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Ivana Trump, ex-wife of former President Trump, dead at 73

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“Our mother was an incredible woman — a force in business, a world-class athlete, a radiant beauty, and caring mother and friend,”  ―Eric Trump

Ivana Trump, the Czech American ex-wife of former President Donald Trump and mother of Ivanka, Eric and Don Jr., died Thursday. She was 73.

She was found dead at her home at 10 east 64th street in Manhattan at 12:40 p.m., police sources told The Post. The FDNY said she suffered cardiac arrest and was dead by the time paramedics had arrived.

“Our mother was an incredible woman — a force in business, a world-class athlete, a radiant beauty, and caring mother and friend,” Eric Trump said in a statement announcing her death. “She will be dearly missed by her mother, her three children and ten grandchildren.”

A source close to Ivanka Trump told The Post the former first daughter is in “shock” over her mother’s death.

“They were super close,” the source said, adding that Ivana Trump had spent her last days with family in New York City.

Donald Trump and Ivana Trump attend Second Annual Manhattan Awards on May 18, 1988 at the Plaza Hotel in New York City.

Donald Trump and Ivana Trump attend the Second Annual Manhattan Awards on May 18, 1988, at the Plaza Hotel in New York City. Ron Galella Collection via Getty

Trump, born Ivana Marie Zelníčková, married the developer in 1977. The two divorced in 1992, but she kept her ex-husband’s surname. She held many roles in Trump family businesses through her life.

“I am very saddened to inform all of those that loved her, of which there are many, that Ivana Trump has passed away at her home in New York City,” the former president wrote on Truth Social, his social media platform. “She was a wonderful, beautiful, and amazing woman, who led a great and inspirational life.”

He continued: “Her pride and joy were her three children, Donald Jr., Ivanka, and Eric. She was so proud of them, as we were all so proud of her. Rest In Peace, Ivana!”

Ivana Trump worked as a model in the early 70s, and met the former president in New York City in 1976. Their marriage was subject to intense media scrutiny, particularly over his affair with the model Marla Maples, whom he went on to marry. The pair then had daughter Tiffany Trump.

Donald Trump with first wife, Ivana, at their Greenwich, Conn. mansion in 1987.

Donald Trump with first wife, Ivana, at their Greenwich, Conn. mansion in 1987. Getty Images

Family portrait of, from left, socialite Ivana Trump, her son Eric Trump, her former husband Donald Trump, and her daughter Ivanka Trump as they sit at a table at the Mar-a-Lago estate, Palm Beach, Florida, 1998.

Family portrait of, from left, socialite Ivana Trump, her son Eric Trump, her former husband Donald Trump, and her daughter Ivanka Trump as they sit at a table at the Mar-a-Lago estate, Palm Beach, Florida, 1998. Getty Images

The couple’s divorce received international attention, and during a deposition for its proceedings, Ivana Trump accused her then-husband of rape. She later disavowed the allegation while President Trump was running for office in 2015.”

I have recently read some comments attributed to me from nearly 30 years ago at a time of very high tension during my divorce from Donald,” she said in the July 2015 statement. “The story is totally without merit. Donald and I are the best of friends and together have raised 3 children that we love and are very proud of.”

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A Houston Community Is Being Dismantled by Mandatory Buyouts

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Buyouts are a major climate adaptation policy to get people out of harm’s way, but such programs often deepen existing social inequalities

Dolores Mendoza lived in the Houston neighborhood of Allen Field for most of her life. Once, when her daughter was young, she moved to a north Houston suburb not far away, so her daughter could grow up with safer streets and better schools. “I hated it,” she said flatly, remembering her attempt to leave. “I didn’t know my neighbors — there are 100 houses and you don’t know anyone.” She came back within a year.

In this corner of unincorporated Harris County, 13 of her closest neighbors are also her family: her mom, aunts and uncles, cousins, siblings. Her parents and grandparents both met in the neighborhood, got married, and stayed here. “I have my maternal family on one street, and my paternal family on the other,” she said, laughing. Her memories of growing up include bike rides through the streets from one friend or cousin’s house to the next.

But her upbringing was also punctuated by intense floods that put her neighborhood underwater over and over again — to name a few, tropical Storm Allison in 2001, Harvey in 2017, and Imelda in 2019. When it flooded during Mendoza’s childhood, the neighborhood kids would put on floaties and swim through the knee-deep or occasionally waist-high waters. Her kids have grown up with the same memories.

The community sits behind Greens Bayou, a small river that meanders through northern Harris County before emptying into the Houston Ship Channel. Overgrown grassy ditches bursting with yellow wildflowers line Darjean Street, the small road that Mendoza grew up on. The channels are meant to funnel flood waters away when it rains and the river overflows. But more often than not, when a storm comes, Allen Field still floods.

With each storm, families in Allen Field rebuild homes and raise them higher off the ground to avoid floodwaters in the next one. Despite the repeated disasters, most families haven’t left the neighborhood. They know exactly who to call for help during a crisis, and who to trust afterwards as they put their lives back together.

But in recent years, flooding in Allen Field has gotten worse and more dangerous as climate change feeds stronger storms and new developments further upstream reshape the area’s floodplains. Mendoza remembers vividly when Hurricane Harvey dumped more than 60 inches of rain on the region in 2017. That was the first time that the floodwaters were chest deep. “You couldn’t even see the street signs,” she said. Her home, which had been elevated 6 feet above ground after Allison, took on several inches of water and the roof started to leak.

For decades, Harris County, home to Houston and its surrounding towns, had a buyout program operating in Allen Field and other neighborhoods in the northeast pocket of the city: Residents could sell their houses to the county at market value and get assistance to move out of the floodplain. The house would be demolished and the lot underneath it restored as a greenspace that could absorb flood waters.

“A lot of areas were developed within the county that should never have been developed — areas that we now know are several feet deep in the floodplain,” said James Wade, Harris County Flood Control District’s property acquisitions manager.

Because the buyout was funded through the Federal Emergency Management Agency, or FEMA, it had to be voluntary. The county couldn’t force anyone to move if they didn’t want to. Between Hurricane Allison in 2001 and Hurricane Harvey in 2017, only a handful of homeowners sold their properties. Year after year, most families chose to stay and rebuild.

But in 2020, the county chose to make the buyout in Allen Field — and six other neighborhoods — mandatory. The county had just gotten federal relief dollars for Hurricane Harvey from the Department of Housing and Urban Development, or HUD, giving it a bigger budget to execute buyouts. “These particular communities … have flooded about 12 times in the past 40 years,” said Christy Lambright, the director of Disaster Recovery & Resiliency Planning at the Harris County Community Services Department. “We couldn’t build anything that would save these communities. There’s no detention pond we can build, no widening of the bayou that we can do — we need that land to save the neighboring neighborhoods.”

But the decision has left residents of Allen Field and several other Harris County areas scrambling to navigate a complex buyout process while also trying to preserve and protect the community that they’ve lived in for generations.

Last December, Mendoza was among the first in the neighborhood to move out through the mandatory buyout. It took nearly two years for the sale of her house to go through. The county paid out the sale price of her new home in Kingwood, 15 miles away, but she had to unexpectedly pay thousands of dollars in closing fees out of pocket. Her property taxes and homeowner association fees are also seven times higher now.

Mendoza counts herself lucky that she can afford those extra expenses on her salary as a credit controller. But she worries that some of her neighbors — the older folks, the ones who don’t speak English fluently, or those on fixed incomes — will have a harder time going through the process. Others are losing not only their homes, but their businesses as well — and don’t feel that they’re being fairly compensated. And, of course, there are some losses that can’t be quantified: Decades-long friendships and relationships will change as neighbors move further away from each other.

“I just want to make sure [the county] is going to take care of everybody,” Mendoza said. Early on, she remembers telling the county officials handling her case, “Use me as your guinea pig and figure this shit out before you go deal with everyone else.”

The federal government has been subsidizing flood control buyouts in some form since as far back as the 1930s and 40s. By the mid 1990s, Congress moved the program under FEMA, and a state and federal partnership model funds the program nationwide.

Today, Harris County is the largest recipient of federal dollars for buyouts. According to a report from Rice Univeristy’s Kinder Institute for Urban Research, between 1985 and 2017, the county spent $342 million to acquire over 3,100 properties. The money was allocated from federal agencies, like FEMA, HUD, and the Army Corps of Engineers, as well as local funding sources.

“The program really started as a rural program to help farmers whose farms kept flooding,” said Jim Elliott, a researcher at Rice University who focuses on inequities in disasters and recovery. “There’s been a sort of policy creep as the [program] has moved into cities,”

Buyouts are now a major climate adaptation policy to get people out of harm’s way. FEMA estimates that nearly 13 million Americans live within a floodplain — though some scientists place that number closer to 40 million using more up-to-date flood maps. As climate change makes extreme weather more severe and more frequent, buying out these homes should reduce the risks that people face, and lower the costs of repetitive payouts from insurance companies, including the National Flood Insurance Program, which is billions of dollars in debt. The program has paid out more money to residents in Harris County than any other area in the country.

But such programs often deepen existing social inequalities. In 2021, Elliot and a team of researchers found that wealthier, whiter neighborhoods were able to maintain social ties and social capital after a buyout. Households resettled closer to each other and the amenities they enjoyed. But lower income areas saw the opposite effect: They resettled further from each other, and the benefits of their social ties were weakened.

“Flood control experts measure success by how many homes they buy out. People in a community measure success by how much they’re able to maintain the community,” Elliott said. “So, who has to give up that social value to adjust to climate change?” In Harris County, there’s evidence that, over and over again, it is low-income communities and communities of color.

Mendoza’s house cost the county about $60,000 to purchase. It has about the same flood potential as houses in the wealthier, whiter Fall Creek neighborhood of Humble, also located along Greens Bayou, that cost more than 10 times as much. But only Allen Field, which is majority Black and Latino, is being forced to participate in a buyout.

When asked about these inequities — historical and present — and the flood control district’s responsibility to address them, Wade, from the Harris County Flood Control District, said that the agency has not unfairly targeted low-income neighborhoods for buyouts. HUD requires that certain grants benefit low- to moderate-income areas.

“From the flood control perspective, we’re just interested in relocating people out of harm’s way and getting them to higher ground — regardless of race, ethnicity, and income level,” Wade said. “I know in Texas, we’re very big on property rights. But at what point does the government become negligible for allowing folks to live in harm’s way?” Lambright echoes that thought. “We did not enter into this thinking it was going to be an easy task,” she said. “This river is never going to stop flowing. It’s going to take out the road, it’s going to be detrimental to homes. There was no way that Harris County could ignore this issue.” And despite the influx of funding from HUD post-Harvey, it still falls short. There are far more communities in harm’s way that haven’t been given a path out of the floodplain at all.

Some residents in Allen Field welcome the buyout. Lena Apodaca has lived in the neighborhood for four decades. Her husband passed away in 2019 and since then she’s lived alone in the house he left her. “I’m not fighting it,” she said. “I don’t want to go through another flood by myself.” Apodaca describes herself as old-school: She doesn’t have a smartphone or a computer. She’s filled out all the paperwork the county needs to approve the sale by hand, and she’s been waiting ever since. “Last year, that was the last time I heard from them,” she said. “I tried calling them, no answer, no nothing.”

In February 2021, a record-breaking winter cold snap gripped Texas; as temperatures dipped into the single digits, millions of Texans lost power. In Lena’s house, the pipes froze and burst, and she didn’t have running water. The county has cautioned against making repairs to homes because those costs won’t be reflected in the sale price. But Apodaca’s sons helped her replace the pipes anyway — if they hadn’t, she would have been without running water for more than a year now. Others have decided it’s not worth sinking more money into their houses. So they’ve lived without kitchens or a spare bathroom since the freeze. At Mendoza’s mother’s house, an entire back room seeps every time it rains, the smell of mildew permeating the walls.

But other Allen Field residents contend that a buyout program shouldn’t have been their only option. Their neighborhood has long been neglected for infrastructure improvements. Property values are far lower to begin with precisely because they don’t benefit from public services: There were no street lights in Allen Field until a few years ago. The ditches that the neighborhood relies on for flood control are inadequate for today’s climate change-fueled storms, and it’s difficult to get anyone from the county to maintain them so that they work properly during even a light rainfall. Mendoza can’t recall a time when anyone from the outside came to save them from rising flood waters. “We take care of ourselves here,” she said. “[First responders] don’t come out to this area.”

Of the seven areas that are facing a mandatory buyout in the county, six are located along Greens Bayou, which caused some of the worst flooding in Harris County during Hurricane Harvey. The watershed and its tributaries encompass more than 200 square miles across north Houston, an area that’s home to some 600,000 people. According to a 2018 report from Rice University’s Baker Institute for Public Policy, Greens Bayou caused 24,000 homes to flood during Hurricane Harvey, roughly 16 percent of all the homes damaged in the county by the storm.

But the city and state have largely avoided funding flood control projects along the bayou because, according to the same report, a high concentration of low-income neighborhoods with low property values border it, making it difficult to justify the cost using federal standards.

“The property value measure is inherently inequitable, and frankly racist,” said Maddie Sloan, the disaster recovery director at Texas Appleseed, a nonprofit advocacy group. “Many of these communities are also historical communities of color that people have a deep investment in, and it can feel like an attack on those communities.”

In 2018, Harris County passed a $2.5 billion bond with the promise of righting some of the inequities in Harris County’s flood infrastructure. The money should have finally brought projects to Greens Bayou and its tributaries, but that never materialized either.

By all means, Mendoza said, the new house she and her kids live in now is nicer than her home in Allen Field — and it’s not in the floodplain. “It’s quiet,” she said. “It’s a nice neighborhood. I have a huge house, a pool, all that. But it’s not the same. I’m a single mom, and it takes a village to raise kids, and I don’t have that anymore. It’s gone.”

In a financial sense, the program worked for her. “I’m in my mid-30s, I can use this as an investment and eventually move out to the country like I’ve always wanted to.” But for some of her neighbors, she’s not sure that they’ll ever be made whole after losing the communities that they’ve lived in for their whole lives. Her 80-year-old neighbor, for example, has always been taken care of even though she lives alone. Neighbors drive her to the doctors, drop off meals and pet food, and even drive her out to convenience stores to buy scratch-offs. There’s no guarantee that she’ll be able to stay close to her support system.

Many of those neighbors have scattered now — some, like Mendoza and her sister, found houses 10 minutes away; others are 35 minutes away, preferring not to resettle in a subdivision with homeowner association mandates after decades of living in unincorporated county land, where there are no strict rules.

Over the past two years, Mendoza has become the neighborhood’s unofficial spokesperson. She’s written op-eds in the local paper and joined a community committee that’s been advising the county on how to provide support to Allen Field residents through the long, technical process. Neighbors and relatives are used to seeing Mendoza walk up and down the streets with reporters, pointing out which homes have been sold already, which ones are still in need of repairs from Winter Storm Uri, and the vandalism of recently vacated properties. Other residents are hesitant to speak publicly, worried about getting in trouble with the caseworkers handling their property sales.

There’s a joke around the neighborhood that the county moved Mendoza out first so that they wouldn’t have to deal with her anymore. But she has no intention of going anywhere. “They completely tore apart our village,” Mendoza said. “They’ll be hearing from me till the last resident moves out.”

______________

By Amal Ahmed. This story was originally published by Grist. You can subscribe to its weekly newsletter here. This story is part of the Grist series Flood. Retreat. Repeat, an exploration of how communities are changing before, during, and after managed retreat.

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Black MAGA Pastor Declares “War On Every Demonic, Demon-Possessed Democrat From The Gates Of Hell”

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So, every once in a while the holy bowels of the sunken place spit out a Black pastor to testify before the MAGA ministry congregation full of people who likely assume Jesus didn’t season his food either. And, interestingly enough, all of these Black pastors look and sound exactly like this guy. Meet South Carolina Pastor Mark Burns, who CLTV describes as “a Trump surrogate that was caught lying about his resume by CNN .”

Pastor Mark Burns reportedly got caught lying about his academic history and military service in his bio and tried to say he was “hacked.” Dude was really out here kapping about belonging to Kappa Alpha Psi then later he explained that he only “started the process of being a part of that organization.” Like —come on, bro. (Personally, I’m just surprised he didn’t get caught lying about being the president of the Sunken Place HOA when really he’s just a nosy neighbor telling his fellow house negroes which side of the driveway the mailbox should be on.)

Burns also repeated the lies in his bio when he spoke at the Republican National Convention, which, to his credit —even Candace Owens wasn’t tap-dancy enough to shuck and jive her way into an RNC invite. But he wasn’t so successful when he tried to get down with GOP but failed to win his primary. But now he’s back and he appears to be trying to perform some kind of political exorcism in front of a white…I mean, live audience. (But they were white AF though.)

From CLTV:

Speaking at Eric Trump and disgraced Michael Flynn’s ReAwaken America tour in Idaho last week , South Carolina Pastor Burns, a Trump surrogate that was caught lying about his resume by CNN , went on an insane rant about demons and devils from hell.

Speaking at the QAnon/Evangelical event Pastor Burns, who lost his political bid to win the Republican nomination in South Carolina earlier this year thanked Flynn for making an appearance.

In his screaming sermon (rant) Burns later made his thoughts known about the majority of this great nation. “I’m coming here to declare war on every demonic, demon-possessed Democrat that comes from the gates of Hell!” I just don’t understand why Black conservatives always have to be so extra. Somebody tell Creflo MAGA he doesn’t need to go full fire and brimstone just to keep his little white nationalist parishioners shouting a-Klan…I mean, amen. Calm down, KK-Kirk Franklin , it’s not that serious.

Culled from the Hip Hop Wired

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OMG: Uber driver charged with zip-tying, sexually assaulting female passenger in back of vehicle

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A Cook County judge on Sunday ordered an Uber driver from Logan Square to pay a full $250,000 cash bail on claims that he restrained and sexually assaulted a young woman who lost consciousness after an evening out earlier this summer.

Christopher Molina, of the 1700 block of North Spaulding Avenue, faces aggravated criminal sexual assault, kidnapping and unlawful restraint charges.

After a night at Clark Street bars on the evening of June 2, she awoke early the next morning zip-tied by the wrists in the rear of a car parked in a well-lit garage, Assistant State’s attorney Jacqueline Simon told the court.

Molina allegedly unbound her wrist restraints, fondled, then sexually assaulted her for about 15 minutes, during which she repeated that she “did not want to do this,” Simon said. After the assault, Molina allegedly allowed the woman out of the vehicle to use the bathroom then drove her home.

During the drive, Molina allegedly told the woman that he was sorry, that the attack was his “bad side,” and that his girlfriend was mean to him, Simon said.

The victim returned home to the West Loop and asked a stranger to use his phone after no one answered the door at her home, prosecutors said.

The victim was taken to an area hospital where a sex assault kit was performed. Prosecutors said Uber app information led to the owner of the car, a businessman who had contract showing that Molina rented the vehicle the day of the attack.

“What’s been described is deeply disturbing and something nobody should ever experience,” an Uber spokesman said in a statement released Sunday evening. The statement provided no further details on the incident, but said Molina had been banned from the app.

Troubled by Molina’s alleged possession and use of zip ties to restrain a helpless victim, Judge Kelly Marie McCarthy said he was a potential risk to the community before ordering the cash bail.

The judge also ordered him not to have any contact with the victim and scheduled him to return to court Aug. 29.

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