newyorker--2020-07-15--When Marian Anderson Defied the Nazis

When Marian Anderson Defied the Nazis

If Americans know one fact about the legendary African-American contralto Marian Anderson , it ’ s that she sang in defiance on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial , in 1939 .
When the Daughters of the American Revolution denied her request to perform in the D.A.R .
Constitution Hall , in Washington , D.C. , for racist reasons , Anderson picked up her musical scores and , instead , sang Schubert and African-American spirituals on the steps of the Memorial , to more than seventy-five thousand people .
But that performance was not Anderson ’ s first time confronting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that she made international news .
Throughout the nineteen-thirties , Anderson stared down opposition in Nazi Germany and Fascist Austria .
It ’ s not clear , exactly , when people began to treat Anderson as more of a saint than a singer .
Over time , Anderson , like other Black women , has been reduced to a civil-rights sound bite , a single moment of respectable resistance instead of a lifetime of determined nonconformity .
Part of her beatification rests on the conversion of her image to an immediately recognizable trope @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Black woman—silent , too , unless her mouth was open in song .
But Anderson was young once .
Fashionable .
Pretty .
Reading through European newspapers and her letters home , one quickly discovers that Anderson rivalled the popular entertainer Josephine Baker when it came to drawing public attention in Central Europe .
Walking down Salzburg ’ s hilly cobblestone streets during her first day in the Alpine city , in the summer of 1935 , Anderson was trailed by a cadre of journalists everywhere she went , and men tossed out @ @ @ @ @ @ @ spaghetti against a wall , hoping one would stick .
“ There is a Baron following Miss Anderson around , ” the African-American pianist Josephine Harreld Love gossiped to her parents , in a letter from Salzburg , where she was studying .
“ The men are crazy about her .
She does look grand.
” Anderson was also ambitious .
Having grown frustrated with the insurmountable barriers of institutional racism in the U.S. , she found herself , by the mid-twenties—like so many other African-American classical musicians at the time—facing three impossible @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at most prominent concert venues , she could continue to tread water professionally and accept a middling career .
Second , she could leave the world of classical music altogether , eschewing her studies for a potentially more lucrative career in Black popular music .
Or , third , she could get on a boat and set sail for Europe , a continent she ’ d never seen .
She chose Europe .
“ I was going stale , ” she later confessed in her memoir .
“ [ My ] career needed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ European stamp would help.
” After all , her contemporary , the African-American tenor Roland Hayes , had earned plentiful accolades and money abroad in the twenties .
( The Times reported , in 1927 , that Hayes was earning a hundred thousand dollars a year . )
Garlanded with glowing European reviews , Hayes made it difficult for white American listeners and institutions to deny his musical excellence .
It was understandable that Anderson would wish for the same outcome .
African-Americans , from the opera singer Sissieretta Jones to the scholar @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had long asserted that Europe was the true land of racial acceptance .
That notion was , and remains , a fiction .
Germany and Austria were hostile environments for Jews and people of color in the twenties and thirties .
By 1925 , performing in these countries without racist and nationalist opposition at concert venues had become virtually impossible for Black musicians .
Adolf Hitler ’ s rise to power , in 1933 , coupled with the birth of a Fascist state in Austria , meant that Black people in Central Europe—whether @ @ @ @ @ @ @ abroad—encountered more violence in their daily lives , not less .
Anderson discovered the depths of anti-Black racism for herself , when she sought permission to perform at the Salzburg Festival , in 1935 .
The last time that a Black musician had sung in the city , Nazi rioters chased him out .
“ I thought I was in some of the southern sections of the United States when I heard the mob , ” the African-American baritone Aubrey Pankey told the Chicago Daily Tribune .
“ I never expected this in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the local Austrian newspaper the following day denounced Pankey ’ s performance as an act of desecration .
“ A negro who sings German lieder , ” the author wrote , “ jeopardizes German culture.
” Unsurprisingly , the Salzburg Festival rejected Anderson ’ s petition to sing .
But what Anderson did next illustrates a pattern of behavior that she would deploy as a weapon throughout her career : she showed up anyway .
The first night of the festival , she sang at the Mozarteum concert hall , to a small @ @ @ @ @ @ @ A few nights later , she sang again , this time in a hotel ballroom to hundreds of élite musicians , who applauded her act of defiance—and , by sitting in their seats and thumbing their noses at the festival ’ s administration , joined her in that defiance .
After her recital , the conductor Arturo Toscanini came backstage to utter his now famous declaration : “ What I heard today one is privileged to hear only once in a hundred years.
” Anderson became an international superstar overnight .
Nevertheless , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ throughout her European tour .
Listeners constantly fetishized her voice , calling it guttural or negroid— “ a dark voice , brown like her skin.
” Even those who claimed to adore her did so on racial grounds , treating her voice as an audible marker of her race .
Other Black musicians received similar responses .
Sick of Austrian tabloids smearing his name , Hayes left for the United States , saying that European racism was partly to blame for his departure .
Anderson , in contrast , kept touring .
In @ @ @ @ @ @ @ months before the track-and-field athlete Jesse Owens won four gold medals at the Summer Olympics in Nazi Germany , Anderson was scheduled to perform with the conductor Bruno Walter and the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra .
The menace of Nazi stink bombs at their concerts were reason enough to deter most singers .
The death threats that Anderson and Walter received were another matter .
But Anderson stood on the main stage of Vienna ’ s Musikverein concert hall with him anyway , and sang Brahms ’ s “ Alto Rhapsody ” to a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by plainclothes detectives .
One Viennese music critic stated that the audience had witnessed something bigger than itself—a performance of musical brotherhood despite a rising tide of racial hatred .
Anderson ’ s last performance in Central Europe took place startlingly late : November , 1937 , only a few months before Hitler annexed Austria .
By the late thirties , walking around in a Black body in Germany and Austria meant having a target on your back .
Anyone of color who could get out had already fled .
After leaving Vienna @ @ @ @ @ @ @ William Tatten told the press , “ I advise Negroes to stay out of Europe altogether unless it is absolutely necessary to go over there.
” African migrants from Germany ’ s former colonies and Afro-Germans were not so lucky .
Some went into hiding .
Some died in concentration camps a few years later .
Growing concern from Anderson ’ s loved ones back in the United States , coupled with mounting social unrest in Europe , led her to decide that it was time to go home .
But she promised @ @ @ @ @ @ @ news spread of her European swan song , the concert hall sold out days before her appearance .
At the concert , she sang her usual program : some Schubert , a trio of Sibelius songs , and African-American spirituals , which listeners demanded her to repeat .
Anderson ’ s staunch supporters showered her with bouquets and encores , fearing this would be the last time they ’ d ever hear her sing .
Their fears were justified .
After Anderson left Vienna , a critic wailed that the city had lost @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of darkness .
“ [ Her music ] makes those people happy who have not yet given up their belief that all men are equal.
” The lesson of Anderson ’ s time in Europe is stunning in its simplicity and , for that reason , has been easy to dismiss .
She showed up .
Even under the threat of violence .
Even with the shadow of Nazism looming over her like a dark cloud , she showed up .
And she delivered what was becoming increasingly difficult to showcase amid so @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of her full humanity at a time when white supremacists wanted to deny it .
Years later , Anderson returned to Europe , at the request of the U.S. military , who thought that she could aid their efforts to de-Nazify a postwar Germany .
Standing in front of twenty-five hundred German civilians and American soldiers , in one of the few concert venues that hadn ’ t been reduced to rubble , Anderson sang a program that was almost the same as what she ’ d performed before the war .
But @ @ @ @ @ @ @ At the sound of her voice , some members of the audience began to weep .
It reminded them , attendees would later say , of an earlier time—a time when Anderson had defied the world .

At a time when many Black artists were fleeing Europe, the singer Marian Anderson chose to stay. Photograph from Everett Collection / Shutterstock
If Americans know one fact about the legendary African-American contralto Marian Anderson, it’s that she sang in defiance on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, in 1939. When the Daughters of the American Revolution denied her request to perform in the D.A.R. Constitution Hall, in Washington, D.C., for racist reasons, Anderson picked up her musical scores and, instead, sang Schubert and African-American spirituals on the steps of the Memorial, to more than seventy-five thousand people. But that performance was not Anderson’s first time confronting anti-Black racism in such a spectacular manner that she made international news. Throughout the nineteen-thirties, Anderson stared down opposition in Nazi Germany and Fascist Austria.
It’s not clear, exactly, when people began to treat Anderson as more of a saint than a singer. Over time, Anderson, like other Black women, has been reduced to a civil-rights sound bite, a single moment of respectable resistance instead of a lifetime of determined nonconformity. Part of her beatification rests on the conversion of her image to an immediately recognizable trope: the dignified, stoic, middle-aged Black woman—silent, too, unless her mouth was open in song.
But Anderson was young once. Fashionable. Pretty. Reading through European newspapers and her letters home, one quickly discovers that Anderson rivalled the popular entertainer Josephine Baker when it came to drawing public attention in Central Europe. Walking down Salzburg’s hilly cobblestone streets during her first day in the Alpine city, in the summer of 1935, Anderson was trailed by a cadre of journalists everywhere she went, and men tossed out marriage proposals to her like chefs throwing spaghetti against a wall, hoping one would stick. “There is a Baron following Miss Anderson around,” the African-American pianist Josephine Harreld Love gossiped to her parents, in a letter from Salzburg, where she was studying. “The men are crazy about her. She does look grand.”
Anderson was also ambitious. Having grown frustrated with the insurmountable barriers of institutional racism in the U.S., she found herself, by the mid-twenties—like so many other African-American classical musicians at the time—facing three impossible options. First, unable to sing at most prominent concert venues, she could continue to tread water professionally and accept a middling career. Second, she could leave the world of classical music altogether, eschewing her studies for a potentially more lucrative career in Black popular music. Or, third, she could get on a boat and set sail for Europe, a continent she’d never seen.
She chose Europe. “I was going stale,” she later confessed in her memoir. “[My] career needed a fresh impetus, and perhaps a European stamp would help.” After all, her contemporary, the African-American tenor Roland Hayes, had earned plentiful accolades and money abroad in the twenties. (The Times reported, in 1927, that Hayes was earning a hundred thousand dollars a year.) Garlanded with glowing European reviews, Hayes made it difficult for white American listeners and institutions to deny his musical excellence. It was understandable that Anderson would wish for the same outcome.
African-Americans, from the opera singer Sissieretta Jones to the scholar W. E. B. Du Bois, had long asserted that Europe was the true land of racial acceptance. That notion was, and remains, a fiction. Germany and Austria were hostile environments for Jews and people of color in the twenties and thirties. By 1925, performing in these countries without racist and nationalist opposition at concert venues had become virtually impossible for Black musicians. Adolf Hitler’s rise to power, in 1933, coupled with the birth of a Fascist state in Austria, meant that Black people in Central Europe—whether Afro-Germans, African migrants, or African-Americans abroad—encountered more violence in their daily lives, not less.
Anderson discovered the depths of anti-Black racism for herself, when she sought permission to perform at the Salzburg Festival, in 1935. The last time that a Black musician had sung in the city, Nazi rioters chased him out. “I thought I was in some of the southern sections of the United States when I heard the mob,” the African-American baritone Aubrey Pankey told the Chicago Daily Tribune. “I never expected this in Europe.” An op-ed that appeared in the local Austrian newspaper the following day denounced Pankey’s performance as an act of desecration. “A negro who sings German lieder,” the author wrote, “jeopardizes German culture.”
Unsurprisingly, the Salzburg Festival rejected Anderson’s petition to sing. But what Anderson did next illustrates a pattern of behavior that she would deploy as a weapon throughout her career: she showed up anyway. The first night of the festival, she sang at the Mozarteum concert hall, to a small number of listeners. Word spread. A few nights later, she sang again, this time in a hotel ballroom to hundreds of élite musicians, who applauded her act of defiance—and, by sitting in their seats and thumbing their noses at the festival’s administration, joined her in that defiance. After her recital, the conductor Arturo Toscanini came backstage to utter his now famous declaration: “What I heard today one is privileged to hear only once in a hundred years.” Anderson became an international superstar overnight.
Nevertheless, she faced racist criticisms of her musicianship throughout her European tour. Listeners constantly fetishized her voice, calling it guttural or negroid—“a dark voice, brown like her skin.” Even those who claimed to adore her did so on racial grounds, treating her voice as an audible marker of her race. Other Black musicians received similar responses. Sick of Austrian tabloids smearing his name, Hayes left for the United States, saying that European racism was partly to blame for his departure.
Anderson, in contrast, kept touring. In June, 1936, just a few months before the track-and-field athlete Jesse Owens won four gold medals at the Summer Olympics in Nazi Germany, Anderson was scheduled to perform with the conductor Bruno Walter and the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra. The menace of Nazi stink bombs at their concerts were reason enough to deter most singers. The death threats that Anderson and Walter received were another matter. But Anderson stood on the main stage of Vienna’s Musikverein concert hall with him anyway, and sang Brahms’s “Alto Rhapsody” to a sold-out house, observed from the shadows by plainclothes detectives. One Viennese music critic stated that the audience had witnessed something bigger than itself—a performance of musical brotherhood despite a rising tide of racial hatred.
Anderson’s last performance in Central Europe took place startlingly late: November, 1937, only a few months before Hitler annexed Austria. By the late thirties, walking around in a Black body in Germany and Austria meant having a target on your back. Anyone of color who could get out had already fled. After leaving Vienna, in 1936, the African-American conductor William Tatten told the press, “I advise Negroes to stay out of Europe altogether unless it is absolutely necessary to go over there.” African migrants from Germany’s former colonies and Afro-Germans were not so lucky. Some went into hiding. Some died in concentration camps a few years later.
Growing concern from Anderson’s loved ones back in the United States, coupled with mounting social unrest in Europe, led her to decide that it was time to go home. But she promised one final concert in Vienna. When news spread of her European swan song, the concert hall sold out days before her appearance. At the concert, she sang her usual program: some Schubert, a trio of Sibelius songs, and African-American spirituals, which listeners demanded her to repeat. Anderson’s staunch supporters showered her with bouquets and encores, fearing this would be the last time they’d ever hear her sing. Their fears were justified. After Anderson left Vienna, a critic wailed that the city had lost a beacon of light during a time of darkness. “[Her music] makes those people happy who have not yet given up their belief that all men are equal.”
The lesson of Anderson’s time in Europe is stunning in its simplicity and, for that reason, has been easy to dismiss. She showed up. Even under the threat of violence. Even with the shadow of Nazism looming over her like a dark cloud, she showed up. And she delivered what was becoming increasingly difficult to showcase amid so much racial violence: a brilliant demonstration of her full humanity at a time when white supremacists wanted to deny it.
Years later, Anderson returned to Europe, at the request of the U.S. military, who thought that she could aid their efforts to de-Nazify a postwar Germany. Standing in front of twenty-five hundred German civilians and American soldiers, in one of the few concert venues that hadn’t been reduced to rubble, Anderson sang a program that was almost the same as what she’d performed before the war. But the political context had completely changed. At the sound of her voice, some members of the audience began to weep. It reminded them, attendees would later say, of an earlier time—a time when Anderson had defied the world.


newyorker--2020-07-15--The Promising Results of a Citywide Basic-Income Experiment

Last October , a fire tore through the apartment complex in Stockton , California , where Laura Kidd-Plummer had lived for five years .
Nearly a decade earlier , Kidd-Plummer , who will turn seventy this year , had retired from her job in the wardrobe department at the Oakland Coliseum , where she had worked for twenty-one years .
She eventually moved to Stockton in search of cheaper rent .
After the fire , she and her dog , Poopee , a Pomeranian-Yorkie mix , were left homeless .
Ever since , she told me , “ I ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ above water.
” She stayed in a motel for a couple of months , which was covered by insurance , and then with acquaintances .
In May , she moved into a loft in North Stockton .
She was able to make the deposit on the apartment using funds she has received as a participant in the Stockton Economic Empowerment Demonstration , or SEED , a basic-income pilot program that has provided unconditional cash transfers of five hundred dollars per month to individuals over the last year and a half .
Before SEED @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had to use them to eat , ” she said , because she was only eligible for sixteen dollars per month through food stamps .
Now she ’ s able to cover food .
“ I ’ ve always worked , so most programs I ’ m not eligible for , ” she told me .
“ I didn ’ t expect to be chosen .
When I got the letter in the mail , I was floored.
” The program , spearheaded by Stockton ’ s mayor , Michael Tubbs , was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ month ’ s payment was slated to be the last .
In late May , Tubbs announced that SEED would be extended through January , 2021 , in response to the economic strain put on participants by the coronavirus pandemic .
While the idea of extending the program had been under discussion even before the spread of COVID-19 , Tubbs told me that current conditions made doing so a “ moral imperative , ” as many participants have lost work , and those classified as essential workers face increased risk .
“ COVID-19 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that a lot of Americans live in constant moments of economic disruption , because the fundamentals of the economy haven ’ t been working , ” he told me .
Tubbs , who is twenty-nine , is Stockton ’ s first Black mayor , and its youngest ever .
After four years serving on the city council , he ran for mayor on a platform focussed on recovery from the 2008 crash , and was elected , in 2016 , with seventy per cent of the vote , defeating an incumbent plagued by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ relied on significant outside funding , as have several other projects that Tubbs has pursued , including an education initiative that has been run on a twenty-million-dollar private donation .
Tubbs first encountered the concept of a universal basic income , or U.B.I.
, while he was an undergraduate at Stanford , in 2009 , in a course that covered Martin Luther King , Jr. , ’ s advocacy for the idea late in his life .
The possibility of issuing unconditional payments to a group of Stockton residents came up soon after @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as a part of his staff ’ s research project on addressing poverty .
Twenty per cent of Stockton ’ s residents fall below the poverty line , which is well above the state average , and residents of color are disproportionately affected .
Still , Tubbs was initially skeptical—he worried about funding and thought that the idea could prove unpopular with voters .
“ This was my first time being elected , ” he told me .
“ I didn ’ t want it to be my last.
” The plan started @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Tubbs met the co-chair of the Economic Security Project , a basic-income advocacy group launched by the Facebook co-founder Chris Hughes .
The organization was looking for a city in which to test a pilot , and gave Stockton a million-dollar grant .
( The program ’ s extension will be funded separately , through a private donation . )
The funding allowed a hundred and twenty-five participants each to receive five hundred dollars a month , an amount that was based on data indicating that around forty per cent of Americans can @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
A hundred recipients in the program are anonymous , while the rest , including Kidd-Plummer , have volunteered to speak publicly about their experience .
The study set out to prove that a basic income could , according to the research plan , “ lead to reductions in monthly income volatility and provide greater income sufficiency , which will in turn lead to reduced psychological stress and improved physical functioning.
” A random sample of residents in neighborhoods with populations that are at or below Stockton ’ s median income level were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ those who were chosen reported being employed either full or part time .
Ten per cent of them are caregivers , a group that often fails to qualify for unemployment and other benefits .
Tubbs told me that he doesn ’ t see a basic income as particularly radical but , instead , as “ this generation ’ s extension of the safety net , ” following in the path of things like Social Security , child-labor laws , weekends , and collective bargaining .
Two professors of social work , Amy Castro @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and Stacia Martin-West , of the University of Tennessee , who have conducted research together on the gender and racial wealth gaps , were brought on to help design the pilot and evaluate the results .
Stockton , they told me , was an ideal location : as of 2018 , it was the most diverse city in the country ; many of its residents moved from more expensive parts of the Bay Area and continue to commute into those cities for low-paying jobs ; and it is , historically , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ In designing the logistics of the program , they emphasized “ rethinking our safety net with an anchor of justice and dignity , ” as Castro Baker put it , while addressing “ inequality predicated on racism and sexism.
” Each month , participants receive payments on a debit card , which the researchers are able to track .
No restrictions are placed on what the money can be used for ; if participants don ’ t want their expenses tracked or prefer to use cash , they can transfer the money off @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have also been studying the well-being of people in a control group who did not receive payments .
Members of both groups complete monthly check-ins , during which they provide updates and summarize their mental state by using emojis .
During the study , the researchers have released data on an online dashboard , where observers can read stories from participants and see spending trends change over time .
For example , during the pandemic , the percentage of money that participants spent on food , consistently the largest category , reached nearly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , while the amount spent on recreation dropped to less than two per cent .
Participants have also put the money toward rent , car payments , and paying off debt , as well as one-off expenses for themselves or their children : dental surgery , a prom dress , football camp , and shoes .
They ’ ve also been able to cut back on working second and third jobs ; one participant , a forty-eight-year-old mother of two who works full time at Tesla , was able to stop working as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and tobacco has accounted for less than one per cent of spending per month .

Last October, a fire tore through the apartment complex in Stockton, California, where Laura Kidd-Plummer had lived for five years. Nearly a decade earlier, Kidd-Plummer, who will turn seventy this year, had retired from her job in the wardrobe department at the Oakland Coliseum, where she had worked for twenty-one years. She eventually moved to Stockton in search of cheaper rent. After the fire, she and her dog, Poopee, a Pomeranian-Yorkie mix, were left homeless. Ever since, she told me, “I’m just trying to keep my head above water.” She stayed in a motel for a couple of months, which was covered by insurance, and then with acquaintances. In May, she moved into a loft in North Stockton. She was able to make the deposit on the apartment using funds she has received as a participant in the Stockton Economic Empowerment Demonstration, or SEED, a basic-income pilot program that has provided unconditional cash transfers of five hundred dollars per month to individuals over the last year and a half. Before SEED, Kidd-Plummer “had credit cards and had to use them to eat,” she said, because she was only eligible for sixteen dollars per month through food stamps. Now she’s able to cover food. “I’ve always worked, so most programs I’m not eligible for,” she told me. “I didn’t expect to be chosen. When I got the letter in the mail, I was floored.”
The program, spearheaded by Stockton’s mayor, Michael Tubbs, was scheduled to end this summer: this month’s payment was slated to be the last. In late May, Tubbs announced that SEED would be extended through January, 2021, in response to the economic strain put on participants by the coronavirus pandemic. While the idea of extending the program had been under discussion even before the spread of COVID-19, Tubbs told me that current conditions made doing so a “moral imperative,” as many participants have lost work, and those classified as essential workers face increased risk. “COVID-19 has put the focus on the fact that a lot of Americans live in constant moments of economic disruption, because the fundamentals of the economy haven’t been working,” he told me.
Tubbs, who is twenty-nine, is Stockton’s first Black mayor, and its youngest ever. After four years serving on the city council, he ran for mayor on a platform focussed on recovery from the 2008 crash, and was elected, in 2016, with seventy per cent of the vote, defeating an incumbent plagued by a string of scandals. SEED has relied on significant outside funding, as have several other projects that Tubbs has pursued, including an education initiative that has been run on a twenty-million-dollar private donation. Tubbs first encountered the concept of a universal basic income, or U.B.I., while he was an undergraduate at Stanford, in 2009, in a course that covered Martin Luther King, Jr.,’s advocacy for the idea late in his life. The possibility of issuing unconditional payments to a group of Stockton residents came up soon after Tubbs took office, in 2017, as a part of his staff’s research project on addressing poverty. Twenty per cent of Stockton’s residents fall below the poverty line, which is well above the state average, and residents of color are disproportionately affected. Still, Tubbs was initially skeptical—he worried about funding and thought that the idea could prove unpopular with voters. “This was my first time being elected,” he told me. “I didn’t want it to be my last.”
The plan started to take shape, though, when Tubbs met Natalie Foster, a co-chair of the Economic Security Project, a basic-income advocacy group launched with the Facebook co-founder Chris Hughes. The organization was looking for a city in which to test a pilot, and gave Stockton a million-dollar grant. (The program’s extension will be funded separately, through a private donation.) The funding allowed a hundred and twenty-five participants each to receive five hundred dollars a month, an amount that was based on data indicating that around forty per cent of Americans can’t afford a four-hundred-dollar emergency expense. A hundred recipients in the program are anonymous, while the rest, including Kidd-Plummer, have volunteered to speak publicly about their experience. The study set out to prove that a basic income could, according to the research plan, “lead to reductions in monthly income volatility and provide greater income sufficiency, which will in turn lead to reduced psychological stress and improved physical functioning.” A random sample of residents in neighborhoods with populations that are at or below Stockton’s median income level were contacted. Around forty-three per cent of those who were chosen reported being employed either full or part time. Ten per cent of them are caregivers, a group that often fails to qualify for unemployment and other benefits. Tubbs told me that he doesn’t see a basic income as particularly radical but, instead, as “this generation’s extension of the safety net,” following in the path of things like Social Security, child-labor laws, weekends, and collective bargaining.
Mayor Michael Tubbs doesn’t see a basic income as particularly radical but, instead, as “this generation’s extension of the safety net.” Photograph by Jason Henry / NYT / Redux
Two professors of social work, Amy Castro Baker, of the University of Pennsylvania, and Stacia Martin-West, of the University of Tennessee, who have conducted research together on the gender and racial wealth gaps, were brought on to help design the pilot and evaluate the results. Stockton, they told me, was an ideal location: as of 2018, it was the most diverse city in the country; many of its residents moved from more expensive parts of the Bay Area and continue to commute into those cities for low-paying jobs; and it is, historically, the foreclosure capital of the United States. In designing the logistics of the program, they emphasized “rethinking our safety net with an anchor of justice and dignity,” as Castro Baker put it, while addressing “inequality predicated on racism and sexism.”
Each month, participants receive payments on a debit card, which the researchers are able to track. No restrictions are placed on what the money can be used for; if participants don’t want their expenses tracked or prefer to use cash, they can transfer the money off the card. Castro Baker and Martin-West have also been studying the well-being of people in a control group who did not receive payments. Members of both groups complete monthly check-ins, during which they provide updates and summarize their mental state by using emojis. During the study, the researchers have released data on an online dashboard, where observers can read stories from participants and see spending trends change over time. For example, during the pandemic, the percentage of money that participants spent on food, consistently the largest category, reached nearly twenty-five per cent over the monthly average, while the amount spent on recreation dropped to less than two per cent.
Participants have also put the money toward rent, car payments, and paying off debt, as well as one-off expenses for themselves or their children: dental surgery, a prom dress, football camp, and shoes. They’ve also been able to cut back on working second and third jobs; one participant, a forty-eight-year-old mother of two who works full time at Tesla, was able to stop working as a delivery driver for DoorDash. Alcohol and tobacco have accounted for less than one per cent of spending per month.
Since SEED was launched, the idea of a basic income, which has long been considered a fringe idea, has gained at least provisional support from the Pope, Jack Dorsey, and Nancy Pelosi. Andrew Yang made U.B.I. a centerpiece of his Presidential campaign. More recently, the Coronavirus Aid, Relief, and Economic Security (CARES) Act, which is estimated to have kept twelve million people from sinking into poverty, included direct cash payments to every American with an annual income below seventy-five thousand dollars, and there are currently eight bills in Congress proposing some form of additional cash transfer to back up the checks that have already gone out. In May, eighty-four members of Congress signed a joint letter asking that monthly direct payments be included in future relief bills as “the most efficient mechanism for delivering economic relief to those most at-risk in this crisis.”
Jennifer Burns, a history professor at Stanford University, told me that the bipartisan support for the CARES Act marked a significant shift in thinking about cash transfers. Although both Lyndon Johnson and Richard Nixon briefly considered forms of U.B.I.—Johnson as part of the War on Poverty, and Nixon as an element of the Family Assistance Plan—cash transfers have not, historically, been a widely popular political idea. Nixon’s proposal, which failed to pass in the Senate, was criticized on the right for “rewarding wasteful behavior,” as Burns put it, and on the left for endangering existing programs. Ultimately, the idea was adapted to become the Earned Income Tax Credit, a system of rebates for low-income Americans that has some similarities to a basic-income program but is conditioned on work. Recent calls for U.B.I. have mostly come from Silicon Valley, where libertarian-leaning entrepreneurs embraced the concept as a quick fix for job losses due to increased automation. According to Burns, the current crisis has shifted the focus away from hypothetical disasters toward inequities that already exist. In her view, the automation argument is primarily a distraction, but “if worrying about A.I. helps people look around and think about what’s already under way, that’s good.”
The goal of SEED was always to promote the adoption of basic-income programs on a state or federal level, rather than to lay the groundwork for a long-term program in Stockton. Now, as the program moves into its final stretch, its creators have been flooded with requests for advice from pilot programs in development in other cities, including Seattle, Portland, Chicago, Newark, Nashville, and New Orleans. Last month, the U.S. Conference of Mayors adopted a resolution, led by Tubbs, that urges “cities, states, and the federal government to explore the feasibility of a guaranteed income” in response to the way in which “COVID-19 has shed light on economic insecurity and exposed the vulnerability of our current welfare system.” Shenna Bellows, a state senator in Maine who is leading a study committee on U.B.I., told me that, in recent months, her constituents “have really struggled with the byzantine unemployment and small-business-relief programs,” and she hopes “this crisis will point the way to simpler solutions.”


newyorker--2020-07-15--Female Mountain Bikers Explore the Romance of the Crash in “On Falling”

The three women featured in Josephine Anderson ’ s documentary short “ On Falling ” have names : Miranda Miller , Andréane Lanthier Nadeau , and Brittany Phelan .
They come from specific places , grew up in particular circumstances , and have achieved rare successes—two Olympic medals , a world-championship title , podium after podium among them .
But “ On Falling ” does not center on these details of their lives , which are mentioned in passing or left out altogether .
Anderson was more interested in mapping their “ internal landscapes , ” she told me .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ athletes ’ biographies , or on their ascents or death-defying feats , but instead on what most closely connects them to the rest of us : the fact that they , too , fall .
Their voices weave together as they talk about different types of falling : falling asleep , falling apart , falling in love .
It is almost too easy , the way the word lends itself to various meanings and metaphors , as if you could surf through the entire human experience on the waves of free association .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ about what these three women endure , physically or mentally .
They have been knocked out .
They break bones .
They stand at the edge of the precipice , and will themselves to lean over it .
There is a moment , watching a GoPro video of one crash , when Miller hears a long high-pitched note , like an electronic whining .
She was knocked out for a moment—later , as she reviews the crash footage , she says , “ I thought my GoPro broke , because , like , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ louder , and it becomes apparent that the sound is a human voice .
“ Try to breathe , try to breathe , ” a woman in the background of the footage says .
Miller is on the ground , next to the tree that she just crashed into—the sound is her own scream .
Anderson grew up in Vancouver , near some of the most legendary biking trails in the world .
She did not mountain bike herself , and never quite understood it .
A few years ago , her sister @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her at a restaurant ; Anderson got the call from the ambulance .
She ’ d smashed her face , lost teeth , suffered a concussion .
Anderson describes herself as leaning toward “ anxious , ” and says that she is often guided by fear .
“ Going into this film , I wanted to explore the uneasy elements of risk and injury , and try to wrap my head around the inner experience and thinking of people who are willing to consistently make themselves vulnerable to risk , ” she said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t talk much about their fear of falling .
They describe riding that line between control and accepting the loss of it .
That is how they push themselves , how they maximize speed—by waiting to apply the brakes .
They are not , actually , like the rest of us , and not only because any number of shattered bones hasn ’ t damaged their love for their sport .
Most people trust themselves to know their own limits .
Not them .
“ I was just , like , ‘ There @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that jump , ’ ” Lanthier Nadeau recalls saying to a friend , as she watches a video of herself careening down a trail .
And he replied , “ ‘ We ’ re not even gon na film here if you don ’ t hit the big jump.
’ I was so upset .
I was , like , ‘ Oh , he thinks I can do it.
’ Like , am I thinking I ’ m less of what I ’ m capable of ?
” You get the sense that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ extent of her own capacity would be a grave betrayal of her self .
She hits the big jump .
That is one of the few moments in the film that resembles a typical mountain-biking video , and one of the only moments that doesn ’ t end in a spill .
For most of the film , instead of communicating high adrenaline , the pacing is slow , even languid .
There is a romance to it , and a dreaminess to the riders .
Many shots are closeups , focussed on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ matter how many scars and rough edges , the women share wide eyes , a certain roundness of the cheeks .
“ On Falling ” is , in fact , a love story .
“ I love that feeling of weightlessness and just , like , being , like , high above things , ” Phelan says of the moment in a jump when she hits the apex , just before starting to fall .
“ It ’ s , like , one of the best feelings in the world .
”

The three women featured in Josephine Anderson’s documentary short “On Falling” have names: Miranda Miller, Andréane Lanthier Nadeau, and Brittany Phelan. They come from specific places, grew up in particular circumstances, and have achieved rare successes—two Olympic medals, a world-championship title, podium after podium among them. But “On Falling” does not center on these details of their lives, which are mentioned in passing or left out altogether. Anderson was more interested in mapping their “internal landscapes,” she told me. Her ruminative film focusses not on these athletes’ biographies, or on their ascents or death-defying feats, but instead on what most closely connects them to the rest of us: the fact that they, too, fall.
Their voices weave together as they talk about different types of falling: falling asleep, falling apart, falling in love. It is almost too easy, the way the word lends itself to various meanings and metaphors, as if you could surf through the entire human experience on the waves of free association. But there is nothing soft or slippery about what these three women endure, physically or mentally. They have been knocked out. They break bones. They stand at the edge of the precipice, and will themselves to lean over it. There is a moment, watching a GoPro video of one crash, when Miller hears a long high-pitched note, like an electronic whining. She was knocked out for a moment—later, as she reviews the crash footage, she says, “I thought my GoPro broke, because, like, that noise.” Then the whine becomes louder, and it becomes apparent that the sound is a human voice. “Try to breathe, try to breathe,” a woman in the background of the footage says. Miller is on the ground, next to the tree that she just crashed into—the sound is her own scream.
Anderson grew up in Vancouver, near some of the most legendary biking trails in the world. She did not mountain bike herself, and never quite understood it. A few years ago, her sister crashed her bike while riding to meet her at a restaurant; Anderson got the call from the ambulance. She’d smashed her face, lost teeth, suffered a concussion. Anderson describes herself as leaning toward “anxious,” and says that she is often guided by fear. “Going into this film, I wanted to explore the uneasy elements of risk and injury, and try to wrap my head around the inner experience and thinking of people who are willing to consistently make themselves vulnerable to risk,” she said.
The three mountain bikers don’t talk much about their fear of falling. They describe riding that line between control and accepting the loss of it. That is how they push themselves, how they maximize speed—by waiting to apply the brakes. They are not, actually, like the rest of us, and not only because any number of shattered bones hasn’t damaged their love for their sport. Most people trust themselves to know their own limits. Not them. “I was just, like, ‘There’s no way I can hit that jump,’ ” Lanthier Nadeau recalls saying to a friend, as she watches a video of herself careening down a trail. And he replied, “ ‘We’re not even gonna film here if you don’t hit the big jump.’ I was so upset. I was, like, ‘Oh, he thinks I can do it.’ Like, am I thinking I’m less of what I’m capable of?” You get the sense that, to Lanthier Nadeau, underestimating the extent of her own capacity would be a grave betrayal of her self. She hits the big jump.
That is one of the few moments in the film that resembles a typical mountain-biking video, and one of the only moments that doesn’t end in a spill. For most of the film, instead of communicating high adrenaline, the pacing is slow, even languid. There is a romance to it, and a dreaminess to the riders. Many shots are closeups, focussed on the women’s faces. No matter how many scars and rough edges, the women share wide eyes, a certain roundness of the cheeks. “On Falling” is, in fact, a love story. “I love that feeling of weightlessness and just, like, being, like, high above things,” Phelan says of the moment in a jump when she hits the apex, just before starting to fall. “It’s, like, one of the best feelings in the world.”


newyorker--2020-07-15--Desus and Mero Have Conquered Comedy

Desus and Mero Have Conquered Comedy

If there were a Guinness World Record for comic abundance , it would probably be held by Daniel Baker and Joel Martinez , the beloved Bronx comedy duo known as Desus and Mero .
On Twitter , where they first began drawing followers in the late two-thousands , the pair supply a constant stream of punch lines , barbed commentary , and digital high-fives .
As the hosts of the “ Bodega Boys ” podcast , they ’ ve recorded thousands of hours of unscripted conversation , and end each episode with a bespoke epilogue in which they exhaustively list @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Hive , the duo ’ s devoted fan base , has created several Reddit threads solely to collect said names . )
And , since 2016 , Baker and Martinez have hosted the television series “ Desus & Mero ” —first on Viceland , and now on Showtime .
The series is a spry , lived-in take on the late-night talk show , its frequency set more to the stoop or the sofa than to the rigid ceremony of a production stage .
Tune in long enough and you ’ ll learn the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ; you ’ ll also notice that they almost never repeat jokes or ideas .
In September , they ’ ll release their first book together , “ God-Level Knowledge Darts , ” a parodic self-help text that tells readers how to deal with children , romantic partners , drug use , cops , and more .
It is one more argument that , taken together , the duo is the most unrelenting force in comedy .
And so it should come as no surprise that they ’ ve Zoomed and recorded their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ when they were set to take a hiatus from the second season of their show , in May , they briefly considered continuing apace .
That didn ’ t happen , of course , but the series resumed this month , and the day after its return I hopped on a video call with its hosts .
Desus wore a light-blue T-shirt that read “ Zoom University , ” and sat in front of a carefully curated wall of sneakers at his apartment , in the Bronx .
Mero had dialled in from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ New Jersey , where he and his wife moved , in 2018 , to raise their four kids .
As we talked , it became clear that the pair are as dynamic off the air as on it .
Desus and Mero aren ’ t just funnier than the competition ; they ’ re ruthlessly agile , adaptive to any platform .
For them , quarantine was another medium to conquer .
And , as native New Yorkers during an extraordinary point in history , they feel a new urgency—and sincerity—about the state @ @ @ @ @ @ @ television during a pandemic , being asked to take selfies with cops , their plans for the election , the return of the N.B.A.
, and more .
Our conversation has been edited for clarity .
Carrie Battan : Until last week , you guys were on hiatus .
Was that already scheduled , or related to COVID-19 ?
Desus : That was planned originally .
But we were hitting our stride right before it happened .
We were thinking , Should we not take a hiatus , and just work through it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that that ’ s illegal , according to SAG .
You have to give the crew a chance to recover .
Me and Mero , we ’ d do this show every day .
There ’ s two hundred other people who have families and stuff .
It ’ s just being humane .
Mero : If we were tech wizards and we could set up the lighting and stuff by ourselves , we could do the show every day , twice a day .
You have to take into consideration the people @ @ @ @ @ @ @ March , what were the conversations like about transitioning to an at-home setup ?
Desus : At first , [ the idea of making a show in quarantine ] was a joke .
We didn ’ t think we ’ d get to a point where people would be locked in their homes for months .
It happened so quickly .
In a matter of three days , it went from “ We might have to take a break ” to “ Yo , fam , you have to go to your apartment @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” We went home , and the Showtime team ran diagnostic tests on our Internet speeds .
They sent the equipment out .
We did a test show and it came out so well that we thought , All right , this works for us .
I think most shows in Hollywood could not pull it off , but our show was the right format for it .
Mero : That ’ s always been our M.O .
We ’ ve always been lo-fi , not too many bells and whistles .
Going @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t hard at all .
Many people have literally nothing to do .
Does that make it easier to book guests on the show ?
Desus : It ’ s so weird , because we thought it would be easier to get guests .
But some people have no availability , or they no longer have projects coming out that they ’ re trying to promote .
And you ’ d be surprised by the number of celebrities who just can not connect to Zoom .
They have no one around them @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a guest you ’ ve looked up to your whole life , and they have one AirPod in , they ’ re really close up to the camera , and they can ’ t get the angles right .
Mero : “ Do I go into Preferences ?
Is that what I do ?
” In your first episode after hiatus , your guest was the presumptive New York congressional nominee Jamaal Bowman .
Given New York ’ s prominence , both in terms of the [ Black Lives Matter ] protests and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ you ’ ll try to book more local politicians ?
Mero : We talk about what the people want us to talk about .
We listen to our fans .
That ’ s why the tagline is “ Late night for the people.
” It ’ s not , just , “ Bring in a celeb !
Bring in a celeb !
” We ’ re trying to make things a little more diverse .
Desus : I think , with everything going on now , we ’ ve realized that we ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ We ’ ve discussed getting more hyperlocal and political .
It would be weird , with all the people protesting for their rights in the streets—we don ’ t want to have that going on , and you turn on our show and we ’ re making jokes about cats kissing each other inside of a pet store .
There ’ s a responsibility there .
We ’ re trying to balance fun with education .
When Dr. Anthony Fauci did his media tour recently , he made a number of appearances in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he come to you guys with that specific intention ?
Desus : There was definitely an outreach program .
You could see it .
They knew what community needed to find out that information .
At the time , Trump was saying , “ Don ’ t listen to him.
” So we felt it was important to have him on .
Where I live , in the Bronx , Mott Haven , it was hit really hard by the virus .
A lot of people here are essential workers , or they @ @ @ @ @ @ @ re in poverty .
And I remember being in the supermarket and just hearing the conversations .
People were saying corona was fake .
The people in my neighborhood were not getting the message .
It was smart of [ Fauci ’ s team ] to get out there and get the word out to the brown people .

If there were a Guinness World Record for comic abundance, it would probably be held by Daniel Baker and Joel Martinez, the beloved Bronx comedy duo known as Desus and Mero. On Twitter, where they first began drawing followers in the late two-thousands, the pair supply a constant stream of punch lines, barbed commentary, and digital high-fives. As the hosts of the “Bodega Boys” podcast, they’ve recorded thousands of hours of unscripted conversation, and end each episode with a bespoke epilogue in which they exhaustively list their respective nicknames. (The Bodega Hive, the duo’s devoted fan base, has created several Reddit threads solely to collect said names.) And, since 2016, Baker and Martinez have hosted the television series “Desus & Mero”—first on Viceland, and now on Showtime. The series is a spry, lived-in take on the late-night talk show, its frequency set more to the stoop or the sofa than to the rigid ceremony of a production stage. Tune in long enough and you’ll learn the duo’s rhythms, their shorthand; you’ll also notice that they almost never repeat jokes or ideas. In September, they’ll release their first book together, “God-Level Knowledge Darts,” a parodic self-help text that tells readers how to deal with children, romantic partners, drug use, cops, and more. It is one more argument that, taken together, the duo is the most unrelenting force in comedy.
And so it should come as no surprise that they’ve Zoomed and recorded their way through quarantine. In fact, when they were set to take a hiatus from the second season of their show, in May, they briefly considered continuing apace. That didn’t happen, of course, but the series resumed this month, and the day after its return I hopped on a video call with its hosts. Desus wore a light-blue T-shirt that read “Zoom University,” and sat in front of a carefully curated wall of sneakers at his apartment, in the Bronx. Mero had dialled in from the basement of his house, in New Jersey, where he and his wife moved, in 2018, to raise their four kids. As we talked, it became clear that the pair are as dynamic off the air as on it. Desus and Mero aren’t just funnier than the competition; they’re ruthlessly agile, adaptive to any platform. For them, quarantine was another medium to conquer. And, as native New Yorkers during an extraordinary point in history, they feel a new urgency—and sincerity—about the state of the world. We discussed making television during a pandemic, being asked to take selfies with cops, their plans for the election, the return of the N.B.A., and more. Our conversation has been edited for clarity.
Carrie Battan: Until last week, you guys were on hiatus. Was that already scheduled, or related to COVID-19?
Desus: That was planned originally. But we were hitting our stride right before it happened. We were thinking, Should we not take a hiatus, and just work through it? But we found out very quickly that that’s illegal, according to SAG. You have to give the crew a chance to recover. Me and Mero, we’d do this show every day. There’s two hundred other people who have families and stuff. It’s just being humane.
Mero: If we were tech wizards and we could set up the lighting and stuff by ourselves, we could do the show every day, twice a day. You have to take into consideration the people who make the things run.
In March, what were the conversations like about transitioning to an at-home setup?
Desus: At first, [the idea of making a show in quarantine] was a joke. We didn’t think we’d get to a point where people would be locked in their homes for months. It happened so quickly. In a matter of three days, it went from “We might have to take a break” to “Yo, fam, you have to go to your apartment and you can’t come out.” We went home, and the Showtime team ran diagnostic tests on our Internet speeds. They sent the equipment out. We did a test show and it came out so well that we thought, All right, this works for us. I think most shows in Hollywood could not pull it off, but our show was the right format for it.
Mero: That’s always been our M.O. We’ve always been lo-fi, not too many bells and whistles. Going back to a more pared-down setup wasn’t hard at all.
Many people have literally nothing to do. Does that make it easier to book guests on the show?
Desus: It’s so weird, because we thought it would be easier to get guests. But some people have no availability, or they no longer have projects coming out that they’re trying to promote. And you’d be surprised by the number of celebrities who just cannot connect to Zoom. They have no one around them. There’s nothing sadder than a guest you’ve looked up to your whole life, and they have one AirPod in, they’re really close up to the camera, and they can’t get the angles right.
Mero: “Do I go into Preferences? Is that what I do?”
In your first episode after hiatus, your guest was the presumptive New York congressional nominee Jamaal Bowman. Given New York’s prominence, both in terms of the [Black Lives Matter] protests and the pandemic, do you feel like you’ll try to book more local politicians?
Mero: We talk about what the people want us to talk about. We listen to our fans. That’s why the tagline is “Late night for the people.” It’s not, just, “Bring in a celeb! Bring in a celeb!” We’re trying to make things a little more diverse.
Desus: I think, with everything going on now, we’ve realized that we’re blessed to have a platform. We’ve discussed getting more hyperlocal and political. It would be weird, with all the people protesting for their rights in the streets—we don’t want to have that going on, and you turn on our show and we’re making jokes about cats kissing each other inside of a pet store. There’s a responsibility there. We’re trying to balance fun with education.
When Dr. Anthony Fauci did his media tour recently, he made a number of appearances in Black and brown media outlets. Did he come to you guys with that specific intention?
Desus: There was definitely an outreach program. You could see it. They knew what community needed to find out that information. At the time, Trump was saying, “Don’t listen to him.” So we felt it was important to have him on. Where I live, in the Bronx, Mott Haven, it was hit really hard by the virus. A lot of people here are essential workers, or they’re older, or they’re in poverty. And I remember being in the supermarket and just hearing the conversations. People were saying corona was fake. The people in my neighborhood were not getting the message. It was smart of [Fauci’s team] to get out there and get the word out to the brown people.
Mero: Whoever set that press run up was a genius. The communities that were hit the hardest were Black and brown communities. People who aren’t necessarily watching MSNBC and CNN all day, the essential workers.
Fauci seemed like he was in a tough spot, trying to get information out without rankling Trump.
Desus: That was the weird thing about the interview. You want to ask him, “What’s it like working with a fucking idiot?” But you can’t ask him that. If you ask him that, you could ruin his career. Talking to him, you can see the restraint that he has. You can tell what he wants to say versus what he can say. So we got to talk to him about non-COVID stuff, about regular life. Make him an actual human to people. It’s a shame that Trump is putting him in a position where he seems like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Trump literally has presented the MyPillow guy as more of an authority than Dr. Fauci.
Do you know anyone personally who’s been sick?
Desus: My sister is an E.R. nurse who had symptoms. She had it bad. My other sister, who stayed home for three months, somehow caught it. We lost a friend who’s a rapper. You have those experiences, and you meet people in the supermarket who don’t put on masks. It exposes a problem in our country of everyone being too individualist.
Mero: It’s a weird, corny cliché to talk about the greater good. But it really is for the greater good. Just stay inside your house. If we’d listened to Anthony Fauci in the beginning, maybe we’d be outside barbecuing together now.
Desus: New Zealand did it well. They crushed it. We’re over here, like, “Are we ever going to go out again?”
One region of the world we’re not hearing much about, with respect to the pandemic, is the Caribbean. Do you guys have family in the Dominican Republic or Jamaica telling you what’s happening there?
Mero: My mom and my dad are in the D.R. It’s a different vibe over there. They don’t fuck around. They had fire trucks going around the street. Five-o’clock curfew. “If you’re not in your house, we are going to spray you with a firehose or you’re going to jail.” It’s not this massaging [that you see in America]: “Hey, guys, maybe you should wear a mask!” It’s very iron fist over there.


newyorker--2020-07-16--How to Extract a Mother’s Rogan Josh Recipe Over Zoom

My one pandemic panic purchase was six pounds of chocolate chips , which I hid in strange places around the house ; I figured that I could keep up my family ’ s spirits during quarantine by surprising them with baked goods .
Now , months later , five pounds remain .
When it comes to comfort food , what I crave isn ’ t sweets , or melted cheese , or creamy pasta , or brothy soups .
Like many Kashmiris , I long for rogan josh , our traditional lamb dish , spicy and rich , whose recipe @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Kashmiri cuisine , passed down within our insular community , is somewhat misunderstood even among Indians .
Kashmiri restaurants are scarcely existent in the United States , and the Kashmiri dishes you find on Indian menus are often wildly imaginative .
( Tomatoes ?
Cream ?
In Rogan Josh ?
! )
My mother ’ s version , deep red with Kashmiri chili and thickened with a dab of yogurt , was inherited from Mahi Kak , the man hired to cook three multicourse meals a day , with twenty-five cups of rice @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was a girl .
My grandfather and his brother and sister , like many Indian siblings , had built adjoining homes , and had eleven kids among them .
It was a chaotic and charming way to grow up , and the work of feeding everyone must have kept Mahi Kak young , because , after losing all of his teeth over the years , he supposedly grew a new set , in his nineties .
( “ Teeny-tiny !
Like baby pearls !
” according to my mother . )
My grandfather @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a physics professor with the mustache and marksmanship of Hemingway , considered domestic duties a distraction from his three daughters ’ and six nieces ’ schoolwork .
So Mahi Kak fed them until they left the house as brides , one by one .
My grandparents hosted a weeklong wazwan feast to accompany each wedding ; for a stretch in the nineteen-eighties , after I was born , there was one nearly every summer , and no matter where we lived at the time we made Kashmir home for wedding season .
A @ @ @ @ @ @ @ yard , the ground draped with long white tablecloths for eating and lounging .
Sitting on my Nani ’ s lap while she sorted rice from stones , I ’ d beg the bride to paint henna on my fat little hands , then smudge the ink so my palms were solid orange .
I was so substantial a toddler that one uncle called me lokut hend-wend , “ little watermelon , ” because , as he put it , “ if she falls over , she ’ ll roll away down the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sit still with a book , turning pages with my elbow , until the henna set .
But the highlight of every wedding , for me , was lunch .
Each day of the celebration we ’ d sit down , with giant steel thalis in front of us , and await a procession of cooks , or waza , ladling dish after dish from steaming tureens .
Days with religious ceremonies were vegetarian : huge yellow slabs of paneer , fried and simmered in a turmeric sauce ; bright green kohlrabi , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mustard oil and hing ; chunks of sliced lotus root in yogurt .
But on the non-religious days , I ’ d wake up dreaming of the coming rogan josh , its lamb chunks as big as a man ’ s fist .
At lunchtime , I ’ d eat so quickly that the gravy would drip down my arm ; relatives would tease that I ’ d gone “ Angrez ” ( English ) , in forgetting how to eat neatly with my hand .
“ Bring her a fork !
, @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
To top up , I ’ d mash the marrow from the bones into my rice and yogurt and shovel down the glorious mess .
I ’ d learned , young , the charade of covering my thali with a waving hand as a waza approached to serve seconds and thirds , insisting that I ’ d had enough .
( It was a game of chicken : would he dump a ladle of hot stew on my hand before I could move it ? )
Once we were fully stuffed , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ so that we could wash our hands , and I ’ d fall asleep right there at the table , with the grownups chattering over tea around me .
Years later , when I planned my own wedding , these were the scraps of sense memory I wanted to replicate for my guests : giant hunks of rogan josh ; gravy running down our hands ; a nap in the same spot after lunch .
I didn ’ t manage to , because , well , things have changed in Kashmir since I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t been back since I was nine years old .
It ’ s been thirty years since those weddings , and Kashmir remains a sweet , complicated memory for me .
But a confession : I ’ ve rarely cooked my own rogan josh .
My mom perfected her recipe as an immigrant mother in a London kitchen , recreating her memories of Mahi Kak ’ s cooking , half a world away .
For as long as I ’ ve been raising my own family , though , my mother has brought @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bricks , whenever she visits .
Periodically , I ’ d ask her for the recipe ; I even recruited my husband to extricate it from her .
Each time , my mother would hem and haw , saying that she cooks with her eyes .
“ This much , ” she ’ d say , gesturing to a pile of fennel powder .
“ Stir until it ’ s red enough.
” Without quantities of spices , I ’ d ask , how could she know she ’ s gotten it right @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s a vegetarian .
Fundamentally , I think she wouldn ’ t share the recipe because she liked to be needed .
And I ’ d play along , because I liked needing her .
During lockdown , I still need my mom , badly .
The pandemic foiled a visit in April , so we haven ’ t seen each other in seven months—the longest I ’ ve ever gone without her or her rogan josh .
My six-year-old says that most pasta “ doesn ’ t taste like anything.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ we ’ re asking her to eat candle wax .
I feed them a combo of Indian , Mexican , and Ottolenghi-lite flavors , with pizza and happy meals thrown in .
I look at my toddler and wonder if she ’ ll ever see Kashmir .
She ’ ll certainly never experience anything like those summer weddings .
But she has enough teeth now to try her first rogan josh .
So , recently , I called my mother to ask her again for the recipe .
I reminded her that we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a year .
She murmured something about shipping me a batch .
I pushed back , invoking Kashmir ’ s disappearing culture .
I emphasized the importance of preserving our cuisine , especially since I ’ d married outside of the community .
I used all of the same guilting tricks that mum has been known to wield against me , and eventually she broke : she would walk me through the recipe over the weekend , on Zoom .
At our appointed time , my mother ghosted me .
Over the following @ @ @ @ @ @ @ technical difficulties and impressive avoidance skills conspired to make her unavailable .
When we finally connected , she told me , breathlessly , that my dad ’ s phone number had mistakenly been ported to her phone , so that hers no longer existed .
Finally , standing in her kitchen in Michigan , she walked me through the recipe , approximating measurements , approving them by sight , and peering into the screen as I held it precariously above a pot of sputtering oil , so that she could sign off on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ chatted while the food simmered , and when I lifted the lid after half an hour , she quietly admitted that the rogan josh looked perfect .

My one pandemic panic purchase was six pounds of chocolate chips, which I hid in strange places around the house; I figured that I could keep up my family’s spirits during quarantine by surprising them with baked goods. Now, months later, five pounds remain. When it comes to comfort food, what I crave isn’t sweets, or melted cheese, or creamy pasta, or brothy soups. Like many Kashmiris, I long for rogan josh, our traditional lamb dish, spicy and rich, whose recipe my mum holds hostage in Michigan.
Kashmiri cuisine, passed down within our insular community, is somewhat misunderstood even among Indians. Kashmiri restaurants are scarcely existent in the United States, and the Kashmiri dishes you find on Indian menus are often wildly imaginative. (Tomatoes? Cream? In Rogan Josh?!) My mother’s version, deep red with Kashmiri chili and thickened with a dab of yogurt, was inherited from Mahi Kak, the man hired to cook three multicourse meals a day, with twenty-five cups of rice, for her large family when she was a girl. My grandfather and his brother and sister, like many Indian siblings, had built adjoining homes, and had eleven kids among them. It was a chaotic and charming way to grow up, and the work of feeding everyone must have kept Mahi Kak young, because, after losing all of his teeth over the years, he supposedly grew a new set, in his nineties. (“Teeny-tiny! Like baby pearls!” according to my mother.) My grandfather, the household’s patriarch, a physics professor with the mustache and marksmanship of Hemingway, considered domestic duties a distraction from his three daughters’ and six nieces’ schoolwork. So Mahi Kak fed them until they left the house as brides, one by one.
My grandparents hosted a weeklong wazwan feast to accompany each wedding; for a stretch in the nineteen-eighties, after I was born, there was one nearly every summer, and no matter where we lived at the time we made Kashmir home for wedding season. A giant tent would be erected in the yard, the ground draped with long white tablecloths for eating and lounging. Sitting on my Nani’s lap while she sorted rice from stones, I’d beg the bride to paint henna on my fat little hands, then smudge the ink until my palms were solid orange. (I was so substantial a toddler that one uncle called me lokut hend-wend, “little watermelon,” because, as he put it, “if she falls over, she’ll roll away down the street.”) Eventually, I learned to sit still with a book, turning pages with my elbow, until the henna set. But the highlight of every wedding, for me, was lunch. Each day of the celebration we’d sit down, with giant steel thalis in front of us, and await a procession of cooks, or waza, ladling dish after dish from steaming tureens.
Days with religious ceremonies were vegetarian: huge yellow slabs of paneer, fried and simmered in a turmeric sauce; bright green kohlrabi, our veggie staple, simply prepared with mustard oil and hing; chunks of sliced lotus root in yogurt. But on the non-religious days, I’d wake up dreaming of the coming rogan josh, its lamb chunks as big as a man’s fist. At lunchtime, I’d eat so quickly that the gravy would drip down my arm; relatives would tease that I’d gone “Angrez” (English), in forgetting how to eat neatly with my hand. “Bring her a fork!,” they’d shout, laughing. To top up, I’d mash the marrow from the bones into my rice and yogurt and shovel down the glorious mess. I’d learned, young, the charade of covering my thali with a waving hand as a waza approached to serve seconds and thirds, insisting that I’d had enough. (It was a game of chicken: would he dump a ladle of hot stew on my hand before I could move it?) Once we were fully stuffed, a server would come around with water so that we could wash our hands, and I’d fall asleep right there at the table, with the grownups chattering over tea around me. Years later, when I planned my own wedding, these were the scraps of sense memory I wanted to replicate for my guests: giant hunks of rogan josh; gravy running down our hands; a nap in the same spot after lunch. I didn’t manage to, because, well, things have changed in Kashmir since I was a girl. I haven’t been back since I was nine years old.
It’s been thirty years since those weddings, and Kashmir remains a sweet, complicated memory for me. But a confession: I’ve rarely cooked my own rogan josh. My mom perfected her recipe as an immigrant mother in a London kitchen, recreating her memories of Mahi Kak’s cooking, half a world away. For as long as I’ve been raising my own family, though, my mother has brought rogan josh to me, in frozen bricks, whenever she visits. Periodically, I’d ask her for the recipe; I even recruited my husband to extricate it from her. Each time, my mother would hem and haw, saying that she cooks with her eyes. “This much,” she’d say, gesturing to a pile of fennel powder. “Stir until it’s red enough.” Without quantities of spices, I’d ask, how could she know she’s gotten it right? Not by tasting it: she’s a vegetarian. Fundamentally, I think she wouldn’t share the recipe because she liked to be needed. And I’d play along, because I liked needing her.
During lockdown, I still need my mom, badly. The pandemic foiled a visit in April, so we haven’t seen each other in seven months—the longest I’ve ever gone without her or her rogan josh. My six-year-old says that most pasta “doesn’t taste like anything.” Our toddler picks at melted cheese like we’re asking her to eat candle wax. I feed them a combo of Indian, Mexican, and Ottolenghi-lite flavors, with pizza and happy meals thrown in. I look at my toddler and wonder if she’ll ever see Kashmir. She’ll certainly never experience anything like those summer weddings. But she has enough teeth now to try her first rogan josh. So, recently, I called my mother to ask her again for the recipe. I reminded her that we had gone without the dish for half a year. She murmured something about shipping me a batch. I pushed back, invoking Kashmir’s disappearing culture. I emphasized the importance of preserving our cuisine, especially since I’d married outside of the community. I used all of the same guilting tricks that mum has been known to wield against me, and eventually she broke: she would walk me through the recipe over the weekend, on Zoom.
At our appointed time, my mother ghosted me. Over the following two days, a constellation of improbable technical difficulties and impressive avoidance skills conspired to make her unavailable. When we finally connected, she told me, breathlessly, that my dad’s phone number had mistakenly been ported to her phone, so that hers no longer existed. Finally, standing in her kitchen in Michigan, she walked me through the recipe, approximating measurements, approving them by sight, and peering into the screen as I held it precariously above a pot of sputtering oil, so that she could sign off on the exact shade of red. We chatted while the food simmered, and when I lifted the lid after half an hour, she quietly admitted that the rogan josh looked perfect.


newyorker--2020-07-16--Daily Cartoon: Thursday, July 16th

Daily Cartoon: Thursday, July 16th

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“I’m tired of playing essential worker! I do all the work, and you’re not even wearing a mask!”


newyorker--2020-07-16--Replacing a Campaign Manager Won’t Rescue Trump from the Coronavirus Debacle

To the surprise of virtually no one , Donald Trump has demoted his campaign manager , Brad Parscale .
On Wednesday night , Trump announced that the job would be filled by Bill Stepien , who served as an aide to Chris Christie , the former governor of New Jersey , and who is perhaps best known for his involvement in the 2014 Bridgegate scandal , which prompted Christie to fire Stepien .
Parscale ’ s departure had been widely expected since last month , when Trump turned up at what was supposed to be a huge rally in Tulsa @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of empty seats .
Parscale , who rose to prominence as the head of Trump ’ s digital operation in 2016 , had never before run a political campaign , whereas Stepien managed both of Christie ’ s successful gubernatorial campaigns and served as his deputy chief of staff .
His appointment may provide nervous G.O.P.ers with some short-term reassurance .
It won ’ t do anything to resolve the Trump campaign ’ s larger problems , which are almost all about the candidate and the moment .
During a press conference in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ evening , Trump spent almost an hour attacking Joe Biden before he took his first question .
The Times called Trump ’ s appearance a “ meandering monologue ” ; the Washington Post called it a “ lengthy diatribe.
” It was both .
More important , it was an implicit acknowledgement from Trump that the coronavirus pandemic has upended his reëlection plans , and that this is now a campaign like no other .
During his soliloquy in the Rose Garden , Trump ’ s only mentions of the virus came when @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and when he claimed that the United States is “ almost at the point that it was at prior to the plague.
” Purposeful disregard for reality has always been an important element of the MAGA brand , but it isn ’ t working for Trump now .
For more than a month , the FiveThirtyEight national poll average has shown Trump trailing Biden by more than eight points .
Last weekend , researchers from Quinnipiac University asked voters which candidate would do a better job of handling the coronavirus .
Thirty-five per @ @ @ @ @ @ @ chose Biden .
Until recently , Trump seemed to be hoping that a rapid reopening of the economy after the coronavirus shutdowns would enable him to adopt the campaign platform he had always planned on : white nationalism for his core supporters and promises of a strong economy for wavering Republicans and independents .
This strategy hinged on minimizing the political salience of the virus , but the resurgence in cases , together with a second wave of business closures in California and other states , has put the kibosh on it .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ to Biden and portray him as a doddering tool of the Democratic left .
Given that Trump himself recently had trouble walking down a ramp , and that many leftists spent an entire year portraying Biden as a neoliberal , pro-incarceration tool of credit-card issuers , this fallback strategy presents challenges of its own—but at least it is something .
Or it could conceivably amount to something , if the Trump campaign could focus attention on it among suburbanites and seniors .
But the rapid spread of the virus is also frustrating this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ news cycle , drawing attention away from Biden , and preventing Trump from holding the kinds of rallies that were the fulcrum of his 2016 campaign .
In Tulsa , the President delivered the line that Biden is “ a puppet for the radical left , ” but the empty spaces in the stands grabbed the headlines .
Last weekend , the Trump campaign cancelled a rally in New Hampshire , blaming an approaching tropical storm .
Three sources told Politico that the real reason was “ concerns about attendance.
” In the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ may have contributed to a surge in COVID-19 cases in Oklahoma , Trump supporters in New England might have balked at the opportunity to gather close together in an airport hangar .
Trump ’ s appearance in the Rose Garden was an effort to regain the initiative and take the fight to Biden .
Robbed of his preferred audience , he had to make do with the White House press corps .
But without the clamorous feedback from thousands of adoring supporters , he seemed out of sorts .
His provocations and applause @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , “ There ’ s never been a time when two candidates were so different , ” he sounded almost forlorn .
The Trump campaign hasn ’ t given up on live events .
According to Politico , it ’ s still looking for places “ where local and state officials are both willing to permit large-scale campaign events and unlikely to blame the president if an outbreak of the virus occurs once he ’ s come and gone.
” Despite the fact that some prominent Republicans had already said they intend to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ seemed determined to push ahead with some version of its convention in Jacksonville , which is scheduled for late August , and perhaps move some events outdoors .
“ We are planning for multiple scenarios and various health precautions , ” a spokesperson told CNBC on Tuesday .
Sure enough , on Thursday , the Washington Post reported the convention would be “ scaled-back ” and limited in its first days to party delegates .
If the convention does take place , it could well end up drawing more attention to the pandemic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have already announced that most state delegates won ’ t travel to their convention in Milwaukee , which was postponed from this week to the week before the R.N.C .
event , and that the votes on the nominee and the Party platform will take place online .
Obviously , that isn ’ t ideal , but most people will find it sensible .
A new survey from the Economist/YouGov indicates that just twenty-three per cent of Americans think it would be safe to hold conventions this year ; fifty-nine per cent think @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s appointment doesn ’ t change any of this .
Perhaps he will persuade Trump to wear a mask more often , which would be welcome from a public-health perspective .
But the political damage was done months ago , when the President effectively abdicated responsibility for the gravest national emergency in decades .
Even after more than a hundred and thirty-five thousand Americans have died , there is still “ no cohesive national strategy , apart from unenforced federal health guidelines , ” the Washington Post reported on Wednesday .
“ Instead @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of solutions , often in reaction to outbreaks after they occur.
” This is the context in which the 2020 campaign is playing out .
As the pandemic enters its sixth month , the case numbers are rising in forty states , according to a Times tally , and figures from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention show that over the past week the number of new infections reported daily has averaged almost sixty-two thousand .
This is now the coronavirus election , and Trump can ’ t escape it by swapping @ @ @

To the surprise of virtually no one, Donald Trump has demoted his campaign manager, Brad Parscale. On Wednesday night, Trump announced that the job would be filled by Bill Stepien, who served as an aide to Chris Christie, the former governor of New Jersey, and who is perhaps best known for his involvement in the 2014 Bridgegate scandal, which prompted Christie to fire Stepien.
Parscale’s departure had been widely expected since last month, when Trump turned up at what was supposed to be a huge rally in Tulsa, Oklahoma, only to find thousands of empty seats. Parscale, who rose to prominence as the head of Trump’s digital operation in 2016, had never before run a political campaign, whereas Stepien managed both of Christie’s successful gubernatorial campaigns and served as his deputy chief of staff. His appointment may provide nervous G.O.P.ers with some short-term reassurance. It won’t do anything to resolve the Trump campaign’s larger problems, which are almost all about the candidate and the moment.
During a press conference in the White House Rose Garden on Tuesday evening, Trump spent almost an hour attacking Joe Biden before he took his first question. The Times called Trump’s appearance a “meandering monologue”; the Washington Post called it a “lengthy diatribe.” It was both. More important, it was an implicit acknowledgement from Trump that the coronavirus pandemic has upended his reëlection plans, and that this is now a campaign like no other.
During his soliloquy in the Rose Garden, Trump’s only mentions of the virus came when he blamed China for exporting it, and when he claimed that the United States is “almost at the point that it was at prior to the plague.” Purposeful disregard for reality has always been an important element of the MAGA brand, but it isn’t working for Trump now. For more than a month, the FiveThirtyEight national poll average has shown Trump trailing Biden by more than eight points. Last weekend, researchers from Quinnipiac University asked voters which candidate would do a better job of handling the coronavirus. Thirty-five per cent chose Trump. Fifty-nine per cent chose Biden.
Until recently, Trump seemed to be hoping that a rapid reopening of the economy after the coronavirus shutdowns would enable him to adopt the campaign platform he had always planned on: white nationalism for his core supporters and promises of a strong economy for wavering Republicans and independents. This strategy hinged on minimizing the political salience of the virus, but the resurgence in cases, together with a second wave of business closures in California and other states, has put the kibosh on it.
Plan B is to shift the focus to Biden and portray him as a doddering tool of the Democratic left. Given that Trump himself recently had trouble walking down a ramp, and that many leftists spent an entire year portraying Biden as a neoliberal, pro-incarceration tool of credit-card issuers, this fallback strategy presents challenges of its own—but at least it is something. Or it could conceivably amount to something, if the Trump campaign could focus attention on it among suburbanites and seniors. But the rapid spread of the virus is also frustrating this effort. It’s dominating the news cycle, drawing attention away from Biden, and preventing Trump from holding the kinds of rallies that were the fulcrum of his 2016 campaign.
In Tulsa, the President delivered the line that Biden is “a puppet for the radical left,” but the empty spaces in the stands grabbed the headlines. Last weekend, the Trump campaign cancelled a rally in New Hampshire, blaming an approaching tropical storm. Three sources told Politico that the real reason was “concerns about attendance.” In the wake of reports that the Tulsa rally may have contributed to a surge in COVID-19 cases in Oklahoma, Trump supporters in New England might have balked at the opportunity to gather close together in an airport hangar.
Trump’s appearance in the Rose Garden was an effort to regain the initiative and take the fight to Biden. Robbed of his preferred audience, he had to make do with the White House press corps. But without the clamorous feedback from thousands of adoring supporters, he seemed out of sorts. His provocations and applause lines fell flat. When he said, “There’s never been a time when two candidates were so different,” he sounded almost forlorn.
The Trump campaign hasn’t given up on live events. According to Politico, it’s still looking for places “where local and state officials are both willing to permit large-scale campaign events and unlikely to blame the president if an outbreak of the virus occurs once he’s come and gone.” Despite the fact that some prominent Republicans had already said they intend to stay away, the Republican National Committee seemed determined to push ahead with some version of its convention in Jacksonville, which is scheduled for late August, and perhaps move some events outdoors. “We are planning for multiple scenarios and various health precautions,” a spokesperson told CNBC on Tuesday. Sure enough, on Thursday, the Washington Post reported the convention would be “scaled-back” and limited in its first days to party delegates.
If the convention does take place, it could well end up drawing more attention to the pandemic and the Republican absentees. The Democrats have already announced that most state delegates won’t travel to their convention in Milwaukee, which was postponed from this week to the week before the R.N.C. event, and that the votes on the nominee and the Party platform will take place online. Obviously, that isn’t ideal, but most people will find it sensible. A new survey from the Economist/YouGov indicates that just twenty-three per cent of Americans think it would be safe to hold conventions this year; fifty-nine per cent think it would be unsafe.
Stepien’s appointment doesn’t change any of this. Perhaps he will persuade Trump to wear a mask more often, which would be welcome from a public-health perspective. But the political damage was done months ago, when the President effectively abdicated responsibility for the gravest national emergency in decades. Even after more than a hundred and thirty-five thousand Americans have died, there is still “no cohesive national strategy, apart from unenforced federal health guidelines,” the Washington Post reported on Wednesday. “Instead, the administration is offering a patchwork of solutions, often in reaction to outbreaks after they occur.”
This is the context in which the 2020 campaign is playing out. As the pandemic enters its sixth month, the case numbers are rising in forty states, according to a Times tally, and figures from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention show that over the past week the number of new infections reported daily has averaged almost sixty-two thousand. This is now the coronavirus election, and Trump can’t escape it by swapping campaign managers.