When Jennifer DeCasper quit her job as a Colorado prosecutor to move to Washington, D.C., and serve the American people, she didn’t imagine doing it on the tarmac of Dulles Airport.

But amid the 2008-09 Great Recession, the only job she could get was guiding planes to their gates with orange batons and handling baggage. So there she was, wearing a fluorescent vest and waiting at the foot of the stairs to a plane, when a former law firm colleague handed over her bag. The woman didn’t even recognize Ms. DeCasper.

“Dulles was probably my greatest job, because it taught me the most in terms of humility, in terms of the way you treat people, the way you see people,” says Ms. DeCasper, who a year later landed a position with GOP lawmaker Tim Scott of South Carolina, and is today the senator’s right-hand woman. “I truly think that Dulles was necessary for me to be who I am today as the chief of staff.”

Ms. DeCasper brings a different worldview to an institution traditionally staffed by upper-class graduates of elite universities. She was born to a teenage mother in Lincoln, Nebraska, and her dad worked as a garbageman. 

When she first came to Capitol Hill, it was as a graduate of what is now Colorado Mesa University in Montrose. When she returned to Washington, she had a University of Michigan law degree but was a single mother working a blue-collar job. Now, among the Senate’s 100 chiefs of staff, she is likely the only former luggage handler – and one of only two who are Black.  

Amid a growing movement to broaden the ranks of congressional staffers, Ms. DeCasper stands out not only for who she is, but also for how she cultivates diversity. While many offices hire from within their own networks, she looks outside the usual Capitol Hill circles, searching for people with interesting life stories, a sense of purpose and passion, and the integrity her father exemplified in his work.

“I want somebody that has a heart for this place,” she says. Like the lawyer whose experience living in his car due to financial challenges gave him a different perspective on banking and housing issues. Or the female Marine from Puerto Rico who had the backbone to deal with the press. Or the Black man using a wheelchair who had a desire to make “an outsized contribution” but had zero Hill experience.

She hired them all, helping Senator Scott build a staff with a wide range of backgrounds and life experiences, as well as racial diversity. She’s also become known for tapping her network to assist other legislative offices in diversifying their rosters.

“Jennifer DeCasper continues to be one of the best examples in the entire Senate of a staffer who takes on this role,” says Don Bell, a former Democratic aide who led the Senate Black Legislative Staff Caucus. “It’s not something you do just because you want to check a box. It’s not something you do just because you’re afraid of what people would say to you if they look at your numbers. It’s just, diversity is good government.”

Capitol Hill is but one of numerous arenas – including journalism, academia, and nonprofits – that are difficult for working-class students to enter because of low starting pay and the concentration of jobs in expensive coastal cities. Such structural issues, critics say, have contributed to these professions becoming silos of relatively elitist, homogeneous thinking, in which many individuals have never experienced the issues they’re tasked with addressing. 

“Congress serves as a feeder for both the federal government, like the executive branch agencies, but also local mayors, city council members, and state legislators. The impact [of diversifying] is way beyond itself.” – Carlos Mark Vera, co-founder of Pay Our Interns, which advocates for equitable hiring and eliminating unpaid internships

“The world we’re in is incredibly complex and multidimensional,” says Scott Page, a political science professor at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor who studies diversity. If the people building dating apps or writing newspaper stories come from relatively advantaged backgrounds, he says, that could inadvertently perpetuate societal inequities. Improving racial diversity helps, but other dimensions matter, too, he adds. “Each one of us looks out of a house through a certain set of windows.”

The issue has gotten particular attention in Congress this month, driven by an Instagram account called @dear_white_staffers that chronicles minorities’ raw tales of mistreatment – including some who were paid so little they lived on food stamps or brought Tupperware to take home leftover office food. Senior Democratic leaders are now supporting their push to unionize. 

But at least until recently, few staffers had received housing, food, or unemployment assistance, which Congress spent more than $650 billion on last year. Yet staffers play a critical role in shaping such policies. Over the past half-century, there’s been “an enormous shift of responsibility” toward staffers, who now do “95% of the nitty-gritty work of drafting [bills],” wrote the late Sen. Ted Kennedy in his 2009 memoir. 

Advocates say that broadening the talent pool would help congressional offices better reflect the country they represent and craft more effective solutions to problems. It could also counteract a growing disconnect between average Americans and elites – and maybe even temper partisan rancor.

“Right now, we’re watching our society become very fractured, very siloed,” says Rep. Chrissy Houlahan of Pennsylvania, an Air Force veteran and Teach for America alum whose office emphasizes hiring interns from low-income backgrounds. “And we really need to break that up.” 

DaQuawn Bruce from Chicago’s South Side had wanted to be president since he was 4 years old. He put himself through his first year of community college working from 2 a.m. to 10 a.m. at UPS – on top of taking classes, participating in speech and debate activities, and spending late nights in the library. Then he won a full scholarship to a private school, but still worked full time. 

With the help of College to Congress (C2C), an organization that funds internships for high-achieving, low-income congressional interns, he came to Washington. In a way he felt he didn’t belong. Other interns were renting vacation homes in Annapolis, Maryland, for the weekend and going out for steak-and-wine dinners. He would order an appetizer and stick with water. But he also felt a sense of urgency and purpose. He stuck out his internship and went on to work as a staffer on the Hill, a Facebook employee, and a lobbyist before returning to C2C as director of development.

“If it’s all about who you know, what about the kids who have the talent? ... You mean to tell me that they don’t get an opportunity?” asks Mr. Bruce.

Many of them don’t. While statistics on the class and educational backgrounds of congressional staffers are difficult to come by, studies hint at how much of a one-dimensional culture the Hill really is.

A 2019 report from Pay Our Interns found that private university students held three-quarters of the paid internships in Congress – 50% more than their share of the national undergraduate population. Blacks and Latinos, meanwhile, were represented at less than half their share.

The lack of diversity worsens among senior ranks. Less than 15% of senior staff positions are held by people of color, according to the Joint Center for Political and Economic Studies. White lawmakers from both parties have similarly low levels of diversity on their staffs. 

“A lot of people think that this is just an issue that the Republican Party has, which is not the case,” says LaShonda Brenson, senior fellow of diversity and inclusion at the Joint Center. “Democrats rely on people of color to vote for them. They should be doing not just as good as Republicans, but even better.”

Ann Hermes/Staff

“If it’s all about who you know, what about the kids who have the talent? ... You mean to tell me that they don’t get an opportunity?” – DaQuawn Bruce, a former congressional staffer who is now director of development for College to Congress, a group that funds internships on Capitol Hill

The Hill’s lack of diversity has ripple effects. “Congress serves as a feeder for both the federal government, like the executive branch agencies, but also local mayors, city council members, and state legislators,” says Carlos Mark Vera, co-founder of Pay Our Interns, a group that advocates for equitable hiring and eliminating unpaid internships. “The impact is way beyond itself.”

Congress is also a talent pipeline for the lobbying sector, which wields growing influence, doubling its spending since 2000. Many say K Street is even less diverse than the Hill.

“We just want to see equal representation in lobbying,” says Monica Almond, co-founder of the Diversity in Government Relations Coalition, which is currently compiling statistics on diversity among lobbying firms. “That’s our long-term vision.”

Finances remain a key impediment to attracting a broad range of young people to Washington – and keeping them on the Hill once they are there. No human resources department exists to oversee hiring and pay in Congress, leaving the 535 members to set their own policies.

A new report from Issue One, a nonprofit that focuses on political reform, found that 1,200 congressional staffers aren’t paid a living wage, including 70% of those working in the entry-level job of staff assistant. Nearly half of House staffers think they are underpaid, and more than 4 in 10 have seriously considered leaving, according to a 2021 survey by the House Office of Diversity and Inclusion.

The stories are legendary of interns and young staffers trying to survive Washington – the nation’s fifth most expensive city – as an unpaid intern or on a junior Hill salary, from subsisting on 10-cent Buffalo chicken wings to carrying pepper spray in the only neighborhood they could afford. 

Jill Hoffman came to the nation’s capital in 1999 with a sense of idealism and $500 in her pocket. To make ends meet, she shopped at T.J. Maxx, grabbed free food at receptions, and worked at a patent law firm at night while babysitting on the weekends. Still, she racked up thousands of dollars in credit-card debt. So she left after 18 months.

“There continues to be a pervasive view in this country that if you’re working on Capitol Hill, or if you’re working for the government, you’re probably making too much money,” says Ms. Hoffman, now vice president of federal affairs at Assurant, an insurance provider. “So there’s a lot of political pressure to keep salaries low.”

Mr. Bell, the former Democratic staffer, struggled when he first arrived in Washington, too. The law school graduate was working as an unpaid fellow in a senator’s office. To pay the bills, he took a job as a cashier from 6:30 p.m. to 12:30 a.m. at Walmart. By the time he got a full-time position on the Hill, he was two weeks away from defaulting on his student loans. 

“You go into this hallowed place and you’re working on these pieces of legislation, and you end the night going to a poorer part of D.C. and you’re providing customer service to people who are using their [electronic benefits transfer] card and pinching pennies,” says Mr. Bell. “It reminds you constantly of why you are getting up every morning and trying to make this work.” 

The rate of attrition among young staff often means talented people never gain the experience needed to move into senior positions. That’s particularly true for those from low-income homes, some of whom are supporting their parents.

“A lot of people stay here because they’re passionate about the work,” says Jazmine Bonner, president of the Senate Black Legislative Staff Caucus. “But how long can someone be in that role and do that work and not be compensated as someone who can grow into a higher-level position and make a true impact on decision-making?” 

Broadening the range of voices in senior positions could change how Congress operates and the kind of legislation that gets drafted. At the least, it might change the tone in some Capitol Hill cubicles. 

Audrey Henson recalls when Congress was debating the 2013 Farm Bill. She was working for a GOP lawmaker and overheard others in her office talking about “welfare queens” who would take advantage of the food subsidies in the measure to buy hot meals instead of foodstuffs. She strode over and asked if they had ever been on food stamps. They hadn’t. 

“I was like, ‘OK, well, I have,’” Ms. Henson, who grew up in a mobile home, recalls telling them. “My mom was juggling two jobs – selling used cars and getting home at 8 p.m.” – that’s why she wanted to buy rotisserie chicken with her food stamps, not because she was too lazy to cook.

“As I progressed from intern to staffer, I realized the harmful effects that come from groupthink and from letting only the elites control our government,” says Ms. Henson, a Republican who founded C2C and is now running for Congress from Florida. 

SNAP benefits, the food subsidies dispersed to 39 million Americans in 2020 at a cost of nearly $80 billion, is the No. 1 issue cited by Hill staffers for why more people from varied backgrounds are needed to shape policies. C2C alum Jalen Johnson recounts that both his white and Black peers were surprised to hear that food stamps were crucial to keeping himself and his siblings alive.

“Socioeconomic diversity transcends color, for sure,” says Mr. Johnson, now a Republican city commissioner in Albany, Georgia.

Greater diversity could bring different perspectives to other issues as well, from housing to criminal justice. Mr. Bruce, from Chicago’s South Side, has seen his share of adversity. He was shot in his front yard after his C2C internship. His cousin was killed a few months later. Mr. Bruce says his firsthand experience with gang violence gave him insights that he didn’t often hear from the experts brought up to the Hill to talk about gun control or crime. Detachment from issues can lead politicians to parrot talking points without really understanding root causes, he says, “and we get policies that further exacerbate the situation.” 

Marshaling people who feel passionately about certain causes because of their experiences can help move ideas through the Washington bureaucracy, too.

Ann Hermes/Staff

“There’s a way for us to pay all our interns who need it, and we should do it.” – Rosario Duran, a House staffer who has come up with a way to stretch the funds that her office uses to pay congressional interns

In 2017, Senator Scott and Ms. DeCasper, his chief of staff, went to the White House and secured the president’s backing for an initiative to encourage private investment in “opportunity zones” in urban areas. Ja’Ron Smith, a former Scott staffer who had become the Trump administration’s director of urban affairs and revitalization, helped mobilize support within the executive branch. And Shay Hawkins, the man who had told Ms. DeCasper he wanted to make an “outsized contribution,” played a key role in getting the legislation into the GOP tax cut package that year.

“People from our side of the track were able to play a big role,” says Mr. Smith.

With a greater spotlight on Capitol Hill’s lack of diversity, efforts have sprung up to improve pay and encourage staffing that better reflects America. 

Over the past few years, Congress has appropriated $48 million for paid internships, due in part to lobbying from C2C and Pay Our Interns. Yet offices struggle to make that money go very far – and don’t necessarily funnel it to those who need it most.

Enter Rosario Duran, a young Democratic staffer who came up with a way to stretch the funds that her office used to pay congressional interns. It had a $25,000 annual intern budget to work with and was only paying summer workers. That meant fall and spring semester internships would be out of reach for most low-income students.

So Ms. Duran suggested her superiors allocate $8,000 per semester, establish a base stipend for each intern, and divide the rest according to financial need. Programs like C2C could be tapped for supplemental funds, and interns could apply for financial aid from their schools. The result was that her office was able to not only create year-round opportunities for low-income interns, but also pay them better.

Still, it’s a long journey from interning to becoming a senior aide. Advocacy groups say it’s imperative that congressional offices pay higher wages to staffers at all levels. 

More needs to be done to close inequities as well. Veronica Duron, who came to Congress on a fellowship from the Congressional Hispanic Caucus Institute, had been working on the Hill about six years when she decided to look up the publicly available salaries of other staffers. She focused on the ones who, like her, worked on health care for the Senate Finance Committee. She was the lowest paid. Armed with the data, she asked for a raise. Her boss readily agreed.  

“People are not taking time to look at, ‘Oh, is there a pay discrepancy between the white staff in my office and the staff of color? Or is there a treatment discrepancy? Is there an opportunity discrepancy?’” says Ms. Duron, now chief of staff for Democratic Sen. Cory Booker of New Jersey.

Ann Hermes/Staff

“He said, ‘Banking isn’t just about numbers. It’s actually dealing with real-life issues, like access to housing.’” – Alexandria Smith (left), legislative director for Rep. Byron Donalds of Florida, on how Saat Alety (right) encouraged her to develop expertise in one of the least diverse policy areas

In addition to better pay, mentoring can play a key role in helping promising young staffers develop.

“It’s kind of like sea turtles on the beach,” says Saat Alety, a former GOP Hill staffer who is now director for federal affairs and public policy at Allstate. “You lay 400 eggs and try to get as many as possible past the gauntlet.”

Alexandria Smith remembers the guidance she got early on from Mr. Alety when he was Senator Scott’s staff director for a banking subcommittee. Mr. Alety urged her to develop an expertise in banking – one of the least diverse policy areas. At first, she wasn’t interested. Besides, she said, she wasn’t good at math. 

“He said, ‘Banking isn’t just about numbers,’” recalls Ms. Smith. “‘It’s actually dealing with real-life issues, like access to housing.’”

That resonated with Ms. Smith, who had grown up in public housing, and she ended up playing a key role in shaping bipartisan legislation (still pending) on lead-safe public housing for children. Now, she’s the legislative director for GOP Rep. Byron Donalds of Florida.

Others are changing hiring practices and trying to build a sense of community on the Hill. Ms. Duron, for one, knows how that can help unleash potential. After enrolling in college against her mother’s wishes, she was mistaken for a cleaning woman and confronted by campus groups offering rewards for turning in unauthorized immigrants. (Her family has lived in Texas since it was a part of Mexico.) She found empowerment by joining a Latina sorority and other student organizations, eventually becoming president of the Greek system.

On the Hill, she says, it’s important for senior managers to ensure minorities feel heard and supported, particularly when their communities or families are hit by incidents such as raids by U.S. immigration officials and police killings. 

In building an inclusive environment, she also searches for potential hires who go out of their way to talk to everyone, from the person picking up the trash to the Republican down the hall. “If you talk to all those people the same – those are the type of people I want,” she says.

Ms. DeCasper, too, after her experience on the tarmac, strives to treat everyone with respect regardless of their station in life – from the kitchen staff and janitors to fresh faces like Dominique McKay, who came to the Hill a decade ago and connected early on with Ms. DeCasper.

“It’s not just about creating a diverse office, but a community of people,” says Ms. McKay, who now works under Ms. DeCasper as communications director. The Hill already has a tightknit culture, which she believes can be leveraged to create a greater sense of community. “I think it’s ripe for that,” she says.

Eileen Gu, the Chinese American freestyle skiing ace who won her first Olympic gold medal on Monday, draws a kitten on her hand before competitions for good luck and travels with her safety-conscious mother, who makes sure she eats well and sleeps 10 hours each night. On the Twitter-like Chinese social media app Weibo, where the freshly minted gold medalist uses the handle Frog Princess, she posts goofy and prolific selfies. But she is hardly a typical teen.

Ms. Gu is accomplished beyond her years, having taken on challenges demanding poise and maturity that have won her respect as an elite athlete willing to take on a larger cause.

Three years ago, in what she called an “incredibly tough decision,” she chose to compete for China instead of the United States, where she was born, was raised, and still primarily lives. Her goal? To promote the dynamic, creative sport she loves among millions of young Chinese, especially women, and even more ambitiously, to help better connect China and the U.S.

“Sport is a way that we can unite people. It’s something that doesn’t have to be related to nationality,” she said at a press conference after her Olympic win. “I definitely feel as though I am just as American as I am Chinese,” said Ms. Gu, who plans to study international relations at Stanford University after a gap year. “My mission is to use sport as a force for unity.” 

At the 2022 Games, Ms. Gu is already breaking new ground, to the delight of millions of Chinese, American, and international fans.

Even after admitting she’s finding her first Olympics “terrifying,” Ms. Gu clinched her first gold medal competing for China in the women’s big air event at a repurposed steel mill west of Beijing. 

She won in part by becoming only the second woman in the world to pull off a multiple-rotation flip known as the 1620, performing the stunt in her third and final run, and for her first time in a contest. Ms. Gu will contend for the gold in two other freestyle skiing events, the slopestyle and halfpipe, and is favored to win both. 

“The most important thing to do in life is to find something you like to do and enjoy it,” she said in a Chinese-language documentary released in 2021. “The second is to change the world.”

Matt Slocum/AP

Eileen Gu trains ahead of the women's freestyle skiing big air finals at the Beijing Winter Olympics, Feb. 8, 2022. She is expected to win gold in upcoming slopestyle and halfpipe events.

Road to China

Ms. Gu has landed at the height of freestyle skiing at a moment of huge opportunity, with the opening of a vast new winter sports market in China. But it is also a time of intense geopolitical competition between her native country and her adoptive one. 

“I applaud her for taking what is not the easier road,” says Mike Mallon, executive director of the United States of America Snowboard and Freeski Association, who has watched Ms. Gu’s rise as a competitor from her days as an amateur. “She chose a road she knew would have conflict and controversy.”

Growing up in San Francisco, Ms. Gu credits her Chinese mother, a first-generation immigrant from Beijing and private investor, and her Chinese grandmother – whom she describes as “die-hard competitive” – with instilling in her a powerful work ethic and drive to win. 

“They are both super confident, empowered women,” Ms. Gu said in a recent podcast, giving her a feminist streak and motivating her to excel in everything from running and piano to school and skiing. Her mother, Yan Gu, also took her to Beijing each summer and ensured she spoke fluent Mandarin Chinese. (Ms. Gu, her mother, and her agent, didn’t respond to interview requests.)

Ms. Gu was the only girl on her team when she started competing at the age of 8 at Northstar resort at Lake Tahoe, and says she enjoyed beating the boys.

As she excelled in freestyle skiing, her American coaches recognized her potential and trained her for national competitions. “When an athlete like Eileen starts to achieve success at a much higher level, they disappear very quickly” as they advance into elite ranks, says Mr. Mallon, whose organization is the first step in the Olympic pipeline for snowboarding and freeskiing.

Meanwhile, Beijing prepared for the 2022 Winter Olympics by launching a drive to build hundreds of ski resorts and skating rinks with the goal of attracting 300 million residents to winter sports. It hired North American coaches and consultants to help build winter sports pipelines.

Beijing also actively recruited foreign and especially ethnic Chinese athletes to join China’s team. Together with other athletes, Ms. Gu met with Chinese leader Xi Jinping in February 2019, and four months later announced her decision to compete for China, prompting support but also regret from the U.S. freeski community that had nurtured her.

“I am a little disappointed in that all the training, all the resources have been here,” says Jack Hutt, who runs a large team ski racing program at CityLeague Sports, based in Shoreline, Washington.

Tingshu Wang/Reuters

Eileen Gu appears on an advertisement for one of China's largest online retailers, at a bus stop in Beijing, Jan. 11, 2022. Ms. Gu has represented numerous Chinese and luxury brands, and as her stardom grows, so will her commercial endorsement opportunities.

Rising star

In China, though, Ms. Gu’s popularity is soaring. As her gold medals in world championships accumulate, her social media following on Weibo has exploded to more than 3.6 million as she helps motivate young skiers in China. 

“There is definitely a connection to Gu Ailing [Ms. Gu’s Chinese name], especially among the young people,” says Samuel Zhang, an amateur snowboarder in Beijing. 

“Now it’s very crowded [on the slopes], even at night,” says Mr. Zhang, who enjoys skiing as an escape from urban life.

“She is an idol of the Chinese young generation,” says Wang Li, a skier and Olympics researcher, using a pseudonym to protect his identity.

Amber Qiu, a customer relations worker, took up indoor skiing a few years ago with her friends in the southern city of Guangzhou. “It’s exciting and fun,” she says.

Endorsements have also piled up for Ms. Gu, who regularly promotes major Chinese brands from sportswear to dairy on her social media.

Ms. Gu’s decision to compete for China “is a very smart move as an athlete, from a financial perspective,” says Xu Guoqi, a history professor at the University of Hong Kong and author of “Olympic Dreams: China and Sports, 1895-2008.” 

“If she wins two gold medals for China, she will be buried in a gold mountain,” predicts Dr. Xu. “Talk about commercial endorsement, talk about popularity, there is only one way for that lady to go – up!”

Yet as for her bigger goal of promoting better U.S.-China relations, Ms. Gu faces an uphill battle. She has chosen to remain silent on any issues that could be perceived as sensitive by China’s government, in contrast with her vocal advocacy for women and minorities in the U.S., and her celebration of the free-spirited self-expression inherent in her sport. 

At a press conference after her gold medal win, she refused to answer basic questions about whether she has relinquished her U.S. citizenship to compete for China, as China does not allow dual citizenship.

Instead, Ms. Gu often emphasizes how she feels American in the U.S., and Chinese in China. That formula seems to reflect how Ms. Gu, rather than trying to help bridge the two countries, is maintaining distinct personas in each place, analysts say.

“I think she is trying to straddle this,” says David Bachman, an expert in U.S.-China relations at the University of Washington. For the young, high-flying skier, sports diplomacy may have to wait.

Patrik Jonsson/The Christian Science Monitor

Jennifer Taylor and her daughter, Kimberlie Taylor, stand in front of their rented bungalow in Jacksonville, Florida, on Jan. 29, 2022. Originally from Texas, they moved to Florida six years ago for work, access to beaches, and a low cost of living. But the Taylors have seen their rent go up 20%.

Six years ago, Jennifer Taylor counted herself among some 800 people a day moving into a state long considered “California on the cheap”: shorts weather in February, a decent house for not that much money, and low taxes.

Taxes are still low, and she can get her shorts out at least once a week after Groundhog Day. But in December, her rent rose by 20%, “from three figures into four figures.” And Ms. Taylor, a veterinary tech, says her middle-class dreams are fading as household costs – including the roof over her head – are rising faster than her income. 

“I’m looking back and starting to wonder, why did we leave again?” she says. “Are we really better off?”

Not too long ago, a $26,000-a-year income used to guarantee middle-class status here. From Fluffy Landing to Possum Bluff, Florida was “a hopey-dreamy state,” as Sarah Palin once called it. But as Ms. Taylor and millions of other middle-class sun seekers are finding: “Florida is becoming expensive,” says historian Gary Mormino. 

That’s true across the country, as housing prices, mortgage rates, and rents climb in lockstep, and available inventory reaches new lows. But the sticker shock is hitting Floridians particularly hard, and it’s coming at a time when the state is making headlines for its unexpected plunge into the kind of culture wars the Sunshine State used to avoid.

Florida’s current real estate boom cycle is a study of the intersection of middle-class aspirations and emerging values around what Americans really want – and whether they can afford it.

“People who get their money are still going to come into the state, but what does it say when you look more like California than you did Florida?” says former Florida resident Seth McKee, who now teaches political science at Oklahoma State University in Stillwater.

Liberal California has long been a piñata for conservatives, who see hypocrisy around bromides about diversity and inclusion clashing against an affordable housing crisis fed by NIMBY-ism.

Yet the same dynamics that have caused a crisis in California have been creeping into Florida markets. Tampa, Miami, and St. Augustine – the oldest city in the U.S. – have all seen double-digit price growth for years.

“I just don’t see it” 

But the boom in Jacksonville suggests deeper currents: Slightly dingy suburbs are suddenly hot properties for flippers, fund investors, and young families seeking increasingly in vain their own postage stamp lot in the sun.

Long considered one of the stinkiest urban areas, given now-shuttered paper mills and turpentine distillers, Jacksonville – the largest  city in the U.S. by acreage – smells a lot better these days. It’s a 30-minute drive to white beaches and lapping Atlantic waves. 

House prices and rents soared nearly 30% from 2020 to 2021 – one of the highest rates in the country. The pace is not far behind the U.S. real estate boomtown champion of Boise, Idaho.

The increases in Jacksonville have touched real lives, real fast, says Eric Hinojos, a principal at First Coast Heroes, which caters to military families relocating to work at Naval Air Station Jacksonville.  

He recounts how he recently helped a young couple sign papers on a home. But Veterans Affairs balked after it was appraised at $275,000, instead of the $290,000 listing price. The couple appealed and won.

“The military is our huge attraction,” says Mr. Hinojos. “We’ve got some growth, but we’re still just Jacksonville – it’s not San Francisco or Miami.”

Mark Wright, a retired private investigator, owns two houses that he bought at a flush moment in the late 1970s. So far, he sees taxes squeezing his fixed income as valuations rise. Yet he knows he is also sitting on a small fortune.

A few months ago, he tried unsuccessfully to buy a neighbor’s bungalow for $70,000. Last week, it sold for $200,000.

Mr. Wright shakes his head at the gap between his perception and reality. “I just don’t see it.” 

Rebecca Blackwell/AP

Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis speaks during a news conference at Vizcaya Museum and Gardens, Feb. 1, 2022, in Miami. Since squeaking by a progressive Democrat named Andrew Gillum in 2018, he has yanked the ship of state hard to the right.

The last time Florida saw net out-migration was in the throes of the Great Recession. The state was among those hardest hit by the mortgage crash. 

The fundamentals are stronger this time around, says Ken Johnson, a real estate economist at Florida Atlantic University in Boca Raton. That homes are being valued far above where they should be given historical trends, he says, is “scary, but it’s not as bad as it was” at the height of the last boom in 2006.

But that emerging status quo is pitting a growing conservative and largely urban, white middle class against the policies and direction of Tallahassee, which is solidly in Republican hands. Housing policy, especially, is tough to implement during a boom cycle, says Mr. Johnson.

A “turnstile electorate”

The state’s Republican governor, Ron DeSantis, hails from Jacksonville. He squeaked by a progressive Democrat named Andrew Gillum in 2018, but has since yanked the ship of state hard to the right. 

Aligning himself for a possible presidential run in 2024, he has framed the state as a vanguard in a national struggle over public health mandates, the teaching of race in school, and tax-and-spend policy. Florida is also at the center of evolving struggles of climate change, environmental degradation, and political narratives that are seeking to redefine the meaning of freedom and individualism.

One reason Mr. DeSantis’ rhetoric is playing well, says Mr. McKee, the Oklahoma State political scientist, is that Florida is bucking demographic trends seen in neighboring states. 

Georgia, for example, voted for Joe Biden in 2020, but Florida, long a swing state, is moving in a concertedly more conservative direction. Voters here gave former President Donald Trump a wider margin in 2020 than in 2016. 

And while many African Americans are retracing their families’ generational migrations back to the South, the demographics of those moving into Florida tell a different story. “That migration stream is incredibly white,” says Mr. McKee. 

That doesn’t mean an immediate reckoning on rising home prices, given what some political scientists have called the state’s unique “turnstile electorate.” 

“I don’t know what effects [rising home values] are going to have in terms of how it translates politically, in part because the electorate has such little memory,” says Mr. McKee. “I don’t think the typical Florida voter busies themselves with the politics. They got to Florida, they got the unbelievable weather that no one else in [continental] America has except California. There’s a focus on just about anything but politics. So when you have an electorate taking bits and pieces of the rhetoric, it just hasn’t hurt any of the politicians on the Republican side.” 

Patrik Jonsson/The Christian Science Monitor

Danielle Bobino and her son, Benjamin, play outside their rented Jacksonville Heights house on Jan. 29, 2022, days after her landlord warned that her rent will be going up. A lifelong Floridian and Republican, Ms. Bobino finds that Republican rhetoric in the state is overshadowing attempts to solve problems like affordable housing.

Shortsighted culture wars?

Danielle Bobino, who left a job to care for her kindergarten-aged son, Benjamin, has watched the changes in her home state from her cinder block rental house in Jacksonville Heights, the city’s most affordable corner.

She has a nice park with a pond around the corner, where she and her son go to play. 

But at the mall, she says she refused to sign a petition to raise the state’s minimum wage to $20 an hour. (It is currently $10.)

In her view, raising wages artificially will raise costs. Her rent is already going up this spring when she renews her yearly lease. 

But she is not sure that Republicans are paying attention to core issues, either.

In fact, as a lifelong Republican, she says, “I’m embarrassed by what I’m seeing.” To her, playing up culture war issues is shortsighted. The problems are out in the open for politicians to try to solve, she says. But instead all she hears is complaining about what’s going on elsewhere.

Her concerns point to Florida’s more existential problems, says Mr. Mormino, author of the upcoming “Dreams in the New Century: Instant Cities, Shattered Hopes and Florida’s Turning Point.” 

Constant growth, environmental degradation, and climate change are part of the state’s broader challenges. Last year, as a result of pollution, Floridians witnessed a historic mass starvation of manatees, the state animal.

Mr. Mormino counts off a list of Florida chroniclers who have decamped: Tampa Bay writer Jeff Klinkenberg now lives amid the snow-dusted peaks of Appalachia; well-known Florida columnist Howard Troxler retired to North Carolina. 

Yet Mr. Mormino has decided to stay. He is holding on to what he calls “the hope of the parent – that the future holds promise.” 

“Florida is still Florida: A trip to the Everglades or to Fort De Soto Park at sunset, it’s a remarkable place,” he says. “And did we mention there’s no state income tax?”

Ms. Taylor, meanwhile, is weighing her options. Going back home to Texas would feel like giving up. But her dream of moving to rural horse country around Ocala seems destined for trouble: Prices are going up there, too.

“Yeah, I’m very concerned about what happens to us next,” she says. “Times have gotten hard.”

It takes one glance to tell all is not well in the Medina.

The walled, historic old city of the Tunisian capital – once marked by bustling markets and streams of people hustling between the shops, homes, and government offices along its narrow streets and hidden passageways – is nearly empty.

You would be forgiven for mistaking noon on a Monday for 6 a.m. on a Sunday.

“We are waiting for nothing,” a chachiya hatmaker says as he shuffles boxed hats from one wall of his shop to the other. “We just show up for a few hours out of habit. No one is coming.”

The Medina’s shuttered shops serve as a stern warning that the pandemic and a recession are threatening to undo the old city’s rich tapestry of families and artisans who have made it their home for centuries.

But not, it appears, without a fight.

Banding together for the first time, Medina business owners and families are trying to reintroduce the UNESCO World Heritage Site to Tunisians and the world, sharing its secrets and inviting people to take part in its history – and save its identity in the process.

M’dinti, or “My Medina,” the brainchild of Leila Ben Gacem, a social entrepreneur and advocate for Tunisia’s artisans, is an initiative that has united two dozen boutique hoteliers, artisans, and restaurant owners into an economic lobby to advocate for the old city and search for new ways of resilience.

“By ourselves, we cannot survive the pandemic’s effects,” says Ms. Ben Gacem, who is also a Medina hotelier. “But together we can make changes to improve the Medina.”

Taylor Luck

Leila Ben Gacem, social entrepreneur and founder of the My Medina initiative to help artisans in Tunis' old city survive the pandemic-recession, on the rooftop of her Dar Ben Gacem-Kahia hotel in the Medina in Tunis, Tunisia, Jan. 17, 2022.

Artisans take stock

In normal times, the Medina makes its first impression with its artisans.

For seven centuries, hatmakers, cobblers, silver and goldsmiths, and tailors have occupied craft-specific streets – separate ecosystems within the maze-like Medina.

But with no business, unable to afford monthly rent of 600-1,200 dinars ($210-$420), many of these artisans are now packing it up for good, ending several generations of craftsmanship and abandoning shops their great-grandfathers started.

In their place are popping up cafes, cigarette stands, betting outlets, and fast-food joints – their chrome and blue plastic storefronts incongruous with the World Heritage Site’s cobblestone streets and wrought-iron windows.

“Coronavirus is causing urban degradation of the Medina. So many artisans have had to leave and generations of knowledge are being lost,” says Ms. Ben Gacem.

One artisan facing pressure is perfumer Zouhaier Ghorghar, whose Zitouna Perfumery is around the corner from the historic Al-Zaytuna Mosque. Already behind on his rent, if he cannot make a $200 payment soon, he faces eviction.

“My profession and the Medina are part of me. Leaving it would be slow suicide,” Mr. Ghorghar says. 

Silversmith Mohammed Sidomou, whose family’s shop has stood on the narrow street of the birket al-fidhah (pool of silver) market for a century, is one of the fortunate few to have survived. The family owns the shop.

Taylor Luck

A street in the old city of Medina that in normal times would be bustling with shoppers and residents, in Tunis, Tunisia, Jan. 17, 2022.

He describes the pandemic as the “greatest challenge” the Medina has seen in his four decades in business.

“We have been hit by a revolution, terrorism, instability, but there was always some economic activity to keep us going. With the pandemic, everyone is affected, no one can buy,” he says, polishing a silver bracelet. 

He motions to the shuttered silver-shops across the way.

“It breaks my heart to see the Medina turned into shuttered storefronts. It’s as if the Medina is losing its soul.”

Deepening impact

Compounding troubles are the pandemic-induced jump in international shipping costs, inflation, and the devaluation of the Tunisian dinar, making it logistically difficult or financially prohibitive for artisans to get the raw materials they crafted, pounded, and molded into Tunisian heritage crafts for centuries.

In 2014, the last comprehensive survey of Medina artisans, there were 500 artisan workshops including 100 cobblers, 85 ironsmiths, 61 goldsmiths, 54 silversmiths, 42 carpenters, 11 chachiya hatmakers, among others. It is estimated that 25% to 30% have left.

The economic downturn is also fraying a unique community of 20,000 people who live in the Medina, including working- and middle-class families and transplants from rural villages.

Before, residents say, families, shop owners, and artisans supported one another during lean months and years, such as the 2010 revolution or 2015 ISIS attacks, knowing full well that when their own fortunes changed, they could rely on an informal safety net to cushion their fall.

Neighbors would loan a few dinars, share groceries, and cook for each other’s weddings. Shop owners and artisans whose businesses were flush would divert customers to other craftsmen they knew were facing a rough patch.

Taylor Luck

Silversmith Mohammed Sidomou arranges bracelets in his store on the off chance he receives a customer in the Medina's silver souk in Tunis, Tunisia, Jan. 17, 2022.

It was a centuries-old wisdom that together, the Medina could ride out any storm.

“With the pandemic, everyone is suffering; there is no business or family that is doing well and can share their good fortune,” says Mohamed Ali Dweiri, a 26-year-old Medina resident and hotel worker.

“People have become more selfish; no one is helping each other. This is the biggest change to the Medina I have seen in my lifetime, and it’s sad.”

My Medina

Enter M’dinti.

With no foreign tourism, the joint initiative’s first priority was finding ways to attract Tunisians to the Medina.

M’dinti developed the first interactive map of the Medina – its sites, sights, and businesses – and an online portal offering a guide for visitors on where to stay, eat, and shop.

And since October 2021, M’dinti has hosted weekend activities for families, inviting Tunisians into the district’s historic homes and businesses for culinary classes and workshops with artisans – such as carpenters or cobblers – offering a glimpse into the centuries of knowledge of the maalam, or craft master.

Hundreds of Tunisians have attended activities on culinary history, family histories of the historic dars, centuries-old grand villas, and the ordinary people who made up the Medina.

“Each activity is bringing 100 guests to the Medina. They are learning there are days’ worth of sights to see, they are appreciating the traditional crafts we fight to keep alive,” says Mr. Ghorghor, the perfumer. “Word-of-mouth is our best hope.”

Historic homes

This solidarity is giving hope to those who are sacrificing everything to keep the Medina alive, like Hedi Belhouane.

Taylor Luck

Hedi Belhouane stands in the courtyard of his ancestral home at Dar El Medina guesthouse in the Medina in Tunis, Jan. 17, 2022.

Last year the 40-year-old stepped in to save Dar El Medina, his ancestral home-turned-boutique hotel behind the Medina’s Kasbah, after his uncle abruptly shuttered the hotel at the beginning of the pandemic in 2020.

Amid lockdowns, he poured his money and 16-hour days into reviving the dar where he was born and raised.

“I knew if we didn’t revive this guesthouse, it will run into disuse, bank mortgage payments would become too difficult to keep up with, and there would be pressure to sell,” he says from Dar El Medina’s reception room. The room, featuring hand-painted tiles, was once his grandparent’s apartment, where the family gathered for Friday lunches.

“The Medina is my history, my family’s history. We would lose not only a house, but lose who we are.”

After reopening last September, bookings finally picked up in December when it seemed that the pandemic was lifting, and Dar El Medina’s fortunes were reversing. Then the omicron variant hit.

But Medina residents vow to fight on.

“Despite the challenges, we must keep the Medina open to Tunisians and guests,” says Ms. Ben Gacem, whose Dar Ben Gacem hotels, in historic dars, have evolved into cultural and meeting spaces as well as lodging, maintaining jobs for 13 Medina residents.

“People change, come, go, and die, but stones remain,” Mr. Belhouane says as he pats the wall of his dar’s courtyard. “These walls will tell our stories long after we are gone. That is why we must preserve these stones at any cost.”

The women, chatting back and forth, carry heavy drums and handfuls of drumsticks out into the courtyard. Without a word, they stand in front of their instruments. Suddenly, the drumming explodes with such joy that it’s impossible not to be carried away by the intensity. 

We’ve come to take in a rehearsal of Rwanda’s first all-female percussion group, Ingoma Nshya. The sound of the drums is interwoven with a choreography that involves songs, dances, jumps, and shouts. 

Founded by Odile Gakire Katese in 2004, the project arose to heal divisions after the 1994 genocide, which left around 800,000 people dead. Ingoma Nshya provides a framework for Hutu and Tutsi women to come together in the spirit of sisterhood and reconciliation. 

“I was very alone after losing my family, and joining the group brought me happiness again,” says Agnès Mukakarisa, whose husband and children died in the genocide. “I’ve even been able to travel around Rwanda with the group and go to Senegal for the first time.”  

Oscar Espinosa

Dance is an essential part of the performances.

Members of Ingoma Nshya also had to overcome cultural stereotypes: Traditionally, drums have been the exclusive preserve of men.  

“The group is an example for other women,” says Marie Louise Ingabire, a member for 11 years. “After the genocide many men died and women had to step up to rebuild the country. ... Ingoma Nshya demonstrates the power that women have,” she says.  

While memories of the violence persist, the women have found an outlet. Olive Ngorore speaks for many of them: “When I have problems, or when I have a thousand things in my head, I start playing the drums and everything disappears.” 

Oscar Espinosa

Clémentine Uwintije and Marie Noella Uwizerwa share a hug. The group has become a family to its members.

Oscar Espinosa

The members of Ingoma Nshya, many of whom lost loved ones to the genocide, support one another emotionally. Salaries provide much-needed income.

Oscar Espinosa

Clémentine Uwintije hauls out a drum. Traditionally, only men were allowed to play.

Reuters

A spokesman, Captain Sidsore Kader Ouedraogo, announces that the Army has taken control in Burkina Faso, Jan. 24.

From East Africa to West Africa in recent months, more than half a dozen power grabs by military forces have brought tens of thousands of citizens onto the streets. Yet there’s a twist. In Sudan, protesters are demanding civilian-led democratic rule while in Mali and Burkina Faso, people are actually celebrating the mutineers. If that sounds like a contradiction, look again.

These divergent reactions reflect a similar and popular expectation in Africa. People want honest, effective government. As one marcher celebrating the military takeover in the capital city Ouagadougou told The Guardian, “This is an opportunity for Burkina Faso to retain its integrity.” The two sets of demonstrators differ over the means to achieve such governance due to the different threats they face, but their demands for it show how vested ordinary Africans have become in democracy.

Africa’s answers to its coup tendencies could be part of the problem. In the 1990s when coups were common, leaders on the continent decided to build blocs of countries centered around trade or security to promote economic opportunity, safety, and rule of law. The premise was that shared standards of governance, enforced by multilateral forces, could bolster democracy. That mostly worked until the recent coups – 11 successful or attempted ones in the last year and a half.

In Mali and Burkina Faso, many people blame a regional body, the Economic Community of West African States, for failing to hold their leaders to agreed standards of governance and then punishing their societies with economic sanctions in response to military takeovers. Public opinion in Mali, which has seen two coups since August 2020, reflects that frustration.

The latest survey by Afrobarometer found that 64% of Malians said they prefer democracy over any alternative form of government and even more, 69%, reject military rule. At the same time, only 38% said they trusted the last civilian government while 82% found the military reliable. A large majority said the economy was on the wrong track.

The sentiments reflect two primary indicators of poor governance in the region: corruption and insecurity. Mali, Burkina Faso, and other neighboring countries consistently rank poorly on global indexes for corruption. At the same time, a security crisis posed by violent extremists has worsened despite regional and international efforts to halt it. The region saw a 70% increase in violence linked to Islamist groups last year from the year before, according to the Africa Center for Strategic Studies in Washington.

“The military has many people’s confidence,” Ibrahima Maiga, co-founder of the Movement to Save Burkina Faso, a prominent protest group, told The Guardian. “We love freedom, democracy, yes. But we are here at the level that we are trying to survive. The most important thing is providing safety and security.”

Harvard University scholar David Moss writes, “Democracy is indeed more like a living, breathing organism than a machine built to specification. It needs to actively work against corrosive forces, both moral and institutional, or succumb to them.” In West Africa, as in Sudan, corruption and security failure are core grievances driving citizens to flip the script of progress in Africa. Yet in their demands for good governance, they are showing that democracy cannot be engineered by outsiders. Each society must nurture integrity and strength from within.