Would you please fill out this 3-minute survey about our service? Your feedback will help us improve CalMatters.
Four decades ago, writer Cyra McFadden perfectly captured the aura of self-absorbed entitlement that envelops Marin County, on the north side of the Golden Gate Bridge.
Her 1976 satirical novel, “The Serial: A Year in the Life of Marin County,” was, columnist George Will wrote at the time, “a Baedeker guide to a desolate region, the monochromatic inner landscape of persons whose life is consumption, of goods and salvations, and whose moral makeup is the curious modern combination of hedonism and earnestness.”
A constant tenet of Marin County’s guiding ethos is resistance to growth, manifesting itself in a kind of environmental apartheid. Under the guise of preserving a serene environment, Marin County’s residents and politicians use every means possible to avoid building new housing that would allow more population growth, particularly low- or moderate-income dwellings.
They’ve been remarkably successful. Between 1969 and 2015, while California’s population was doubling, Marin County’s grew by just 28.4 percent.
About a year after McFadden’s book was published, the county’s resistance to growth backfired. It had refused to develop new water supplies, believing that it would throttle housing development, but when a severe drought struck, it faced the prospect of having almost no water for lush landscaping, hot tubs and other necessities of Marin life.
The emergency solution was to lay a temporary pipeline across the bridge that separates Marin County from Richmond, an industrial community that was – and is – home to many of the lower-wage workers who provide Marin County’s services.
Neither the drought nor the irony of the pipeline, however, curbed Marin’s almost cult-like fervor to wall itself off. Housing proposals continued to draw fierce opposition – in the name of environmental protection, of course.
When California’s housing shortfall became acute and the state government started getting serious about the housing quotas it had been assigning to communities, Marin County’s assemblyman, Democrat Marc Levine, carried a 2014 bill to exempt it from quotas until 2023, arguing that Marin needed more time to get it right.
However, without waiting for a scheduled report on the county’s progress on meeting its housing quotas, Levine persuaded legislative leaders last month to insert into a budget “trailer bill” (Senate Bill 106) a brief passage that extends Marin County’s exemption from quotas for an additional five years, until 2028.
By being attached to a trailer bill that contained many other provisions, rather than offered as a stand-alone policy matter, the Marin exemption stood a much better chance and is one of many examples of how trailer bills are blatantly misused.
The special treatment for Marin drew sharp criticism from housing advocates, particularly those seeking more shelter for low- and moderate-income families.
Levine argued anew that Marin doesn’t want to duck its housing responsibilities, and just needs more time to do it in a way that doesn’t damage the county’s sensibilities.
Republicans were also critical. “They (Marin residents) love their lifestyles but don’t bother us with the low-income housing,” Sen. Jim Nielsen, R-Gerber, said during a brief hearing.
But Democrats who posture as fierce advocates for more housing, even those carrying high-profile housing bills, such as Sens. Toni Atkins and Jim Beall, voted for it and Gov. Jerry Brown signed it.
For at least another decade, therefore, Marin’s residents can smugly assume that their bucolic lifestyles will not be marred by having more neighbors who don’t make as much money and, you know, just don’t fit in.