This Is America?

I was twenty when Yusuf K. Hawkins , a sixteen-year-old African-American man , was attacked by a mob of about thirty white teen-agers armed with baseball bats and then shot to death , on August 23 , 1989 , in Bensonhurst , Brooklyn .
Hawkins had gone to the predominantly white neighborhood to buy a car .
In the days and weeks following his death , there were marches , led by the Reverend Al Sharpton and a coalition of civil-rights organizations , through the neighborhood where Hawkins was killed .
At the time of Hawkins ’ s murder , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for only eight years .
Having spent my childhood living under a ruthless dictatorship in Haiti and being constantly reminded to avoid the wrath of soldiers and henchmen , I was already haunted by stories of beatings , torture , and extrajudicial killings .
This was , in part , why I went to a massive protest in downtown Brooklyn a week after the murder .
The march , called A Day of Outrage and Mourning , was attended by more than seven thousand people .
I took my teen-age brothers with me @ @ @ @ @ @ @ down Flatbush Avenue , shouting , “ No justice , no peace ” —that one day I might be chanting for them .
We came close on August 9 , 1997 , when a family friend , Abner Louima , in a case of mistaken identity , was arrested outside a Brooklyn night club , then pummelled with the fists , radios , flashlights , and nightsticks of several police officers , then sexually assaulted with a wooden broom handle inside a precinct bathroom .
Some black immigrant parents harbor the illusion that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the most polite , the best dressed , and the hardest working in school , they might somehow escape the brunt of systemic racism .
But the myth of the good immigrant as exempt from police assault and murder kept getting shattered around us .
By the February 4 , 1999 , killing of Amadou Diallo , a twenty-three-year-old Guinean , slaughtered on his doorstep by nineteen of the forty-one police bullets aimed at him as he reached for his wallet ; by the March 16 , 2000 , shooting of Patrick Dorismond @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , by undercover officers .
Thousands of people , in the United States and around the world , have had their own awakenings—from joining protests to becoming part of movements—after watching the on-camera asphyxiation of George Floyd , his neck crushed beneath the bent knee of Derek Chauvin for nearly nine minutes , as two other officers dug their knees into Floyd ’ s back .
It is the stuff of many African-American families ’ worst nightmares , a public torture and execution by uniformed representatives of the state , who seem equally @ @ @ @ @ @ @ extinguishing and the consequences they appear certain they will never face .
It is also the type of thing that many immigrants thought they were leaving behind when they moved here .
Describing the reaction of some of Minnesota ’ s Somali refugees to the sadistic killing of Floyd , Fartun Weli , the executive director of Isuroon—a nonprofit organization that supports Somali families—told the Minneapolis Star Tribune , “ They were like , ‘ We can ’ t believe it .
This is America.
’ ” At the same time , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ life out of Floyd might serve as a metaphor for the way U.S .
Administrations have , for generations , dealt with the countries many of us come from—through invasions , occupations , wars , the buttressing of dictators , and the removal of democratically elected governments , among other tactics .
In the agony of his final moments , while crying out for his mama , water , and breath , George Floyd reached out to and became all of us .
He has joined a vast community of people , across @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the injustices and the inequalities of their own societies in his American story , and recognize their own torment in his suffering .
Floyd ’ s seemingly unending death , in the midst of a pandemic that has disproportionately killed black , brown , and indigenous people , also underscores the fact that many of us are mourning , and are uncertain about how long we ourselves will be able to breathe .
In images of the solidarity protests from more than fifty countries around the world—Syria , Brazil , Australia , South @ @ @ @ @ @ @ justice , no peace ” and “ Black lives matter.
” George Floyd ’ s name is not the only one being called .
The names of their own Breonna Taylors , Ahmaud Arberys , Sandra Blands , and Trayvon Martins also ring out , as part of a long and growing list .
“ It ’ s always the same story .
Only the names change ” read a cardboard sign held up by a protester in Paris .
Another sign reads “ STOP KILLING US.
” This “ us ” has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and more visible than George Floyd or his killers could have ever imagined .
At recent rallies and protests near my home , in Miami , in addition to cries for justice for George Floyd and other victims of police and vigilante murder , I have observed spoken-word recitals , calls to defund the police and to end mass incarceration , and pleas for people to go out and vote .
I have also heard music , drumming , and political hip-hop blasting from cars trailing the crowds .
At times , also @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are the words of the Miami-based poet and activist Aja Monet , from her poem “ # sayhername ” :

I was twenty when Yusuf K. Hawkins, a sixteen-year-old African-American man, was attacked by a mob of about thirty white teen-agers armed with baseball bats and then shot to death, on August 23, 1989, in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. Hawkins had gone to the predominantly white neighborhood to buy a car. In the days and weeks following his death, there were marches, led by the Reverend Al Sharpton and a coalition of civil-rights organizations, through the neighborhood where Hawkins was killed.
At the time of Hawkins’s murder, I had been in the United States for only eight years. Having spent my childhood living under a ruthless dictatorship in Haiti and being constantly reminded to avoid the wrath of soldiers and henchmen, I was already haunted by stories of beatings, torture, and extrajudicial killings. This was, in part, why I went to a massive protest in downtown Brooklyn a week after the murder. The march, called A Day of Outrage and Mourning, was attended by more than seven thousand people. I took my teen-age brothers with me, and I remember fearing—as we marched down Flatbush Avenue, shouting, “No justice, no peace”—that one day I might be chanting for them.
We came close on August 9, 1997, when a family friend, Abner Louima, in a case of mistaken identity, was arrested outside a Brooklyn night club, then pummelled with the fists, radios, flashlights, and nightsticks of several police officers, then sexually assaulted with a wooden broom handle inside a precinct bathroom. Some black immigrant parents harbor the illusion that if their émigré and U.S.-born children are the most polite, the best dressed, and the hardest working in school, they might somehow escape the brunt of systemic racism. But the myth of the good immigrant as exempt from police assault and murder kept getting shattered around us. By the February 4, 1999, killing of Amadou Diallo, a twenty-three-year-old Guinean, slaughtered on his doorstep by nineteen of the forty-one police bullets aimed at him as he reached for his wallet; by the March 16, 2000, shooting of Patrick Dorismond, the twenty-six-year-old son of Haitian immigrants, by undercover officers.
Thousands of people, in the United States and around the world, have had their own awakenings—from joining protests to becoming part of movements—after watching the on-camera asphyxiation of George Floyd, his neck crushed beneath the bent knee of Derek Chauvin for nearly nine minutes, as two other officers dug their knees into Floyd’s back. It is the stuff of many African-American families’ worst nightmares, a public torture and execution by uniformed representatives of the state, who seem equally unconcerned about the life they’re extinguishing and the consequences they appear certain they will never face. It is also the type of thing that many immigrants thought they were leaving behind when they moved here.
Describing the reaction of some of Minnesota’s Somali refugees to the sadistic killing of Floyd, Fartun Weli, the executive director of Isuroon—a nonprofit organization that supports Somali families—told the Minneapolis Star Tribune, “They were like, ‘We can’t believe it. This is America.’ ”
At the same time, the image of these police officers squeezing the life out of Floyd might serve as a metaphor for the way U.S. Administrations have, for generations, dealt with the countries many of us come from—through invasions, occupations, wars, the buttressing of dictators, and the removal of democratically elected governments, among other tactics. In the agony of his final moments, while crying out for his mama, water, and breath, George Floyd reached out to and became all of us. He has joined a vast community of people, across the globe, who see echoes of the injustices and the inequalities of their own societies in his American story, and recognize their own torment in his suffering. Floyd’s seemingly unending death, in the midst of a pandemic that has disproportionately killed black, brown, and indigenous people, also underscores the fact that many of us are mourning, and are uncertain about how long we ourselves will be able to breathe.
In images of the solidarity protests from more than fifty countries around the world—Syria, Brazil, Australia, South Africa—people march, chanting, “No justice, no peace” and “Black lives matter.” George Floyd’s name is not the only one being called. The names of their own Breonna Taylors, Ahmaud Arberys, Sandra Blands, and Trayvon Martins also ring out, as part of a long and growing list. “It’s always the same story. Only the names change” read a cardboard sign held up by a protester in Paris.
Another sign reads “STOP KILLING US.” This “us” has grown exponentially and has become more vocal and more visible than George Floyd or his killers could have ever imagined.
At recent rallies and protests near my home, in Miami, in addition to cries for justice for George Floyd and other victims of police and vigilante murder, I have observed spoken-word recitals, calls to defund the police and to end mass incarceration, and pleas for people to go out and vote. I have also heard music, drumming, and political hip-hop blasting from cars trailing the crowds. At times, also playing in the back of my mind are the words of the Miami-based poet and activist Aja Monet, from her poem “#sayhername”:
I am not here to say look at me how I died
so brutal a death I deserve a name to fit all the horror in


The Trayvon Generation

This one was shot in his grandmother ’ s yard .
This one was carrying a bag of Skittles .
This one was playing with a toy gun in front of a gazebo .
Black girl in bright bikini .
Black boy holding cell phone .
This one danced like a marionette as he was shot down in a Chicago intersection .
The words , the names : Trayvon , Laquan , bikini , gazebo , loosies , Skittles , two seconds , I can ’ t breathe , traffic stop , dashboard cam , sixteen times .
His dead @ @ @ @ @ @ @ August heat for four hours .
He was jogging , was hunted down , cornered by a pickup truck , and shot three times .
One of the men who murdered him leaned over his dead body and was heard to say , “ Fucking nigger.
” I can ’ t breathe , again .
Eight minutes and forty-six seconds of a knee and full weight on his neck .
“ I can ’ t breathe ” and , then , “ Mama !
” George Floyd cried .
George Floyd cried , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ m through !
” His mother had been dead for two years when George Floyd called out for her as he was being lynched .
Lynching is defined as a killing committed by a mob .
I call the four police officers who arrested him a mob .
The kids got shot and the grownups got shot .
Which is to say , the kids watched their peers shot down and their parents ’ generation get gunned down and beat down and terrorized as well .
The agglomerating spectacle continues .
Here are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Danny Ray Thomas .
Johnnie Jermaine Rush .
Nania Cain .
Dejuan Hall .
Atatiana Jefferson .
Demetrius Bryan Hollins .
Jacqueline Craig and her children .
And then the iconic : Alton Sterling .
Eric Garner .
Sandra Bland .
Walter Scott .
Breonna Taylor .
Philando Castile .
Sandra Bland filmed the prelude to her death .
The policeman thrust a stun gun in her face and said , “ I will light you up.
” I call the young people who grew up in the past twenty-five years the Trayvon @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
These stories formed their world view .
These stories helped instruct young African-Americans about their embodiment and their vulnerability .
The stories were primers in fear and futility .
The stories were the ground soil of their rage .
These stories instructed them that anti-black hatred and violence were never far .
They watched these violations up close and on their cell phones , so many times over .
They watched them in near-real time .
They watched them crisscrossed and concentrated .
They watched them on the school bus .
They @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
They watched them often outside of the presence of adults who loved them and were charged with keeping them safe in body and soul .
This is the generation of my sons , now twenty-two and twenty years old , and their friends who are also children to me , and the university students I have taught and mentored and loved .
And this is also the generation of Darnella Frazier , the seventeen-year-old Minneapolis girl who came upon George Floyd ’ s murder in progress while on an everyday run to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ filmed it on her phone , and posted it to her Facebook page at 1:46 A.M. , with the caption “ They killed him right in front of cup foods over south on 38th and Chicago !
!
No type of sympathy < /3 < /3 # POLICEBRUTALITY.
” When insideMPD.com ( in an article that is no longer up ) wrote , “ Man Dies After Medical Incident During Police Interaction , ” Frazier posted at 3:10 A.M. , “ Medical incident ?
?
?
Watch outtt they killed him and the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Darnella Frazier , seventeen years old , witnessing a murder in close proximity , making a record that would have worldwide impact , returned the following day to the scene of the crime .
She possessed the language to say , precisely , through tears , “ It ’ s so traumatizing.
” In Toni Morrison ’ s “ Sula , ” which is set across the bleak black stretch of Ohio after the First World War , the character Hannah plaintively asks her mother , Eva Peace , “ Mamma , did @ @ @ @ @ @ @ paraphrase Eva Peace ’ s reply : Love you ?
Love you ?
I kept you alive .
I believed I could keep my sons alive by loving them , believed in the magical powers of complete adoration and a love ethic that would permeate their lives .
My love was armor when they were small .
My love was armor when their father died of a heart attack when they were twelve and thirteen .
“ They think black men only die when they get shot , ” my older son said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ armor when that same year our community ’ s block watch sent e-mails warning residents about “ two black kids on bikes ” and praising neighbors who had called the police on them .
My love for my children said , Move .
My love said , Follow your sons , when they ran into the dark streets of New York to join protesters after Eric Garner ’ s killer was acquitted .
When my sons were in high school and pictures of Philando Castile were on the front page of the Times @ @ @ @ @ @ @ newspapers so they would not see the gun coming in the window , the blood on Castile ’ s T-shirt , the terror in his partner ’ s face , and the eyes of his witnessing baby girl .
But I was too late , too late generationally , because they were not looking at the newspaper ; they were looking at their phones , where the image was a house of mirrors straight to Hell .
My love was both rational and fantastical .
Can I protect my sons from being demonized @ @ @ @ @ @ @ free ?
But they must be able to move as free as wind !
If I listen to their fears , will I comfort them ?
If I share my fears , will I frighten them ?
Will racism and fear disable them ?
If we ignore it all , will it go away ?
Will dealing with race fill their minds like stones and block them from thinking of a million other things ?
Let ’ s be clear about what motherhood is .
A being comes onto this earth and you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ It dies if you do not tend it .
It is as simple as that .
No matter how intellectual and multicolored motherhood becomes as children grow older , the part that says My purpose on earth is to keep you alive has never totally dissipated .
Magical thinking on all sides .
I want my children—all of them—to thrive , to be fully alive .
How do we measure what that means ?
What does it mean for our young people to be “ black alive and looking back at you , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her poem “ Who Look at Me ” ?
How to access the sources of strength that transcend this American nightmare of racism and racist violence ?
What does it mean to be a lucky mother , when so many of my sisters have had their children taken from them by this hatred ?
The painter Titus Kaphar ’ s recent Time magazine cover portrays a black mother cradling what should be her child across the middle of her body , but the child is literally cut out of the canvas and cut @ @ @ @ @ @ @ gaping wound for an unending grief that has made a sisterhood of countless black women for generations .

This one was shot in his grandmother’s yard. This one was carrying a bag of Skittles. This one was playing with a toy gun in front of a gazebo. Black girl in bright bikini. Black boy holding cell phone. This one danced like a marionette as he was shot down in a Chicago intersection. The words, the names: Trayvon, Laquan, bikini, gazebo, loosies, Skittles, two seconds, I can’t breathe, traffic stop, dashboard cam, sixteen times. His dead body lay in the street in the August heat for four hours.
He was jogging, was hunted down, cornered by a pickup truck, and shot three times. One of the men who murdered him leaned over his dead body and was heard to say, “Fucking nigger.”
I can’t breathe, again. Eight minutes and forty-six seconds of a knee and full weight on his neck. “I can’t breathe” and, then, “Mama!” George Floyd cried. George Floyd cried, “Mama . . . I’m through!”
His mother had been dead for two years when George Floyd called out for her as he was being lynched. Lynching is defined as a killing committed by a mob. I call the four police officers who arrested him a mob.
The kids got shot and the grownups got shot. Which is to say, the kids watched their peers shot down and their parents’ generation get gunned down and beat down and terrorized as well. The agglomerating spectacle continues. Here are a few we know less well: Danny Ray Thomas. Johnnie Jermaine Rush. Nania Cain. Dejuan Hall. Atatiana Jefferson. Demetrius Bryan Hollins. Jacqueline Craig and her children. And then the iconic: Alton Sterling. Eric Garner. Sandra Bland. Walter Scott. Breonna Taylor. Philando Castile.
Sandra Bland filmed the prelude to her death. The policeman thrust a stun gun in her face and said, “I will light you up.”
I call the young people who grew up in the past twenty-five years the Trayvon Generation. They always knew these stories. These stories formed their world view. These stories helped instruct young African-Americans about their embodiment and their vulnerability. The stories were primers in fear and futility. The stories were the ground soil of their rage. These stories instructed them that anti-black hatred and violence were never far.
They watched these violations up close and on their cell phones, so many times over. They watched them in near-real time. They watched them crisscrossed and concentrated. They watched them on the school bus. They watched them under the covers at night. They watched them often outside of the presence of adults who loved them and were charged with keeping them safe in body and soul.
This is the generation of my sons, now twenty-two and twenty years old, and their friends who are also children to me, and the university students I have taught and mentored and loved. And this is also the generation of Darnella Frazier, the seventeen-year-old Minneapolis girl who came upon George Floyd’s murder in progress while on an everyday run to the corner store on May 25th, filmed it on her phone, and posted it to her Facebook page at 1:46 A.M., with the caption “They killed him right in front of cup foods over south on 38th and Chicago!! No type of sympathy 3 3 #POLICEBRUTALITY.” When insideMPD.com (in an article that is no longer up) wrote, “Man Dies After Medical Incident During Police Interaction,” Frazier posted at 3:10 A.M., “Medical incident??? Watch outtt they killed him and the proof is clearlyyyy there!!”
Darnella Frazier, seventeen years old, witnessing a murder in close proximity, making a record that would have worldwide impact, returned the following day to the scene of the crime. She possessed the language to say, precisely, through tears, “It’s so traumatizing.”
In Toni Morrison’s “Sula,” which is set across the bleak black stretch of Ohio after the First World War, the character Hannah plaintively asks her mother, Eva Peace, “Mamma, did you ever love us?” To paraphrase Eva Peace’s reply: Love you? Love you? I kept you alive.
I believed I could keep my sons alive by loving them, believed in the magical powers of complete adoration and a love ethic that would permeate their lives. My love was armor when they were small. My love was armor when their father died of a heart attack when they were twelve and thirteen. “They think black men only die when they get shot,” my older son said in the aftermath. My love was armor when that same year our community’s block watch sent e-mails warning residents about “two black kids on bikes” and praising neighbors who had called the police on them. My love for my children said, Move. My love said, Follow your sons, when they ran into the dark streets of New York to join protesters after Eric Garner’s killer was acquitted. When my sons were in high school and pictures of Philando Castile were on the front page of the Times, I wanted to burn all the newspapers so they would not see the gun coming in the window, the blood on Castile’s T-shirt, the terror in his partner’s face, and the eyes of his witnessing baby girl. But I was too late, too late generationally, because they were not looking at the newspaper; they were looking at their phones, where the image was a house of mirrors straight to Hell.
My love was both rational and fantastical. Can I protect my sons from being demonized? Can I keep them from moving free? But they must be able to move as free as wind! If I listen to their fears, will I comfort them? If I share my fears, will I frighten them? Will racism and fear disable them? If we ignore it all, will it go away? Will dealing with race fill their minds like stones and block them from thinking of a million other things? Let’s be clear about what motherhood is. A being comes onto this earth and you are charged with keeping it alive. It dies if you do not tend it. It is as simple as that. No matter how intellectual and multicolored motherhood becomes as children grow older, the part that says My purpose on earth is to keep you alive has never totally dissipated. Magical thinking on all sides.
I want my children—all of them—to thrive, to be fully alive. How do we measure what that means? What does it mean for our young people to be “black alive and looking back at you,” as June Jordan puts it in her poem “Who Look at Me”? How to access the sources of strength that transcend this American nightmare of racism and racist violence? What does it mean to be a lucky mother, when so many of my sisters have had their children taken from them by this hatred? The painter Titus Kaphar’s recent Time magazine cover portrays a black mother cradling what should be her child across the middle of her body, but the child is literally cut out of the canvas and cut out of the mother, leaving a gaping wound for an unending grief that has made a sisterhood of countless black women for generations.
My sons were both a little shy outside of our home when they were growing up. They were quiet and observant, like their father, who had come to this country as a refugee from Eritrea: African observant, immigrant observant, missing nothing. I’ve watched them over the years with their friends, doing dances now outmoded with names I persist in loving—Nae Nae, Hit Dem Folks––and talking about things I didn’t teach them and reading books I haven’t read and taking positions I don’t necessarily hold, and I marvel. They are grown young men. With their friends, they talk about the pressure to succeed, to have a strong public face, to excel. They talk their big talk, they talk their hilarity, and they talk their fear. When I am with them, I truly believe the kids are all right and will save us.
But I worry about this generation of young black people and depression. I have a keen eye—what Gwendolyn Brooks called “gobbling mother-eye”—for these young people, sons and friends and students whom I love and encourage and welcome into my home, keep in touch with and check in on. How are you, how are you, how are you. How are you, baby, how are you. I am interested in the vision of television shows like “Atlanta” and “Insecure,” about which I have been asking every young person who will listen, “Don’t you think they’re about low-grade, undiagnosed depression and not black hipster ennui?” Why, in fact, did Earn drop out of Princeton? Why does Van get high before a drug test? Why does Issa keep blowing up her life? This season, “Insecure” deals directly with the question of young black people and mental-health issues: Molly is in and out of therapy, and we learn that Nathan, a.k.a. LyftBae, who was ghosting Issa, has been dealing with bipolar disorder. The work of the creative icon of their generation often brings me to the question: Why is Kendrick so sad? He has been frank about his depression and suicidal thoughts. It isn’t just the spectre of race-based violence and death that hangs over these young people. It’s that compounded with the constant display of inequity that has most recently been laid bare in the COVID-19 pandemic, with racial health disparities that are shocking even to those of us inured to our disproportionate suffering.
Black creativity emerges from long lines of innovative responses to the death and violence that plague our communities. “Not a house in the country ain’t packed to its rafters with some dead Negro’s grief,” Toni Morrison wrote in “Beloved,” and I am interested in creative emergences from that ineluctable fact.
There are so many visual artists responding to this changing same: Henry Taylor, Michael Rakowitz, Ja’Tovia Gary, Carrie Mae Weems, lauren woods, Alexandra Bell, Black Women Artists for Black Lives Matter, Steffani Jemison, Kerry James Marshall, Titus Kaphar. To pause at one work: Dread Scott’s “A Man Was Lynched by Police Yesterday,” which he made in the wake of the police shooting of Walter Scott, in 2015, echoes the flag reading “A man was lynched yesterday” that the N.A.A.C.P. flew outside its New York headquarters between 1920 and 1938 to mark the lynchings of black people in the United States.


newyorker--2020-06-15--Briefly Noted Book Reviews

Briefly Noted Book Reviews

Lincoln on the Verge , by Ted Widmer ( Simon & Schuster ) .
In February , 1861 , crowds in eight states greeted the train carrying Abraham Lincoln , as President-elect , from Springfield , Illinois , to the nation ’ s deeply divided capital .
In an account of some hundred speeches and countless handshakes that occurred along the way , Widmer , a former White House speechwriter , traces Lincoln ’ s rapid growth as a statesman .
The train draws “ wild multitudes ” both in towns “ awakened ” to the antislavery cause and in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Lincoln is shown ably working the press to rally support .
Widmer portrays a politician who has a populist touch but exercises this power responsibly , achieving what Frederick Douglass later called “ wonderful success in organizing the loyal American people for the tremendous conflict before them.
” The Shapeless Unease , by Samantha Harvey ( Grove ) .
This experimental memoir of a year plagued by insomnia moves between vivid descriptions of sleepless nights and meditations on consciousness , death , and the nature of time .
Harvey captures the gravity of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to bed at night , I get beaten up , I come downstairs in the morning ” ) , while also maintaining levity and grace .
Sometimes she watches Netflix , half dreaming about what she sees ; at other times her eddying mind bumps into ideas about the universe ( “ Everything is made up of space and is more space than it is form ” ) .
Her forays offer an engrossing vision of how our lives are knit together—day to day , night to night , and thought to thought @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Earth , by Daniel Mason ( Little , Brown ) .
The characters in these robust short stories , set mostly in the nineteenth century , struggle as captains of their destinies .
A doctor increasingly believes his body to be inhabited by an “ imposter ” ; a Frenchwoman takes a hot-air balloon to new heights , hoping to find “ a tear in the very fabric of the heavens.
” In the only story that takes place in present-day America , the narrator remembers an uncle , an immigrant from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Civil War reënactments and of WrestleMania—confrontations with predetermined outcomes .
“ I wonder whether there was something about the cartoon violence that served as a parody of all violence , and perhaps as a catharsis for the real kind that he ’ d seen , ” the narrator writes .
Clean Hands , by Patrick Hoffman ( Atlantic Monthly ) .
This sly thriller begins during rush hour at Grand Central Terminal , when a junior associate at a law firm is pickpocketed and his phone , full of incriminating documents about @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a chain of petty criminals .
A blackmailer gets hold of the documents and the law firm , in the hope of tracking the phone , hires Valencia Walker , a former C.I.A .
officer , who marshals a seemingly inexhaustible network of ex-military and law-enforcement types .
The plot is fast-paced , and its twists—Walker ’ s motivations are as suspect as everyone else ’ s—lead ever deeper into corporate intrigue and government espionage .

Lincoln on the Verge, by Ted Widmer (Simon & Schuster). In February, 1861, crowds in eight states greeted the train carrying Abraham Lincoln, as President-elect, from Springfield, Illinois, to the nation’s deeply divided capital. In an account of some hundred speeches and countless handshakes that occurred along the way, Widmer, a former White House speechwriter, traces Lincoln’s rapid growth as a statesman. The train draws “wild multitudes” both in towns “awakened” to the antislavery cause and in those whose allegiance is uncertain, and Lincoln is shown ably working the press to rally support. Widmer portrays a politician who has a populist touch but exercises this power responsibly, achieving what Frederick Douglass later called “wonderful success in organizing the loyal American people for the tremendous conflict before them.”
The Shapeless Unease, by Samantha Harvey (Grove). This experimental memoir of a year plagued by insomnia moves between vivid descriptions of sleepless nights and meditations on consciousness, death, and the nature of time. Harvey captures the gravity of her affliction (“I go up to bed at night, I get beaten up, I come downstairs in the morning”), while also maintaining levity and grace. Sometimes she watches Netflix, half dreaming about what she sees; at other times her eddying mind bumps into ideas about the universe (“Everything is made up of space and is more space than it is form”). Her forays offer an engrossing vision of how our lives are knit together—day to day, night to night, and thought to thought.
A Registry of My Passage Upon the Earth, by Daniel Mason (Little, Brown). The characters in these robust short stories, set mostly in the nineteenth century, struggle as captains of their destinies. A doctor increasingly believes his body to be inhabited by an “imposter”; a Frenchwoman takes a hot-air balloon to new heights, hoping to find “a tear in the very fabric of the heavens.” In the only story that takes place in present-day America, the narrator remembers an uncle, an immigrant from Eastern Europe, who became a fan of Civil War reënactments and of WrestleMania—confrontations with predetermined outcomes. “I wonder whether there was something about the cartoon violence that served as a parody of all violence, and perhaps as a catharsis for the real kind that he’d seen,” the narrator writes.
Clean Hands, by Patrick Hoffman (Atlantic Monthly). This sly thriller begins during rush hour at Grand Central Terminal, when a junior associate at a law firm is pickpocketed and his phone, full of incriminating documents about a major bank, is passed through a chain of petty criminals. A blackmailer gets hold of the documents and the law firm, in the hope of tracking the phone, hires Valencia Walker, a former C.I.A. officer, who marshals a seemingly inexhaustible network of ex-military and law-enforcement types. The plot is fast-paced, and its twists—Walker’s motivations are as suspect as everyone else’s—lead ever deeper into corporate intrigue and government espionage.


newyorker--2020-06-15--Scholastique Mukasonga on Writing and Mourning from Exile

Your story in this week ’ s issue , “ Grief , ” depicts a young Tutsi woman who discovers from exile that all the family members she left behind in Rwanda when she fled have been killed in the genocide there .
I believe her story closely resembles yours .
Should we read this as autobiography or fiction or a combination of the two ?
The autobiographical elements of my story “ Grief ” are enriched by fictional ones .
I lend the young woman in the story the feelings I had when I heard about the murder of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and during my first journey back to Rwanda , in 2004 .
Readers will find that in my book “ Cockroaches ” I tell the story of that first trip back to Rwanda , in 2004 , and my return to Gitagata , the village to which my family was deported , in 1960 .
I believe that the young female character in the story represents what so many Rwandan refugees felt at the time of the genocide—the pain and the powerlessness—and on returning to the country to search for traces of those @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of genocide .
How can you mourn your loved ones when they have no graves ?
How can you mourn without allowing them to sink into oblivion—a second death , for which you are then responsible ?
Although you tell the story in the third person , you don ’ t give the woman a name .
Why is that ?
My heroine represents all of those who had to exile themselves , from 1960 on , because they were Tutsi , viewed as undesirable foreigners in their own country—and , in particular @ @ @ @ @ @ @ which I was part of , forced out because they were Tutsi “ intellectuals , ” students , and civil servants .
What made this woman leave Rwanda , when almost all of her family stayed ?
Or did you purposely not include that information in the story ?
I ’ ve already described the reasons for my exile , which are implicitly those of the girl in the story , in my first two books , “ Cockroaches ” and “ The Barefoot Woman.
” A short story is not an exhaustive @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
It gets its strength from its brevity .
The woman in the story is unable to cry over the deaths in her family , but , when she attends a stranger ’ s funeral , she suddenly bursts into sobs .
Why can ’ t she weep at first ?
What happens to her at that funeral ?
This young woman is almost the only survivor in her family .
She lives in Europe , far from other survivors .
She is alone , imprisoned in her pain .
And , with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lucky if one can cry—pain , they say , is eased by tears .
In Rwanda , widows and orphans were able to cry together .
They could draw some strength from that common lament .
My heroine is so overwhelmed by this extraordinary pain that , alone , she can not summon up the relief of tears .
She seeks out occasions where she can be with other mourners , in the hope of being able to cry with them .
In this way , she becomes a kind of parasite , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she returns to Rwanda to face her loss , she has an almost mystical experience with the man who oversees a church that was the site of one of the Tutsi massacres .
Why does her interaction with that man affect her so profoundly ?
The caretaker of the church-memorial is seen as the keeper of the memory of the dead ; he is like a wise and benevolent Cerberus , guarding the gates to the afterlife .
He is the guide who leads people through their mourning—not to help them forget their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , from that ever-present memory of the dead , the strength to survive .
In response to his wisdom and his courage , survivors can give meaning to their lives again .
This is true for individuals , and for Rwanda as a whole—you can see it in the country ’ s extraordinary will to rebuild itself .
The village the woman returns to—which has been destroyed—is called Gihanga , after the mythical Tutsi king , who is said to have founded the kingdom of Rwanda .
Is Gihanga a real place , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that name for it ?
Yes , Gihanga was , in Rwandan lore , the mythical first king , a civilizing hero who carried knowledge and , in his travels , founded the neighboring kingdoms and thus established the borders of Rwanda .
A sanctuary was dedicated to him in Buhanga , at the foot of the volcanoes .
They wanted to raze Rwanda , down to its roots ; now they are rebuilding it from the roots up .
Your story collection , “ Igifu , ” which will be published , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , by Archipelago Books in September , will include this story and “ Cattle Praise Song , ” which was published in The New Yorker in 2018 .
Are the stories connected ?
It seems to me that the stories that make up “ Igifu ” describe various aspects of the lives of Tutsis , who were treated as pariahs from 1960 until the genocide in 1994 : “ Igifu ” —which means hunger—is about the famine that threatened to exterminate the Tutsi deportees in Nyamata ; “ Cattle Praise Song , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” in the book , embodies nostalgia for a bygone time when Tutsis had cows ; “ Fear ” examines the ever-present terror of abuses and massacres ; “ The Curse of Beauty ” shows the miserable fate of Tutsi girls in exile , where they can no longer have pride ; and “ Grief ” describes the search for an impossible mourning after the genocide .
Scholastique Mukasonga ’ s responses were translated , from the French , by Deborah Treisman .

Photograph by Patrick Kovarik / AFP / Getty
Your story in this week’s issue, “Grief,” depicts a young Tutsi woman who discovers from exile that all the family members she left behind in Rwanda when she fled have been killed in the genocide there. I believe her story closely resembles yours. Should we read this as autobiography or fiction or a combination of the two?
The autobiographical elements of my story “Grief” are enriched by fictional ones. I lend the young woman in the story the feelings I had when I heard about the murder of my loved ones, in 1994, and during my first journey back to Rwanda, in 2004. Readers will find that in my book “Cockroaches” I tell the story of that first trip back to Rwanda, in 2004, and my return to Gitagata, the village to which my family was deported, in 1960. I believe that the young female character in the story represents what so many Rwandan refugees felt at the time of the genocide—the pain and the powerlessness—and on returning to the country to search for traces of those who risked disappearing forever into the anonymity of genocide. How can you mourn your loved ones when they have no graves? How can you mourn without allowing them to sink into oblivion—a second death, for which you are then responsible?
Although you tell the story in the third person, you don’t give the woman a name. Why is that?
My heroine represents all of those who had to exile themselves, from 1960 on, because they were Tutsi, viewed as undesirable foreigners in their own country—and, in particular, the 1973 wave of refugees, which I was part of, forced out because they were Tutsi “intellectuals,” students, and civil servants.
What made this woman leave Rwanda, when almost all of her family stayed? Or did you purposely not include that information in the story?
I’ve already described the reasons for my exile, which are implicitly those of the girl in the story, in my first two books, “Cockroaches” and “The Barefoot Woman.” A short story is not an exhaustive biography or an autofiction with multiple episodes. It gets its strength from its brevity.
The woman in the story is unable to cry over the deaths in her family, but, when she attends a stranger’s funeral, she suddenly bursts into sobs. Why can’t she weep at first? What happens to her at that funeral?
This young woman is almost the only survivor in her family. She lives in Europe, far from other survivors. She is alone, imprisoned in her pain. And, with suffering of that magnitude, one is lucky if one can cry—pain, they say, is eased by tears. In Rwanda, widows and orphans were able to cry together. They could draw some strength from that common lament. My heroine is so overwhelmed by this extraordinary pain that, alone, she cannot summon up the relief of tears. She seeks out occasions where she can be with other mourners, in the hope of being able to cry with them. In this way, she becomes a kind of parasite, stealing the grief of others.
When she returns to Rwanda to face her loss, she has an almost mystical experience with the man who oversees a church that was the site of one of the Tutsi massacres. Why does her interaction with that man affect her so profoundly?
The caretaker of the church-memorial is seen as the keeper of the memory of the dead; he is like a wise and benevolent Cerberus, guarding the gates to the afterlife. He is the guide who leads people through their mourning—not to help them forget their loved ones but to help them draw, from that ever-present memory of the dead, the strength to survive. In response to his wisdom and his courage, survivors can give meaning to their lives again. This is true for individuals, and for Rwanda as a whole—you can see it in the country’s extraordinary will to rebuild itself.
The village the woman returns to—which has been destroyed—is called Gihanga, after the mythical Tutsi king, who is said to have founded the kingdom of Rwanda. Is Gihanga a real place, and if not what made you choose that name for it?
Yes, Gihanga was, in Rwandan lore, the mythical first king, a civilizing hero who carried knowledge and, in his travels, founded the neighboring kingdoms and thus established the borders of Rwanda. A sanctuary was dedicated to him in Buhanga, at the foot of the volcanoes. They wanted to raze Rwanda, down to its roots; now they are rebuilding it from the roots up.
Your story collection, “Igifu,” which will be published, in Jordan Stump’s English translation, by Archipelago Books in September, will include this story and “Cattle Praise Song,” which was published in The New Yorker in 2018. Are the stories connected?
It seems to me that the stories that make up “Igifu” describe various aspects of the lives of Tutsis, who were treated as pariahs from 1960 until the genocide in 1994: “Igifu”—which means hunger—is about the famine that threatened to exterminate the Tutsi deportees in Nyamata; “Cattle Praise Song,” which is titled “The Glorious Cow” in the book, embodies nostalgia for a bygone time when Tutsis had cows; “Fear” examines the ever-present terror of abuses and massacres; “The Curse of Beauty” shows the miserable fate of Tutsi girls in exile, where they can no longer have pride; and “Grief” describes the search for an impossible mourning after the genocide.
Scholastique Mukasonga’s responses were translated, from the French, by Deborah Treisman.


newyorker--2020-06-15--Who Is the Floyd Family’s Lawyer?

Who Is the Floyd Family’s Lawyer?

If you turn on your TV and see Benjamin Crump , it usually means that something terrible has happened .
Crump is the go-to civil-rights attorney for families who have lost a loved one to police violence ; he is often referred to as “ the black Gloria Allred.
” In 2012 , after Trayvon Martin was killed by George Zimmerman , in a suburb of Orlando , Martin ’ s family hired Crump , who is based in Tallahassee , to represent them .
He made the rounds on cable news to talk about the case ; shortly afterward @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Zimmerman was eventually acquitted . )
Two years later , Crump took on another high-profile case , after Michael Brown was shot dead by Darren Wilson , a police officer , in Ferguson , Missouri .
( More protests ; Wilson was never charged . )
Now Crump is representing the family of George Floyd , who was killed , three weeks ago , by Derek Chauvin , a cop in Minneapolis , who knelt on Floyd ’ s neck for nearly nine minutes .
“ It was the knee of the entire @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Crump said .
Crump is fifty years old , with a round face and a bald head .
He wears a gold eagle lapel pin .
One of his former law-school classmates recently said that , when a family hires Crump as its lawyer , he becomes its publicist , lobbyist , and therapist , too .
“ And I suspect , ” the classmate added , “ that , by the end , he becomes a family member.
” Before Floyd ’ s funeral in Houston , Crump helped Floyd ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on his necktie .
But some activists aren ’ t buying it .
When Crump announced his involvement in the Floyd case , he was instantly derided on Twitter as an “ opportunist ” with a “ losing track record.
” ( Stephon Adams , a supporter of the Black Lives Matter movement who lives in Birmingham , Alabama , tweeted , “ If I am ever killed by a police or by a white person PLEASE MAKE SURE MY FAMILY DOES NOT HIRE BEN CRUMP !
He is just as horrible as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of this criticism seems to stem from a misunderstanding of Crump ’ s role in criminal cases .
In the event of a police killing , murder and manslaughter cases are tried by local prosecutors , not by attorneys for hire .
In the Floyd case , the prosecution of Chauvin , and of the three other cops who helped him restrain Floyd , will be led by Keith Ellison , Minnesota ’ s attorney general .
While the state works on the criminal case , Crump will pursue civil action : a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Given how sympathetic juries tend to be toward police officers , the civil case is often the only case that can be won .
Crump helped Michael Brown ’ s family win a $ 1.5 million settlement from the city of Ferguson , and he helped Trayvon Martin ’ s family settle , for an undisclosed sum , with the homeowners ’ association in the neighborhood where Martin was killed .
If Crump loses a case , he doesn ’ t charge anything .
But if he wins he takes a third @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fought more than two hundred police-violence cases , and he has won cash settlements in all of them .
“ We have never not recovered for these families , ” he said .
But the officers rarely end up in prison , and the murders go on .
Crump could be the winningest attorney in the country who still reeks of failure .
Other people say that , even if Crump did not lead those unsuccessful criminal cases , he ’ s still partly responsible for losing them .
He is known for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ We can ’ t control anything in the criminal case , ” he said .
“ So all you can do is try to advocate and argue in the court of public opinion.
” ) This publicity can be crucial ; sometimes it ’ s the only reason a trial happens at all .
Crump is one of the lawyers for the family of Ahmaud Arbery , the black jogger who was killed by two white men in Georgia , in February .
It was only after a video of the shooting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ arrested , seventy-four days after the murder .
But , when an entire nation is out for blood , prosecutors can feel pressured to overcharge defendants .
( After George Zimmerman ’ s trial , legal analysts said that if the prosecutors had pursued a charge of manslaughter , rather than the more serious one of second-degree murder , they would have been more likely to secure a conviction . )
In the past couple of weeks , the charges against the cops who killed George Floyd have been elevated .
Chauvin was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ manslaughter , but prosecutors then added a charge of second-degree murder .
( The other three officers now face charges of aiding and abetting second-degree murder and manslaughter . )
The elevated charges could add up to an extra thirty years in prison , but , according to Rachel Barkow , a criminal-law professor and a vice-dean at the N.Y.U .
School of Law , they could make conviction much trickier .
“ It is absolutely the case that it ’ ll be harder to win on the second-degree-murder theory than it would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ We ’ re talking about it now , in the middle of nationwide protests and the horror of the video , but these cases go to juries , and there they become a bit more complicated.
” Crump is calling for the charges to be upped once again , to first-degree murder .
This would mean proving beyond a reasonable doubt that the murder of George Floyd was premeditated .
“ We think that it can be proved , ” Crump said .
“ We think that there was intent .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ body-cam audio , ‘ He doesn ’ t have a pulse , we should turn him on his side , ’ and Chauvin says , ‘ Nope , we keep him in this position , ’ Chauvin is literally telling them , ‘ I intend to cause serious bodily harm to him.
’ That ’ s premeditated murder.
” If convicted , Chauvin would get life in prison .
Kami Chavis , a professor of law and the director of the criminal-justice program at Wake Forest University School of Law , in North @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a first-degree charge likely stems from “ years of seeing black lives treated like they don ’ t matter.
” Still , she said , “ when I look at the evidence we have at this point , I believe that second-degree murder is appropriate.
” Even the Internet mob is asking Crump to stand down .
“ We are all literally begging you to keep the charges at 2nd degree so there ’ s actually a conviction , ” @ 0liviaGrace_ tweeted .
Asked about these critiques , Crump said , “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ did it , nobody would be questioning whether it ’ s first-degree murder .
So we ’ re saying charge him to the full extent of the law.
” How does Crump end up on so many high-profile police-violence cases ?
“ There aren ’ t many options for black people when they get killed by the police , ” he explained .
“ What are you gon na do ?
Turn to the police ?
They ’ re the ones who killed you.
” A couple of months before George Floyd was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ E.M.T .
in Louisville , Kentucky , was shot at least eight times by the police during a raid at her home .
The cops who killed Taylor haven ’ t been arrested .
They haven ’ t even been fired .
But Crump ’ s working on it .
“ We ’ ve already filed the lawsuit , ” he said .
♦

Benjamin Crump Illustration by João Fazenda
If you turn on your TV and see Benjamin Crump, it usually means that something terrible has happened. Crump is the go-to civil-rights attorney for families who have lost a loved one to police violence; he is often referred to as “the black Gloria Allred.” In 2012, after Trayvon Martin was killed by George Zimmerman, in a suburb of Orlando, Martin’s family hired Crump, who is based in Tallahassee, to represent them. He made the rounds on cable news to talk about the case; shortly afterward, protests erupted in Florida. (Zimmerman was eventually acquitted.) Two years later, Crump took on another high-profile case, after Michael Brown was shot dead by Darren Wilson, a police officer, in Ferguson, Missouri. (More protests; Wilson was never charged.) Now Crump is representing the family of George Floyd, who was killed, three weeks ago, by Derek Chauvin, a cop in Minneapolis, who knelt on Floyd’s neck for nearly nine minutes. “It was the knee of the entire police department that killed George Floyd,” Crump said.
Crump is fifty years old, with a round face and a bald head. He wears a gold eagle lapel pin. One of his former law-school classmates recently said that, when a family hires Crump as its lawyer, he becomes its publicist, lobbyist, and therapist, too. “And I suspect,” the classmate added, “that, by the end, he becomes a family member.” Before Floyd’s funeral in Houston, Crump helped Floyd’s son, Quincy Mason, put on his necktie.
But some activists aren’t buying it. When Crump announced his involvement in the Floyd case, he was instantly derided on Twitter as an “opportunist” with a “losing track record.” (Stephon Adams, a supporter of the Black Lives Matter movement who lives in Birmingham, Alabama, tweeted, “If I am ever killed by a police or by a white person PLEASE MAKE SURE MY FAMILY DOES NOT HIRE BEN CRUMP! He is just as horrible as those ambulance chasing attorneys.”)
Some of this criticism seems to stem from a misunderstanding of Crump’s role in criminal cases. In the event of a police killing, murder and manslaughter cases are tried by local prosecutors, not by attorneys for hire. In the Floyd case, the prosecution of Chauvin, and of the three other cops who helped him restrain Floyd, will be led by Keith Ellison, Minnesota’s attorney general. While the state works on the criminal case, Crump will pursue civil action: a wrongful-death lawsuit against the city of Minneapolis.
Given how sympathetic juries tend to be toward police officers, the civil case is often the only case that can be won. Crump helped Michael Brown’s family win a $1.5 million settlement from the city of Ferguson, and he helped Trayvon Martin’s family settle, for an undisclosed sum, with the homeowners’ association in the neighborhood where Martin was killed. If Crump loses a case, he doesn’t charge anything. But if he wins he takes a third of the money awarded. He has fought more than two hundred police-violence cases, and he has won cash settlements in all of them. “We have never not recovered for these families,” he said. But the officers rarely end up in prison, and the murders go on. Crump could be the winningest attorney in the country who still reeks of failure.
Other people say that, even if Crump did not lead those unsuccessful criminal cases, he’s still partly responsible for losing them. He is known for generating buzz before a trial. (“We can’t control anything in the criminal case,” he said. “So all you can do is try to advocate and argue in the court of public opinion.”) This publicity can be crucial; sometimes it’s the only reason a trial happens at all. Crump is one of the lawyers for the family of Ahmaud Arbery, the black jogger who was killed by two white men in Georgia, in February. It was only after a video of the shooting went viral that the two men were arrested, seventy-four days after the murder. But, when an entire nation is out for blood, prosecutors can feel pressured to overcharge defendants. (After George Zimmerman’s trial, legal analysts said that if the prosecutors had pursued a charge of manslaughter, rather than the more serious one of second-degree murder, they would have been more likely to secure a conviction.)
In the past couple of weeks, the charges against the cops who killed George Floyd have been elevated. Chauvin was initially charged with third-degree murder and second-degree manslaughter, but prosecutors then added a charge of second-degree murder. (The other three officers now face charges of aiding and abetting second-degree murder and manslaughter.) The elevated charges could add up to an extra thirty years in prison, but, according to Rachel Barkow, a criminal-law professor and a vice-dean at the N.Y.U. School of Law, they could make conviction much trickier. “It is absolutely the case that it’ll be harder to win on the second-degree-murder theory than it would be on third-degree,” she said. “We’re talking about it now, in the middle of nationwide protests and the horror of the video, but these cases go to juries, and there they become a bit more complicated.”
Crump is calling for the charges to be upped once again, to first-degree murder. This would mean proving beyond a reasonable doubt that the murder of George Floyd was premeditated. “We think that it can be proved,” Crump said. “We think that there was intent. When the officer says, on the body-cam audio, ‘He doesn’t have a pulse, we should turn him on his side,’ and Chauvin says, ‘Nope, we keep him in this position,’ Chauvin is literally telling them, ‘I intend to cause serious bodily harm to him.’ That’s premeditated murder.”
If convicted, Chauvin would get life in prison. Kami Chavis, a professor of law and the director of the criminal-justice program at Wake Forest University School of Law, in North Carolina, said that this drive for a first-degree charge likely stems from “years of seeing black lives treated like they don’t matter.” Still, she said, “when I look at the evidence we have at this point, I believe that second-degree murder is appropriate.” Even the Internet mob is asking Crump to stand down. “We are all literally begging you to keep the charges at 2nd degree so there’s actually a conviction,” @0liviaGrace_ tweeted.
Asked about these critiques, Crump said, “If this was a black person who did it, nobody would be questioning whether it’s first-degree murder. So we’re saying charge him to the full extent of the law.”
How does Crump end up on so many high-profile police-violence cases? “There aren’t many options for black people when they get killed by the police,” he explained. “What are you gonna do? Turn to the police? They’re the ones who killed you.” A couple of months before George Floyd was murdered, Breonna Taylor, a young E.M.T. in Louisville, Kentucky, was shot at least eight times by the police during a raid at her home. The cops who killed Taylor haven’t been arrested. They haven’t even been fired. But Crump’s working on it. “We’ve already filed the lawsuit,” he said. ♦


newyorker--2020-06-15--Testifying Against Police Brutality on Zoom

Since the beginning of the coronavirus pandemic , the New York City Council has held its public hearings remotely , via video .
Last week , its committee on public safety convened online , after days of protests against police brutality , to consider a series of amendments to the city ’ s administrative code .
One proposed new rule would make choke holds a misdemeanor ; another would codify citizens ’ rights to record police activity .
The meeting also offered residents their first opportunity , since the protests began , to testify about their experiences with police in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ power to regulate .
“ Today , we are going to remind the New York City Police Department that they work for us , ” Donovan Richards , the chair of the committee , said .
He represents a district in Queens where more than a thousand people have died of Covid-19 .
He sat in front of photographs of Muhammad Ali and Martin Luther King , Jr. , and a poster that featured his own picture under the words “ Reading Takes You Places.
” Richards said that he was first stopped @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
He pointed out that the N.Y.P.D .
commissioner , Dermot Shea , had sent his deputy , Benjamin Tucker , who is black , to the hearing .
Richards said , “ Commissioner Shea had an opportunity to answer for the actions of the department in the middle of a major crisis over the history of racialized brutality in the city , and he sends the black man who didn ’ t get the job .
That ’ s just shameful.
” He addressed Tucker : “ You shouldn ’ t have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a written response .
He called the death of George Floyd , at the hands of Minneapolis police officers , “ an atrocity .
.
.
and deeply damaging to police-community relations here in New York and everywhere in our nation.
” He also spoke about some of the proposed amendments .
Making choke holds a misdemeanor , he said , would “ criminalize the rendering of C.P.R.
, chest compressions , or the Heimlich maneuver.
” Several dozen citizens had joined the hearing remotely .
When their microphones were finally unmuted , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ speak .
“ I am here because , clearly , the N.Y.P.D .
have been allowed to get away with literal murder for almost a decade , ” a woman named Jessica New said .
She added , in an exasperated tone , “ I also see that the police are now off of this call , which is not ideal.
” The testimonies continued for the next five hours .
Jillian Primiano , who works as an emergency-room nurse in Bushwick , testified from her couch , wearing blue scrubs , about @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , where marchers were kettled by police before curfew and arrested once the clock struck eight .
“ I am for the abolition of all armed racist gangs in this country , ” she said .
“ Especially the N.Y.P.D.
” She rattled off a list of what she had seen during the protests : head injuries , seizures , broken knees and legs , and atrial fibrillations .
She contradicted Tucker ’ s assertion that arrested protesters had access to soap and water and masks in jail .
“ They did not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ said .
“ There was no soap and water.
” People called for the resignations of Commissioner Shea and Mayor Bill de Blasio .
“ We don ’ t feel like there ’ s anybody else in this city we can talk to right now , ” a man named John Farnsworth told the council .
“ It feels like the whole world has gone insane and we ’ ve got militarized police on our streets that don ’ t answer to anyone.
” Charlie Monlouis-Anderle , a doula , a breastfeeding counsellor @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Heights , had their arm in a sling .
“ My arm was broken by the police on Wednesday night , June 3rd , during a peaceful protest , ” they said .
“ As they pinned my arms , legs , and head to the ground , my whole body went limp and my bladder released.
” ( The police had lifted them up by their zip-tied arms , breaking the right one . )
It took ninety minutes for them to receive medical attention .
Ziggy Leecock , of the South @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ ‘ pussies , ’ like they were having a fight in high school.
” Eric Yue showed scabs from where zip ties had cut into his wrists .
He described an officer saying , as he was arrested , “ Look at him shaking like a little bitch.
” After Jess La Bombalera , of East Harlem , called out “ all these white New Yorkers who waited for hours with us to be able to speak , and then did not yield their time to black and brown indigenous New Yorkers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ participants gave up their place in line .
Eventually , even Councilman Richards seemed to tire of hearing from New Yorkers who were new to protesting police brutality .
“ You ’ re addressing a black chair who lives in southeast Queens , in Far Rockaway , ” he said .
“ We don ’ t need to be lectured.
” ♦

Since the beginning of the coronavirus pandemic, the New York City Council has held its public hearings remotely, via video. Last week, its committee on public safety convened online, after days of protests against police brutality, to consider a series of amendments to the city’s administrative code. One proposed new rule would make choke holds a misdemeanor; another would codify citizens’ rights to record police activity. The meeting also offered residents their first opportunity, since the protests began, to testify about their experiences with police in front of a government body with the power to regulate.
“Today, we are going to remind the New York City Police Department that they work for us,” Donovan Richards, the chair of the committee, said. He represents a district in Queens where more than a thousand people have died of Covid-19. He sat in front of photographs of Muhammad Ali and Martin Luther King, Jr., and a poster that featured his own picture under the words “Reading Takes You Places.” Richards said that he was first stopped and frisked at the age of thirteen. He pointed out that the N.Y.P.D. commissioner, Dermot Shea, had sent his deputy, Benjamin Tucker, who is black, to the hearing. Richards said, “Commissioner Shea had an opportunity to answer for the actions of the department in the middle of a major crisis over the history of racialized brutality in the city, and he sends the black man who didn’t get the job. That’s just shameful.” He addressed Tucker: “You shouldn’t have to answer for him.”
Tucker read a written response. He called the death of George Floyd, at the hands of Minneapolis police officers, “an atrocity . . . and deeply damaging to police-community relations here in New York and everywhere in our nation.” He also spoke about some of the proposed amendments. Making choke holds a misdemeanor, he said, would “criminalize the rendering of C.P.R., chest compressions, or the Heimlich maneuver.”
Several dozen citizens had joined the hearing remotely. When their microphones were finally unmuted, each participant was given three minutes to speak. “I am here because, clearly, the N.Y.P.D. have been allowed to get away with literal murder for almost a decade,” a woman named Jessica New said. She added, in an exasperated tone, “I also see that the police are now off of this call, which is not ideal.”
The testimonies continued for the next five hours. Jillian Primiano, who works as an emergency-room nurse in Bushwick, testified from her couch, wearing blue scrubs, about a June 4th protest in the Bronx, where marchers were kettled by police before curfew and arrested once the clock struck eight. “I am for the abolition of all armed racist gangs in this country,” she said. “Especially the N.Y.P.D.” She rattled off a list of what she had seen during the protests: head injuries, seizures, broken knees and legs, and atrial fibrillations. She contradicted Tucker’s assertion that arrested protesters had access to soap and water and masks in jail. “They did not give me a mask,” she said. “There was no soap and water.”
People called for the resignations of Commissioner Shea and Mayor Bill de Blasio. “We don’t feel like there’s anybody else in this city we can talk to right now,” a man named John Farnsworth told the council. “It feels like the whole world has gone insane and we’ve got militarized police on our streets that don’t answer to anyone.”
Charlie Monlouis-Anderle, a doula, a breastfeeding counsellor, and a professional chef from Crown Heights, had their arm in a sling. “My arm was broken by the police on Wednesday night, June 3rd, during a peaceful protest,” they said. “As they pinned my arms, legs, and head to the ground, my whole body went limp and my bladder released.” (The police had lifted them up by their zip-tied arms, breaking the right one.) It took ninety minutes for them to receive medical attention.
Ziggy Leecock, of the South Bronx, reported that officers called protesters “ ‘pussies,’ like they were having a fight in high school.” Eric Yue showed scabs from where zip ties had cut into his wrists. He described an officer saying, as he was arrested, “Look at him shaking like a little bitch.”
After Jess La Bombalera, of East Harlem, called out “all these white New Yorkers who waited for hours with us to be able to speak, and then did not yield their time to black and brown indigenous New Yorkers,” a few of the white participants gave up their place in line. Eventually, even Councilman Richards seemed to tire of hearing from New Yorkers who were new to protesting police brutality. “You’re addressing a black chair who lives in southeast Queens, in Far Rockaway,” he said. “We don’t need to be lectured.” ♦


newyorker--2020-06-15--“Grief,”  by Scholastique Mukasonga

“Grief,”  by Scholastique Mukasonga

On TV , on the radio , they never called it genocide .
As if that word were reserved .
Too serious .
Too serious for Africa .
Yes , there were massacres , but there were always massacres in Africa .
And these massacres were happening in a country that no one had ever heard of .
A country that no one could find on a map .
Tribal hatred , primitive , atavistic hatred : nothing to understand there .
“ Weird stuff goes on where you come from , ” people would tell her .
She herself @ @ @ @ @ @ @ but in Kinyarwanda there was a very old term for what was happening in her homeland : gutsembatsemba , a verb , used when talking about parasites or mad dogs , things that had to be eradicated , and about Tutsis , also known as inyenzi—cockroaches—something else to be wiped out .
She remembered the story her Hutu schoolmates at high school in Kigali had told her , laughing : “ Someday a child will ask his mother , ‘ Mama , who were those Tutsis I keep hearing about ?
What did @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the mother will answer , ‘ They were nothing at all , my son .
Those are just stories.
’ ” Nevertheless , she hadn ’ t lost hope .
She wanted to know .
Her father , her mother , her brothers , her sisters , her whole family back in Rwanda—some of them might still be alive .
Maybe the slaughter had spared them for now ?
Maybe they ’ d managed to escape into exile , as she had ?
Her parents , on the hill , had no telephone @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one of her brothers , who taught in Ruhengeri .
The phone rang and rang .
No one answered .
She called her sister , who ’ d married a shopkeeper in Butare .
A voice she ’ d never heard before told her , “ There ’ s nobody here.
” She called her brother in Canada .
He was the eldest .
If their parents were dead , then he ’ d be the head of the family .
Perhaps he had news , perhaps he had advice , perhaps he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ terror .
They spoke , and then they fell silent .
What was there to say ?
From now on , they were alone .
From now on , she would be alone .
She knew a few people from home , of course , friends she ’ d made at the university here , where she ’ d had to start her studies all over again , her African degrees being worthless in France .
But that little part of her—the part that still tied her to those she ’ d left @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and the time gone by and the impossibility of rejoining them—formed a bond that grounded her identity and affirmed her will to go on .
That bond would fade , and in the cold of her solitude its disappearance would leave her somehow amputated .
She felt very fragile .
“ I ’ m like an egg , ” she often told herself .
“ One jolt and I ’ ll break.
” She moved as sparingly as she could ; she lived in slow motion .
She walked as if she were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as if at any moment she might bump into an obstacle and fall to the ground .
Climbing a staircase took a tremendous effort : a great weight lay on her shoulders .
She found herself counting the steps she still had to climb , clutching the bannister as if she were at the edge of an abyss , and when she reached her floor she was breathless and drained .
She tried to find an escape in mindless household tasks .
Again and again , she maniacally straightened her studio apartment .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ t be : books on the couch , shoes in the entryway , Rwandan nesting baskets untidily lined up on the shelf .
She was sure she ’ d feel better if everything was finally where it belonged .
But she was forever having to go back and start over again .
If only she had at least a photograph of her parents .
She rifled through the suitcase that had come with her through all her travels .
There were letters , there were notebooks filled with words , useless diplomas , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the “ Tutsi ” stamp that she ’ d tried to scratch away .
There was a handful of photographs of her with her girlfriends in Burundi ( which they ’ d had taken at a photographer ’ s studio in the Asian district in Bujumbura , before they parted ways , so they wouldn ’ t forget ) , there were postcards from her brother in Canada , a few pages of a diary she ’ d quickly abandoned , but she never did find a photo of her parents .
For @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Why hadn ’ t she thought to ask them to have their picture taken and send her a copy ?
Was she a neglectful daughter ?
Had she forgotten them as the years went by ?
No , they were still there in her memory ; she could call up their image anytime she liked .
She sat down at her table , took her head in her hands , closed her eyes , focussed her mind , and pictured , one by one , all the faces that death might already have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of June , she got a letter .
There was no mistaking where it had come from : the red-and-blue-bordered envelope , the exotic bird on the stamp , the clumsily written address .
.
.
.
She couldn ’ t bring herself to open it .
She put it on her bookshelf , behind the Rwandan baskets .
She pretended to forget it .
There were so many more urgent and more important things to do : make dinner , iron a pair of jeans , organize her class notes .
But @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the baskets .
Suddenly , she found herself tearing open the envelope .
She pulled out a sheet of square-ruled paper , a page from a schoolchild ’ s notebook .
She didn ’ t need to read the few sentences that served as an introduction to a long list of names : her father , her mother , her brothers , her sisters , her uncles , her aunts , her nephews , her nieces .
.
.
.
This was now the list of her dead , of everyone who had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her , and there was nothing she could do for them , not even die with them .
She stared at the letter , unable to weep , and she began to think that it had been sent by the dead themselves .
It was a message from the land of the dead .
And this , she thought , would probably be their only grave , a column of names she didn ’ t even need to reread , because she knew them so well that they echoed in her head like @ @ @ @ @ @ @ letter from her dead with her at all times .
She never showed it to anyone .
Whenever someone asked , “ What happened to your family ?
, ” she always answered , “ They were killed , they ’ re all dead , every one.
” When people asked how she ’ d heard , she told them , “ I just know , that ’ s all .
Don ’ t ask me anything more.
” She often felt the need to touch that piece of paper .
She gazed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ them , with no tears in her eyes , and the names filled her head with pleas that she didn ’ t know how to answer .
What she didn ’ t want to see : pictures on television , photographs in newspapers and magazines , corpses lying by roadsides , dismembered bodies , faces slashed by machetes .
What she didn ’ t want to hear : any rumor that might summon up images of the frenzy of sex and blood that had crashed over the women , the girls , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to protect her dead , to keep them untouched in her memory , their bodies whole and unsullied , like the saints she ’ d heard about at catechism , miraculously preserved from corruption .

On TV, on the radio, they never called it genocide. As if that word were reserved. Too serious. Too serious for Africa. Yes, there were massacres, but there were always massacres in Africa. And these massacres were happening in a country that no one had ever heard of. A country that no one could find on a map. Tribal hatred, primitive, atavistic hatred: nothing to understand there. “Weird stuff goes on where you come from,” people would tell her.
She herself didn’t know the word, but in Kinyarwanda there was a very old term for what was happening in her homeland: gutsembatsemba, a verb, used when talking about parasites or mad dogs, things that had to be eradicated, and about Tutsis, also known as inyenzi—cockroaches—something else to be wiped out. She remembered the story her Hutu schoolmates at high school in Kigali had told her, laughing: “Someday a child will ask his mother, ‘Mama, who were those Tutsis I keep hearing about? What did they look like?,’ and the mother will answer, ‘They were nothing at all, my son. Those are just stories.’ ”
Nevertheless, she hadn’t lost hope. She wanted to know. Her father, her mother, her brothers, her sisters, her whole family back in Rwanda—some of them might still be alive. Maybe the slaughter had spared them for now? Maybe they’d managed to escape into exile, as she had? Her parents, on the hill, had no telephone, of course, but she called one of her brothers, who taught in Ruhengeri. The phone rang and rang. No one answered. She called her sister, who’d married a shopkeeper in Butare. A voice she’d never heard before told her, “There’s nobody here.” She called her brother in Canada. He was the eldest. If their parents were dead, then he’d be the head of the family. Perhaps he had news, perhaps he had advice, perhaps he could help her begin to face her terror. They spoke, and then they fell silent. What was there to say? From now on, they were alone.
From now on, she would be alone. She knew a few people from home, of course, friends she’d made at the university here, where she’d had to start her studies all over again, her African degrees being worthless in France. But that little part of her—the part that still tied her to those she’d left behind in Rwanda, despite the distance and the time gone by and the impossibility of rejoining them—formed a bond that grounded her identity and affirmed her will to go on. That bond would fade, and in the cold of her solitude its disappearance would leave her somehow amputated.
She felt very fragile. “I’m like an egg,” she often told herself. “One jolt and I’ll break.” She moved as sparingly as she could; she lived in slow motion. She walked as if she were seeking her way in the dark, as if at any moment she might bump into an obstacle and fall to the ground. Climbing a staircase took a tremendous effort: a great weight lay on her shoulders. She found herself counting the steps she still had to climb, clutching the bannister as if she were at the edge of an abyss, and when she reached her floor she was breathless and drained.
She tried to find an escape in mindless household tasks. Again and again, she maniacally straightened her studio apartment. Something was always where it shouldn’t be: books on the couch, shoes in the entryway, Rwandan nesting baskets untidily lined up on the shelf. She was sure she’d feel better if everything was finally where it belonged. But she was forever having to go back and start over again.
If only she had at least a photograph of her parents. She rifled through the suitcase that had come with her through all her travels. There were letters, there were notebooks filled with words, useless diplomas, even her Rwandan identity card, with the “Tutsi” stamp that she’d tried to scratch away. There was a handful of photographs of her with her girlfriends in Burundi (which they’d had taken at a photographer’s studio in the Asian district in Bujumbura, before they parted ways, so they wouldn’t forget), there were postcards from her brother in Canada, a few pages of a diary she’d quickly abandoned, but she never did find a photo of her parents.
For that, she rebuked herself bitterly. Why hadn’t she thought to ask them to have their picture taken and send her a copy? Was she a neglectful daughter? Had she forgotten them as the years went by? No, they were still there in her memory; she could call up their image anytime she liked. She sat down at her table, took her head in her hands, closed her eyes, focussed her mind, and pictured, one by one, all the faces that death might already have erased.
Then, toward the end of June, she got a letter. There was no mistaking where it had come from: the red-and-blue-bordered envelope, the exotic bird on the stamp, the clumsily written address. . . . She couldn’t bring herself to open it. She put it on her bookshelf, behind the Rwandan baskets. She pretended to forget it. There were so many more urgent and more important things to do: make dinner, iron a pair of jeans, organize her class notes. But the letter was still there, behind the baskets. Suddenly, she found herself tearing open the envelope. She pulled out a sheet of square-ruled paper, a page from a schoolchild’s notebook. She didn’t need to read the few sentences that served as an introduction to a long list of names: her father, her mother, her brothers, her sisters, her uncles, her aunts, her nephews, her nieces. . . . This was now the list of her dead, of everyone who had died far away from her, without her, and there was nothing she could do for them, not even die with them. She stared at the letter, unable to weep, and she began to think that it had been sent by the dead themselves. It was a message from the land of the dead. And this, she thought, would probably be their only grave, a column of names she didn’t even need to reread, because she knew them so well that they echoed in her head like cries of pain.
She kept the letter from her dead with her at all times. She never showed it to anyone. Whenever someone asked, “What happened to your family?,” she always answered, “They were killed, they’re all dead, every one.” When people asked how she’d heard, she told them, “I just know, that’s all. Don’t ask me anything more.” She often felt the need to touch that piece of paper. She gazed at the column of names without reading them, with no tears in her eyes, and the names filled her head with pleas that she didn’t know how to answer.
What she didn’t want to see: pictures on television, photographs in newspapers and magazines, corpses lying by roadsides, dismembered bodies, faces slashed by machetes. What she didn’t want to hear: any rumor that might summon up images of the frenzy of sex and blood that had crashed over the women, the girls, the children. . . . She wanted to protect her dead, to keep them untouched in her memory, their bodies whole and unsullied, like the saints she’d heard about at catechism, miraculously preserved from corruption.
Most of all, she didn’t want to sleep, because to fall asleep was to deliver herself to the killers. Every night they were there. They’d taken over her sleep; they were the masters of her dreams. They had no faces; they came toward her in a gray, blood-soaked throng. Or else they had just one face, an enormous face that laughed viciously as it pressed into hers, crushing her.
No, no going to sleep.
Of course, she should have wept. She owed the dead that. If she wept, she could be close to them. She imagined them waiting behind the veil of tears, nearby and unreachable. Maybe that was why she’d gone so far away, why she’d headed off into exile: so that there would be someone to weep for all those whose memory the killers had tried to erase, whose existence they’d tried to deny.
“Hold up—there are too many guys in there right now.” Cartoon by Jeremy Nguyen Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
But she couldn’t weep.
“My father just died,” one of her friends told her.
“I’ll go to his funeral,” she answered, without thinking.
She immediately regretted making that promise. Was it right for her to honor someone else’s dead if she couldn’t weep for her own? In her mind, she summoned up images of Rwandan women weeping over their lost loved ones, able to weep because the body was there in front of them, before it was buried. Yes, the women of Rwanda knew how to mourn. First, they wept sitting up very straight, still and silent, their tears falling like raindrops from eucalyptus trees. Then came the keening and the wailing; the women shivered and quaked, racked head to toe by violent sobs. Finally, they huddled beneath their pagnes, disappearing, soundless but for their sighs as they choked back their tears, and then even those slowly waned. Now the loved one could enter the land of the dead. He’d got the tears he deserved, and although the pain of the loss was still there, you knew that it would slowly ease, that you’d be able to live with it, and that the lost loved one would leave a peaceful memory in the world of the living, a welcome memory—maybe that was what white people meant when they talked about “the grieving process.” And, with that, the loved one was allowed to set off for his final home. The body was carried on an ingobyi, a long stretcher made of bamboo slats. The women would keep their eyes fixed on him, accompanying him on his voyage, as if lending him their support one last time before he was admitted to the other world, the unknown world of the spirits. The ingobyi also served as a bride’s palanquin on her wedding day. She, too, was expected to weep. As she was taken from her parents’ house to that of her new family, her sobs—too loud to be sincere—showed everyone that she was leaving the paternal enclosure against her wishes. The ingobyi always demanded its tribute of tears.
She sadly recalled the little cemetery where she and her three fellow-refugees had liked to meet. This was in Burundi, in Bujumbura, at the seminary that had temporarily taken them in after they fled from Rwanda. In exchange for halfhearted hospitality, the four companions-in-exile did housekeeping, helped in the kitchen, served the abbots at dinner, washed dishes. They tried to ward off the insistent curiosity of the seminarians, who were made restless by the presence of girls. They were forever having to invent new excuses to turn down the abbots’ invitations to come pick out a book or have a talk in their rooms. When the siesta hour came, the girls went out into the garden to talk about all that had happened to them and to consider their uncertain future. Beyond the banana grove, they discovered a small forgotten cemetery with a handful of wooden crosses, whose white paint was peeling, the black letters of the names almost entirely faded. “Let’s say a prayer,” Espérance said. “You must always do something for the dead.”