On Latina Equal Pay Day, the News Media Needs to Look Inward

Illustration by Carlos Orozco.

At the lowest points in her career, Megan Taros began to internalize the messages she was getting at work: she was uncooperative, pushy, mean. The bilingual, Mexican-American journalist would scrutinize her appearance and demeanor, asking herself, “Am I too angry? Am I an angry Latina?”

Every newsroom job she got was built on years of experience — from cutting her teeth as a reporter and news editor for her South Los Angeles community college paper, The Union, to covering California’s Bay Area while studying journalism at San Francisco State. After a few years away from journalism, she pursued her dream of a graduate degree from Columbia University, where she realized what she wanted to focus on: covering Latino issues and communities. So why, once she’d earned a prestigious journalism school education and was finally hired in the types of roles she’d envisioned, was she so self-critical?

Perhaps it was because she didn’t really belong, not fully.

She was told to focus on celebrity news, not politics, and her more ambitious coverage ideas were often overlooked, until her non-Latina colleagues pitched similar stories. When she landed her most recent full-time job in Santa Fé, New Mexico, an editor discouraged her from connecting with and covering the native pueblos — in spite of her eagerness to repair the relationship between the paper and the pueblos. She thought bringing new ideas to a job was good, but was called “whiny” when she brought them up.

“It really just becomes exhausting, and I think this is where imposter syndrome comes in,” she said, “because you try to bring these ideas to the table and people don’t want to listen.”

After two jobs in a row that left her feeling disheartened, she gave up the most recent one. And when she looks for work now, she worries that she’ll be confronted with the same challenges in the next newsroom.

“How much of this is me lying to myself that I’m going to change this industry?” she asks herself now. “Are these fantasies at this point?”

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I am convinced that every day, there is a Latina who goes to work to report the news carrying the weight of self-doubt that our industry inflicts. I know because I’ve been the person struggling to piece together two or three jobs when one wasn’t enough. I’ve been pulled aside and pointedly asked, “You think we have a race problem?” when I showed frustration with exploitative practices. I’ve had a job offer revoked when I tried to negotiate. When I’ve privately shared the details with other journalists of color, they nod knowingly and share similar circumstances in their careers, sometimes within the same workplace. They often understand the pain of internalizing the industry’s structural shortcomings, despite knowing that our perspectives are valuable to the newsrooms we’re in.

Even as I write this, I occasionally stop to wring my hands nervously, my stomach tightening with feelings of inadequacy. But then I think of every journalist of color I’ve talked to whose experience overlaps with mine. The frustrations we’ve shared over texts, or beers. Their words ring in my ears: Keep going.

On Latina Equal Pay Day, we need to look critically at the aspects of journalism that harm Latinas and others underrepresented in the industry. As major news organizations like the New York Times and McClatchy are facing worker strikes and workers experience layoffs, the culture is ripe for a deep soul-searching. Because here’s the truth: News organizations can’t be committed to building trust with overlooked communities while exploiting the staff who are connected to those communities. Pay that is equal and adequate is a major factor — but not the only one. And by ignoring or excusing these inequities when journalists point them out, they do a disservice to their news organizations and audience.

“Journalism doesn’t like to scrutinize itself,” Taros said. “Ultimately the communities that we’re covering suffer.”

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Latina Equal Pay Day marks how far into 2022 a Latina who’s employed full-time has to work to earn what her white, non-Hispanic male counterpart made in 2021. It falls later in the year than Native Women’s Equal Pay Day (Nov. 30), Black Women’s Equal Pay Day (Sept. 21), and all other groups measured.

National Equal Pay Day, which marks the wage gap for American women overall, was March 15 — the earliest since it’s been recognized. Latina Equal Pay Day falls further back than last year, due to the economic upheaval of the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic.

Valerie Wilson, director of the Economic Policy Institute’s Program on Race, Ethnicity, and the Economy, explained that Latina Equal Pay Day last year was artificially improved because job loss during the pandemic particularly affected lower-wage workers in industries like hospitality. Latinas are a large portion of those workers. As their low wages were removed from the equation, the average salary for Latinas increased. Their return to those jobs in 2021 brought the average back down, thus the later date.

“That being said, even if that hadn’t happened we’re talking about going through more than half a year before Latinas earned what white men earned the year before that,” she said. “That’s still a significant gap in pay.”

A Department of Labor tool shows the wage gap by race, ethnicity and occupation group. Journalism or media aren’t represented in any occupational category, likely due to a small sample size, Wilson said.

But smaller-scale examinations of the industry point to wage gaps and advancement ceilings for female journalists of color.

A recent pay equity study of unionized Gannett newsrooms on the East Coast within six bargaining units described the “ongoing disaster” of “a de facto pay ceiling and stagnant wages” only experienced by non-white and female journalists. Company-provided data showed the median salary for female journalists of color was $12,200 less than that of white, male journalists in those newsrooms.

A similar salary analysis of 14 Gannett newsrooms unionized within The New Guild Communications Workers of America, showed the gender wage gap grew worse over time for those with the most experience. Women whose Gannett career spanned more than 30 years earned roughly $27,000 less than the annual median salary of their male colleagues.

Visual journalist Gabriella Lewis has had newsroom experiences where sharing her perspective was welcomed, and others where it’s made her “difficult.” But Lewis, an AfroLatina who grew up between Brazil and the San Francisco Bay Area, said one thing about her career has been constant: unequal pay.

“I think at every job I’ve ever had, I have found out that someone who is on the same level as me was making more than me,” she said. “Actually, I can’t really think of an instance where that wasn’t the case.”

Lewis, who works for New York Times making NYT Cooking videos, she knows a lot of women of color who have taken a break from journalism or left altogether.

Both Gannett reports also highlight a drop-off in the number of veteran non-white and/or non-male journalists, citing stratified and stagnant wages. This pattern was also documented in the 2020 “Leavers” survey, conducted in February and March of that year.

Carla Murphy’s survey of 101 former journalists of color, or “leavers,” showed the typical respondent was an African-American or Black woman between 27 and 44, who spent 4 to 8 years in the industry. More than half of those surveyed was Black or African-American, and the next most common “leaver” identified as Hispanic or Latino/x. But most of them still called themselves journalists — 69%.

In introducing the survey, Murphy advises against drawing overly broad conclusions about American journalism. By shining a light on a small sample of those who have left journalism, she aimed to help find a solution to the question, “How do we move away from 50 years of lip service to sustained newsroom diversity?”

The 1968 Kerner Report stated: “The media report and write from the standpoint of a white man’s world,” failing communities outside of that perspective. A decade later, the American Society of News Editors set a goal for newsroom staff to accurately reflect the population they served by 2000. But the organization known today as the News Leaders Association had to push that deadline back to 2025.

Murphy had been a journalist for a decade and was scraping by as a freelancer when a statistic shifted her perspective. A Freelance Investigative Reporters and Editors (FIRE) survey showed 30% of the freelance investigative reporters who responded put more than $5,000 of their own money toward project expenses per year.

“That survey was really instructive for me,” Murphys said. She remembered thinking, “There’s something structural going on, and I — an individual — can’t fight something structural.”

Carla Murphy

She left journalism in 2016, and is now an assistant professor of journalism at Rutgers University-Newark who continues to study, write about and critique journalism with a class focus. She said the cultural message that new journalists have to prove themselves worthy through personal financial sacrifice is harmful.

“It’s like confusing desire with your economic standing, actually,” she said. “If you’re trying to get a clip as a cub journalist and the outfit is only paying you $50, or it’s only paying $250, but you’ve signed on to do a heavily reported piece, you’re losing money.”

This standard is prohibitive for those like herself, who didn’t grow up with a financial cushion. She emigrated with her single mother to the United States from Barbados in the 1980s when she was a girl. She said those expectations placed on aspiring journalists are exclusionary, no matter their racial or ethnic background.

“If our industry is structured that way such that only those who can afford to do this can be a journalist, we’ve lost so much extraordinary diversity,” she said.

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When I started working as an editorial assistant for a small newspaper up the street from my high school, I recall making around $9. It was 2006, and at 17, I was delighted to make a few dollars more than the minimum wage doing something other than bagging groceries. So as I attended a local community college in rural California, my career kicked off typing obituaries, taking photos and writing culture pieces for the small, semiweekly paper.

But by the time I reached my 30s, the rate for my work had not kept pace with my experience. In early 2020, I was invited to apply for a job editing the arts and culture section of a newspaper — at $14 an hour. I wanted the job, but needed a higher rate. So I didn’t apply. A few months later, I took home more collecting unemployment for the first time with the expanded pandemic benefits than I had ever earned in journalism.

“I think this issue about who gets to do journalism, who can afford to do journalism, the ramifications of that should be everyone’s problem, not just an industry problem,” Murphy said.

The issue of who can afford to criticize journalism is also worth examining.

Megan Taros said that while it’s become trendy to have a race reporter, or a reporter committed to covering communities where many people of color live. But they want to make these changes without ceding any amount of power.

“When you challenge them and you tell them, listen, this is the work that needs to be done. They don’t want to hear it,” she said. “They want it to come easy.”

Megan Taros. Photo by Xavier Wang.

If a white staffer in a newsroom points to a lack of diversity, they’re well-meaning allies. But too often when a journalist of color points out the same thing, they’re labeled angry or difficult. Sometimes, they lose work.

A few years back, I was offered a full-time producer job for a public radio station where I’d been working part time. There were three openings, each a different tier of producer, to fill three roles that had recently been vacated. I had applied for the mid-tier position, but was offered the lowest tier.

On a Friday, my boss had told me, “I want you to be my first hire,” but I took the weekend to think about it.

I returned the next week wanting to negotiate, and wondered out loud to the wrong person why I’m consistently offered the lowest positions I apply for, and whether it had to do with being a young woman of color. I’d said that to the manager who’d offered me the job, and it was a mistake.

Days later, I learned that my offer had been revoked. An email went out to the entire staff introducing the three new producers. My name was not included. They’d hired another Latina journalist for the lowest-tier producer role, and a white man from out-of-state for the mid-level producer.

I learned that it’s actually not safe to voice these concerns and insecurities out loud, and that people may support you to your face, but often won’t lift a finger beyond that.

As I went over paperwork with the HR manager on my last day, I had no idea if she knew that I’d initially been offered the job. But she was familiar with past instances of me bringing up diversity issues and unfair practices. She’d been the one who’d once asked me “You think we have a race problem?” after I’d expressed concern about the number of hours I was being asked to work as a part-timer with no benefits. As I flipped through the paperwork, that HR manager called me “passionate” for speaking up for myself.

But being outspoken about what I saw as exploitation was not “passion.” Wanting to build a career that includes a living wage, respect and a safe environment and hitting my head against the wall trying to find or create it — that doesn’t spark passion. It draws out my frustration, depression and self-doubt, but not my passion. That comes from the work itself.

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Although there are far too many stories of Latinas and other marginalized journalists internalizing the weaknesses of our industry, there are also those trying to improve it for today’s journalists and future generations.

Gabriella Lewis, the NYT Cooking visual journalist, is joining a 24-hour walkout with more than 1,000 other New York Times employees today. Workers at the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette have been on strike against media company Block Communications since Oct. 20, and Fort-Worth Star Telegram employees have been on strike against publisher McClatchy since Nov. 28.

“I think that the organizing that has been happening in the industry in certain parts of the industry since 2015 has done a lot to keep these issues of living wages, fair wages, and also equity on the table,” said Murphy.

And there are other examples of grassroots solutions developing.

Arizona Luminaria is a nonprofit newsroom that veteran journalists Dianna Náñez, Irene McKisson and Becky Pallack launched last year. The “community funded, community driven” news site publishes stories in Spanish and English, as well as pieces that explain their reporting. Futuro Media, which produces shows including “Latino USA” among others, recently launched an investigative unit, Futuro Investigates.

Lewis also helps other Latina journalists setting the groundwork for their careers through the Latinas in Journalism Mentorship Program. The program was designed to give Latina journalists access to Latina mentors, which past generations of journalists have missed out on.

She helps people with their resumes, conducts mock interviews and lets the Latinas she works with know that they deserve the job they’re after, or the raise they’re wanting.

“It’s a lot of reassurance,” Lewis said. “I felt like that would have made a really big difference in my career, and I could easily do it for someone else.”

As newsrooms make varying degrees of progress toward better representation, we must resist seeing the presence of Latinas and journalists from other marginalized backgrounds as the finish line. We deserve to be heard, respected and paid well, too. In a culture that will inherently determine our value to be worth less, we must raise our standards for what to expect from the industry.

It’s vital to share our experiences as marginalized journalists trying to carve out space for ourselves in the industry. We must share the wins and the losses, even when it’s difficult.

“A lot of the time when you speak up and you say things that are against the status quo, it’s going to feel bad,” said Taros. “That’s why you just never give up on the future.”

Man on the Street: A PSA for Midtown Sacramento

On Wednesday morning, a Sacramento-based journalist shared her personal experience of being harassed and threatened during a recent bike ride in Midtown to her 13.8K Twitter followers. For many women, Stephanie Buck’s account would likely feel at least somewhat familiar.

While taking an early evening ride in the sunlight, Buck stopped her bicycle for car traffic to pass in a populated area of Midtown. When she did, her internal alarm was raised by a man walking by, erratically, who locked eyes with her and tried to engage verbally. She ignored him until he physically approached her, at which point she said, “No.” She started to pedal away when traffic had passed, as he laughed and yelled that he would chase her. He sprinted after her with his arms outstretched until Buck was able to speed up and get enough distance between them. She wrote that, terrified, she got to a safe place and called 911, reporting the incident in a shaky voice.

Two things struck me about Buck’s story. First, it’s an experience so many women relate to, including some who retweeted her thread. “Ugh, this story is unfortunately so relatable for so many of us,” one woman wrote. “I’ve always felt safer when biking, I guess women are never truly safe,” another lamented. 

What also struck me was the fact that this was the second time in a week I’d seen a woman take to social media to share her story of being threatened in Midtown. Another Sacramento woman posted in her Instagram stories that, while walking in her neighborhood recently, a man lunged at and spit on her before two women stepped in to help. Shaken, she asked herself: What if they hadn’t been there to help? When Buck got home from her bike ride, she asked herself: What if I hadn’t pedaled fast enough?

It is a shame that women cannot simply walk, bike or exist in public space without worrying about whether or not they are safe. As I tweeted in response to Buck’s story, “Who knows if this is the same guy [in both instances]. I just know it breaks my heart that women can't feel safe simply existing in our community.” It breaks my heart, too, that so many other women and myself know the feeling of being on edge as we navigate the world.

I don’t want this piece to be a how-to for women to keep safe. We should be allowed to wear what we want, act how we want, exist in this world however we want without threat of harm. Period. This is simply a PSA to say that there are men on the street who somehow take delight in scaring and threatening to harm women. Everyone in Midtown, or wherever you may be reading this, stay vigilant. If you feel the need to remove yourself from a situation, trust your gut and, as the women of My Favorite Murder say, Fuck Politeness. Your safety comes first. And if you see something that looks off and think a woman may be harmed, please step in and help her.

I plan to follow up on this piece in the coming days. If you’ve experienced street harassment and would like to speak for the follow-up, please reach out on Twitter at @katejgonzales or via email at katemgonzales3@gmail.com.

Stay tuned and stay safe.

(Screenshots are a selection of Buck’s Twitter thread, used with the author’s permission).

Risking lives for the ’gram

There’s a little influencer in us all, but most have better judgement

Each New Year’s Eve, we all expect to see crowds of people dancing and drinking in celebration when we check our social media. As we know, 2020 wasn’t a typical year. For once, the coolest thing you could have done to ring in the new year was just stay home. Cheers with your roommates, kiss your partner at midnight, cry with your cat. Whatever. Just do it at home.

But when your entire identity is driven by ego, that is unfathomable. It would be like performing a good deed without documenting it, or driving a used Honda. No, staying home isn’t required for those who see themselves as above the rules of common decency. Count the hundreds who attended a NYE bash at a Granite Bay mansion among these elite.

Hundreds gathered during for a New Year’s Eve party last week, flouting stay-at-home orders.

Screenshots of the pandemic party started circulating on social media Jan. 2, largely because of a tweet from Sacramento news anchor Lina Washington. Her father, Robert Washington, died of complications from coronavirus in June. She’s been vocal in urging people to stay home and take the virus seriously, and critical of those who don’t. She tweeted her own selfie from New Year’s Eve: a picture of her crying at home. Her father would have turned 69 on Jan. 1, and this was the first year she couldn’t call him at midnight to wish him a happy birthday.

The greater Sacramento region is currently under a stay-at-home order to try to stop the spread of the virus and reduce the strain on local intensive care units. This region includes Sacramento County and Placer County, where the party took place. According to California’s COVID-19 dashboard, the state has seen nearly 2.5 million cases that have resulted in over 27,000 deaths.

There have been 70,677 cases of COVID-19 in Sacramento County as of Jan. 6, resulting in 917 deaths. Placer County, a more rural region, has seen 14,723 positive cases and 132 deaths.

Jenica Lara sees the patients behind the numbers every day. She’s a medical assistant and phlebotomist at a local urgent care clinic who said the past year has been exhausting.

“It’s around the clock with this pandemic,” she said. “Some of my coworkers are working six days a week, almost 12-hour shifts.”

Her clinic admits patients based on COVID symptoms and they sometimes start the day with 60 appointments. That’s before walk-ins begin arriving. When Lara heard about the large "influencer" party in Granite Bay, she checked out an Instagram page called @peopleofsacramento_scams. The page has an extensive series of screenshots from the party, which took place at a mansion previously owned by comedian Eddie Murphy.

“Seeing that they had this huge party, it was very upsetting,” Lara said. “Why isn’t this being taken seriously?”

If you attended a party during a pandemic, flouting social pressure and a stay-at-home order, you would think you’d try to keep it offline. But the need to be seen runs deep in this crowd. Many people posted videos and photos of the night on their public Instagram pages. One attendee posted public pictures and called it an epic night in the caption, using #WellConnected #SacramentoBoss and #EddieMurphysOldHouse, among other hashtags. A video uploaded to YouTube chronicled the night in the blandest possible way, taking us from the car ride to Eddie Murphy’s mansion to the security gate at Eddie Murphy’s mansion to right in front of Eddie Murphy’s mansion to behind one of the bars in Eddie Murphy’s mansion. The narrator tries to hype up every room he walks into from behind the camera, and occasionally someone mentions that they’re in Eddie Murphy’s mansion. Only one person can be seen wearing a mask. The video, titled “Team NSX & Exotic New Year party at Eddie Murphy old mansion …” has since been set to private. At least we have this meme:

Meme credit: @andylikedthis

There was one attendee who wanted to distance himself from the party. Zayn Silmi is a public figure, CEO and philanthropist according to the bio on his Instagram, which has over 52,000 followers. He founded The People of Sacramento, an Instagram blog that was initially similar to Humans of New York. It profiles people and businesses in Sacramento and has over 104,000 followers. When word began to spread that Silmi attended the party, people spoke up on the most recent TPOS post. It happened to feature a large mural with four health care workers, all in masks. The words, “You are appreciated and the world thanks you,” ended the caption.

An Instagram post from The People of Sacramento, which was deleted within days of the Granite Bay mansion party.

I was one of the people who spoke up in the comments, to ask whether those who run TPOS were at the party. The response left some people with more questions.

It was a mansion party, so how could he expect it to be small? Did he think it was right to sell TPOS masks and then go to a New Year’s Eve party? Did he open his flagship store on R Street in the days after the party, which would have put customers at risk?

It frustrated Lara, the medical assistant, to see that the latest TPOS post was a tribute to health care workers. She said her clinic sees about 40 positive cases a day and often has to turn patients away.

“Why do you say you support health care workers but plan and throw these huge parties?” she said of Silmi. “You need to walk it like you talk it and stay home.”

On top of her day job, she volunteered as a street medic during the George Floyd protests in Portland, the Bay Area and here in Sacramento. She also volunteered during this week’s demonstrations at the Capitol.

“I had followed The People of Sacramento page for a while because I was born and raised in Sacramento,” she said. “People have hometown pride. … You (TPOS) have a following so you’re responsible for the things you do.”

Many people agreed, and they had somewhere to turn — the callout account, @peopleofsacramento_scams. The account’s author posted dozens of photos from the party in a series of stories. One collection includes a photo of Silmi inside the mansion with three other men in the days leading up to the party, with the implication that he helped plan it.

Silmi has said nobody affiliated with TPOS planned the party. But the page chronicles more than just the party. The author, Andrea Cunningham, questions Silmi’s business practices. This included a R Street Shelter, a non-profit, boutique adoption center he opened last February under The People of Sacramento’s brand. At the time, Cunningham and others wondered whether what he was doing was puppy flipping — taking the best-looking animals from local shelters and charging people higher fees for the “exclusive” adoption experience. Silmi said in an email that the project dissolved due to the pandemic and the executive director moving out of state.

I planned to ask Silmi more about the party, the pet adoption project and whether he planned to quarantine and get tested. On Monday, he cancelled our scheduled interview, citing mental exhaustion. It's understandable; a social media pile-on never feels good, unless it's a pile-on of likes. The peopleofsacramento_scams page following has ballooned to nearly 6,000, with double that amount viewing the stories.

In lieu of an interview, Silmi released a statement that reads in part:

“On New Years Eve [sic], I demonstrated poor judgment and a lack of empathy for my community by attending a large gathering. I first want to apologize to those that have had family members affected by COVID-19. I acknowledge that just one irresponsible choice puts countless others at risk, and in doing so myself, I am truly sorry. My actions are contradictory to what I aspire for myself and my brand, and there are no excuses for my poor decision. ... Our community deserves better, and I will do better.”

Last July, Silmi was featured as one of Sacramento’s “Emerging Leaders” in Comstock’s Magazine. He was recognized as a young professional who has “made a difference during this COVID-19 pandemic.”

Now Sacramentans are questioning whether his commitment to the city is genuine or just a brand-booster. In December, TPOS posted a video of Silmi and crew delivering care packages to Sacramento residents experiencing homelessness. That rubbed some people the wrong way, including myself. The video had the glossy feel of a commercial and included shots of the “Home is Sacramento” jackets TPOS is known for. A few people pointed out that the video was in poor taste. It has since been removed from The People of Sacramento’s page.

While Silmi spent the week doing damage control, some people who attended the COVID castle party have doubled down on their decision to attend. By Jan. 3, one partygoer announced on her social media that she thought she’d contracted the virus at the party. She posted an image of a thermometer that recorded a temperature of 101 degrees. After TPOS_scams page posted the image with the woman’s Instagram handle, she removed her two posts about feeling sick. On her Facebook page, the woman has decried the news media’s “negativity” around the party and said, “It was soooo much fun I’d definitely do it all over again.”

From the 'gram of a NYE party attendee. This post has since been removed.

It’s tempting to share her identity here, but anyone interested won’t have to do much searching to find it. Another call-out account, @goodpeopleofsacramento, has an extensive list of the Instagram handles of attendees.

The debacle has had many Sacramentans glued to their phones, eager for the latest development. I’ve been stuck to my screen, too. The updates I’ve reported on Twitter have gotten my page more attention. While walking my dog, I’d pull out my phone every few minutes. Did my tweet get more likes? Any more followers? My puppy would pull, almost sending my phone out of my hand and onto the ground. I’d put it away in my back pocket. A few blocks later, I’d pull it out again.

That side that craves the validation social media offers lives in most of us. We may not be as blatant about it as the partygoers, but we too want people to think we’re attractive, smart, witty or talented.

However, most of us also have the good sense to stay at home during a pandemic to protect our community. And when held accountable for selfish behavior, I like to think most of us wouldn’t turn to defense mechanisms. A common thread among the people being called out for attending the party is that they’re exhibiting bully behavior. Cunningham, who runs the scams account, is being threatened with lawsuits. I’ve been called a hater for asking questions about the party, and was told to “go fuck myself” by one woman I reached out to for comment.

This “epic night” will have epic consequences. These consequences won’t just affect the attendees, but the entire community that’s been put at greater risk because of their actions. To care about your community is to know that the world extends beyond your ego and your brand. It’s to be earnest and do your best to own your mistakes, as hard as that may be. To care about the people of Sacramento means to stay home during a pandemic.

Sacramento, but for who?

Sacramento just got a makeover, courtesy of the Greater Sacramento Economic Council. The organization’s new two-minute commercial is a straightforward appeal to Bay Area families looking to flee to somewhere cheaper, but, we swear, just as hip. It’s a portrait of a city on the rise, complete with amenities for those who can afford it. Think handcrafted lattes, a sophisticated nightlife, toned, sweaty bodies in a gym that resembles a nightclub. Dog parks. Murals. Record shopping. You get it.

What’s missing from this image is obvious to some who already call Sacramento home.

The colorful “BARK” statue welcoming people to Truitt Bark Park in midtown? In just the last month, I’ve seen a man sleeping at the foot of that statue, another man asking for spare change, and a woman letting her two boys play on the large letters. I later noticed that the small family seemed to be taking a break from living out of their car.

“That commercial was laughable,” said Gabriell Garcia. “It’s a tale of two cities.”

Garcia ran Blue Lamp with her husband, Ben, from 2013 to early 2020. The much-loved venue was known for hosting a range of musical genres and unique local events. The couple was already struggling to pay the bills late last year when the landlord planned to up the rent, nearly tripling it. They couldn’t hold onto the venue, which hosted its final show in December 2019. They took over Café Colonial, an all-ages venue on Stockton Boulevard whose owner also struggled to stay afloat, and were planning shows just before the pandemic hit. Garcia said rent increases have affected other local businesses, like the Hideaway Bar & Grill in Curtis Park, whose owners announced in June that it wouldn’t reopen.

In the time they ran Blue Lamp, which sat on the eastern edge of midtown, Garcia saw surrounding home prices go from $250,000 to $800,000. Next year, Sacramento’s poised to become one of the hottest housing markets in the country, and the city’s affordability compared to the Bay Area is a selling point in GSEC’s commercial.

“You can take that Bay Area-level income and it goes so much farther,” the narrator in the commercial says.

Good for them, but what about the people here who are at a breaking point?

Less than a month before GSEC released its commercial, 63-year-old Greg Tarola was found dead on the streets, wrapped in a wet blanket. According to a CapRadio report, he had recently become homeless.

Meanwhile, those who occupy midtown’s luxury apartments are paying exorbitant prices for the lifestyle that GSEC is selling. Rent at Q19 ranges from $1,800 for a studio to $3,275 for a two-bedroom, two-bathroom unit. According to apartments.com, rent at 1430 Q St. is $2,300 for a one-bedroom and $6,500 for a two-bedroom apartment.

Each year, the number of unhoused Sacramentans is measured through the Point in Time count. The 2019 Homeless Point in Time count found that 5,570 people experience homelessness in the county on a given night, and estimated that 10,000 to 11,000 people experience homelessness annually. And that was before the pandemic.

“You can paint Sacramento however you want to paint it,” Garcia said. “The biggest mistake (the city) is making right now is that it’s alienating the communities and families that have been here for generations.”

Blue Lamp’s marquee with a goodbye message.
Photo courtesy of Cam Evans, @photofromcam on Instagram.

Giving Sacramento a spit shine to attract Bay Area transplants is bad enough, but when Sacramentans voiced their criticism about the ad online, their comments were blocked or removed. The council also removed the video from Twitter, where it received the brunt of residents’ criticism.

The Greater Sacramento Economic Council is selling a lifestyle — one that many working-class residents and people in the creative fields cannot afford.

“I always thought the charm of Sacramento was the quirkiness and jankiness of midtown and the dive bars and the people who built them up,” Garcia said. “[They’re] discrediting the people who have been here.”

Since GSEC removed many of the responses to their ad, I decided to reach out to a few folks in the arts and creative fields to get their perspectives. Here are their responses:

Laura Marie Anthony, founder of Artists of Sacramento (@artistsofsacramento on Instagram)

What’s your overall response to the ad?
To be honest, it didn’t surprise me. Art-washed gentrifying content has been churning out of Sacramento for a while now. When I’m not feeling sickened, numb, or angered by it, my response is to lean into my advocacy work at Artists of Sacramento.

What are some of the issues or barriers for creatives trying to live and advance their careers in Sacramento?Without basic needs met, it’s difficult for creatives to advance their career. Being in constant survival mode is exhausting. Additionally, there isn’t enough respect for the creatives that actually make Sacramento “cool” in the first place. They are usually asked to take very little pay and far too often get offered “exposure” as compensation. All the while those with deep pockets get richer on the backs of their talent. While most creatives learn their worth in the long run, it doesn’t help that predatory people will exploit cheap to free labor from artists who haven’t learned that fact just yet.

Claire White, poet, painter and DSA member

What’s your overall response to the ad?
I understand that the council wants to attract well-off people from the Bay to come to Sacramento. That was my takeaway. It made me feel a little repulsed that the council is investing time, energy, and money into marketing to non-residents all while many people here are struggling to pay their rent and other expenses. I felt disappointed that Sacramento's trend of catering to "elites" takes more precedence than ensuring that actual current residents are able to make ends meet and stay in their houses and other living spaces.

What are some of the issues or barriers or creatives in Sacramento?
The cost of living in California, and especially in Sacramento right now, does not permit a diverse group of people to buy here. I'd like to see The Greater Sacramento Economic Council address how it will support current residents in areas like Oak Park and Del Paso keep their homes. What are they willing to do for people who aren't wealthy or middle class?

Justina Martino, arts administrator and founder of Art Tonic (@art.tonic on instagram)

What’s your overall response to the ad?
I am not opposed to new people moving to Sacramento. I, myself, moved to California from Rhode Island seven years ago. The ad encourages Bay Area folks with large salaries to move to Sacramento, take advantage of the vibrancy created by hard-working Sacramento residents, and not give anything back in return. I was especially turned off by the way the ad encourages people to move here and then spend their dollars in places like Tahoe and Napa. If you encourage people to move to Sacramento, at least encourage them to spend their time and money supporting Sacramento's artists, makers, nonprofit organizations, and small businesses.

What are some of the issues you’ve seen living here that this commercial overlooks?
They say, "Sacramento is creative. Sacramento is vibrant." It is not the city that is creative, it is the residents of the city that are creative. The wording used in this commercial completely ignores the people of Sacramento. The commercial gives credit for the city's creativity to "creative types who were in the Bay Area ten years ago." What??? What about the "creative types" who have grown up in Sacramento, or creatives who have moved to Sacramento from other locations, such as myself, but have put thousands of hours into making Sacramento stronger for little or no pay?

What are some of the big issues or barriers for creatives trying to advance their lives in Sacramento?
There is a lack of affordable housing and safe artist studio spaces in Sacramento. Many of my artist friends have had to relocate multiple times due to rent hikes. With the high price of rent, many artists are unable to afford to rent a studio space in addition to their apartment. Many make due by setting up tiny makeshift art studios at their kitchen tables or in bedroom corners. Some artists have been forced to move into their studio spaces (which are not equipped for living) because they can not afford an apartment. The precarious livelihoods of many Sacramento artists prevents them from realizing their big ideas, stifles their creativity, and prevents them from obtaining opportunities to advance their careers.

If the Greater Sacramento Economic Council is looking to benefit from Sacramento’s creative culture, its staff should listen to the concerns and criticisms of those who have built it. Or at least not hide from their perspectives.