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By David Wallace-Wells

Opinion Writer

For a year or two, as first-wave pandemic panic gave way to a more generalized perception of ragged social disorder, it was hard to read or talk about the plight of American cities without encountering the chilling phrase “doom loop.”

At first, the term referred to an intuition that the economic and social dislocation of the pandemic would not only linger after Covid-19 retreated but also unmake the American city: If workers didn’t have to return to the office, they could leave the city, taking with them the money they spent on taxes and retail. This would shrink the tax base and hollow out the urban core, leading to decreased public spending on public safety and housing, and eventually to a self-perpetuating cycle that looked like an existential threat. But in conversation and in print, “doom loop” quickly came to signify something broader: a perception of generalized and pretty terrifying Covid-era urban decline, characterized by homelessness and out-in-the-open crime and drug use, that not only recalled the legendarily wild and violent cities of the 1970s and 1980s but also threatened to metastasize well beyond those memories. On the right, they were calling places like New York and San Francisco and Seattle “trashed” or “lawless.” Centrist publications were using phrases like “failed cities” or “ungovernable,” and progressive ones were lamenting that even committed locals no longer believed that cities’ problems could be fixed.

In some cities, a certain unease remains. But to the extent that we have data with which to fact-check the vibes, it turns out that the doom loop wasn’t really much of a loop at all. It was a blip. And by some measures, it was not all that “doomy” to begin with.

American cities did get a bit more dangerous when all social and public life was suddenly suspended and then haphazardly, gradually and only partially stitched back together. But they also were emptied out — first by shelter-in-place guidelines, then by extended school closings and work-from-home policies, and then by some amount of continuing pandemic precaution by individuals and communities. Large-scale protests against police brutality rattled some Americans and, in some places, probably produced a police “pullback” distressing and disconcerting to others. And as recently as the death of Jordan Neely at the hands of Daniel Penny in New York City last May, there was a certain kind of conventional wisdom that American cities were going through a protracted and open-ended crisis. But by then many measures of social disorder were already on their way back to prepandemic levels. And by now, it is safe to say that by most objective measures, the worst of that “crisis” is well behind us. There was some cause for alarm, of course. But it also looks like the passing panic may have been powered as much by pandemic anxiety and simple agoraphobia as by genuine urban anarchy.

Some of the “doom loop” fears were illusions at the time — or perhaps it would be better to say propaganda. This past December, for instance, the country’s largest retail trade association retracted its much-repeated claim that organized crime was responsible for a large pandemic surge in missing merchandise. Nationally, lost inventory — known in the retail world as “shrink” — was actually flat in 2020 compared with 2019, as Kevin Drum has highlighted, and down again in 2021 compared with 2020. The experience of individual cities varies, of course — in New York retail theft is still running relatively high — but across 24 cities reporting data to the Council on Criminal Justice, shoplifting actually fell significantly at the beginning of 2020. And average monthly shoplifting rates have stayed well below prepandemic levels.

Each of these measures comes with some amount of uncertainty — we can’t really say for sure how much shoplifting is getting reported and how much not, and whether that ratio may have changed in recent years. (My guess: We’re probably missing a lot, though the ratio probably hasn’t changed all that much.) But more conspicuous kinds of crime are harder to overlook, and there, too, different data sets are also in broad agreement that even those crime rates that did rise at the outset of the pandemic are now well past those peaks, reassuringly close to or below the levels from 2019 and earlier years.

As the data analyst Jeff Asher wrote in a national overview, property crime in 2023 may have been lower than in any year going back to 1961. According to the F.B.I., the violent crime rate, which rose by 4.6 percent nationally in the first year of the pandemic, fell each of the next two years, returning to below-prepandemic levels in 2022; even a conservative projection, Asher wrote, shows that last year, the national violent crime rate may have fallen to its lowest since 1969.

Homicide made a more conspicuous jump in 2020 — indeed the largest jump in modern records, though overall rates stayed well below the levels experienced as normal in American cities just a few decades earlier. Nationally, murder rates remained high in 2021, and then, after falling a bit in 2022, had what may have been the largest national decline in total homicides in 2023.

In New York City, homicide rates rose in 2020 and 2021 but did not reach the level experienced as recently as 2011; in San Francisco, there were fewer murders in 2020 than in 2017. A report by the Council on Criminal Justice released last month showed rates across 32 major American cities have fallen substantially, though they remain above prepandemic levels. As Jeff Asher wrote in a national review, many cities are now recording fewer annual homicides than they have in years or even decades. And while murders are still rising in Memphis and Washington, D.C., “they are the outliers this year, not the norm.”

Homelessness is a more nuanced story. According to an authoritative annual report published in December by the Department of Housing and Urban Development, the number of Americans experiencing unsheltered homelessness was 256,000 in 2023, up from 226,000 just before the pandemic — an increase of about 13 percent. The lowest number in recent history, according to H.U.D., was 173,000 in 2015; the highest was 255,000 in 2007. The recent increases are tragic and demand public attention, but also are gradual; for every 10 unsheltered Americans on the eve of the pandemic, there are now 11.

The bulk of the homelessness is concentrated in a handful of states: California, which accounts for more than a quarter of the national total, New York, Florida, Washington and Texas. But in California as a whole, homelessness grew only 6 percent between 2020 and 2022, according to H.U.D.; in New York State, it fell by almost 19 percent.

In certain cities, there was more disconcerting growth. Nearly a quarter of all national homelessness is experienced in New York City and Los Angeles, according to H.U.D. The population in New York grew from nearly 78,000 just before the pandemic to 88,000 in 2023; in Los Angeles the number of people experiencing homelessness grew by about 12 percent between 2022 and 2023. And although San Francisco is often described as the country’s homelessness epicenter, between 2013 and 2022, homelessness grew by just 6 percent there; between 2019 and 2022, the number of people experiencing unsheltered homelessness in the city actually fell to 4,400 from 5,200. In general, the pandemic years have not marked a new era for urban homelessness in America, but an extension of the longer-term trend: Homelessness is steadily growing, and its concentration in a small number of cities suggests, among other remedies, the straightforward need for much more housing supply.

Drug use appears to be a growing problem, though the data can be patchy and the pattern varies from city to city. In San Francisco, alcohol and drug use rates among the city’s homeless grew to 52 percent from 41 percent between 2017 and 2022, according to one survey. In Los Angeles, overdose deaths among the city’s homeless roughly doubled between 2019 and 2021, and in New York, overdoses in shelters nearly doubled over the same period. In Portland, Ore., drug use helped drive a 53 percent increase in deaths among the city’s homeless in 2021.

But the more enduring legacy of urban “doom” may simply be that cities remain emptier than they were. New York had one of the more successful post-pandemic recoveries in commercial real estate, but visits to offices are still 19 percent below prepandemic levels; as of February 2023, subway ridership is only about 66 percent of prepandemic levels. Nationwide, visits to offices are down 38 percent from previous levels; in San Francisco, they are down 53 percent. According to the University of Toronto’s Downtown Recovery project, foot traffic in many high-profile cities is hovering at or below 70 percent of previous levels; in 90 percent of cities’ downtowns, car traffic remains below pre-Covid levels.

These figures reflect pretty large shifts, especially given how far past the worst of the pandemic we are — and represent pretty big challenges for cities built for, and accustomed to, much higher levels of activity. They also help explain why so many American cities still feel quite a bit different, even now in 2024, than they did in 2019, and highlight something about the way the country experienced and processed the “urban crisis” of the years in between: Cities were in certain ways scarier and more violent places in the darkest days of the pandemic, but they were also just so much eerier than before, with so many fewer people around — to witness, to engage with, sometimes to avoid. In a lot of places, they still are, with cities both much busier than they were three years ago and much less busy than two years before that. But even the guy who popularized pandemic usage of the phrase “doom loop” thinks things are looking up.

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QOSHE - American Cities Aren’t Doomed After All - David Wallace-Wells
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American Cities Aren’t Doomed After All

9 1
08.02.2024

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Subscriber-only Newsletter

By David Wallace-Wells

Opinion Writer

For a year or two, as first-wave pandemic panic gave way to a more generalized perception of ragged social disorder, it was hard to read or talk about the plight of American cities without encountering the chilling phrase “doom loop.”

At first, the term referred to an intuition that the economic and social dislocation of the pandemic would not only linger after Covid-19 retreated but also unmake the American city: If workers didn’t have to return to the office, they could leave the city, taking with them the money they spent on taxes and retail. This would shrink the tax base and hollow out the urban core, leading to decreased public spending on public safety and housing, and eventually to a self-perpetuating cycle that looked like an existential threat. But in conversation and in print, “doom loop” quickly came to signify something broader: a perception of generalized and pretty terrifying Covid-era urban decline, characterized by homelessness and out-in-the-open crime and drug use, that not only recalled the legendarily wild and violent cities of the 1970s and 1980s but also threatened to metastasize well beyond those memories. On the right, they were calling places like New York and San Francisco and Seattle “trashed” or “lawless.” Centrist publications were using phrases like “failed cities” or “ungovernable,” and progressive ones were lamenting that even committed locals no longer believed that cities’ problems could be fixed.

In some cities, a certain unease remains. But to the extent that we have data with which to fact-check the vibes, it turns out that the doom loop wasn’t really much of a loop at all. It was a blip. And by some measures, it was not all that “doomy” to begin with.

American cities did get a bit more dangerous when all social and public life was suddenly suspended and then haphazardly, gradually and only partially stitched back together. But they also were emptied out — first by shelter-in-place guidelines, then by extended school closings and work-from-home policies, and then by some amount of continuing pandemic precaution by individuals and communities. Large-scale protests against police brutality rattled some Americans and, in some places, probably produced a police “pullback” distressing and disconcerting to others. And as recently as the death of Jordan Neely at the hands of Daniel Penny in New York City last May, there was a certain........

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