By DAVID CONDOS <a href="https://www.hppr.org/hppr-news/2022-02-21/a-hotter-drier-climate-and-dwindling-water-has-more-kansas-farmers-taking-a-chance-on-cotton">Kansas News Service</a>

MOSCOW — Across the state, small-town grain elevators 
painted with corn ears and wheat heads stand as monuments to the crops’ 
economic and cultural significance in rural Kansas.

Cotton gins? They’re a bit harder to come by.

Farmers have grown cotton in Kansas for more than <a href="https://www.rd.usda.gov/sites/default/files/CoopMag-mar07.pdf" target="_blank">100 years</a>.
 But in a state better known for grain and beef, it’s been a challenge 
for the fluffy fiber to break into the agricultural mainstream.

Yet
 cotton might be taking hold in southwest Kansas and other parts of the 
Midwest where temperatures keep climbing and irrigation sources keep 
declining.

It could help farmers conserve water, weather drought 
and adapt to a changing climate. And with the arrival of more 
infrastructure to help people grow it here, cotton’s time in Kansas 
might finally be coming.

At the only cotton gin in western Kansas, the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/nwcg2008/" target="_blank">Northwest Cotton Growers Co-op</a>
 processed nearly 25,000 bales this past year. With room to grow, 
operations manager Michael Cutchins said the facility can handle as much
 cotton as Kansas farmers could possibly throw at it.

“Everything’s there,” Cutchins said. “We’re just waiting on the acres.”

The
 cavernous warehouse opened on the outskirts of Moscow in southwest 
Kansas three years ago. That’s when the producers who run the co-op 
invested roughly $13 million to upgrade from their smaller, older gin in
 the hopes of preparing for the industry’s upward trend.

Inside, 
metal cylinders covered in spikes spin at a rate of 1,200 rotations per 
minute. A maze of industrial dryers and saw blades tear, heat and clean 
the cotton until only the white lint remains.

Cutchins opens the casing of a towering gin stand and rests his hand 
on an agitator roller that helps remove the cottonseed from the fiber.

“It’s good at losing your fingers,” he said, “and it’s good at mulching stuff up.”

Everything’s
 managed from the central control station — a half-moon-shaped desk 
covered in screens, knobs and buttons that looks like it could launch a 
space shuttle.

With a snaking network of vacuum-powered tubes 
whooshing cotton from one machine to the next, the entire ginning 
process can take less than a minute … “when everything’s running like it
 should.”

“It’s the pretty part to sit back and watch,” Cutchins said.

In the cotton business, even the trash isn’t really trash. Every part of the plant that gets processed here turns into profits.

The sticks and leaves the machinery separates from the lint are sold to feed yards where they add roughage to cattle diets.

And
 the tiny seed that Eli Whitney invented the first cotton gin to remove 
more than 200 years ago is in high demand. Dairies feed it to milk cows 
because it's packed with protein. Mills crush it to make lip balms and 
cooking oils.

Under a shelter outside the warehouse, Cutchins and 
co-op office manager Jennifer Hewitt gaze up at a mountain of seeds that
 resembles a highway department’s stash of road salt.

Selling the 
seeds now makes up a majority of the gin’s income. But no matter which 
part of the plant the co-op’s revenue comes from, Hewitt said it all 
helps make cotton farming a viable option for farmers in this region.

“That’s
 the whole point of a co-op, so it’s not an individual owner that’s 
getting to pocket the money,” Hewitt said. “At the end of the day, the 
profit goes back to the producers.”

Kansas cotton fields covered just <a href="https://www.agriculture.ks.gov/docs/default-source/ag-growth-summit/january-2018-documents/cotton-sector.pdf?sfvrsn=f03d80c1_16" target="_blank">16,000 acres</a> in 2015. By 2020, that number had grown more than 12-fold to <a href="https://www.agriculture.ks.gov/docs/default-source/ag-growth-summit/2021-growth-documents/cotton.pdf?sfvrsn=37dc96c1_4" target="_blank">195,000 acres</a>. While that’s still only a fraction of the nearly <a href="https://kscorn.com/2021/01/12/kansas-farmers-harvest-second-largest-corn-crop/" target="_blank">6 million acres</a> growing Kansas corn, cotton farming now contributes a statewide economic impact of more than <a href="https://www.agriculture.ks.gov/docs/default-source/ag-marketing/county-ag-stats/2021-state-of-kansas.pdf?sfvrsn=467097c1_0" target="_blank">$100 million</a>.

So why hasn’t the cotton industry been booming in Kansas all along?

One reason is cotton plants need heat. Lots of it.

“As
 you go farther north,” Jonathan Aguilar, a water resources engineer 
with Kansas State University, said, “we are considered what we call 
‘thermal limited.’”

That’s why it’s more commonly planted in 
places like Texas and the Southeast. The areas along U.S. 50 in western 
Kansas are generally considered the northernmost reaches of cotton’s 
growing range here.

But as climate change brings more heat to 
Kansas, that borderline could continue inching north. And drought, which
 can be a death knell for other crops, might give cotton the heat it 
needs to make more lint.

“You might think about drought as 
(something that’s) going to be devastating,” Aguilar said. “But 
actually, it may improve the production of cotton here.”

At his research plots near Garden City, Aguilar studies exactly how 
much water might be the right amount for cotton in this region. He’s 
found that irrigating these plants too much can actually <a href="https://www.ksre.k-state.edu/news/stories/2021/11/cotton-research-in-southwest-kansas.html" target="_blank">decrease</a> their productivity.

Other K-State <a href="https://webapp.agron.ksu.edu/agr_social/m_eu_article.throck?article_id=2572" target="_blank">research</a>
 shows even just one inch of irrigation, if applied at the right time, 
could significantly boost cotton harvests. In order to get that same 
type of increase in a corn crop, Aguilar said farmers would have to use 
at least five inches of water.

That’s a big deal in this part of Kansas, which depends heavily on the <a href="https://www.hppr.org/hppr-news/2021-05-05/farmers-trying-to-save-the-ogallala-aquifer-face-tension-from-peers-but-their-profits-are-improving" target="_blank">dwindling Ogallala Aquifer</a> for both irrigation and drinking water.

Another
 barrier that kept cotton from catching on in Kansas is herbicide drift,
 when chemicals intended for grain fields cause havoc on nearby cotton. 
For example, the wind can carry vapor of the herbicide 2,4-D for miles, 
unintentionally causing <a href="https://agrilifetoday.tamu.edu/2001/05/25/cotton-and-24-d-drift-dont-mix/" target="_blank">severe harm</a> to cotton plants within that range.

But
 Aguilar said new cotton varieties have recently been developed to 
withstand those herbicides, opening the door for more farmers to give it
 a try in their crop rotations alongside those grains.

Even with the potential upside cotton has shown in the region, people
 like Jayce Winters, communications manager for the Plains Cotton 
Cooperative Association, or PCCA, often find that convincing Kansas 
farmers to give it a try can be tough.

“Cotton is a big learning 
curve,” Winters said. “It involves different machinery, different 
technology, different growing systems. The marketing process is entirely
 different.”

And it doesn’t help that Kansas hasn’t historically 
had much cotton infrastructure — things like the cotton gins that turn 
harvests into bales and the warehouses that store those bales while they
 wait to be shipped off to textile mills around the globe.

“It 
doesn’t matter what your commodity is,” Winters said. “If you don't have
 a system in place to be able to help you handle what comes next … 
there’s really no sense in growing it.”

Winters
 said the state’s four gins have made significant improvements over the 
past few years to to handle bigger harvests. PCCA’s cotton warehouse in 
Liberal can hold up to 150,000 bales, and the group recently opened a <a href="https://pcca.com/article/growing-and-going-pccas-kansas-warehouse-expansion/" target="_blank">$12.5 million</a> warehouse — the state’s second — southwest of Wichita.

When Andy Moser started 
growing cotton on his land in Stevens County southwest of Moscow five 
years ago, it might have taken five months to get his crop processed. 
That meant he had to wait five months after harvest to get paid.

This season, it only took a couple of weeks.

“As
 more people get comfortable with it, I do think acres will steadily 
increase,” he said. “Some of that will be out of necessity, and some of 
it will be out of economics.”

That’s because farmers have to worry
 about which combination of crops will give them the best chance to keep
 their operations afloat in a given season. Moser said the cotton market
 can still be “boom or bust,” and the number of acres Kansas farmers 
planted with cotton <a href="https://www.nass.usda.gov/Statistics_by_State/Kansas/Publications/Crops_Releases/Crop_Production/2021/KS-croppr2111.pdf" target="_blank">dipped</a> down again this past year.

But
 as the availability of water on Moser’s farm has dropped, the number of
 acres he’s planted with cotton has gone up. Right now, cotton takes up 
about a quarter of his land. That leaves him with enough water to 
irrigate the corn he grows on his other fields.

And with <a href="https://www.macrotrends.net/2533/cotton-prices-historical-chart-data" target="_blank">cotton prices higher</a>
 than they’ve been in a decade, Moser said the chance he took on growing
 cotton this year is paying off — he just wishes he had planted more of 
it.

“The profitability of it can really be pretty eye-opening,” 
Moser said. “The old guys just want to grow corn or just want to grow 
milo or grow what they're used to, and young guys, sometimes we gotta 
take some risks to get ahead.”

That generational divide may represent one of the last remaining hurdles to cotton’s growth in Kansas.

For
 producers who have grown grain for generations, planting this 
unfamiliar crop for the first time can still feel like a big risk. And 
Jennifer Hewitt with the Moscow cotton gin said she doesn’t blame anyone
 for being hesitant.

“It’s not just, ‘Oh, let’s sow some seed in 
the ground,’” Hewitt said. “You’re going to spend hundreds and thousands
 of dollars to try something new, and it’s extremely scary.”

She plans to hold pop-up meetings around the state this year to help more producers get familiar with cotton. 

But she knows that changing the culture among farmers here will take time. Maybe even generations.

“It
 seems like the number one reason we hear is, ‘Well, Grandpa says no,’” 
she said. “But as the younger generation takes over and starts realizing
 they need other options, I think it’ll become more and more popular.”

And as grain <a href="https://www.hppr.org/hppr-news/2022-02-14/midwest-farmers-are-struggling-with-higher-fertilizer-prices" target="_blank">fertilizer costs</a> rise and <a href="https://www.hppr.org/hppr-news/2021-05-05/farmers-trying-to-save-the-ogallala-aquifer-face-tension-from-peers-but-their-profits-are-improving" target="_blank">water levels</a> drop, she expects southwest Kansas attitudes — and acres — to keep shifting in cotton’s direction.

“That's why we've built what we've built.”

David Condos covers western Kansas for High Plains Public Radio and the Kansas News Service. You can follow him on Twitter<a href="http://twitter.com/davidcondos" target="_blank"> @davidcondos</a>.

<figure>
 <img src="https://media.eaglewebservices.com/public/2022/2/1645539036150.png" alt="Michael Cutchins stands in front of a mountain of cottonseeds that have been removed by the gin at the Northwest Cotton Growers Co-op. David Condos / Kansas News Service" />
 <figcaption>Michael Cutchins stands in front of a mountain of cottonseeds that have been removed by the gin at the Northwest Cotton Growers Co-op. David Condos / Kansas News Service</figcaption>
 </figure>By DAVID CONDOS <a href="https://www.hppr.org/hppr-news/2022-02-21/a-hotter-drier-climate-and-dwindling-water-has-more-kansas-farmers-taking-a-chance-on-cotton">Kansas News Service</a>MOSCOW — Across the state, small-town grain elevators 
painted with corn ears and wheat heads stand as monuments to the crops’ 
economic and cultural significance in rural Kansas.Cotton gins? They’re a bit harder to come by.Farmers have grown cotton in Kansas for more than <a href="https://www.rd.usda.gov/sites/default/files/CoopMag-mar07.pdf" target="_blank">100 years</a>.
 But in a state better known for grain and beef, it’s been a challenge 
for the fluffy fiber to break into the agricultural mainstream.Yet
 cotton might be taking hold in southwest Kansas and other parts of the 
Midwest where temperatures keep climbing and irrigation sources keep 
declining.It could help farmers conserve water, weather drought 
and adapt to a changing climate. And with the arrival of more 
infrastructure to help people grow it here, cotton’s time in Kansas 
might finally be coming.<figure>
 <img src="https://media.eaglewebservices.com/public/2022/2/1645539118420.png" alt="Small scraps of cotton dot the landscape on the side of the road leading to the Northwest Cotton Growers Co-op in Moscow, Kansas. David Condos / Kansas News Service" />
 <figcaption>Small scraps of cotton dot the landscape on the side of the road leading to the Northwest Cotton Growers Co-op in Moscow, Kansas. David Condos / Kansas News Service</figcaption>
 </figure>At the only cotton gin in western Kansas, the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/nwcg2008/" target="_blank">Northwest Cotton Growers Co-op</a>
 processed nearly 25,000 bales this past year. With room to grow, 
operations manager Michael Cutchins said the facility can handle as much
 cotton as Kansas farmers could possibly throw at it.“Everything’s there,” Cutchins said. “We’re just waiting on the acres.”The
 cavernous warehouse opened on the outskirts of Moscow in southwest 
Kansas three years ago. That’s when the producers who run the co-op 
invested roughly $13 million to upgrade from their smaller, older gin in
 the hopes of preparing for the industry’s upward trend.Inside, 
metal cylinders covered in spikes spin at a rate of 1,200 rotations per 
minute. A maze of industrial dryers and saw blades tear, heat and clean 
the cotton until only the white lint remains.<figure>
 <img src="https://media.eaglewebservices.com/public/2022/2/1645539161779.png" alt="This agitator in one of Northwest Cotton Growers Co-op's gin stands removes the cottonseed from the lint. David Condos / Kansas News Service" />
 <figcaption>This agitator in one of Northwest Cotton Growers Co-op's gin stands removes the cottonseed from the lint. David Condos / Kansas News Service</figcaption>
 </figure>Cutchins opens the casing of a towering gin stand and rests his hand 
on an agitator roller that helps remove the cottonseed from the fiber.“It’s good at losing your fingers,” he said, “and it’s good at mulching stuff up.”Everything’s
 managed from the central control station — a half-moon-shaped desk 
covered in screens, knobs and buttons that looks like it could launch a 
space shuttle.With a snaking network of vacuum-powered tubes 
whooshing cotton from one machine to the next, the entire ginning 
process can take less than a minute … “when everything’s running like it
 should.”“It’s the pretty part to sit back and watch,” Cutchins said.<figure>
 <img src="https://media.eaglewebservices.com/public/2022/2/1645539203822.png" alt="Jennifer Hewitt, left, and Michael Cutchins stand in front of the Northwest Cotton Growers Co-op's upgraded gin, which opened in 2019. David Condos / Kansas News Service" />
 <figcaption>Jennifer Hewitt, left, and Michael Cutchins stand in front of the Northwest Cotton Growers Co-op's upgraded gin, which opened in 2019. David Condos / Kansas News Service</figcaption>
 </figure>In the cotton business, even the trash isn’t really trash. Every part of the plant that gets processed here turns into profits.The sticks and leaves the machinery separates from the lint are sold to feed yards where they add roughage to cattle diets.And
 the tiny seed that Eli Whitney invented the first cotton gin to remove 
more than 200 years ago is in high demand. Dairies feed it to milk cows 
because it's packed with protein. Mills crush it to make lip balms and 
cooking oils.Under a shelter outside the warehouse, Cutchins and 
co-op office manager Jennifer Hewitt gaze up at a mountain of seeds that
 resembles a highway department’s stash of road salt.Selling the 
seeds now makes up a majority of the gin’s income. But no matter which 
part of the plant the co-op’s revenue comes from, Hewitt said it all 
helps make cotton farming a viable option for farmers in this region.“That’s
 the whole point of a co-op, so it’s not an individual owner that’s 
getting to pocket the money,” Hewitt said. “At the end of the day, the 
profit goes back to the producers.”<figure>
 <img src="https://media.eaglewebservices.com/public/2022/2/1645539232911.png" alt="" />
 <figcaption></figcaption>
 </figure>On the borderlineKansas cotton fields covered just <a href="https://www.agriculture.ks.gov/docs/default-source/ag-growth-summit/january-2018-documents/cotton-sector.pdf?sfvrsn=f03d80c1_16" target="_blank">16,000 acres</a> in 2015. By 2020, that number had grown more than 12-fold to <a href="https://www.agriculture.ks.gov/docs/default-source/ag-growth-summit/2021-growth-documents/cotton.pdf?sfvrsn=37dc96c1_4" target="_blank">195,000 acres</a>. While that’s still only a fraction of the nearly <a href="https://kscorn.com/2021/01/12/kansas-farmers-harvest-second-largest-corn-crop/" target="_blank">6 million acres</a> growing Kansas corn, cotton farming now contributes a statewide economic impact of more than <a href="https://www.agriculture.ks.gov/docs/default-source/ag-marketing/county-ag-stats/2021-state-of-kansas.pdf?sfvrsn=467097c1_0" target="_blank">$100 million</a>.So why hasn’t the cotton industry been booming in Kansas all along?One reason is cotton plants need heat. Lots of it.“As
 you go farther north,” Jonathan Aguilar, a water resources engineer 
with Kansas State University, said, “we are considered what we call 
‘thermal limited.’”That’s why it’s more commonly planted in 
places like Texas and the Southeast. The areas along U.S. 50 in western 
Kansas are generally considered the northernmost reaches of cotton’s 
growing range here.But as climate change brings more heat to 
Kansas, that borderline could continue inching north. And drought, which
 can be a death knell for other crops, might give cotton the heat it 
needs to make more lint.“You might think about drought as 
(something that’s) going to be devastating,” Aguilar said. “But 
actually, it may improve the production of cotton here.”<figure>
 <img src="https://media.eaglewebservices.com/public/2022/2/1645539279765.png" alt="" />
 <figcaption></figcaption>
 </figure>At his research plots near Garden City, Aguilar studies exactly how 
much water might be the right amount for cotton in this region. He’s 
found that irrigating these plants too much can actually <a href="https://www.ksre.k-state.edu/news/stories/2021/11/cotton-research-in-southwest-kansas.html" target="_blank">decrease</a> their productivity.Other K-State <a href="https://webapp.agron.ksu.edu/agr_social/m_eu_article.throck?article_id=2572" target="_blank">research</a>
 shows even just one inch of irrigation, if applied at the right time, 
could significantly boost cotton harvests. In order to get that same 
type of increase in a corn crop, Aguilar said farmers would have to use 
at least five inches of water.That’s a big deal in this part of Kansas, which depends heavily on the <a href="https://www.hppr.org/hppr-news/2021-05-05/farmers-trying-to-save-the-ogallala-aquifer-face-tension-from-peers-but-their-profits-are-improving" target="_blank">dwindling Ogallala Aquifer</a> for both irrigation and drinking water.Another
 barrier that kept cotton from catching on in Kansas is herbicide drift,
 when chemicals intended for grain fields cause havoc on nearby cotton. 
For example, the wind can carry vapor of the herbicide 2,4-D for miles, 
unintentionally causing <a href="https://agrilifetoday.tamu.edu/2001/05/25/cotton-and-24-d-drift-dont-mix/" target="_blank">severe harm</a> to cotton plants within that range.But
 Aguilar said new cotton varieties have recently been developed to 
withstand those herbicides, opening the door for more farmers to give it
 a try in their crop rotations alongside those grains.<figure>
 <img src="https://media.eaglewebservices.com/public/2022/2/1645539326049.png" alt="At the PCCA warehouse in Liberal, Kansas, tens of thousands of cotton bales wait to be shipped out. David Condos / Kansas News Service" />
 <figcaption>At the PCCA warehouse in Liberal, Kansas, tens of thousands of cotton bales wait to be shipped out. David Condos / Kansas News Service</figcaption>
 </figure>Even with the potential upside cotton has shown in the region, people
 like Jayce Winters, communications manager for the Plains Cotton 
Cooperative Association, or PCCA, often find that convincing Kansas 
farmers to give it a try can be tough.“Cotton is a big learning 
curve,” Winters said. “It involves different machinery, different 
technology, different growing systems. The marketing process is entirely
 different.”And it doesn’t help that Kansas hasn’t historically 
had much cotton infrastructure — things like the cotton gins that turn 
harvests into bales and the warehouses that store those bales while they
 wait to be shipped off to textile mills around the globe.“It 
doesn’t matter what your commodity is,” Winters said. “If you don't have
 a system in place to be able to help you handle what comes next … 
there’s really no sense in growing it.”But that’s starting to change.Winters
 said the state’s four gins have made significant improvements over the 
past few years to to handle bigger harvests. PCCA’s cotton warehouse in 
Liberal can hold up to 150,000 bales, and the group recently opened a <a href="https://pcca.com/article/growing-and-going-pccas-kansas-warehouse-expansion/" target="_blank">$12.5 million</a> warehouse — the state’s second — southwest of Wichita.<figure>
 <img src="https://media.eaglewebservices.com/public/2022/2/1645539353093.png" alt="" />
 <figcaption></figcaption>
 </figure>‘We gotta take some risks’When Andy Moser started 
growing cotton on his land in Stevens County southwest of Moscow five 
years ago, it might have taken five months to get his crop processed. 
That meant he had to wait five months after harvest to get paid.This season, it only took a couple of weeks.“As
 more people get comfortable with it, I do think acres will steadily 
increase,” he said. “Some of that will be out of necessity, and some of 
it will be out of economics.”That’s because farmers have to worry
 about which combination of crops will give them the best chance to keep
 their operations afloat in a given season. Moser said the cotton market
 can still be “boom or bust,” and the number of acres Kansas farmers 
planted with cotton <a href="https://www.nass.usda.gov/Statistics_by_State/Kansas/Publications/Crops_Releases/Crop_Production/2021/KS-croppr2111.pdf" target="_blank">dipped</a> down again this past year.But
 as the availability of water on Moser’s farm has dropped, the number of
 acres he’s planted with cotton has gone up. Right now, cotton takes up 
about a quarter of his land. That leaves him with enough water to 
irrigate the corn he grows on his other fields.And with <a href="https://www.macrotrends.net/2533/cotton-prices-historical-chart-data" target="_blank">cotton prices higher</a>
 than they’ve been in a decade, Moser said the chance he took on growing
 cotton this year is paying off — he just wishes he had planted more of 
it.“The profitability of it can really be pretty eye-opening,” 
Moser said. “The old guys just want to grow corn or just want to grow 
milo or grow what they're used to, and young guys, sometimes we gotta 
take some risks to get ahead.”That generational divide may represent one of the last remaining hurdles to cotton’s growth in Kansas.For
 producers who have grown grain for generations, planting this 
unfamiliar crop for the first time can still feel like a big risk. And 
Jennifer Hewitt with the Moscow cotton gin said she doesn’t blame anyone
 for being hesitant.“It’s not just, ‘Oh, let’s sow some seed in 
the ground,’” Hewitt said. “You’re going to spend hundreds and thousands
 of dollars to try something new, and it’s extremely scary.”<figure>
 <img src="https://media.eaglewebservices.com/public/2022/2/1645539408112.png" alt="This control station manages the gin operation at the Northwest Cotton Growers Co-op. Here, Jennifer Hewitt points through the glass that separates the station from the machinery. David Condos / Kansas News Service" />
 <figcaption>This control station manages the gin operation at the Northwest Cotton Growers Co-op. Here, Jennifer Hewitt points through the glass that separates the station from the machinery. David Condos / Kansas News Service</figcaption>
 </figure>She plans to hold pop-up meetings around the state this year to help more producers get familiar with cotton. But she knows that changing the culture among farmers here will take time. Maybe even generations.“It
 seems like the number one reason we hear is, ‘Well, Grandpa says no,’” 
she said. “But as the younger generation takes over and starts realizing
 they need other options, I think it’ll become more and more popular.”And as grain <a href="https://www.hppr.org/hppr-news/2022-02-14/midwest-farmers-are-struggling-with-higher-fertilizer-prices" target="_blank">fertilizer costs</a> rise and <a href="https://www.hppr.org/hppr-news/2021-05-05/farmers-trying-to-save-the-ogallala-aquifer-face-tension-from-peers-but-their-profits-are-improving" target="_blank">water levels</a> drop, she expects southwest Kansas attitudes — and acres — to keep shifting in cotton’s direction.“That's why we've built what we've built.”David Condos covers western Kansas for High Plains Public Radio and the Kansas News Service. You can follow him on Twitter<a href="http://twitter.com/davidcondos" target="_blank"> @davidcondos</a>.

More Kan. farmers take a chance on cotton in hotter, drier climate

WASHINGTON (AP) — More than 80% of the billions of dollars in federal rental assistance aimed at keeping families in their homes during the pandemic went to low-income tenants, the Treasury Department said.

It also concluded Thursday that the largest percentage of tenants receiving pandemic aid were Black followed by female-led households. In the fourth quarter of 2021, Treasury found that more than 40% of tenants getting help were Black and two-thirds of recipients were female-headed households. The data was consistent with what Treasury saw throughout the year.

“This is money that flows from Treasury to every state and territory in the country, and we really have seen a real focus on delivering these dollars,” said Noel Andrés Poyo, the deputy assistant secretary for Community Economic Development at Treasury. “It has been encouraging from my point of view to see states that are very diverse and to see these agencies lean into something really hard, it was really tough to stand up these programs, this data reflects where the need was.”

According to the Eviction Lab at Princeton University, those most likely to face eviction are low-income women, especially women of color. Domestic violence victims and families with children are also at high risk for eviction.

“It’s really encouraging to see so much of the rental assistance reaching those most in need: women, Black renters, and low-income households in particular,” Peter Hepburn, a research fellow at the Eviction Lab, said. “These are the groups that face highest risk of eviction and who were most severely affected by the economic impacts of the pandemic. They’re the ones that this money was meant to help.”

Lawmakers approved $46.5 billion in Emergency Rental Assistance last year. After early challenges getting the funds out, the pace of distribution has picked up significantly in recent months. Throughout 2021, over $25 billion has been spent and obligated. That represents 3.8 million payments to households, Treasury said Thursday.

The agency’s findings on beneficiaries showed their efforts to reach low income communities the past year had paid off.

Among other things, Treasury recommended states and localities make applications multi-lingual and introduced flexible guidelines that allow tenants to self-attest for their income. It also targeted harder-to-reach communities and worked to promote the rental assistance program in Black and Spanish media.

“A year later, Treasury is pleased to report that the vast majority of rental assistance has gone to keeping the lowest-income families in their homes during the pandemic,” Deputy Secretary Wally Adeyemo said in a statement. “This wasn’t by accident, and we continue to use every lever to ensure these funds are distributed equitably and encourage state and local grantees to increase ease of access.”

A good example has been Oregon, which said it went beyond Treasury guidance in how funds would be prioritized such as whether a household lives in a census tract with a high percentage of low income renter at risk of experiencing housing instability or homelessness. Applications are available in five languages and priority given to those most in need, not those who are first to apply.

“Our collective efforts to ensure these funds reach the lowest income and most marginalized people is clearly working,” Diane Yentel, CEO of the National Low Income Housing Coalition, said. “Households that received assistance were predominantly very low and extremely low income and disproportionately people of color.”

WASHINGTON (AP) — More than 80% of the billions of dollars in federal rental assistance aimed at keeping families in their homes during the pandemic went to low-income tenants, the Treasury Department said.It also concluded Thursday that the largest percentage of tenants receiving pandemic aid were Black followed by female-led households. In the fourth quarter of 2021, Treasury found that more than 40% of tenants getting help were Black and two-thirds of recipients were female-headed households. The data was consistent with what Treasury saw throughout the year.“This is money that flows from Treasury to every state and territory in the country, and we really have seen a real focus on delivering these dollars,” said Noel Andrés Poyo, the deputy assistant secretary for Community Economic Development at Treasury. “It has been encouraging from my point of view to see states that are very diverse and to see these agencies lean into something really hard, it was really tough to stand up these programs, this data reflects where the need was.”According to the Eviction Lab at Princeton University, those most likely to face eviction are low-income women, especially women of color. Domestic violence victims and families with children are also at high risk for eviction.“It’s really encouraging to see so much of the rental assistance reaching those most in need: women, Black renters, and low-income households in particular,” Peter Hepburn, a research fellow at the Eviction Lab, said. “These are the groups that face highest risk of eviction and who were most severely affected by the economic impacts of the pandemic. They’re the ones that this money was meant to help.”Lawmakers approved $46.5 billion in Emergency Rental Assistance last year. After early challenges getting the funds out, the pace of distribution has picked up significantly in recent months. Throughout 2021, over $25 billion has been spent and obligated. That represents 3.8 million payments to households, Treasury said Thursday.The agency’s findings on beneficiaries showed their efforts to reach low income communities the past year had paid off.Among other things, Treasury recommended states and localities make applications multi-lingual and introduced flexible guidelines that allow tenants to self-attest for their income. It also targeted harder-to-reach communities and worked to promote the rental assistance program in Black and Spanish media.“A year later, Treasury is pleased to report that the vast majority of rental assistance has gone to keeping the lowest-income families in their homes during the pandemic,” Deputy Secretary Wally Adeyemo said in a statement. “This wasn’t by accident, and we continue to use every lever to ensure these funds are distributed equitably and encourage state and local grantees to increase ease of access.”A good example has been Oregon, which said it went beyond Treasury guidance in how funds would be prioritized such as whether a household lives in a census tract with a high percentage of low income renter at risk of experiencing housing instability or homelessness. Applications are available in five languages and priority given to those most in need, not those who are first to apply.“Our collective efforts to ensure these funds reach the lowest income and most marginalized people is clearly working,” Diane Yentel, CEO of the National Low Income Housing Coalition, said. “Households that received assistance were predominantly very low and extremely low income and disproportionately people of color.”___Casey reported from Boston.

Treasury: Most COVID rental aid went to low-income residents

OSAGE COUNTY —A Kansas woman died in an accident just before noon Saturday in Osage County.

The Osage County Sheriff reported a 2002 Volkswagen Beetle driven by Deanna I. Smith, 32, of Topeka, was traveling in the 20800 block of South Urish Road, near Osage City. The vehicle left the road.&nbsp;

Smith was pronounced dead at the scene. The cause of the accident is still under investigation, according to the sheriff's department.

The Osage County Sheriff’s Office was assisted by Osage County EMS, Osage County Fire District #6, and the Kansas Highway Patrol.

OSAGE COUNTY —A Kansas woman died in an accident just before noon Saturday in Osage County.The Osage County Sheriff reported a 2002 Volkswagen Beetle driven by Deanna I. Smith, 32, of Topeka, was traveling in the 20800 block of South Urish Road, near Osage City. The vehicle left the road.&nbsp;Smith was pronounced dead at the scene. The cause of the accident is still under investigation, according to the sheriff's department.The Osage County Sheriff’s Office was assisted by Osage County EMS, Osage County Fire District #6, and the Kansas Highway Patrol.

32-year-old Kansas woman dies after single-car crash

For transgender Catholics across the United States, retaining their faith can entail complex calculations. They face rebukes from some fellow Catholics, including many bishops, yet find full acceptance in some premises of the church.

A small but growing number of parishes have formed LGBTQ ministries or support groups and warmly welcome transgender people on their own terms. Yet within the past two years, at least six Catholic dioceses have issued guidelines targeting trans people with restrictions and refusing to recognize their gender identity.

“Many of our bishops are anti-science. ... They are cold and cruel,” said Sister Luisa Derouen, a retired nun who has ministered to transgender people. “You can’t respect people and deny their existence at the same time.”

The latest policy targeting trans Catholics was issued by the Archdiocese of Milwaukee in January. It bars church personnel from using trans people’s preferred pronouns that reflect their gender identity.

Objecting to trans-supportive “gender theory,”&nbsp;<a href="https://www.archmil.org/ArchMil/attachments/2022GenderTheoryfinal.pdf" target="_blank">the policy</a>&nbsp;stipulates that “all interactions and policies, parishes, organizations, and institutions are to recognize only a person’s biological sex.”

Among other measures, it says parishes, schools and other Catholic organizations in the archdiocese must require people to use bathrooms associated with their birth gender and adhere to dress codes on the same basis.

And a broader&nbsp;<a href="https://www.dioceseofmarquette.org/images/files/07-29-21%20Instruction-Created%20in%20the%20Image%20and%20Likeness%20of%20God%281%29.pdf" target="_blank">policy</a>&nbsp;issued in July by the Diocese of Marquette, which encompasses Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, said pastors should deny trans, gay and nonbinary Catholics the sacraments — such as baptism and Communion — “unless the person has repented.” It was signed by Bishop John Doerfler.

But in some other parishes around the country, a different, more welcoming face of the church is on display.

Just a few weeks before the Marquette policy was issued, the Church of Our Lady of Grace in Hoboken, New Jersey, celebrated its annual&nbsp;<a href="http://www.olghoboken.com/index.php/ministries/lgbtq-grace" target="_blank">Pride Mass</a>&nbsp;in support of the LGBTQ community. Delivering part of the homily at the invitation of the priest, Alexander Santora, was Christine Zuba, a transgender woman from New Jersey.

“We are not disordered, confused or a fad,” Zuba said, sharing with other worshippers the decades-long journey that led her to come out six years earlier at age 58. “We are not trying to defy God, nor to play God.”

“By staying visible, not only outside these walls but inside our churches, we change hearts and minds, one person at a time,” she concluded. “Once in a while we may get thrown out, but if that happens, we’re not going away. We’re coming right back in.”

Santora, a priest for 40 years, said the other worshippers rose and applauded.

“Our church was opened in 1878,” Santora said. “I wanted Christine to be on that pulpit.”

A lifelong Catholic, Zuba said she knew from age 4 that she was different. When she finally decided to come out five decades later, she was grateful that a nearby parish, Saints Peter and Paul in Turnersville, New Jersey, welcomed her. She serves there as a eucharistic minister.

Yet she knows that much of the Catholic hierarchy, including the&nbsp;<a href="https://www.usccb.org/equality-act" target="_blank">U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops</a>, rejects the concept of gender transition.

“These bishops and priests don’t understand that when they turn someone away, they’re losing parents, children, groups of friends who say this is not the church we want to belong to,” Zuba said.

Lynn Discenza, a 64-year-old transgender woman, grew up in a churchgoing Italian American family in West Hartford, Connecticut, and gave seminary a try before pursuing a career in aerospace design.

She considers herself fortunate, after transitioning two years ago, to be part of a welcoming Catholic church in the area — Saint Patrick-Saint Anthony Church in Hartford. She is a co-leader of its LGBTQ ministry.

Particularly moving, Discenza said, was a Nov. 21 observance marking the annual Transgender Day of Remembrance, which commemorates people killed due to anti-trans violence. She thanked the other worshippers for their support, and they responded with applause.

The pastor, Timothy Shreenan, highlighted the commemoration in the church bulletin.

“We must always stand up against hatred in all its forms, and not allow others’ fears (or phobias) to be a reason for hatred,” he wrote. “Rather, we must continue to learn more about the experience of others and to become more tolerant and accepting of one another.”

Discenza hopes that grassroots activism on behalf of greater inclusivity will accelerate as more parishes add LGBTQ ministries.

“The change is going to come from the ground up, and some of the old bishops will die away,” she said.

For young transgender Catholics, the conflicting approaches of individual churches and clergy can pose challenges to both them and their parents.

Eli Musselman of Philadelphia, who turns 19 in March and came out as transgender almost four years ago, said he felt a strong connection with his faith as a boy and many of his friends supported him.

But the pastor of the family’s longtime parish declined to refer to him with masculine pronouns and he had anxiety attacks in church due to some parishioners’ “nasty looks,” prompting the family to switch to a parish that made them feel at home.

“A place that had once been a safe haven for me had become a place of dangers,” said Musselman, now a freshman at the Jesuit-run St. Josephs University, where students and most professors, with one hurtful exception, have been supportive.

“But since coming out,” he added, “my spirituality has grown. ... I feel whole for the first time in my life.”

“I lost some really good friends,” said his mother, JoEllen Musselman. “I felt I was constantly making apologies to people, and I got tired of that.”

After embracing Catholicism as a convert after her marriage, she now has mixed feelings. Though determined to remain active in the church and advocate for greater inclusivity, she remains skeptical about the topmost Catholic leaders.

“They’re flawed,” she said. “If it wasn’t for Christ, the church would collapse, because we humans screw everything up.”

At the highest level of Catholic leadership, Pope Francis’ position can best be described as two-sided.

On one hand, he has personally ministered to trans Catholics, receiving them in the Vatican and encountering them as an archbishop in Argentina, and he has said the Catholic Church must accompany them. However, he has repeatedly denounced “gender theory” and what he calls the “ideological colonization” in some schools that teaches children they can change their biological sex at will.

Francis spoke at length on the issue during a 2016 press conference, stressing the need to avoid “gender ideology” but reasserting the need to minister to trans Catholics. “But please don’t say ‘The pope sanctifies trans!’ Please!”

Luisa Derouen, the retired nun who has ministered to more than 250 transgender people since 1999, received permission from her superiors in 2014 to write about that work. But that was on condition she not identify herself or her congregation, the Dominican Sisters of Peace. She did so under a pseudonym, which she ultimately abandoned in 2018 to&nbsp;<a href="https://lgbtqreligiousarchives.org/profiles/luisa-derouen" target="_blank">publicly speak out</a>&nbsp;on behalf of trans people and “give witness to their dignity and worth as human beings.”

In a recent interview, Derouen said friction over transgender inclusion is likely to intensify.

“There has never been a time in the American church when Catholic hierarchy has had less moral credibility,” she said. “The people in the pews are taking responsibility for doing their own homework and recognizing that we are all God’s people.”

Michael Sennett, a 26-year-old transgender man, sees that happening at the Church of St. Ignatius of Loyola in Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts, where he is communications director.

The unwelcoming attitude of some bishops discourages him, but he’s heartened by advances, including the formation of a support group called LGBTQ+ Catholics.

“Overall I marvel at the progress,” Sennett said. “People are speaking up as never before, joining forces. … The laity is finding more power.”

By DAVID CRARY, Associated PressFor transgender Catholics across the United States, retaining their faith can entail complex calculations. They face rebukes from some fellow Catholics, including many bishops, yet find full acceptance in some premises of the church.A small but growing number of parishes have formed LGBTQ ministries or support groups and warmly welcome transgender people on their own terms. Yet within the past two years, at least six Catholic dioceses have issued guidelines targeting trans people with restrictions and refusing to recognize their gender identity.“Many of our bishops are anti-science. ... They are cold and cruel,” said Sister Luisa Derouen, a retired nun who has ministered to transgender people. “You can’t respect people and deny their existence at the same time.”The latest policy targeting trans Catholics was issued by the Archdiocese of Milwaukee in January. It bars church personnel from using trans people’s preferred pronouns that reflect their gender identity.Objecting to trans-supportive “gender theory,”&nbsp;<a href="https://www.archmil.org/ArchMil/attachments/2022GenderTheoryfinal.pdf" target="_blank">the policy</a>&nbsp;stipulates that “all interactions and policies, parishes, organizations, and institutions are to recognize only a person’s biological sex.”Among other measures, it says parishes, schools and other Catholic organizations in the archdiocese must require people to use bathrooms associated with their birth gender and adhere to dress codes on the same basis.And a broader&nbsp;<a href="https://www.dioceseofmarquette.org/images/files/07-29-21%20Instruction-Created%20in%20the%20Image%20and%20Likeness%20of%20God%281%29.pdf" target="_blank">policy</a>&nbsp;issued in July by the Diocese of Marquette, which encompasses Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, said pastors should deny trans, gay and nonbinary Catholics the sacraments — such as baptism and Communion — “unless the person has repented.” It was signed by Bishop John Doerfler.But in some other parishes around the country, a different, more welcoming face of the church is on display.Just a few weeks before the Marquette policy was issued, the Church of Our Lady of Grace in Hoboken, New Jersey, celebrated its annual&nbsp;<a href="http://www.olghoboken.com/index.php/ministries/lgbtq-grace" target="_blank">Pride Mass</a>&nbsp;in support of the LGBTQ community. Delivering part of the homily at the invitation of the priest, Alexander Santora, was Christine Zuba, a transgender woman from New Jersey.“We are not disordered, confused or a fad,” Zuba said, sharing with other worshippers the decades-long journey that led her to come out six years earlier at age 58. “We are not trying to defy God, nor to play God.”“By staying visible, not only outside these walls but inside our churches, we change hearts and minds, one person at a time,” she concluded. “Once in a while we may get thrown out, but if that happens, we’re not going away. We’re coming right back in.”Santora, a priest for 40 years, said the other worshippers rose and applauded.“Our church was opened in 1878,” Santora said. “I wanted Christine to be on that pulpit.”A lifelong Catholic, Zuba said she knew from age 4 that she was different. When she finally decided to come out five decades later, she was grateful that a nearby parish, Saints Peter and Paul in Turnersville, New Jersey, welcomed her. She serves there as a eucharistic minister.Yet she knows that much of the Catholic hierarchy, including the&nbsp;<a href="https://www.usccb.org/equality-act" target="_blank">U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops</a>, rejects the concept of gender transition.“These bishops and priests don’t understand that when they turn someone away, they’re losing parents, children, groups of friends who say this is not the church we want to belong to,” Zuba said.Lynn Discenza, a 64-year-old transgender woman, grew up in a churchgoing Italian American family in West Hartford, Connecticut, and gave seminary a try before pursuing a career in aerospace design.She considers herself fortunate, after transitioning two years ago, to be part of a welcoming Catholic church in the area — Saint Patrick-Saint Anthony Church in Hartford. She is a co-leader of its LGBTQ ministry.Particularly moving, Discenza said, was a Nov. 21 observance marking the annual Transgender Day of Remembrance, which commemorates people killed due to anti-trans violence. She thanked the other worshippers for their support, and they responded with applause.The pastor, Timothy Shreenan, highlighted the commemoration in the church bulletin.“We must always stand up against hatred in all its forms, and not allow others’ fears (or phobias) to be a reason for hatred,” he wrote. “Rather, we must continue to learn more about the experience of others and to become more tolerant and accepting of one another.”Discenza hopes that grassroots activism on behalf of greater inclusivity will accelerate as more parishes add LGBTQ ministries.“The change is going to come from the ground up, and some of the old bishops will die away,” she said.For young transgender Catholics, the conflicting approaches of individual churches and clergy can pose challenges to both them and their parents.Eli Musselman of Philadelphia, who turns 19 in March and came out as transgender almost four years ago, said he felt a strong connection with his faith as a boy and many of his friends supported him.But the pastor of the family’s longtime parish declined to refer to him with masculine pronouns and he had anxiety attacks in church due to some parishioners’ “nasty looks,” prompting the family to switch to a parish that made them feel at home.“A place that had once been a safe haven for me had become a place of dangers,” said Musselman, now a freshman at the Jesuit-run St. Josephs University, where students and most professors, with one hurtful exception, have been supportive.“But since coming out,” he added, “my spirituality has grown. ... I feel whole for the first time in my life.”“I lost some really good friends,” said his mother, JoEllen Musselman. “I felt I was constantly making apologies to people, and I got tired of that.”After embracing Catholicism as a convert after her marriage, she now has mixed feelings. Though determined to remain active in the church and advocate for greater inclusivity, she remains skeptical about the topmost Catholic leaders.“They’re flawed,” she said. “If it wasn’t for Christ, the church would collapse, because we humans screw everything up.”At the highest level of Catholic leadership, Pope Francis’ position can best be described as two-sided.On one hand, he has personally ministered to trans Catholics, receiving them in the Vatican and encountering them as an archbishop in Argentina, and he has said the Catholic Church must accompany them. However, he has repeatedly denounced “gender theory” and what he calls the “ideological colonization” in some schools that teaches children they can change their biological sex at will.Francis spoke at length on the issue during a 2016 press conference, stressing the need to avoid “gender ideology” but reasserting the need to minister to trans Catholics. “But please don’t say ‘The pope sanctifies trans!’ Please!”Luisa Derouen, the retired nun who has ministered to more than 250 transgender people since 1999, received permission from her superiors in 2014 to write about that work. But that was on condition she not identify herself or her congregation, the Dominican Sisters of Peace. She did so under a pseudonym, which she ultimately abandoned in 2018 to&nbsp;<a href="https://lgbtqreligiousarchives.org/profiles/luisa-derouen" target="_blank">publicly speak out</a>&nbsp;on behalf of trans people and “give witness to their dignity and worth as human beings.”In a recent interview, Derouen said friction over transgender inclusion is likely to intensify.“There has never been a time in the American church when Catholic hierarchy has had less moral credibility,” she said. “The people in the pews are taking responsibility for doing their own homework and recognizing that we are all God’s people.”Michael Sennett, a 26-year-old transgender man, sees that happening at the Church of St. Ignatius of Loyola in Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts, where he is communications director.The unwelcoming attitude of some bishops discourages him, but he’s heartened by advances, including the formation of a support group called LGBTQ+ Catholics.“Overall I marvel at the progress,” Sennett said. “People are speaking up as never before, joining forces. … The laity is finding more power.”___

Rejection or welcome: Transgender Catholics encounter both

SEDGWICK COUNTY–Law enforcement authorities are investigating a robbery and seeking information to help identify a suspect.

Just before 9:00 p.m. on February 12, an unknown man entered the Dollar Tree in 2400 block of S. George Washington Boulevard in Wichita, according to Officer Trevor Macy.

The suspect waited for other customers to leave. After he was the last customer inside the store, he produced a firearm and demanded money from a register. He then demanded an employee take him to the safe for additional money before leaving the store on foot.

The suspect is described as an 18-20 year old black male with a dark complexion, black joggers, and a black sweatshirt with a zipper.

Anyone with information regarding this crime , or any crime that occurred in Sedgwick County, is eligible to receive a reward by submitting a tip through Crime Stoppers by calling 316- 267-2111 or online at www.stopcrime316.com. Tipsters are always anonymous – Crime

<figure>
 <img src="https://media.eaglewebservices.com/public/2022/2/1645885552959.png" alt="Image courtesy Wichita Police" />
 <figcaption>Image courtesy Wichita Police</figcaption>
 </figure>SEDGWICK COUNTY–Law enforcement authorities are investigating a robbery and seeking information to help identify a suspect.Just before 9:00 p.m. on February 12, an unknown man entered the Dollar Tree in 2400 block of S. George Washington Boulevard in Wichita, according to Officer Trevor Macy.The suspect waited for other customers to leave. After he was the last customer inside the store, he produced a firearm and demanded money from a register. He then demanded an employee take him to the safe for additional money before leaving the store on foot.The suspect is described as an 18-20 year old black male with a dark complexion, black joggers, and a black sweatshirt with a zipper.Anyone with information regarding this crime , or any crime that occurred in Sedgwick County, is eligible to receive a reward by submitting a tip through Crime Stoppers by calling 316- 267-2111 or online at www.stopcrime316.com. Tipsters are always anonymous – Crime

Police ask for help to ID suspect in Kan. store armed robbery

SHAWNEE, Kan. (AP) — A Johnson County woman faces charges related to a house fire that killed a baby in suburban&nbsp;Kansas&nbsp;City, Kansas.

The Kansas City Star reported that 28-year-old Karlie Phelps was arrested Friday on charges of involuntary manslaughter and endangering a child. The child was born on 2020, court records show.

She is scheduled to appear in court Monday.

The case involves the death of an baby who died in a deadly house fire Feb. 13 in Shawnee, Kansas, television station FOX4 reported. Firefighters battling the flames found the child's body inside the home.

Police later arrested 28-year-old Nicholas Adam Ecker, the father of the child, on charges of with first-degree murder, aggravated arson and other crimes.

<figure>
 <img src="https://media.eaglewebservices.com/public/2022/2/1645917595368.png" alt="Phelps-photo Johnson Co." />
 <figcaption>Phelps-photo Johnson Co.</figcaption>
 </figure>SHAWNEE, Kan. (AP) — A Johnson County woman faces charges related to a house fire that killed a baby in suburban&nbsp;Kansas&nbsp;City, Kansas.The Kansas City Star reported that 28-year-old Karlie Phelps was arrested Friday on charges of involuntary manslaughter and endangering a child. The child was born on 2020, court records show.She is scheduled to appear in court Monday.<figure>
 <img src="https://media.eaglewebservices.com/public/2022/2/1644924205485.png" alt="Ecker-photo Johnson Co." />
 <figcaption>Ecker-photo Johnson Co.</figcaption>
 </figure>The case involves the death of an baby who died in a deadly house fire Feb. 13 in Shawnee, Kansas, television station FOX4 reported. Firefighters battling the flames found the child's body inside the home.Police later arrested 28-year-old Nicholas Adam Ecker, the father of the child, on charges of with first-degree murder, aggravated arson and other crimes.

Kan. woman faces charges in house fire that killed a baby

MONTGOMERY COUNTY—One person died in an accident just after noon Saturday in Montgomery County.

The Kansas Highway Patrol reported a 2007 Ford Focus driven by Katie C.&nbsp;Michels, 31, Kansas City, Mo., was eastbound on County Road 2800. The driver failed to yield at the stop sign at County Road 5700.

The Ford struck a southbound 2004 Chevy Impala driven by Tony L. Hood, 52, Cherryvale.

Michels was pronounced dead at the scene and was transported&nbsp; to First Call. EMS transported Hood to a hospital in Tulsa. Both drivers were properly restrained, according to the KHP.

MONTGOMERY COUNTY—One person died in an accident just after noon Saturday in Montgomery County.The Kansas Highway Patrol reported a 2007 Ford Focus driven by Katie C.&nbsp;Michels, 31, Kansas City, Mo., was eastbound on County Road 2800. The driver failed to yield at the stop sign at County Road 5700.The Ford struck a southbound 2004 Chevy Impala driven by Tony L. Hood, 52, Cherryvale.Michels was pronounced dead at the scene and was transported&nbsp; to First Call. EMS transported Hood to a hospital in Tulsa. Both drivers were properly restrained, according to the KHP.

Woman dead after 2-vehicle crash on Kansas highway

By BLAISE MESA <a href="https://www.kcur.org/news/2022-02-23/critics-say-the-kansas-criminal-justice-systems-fees-and-fines-trap-people-in-a-cycle-of-poverty">Kansas News Service</a>

TOPEKA, Kansas — After Tyler Williams spent much of his 
teenage years locked up in the juvenile jail system, he found himself at
 19 owing more than $1,000 to the state of Kansas — including an $840 
fee for hauling him from Oklahoma to face charges in Junction City.

Working
 a minimum wage job, it took Williams two years of his young adulthood 
to wipe out all the fees and fines from his crimes as a kid.

“It 
was a sigh of relief,” he said. “Having that burden gone definitely 
helped me get into a better mindset and take control of my life.”

Fines
 and fees are commonly used to punish offenders and fund the court 
system, but critics argue they mostly make it harder for people to get 
their lives on track.

That’s fueled a push to make the courts less
 reliant on ringing up revenue from people convicted of crimes. 
Advocates for tossing aside many of those fees and fines say lawmakers 
should consider dumping them if they want people to escape from cycles 
of poverty and crime that tend to land people back in jail.

So 
far, one committee in the Kansas House has discussed ditching the 
charges in the juvenile system. But there’s no legislation pending yet 
that would put that change into law.

A survey by the Alabama 
Appleseed Center for Law and Justice found that 38% of the almost 1,000 
people it talked to turned to crime to be able to pay off their court 
debts. Others surveyed gave up essentials like groceries to make 
payments or took out loans.

Unpaid costs in Kansas could also cause someone to lose their driver’s license, which makes it harder for them to get to work.

“There’s
 a lot of unintended consequences with it,” Williams said. “You’re just 
throwing them into society expecting them to fly when everything says 
that they're going to sink.”

Ed Klumpp, who represents multiple 
law enforcement advocacy groups in Kansas, said fines are one of the 
most reasonable tools in dissuading someone from committing a crime. 
Some crimes, like speeding, aren’t serious enough to warrant jail time 
but do need some type of negative consequence.

Without penalties, 
Klumpp said, people are less likely to follow the law. But he said that 
fines hit people differently based on their incomes. Courts can adjust 
monetary penalties so they aren’t too onerous to low-income people.

Williams,
 a community leader with youth justice advocacy group Progeny, said 
fines wouldn't have deterred him from the crime that got him locked up 
in his early teens. But finding himself with $1,000-plus debt at 19 made
 it harder to get his life in order after his release.

Proponents 
of the changes said helping someone avoid crime, especially children, 
requires investment in education, family life and neighborhoods. And 
they say there’s little evidence that fees and fines deter crime.

While
 they sound similar, fines and fees are two different things. Fines are 
used to punish someone for a crime, like paying for a speeding ticket. 
Fees help cover the cost of expenses in the court system, like a fee to 
file court documents.

In Kansas, fees for court-appointed 
attorneys and getting past convictions expunged off someone's case can 
cost hundreds of dollars.

Fees are also an unpredictable revenue source. The COVID-19 pandemic 
closed down courts and kept more people at home. That led to a $7.3 
million budget shortfall and a hiring freeze for Kansas courts last 
year. The courts usually receive $28 million in fees to fund core 
operations, but that total has been lower the past two years because of 
the pandemic. Some courthouses might have closed if not for the 
additional money approved by the state Legislature.

In a 2021 
report, the Fines and Fees Justice Center found $27.9 billion worth of 
uncollected fines and fees nationwide. Joanna Weiss, co-director at the 
Fines and Fees Justice Center, says that number severely undercounts the
 real total because most states either reported partial data or had no 
data on uncollected fines and fees.

Kansas did not provide data for the study.

“(Fees)
 have no place in the criminal legal system,” Weiss said. “The justice 
system is meant to serve everyone, and so it needs to be funded by 
everyone.”

Klumpp said fees should never be used to punish someone
 for a crime, but said it isn’t unreasonable for someone who created the
 court cost to have to pay for it themselves, as long as they aren’t 
unrealistic. Some fees can, and regularly are, waived when someone is 
unable to pay.

Kansas Supreme Court Chief Justice Marla Luckert 
has proposed shifting away from fees. Luckert urged lawmakers earlier 
this year to pass legislation that would send fees to the state’s 
general fund rather than direct them just to the court system. In turn, 
the Legislature would direct a steadier stream of funding to the 
judicial system.

The bill would not reduce any fines or fees associated with the criminal justice system.

Luckert
 said the state’s much larger budget is better equipped to handle 
shortfalls from fee collection. The courts currently rely on fines and 
fees to fund 20% of their operations.

Rep. Troy Waymaster, who 
chairs the House appropriations committee, said the current funding 
model is limiting how the courts can function.

“The executive 
branch and the legislative branch, we are funded through the state 
general fund,” Waymaster said. “The judicial branch is a third form of 
government. … Perhaps they should be funded through the state general 
fund as well.”

Blaise Mesa reports on criminal justice and 
social services for the Kansas News Service in Topeka. You can follow 
him on Twitter @Blaise_Mesa or email him at <a href="mailto:blaise@kcur.org" target="_blank">blaise@kcur.org</a>.

<figure>
 <img src="https://media.eaglewebservices.com/public/2022/2/1645633389060.png" alt="There was $27.9 billion worth of uncollected fines and fees nationwide. Joanna Weiss with the Fines and Fees Justice Center wants states to reconsider their usefulness. Nomin Ujiyediin / Kansas News Service " />
 <figcaption>There was $27.9 billion worth of uncollected fines and fees nationwide. Joanna Weiss with the Fines and Fees Justice Center wants states to reconsider their usefulness. Nomin Ujiyediin / Kansas News Service </figcaption>
 </figure>By BLAISE MESA <a href="https://www.kcur.org/news/2022-02-23/critics-say-the-kansas-criminal-justice-systems-fees-and-fines-trap-people-in-a-cycle-of-poverty">Kansas News Service</a>TOPEKA, Kansas — After Tyler Williams spent much of his 
teenage years locked up in the juvenile jail system, he found himself at
 19 owing more than $1,000 to the state of Kansas — including an $840 
fee for hauling him from Oklahoma to face charges in Junction City.Working
 a minimum wage job, it took Williams two years of his young adulthood 
to wipe out all the fees and fines from his crimes as a kid.“It 
was a sigh of relief,” he said. “Having that burden gone definitely 
helped me get into a better mindset and take control of my life.”Fines
 and fees are commonly used to punish offenders and fund the court 
system, but critics argue they mostly make it harder for people to get 
their lives on track.That’s fueled a push to make the courts less
 reliant on ringing up revenue from people convicted of crimes. 
Advocates for tossing aside many of those fees and fines say lawmakers 
should consider dumping them if they want people to escape from cycles 
of poverty and crime that tend to land people back in jail.So 
far, one committee in the Kansas House has discussed ditching the 
charges in the juvenile system. But there’s no legislation pending yet 
that would put that change into law.A survey by the Alabama 
Appleseed Center for Law and Justice found that 38% of the almost 1,000 
people it talked to turned to crime to be able to pay off their court 
debts. Others surveyed gave up essentials like groceries to make 
payments or took out loans.Unpaid costs in Kansas could also cause someone to lose their driver’s license, which makes it harder for them to get to work.“There’s
 a lot of unintended consequences with it,” Williams said. “You’re just 
throwing them into society expecting them to fly when everything says 
that they're going to sink.”Ed Klumpp, who represents multiple 
law enforcement advocacy groups in Kansas, said fines are one of the 
most reasonable tools in dissuading someone from committing a crime. 
Some crimes, like speeding, aren’t serious enough to warrant jail time 
but do need some type of negative consequence.Without penalties, 
Klumpp said, people are less likely to follow the law. But he said that 
fines hit people differently based on their incomes. Courts can adjust 
monetary penalties so they aren’t too onerous to low-income people.Williams,
 a community leader with youth justice advocacy group Progeny, said 
fines wouldn't have deterred him from the crime that got him locked up 
in his early teens. But finding himself with $1,000-plus debt at 19 made
 it harder to get his life in order after his release.Proponents 
of the changes said helping someone avoid crime, especially children, 
requires investment in education, family life and neighborhoods. And 
they say there’s little evidence that fees and fines deter crime.While
 they sound similar, fines and fees are two different things. Fines are 
used to punish someone for a crime, like paying for a speeding ticket. 
Fees help cover the cost of expenses in the court system, like a fee to 
file court documents.In Kansas, fees for court-appointed 
attorneys and getting past convictions expunged off someone's case can 
cost hundreds of dollars.Fees are also an unpredictable revenue source. The COVID-19 pandemic 
closed down courts and kept more people at home. That led to a $7.3 
million budget shortfall and a hiring freeze for Kansas courts last 
year. The courts usually receive $28 million in fees to fund core 
operations, but that total has been lower the past two years because of 
the pandemic. Some courthouses might have closed if not for the 
additional money approved by the state Legislature.In a 2021 
report, the Fines and Fees Justice Center found $27.9 billion worth of 
uncollected fines and fees nationwide. Joanna Weiss, co-director at the 
Fines and Fees Justice Center, says that number severely undercounts the
 real total because most states either reported partial data or had no 
data on uncollected fines and fees.Kansas did not provide data for the study.“(Fees)
 have no place in the criminal legal system,” Weiss said. “The justice 
system is meant to serve everyone, and so it needs to be funded by 
everyone.”Klumpp said fees should never be used to punish someone
 for a crime, but said it isn’t unreasonable for someone who created the
 court cost to have to pay for it themselves, as long as they aren’t 
unrealistic. Some fees can, and regularly are, waived when someone is 
unable to pay.Kansas Supreme Court Chief Justice Marla Luckert 
has proposed shifting away from fees. Luckert urged lawmakers earlier 
this year to pass legislation that would send fees to the state’s 
general fund rather than direct them just to the court system. In turn, 
the Legislature would direct a steadier stream of funding to the 
judicial system.The bill would not reduce any fines or fees associated with the criminal justice system.Luckert
 said the state’s much larger budget is better equipped to handle 
shortfalls from fee collection. The courts currently rely on fines and 
fees to fund 20% of their operations.Rep. Troy Waymaster, who 
chairs the House appropriations committee, said the current funding 
model is limiting how the courts can function.“The executive 
branch and the legislative branch, we are funded through the state 
general fund,” Waymaster said. “The judicial branch is a third form of 
government. … Perhaps they should be funded through the state general 
fund as well.”Blaise Mesa reports on criminal justice and 
social services for the Kansas News Service in Topeka. You can follow 
him on Twitter @Blaise_Mesa or email him at <a href="mailto:blaise@kcur.org" target="_blank">blaise@kcur.org</a>.

Critics: Kan. criminal justice system's fees, fines trap people in cycle of poverty

By CLAY WIRESTONE <a href="https://kansasreflector.com/2022/02/24/derek-schmidt-salutes-black-history-while-seeking-to-stifle-black-kansas-voters/">Courtesy Kansas Reflector</a>

Derek Schmidt wants you to share in his excitement for Black History Month.

Why, on Sunday he <a target="_blank" href="https://twitter.com/DerekSchmidtKS/status/1495521994997178372?s=20&amp;t=cyFCRhVCUo7qrtE9Z0Lpjw">tweeted the following</a>:
 “Nicodemus is the oldest and only remaining settlement of freed slaves 
west of the Mississippi. Now a National Historic Site in Graham County, 
it is well worth visiting during Black History Month – or any time.”

Meanwhile, he’s asking the Kansas 
Supreme Court to allow discrimination against Black Kansans in the 
redistricting process. He also called critical race theory — a concept 
not taught in a single K-12 classroom in Kansas — “<a target="_blank" href="https://www.kcur.org/news/2021-06-11/the-controversy-over-critical-race-theory-creeps-into-kansas-schools">a radical new curriculum</a>.” Fake outrage about CRT has been used in the months since to target education about our nation’s racist past.

In other words, Schmidt cares about 
Black Kansans as long as they’re politically powerless and 
schoolchildren don’t learn about their struggles.

What a dilemma. On one hand, Schmidt 
wants to be seen as gubernatorial material, open and accepting to all 
Kansas. He showed up at a Martin Luther King Jr. Day <a target="_blank" href="https://kansasreflector.com/2022/01/13/kansas-lawmakers-officials-march-in-honor-of-martin-luther-king-jr-call-for-unity/">memorial walk</a> around the Capitol, a couple of rows behind his opponent in November, Gov. Laura Kelly.

Republicans in Kansas have made the 
calculation, however, that Black people threaten their ironclad hold of 
political power in Kansas. Thus they <a target="_blank" href="https://kansasreflector.com/2022/01/18/kansas-republicans-introduce-map-to-divide-kc-metro-place-lawrence-in-1st-district/">brutally sliced</a>
 through Wyandotte County in their congressional redistricting map, 
dividing one of the state’s most diverse communities in a bid to thwart 
the reelection of Democratic U.S. Rep. Sharice Davids.

A map was drawn, then vetoed, and then the veto <a target="_blank" href="https://kansasreflector.com/2022/02/09/kansas-house-completes-override-of-gov-kellys-veto-of-congressional-redistricting-map/">was overridden</a> after painful arm-twisting.

<a target="_blank" href="https://kansasreflector.com/2022/02/14/voting-rights-groups-launch-court-battle-over-new-kansas-congressional-map/">Two lawsuits</a>
 challenging that map followed, both filed in Wyandotte County District 
Court rather than federal court. With the U.S. Supreme Court <a target="_blank" href="https://www.nytimes.com/2022/02/07/us/politics/supreme-court-alabama-redistricting-congressional-map.html">ever more amenable</a> to gerrymandering, I suspect the plaintiffs saw the state court system as more hospitable to their case.

Schmidt raced to the Kansas Supreme Court <a target="_blank" href="https://kansasreflector.com/2022/02/18/kansas-attorney-general-asks-high-court-to-block-redistricting-lawsuits/">with a galling request</a>. He wants the justices to declare they have no say in the situation.

“Plaintiffs’ political gerrymandering 
claim is not justiciable under the Kansas Constitution,” Schmidt wrote. 
“No judicially manageable standard for evaluating such claims exists, 
Kansas courts have not historically entertained such claims, and the 
Kansas Constitution has nothing at all to say about political 
gerrymandering.”

To summarize, the attorney general of 
the state of Kansas believes that state courts have no role in stopping 
obvious racially discriminatory gerrymandering. Kansas judges have no 
ability to make sure the voices of everyone counts equally at election 
time.

Schmidt’s supporters (and I assume he 
has some) will claim that he’s just doing his job as the state’s chief 
law enforcement officer. That was the defense back when he joined a 
multistate lawsuit <a target="_blank" href="https://kansasreflector.com/2020/12/09/current-and-former-kansas-political-players-throw-support-behind-texas-election-lawsuit/">aimed at overturning</a> the 2020 election, and when he joined a lawsuit asking the U.S. Supreme Court to rule it legal to <a target="_blank" href="https://www.kcur.org/news/2018-08-31/kansas-attorney-general-says-transgender-case-is-about-reducing-cost">fire transgender people</a>. He was merely looking for legal clarity.

Funny, isn’t it, how these searches 
for legal clarity seem to all benefit one party? Did you notice how they
 aid and abet discrimination and anti-democratic power grabs? It’s just 
peculiar.

<a target="_blank" href="https://www.nps.gov/nico/index.htm">According to the National Park service</a>,
 Nicodemus was founded in 1877 by Black settlers leaving the 
post-Reconstruction South. Slavery had ended, but Jim Crow had arrived, 
and decades of struggle against segregation remained. Kansas offered a 
kind of rough-hewn opportunity.

“Established as an all-Black 
community, the founders of Nicodemus envisioned a town built on the 
ideals of independence and self-determination,” the park service writes.
 “The community experienced rapid social and economic growth in the 
early years and many speculated that Nicodemus would become a major stop
 for the railroad. It became clear by 1888, however, that the railroad 
and the predicted economic boom would not come.”

The great dream may have ended, but 
life went on. Black families established farms, and a few have persisted
 to the present day. The settlement celebrates a yearly homecoming. As 
of September, <a target="_blank" href="https://www.kmuw.org/2021-09-23/nicodemus-celebrates-heritage-with-143rd-homecoming">23 people still lived there</a>.

A cynic might say that’s an ideal town
 for Derek Schmidt to highlight during Black History Month. It has few 
residents and poses little political threat.

Yet the dream of Nicodemus — the dream of the “<a target="_blank" href="https://www.nps.gov/home/learn/historyculture/exodusters.htm">Exodusters</a>”
 who settled there — was to escape oppression. In the South, they faced 
barriers to voting and political participation set up by racist white 
people. Kansas and other western states offered an alternative.

Schmidt still has the opportunity to 
fulfill that dream. He could drop his petition to the Kansas Supreme 
Court. He could announce his opposition to the blatantly discriminatory 
congressional map. He could support teaching the actual, painful history
 of our country in public schools.&nbsp;

That would be a worthy tribute to Nicodemus.

Clay Wirestone has written columns and edited reporting for newsrooms in Kansas, New Hampshire, Florida and Pennsylvania. He has also fact checked politicians, researched for Larry the Cable Guy, and appeared in PolitiFact, Mental Floss, cnn.com and a host of other publications. Most recently, Clay spent nearly four years at the nonprofit Kansas Action for Children as communications director.&nbsp;

<figure>
 <img src="https://media.eaglewebservices.com/public/2022/2/1645737609229.png" alt="This historical image of Washington Street in Nicodemus showcases the community’s first stone church and Williams General Store. (Library of Congress)" />
 <figcaption>This historical image of Washington Street in Nicodemus showcases the community’s first stone church and Williams General Store. (Library of Congress)</figcaption>
 </figure>By CLAY WIRESTONE <a href="https://kansasreflector.com/2022/02/24/derek-schmidt-salutes-black-history-while-seeking-to-stifle-black-kansas-voters/">Courtesy Kansas Reflector</a>Derek Schmidt wants you to share in his excitement for Black History Month.Why, on Sunday he <a target="_blank" href="https://twitter.com/DerekSchmidtKS/status/1495521994997178372?s=20&amp;t=cyFCRhVCUo7qrtE9Z0Lpjw">tweeted the following</a>:
 “Nicodemus is the oldest and only remaining settlement of freed slaves 
west of the Mississippi. Now a National Historic Site in Graham County, 
it is well worth visiting during Black History Month – or any time.”Meanwhile, he’s asking the Kansas 
Supreme Court to allow discrimination against Black Kansans in the 
redistricting process. He also called critical race theory — a concept 
not taught in a single K-12 classroom in Kansas — “<a target="_blank" href="https://www.kcur.org/news/2021-06-11/the-controversy-over-critical-race-theory-creeps-into-kansas-schools">a radical new curriculum</a>.” Fake outrage about CRT has been used in the months since to target education about our nation’s racist past.<figure>
 <img src="https://media.eaglewebservices.com/public/2019/12/1575913663048.png" alt="" />
 <figcaption></figcaption>
 </figure>In other words, Schmidt cares about 
Black Kansans as long as they’re politically powerless and 
schoolchildren don’t learn about their struggles.What a dilemma. On one hand, Schmidt 
wants to be seen as gubernatorial material, open and accepting to all 
Kansas. He showed up at a Martin Luther King Jr. Day <a target="_blank" href="https://kansasreflector.com/2022/01/13/kansas-lawmakers-officials-march-in-honor-of-martin-luther-king-jr-call-for-unity/">memorial walk</a> around the Capitol, a couple of rows behind his opponent in November, Gov. Laura Kelly.Republicans in Kansas have made the 
calculation, however, that Black people threaten their ironclad hold of 
political power in Kansas. Thus they <a target="_blank" href="https://kansasreflector.com/2022/01/18/kansas-republicans-introduce-map-to-divide-kc-metro-place-lawrence-in-1st-district/">brutally sliced</a>
 through Wyandotte County in their congressional redistricting map, 
dividing one of the state’s most diverse communities in a bid to thwart 
the reelection of Democratic U.S. Rep. Sharice Davids.A map was drawn, then vetoed, and then the veto <a target="_blank" href="https://kansasreflector.com/2022/02/09/kansas-house-completes-override-of-gov-kellys-veto-of-congressional-redistricting-map/">was overridden</a> after painful arm-twisting.<a target="_blank" href="https://kansasreflector.com/2022/02/14/voting-rights-groups-launch-court-battle-over-new-kansas-congressional-map/">Two lawsuits</a>
 challenging that map followed, both filed in Wyandotte County District 
Court rather than federal court. With the U.S. Supreme Court <a target="_blank" href="https://www.nytimes.com/2022/02/07/us/politics/supreme-court-alabama-redistricting-congressional-map.html">ever more amenable</a> to gerrymandering, I suspect the plaintiffs saw the state court system as more hospitable to their case.Schmidt raced to the Kansas Supreme Court <a target="_blank" href="https://kansasreflector.com/2022/02/18/kansas-attorney-general-asks-high-court-to-block-redistricting-lawsuits/">with a galling request</a>. He wants the justices to declare they have no say in the situation.“Plaintiffs’ political gerrymandering 
claim is not justiciable under the Kansas Constitution,” Schmidt wrote. 
“No judicially manageable standard for evaluating such claims exists, 
Kansas courts have not historically entertained such claims, and the 
Kansas Constitution has nothing at all to say about political 
gerrymandering.”To summarize, the attorney general of 
the state of Kansas believes that state courts have no role in stopping 
obvious racially discriminatory gerrymandering. Kansas judges have no 
ability to make sure the voices of everyone counts equally at election 
time.Happy Black History Month!Schmidt’s supporters (and I assume he 
has some) will claim that he’s just doing his job as the state’s chief 
law enforcement officer. That was the defense back when he joined a 
multistate lawsuit <a target="_blank" href="https://kansasreflector.com/2020/12/09/current-and-former-kansas-political-players-throw-support-behind-texas-election-lawsuit/">aimed at overturning</a> the 2020 election, and when he joined a lawsuit asking the U.S. Supreme Court to rule it legal to <a target="_blank" href="https://www.kcur.org/news/2018-08-31/kansas-attorney-general-says-transgender-case-is-about-reducing-cost">fire transgender people</a>. He was merely looking for legal clarity.Funny, isn’t it, how these searches 
for legal clarity seem to all benefit one party? Did you notice how they
 aid and abet discrimination and anti-democratic power grabs? It’s just 
peculiar.<figure>
 <img src="https://media.eaglewebservices.com/public/2022/2/1645737723599.jpeg" alt="The Welcome Center in Nicodemus, Kansas. (Submitted, courtesy Kansas Reflector)" />
 <figcaption>The Welcome Center in Nicodemus, Kansas. (Submitted, courtesy Kansas Reflector)</figcaption>
 </figure>Let’s head back to Nicodemus.<a target="_blank" href="https://www.nps.gov/nico/index.htm">According to the National Park service</a>,
 Nicodemus was founded in 1877 by Black settlers leaving the 
post-Reconstruction South. Slavery had ended, but Jim Crow had arrived, 
and decades of struggle against segregation remained. Kansas offered a 
kind of rough-hewn opportunity.“Established as an all-Black 
community, the founders of Nicodemus envisioned a town built on the 
ideals of independence and self-determination,” the park service writes.
 “The community experienced rapid social and economic growth in the 
early years and many speculated that Nicodemus would become a major stop
 for the railroad. It became clear by 1888, however, that the railroad 
and the predicted economic boom would not come.”The great dream may have ended, but 
life went on. Black families established farms, and a few have persisted
 to the present day. The settlement celebrates a yearly homecoming. As 
of September, <a target="_blank" href="https://www.kmuw.org/2021-09-23/nicodemus-celebrates-heritage-with-143rd-homecoming">23 people still lived there</a>.A cynic might say that’s an ideal town
 for Derek Schmidt to highlight during Black History Month. It has few 
residents and poses little political threat.Yet the dream of Nicodemus — the dream of the “<a target="_blank" href="https://www.nps.gov/home/learn/historyculture/exodusters.htm">Exodusters</a>”
 who settled there — was to escape oppression. In the South, they faced 
barriers to voting and political participation set up by racist white 
people. Kansas and other western states offered an alternative.Schmidt still has the opportunity to 
fulfill that dream. He could drop his petition to the Kansas Supreme 
Court. He could announce his opposition to the blatantly discriminatory 
congressional map. He could support teaching the actual, painful history
 of our country in public schools.&nbsp;That would be a worthy tribute to Nicodemus.<figure>
 <img src="https://media.eaglewebservices.com/public/2022/2/1645737832786.jpeg" alt="Clay Wirestone" />
 <figcaption>Clay Wirestone</figcaption>
 </figure>Clay Wirestone has written columns and edited reporting for newsrooms in Kansas, New Hampshire, Florida and Pennsylvania. He has also fact checked politicians, researched for Larry the Cable Guy, and appeared in PolitiFact, Mental Floss, cnn.com and a host of other publications. Most recently, Clay spent nearly four years at the nonprofit Kansas Action for Children as communications director.&nbsp;

OPINION: Schmidt salutes Black history while seeking to stifle Black voters

KANSAS CITY (AP) — A handwritten log kept by nurses tells the story of the losing battle to get more people vaccinated against&nbsp;<a href="https://apnews.com/hub/coronavirus-pandemic">COVID-19</a>&nbsp;in this corner of Alabama: Just 14 people showed up at the Marion County Health Department for their initial shot during the first six weeks of the year.

That was true even as hospitals in and around the county of roughly 30,000 people filled with virus patients and the death toll climbed. On many days, no one got a first shot at all, while a Mexican restaurant up the street, Los Amigos, was full of unmasked diners at lunchtime.

The vaccination drive in the U.S. is grinding to a halt, and demand has all but collapsed in places like this deeply conservative manufacturing town where many weren’t interested in&nbsp;<a href="https://apnews.com/article/coronavirus-pandemic-science-health-centers-for-disease-control-and-prevention-347bc79469ffed5f5b163ca41cf0f1c0">the shots</a>&nbsp;to begin with.

The average number of Americans getting their first shot is down to about 90,000 a day, the lowest point since the first few days of the U.S. vaccination campaign, in December 2020. And hopes of any substantial improvement in the immediate future have largely evaporated.

About 76% of the U.S. population has received at least one shot. Less than 65% of all Americans are fully vaccinated.

Vaccination incentive programs that gave away cash, sports tickets, beer and other prizes have largely gone away. Government and employer vaccine mandates have faced court challenges and may have gone as far as they ever will.

And with&nbsp;<a href="https://apnews.com/article/coronavirus-pandemic-health-lifestyle-public-health-c64f8ba0e7885e4686e13a4d76ff49b9">COVID-19 cases, hospitalizations and deaths subsiding</a>&nbsp;across the U.S., people who are against getting vaccinated don’t see much reason to change their minds.

“People are just over it. They’re tired of it,” said Judy Smith, administrator for a 12-county public health district in northwestern Alabama.

The bottoming-out of demand for the first round of vaccinations is especially evident in conservative areas around the country.

On most days in Idaho, the number of people statewide getting their first shot rarely surpasses 500.

In Wyoming, a total of about 280 people statewide got their first shot in the past week, and the waiting area at the Cheyenne-Laramie County Health Department stood empty Tuesday morning. The head of the department fondly recalled just a few months ago, when the lobby was bustling on Friday afternoons after school with children getting their doses. But they aren’t showing up anymore either.

<figure>
 <img src="https://media.eaglewebservices.com/public/2021/11/1637329411498.png" alt="Drive through vaccination drive-photo courtesy Lawrence-Douglas County Health Department" />
 <figcaption>Drive through vaccination drive-photo courtesy Lawrence-Douglas County Health Department</figcaption>
 </figure>KANSAS CITY (AP) — A handwritten log kept by nurses tells the story of the losing battle to get more people vaccinated against&nbsp;<a href="https://apnews.com/hub/coronavirus-pandemic">COVID-19</a>&nbsp;in this corner of Alabama: Just 14 people showed up at the Marion County Health Department for their initial shot during the first six weeks of the year.That was true even as hospitals in and around the county of roughly 30,000 people filled with virus patients and the death toll climbed. On many days, no one got a first shot at all, while a Mexican restaurant up the street, Los Amigos, was full of unmasked diners at lunchtime.The vaccination drive in the U.S. is grinding to a halt, and demand has all but collapsed in places like this deeply conservative manufacturing town where many weren’t interested in&nbsp;<a href="https://apnews.com/article/coronavirus-pandemic-science-health-centers-for-disease-control-and-prevention-347bc79469ffed5f5b163ca41cf0f1c0">the shots</a>&nbsp;to begin with.The average number of Americans getting their first shot is down to about 90,000 a day, the lowest point since the first few days of the U.S. vaccination campaign, in December 2020. And hopes of any substantial improvement in the immediate future have largely evaporated.About 76% of the U.S. population has received at least one shot. Less than 65% of all Americans are fully vaccinated.Vaccination incentive programs that gave away cash, sports tickets, beer and other prizes have largely gone away. Government and employer vaccine mandates have faced court challenges and may have gone as far as they ever will.And with&nbsp;<a href="https://apnews.com/article/coronavirus-pandemic-health-lifestyle-public-health-c64f8ba0e7885e4686e13a4d76ff49b9">COVID-19 cases, hospitalizations and deaths subsiding</a>&nbsp;across the U.S., people who are against getting vaccinated don’t see much reason to change their minds.“People are just over it. They’re tired of it,” said Judy Smith, administrator for a 12-county public health district in northwestern Alabama.The bottoming-out of demand for the first round of vaccinations is especially evident in conservative areas around the country.On most days in Idaho, the number of people statewide getting their first shot rarely surpasses 500.In Wyoming, a total of about 280 people statewide got their first shot in the past week, and the waiting area at the Cheyenne-Laramie County Health Department stood empty Tuesday morning. The head of the department fondly recalled just a few months ago, when the lobby was bustling on Friday afternoons after school with children getting their doses. But they aren’t showing up anymore either.“People heard more stories about, well, the omicron’s not that bad,” Executive Director Kathy Emmons said. “I think a lot of people just kind of rolled the dice and decided, ‘Well, if it’s not that bad, I’m just going to kind of wait it out and see what happens.’”Marion County, along the Mississippi line, is part of a band of Alabama counties where most people aren’t fully vaccinated more than a year after shots were rolled out. Just to the east, Winston County has the state’s lowest share of fully vaccinated residents, at 26%, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. About 42% are fully immunized in Marion County.The digital sign outside First National Bank flashes Bible verses along with the temperature, and many Marion County residents work in small plants that make mobile homes and components for prefab housing. Most area jobs are blue-collar, and TVs are typically turned to Fox News. A conservative, working-class ethic runs deep.The area went heavily for President Donald Trump in the 2020 election. And yet resistance to the vaccine is so strong that two counties over, in Cullman, some booed Trump when he encouraged vaccinations during a rally that drew thousands last summer.COVID-19 has killed almost 18,000 people in Alabama, giving the state the nation’s fourth-highest rate of deaths relative to population. Marion County’s rate exceeds the state average at 1.78%, with more than 140 deaths, according to data from Johns Hopkins University.Health officials expected to have a hard time persuading Black people to get government-sponsored vaccines in Alabama, home of the infamous&nbsp;<a href="https://apnews.com/article/coronavirus-vaccine-skepticism-us-eae3315d2dfecd6443b56a2dc7bcb887">Tuskegee syphilis study</a>&nbsp;and a place where distrust of Washington runs deep. They started work on public education campaigns weeks early in mostly Black areas, which now have some of the state’s highest vaccination rates, at 60% or more.But they didn’t expect the stiff resistance among rural whites that has kept vaccination numbers stubbornly low in places like Marion County, which is 94% white. While rural transportation difficulties, confusion over vaccine costs — they’re free — and a lack of health care access have also been factors, the partisan divide in America killed the vaccine drive for some before it really got started, officials said.“Rural white men who identify as conservative are just not interested in this. That caught us off guard,” said Dr. Scott Harris, head of the Alabama Department of Public Health. “By the first or second month of the vaccine campaign, it became clear that those folks just weren’t going to come in.”Richard Kitchens is among that group. The owner of a clothing and sports shoe shop on the square in Hamilton, Kitchens said he isn’t interested in the vaccine after getting COVID-19 in 2020 before vaccines were available and having relatives who contracted the illness, developed only minor symptoms and recovered.Short of a proven guarantee against illness — which no vaccine provides — he doesn’t see the point.“I guess if I knew I could go out and get a shot and wouldn’t get it or spread it, I would go get it, and they say it helps,” Kitchens said. “But I think that will be determined sometime down the road maybe.”Doris Peterson is fully vaccinated, but she said she didn’t get a booster on the advice of her two adult daughters, neither of whom is vaccinated. Peterson said she is used to being one of the few people around still wearing a mask in public.“Most of the time I am it,” she said.Kelly Moore, a former Tennessee health official who now heads a CDC-funded vaccination advocacy organization named Immunize.org, recalled seeing data from a recent survey that hit her like a punch to the gut.The results were presented at a CDC meeting of vaccine experts earlier this month. The January survey of about 1,000 adults asked unvaccinated participants what, if anything, would change their mind and persuade them to get a shot. Half said “nothing.”“It was quite demoralizing to see those results, frankly,” Moore said.With the pandemic still a mortal threat, public health workers haven’t given up on getting more people vaccinated, even if it feels like an uphill slog.Jordan Ledbetter, a nurse who works at the Marion County Health Department, was thrilled when two people came in for first-time shots on the same day recently.“That was exciting,” she said. “There are days when I haven’t given any vaccines.”___