newyorker--2020-04-02--In the Midst of the Coronavirus Pandemic, Construction Is Set to Resume on the Keystone Pipeline

Around the world , people are rising to the occasion of the coronavirus pandemic with acts of kindness , sacrifice , and love that remind us why we ’ re a species worth fighting for .
And then there ’ s the oil industry .
Over the past few weeks , it has been working to push through construction of the Keystone XL pipeline .
The effort began in earnest in mid-March , when several states—including , crucially , South Dakota , which is on the KXL route—passed laws designating pipelines as “ critical infrastructure.
” South Dakota ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a law that could charge anyone who , with three or more others , acts to cause “ damage to property ” as a rioter , and made it a felony to “ incite ” such behavior .
On Monday , Jason Kenney , the premier of Alberta , where the pipeline originates , announced that his government would hand over $ 1.1 billion dollars to TC Energy , the company building the pipeline .
That is enough to cover construction costs for the rest of the year .
In addition , Kenney @ @ @ @ @ @ @ guarantees , and that was enough for the company , which had been unwilling to commit to the project , to go forward .
Now , the company says , construction will begin immediately , both in Canada and across the border .
Indeed , it appears that construction workers began arriving in Montana before the state announced a fourteen-day quarantine on travellers arriving from out of state .
So here ’ s the situation : in the middle of a pandemic , construction workers will move into isolated rural communities with already @ @ @ @ @ @ @ camps ” where many such workers in the industry live are associated with violence against women and other crimes , even in the best of times .
Now , with the pandemic , many of the Native communities that live along the pipeline route fear for the worst .
“ This causes eerie memories for us with the infected smallpox blankets that were distributed to tribes intentionally , ” Faith Spotted Eagle , a leader of the Yankton Sioux Tribe , said .
( The coronavirus is already wreaking havoc on isolated reservations @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and the chronically underfunded Indian Health Service is struggling to meet the crisis . )
TC Energy insists that it is building the pipeline now because it will “ strengthen the continent ’ s energy security , ” but that ’ s obvious nonsense—at the moment , a record glut of oil is so overwhelming the market that there ’ s literally no place left to store it , and Texas ( where the Keystone pipeline will terminate ) is considering limiting oil production for the first time in fifty years .
It @ @ @ @ @ @ @ less critical thing to be building right now , when we ’ ve theoretically stopped every business that isn ’ t “ essential.
” Another reason the construction might be able to go ahead now is that there is no one to stop it .
Since the fight against Keystone XL began , a decade ago , with a handful of indigenous activists and Nebraska ranchers , it ’ s grown into a truly mass protest .
At first , few thought that the environmentalists had any hope of winning—a poll of “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shortly after twelve hundred and fifty-three people were arrested in protests in Washington , D.C. , over the course of two weeks , found that “ virtually all ” of them thought that the company , which was then called TransCanada , would soon have its permit .
( 350.org , a group I co-founded , helped coördinate the events . )
But , after more than four years of protests , President Obama announced that he would not grant the permit—news that dominated the front pages of newspapers across the country .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ those along the pipeline ’ s route—many , perhaps most , were drawn by concern about climate change , after the NASA scientist James Hansen pointed out that draining Alberta ’ s vast tar-sands complex would drive atmospheric concentrations of carbon dioxide above five hundred parts per million , signalling “ game over ” for the climate .
Four days after President Trump took office , he tried to clear the way for construction to begin again , but , with oil prices tanking , it didn ’ t happen .
( At @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the incredibly dirty tar-sands oil , is worth about four dollars a barrel ; it takes a petrostate like Alberta , not a private company , to proceed in those conditions . )
It was clear that any action would be met with protest , much like the standoff at Standing Rock that greeted construction of the Dakota Access pipeline , in 2016 .
But people had had much longer to prepare this time , and many thousands had signed a “ Promise to Protect ” pledge , and undergone strict civil-disobedience training @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one should be travelling to rural areas now to protest .
Litigators from groups like the Sierra Club and Bold Nebraska are fighting with lawsuits—TC Energy still has to get some permits from states along the routes , including to build the man camps .
But it is at least possible that it will manage to get the pipeline built .
If that happens , the protests of the past decade will still not have been in vain .
The Keystone fight showed that big oil could be held to a draw , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pretty much every other piece of fossil-fuel infrastructure .
Many of those fights have been won , and even when they were lost they ’ ve delayed construction for months or years , giving engineers more time to drive down the costs of solar and wind power .
If the pipeline does get built , it will also serve as a seventeen-hundred-mile-long monument to the power of political influence .
Russ Girling , the C.E.O .
of TC Energy , thanked not only Premier Kenney but also President Trump , “ as well @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for their advocacy without which , individually and collectively , this project could not have advanced.
” Truer words are rarely spoken .
I don ’ t know if corporations can be evil—I don ’ t think so , even if the Supreme Court insists on describing them as people .
But this is capitalism at its most naked , willing to endanger people in the COVID-19 crisis and to heat the earth in the climate crisis , all in search of a bit more profit .
In a world running right now @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s hard to imagine anything much darker .
• How to practice social distancing , from responding to a sick housemate to the pros and cons of ordering food .
• How people cope and create new customs amid a pandemic .
• What it means to contain and mitigate the coronavirus outbreak .
• How much of the world is likely to be quarantined ?
• Donald Trump in the time of coronavirus .
• The coronavirus is likely to spread for more than a year before a vaccine could be widely @ @ @ @ @ @ @ panic shoppers .
• The strange terror of watching the coronavirus take Rome .

Around the world, people are rising to the occasion of the coronavirus pandemic with acts of kindness, sacrifice, and love that remind us why we’re a species worth fighting for. And then there’s the oil industry. Over the past few weeks, it has been working to push through construction of the Keystone XL pipeline. The effort began in earnest in mid-March, when several states—including, crucially, South Dakota, which is on the KXL route—passed laws designating pipelines as “critical infrastructure.” South Dakota’s governor went further last week, signing a law that could charge anyone who, with three or more others, acts to cause “damage to property” as a rioter, and made it a felony to “incite” such behavior.
On Monday, Jason Kenney, the premier of Alberta, where the pipeline originates, announced that his government would hand over $1.1 billion dollars to TC Energy, the company building the pipeline. That is enough to cover construction costs for the rest of the year. In addition, Kenney put forward $4.2 billion in credit guarantees, and that was enough for the company, which had been unwilling to commit to the project, to go forward. Now, the company says, construction will begin immediately, both in Canada and across the border. Indeed, it appears that construction workers began arriving in Montana before the state announced a fourteen-day quarantine on travellers arriving from out of state.
So here’s the situation: in the middle of a pandemic, construction workers will move into isolated rural communities with already strained hospital resources. The “man camps” where many such workers in the industry live are associated with violence against women and other crimes, even in the best of times. Now, with the pandemic, many of the Native communities that live along the pipeline route fear for the worst. “This causes eerie memories for us with the infected smallpox blankets that were distributed to tribes intentionally,” Faith Spotted Eagle, a leader of the Yankton Sioux Tribe, said. (The coronavirus is already wreaking havoc on isolated reservations in other parts of the country, and the chronically underfunded Indian Health Service is struggling to meet the crisis.)
TC Energy insists that it is building the pipeline now because it will “strengthen the continent’s energy security,” but that’s obvious nonsense—at the moment, a record glut of oil is so overwhelming the market that there’s literally no place left to store it, and Texas (where the Keystone pipeline will terminate) is considering limiting oil production for the first time in fifty years. It’s impossible to think of a less critical thing to be building right now, when we’ve theoretically stopped every business that isn’t “essential.”
Another reason the construction might be able to go ahead now is that there is no one to stop it. Since the fight against Keystone XL began, a decade ago, with a handful of indigenous activists and Nebraska ranchers, it’s grown into a truly mass protest. At first, few thought that the environmentalists had any hope of winning—a poll of “energy insiders” in 2011, conducted shortly after twelve hundred and fifty-three people were arrested in protests in Washington, D.C., over the course of two weeks, found that “virtually all” of them thought that the company, which was then called TransCanada, would soon have its permit. (350.org, a group I co-founded, helped coördinate the events.) But, after more than four years of protests, President Obama announced that he would not grant the permit—news that dominated the front pages of newspapers across the country. The movement attracted many people well beyond those along the pipeline’s route—many, perhaps most, were drawn by concern about climate change, after the NASA scientist James Hansen pointed out that draining Alberta’s vast tar-sands complex would drive atmospheric concentrations of carbon dioxide above five hundred parts per million, signalling “game over” for the climate.
Four days after President Trump took office, he tried to clear the way for construction to begin again, but, with oil prices tanking, it didn’t happen. (At the moment, West Canada Select, the incredibly dirty tar-sands oil, is worth about four dollars a barrel; it takes a petrostate like Alberta, not a private company, to proceed in those conditions.) It was clear that any action would be met with protest, much like the standoff at Standing Rock that greeted construction of the Dakota Access pipeline, in 2016. But people had had much longer to prepare this time, and many thousands had signed a “Promise to Protect” pledge, and undergone strict civil-disobedience training. But, of course, no one should be travelling to rural areas now to protest. Litigators from groups like the Sierra Club and Bold Nebraska are fighting with lawsuits—TC Energy still has to get some permits from states along the routes, including to build the man camps. But it is at least possible that it will manage to get the pipeline built.
If that happens, the protests of the past decade will still not have been in vain. The Keystone fight showed that big oil could be held to a draw, and ever since people have been battling pretty much every other piece of fossil-fuel infrastructure. Many of those fights have been won, and even when they were lost they’ve delayed construction for months or years, giving engineers more time to drive down the costs of solar and wind power.
If the pipeline does get built, it will also serve as a seventeen-hundred-mile-long monument to the power of political influence. Russ Girling, the C.E.O. of TC Energy, thanked not only Premier Kenney but also President Trump, “as well as many government officials across North America for their advocacy without which, individually and collectively, this project could not have advanced.” Truer words are rarely spoken.
I don’t know if corporations can be evil—I don’t think so, even if the Supreme Court insists on describing them as people. But this is capitalism at its most naked, willing to endanger people in the COVID-19 crisis and to heat the earth in the climate crisis, all in search of a bit more profit. In a world running right now on bravery and love, it’s hard to imagine anything much darker.
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-04-02--Remembering Lorena Borjas, the Mother of a Trans Latinx Community

Lorena Borjas had a wheelie bag , and in the bag she had the world .
The first time Lynly Egyes met her , Borjas pulled a birth certificate out of the bag .
Egyes was then a lawyer with the Sex Workers Project at the Urban Justice Center and had recently taken the case of a young immigrant transgender woman who was in jail , facing felony assault charges for defending herself against an attacker—an exceedingly common predicament .
“ Lorena came into my office and said , ‘ I hear you need the birth certificate for one of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ me on the phone .
“ I said , ‘ Who are you ?
’ ‘ I am Lorena !
’ ” Borjas also convinced Egyes to take on a second case that stemmed from the same incident ; the proceedings dragged on for about a year , with frequent court appearances .
Borjas always came to the hearings and brought supporters .
“ She felt it was important for the judge to see that these two young women were loved , ” Egyes said .
Borjas died on Monday , at Coney @ @ @ @ @ @ @ complications from COVID-19 .
She left an orphaned community of transgender women , especially Latina immigrant women in Queens , and countless L.G.B.T.-rights activists who looked to her for guidance , inspiration , and love .
About two hundred and forty people gathered for a memorial on Monday night , albeit via Zoom , which added a layer of heartbreak to the mourning of a person whose legacy was one of building community , in the streets and in apartments in her Jackson Heights neighborhood , and of taking close , personal , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ born in Veracruz , Mexico , in 1960 .
At seventeen , she ran away to Mexico City , where she lived in the streets .
At twenty , she crossed the border into the United States , where she hoped she would be able to receive hormone treatments .
She made her way to New York City , where she studied for her G.E.D .
and then studied accounting .
“ Back then , the trans community didn ’ t have spaces , ” Cristina Herrera , the C.E.O .
and founder @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for transgender immigrants , told me on the phone .
“ We met at Port Authority—that was the main place , because you could stay indoors.
” Herrera , who is from El Salvador , came to New York in 1985 , at the age of fifteen , and met Borjas soon after .
“ She was like the social worker in our community , ” Herrera said .
“ She was the case worker.
” Borjas guided other trans and gay immigrants to the resources she had found : E.S.L .
classes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , H.I.V .
screening , immigration lawyers , and research studies that paid for participation .
Borjas was able to obtain legal status under a Reagan-era amnesty .
But , in the nineteen-nineties , she developed an addiction to crack , which , Herrera told me , led to more and riskier sex work and , finally , to a relationship in which Borjas was trafficked .
She was arrested several times , making her ineligible to renew her green card or apply for naturalization .
In the late nineteen-nineties , Borjas escaped @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Then she got to work helping people who hadn ’ t been as lucky .
“ In the morning , she would get up and go to the Department of Health and take free condoms there , ” Egyes told me .
“ Then she might also go to a food pantry .
And at night she would walk around with her wheelie bag , distributing the condoms and the food.
” One of Borjas ’ s closest friends , Cecilia Gentili , who is forty-eight , told me that she met @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , in 2005 .
Gentili , who had come from Argentina five years earlier , was undocumented then and doing sex work .
A couple of years later , Gentili got a job at Apicha , a clinic for the L.G.B.T .
community , and asked Borjas to help her reach out to potential clients .
“ She said , ‘ Come with me to hand out condoms , ’ ” Gentili said .
“ We started at 11 P.M. , up and down Roosevelt Avenue .
She said , ‘ When you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ out referrals to your clinic.
’ ” They walked the streets until three or four in the morning .
At the time , New York police often used possession of condoms as evidence in prostitution cases , and word on the street was that one shouldn ’ t carry more than three at time .
So Borjas considered it her duty to replenish sex workers ’ supplies of condoms , a couple at a time , all night long .
“ She showed people that they had family , ” Egyes said of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Strangio , the deputy director of the L.G.B.T .
and H.I.V .
Project at the American Civil Liberties Union , met Borjas more than ten years ago , when Strangio was working at the Sylvia Rivera Law Project .
Borjas worked to educate him about patterns of arrests of transgender women of color .
“ She was so connected to the community that when someone would get arrested , the first phone call was to Lorena , ” Strangio said .
In 2012 , together the two founded the Lorena Borjas Community Fund @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to transgender immigrants in criminal and immigration proceedings .
This was the kind of specific need Borjas ’ s knowledge of the community could help identify .
At the time , the Obama Administration was increasing pressure on local police to coöperate with Immigration and Customs Enforcement ; when immigrants ended up behind bars—for whatever reason—they faced the risk of deportation , and so it was essential to get them out fast .
Even while Borjas was advocating on behalf of transgender immigrants , she was at risk for being deported herself .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Borjas finally asked Egyes to look at her own case .
Egyes joined the effort to vacate her convictions—it worked with some but not all of them—and eventually filed a petition for a pardon .
In her letter to Governor Andrew Cuomo , Egyes described some of the work that Borjas had done .
“ At meeting after meeting with law enforcement , many clients explained how Lorena was the reason that they were able to escape their trafficker , ” Egyes wrote .
“ At one point , former Assistant United @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , asked if Lorena was a real person because she seemed to help so many people but wasn ’ t affiliated with any organization .
I explained that Lorena is in fact real and that she helps people because she too was a victim and wanted to ensure that these girls had a way out of bad situations.
” Egyes attached a list of more than twenty awards , certificates , and proclamations Borjas had received in recognition of her activism .
Governor Cuomo pardoned Borjas in 2017 .
Borjas was not paid @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cobbled together a living : she was paid for some talks , outreach , and counselling sessions , and sometimes she cleaned houses .
“ She made the money stretch , ” Egyes said .
“ She gave me hope that people do good things because they are good people , not because they would get anything for it.
” “ None of her work was with a ‘ rescuing ’ mentality , ” Gentili said .
“ It was , We help because we help each other .
She was the mother @ @ @ @ @ @ @ recalled that , in 2011 , Borjas threw a big party for him , complete with a cake .
It wasn ’ t his birthday or a date of any other significance .
When Strangio asked what the party was for , Borjas answered that it was a way of giving thanks .
“ She celebrated people , ” he said .
A year later , when Strangio and his then partner were expecting a baby , Borjas threw them a baby shower .
“ She raised money and got us a stroller @ @ @ @ @ @ @ told me .
“ I mean , we are lawyers !
But , no , ‘ You are going to have a child , and we are going to take care of you .
That ’ s what we do .
’ ”

Lorena Borjas left behind a community that looked to her for guidance, inspiration, and love. Photograph by Guillermina Hernandez / Courtesy TransLatin@ Coalition
Lorena Borjas had a wheelie bag, and in the bag she had the world. The first time Lynly Egyes met her, Borjas pulled a birth certificate out of the bag. Egyes was then a lawyer with the Sex Workers Project at the Urban Justice Center and had recently taken the case of a young immigrant transgender woman who was in jail, facing felony assault charges for defending herself against an attacker—an exceedingly common predicament. “Lorena came into my office and said, ‘I hear you need the birth certificate for one of the girls,’ ” Egyes told me on the phone. “I said, ‘Who are you?’ ‘I am Lorena!’ ” Borjas also convinced Egyes to take on a second case that stemmed from the same incident; the proceedings dragged on for about a year, with frequent court appearances. Borjas always came to the hearings and brought supporters. “She felt it was important for the judge to see that these two young women were loved,” Egyes said.
Borjas died on Monday, at Coney Island Hospital, in Brooklyn, of complications from COVID-19. She left an orphaned community of transgender women, especially Latina immigrant women in Queens, and countless L.G.B.T.-rights activists who looked to her for guidance, inspiration, and love. About two hundred and forty people gathered for a memorial on Monday night, albeit via Zoom, which added a layer of heartbreak to the mourning of a person whose legacy was one of building community, in the streets and in apartments in her Jackson Heights neighborhood, and of taking close, personal, physical care of people.
Borjas was born in Veracruz, Mexico, in 1960. At seventeen, she ran away to Mexico City, where she lived in the streets. At twenty, she crossed the border into the United States, where she hoped she would be able to receive hormone treatments. She made her way to New York City, where she studied for her G.E.D. and then studied accounting.
“Back then, the trans community didn’t have spaces,” Cristina Herrera, the C.E.O. and founder of the Translatinx Network, a group for transgender immigrants, told me on the phone. “We met at Port Authority—that was the main place, because you could stay indoors.” Herrera, who is from El Salvador, came to New York in 1985, at the age of fifteen, and met Borjas soon after. “She was like the social worker in our community,” Herrera said. “She was the case worker.” Borjas guided other trans and gay immigrants to the resources she had found: E.S.L. classes, G.E.D. tests, community colleges, H.I.V. screening, immigration lawyers, and research studies that paid for participation.
Borjas was able to obtain legal status under a Reagan-era amnesty. But, in the nineteen-nineties, she developed an addiction to crack, which, Herrera told me, led to more and riskier sex work and, finally, to a relationship in which Borjas was trafficked. She was arrested several times, making her ineligible to renew her green card or apply for naturalization.
In the late nineteen-nineties, Borjas escaped from her abuser. She got clean. Then she got to work helping people who hadn’t been as lucky. “In the morning, she would get up and go to the Department of Health and take free condoms there,” Egyes told me. “Then she might also go to a food pantry. And at night she would walk around with her wheelie bag, distributing the condoms and the food.”
One of Borjas’s closest friends, Cecilia Gentili, who is forty-eight, told me that she met Borjas in a bar in Jackson Heights, in 2005. Gentili, who had come from Argentina five years earlier, was undocumented then and doing sex work. A couple of years later, Gentili got a job at Apicha, a clinic for the L.G.B.T. community, and asked Borjas to help her reach out to potential clients. “She said, ‘Come with me to hand out condoms,’ ” Gentili said. “We started at 11 P.M., up and down Roosevelt Avenue. She said, ‘When you give out condoms, you can give out referrals to your clinic.’ ” They walked the streets until three or four in the morning. At the time, New York police often used possession of condoms as evidence in prostitution cases, and word on the street was that one shouldn’t carry more than three at a time. So Borjas considered it her duty to replenish sex workers’ supplies of condoms, a couple at a time, all night long. “She showed people that they had family,” Egyes said of Borjas’s condom-distribution work.
Chase Strangio, the deputy director of the L.G.B.T. and H.I.V. Project at the American Civil Liberties Union, met Borjas more than ten years ago, when Strangio was working at the Sylvia Rivera Law Project. Borjas worked to educate him about patterns of arrests of transgender women of color. “She was so connected to the community that when someone would get arrested, the first phone call was to Lorena,” Strangio said. In 2012, together the two founded the Lorena Borjas Community Fund, which gives bail and bond assistance to transgender immigrants in criminal and immigration proceedings. This was the kind of specific need Borjas’s knowledge of the community could help identify. At the time, the Obama Administration was increasing pressure on local police to coöperate with Immigration and Customs Enforcement; when immigrants ended up behind bars—for whatever reason—they faced the risk of deportation, and so it was essential to get them out fast.
Lorena Borjas Illustration by João Fazenda
Even while Borjas was advocating on behalf of transgender immigrants, she was at risk for being deported herself. A couple of years into the friendship, Borjas finally asked Egyes to look at her own case. Egyes joined the effort to vacate her convictions—it worked with some but not all of them—and eventually filed a petition for a pardon. In her letter to Governor Andrew Cuomo, Egyes described some of the work that Borjas had done. “At meeting after meeting with law enforcement, many clients explained how Lorena was the reason that they were able to escape their trafficker,” Egyes wrote. “At one point, former Assistant United States Attorney, [name redacted], asked if Lorena was a real person because she seemed to help so many people but wasn’t affiliated with any organization. I explained that Lorena is in fact real and that she helps people because she too was a victim and wanted to ensure that these girls had a way out of bad situations.” Egyes attached a list of more than twenty awards, certificates, and proclamations Borjas had received in recognition of her activism. Governor Cuomo pardoned Borjas in 2017.
Borjas was not paid for most of her work. She cobbled together a living: she was paid for some talks, outreach, and counselling sessions, and sometimes she cleaned houses. “She made the money stretch,” Egyes said. “She gave me hope that people do good things because they are good people, not because they would get anything for it.”
“None of her work was with a ‘rescuing’ mentality,” Gentili said. “It was, We help because we help each other. She was the mother of the trans Latinx community.”
Strangio recalled that, in 2011, Borjas threw a big party for him, complete with a cake. It wasn’t his birthday or a date of any other significance. When Strangio asked what the party was for, Borjas answered that it was a way of giving thanks. “She celebrated people,” he said. A year later, when Strangio and his then partner were expecting a baby, Borjas threw them a baby shower. “She raised money and got us a stroller and a car seat,” Strangio told me. “I mean, we are lawyers! But, no, ‘You are going to have a child, and we are going to take care of you. That’s what we do.’ ”
Last year, Borjas became a U.S. citizen. Her work had inspired several nonprofits, including the one that Herrera runs. “She was starting to see the fruits of her labor,” Herrera said. And Borjas herself was finally safe. “She had made it through the AIDS epidemic!” Herrera exclaimed. “She made it through the crack epidemic! She made it through the violence we faced in the nineties and two-thousands, with immigration! I thought we were going to have her until she was in her seventies or eighties.”
There is a particular gut punch that coronavirus deaths pack for people who saw their generation decimated by AIDS. “When we met, we had a community of fourteen,” Herrera said. “Recently, there were three of us left, two H.I.V.-positive and one negative.” Borjas was positive. “And now there are only two of us left.”
This story was first published on newyorker.com on April 2, 2020.


newyorker--2020-04-02--A Pulp-Fiction Novelist Trapped on Rikers During the Coronavirus Pandemic

On March 27th , inside a jail on the east side of Rikers Island , John Springs scrubbed down a communal telephone and then called me .
I asked him what the mood was inside his jail .
“ The mood is leery .
That ’ s a crazy word , right ?
But that ’ s what it is , ” he said .
“ Nobody is trusting nobody .
People who used to play cards together and play games and chess are just avoiding each other.
” Nine days earlier , the first incarcerated person on Rikers had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , there had been another hundred and two confirmed diagnoses among the several thousand people detained in the city ’ s jails .
Springs told me , “ I ’ m seeing people coughing and sneezing—and people disappearing .
They leave to go to the clinic , and they don ’ t come back.
” Springs is sixty-six years old , and the threat of COVID-19 looms constantly on Rikers , since there is no “ social distancing ” in jail .
When I asked him how he was trying to protect himself @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ I ’ ve been staying in my cell .
I come out , eat , go back in my cell , read , come out , eat , go back in my cell , read.
” At the moment , he was rereading John Grisham ’ s “ The Testament.
” “ Have you ever read that ?
” he asked .
“ It ’ s a really good book.
” As it happens , Springs is a writer , too .
In the nineteen-eighties and early nineties , during a stint @ @ @ @ @ @ @ where he was incarcerated for armed robbery , he published five novels .
His publisher was Holloway House , which put out the legendary black pulp-fiction writers Donald Goines and Iceberg Slim .
Springs , who grew up in the Stella Wright Homes , a public-housing project in Newark , had stopped attending school in the eighth grade .
But in prison , he read all the time , at least two books a day .
He made a bet with three men that he could write a book and get it published @ @ @ @ @ @ @ first book , “ Kansas , ” was released .
Springs dedicated the book to several people , including a friend in prison , known as Sweet Daddy Dimp , for “ lending me his raggedy typewriter.
” When Springs ’ s older sister Jacqueline found out that he had published a novel , she was “ shocked , ” she told me .
“ I was surprised and I guess kind of speechless .
It was a surprise to all of us.
” At the time , her three children were in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t a book you could pass on and say , ‘ Your uncle wrote this.
’ Because it was definitely an adult book , ” she said .
“ I started reading and I was like : Whoa !
” But her husband , Salahudeen Faison , read all of Springs ’ s books .
“ To me , I think his writing was even better than Donald Goines , ” Faison told me .
“ He was definitely better than the guy who wrote ‘ Iceberg Slim.
’ I ’ m not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ my brother-in-law .
He was just that good .
If he could just stay out of the little minor things he was doing and getting locked up for , there ’ s no telling where he would be at now.
” I met Springs in 2006 , not long after he had left prison in New Jersey .
He seemed still to be acclimating to life on the outside .
Sometimes he slept outdoors ; other nights , he slept on the subway .
“ Even living on the streets is better than @ @ @ @ @ @ @ can come out of whatever little hole I ’ m in and look at the moon , ” he told me .
“ I think I saw the moon twice the whole time I was in prison.
” On the streets , he was known as Bear , and he was a fixture on the Upper West Side , near Columbia University , where he made money by selling used books from a table on Broadway near West 110th Street .
He said that he had plans to find a place of his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ kept undermining his ability to put away any money .
Eventually I lost track of him .
Then , on March 20th , I found him again , in a lawsuit that the Legal Aid Society had filed in Manhattan in response to the COVID-19 outbreak on Rikers .
The lawsuit sought the release of a hundred and sixteen people detained in New York City ’ s jails , including Springs , who are at least fifty years old or had serious health conditions .
( A judge refused to grant their release @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Bill de Blasio announced that , because of the threat of the coronavirus , he would release a few hundred people from the city ’ s jails .
On March 27th , Governor Andrew Cuomo said that he would order the release from jails across the state of eleven hundred people who were serving time for parole violations .
The population of New York City ’ s jails has declined by nearly a thousand in the past two weeks ; there are now about forty-six hundred people held in the city ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , where he has been held since February for a parole violation .
( In 2019 , after spending a year in prison for stealing a bicycle from a Columbia fraternity house , he had been released on parole , and when he did not report regularly to his parole office , a warrant was put out for his arrest . )
He will finish his sentence for his parole violation in early June .
“ I only have ninety days !
” he said .
But he was afraid he might get @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the people who are dying are older people , ” he said .
“ I just had a heart attack October 15th .
I also had C.O.P.D.
, asthma , diabetes , and everything else.
” His sister Jacqueline and her husband , who live in North Carolina , have been receiving calls from him and tracking the virus ’ s spread on Rikers .
“ We ’ re very , very , very worried , ” his brother-in-law told me .
Springs ’ s predicament is complicated by the fact that he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ August , he was arrested for stealing a package from a building on West 113th Street .
“ At the time , I was smoking crack , ” he admitted to me .
“ I went into the hallway to smoke some crack , and I seen the package there , and I picked the package up , and I walked out of the building with it .
I got halfway down the block and then decided I didn ’ t really want to do this so I brought it back.
” He @ @ @ @ @ @ @ me on camera moving the package .
So Columbia University—their security people got me arrested.
” The charge was petty larceny , which is a misdemeanor , and his bail was set at just one dollar .
His next court date on that case is in May .
As the number of COVID-19 cases in the city ’ s jails has continued to rise , the Legal Aid Society , other public-defender groups , and activists have been pressing officials to release more people .
On March 30th , New York City ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ jointly releasing a letter addressed to Mayor de Blasio and Cynthia Brann , the commissioner of the city ’ s Department of Correction .
They criticized “ the seemingly haphazard process by which at-risk inmates are identified , and the reports that those released may include violent offenders.
” These actions , they wrote , “ are creating a public perception that our city ’ s jails may be incapable of providing sufficient health care for the remaining population , ” and they added , “ We believe this perception is wrong.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to “ immediately reassure the public and the courts that the city ’ s jail system is capable of appropriately managing the health needs of the remaining inmates .
”

On March 27th, inside a jail on the east side of Rikers Island, John Springs scrubbed down a communal telephone and then called me. I asked him what the mood was inside his jail. “The mood is leery. That’s a crazy word, right? But that’s what it is,” he said. “Nobody is trusting nobody. People who used to play cards together and play games and chess are just avoiding each other.” Nine days earlier, the first incarcerated person on Rikers had tested positive for COVID-19. Since then, there had been another hundred and two confirmed diagnoses among the several thousand people detained in the city’s jails. Springs told me, “I’m seeing people coughing and sneezing—and people disappearing. They leave to go to the clinic, and they don’t come back.” Springs is sixty-six years old, and the threat of COVID-19 looms constantly on Rikers, since there is no “social distancing” in jail. When I asked him how he was trying to protect himself from the virus, he said, “I’ve been staying in my cell. I come out, eat, go back in my cell, read, come out, eat, go back in my cell, read.”
At the moment, he was rereading John Grisham’s “The Testament.” “Have you ever read that?” he asked. “It’s a really good book.”
As it happens, Springs is a writer, too. In the nineteen-eighties and early nineties, during a stint in the New Jersey prison system, where he was incarcerated for armed robbery, he published five novels. His publisher was Holloway House, which put out the legendary black pulp-fiction writers Donald Goines and Iceberg Slim. Springs, who grew up in the Stella Wright Homes, a public-housing project in Newark, had stopped attending school in the eighth grade. But in prison, he read all the time, at least two books a day. He made a bet with three men that he could write a book and get it published, and, in 1984, his first book, “Kansas,” was released. Springs dedicated the book to several people, including a friend in prison, known as Sweet Daddy Dimp, for “lending me his raggedy typewriter.”
When Springs’s older sister Jacqueline found out that he had published a novel, she was “shocked,” she told me. “I was surprised and I guess kind of speechless. It was a surprise to all of us.” At the time, her three children were in middle school. “It wasn’t a book you could pass on and say, ‘Your uncle wrote this.’ Because it was definitely an adult book,” she said. “I started reading and I was like: Whoa!” But her husband, Salahudeen Faison, read all of Springs’s books. “To me, I think his writing was even better than Donald Goines,” Faison told me. “He was definitely better than the guy who wrote ‘Iceberg Slim.’ I’m not saying it just because he’s my brother-in-law. He was just that good. If he could just stay out of the little minor things he was doing and getting locked up for, there’s no telling where he would be at now.”
I met Springs in 2006, not long after he had left prison in New Jersey. He seemed still to be acclimating to life on the outside. Sometimes he slept outdoors; other nights, he slept on the subway. “Even living on the streets is better than being in prison because at least I can come out of whatever little hole I’m in and look at the moon,” he told me. “I think I saw the moon twice the whole time I was in prison.” On the streets, he was known as Bear, and he was a fixture on the Upper West Side, near Columbia University, where he made money by selling used books from a table on Broadway near West 110th Street. He said that he had plans to find a place of his own. But an addiction to crack kept undermining his ability to put away any money. Eventually I lost track of him.
Then, on March 20th, I found him again, in a lawsuit that the Legal Aid Society had filed in Manhattan in response to the COVID-19 outbreak on Rikers. The lawsuit sought the release of a hundred and sixteen people detained in New York City’s jails, including Springs, who are at least fifty years old or had serious health conditions. (A judge refused to grant their release.) On March 24th, Mayor Bill de Blasio announced that, because of the threat of the coronavirus, he would release a few hundred people from the city’s jails. On March 27th, Governor Andrew Cuomo said that he would order the release from jails across the state of eleven hundred people who were serving time for parole violations. The population of New York City’s jails has declined by nearly a thousand in the past two weeks; there are now about forty-six hundred people held in the city’s jails.
But Springs remains on Rikers, where he has been held since February for a parole violation. (In 2019, after spending a year in prison for stealing a bicycle from a Columbia fraternity house, he had been released on parole, and when he did not report regularly to his parole office, a warrant was put out for his arrest.) He will finish his sentence for his parole violation in early June. “I only have ninety days!” he said. But he was afraid he might get sick before then. “Most of the people who are dying are older people,” he said. “I just had a heart attack October 15th. I also had C.O.P.D., asthma, diabetes, and everything else.” His sister Jacqueline and her husband, who live in North Carolina, have been receiving calls from him and tracking the virus’s spread on Rikers. “We’re very, very, very worried,” his brother-in-law told me.
Springs’s predicament is complicated by the fact that he has an unresolved criminal case. Last August, he was arrested for stealing a package from a building on West 113th Street. “At the time, I was smoking crack,” he admitted to me. “I went into the hallway to smoke some crack, and I seen the package there, and I picked the package up, and I walked out of the building with it. I got halfway down the block and then decided I didn’t really want to do this so I brought it back.” He went on, “But they had me on camera moving the package. So Columbia University—their security people got me arrested.” The charge was petty larceny, which is a misdemeanor, and his bail was set at just one dollar. His next court date on that case is in May.
As the number of COVID-19 cases in the city’s jails has continued to rise, the Legal Aid Society, other public-defender groups, and activists have been pressing officials to release more people. On March 30th, New York City’s five district attorneys pushed back, jointly releasing a letter addressed to Mayor de Blasio and Cynthia Brann, the commissioner of the city’s Department of Correction. They criticized “the seemingly haphazard process by which at-risk inmates are identified, and the reports that those released may include violent offenders.” These actions, they wrote, “are creating a public perception that our city’s jails may be incapable of providing sufficient health care for the remaining population,” and they added, “We believe this perception is wrong.” They asked the mayor and jails chief to “immediately reassure the public and the courts that the city’s jail system is capable of appropriately managing the health needs of the remaining inmates.”
Soon after, Ross MacDonald, the chief physician for Rikers Island, took to Twitter to rebut the district attorneys’ claims. “Infections in our jails are growing quickly,” he wrote. “Today there are close to 200 confirmed cases when just 12 days ago we had our first. In that space of time, we moved mountains to protect our patients.” He continued, “It is possible that our efforts will stem this growth, but as a physician I must tell you it is unlikely. I cannot reassure you of something you only wish to be true.”
Earlier this week, Springs called me from Rikers, sounding slightly frantic. “We’re trying to get somebody to call the medical department for this guy that’s sick,” he said. “He’s laying down now in his cell.” While I searched online for a number to call, Springs filled me in on what was happening there. “They’ve been letting people go. They let about fifteen people go from the wing that I’m on,” he said. “They’re saying if you got a little bit of time, they’re supposed to be letting you go . . . and I’ve got a little bit of time.” Had he heard whether he might be getting out soon? “I have no idea,” he said. Earlier, I had asked him if he was frightened by the virus. He admitted that he was. “There’s stuff I want to write that’s in my head,” he said. “I was really looking forward to being eighty.”
On April 2nd, after the publication of this story, John Springs was released from Rikers Island. The following morning, he called and said, “Guess where I’m calling from. 110th and Broadway!” He and a group of men had been taken from Rikers by bus to a hotel in Harlem. As of April 3rd, there were about forty-three hundred people in New York City’s jails; the population has decreased by twelve hundred in the past eighteen days.
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-04-02--The Great Zoom-School Experiment

The Great Zoom-School Experiment

In some ways , the Lang School , a small , private school in the Financial District , was well-suited to the age of the coronavirus .
Lang , which has students in grades two through twelve , is a “ 2e ” school , which stands for “ twice exceptional.
” The term refers to gifted students who also have some form of learning disability such as dyslexia , ADHD , or mild autism .
Such students present all kinds of teaching challenges , and so Micaela Bracamonte , the founder and head of school , said , “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and improvisational and adaptable .
A lot of them have an arts background.
” On Wednesday , March 11th , the day the World Health Organization announced that COVID-19 was officially a pandemic , the school ’ s staff sprang into action .
They spent two days setting up the transition to remote learning—configuring Zoom , developing lesson plans .
Online classes commenced on Tuesday , March 17th .
By Wednesday , Bracamonte was getting frantic e-mails from the parents of second and third graders .
For those students , she said , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a disaster.
” The problem had to do with the teaching format .
Older students were taking live classes via Zoom .
But the New York State Association of Independent Schools and other pedagogical authorities had recommended “ asynchronous learning ” for younger children .
The six- and seven-year-olds were given assignments to complete on their own time , with their parents acting as presumed enforcers .
The result was a “ mini revolt , ” Bracamonte said .
“ The kids were just not doing the work .
And the parents were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ We were getting lots of e-mails saying , ‘ I just don ’ t think she can handle this remote-learning thing .
I ’ m going to take her out to play at noon.
’ ” Bracamonte decided that the experts were wrong .
“ Everybody ’ s telling us that ‘ asynchronous learning ’ is the best practice for this age .
But think about it .
There are really no best practices .
We ’ ve never been in this situation before !
Nobody has a clue what to do @ @ @ @ @ @ @ less ours.
” She called a school leadership meeting , via Zoom , and told the staff to switch gears again , and prepare to teach live video classes to the second and third graders .
The teachers were hesitant .
Lang students tend to be “ exceptionally impulsive , ” Bracamonte said .
Wrangling them can be a challenge under normal conditions .
“ The teachers were afraid that the kids were not going to coöperate , and they wouldn ’ t be able to manage a virtual classroom.
” But she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Tuesday , at 9:40 a.m. , the second and third graders logged onto Zoom for one of the staples of Lang ’ s curriculum : an occupational therapy class , where they practice fine motor skills , such as handwriting , and learn how to manage more intense physical activity .
( The school ’ s campus has a small gym with a climbing wall , treadmills , and swings . )
I logged on shortly before the class ’ s start time , and chatted with the teacher , a burly , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Michael Ryan .
The students began popping up on screen .
Rosa had messy blond hair .
George wore a striped sailor shirt .
Emmeline had brown hair and bangs , and was cuddling a cat .
Ronan was not present .
Nicholas was present but not visible on camera ; a few tufts of his blond hair appeared at the bottom of my screen .
The kids had set their own screen names : “ cat and dogs , ” “ stampylongnose , ” another “ stampylongnose , ” and “ diper.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ pick something “ school appropriate , ” Rosa changed “ diper ” to “ Spectrapod snow squall.
” ) Ryan greeted the students with a bright “ Hey !
” and issued a series of directives , to get order : “ Guys , when we start the class , I ’ m going to ask everybody to not change their screen names .
.
.
No screen sharing .
I thought I turned that off .
.
.
Nicholas !
I need you to tip your camera down so I can see @ @ @ @ @ @ @ holding balls of green therapy putty , one of several fidget tools they ’ d been given to satisfy what Ryan called their “ need for motion.
” My screen filled with movement as they played with the putty : smashing it , rolling it into balls , yanking it into long strands .
Legs and arms flew , bodies rocked .
I found myself feeling faintly seasick .
The noise level crept up .
Rosa leaned into the camera , pulled at the corners of her mouth , and grimaced .
Emmeline @ @ @ @ @ @ @ chanted , “ I have a putty cheek !
I have a putty cheek !
” At this point , one of Zoom ’ s advantages became apparent : it has a mute function .
Ryan muted the students , and silence and order were instantly restored .
He outlined the day ’ s schedule : Tabata exercises , a finger warmup with therapy putty , cursive writing , and typing practice .
Then he put on music—the theme song from “ Rocky ” —and announced , “ All right , guys , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ jumping jacks .
Push your chairs back !
Let ’ s go !
” The children jumped up and began bouncing to the music , in their living rooms .
Ryan led them in a series of exercise moves : “ Balance on one foot !
.
.
.
Tree pose !
.
.
.
Now punch !
” Ten minutes later , they were panting .
“ Phew !
” he said , unmuting them .
“ You guys killed it !
” “ No , you killed it , ” he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ students and parents are involved in a vast cyber-education experiment .
Public schools in forty-six U.S. states have closed , and New York City ’ s 1.1 million public-school students have moved to remote learning , many using iPads and Chromebooks distributed by the city .
Day-care centers were doing sing-alongs and circle time via video chat .
Parents were moonlighting as technical assistants and home-school instructors .
( Many were Tweeting bleak updates : “ All control has been lost .
Please send help ” ; “ Fed the math homework to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Day 6 ( ? )
of # homeschooling and the four year old has started saying ‘ yes , master ’ to my every instruction.
” ) For the Lang School , the week progressed , in the students ’ living rooms , kitchens , and bedrooms , which soon became familiar .
In English Language Arts , they practiced essay writing , working on documents from a shared Google Drive .
( Emmeline ’ s essay was called “ My Home , ” George ’ s “ The dog run , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” ) In Speech class , they studied the art of conversation , learning to respond politely to openers such as “ I ’ m going to a concert tomorrow night ” or “ I got a new puppy this weekend.
” After class , the teacher , Judy Nussbaum , a speech-language pathologist , told me that Zoom has its advantages as a teaching medium .
“ Some kids are coming out of their shell more and advocating for themselves , ” she said .
The chat function was especially helpful .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ me all the time with questions , asking me to clarify or repeat something.
” Online , the various Zoom functions—screen sharing , screen names , chatting , the mute button—seemed to be a locus for negotiating student-teacher power dynamics , which might otherwise have revolved around recess or classroom privileges .
During Lunch Bunch , an informal session of eating and talking , Ronan pressed his homeroom teachers , Brennan Chandler and Ryan Pierce , for expanded chat abilities .
“ Can you enable chat so we can chat with other people @ @ @ @ @ @ @ no .
“ I ’ d prefer for you to talk to each other.
” “ But I like chatting , because you can send files .
I have a file I need to send to Rosa .
”

In some ways, the Lang School, a small, private school in the Financial District, was well-suited to the age of the coronavirus. Lang, which has students in grades two through twelve, is a “2e” school, which stands for “twice exceptional.” The term refers to gifted students who also have some form of learning disability such as dyslexia, ADHD, or mild autism. Such students present all kinds of teaching challenges, and so Micaela Bracamonte, the founder and head of school, said, “I seek out teachers who are flexible and improvisational and adaptable. A lot of them have an arts background.”
On Wednesday, March 11th, the day the World Health Organization announced that COVID-19 was officially a pandemic, the school’s staff sprang into action. They spent two days setting up the transition to remote learning—configuring Zoom, developing lesson plans. Online classes commenced on Tuesday, March 17th. By Wednesday, Bracamonte was getting frantic e-mails from the parents of second and third graders. For those students, she said, “it was clear that it was a disaster.” The problem had to do with the teaching format. Older students were taking live classes via Zoom. But the New York State Association of Independent Schools and other pedagogical authorities had recommended “asynchronous learning” for younger children. The six- and seven-year-olds were given assignments to complete on their own time, with their parents acting as presumed enforcers. The result was a “mini revolt,” Bracamonte said. “The kids were just not doing the work. And the parents were exasperated.” Many had given up. “We were getting lots of e-mails saying, ‘I just don’t think she can handle this remote-learning thing. I’m going to take her out to play at noon.’”
Bracamonte decided that the experts were wrong. “Everybody’s telling us that ‘asynchronous learning’ is the best practice for this age. But think about it. There are really no best practices. We’ve never been in this situation before! Nobody has a clue what to do for any population of kids, much less ours.” She called a school leadership meeting, via Zoom, and told the staff to switch gears again, and prepare to teach live video classes to the second and third graders. The teachers were hesitant. Lang students tend to be “exceptionally impulsive,” Bracamonte said. Wrangling them can be a challenge under normal conditions. “The teachers were afraid that the kids were not going to coöperate, and they wouldn’t be able to manage a virtual classroom.” But she insisted that they try it.
Last Tuesday, at 9:40 a.m., the second and third graders logged onto Zoom for one of the staples of Lang’s curriculum: an occupational therapy class, where they practice fine motor skills, such as handwriting, and learn how to manage more intense physical activity. (The school’s campus has a small gym with a climbing wall, treadmills, and swings.) I logged on shortly before the class’s start time, and chatted with the teacher, a burly, bald, and bearded occupational therapist named Michael Ryan. The students began popping up on screen. Rosa had messy blond hair. George wore a striped sailor shirt. Emmeline had brown hair and bangs, and was cuddling a cat. Ronan was not present. Nicholas was present but not visible on camera; a few tufts of his blond hair appeared at the bottom of my screen. The kids had set their own screen names: “cat and dogs,” “stampylongnose,” another “stampylongnose,” and “diper.” (When Ryan reminded them to pick something “school appropriate,” Rosa changed “diper” to “Spectrapod snow squall.”)
Ryan greeted the students with a bright “Hey!” and issued a series of directives, to get order: “Guys, when we start the class, I’m going to ask everybody to not change their screen names . . . No screen sharing. I thought I turned that off . . . Nicholas! I need you to tip your camera down so I can see you.” Ryan and the students were holding balls of green therapy putty, one of several fidget tools they’d been given to satisfy what Ryan called their “need for motion.” My screen filled with movement as they played with the putty: smashing it, rolling it into balls, yanking it into long strands. Legs and arms flew, bodies rocked. I found myself feeling faintly seasick. The noise level crept up. Rosa leaned into the camera, pulled at the corners of her mouth, and grimaced. Emmeline stuck her putty to her face and chanted, “I have a putty cheek! I have a putty cheek!”
At this point, one of Zoom’s advantages became apparent: it has a mute function. Ryan muted the students, and silence and order were instantly restored. He outlined the day’s schedule: Tabata exercises, a finger warmup with therapy putty, cursive writing, and typing practice. Then he put on music—the theme song from “Rocky”—and announced, “All right, guys, we’re going to start with jumping jacks. Push your chairs back! Let’s go!” The children jumped up and began bouncing to the music, in their living rooms. Ryan led them in a series of exercise moves: “Balance on one foot! . . . Tree pose! . . . Now punch!” Ten minutes later, they were panting. “Phew!” he said, unmuting them. “You guys killed it!”
“We killed you?!” someone asked.
“No, you killed it,” he said.
All across the world, students and parents are involved in a vast cyber-education experiment. Public schools in forty-six U.S. states have closed, and New York City’s 1.1 million public-school students have moved to remote learning, many using iPads and Chromebooks distributed by the city. Day-care centers were doing sing-alongs and circle time via video chat. Parents were moonlighting as technical assistants and home-school instructors. (Many were Tweeting bleak updates: “All control has been lost. Please send help”; “Fed the math homework to the dog myself”’; “Day 6(?) of #homeschooling and the four year old has started saying ‘yes, master’ to my every instruction.”)
For the Lang School, the week progressed, in the students’ living rooms, kitchens, and bedrooms, which soon became familiar. In English Language Arts, they practiced essay writing, working on documents from a shared Google Drive. (Emmeline’s essay was called “My Home,” George’s “The dog run,” and Ronan’s “Place thingy.”) In Speech class, they studied the art of conversation, learning to respond politely to openers such as “I’m going to a concert tomorrow night” or “I got a new puppy this weekend.” After class, the teacher, Judy Nussbaum, a speech-language pathologist, told me that Zoom has its advantages as a teaching medium. “Some kids are coming out of their shell more and advocating for themselves,” she said. The chat function was especially helpful. “I have kids who are chatting me all the time with questions, asking me to clarify or repeat something.”
Online, the various Zoom functions—screen sharing, screen names, chatting, the mute button—seemed to be a locus for negotiating student-teacher power dynamics, which might otherwise have revolved around recess or classroom privileges. During Lunch Bunch, an informal session of eating and talking, Ronan pressed his homeroom teachers, Brennan Chandler and Ryan Pierce, for expanded chat abilities. “Can you enable chat so we can chat with other people?” he asked.
Chandler said no. “I’d prefer for you to talk to each other.”
“But I like chatting, because you can send files. I have a file I need to send to Rosa.”
Chandler changed the subject. “Rosa, what are you eating?”
Rosa, who was eating celery, shrugged. “Me no speak Americano.”
For my benefit, Chandler asked what they thought of Zoom. Emmeline, speaking from beneath a blanket, said that she liked virtual learning, because she could play with her cat during lessons. “Or I can go to the kitchen and get myself a snack. Or I can have my parents do it.”
Ronan said, “I like being able to chat with people—when chat is still turned on.” He thought for a second and said, “I think I’m still learning a lot.” Then he added, quietly, “I prefer regular school.”
Chandler made a sympathetic face. “I do, too, Ronan,” he said.
But the week had its high points. At 9:40 on Wednesday, it was time for Drama. The teachers, Michael Cates and Joe Butler, logged on in costume. Cates, who is Scottish, wore a black flat cap and sunglasses, and introduced himself as James McBond. Butler wore a cowboy hat and said he was Cowboy Billy Bob. They’d asked the students to do the same. Emmeline was wearing a coonskin cap, George a papier-mâché minotaur mask, Nicholas a “Star Wars” Stormtrooper costume, and Ronan a Harry Potter cape. Rosa wore her regular clothes. “I was going to make something, but for some reason my dad’s not letting me,” she explained, as her father tried to say something in the background. “Dad? Please, can you get me a pair of scissors, some tape, a black marker, and a gray marker so I can make an ender dragon head?”
Cates announced that they were going to play an improv game called “Zoom, Zap, Zop,” and explained the rules, which involved passing around an imaginary bolt of energy, in character. George had a hand in the air. Cates unmuted him. “Yes, George?”
“The screen froze and I couldn’t hear anything,” George said.
Cates explained the rules a second time, and after a few false starts, the game commenced. Afterward, they discussed the significance of costumes, and played another improv game, making up a story about a “weird” man named Frinky who drives around in a black car, rescuing cats. When that game was over, the students were in a wide variety of body positions. Emmeline was crouching on her bed, wearing a white doctor’s coat and pretending to operate on a stuffed animal. Nicholas was lying on his back beneath his computer screen, waving a toy weapon in front of the camera. Ronan hunched over his computer, clearly surfing the Internet. George and Rosa had vanished.
There were a few minutes of class time left, but Butler suggested that they finish early. “Why don’t we let you guys have a drink or a snack and transition to your next class?”
Nicholas, still lying down, protested. “Nooo! I don’t want to transition,” he said. “It’s fun.”


newyorker--2020-04-02--A Moment to Rethink How We Support Music

Last week , amid the demoralizing numbers that have told the story of the coronavirus outbreak in the United States , there was one figure worth celebrating .
The music platform Bandcamp announced that it had sold $ 4.3 million worth of music and merchandise in a COVID-19 fund-raiser for its artists .
As social-distancing rules have been put into place around the globe , a special kind of chaos has ensued for musicians , and for the performing arts in general .
Almost overnight , the income from tours , festivals , and live performances has vaporized , which @ @ @ @ @ @ @ means that a vital portion of the average musician ’ s yearly income has also disappeared .
The social-media accounts of the large number of musicians who were set to release albums and tour this spring and winter have grown sober .
That ’ s why the Bandcamp fund-raiser was a small but tangible moment of collective action in the face of dire circumstances .
“ For many artists , a single day of boosted sales can mean the difference between being able to pay rent or not , ” Bandcamp ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the campaign .
“ It may sound simple , but the best way to help artists is with your direct financial support.
” The platform ’ s fund-raiser was one of many efforts unfolding across the country .
A patchwork of emergency-relief funds , artists ’ grants , and GoFundMe pages has emerged on behalf of musicians .
The all-hands approach feels like an uncoördinated improvisation , especially as tour and festival postponements and cancellations have begun to stretch further into the summer months .
Ad-hoc efforts , such as directing merchandise sales @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one arm of an emergency response that stretches to Capitol Hill , where some of the music industry ’ s largest professional associations spent the week lobbying members of Congress to include self-employed musicians and gig workers in the Senate ’ s two-trillion-dollar stimulus bill .
Those efforts succeeded , meaning that untold musicians who are normally considered to be independent contractors will qualify for expanded unemployment benefits through the end of July , in addition to being eligible for Medicaid .
There is a sense within the industry that the bill ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Rolling Stone claimed the relief bill would give musicians a “ fighting chance.
” A statement from the Recording Academy , which represents more than twenty thousand professional musicians , said the relief package would put music creators in a “ better position for immediate and long-term relief.
” There is no doubt that this federal aid will be readily welcomed by the working-class segment of the music industry—from touring bands and producers to backline technicians and soundmen , venue owners , booking agencies , and small studios .
Had it not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and industry associations , or the influx of almost twenty thousand letters urging Congress to support this creative class , the damage would have been severe—an immediate catastrophe for thousands of these gig workers .
Yet it ’ s far from certain that the industry isn ’ t already showing signs of permanent damage .
With monthly rents no doubt looming , and no national effort to suspend rent under way , many musicians will be staring down the usual bills long before the stimulus money reaches their bank accounts .
In New @ @ @ @ @ @ @ considering a ninety-day rent-suspension measure , S08125 , which would immediately alleviate a throbbing source of pressure for musicians in the city .
There is little indication , at the moment , that Governor Andrew Cuomo would sign such a bill , should it pass .
Even before the current crisis , ours was a nation where an estimated nearly forty per cent of Americans can ’ t manage a four-hundred-dollar emergency without having to borrow money or sell possessions .
And where money can ’ t be borrowed or work can ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have capital socked away in their gear , the tools of their trade .
Across the country , one commonly defined “ essential ” business is the pawn shop .
Like the smell of infection that indicates gangrene , the recent spate of furloughs and layoffs by booking agencies and ticket-process companies points to a long-term contraction in live music as a source of revenue .
This past Wednesday , the ticketing company Stubhub furloughed more than sixty per cent of its staff .
A week prior , one of the largest talent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ let go more than a hundred staff to adjust to the decline in live-music revenue .
Even when social-distancing efforts are suspended , the idea that musicians can instantly return to the road in an attempt to make up for lost time and revenue ignores that a cash crunch is most likely going to alter the landscape of the tour circuit for years to come .
Booking a tour of any level is a complicated feat of scheduling and geography , and fiercely competitive in normal circumstances .
In addition , many independent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ months of total revenue loss , leaving many of the smaller operations , and promoters , without the cash to book artists once night life resumes .
The owner of two well-liked venues in Seattle told Billboard that he expected to lose “ six figures ” of income every month the shutdown continues .
And Live Nation , the events behemoth expected to absorb an even larger chunk of the concert industry , has already seen its market value plunge in half , by nine billion dollars .
These circumstances make it all @ @ @ @ @ @ @ crisis unfolds for musicians , words like “ assistance ” and “ relief ” and “ support ” have infiltrated every mention of artists in this moment .
Even where the industry has resorted to self-mythologizing , the tentative note of worry appears .
In response to the stimulus package , the C.E.O .
of the Recording Industry Association of America , said that “ The power of music will help us get through this crisis.
” But what ’ s on the other end of this crisis , and should musicians actually @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
The volume of fund-raisers , and the daily calls for financial support for musicians , can be stitched together to reveal a silent plea , one that suggests we should look at the current crisis as a mandate to move away from a broken economic model that condemns those who pursue a creative life to poverty .
As musicians and artists rally , offering us bedroom performances and curated playlists , we have a chance to rethink our relationship with them .
Or , at the very least , consider the status @ @ @ @ @ @ @ subsides .
The norm for many musicians is an environment pitted with corrosive conditions for mental health .
A 2018 survey of musicians , led by Alan B. Krueger , an economics professor at Princeton University , found that half of its respondents reported feeling “ down , depressed , or hopeless , ” or more than double the rate of adults in the United States .
This same survey , which was conducted in partnership with the music relief group MusiCares , found that the average musician earned just twenty-one thousand three @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The survey also complicates the commonly held assumption that live performances are a good source of financial stability for working musicians .
For any artist that has yet to hit the mid-tier festival slot—say , a small-font Coachella billing—you ’ re likely the kind of average musician cited in the survey who made less than fifty-five hundred dollars from the toil of travelling across the country for weeks at time .

Last week, amid the demoralizing numbers that have told the story of the coronavirus outbreak in the United States, there was one figure worth celebrating. The music platform Bandcamp announced that it had sold $4.3 million worth of music and merchandise in a COVID-19 fund-raiser for its artists. As social-distancing rules have been put into place around the globe, a special kind of chaos has ensued for musicians, and for the performing arts in general. Almost overnight, the income from tours, festivals, and live performances has vaporized, which, in the age of streaming, means that a vital portion of the average musician’s yearly income has also disappeared. The social-media accounts of the large number of musicians who were set to release albums and tour this spring and winter have grown sober. That’s why the Bandcamp fund-raiser was a small but tangible moment of collective action in the face of dire circumstances. “For many artists, a single day of boosted sales can mean the difference between being able to pay rent or not,” Bandcamp’s C.E.O., Ethan Diamond, wrote before the campaign. “It may sound simple, but the best way to help artists is with your direct financial support.”
The platform’s fund-raiser was one of many efforts unfolding across the country. A patchwork of emergency-relief funds, artists’ grants, and GoFundMe pages has emerged on behalf of musicians. The all-hands approach feels like an uncoördinated improvisation, especially as tour and festival postponements and cancellations have begun to stretch further into the summer months. Ad-hoc efforts, such as directing merchandise sales toward sidelined road crews, are just one arm of an emergency response that stretches to Capitol Hill, where some of the music industry’s largest professional associations spent the week lobbying members of Congress to include self-employed musicians and gig workers in the Senate’s two-trillion-dollar stimulus bill.
Those efforts succeeded, meaning that untold musicians who are normally considered to be independent contractors will qualify for expanded unemployment benefits through the end of July, in addition to being eligible for Medicaid. There is a sense within the industry that the bill’s passage has forestalled a greater disaster. Rolling Stone claimed the relief bill would give musicians a “fighting chance.” A statement from the Recording Academy, which represents more than twenty thousand professional musicians, said the relief package would put music creators in a “better position for immediate and long-term relief.” There is no doubt that this federal aid will be readily welcomed by the working-class segment of the music industry—from touring bands and producers to backline technicians and soundmen, venue owners, booking agencies, and small studios. Had it not been for the concerted effort between musicians and industry associations, or the influx of almost twenty thousand letters urging Congress to support this creative class, the damage would have been severe—an immediate catastrophe for thousands of these gig workers.
Yet it’s far from certain that the industry isn’t already showing signs of permanent damage. With monthly rents no doubt looming, and no national effort to suspend rent under way, many musicians will be staring down the usual bills long before the stimulus money reaches their bank accounts. In New York, the State Assembly is currently considering a ninety-day rent-suspension measure, S08125, which would immediately alleviate a throbbing source of pressure for musicians in the city. There is little indication, at the moment, that Governor Andrew Cuomo would sign such a bill, should it pass. Even before the current crisis, ours was a nation where an estimated nearly forty per cent of Americans can’t manage a four-hundred-dollar emergency without having to borrow money or sell possessions. And where money can’t be borrowed or work can’t be found, most working musicians have capital socked away in their gear, the tools of their trade. Across the country, one commonly defined “essential” business is the pawn shop.
Like the smell of infection that indicates gangrene, the recent spate of furloughs and layoffs by booking agencies and ticket-process companies points to a long-term contraction in live music as a source of revenue. This past Wednesday, the ticketing company Stubhub furloughed more than sixty per cent of its staff. A week prior, one of the largest talent agencies in the country, Paradigm, let go more than a hundred staff to adjust to the decline in live-music revenue. Even when social-distancing efforts are suspended, the idea that musicians can instantly return to the road in an attempt to make up for lost time and revenue ignores that a cash crunch is most likely going to alter the landscape of the tour circuit for years to come. Booking a tour of any level is a complicated feat of scheduling and geography, and fiercely competitive in normal circumstances. In addition, many independent clubs won’t likely survive multiple months of total revenue loss, leaving many of the smaller operations, and promoters, without the cash to book artists once night life resumes. The owner of two well-liked venues in Seattle told Billboard that he expected to lose “six figures” of income every month the shutdown continues. And Live Nation, the events behemoth expected to absorb an even larger chunk of the concert industry, has already seen its market value plunge in half, by nine billion dollars.
These circumstances make it all the more understandable why, as the crisis unfolds for musicians, words like “assistance” and “relief” and “support” have infiltrated every mention of artists in this moment. Even where the industry has resorted to self-mythologizing, the tentative note of worry appears. In response to the stimulus package, the C.E.O. of the Recording Industry Association of America, said that “The power of music will help us get through this crisis.” But what’s on the other end of this crisis, and should musicians actually be eager to return to that place? The volume of fund-raisers, and the daily calls for financial support for musicians, can be stitched together to reveal a silent plea, one that suggests we should look at the current crisis as a mandate to move away from a broken economic model that condemns those who pursue a creative life to poverty. As musicians and artists rally, offering us bedroom performances and curated playlists, we have a chance to rethink our relationship with them. Or, at the very least, consider the status quo that awaits them once this crisis subsides.
The norm for many musicians is an environment pitted with corrosive conditions for mental health. A 2018 survey of musicians, led by Alan B. Krueger, an economics professor at Princeton University, found that half of its respondents reported feeling “down, depressed, or hopeless,” or more than double the rate of adults in the United States. This same survey, which was conducted in partnership with the music relief group MusiCares, found that the average musician earned just twenty-one thousand three hundred dollars from their art in 2017. The survey also complicates the commonly held assumption that live performances are a good source of financial stability for working musicians. For any artist that has yet to hit the mid-tier festival slot—say, a small-font Coachella billing—you’re likely the kind of average musician cited in the survey who made less than fifty-five hundred dollars from the toil of travelling across the country for weeks at time.
Success, and the financial security that follows it, is essentially in the hands of a small pool of musicians. “There’s very little middle- and lower-class in recording. That world has dried up,” Daniel Glass, the president of the independent label Glassnote Records, told Pitchfork last spring. But it’s been a historically profitable moment for the music industry as a whole. Digital streaming, led by services such as Spotify, Amazon, and YouTube, has rapidly increased the total revenues generated by music and consolidated the ways that we connect to music. In 2019, the industry surpassed eleven billion dollars in revenue, with nearly eighty per cent of that amount earned through streaming. This past week, Spotify announced a COVID-19-relief effort of its own, pledging up to ten million dollars in matching contributions, a figure close to just 0.05 per cent of its estimated market value of twenty-two billion dollars. The same Princeton survey reported that only twenty-eight per cent of musicians earned any income from streaming revenue, and, when they did earn money, that amount averaged out to a hundred dollars per year.
The collective readjustment of daily life has awakened some old sensations. The Bandcamp fund-raiser, and the calls for support by musicians, artists, writers, and printmakers, has brought back the gratification of picking up an album from a merch table or calling to order a book from a locally owned bookstore. The feeling has less to do with the fuzzy values of physical media versus digital goods but, instead, the relationship that these exchanges cultivate. The act of reaching out to someone, for something real in return, is gratifying. Like the supply chains we’ve long become estranged from in the world of Amazon, the relationship between music creator and listener, between art and value, has been disrupted, undeniably, by the mechanics of streaming music and by the greed of major labels.


newyorker--2020-04-02--“Working Together Is What Humans Are Built to Do”: Social Trust Is Key to Stemming the Coronavirus C

“Working Together Is What Humans Are Built to Do”: Social Trust Is Key to Stemming the Coronavirus Crisis

Subscribers to The Climate Crisis newsletter received this piece in their in-boxes .
Sign up to receive future installments .
The coronavirus pandemic is now so sprawling that it has revealed the souls of tens of thousands of individuals , from remarkably kind nurses to online sellers seeking to corner the market for hand sanitizers ( until finally deciding to donate them ) .
One saga that we should not soon forget involves Rand Paul , the Republican senator from Kentucky .
On March 16th , out of “ an abundance of caution , ” he said , he got @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , while waiting for the results , he kept circulating in public , continuing his work on Capitol Hill ( where he lambasted and then voted against a bill that would have offered free tests to all Americans ) , and even working out in the Senate gym and swimming in the Senate pool .
The test results came back positive , and Paul then went into self-quarantine .
The reason to focus on this story is not to suggest that Paul is a selfish jerk ; he is a medical doctor , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s because he is the foremost representative of libertarian philosophy in our nation ’ s Capitol , and that philosophy has helped produce the world we live in : one in which we struggle to solve both the coronavirus pandemic and the larger climate crisis .
Last week , I tried to show how those crises were linked through the variable of time ; this week , it ’ s social trust that ’ s the issue .
Ayn Rand and her novels—one of which , “ Atlas Shrugged , ” was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Library of Congress , the second-most influential book in the country —helped get this ball rolling .
Rand ’ s novels are worth thinking about , because they ’ ve shaped the thinking of American leaders since the Reagan era , when Rand ’ s acolyte Alan Greenspan became the most powerful economic figure on the planet .
This view of the world—that government is the problem , that we should free individuals and corporations from its clutches—has made it all but impossible to address global warming .
The Koch brothers , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ milieu ; it was after the late David Koch failed in his Vice-Presidential bid on the Libertarian Party ticket , in 1980 , that he and his older brother Charles became two of the G.O.P.
’ s biggest funders .
Since they were among America ’ s biggest oil and gas barons , it was no wonder that they opposed restrictions on the fossil-fuel industry , but it wasn ’ t just self-interest : the government action necessary to tackle climate change is incompatible with their belief system .
The right-wing syllogism became @ @ @ @ @ @ @ That ’ s not logical , but it is comforting if you ’ ve committed to the basic idea that , as Ronald Reagan once put it , “ The nine most terrifying words in the English language are ‘ I ’ m from the government and I ’ m here to help.
’ ” But , of course , that ’ s nowhere near the scariest sentence .
Try : “ The hillside behind town is on fire.
” “ The subway system is flooded.
” “ Your test came back positive.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ Old impulses die hard .
Donald Trump—who once described himself as a fan of Rand ’ s and her book “ The Fountainhead ” because “ it relates to business ( and ) beauty ( and ) life and inner emotions .
That book relates to .
.
.
everything ” —has been using the pandemic to , among other things , drastically relax what environmental laws remain .
Meanwhile , his economic adviser Larry Kudlow told CNBC , “ I just think the private sector is going to solve this disease.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Massachusetts , said , when informed of Trump ’ s desire to “ pack churches ” on Easter , “ Yeah .
No.
” In fact , the countries dealing best with the coronavirus are precisely those with high levels of social trust : South Korea , for instance , where a comprehensive national health system made sure that no one had to worry about getting a test or paying for treatment .
Or the Scandinavian nations , which a United Nations report released on March 20th said are in the best position @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ with higher levels of social trust and connections are more resilient in the face of natural disasters and economic crises , ” it concluded , because “ fixing rather than fighting becomes the order of the day.
” It ’ s probably no accident that , in many ways , the Nordic nations also lead the climate fight , or that South Korea ’ s ruling party proposed a sweeping Green New Deal to confront the economic slump that the virus left behind .
Working together is what humans are actually built @ @ @ @ @ @ @ been one of the most productive fronts in the fight against climate change for nearly a decade , growing into the largest campaign of its kind , with endowments and portfolios worth twelve trillion dollars pledging to sell their fossil-fuel stock .
But some of this country ’ s richest universities , including Yale and Harvard , have declined to join , despite votes showing students and faculty overwhelmingly in favor of divestment .
So some Harvard students and alumni started a group called Harvard Forward , which , with a petition drive @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on the ballot in the university ’ s Board of Overseers elections , which alumni would have been able to vote in beginning this week .
( Harvard announced on Tuesday that , because of the coronavirus , it would postpone the balloting until midsummer . )
One of them is Thea Sebastian , who graduated from the college in 2008 and the law school in 2016 , and is the policy counsel for an N.G.O .
called the Civil Rights Corps , where she “ coordinates nationwide strategies to address race-based and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Harvard is filled with scholars studying the climate crisis .
Why do you think the administration has been so unwilling to follow institutions around the world and divest from fossil fuels ?
Harvard has been an incredible leader on many issues , taking difficult stances that challenged accepted norms .
Take , for example , our leadership on affirmative action .
Take our stance on “ Don ’ t Ask , Don ’ t Tell.
” Where our endowment is concerned , we haven ’ t shown this same courage .
We only @ @ @ @ @ @ @ passed .
And on climate change , we ’ re poised to do the same .
In my view , our reticence stems from a belief that investments and values are separable .
If we ’ re doing good research and going carbon-neutral , we can make money however we want .
It ’ s the same bifurcation—a line between profit and purpose—that describes much of our economy .
The thing is , this bifurcation doesn ’ t hold .
Our investments are a crucial instrument of our values .
That ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ far beyond .
We won ’ t fix climate change—or solve structural inequities—without building an economy where companies act and invest responsibly .
I want Harvard to lead this charge .
And , in my view , that starts with divestment .
Much of your work is on civil rights and structural inequality .
Harvard is as close to the center of the establishment as it ’ s possible to get .
Can it really play a role in dismantling systems it helped build ?

Subscribers to The Climate Crisis newsletter received this piece in their in-boxes. Sign up to receive future installments.
The coronavirus pandemic is now so sprawling that it has revealed the souls of tens of thousands of individuals, from remarkably kind nurses to online sellers seeking to corner the market for hand sanitizers (until finally deciding to donate them). One saga that we should not soon forget involves Rand Paul, the Republican senator from Kentucky. On March 16th, out of “an abundance of caution,” he said, he got an early test. For a week, while waiting for the results, he kept circulating in public, continuing his work on Capitol Hill (where he lambasted and then voted against a bill that would have offered free tests to all Americans), and even working out in the Senate gym and swimming in the Senate pool. The test results came back positive, and Paul then went into self-quarantine.
The reason to focus on this story is not to suggest that Paul is a selfish jerk; he is a medical doctor, for heaven’s sake. It’s because he is the foremost representative of libertarian philosophy in our nation’s Capitol, and that philosophy has helped produce the world we live in: one in which we struggle to solve both the coronavirus pandemic and the larger climate crisis. Last week, I tried to show how those crises were linked through the variable of time; this week, it’s social trust that’s the issue.
Ayn Rand and her novels—one of which, “Atlas Shrugged,” was once, according to a survey for the Library of Congress, the second-most influential book in the country —helped get this ball rolling. Rand’s novels are worth thinking about, because they’ve shaped the thinking of American leaders since the Reagan era, when Rand’s acolyte Alan Greenspan became the most powerful economic figure on the planet. This view of the world—that government is the problem, that we should free individuals and corporations from its clutches—has made it all but impossible to address global warming. The Koch brothers, for instance, came directly from this milieu; it was after the late David Koch failed in his Vice-Presidential bid on the Libertarian Party ticket, in 1980, that he and his older brother Charles became two of the G.O.P.’s biggest funders. Since they were among America’s biggest oil and gas barons, it was no wonder that they opposed restrictions on the fossil-fuel industry, but it wasn’t just self-interest: the government action necessary to tackle climate change is incompatible with their belief system. The right-wing syllogism became, I think, the following:
—Markets solve all problems.
—Markets aren’t solving global warming.
—Q.E.D.: Global warming is not a problem.
That’s not logical, but it is comforting if you’ve committed to the basic idea that, as Ronald Reagan once put it, “The nine most terrifying words in the English language are ‘I’m from the government and I’m here to help.’ ” But, of course, that’s nowhere near the scariest sentence. Try: “The hillside behind town is on fire.” “The subway system is flooded.” “Your test came back positive.” “There are no ventilators.”
Old impulses die hard. Donald Trump—who once described himself as a fan of Rand’s and her book “The Fountainhead” because “it relates to business (and) beauty (and) life and inner emotions. That book relates to . . . everything”—has been using the pandemic to, among other things, drastically relax what environmental laws remain. Meanwhile, his economic adviser Larry Kudlow told CNBC, “I just think the private sector is going to solve this disease.” As Charlie Baker, the governor of Massachusetts, said, when informed of Trump’s desire to “pack churches” on Easter, “Yeah. No.” In fact, the countries dealing best with the coronavirus are precisely those with high levels of social trust: South Korea, for instance, where a comprehensive national health system made sure that no one had to worry about getting a test or paying for treatment. Or the Scandinavian nations, which a United Nations report released on March 20th said are in the best position to deal with such crises. Nations “with higher levels of social trust and connections are more resilient in the face of natural disasters and economic crises,” it concluded, because “fixing rather than fighting becomes the order of the day.” It’s probably no accident that, in many ways, the Nordic nations also lead the climate fight, or that South Korea’s ruling party proposed a sweeping Green New Deal to confront the economic slump that the virus left behind. Working together is what humans are actually built to do.
Passing the Mic
The fossil-fuel-divestment movement has been one of the most productive fronts in the fight against climate change for nearly a decade, growing into the largest campaign of its kind, with endowments and portfolios worth twelve trillion dollars pledging to sell their fossil-fuel stock. But some of this country’s richest universities, including Yale and Harvard, have declined to join, despite votes showing students and faculty overwhelmingly in favor of divestment. So some Harvard students and alumni started a group called Harvard Forward, which, with a petition drive, managed to get five climate-focussed candidates on the ballot in the university’s Board of Overseers elections, which alumni would have been able to vote in beginning this week. (Harvard announced on Tuesday that, because of the coronavirus, it would postpone the balloting until midsummer.) One of them is Thea Sebastian, who graduated from the college in 2008 and the law school in 2016, and is the policy counsel for an N.G.O. called the Civil Rights Corps, where she “coordinates nationwide strategies to address race-based and wealth-based injustices in our criminal-legal system.”
Harvard is filled with scholars studying the climate crisis. Why do you think the administration has been so unwilling to follow institutions around the world and divest from fossil fuels?
Harvard has been an incredible leader on many issues, taking difficult stances that challenged accepted norms. Take, for example, our leadership on affirmative action. Take our stance on “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.”
Where our endowment is concerned, we haven’t shown this same courage. We only divested from apartheid after the moment had passed. And on climate change, we’re poised to do the same.
In my view, our reticence stems from a belief that investments and values are separable. If we’re doing good research and going carbon-neutral, we can make money however we want. It’s the same bifurcation—a line between profit and purpose—that describes much of our economy.
The thing is, this bifurcation doesn’t hold. Our investments are a crucial instrument of our values. That’s true both at Harvard and far, far beyond. We won’t fix climate change—or solve structural inequities—without building an economy where companies act and invest responsibly. I want Harvard to lead this charge. And, in my view, that starts with divestment.
Much of your work is on civil rights and structural inequality. Harvard is as close to the center of the establishment as it’s possible to get. Can it really play a role in dismantling systems it helped build?
Yes! That’s why Harvard must play this role. We currently have a society where economic fortunes are mostly determined by Zip Code and skin color. And, unfortunately, American higher education isn’t exactly helping. In many ways, it’s making things worse.
The thing is, Harvard has an incredible opportunity to address this problem. First, Harvard has an incomparable platform to amplify cutting-edge, exciting policies to increase diversity and insure that first-generation students have every opportunity to attend and succeed at Harvard. What Harvard does, given its stature, will percolate elsewhere.
Second, Harvard builds the leaders of tomorrow. If our curriculum encourages our students to engage these inequities, we can build new health, educational, economic, and other systems that genuinely ensure opportunity for all.