SUBSCRIBE TO OUR FREE NEWSLETTER
Daily news & progressive opinion—funded by the people, not the corporations—delivered straight to your inbox.
5
#000000
#FFFFFF
5
#000000
#FFFFFF
addiction
Why Trump Is Making Vagrancy Laws Great Again
Trump's new executive order on homelessness is not a departure from policy failure. It is the logical continuation of a governance model that confuses erasure with resolution.
Jul 25, 2025
There are words that live quietly in the margins of law, waiting for the right conditions to become instruments of control. Vagrancy is one of them. It does not name a crime so much as a condition—a presence deemed out of place, a body detached from property, purpose, or permission. It has always been a word that grants the state an elastic mandate: to sweep, to detain, to erase.
Its history is older than this country. In 14th-century England, following the Black Death, the ruling class faced a labor shortage that briefly shifted the balance of power toward the working poor. Rather than negotiate, they legislated. A series of statutes criminalized idleness and movement, branding those who wandered without employer or land as enemies of order. The offense was not what they did—it was that they could not be accounted for. Vagrancy became a pretext for containment, a tool to bind the body to power, and a signal that survival outside sanctioned structures would not be tolerated.
The word arrived in the Americas with that logic intact and found new utility in a country built on hierarchy and extraction. Across centuries, it was used to arrest freed Black men for walking without proof of employment, to justify the confinement of Indigenous people who had refused removal, to expel Chinese workers labeled as moral contagions, to target queer youth and disabled residents whose lives defied social norms. It appeared on signs and statutes alike, a vague but potent summons of disorder, always defined from above. It did not require action. It required only that someone be seen.
Now, the word has returned—not as metaphor or memory, but as mandate. On July 24, 2025, President Trump signed an executive order titled “Ending Crime and Disorder on America's Streets”—a sweeping directive that promises to fight “vagrancy” and reframes homelessness, addiction, and mental illness not as public health crises or systemic failures, but as threats to civic peace.
The order offers no new housing, no expanded care infrastructure, no commitment to addressing the material conditions that produce displacement. Instead, it offers a rubric for removal. Under its provisions, federal grants from Housing and Urban Development, Health and Human Service, the Department of Justice, and the Department of Transportation will prioritize jurisdictions that criminalize public presence—cities that ban urban camping, prohibit loitering, penalize “urban squatting,” and track individuals deemed out of bounds. Programs that offer harm reduction, low-barrier shelters, or evidence-based treatment models face new restrictions or disqualification. Legal safeguards against involuntary psychiatric commitment are to be rolled back, consent decrees reversed, and behavioral nonconformity redefined as detainable.
Vagrancy persists because it works—not in reducing harm, but in reallocating blame. It shifts public anxiety about inequality, addiction, and disorder away from the systems that produce them and toward the individuals who cannot hide them.
This is not a departure from policy failure. It is the logical continuation of a governance model that confuses erasure with resolution. The language remains soft—beautification, humane treatment, restoration—but the infrastructure it supports is hard: surveillance in place of service, confinement in place of care, disappearance in place of dignity. It teaches agencies to measure success not by outcomes but by optics: How many tents are gone? How few bodies remain visible? How fully have we restored the image of control?
Vagrancy persists because it works—not in reducing harm, but in reallocating blame. It shifts public anxiety about inequality, addiction, and disorder away from the systems that produce them and toward the individuals who cannot hide them. It casts the existence of suffering as a provocation and conditions civic belonging on legibility, order, and stillness. In doing so, it grants governments a new kind of authority: the power not simply to punish what people do, but to penalize who they are when no performance is possible.
This order does not restore order. It reinstates a hierarchy of visibility. It tells those without shelter, treatment, or family that the problem is not what they lack—but that they can still be seen. And in doing so, it signals to the rest of us that our security lies in distance, that the absence of suffering from view is proof that it has been addressed. It invites the public to mistake silence for peace, stillness for stability, emptiness for care.
But the history of vagrancy tells a different story. It is a word that rises not in response to crisis, but in response to fear: the fear that the margins might speak, might move, might disrupt the fictions we tell about what this country is and who it serves. When the powerful feel that their order is slipping, they do not ask what has failed. They ask who can be removed.
If there is any hope in this moment, it lies in refusing the comfort of euphemism. This is not about restoration. It is about removal. Not about care, but control. Not about safety, but sightlines.
We do not have to accept the return of vagrancy into our political vocabulary. We can name it for what it is: a centuries-old code for managing the inconvenient poor, repackaged as policy. We can refuse to let language do the work of violence. And we can insist—still, again—that visibility is not disorder, and that survival, even unkempt, even unsanctioned, is not a threat to be eliminated.
It is a truth to be answered. With housing. With care. With courage. And with clarity
Keep ReadingShow Less
We Don’t Throw People Away: Why I Support a Harm Reduction Approach in LA
We have a moral responsibility to set an example for the rest of the nation: one that’s rooted in compassion, humanity, and data-driven approaches.
May 07, 2025
If you were drowning, I wouldn’t ask how you got there before throwing you a lifeline.
I wouldn’t tell you to swim harder.
I wouldn’t tell you to make better choices, I wouldn’t hope you sink, and I wouldn’t put you in a cage.
If you were drowning, I would reach for you, pull you up, and do everything in my power to keep you alive.
That’s what harm reduction is: keeping people alive.
We don’t criminalize someone for losing a limb to the effects of diabetes. We don’t arrest them for not taking their insulin or for struggling to manage their blood sugar. We surround them with medical care, support systems, and resources to help them live healthier lives.
The first step isn’t forcing someone into a system they aren’t ready for. The first step is keeping them alive long enough to say yes.
Problematic substance use—a chronic, relapsing disease—is no different. And harm reduction is one of the many courses of medical action we’re taking to address this in MacArthur Park, Los Angeles, where the opioid crisis and homelessness collide in painful, visible ways.
I understand the frustration. I hear the anger. Lock them up, people say—oblivious to the harrowing truth that this crisis is made profoundly worse in our jails.
I want a healthy, accessible, thriving MacArthur Park just as much as my neighbors; a MacArthur Park where hardworking families aren’t forced to live amid trauma and visible substance use. But let me be clear: I don’t throw people away—and I don’t invest in failed solutions.
People don’t wake up one day and decide to become homeless or addicted. They end up there because they’ve been failed by an economic system that keeps people in poverty, by a housing system that makes rent impossible to afford, by a criminal justice system that treats problematic substance use like a crime instead of a disease, by a political system that chronically underfunds mental health, and by a for-profit healthcare system that allowed big pharmaceutical companies to manufacture the opioid epidemic and knowingly steal thousands of lives in exchange for billions of dollars.
We’ve spent over a trillion dollars on the failed War on Drugs, and the availability and potency of illicit drugs have only increased—along with our prison population.
It’s time for a different approach.
Decades of research have shown that harm reduction strategies provide significant public health benefits, including preventing deaths from overdoses and preventing transmission of infectious diseases. That’s why our office partnered with the LA County Department of Health Services and Homeless Healthcare Los Angeles (HHCLA) to deploy an overdose response team in the park seven days a week. Every day, they provide wound care, hygiene kits, naloxone, methadone, and harm reduction tools to people experiencing problematic substance use. They clean up biohazardous waste, picking up and safely disposing of left-behind needles and pipes that put our families in danger. They do the work that Recreation and Parks and LAPD can’t while reducing call volume to emergency responders, and we are all safer for it.
Since launching in late 2024, this team has collected over 14,000 hazardous items and distributed more than 3,600 naloxone kits—totaling over 11,000 doses of life-saving medication—and saved 52 lives. Those 52 people have names and faces and stories and hopes and dreams. They are someone’s child, someone’s friend, someone who now has a shot at accepting treatment, because we know that recovery isn’t a straight path—it takes multiple touchpoints. The first step isn’t forcing someone into a system they aren’t ready for. The first step is keeping them alive long enough to say yes.
I also want to be clear about what our office can and cannot do. The City Council cannot make arrests. What we can do is invest in solutions. We can choose to fund the strategies that actually reduce harm, that save lives, that address the root causes of these crises. Or, we can choose to push people out of sight and throw them away.
The fight for humanity goes far beyond MacArthur Park. We see it happening across the country. We see it in how President Donald Trump treats immigrants like pawns, willing to let families suffer for cheap political points. We see it in how he attacks the LGBTQ+ community, stripping away protections and treatment, denying their very existence. We see marginalized communities degraded and vilified and sacrificed at the altar of power, and we see misinformation peddled at every turn to satiate a hungry, desperate base. It is easy to dehumanize. It is easy to discard people. It is easy to think of human lives as inconvenient. But we have to resist that urge. We are better than that in Los Angeles. We have a moral responsibility to set an example for the rest of the nation: one that’s rooted in compassion, humanity, and data-driven approaches. And since my very first day in office, that’s what I’ve always done, no matter how uphill the battle may be.
MacArthur Park is struggling. Yes, we are frustrated, scared, and sometimes, angry. But I refuse to abandon the people suffering in front of us.
We don’t throw people away. We fight for them.
Keep ReadingShow Less
Recovering Takes A Village, Not A Stereotype
This National Recovery Month, learn about an Ohio community agency taking a stand for recovery justice.
Sep 25, 2024
As we mark National Recovery Month this September, I find myself reflecting on my own journey with Substance Use Disorder, or SUD, and the vital role that community plays in both addiction and healing. My experience is a testament to how crucial a supportive environment is for people to rebuild their lives with dignity, especially now, as communities across our country try to close the door on those who deserve a chance at recovery.
My story is not unique. Like so many others, I struggled in silence. Substance use was a topic never openly acknowledged in my family—it was treated like dirty laundry, something to be disregarded, not diagnosed. As a nurse and a loving mother, I presented a picture-perfect life to those around me. I was in denial myself, too: I believed I was immune to any of the pressures that could lead to substance use, despite living in a city and state where it was so prevalent. And even with my medical background, I was unable to see my own addiction for the health issue that it was.
It wasn’t until I confronted my internalized stereotypes and became vulnerable with others that I began to heal. Since there was a lack of official recovery services in my hometown, I realized recovery cannot occur in isolation, it requires a supportive community and dedicated spaces and professionals. Even with a lack of drug courts, reentry drug courts, and support groups available in my city at the time, my own recovery was made possible because of my friends and family: the very community I had feared to share my truth with.
Shunning and shaming does not stop SUD. Our siblings, children, and friends deserve our support and should not be labeled as “dangerous” or “criminals.”
Once my truth was laid bare, others became more vulnerable with me and began to share their own stories. There were fellow parents, neighbors, and friends all of whom believed they were the only ones struggling. I learned that SUD thrives in secrecy. This experience inspired me to create a recovery center so others could heal within the community and find the support they need, free from stigma.
Alongside my family, I founded Lawrence County Recovery, LLC (LCR), an agency dedicated to breaking the cycle of shame surrounding SUD, and providing recovery services that empower individuals to reenter their communities with pride. Too often, people in recovery are met with judgment instead of compassion, turned away when they should be welcomed. Recognizing that peer and community support makes the recovery process more sustainable, LCR has set up recovery housing, or sober living homes. In these homes, small groups of people in recovery can live together, support one another, and hold each other accountable as a step toward independent living.
Despite these successes, and after more than five years of supporting over 1,500 people in recovery, I am still witnessing firsthand how discrimination harms and stigmatizes LCR’s clients.
This past August, LCR filed a lawsuit against the Village of Coal Grove, Ohio for engaging in a uniquely egregious and discriminatory campaign targeting individuals in recovery from SUD. The complaint alleges that Coal Grove has imposed a moratorium on new recovery homes, enforced invasive and restrictive requirements on existing providers, and pursued criminal charges against LCR’s leadership, all based on unfounded fears and prejudices.
It is deeply painful to watch as some of my local leaders and neighbors turn their backs on members of our community. Shunning and shaming does not stop SUD. Our siblings, children, and friends deserve our support and should not be labeled as “dangerous” or “criminals.”
People in recovery are protected under federal and state disability laws, including the Fair Housing Act and the Americans with Disabilities Act, which are designed to ensure access to the resources necessary to rebuild lives. This lawsuit is about more than just one city or one recovery provider—it represents a broader struggle for recovery justice.
In Lawrence County alone, zoning proposals in Ironton and South Point have threatened treatment facilities. Throughout Ohio and across the country, local governments are enacting policies that actively hinder recovery services, often driven by misinformation, fear, and stigma.
If we are to make real progress, we must dismantle the harmful stereotypes that surround substance use disorder and embrace the true values of community—belonging and acceptance. My hope is that this stand against discrimination sends a message across the state, that hate has no place in our homes and that healing takes a village.
Recovery is possible, but it cannot happen in the shadows. As a society, we must do better—opening our communities and our hearts to those who need support. This National Recovery Month, let us remember that addiction does not discriminate, and neither should we.
Keep ReadingShow Less
Most Popular