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tenant protections
Landlord Doublespeak and the Rise of the 'Housing Provider'
What drives the preference of landlords to call themselves “housing providers” is a desire to euphemize the landlord-tenant relationship and to obscure some of its basic and most important features.
Jul 30, 2025
Landlords want to be called “housing providers.” Industry organizations in California, Washington, Rhode Island, and elsewhere are proudly claiming the label. Equal to this craving to be called “housing providers,” it seems, is the wish among landlords to no longer be called landlords. The term is antiquated, they say, and has a negative stigma that doesn’t reflect reality. The industry is not particularly secretive about these desires or the reasons behind them, which have to do with image and narrative.
The dictionary definition of landlord is precise enough, however, and, in fact, couldn’t be plainer: “The owner of property (such as land, houses, or apartments) that is leased or rented to another,” according to Merriam-Webster.com. The definition identifies the essential feature of any residential landlord—that they engage in a financial transaction to lease living space. This seems straightforward enough and noncontroversial. The motivation of the industry is thus not related to any mismatch between our common understanding of the word and its most essential attribute.
Instead, what drives the preference of landlords to call themselves “housing providers” is a type of Orwellian doublespeak intended to euphemize the landlord-tenant relationship and to obscure some of its basic and most important features. What does the phrase obscure? For one, it elides the basic extractive nature of landlording, the fact that landlords expect, in fact, rely upon the relationship to be monetarily profitable to them. This is the critical fact of landlording, that it is done in the main to make a profit.
Granted there are some instances of landlords renting to family members or others without expectations of profit, but these exceptions are merely that—exceptions. The English language routinely makes distinctions between services rendered for a fee and those provided on other bases. The difference between “housing provider” and landlord is the difference between a date and a paid escort or sex worker, it is the difference between the volunteer and the mercenary, between a financial gift and an interest-bearing loan. The English language is not unique in containing words that make clear the monetary exchange and profit that define some relationships. We use these words because the information they contain is consequential.
If the landlord industry truly wants to do something to burnish its public image, it might consider publicly rejecting or sanctioning members of its community who hiked rents in Los Angeles County by 20% in the aftermath of the fires of January 2025.
This attempt to obscure the profit motive in landlording is all the more problematic because those who would call themselves “housing providers” in one breath, will, in the next, argue against rent stabilization, tenant protections, and other regulations on the basis that these policies make their business unprofitable, or less profitable than they would prefer. This is wanting it both ways—attempting to hide the profit motive while simultaneously insisting on it.
“Housing provider” is also meant to conceal the power dynamics of the landlord-tenant relationship, one in which landlords hold the privileges associated with property ownership, the ability to define the terms of acceptable behavior and limits of property use available to tenants, and the ultimate power of eviction. Moreover, at a time when corporate landlords are extending their reach into the market, and we see the spread of price-fixing algorithms to maximize rents and profit, AI-driven tenant screening algorithms to perform background checks, and greater concentration and market power at the industry scale, the insistence on the phrase “housing provider” is an obvious attempt at happy-faced distraction.
Just as important as the attempt to disguise profit motive and landlord power is the effort to dodge whatever negative connotations attach to the term landlord. “Housing provider” is meant to avoid images of rapaciousness and greed, or to conjure images of benevolence and even charity, or to do both. The use of the phrase is, in other words, an attempt, acknowledged by the industry, to control a narrative. As such it is a political act, an effort to persuade and to establish a particular understanding of who landlords are and what they do, all in the service of influencing public debate and public policy. This is not to argue that tenants don’t also try to influence the public narrative; of course they do. It is merely to note that this phrase, “housing provider,” is a calculated bid to construct meaning in a highly contested policy area and it needs to be recognized as such. Those who choose to adopt the phrase choose to adopt the narrative.
If the landlord industry truly wants to do something to burnish its public image, it might consider publicly rejecting or sanctioning members of its community who hiked rents in Los Angeles County by 20% in the aftermath of the fires of January 2025. It might help to police property owners who evicted tenants during the pandemic in violation of federal and local laws. It might take action to address sexual harassment of low-income women by landlords, or address any of a number of discriminatory or exploitative practices that haunt the industry. Those wishing to hide behind the “housing provider” label will argue that not all landlords are bad, which is of course true. They will say only a portion of landlords engage in the practices that give landlord its stigma. But, if the only response by the industry is to stop using the word landlord, it betrays a self-serving concern that does little to improve negative public perceptions and, in fact, largely confirms them.
We don’t call Exxon an “oil provider,” nor do we call GM an “automobile provider.” We don’t even call the corner mom-and-pop store a “grocery provider.” There is no reason to accept the kind of politically motivated doublespeak behind the rise of “housing provider.”
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The US Has a Housing Crisis, Not a Squatting Crisis
The real estate lobby is using its power to advance a flurry of anti-squatter bills to push back against tenant protections enacted in the early years of the Covid-19 pandemic. Lawmakers should not take the bait.
Aug 11, 2024
Alabama, Tennessee, and Florida’s new anti-squatter laws all went into effect in the last two months, the latest exhibit of the real estate industry’s influence in American politics. In this year alone, at least 10 states have considered legislation that revokes tenancy rights, making squatting—when someone moves into a vacant building or onto uninhabited land—a criminal matter instead of civil one.
While the fear-mongering around squatting started as a right-wing talking point, now anti-squatter bills have passed in several states with bipartisan support. Earlier this year, in New York, where Democrats dominate politics, Gov. Kathy Hochul and several state legislators took a victory lap after passing a budget bill that declared that squatters don’t have the same rights as tenants, and to support property owners statewide.
Some would assume that these legislative actions were taken in response to a threat of a mass takeover of homes in cities across the country. But in reality, as many experts have rightly pointed out, squatting is extremely rare. A threat does exist, which is why we’re seeing a rise in this legislation. It’s just not to property owners. It’s to the power of the real estate lobby.
The manufactured crisis around squatters is meant to distract from the fact that over half of Americans struggle to pay their rent or mortgage every month.
As outlined in a new report by the Private Equity Stakeholder Project and others, the real estate lobby is a sprawling, interconnected group of representatives from the top corporate apartment owners and managers in the country, who—by having members sit on each other’s boards—can tap into an enormous shared pool of resources that they’re using to destabilize communities across the country.
The lobby is using this power to advance a flurry of anti-squatter bills to push back against tenant protections enacted in the early years of the Covid-19 pandemic. This was a time when millions of people in the United States were kept in their homes thanks to policies like rental assistance expansion and foreclosure and eviction moratoria. For many of us, it was the first time we witnessed our country recognize the public health and economic value of keeping people in their homes. These protections made clear that regardless of race, class, or housing tenure, housing stability is the foundation for thriving communities.
Now, real estate industry groups, the second biggest lobbying spender in the U.S., are using anti-squatter legislation in a desperate attempt to undercut that progress. Capitalizing on America’s heightened anxiety about the housing crisis, they are scaring people into believing that tenant protections come at the expense of homeowners. Lawmakers should not take the bait.
At best, these bills are reactionary responses to a problem that doesn’t exist. At worst, they represent the worst of election season fear-mongering: anti-immigrant sentiment, dog-whistle racism, and calls for law and order. Look no further than the Florida attorney general’s celebration of legislation declaring that immigrants were taking over homes across the state, based on a viral TikTok. In reality, most states already have laws that address squatters adequately—it’s tenant protections that remain significantly weaker relative to property rights.
Advancing anti-squatter legislation is a slippery slope to eroding eviction protections passed during the last few years, and that’s exactly what the real estate lobby wants: They themselves refer to squatter legislation as “eviction policy.” Clearly, they are hoping to put legislators on a path to repealing hard-fought regulations to protect tenants by inferring a false equating of squatters (who live in vacant properties without legal agreements) and tenants (who legally inhabit homes with leases).The bills put any resident with tenant or ownership interest at risk of immediate displacement, often by a law enforcement agency, without the normal requirement of notice, proof, and judicial review before someone is removed from their home.
But their efforts to undo these gains won’t be easy, because the tide has turned in support of tenant protections as a way to address our housing crisis. In poll after poll, people in the United States say they want to see governments take action to alleviate the cost of housing. This has quickly become a front-burner issue for Americans and a top priority for them in the presidential election, only second to inflation. A recent survey of voters in battleground states found that 82% of renters believe that, if addressed, the cost of rent and housing would make their personal situation better.
The manufactured crisis around squatters is meant to distract from the fact that over half of Americans struggle to pay their rent or mortgage every month. And that a tenant-led movement to change this reality is building political power, winning local elections, and influencing federal policy.
Considering this, one can see why the real estate lobby, which amassed over $2.5 billion in revenue during the height of the pandemic, is grasping at straws to stay relevant to legislators. While it’s trying to ramp up efforts to unravel tenant protections, the lobby itself—the National Association of Realtors (NAR)—is unraveling. From Department of Justice investigations and anti-trust lawsuits to sexual harassment allegations, and a musical chairs of presidents and CEOs in the last two years, members are not happy. In October 2023, Redfin announced it would require many of its brokers to cancel their NAR memberships and stop paying dues. Reports of NAR running out of liability insurance coverage and rumors of real estate moguls starting alternative associations show cracks in a foundation that will be difficult to repair. No amount of fresh paint, even if it is in the form of throwing tenants under the bus, can fix such dysfunction. But they’ll try as long as they can.
As America increasingly becomes a nation of renters, lawmakers can’t lose sight of the bigger picture: We have a housing crisis, not a squatter crisis. Millions of people calling on leaders to alleviate their suffering cannot afford to be sold out with this distraction. Lawmakers should pass policies that we know advance housing stability, instead of doing the bidding of those attacking it.
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The Promise and Limits of Biden’s Rent Cap Plan
Tenant organizers see the proposal as both a partial measure that kicks the can down a road that could dead-end come November—and a political victory.
Jul 17, 2024
On a trip to Las Vegas, where rents climbed twice as fast as wages last year, U.S. President Joe Biden is pitching a plan for national rent stabilization—sort of. The plan wouldn’t directly cap rents—despite a growing freakout from the lobbying groups that fight tooth and nail to oppose rent controls—and it would need the approval of Congress.
But while acknowledging its limitations, tenant organizers and advocates see Biden’s announcement as a rare acknowledgement that the federal government could wield its vast power to shape the housing market on behalf of tenants.
The announcement is one of several populist economic policies Biden has recently endorsed as progressives like Sen. Bernie Sanders (I-Vt.) circle the wagons around the embattled president while making the case that his path to victory lies through pro-working-class policy. Rising rents are a key driver of inflation and a top concern for voters in battleground states like Nevada.
Since the 2008 financial crash, growing consolidation in the rental market has helped facilitate the largest transfer of wealth from tenants to landlords in U.S. history, with federal financing greasing the wheels.
Tenant organizers see the proposal as both a partial measure that kicks the can down a road that could dead-end come November—and a political victory.
“As recently as a few years ago, we were being laughed out of rooms—rent regulation was a third-rail policy idea,” says Tara Raghuveer, director of the National Tenant Union Federation. As policy messaging, “it’s hard to overstate how significant the shift is.”
Rent control is still fairly rare in most of the United States, thanks to a nationwide industry campaign, beginning in the 1980s, to preempt its adoption at the local level. Mark Paul, an economist at Rutgers University who has urged a rethinking of the conventional economic wisdom against rent control, praised Biden’s announcement as a step in the right direction. “We have policies in place that have helped build the middle class through federal support for housing,” Paul says. “However, that federal support for housing is really only applied to the segment of Americans that can afford to own a house.”
Under Biden’s proposal, landlords who own more than 50 units would face a choice: Cap rents at 5% annually, or lose access to a coveted federal tax write-off, relied on heavily by former president Donald Trump in his real-estate dealings, that allows property owners and investors to deduct the depreciating value of their assets. (“I love depreciation,” Trump said during a 2016 presidential debate.)
Such tax breaks are the lifeblood of corporate real estate speculation. Longstanding policies like the depreciation writeoff and the mortgage interest rate deduction were sweetened even further by the Trump administration’s staggering tax cuts on “pass-through” entities that typically own rental properties. In the red-hot pandemic real-estate market, those tax benefits became a prime selling point for new real-estate firms attempting to lure investment in their acquisition deals. One Massachusetts-based firm that has snapped up large apartment buildings in cities like Atlanta and Phoenix boasts in its marketing that multifamily real-estate investors can end up paying little to nothing in taxes.
Given the slim chances of passing rent caps through Congress, no matter November’s outcome, Paul thinks the Biden administration could do more now to demonstrate his commitment to combating unchecked corporate power in the housing market.
But tax breaks aren’t the only way that federal housing policy props up speculators—or the only lever that the Biden administration, if it’s serious about addressing the cost-of-living crisis, has at its disposal. Since the 2008 financial crash, growing consolidation in the rental market has helped facilitate the largest transfer of wealth from tenants to landlords in U.S. history, with federal financing greasing the wheels.
In the aftermath of the 2008 financial crisis, mortgage giants Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, along with the Department of Housing and Urban Development, aided and abetted the rise of a new breed of Wall Street landlords by selling them pools of delinquent loans on single-family homes—despite warnings from housing advocates that the buyers weren’t interested in helping homeowners stay in their homes. Reporting by ProPublica found that after 2015, Freddie Mac helped fuel a buying spree of multi-family apartment buildings by private equity firms eager to take advantage of rock-bottom interest rates. More recently, Freddie has worked with groups like Arbor Realty Trust, a key financier for small-time speculators that’s reportedly under probe by federal prosecutors over its lending practices. When corporate landlords move into communities, they often bring with them aggressive eviction policies, lax upkeep, and considerable market power to hike rents. Raghuveer’s group has a corrective in mind: Condition federal financing for landlords on rent caps and tenant protections.
The campaign had a major win this spring when the Biden administration announced a plan to cap rent increases at 10% in housing subsidized by federal low-income tax credits. Now the campaign has set its sights on Fannie- and Freddie-financed properties.
The push to attach strings to these federal dollars has provoked blowback from industry lobbying groups like the Mortgage Bankers Association, which urged the Federal Housing Finance Agency (FHFA), which regulates Fannie and Freddie, not to violate the “sacrosanct” relationship between landlords and tenants by acting as an intermediary.
But more than 30 economists, including Paul, backed the idea in a 2023 letter to the FHFA, making the case that the debate surrounding rent regulation is undergoing a sea change similar to the minimum wage in the 1990s, when a series of empirical studies found—contrary to doomsday prophesying from big business—that wage hikes were not leading to job losses.
The economists’ letter points to evidence from New Jersey suggesting that rent controls did not drive down new construction, as opponents argue. Nor did Massachusetts’ repeal of rent control in the 1990s lead to a housing supply boom.
Given the slim chances of passing rent caps through Congress, no matter November’s outcome, Paul thinks the Biden administration could do more now to demonstrate his commitment to combating unchecked corporate power in the housing market. He points to an announcement just last week from FHFA requiring modest new tenant protections in federally financed properties. The move shows “the FHFA has the authority to regulate these types of properties,” he says. “I would like to see them go a step further and utilize that same rulemaking approach to deploy rent control.”
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