It's the economy, stupid.

[neoplacebo]

I read the other day that this new Housing bill that trump refused to sign (it became law anyway) restricts corporate ownership of private residences to 3,500 units. Seems to me that 35 would have been better, and maybe even too many. But considering the Treasury secretary was musing about people that own 4 or 5 homes not long ago......seems that those folks in DC live in some sort of different world or something.

[Vrede too]

I read the other day that this new Housing bill that trump refused to sign (it became law anyway) restricts corporate ownership of private residences to 3,500 units. Seems to me that 35 would have been better, and maybe even too many. But considering the Treasury secretary was musing about people that own 4 or 5 homes not long ago......seems that those folks in DC live in some sort of different world or something.

We are dirt under their shoes. At least we aren't Black in the 1930s.

Voices Of A People's History Of The United States
HOWARD ZINN
Anthony Arnove

The “Harlem Renaissance” of the 1920s and 1930s produced an extraordinary group of black writers and artists. There were the novelists Zora Neale Hurston and Nella Larsen, the painters Jacob Lawrence and Aaron Douglas, the poets Gwendolyn Bennett, Claude McKay, and Countee Cullen, and many others. One of the most challenging of these voices was that of poet Langston Hughes, who speaks in these two poems of the social conditions of African Americans, the poor, the working people. Hughes captures the feeling of being “damn tired” of waiting for rescue from the political leadership of the country.

Two Poems by Langston Hughes (1934 and 1940)

“BALLAD OF ROOSEVELT" (1934)

The pot was empty; the cupboard bare.
And I said, “Papa, what’s the matter here?”
“We’re waitin’ on Roosevelt, Roosevelt, Roosevelt.
Waitin’ on Roosevelt, Son.”

The rent was due; the lights was out.
“Oh, tell me, Mama, what’s it all about?”
“We’re waitin’ on Roosevelt, Roosevelt, Roosevelt.
Waitin’ on Roosevelt, Son.”

Sister’s low sick; doctor won’t come
’Cause we can’t pay him the proper sum.
“We’re waitin’ on Roosevelt, Roosevelt, Roosevelt.
Waitin’ on Roosevelt, Son.”

Then, one sad day, they put us out.
Mama and Papa, meek as a mouse.
“We’re waitin’ on Roosevelt, Roosevelt, Roosevelt.
Waitin’ on Roosevelt, Son.”

Ain’t got no money; ain’t got no job.
Backbone and navel doin’ the belly rub.
“We’re waitin’ on Roosevelt, Roosevelt, Roosevelt.
Waitin’ on Roosevelt, Son.”

The pot’s still empty; the cupboard bare.
Can’t raise no family on bellies filled with air.
“We’re waitin’ on Roosevelt, Roosevelt, Roosevelt.
Waitin’ on Roosevelt, Son.”

But when they felt those cold winds blow
And didn’t have no good place to go,
Pa said, “I’m tired of waitin’ on Roosevelt.
Waitin’ on Roosevelt, Son.”

“And when we all get hungry and cold,
Gonna stop believin’. Gonna get hard to hold.
Stop waitin’ on Roosevelt, Ol’ Man Roosevelt.
Waitin’ on Roosevelt, Son.”


“BALLAD OF THE LANDLORD” (1940)
(whether 3-5 units or 3500)

Landlord, landlord,
My roof has sprung a leak.
Don't you 'member I told you about it
Way last week?

Landlord, landlord,
These steps is broken down.
When you come up yourself
It's a wonder you don't fall down.

Ten Bucks you say I owe you?
Ten Bucks you say is due?
Well, that's Ten Bucks more'n I'l pay you
Till you fix this house up new.

What? You gonna get eviction orders?
You gonna cut off my heat?
You gonna take my furniture and
Throw it in the street?

Um-huh! You talking high and mighty.
Talk on-till you get through.
You ain't gonna be able to say a word
If I land my fist on you.

Police! Police!
Come and get this man!
He's trying to ruin the government
And overturn the land!

Copper's whistle!
Patrol bell!
Arrest.
Precinct Station.
Iron cell.
Headlines in press:
Man Threatens landlord
Tenant Held Bail
Judge Gives Negro 90 Days In County Jail!