34 Time March 1/March 8, 2021
of racist mortgage and zoning laws—are visible in the eviction
threat. Black people account for 13% of the U.S. population,
but Black renters like Musa make up 35% of the evictions car-
ried out since March, despite the moratoriums, according to
Princeton’s Eviction Lab. The risk is especially high for Black
women, who collectively have faced 25% more evictions than
Black men since most state and local moratoriums took effect
last spring and summer.
Meanwhile, roughly 75% of landlords across the U.S. are
white, according to a survey by Foremost Insurance Group. The
share of white landlords is even higher in Seattle, per the city
auditor. This creates an uncomfortable dynamic, says Edmund
Witter, the managing attorney of the King County Bar Associa-
tion’s Housing Justice Project, which provides free legal aid to
renters facing eviction. When one racial group is “dependent
on the other for a basic need,” he says, “there is something that
feels inherently wrong about that.” Musa’s rental complex is
owned by a trust that lists an all-white senior leadership team
on its website.
The federal governmenT has yet to address the loom-
ing eviction crisis with a viable long-term plan. In December,
Congress allocated $25 billion in emergency rental assistance,
which state and local governments can use to reimburse land-
lords whose tenants haven’t paid rent. This comes after some
local governments received block grants from the CARES Act
to stave off evictions. But neither contribution is likely to be
enough, says Mark Ellerbrook, the division director of housing
and community development for King County, home to Seattle.
In an effort to ensure the federal money is distributed equi-
tably, local governments have imposed a patchwork of stipula-
tions. For example, 78% of emergency rental-assistance pro-
grams require that landlords not evict their non-rent-paying
tenants, with 10% of those programs requiring an agreement
not to evict for a period of seven months or longer, according
to the National Low Income Housing Coalition (NLIHC). Other
areas require landlords to freeze rent. In King County, tenants
must earn 50% or less of the area’s median income and landlords
must agree to accept 80% of the rent they are owed to be eligi-
ble. De Laat, who is considering applying for the funds, notes
that even if she received the aid, she would not be made whole,
since Aldama now owes more than the county’s reimbursement
cap, which is around $20,000.
Another problem is that most local governments, facing their
own budget crises, lack the staff to distribute the cash in a timely
manner. Instead, some counties are leaning on nonprofits, many
of which are also understaffed and underfunded, to manage the
new program. Meanwhile, in pricey areas like Seattle, plenty
of tenants make more than the local median income yet still
can’t afford their rent, Ellerbrook points out. And some land-
lords may be put off by the bureaucratic hurdles of applying
for aid—a reality that may drive mom-and-pop landlords out
of the rental market, leading to a long-term decrease in afford-
able rental housing in communities where it was already scarce.
Alex Brendon, who owns an investment property in the
Seattle area, is among a growing group of small landlords
considering getting out of the rental game altogether. After
losing his own job in July and struggling to support two
toddlers, Brendon was unable to evict
his tenant, even though that tenant had
stopped paying rent three months before
COVID-19 began spreading rapidly in the
U.S. After 10 months—and more than
$18,000 in unpaid rent—Brendon took
back ownership of his unit by moving
into it himself.
On the presidential campaign trail,
Biden proposed ambitious solutions that
would ease conditions for both Americans
struggling to afford rent and for their
landlords. Among those suggestions was
making Housing Choice Vouchers an en-
title ment benefit, akin to Medicaid and
Social Security. Colloquially known as
Section 8 vouchers, the current program
does not guarantee that low-income peo-
ple who qualify for help will receive it. On
average, eligible families wait 1½ years be-
fore obtaining a voucher. For some, the
delay is much longer: a quarter of the
largest public-housing authorities in the
country have waiting lists that stretch at
least seven years, according to the NLIHC.
To avoid making families wait that long,
the King County housing authority opts
to use a computer-randomized lottery
system. But in 2020, that meant only
about 2,500 of the 20,000 eligible fam-
ilies who applied for housing vouchers
made it onto the waiting list, which at-
tempts to place families in about five
years’ time. Expanding the program
would ensure that low- income tenants
like Aldama and Musa were housed re-
gardless of their employment situation
and that landlords like de Laat and Bren-
don got paid at least part of the rent they
were owed—even if tenants fell behind.
Biden has also suggested building
new public-housing communities that
don’t resemble the dilapidated proj ects
of yester year. Low-income housing ad-
vocates envision 100-acre, mixed-income
neighborhoods sprinkled with coffee-
houses, doctors’ offices, public schools,
community centers and library branches,
all within walking distance.
Greenbridge, a housing community in
unincorporated King County just south
of Seattle’s city limits, is something of
a model. It has 325 subsidized housing
units scattered among hundreds of other
affordable homes. Families from differ-
ent socio economic groups share parks
and more than five dozen public art
installations. The subsidized residentsNation
^
Greenbridge, a
mixed-income
community
near Seattle,
offers a model
for re imagining
public housing