newyorker--2020-05-01--What to Stream: An Extraordinary Series on Women Filmmakers Comes to the Criterion Channel

The centerpiece of May ’ s new offerings on the Criterion Channel is a carryover from an extraordinary series screened at Metrograph in 2018 , “ Tell Me : Women Filmmakers , Women ’ s Stories , ” programmed by Nellie Killian .
Killian ’ s version of the series for Criterion offers most of the films from the theatrical version and some others as well .
There are many other new enticements on the site this month ( including a series programmed by Josh and Benny Safdie , and the streaming première of Horace B. Jenkins ’ s “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Tell Me ” program amplifies the service ’ s programming not only in quantity and quality but in kind : it opens portals to another dimension in the history—and , for that matter , the future—of cinema .
The films in “ Tell Me ” —mostly from the nineteen-seventies and early eighties , most running under an hour—are documentaries , but ones that stand apart from so-called observational ones , and even from the interactive ones of the cinema-vérité movement .
These films fuse the first person and the second person , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sense of mutual address , of cinematic complicity , gives rise to unrestrained and liberating intimacy .
The series gets its title from a rare and great film by Chantal Akerman , from 1980 , that ’ s included , “ Dis-Moi , ” which she made in 1980 , for French television .
It ’ s a film that conveys two aspects of experience that had long gone stifled and overlooked in movies : women ’ s accounts of their lives , and European Jews ’ experience of the Holocaust .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ series devoted to grandmothers , features interviews that Akerman conducts with three middle-aged to elderly Jewish women in their apartments in Paris , and it ’ s a personal film in several dimensions—Akerman interviews her mother ( who ’ s never seen onscreen , but whose voice accompanies Akerman in her walks through Paris ) about the filmmaker ’ s own grandmother and great-grandmother , gathering family stories , many of which are about the family being torn apart by the Nazi regime , and of the death of family members in concentration @ @ @ @ @ @ @ which family life is inseparable from local politics and world history , in which long-unquestioned assumptions about women ’ s lives and roles are brought to light , in which the very essence of family life emerges in political and collective terms—also yields a metaphysical element , of the spiritual lore that emerges from the lives of grandmothers in an era of stringently enforced gender distinctions , posing a counterpart to official history .
The political dimension of having—or not having—children are central to the films in the “ Tell Me ” series @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to Us , ” from 1972 , by Amalie R. Rothschild ( whose 1974 film “ Nana , Mom and Me ” is another classic of women ’ s lives and family histories ) , in which women speak with her about abortion—their own abortions , the unavailability of legal abortions , the dangers of illegal ones , the politics and practice of birth control as they experience it , in the time before Roe v. Wade ( which was decided in 1973 ) —which they also describe as a time of enforced @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that matter , about sex .
“ It Happens to Us , ” which delves into the science of abortion as well as its politics and its practice , is a multigenerational film , a multiethnic film , and also a multigender film , in which a young man is present with his partner , a woman , and discusses frankly his own changing attitudes toward sexual relations as a result of the legalization of abortion ( in some states ) .
In “ Chris and Bernie ” ( 1976 ) , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with two young women whose relationships with the fathers of their young children have ended , and who live together and pool their child-care efforts—a situation that determines the baseline conditions for both women ’ s professional activities .
It ’ s a living drama of the absence of public child care and the unequal division of family responsibilities in the conventional family , and its drama , from five decades ago , finds a disturbing echo in the coronavirus crisis , with the report , in The Lily , that , since @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to academic journals have significantly increased while women ’ s have sharply declined .
Geri Ashur ’ s “ Janie ’ s Janie ” ( 1971 ) , is also a story of cycles of abuse and the need to break out of family and domestic circles in order to thwart them ; it ’ s the story of a woman who escapes an abusive father only to find herself in an abusive marriage .
She leaves the marriage , confronting her newfound independence , and then becomes a local activist , recognizing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ issues while at the same time working with women in her community in Newark , New Jersey , to open a free , public day-care center .
Another of earliest of the films in the series , Julia Reichert and Jim Klein ’ s “ Growing Up Female , ” also from 1971 , is also the most analytical—the filmmakers consider women ’ s lives , from early childhood to middle age , through discussions with them , which they put into context through an interview with a male advertising executive , whose @ @ @ @ @ @ @ campaign for women ’ s subordination and dependence .
Joyce Chopra ’ s 1972 film “ Joyce at 34 ” is another multigenerational story of mothers and children—of her own efforts to continue her filmmaking career after the birth of her child , the stresses that parenthood places on her marriage , and the demands that her own birth and childhood placed on her mother ( emphasized in a remarkable scene of a group dining-room-table discussion involving her mother and women in her mother ’ s social circle ) .
In “ Yudie @ @ @ @ @ @ @ speaks with her aunt , a divorced woman who reminisces about her childhood on the Lower East Side , which provides the setting for her decision to marry ; the film is both a time capsule of immigrant Jewish life in New York , a parsing of its mores , and a keen , frank vision of painful solitude .
There ’ s an astounding scene in “ Suzanne , Suzanne , ” the 1982 film by Camille Billops and James V. Hatch—also a multigenerational story , centered on the death of a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the father of Suzanne , the husband of Billie , and the son-in-law of Alma—and a domestic abuser .
Suzanne , a recovering drug addict , speaks of the emotional damage and the beatings in her childhood that led to her drug use ; Billie speaks of the liberation she felt after her husband ’ s death .
But , as frank and unsparing as their discussions are , the filmmakers nonetheless develop a distinctive , stylistically original , and practically effective framework of image and staging to unleash pent-up words and emotions @ @ @ @ @ @ @ together , both facing the camera , as Billie describes the horror of the beatings that her husband administered to Suzanne in a ritual that they called “ death row , ” and of the beatings that she herself endured .
It ’ s a scene of tragic confession and commiseration , of a newfound mutual understanding borne of agonies reimagined on-camera , by way of simple but profound directorial imagination .
There ’ s also an ingenious twist of cinematic form in Liane Brandon ’ s 1972 film “ Betty Tells Her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ named Betty , who seems to be in her mid-thirties , recounts , in a nine-minute take , an incident from her awkward young adulthood , when she felt socially isolated and unattractive and was persuaded to buy an expensive dress , far beyond her means , for a party as a confidence-booster .
She then tells that story again , later the same day , in another nine-minute take ; but where the first version , told with verve , ends mildly , the second telling , which reflects the chore of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and dour ending .

The centerpiece of May’s new offerings on the Criterion Channel is a carryover from an extraordinary series screened at Metrograph in 2018, “Tell Me: Women Filmmakers, Women’s Stories,” programmed by Nellie Killian. Killian’s version of the series for Criterion offers most of the films from the theatrical version and some others as well. There are many other new enticements on the site this month (including a series programmed by Josh and Benny Safdie, and the streaming première of Horace B. Jenkins’s “Cane River”), but the “Tell Me” program amplifies the service’s programming not only in quantity and quality but in kind: it opens portals to another dimension in the history—and, for that matter, the future—of cinema.
The films in “Tell Me”—mostly from the nineteen-seventies and early eighties, most running under an hour—are documentaries, but ones that stand apart from so-called observational ones, and even from the interactive ones of the cinema-vérité movement. These films fuse the first person and the second person, and the filmmakers’ and subjects’ sense of mutual address, of cinematic complicity, gives rise to unrestrained and liberating intimacy. The series gets its title from a rare and great film by Chantal Akerman, from 1980, that’s included, “Dis-Moi,” which she made in 1980, for French television. It’s a film that conveys two aspects of experience that had long gone stifled and overlooked in movies: women’s accounts of their lives, and European Jews’ experience of the Holocaust.
The film, part of a French television series devoted to grandmothers, features interviews that Akerman conducts with three middle-aged to elderly Jewish women in their apartments in Paris, and it’s a personal film in several dimensions—Akerman interviews her mother (who’s never seen onscreen, but whose voice accompanies Akerman in her walks through Paris) about the filmmaker’s own grandmother and great-grandmother, gathering family stories, many of which are about the family being torn apart by the Nazi regime, and of the death of family members in concentration camps. The substance of these discussions—in which family life is inseparable from local politics and world history, in which long-unquestioned assumptions about women’s lives and roles are brought to light, in which the very essence of family life emerges in political and collective terms—also yields a metaphysical element, of the spiritual lore that emerges from the lives of grandmothers in an era of stringently enforced gender distinctions, posing a counterpart to official history.
The political dimension of having—or not having—children are central to the films in the “Tell Me” series, most overtly in “It Happens to Us,” from 1972, by Amalie R. Rothschild (whose 1974 film “Nana, Mom and Me” is another classic of women’s lives and family histories), in which women speak with her about abortion—their own abortions, the unavailability of legal abortions, the dangers of illegal ones, the politics and practice of birth control as they experience it, in the time before Roe v. Wade (which was decided in 1973)—which they also describe as a time of enforced silence about contraception, and, for that matter, about sex. “It Happens to Us,” which delves into the science of abortion as well as its politics and its practice, is a multigenerational film, a multiethnic film, and also a multigender film, in which a young man is present with his partner, a woman, and discusses frankly his own changing attitudes toward sexual relations as a result of the legalization of abortion (in some states).
In “Chris and Bernie” (1976), the filmmakers Bonnie Friedman and Deborah Shaffer speak with two young women whose relationships with the fathers of their young children have ended, and who live together and pool their child-care efforts—a situation that determines the baseline conditions for both women’s professional activities. It’s a living drama of the absence of public child care and the unequal division of family responsibilities in the conventional family, and its drama, from five decades ago, finds a disturbing echo in the coronavirus crisis, with the report, in The Lily, that, since lockdown began, men’s submissions to academic journals have significantly increased while women’s have sharply declined. Geri Ashur’s “Janie’s Janie” (1971), is also a story of cycles of abuse and the need to break out of family and domestic circles in order to thwart them; it’s the story of a woman who escapes an abusive father only to find herself in an abusive marriage. She leaves the marriage, confronting her newfound independence, and then becomes a local activist, recognizing that women’s issues are political issues while at the same time working with women in her community in Newark, New Jersey, to open a free, public day-care center.
Another of earliest of the films in the series, Julia Reichert and Jim Klein’s “Growing Up Female,” also from 1971, is also the most analytical—the filmmakers consider women’s lives, from early childhood to middle age, through discussions with them, which they put into context through an interview with a male advertising executive, whose gender-centered strategies come off as a propaganda campaign for women’s subordination and dependence. Joyce Chopra and Claudia Weill’s 1972 film “Joyce at 34” is another multigenerational story of mothers and children—of her own efforts to continue her filmmaking career after the birth of her child, the stresses that parenthood places on her marriage, and the demands that her own birth and childhood placed on her mother (emphasized in a remarkable scene of a group dining-room-table discussion involving her mother and women in her mother’s social circle). In “Yudie” (1974), Mirra Bank speaks with her aunt, a divorced woman who reminisces about her childhood on the Lower East Side, which provides the setting for her decision to marry; the film is both a time capsule of immigrant Jewish life in New York, a parsing of its mores, and a keen, frank vision of painful solitude.
There’s an astounding scene in “Suzanne, Suzanne,” the 1982 film by Camille Billops and James V. Hatch—also a multigenerational story, centered on the death of a man called Brownie. He’s the father of Suzanne, the husband of Billie, and the son-in-law of Alma—and a domestic abuser. Suzanne, a recovering drug addict, speaks of the emotional damage and the beatings in her childhood that led to her drug use; Billie speaks of the liberation she felt after her husband’s death. But, as frank and unsparing as their discussions are, the filmmakers nonetheless develop a distinctive, stylistically original, and practically effective framework of image and staging to unleash pent-up words and emotions: a composition of Suzanne and Billie together, both facing the camera, as Billie describes the horror of the beatings that her husband administered to Suzanne in a ritual that they called “death row,” and of the beatings that she herself endured. It’s a scene of tragic confession and commiseration, of a newfound mutual understanding borne of agonies reimagined on-camera, by way of simple but profound directorial imagination.
There’s also an ingenious twist of cinematic form in Liane Brandon’s 1972 film “Betty Tells Her Story,” in which a woman named Betty, who seems to be in her mid-thirties, recounts, in a nine-minute take, an incident from her awkward young adulthood, when she felt socially isolated and unattractive and was persuaded to buy an expensive dress, far beyond her means, for a party as a confidence-booster. She then tells that story again, later the same day, in another nine-minute take; but where the first version, told with verve, ends mildly, the second telling, which reflects the chore of repetition, yields an altogether more confessional and dour ending.


newyorker--2020-04-30--History According to Trump: The President and the 1917 Pandemic That Wasn’t

As the coronavirus pandemic has disrupted his Presidency , Donald Trump has often complained about the terrible hand that history has dealt him .
This “ deadly scourge ” that crept up on him and disrupted a golden age of prosperity for America is “ something the world has not seen for a long , long time , ” as Trump put it on Monday , in one of his by now familiar riffs .
“ You could probably go back to 1917 , where it was a terrible period of time , ” he added .
“ You all @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Tuesday , he returned once again to the theme of his once-in-a-century bad luck .
“ Even if you go back into 1917 , ” Trump said at a White House event for small-business leaders , “ that was the worst of all time , but it was also not as bad as here .
It was very bad , it was very rough .
It was a bad one , but it wasn ’ t quite like what we ’ re going through right now.
” Except , of course , that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ worst-of-all-time influenza outbreak was not a pandemic in 1917 .
The flu that killed more than six hundred and fifty thousand Americans was detected in the U.S. in the spring of 1918 and had killed an estimated fifty million people worldwide by 1920 .
Trump ’ s mistake is one of those small , seemingly inconsequential errors that anyone , and especially our fact-challenged President , might make .
But Trump , it turns out , has referred to a 1917 flu dozens of times since mid-March , almost always when complaining about @ @ @ @ @ @ @ through such a historically rare event .
“ Nobody has trained for this , nobody has seen this , I would say , since 1917 , which was the greatest of them all , the greatest of this type of battle .
Probably the greatest of them all , right ?
1917 , ” Trump said , on April 4th .
This week ’ s comments were no slip of the tongue .
When I checked Factbase , a Web site that catalogues Trump ’ s public statements , I found that he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a 1917 flu pandemic since March 11th , and that did not count the offhand reference he made late Thursday afternoon while once again talking with reporters .
A search of the White House Web site found that Trump mentioned 1917 on twenty-three days since mid-March .
In a handful of instances—six , by my count—Trump referred to both 1917 and 1918 , suggesting that someone had perhaps tried to give him the correct date , but he could never quite get it to stick .
The story of a 1917 flu pandemic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ classic , a pointless and unnecessary screwup that is also very telling about the President .
There ’ s another reason Trump ’ s repeated references to a nonexistent epidemic of 1917 seem so discordant : Trump ’ s own grandfather died of the flu , in 1918 , likely from the first wave of the outbreak .
Returning home from a walk in New York City one day that May , Friedrich Trump told his son that he felt ill , according to the historian Gwenda Blair .
Soon after , he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to be the President of the United States during a time of global pandemic .
He does not publicly mention how his grandfather died .
“ Another politician might well seize on his grandfather ’ s death during the 1918-19 pandemic as a point of empathy with those who have lost family and friends to COVID-19 , but empathy is not in Trump ’ s playbook , ” Blair , who interviewed Trump ’ s father about Friedrich Trump ’ s death but could not get the future President to speak about it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , told me .
“ In the pandemic , as in everything else , his M.O .
is about victory , vanquishing and demolishing perceived enemies and threats , from immigrants to the media to the coronavirus , not about identifying with loss and grief.
” Donald Trump , of course , is famously historically illiterate , a Republican President who has marvelled publicly that Abraham Lincoln , the Party ’ s patron saint , was a member of the G.O.P .
At a Black History Month event , he spoke of Frederick @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as if he were still alive and “ being recognized more and more.
” In “ A Very Stable Genius , ” the recent book about Trump by Philip Rucker and Carol Leonnig of the Washington Post , there is an anecdote about the President visiting the U.S.S .
Arizona memorial , in Hawaii , with John Kelly , his then chief of staff .
Trump appeared to know almost nothing about the sneak attack that prompted the U.S. entrance into the Second World War .
“ Hey , John , what ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ book quoted Trump as saying .
“ What ’ s this a tour of ?
” The President ’ s ignorance about history , however , is often at odds with his desire to portray himself as a world-historical figure of vast importance .
Just months into his Administration , he called his Presidency the most successful and accomplished of any since America ’ s founding .
“ There ’ s never been a President who ’ s passed more legislation , ” Trump said five months after taking office , exempting only @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who ’ s done more things than what we ’ ve done.
” At the time , Trump had passed and signed thirty-nine laws , all of them relatively minor .
The coronavirus pandemic has only accentuated Trump ’ s tendency to portray himself as a figure of sweeping historical significance , no matter how distorted that history is .
“ We built the greatest economy in the history of the world , ” Trump said the other day , “ and nobody even disputes that , ” though it is not only @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is well aware that his entire Presidency now rides on the outcome of the pandemic and how he is perceived to have handled it .
Already , Trump and his advisers are beginning to rewrite the history of the virus in a way that ignores the delay and denialism that led the U.S. to suffer the worst outbreak in the world so far .
On Wednesday morning , there was a “ Fox & Friends ” appearance for the ages by Trump ’ s son-in-law , Jared Kushner , who has played a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s coronavirus response .
“ We ’ re on the other side of the medical aspect of this , ” Kushner said , an astounding statement considering that , within the previous twenty-four hours , the United States had just hit more than a million confirmed infections and , in a space of weeks , surpassed the American death toll for the entire Vietnam War .
“ The federal government rose to the challenge , and this is a great success story , ” Kushner added .
Trump also took that view @ @ @ @ @ @ @ saying , “ We did the right thing .
We did an incredible job.
” This weekend , according to Politico , the Trump campaign intends to begin a seven-figure national television-ad blitz “ touting Trump ’ s performance managing the coronavirus crisis.
” The ads “ will depict Trump as showing leadership in the face of opposition from Democrats and the media , ” Politico reported .
Revising history to suit their political interests is something that all politicians do .
Trump and company , however , are brazenly attempting to do @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to rise and the economy is still sinking .
Thirty days ago , at the start of April , there were around a million cases reported worldwide and about fifty thousand deaths globally .
Today , there are more than a million cases and more than sixty thousand deaths in the United States alone .
More people have died of the coronavirus in our nation ’ s capital than in the entire country of Greece .
As for the economy , new unemployment figures released on Thursday revealed that more than thirty million @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the crisis began , and economists predict a thirty-per-cent drop in G.D.P .
in the second quarter of this year—the sort of plunge not seen since the Great Depression .
How is this a “ great success ” ?

As the coronavirus pandemic has disrupted his Presidency, Donald Trump has often complained about the terrible hand that history has dealt him. This “deadly scourge” that crept up on him and disrupted a golden age of prosperity for America is “something the world has not seen for a long, long time,” as Trump put it on Monday, in one of his by now familiar riffs. “You could probably go back to 1917, where it was a terrible period of time,” he added. “You all know what happened in 1917.” On Tuesday, he returned once again to the theme of his once-in-a-century bad luck. “Even if you go back into 1917,” Trump said at a White House event for small-business leaders, “that was the worst of all time, but it was also not as bad as here. It was very bad, it was very rough. It was a bad one, but it wasn’t quite like what we’re going through right now.”
Except, of course, that the very bad, very rough, worst-of-all-time influenza outbreak was not a pandemic in 1917. The flu that killed more than six hundred and fifty thousand Americans was detected in the U.S. in the spring of 1918 and had killed an estimated fifty million people worldwide by 1920. Trump’s mistake is one of those small, seemingly inconsequential errors that anyone, and especially our fact-challenged President, might make. But Trump, it turns out, has referred to a 1917 flu dozens of times since mid-March, almost always when complaining about his own misfortune in leading the country through such a historically rare event. “Nobody has trained for this, nobody has seen this, I would say, since 1917, which was the greatest of them all, the greatest of this type of battle. Probably the greatest of them all, right? 1917,” Trump said, on April 4th. This week’s comments were no slip of the tongue.
When I checked Factbase, a Web site that catalogues Trump’s public statements, I found that he had made at least twenty-seven references to a 1917 flu pandemic since March 11th, and that did not count the offhand reference he made late Thursday afternoon while once again talking with reporters. A search of the White House Web site found that Trump mentioned 1917 on twenty-three days since mid-March. In a handful of instances—six, by my count—Trump referred to both 1917 and 1918, suggesting that someone had perhaps tried to give him the correct date, but he could never quite get it to stick. The story of a 1917 flu pandemic may well go down as a Trump classic, a pointless and unnecessary screwup that is also very telling about the President.
There’s another reason Trump’s repeated references to a nonexistent epidemic of 1917 seem so discordant: Trump’s own grandfather died of the flu, in 1918, likely from the first wave of the outbreak. Returning home from a walk in New York City one day that May, Friedrich Trump told his son that he felt ill, according to the historian Gwenda Blair. Soon after, he was dead. His grandson grew up to be the President of the United States during a time of global pandemic. He does not publicly mention how his grandfather died. “Another politician might well seize on his grandfather’s death during the 1918-19 pandemic as a point of empathy with those who have lost family and friends to COVID-19, but empathy is not in Trump’s playbook,” Blair, who interviewed Trump’s father about Friedrich Trump’s death but could not get the future President to speak about it for her 2000 history of the family, told me. “In the pandemic, as in everything else, his M.O. is about victory, vanquishing and demolishing perceived enemies and threats, from immigrants to the media to the coronavirus, not about identifying with loss and grief.”
Donald Trump, of course, is famously historically illiterate, a Republican President who has marvelled publicly that Abraham Lincoln, the Party’s patron saint, was a member of the G.O.P. At a Black History Month event, he spoke of Frederick Douglass, the nineteenth-century abolitionist leader, as if he were still alive and “being recognized more and more.” In “A Very Stable Genius,” the recent book about Trump by Philip Rucker and Carol Leonnig of the Washington Post, there is an anecdote about the President visiting the U.S.S. Arizona memorial, in Hawaii, with John Kelly, his then chief of staff. Trump appeared to know almost nothing about the sneak attack that prompted the U.S. entrance into the Second World War. “Hey, John, what’s this all about?” the book quoted Trump as saying. “What’s this a tour of?”
The President’s ignorance about history, however, is often at odds with his desire to portray himself as a world-historical figure of vast importance. Just months into his Administration, he called his Presidency the most successful and accomplished of any since America’s founding. “There’s never been a President who’s passed more legislation,” Trump said five months after taking office, exempting only F.D.R. amid the Depression, “who’s done more things than what we’ve done.” At the time, Trump had passed and signed thirty-nine laws, all of them relatively minor.
The coronavirus pandemic has only accentuated Trump’s tendency to portray himself as a figure of sweeping historical significance, no matter how distorted that history is. “We built the greatest economy in the history of the world,” Trump said the other day, “and nobody even disputes that,” though it is not only disputed but quite obviously untrue. Trump is well aware that his entire Presidency now rides on the outcome of the pandemic and how he is perceived to have handled it. Already, Trump and his advisers are beginning to rewrite the history of the virus in a way that ignores the delay and denialism that led the U.S. to suffer the worst outbreak in the world so far.
On Wednesday morning, there was a “Fox & Friends” appearance for the ages by Trump’s son-in-law, Jared Kushner, who has played a key behind-the-scenes role in the White House’s coronavirus response. “We’re on the other side of the medical aspect of this,” Kushner said, an astounding statement considering that, within the previous twenty-four hours, the United States had just hit more than a million confirmed infections and, in a space of weeks, surpassed the American death toll for the entire Vietnam War. “The federal government rose to the challenge, and this is a great success story,” Kushner added. Trump also took that view in an appearance later on Wednesday, saying, “We did the right thing. We did an incredible job.” This weekend, according to Politico, the Trump campaign intends to begin a seven-figure national television-ad blitz “touting Trump’s performance managing the coronavirus crisis.” The ads “will depict Trump as showing leadership in the face of opposition from Democrats and the media,” Politico reported.
Revising history to suit their political interests is something that all politicians do. Trump and company, however, are brazenly attempting to do so even as the body count continues to rise and the economy is still sinking. Thirty days ago, at the start of April, there were around a million cases reported worldwide and about fifty thousand deaths globally. Today, there are more than a million cases and more than sixty thousand deaths in the United States alone. More people have died of the coronavirus in our nation’s capital than in the entire country of Greece. As for the economy, new unemployment figures released on Thursday revealed that more than thirty million Americans have filed for jobless benefits since the crisis began, and economists predict a thirty-per-cent drop in G.D.P. in the second quarter of this year—the sort of plunge not seen since the Great Depression. How is this a “great success”?
When considering Trump’s real-time historical revisionism, I keep coming back to the 1917 question. What does this mistake of little apparent significance, repeated over and over again, tell us about Trump and his well-documented willingness to make war on historical facts, big or small? To start, it confirms an essential truth about the President: he will never admit that he is wrong, even when he is blatantly incorrect and it would cost him nothing to fix the error. This is, after all, a leader who has made more than eighteen thousand false or misleading claims since taking office, according to the Washington Post’s Fact Checker column, many of them whoppers of far more damaging impact than his repeated misstatement about the flu pandemic that likely killed his grandfather.
There are other, potentially more worrisome, explanations, however, beyond mere pride and stubbornness in the persistence of this particular Trumpism. It suggests a President who is either unable to process information once he has something incorrect in his head, is surrounded by people who refuse to correct him from making an embarrassing mistake over and over again, or who refuses to acknowledge a mistake and would rather rewrite history to conform to the mistake than simply correct himself and move on.
After finding that Trump had made dozens of references to an event that did not occur in 1917, I asked John Barry, a historian whose definitive account of the contagion, “The Great Influenza,” spurred President George W. Bush to push his government on pandemic planning, what he made of Trump’s mistake. “It encapsulates so much about him,” Barry said, “the ignorance, the insecurity that makes him willing to embrace and fully commit to a mistake rather than admit even the smallest error, the arrogance that he can get away with it.”
On Tuesday, a reporter for Yahoo News asked a question whose premise was that the United States had tested fewer citizens on a per-capita basis than South Korea, a suggestion later corrected by Trump’s coronavirus coördinator, Dr. Deborah Birx. Trump demanded an immediate apology. “Are you going to apologize, Yahoo?” Trump asked. “That’s why you’re Yahoo and nobody knows who the hell you are.” Later he added, “Nobody knows who you are, including me. You ought to get your facts right.”


newyorker--2020-04-30--Trump vs. the United States Postal Service

The U.S .
Postal Service is a rare thing : a beloved federal agency .
Mail carriers visit every household @ @ @ @ @ they are the only federal employees most of us see on a regular basis .
@ @ @ @ @ in serious financial trouble for years , a problem exacerbated by the coronavirus crisis .
@ @ @ @ @ depends on intervention from Congress , but President Trump has called the postal service “ @ @ @ @ @ without congressional intervention it could be forced to cease operating by the end of the @ @ @ @ @ a New Yorker staff writer and the daughter of a postal worker , joins Dorothy @ @ @ @ @ and future of the U.S.P.S .

Photograph by Mario Tama / Getty
The U.S. Postal Service is a rare thing: a beloved federal agency. Mail carriers visit every household in the country, and they are the only federal employees most of us see on a regular basis. But the service has been in serious financial trouble for years, a problem exacerbated by the coronavirus crisis. The survival of the system depends on intervention from Congress, but President Trump has called the Postal Service “a joke,” and without congressional intervention it could be forced to cease operating by the end of the year. Casey Cep, a New Yorker staff writer and the daughter of a postal worker, joins Dorothy Wickenden to discuss the past and future of the U.S.P.S.


newyorker--2020-04-30--Inside New York City’s Food-Supply Chain During the Coronavirus Pandemic

Every night , lines of long-haul trucks full of fruits , vegetables , meat , and fish arrive , from all over the country , at a peninsula in the Bronx .
At the Hunts Point Food Distribution Center , that cargo gets several steps closer to the shelves of the city ’ s supermarkets and bodegas .
Workers at Hunts Point unload the trucks , package the food , warehouse it , and ultimately sell it to grocers and restaurants in and around the city , even during the coronavirus crisis .
More than half of the city ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ comes through the distribution center .
Some eighty-five hundred employees keep the giant market operational .
“ We ’ re working non-stop in order for the community to be fed , ” Ric Galan , who has been working at the meat market at Hunts Point for around twenty years , says in the video above .
Although many New York businesses are closed , or have shifted their operations to allow employees to work from home , food distribution is an essential business , and those who move the food that comes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ every day .
Lately , Galan says , showing up to work feels like going to war .
Vince Pacifico , the owner of Vista Food Exchange , which is headquartered at Hunts Point , explains that there are two main delivery systems for food : the first is food service , which includes hotels , restaurants , and cafeterias ; the second is retail .
When the pandemic struck and restaurants and other large-scale dining institutions closed en masse , Pacifico says , New York ’ s lockdown “ cut the knees @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Point workers have got sick ; others have close family members who have died from the virus .
“ There ’ s a lot of pressure on us , ” Pacifico says , “ and , because of the virus , it ’ s becoming increasingly harder every day.
” Rich Comunale , a salesman and buyer , says that , “ without the food distribution coming through here , the New York City and greater New York metropolitan-area food supply would be paralyzed.
” Galan says that he doesn ’ t expect @ @ @ @ @ @ @ get a lot of public appreciation .
“ Most of the staff members here are Latinos , African-Americans , ” he says .
“ All of us here , we ’ re used to having five , six , seven family members at home—it ’ s a normal thing.
” He knows that , in the time of the coronavirus , living in those tight-knit family units brings a heightened level of risk .
“ It ’ s so much easier for it to impact us a little bit harder when just one @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be infected and come home , since they ’ re an essential worker , ” he says .
And , as Keeanga Yamahtta-Taylor has written , the disproportionate toll that the coronavirus is taking on the black working class has made the pandemic an “ object lesson in racial and class inequality.
” Every night at seven o ’ clock , residents around the city are taking to their rooftops and hanging out their windows to clang pot lids and whoop their thanks to those who are unable to stay inside .
Some @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in scrubs , the delivery people zipping past on bikes .
Others are working in the early morning on loading docks in the South Bronx , far from view , but no less crucial .

Every night, lines of long-haul trucks full of fruits, vegetables, meat, and fish arrive, from all over the country, at a peninsula in the Bronx. At the Hunts Point Food Distribution Center, that cargo gets several steps closer to the shelves of the city’s supermarkets and bodegas. Workers at Hunts Point unload the trucks, package the food, warehouse it, and ultimately sell it to grocers and restaurants in and around the city, even during the coronavirus crisis. More than half of the city’s meat, fish, and produce comes through the distribution center. Some eighty-five hundred employees keep the giant market operational. “We’re working non-stop in order for the community to be fed,” Ric Galan, who has been working at the meat market at Hunts Point for around twenty years, says in the video above. Although many New York businesses are closed, or have shifted their operations to allow employees to work from home, food distribution is an essential business, and those who move the food that comes into Hunts Point are still showing up every day. Lately, Galan says, showing up to work feels like going to war.
Vince Pacifico, the owner of Vista Food Exchange, which is headquartered at Hunts Point, explains that there are two main delivery systems for food: the first is food service, which includes hotels, restaurants, and cafeterias; the second is retail. When the pandemic struck and restaurants and other large-scale dining institutions closed en masse, Pacifico says, New York’s lockdown “cut the knees off of food service.” Some Hunts Point workers have got sick; others have close family members who have died from the virus. “There’s a lot of pressure on us,” Pacifico says, “and, because of the virus, it’s becoming increasingly harder every day.” Rich Comunale, a salesman and buyer, says that, “without the food distribution coming through here, the New York City and greater New York metropolitan-area food supply would be paralyzed.”
Galan says that he doesn’t expect the people working in his industry to get a lot of public appreciation. “Most of the staff members here are Latinos, African-Americans,” he says. “All of us here, we’re used to having five, six, seven family members at home—it’s a normal thing.” He knows that, in the time of the coronavirus, living in those tight-knit family units brings a heightened level of risk. “It’s so much easier for it to impact us a little bit harder when just one person has to, God forbid, be infected and come home, since they’re an essential worker,” he says. And, as Keeanga Yamahtta-Taylor has written, the disproportionate toll that the coronavirus is taking on the black working class has made the pandemic an “object lesson in racial and class inequality.” Every night at seven o’clock, residents around the city are taking to their rooftops and hanging out their windows to clang pot lids and whoop their thanks to those who are unable to stay inside. Some are very visible: the health-care workers in scrubs, the delivery people zipping past on bikes. Others are working in the early morning on loading docks in the South Bronx, far from view, but no less crucial.
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-04-30--The Loneliness of a Social-Distancing Skeptic on Cape Cod

In a mall , signs tell the story .
In a Walgreens in South Cape Village , a shopping center in the town of Mashpee , on Cape Cod , signs tell you which goods are in short supply : pain relievers , adult diapers , antacids , eggs , and Donettes .
“ Due to high demand / We have a limit of TWO per household , ” the signs say .
“ If the shelf is empty , product is out of stock temporarily.
” A sign gives “ the facts about ibuprofen and COVID-19.
” ( Despite @ @ @ @ @ @ @ minister , there is no evidence that the pain reliever worsens symptoms of the coronavirus . )
Signs all over the store , and a soothing voice on the speakers , remind customers that Walgreens is concerned about their safety and ask that they observe a distance of six feet as they follow the blue arrows taped to the floor , indicating the direction of traffic in the aisles .
The cash registers have brand-new Plexiglas shields around them and Q-tips for use with the keypad .
Everyone in the store is wearing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ which sits on a small highway , is built to imitate a quaint old town center .
Streets have names such as Joy and Commercial .
There is a cute , tiny bus shelter .
Walking through the shopping center now , with its parking lots nearly empty , feels like walking through a deserted town , with giant barren squares and shuttered stores .
Signs announce the status of every business .
The pizza store is offering curbside delivery : “ Park in marked spaces and we will see you on the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” The handwritten sign on the sporting-goods store reads “ Temporarily closed.
” Dunkin ’ Donuts is open : “ WE ’ RE HERE TO KEEP YOU RUNNIN ’ EVEN IF IT ’ S FROM A DISTANCE.
” Procuts promises , “ WILL REOPEN ASAP !
” Mattress Firm asks you to “ kindly call our contactless store.
” After Dunkin ’ Donuts , you have to walk all the way to the other side of South Cape Village to find two more stores you can actually enter : a supermarket and a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ supermarket , asks , in large letters , “ In cooperation with the CDC recommendation and the Governor ’ s request , please wear a face mask before entering the store.
” The liquor store has a laser-printed sign : “ Here at South Cape Wine and Spirits we have been taking this situation very seriously .
Our staff has been diligently taking the proper cleaning and disinfecting steps to make the store as clean as possible.
” Inside the store—which is indeed very clean—there are no further signs of a pandemic , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a change in store hours “ due to this Unforeseen situation.
” There are no taped arrows , no masks on anyone , no gloves or Plexiglas shields or Q-tips at the cash register .
What there is at the register is a display of wine , Cabernet Sauvignon and Chardonnay from the Trump Winery , in Charlottesville , Virginia .
The employee who sold me a bottle of the red ( it was twenty-seven dollars and god-awful : like a mouthful of oak-bark shavings when opened , fading to vinegar and finishing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the store wasn ’ t requiring masks because “ some people don ’ t want to wear a mask.
” He also told me that business was good , if a bit “ unusual ” —for example , he said , the store was selling more tequila than usual .
Two realities sit side by side in South Cape Village : one dominated by the pandemic and the other inconvenienced by it .
In one , masks , gloves , shields , and Q-tips signal concern and responsibility , and , in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ signal a sort of defiant optimism .
The liquor store embodies the particular spirit of anti-lockdown protests on Cape Cod : not so much the zombie invasion of the Ohio protests as the glib , relentless cheer of your Fox News-watching uncle who likes to tease you for your self-seriousness .
Unlike protests in the Midwest and South , which are coördinated and funded by Republican mega-donors , the small insurrection on Cape Cod appears to be homegrown .
“ I think this will all go away a lot sooner ” than experts @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of a Nantucket sprinkler and property-management company , told me on the phone , although he admitted that he ’ d said the same thing in March , when he was still hoping to take an April cruise with his friends .
“ When President Trump said Easter was his goal—it ’ s good to have a goal , to be positive , even if it didn ’ t come true , ” he added .
Brown is not a coronavirus denialist—a friend of his , he said , has been sick—but he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cases might be exaggerated , and he favors opening up the island , with some precautions , such as asking summer residents to self-quarantine for two weeks .
( Brown even said that he has volunteered to get groceries for his customers who are coming to their second homes . )
Brown speaks admiringly of a group called United Cape Patriots , which has held two protests on two consecutive weekends .
The first demanded that Cape Cod follow President Trump ’ s suggestion and allow businesses to reopen .
The second , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ narrowly on gun shops , which under Governor Charlie Baker ’ s coronavirus orders are not allowed to sell firearms to the public .
( Brown was disappointed that he couldn ’ t make the protests—the journey from Nantucket to the Cape is long , and ferry service is infrequent these days . )
The founder of United Cape Patriots , a retired Boeing executive named Adam Lange , told me that he started the group three years ago as an alternative to the local Republican establishment , which he views as too @ @ @ @ @ @ @ like to do negative campaigning , ” he said , something United Cape Patriots embraced in their protests against the sanctuary movement .
Their protests on behalf of reopening Cape Cod are positive campaigning .
“ Cape Cod has had a relatively mild infection rate , just twenty deaths , ” Lange said , underestimating the number of deaths by nearly half : thirty-seven people had died by the time we spoke , and seven hundred and fifty-six had become ill .
In most Cape Cod towns , though , the rate of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ statewide average .
“ Boston is going to be shut down for a long time , ” Lange said .
More than three hundred people have died in Boston , with over nine thousand confirmed cases of COVID-19 .
“ But we are a different story .
Yes , as the country opens up , you have people travelling back and forth , and sometimes someone will catch the virus .
But , as a community , we are destroying the economy over twenty deaths.
” The other big issue , in keeping @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is insuring that guns and bullets can be sold during the pandemic .
Fifteen Massachusetts businesses and individuals have filed a lawsuit against Governor Baker , alleging that his coronavirus orders violate the Second Amendment .
I talked to one of the plaintiffs , Toby Leary , the co-owner of Cape Gun Works and an activist of the anti-lockdown protests .
He told me that his store is a “ twenty-thousand-square-foot state-of-the-art facility , ” with two indoor shooting ranges .
Leary manufactures guns and sells to law enforcement—essential services under the Massachusetts @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on a very limited basis .
But he used to sell between ten and thirty guns a day , he told me , and now he sells only one every three or four days .
Proceeds from record-breaking gun sales in March have allowed Leary to keep his staff of about twenty people employed since the governor ’ s order went into effect on April 1st , but he won ’ t be able to continue much longer if the order is not lifted .

In a mall, signs tell the story. In a Walgreens in South Cape Village, a shopping center in the town of Mashpee, on Cape Cod, signs tell you which goods are in short supply: pain relievers, adult diapers, antacids, eggs, and Donettes. “Due to high demand / We have a limit of TWO per household,” the signs say. “If the shelf is empty, product is out of stock temporarily.” A sign gives “the facts about ibuprofen and COVID-19.” (Despite an early warning from the French health minister, there is no evidence that the pain reliever worsens symptoms of the coronavirus.) Signs all over the store, and a soothing voice on the speakers, remind customers that Walgreens is concerned about their safety and ask that they observe a distance of six feet as they follow the blue arrows taped to the floor, indicating the direction of traffic in the aisles. The cash registers have brand-new Plexiglas shields around them and Q-tips for use with the keypad. Everyone in the store is wearing a mask.
South Cape Village, which sits on a small highway, is built to imitate a quaint old town center. Streets have names such as Joy and Commercial. There is a cute, tiny bus shelter. Walking through the shopping center now, with its parking lots nearly empty, feels like walking through a deserted town, with giant barren squares and shuttered stores. Signs announce the status of every business. The pizza store is offering curbside delivery: “Park in marked spaces and we will see you on the camera. Please remain in your car.” The handwritten sign on the sporting-goods store reads “Temporarily closed.” Dunkin’ Donuts is open: “WE’RE HERE TO KEEP YOU RUNNIN’ EVEN IF IT’S FROM A DISTANCE.” Procuts promises, “WILL REOPEN ASAP!” Mattress Firm asks you to “kindly call our contactless store.” After Dunkin’ Donuts, you have to walk all the way to the other side of South Cape Village to find two more stores you can actually enter: a supermarket and a liquor store. Roche Bros., the supermarket, asks, in large letters, “In cooperation with the CDC recommendation and the Governor’s request, please wear a face mask before entering the store.” The liquor store has a laser-printed sign: “Here at South Cape Wine and Spirits we have been taking this situation very seriously. Our staff has been diligently taking the proper cleaning and disinfecting steps to make the store as clean as possible.”
Inside the store—which is indeed very clean—there are no further signs of a pandemic, save for one that informs customers of a change in store hours “due to this Unforeseen situation.” There are no taped arrows, no masks on anyone, no gloves or Plexiglas shields or Q-tips at the cash register. What there is at the register is a display of wine, Cabernet Sauvignon and Chardonnay from the Trump Winery, in Charlottesville, Virginia. The employee who sold me a bottle of the red (it was twenty-seven dollars and god-awful: like a mouthful of oak-bark shavings when opened, fading to vinegar and finishing dry and raspy) told me that the store wasn’t requiring masks because “some people don’t want to wear a mask.” He also told me that business was good, if a bit “unusual”—for example, he said, the store was selling more tequila than usual.
Two realities sit side by side in South Cape Village: one dominated by the pandemic and the other inconvenienced by it. In one, masks, gloves, shields, and Q-tips signal concern and responsibility, and, in the other, open smiles and bare hands signal a sort of defiant optimism. The liquor store embodies the particular spirit of anti-lockdown protests on Cape Cod: not so much the zombie invasion of the Ohio protests as the glib, relentless cheer of your Fox News-watching uncle who likes to tease you for your self-seriousness. Unlike protests in the Midwest and South, which are coördinated and funded by Republican mega-donors, the small insurrection on Cape Cod appears to be homegrown. “I think this will all go away a lot sooner” than experts predict, Toby Brown, the owner of a Nantucket sprinkler and property-management company, told me on the phone, although he admitted that he’d said the same thing in March, when he was still hoping to take an April cruise with his friends. “When President Trump said Easter was his goal—it’s good to have a goal, to be positive, even if it didn’t come true,” he added. Brown is not a coronavirus denialist—a friend of his, he said, has been sick—but he thinks the reports of the number of cases might be exaggerated, and he favors opening up the island, with some precautions, such as asking summer residents to self-quarantine for two weeks. (Brown even said that he has volunteered to get groceries for his customers who are coming to their second homes.)
Brown speaks admiringly of a group called United Cape Patriots, which has held two protests on two consecutive weekends. The first demanded that Cape Cod follow President Trump’s suggestion and allow businesses to reopen. The second, held this past Saturday, focussed more narrowly on gun shops, which under Governor Charlie Baker’s coronavirus orders are not allowed to sell firearms to the public. (Brown was disappointed that he couldn’t make the protests—the journey from Nantucket to the Cape is long, and ferry service is infrequent these days.) The founder of United Cape Patriots, a retired Boeing executive named Adam Lange, told me that he started the group three years ago as an alternative to the local Republican establishment, which he views as too timid. “They don’t like to do negative campaigning,” he said, something United Cape Patriots embraced in their protests against the sanctuary movement. Their protests on behalf of reopening Cape Cod are positive campaigning.
“Cape Cod has had a relatively mild infection rate, just twenty deaths,” Lange said, underestimating the number of deaths by nearly half: thirty-seven people had died by the time we spoke, and seven hundred and fifty-six had become ill. In most Cape Cod towns, though, the rate of infection is indeed much lower than the statewide average. “Boston is going to be shut down for a long time,” Lange said. More than three hundred people have died in Boston, with over nine thousand confirmed cases of COVID-19. “But we are a different story. Yes, as the country opens up, you have people travelling back and forth, and sometimes someone will catch the virus. But, as a community, we are destroying the economy over twenty deaths.”
The other big issue, in keeping with priorities tweeted by the President, is insuring that guns and bullets can be sold during the pandemic. Fifteen Massachusetts businesses and individuals have filed a lawsuit against Governor Baker, alleging that his coronavirus orders violate the Second Amendment. I talked to one of the plaintiffs, Toby Leary, the co-owner of Cape Gun Works and an activist of the anti-lockdown protests. He told me that his store is a “twenty-thousand-square-foot state-of-the-art facility,” with two indoor shooting ranges. Leary manufactures guns and sells to law enforcement—essential services under the Massachusetts coronavirus orders—so he is allowed to operate on a very limited basis. But he used to sell between ten and thirty guns a day, he told me, and now he sells only one every three or four days. Proceeds from record-breaking gun sales in March have allowed Leary to keep his staff of about twenty people employed since the governor’s order went into effect on April 1st, but he won’t be able to continue much longer if the order is not lifted.
Leary’s argument for the lawsuit is twofold. First, he sees the designations of essential businesses as arbitrary. “I don’t see how you can tell Best Buy that they can be open because they sell appliances and tell the mom-and-pop shop across the street that they can’t be. I don’t see how ice cream, liquor, tobacco, and electronics are more essential than guns.” The other argument rests on principle. “The Second Amendment is bestowed upon us,” Leary said. I pointed out that the rights to freedom of religion and freedom of assembly are also guaranteed by the Constitution but are clearly limited in the current emergency. Leary agreed, and argued that closure orders should be replaced with reasonable-precaution guidelines. Otherwise, he said, “it’s about control, not safety.”
By Massachusetts standards, Cape Cod leans conservative. Trump got more than forty per cent of the vote here in 2016, compared with just over fourteen per cent in Boston. Lange told me that he is afraid to go to Boston, not because of the risk of becoming infected but because carrying pro-Trump signs in the city would be dangerous. I asked if he was in touch with anti-lockdown protesters anywhere else in the country, and he said no. “The left is really good at that—they have Indivisible here, and Democratic Socialists of America,” he said wistfully. “Those are national organizations. Conservatives are too dumb for that. We are just grassroots.” Loneliness, at least for now, may be the fate of anti-lockdown protesters in a small liberal state whose Republican governor believes in science.
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-04-30--Daily Cartoon: Thursday, April 30th

Daily Cartoon: Thursday, April 30th

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“Maybe this is insignificant, what with everything going on in the world, but do we have a fire extinguisher?”


newyorker--2020-04-30--Running Nowhere in Beirut Under Coronavirus Lockdown

An elderly woman walked slowly out of her apartment building and stood in the street , staring after the ambulance that had just taken her son away .
Her hair was curly and gray and she wore thick glasses , brown slacks , a cardigan , and a white surgical mask .
My cameraman and I had filmed as Red Cross volunteers loaded her son into the red and white ambulance , with its emergency lights flashing .
He was dressed in white overalls and had a face mask duct-taped over his nose and mouth .
The only thing that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pronounced limp , a stoop , as he pulled himself into the back of the van .
After the ambulance drove away , the man ’ s mother remained in the middle of the street , crying softly behind her glasses .
My cameraman and I were working on a story about volunteers in Beirut picking up COVID-19 patients , and we had been told that it was too dangerous to ride in the ambulance .
Instead of getting in our car and following the van , as we ’ d planned , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ first trying to remain several metres away from the woman .
She began walking toward us and speaking to me , and pulled down her face mask .
As a reporter , I wanted to talk with her .
There had been an event , and a person was deeply impacted by it .
The space between us should , of course , have shrunk .
It felt natural to want her to come closer—to talk , to confide , to share her suffering .
The woman was in shock , and , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ anyone can be—alone in crisis , in grief .
She said that her son had been discharged from the hospital the day before , but then had become very ill again and had to go back .
“ Maybe they suspect something .
I don ’ t know !
” she told me .
She seemed to want the reassurance of talking , of hearing an encouraging voice .
I wanted to put my hand on her shoulder—a gesture of kindness and empathy that is natural to any human being and vital to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the most traumatic and stressful moments in other peoples ’ lives .
For me , expressions of compassion are a way to share in the experience as respectfully as I can .
Instead , in that moment , I backed away as she stepped toward me , tears in her eyes and panic in her voice .
It was the most inhuman moment of my career , my most counterintuitive physical and emotional act .
We waved a rushed goodbye and jumped into our car , driving off in the hope of catching @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the street , eyed by two neighbors who were leaning over a balcony .
Normally , in Beirut , there would be several dozen people gathered around to watch and help and make suggestions and take charge and offer solace .
Now there was only isolation , distance , watching others ’ distress from afar .
Until that moment , the reporting trip had felt like a relief—an expedition outside after weeks inside my apartment during a countrywide lockdown that saw Lebanese soldiers chasing joggers back indoors and stern corner-store owners enforcing one-in-one-out @ @ @ @ @ @ @ acted quickly after the first projections of the potential impact of the coronavirus were released , in late February .
A Lebanese American University study predicted two and a half million cases and a hundred and fifty thousand deaths by the end of June .
With remarkable efficiency for a political class traditionally ranked as one of the world ’ s most corrupt , Lebanese officials launched a wide-ranging shutdown .
Initially , I felt a secret sort of cheerfulness at the news of the restrictions .
After years of trying to overlap @ @ @ @ @ @ @ husband and I would get the kind of extended staycation we had always joked we needed .
I could cook more and read .
I could finally send my literary agent more pages of my painfully slow-moving book .
Raised by Scots-Irish Presbyterian farmers , I ’ m a workaholic .
Here was the ultimate permission for guiltless rest .
That novelty wore off within a couple weeks .
After a month and a half , I realized that it was the longest period I ’ d spent in the same country for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a foreign correspondent for “ PBS NewsHour ” had been one of constant movement , flights , hotels , and journeys that turned into further journeys .
It had been about getting to events as quickly as possible and witnessing them firsthand .
After twelve years of war reporting , I found a crisis that I could not run toward , no fixer with whom to make plans via WhatsApp , no flights to book , no bags to pack .
There were no maps I could take off my office wall for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they would never fold the same way again ) .
No security risks to discuss and , ultimately , make peace with .
In place of these things , I was forced to stay put , be still , wait—all things that I have managed to avoid over the years under the guise of doing my job .
I ’ ve been dismissed as old school , naïve , and idealistic .
But I believe that no one does anything well , including living life , unless there ’ s a decent purpose @ @ @ @ @ @ @ purpose always has been to show our connectedness—not simply to document suffering but expose the world to a person ’ s response to their suffering .
That ’ s where their humanity lies .
That is what we all share .
That ’ s how we see people as they are : complex , afraid , brave .
As the lockdown dragged on , I struggled with my own fears and restlessness .
Each day , I ran on a treadmill that I had panic-bought at the beginning of the lockdown .
It @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was bounding toward the Mediterranean , which I could see on the horizon outside my dining-room window .
The YouTube renditions of the Tao that I listen to as I fall asleep , the journaling in the morning , the home cooking that has now become a competitive sport : these are done not to occupy my time , but to occupy , burn up , tame a little of the unease in me .
The rush to get out was like a provisionally pacified beast that shared my mind and my apartment @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Freya Stark described it well , writing , “ The beckoning counts , and not the clicking latch behind you : and all through life the actual moment of emancipation still holds that delight , of the whole world coming to meet you like a wave.
” I know that sense of emancipation all too well .
I even managed to turn it into a semi-respectable job .
It is the rush of coming down the steps of a plane in bright sun , a rucksack over my shoulder ; the newness of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of course , the sense of a new version of self .
While travelling , I have prided myself on not complaining , always expressing gratitude to be doing what I do for a living , aware that it was something I could only dream of as a little girl .
The connection with people across the globe : kebabs and tea with Afghan colleagues , lying under a tree by the Panjshir River ; exchanging sheep-farming techniques with Maasai warriors in Kenya ; being called “ little sister ” by Syrian activists @ @ @ @ @ @ @ look back at these moments in my life and am overwhelmed with a gratitude so intense that I barely catch myself before I cry .

An elderly woman walked slowly out of her apartment building and stood in the street, staring after the ambulance that had just taken her son away. Her hair was curly and gray and she wore thick glasses, brown slacks, a cardigan, and a white surgical mask. My cameraman and I had filmed as Red Cross volunteers loaded her son into the red and white ambulance, with its emergency lights flashing. He was dressed in white overalls and had a face mask duct-taped over his nose and mouth. The only thing that distinguished him from the volunteers was a pronounced limp, a stoop, as he pulled himself into the back of the van.
After the ambulance drove away, the man’s mother remained in the middle of the street, crying softly behind her glasses. My cameraman and I were working on a story about volunteers in Beirut picking up COVID-19 patients, and we had been told that it was too dangerous to ride in the ambulance. Instead of getting in our car and following the van, as we’d planned, we stood in the street, at first trying to remain several metres away from the woman. She began walking toward us and speaking to me, and pulled down her face mask. As a reporter, I wanted to talk with her. There had been an event, and a person was deeply impacted by it. The space between us should, of course, have shrunk. It felt natural to want her to come closer—to talk, to confide, to share her suffering.
The woman was in shock, and, it seemed, about as alone as anyone can be—alone in crisis, in grief. She said that her son had been discharged from the hospital the day before, but then had become very ill again and had to go back. “Maybe they suspect something. I don’t know!” she told me. She seemed to want the reassurance of talking, of hearing an encouraging voice. I wanted to put my hand on her shoulder—a gesture of kindness and empathy that is natural to any human being and vital to a journalist, a stranger present for the most traumatic and stressful moments in other peoples’ lives. For me, expressions of compassion are a way to share in the experience as respectfully as I can. Instead, in that moment, I backed away as she stepped toward me, tears in her eyes and panic in her voice. It was the most inhuman moment of my career, my most counterintuitive physical and emotional act.
We waved a rushed goodbye and jumped into our car, driving off in the hope of catching the ambulance. The woman stayed in the street, eyed by two neighbors who were leaning over a balcony. Normally, in Beirut, there would be several dozen people gathered around to watch and help and make suggestions and take charge and offer solace. Now there was only isolation, distance, watching others’ distress from afar.
Until that moment, the reporting trip had felt like a relief—an expedition outside after weeks inside my apartment during a countrywide lockdown that saw Lebanese soldiers chasing joggers back indoors and stern corner-store owners enforcing one-in-one-out policies. Lebanon’s authorities had acted quickly after the first projections of the potential impact of the coronavirus were released, in late February. A Lebanese American University study predicted two and a half million cases and a hundred and fifty thousand deaths by the end of June. With remarkable efficiency for a political class traditionally ranked as one of the world’s most corrupt, Lebanese officials launched a wide-ranging shutdown.
Initially, I felt a secret sort of cheerfulness at the news of the restrictions. After years of trying to overlap our travel schedules as journalists, my husband and I would get the kind of extended staycation we had always joked we needed. I could cook more and read. I could finally send my literary agent more pages of my painfully slow-moving book. Raised by Scots-Irish Presbyterian farmers, I’m a workaholic. Here was the ultimate permission for guiltless rest.
That novelty wore off within a couple weeks. After a month and a half, I realized that it was the longest period I’d spent in the same country for nearly a decade. My life as a foreign correspondent for “PBS NewsHour” had been one of constant movement, flights, hotels, and journeys that turned into further journeys. It had been about getting to events as quickly as possible and witnessing them firsthand. After twelve years of war reporting, I found a crisis that I could not run toward, no fixer with whom to make plans via WhatsApp, no flights to book, no bags to pack. There were no maps I could take off my office wall for the journey and attempt to fold (they would never fold the same way again). No security risks to discuss and, ultimately, make peace with.
In place of these things, I was forced to stay put, be still, wait—all things that I have managed to avoid over the years under the guise of doing my job. I’ve been dismissed as old school, naïve, and idealistic. But I believe that no one does anything well, including living life, unless there’s a decent purpose to it. For me, that purpose always has been to show our connectedness—not simply to document suffering but expose the world to a person’s response to their suffering. That’s where their humanity lies. That is what we all share. That’s how we see people as they are: complex, afraid, brave.
As the lockdown dragged on, I struggled with my own fears and restlessness. Each day, I ran on a treadmill that I had panic-bought at the beginning of the lockdown. It hummed beneath me as I pretended I was bounding toward the Mediterranean, which I could see on the horizon outside my dining-room window. The YouTube renditions of the Tao that I listen to as I fall asleep, the journaling in the morning, the home cooking that has now become a competitive sport: these are done not to occupy my time, but to occupy, burn up, tame a little of the unease in me. The rush to get out was like a provisionally pacified beast that shared my mind and my apartment. The British-Italian explorer and writer Dame Freya Stark described it well, writing, “The beckoning counts, and not the clicking latch behind you: and all through life the actual moment of emancipation still holds that delight, of the whole world coming to meet you like a wave.”
I know that sense of emancipation all too well. I even managed to turn it into a semi-respectable job. It is the rush of coming down the steps of a plane in bright sun, a rucksack over my shoulder; the newness of being on the road; and, of course, the sense of a new version of self. While travelling, I have prided myself on not complaining, always expressing gratitude to be doing what I do for a living, aware that it was something I could only dream of as a little girl. The connection with people across the globe: kebabs and tea with Afghan colleagues, lying under a tree by the Panjshir River; exchanging sheep-farming techniques with Maasai warriors in Kenya; being called “little sister” by Syrian activists, as fighting echoed nearby. I look back at these moments in my life and am overwhelmed with a gratitude so intense that I barely catch myself before I cry.


newyorker--2020-04-30--The False Positives, False Negatives, and Positive Negatives of the Coronavirus

As the coronavirus began to creep into our lives—but before it came to define them entirely—e-mails from across the world included the cheery phrase “ Crazy times !
” Messages from friends here in Los Angeles tended to favor something locally sourced , courtesy of Jim Morrison and the Doors : “ Strange Days.
” Strange days , indeed , as we waited for the result of my wife ’ s test , hoping that it would be positive .
Can you think of any other illness for which a positive result might be eagerly anticipated ?
Unable to do @ @ @ @ @ @ @ experienced symptoms that were severe by any usual standard but most welcome by the newly enhanced metrics of affliction ushered in by the virus .
We had gone for the test a week after she became ill .
Some of that week had been spent conducting our own speculative and highly ineffective form of contact tracing , trying to work out how and from whom she might have contracted the virus .
As time passed and her condition did not get significantly worse , we became more and more optimistic about a positive @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , late on a Friday night—we had slept snuggled up together as usual , so I had presumably been exposed .
In a classic plot twist , there was also the possibility of an inside job .
Had she caught the virus from the very person who was helping with the investigation , namely , me ?
On the Monday before she got sick , we had cancelled a dinner with neighbors because I had a weird headache and felt sure I was going to wake up in the morning with full-blown corona-itis @ @ @ @ @ @ @ day , but now we wondered if this faint throb , while nothing in itself , might have been the virus getting its foot in our door .
All this , of course , is the hand everyone dreams of being dealt : an asymptomatic case ( his ) or a “ mild ” one ( hers ) .
Come out the other side .
Get the antibody test and rejoin what ’ s left of the world with a clean bill of health .
So it sucked when the test result was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one—or , if such a thing is possible , to pre-square one .
My wife was still sick , so we maintained a policy of mutual quarantining in an apartment that makes any kind of separation almost impossible .
And whereas I ’ d thought I was beyond the point at which I could get sick , now I was back , full time , in the realm of daily dread .
Not for the first time during the outbreak—and almost certainly not for the last—it seemed like we were living out those @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has just passed .
/ Uh oh , here it comes again , / looking for someone to blame itself on , you , I .
.
.
” No wonder we didn ’ t believe the result .
We ’ d heard of false negatives—had read that oral tests of the sort that she had self-administered were less reliable than the ones for which someone else shoves a swab up your nose , halfway to the brain .
So we persuaded ourselves that she did have the bug .
Part of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ days , was that it was preferable to the possibility that she was ill with something else .
We ’ d had a laugh at the expense of a friend who ’ d been stupid enough to slice his finger while pruning bushes in his garden in Oakland and had to have the wound stitched .
Of all the times to wind up at urgent care !
My wife spoke with a doctor who confirmed the possible inconclusiveness of the test .
Then I spoke with a friend whose symptoms had matched hers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tested positive .
That clinched it .
We now had corroborating proof that the result was wrong .
And then , very slowly , she began to get better .
Meanwhile , the false negative was in the process of being balanced out by false positives .
The lockdown , for example , meant there was more time to read .
Except that there is actually less time to read than ever before , partly because so much of the day is spent monitoring the news ( in spite of repeated resolutions to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with the increasingly tiresome flow of fun YouTube clips , many of them featuring dogs , most of which I now delete sight unseen .
Still , at least I am of an age when my deepest desire is not to be out every night socializing , partying , carousing , boozing .
I ’ ve not had a drink since March 18th , the longest period I ’ ve been off the sauce since I turned seventeen , forty-five years ago , when I pretty much decided to dedicate the rest of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in , back then , in my late teens and twenties and thirties—and , if we ’ re honest , in my forties and much of my fifties—was nothing short of torture , partly because of what I might have been missing out on .
Young people can at least take succor from the fact that there ’ s nothing to miss .
Considered as a whole , this bundle of contradictory data adds up to what might be called a positive negative .
Right now , I ’ m content just to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ afternoon : take a look around , as the Lizard King put it , see which way the wind blow .
In the retail sense , it ’ s not blowing at all .
“ A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time , ” D. H. Lawrence declared , in “ Song of a Man Who Has Come Through.
” Time has been called , as they still say in English pubs , on the overpriced clothes and sunglasses shops of Abbot Kinney .
Even MedMen does not have its @ @ @ @ @ @ @ if it were a daytime night club .
But it is open !
How Californian : a store selling marijuana deemed an essential service , though I ’ m not surprised business seems slow .
Given the well-documented tendency of the drug to induce paranoia , you ’ d need nerves of steel to get stoned now .
Jeez , but it feels so lovely to be out and even slightly about that I ’ m convinced that those of us who manage , like Lawrence , to come through this without serious @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , or ruinous debt will look back on these “ dark times ” —as those “ crazy times ” inevitably became—as a most extraordinary period to have been alive .
This is especially true of the health-care workers who will remember it as their finest hour , when their work was most profoundly appreciated .
That “ finest hour ” phrase was a non-accidental accident since I often find myself thinking , lovingly , of England and its National Health Service .
Now , of course , I am brimful of admiration for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who dedicate themselves to saving lives and nursing the sick , but I am conscious that they are operating within a system in which the patient , as Martin Amis succinctly phrased it , is “ getting charged for every Kleenex.
” The governor of New York , Andrew Cuomo , was right to denounce the bidding wars that have been taking place between states for ventilators and personal protective equipment , but , within the moral confines of a for-profit health-care system , it ’ s hardly surprising that related parts of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ accordance with the hallowed principles of the market .
That ’ s why we British invest so much pride and emotion in our ailing health system—more emotion than money , it might be added .
Our outpouring of thanks is the flip side of a tacit acceptance that the N.H.S .
is in critical condition , on borrowed time and life support .
We hope that its patients pull through and we hope it pulls through , too .
The question is whether our present gratitude might be converted into a willingness to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ greater investment , even as the depleted U.K. tax reservoir shrinks to the size of a Serengeti watering hole in the midst of a record-setting drought .
This was Britain ’ s Easter message of hope : that the Eton-educated Tory Prime Minister Boris Johnson would emerge from his I.C .
tomb , reincarnated as a convert to Corbynism .

As the coronavirus began to creep into our lives—but before it came to define them entirely—e-mails from across the world included the cheery phrase “Crazy times!” Messages from friends here in Los Angeles tended to favor something locally sourced, courtesy of Jim Morrison and the Doors: “Strange Days.”
Strange days, indeed, as we waited for the result of my wife’s test, hoping that it would be positive. Can you think of any other illness for which a positive result might be eagerly anticipated? Unable to do anything but lie in bed, she experienced symptoms that were severe by any usual standard but most welcome by the newly enhanced metrics of affliction ushered in by the virus. We had gone for the test a week after she became ill. Some of that week had been spent conducting our own speculative and highly ineffective form of contact tracing, trying to work out how and from whom she might have contracted the virus. As time passed and her condition did not get significantly worse, we became more and more optimistic about a positive result. Until she fell ill—quite suddenly, late on a Friday night—we had slept snuggled up together as usual, so I had presumably been exposed. In a classic plot twist, there was also the possibility of an inside job. Had she caught the virus from the very person who was helping with the investigation, namely, me? On the Monday before she got sick, we had cancelled a dinner with neighbors because I had a weird headache and felt sure I was going to wake up in the morning with full-blown corona-itis. I was actually fine the next day, but now we wondered if this faint throb, while nothing in itself, might have been the virus getting its foot in our door.
All this, of course, is the hand everyone dreams of being dealt: an asymptomatic case (his) or a “mild” one (hers). Come out the other side. Get the antibody test and rejoin what’s left of the world with a clean bill of health. So it sucked when the test result was negative. We were back to square one—or, if such a thing is possible, to pre-square one. My wife was still sick, so we maintained a policy of mutual quarantining in an apartment that makes any kind of separation almost impossible. And whereas I’d thought I was beyond the point at which I could get sick, now I was back, full time, in the realm of daily dread. Not for the first time during the outbreak—and almost certainly not for the last—it seemed like we were living out those John Ashbery lines: “The crisis has just passed. / Uh oh, here it comes again, / looking for someone to blame itself on, you, I . . . ”
No wonder we didn’t believe the result. We’d heard of false negatives—had read that oral tests of the sort that she had self-administered were less reliable than the ones for which someone else shoves a swab up your nose, halfway to the brain. So we persuaded ourselves that she did have the bug. Part of the reason for this, after about nineteen days, was that it was preferable to the possibility that she was ill with something else. We’d had a laugh at the expense of a friend who’d been stupid enough to slice his finger while pruning bushes in his garden in Oakland and had to have the wound stitched. Of all the times to wind up at urgent care! My wife spoke with a doctor who confirmed the possible inconclusiveness of the test. Then I spoke with a friend whose symptoms had matched hers exactly—in the sense of roughly—but who had tested positive. That clinched it. We now had corroborating proof that the result was wrong. And then, very slowly, she began to get better.
Meanwhile, the false negative was in the process of being balanced out by false positives. The lockdown, for example, meant there was more time to read. Except that there is actually less time to read than ever before, partly because so much of the day is spent monitoring the news (in spite of repeated resolutions to prune back the habit) and dealing with the increasingly tiresome flow of fun YouTube clips, many of them featuring dogs, most of which I now delete sight unseen. Still, at least I am of an age when my deepest desire is not to be out every night socializing, partying, carousing, boozing. I’ve not had a drink since March 18th, the longest period I’ve been off the sauce since I turned seventeen, forty-five years ago, when I pretty much decided to dedicate the rest of my life to swilling beer. Staying in, back then, in my late teens and twenties and thirties—and, if we’re honest, in my forties and much of my fifties—was nothing short of torture, partly because of what I might have been missing out on. Young people can at least take succor from the fact that there’s nothing to miss. Considered as a whole, this bundle of contradictory data adds up to what might be called a positive negative.
Right now, I’m content just to venture out on my bike for an afternoon: take a look around, as the Lizard King put it, see which way the wind blow. In the retail sense, it’s not blowing at all. “A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time,” D. H. Lawrence declared, in “Song of a Man Who Has Come Through.” Time has been called, as they still say in English pubs, on the overpriced clothes and sunglasses shops of Abbot Kinney. Even MedMen does not have its usual line of punters queuing outside as if it were a daytime night club. But it is open! How Californian: a store selling marijuana deemed an essential service, though I’m not surprised business seems slow. Given the well-documented tendency of the drug to induce paranoia, you’d need nerves of steel to get stoned now.
Jeez, but it feels so lovely to be out and even slightly about that I’m convinced that those of us who manage, like Lawrence, to come through this without serious illness, the loss of loved ones, or ruinous debt will look back on these “dark times”—as those “crazy times” inevitably became—as a most extraordinary period to have been alive. This is especially true of the health-care workers who will remember it as their finest hour, when their work was most profoundly appreciated. That “finest hour” phrase was a non-accidental accident since I often find myself thinking, lovingly, of England and its National Health Service. Now, of course, I am brimful of admiration for the health-care workers here in the U.S. who dedicate themselves to saving lives and nursing the sick, but I am conscious that they are operating within a system in which the patient, as Martin Amis succinctly phrased it, is “getting charged for every Kleenex.” The governor of New York, Andrew Cuomo, was right to denounce the bidding wars that have been taking place between states for ventilators and personal protective equipment, but, within the moral confines of a for-profit health-care system, it’s hardly surprising that related parts of the economy will continue to operate in accordance with the hallowed principles of the market. That’s why we British invest so much pride and emotion in our ailing health system—more emotion than money, it might be added. Our outpouring of thanks is the flip side of a tacit acceptance that the N.H.S. is in critical condition, on borrowed time and life support. We hope that its patients pull through and we hope it pulls through, too. The question is whether our present gratitude might be converted into a willingness to insure recovery and robust future health through greater investment, even as the depleted U.K. tax reservoir shrinks to the size of a Serengeti watering hole in the midst of a record-setting drought. This was Britain’s Easter message of hope: that the Eton-educated Tory Prime Minister Boris Johnson would emerge from his I.C. tomb, reincarnated as a convert to Corbynism.


newyorker--2020-05-01--How Are You Doing with All of This?

How Are You Doing with All of This?

How am I doing with all of this ?
Thanks for asking .
I ’ m doing “ bought the last oversized container of marshmallow spread left at the grocery store.
” I ’ m doing “ trimmed my own bangs and now we are all stuck with this visual emergency.
” I ’ m doing “ watched the entirety of ‘ Tiger King ’ and am considering starting a big-cat farm when all this is over.
” I ’ m doing “ texting with my mother-in-law and finding it not awful.
” I ’ m doing “ so diligent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ two dry , scraggly appendages where my hands once were.
” I ’ m doing “ made my own sourdough starter.
” I ’ m doing “ I don ’ t know what day today is.
” I ’ m doing “ drank my body weight in quarantinis.
” I ’ m doing “ getting way too comfortable with the sweet perfume of bleach.
” I ’ m doing “ taking my temperature twice a day with a forehead thermometer.
” I ’ m doing “ extended family members and I are bickering @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the pandemic , and I just let it go because there ’ s a chance that we may never see one another again.
” I ’ m doing “ when I must leave the house , shamelessly crossing the street if I spot any human walking toward me .
”

How am I doing with all of this? Thanks for asking.
I’m doing “bought the last oversized container of marshmallow spread left at the grocery store.”
I’m doing “trimmed my own bangs and now we are all stuck with this visual emergency.”
I’m doing “watched the entirety of ‘Tiger King’ and am considering starting a big-cat farm when all this is over.”
I’m doing “counting toilet-paper squares.”
I’m doing “texting with my mother-in-law and finding it not awful.”
I’m doing “so diligent about washing hands that there are now two dry, scraggly appendages where my hands once were.”
I’m doing “made my own sourdough starter.”
I’m doing “I don’t know what day today is.”
I’m doing “drank my body weight in quarantinis.”
I’m doing “getting way too comfortable with the sweet perfume of bleach.”
I’m doing “taking my temperature twice a day with a forehead thermometer.”
I’m doing “extended family members and I are bickering via text about Trump’s handling of the pandemic, and I just let it go because there’s a chance that we may never see one another again.”
I’m doing “when I must leave the house, shamelessly crossing the street if I spot any human walking toward me.”
I’m doing “almost missing telemarketer phone calls.”


newyorker--2020-05-01--What to Make of Justin Amash’s Third-Party Run

Justin Amash , who represents Michigan ’ s Third Congressional District , first won election to Congress in 2010 , riding the Tea Party wave .
He was thirty years old , and he hated the Affordable Care Act and—even with millions of Americans still out of work in the long aftermath of the Great Recession—unemployment benefits .
Once in Washington , he co-founded the Freedom Caucus , which antagonized the Republican Party ’ s leadership as much as President Barack Obama , and forced government-paralyzing political battles over the debt ceiling .
Amash preferred ideology to partisanship , explained @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cultivated a reputation as that peculiar Washington type : the insider ’ s outsider .
Half a decade later , the Freedom Caucus went Trumpist .
Amash ’ s supposed allies in the cause of limited government—Mark Meadows , Jim Jordan—became some of the most ardent supporters of President Trump ’ s big-government conservatism .
Amash drifted away .
Last summer , he left the Republican Party , and became an independent .
Earlier this year , he was the sole non-Democrat in the House to vote for Trump ’ s impeachment .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ was taking the first steps toward seeking the Libertarian Party ’ s nomination for the Presidency .
“ Let ’ s do this , ” he tweeted .
What is “ this , ” exactly ?
Amash ’ s announcement contained a collection of terms—2020 , Michigan , third-party bid—that combined to trigger the anxieties of those who still think often of how close Trump came to losing in 2016 .
When Amash cast his impeachment vote against Trump , he was celebrated on the left for his independence .
But even though @ @ @ @ @ @ @ third-party run since the moment he left the Republican Party , last year , his announcement this week was greeted with criticism , and not just by Democrats .
“ Amash can ’ t win , ” Joe Walsh , another former Freedom Caucus member turned Trump antagonist , wrote in the Washington Post this week .
“ But he can siphon enough votes from the Democratic nominee , Joe Biden , to hand the election to Trump.
” This was a common response .
Third-party candidates have been blamed by Democrats for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Presidents—first Ralph Nader , in 2000 , and then Jill Stein and Gary Johnson , in 2016 .
Is Amash setting himself up to play spoiler ?
It should be noted that the data gurus are pretty dismissive of that prospect .
“ He ’ s unlikely to get a large percentage of the vote or have any impact on who wins the election , ” CNN ’ s Harry Enten wrote , in an article breaking down the polling trends and Amash ’ s prospects .
Enten rests his analysis on the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Trump and Hillary Clinton were “ the two least-liked major party candidates of all time , ” they still combined to attract ninety-four per cent of the vote .
It ’ s very difficult for third-party candidates to make an over-all dent in the prospects of major-party candidates .
But what about in particular states where the margin is close ?
In 2016 , Clinton lost Michigan by 0.2 points .
Michigan is Amash ’ s home state .
Could a particularly strong showing from him there hurt Joe Biden in November ?
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ 2016 , then there is a shot that any small bump for Amash could affect the outcome of the election , ” Enten wrote .
“ Right now , though , Biden holds a significant lead in Michigan.
” After his announcement , Amash did a little press tour—the political press is starved for news right now , and his straight shooting has always made for good copy .
But the coronavirus crisis has paralyzed all of American life right now , and that includes the Presidential campaign .
We ’ re in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ presumptive Democratic nominee , is having trouble staying in the public eye .
Amash will have an even harder time .

Justin Amash, who represents Michigan’s Third Congressional District, first won election to Congress in 2010, riding the Tea Party wave. He was thirty years old, and he hated the Affordable Care Act and—even with millions of Americans still out of work in the long aftermath of the Great Recession—unemployment benefits. Once in Washington, he co-founded the Freedom Caucus, which antagonized the Republican Party’s leadership as much as President Barack Obama, and forced government-paralyzing political battles over the debt ceiling. Amash preferred ideology to partisanship, explained his votes on social media, and cultivated a reputation as that peculiar Washington type: the insider’s outsider. Half a decade later, the Freedom Caucus went Trumpist. Amash’s supposed allies in the cause of limited government—Mark Meadows, Jim Jordan—became some of the most ardent supporters of President Trump’s big-government conservatism. Amash drifted away. Last summer, he left the Republican Party, and became an independent. Earlier this year, he was the sole non-Democrat in the House to vote for Trump’s impeachment. This week, he announced that he was taking the first steps toward seeking the Libertarian Party’s nomination for the Presidency. “Let’s do this,” he tweeted.
What is “this,” exactly? Amash’s announcement contained a collection of terms—2020, Michigan, third-party bid—that combined to trigger the anxieties of those who still think often of how close Trump came to losing in 2016. When Amash cast his impeachment vote against Trump, he was celebrated on the left for his independence. But even though he’d been hinting at a third-party run since the moment he left the Republican Party, last year, his announcement this week was greeted with criticism, and not just by Democrats. “Amash can’t win,” Joe Walsh, another former Freedom Caucus member turned Trump antagonist, wrote in the Washington Post this week. “But he can siphon enough votes from the Democratic nominee, Joe Biden, to hand the election to Trump.” This was a common response. Third-party candidates have been blamed by Democrats for the victories of the past two Republican Presidents—first Ralph Nader, in 2000, and then Jill Stein and Gary Johnson, in 2016. Is Amash setting himself up to play spoiler?
It should be noted that the data gurus are pretty dismissive of that prospect. “He’s unlikely to get a large percentage of the vote or have any impact on who wins the election,” CNN’s Harry Enten wrote, in an article breaking down the polling trends and Amash’s prospects. Enten rests his analysis on the fact that, in 2016, when Trump and Hillary Clinton were “the two least-liked major party candidates of all time,” they still combined to attract ninety-four per cent of the vote. It’s very difficult for third-party candidates to make an over-all dent in the prospects of major-party candidates. But what about in particular states where the margin is close? In 2016, Clinton lost Michigan by 0.2 points. Michigan is Amash’s home state. Could a particularly strong showing from him there hurt Joe Biden in November? “If 2020 is as close as 2016, then there is a shot that any small bump for Amash could affect the outcome of the election,” Enten wrote. “Right now, though, Biden holds a significant lead in Michigan.”
After his announcement, Amash did a little press tour—the political press is starved for news right now, and his straight shooting has always made for good copy. But the coronavirus crisis has paralyzed all of American life right now, and that includes the Presidential campaign. We’re in an environment where Biden, as the presumptive Democratic nominee, is having trouble staying in the public eye. Amash will have an even harder time.