2019, 14). 35. Name and quote recorded in Baird (1999, 21). 36. This quotation is from a firsthand account written by a “religious visitor from Walla Walla” dated August 21, 1864, cited in Baird (1999, 25). 37. Josephy Jr. (1997, 387). 38. Lee and Ahtone (2020). 39. Woodworth-­Ney (2008). 40. Woodworth-­Ney (2008, 130) notes, for instance, that 1850 U.S. Census Bureau rec­ords indicate “­t here w ­ ere 593 white ­women for e­ very 1,000 men in the Rocky Mountain and Pacific Coast states and territories.” 41. Manifest Destiny refers to the westward white colonization of Indigenous lands, which was justified through the Monroe Doctrine and involved efforts to remove and “civilize the Indians” (Drinnon 1990, 114-115; Estes 2019; Gilio-­ Whitaker 2019). Though not a m ­ easurement of land owner­ship per se, a significant number of Idaho’s principal farmers (­t hose who self-­designate as a farmer making the most farm-­related decisions) are ­women. Thirty-­n ine ­percent of farmers in Idaho are w ­ omen. Th ­ ese numbers are slightly higher than the national average. ­Women account for 36% of all U.S. farmers, 20% of principal farmers, and 19% of primary farmers (Pilgeram et al. 2022). 42. See, for instance, Pistor (2019), Linebaugh (2008), and Federici (2004). 43. Moreton-­Robinson (2015, 66), L.B. Simpson (2017) and Polanyi (1957). 44. Moreton-­Robinson (2015, 66). 45. Moreton-­Robinson (2015, 66–67). 46. See, for example, Dunbar-­Ortiz’s (1994) historical examination of Okies that links white supremacist ideology to the long history of British and U.S. governments breaking their promises of land owner­ship to Scots-­I rish Americans. White supremacists internalized this as a betrayal that is rationalized through scapegoating racialized groups. 47. See Monroe (2003, 30). 48. Leiberg (1897, 37–38). 49. Weddell (2002a, 6). 50. Stucki, Rod­house, and Reuter (2021, 16476) and Weddell (2002a, 6). 51. Ebbert and Roe (1998, 1). 52. Bacon (2018, 5). 53. Explained in Sun (2021): “From what researchers know so far, a 100 gram dry sample of camas could have as much as 350 calories, 13 grams of protein and 50 to 80 grams of carbohydrates.” 54. L. G. Simpson (2020).

296 note s to page s 44–49

55. Norgaard (2019, 93). 56. Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg writer and activist Leanne Betasamosake Simpson (2017, 95–118) pre­sents a fascinating examination of reordered gender identities and sexuality in the chapter “The Sovereignty of Indigenous P ­ eoples’ Bodies.” 57. Baumann (2019, 12). 58. Harbinger (1964, 28) cited in Weddell (2002a, 7). 59. C. Davis (2015, 94–99). 60. The Dawes Act made pos­si­ble the allotment of lands to white settlers within Native American reservations, resulting in what are called “checkerboard reservations” ­because land owner­ship patterns for tribal and nontribal ­people are mixed within them. 61. Found in Moreton-­Robinson (2015, 67). 62. Associated Press (1992). 63. See McWilliams (1999 [1935]). 64. Hall (2001, 23). 65. Hall (2001, 23). 66. Jess Williams’s (2020) The Cold Millions: A Novel pre­sents a colorful fictional account of what itinerant laborers’ lives may have been like in Spokane, Washington, at the turn of the twentieth ­century. 67. Hall (2001) and Morrissey (1994). 68. Hall (2001, 45). 69. Quintana and Castañeda (n.d.) observe that this continued to be the case for mi­g rant agricultural workers in the Northwest u­ ntil the latter part of the twentieth ­century when Latino laborers eventually became more prevalent. See also Hall (2001, 45). 70. Hall (2001, 47). 71. Hall (2001). 72. Morrissey (1994). 73. Lukas (1998, 147). 74. “Roster of Alien Anarchists for Whom Arrests W ­ ere Requested” (July 1917), MG 40, Latah County Protective Association (LCPA) Archives, University of Idaho Library Special Collections; hereafter LCPA Archives. 75. Lambeth (2015, 522). 76. Hall (2001). 77. Morrissey (1994, 109). 78. Lambeth (2015). Baran (2017, 49) documents, “The term ‘alien’ emerges in American ­political discourse surrounding statehood and citizenship at least as early as the Alien and Sedition Acts passed by Congress in 1798 during the presidency of John Adams. Among other provisions, they gave the president the authority to deport non-­citizens for suspected subversive activity (Alien Friends

note s to page s 50–59 297 Act) or who came from a hostile nation (Alien Enemies Act).” As such, “alien” “invokes a racially, ethnically, and culturally specific image of the immigrant/ foreigner.” 79. “Letter Calling Public to Action” (July 7, 1917), MG 40, LCPA Archives. 80. “Letter to Councilmen of Vari­ous Precinct or District ­Organizations of Two or More Precincts” (July 15, 1917), MG 40, LCPA Archives. 81. “LCPA Constitution” (July 14, 1917), MG 40, LCPA Archives. 82. “LCPA Constitution” (July 14, 1917). 83. Lambeth (2015) and Hall (2001). 84. LCPA was consolidated eventually as the Latah County Defense Council. This was part of the National Defense Council, established by U.S. Congress in August 1916, which “was created around the notion that individual states would be responsible for mobilizing their citizens for a w ­ artime economy with as ­l ittle help from the federal government as pos­si­ble” (Lambeth 2015, 522). 85. “Letter Addressed to Hon. Moses Alexander” (August 10, 1917), MG 40, LCPA Archives. 86. Blackfeet scholar Dianne Baumann noted a­ fter reading this manuscript, “This is always shocking to me as most Indigenous communities w ­ ere just the opposite. . . . ​Blackfeet ­women owned their homes/teepee and retained the ­children. Men had multiple wives but d­ idn’t own anything.” 87. Quintana and Castañeda (n.d.) and Hall (2001).

Chapter 2  Inventing Working-­Class Communities 1. Lisa Fine’s The Story of Reo Joe (2004) pre­sents an impor­tant discussion of the auto industry’s evolving approach to managing workers before, during, and ­a fter World War II, illustrating a cultural context to the housing discussion. ­Sullivan (2008b) and Wallis (1991) also document ele­ments of this history in relation to using trailer housing. 2. Wallis (1991, 90 and 92). 3. Altschuler and Blumin (2009). 4. Altschuler and Blumin (2009). 5. Altschuler and Blumin (2009, 197). 6. Wallis (1991, 94). 7. Wallis (1991, 94). 8. Digital Memories. 2021 (February 8). “Trailer Village.” Idaho Harvester. UI Library Special Collections and Archive Department. 9. Jesse Buchanan, “Letter Addressed to University of Idaho,” October 14, 1946, Box 49, Folder 1514, President’s Office Rec­ords, 1893–1965, UI Library Special Collections.

298 note s to page s 60–65

10. “Letter Addressed to University of Idaho,” October 14, 1946. 11. “Trailers and Pre-­Fabs,” in Gem of the Mountains: University of Idaho Yearbook, vol. 46, Moscow: University of Idaho, 1948, 27, in UI Digital Yearbook Collection. 12. Salamon and MacTavish coin the term “mobile home industrial complex” in their monograph Singlewide (2017). 13. Wallis (1991). 14. Wallis (1991, 133). 15. Salamon and MacTavish (2017, 19–20) describe the health risks built into mobile homes’ materials, including elevated formaldehyde levels that are experienced ­because mobile homes must be airtight to meet federal standards. The materials also easily combust. As the authors point out, “­Because of their propensity to burn quickly to the ground, trailers built before 1976 especially (common to rental parks), are often referred to as ‘matchsticks’ or ‘firetraps.’ ” 16. The phrase “manufactures insecurity” is borrowed from S­ ullivan (2018b). See also Kramer (2012, 13X) “Planned obsolescence is a business strategy in which the obsolescence (the p­ rocess of becoming obsolete) of a product is planned and built into it from its conception, by the manufacturer.” Kramer also calls this “the expiration date effect.” 17. Salamon and MacTavish (2017, 24). 18. Salamon and MacTavish (2017, 24). 19. Sonneck and Sobbotta (2004). 20. State Symbols USA (n.d.). 21. Wallis (1991). 22. Evidence that such concerns prevailed in the community of Moscow are seen in the regulation of trailer occupancy in city residents’ yards. In Moscow City Ordinance Number 977 set the following condition: “A permit for an indefinite period s­ hall only be issued upon a showing that the trailer is used to ­house an aged, infirm or ill member of the immediate ­family of the o­ wner of the parcel of land upon which said trailer is situated and upon which the ­owner of said parcel of land himself resides.” Homeowners in town could not rent their own trailer or a trailer space on their property (February 20, 1957). 23. Isenberg (2016, 244). 24. Isenberg (2016, 244). 25. See Isenberg (2016), Salamon and MacTavish (2017), ­Sullivan (2018b), and Wallis (1991). 26. See Moscow City Ordinance Number 982, Article X Exceptions (April 8, 1957, 10). 27. See Moscow City Ordinance Number 982, Article X Exceptions (April 8, 1957, 11). 28. Latah County (n.d.).

note s to page s 66–80 299 29. Wallis (1991, 179). 30. Wallis (1991, 179). 31. Wallis (1991, 179). 32. Wallis (1991,168). 33. Wallis (1991). 34. Moscow-­Pullman Daily News (2007). 35. “Letter to Marlin Brinkley, Environmental ­Services” (September 26, 1975), Idaho DEQ Archives, North Central Regional Office, Lewiston, Idaho; hereafter Idaho DEQ Archives. 36. Kunstler (2021) notes that 1960s-­era mobile homes are mostly the source of negative perceptions of this type of living. 37. Moscow-­Pullman Daily News (2007). 38. Clancy Olson’s obituary says he sold the park in 1976, but a document dated August 5, 1977, is addressed to Olson, so the park was sold sometime between 1976 and 1977. Moscow-­Pullman Daily News (2007). 39. Defendant’s Reply Brief on Calculating Damages in Class Action Lawsuits. District Court, Second Judicial District of State of Idaho, CV 2014–227 (August 18, 2014, 2). 40. Idaho Conservation League v. Magar, Case No. 3:12-­c v-00337-­C WD, U.S. District Court, “Memorandum Decision and Order” (Dist. of Idaho, June 5, 2014, 4). 41. “Letter to Clancy Olson” (December 30, 1971), Idaho DEQ Archives. 42. Interview with Chris and Steve Talbott (March 3, 2022). 43. “Syringa Speaks” public forum (January 29, 2018). 44. Interview with Chris and Steve Talbott (March 3, 2022). 45. This pattern in student housing increased as rental and housing prices started ratcheting up over the last three d­ ecades. One resident I came across while walking around the park in late May 2018 told me that when he was a kid growing up in Syringa, a lot of law students lived t­ here. He remarked he felt surrounded by professional ­people in t­ hose days. In his late twenties at the time of this conversation, he would have been referring to the 1990s. 46. S­ ullivan (2018b) and Desmond (2016).

Chapter 3  Making a Functional Community amid Disorder

1. Huspeni (1994). 2. Huspeni (1994). 3. Desmond (2016 and 2012). 4. U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development (1994). 5. U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development (1994). 6. See, for example, Vandevelde (2021).

300 note s to page s 80–86

7. Even when nonprofit ­organizations initiate opportunities for supplying affordable housing, they must involve private firms who have the capital and whose sponsorship releases government subsidies. ­Because they are tax exempt, nonprofits do not qualify for subsidies. While this may sound like a winning opportunity for creating new supplies of affordable housing, the downside relates to what happens a­ fter this housing is constructed, which often is not protected from rent and pricing hikes. See J. B. Gray (2022) for a more thorough description of how this nonprofit–­private firm collaboration works. 8. Wallis (1991, 216). 9. Wallis (1991). 10. See examples in E. Allen (2019), Formanack (2018), Pierce and Gonzalez (2017), and Salamon and MacTavish (2017). 11. Formanack (2018), Isenberg (2016), Salamon and MacTavish (2017), ­Sullivan (2018a). 12. Fuller (2019, 66–67) and United Nations General Assembly (2017, 9–10). 13. As Dwyer (2005, 663) writes, “Smith consistently warned his readers in Wealth of Nations (1776) and the final edition of Theory of Moral Sentiments (1790) that the harmonious functioning of the moral economy could be undermined by market expansion, economic egoism, and social mobility. Far from divorcing the ethics of sociability from the metaphysics of the market, Smith was acutely and painfully aware of the under­lying tension between capitalism and community.” 14. See the latest report for Kootenai County as well as all of Idaho in Peterson et al. (2021). Many reports discuss the excessive housing prices in the United States. A good source describing the housing crisis before the COVID-19 pandemic is Joint Center for Housing Studies (2022). Anenberg and Ringo (2021) pre­sent an analy­sis of housing market characteristics during COVID-19 pandemic in the United States. A critical review of inflated housing costs and affordable housing shortages globally may be found in United Nations General Assembly (2017). Lauster (2016) pre­sents a compelling case about the “death of the single-­family ­house” in his review of the Canadian and U.S. housing systems. 15. Dreier (2018) pre­sents an in­ter­est­ing example of how social housing works for working-­and middle-­class h­ ouse­holds in Vienna, Austria, helping us to imagine protected housing that also generates wealth for families. 16. Desmond (2016, 296). 17. For a summary of this theory, see Sampson and Raudenbush (2004, 319). Broken win­dows theory was originally proposed by Wilson and Kelling (1982). 18. Sampson and Raudenbush (2004, 2005). 19. My reference to “ecological contamination” is derived from deviance and stigma research originating with Erving Goffman’s seminal 1963 book Stigma and Werthman and Piliavin (1967), who first used the term. 20. Fiske (2010, 701).

note s to page s 87– 96 301 21. Sampson and Raudenbush (2004, 321) describing Werthman and Piliavin’s (1967) “ecological contamination.” 22. Sampson and Raudenbush (2004 and 2005). 23. For theorists presenting background to t­ hese ideas, see Bakker and Gill (2003), Bennholdt and Mies (1999), Bezanson and Luxton (2006), Bhattacharya (2017), Cantillon and Lynch (2017), Federici (2012), Hochschild (1998), Lebowitz (2003), and Whitney (2018). 24. In ­Dying to Be Men, ­W ill Courtenay explains, “Class systems and the structure of economic markets expose t­ hose working-­class men involved in manual ­labor to a range of occupational health and safety h­ azards—­one explanation for why men constitute 53% of the workforce yet account for 92% of fatal injuries on the job. Rural working-­class men ­labor in jobs that require the use of dangerous equipment, such as heavy machinery, and jobs that expose them to hazardous chemicals—­construction, agriculture, oil and gas extraction, ­water transportation, and forestry” (Courtenay, 2011, 186). 25. ­Earlier research I conducted in postsocialist Ukraine and the ­Russian Federation examined how gender and social class intersected with who performed dif­fer­ent types of informal work as ­t hese socie­t ies recuperated from severe ­political and economic turmoil. See, for example, Hormel (2017) and Southworth and Hormel (2014). Foundational scholarship in the study of informal economies and work includes Portes and Sassen-­Koob (1987), Portes and Böröcz (1988), and Benería (2001). 26. Edgcomb and Thetford (2004, 12) estimate that the informal economy may be as much as 10% of U.S. gross national product and cite other research that reports as many as one in seven eco­nom­ically active individuals could be participating in dif­fer­ent forms of informal work. 27. Studies in the United States that look to the role of constructive activities that help men in crisis demonstrate their masculinity include Morris (2008) and Campbell, Bell, and Finney. 2006. Hormel (2017) offers an analy­sis of dacha work in Ukraine that serves a similar purpose for older working-­class men facing status loss. 28. In both the United States as a w ­ hole and Idaho, 25.9% of p­ eople with disabilities qualify as living in poverty level, according to Paul, Rafal, and Houtinville (2020). In contrast, this percentage drops to 11.4% nationally and 10.4% in Idaho among ­t hose living in poverty without a disability. Of ­t hose with disabilities, 38.8% are employed nationally and 43.7% are employed in Idaho. ­Those without disabilities in the United States experience 78.6% employment and in Idaho 79.6% (Paul, Rafal, and Houtinville 2020). See also National Low-­I ncome Housing Co­a li­t ion (NLIHC) reports that found nearly one-­quarter of extremely low-­income renter ­house­holds include a person with a disability in the state of Idaho (NLIHC 2022b). This is higher than the percentage of p­ eople with disabilities among extremely

302 note s to page s 97–123

low-­income renters nationally (19%) (NLIHC 2022a). According to NLIHC (2022b), “At the national level, 15% of extremely low-­income renter h­ ouse­holds include a single adult caregiver, more than half of whom usually work more than 20 hours per week. Eleven ­percent of extremely low-­income renter h­ ouse­holds are enrolled in school, 48% of whom usually work more than 20 hours per week.” 29. Courtenay (2011). 30. Public post on the “A Wild Cat Taxi” Facebook page, December 2017. 31. Per electronic correspondence with Dawn Tachell, July 19, 2022. 32. Per conversation with author and Dawn Tachell on July 20, 2022. 33. Author’s meeting with Dawn Tachell on July 20, 2022. 34. Wallis (1991, 170). 35. Wallis (1991, 170). 36. For further discussion of metabolizing negative emotions and the role of love in socially reproductive care work, see Whitney (2018) and Cantillon and Lynch (2017). 37. For more information about ROCs, see ROC USA (n.d.). 38. As researchers have noted, the imperfections in places like Syringa may seem more apparent largely b­ ecause more affluent h­ ouse­holds have the advantage of having more private space in which to do ­t hings and avoid public attention. See Stinchcombe (1963). 39. Park and Pellow (2011, 4). 40. See, for example, Bratman et al. (2019). 41. Per electronic correspondence with Dawn Tachell on July 21, 2022.

Chapter 4  Voluntary Compliance 1. Posted on “Vote Tom Lamar” Facebook page, December 27, 2016. 2. U.S. Geological Survey (n.d.). 3. Posted on “Vote Tom Lamar” Facebook page, December 27, 2016. 4. Interview with University of Idaho (UI) L ­ egal Aid Clinic (LAC) team (January 27, 2016). 5. Interview with UI LAC team (January 27, 2016). 6. Found on p. 2 of the February 26, 2014, complaint. Latah County District Court Rec­ords, Case No. CV-2014-00227. 7. Found on p. 3 of the February 26, 2014, complaint. 8. Idaho Code § 55-2014(1)(a). This information about l­ egal protections from the state of Idaho Code is found in Long (2021, 25). 9. Idaho Code § 55-2014(1)(b)(i)(ii). Long (2021, 25). 10. Idaho Code § 6-320(a)(2). 11. Idaho Code § 6-320(d) and § 55-2014(5). 12. Found on p. 3 of the February 26, 2014, complaint.

note s to page s 124–134 303 13. The subclasses w ­ ere documented in the “Brief on Calculating Damages in Class-­Action Lawsuits,” filed four months ­later on July 23, 2014. Latah County District Court Rec­ords, Case No. CV-2014-00227. 14. See, for example, MacKendrick and Cairns (2019) and Vasudevan and Smith (2020). 15. “Notice to Class Members of Partial Settlement, Case No. 2014-00227” (February 4, 2015). Latah County District Court Rec­ords, Case No. CV-2014-00227. 16. Atuahene (2014, 2016). 17. S­ ullivan (2018a). 18. S­ ullivan (2018b, 120–122). 19. Atuahene (2014, 178). 20. “Notice to Class Members of Partial Settlement, Case No. 2014-00227” (February 4, 2015). 21. U.S. Bankruptcy Court Western District of Washington, “Notice of Bankruptcy Case Filing” (March 27, 2015). Latah County District Court Rec­ords, Case No. CV-2014-00227. 22. Mann (2021). This pattern is also acknowledged in email correspondence with Robert M. Lawless (March 4, 2022), who notes that the “haves” enjoy privileged access to formal procedure. 23. Associated Press (2012). 24. Clean W ­ ater Act (CWA) 33 U.S.C. § 1251 et seq. (1972), as noted in Idaho Conservation League v. Magar, Case No. 3:12-­c v-00337-­C WD, U.S. District Court, “Memorandum Decision and Order” (Dist. of Idaho, June 5, 2014); hereafter Idaho Conservation League v. Magar, “Memorandum Decision and Order.” 25. Idaho Conservation League v. Magar, “Memorandum Decision and Order.” 26. Associated Press (2012). 27. Interview with Idaho DEQ Regional Administrator Michael Camin (March 20, 2019). 28. Interview with Idaho DEQ Regional Administrator Michael Camin (March 20, 2019). 29. Idaho Conservation League v. Magar, “Memorandum Decision and Order,” 3. 30. Complaint, Idaho Code § 39-108, § 39-118, and § 31-3212 (filed January 31, 2014). 31. Layzer (2016, 44). 32. Cited in Layzer (2016, 45). Amendments following the CWA’s initial passage would chip away at the Act’s aspirations, such as loosening requirements in 1977 to use the best available technologies when improving systems identified as point sources of pollution. ­Because Syringa was built on top of a wetland, it is relevant to also note that the CWA phrase “­waters of the United States” has stirred debate, especially in relation to wetlands. In 1995, Republican representatives moved to restrict federal protections of wetlands, claiming the protection hindered property

304 note s to page s 134–138

rights surrounding development and property value. Scientists have shown, however, that wetlands serve the impor­tant role of filtering surface w ­ ater before it reaches waterways, thus they help in efforts to reduce pollution. While U.S. representatives’ efforts in 1995 ­were not supported by the Senate, Supreme Court decisions in the early 2000s l­ imited CWA protections of wetlands. See Layzer (2016, 53). U ­ nder the he Trump administration the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) and Army Corps of Engineers maintained in their guidelines the Supreme Court rulings by instituting the Navigable W ­ aters Protection Rule. According to a news release from the EPA: “The Navigable W ­ aters Protection Rule ends ­decades of uncertainty over where federal jurisdiction begins and ends. For the first time, EPA and the Army are recognizing the difference between federally protected wetlands and state protected wetlands. It adheres to the statutory limits of the agencies’ authority” (EPA​.­gov, Jan. 23, 2020). 33. Interview with Idaho DEQ engineers (January 19, 2022). See also Idaho DEQ (n.d.-­b). 34. Telephone interview with Idaho DEQ Regional Administrator Michael Camin conducted by Dilshani Sarathchandra (October 28, 2015). 35. Complaint, Idaho Code § 39-108, § 39-118, and § 31-3212 (filed January 31, 2014). 36. The analogy between mobile home parks and “feudal systems” is mentioned in Kolhatkar (2021): “A leader of an association for mobile-­home o­ wners in Washington State has compared life in a mobile-­home park to ‘a feudal system.’ ” ­Sullivan (2014) refers to mobile home o­ wners in parks as “halfway homeowners,” and ­others like Becker and Yea (2015) refer to this as a “ ‘ dual-­ownership model.” 37. The media coverage can be found in The Daily News (2008). 38. The Daily News (2008). 39. This was mentioned during my interview with the UI LAC team (January 27, 2016). 40. National Association of Clean ­Water Agencies (NACWA 2009, 3). The white paper describes the current enforcement paradigm in which “federal and state CWA enforcement . . . ​emphasizes the number of enforcement actions taken over the a­ ctual benefits attained by such action,” presuming “that if a community spends a certain amount of money or constructs a specific type of infrastructure proj­ect, all of the existing w ­ ater quality prob­lems ­w ill be addressed.” NACWA notes that this approach ignores the environmental needs of a community and the resources available, and “fail[s] to take into account the sizeable contribution from nonpoint sources such as stormwater, agriculture, and air deposition.” 41. “Letter to Clancy Olson” (December 30, 1971), Idaho DEQ Archives, North Central Idaho Regional Office, Lewiston, Idaho; hereafter “Idaho DEQ Archives.” 42. “Letter to Clancy Olson” (December 30, 1971).

note s to page s 139–143 305 43. “Preliminary Staff Evaluation on Effluent Limitations for the Syringa Mobile Home Park” (March 26, 1979), Idaho DEQ Archives. 44. The term “nonpoint sources” refers to sources of contaminants that are not easily identified from a specific location, such as runoff from agricultural fields (which surrounded Syringa Mobile Home Park; farming is the dominant industrial activity in the region) and from construction sites. Syringa’s lagoon system—­a community w ­ ater system—is categorized as a “point source.” 45. “Preliminary Staff Evaluation” (March 26, 1979). 46. “File Note by Mark Von Lindern RE: Syringa Mobile Home Court—­ Drinking W ­ ater Supply” (December 6, 1985), Idaho DEQ Archives. 47. “Letter to Mr. John Moeller from Sheri Michener” (July 7, 1986), Idaho DEQ Archives. The other park Magar E. Magar owned in Moscow had originally been constructed on the edge of town, but urban expansion resulted in its incorporation. It is connected to municipal ­water and sewage, unlike Syringa. 48. “Letter to Mr. John Moeller from Sheri Michener” (July 22, 1986), Idaho DEQ Archives. 49. “Letter to Mr. John Moeller from Sheri Michener” (July 22, 1986). 50. Hester (2020, 690–692) refers to consent decrees as “the unheralded work­ horses of United States regulatory law.” Designed as both a “mutual contract and juridical decree,” a consent decree is “a primary vehicle for judicial implementation and oversight” in federal cases. Parties represented in the decree voluntarily reach agreement, while “access to the court’s contempt power to enforce the decree” remains in place. The nature of consent decrees means they are not used to set pre­ce­dent in f­ uture ­legal proceedings, with the specific litigants or for other cases. 51. “Letter Addressed to the Park Man­ag­er on April 13, 1988, from the Division of Environmental Quality ­Senior W ­ ater Quality Specialist, George M. Dekan,” Idaho DEQ Archives. 52. “Letter Addressed to the Park Man­ag­er from George M. Dekan” (April 13, 1988). 53. “Letter to Magar E. Magar from Deborah J. Cowman” (August 29, 1988), Idaho DEQ Archives. 54. In a complicated twist, an April 4, 2002, correspondence between the bankruptcy trustee representing Magar’s estate and Idaho DEQ staff discussed agreement to reconnect Well #3, the well ­under question in the 1992 meeting. The confusion arose from the numerous wells that had been drilled for this one park, originally with l­ ittle oversight (Idaho DEQ Archives). 55. Idaho DEQ (n.d.-­a). 56. “File Note from Jerry Shafer—­I nspection of ­Water Supply Facilities” (April 23, 1992), Idaho DEQ Archives. 57. “Report to Magar E. Magar from S­ enior W ­ ater Quality Specialist George Dekan” (July 6, 1994), Idaho DEQ Archives.

306 note s to page s 145–175

58. Idaho Conservation League v. Magar, Case No. 3:12-­c v-00337-­C WD, U.S. District Court, “Memorandum Decision and Order on Remedies” (Dist. of Idaho, February 13, 2015, 5); hereafter Idaho Conservation League v. Magar, “Memorandum Decision and Order on Remedies.” 59. Friedman and Davenport (2019). 60. Interview conducted with Idaho DEQ staff (January 19, 2022). 61. “Thus, the Court has found Magar liable for two violations, which lasted a total of five days. Five days, multiplied by the maximum daily penalty of $37,500, yields a maximum civil penalty of $187,500.” Idaho Conservation League v. Magar, “Memorandum Decision and Order on Remedies,” p. 9. 62. Monroe (2003, 30). 63. Pellow (2017).

Chapter 5  Red Tags 1. Cited in Rudd (2014). 2. Interview with Bonnie and Paul Myles on August 12, 2016. 3. Interview with Dave McGraw on January 3, 2017. 4. ­Sullivan (2018b) and Salamon and MacTavish (2017). 5. S­ ullivan (2014). 6. Interview with Dawn Tachell on August 18, 2021. 7. Ryan (2015). 8. Embree (2015a). 9. McKee (2014). 10. Pistor (2019, 209).

Chapter 6  Syringa Refugees 1. Nixon (2011, 3). 2. Fiske (2010). 3. Electronic correspondence with Shirley Ringo, June 2, 2022. 4. Prosperity Now (2015). 5. Prosperity Now (2015). 6. Noted in Prosperity Now (2017). Oregon manufactured home community ­owners (landlords) contribute $6,000/$8,000/$10,000 “for a single-­/double-­/ triple-­w ide respectively.” This fund is adjusted to annual indexing. “The state provides a cash tax credit of $5,000.” Both expense funds are tax exempt. In fact, ­Sullivan, (2018a, 265) mentions Oregon’s highly effective policy regulating mobile home park closures, noting that relocation funding is provided directly to residents, and they are given a full 365 days to relocate a­ fter announced closure.

note s to page s 177–199 307 7. U.S. Census Bureau (2020a). 8. U.S. Census Bureau (2020b). 9. Joint Center for Housing Studies (2022). According to the National Low-­ Income Housing Co­a li­t ion (2022b), “The U.S. has a shortage of 7 million rental homes affordable and available to extremely low-­income renters, whose h­ ouse­hold incomes are at or below the poverty guideline or 30% of their area median income. Only 36 affordable and available rental homes exist for ­every 100 extremely low-­income renter ­house­holds.” 10. Associated Press (2014), Embree (2015b), and McKee (2014). 11. Wacquant (2009, 105) and M. Gray et al. (2015). For a particularly vivid ethnographic and historical account of how neoliberal approaches eventually ­shaped postsocialist Hungary, see Haney (2002). 12. See, for example, Murphy and Pudlo (2017). 13. Sociology undergraduate researcher Denessy Rodriguez recorded the minutes from this meeting (“Syringa Resource Sharing Meeting Minutes,” October 23, 2017). 14. Federal Supplemental Security Income criteria include “­mental disorders” to determine eligibility (Social Security Administration, n.d.). 15. Piven and Cloward (1971) and Wacquant (2009). 16. Examples may be found in Aldrich and Meyer (2015), Bubeck, Botzen, and Aerts (2012), Lindell and Perry (2012, 1992), Martin, Raish, and Kent (2008), and McCaffrey, Wilson, and Konar (2018). 17. Perry (2021). 18. The exact number of ­house­holds was difficult to peg. Some of the renters simply left, knowing they had no home to move and that they w ­ eren’t getting much compensation in the bankruptcy settlement other than reimbursement for expenses. I also learned that squatters lived in some of the vacant homes, but only one was considered part of the park community. I include this individual in ­Table 2. 19. U.S. Center for Disease Control (2022). 20. U.S. Center for Disease Control (2022). 21. Sentencing Proj­ect (2015). 22. Substance Abuse and ­Mental Health Data Archive (2019). 23. Sentencing Proj­ect (2015). 24. U.S. Center for Disease Control (2022). 25. Case and Deaton (2020, 6). 26. Interview with Steve Bonnar May 4, 2022. 27. Nadauld (2018). 28. Nadauld (2018). 29. Email from Frank Stone dated May 6, 2018.

308 note s to page s 199–237

30. Fiske (2010). 31. Interview with Dave McGraw (January 3, 2017). 32. Parsell and Clarke (2022).

Chapter 7  Death of a Community 1. Public post on author’s Facebook page, June 6, 2018. 2. Public post on author’s Facebook page, June 8, 2018. 3. Public post on author’s Facebook page, June 9, 2018. 4. Public post on author’s Facebook page, June 11, 2018. 5. Ha­r i (2018, 314). 6. Mulligan (2022, 12) and Grossman (1972, 225). 7. Ha­r i (2018, 317). 8. Descriptions of ­t hese fieldwork experiences and the social changes arising from the Soviet U ­ nion’s collapse may be explored in Southworth and Hormel (2004), Hormel (2011), and Hormel (2017). 9. R. Smith (2018). 10. Visit to Syringa on June 23, 2018. 11. Rutheiser (1996, 176). 12. Iinterview with Phil Rheingans (March 15, 2022). 13. Information obtained via phone conversation with Bob Bonsall (June 8, 2022).

Chapter 8  Trailer Park Politics 1. Haslam and Loughnan (2014) and Fiske (2010). 2. S­ ullivan (2018b, 102). 3. Atuahene (2014). 4. Atuahene (2014, 12). 5. Vasilachis de Gialdino (2006, 474–475). 6. Scott (1987, 29–30). 7. Collins (2010, 16). 8. Fullilove (2016) uses the m ­ etaphor of “roots” in presenting her case for protecting neighborhoods. 9. Polanyi (1957, 138–139). 10. Polanyi (1957, 139). 11. Harvey (2004, 64) and Pilgeram (2021, 16–18). 12. Harvey (2004, 83). 13. Fraser, (2020). 14. Fraser (2020, 312). 15. Pistor (2019).

note s to page s 237–260 309 16. Pistor (2019) and Harvey (2004). 17. K.-­Y. Taylor (2019) and Moreton-­Robinson (2015). 18. Pistor (2019), Harvey (2004), K.-­Y. Taylor (2019), Moreton-­Robinson (2015), and Federici (2004). 19. L. B. Simpson (2017, 75). 20. See the following social reproduction scholarship: Bhattacharya (2017), Bezanson and Luxton (2003), and Bennholdt-­Thomsen and Mies (1999). 21. Federici (2012, 2019a), Mies (2001), and Hochschild (1998). 22. Denessy Rodriguez collected local media articles and conducted analy­sis described ­here. 23. Email correspondence with Dawn Tachell (June 17, 2016), emphasis added. 24. Interview with Aimee Pace (January 15, 2018). 25. Staff of the Newspaper (2018). 26. Fiske (2010). 27. Interview with Michael Camin (March 20, 2019). 28. Based on author interview with Gary Lester (January 7, 2022), a tour of Appaloosa Court with Gary Lester and Maureen Laflin (May 12, 2022), Kuipers (2022), and McCandless (2022). 29. Kuipers (2022). 30. Kolhatkar (2021).

Chapter 9 

Trailer Park Amer­i­ca

1. Federici (2019a). 2. Coulthard (2014, 13). 3. Putsche et al. (2017). 4. See ROC USA (n.d.). 5. S­ ullivan (2018b, 201–203). 6. S­ ullivan (2014). 7. Zwerdling (2016a). 8. Zwerdling (2016b). 9. Urban Institute (2016). 10. Interview with Nils Peterson (May 25, 2022). 11. U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development (2014), Dreier (2018). 12. Baiaocchi et al. (2018, 12). 13. Wallis (1991). 14. Schaul and O’Connell (2022). 15. Schaul and O’Connell (2022). 16. Schaul and O’Connell (2022). 17. S­ ullivan (2018b). 18. S­ ullivan (2018b).

310 note s to page s 261–277

19. Kolhatkar (2021). 20. Hormel (2023). 21. Pilgeram (2021) and Sherman (2021). 22. Animas View MHP Co-op (n.d.). 23. Alejandra Chavez cited in Bullington (2022). 24. Bullington (2022), including quotations from MHU and MHU co-­founder Frank Rolfe. 25. White (2022) and Bowlin (2021). 26. Kasakove (2022). 27. The Colorado H ­ ouse Bill descriptions may be found in U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development (2021). 28. U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development (2021). 29. U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development (2021). 30. B. J. Gray (2022). 31. American Presidency Proj­ect (n.d.). 32. American Presidency Proj­ect (n.d.). 33. Rajasekaran, Treskon, and Greene (2019). 34. Rajasekaran, Treskon, and Greene (2019). 35. Keel (2022). 36. Baiocchi et al. (2018, 8).

Appendix 1. Putsche et al. (2017). 2. Fiske (2010). 3. Kusenbach (2003, 478). 4. Some of the residents who agreed to formal, recorded interviews also participated in go-­a long interviews.

REFERENCES

Archival Sources Idaho Department of Environmental Quality Archives, North Central Office, Lewiston, Idaho. Latah County Assessor’s Rec­ords, Moscow, Idaho. Latah County Historical Society, Moscow, Idaho. Special Collections and Archives, University of Idaho Library, Moscow, Idaho.

Court Cases Idaho Conservation League v. Magar, Case No.  3:12-­c v-00337-­C WD, U.S. District Court (Dist. of Idaho). Idaho Department of Environmental Quality v. Magar E. Magar, d/b/a Syringa Mobile Home Park, Case No. CV-2014-00121, U.S. District Court (Dist. of Idaho). Stacey Page, Dena Ciminelli, Carol L. Robinson, on behalf of Ourselves and other similarly situated v Magar  E. Magar, Case No. CV-2014-00227, U.S. District Court (Dist. of Idaho).

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INDEX

Page numbers in bold refer to tables. Aalbers, Manuel, 18, 27 ableism/ableist systems, 25, 42, 89, 185, 293n76 Adler, Syd, 104, 106–7 affordable housing: development of, 79; government policies on, 57, 58; importance of, 84, 99; in mobile home parks, 19; models of, 257–58; private purchasing of, 80, 268, 300n7; shortage of, 83, 259, 307n9 ­a fter school program, 102–3 agricultural laborers, 47–48, 49 Agricultural Workers ­Organization (AWO), 49 Alexander, Moses, 50–51 Alien and Sedition Acts, 296n78 “alien” classes, 49, 51, 296n78 American Dream of ­house owner­ship, 53–54 animal shelters, 195 Animas View MHP Co-op, 263, 264 Appaloosa Court, 67, 248 Arundel Mobile Home Park, 290n6 Atuahene, Bernadette, 128, 230 Bacon, J. M.: on “colonial ecological vio­lence,” 43 Ballesteros, Cynthia, 176, 256, 277

bankruptcy settlements: compensation to homeowners, 197, 197–98; three tiers of, 129, 196–97 Baumann, Dianne, 44–45 belonging: importance of sense of, 27–28, 52 biological reproduction, 22 Bonnar, Steve, xvi, 180, 191, 192, 193, 201, 219 Bonsall, Bob, 71, 108, 166, 196, 224, 242, 280 borrowing against home equity, 291n18 Bovard, Linda, 77 Bradenton, Florida, 66 Bricklin, David, 131 “broken win­dows” theory, 86 Brookfield Asset Management, 261 Buchanan, Jesse, 59 Buddy Dancer Homeowners Cooperative, 262 Cabeza, Garrett, 105, 246 camas (qémes), 34, 35, 36, 42, 43, 45, 295n53 Camin, Michael, 130, 131, 135, 137, 138, 145, 147, 246 canary grass (Phalaris arundinacea), 43 cap­i­tal­ist property relations, 237 caretakers, 187–88, 189–90, 191, 202 Carlson, Katti, 279

331

332 in de x Carlyle Group, 260 Case, Anne, 190 “Certificate of Dangerous Building or Structure,” 159–60 Chavez, Alejandra, 264 childcare, 13, 101, 102–3 Clark, William, 33 Clean ­Water Act (CWA): enforcement of, 304n40; introduction of, 134; protection of wetlands u­ nder, 303–4n32; violations of, 121, 133; wastewater management ­u nder, 134 collective indignation, 230–31 Collins, Patricia Hill, 10, 229, 231, 293n76 colonialism, 29 Colorado housing laws, 265–66 Columbia River Plateau, 33 commons: definition, 28, 30; as white ­European experience, 293n76 communities: multiple dimensions of, 252; reproductive capacity of, 238; support system, 191–92, 193. See also feminized communities community land trusts (CLTs), 257–58, 270 consent decrees, 140–41, 305n50 contaminants: harms from, 170; sources of, 142, 305n44; in waterways, discharge of, 131–33, 134 Cookie Grandma (Mary Trottier), 101, 103, 213, 224 cooperative governance, 262. See also resident-­owned cooperatives (ROCs) Coulthard, Glen, 10, 253, 293n76 county codes, 130–31 Courtenay, ­W ill, 301n24 crop-­dusting, 109 cross-­connection, 142 Dakota Access Pipeline protests, 30 Dale, Honorable Candy W., 117 Davis, Angela, 293n76 Davis, Cleve, 46 Dawes Act, 40, 296n60

deaths of despair, 14, 190–91 Deaton, Angus, 190 Dekan, George, 141, 143 deregulation, 75, 81, 82, 182, 259, 267 Desmond, Matthew, 77, 84, 293n1 Dickerson, Andrea, 194, 195 dignity takings: concept of, 128, 129, 230 disabilities. See ­people with disabilities disaster response, 181, 182 “disorderly” neighborhoods, 86, 113 dispossession, 27, 28–29, 233 Downer, A. L., 39 drug use: criminalization of, 214–15 Du Bois, W.E.B., 10 ecological contamination, 86, 300n19 ecological vio­lence, 43 Economic Stabilization Act, 267 Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 43 Emery, Pat, 139 Emmerich, Herbert, 58 environmental lawsuits, 130, 144–46 environmental privilege, 110 Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), 145, 304n32 environmental regulations, 10, 146 evictions: regulations on, 265; research of, 169, 293n1; social consequences of, 84, 99 f­ amily care, 269 Fang, Lu, 18 Fannie Mae, 260 Federal Housing Administration (FHA), 66, 80, 81 Federici, Sylvia, 24, 25, 251, 293n76 feminization of ­labor, 15, 25, 190, 290n16, 291n23, 293n76 feminized communities, 25, 89–90, 115, 235–37, 252, 293n76; ­career development, 98–100; childcare, 102–4; emotional experiences, 105, 129, 235, 241, 242, 269; masculinity and disability, 94–97; ­women caretakers, 98–100

in de x 333 Fisher, Gordon: Native Site Guidelines, 34 Fiske, Susan, 86, 199, 274. See also “scorning down” Food Not Bombs o­ rganization, 248 foreclosures, 17, 259 Fraser, Nancy, 231, 234; on t­ riple movement of emancipation, 234, 238–39 Freddie Mac, 260 Freire, Paulo, 10 Fuller, Gregory W., 17 Fullilove, Mindy Thompson, 206, 308n8 (chap. 8) gender, 270; cap­i­tal­ist property relations, 237; class intersections in informal economies and post-­Soviet, 301n25; inclusive policies, importance of, 14; Indigenous gender relations, 36, 37–38, 42, 44–45, 52–53; institutionalized practices, 25; pay gap, 14; prejudices, 89; sexuality identities and, 296n56; status hierarchies, 185, 293n76; working-­class composition, 268 Geyer, Charles, 39 Gibbs, George, 37 G.I. Bill, 58, 59, 60, 79, 234 Gonzales, Cheryle, 91 Gorton, Charles, 151 grassroots politics, 229, 233 ­Great Missoula Floods, 32 ­Great Recession of 2008, 259 Grossman, Michael, 24 Hall, Greg, 48 Hanford Nuclear Reservation, 59 Harbinger, Lucy J., 45 Ha­r i, Johann, 214 Harmony Communities, 264 Harvey, David, 233 Haskin’s Flat, 31, 42, 148 health capital, 24 Hillcrest Motel, 223, 260

Holt, Levi, 117 home: meaning of, 52, 77 homelessness, 21, 226, 227; prevention of, 180, 201, 220 home manufacturing code (HUD Code), 62 homeownership, 17–18, 79–80 Homes for All Campaign, 270 Homestead Act, 39, 40 Honey Huts, xii house­hold debt levels, 13 housing: commodification of, 74–75, 80, 82–83, 258, 268; community stability and, 84; costs of, 13, 16, 80, 267, 291n18; criteria for justice, 270; demand for, 58; during COVID-19 pandemic, 300n14; FHA-­backed loans, 80; financialization, 16–18, 185; government programs, 80–81; as a ­human right, idea of, 21, 268; market approach to, 173, 258–60; mobile, 54; owner­ship, 258, 260–61; prefabricated, 58; roundtable on, 23, 24; social reproduction and, 23; supply chain disruptions and, 267–68. See also affordable housing; social housing Housing Act, 66 Housing and Urban Development Code, 179 Humane Society of the Palouse (HSoP)’s animal shelter, 195 Hurst & Son LLC, 248, 261 Idaho: assessment of drinking ­water systems, 143; economic disparities, 20–21; flora, 32; funding assistance program, 175; housing crisis, 19–21, 177; minimum wage, 12; mobile homes closure bill, 174–75; population growth, 19; poverty, 301n28; state flower of, 55, 64; weather, 3 Idaho Code, 123 Idaho Conservation League v. Magar E. Magar, 121, 131–33, 144

334 in de x Idaho Department of Environmental Quality (Idaho DEQ ): Consent Decree, 140, 141; criticism of, 136–37; drinking ­water tests, 122, 129; interviews with engineers of, 278; lawsuits filed by, 67, 121, 133, 144; ­l imited resources, 131, 145; mission of, 129–30; North Central Regional Office, 145; regulatory oversight, 77, 133, 135, 137, 145, 146; sanitary survey, 144; Syringa ­water crisis and, 155–56; ­water and sewer complaints to, 4, 235, 247, 247–48 Idaho Department of Environmental Quality v. Magar E. Magar, 133 Idaho Department of Health and Welfare (IDHW), 77 Idaho Division of Environment, 140 Idaho Inn, 260 Idaho’s Manufactured Homes Residency Act, 123, 134 income i­ nequality, 14–15 Indigenous ­people: camas bulb harvesting, 36; cultural genocide of, 43, 44, 45; dispossession of, 29–30, 37, 40, 42; ecosocial relations, 43–44; food sources, 40–41; gender relations, 37–38; gender vio­lence, 44–45; importance of plants for, 33–34, 36; knowledge of, 10, 33, 253; lifestyle, 31–32, 37; military veterans, 58–59; myth of creation, 37; old settlements, 32–33; protests against Dakota Access Pipeline, 30; relationships with nature, 32–33; reservations, 42; settler-­colonial entanglements, 45; treaties, 39–40; treatment of ­water, 117; use for syringa’s wood, 63–64; white patriarchy and, 45–46; ­women’s status and responsibilities, 36, 297n86 individual rights, 229 Industrial Workers of the World (IWW), 48, 49, 50 informal economy, 95, 301nn25–26 institutional practices, 9

Intermountain Fair Housing Council of Idaho, 248 International Property Maintenance Code (IPMC), 157–58 Isenberg, Nancy, 65 itinerant agricultural laborers, 47, 48–49 James, Denise, 97–98, 112, 242, 244 Jones, Janna, 201 Karuk p­ eople, 44 Katz, Austin, 2, 95, 96, 97, 108, 180, 218–19 Kimmell, Paul, 209, 210 KLEW (­television station), 160 Kolhatkar, Sheelah, 260–61 Kusenbach, Margarethe, 276 l­ abor: as a commodity, 29 ­labor force reproduction, 23 Laflin, Maureen, 122, 174, 176, 179 Lamar, Tom, 119, 120, 151, 167, 169, 171, 209, 210 land: acquisition of, 40, 41; dispossession, 37, 40; Indigenous relations with, 253; owner­ship, 46–47, 295n41; value of, 38 landlord-­tenant relations, 123, 134, 263–64 Latah County: Building Code, 157; colonial settlement, 54; deportation of aliens from, 51; housing costs in, 20; interviews with officials of, 279; Nimíipuu ­people in, 42, 52; “Notice and Order,” 156–57, 159; poverty, 20; red tags policy, 156, 159; responsibility to private property o­ wners, 182; social ­services, 183 Latah County commissioners meeting, 162, 163, 164, 165–66, 276 Latah County Protective Association (LCPA), 49–50, 51, 297n84 Latah Recovery Center, 260 law bias, 170, 171 LEAP Housing, 263

in de x 335 ­L egal Aid Clinic (LAC): discussion of closure of Syringa park, 174; interviews with members of, 278–79; lawsuit against Magar E. Magar, 123, 124, 144; meeting with Syringa residents, 176–78, 185, 277; Partial Settlement Agreement, 126; purpose of, 122 ­legal codes, 115 Leiberg, John B., 42 Lester, Gary, 248 Lewis, Meriwether, 33, 55 Lewis & Clark expedition, 55 Lewis’ mock orange (Philadelphus lewisii), 55, 63, 64 ­l imited equity cooperatives (LECs), 257, 261–65, 270 loessial soil, 31–32 Long, Jessica, 122 loss of community, 230 loss of property, 230 low-­i ncome h­ ouse­holds: definition of, 12; government assistance to, 183; housing options, 21; involvement in decision-­ making ­process, 270–71; living conditions, 170–71; negative assumptions about, 275; statistics, 301–2n28 MacTavish, Katherine, 63 Magar, Magar E.: bankruptcy proceedings, 129, 130, 137, 144, 202, 280; cartoon about, 127; correspondence with Syringa residents, 141; criminal indictments, 136; lawsuits against, xv, 82, 115, 117–18, 121, 131–33, 144, 146, 154, 158, 196, 235, 280; l­ egal action to lift park’s boil order, 77; meetings with tenants, 140; monetary fines, 122, 136, 306n61; noncompliance with regulations, 139, 173; ­orders of contempt against, 126; park management, 6, 7–8, 112, 114, 135, 170, 172; partial settlement agreement, 126; purchase of Syringa Park, 55, 69; reputation of, 7, 136;

restraining order for, 155; threats to close the park, 273 Magar, Shelley: bankruptcy settlement, 196–97; closure of the park, 174, 176; interview with, 279; park’s owner­ship, xvi, 120, ­water 253, 256; distribution, 119, 120, 121 Main, Atif, 13 Manifest Destiny, 42, 53–54, 295n41 manufactured homes: definition of, 62, 179, 289n1; insecurity of, 62; private buyers of, 1, 260, 261; safety notice, 156, 157, 169; shortage of, 63; as social housing, 260 manufacturing sector: decline of, 13; wages in, 15 market-­rate development housing model, 257, 258–61 Marx, Karl, 29 McAleer, Cliff, 201 McGraw, Dave, 71, 120, 156, 167, 168, 199–200, 279 McGregor Com­pany, 139 medical care: cost of, 290n16 Mills, C. Wright, 275 minimum wage, 12 missionaries, 39 mobile home parks: affordable housing in, 19; analogy between “feudal systems” and, 304n36; Colorado laws on, 265–66; community building, 104; federal support for, 259; history of, 66–67, 104; improvement of, 145; national statistics of, 19–20; negative perceptions of, 112; news sharing in, 104–5; popularity of, 58, 64; private and corporate ­owners of, 114, 248, 260–61, 264; protection of homeowners and renters, 265, 266; regulations of, 19, 65, 174–75; rent hikes, 261; resident-­owned cooperatives, 254–55; residents of, 18, 59; rural development, 65–67; w ­ ater access, 9, 19, 248; zoning restrictions, 65

336 in de x mobile homes: cost of moving of, 178; definition of, 62, 289n1; depreciation of value of, 62–63, 152, 169–70, 197; emotional experience of living in, 105; FHA-­i nsured mortgages, 66; government-­insured loans, 80–81; graffiti on, 105, 106, 107; health risks, 298n15; insecurity of, 62; installation fees, 198; lifespan of, 62, 178; loan payments, 63; maintenance of, 81; regulation of occupancy, 298n22; rural location of, 66; ­stereotypes about, 74; as substandard housing, 64, 159; threats of redevelopment, 290n6; ­women ­owners, 101 ‘Mobile Home University’ (MHU), 264 Moeller, John, 139 moist wetland meadows, 34, 42, 43, 68 Moreton-­Robinson, Aileen, 41–42, 46 Morrison, Scott, 3, 186, 195, 202, 222–23 Morrissey, Katherine G., ­Mental Territories, 48 mortality rates, 190 mortgage financing, 17, 59, 66, 79, 259 Moscow, Idaho: home prices, 20, 30, 57; low-­i ncome rentals, 177; map, xviii; mobile home lots, 177; nickname, 42; Ordinance No. 982, 65; population of, 176; poverty in, 220; regulation of trailer occupancy, 298n22; rental housing, 20, 57, 176–77; vicinity of, 34 Moscow Affordable Housing Trust, 177, 257–58 Moscow Mountain, 31, 57, 69, 72 Mount St. Helens eruption, 185 Munneke, Henry J., 18 Musick, Shannon: community activism, 87, 235, 251–52, 254; concern of park safety, 215–16; conversation with Idaho DEQ , 7; dealing with flooding, 253; efforts to raise awareness about red tags, 160; f­ amily responsibilities, 253; life ­a fter relocation, 224; park management duties, xv, 6–7, 90, 122, 155, 253, 256, 276;

photo­g raph of, 254; on sewage treatment lagoons, 111 National Association of Clean ­Water Agencies (NACWA), 304n40 National Housing Act’s Title I, 81 National Housing Administration’s (NHA), 58 National Manufactured Housing Construction and Safety Standards Act, 289n1 National Pollutant Discharge Elimination System (NPDES), 131 Native American veterans, 58–59 native ecosystems, 45, 46, 52–53 nature-­social interactions, 34, 68, 69, 110–11, 112, 132, 148–49, 237; Indigenous relationships, 33, 52 Navigable ­Waters Protection Rule, 304n32 neighborly interactions, 101–2 networks of care, 101–4 new imperialism, 233 Nimíipuu (Nez Perce) ­people: conversion to Chris­t ian­ity, 39; cultural genocide, 45, 52; exclusion of, 52; loss of native and medicinal plants, 46; missionaries and, 39; relations with land, 253; research partners, 274; reservations, 39, 52; settler colonialism and, 52–3; treaties, 44; white settlers and, 33, 38–39 Nimíipuu Protecting the Environment (grassroots group), 46 Nixon, Rob, 173 North Central Idaho Regional Office (NCIRO), 143 Northwest Cooperative Development Center (NWCDC), 255, 262 “not in my backyard” (NIMBY) attitudes, 65 OECD countries: income ­i nequality, 15 Office of Price Administration and Civilian Supply, 266

in de x 337 Olson, Clarence “Clancy”: attitude to safety, 146; obituary, 299n38; parties for kids, 120, 219; relations with park man­ag­ers, 142–43; Syringa mobile housing proj­ect, 63, 65, 66–67, 68, 69, 71, 74, 148; utopian vision of, 80; warning about ­water system, xv, 138 Oregon regulation of mobile home park closures, 306n6 (chap. 6) Overturf, Robert, 105–6 Pace, Aimee, 88, 90–91, 111, 112, 120, 193, 211–12, 222, 241 Pace, Chris, 91, 92, 94, 113, 241 Palouse Habitat for Humanity, 177 Palouse region: farming, 47; history of, 30; lithograph of, 38; soil erosion, 43; transformation of landscape, 53 Palouse River, 31 Palus ­people, 32 Paradise Ridge, 69 park rehabilitation loans, 145 Parson, Rebecca, 266 patriarchal whiteness, 41 Peck, Everett, 139 Pellow, David, 110 ­people with disabilities: employment opportunities, 94–95, 96; home improvements, 97; housing options, 93; informal work, 95; interaction with nature, 110; living conditions, 94, 301n28; social ­services for, 183; SSI income, 94, 95; stigma about, 95–96 Peterson, Nils, 258, 279 pets, 193–94 Peuck, Herbert, 69 Pinkham, Allen, 33 Pistor, Katharina, 170 Pleasant View Homeowners Cooperative, Inc., 262 Polanyi, Karl: double movement theory, 234, 238–39; on social protection, 231, 246

post-­t raumatic stress disorder (PTSD), 3; C-­P TSD, ix, xi poverty, 85, 301n28 press coverage of Syringa crisis, 239–40, 245 primary accumulation, 29 private ­owners: accountability of, 167; voluntary compliance, 172 privatization, 28, 29, 37, 40, 52, 75, 181, 182, 267; defintion of, 81–82 property relations, 52, 53, 128, 237, 238; emotional, social, and cultural investment, 128 public ­services, 81–82, 114 racial minorities: Black mortality, 190; culturally significant plants, 46; G.I. Bill, 58–59, 234; home owner­ship, 79–80; housing crash, negative effects on, 17, 259; housing precarity, 267; itinerant agricultural workers, 47; land owner­ship, lack of, 45; mobile home parks and, 9; reproductive commons, 24; segregation of, 18, 86, 268; ­women in underpaid care work, 22 railroad transportation, 47 Raudenbush, Stephen W., 86 Reagan, Ronald, 15–16 red tags: Commissioners’ meeting on, 163–68; destructive effects of, 159, 165, 166; efforts to raise awareness about, 160–61, 162; financial impact of, 160, 170; Latah County’s position on, 167, 171; meaning of, 153–54; photo­ graph of, 153; practice of issuing, 124, 151–52, 155, 156, 159, 160, 169, 273; press coverage of, 168; residents’ opposition to, 167–68, 232, 234; students’ discussion of, 169–70 Reed, Lois, 246 Reed, Ron, 44 refusal to evacuate, 185 rent-­backed securities, 259

338 in de x rent control, 266–67 rent hikes, 261–62 reproductive commons, 24–25, 238, 293n76 resident-­owned cooperatives (ROCs), 106, 254–55, 256, 262–63, 270 Rheingans, Phil, 220–21 Right to the City Alliance, 270 Ringo, Shirley, 174–75 Robinson Park Road, 11, 31, 97 Robles, Isabel, 195 ROC USA, 262 Rodriguez, Denessy, 176, 195, 256, 277 Roe vs. Wade, 23 Rolfe, Frank, 264 Roo­se­velt, Franklin Delano, 266 RV parks, 224–25 Ryan, Jenee, 160, 163 Safe Drinking W ­ ater Act, 134 Salamon, Sonya, 63 Salsbury, Lysa, 201 Sampson, Robert J., 86 Sanders, Bernie, 21 Sandpoint, Idaho, 56 Savory Mobile Home Park, 290n6 scavengers, 152, 215, 216 Schitsu’umsh (Coeur d’Alene) ­people, 32 “scorning down,” 16, 86, 89, 105, 173, 199, 231, 246, 267, 274 seasonally moist wetland, 68, 146, 148, 222; definition of, 34; habitat for camas, 43 ­service sector wages, 15 settler colonialism, 29–30, 41–42, 44–5 sewage lagoon system: building of, 131–32; cost of improvement of, 176; decommissioning of, 149, 221; degradation of, 111–12; effectiveness of, 131–32, 146–7; overflows from, 138–39, 141–42, 148; photo­graph of, 132; regulation of, 132 Simpson, Leanne Betasamosake, 27, 237 Simpson, Lucinda George, 44

single caretakers, 189–90, 191, 202 single ­women: c­ areers of, 98, 99, 100; care for relatives, 100; homeownership, 97–98, 99; lack of state support for, 99; neighborly interactions, 101–2; parenting, 98, 99; pursuit of education, 99–100 Skiles, Richard “Richie,” 216, 279 Slickpoo, Allen, Sr., 34 Slurp-­n-­Burp Tavern, 11, 31 Smith, Adam, 83, 300n13 Smith, Lincoln, 169 social class, xii, 270; “alien,” 46; institutional practices, 25; intersecting status hierarchies, 185; intersection with Black, Latino, Indigenous populations, 23; intersection with white patriarchy and Indigenous experiences, 42, 51; itinerant agricultural laborers, 47; middle-­class, 1, 128, 190, 224, 231, 240, 258; racial solidarity, importance of, 190–91; segregation, 18, 79; trailer dwellers, 65; wealthy, 9, 53; yard clutter, 240. See also working-­class families social housing, 83, 89, 260 social programs: cut of spending on, 15–16 social protection, 181, 231, 233, 234, 238–39, 246, 249 social reproduction, 21–23, 24, 90, 238, 270, 278, 292n67, 309n20; emotions and, 105, 302n36 Sojourners’ Alliance, 180–81, 201, 223, 245, 260 South Fork Palouse River: adjacent wetland, 43, 68, 148; discharge of pollutants into, 69, 131, 132–33, 146, 148, 158; protection of, 139; w ­ ater flow, 31, 34 Spalding, Eliza, 38, 39 Spalding, Henry, 38, 39 Spokan (Spokane) p­ eople, 32 squatters, 167, 307n18

in de x 339 St. Vincent de Paul, 183 Stacey Page, Dena Ciminelli, Carol L. Robinson, on behalf of Ourselves and other similarly situated v Magar E. Magar, 123 Stark, Cindra, 105, 106, 245 status hierarchies, 185 Stegner, John, 126, 133, 155 Stevens, Isaac, 37, 38 student housing, 299n45 substance use disorder, 188–89 Sufi, Amir, 13 ­Sullivan, Esther, 128, 175, 230, 293n1, 297n1, 298n16, 304n36, 306n6 (chap. 6) Supplemental Security Income (SSI), 21 Syringa Mobile Home Park: affordability of, 1–2, 68–69; archival research of, 69–70, 279–81; bankruptcy proceedings, xvi, 121, 129, 130, 137, 144, 175–76, 202; benefits of living at, 73; blueprint of, 67, 68; boil w ­ ater advisory, 118–19, 121; cartoon about, 78–79, 87; Christmas parties, 92; chronology, xv–­x vi; commute to work from, 11–12; construction of, 63–64; cost of homes in, 56; as “country club,” 73; on county map, xviii; delivery of bottled ­water to, 119–20, 207–9, 208; deteriorating conditions, 8, 74, 75, 80, 106, 211, 215, 216; devolution of, 112–13; difficulty of moving out of, 107; environmental privilege, 110; expansion of, 68; Facebook images of, 120; flooding, 253; giardia cases, xv, 77, 142; institutional perspectives on, 279; location of, 11, 65–66, 68, 69, 109–10, 148, 177; looters and scavengers in, 215–16; maintenance of, 85, 91–92; management of, x–xi, 6–7, 70; nosing, 108; number of homes in, 141, 179; opening of, 66, 79; owner­ship change, 69, 220–21, 254, 256; play area for kids, 57; portable toilets, 210, 211; protest signs, 164, 232; publicity, 255; public safety standards, 130; pump­

house, 254; recreation center, 57, 205; regulations, 65, 87; reputation of, 57, 77; restoration of site of, 221–22; road to, 31–32; safety issue, 216; segregation of, 87, 110; self-­regulation, 135, 136; social media commentaries about, 86–87; spray-­ painted homes, 245; squatters at, 167; structurally unfit homes, 181; study of, 9–10, 11, 273–81; swimming pool, 57, 71, 72, 220; topography of, 67, 68; trash removal, 85; treatment of newcomers, 73; vacant homes, 160, 167, 168, 307n18; vacant lots, 169; values of, 80, 90–92; voluntary compliance, 135–38; ­water access, 6, 19, 168, 181, 207–9; w ­ ater line break, 118–19; working-­class community, 12–16 Syringa refugees, 186, 187, 187, 187–89, 189, 190, 191, 202 Syringa residents: caretakers, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 202; community support of, 1–2, 191–93, 200–1, 206, 277–78; compensations paid to, 180, 196–98; complaints to the Division of Environment, 140; concern of ­water quality, 140–41; conflicts between, 107–9; with criminal rec­ords, 189, 200; daily wellness checks, 206; deaths of, 113–14, 223–24; dehumanization of, 229–30; demographics of, 73–74, 84–85; with disabilities, 84, 165, 187, 188, 189, 202; dissolution of care networks, 213–14; drug use, 108, 167, 214–15, 218; Facebook updates, 206–7, 209–11; financial hardship, 181; fund­rais­i ng efforts for, 175, 200–1, 202, 203; go-­a longs, 276; grievances, 231–32, 234, 239–40; health ­hazards, 9, 109, 225; home improvements, 97; interaction with nature, 109–12; interviews and surveys, 276–77; lack of resources, 134–35; Latah county assistance to, 183–84; ­L egal Aid Clinic meeting with, 176–80; lives ­a fter park closure, 222–26; local help to, 154;

340 in de x Syringa residents (cont.) loss of community, 211–13; lot rents, 113, 145; meetings o­ rganized by, 231–32; pet ­owners, 2, 3, 85, 193–96; psychological issues, 115; pursuit of education, 273, 274; refugees, 186–89; relocation of, 174, 192, 198–200, 212–13; reluctance to move out, 18, 184, 185, 191; social protection, 183, 233–34, 238–39; social status of, 115; stigma about, 88, 173, 191, 251–52; subclasses of, 124; vulnerability of, 135; way of life, 69–73, 84, 85, 90–91, 92 Syringa’s park closure: difficulty to move out a­ fter, 107; emergency response to, 181–2; financial ramifications of, 245–46; lack of guidance about, 173–74; local governments and, 182, 183–84; nonprofit ­organizations and, 182; official notice of, xi–­x ii, xvi, 174–76, 180; press coverage of, 245 “Syringa Speaks” public forum: audience of, 243; goal of, 242; o­ rganization of, 195, 241, 279; residents’ opinion about, 166; speakers, 242, 243 Syringa’s ­water and wastewater system: contamination of, 5, 77–78, 87, 142; cost of improvement of, 176; degradation of, 144; design flaws, 138; enforcement of improvement of, 140–41; engineers’ assessment of, 142, 143, 145; incidents with, 139–40; low pressure in, 4–5; owner­ship of, 135; sewage backflows in, 77, 109, 144 Syringa w ­ ater crisis of 2013–14: boil o­ rders, xi, xv, 3–5; cost of, 126; emergency responses, 126, 181; health risks, 124–25, 126, 133; impact on property value, 129; indignity damages, 127, 128; news media coverage of, 155; number of occupied ­house­holds during, 289n3; origin of, 147; Partial Settlement Agreement, 126, 129; residents’ response to, 125–56, 249; special damages, 127–28; w ­ ater shut downs, xi, 3–5, 155

Tachell, Dawn (née Trottier): admiration of Syringa, 110; caretaking, 119, 161; community activism, 103, 162, 171, 235, 240, 251–52, 254; criticism of local news, 87; dealing with flooding, 253; efforts to raise awareness of red tags, 160; experience of stigma, 104, 128; ­family life, 91, 101–2; health issues, 124; idea of ROC conversion, 255; life ­a fter relocation, 224; photo­g raph, 111; protest sign made by, 232; pursuit of university degree, 99; settlement agreement, 196, 280; unemployment, 161; ­water shortage, 124 Tachell, Trapper, 224 Talbott, Chris, 70, 147 Talbott, Steve, 70, 147 taxi business, 97, 98, 99 Thompson, Anna, 70 Tomer Butte, 69 trailer park politics, 233, 239, 270; definition of, 231; dimensions of, 236–37, 246 trailers, 62, 64; vs. mobile homes, 289n1 trucks loaded with firewood, 72 Truman, Harry R., 185 Uhlenkott, Chuck, 139 University of Idaho: enrollment of veterans, 59; Gem of the Mountains Yearbook, 60; land grant, 40; ­women’s dormitories, 60 utopian communities, 79–80 Vant Hul, Arthur W., 138 Vasiachis de Gialdino, Irene, 230 veterans, 58–59, 60, 163, 164, 165 Veterans Village, 59, 60–61 Vienna, Austria: middle-­class ­house­holds, 300n15; protection from rent hike in, 258 Vio­lence of the Palouse, 260 voluntary compliance, 130, 135–36, 146

in de x 341 Wallis, Alan, 59, 66; Wheel Estate, 104 Ware, Jim: criticism of Idaho DEQ , 117–18, 136, 144; dedication to, 5; departure from Syringa’s park, 212; divorce, 94; on influx of cats, 194; life ­a fter relocation, 225–26; personality of, 92–93, 218; photo of, 168; repair work, 239; sense of community, 252; settlement agreement, 196; at “Syringa Speaks” public forum, 118, 134–35 ­water: cost of, 125; daily consumption, 119–20 ­water quality standards: monitoring of, 140; violation of, 133, 134, 142 weapons of the weak, 231, 249 Weddell, Bertie J., 43 Westside Mobile Home Park, 263, 264 wetlands protections, 303–4n32 Wheeler, Shannon, 38 white patriarchy, 42, 45, 51 white “possessive,” 46

white settlers, 41 white supremacist ideology, 295n46 Williams, Ty, 279 Wolfe, Patrick, 29, 30 ­women: as business ­owners, 238; as caretakers, 89; Census data, 295n40; exclusion of, 53; farmers, 295n41; homeowners, 17–18, 238; wages, 15 work: forms of, 269 working-­class families: housing opportunities for, 79–80; income of, 13–14, 20, 80; men’s and ­women’s earnings, 14; perception of, 83; ­political mobilization of, 230–31, 233, 235; prob­lems for communities, 8; shared status across racial groups, 190, 268–69 working parents/guardians, 101–4 Zabala, Anne, 201 Zwerdling, Daniel, 119, 240, 255

ABOUT THE AUTHOR leontina hormel is professor of sociology at the University of Idaho.