newyorker--2020-10-22--A Celebration of the Syllabus

A Celebration of the Syllabus

Students and teachers often regard the syllabus as a dull formality .
At the most basic level , it ’ s like an itinerary , offering a sense of where a class might go from week to week .
It ’ s a checklist , stating what you ’ ll need , when you ’ ll need it , and how you ’ ll be demonstrating that you ’ ve done the work .
Increasingly , syllabi have a contractual feel , with language carefully vetted by a school ’ s lawyers insuring that classrooms are accessible and free of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , a professor of English at Cooper Union , and Kit Nicholls , the director of the Center for Writing at the same institution , argue in “ Syllabus : The Remarkable , Unremarkable Document That Changes Everything , ” serving all these purposes means that few people take the syllabus seriously for what it can be : a story .
Maybe you don ’ t know this when the class starts ; you ’ re just here to learn something about astronomy or a group of poets .
A good story , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ driven by not-knowing , ” just as every thoughtfully designed course should contain “ mysteries , problems , as-yet-unresolved difficulties with which students will wrestle all term .
Narrative is also driven by turns , transformations , moments of recognition.
” Importantly , it ’ s up to the students to find their way through this story together , not for the teacher to simply “ deliver ” it .
Germano and Nicholls ’ s gently polemical , deeply romantic book regards the syllabus , and the work that goes into constructing one @ @ @ @ @ @ @ possibilities and pathways of the classroom .
The document “ happens to be the classroom ’ s point of entry , timekeeper , and compass , ” they write .
Consequently , they argue that it sets a tone for the months to come , revealing the teacher ’ s philosophies , even the expansiveness of their hopes .
“ Everything else about your teaching—from anxiety dreams to writing assignments , from understanding testing and what it ’ s for to your choice of readings and what students are going to do with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The term “ syllabus ” comes from a fifteenth-century misreading of the Greek word “ sittybas , ” a “ parchment label or title-slip on a book.
” But it came into more common usage to refer to a collection of items in the second half of the eighteenth century .
The Enlightenment didn ’ t just result in a widespread expansion of knowledge ; it also meant defining these different domains of knowledge and contemplating what they were for .
Over time , education itself became more formalized , disciplines were defined @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ; in the early twentieth century , the syllabus became synonymous with the “ methodical organization ” of knowledge .
Throughout the culture wars of the past half century , the syllabus has been a site of contestation , as reading lists were scrutinized for questions of diversity , inclusion , and how much canons had changed .
In recent years , this understanding of the syllabus as a kind of curated primer on a given topic has become more common outside academic settings .
In 2014 , the Georgetown historian Marcia Chatelain @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to explore how the Ferguson , Missouri , uprisings could be meaningfully introduced into classrooms .
It was an attempt to more closely align academia with the world outside .
The following year , a group of scholars started the # CharlestonSyllabus as a way of contextualizing the histories and politics that converged in a white supremacist ’ s massacre of worshippers at the Emanuel A.M.E. Church .
In 2016 , a Ph.D. student named Candice Benbow assembled a “ Lemonade Syllabus ” as a way of bringing together the histories , ideas @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in Beyoncé ’ s album of the same name .
There was something powerful and transgressive about adopting the syllabus , with its air of canonicity and expertise , to describe worlds that had grown in the shadows of official neglect .
Despite its title , Germano and Nicholls ’ s book is less interested in actual syllabi than in what this “ point of entry ” represents .
At a time when college teaching has grown increasingly routinized , and a professor ’ s attempts at innovation are pitched as much to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as its students , the authors remind us that education is about moments of spontaneous connection .
“ You ’ re looking for opportunities—those temporal junctures where something special can happen.
” As such , their book is filled with useful insights about teaching and how , under ideal circumstances , what is transferred isn ’ t a body of knowledge but a kind of “ craft , ” a way of reading and taking in the world .
They consider the virtues of being “ the biggest goofball in the room , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ relationship .
They write that “ the way we gain knowledge is nonlinear and recursive ” and that teachers should build in moments of “ repetition , regression , leaping ahead ” into a course .
Maybe one class ends on a note of unease , where it seems like we find ourselves at an impasse , which gets resolved weeks later .
Germano and Nicholls do discuss a few specimens : the ambitious reading list that W. H. Auden handed out for his survey of European literature , which featured six thousand @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a law-school class taught by Barack Obama , built around fifty-page readers compiled by students so they could begin to think like teachers ; Gloria Anzaldúa ’ s lengthy syllabus for a feminist-theory course , filled with notes and commentary that undermine the form itself , critiquing traditional notions of mastery and expertise .
The authors of “ Syllabus ” come across like fantastic and committed teachers , although , in this case , I would have hoped to learn more about their book ’ s purported subject .
I would have read @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s and Anzaldúa ’ s .
I was drawn to “ Syllabus ” because , as a student and professor , I have always found the genre fascinating .
Some syllabi are mystifyingly brief , others aggressively helpful , filled with pages upon pages of generous encouragement and auxiliary readings .
Maybe the instructor has included a stirring epigraph or a striking image to distinguish theirs from all the others .
In the case of the artist Lynda Barry , her entire lesson plan takes the form of a graphic novel .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ called “ Other People ’ s Syllabi ” that I consult whenever I ’ m stumped building my own .
I keep some syllabi because they offer primers for fields of knowledge that I only dimly understand ; I keep others because I ’ m curious about how a peer has taken the same collection of books I teach but shaped them into a far more provocative argument .
The literary-analysis class that David Foster Wallace taught in the nineties included airport thrillers by Jackie Collins , Mary Higgins Clark , and Thomas @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he writes a “ WARNING ” to students : “ Don ’ t let any potential lightweightish-looking qualities of the texts delude you into thinking that this will be a blow-off-type class.
” The writer Lily Hoang included a “ cookie policy ” for her M.F.A .
fiction-writing workshop .
As in , if your phone rings in class , you have to bring cookies for everyone the following week .
In 1971 , the jazz visionary Sun Ra taught a course called The Black Man in the Universe at Berkeley , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ into his self-made cosmo-mythology , including everything from the Russian occultist Madame Blavatsky to the King James Bible ( which Ra referred to as “ The Source Book of Man ’ s Life and Death ” ) and the Black fiction writer and poet Henry Dumas , who had been killed by a police officer three years earlier .
Few of us produce syllabi that fit within ( or illuminate ) our œuvre or sensibility the way these examples do .
I still look forward to constructing mine , fiddling with old ones @ @ @ @ @ @ @ were putting together a mixtape , even if the courses rarely go the way I ’ d intended .
A syllabus , as opposed to a monograph or journal article , is one of the rare things an academic writes knowing that it will be read—although perhaps not when we intended , or with the care that we put into its assembly .
A syllabus is the beginning of a story but also a leap of faith .
You hand it out , it ’ s no longer yours , and you trust @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with it .

Back in the days before college was largely virtual, one of the first things you learned as a student was that very little, if anything, happens on the first day of classes. Perhaps you’ve been waiting for this moment—you’re eager to have your mind blown, a mix of awe and self-doubt coursing through you. Usually, the professor gives a brief, ready-made spiel about the class, an overview of expectations and policy, after which you’re free to go early. Just be sure to pick up a copy of the syllabus on your way out.
Students and teachers often regard the syllabus as a dull formality. At the most basic level, it’s like an itinerary, offering a sense of where a class might go from week to week. It’s a checklist, stating what you’ll need, when you’ll need it, and how you’ll be demonstrating that you’ve done the work. Increasingly, syllabi have a contractual feel, with language carefully vetted by a school’s lawyers insuring that classrooms are accessible and free of discrimination. But, as William Germano, a professor of English at Cooper Union, and Kit Nicholls, the director of the Center for Writing at the same institution, argue in “Syllabus: The Remarkable, Unremarkable Document That Changes Everything,” serving all these purposes means that few people take the syllabus seriously for what it can be: a story.
Maybe you don’t know this when the class starts; you’re just here to learn something about astronomy or a group of poets. A good story, Germano and Nicholls write, “is driven by not-knowing,” just as every thoughtfully designed course should contain “mysteries, problems, as-yet-unresolved difficulties with which students will wrestle all term. Narrative is also driven by turns, transformations, moments of recognition.” Importantly, it’s up to the students to find their way through this story together, not for the teacher to simply “deliver” it.
Germano and Nicholls’s gently polemical, deeply romantic book regards the syllabus, and the work that goes into constructing one, as an opportunity to ponder the possibilities and pathways of the classroom. The document “happens to be the classroom’s point of entry, timekeeper, and compass,” they write. Consequently, they argue that it sets a tone for the months to come, revealing the teacher’s philosophies, even the expansiveness of their hopes. “Everything else about your teaching—from anxiety dreams to writing assignments, from understanding testing and what it’s for to your choice of readings and what students are going to do with them—are folded into the innocuous document.”
The term “syllabus” comes from a fifteenth-century misreading of the Greek word “sittybas,” a “parchment label or title-slip on a book.” But it came into more common usage to refer to a collection of items in the second half of the eighteenth century. The Enlightenment didn’t just result in a widespread expansion of knowledge; it also meant defining these different domains of knowledge and contemplating what they were for. Over time, education itself became more formalized, disciplines were defined, and something resembling the university emerged; in the early twentieth century, the syllabus became synonymous with the “methodical organization” of knowledge.
Throughout the culture wars of the past half century, the syllabus has been a site of contestation, as reading lists were scrutinized for questions of diversity, inclusion, and how much canons had changed. In recent years, this understanding of the syllabus as a kind of curated primer on a given topic has become more common outside academic settings. In 2014, the Georgetown historian Marcia Chatelain started the #FergusonSyllabus hashtag in order to explore how the Ferguson, Missouri, uprisings could be meaningfully introduced into classrooms. It was an attempt to more closely align academia with the world outside. The following year, a group of scholars started the #CharlestonSyllabus as a way of contextualizing the histories and politics that converged in a white supremacist’s massacre of worshippers at the Emanuel A.M.E. Church. In 2016, a Ph.D. student named Candice Benbow assembled a “Lemonade Syllabus” as a way of bringing together the histories, ideas, and inspirations she and others heard in Beyoncé’s album of the same name. There was something powerful and transgressive about adopting the syllabus, with its air of canonicity and expertise, to describe worlds that had grown in the shadows of official neglect.
Despite its title, Germano and Nicholls’s book is less interested in actual syllabi than in what this “point of entry” represents. At a time when college teaching has grown increasingly routinized, and a professor’s attempts at innovation are pitched as much to the school’s internal assessment panels as its students, the authors remind us that education is about moments of spontaneous connection. “You’re looking for opportunities—those temporal junctures where something special can happen.” As such, their book is filled with useful insights about teaching and how, under ideal circumstances, what is transferred isn’t a body of knowledge but a kind of “craft,” a way of reading and taking in the world. They consider the virtues of being “the biggest goofball in the room,” in order to demystify the student-teacher relationship. They write that “the way we gain knowledge is nonlinear and recursive” and that teachers should build in moments of “repetition, regression, leaping ahead” into a course. Maybe one class ends on a note of unease, where it seems like we find ourselves at an impasse, which gets resolved weeks later.
Germano and Nicholls do discuss a few specimens: the ambitious reading list that W. H. Auden handed out for his survey of European literature, which featured six thousand pages of text and nine operas; a law-school class taught by Barack Obama, built around fifty-page readers compiled by students so they could begin to think like teachers; Gloria Anzaldúa’s lengthy syllabus for a feminist-theory course, filled with notes and commentary that undermine the form itself, critiquing traditional notions of mastery and expertise.
The authors of “Syllabus” come across like fantastic and committed teachers, although, in this case, I would have hoped to learn more about their book’s purported subject. I would have read hundreds more pages of examples like Auden’s and Anzaldúa’s. I was drawn to “Syllabus” because, as a student and professor, I have always found the genre fascinating. Some syllabi are mystifyingly brief, others aggressively helpful, filled with pages upon pages of generous encouragement and auxiliary readings. Maybe the instructor has included a stirring epigraph or a striking image to distinguish theirs from all the others. In the case of the artist Lynda Barry, her entire lesson plan takes the form of a graphic novel.
There is a folder on my desktop called “Other People’s Syllabi” that I consult whenever I’m stumped building my own. I keep some syllabi because they offer primers for fields of knowledge that I only dimly understand; I keep others because I’m curious about how a peer has taken the same collection of books I teach but shaped them into a far more provocative argument.
The literary-analysis class that David Foster Wallace taught in the nineties included airport thrillers by Jackie Collins, Mary Higgins Clark, and Thomas Harris. Underneath the course aims, he writes a “WARNING” to students: “Don’t let any potential lightweightish-looking qualities of the texts delude you into thinking that this will be a blow-off-type class.” The writer Lily Hoang included a “cookie policy” for her M.F.A. fiction-writing workshop. As in, if your phone rings in class, you have to bring cookies for everyone the following week. In 1971, the jazz visionary Sun Ra taught a course called The Black Man in the Universe at Berkeley, and the reading list is a fascinating glimpse into his self-made cosmo-mythology, including everything from the Russian occultist Madame Blavatsky to the King James Bible (which Ra referred to as “The Source Book of Man’s Life and Death”) and the Black fiction writer and poet Henry Dumas, who had been killed by a police officer three years earlier.
Few of us produce syllabi that fit within (or illuminate) our œuvre or sensibility the way these examples do. I still look forward to constructing mine, fiddling with old ones, thinking about sequencing as though I were putting together a mixtape, even if the courses rarely go the way I’d intended. A syllabus, as opposed to a monograph or journal article, is one of the rare things an academic writes knowing that it will be read—although perhaps not when we intended, or with the care that we put into its assembly. A syllabus is the beginning of a story but also a leap of faith. You hand it out, it’s no longer yours, and you trust that students will know what to do with it.


newyorker--2020-10-22--The Ultimate “Bullshit Job”

The Ultimate “Bullshit Job”

All of these observations are accurate .
Four days of hearings contained not a single substantive exchange .
When the nominee was questioned by Democratic senators , she obfuscated .
When it was a Republican ’ s turn , Barrett joined the senator in performing a pointedly empty ritual , whether it was Senator John Kennedy , of Louisiana , asking the judge who does the laundry in her house ( she evaded the question ) or Senator Ted Cruz , of Texas , using his time to make a twenty-three-minute speech about Democrats , abortion , and democracy before @ @ @ @ @ @ @ any musical instruments ( a bit of piano ) and how her family has managed distance learning for seven children .
( It was challenging , but the Barrett family succeeded , of course . )
To an outside observer—someone who was not aware of America ’ s current polarized predicament—the hearings would have seemed as inscrutable as a politburo meeting : all code and no content , culminating in a vote whose results are preordained .
But why does one of the most consequential political decisions of a decade take such a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is “ the rule of ‘ because we can , ’ ” as Sheldon Whitehouse , Democrat of Rhode Island , said on the final day of the hearings : Senate Republicans have the votes to do whatever they want , so they do .
With the game fixed from the start , Republicans could have used the time to lay out an agenda .
They didn ’ t have to obfuscate ; they could have boasted instead .
They could have indulged their fantasies and envisioned the details of a near future @ @ @ @ @ @ @ voting rights , repeals the Affordable Care Act , places a federal ban on abortion , abolishes marriage equality , and systematically reverses civil-rights progress .
Their reticence wasn ’ t a matter of decorum—shame has no purchase on senators who refused to consider Barack Obama ’ s Supreme Court nomination during his last year in office but took up Donald Trump ’ s nomination of Judge Barrett .
The reason Senate Republicans and their candidate said virtually nothing of substance during her confirmation hearings is that they think the hearings amount to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Party opposed to government as such .
It is the Party whose ethos is summed up in President Reagan ’ s famous quip from a news conference in 1986 : “ The nine most terrifying words in the English language are ‘ I ’ m from the government , and I ’ m here to help.
’ ” What gave this joke its frisson was that , at the moment he made it , Reagan was pledging help from the government—in this case , aid to struggling farmers .
( According to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” “ Reagan ’ s farm programs cost more than the combined farm expenditures of every President from Franklin Roosevelt to Jimmy Carter.
” ) In the Trump era , Reagan ’ s phrase has become a full-fledged ideology , and government inaction is weaponized .
( Americans will not see a second pandemic-relief bill before the election because , in large part , Republican lawmakers oppose what they call a “ blue-state bailout.
” ) Hannah Arendt defined ideology as a single premise taken to its logical extreme and then used @ @ @ @ @ @ @ future .
For the Republican Party , the Reaganite idea that government is a necessary evil has turned into the idea that government is evil , period .
Arendt believed that the two-party system was well protected against this kind of ideological thinking , because real political power is always within reach for either party .
( Multiparty systems were more vulnerable , she thought . )
She did not foresee our present system , where one political party is still awed by the responsibilities and norms of governing while the other is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from the strange spectacle of Reagan , the leader of the free world , stating that his government ’ s actions are fundamentally suspect , to the even stranger spectacle of Trump , who openly dislikes his job , avoids doing it , and refuses to accept its responsibilities .
Yet he desperately desires to keep his job and so , it seems , do most Republican elected officials .
These are people who continually attack “ government , ” in which they work , and “ Washington , ” where they live @ @ @ @ @ @ @ anything to keep their places in both .
Imagine having to wage a long and gruelling campaign in order to land a job you believe is deserving only of scorn ; imagine then spending the bulk of your working hours asking people for money so you can keep this job .
In his book “ Bullshit Jobs , ” from 2018 , the late anthropologist David Graeber defined the title category as “ a form of paid employment that is so completely pointless , unnecessary , or pernicious that even the employee can @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as part of the conditions of employment , the employee feels obliged to pretend that this is not the case.
” In Graeber ’ s taxonomy of bullshit jobs , Republican senators would be “ box tickers ” : people who go through procedures , produce paperwork , and otherwise look important performing tasks that make no difference to any substantive outcome .
( As Graeber explained , a job is a bullshit job only if the person performing it feels that it is purposeless , which means that two people can have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tasks , but only one of them may be working a bullshit job .
For example , one senator may feel that Supreme Court confirmation hearings are an empty ritual with predetermined results , while another considers them a great responsibility . )
Many bullshit jobs , according to Graeber , exist solely to make other people feel important , by giving them underlings and acknowledging their wealth .
The Senate offers a twist : its Republican members seem to think that their job is to make one person , Donald Trump , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are links in a bullshit chain—if the entire enterprise disappeared , no one would be the wiser .
But a bullshit job can also wedge itself in between or next to meaningful jobs .
Imagine a receptionist whose only task is to sit at a desk in the empty front office while other people work .
The landline never rings and visitors never arrive , but an office is not an office if it doesn ’ t have a receptionist .
One of the most interesting insights of “ Bullshit Jobs ” concerns @ @ @ @ @ @ @ especially in the Anglo-Saxon culture , which assigns value to people based on grit and productivity .
Graeber suggested that the long-term effects of working a bullshit job are akin to the effects of imprisonment and even solitary confinement , which kills the soul and damages the brain .
He might have been overstating the case , but there is no doubt that people who work bullshit jobs—the engineer who provides support for software that no one uses , a maker of presentations that no one ever watches or hears—are full of loathing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ people who put them in the job , and for themselves .
Reading the Barrett hearings as a bullshit box-ticking ritual allows them to make a kind of sense .
In the pantheon of bullshit jobs , Republican senators might be most fruitfully compared to the financial analyst who plugs figures into a spreadsheet , massaging the numbers to yield predetermined results ; these results will be used to make bad loans , which will prop up a rotten financial infrastructure , ruining some people and making others ever richer .
In short @ @ @ @ @ @ @ consequential yet preposterous .
Similarly , installing Barrett on the Supreme Court will have far-reaching , real-life consequences , but the process that puts her there is pure bullshit .
It is difficult to find a better word to describe the Judiciary Committee Chairman Lindsey Graham ’ s closing statement on the third day of the hearings , which began as follows : Senator Kennedy , too , killed time like a bored , trollish office drone .
“ Are you a racist ?
” he asked Barrett .
“ Do you support @ @ @ @ @ @ @ working people ?
.
.
.
Are you against clean air , bright water , and environmental justice ?
.
.
.
Do you support science ?
.
.
.
Do you support children and prosperity ?
.
.
.
Do you hate little warm puppies ?
” He then congratulated himself and the judge : “ See , we did that in about two minutes.
” In fact , it was about a minute and a half , but then Barrett volunteered that her family has a pet chinchilla and she doesn @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and this got her and the senator roughly to the two-minute mark .
Republican senators , in other words , asked bullshit questions .
Barrett laughed gamely , indulged their bullshit , and gave uniformly bullshit answers , both to bullshit questions and to substantive ones .
She gave bullshit answers even when she appeared to be called upon merely to affirm the existence of a statute or a Constitutional norm .
Barrett surely doesn ’ t think that her future position on the Supreme Court is a bullshit job ; Senate Republicans @ @ @ @ @ @ @ courts with conservatives is bullshit work , either .
But , like the people who are rushing her onto the bench , Barrett does seem to believe that the nomination and confirmation process is bullshit—she shares the Trump Republican Party ’ s contempt for the norms and processes of the government in which she has risen so far , so fast .

There are several ways to describe the recent Senate Judiciary Committee hearings on Judge Amy Coney Barrett’s nomination to the Supreme Court. Jane Chong, writing in The Atlantic, called the hearings a “pointless farce,” not least because they did not shine a spotlight on the potential role of the Court—and Barrett—in deciding the Presidential election. Slate’s Dahlia Lithwick called them “empty theater.” Ilyse Hogue, the president of NARAL Pro-Choice America, repeatedly used the term “gaslighting” to characterize the hearings. My colleague Amy Davidson Sorkin has written that Barrett’s many evasions—even on the question of whether a President should commit to a peaceful transition of power—are a measure of her political extremism, and her ability to get away with them is “a measure of how thoroughly President Trump has moved the margins of our political culture.”
All of these observations are accurate. Four days of hearings contained not a single substantive exchange. When the nominee was questioned by Democratic senators, she obfuscated. When it was a Republican’s turn, Barrett joined the senator in performing a pointedly empty ritual, whether it was Senator John Kennedy, of Louisiana, asking the judge who does the laundry in her house (she evaded the question) or Senator Ted Cruz, of Texas, using his time to make a twenty-three-minute speech about Democrats, abortion, and democracy before segueing to ask Barrett whether she plays any musical instruments (a bit of piano) and how her family has managed distance learning for seven children. (It was challenging, but the Barrett family succeeded, of course.)
To an outside observer—someone who was not aware of America’s current polarized predicament—the hearings would have seemed as inscrutable as a politburo meeting: all code and no content, culminating in a vote whose results are preordained. But why does one of the most consequential political decisions of a decade take such a bizarre and hollow form? One answer is “the rule of ‘because we can,’ ” as Sheldon Whitehouse, Democrat of Rhode Island, said on the final day of the hearings: Senate Republicans have the votes to do whatever they want, so they do.
With the game fixed from the start, Republicans could have used the time to lay out an agenda. They didn’t have to obfuscate; they could have boasted instead. They could have indulged their fantasies and envisioned the details of a near future in which an ultraconservative Court further dismantles voting rights, repeals the Affordable Care Act, places a federal ban on abortion, abolishes marriage equality, and systematically reverses civil-rights progress. Their reticence wasn’t a matter of decorum—shame has no purchase on senators who refused to consider Barack Obama’s Supreme Court nomination during his last year in office but took up Donald Trump’s nomination of Judge Barrett. The reason Senate Republicans and their candidate said virtually nothing of substance during her confirmation hearings is that they think the hearings amount to virtually nothing.
The Republican Party is the Party opposed to government as such. It is the Party whose ethos is summed up in President Reagan’s famous quip from a news conference in 1986: “The nine most terrifying words in the English language are ‘I’m from the government, and I’m here to help.’ ” What gave this joke its frisson was that, at the moment he made it, Reagan was pledging help from the government—in this case, aid to struggling farmers. (According to the PBS documentary “The Farm Crisis,” “Reagan’s farm programs cost more than the combined farm expenditures of every President from Franklin Roosevelt to Jimmy Carter.”) In the Trump era, Reagan’s phrase has become a full-fledged ideology, and government inaction is weaponized. (Americans will not see a second pandemic-relief bill before the election because, in large part, Republican lawmakers oppose what they call a “blue-state bailout.”)
Hannah Arendt defined ideology as a single premise taken to its logical extreme and then used to explain the past and determine the future. For the Republican Party, the Reaganite idea that government is a necessary evil has turned into the idea that government is evil, period. Arendt believed that the two-party system was well protected against this kind of ideological thinking, because real political power is always within reach for either party. (Multiparty systems were more vulnerable, she thought.) She did not foresee our present system, where one political party is still awed by the responsibilities and norms of governing while the other is bent on destruction.
We have gone from the strange spectacle of Reagan, the leader of the free world, stating that his government’s actions are fundamentally suspect, to the even stranger spectacle of Trump, who openly dislikes his job, avoids doing it, and refuses to accept its responsibilities. Yet he desperately desires to keep his job and so, it seems, do most Republican elected officials. These are people who continually attack “government,” in which they work, and “Washington,” where they live, but they will apparently do most anything to keep their places in both. Imagine having to wage a long and gruelling campaign in order to land a job you believe is deserving only of scorn; imagine then spending the bulk of your working hours asking people for money so you can keep this job.
In his book “Bullshit Jobs,” from 2018, the late anthropologist David Graeber defined the title category as “a form of paid employment that is so completely pointless, unnecessary, or pernicious that even the employee cannot justify its existence even though, as part of the conditions of employment, the employee feels obliged to pretend that this is not the case.” In Graeber’s taxonomy of bullshit jobs, Republican senators would be “box tickers”: people who go through procedures, produce paperwork, and otherwise look important performing tasks that make no difference to any substantive outcome. (As Graeber explained, a job is a bullshit job only if the person performing it feels that it is purposeless, which means that two people can have the same title and the same nominal tasks, but only one of them may be working a bullshit job. For example, one senator may feel that Supreme Court confirmation hearings are an empty ritual with predetermined results, while another considers them a great responsibility.)
Many bullshit jobs, according to Graeber, exist solely to make other people feel important, by giving them underlings and acknowledging their wealth. The Senate offers a twist: its Republican members seem to think that their job is to make one person, Donald Trump, feel maximally important. Some bullshit jobs are links in a bullshit chain—if the entire enterprise disappeared, no one would be the wiser. But a bullshit job can also wedge itself in between or next to meaningful jobs. Imagine a receptionist whose only task is to sit at a desk in the empty front office while other people work. The landline never rings and visitors never arrive, but an office is not an office if it doesn’t have a receptionist.
One of the most interesting insights of “Bullshit Jobs” concerns the soul-deadening effect of meaningless work, especially in the Anglo-Saxon culture, which assigns value to people based on grit and productivity. Graeber suggested that the long-term effects of working a bullshit job are akin to the effects of imprisonment and even solitary confinement, which kills the soul and damages the brain. He might have been overstating the case, but there is no doubt that people who work bullshit jobs—the engineer who provides support for software that no one uses, a maker of presentations that no one ever watches or hears—are full of loathing, for the job, for the people who put them in the job, and for themselves.
Reading the Barrett hearings as a bullshit box-ticking ritual allows them to make a kind of sense. In the pantheon of bullshit jobs, Republican senators might be most fruitfully compared to the financial analyst who plugs figures into a spreadsheet, massaging the numbers to yield predetermined results; these results will be used to make bad loans, which will prop up a rotten financial infrastructure, ruining some people and making others ever richer. In short, the analyst’s job is consequential yet preposterous. Similarly, installing Barrett on the Supreme Court will have far-reaching, real-life consequences, but the process that puts her there is pure bullshit. It is difficult to find a better word to describe the closing statement of the Judiciary Committee chairman, Lindsey Graham, on the third day of the hearings, which began as follows:
I’m going to tell you about where I grew up. I don’t know why—it just seems to be a good way to end this thing. It’s got nothing to do with anything. But I grew up in a small town called Central, South Carolina. First in my family to go to college. My dad owned a bar, a pool room, and a liquor store. And my mom ran the bar, my dad ran the liquor store, and, when I was old enough, I ran the pool room. This is why I think I’m a good senator—it’s good training for this job. But I remember—speaking about country music, we had a piccolo. You know what a piccolo is, Judge? Well, you are too young. A piccolo is something you put money in to listen to the song. And the one song I’ll remember to my dying day—talk about country-music titles—was “My Wife Ran Off with My Best Friend, and I Miss Him.” So this is a wonderful country.
Senator Kennedy, too, killed time like a bored, trollish office drone. “Are you a racist?” he asked Barrett. “Do you support, in all cases, corporations over working people? . . . Are you against clean air, bright water, and environmental justice? . . . Do you support science? . . . Do you support children and prosperity? . . . Do you hate little warm puppies?” He then congratulated himself and the judge: “See, we did that in about two minutes.” In fact, it was about a minute and a half, but then Barrett volunteered that her family has a pet chinchilla and she doesn’t hate chinchillas, either, and this got her and the senator roughly to the two-minute mark.
Republican senators, in other words, asked bullshit questions. Barrett laughed gamely, indulged their bullshit, and gave uniformly bullshit answers, both to bullshit questions and to substantive ones. She gave bullshit answers even when she appeared to be called upon merely to affirm the existence of a statute or a Constitutional norm. Barrett surely doesn’t think that her future position on the Supreme Court is a bullshit job; Senate Republicans don’t think that packing the courts with conservatives is bullshit work, either. But, like the people who are rushing her onto the bench, Barrett does seem to believe that the nomination and confirmation process are bullshit—she shares the Trump Republican Party’s contempt for the norms and processes of the government in which she has risen so far, so fast.


newyorker--2020-10-23--On the Peaceful Transfer of the Nintendo Controller

First of all , Joey is terrible at Nintendo .
As little brothers go , he ’ s probably the worst .
If he gets to play Zelda , you can say sayonara to your rupees .
One Life Joey , I call him .
Game Over Joey .
I ’ ve heard people say it looks like I ’ m just wandering around in the game when I play .
Can you believe that ?
You know I ’ m making tremendous progress .
I ’ m making progress like nobody ’ s ever seen .
The cowards at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ you on the progress bar , though , will they ?
You should have seen Super Mario 64 when I started playing .
It was ridiculous .
Some not-so-super dummy was about halfway through , but had screwed it up massively .
I had to delete the whole game and start over .
Really , none of the Nintendo time I ’ ve logged so far should even count .
Hey , Dad , hand me a new water glass .
I think this is the worst water glass in the whole world @ @ @ @ @ @ @ far end of it , like this , and it spills all over your shirt .
It ’ s not good .
Look , we have a system in this house , right ?
The person who does the most chores is the person who gets to play Nintendo .
But the chore chart is rigged .
There are a lot of crooked people taking advantage of it .
They ’ re useless with a joystick , and they ’ re getting away with murder .
Everybody knows I do more chores than @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , you don ’ t even see them on the chart .
How come ?
Maybe somebody tore the stickers off and put them in a dumpster .
I ’ m not saying who .
What ’ s even worse is that Joey—Cheating Joey , I call him—has got five , sometimes six , stickers on the chart at once .
Isn ’ t that interesting ?
I heard these kids at school saying they were getting paid big bucks to do some lowlife ’ s chores for him so that he could @ @ @ @ @ @ @ weren ’ t talking about Joey , or maybe they were .
But , in my opinion , that ’ s very dishonest .
We ought to look into putting Joey in a timeout .
When you think about it , even if it was supposed to be Joey ’ s turn , according to the “ system , ” which has been a disaster for everybody , it should really still be my turn .
Why does Joey get to play Nintendo at all ?
Because he ’ s my “ brother @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this , Dad , but people are asking questions .
Maybe Joey should sign up for 23andMe .
No , don ’ t even get me started on the Ancestry.com report .
It ’ s candy .
Anybody can get one .
You see it all the time—packs of kids roaming the streets saying it ’ s their turn to play Nintendo , hauling around Ancestry.com results they printed out at Kinko ’ s , looking for some weak family they can trick .
Nobody with any brains believes it .
And yes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the so-called family photos of when we were babies .
It ’ s amazing what they can do with deepfakes these days .
It ’ s out of control .
The more I think about it , the more it seems like I should just keep the controller , so nobody gets hurt .
Otherwise , you ’ re going to see people expressing themselves in a major , major way .
You ’ re going to see folks sneaking up to press the power button on the Nintendo while Joey ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t blame them .
Maybe we ought to see if there ’ s a power button on Joey .
I know , I know , I ’ m not supposed to say that .
By the way , Joey , if you were actually smart , you ’ d ask Mom and Dad for a PlayStation .
People are fed up with Nintendo .
Anyway , I ’ m bored .
Can I go watch TV ?

A lot of people—many of them are here at this dinner table, actually—are asking whether I’m going to peacefully hand over the controller to Joey tonight when it’s his turn to play Nintendo. Boy, that’s not a very nice question, is it? It’s very unfair.
First of all, Joey is terrible at Nintendo. As little brothers go, he’s probably the worst. If he gets to play Zelda, you can say sayonara to your rupees. One Life Joey, I call him. Game Over Joey.
I’ve heard people say it looks like I’m just wandering around in the game when I play. Can you believe that? You know I’m making tremendous progress. I’m making progress like nobody’s ever seen. The cowards at Nintendo won’t show it to you on the progress bar, though, will they?
You should have seen Super Mario 64 when I started playing. It was ridiculous. Some not-so-super dummy was about halfway through, but had screwed it up massively. I had to delete the whole game and start over. Really, none of the Nintendo time I’ve logged so far should even count.
Hey, Dad, hand me a new water glass. I think this is the worst water glass in the whole world. See, you drink from the far end of it, like this, and it spills all over your shirt. It’s not good.
Look, we have a system in this house, right? The person who does the most chores is the person who gets to play Nintendo. But the chore chart is rigged. There are a lot of crooked people taking advantage of it. They’re useless with a joystick, and they’re getting away with murder.
Everybody knows I do more chores than anybody. But half of the time, you don’t even see them on the chart. How come? Maybe somebody tore the stickers off and put them in a dumpster. I’m not saying who.
What’s even worse is that Joey—Cheating Joey, I call him—has got five, sometimes six, stickers on the chart at once. Isn’t that interesting? I heard these kids at school saying they were getting paid big bucks to do some lowlife’s chores for him so that he could play Nintendo. Now, maybe they weren’t talking about Joey, or maybe they were. But, in my opinion, that’s very dishonest. We ought to look into putting Joey in a timeout.
When you think about it, even if it was supposed to be Joey’s turn, according to the “system,” which has been a disaster for everybody, it should really still be my turn.
Why does Joey get to play Nintendo at all? Because he’s my “brother”? I hate to tell you this, Dad, but people are asking questions. Maybe Joey should sign up for 23andMe.
No, don’t even get me started on the Ancestry.com report. It’s candy. Anybody can get one. You see it all the time—packs of kids roaming the streets saying it’s their turn to play Nintendo, hauling around Ancestry.com results they printed out at Kinko’s, looking for some weak family they can trick. Nobody with any brains believes it. And yes, Mom, I’ve seen the so-called family photos of when we were babies. It’s amazing what they can do with deepfakes these days. It’s out of control.
The more I think about it, the more it seems like I should just keep the controller, so nobody gets hurt. Otherwise, you’re going to see people expressing themselves in a major, major way. You’re going to see folks sneaking up to press the power button on the Nintendo while Joey’s playing Donkey Kong, and I don’t blame them. Maybe we ought to see if there’s a power button on Joey. I know, I know, I’m not supposed to say that.
By the way, Joey, if you were actually smart, you’d ask Mom and Dad for a PlayStation. People are fed up with Nintendo.
Anyway, I’m bored. Can I go watch TV?


newyorker--2020-10-23--Virginia Woolf’s Ghost at the Met’s Costume Institute

Who ’ s afraid of Virginia Woolf ?
Not Andrew Bolton , the curator of the Met ’ s Costume @ @ @ @ @ British writer as the “ ghost narrator ” of the new exhibition “ About Time @ @ @ @ @ ( opening on Oct. 29 ) .
Literary excerpts accompany paired garments ( including Viktor @ @ @ @ @ gown , from 2020 , above ) that are stylistically similar but were designed decades @ @ @ @ @ Woolf once described as “ the extraordinary discrepancy between time on the clock and time @ @ @ @ @

Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf? Not Andrew Bolton, the curator of the Met’s Costume Institute, who chose the British writer as the “ghost narrator” of the new exhibition “About Time: Fashion and Duration” (opening on Oct. 29). Literary excerpts accompany paired garments (including Viktor & Rolf’s haute-couture gown, from 2020, above) that are stylistically similar but were designed decades apart—a chic exploration of what Woolf once described as “the extraordinary discrepancy between time on the clock and time in the mind.”


newyorker--2020-10-23--How Trump Became the Pro-Infection Candidate

Nine months into the pandemic , it ’ s a truism to say that America ’ s response has been politicized .
Even so , with an election looming , the virus surging , and President Trump and others in government recently infected , our divisions now stand out with a startling , even brutal , clarity .
There have always been two basic ways of looking at the coronavirus crisis .
The first sees the minimization of death as a paramount goal ; the second holds that significant death is inevitable and acceptable .
Those who take the first @ @ @ @ @ @ @ professionals , advocate a temporary , science-driven restructuring of society , designed to save lives ; those who take the second view , including the President and those in his circle , say that people die all the time , from car crashes , drug addictions , diseases , and the like , and argue that we don ’ t stop living to prevent them from dying .
“ Many people every year , sometimes over 100,000 , and despite the Vaccine , die from the Flu , ” the President tweeted , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ discharged from the hospital .
“ Are we going to close down our Country ?
” ( Twitter flagged the tweet as misinformation since , in fact , far fewer than a hundred thousand people die from the flu each year . )
There are different ways of holding the we-all- got ta -go-sometime view .
Someone who grasps it lightly might incline a little more toward risk-taking than caution in her personal choices .
But over the course of the pandemic , the President and many of his followers have come to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , brandishing it as a kind of ideology .
In the final weeks of the campaign , they ’ ve taken the outlook to a new , disturbing place .
Erin Perrine , the communications director for his campaign , has faulted Joe Biden for not getting infected , arguing that Trump “ has experience now fighting the virus as an individual .
Those firsthand experiences—Joe Biden , he doesn ’ t have those.
” Shortly before leaving the hospital , the President tweeted that his own infection had left him feeling “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ !
” Trump has turned against government scientists with a new ferocity , referring to them as “ idiots ” and calling Anthony Fauci , the nation ’ s top infectious-disease expert , a “ disaster.
” The President has always seemed not to take the virus seriously .
But , in recent weeks , something has changed .
An especially telling moment occurred on October 13th .
According to the Times , two senior White House officials cited , in a background conversation with reporters , the Great Barrington Declaration—a document that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ through widespread infection instead of a vaccine .
Although most Americans haven ’ t heard of the declaration , many in the medical community have ; Fauci captured the consensus view when , speaking to George Stephanopoulos , he called its core ideas “ ridiculous.
” Although its primary authors are three professors at Harvard , Stanford , and the University of Oxford , respectively , the declaration hasn ’ t received the imprimatur of a medical or scientific institution ; instead , it ’ s been sponsored by the American Institute for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ situated in Great Barrington , Massachusetts .
The declaration proposes that society should stay more or less open and that the virus should be allowed to infect the vast majority of the population while public-health officials focus on protecting the elderly and others who are especially vulnerable .
( The details of the protective strategy go unspecified . )
Francis Collins , the director of the National Institutes of Health , told the Washington Post that , although the declaration is sometimes presented as a “ major alternative view that ’ s held @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it is , in fact , “ fringe.
” Infectious-disease specialists have signed it , but many of its thousands of signatories are either unqualified or fake ( “ Dr .
Johnny Bananas , ” “ Dr .
Person Fakename ” ) .
The declaration has its roots in the early days of the pandemic , when some scientists asked whether herd immunity—which occurs when so many people have been infected or vaccinated that viral spread becomes unlikely—might be achievable more quickly and less painfully than was widely supposed , and without a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ spread more than tests indicated , in which case it was more asymptomatic than we thought ; perhaps certain people , having previously been infected by other , similar viruses , had some level of preëxisting immunity to it .
These were appealing possibilities .
But , as time has passed , persuasive evidence for them has failed to materialize .
In New York City , the original epicenter of the American pandemic , the vast majority of the population remains susceptible to the virus , even in parts of the city , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ experienced high rates of infection .
In the U.S. as a whole , as many as nine in ten people still lack immunity to the virus .
In this context , the swift reopening proposed by the declaration would result in a sharp spike in cases , with hundreds of thousands dying and tens of millions suffering serious and debilitating illness .
This is likely to occur even if officials try to focus on protecting the vulnerable .
The problem , ultimately , is that society can not be easily divided into separate @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lighter restrictions while seeking to protect its elderly citizens—and yet the coronavirus found ways around the barriers put in front of it .
The country ’ s COVID-19 death rate is an order of magnitude higher than its neighbors ’ , and it has not achieved anything like herd immunity .
Throughout the pandemic , Trump and his team have often denied that they are pursuing herd immunity as a strategy .
And yet their words and actions have belied their disavowal .
“ Once you get to a certain number—we use the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to a certain number , it ’ s going to go away , ” the President told Fox News , in August .
At a town hall in September , he promised the audience , “ You ’ ll develop herd , like a herd mentality .
It ’ s going to be—it ’ s going to be herd-developed , and that ’ s going to happen.
” On October 5th , the day after the declaration was released , its primary authors met with Alex Azar , the Secretary of Health and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ We heard strong reinforcement of the Trump Administration ’ s strategy.
” Scott Atlas , a top White House coronavirus adviser , has said that “ the thrust of the declaration is exactly aligned with the President.
” ( Atlas and Jay Bhattacharya , one of its authors , are colleagues at Stanford , where Bhattacharya studies health policy , not infectious diseases . )
Speaking on the condition of anonymity , an Administration official told the Times that the White House wasn ’ t so much endorsing the declaration as acknowledging @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the President ’ s policy has been for months.
” This is an extraordinary admission—appalling for Americans but perhaps freeing for Trump .
He is granting himself license to move into an even higher register of incompetence , not just downplaying the threat but actively encouraging Americans to embrace it .
As a physician , of course , I take the medical view of the pandemic ; in a sense , I ’ ve experienced it firsthand .
Caring for COVID-19 patients at the height of New York City ’ s first wave @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , so often fragmented by ego and hierarchy , coalesced around the certainty that any loss of life is a tragedy .
Nurses and doctors worked for weeks on end with little respite , often separated from their families to avoid infecting them .
Clinicians poured in from across the country to help .
Health-care leaders held daily briefings , scrambled for P.P.E.
, and searched for ventilators .
Facilities crews reorganized hospitals .
Everyone—even those who weren ’ t seeing patients—started wearing masks .
On the coronavirus wards , we went further @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , respirators , and shoe coverings .
Contagious patients were placed in negative-pressure rooms and sometimes seen through telemedicine ; infected people who didn ’ t need hospitalization but couldn ’ t isolate from their loved ones at home were offered hospital-based housing .
Husbands , wives , parents , and siblings died alone .
Women gave birth without their partners present .
All this was done not out of fear but out of concern .
We didn ’ t want even a single person to get the virus unnecessarily .
Our commitment @ @ @ @ @ @ @ were witnessing many preventable deaths .
As the virus surged around the country , millions of Americans upended their lives and adopted new habits to protect one another .
All the while , the President and his team pursued a different path .
Declining to wear a mask or follow basic social-distancing guidance , Trump tweeted about “ liberating ” states and promoted discredited therapies .
Overwhelmed by the task of fighting the virus , he pulled from the playbook of tobacco companies and climate-change deniers , casting doubt on the statistics .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ testing ; the number of deaths had been doctored ; the virus ’ s lethality had been overstated—as his dodges piled up , it became clear that he had no interest in grappling with the reality of hundreds of thousands of deaths .
Atlas , a neuroradiologist without training in epidemiology or infectious diseases , came to the White House at the end of the summer , having spent much of the year offering pandemic commentary on Fox News .
He gained regular access to Trump and began wielding greater influence over the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has repeatedly voiced skepticism of fundamental public-health principles , such as testing , mask-wearing , and social distancing .
( “ Everything he says is false , ” Robert Redfield , the director of the C.D.C.
, has said . )
Fauci and Deborah Birx , the coronavirus-response coördinator , have confronted him about many of his unfounded claims—among them that parts of the country , including New York City , are approaching fifty-per-cent immunity .
But they have been largely sidelined .
Trump no longer regularly meets with the White House coronavirus @ @ @ @ @ @ @ President ’ s primary health adviser .
Earlier this month , many wondered whether the President ’ s own infection might pop the bubble .
( Boris Johnson ’ s COVID-19 illness seemed to chasten him . )
But Republican leaders , having maintained for months that concern about the virus is a form of cowardice , responded by ascending to new levels of reality distortion .
Some tried to spin the President ’ s infection as a joke : Marsha Blackburn , a senator from Tennessee , tweeted that “ President Trump @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with a video , set to dramatic music , of Trump maskless at the White House .
Nearly two dozen people in Trump ’ s immediate circle had been infected .
Still , Mike Pence ’ s team requested that no plexiglass barrier be placed between him and Kamala Harris at the Vice-Presidential debate .
( “ If Senator Harris wants to use a fortress around herself , have at it , ” Pence ’ s press secretary , Katie Miller , said ; the Commission on Presidential Debates decided that the plexiglass @ @ @ @ @ @ @ after testing positive for the coronavirus , Trump told attendees at a campaign rally in Florida that he was now immune and threatened to descend from the stage to “ kiss the guys and the beautiful women and everybody.
” To watch all this , as a physician , is to struggle with my own disbelief .
Trump and his team demand that doctors and hospitals perform heroic acrobatics to save lives and that scientists race to develop a coronavirus vaccine at unprecedented speed , while at the same time displaying a wanton @ @ @ @ @ @ @ abdication of duty depends on others faithfully performing theirs .
Is this bravado a put-on ?
At times , it has seemed purely cynical—a show of strength from behind a fortified wall .
Throughout the pandemic , Trump has argued that we should perform fewer tests—the cases they uncover make us “ look bad , ” he ’ s said—even as he ’ s relied on regular testing for himself and his staff .
A recent poll found that half of Republicans believe that hydroxychloroquine is an effective treatment against COVID-19—and yet the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to take the drug himself , even though he had touted it as a “ miracle ” that was possibly among the “ biggest game changers in the history of medicine.
” In other ways , though , Trump and those around him seem to have internalized their rhetoric .
To contemplate the lack of screenings , distancing , and masks inside the White House , or to see photographs of the handshakes , hugs , and kisses at the superspreading Supreme Court announcement in the Rose Garden , is to conclude that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ not just a façade meant to project a contorted conception of strength and liberty .
His team ’ s mockery of those concerned about the virus may be wrongheaded , but it isn ’ t entirely empty ; they take few measures to avoid it themselves .
Believing their own alternative facts , top Administration officials accuse government scientists of “ sedition.
” Atlas sends out anti-mask tweets— “ masks work ?
NO ” —violating Twitter ’ s rules on misinformation .
The White House threatens to withhold COVID-19 relief funds from liberal @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the Administration cites a pandemic strategy that will endanger the lives of millions of Americans .
“ It ’ s going away , ” Trump promises , at the final Presidential debate , during a viral surge .
“ We have to open our country.
” The U.S. is now entering what seems to be a new wave of infection ; over the past week , the country saw , on average , more than sixty thousand new cases a day .
In many states , COVID-19 wards are filling up again @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hospitalizations ; the Midwest is experiencing its largest growth in cases since the start of the pandemic .
According to some models , the U.S. could experience nearly four hundred thousand COVID-19 deaths before the next President is sworn in .
Despite all this , Trump would likely interpret reëlection as a validation of his approach .
We could find ourselves living even more deeply in two incompatible worlds : a medical world , in which doctors , hospitals , scientists , and public-health professionals continue doing their best to grapple with the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in which wishful thinking and pseudoscience rule .
Of course , it doesn ’ t have to be this way .
We could move , together , into a single , fact-based world—one in which we confront reality and work to improve it .
• Surviving a severe coronavirus infection is hard .
So is recovering .
• Some hospitals have postponed cancer surgeries because of the coronavirus crisis .
How do doctors assess urgency during a pandemic ?
• It is not too late to go on the offense against the coronavirus @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the key .
• The loneliness and solidarity of treating coronavirus patients in New York .
• To fill the vacuum left by the federal government , doctors are relying on informal networks to get the information and support they need .
• Conflict and confusion reign at New York hospitals over how to handle childbirth during the pandemic .
• In countries where the rate of infection threatens to outstrip the capacity of the health system , doctors are confronting ethical quandaries for which nothing in their training prepared them .

Nine months into the pandemic, it’s a truism to say that America’s response has been politicized. Even so, with an election looming, the virus surging, and President Trump and others in government recently infected, our divisions now stand out with a startling, even brutal, clarity. There have always been two basic ways of looking at the coronavirus crisis. The first sees the minimization of death as a paramount goal; the second holds that significant death is inevitable and acceptable. Those who take the first view, including most medical and public-health professionals, advocate a temporary, science-driven restructuring of society, designed to save lives; those who take the second view, including the President and those in his circle, say that people die all the time, from car crashes, drug addictions, diseases, and the like, and argue that we don’t stop living to prevent them from dying. “Many people every year, sometimes over 100,000, and despite the Vaccine, die from the Flu,” the President tweeted, earlier this month, after he was discharged from the hospital. “Are we going to close down our Country?” (Twitter flagged the tweet as misinformation since, in fact, far fewer than a hundred thousand people die from the flu each year.)
There are different ways of holding the we-all-gotta-go-sometime view. Someone who grasps it lightly might incline a little more toward risk-taking than caution in her personal choices. But over the course of the pandemic, the President and many of his followers have come to cling to it tightly, even triumphantly, brandishing it as a kind of ideology. In the final weeks of the campaign, they’ve taken the outlook to a new, disturbing place. Erin Perrine, the communications director for his campaign, has faulted Joe Biden for not getting infected, arguing that Trump “has experience now fighting the virus as an individual. Those firsthand experiences—Joe Biden, he doesn’t have those.” Shortly before leaving the hospital, the President tweeted that his own infection had left him feeling “better than I did 20 years ago!” Trump has turned against government scientists with a new ferocity, referring to them as “idiots” and calling Anthony Fauci, the nation’s top infectious-disease expert, a “disaster.” The President has always seemed not to take the virus seriously. But, in recent weeks, something has changed.
An especially telling moment occurred on October 13th. According to the Times, two senior White House officials cited, in a background conversation with reporters, the Great Barrington Declaration—a document that argues for the pursuit of herd immunity through widespread infection instead of a vaccine. Although most Americans haven’t heard of the declaration, many in the medical community have; Fauci captured the consensus view when, speaking to George Stephanopoulos, he called its core ideas “ridiculous.” Although its primary authors are three professors at Harvard, Stanford, and the University of Oxford, respectively, the declaration hasn’t received the imprimatur of a medical or scientific institution; instead, it’s been sponsored by the American Institute for Economic Research, a libertarian think tank situated in Great Barrington, Massachusetts. The declaration proposes that society should stay more or less open and that the virus should be allowed to infect the vast majority of the population while public-health officials focus on protecting the elderly and others who are especially vulnerable. (The details of the protective strategy go unspecified.) Francis Collins, the director of the National Institutes of Health, told the Washington Post that, although the declaration is sometimes presented as a “major alternative view that’s held by large numbers of experts,” it is, in fact, “fringe.” Infectious-disease specialists have signed it, but many of its thousands of signatories are either unqualified or fake (“Dr. Johnny Bananas,” “Dr. Person Fakename”).
The declaration has its roots in the early days of the pandemic, when some scientists asked whether herd immunity—which occurs when so many people have been infected or vaccinated that viral spread becomes unlikely—might be achievable more quickly and less painfully than was widely supposed, and without a vaccine. Perhaps the virus had already spread more than tests indicated, in which case it was more asymptomatic than we thought; perhaps certain people, having previously been infected by other, similar viruses, had some level of preëxisting immunity to it.
These were appealing possibilities. But, as time has passed, persuasive evidence for them has failed to materialize. In New York City, the original epicenter of the American pandemic, the vast majority of the population remains susceptible to the virus, even in parts of the city, such as Borough Park, that have experienced high rates of infection. In the U.S. as a whole, as many as nine in ten people still lack immunity to the virus. In this context, the swift reopening proposed by the declaration would result in a sharp spike in cases, with hundreds of thousands dying and tens of millions suffering serious and debilitating illness. This is likely to occur even if officials try to focus on protecting the vulnerable. The problem, ultimately, is that society cannot be easily divided into separate layers of medical risk. Sweden adopted lighter restrictions while seeking to protect its elderly citizens—and yet the coronavirus found ways around the barriers put in front of it. The country’s COVID-19 death rate is an order of magnitude higher than its neighbors’, and it has not achieved anything like herd immunity.
Throughout the pandemic, Trump and his team have often denied that they are pursuing herd immunity as a strategy. And yet their words and actions have belied their disavowal. “Once you get to a certain number—we use the word ‘herd’—once you get to a certain number, it’s going to go away,” the President told Fox News, in August. At a town hall in September, he promised the audience, “You’ll develop herd, like a herd mentality. It’s going to be—it’s going to be herd-developed, and that’s going to happen.” On October 5th, the day after the declaration was released, its primary authors met with Alex Azar, the Secretary of Health and Human Services, who later said, “We heard strong reinforcement of the Trump Administration’s strategy.” Scott Atlas, a top White House coronavirus adviser, has said that “the thrust of the declaration is exactly aligned with the President.” (Atlas and Jay Bhattacharya, one of its authors, are colleagues at Stanford, where Bhattacharya studies health policy, not infectious diseases.) Speaking on the condition of anonymity, an Administration official told the Times that the White House wasn’t so much endorsing the declaration as acknowledging that the declaration “is endorsing what the President’s policy has been for months.” This is an extraordinary admission—appalling for Americans but perhaps freeing for Trump. He is granting himself license to move into an even higher register of incompetence, not just downplaying the threat but actively encouraging Americans to embrace it.
As a physician, of course, I take the medical view of the pandemic; in a sense, I’ve experienced it firsthand. Caring for COVID-19 patients at the height of New York City’s first wave, I watched as the medical profession, so often fragmented by ego and hierarchy, coalesced around the certainty that any loss of life is a tragedy. Nurses and doctors worked for weeks on end with little respite, often separated from their families to avoid infecting them. Clinicians poured in from across the country to help. Health-care leaders held daily briefings, scrambled for P.P.E., and searched for ventilators. Facilities crews reorganized hospitals. Everyone—even those who weren’t seeing patients—started wearing masks. On the coronavirus wards, we went further, donning goggles, gowns, gloves, respirators, and shoe coverings. Contagious patients were placed in negative-pressure rooms and sometimes seen through telemedicine; infected people who didn’t need hospitalization but couldn’t isolate from their loved ones at home were offered hospital-based housing. Husbands, wives, parents, and siblings died alone. Women gave birth without their partners present. All this was done not out of fear but out of concern. We didn’t want even a single person to get the virus unnecessarily. Our commitment was sharpened by the knowledge that we were witnessing many preventable deaths.
As the virus surged around the country, millions of Americans upended their lives and adopted new habits to protect one another. All the while, the President and his team pursued a different path. Declining to wear a mask or follow basic social-distancing guidance, Trump tweeted about “liberating” states and promoted discredited therapies. Overwhelmed by the task of fighting the virus, he pulled from the playbook of tobacco companies and climate-change deniers, casting doubt on the statistics. The rise in cases reflected only increased testing; the number of deaths had been doctored; the virus’s lethality had been overstated—as his dodges piled up, it became clear that he had no interest in grappling with the reality of hundreds of thousands of deaths.
Atlas, a neuroradiologist without training in epidemiology or infectious diseases, came to the White House at the end of the summer, having spent much of the year offering pandemic commentary on Fox News. He gained regular access to Trump and began wielding greater influence over the Administration’s coronavirus strategy. Atlas has repeatedly voiced skepticism of fundamental public-health principles, such as testing, mask-wearing, and social distancing. (“Everything he says is false,” Robert Redfield, the director of the C.D.C., has said.) Fauci and Deborah Birx, the coronavirus-response coördinator, have confronted him about many of his unfounded claims—among them that parts of the country, including New York City, are approaching fifty-per-cent immunity. But they have been largely sidelined. Trump no longer regularly meets with the White House coronavirus task force; Atlas is now the President’s primary health adviser.
Earlier this month, many wondered whether the President’s own infection might pop the bubble. (Boris Johnson’s COVID-19 illness seemed to chasten him.) But Republican leaders, having maintained for months that concern about the virus is a form of cowardice, responded by ascending to new levels of reality distortion. Some tried to spin the President’s infection as a joke: Marsha Blackburn, a senator from Tennessee, tweeted that “President Trump has once again defeated China” along with a video, set to dramatic music, of Trump maskless at the White House. Nearly two dozen people in Trump’s immediate circle had been infected. Still, Mike Pence’s team requested that no plexiglass barrier be placed between him and Kamala Harris at the Vice-Presidential debate. (“If Senator Harris wants to use a fortress around herself, have at it,” Pence’s press secretary, Katie Miller, said; the Commission on Presidential Debates decided that the plexiglass would stay.) Just eleven days after testing positive for the coronavirus, Trump told attendees at a campaign rally in Florida that he was now immune and threatened to descend from the stage to “kiss the guys and the beautiful women and everybody.”
To watch all this, as a physician, is to struggle with my own disbelief. Trump and his team demand that doctors and hospitals perform heroic acrobatics to save lives and that scientists race to develop a coronavirus vaccine at unprecedented speed, while at the same time displaying a wanton disregard for medical science. Their reckless abdication of duty depends on others faithfully performing theirs.
A fine line separates playing down a risk from encouraging the rush toward danger. Republicans have sought to straddle that line and have sometimes strayed over it. “No one reached out to me and said, ‘As a senior citizen, are you willing to take a chance on your survival in exchange for keeping the America that all America loves for your children and grandchildren?’ ” Dan Patrick, the lieutenant governor of Texas, said, in March, on Fox News. “Don’t let it dominate your life,” Trump tells his followers, before bringing thousands of them together in close quarters. According to the Republican leadership, real patriots risk their lives and the lives of others; liberty is walking into a store without a mask; power is touring a hospital without one—as Pence did, at the Mayo Clinic, in April—or refusing to wear one at a Presidential debate, as Trump’s family did, at the Cleveland Clinic, even after a doctor asked them to. Now months of misinformation under the guise of reassurance threaten to bleed into an outright embrace of infection.
Is this bravado a put-on? At times, it has seemed purely cynical—a show of strength from behind a fortified wall. Throughout the pandemic, Trump has argued that we should perform fewer tests—the cases they uncover make us “look bad,” he’s said—even as he’s relied on regular testing for himself and his staff. A recent poll found that half of Republicans believe that hydroxychloroquine is an effective treatment against COVID-19—and yet the President, when hospitalized, chose not to take the drug himself, even though he had touted it as a “miracle” that was possibly among the “biggest game changers in the history of medicine.”
In other ways, though, Trump and those around him seem to have internalized their rhetoric. To contemplate the lack of screenings, distancing, and masks inside the White House, or to see photographs of the handshakes, hugs, and kisses at the superspreading Supreme Court announcement in the Rose Garden, is to conclude that Trump’s rejection of science is not just a façade meant to project a contorted conception of strength and liberty. His team’s mockery of those concerned about the virus may be wrongheaded, but it isn’t entirely empty; they take few measures to avoid it themselves. Believing their own alternative facts, top Administration officials accuse government scientists of “sedition.” Atlas sends out anti-mask tweets—“masks work? NO”—violating Twitter’s rules on misinformation. The White House threatens to withhold COVID-19 relief funds from liberal, “anarchist” cities. Approvingly, the Administration cites a pandemic strategy that will endanger the lives of millions of Americans. “It’s going away,” Trump promises, at the final Presidential debate, during a viral surge. “We have to open our country.”
Will people follow Trump down this path? Polls suggest that they won’t. More than two-thirds of Americans say that they have little or no trust in the information the President shares about COVID-19 and disapprove of his handling of the pandemic. Only nineteen per cent say that they will trust Trump if he tells them that a new coronavirus vaccine is safe; less than half of Republicans trust him on that question. Americans’ faith in the federal government’s approach is as low as it’s ever been. In a recent CNN poll, Biden, whom the President mocks for wearing a mask, has a sixteen-point advantage over the President—the most lopsided poll this close to an election in the twenty-first century. A cartoonish and destructive Presidency could soon come to an end. If it doesn’t, it’s easy to imagine how the Administration could shift further from an unhelpful stance to an actively harmful one—undermining states’ efforts to keep people safe and demanding, as proof of political fealty, the adoption of unproved or disproved strategies and therapies.
The U.S. is now entering what seems to be a new wave of infection; over the past week, the country saw, on average, more than sixty thousand new cases a day. In many states, COVID-19 wards are filling up again, and some places are seeing record-high hospitalizations; the Midwest is experiencing its largest growth in cases since the start of the pandemic. According to some models, the U.S. could experience nearly four hundred thousand COVID-19 deaths before the next President is sworn in. Despite all this, Trump would likely interpret reëlection as a validation of his approach. We could find ourselves living even more deeply in two incompatible worlds: a medical world, in which doctors, hospitals, scientists, and public-health professionals continue doing their best to grapple with the virus, and a political one, in which wishful thinking and pseudoscience rule. Of course, it doesn’t have to be this way. We could move, together, into a single, fact-based world—one in which we confront reality and work to improve it.
More Medical Dispatches


newyorker--2020-10-23--Pandemic Essentials of All Kinds, at Hunky Dory

In August , about a year and a half after Claire Sprouse opened her Crown Heights bar and restaurant , Hunky Dory , she added a line to the proverbial shingle out front : “ Approved Postal Provider of Stamps.
” It ’ s just one of many ways the purview of the place has recently expanded .
For a while , it contracted : immediately after the dining room was forced to shutter , in March , and Sprouse had to furlough her staff , Hunky Dory was reduced to a pushcart , which she used to deliver cocktails—including @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ( mezcal , turmeric , Madeira wine , and lemon juice ) —to displaced barflies in the neighborhood .
During the summer , Hunky , as Sprouse affectionately refers to it , became an incubator of sorts .
She ’ d given up on the cart ( it was wreaking havoc on her back ) , but she was still selling drinks , along with some pantry items , including fried-chicken seasoning , for pickup .
“ As it became more apparent that we needed to have food , ” she explained , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of chefs who depend on catering and pop-ups .
It was , like , I have this whole space .
You can use it !
It will help me sell drinks.
” Hunky played host to , among others , a roving Cambodian dinner series called Kreung , and to Yellow Rose , a Tex-Mex pop-up whose menu featured beef-chili Frito pies .
By July , Sprouse had figured out how to reintroduce Hunky ’ s own food , for pickup , delivery , or seat-yourself outdoor dining .
This month , she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ store , selling everything from sustainable toilet paper to single-origin , heirloom spices from Diaspora Co. Much of her success in staying open , she pointed out , has been a matter of luck .
Hunky is on a heavily trafficked corner , and its windows open onto the street , making it easy to order without going inside .
Her landlord agreed to let her use the empty lot next door as a patio , and she had already been planning to add a store , albeit in another location .
But @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on her feet .
Hunky ’ s new food menu—a streamlined selection of the kind of eclectic all-day dishes available pre-pandemic—is optimized to be as satisfying ordered in as it is eaten on the patio .
I thrilled to a delivery , the other night , of the “ pile o ’ veggies and dip , ” a rainbow-hued array of steamed purple sweet potato , caramelized cabbage , and crunchy carrot , all seasoned with Aleppo pepper , and a thick whorl of red-lentil purée .
The “ autumn sando ” —shredded @ @ @ @ @ @ @ root , and horseradish piled onto focaccia—seemed to actually benefit from time in transit , the meat ’ s rich juices settling into the pillowy pockets of the bread .
My Mangoni ( mango brandy , aperitivo , sweet vermouth ) came in a charming plastic bottle plastered with a “ PLEASE RECYCLE ME ” sticker .
On the patio , the vibe is as festive as a carnival .
Sprouse still hosts pop-ups most Wednesdays .
She bought both a movie projector and a popcorn machine , the smell of which , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lot of strong emotions in people.
” In October , she held weekly clambakes , featuring bacon-and-celery-strewn shellfish and Old Bay-dusted French fries , and borrowed a cider press .
Soon she ’ ll add tents , heaters , and a “ blanket club ” : regulars can buy warm throws to cozy under while sipping hot toddies and store them inside between visits , like beer mugs on the wall at a taproom .
The stamps inspired her to host evenings for writing postcards to swing voters ; in general , she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ July , she switched to a new gratuity-free payment model .
Recently , on Instagram , she posted a breakdown of what cold , rainy weather did to her sales one Friday night : it put her more than a thousand dollars in the red .
“ If you can , please support restaurants , ” she wrote .
“ If you can ’ t , please contact your senator and ask them to pass the Heroes Act now , which includes restaurant relief and so much more .
Be kind to all @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” ( Snacks and food $ 5- $ 25 . )
♦

In August, about a year and a half after Claire Sprouse opened her Crown Heights bar and restaurant, Hunky Dory, she added a line to the proverbial shingle out front: “Approved Postal Provider of Stamps.” It’s just one of many ways the purview of the place has recently expanded. For a while, it contracted: immediately after the dining room was forced to shutter, in March, and Sprouse had to furlough her staff, Hunky Dory was reduced to a pushcart, which she used to deliver cocktails—including the Dolly Parton-inspired Smoky Mountain Song Bird (mezcal, turmeric, Madeira wine, and lemon juice)—to displaced barflies in the neighborhood.
The set menu for the Sunday clambake included Old Bay-dusted fries, a tart vinegar-based coleslaw, and plenty of melted butter. Photograph by Makeda Sandford for The New Yorker
During the summer, Hunky, as Sprouse affectionately refers to it, became an incubator of sorts. She’d given up on the cart (it was wreaking havoc on her back), but she was still selling drinks, along with some pantry items, including fried-chicken seasoning, for pickup. “As it became more apparent that we needed to have food,” she explained, “I started looking toward my network of chefs who depend on catering and pop-ups. It was, like, I have this whole space. You can use it! It will help me sell drinks.” Hunky played host to, among others, a roving Cambodian dinner series called Kreung, and to Yellow Rose, a Tex-Mex pop-up whose menu featured beef-chili Frito pies.
The clams themselves were steamed with mussels, potatoes, bacon, and celery, and finished with charred corn and fresh herbs. Photograph by Makeda Sandford for The New Yorker
By July, Sprouse had figured out how to reintroduce Hunky’s own food, for pickup, delivery, or seat-yourself outdoor dining. This month, she turned the dining room into a general store, selling everything from sustainable toilet paper to single-origin, heirloom spices from Diaspora Co. Much of her success in staying open, she pointed out, has been a matter of luck. Hunky is on a heavily trafficked corner, and its windows open onto the street, making it easy to order without going inside. Her landlord agreed to let her use the empty lot next door as a patio, and she had already been planning to add a store, albeit in another location.
As the weather cools, Sprouse plans to add tents and heaters to the patio. Photograph by Makeda Sandford for The New Yorker
But Sprouse is also, clearly, quick on her feet. Hunky’s new food menu—a streamlined selection of the kind of eclectic all-day dishes available pre-pandemic—is optimized to be as satisfying ordered in as it is eaten on the patio. I thrilled to a delivery, the other night, of the “pile o’ veggies and dip,” a rainbow-hued array of steamed purple sweet potato, caramelized cabbage, and crunchy carrot, all seasoned with Aleppo pepper, and a thick whorl of red-lentil purée. The “autumn sando”—shredded duck leg, sliced apple, celery root, and horseradish piled onto focaccia—seemed to actually benefit from time in transit, the meat’s rich juices settling into the pillowy pockets of the bread. My Mangoni (mango brandy, aperitivo, sweet vermouth) came in a charming plastic bottle plastered with a “PLEASE RECYCLE ME” sticker.
On the patio, the vibe is as festive as a carnival. Sprouse still hosts pop-ups most Wednesdays. She bought both a movie projector and a popcorn machine, the smell of which, she said, “is evoking a lot of strong emotions in people.” In October, she held weekly clambakes, featuring bacon-and-celery-strewn shellfish and Old Bay-dusted French fries, and borrowed a cider press. Soon she’ll add tents, heaters, and a “blanket club”: regulars can buy warm throws to cozy under while sipping hot toddies and store them inside between visits, like beer mugs on the wall at a taproom.
Soft-serve flavors rotate with the season, from sweet corn (with an optional Frito topping) in the summer to pumpkin (with an optional drizzle of spiced toffee sauce) in the fall. Photograph by Makeda Sandford for The New Yorker
The stamps inspired her to host evenings for writing postcards to swing voters; in general, she does not shy from politics. In July, she switched to a new gratuity-free payment model. Recently, on Instagram, she posted a breakdown of what cold, rainy weather did to her sales one Friday night: it put her more than a thousand dollars in the red. “If you can, please support restaurants,” she wrote. “If you can’t, please contact your senator and ask them to pass the Heroes Act now, which includes restaurant relief and so much more. Be kind to all workers. Wear a mask. Vote.” (Snacks and food $5-$25.) ♦