Low-Income Housing and the Suburban Geography of Moral Panic: The Rise of the Revanchist Fringe?

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3

The Suburban Geography

of Moral Panic

Low-Income Housing and the Revanchist Fringe

L. OWEN KIRKPATRICK AND CASEY GALLAGHER

One of the defi ning characteristics of the post-Fordist, neoliberal era (1970–

present) in the United States is the hypersegregation of poor, minority

households in the central city (Wilson 1997). Intensifi ed patterns of un-

even economic development, pervasive systems of surveillance and control, and

an unrelenting “territorial stigmatization” have combined to transform the inner

city into “an instrument for the virtual imprisonment” of poor, African Ameri-

can communities (Wacquant 2007). Without question, the relationship between

sprawling suburbanization and white fl ight, on the one hand, and the structural

isolation of the urban ghetto, on the other, is one of the dominant sociospatial

motifs of contemporary American urbanism. Th is is not to say, however, that

the boundaries separating the white, suburban middle class from the black and

brown urban poor have been permanently drawn or hermetically sealed (Mur-

phy 2007). Th ough such boundaries are certainly resilient—buttressed as they are

by a wide variety of entrenched sociocultural, political, and economic forces—

they can be actively destabilized and subjected to periods of intense contestation

and negotiation. Indeed, the balance of suburban (in)justice oft en rests precari-

ously on struggles over inclusion and exclusion.

Economic crisis and demographic transformation can contribute to periods

of boundary destabilization and contestation. In the turbulent wake of the mort-

gage crisis and the “Great Recession,” for instance, precipitously declining home

values have accelerated the residential diversifi cation of hard-hit suburban com-

munities. Importantly, however, as both Nancy A. Denton and Joseph R. Gib-

bons (this volume) and john powell and Jason Reece (this volume) remind us,

suburban diversity can increase markedly without a concomitant encroachment

or destabilization of traditional boundaries. And it is precisely those cases where

such boundaries are breached and actively destabilized that provide the clearest

strategic insights for social-justice scholars and activists. Th ese local struggles

are “open” to the extent that their outcomes are based on the tactical agency,

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32 L. Owen Kirkpatrick and Casey Gallagher

mobilizing capacities, and resources of competing groups and organizations

(Edwards and McCarthy 2007). We would expect a sampling of such cases to

reveal that at any given moment, several scenarios are possible: Th ose with

exclusionary agendas could be ascendant, those with inclusionary agendas could

be ascendant, or a stalemate of sorts could occur. In all these scenarios, a close

empirical examination would reveal the strategies adopted by (and available to)

both sets of participants and the institutional openings and constraints that both

groups face. In those cases in which boundary encroachment serves as a catalyst

for political rupture and social confrontation, suburban activists with inclusion-

ary objectives should not underestimate their opposition. Indeed, as we show,

the exclusionary impulse can be exceedingly swift , highly punitive, and over-

whelmingly supported (albeit temporarily) by local residents and offi cials.

Th e following analysis of suburban boundary encroachment and destabili-

zation is focused on the city of Antioch, California, a community located on the

outskirts of the San Francisco Bay Area. Stunned homeowners and offi cials

watched as the median home price in the Bay Area fell from $690,000 at the

beginning of 2007 to $350,000 by the end of 2008 (Baker 2008). Antioch was at

the forefront of this trend, exhibiting signs of a real-estate downturn as early as

2006. Aft er enjoying rapid residential growth and remarkable increases in prop-

erty values (2000–2005), the city saw new-home construction stall, home prices

plummet, and foreclosures soar. With no buyers on the horizon and with prop-

erties continuing to lose value, real-estate investors began turning the glutted

stock of single-family homes into rental units. Quite suddenly, rents for new,

high-end homes located in the putatively “good” part of Antioch dropped to the

point that they become accessible to low-income, Section 8 recipients. Poor,

minority families “from the city” began moving directly into upscale homes in

well-heeled suburban neighborhoods, clearly trespassing long-standing socio-

spatial boundaries and triggering an aggressive and well-organized backlash.

Th e movement of Section 8 Housing Choice Voucher Program (HCVP)

participants to the suburbs is not particularly surprising, given that residential

mobility is an express objective of low-income housing policy in the United

States. Under the HCVP program, participating households pay 30 percent of

their income toward rent and receive a portable voucher that subsidizes the dif-

ference between the household contribution and the “fair-market rent” for a

housing unit of appropriate size and quality in the area (Galster et al. 2003, 5–8).

In recent years, approximately 75 percent of program funds have gone to fami-

lies earning less than 30 percent of the Area Median Income (AMI). For the last

several decades, the spatial portability of Section 8 vouchers has been at the

heart of federal housing strategies, as implemented by the U.S. Department of

Housing and Urban Development (HUD; Crump 2003).

Until recently, however, low-income households, including voucher hold-

ers, were systematically priced out of the single-family, suburban housing mar-

ket. In large measure, this was due to HUD policy that set “fair-market rents”

below area medians. Hence, the limited number of Section 8 recipients who did


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The Suburban Geography of Moral Panic 33

manage to fi nd housing outside the urban core were isolated in the “bad” parts

of suburban cities, creating residential “containment zones” that were sharply

defi ned in terms of race and class (Basolo and Nguyen 2005; Goering, Kamely,

and Richardson 1997). In the context of growth and expansion, the residential

choices available to Section 8 participants were circumscribed, and the social

integration generated by low-income housing policy was limited. Th us, in such

suburbs and exurbs as Antioch, the postcrisis period may represent the fi rst sub-

stantive implementation of low-income residential mobility, such that poor,

inner-city minorities have a real opportunity to use federal housing assistance to

relocate to the actual “backyards” of white, suburban homeowners.

Objectively, the number of Section 8 families moving into exclusive sub-

urban enclaves in Antioch is rather modest. Much of the signifi cance of their

arrival, therefore, derives from the broader community transformation that it

represents and the social and political reactions that it provokes. For many

homeowners and offi cials, the infl ux of Section 8 tenants into the rarifi ed con-

fi nes of “New” Antioch is confl ated with a declining quality of life and falling

home values. Th e arrival of Section 8 recipients has thus triggered a fi erce com-

munity backlash that can be characterized as a “moral panic” (S. Cohen 2002).

Sociologists use this concept to identify scenarios in which an “explosion of fear

and concern” is directed toward a specifi c group that comes to embody some

perceived threat facing the community (Goode and Ben-Yehuda 1994).

All the key elements of moral panic are present in the Antioch case. Since

the collapse of the housing market, Antioch homeowners have exhibited signs

of anxiety, stress, and fear, a sociopsychological prerequisite for moral panic

to “take off ” (ibid.). Th is collective sense of distress has largely taken the form

of anti–Section 8 sentiment, a feat successfully orchestrated by a cadre of local

“moral entrepreneurs” who amplify and manipulate public perceptions of the

phenomenon (ibid.). Remarkably, given the range and severity of the challenges

facing Antioch, Section 8 renters have emerged as the overriding public concern

in the minds of local homeowners, community organizations, and offi cials. Sec-

tion 8 recipients are deemed the source of suburban blight and the cause of fall-

ing home values. Th ey are also defi ned in terms of their presumed criminality

and are hence seen as a general threat to the suburban quality of life and a spe-

cifi c threat to the physical safety of the community. Once labeled deviant, these

newcomers are socially constructed as what Stanley Cohen (among others)

describes as “folk devils”—the ultimate personifi cation of dangers facing the

community (S. Cohen 2002). Moral panics are notable for the high degree of

consensus they generate and the methods of social control they propagate. Th ey

are also highly volatile, however, such that the underlying consensus sustaining

a panic can quickly break down, opening up a social and political space for

alternative narratives and countermovements.

Th e animosity directed toward Section 8 folk devils in Antioch is orga-

nized around the fundamentally held dichotomy between “us” and “them”—a

boundary that physically and symbolically separates the “desirable” from the


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“undesirable” and is strictly enforced in terms of race and class (Ben-Yehuda

1986, 498). But there is more going on than mere separation. “Faulting the

undeserving poor,” Herbert J. Gans notes, “can also support the desire for

revenge and punishment” (1994, 272). Desperate to defend their status, privi-

lege, and wealth, Antioch homeowners (and their representatives and allies)

have launched an organized eff ort to protect their suburban assets and lifestyles.

Despite being “cloaked in the populist language of civic morality, family values,

and neighborhood security,” this movement represents a punitive assault on the

people deemed responsible for the “theft ” of the suburb (N. Smith 1996, 211).

Th e response to demographic change and boundary encroachment thus takes

the form of suburban “revanchism”—a “revengeful and reactionary campaign”

launched by actors who are “ravaged by property markets,” and the “emergence

of minority and immigration groups, as well as women, as powerful [sub]urban

actors” (ibid.).

Our empirical analysis is concentrated on three mechanisms of revanchism

and boundary enforcement in Antioch: the social, the carceral, and the adminis-

trative (Table 3.1). First, we consider the United Citizens for Better Neighbor-

hoods (UCBN), a community association that plays a key role in the social and

TABLE 3.1 The Three Dimensions of the Revanchist Suburb

Social Carceral Administrative

Institutional entity United Citizens for Better Neighbor-hoods (UCBN)

Community Action Team (CAT)

Housing Authority of Contra Costa County (HACCC)

Key moment Formation: May 2006 Formation: July 2006 Transition: May 2007

Primary function Amplifi cation and honing of anti–Section 8 discourse

Surveillance and control of Section 8 participants; criminalization

Regulatory exclusion and expulsion

Primary strategies Social construction of fear

Punitive and carceral; surveillance, intimi-dation, and coercion

Administrative and regulatory boundary enforcement

Key stakeholders and moral entrepreneur

Homeowners; Gary Gilbert

Antioch Police; local offi cials/Chief Hyde

Public Housing Authority administrators

Primary critique Discursive manipula-tion; the “dark side” of social capital

Hyperpunitiveness; racism; illegality of procedures

“Balkanized” system of administration; jurisdictional parochialism

Suggestion for redress Tenant-based suburban community development eff orts

Litigation and local electoral mobilization

Regional management


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discursive production of moral panic in Antioch. Th is homeowner-based, grass-

roots organization has spearheaded the middle-class backlash against demo-

graphic changes associated with suburban degentrifi cation. Th e eff orts of the

UCBN primed the public for an aggressively revanchist agenda. A second mech-

anism is the Antioch Police Department’s Community Action Team (CAT), an

apparatus that represents the carceral and punitive dimension of moral panic.

In practice, the CAT seeks to exclude Section 8 tenants from the desirable parts

of Antioch through the legitimate use of force, violence, and surveillance—

indeed, this is its self-acknowledged raison d’être. In the course of rooting out

Section 8 participants, however, the CAT has resorted to strategies based on

“racial discrimination, intimidation, and illegal property searches” (S. Moore

2008). Th e third mechanism is the local Public Housing Authority (PHA). Th e

anti–Section 8 movement successfully appropriated the PHA and used it as an

administrative mechanism of exclusion. Before turning our attention to these

three institutional mechanisms, we are fi rst going to sketch the social, economic,

and political context of boundary struggles in Antioch.

Suburban Degentrifi cation and the Changing

Geography of Low-Income Housing

About an hour’s drive to the northeast of the urban core (forty-fi ve miles from

San Francisco and thirty-fi ve miles from Oakland) lies the city of Antioch (pop.

102,000). Removed also from older, inner-ring suburbs, such as Berkeley, and

larger edge cities, such as Walnut Creek, Antioch can be classifi ed as an exurban

(powell and Reece, this volume) bedroom community located in the metropoli-

tan fringe of the Bay Area. As a relatively new suburb, Antioch emerged and

grew rapidly over the past half-century, from a population of 28,000 in 1970, to

62,000 in 1990, to 102,000 in 2010. More recently, Antioch’s racial composition

has become increasingly diverse. According to U.S. Census data, for instance,

the percentage of Antioch’s population that identifi es as African American has

increased from 2.7 percent in 1990, to 9.7 percent in 2000, to 17.3 percent in

2010 (U.S. Bureau of the Census 1992, 2001, 2011b). To get a better sense of the

sociospatial and political milieu, we examine how processes of suburban degen-

trifi cation, demographic change, and intrasuburban boundary encroachment

have unfolded in Antioch.

Suburban Degentrifi cation

Like many suburbs and exurbs, Antioch was an enthusiastic participant in the

pre-crisis housing boom. From 2000 to 2005, four thousand new homes were

built, increasing the number of units in Antioch by more than 10 percent. Much

of this growth was concentrated in the upscale southeastern part of the city,

where developers “went on a building spree” (S. Moore 2008). One area that


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exemplifi es this boom is the 94531 zip code. Created in 2002, the zip code is

made up of several neighborhoods tucked into southeastern Antioch, where

homes that sold for about $150,000 in 1994 had jumped to more than $500,000

by 2005 (McCormick, Said, and Zito 2007).

Much of this growth was fi nanced by adjustable-rate or “subprime” mort-

gages, which enjoyed a meteoric rise in popularity in the years preceding the

housing crash. In the fi rst half of 2005, more than 60 percent of new mortgages

in California were interest only or negative amortization, up from only 8 per-

cent in 2002. In Antioch’s 94531 zip code, 90 percent of all new mortgages were

classifi ed as adjustable-rate loans by early 2005 (ibid.). As interest rates inevita-

bly adjusted, however, homeowners found their monthly mortgage payments

soar. Families with nontraditional mortgages and speculators who had hoped

to quickly “fl ip” homes found themselves in highly untenable positions. In sub-

urban Contra Costa County, the number of mortgage-default notices jumped

more than 150 percent from 2006 to 2007 (Wechsler 2008, 10). Compounding

matters further, investors and developers retreated from suburban housing

projects en masse, leaving behind pockets of unfi nished projects, unsold homes,

and abandoned subdivisions.

In suburban areas where owner-occupied foreclosures, bankrupt “fl ippers,”

and fl eeing developers are concentrated, the results can be dramatic. As of late

2007, for instance, the 94531 zip code in southeast Antioch had the Bay Area’s

highest foreclosure rate, with 8 percent of all households in some stage of the

foreclosure process (McCormick, Said, and Zito 2007). A year later, 3,829 fore-

closures had occurred in Antioch, comprising more than 10 percent of the city’s

housing stock and almost precisely the number of homes built during the city’s

fi ve-year construction boom. In some parts of the city, almost one-third of

homes were in foreclosure (Rarey 2008).

Th e literature on revanchism generally focuses on the phenomenon in the

context of economic growth and urban (N. Smith 1996) or suburban (Niedt

2006) gentrifi cation. As Neil Smith has observed, however, revanchism may also

be particularly acute during times of economic crisis and in spaces of degentri-

fi cation (1996, 227–230). Degentrifi cation can be said to occur when economic

disinvestment triggers generally unwelcome forms of community change, such

as falling home values and income levels, an infl ux of minority households, and

signs of social, physical, and fi scal decay—all trends that are clearly evident in

the Antioch case. Even in the putatively good parts of the city, empty houses

have become a familiar sight, with neighborhoods increasingly “littered with

unkempt lawns, for-sale signs, and houses ripe for vandalism” (Public Advo-

cates, Inc., and Bay Area Legal Aid 2007, 10). Offi cials warn that the growing

number of abandoned homes will be a magnet for gangs, drug users, and the

homeless. Some observers have gone so far as to label these newly distressed

suburban and exurban spaces “slumburbia” (Leinberger 2008a; Lloyd 2008). Th e

theme of suburban ghettoization refl ects growing anxiety over demographic

change and boundary encroachment.


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Demographic Transformation and Boundary Encroachment

Property values in Antioch have plunged as a result of the housing crash. Th e

average home price in the city dropped from more than $500,000 in 2006, to

approximately $170,000 in 2008 (City-Data.com). Th ese trends can generate

rapid demographic change. As a case in point, speculators who bought at the

peak of the bubble have turned to the regional rental market for revenue streams

while waiting for properties to regain their value. But rents have also dropped in

precipitous fashion. As one housing offi cial explained:

A fi ve-bedroom home in certain areas of East [Contra Costa] County

[including Antioch] rents for around $2,400 a month. But in a diff erent

section of the county, for example, somewhere like Lafayette [a suburb

twenty-fi ve miles to the southwest of Antioch], that same house could

rent for $5,000 to $6,000 a month.

“Th erein,” he concluded, “lies a large portion of the problem” (R. Roberts 2007).

Th e underlying “problem” to which the offi cial alludes is the demographic

(class- and race-based) change associated with being on the low end of regional

rental disparities.

In 2006, new homes in Antioch began renting for “below what [was] outlined

by HUD” (ibid.), prompting many property owners to begin accepting Section 8

voucher recipients as tenants. Some landlords even began actively “seeking out

low-income renters to fi ll their vacant homes” (S. Moore 2008). As mentioned,

Section 8 takes the form of individual vouchers that are redeemed in the private

real-estate market. A key element of this approach is the portability of the

vouchers, such that recipients are allowed (and in theory, encouraged) to move

out of the inner city, thereby connecting Section 8 participants to middle-class

social networks and norms in the suburbs (Galster, Tatian, and Robin 1999,

880). Th e portability of Section 8 vouchers is now on full display in Antioch.

Between 2004 and 2009, the number of Section 8 recipients in Antioch grew by

more than 50 percent (to 1,582). From the perspective of the local anti–Section 8

movement, this infl ux lies at the core of the problem. Th e movement’s represen-

tatives consistently focus their displeasure on a narrow subset of Antioch’s

changing demography: Section 8 newcomers from the central city. “We are see-

ing families that are from San Francisco, from Richmond and Oakland that are

moving to Antioch coming from extremely bad neighborhoods,” a community

leader reports, “[and] it’s causing a lot of problems” (Gilbert, in Krupp 2006d).

Section 8 recipients have become a potent symbol in public debates over

demographic transformation in Antioch. Section 8 in and of itself, however,

does not elicit the “fear and loathing” associated with moral panic; Antioch has

long had a signifi cant number of Section 8 renters within its borders, yet moral

panic is a recent phenomenon. Ultimately, it appears that the key catalysts have

been the 230 Section 8 households living in the more affl uent part of the city,


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not their 1,240 counterparts residing in “Old” Antioch (ibid.; Krupp 2006a).

Indeed, the city’s emergent revanchism is largely a response to rapidly shift ing

intrasuburban boundaries that traditionally separated the “deserving” middle

class from the “undeserving” poor.

A specifi c pattern of sociospatial exclusion was established during the neo-

liberal era. Th is pre-crisis exclusivity was based on creating a sociospatial “con-

tainment zone” for low-income, minority residents in general, and for Section 8

recipients in particular. “Breaking through the suburban walls” did not lead to

greater socioeconomic or racial integration. Rather, poor minorities oft en found

themselves “concentrated in racially defi ned ghettoes even within the suburbs”

(Hartung and Henig 1997, 408). In Antioch, “overcrowding, blight, and home-

lessness” has long plagued the older, northwestern part of the city, and the most

vivid pockets of poverty remain concentrated there (Merritt Messenger 2004).

Poor, minority residents were eff ectively locked out of the wealthier, newer,

southeastern part of the city. Th e housing crash shattered this strict pattern of

residential exclusivity and isolation, however, as voucher recipients found they

could rather easily settle in the “nice” part of town. But the destabilization of

intrasuburban boundaries has generated new eff orts to defi ne and enforce them.

We now turn our focus to three mechanisms of exclusionary revanchism in

Antioch: the social, the carceral, and the administrative.

United Citizens for Better Neighborhoods:

The Discursive and the Social

Although the rest of the San Francisco Bay region would not feel the full eff ects

of the foreclosure crisis until 2007, signs of distress were already well evident in

Antioch by the beginning of 2006—including rising vacancy rates and rapidly

declining rents. Local resident Gary Gilbert founded the United Citizens for

Better Neighborhoods (UCBN) in mid-2006, just as the crisis was gathering

steam. Th e UCBN was created in response to a range of “fears and concerns in

the community” that coalesce around the Section 8 “infl ux.”1 Th e UCBN has

persistently maintained that “Section 8 housing is the No. 1 problem facing

Antioch” (Krupp 2006c). Local offi cials have similarly claimed that “low income

residents receiving federal assistance [were] dragging the city down” (ibid.). At

the same time, public demonstrations displayed aggressive homeowner support

for such sentiments, as signs began appearing on front doors around the city

warning, “No More Renters. No More Section 8. Save Antioch NOW. We THE

RESIDENTS are watching YOU” (Public Advocates, Inc., and Bay Area Legal

Aid 2007, 10). Th e UCBN has amplifi ed and honed this sentiment and in so

doing has fulfi lled a “sensitization” function whereby people become acutely

aware of specifi c behaviors or phenomena “linked to the off ending agents [in

ways] that, in ordinary times . . . would have disappeared in the routines and

hubbub of everyday life” (Goode and Ben-Yehuda 1994, 156). Two discursive

themes are of particular note.


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Discursive Theme 1: The Undeserving Poor and

the Myth of the “Million-Dollar” Welfare Mansion

UCBN representatives oft en comment on the perceived injustice of welfare

recipients living in luxury—a claim based on the sharp distinction between the

deserving middle class and the undeserving poor. Section 8 recipients moving

into “New” Antioch are seen as distinctly undeserving of such a privilege. “Sec-

tion 8 is not supposed to be a lifestyle,” Gilbert explains (Read 2006). Th is is also

a favorite theme of local offi cials. Recent mayoral candidate Allen Payton frames

the issue in terms of unearned rewards:

Right now, it is one child per bedroom. Th at’s ridiculous! Th at means if

you have four kids, you have to live in a fi ve-bedroom house. I am sorry!

You did not earn that. You did not earn the right to live there.2

According to a councilman from nearby Oakley, “It is wrong to use taxpayer

money to put people in . . . housing at the very high end. It’s just wrong” (R. Rob-

erts 2007).

Th e UCBN also helps fashion local public opinion about who is perpetuat-

ing this injustice. Two folk devils are largely held to be responsible: government

administrators and voucher recipients themselves. On the one hand, regional

offi cials are accused of consciously funneling voucher holders into the area.

According to one anti–Section 8 blogger, Section 8 recipients “are in apartments

in [the inner city] and [the PHA is] telling them if you move to Antioch and

bring enough kids with you, you can have a house. Th ey are putting them in

$1-million houses” (Wagner, in Krupp 2006a). Th e UCBN agrees that housing

offi cials are culpable but ultimately places blame at the feet of the poor: “Th ere

are too many people taking advantage of the system . . . bleeding the system,”

argues Gilbert (Read 2006). In this reading, housing offi cials are the unwitting

victims of the schemes of the undeserving poor.

Claims concerning Section 8 tenants living in million-dollar mansions are

a discursive myth fabricated by using generous estimations of pre-crisis home

values. Th e decline of home values is never advanced as an explanation for the

growing number of low-income residents in the community: Th e very premise

of the claim (voucher holders living in million-dollar homes) precludes such a

framing. In reality, the arrival of Section 8 participants is not a cause of falling

property values (as the UCBN claims)—it is an eff ect of falling property values.

Despite its empirical inaccuracy, however, this narrative accomplishes an

important function: It separates those who belong from those who do not. “We

know the Housing Authority is subsidizing the rent of . . . convicted felons liv-

ing in million dollar homes that hardworking families cannot aff ord to buy,” a

local editorial breathlessly reveals (Contra Costa Times 2006). Th e dichotomy is

clear: hardworking, middle-class families on the one hand versus dangerous

criminals on the other. Once identifi ed and stigmatized, these residents can


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be systematically separated from their more desirable counterparts. As Gans

observes:

Since the undeserving poor are thought to be dangerous or improperly

socialized, their behavior either has to be modifi ed so they act in socially

approved ways, or they have to be isolated from the deserving sectors of

society. (1994, 273)

When poor minorities are labeled undeserving, the door is opened “for nearly

unlimited scapegoating” (ibid.). In Antioch, such recriminations have been

harsh and swift .

Discursive Theme 2: Crime, Violence, and Blight

A second theme emphasized by the UCBN is the perceived connection between

Section 8 and an increase in crime, violence, and blight. UCBN meetings largely

consist of homeowners describing their (oft en frightful) experiences with new

Section 8 arrivals. Recurrent themes at these meetings include the threat of

crime and the feeling of living “under siege.” Local offi cials have made similar

assertions. In the 2008 mayoral election, ex-councilman Payton ran on a plat-

form calling for a Section 8 moratorium. According to Payton:

Th ere is a direct correlation between Section 8 housing and crime. . . .

[Crime] has been growing over the last ten years for a variety of reasons,

[such as] the demographic changes in Antioch, the people . . . that are

from tougher neighborhoods, rougher neighborhoods, inner-city [neigh-

borhoods], who are used to that criminal element.3

In short, there is widespread consensus in Antioch that crime is on the rise, and

the source of the crime is poor minorities from the central city.

Although such assumptions are exceedingly popular, their empirical valid-

ity is questionable. For example, according to police department data, per-

capita crime in Antioch declined by half between 1990 and 2005 (Doryland

2006), and by 2007 it had not signifi cantly increased. Misconceptions continue

to thrive, however, “despite the absence of any correlation between Antioch’s

crime rates and the number of Section 8 families living there” (Public Advo-

cates, Inc., and Bay Area Legal Aid 2007, 1). Even without compelling evidence,

crime has become a rallying cry for the UCBN. For instance, the organization

has held several well-attended anticrime marches, where participants carried

signs with such slogans as, “Criminals Get Out,” “U.R. Being Watched,” and

“Our City, Our Taxes, Our Rules” (ibid., 10). By highlighting the perceived

relationship between Section 8 and crime, the UCBN contributes to the social

production of fear, which further legitimizes punitive and coercive strategies

of exclusion.


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Th e UCBN also stresses the perception that the homes of Section 8 tenants

are magnets for squalor and suburban blight. Certainly, dilapidated properties

are a reason for concern, but there is no evidence that Section 8 renters cause

blight. In fact, claims concerning the correlation between Section 8 and blight

are logically inconsistent with claims concerning Section 8 participants living in

luxury. Despite the inconsistencies of such claims, they dovetail with the organi-

zation’s overarching message: Whether poor, minority Section 8 recipients live

in unearned luxury or whether they live in squalid blight, they do not have the

same values as members of the receiving community, they cannot be trusted,

and they threaten to both depress area home values and ruin the community’s

vaunted quality of life.

Discursive Theme 3: The Colorblind Rhetoric of Exclusion

An important component of the UCBN’s strategy is the use of colorblind rheto-

ric. Claims concerning the organization’s putatively race-neutral agenda are

bolstered by the fact that the primary spokesperson for the movement (UCBN

founder Gilbert) and several prominent supporters are African American. Cer-

tainly the UCBN’s exclusionary campaign has not gone without criticism,

including accusations of racism and xenophobia (Public Advocates, Inc., and

Bay Area Legal Aid 2007). Yet the UCBN can defl ect such critiques by noting

that it is a multicultural group with colorblind objectives. Gilbert himself has

publicly denounced charges of racism, arguing that the agenda of the UCBN has

“nothing to do with race . . . [but] with behavior” (Gilbert 2006). Th e colorblind

narrative employed by the UCBN has provided the local state with the discur-

sive cover necessary to pursue its aggressive strategy of exclusion and expulsion.

Th e UCBN’s colorblind rhetoric should be critically evaluated. First, the

rhetoric adopted by the UCBN has a distinct racial subtext. In a public letter to

Congressional Representative Ellen Tauscher, for example, the UCBN clearly

invokes racially charged imagery. “Th anks to government agencies,” the letter

begins, “we now have . . . drug dealers hanging out at local gas stations and vio-

lence-prone family members fi ghting in our streets like uncivilized miscreants”

(Read 2006). Gilbert has used similarly coded language: “Th at lifestyle, that

ghetto attitude, they are bringing that with them, [and] it’s causing a lot of

problems in the schools and with crime” (Gilbert, in Krupp 2006d). Secondly,

the colorblind veneer so carefully cultivated by the UCBN can mask objectively

racialized patterns of exclusion:

[Exclusionary tendencies] can help entrench racialized social divisions

despite their racially neutral language. Indeed, their seeming racial neu-

trality may help explain their popularity. Because they couch territorial

exclusions as natural and even healthy behaviors of communities, they

help legitimate spatial boundary construction that may well be moti-

vated by racial antipathy. (Herbert and Brown 2006, 771)


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Th e rhetoric employed by the UCBN only hints at the stark racial disparities

that characterize the practice of social control and exclusion, a point to which

we return below.

The UCBN as Mechanism of Informal Social Control

In addition to its discursive functions, the UCBN also pursues its anti–Section 8

agenda by serving as a mechanism of “informal social control.” To this end, the

UCBN’s preferred strategy has been the identifi cation, surveillance, and moni-

toring of Section 8 residents living in the high-end suburbs of southeastern

Antioch. For instance, the UCBN has produced a website that includes detailed

maps of Section 8 properties in the area and easy-to-use links encouraging resi-

dents to fi le complaints (criminal or nuisance) against Section 8 residents with

the local police department and local housing authority. In this manner, the

UCBN has provided the community with a literal roadmap to specifi c residents

it has unequivocally labeled “folk devils”—the personifi cation of the problem

that demands eradication.

Th e UCBN believes that its eff orts to identify and monitor Section 8 tenants

have positively aff ected their behavior. UCBN founder Gilbert has admitted that

although he suspects several of his own neighbors receive Section 8 vouchers,

“they have been pretty quiet. . . . I think they know all the neighbors are aware

that they are Section 8, and they know that if there are any problems, they will

be reported” (Krupp 2006d). Newcomers have been forewarned: Th ey will be

watched and surveilled—by their own neighbors. As Susan Bennett notes, when

poor people “cross boundaries expressed in terms of geography but created by

forces of race and class,” they are “discounted . . . distrusted [and] disowned as

fellow citizens of the polity, by their own neighbors” (1995, 1229). Th e social

control functions of the UCBN complement the carceral mechanisms of exclu-

sion, a topic to which we now turn.

The Community Action Team: The Carceral

Suburban America exhibits an “extraordinary ambivalence” over low-income

residential mobility: “[Mobility] is at once treasured and feared: treasured as

an attribute and enabler of personal autonomy, feared as a characteristic of the

unpredictable and uncontrollable stranger” (Bennett 1995, 1209). In Antioch,

circumstances have tipped the scales in favor of fear and hostility. Before the

mortgage crisis, low-income residents were eff ectively isolated in pockets of

concentrated suburban poverty, and hence any threats they may have posed

were eff ectively neutralized in the minds of local residents and offi cials. As

boundaries have become destabilized, however, the strategy of neutralization

has been replaced with a strategy of “hyperpunitive” coercion (Herbert and

Brown 2006).


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Th e institutional mechanism charged with implementing this tactical shift

has been the Antioch Police Department’s Community Action Team. Th e CAT

was created in July 2006 with a mission to address the eff ects of suburban

degentrifi cation and to contain visible signs of poverty by addressing “substan-

dard housing . . . vagrants, abandoned buildings [and] lack of property main-

tenance.” In 2007, the CAT had a fi rst-year budget of $320,000 and consisted

of “four or fi ve offi cers” (Public Advocates, Inc., and Bay Area Legal Aid 2007,

12). Th e vast majority of the energies and resources of this special task force

are expended on “quality-of-life issues such as eyesore properties and criminal

activities” associated with Section 8 households (Braun 2006). In the fi rst four

months of its existence, 75 percent of CAT’s 65 cases targeted Section 8 homes,

and in its fi rst year of operation, 114 of its 171 cases (66 percent) were similarly

focused (Coetsee 2006). Th e CAT’s eff orts to contain low-income housing con-

sist of three primary tactics: the surveillance, harassment, and criminalization of

Section 8 recipients.

Tactic 1: Identifying and Monitoring

Th e CAT is responsible for surveilling Section 8 tenants. Th is task was presum-

ably easier when poor minorities were contained within “Old” Antioch, but the

identifi cation of Section 8 recipients is now much trickier, because low-income

housing is more diff used throughout the community. Despite widely repeated

claims that Section 8 properties exhibit obvious signs of neglect, there is no easy

or reliable way to determine who is “in place” and who is “out of place” in

southeastern Antioch. Typically, the fi rst thing a CAT offi cer does before physi-

cally responding to an incident is to contact the PHA to determine whether the

residence in question is a Section 8 unit (Public Advocates, Inc., and Bay Area

Legal Aid 2007, 19). Once identifi ed, Section 8 renters are subjected to extensive

surveillance and a sustained and aggressive police presence. According to one

recipient, “For three months straight . . . they drove up and down the street.

Parked in the lot, they’re sitting in front of my house, harassing [us].”4 CAT

offi cers also inform the “neighbors of African American Section 8 households

that [they are] receiving Section 8 housing assistance and suggest that neigh-

bors fi le nuisance or disturbance reports” (Public Advocates et al. 2008, 2). As

traditional boundaries erode, Antioch utilizes surveillance and monitoring to

pursue neighborhood exclusivity and to maintain the appropriate sociospatial

distance between classes and races.

Tactic 2: Harassment and Intimidation

Th e CAT is also engaged in a three-pronged campaign of harassment and intim-

idation against Section 8 recipients. First, once the CAT identifi es a Section 8

participant, it contacts the local PHA to request the termination of the family’s


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housing assistance. Th e CAT recommends termination in more than 75 percent

of its Section 8 cases, and the distribution of these referrals is not race-neutral.

Although just over half of all Section 8 recipients in Antioch are black, almost

70 percent of the termination referrals were for African American households

(Public Advocates, Inc., and Bay Area Legal Aid 2007, 26). Secondly, the CAT

deliberately intimidates the landlords of Section 8 residences. A standard prac-

tice is to contact property owners and managers with “strongly worded letters”

(ibid., 24) informing them of alleged misconduct on the part of the tenants (or

other code-enforcement issues) and demanding “immediate compliance . . . [to]

avoid criminal abatement and/or civil litigation” (Williams v. Antioch 2008).

Lastly, the CAT’s cases oft en result in a variety of “non-search investigation

activities” that are not regulated or even formally monitored and hence can be

utilized as formidable methods of coercion and intimidation. Th ese “investiga-

tions” include unannounced home visits, “reviewing records of public agencies

. . . contacting neighbors; and contacting past and present landlords” (Public

Advocates, Inc., and Bay Area Legal Aid 2007, 22).

Th ese tactics appear to be achieving the desired eff ect, if the objective is to

instill fear into the hearts of low-income residents who have ventured into “New”

Antioch. From the perspective of Section 8 participants, the actions of the CAT

can be interpreted in no other way. As one Section 8 recipient recounts, “My

family has been terrorized. My landlord has been pressured. My housing has

been jeopardized.”5 “Me and my kids [were] terrifi ed,” recalled another. “We

were scared to come out of our home.”6

Tactic 3: Criminalization

Patterns of surveillance and intimidation are buttressed by the criminalization

of Section 8 housing in Antioch. Th e city has, in eff ect, criminalized a variety of

noncriminal activities. Even a conservative reading of the available data indi-

cates that 40 percent of the CAT’s residential cases originate with a noncriminal

complaint, such as children playing, loud noise, unkempt lawns, or code vio-

lations (Public Advocates, Inc., and Bay Area Legal Aid 2007). Many of these

complaints can be traced to the sensitization generated by moral panic. One

voucher recipient recounted how she had been cited for a disturbance before

her family had even moved into the house in question.7

CAT offi cers, based merely on reports of noncriminal activity, will oft en

search a Section 8 residence until something deemed criminal turns up. As one

participant recalls:

Th e CAT team . . . came over on a complaint from a neighbor that my

son was playing basketball in the backyard too late. . . . Th ey came into

my house [and] before I could say anything they were going upstairs. . . .

My bedroom [had] been searched. My personal things looked through.

I feel like I have been violated [but] I [had] done nothing wrong.8


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Th is is not an uncommon scenario; warrantless searches of Section 8 residences

account for 75 percent of the CAT’s reported home searches, 35 percent of

which are “conducted on the basis of a purely non-criminal complaint” (Public

Advocates, Inc., and Bay Area Legal Aid 2007, 21). Th e criminalization process

is also seen in patterns of local Section 8 terminations. Despite rhetoric to the

contrary, the vast majority of Section 8 evictions are due to noncriminal activity.

By late 2006, for instance, the PHA had terminated the vouchers of sixty-six

families based on CAT recommendations, but only fi ve of these terminations

were based on criminal infractions: Th e other sixty-one families (92.4 percent)

were dropped from the program due to a variety of noncriminal “lease viola-

tions” (Glover 2006). Th e zeal with which the city has criminalized Section 8

housing poses a direct threat to public safety. For example, a number of “CAT

cases originated with the Section 8 tenant requesting police service for her own

protection, oft en because [of] a domestic violence situation” (Public Advocates,

Inc., and Bay Area Legal Aid 2007, 27). “Th ey act like since you are on Section 8,

you don’t have a right to call the police,” says one recipient.9

Prowling Suburban Boundaries: Race, Space and Section 8

None of the carceral tactics utilized by the local state—whether surveillance,

harassment, or criminalization—appear to be race-neutral in their implementa-

tion. In Antioch, black households “are four times more likely than white house-

holds to be subjected to unwelcome . . . interference with their housing rights”

(Public Advocates et al. 2008; emphasis original). Section 8 recipients living in

Antioch responded by fi ling a class-action lawsuit in federal court (Williams v.

Antioch 2008). As discussed below, the lawsuit describes a “disturbing pattern of

racial profi ling,” harassment, and intimidation directed against poor, black,

female-headed Section 8 households that had moved into upscale homes in

Antioch’s “good” neighborhoods (Public Advocates, Inc., and Bay Area Legal

Aid 2007, 34).

Th e racialized tactics of the CAT come into sharper focus when we consider

their spatial manifestation. As noted, the vast majority of Section 8 recipients

still reside in “Old” Antioch. At the time that the CAT was created, only 230 of

1,470 voucher holders (15.6 percent) lived in “New” Antioch. Yet an analysis of

termination requests sent to the PHA reveals that the CAT has disproportion-

ately focused on the good part of the city: Only 3.4 percent of all Section 8

households in the “bad” part of town have received termination referrals, as

compared to 9.3 percent of Section 8 families in the “good” part of Antioch. Th is

is a “disparity [that] is particularly stark in light of . . . statistics that show that

calls for police service on the northwestern side of town outnumber calls on the

southeastern side of town by a three-to-one ratio” (ibid., 27). Because more than

75 percent of Section 8 renters living on the good side of the tracks are African

American, eff orts to categorically expel voucher holders from these neighbor-

hoods cannot be race-neutral.


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The CAT Team as Moral Entrepreneur:

The “Quality of Life Forums”

Th e CAT has also engaged in a campaign to garner public support for its revan-

chist tactics, as Section 8 renters must be defi ned as dangerous to justify the

city’s highly punitive strategy. Th e key mechanism deployed by the city is a

series of public meetings (held quarterly) known as the Quality of Life Forums.

Th e narratives that emerge from these meetings echo the themes emphasized by

the UCBN, but these forums add another layer of legitimacy to moral panic, as

offi cials are able to emphasize perceived dangers with an air of authority not

available to other actors. For example, Quality of Life Forum IV (February 1,

2008) included a presentation by the chief of police on Section 8 fraud. Th ere,

Chief Jim Hyde propagated the common misconception that Section 8 renters

routinely live in million-dollar homes.

Th e presentation included a telling visual and rhetorical fl ourish. Brandish-

ing pictures of a beautiful suburban home with an expensive car in the garage,

Chief Hyde proceeded to weave a tale of suburban fraud and deception that

would rival the most egregious urban “welfare queen” narratives of a previous

generation:

Police Chief Hyde highlighted the case of one Section 8 recipient who

was receiving rent for a $1 million home with a swimming pool and a

hot tub. A [new] Mercedes . . . sat in the driveway. She employed a

housekeeper, landscaper, pool cleaner and a nanny and received more

than $120,000 in state assistance for the care of her foster children.

(Read 2007a)

As it turns out, these assertions were severe distortions of reality. Th e arrival of

Section 8 renters into “New” Antioch can more accurately be traced to falling

property values than fraud. Even the images displayed were inaccurate. Accord-

ing to city council meeting transcripts, Chief Hyde subsequently met with the

Section 8 recipient in question, and while he “never apologized . . . he [did

admit] that he had [gotten] two houses mixed up.” “All [of it] was falsifi ed,”

insists the tenant. “None of it was true.”10

Although the chief failed to get his facts right, he managed to get his point

across. Th e Quality of Life Forums appear to have gone a long way in creating a

culture of fear, distrust, and recrimination in the community. Clearly, fostering

trust and cooperation between Section 8 recipients and homeowners is simply

not feasible in the context of moral panic. Yet, building community is precisely

what the CAT claims to be doing. Th is disjuncture is best understood in terms

of boundary encroachment, in that the CAT functions “to ensure community

health through the eff ective repulsion of unwanted outsiders” (Herbert and

Brown 2006, 758). Just as the CAT’s exclusionary objectives and carceral tactics

coincide with and legitimize the activities of the UCBN, they also dovetail with


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and reinforce the administrative practices of the local PHA—a topic to which

we now turn our attention.

The Contra Costa Housing Authority:

The Administrative

We have discussed the federal shift toward a housing agenda based on decon-

centration, mobility, and choice. Th e largest housing initiative with a portability

component is the Section 8 program, which serves more than two million low-

income families in the United States (Priemus, Kemp, and Varady 2005) and is

administered by thousands of local Public Housing Authorities across the coun-

try. PHAs enjoy a signifi cant degree of autonomy, such that there can be notable

variation across jurisdictions within a single metropolitan region. Despite the

fact that local PHAs are largely governed by a “complex set of national rules and

procedures,”

[they] have considerable discretion over how Section 8 operates within

their jurisdictions. For example, each PHA accepts applications for Sec-

tion 8, maintains its own waiting list, establishes local selection prefer-

ences, recruits landlords to participate and conducts housing inspec-

tions. (Katz and Turner 2000, 2)

Th is autonomy can be translated into signifi cant administrative power, such

that suburban PHAs now play a key role in shaping the metropolitan landscape

of low-income housing.

In this case, the local PHA—the Housing Authority of Contra Costa County

(HACCC)—has played a pivotal role in struggles over boundary encroachment.

Th e most striking aspect of HACCC’s recent history is a radical shift in leader-

ship and policy orientation that occurred in the summer of 2007. A year earlier,

with the housing market swooning and anti–Section 8 sentiment simmering, the

HACCC was already a magnet for concerns over degentrifi cation. To its credit,

however, the HACCC was not initially swayed by anti–Section 8 sentiment.

The “Early” HACCC: Regional Resistance to

Local Moral Panic

Soon aft er the CAT was formed, the city requested a list of Section 8 units from

the PHA. Th e HACCC originally denied the request, citing state and federal

privacy laws (Krupp 2006b). A county report wryly notes that it was “not clear”

what Antioch “would do with [the] list [as] the practice of targeting criminal

enforcement based on a statistical profi le of a class of individuals, before hav-

ing evidence of a particular crime, is legally suspect.” City offi cials bristled at

the decision. “Th is is . . . stupid,” argued a “frustrated and angered” Chief

Hyde. “Th ey won’t share information with us. . . . [It’s] irresponsible and is


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hurting our community” (Hyde, in Read 2007b). Antioch Councilman Arne

Simonsen concurred:

I question whether it’s a privacy issue when you’re receiving all of our

tax money. As taxpayers, we have a right to know where our money is

going. . . . Th is makes it totally impossible for our police department to

help the housing authority. Th at’s just weird. (ibid.)

At the time, HACCC’s Executive Director Rudy Tamayo was unapologetic in

justifying the decision, in spite of its unpopularity.

Another aspect of the HACCC’s early resistance involved formal complaints

initiated by the CAT. Despite the spike of termination requests that accompa-

nied the CAT’s formation, there was no concomitant jump in terminations, as

the HACCC did not initially act as a rubber stamp for the exclusionary whims

of local homeowners and offi cials. Despite an uptick in voucher terminations,

the rate of “unfounded termination referrals” under Tamayo’s watch rose sig-

nifi cantly in the wake of the crisis, and ultimately 54 percent of all cases submit-

ted to the PHA during his tenure did not meet the criteria for eviction. Further-

more, 72 percent of these “nonmeritorious” referrals targeted African Americans

households, while only 18 percent targeted white participants (Public Advo-

cates, Inc., and Bay Area Legal Aid 2007, 27).

In the spring of 2006, Tamayo announced that a satellite offi ce of the PHA

would open in Antioch. However, Tamayo made it clear that the move “was not

only driven by complaints about subsidized housing . . . but [also concerns

about] Section 8 residents and landlords who are beginning to feel intimidated in

an increasingly hostile environment” (Krupp 2006b). When residents requested

that the city restrict Section 8 housing, Tamayo argued against such a cap. Even

more fundamentally, Tamayo challenged the labeling process itself. “I don’t

know if the stereotype [of Section 8 tenants] is warranted,” he argued. “I know

too many good participants who are now off the program that couldn’t have

made it without some assistance” (Krupp 2006a). To the end of his tenure,

Tamayo supported inclusionary, nonpunitive tactics to address the communi-

ty’s concerns, such as workshops for Section 8 landlords, counseling programs

for tenants, and additional staff in the Antioch offi ce (Read 2007a). Yet Tama-

yo’s proposals proved to be an unacceptable compromise for local homeowners

and offi cials—a formidable coalition of anti–Section 8 interests that would

soon come to exert tremendous infl uence over the local PHA.

The Political Economy of Suburban Moral Panic:

Extra-local Coalition Building

When the HACCC resisted appropriation by anti–Section 8 forces, area home-

owners began pursuing alternative strategies. One proposal was for the city to

create its own agency that would exist independently of the PHA (Krupp 2006a).


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Antioch could thus restrict the number of vouchers redeemed within its borders

by enforcing stricter policies concerning the living conditions and behaviors of

Section 8 tenants (Krupp 2006d). Although this approach may have been the

most defi nitive response, it was also the most expensive; some estimates put the

annual price tag at more than $1 million. As it would be overly costly to secede

from the county-based HACCC, the local anti–Section 8 coalition turned its

attention to existing administrative structures, beginning with the County Board

of Supervisors.

Because the County Board of Supervisors directly governs the HACCC, it

was quickly and enthusiastically targeted by anti–Section 8 activists. But the

board did not immediately embrace the anti–Section 8 agenda. Th e crucial

development came when the UCBN contacted U.S. Congressional Representa-

tive Tauscher (D-CA, 10th District) to ask for help in fi ghting “Section 8 abuse

in our community,” because “it is the will of the people that the federal govern-

ment take immediate action to reform the Section 8 program” (Read 2006). Rep.

Tauscher proved to be very sympathetic to these concerns and quickly orches-

trated an external audit of the HACCC. Th e audit generated a HUD report that

was widely hailed as shining a light on the local mismanagement of the Sec-

tion 8 program. Th e report concludes that in the fi rst half of 2006, the HACCC

disbursed $82,659 in “unsupported housing assistance payments.” According to

the report, the HACCC failed to consistently determine whether the rents of

Section 8 units were “reasonable” (HUD Offi ce of the Inspector General 2006).

Th is came as welcome news to the UCBN, which had castigated the agency for

subsidizing the lavish lifestyles of Section 8 tenants. On closer inspection, how-

ever, the mismanagement uncovered by the HUD audit was far less threatening

than anti–Section 8 activists would have the public believe.

First, the scale of the problem was modest. Although the $82,659 in over-

payments is signifi cant, it represents a mere 0.2 percent of the HACCC’s $37

million (six-month) voucher budget (ibid.). Furthermore, none of the violations

involved voucher holders living in the “good” (southeastern) part of town, nor

were recipients living in million-dollar homes. Lastly, the report found no evi-

dence of systematic bias in favor of Section 8 renters—the HACCC was just as

likely to underpay for a unit as to overpay for it. While this is a case of “sloppy

record keeping” (Huff 2007), it does not indicate systematic infl ation of Section

8 payments, as the UCBN claims and as the media have dutifully reported.

The Appropriation of the Housing Authority:

From Inclusion to Exclusion

Following the HUD audit, even the HACCC’s few supporters began to back-

track. Beleaguered Director Tamayo quickly found himself on the receiving end

of “repeated public scoldings from county supervisors,” and local leaders were

no longer shy about calling for his resignation (Huff 2007). In May 2007, just

one year aft er the formation of the CAT, Tamayo tendered his resignation, and


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Joseph Villarreal was named the new executive director. Under Villarreal, the

HACCC’s primary objective has shift ed to the systematic exclusion of certain

Section 8 participants, which has involved implementing enhanced screening

techniques designed to prevent unwanted outsiders from settling in the area.

Th e fi rst measure taken has been to extend the criminal background check from

one year to fi ve years (Read 2007a), while a “second tier of criminal background

checks” has been targeted at Section 8 tenants “already in the federal program

who wish to relocate to Contra Costa County” (Halfway to Concord 2007). “We

need to be as aggressive in screening applicants as the law allows,” Villarreal has

insisted (ibid.).

Th e HACCC’s waiting list is illustrative in this regard. In 2001, the HACCC

briefl y opened its waiting list and received almost twenty thousand applications

for vouchers. Of the total applicants, between six thousand and seven thousand

received assistance, and an additional twelve thousand were placed on a waiting

list (Costa 2008). At the time of Tamayo’s resignation, between three thousand

and four thousand families remained in queue for vouchers (Read 2006). Th e

new director aggressively culled the list, such that by the fall of 2008, the county

could boast of a surplus of 341 vouchers—the waiting list had been eff ectively

screened out of existence. Soon thereaft er, the HACCC announced it would

once again open its waiting list (for fi ve days). A lottery further fi ltered the

applicants (estimated at well over twenty thousand) down to an arbitrary cap of

six thousand families, at which point the remaining applicants were subjected to

an intense screening process designed to “screen out . . . behavior that is going

to negatively impact . . . the health and safety of the neighborhood” (Read 2008).

Administrators have also begun prioritizing applicants on the basis of their

foreclosure status, which gives them another powerful tool to weed out “unde-

sirables” from the pool of Section 8 participants. “Th is round of applicants,” a

local newspaper optimistically reports, “will likely include working families with

moderate incomes who have gone through foreclosure. [Hence,] we hope that

the tenant behavior is going to be better because these are previous homeowners

who are [now] renting” (Costa 2008). Providing expedited assistance to the vic-

tims of the foreclosure crisis is an admirable objective, but the ability of the

HACCC to tactically manipulate its waiting list to enforce race- and class-based

exclusivity is cause for concern.

Tightening the screening process for low-income housing assistance is not

a novel strategy for restricting access to the suburbs. As a rule, local PHAs can

exert signifi cant discretion over waiting lists through the strategic utilization of

“local preferences.” Historically, PHAs have used their preferences for “persons

already residing within the jurisdiction [and] as a screen against [the] in-migra-

tion of minority tenants” (Bennett 1995, 1226). However, even if no discrimina-

tory screening is deliberately employed, local preferences allow PHAs to “select

from their waiting lists for the very characteristics that poor people have been

denied the mobility to achieve: employment, income, and residency in a more

desirable place” (ibid.).


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The Seething in Suburbia: A Hopeful Look Forward

Th e destabilization of residential boundaries—and the collision of races and

classes that it entails—is at the heart of the social and political struggles unfold-

ing in Antioch. What many residents have found particularly galling is the

breakdown of intrasuburban boundaries between nonwhite, low-income, unde-

serving Section 8 recipients “from the city” and white, middle-class, deserving

homeowners living in affl uent exurban neighborhoods. Without question,

degentrifi cation represents a very real threat to the wealth and quality of life of

middle-class suburban residents, but there is little reason to believe that the

modest numbers of Section 8 participants in southeast Antioch are the objective

source of these dangers. Rather, as Antioch’s community-development director

has observed, low-income housing is being used as a “scapegoat” for the city’s

problems: “We are all looking for someone to blame and Section 8 is a conve-

nient [target]” (Brandt, in Krupp 2006a).

Th e community’s disproportionate and reactionary response to boundary

destabilization has assumed some measure of permanence through such local

institutions as the UCBN, the CAT, and the HACCC. For several years (2006–

2010), in fact, neighborhood associations, local and regional offi cials, the media,

and business interests all contributed to a formidable anti–Section 8 consensus

in Antioch. Indeed, a notable characteristic of the case is the absence of any

clear or organized grassroots, progressive countermovement. Unlike their inner-

city and inner-ring suburban counterparts, low-income residents in exurban

communities, such as Antioch, are largely bereft of the community-based orga-

nizations that combat poverty, marginalization, and exclusion (Imbroscio 2008,

121–123). Lacking an organizational infrastructure, progressive activists in the

suburban fringe may well be overwhelmed by exclusionary forces, such as the

anti–Section 8 movement.

All of this is not to paint an overly bleak image of the prospect of social jus-

tice and progressive grassroots politics in Antioch. Th e fi rst note of optimism is

theoretical. Although it is true that a thorough and unyielding consensus is one

of the hallmarks of moral panics, an important countervailing characteristic is

their impermanence and extreme volatility. Moral panic burns hot, but its fl ame

is brief; as attentions turn elsewhere, as energies dissipate, as resources dwindle,

and as resistance coalesces, social and institutional consensus inevitably falters,

and a space opens for meaningful contestation and negotiation.

A second note of optimism is empirical. Although there was little public or

grassroots dissention over the issue of exclusionary revanchism in Antioch, con-

cerns were being voiced by voucher holders themselves, their organizational

advocates, and their legal representatives. In mid-2008, fi ve African American

women (all living in southeastern Antioch) fi led a class-action civil rights law-

suit challenging the race-based and highly punitive activities of Antioch’s CAT

(Williams v. Antioch 2008). Given the circumstances, this seems to have been

a successful strategy: In late 2011, the city of Antioch agreed to settle the case.


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Along with monetary damages ($360,000), the plaintiff s wrested several struc-

tural reforms from the city, the most important pertaining to police oversight.

To begin with, the city agreed to federal court jurisdiction for a period of three

years. Furthermore, the police department agreed to send copies of all HACCC

complaints and termination requests to the nonprofi t law fi rm representing the

plaintiff s (the Impact Fund). And lastly, the city agreed to cease basing its polic-

ing strategies on race-based criteria or Section 8 status. But while litigation may

at times represent an attractive local strategy (especially in egregious cases), ulti-

mately legal remedies “are not subject to any standardized national norms,”

making their broad or systematic application impossible (Bennett 1995, 1227).

Th e limited reach and unreliable outcomes of legal challenges necessitate the

development of complementary strategies of inclusion.

A third note of optimism is thus strategic. As sobering as the Antioch case

may be, it contains lessons for those seeking to implement the current voucher

system in a more equitable fashion. First, we would do well to broaden the

application of education and counseling services in deconcentration scenarios.

Analysts and policymakers are virtually unanimous in observing that mobility

can only be achieved through a combination of “intense counseling, informa-

tion provision, and placement services” (Hartung and Henig 1997, 407). How-

ever, this education is oft en conceived as being rigidly unidirectional, such that

it solely targets Section 8 recipients. Only more rarely is the education function

seen as consisting of bidirectional eff orts that target both Section 8 newcomers

and members of the receiving community. A bidirectional strategy is not merely

necessary in communities that are in the throes of moral panic. Rather, as

George C. Galster et al. argue, “enhanced public education” is broadly needed,

because “conventional fears about the impact of deconcentrated assisted hous-

ing programs are not, in general, justifi ed” (2003, 199). Cities can counteract

this misperception by launching a “concerted, ongoing” public-relations cam-

paign that publicizes success stories and examples of “deserving” Section 8

recipients while combating common misperceptions and stigmas associated

with voucher holders (ibid.).

Secondly, some of the obstacles to mobility found in suburban receiving

communities could be overcome through the “rescaling” of administrative

authority, such as the regional management of low-income housing programs.

A regulatory apparatus organized around the scale of the metropolitan region

could retain “fl exibility” and remain attuned to local conditions but would be

large enough to avoid counterproductive parochialism. Many have criticized the

current “balkanized” system (made up of thousands of highly localized PHAs)

for its extreme fragmentation, which “undermines the larger potential of the

voucher system” (Katz and Turner 2000). “Some communities,” Edward Goetz

observes, “[create] PHAs for no other purpose than to avoid unwanted public

housing” (2003, 33). Th e local regulatory enforcement of community exclusivity

runs contrary to the objectives of federal policy and could largely be rectifi ed

through the administrative rescaling of the program.


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Th e anti–Section 8 movement is fueled by the popular assumption that the

primary boundary to suburban integration is the deviance and pathology of

Section 8 participants themselves—an assumption shared by more than a few

analysts and policy makers. In the context of the Antioch case, however, such

assumptions appear misplaced. Suburban boundaries are not the natural out-

come of group defi ciencies but rather are socially constructed and politically

maintained through institutional mechanisms of exclusion. Th ese mechanisms—

the social, carceral, and administrative—have carried out an exaggerated, mis-

placed, and, ultimately, racist attack on low-income newcomers that is motivated

by an acute desire for revenge and punishment. And it is these mechanisms that

must be strategically targeted by analysts, policy makers, and activists seeking to

forge a more inclusive path.

Notes

A version of this paper was presented at the Diverse Suburbs conference held at the

National Center for Suburban Studies (Hofstra University) in October 2009, and the au-

thors would like to thank its organizers and participants. In addition, the authors are

grateful for the critical readings and advice provided by Fred Block, Bruce Haynes, Chris-

tine Hopkins, Michael McQuarrie, Michael Peter Smith, and Bernadette Tarallo. Lastly,

the authors are indebted to the editor of this volume, Christopher Niedt, for his many

constructive suggestions.

1. Gary Gilbert, interview by Casey Gallagher, February 13, 2008.

2. Allen Payton, interview by Casey Gallagher, November 6, 2008.

3. Ibid.

4. K. Bell, public comment at Antioch City Council Meeting, September 25, 2007.

5. A. Payne, public comment at Antioch City Council Meeting, September 25, 2007.

6. S. Williams, public comment at Antioch City Council Meeting, September 25, 2007.

7. M. R. Scott, public comment at Antioch City Council Meeting, September 25, 2007.

8. P. Bunton, public comment at Antioch City Council Meeting, September 25, 2007.

9. K. Bell, public comment at Antioch City Council Meeting, September 25, 2007.

10. Ibid.


Low-Income Housing and the Suburban Geography of Moral Panic: The Rise of the Revanchist Fringe?

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