newyorker--2020-06-19--The History That James Baldwin Wanted America to See

On March 16 , 1968 , James Baldwin walked to the podium at a fund-raiser , at Anaheim ’ s Disneyland Hotel , to introduce Dr. Martin Luther King , Jr. Baldwin had recently arrived in Los Angeles from New York , after Columbia Pictures had bought the rights to Alex Haley ’ s “ The Autobiography of Malcolm X ” and asked Baldwin to write the script .
Though eager , he had ended up fighting desperately to bring his story of Malcolm to the screen .
Baldwin wanted Billy Dee Williams to play the lead , but the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ There were even rumors that someone had suggested a darkened Charlton Heston .
The fund-raiser was meant to replenish the coffers of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference ( S.C.L.C . )
and to help fund King ’ s latest project , the Poor People ’ s Campaign .
King wanted to make the case for massive direct action , in Washington , D.C. , on behalf of the country ’ s impoverished .
To do so , he would need to marshal greater financial resources than ever before .
Desegregating lunch counters didn @ @ @ @ @ @ @ poverty would cost the nation billions of dollars .
King found that many who once supported his desegregation efforts were less than enthusiastic about his agenda on jobs and poverty .
The idea of occupying the nation ’ s capital with poor people scared many activists—even some on the board of the S.C.L.C .
For others , such as Bayard Rustin , a trusted adviser to King since the days of the Montgomery bus boycott , such an act of civil disobedience courted violence and threatened to turn even more white Americans against @ @ @ @ @ @ @ S.C.L.C .
to focus on electing Democrats to political office , not on building a tent city or staging sit-ins at congressional offices .
How Baldwin ended up at the fund-raiser is unclear , although Marlon Brando , who organized it , may have invited him ; the two were close .
In any case , Baldwin had not been expecting to introduce King , and his short speech said little about the leader .
Instead , he told a brief story about the promise of the early days of the civil-rights movement @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the country .
“ What Rosa Parks was saying in Montgomery , in 1956 , and what the Negroes were saying in their march .
.
.
the country did not want to hear or did not hear , ” Baldwin told the audience .
“ And as time rolled on and kids , including people like Stokely Carmichael , were being beaten with chains , going to jail , marching up and down those dusty highways , trying to change the conscience of this country , still nobody heard and nobody really @ @ @ @ @ @ @ all about the wall of white supremacy that stood in the way of fundamental transformation .
His was an effort to jog the memory and , by extension , the morality of the audience , by telling a different story about what happened to a movement on the brink of failure .
When King reached the podium , he did not acknowledge Baldwin specifically , and instead offered a generic thanks to all those who had spoken before him .
It was only later that the two men conferred privately .
“ We @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and tried to bring each other up to date .
Alas , it would never be possible .
.
.
.
” Baldwin recalled in his book “ No Name in the Street , ” from 1972 .
“ We had first met during the last days of the Montgomery bus boycott—and how long ago was that ?
It was senseless to say , eight years , ten years ago—it was longer ago than time can reckon.
” Baldwin ’ s general sense of the encounter was that King was a bit skeptical @ @ @ @ @ @ @ King since his first trip to the South , in 1957 , and had worked beside him over the years , he felt that King was discomfited by his presence .
“ Martin and I had never got to know each other well , ” he wrote .
“ Circumstances , if not temperament , made that impossible.
” In 1963 , King was caught on tape , by the F.B.I.
, expressing concern about Baldwin .
He didn ’ t want to appear on television with the writer , he said , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ movement.
” To King , Baldwin was not a civil-rights leader ; he was just one celebrity , among many , willing to lend his star power to the movement .
It ’ s not impossible to imagine , too , that Baldwin ’ s queerness unsettled him .
By the time of the fund-raiser , the distance between the two men had been widened by Baldwin ’ s sympathies for the militancy of the younger generation .
He was in Hollywood , after all , writing a screenplay on Malcolm X .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ Baldwin had hosted a birthday party and fund-raiser for Huey P. Newton , the jailed leader of the Black Panther Party .
In 1968 , King felt intense pressure from such radical groups , and from recent shifts in the political climate .
The nation had seemed to turn its back on his moral vision .
Writing in The New York Review of Books , Andrew Kopkind , a white journalist of the New Left , declared that King had been “ outstripped by his times.
” A young black woman , who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , had even accused King of selling out the Selma movement , as he and other members of the S.C.L.C .
board arrived for a meeting in Washington , D.C. Baldwin had long seen this turn against King on the horizon .
In 1961 , he had written an article for Harper ’ s Magazine titled “ The Dangerous Road Before Martin Luther King.
” In it , he noted how King ’ s voice had changed from the heady days of the bus boycott , and detailed the challenges that King was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in a revolutionary time .
“ He was more beleaguered than he had ever been before , and not only by his enemies in the white South , ” Baldwin wrote .
“ Three years earlier , I had not encountered very many people—I am speaking now of Negroes—who were really critical of him .
But many more people seemed critical of him now , were bitter , disappointed , skeptical.
” Baldwin argued that King had to confront the meaning of a new , uncompromising spirit in the movement .
Leaders like @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , who rejected the underlying premise that made “ the traditional black leader ” necessary in the first place .
As Baldwin put it , “ These young people have never believed in the American image of the Negro and have never bargained with the Republic , and now they never will .
There is no longer any basis on which to bargain.
” Even in 1961 , Baldwin had sensed that these young people might have a point .
By 1968 , when he gave his speech in Anaheim , he saw @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Rights and Voting Rights Acts , a few years earlier , might offer white America the sense of self-congratulation that Black Power was now denying it .
He knew that the civil-rights movement could easily be conscripted into the story of how Americans , in their inherent goodness , had perfected the Union .
The history being made could be bent in service of the lie .
For Baldwin , that lie had to be challenged at its root—which is why , perhaps , he devoted his introduction to telling a true story @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Baldwin had finished speaking , King gave a speech that echoed Baldwin ’ s account .
It wasn ’ t a story of American triumphalism .
Instead , King expressed concern that the movement was losing the battle for the soul of the nation .
He conjured , without a hint of nostalgia , a history of people acting heroically against the odds , a history full of disappointment and trauma .
He did not mince words : America was a decidedly racist country .
“ The problem can only be solved when @ @ @ @ @ @ @ conscience , ” he said .
“ Now I am not sure if we have that many consciences left .
Too many have gone to sleep .
”

Like Baldwin, King struggled with America’s commitment to the belief that white people mattered more, and to the lie that made that belief palatable. “I must honestly confess that I go through those moments of disappointment when I have to recognize the fact that there aren’t enough white persons in our country who are willing to cherish democratic principles over privilege,” he said. “But I’m grateful to God that some are left.” As King brought his speech to a close, he tried, once more, to reach for the promise of America, vowing that the country would one day move forward because, “however much she strays away from it, the goal of America is freedom.” His sombre tone betrayed his words.
The importance of history had been in full view for both Baldwin and King just a few weeks earlier, at a Carnegie Hall event, in New York City, celebrating what would have been the hundredth birthday of W. E. B. Du Bois, the great African-American intellectual and the co-founder of the N.A.A.C.P. Du Bois, after seven decades of fighting for racial justice in the United States, had given up on America and died, in exile, in Accra, Ghana, on the eve of the March on Washington, in 1963. Although Baldwin had been working on an essay about Du Bois, he chose the occasion at Carnegie Hall to read a recently published piece, “Black Power.” Here, at this celebration of Du Bois, who dedicated his life to exposing America’s lies, Baldwin sought to shift the balance of concern from criticism of militancy among young black people to an honest assessment of the conditions that made such a turn necessary.
King disagreed with the rhetoric and symbolism of Black Power. He found no use for what he called a “mystique of blackness” or “the angry militant who fails to organize.” But he, too, was a student of Du Bois’s work, and he understood what Du Bois taught regarding “our tasks of emancipation.” “One idea he insistently taught,” King said in his speech at the event, “was that black people have been kept in oppression and deprivation by a poisonous fog of lies that depicted them as inferior, born deficient, and deservedly doomed to servitude to the grave.”
King’s remarks at Carnegie Hall, like his remarks in Anaheim, were shadowed by a note of despair. The country was in turmoil. “Negroes have heavy tasks today,” he said. “We were partially liberated and then reënslaved.” Although black people had been fighting for freedom “for more than a hundred years,” the only thing that was “explicitly certain is that the struggle for it will endure.”
Baldwin and King would be together one last time, at a fund-raiser in New York City. Baldwin didn’t have a suit for the occasion, so he ran out to have one fitted. Later, he returned to California to work on the Malcolm X film, the direction of which he was still debating with studio executives. On the night of April 4, 1968, Baldwin was sitting by his swimming pool with Billy Dee Williams, listening to an Aretha Franklin record, when the phone rang. It was his friend David Moses. “Jimmy,” Moses said. “Martin’s just been shot. He’s not dead yet, but it’s a head wound, so . . .” Baldwin dropped the phone and wept. A few days later, he wore his new suit to King’s funeral.
Baldwin was hardly naïve about the human capacity for evil, especially in white folk. “If you’re a Negro, you’re in the center of that peculiar affliction,” he said, “because anybody can touch you—when the sun goes down. You know, you’re the target of everybody’s fantasies.” But what shocked him was that white America had killed someone who espoused love, an apostle of nonviolence. King’s death revealed the depths of white America’s debasement and the scope of black America’s peril. “Perhaps even more than the death itself, the manner of his death has forced me into a judgment concerning human life and human beings which I have always been reluctant to make,” he wrote. “Incontestably, alas, most people are not, in action, worth very much; and yet, every human being is an unprecedented miracle. One tries to treat them as the miracles they are, while trying to protect oneself against the disasters they’ve become.”
If King was the preacher, Baldwin was the poet, and he sought to account for his confusion by gathering up the pieces—of himself, of black folk—buried beneath the disaster that was the country. That work kept his despair at arm’s length. To be sure, King’s death, just like those of Medgar Evers, Malcolm X, and all the others, did not stop time. White people did not stop being white people. Two days after King’s murder, the Black Panther Bobby Hutton was killed by Oakland police officers. Later, police rioted in Chicago, during the Democratic National Convention. The nastiness of the white world kept coming, and it gave black politics—and Baldwin’s voice—an edge. King’s death had revealed the bitterness at the bottom of the cup. What Baldwin saw on that dangerous road that led to King’s death, in Memphis, was the difficult question of whether or not the country had the courage to confront its demons. Could America tell itself the truth about how it had arrived at this moment? And did it have the moral stamina to surrender the comfort of its lies?
In July of 1968, just a few months after King’s assassination and against the backdrop of American cities burning, Baldwin gave an interview to Esquire. He set the tone of the exchange from the very start:
Q. How can we get the black people to cool it? A. It is not for us to cool it. Q. But aren’t you the ones who are getting hurt the most? A. No, we are only the ones who are dying fastest.
The editors did not seem to grasp how the moral burden of America’s nightmare rested not on the black people rioting in the streets but on the white people who held tightly to the belief that they were somehow, because of the color of their skin, better than others. These people, Baldwin argued, had to see themselves otherwise. New laws, gestures of sympathy, and acts of racial charity would never suffice to change the course of the country. Something more radical had to be done; a different history had to be told. “All that can save you now is your confrontation with your own history . . . which is not your past, but your present,” Baldwin said. “Your history has led you to this moment, and you can only begin to change yourself by looking at what you are doing in the name of your history.”
On August 12, 2017, James Fields, Jr., a twenty-year-old self-proclaimed neo-Nazi from Kenton, Kentucky, floored the gas pedal of his 2010 Dodge Challenger and roared down a narrow street full of anti-racist protesters, during the “Unite the Right” rally, in Charlottesville, Virginia. Heather Heyer, who was raised in nearby Ruckersville, was in the crowd. According to people who knew her, Heyer, thirty-two, had spent much of her life “standing up against any type of discrimination.” As Fields’s speeding car sent shoes, cell phones, and bodies flying into the air, Ryan Kelly, a photographer for the Daily Progress, captured the carnage. Heyer is framed between a man falling behind the car’s back bumper, one Air Jordan-clad foot twisted horribly in the air, and the tattooed torso of a white man in mid-somersault. She is leaning to the side as the muscle car hits her and plows through the crowd. Heyer died at the scene, and dozens more were injured. Fields was eventually convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to life in prison.
The occasion of this violence was a bitter battle over American history and how we ought to remember it. In March, 2016, Wes Bellamy, Charlottesville’s vice-mayor and a member of its city council, advocated for the removal of Confederate monuments to Robert E. Lee and Thomas (Stonewall) Jackson. Zyahna Bryant, a high-school freshman in Charlottesville, joined Bellamy’s effort. She circulated a petition demanding the removal of the Robert E. Lee statue in a local park and submitted it to the council. The council agreed to remove the statue by a vote of three to two.
Then, in 2017, all hell broke loose. Emboldened by the election of Donald Trump, who had often and overtly appealed to white identity, local white nationalists saw an opportunity to exploit the council’s decision. The nationalists believed that the actions of the council were an assault on white people. In their view, the soldiers of political correctness had disfigured and distorted American history, in general, and Southern history, in particular. Their outrage prompted the “Unite the Right” rally, the largest gathering of white nationalists and neo-Nazis in recent memory. That day ended with Fields’s murderous drive on Fourth Street.
It is telling that such brutality broke out over a fight regarding the symbols and uses of American history. As both Baldwin and King insisted, each in their own way, America is an identity that white people will protect at any cost, and the country’s history—its founding documents, its national heroes, its claim to be a moral force in the world—is the supporting argument that underpins that identity. This history is inseparable from the nation’s built environment; both monuments and the ways in which communities are spatially organized reinforce it. When King declared that the country’s moral vision had been clouded by “a poisonous fog of lies,” and when Baldwin said in Esquire that we needed to look at what we are doing in the name of our history, both were arguing that this history, the story we tell ourselves about what the country is, shapes the world we make going forward.
The debate over Confederate monuments makes this plain. For white nationalists, the Confederacy represents a triumph of a certain understanding of America, in which the superiority of white people in all social, political, and cultural arrangements is enshrined. From that perspective, open-air tributes to white supremacy make sense. The more complex question is what we do with those who are willing to condemn neo-Nazis but who still claim Confederate statues as part of their “heritage.” These are the people for whom Judge Richard E. Moore, of the Charlottesville Circuit Court, ruled, in April, 2019, that the Confederate statues must remain in the area. “While some people obviously see Lee and Jackson as symbols of white supremacy, others see them as brilliant military tacticians or complex leaders in a difficult time,” Moore wrote in his decision.
Moore was presenting a different narrative about the statues. After Charlottesville, though, American historians made clear that the monuments were not, in fact, erected as contemporaneous memorials of the Civil War. Most were built many years later, either between the eighteen-nineties and the first decades of the twentieth century, when most of the Confederate veterans began to die, or in the nineteen-fifties, when the demand for racial equality intensified. They were, in other words, monuments to an ideology, physical representations of the “Lost Cause” in public space. They insisted on the false claim that the Civil War centered not on slavery but on the heroic defense of the Southern way of life.
Black people challenged these monuments even as they were being built. In “Black Reconstruction in America,” from 1935, Du Bois exposed the lies at the heart of that era’s historiography, unmasking the influential works of the political scientist John W. Burgess and the historian William A. Dunning. The Dunning School, the first generation of trained historians to write about Reconstruction, told the story of the period as one of extensive overreach of federal power and the corruption of northern carpetbaggers; Dunning viewed the granting of political rights to former slaves as a monstrous mistake. Du Bois cast scorn on this attempt to write history as “pleasant reading for Americans.” For him, the Confederate statues represented the triumph of Dunning’s sensibility. The history that justified their construction banished, once and for all, the horrors of slavery, and left American identity safe and secure.
Nearly a century later, we are still trying to transcend such “pleasant reading.” Three days after the display of white supremacy in Charlottesville, the President held an infamous press conference in Trump Tower. He blamed “both sides” for the violence, and went on to flatly reject the idea of removing Confederate statues, employing a not-so-deft piece of moral relativism: “George Washington was a slave owner. . . . So will George Washington lose his statues? . . . How about Thomas Jefferson? . . . He was a major slave owner.” For Trump, celebration of the Confederacy—a region that committed treason to defend the institution of slavery—was American history. By playing on the knowledge that Washington and Jefferson were, to most Americans, unimpeachable, he sought to suggest that there was an argument for Lee, too, and to imply that taking down statues of the general was a slippery slope which would somehow unravel our most basic assumptions about America. His then chief of staff, General John Kelly, agreed, giving an interview, on Fox News, in which he said that protests of the statues showed “a lack of appreciation of history, and what history is.”
Trump’s and Kelly’s understanding of history is precisely what Baldwin critiqued in 1968. But Baldwin also insisted that such lies might enable us, if we’re honest, to tell the story of America differently. Trump, for all his bluster, asked a necessary question: What do we do with George Washington? For the President, this question was simplistic, binary: Do Washington’s statues stay up or come down? But that’s not how history works. We might ask, instead, what the story of slavery and Reconstruction—or of Washington and Jefferson—looks like when it neither glosses over the cruelty of this country nor rejects its potential for betterment.
Something like this question confronted the community of Princeton University, where I teach, in November, 2015. That month, the Black Justice League, a student activist organization on campus, staged a thirty-three-hour sit-in at the president’s office. The action was part of a national student movement in support of anti-racism protests at the University of Missouri. In one of the Black Justice League’s many demands, the students requested that the administration “publicly acknowledge the racist legacy of Woodrow Wilson,” rename the Wilson residential college and the Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs, and remove a mural of Wilson in one of the school’s dining halls.
This demand cut to the heart of Princeton’s self-understanding. Wilson was the president of the university from 1902 to 1910; much of what the school is, as a serious institution of higher learning, has been attributed to him. But the students wanted the university to complicate the story it told itself about Wilson, to acknowledge what his racist legacy meant to its black students, and to consider how that legacy, represented in public space, devalued them. There was indignity, they argued, in sleeping or eating in a building named after someone who thought you an inferior human being.
Spurred by the students’ protest, Princeton’s president, Christopher Eisgruber, and the school’s board of trustees established a committee to reëxamine the ways in which the university commemorated Wilson. Scholars, biographers, and members of the school community were invited to contribute to the conversation. Nell Painter, an emerita professor and the author of “The History of White People,” spoke to the heart of the matter. “It’s all about the questions we ask,” she said. “The questions have changed. I mean, the questions always change. That’s why we keep writing history.”


newyorker--2020-06-20--Situations My Dad Pictured Me in While Giving Advice

It was simple—the hospital wouldn ’ t admit me unless I could start a fire without a match .
I was bleeding profusely after having tried and failed to use a power tool .
I wish I knew the name of the tool or what I did wrong .
When my dad taught me about power tools , I didn ’ t pay attention .
Instead , I watched videos of people carving bars of soap .
“ Ma ’ am , we provided the flint and steel .
Assuming you listened to your dad when he gave invaluable advice @ @ @ @ @ @ @ should be fine.
” I bled to death on the waiting-room floor .
The proctors observed my behavior in the replica back yard complete with an AstroTurf lawn , an artificial patio , and fluorescent lighting simulating the sun .
In this new society , a person ’ s worth boiled down to one thing : how fun they were at barbecues .
“ Holy schnikes !
I love Yuengling !
” I said , invoking a classic “ Tommy Boy ” quote to express my affection for a beer popular among men @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ d get me some points .
“ Nice one , ” a proctor said , taking notes .
“ Now , grill up some ribs.
” “ G-g-grill ?
” I gulped .
Between memorizing “ Tommy Boy ” quotes , Mike Ditka trivia , and the origin story of the Tommy Bahama brand , I ’ d completely forgotten to learn how to grill .
“ Hey , ” I said , praying another “ Tommy Boy ” quote would make them forget about grilling altogether .
“ If I wanted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ your mother !
” “ Remember ?
” I said .
“ From ‘ Tommy Boy ?
’ ” That year , my family nearly starved to death .
I stood , stranded , after having repeatedly tried and failed to change my flat tire in the middle of the desert .
The wolves circled , jeering in human English , somehow .
“ Had you been able to change your tire , we would ’ ve left you alone , ” a wolf in a stylish Under Armour polo said while gnawing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ don ’ t eat contributing members of society who enjoy being alive .
And , if you enjoyed being alive , wouldn ’ t you have learned how to change a tire ?
” “ We ’ ll spare you under one condition , ” a wolf who worked for the same company for fifty years and didn ’ t complain about his lack of self-actualization added .
“ Explain the difference between a pipe wrench and a lug wrench .
It ’ s remarkably simple , and your dad ’ s walked @ @ @ @ @ @ @ If you can ’ t , we ’ ll pounce.
” “ Thank you for agreeing to discuss the Dad Genius Grant with me , ” I said , still unsure about why this prestigious research grant had such a silly , random name .
“ Of course , ” Ted Danson replied .
“ Allow me to skip to the good news .
Your work is very impressive , and I ’ m ninety-nine-per-cent sure you deserve the grant , which entails you to a million dollars to research whatever you want @ @ @ @ @ @ @ question .
Humor me—what did you think of my work in ‘ Cheers ’ ?
” “ Wait , ” I said .
“ You were in ‘ Cheers ’ ?
” “ This has .
.
.
never happened before , ” Mr. Danson said .
“ But your application is so strong that I ’ m willing to overlook that egregious offense .
Just— ” he sighed .
“ Just name Rodney Dangerfield ’ s character in the 1980 classic ‘ Caddyshack ’ —something you should know if you paid attention @ @ @ @ @ @ @ film.
” “ For God ’ s sake , ” Mr. Danson said .
“ Just describe how 1993 ’ s ‘ Tombstone ’ ends in the director ’ s cut.
” “ Come on !
” Ted yelled .
“ And I suppose you ’ d expect me to believe that you haven ’ t seen ‘ Field of Dreams , ’ either ?
Now , either recite the most famous line from that seminal cinematic work , or get the hell out of my house !
” When I think back @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reminded of a place where everybody knows my shame .
The couch salesman looked at me with eyes the color of the oil I absolutely knew how to put into my vehicle .
“ Funny , ” I noted .
“ My dad told me not to spend all of my money in one place.
” “ Oh , did he ?
” the salesman said , softening .
“ In that case , name your price !
I respect fiscal responsibility above all else.
” Right where I wanted him .
Now @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s next lesson : how to negotiate .
“ I ’ ll pay one penny , ” I said .
I flipped a penny in the air .
He dived for it .
It was hard getting the couch home on my own , but I wouldn ’ t have had it any other way .
My dad always said paying for furniture movers was a racket .

It was simple—the hospital wouldn’t admit me unless I could start a fire without a match. I was bleeding profusely after having tried and failed to use a power tool. I wish I knew the name of the tool or what I did wrong. When my dad taught me about power tools, I didn’t pay attention. Instead, I watched videos of people carving bars of soap.
“Please,” I begged the admitting officer. “I feel faint—”
“Ma’am, we provided the flint and steel. Assuming you listened to your dad when he gave invaluable advice and taught essential life skills, you should be fine.”
I bled to death on the waiting-room floor.
The proctors observed my behavior in the replica back yard complete with an AstroTurf lawn, an artificial patio, and fluorescent lighting simulating the sun. In this new society, a person’s worth boiled down to one thing: how fun they were at barbecues.
Luckily, I was crushing the exam.
“Holy schnikes! I love Yuengling!” I said, invoking a classic “Tommy Boy” quote to express my affection for a beer popular among men born between 1946 and 1964. That’d get me some points. “Nice one,” a proctor said, taking notes. “Now, grill up some ribs.”
“G-g-grill?” I gulped. Between memorizing “Tommy Boy” quotes, Mike Ditka trivia, and the origin story of the Tommy Bahama brand, I’d completely forgotten to learn how to grill.
“Hey,” I said, praying another “Tommy Boy” quote would make them forget about grilling altogether. “If I wanted a kiss, I’d call your mother!”
The proctors were silent.
“Remember?” I said. “From ‘Tommy Boy?’ ” That year, my family nearly starved to death.
I stood, stranded, after having repeatedly tried and failed to change my flat tire in the middle of the desert. The wolves circled, jeering in human English, somehow.
“Had you been able to change your tire, we would’ve left you alone,” a wolf in a stylish Under Armour polo said while gnawing on my one tire-changer-device-thingy. “We don’t eat contributing members of society who enjoy being alive. And, if you enjoyed being alive, wouldn’t you have learned how to change a tire?”
“We’ll spare you under one condition,” a wolf who worked for the same company for fifty years and didn’t complain about his lack of self-actualization added. “Explain the difference between a pipe wrench and a lug wrench. It’s remarkably simple, and your dad’s walked you through it a thousand times. If you can’t, we’ll pounce.”
I couldn’t. They pounced.
“Thank you for agreeing to discuss the Dad Genius Grant with me,” I said, still unsure about why this prestigious research grant had such a silly, random name.
“Of course,” Ted Danson replied. “Allow me to skip to the good news. Your work is very impressive, and I’m ninety-nine-per-cent sure you deserve the grant, which entails you to a million dollars to research whatever you want. I will fast-forward to the final question. Humor me—what did you think of my work in ‘Cheers’?”
“Wait,” I said. “You were in ‘Cheers’?”
Mr. Danson’s eyes grew wide.
“This has . . . never happened before,” Mr. Danson said. “But your application is so strong that I’m willing to overlook that egregious offense. Just—” he sighed. “Just name Rodney Dangerfield’s character in the 1980 classic ‘Caddyshack’—something you should know if you paid attention to your dad’s rants about film.”
A chill ran down my spine.
“I haven’t seen ‘Caddyshack,’ ” I said.
“For God’s sake,” Mr. Danson said. “Just describe how 1993’s ‘Tombstone’ ends in the director’s cut.”
“Is that a movie?” I asked.
“Come on!” Ted yelled. “And I suppose you’d expect me to believe that you haven’t seen ‘Field of Dreams,’ either? Now, either recite the most famous line from that seminal cinematic work, or get the hell out of my house!”
When I think back on that day, I’m reminded of a place where everybody knows my shame.
The couch salesman looked at me with eyes the color of the oil I absolutely knew how to put into my vehicle.
“Funny,” I noted. “My dad told me not to spend all of my money in one place.”
“Oh, did he?” the salesman said, softening. “In that case, name your price! I respect fiscal responsibility above all else.”
Right where I wanted him. Now, I could teach him my dad’s next lesson: how to negotiate. “I’ll pay one penny,” I said.
I flipped a penny in the air. He dived for it. It was hard getting the couch home on my own, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way. My dad always said paying for furniture movers was a racket.


newyorker--2020-06-20--In Tulsa, an Energized Juneteenth Celebration Focusses on Change, Not Trump

In Tulsa , the morning of Juneteenth was quiet , dreary , and anxious , except for the burst of canary-yellow paint on Greenwood Avenue that spilled across the asphalt in loud , bright , and confident letters : “ BLACK LIVES MATTER.
” The street mural , painted in the middle of the night after city officials denied artists a permit , was familiar but surreal .
In the past few weeks , similar pieces had adorned streets across major American cities .
In Tulsa , though , seeing a protest slogan at larger-than-life scale brought to mind the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Watchmen , ” which chronicled the 1921 race massacre here and helped transform this midsize city into a widely acknowledged symbol for racist violence in America , both modern and historic .
“ I love it , ” Regina Woods told me , eyeing the street art in front of her newly opened hair salon , which now abuts the first letter “ L ” in the mural .
“ We ’ ve seen that to some people our lives don ’ t matter .
Sometimes it ’ s sad that they @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that ’ s what it takes , that ’ s what it takes.
” Inside her salon , called the Loc Shop , Woods pays homage to the legacy of the surrounding neighborhood .
Along one wall are illustrations of prominent Greenwood entrepreneurs from the early twentieth century , who transformed the dusty plains north of Tulsa ’ s railroad tracks into a thriving business district .
The opposite wall bears a painting , commissioned from a local artist , of the neighborhood ’ s storied nickname , Black Wall Street .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the country ’ s first black female millionaires , including Madam C. J. Walker , the entrepreneur , marketing visionary , and philanthropist who built a sprawling business empire in the early nineteen-hundreds by deploying hundreds of specially trained sales agents across the U.S. and Caribbean to sell her trademark cosmetics and hair products .
“ Madam C. J. Walker actually had an agent here on Black Wall Street , ” Woods pointed out .
The agent ’ s name was Mabel Little .
She moved to Tulsa in 1913 and opened a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 1917 .
Little started a professional organization in the city for beauticians and became an adoptive mother to eleven children .
Her salon , home , and church were all burned to the ground in 1921 , when white rioters destroyed the Greenwood neighborhood , killing as many as three hundred black residents .
But Little and others rebuilt , and she would remain a neighborhood fixture into the twenty-first century .
Little ’ s name does not appear in Woods ’ s new shop , but her inspiration can be felt there @ @ @ @ @ @ @ coming in that were working out of their house , ” Woods told me .
“ Now they have the opportunity to get certified and get in a salon .
Hopefully , this is a launching pad to one day start opening up their own salons.
” Although time and HBO attached glamour to the Black Wall Street mythos , Greenwood ’ s success stemmed from black businesspeople and landowners patiently working together to build up their community , one person at a time .
The simplicity of Greenwood ’ s strategy magnified @ @ @ @ @ @ @ protests over the killing of George Floyd have spread , Black Wall Street has become a commonly invoked symbol of black people ’ s inability to pursue common pleasures that white people take for granted .
“ The carelessness with which that officer killed George Floyd , that eight minutes did something to people , ” Erik Byrd , who had driven more than twenty hours with a lifelong friend to participate in the Juneteenth festivities and see Black Wall Street for himself , told me .
A native of Los Angeles , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ communities .
He watched the 1965 Watts riots from his roof as an eight-year-old child , and participated in the 1992 unrest that followed the acquittal of four Los Angeles Police Department officers who were videotaped beating Rodney King .
“ I put in work , I ’ m not gon na lie , ” he told me .
“ I got my loot on .
I was part of the revolt .
”

In Tulsa, the morning of Juneteenth was quiet, dreary, and anxious, except for the burst of canary-yellow paint on Greenwood Avenue that spilled across the asphalt in loud, bright, and confident letters: “BLACK LIVES MATTER.” The street mural, painted in the middle of the night after city officials denied artists a permit, was familiar but surreal. In the past few weeks, similar pieces had adorned streets across major American cities. In Tulsa, though, seeing a protest slogan at larger-than-life scale brought to mind the title screens in the recent HBO series “Watchmen,” which chronicled the 1921 race massacre here and helped transform this midsize city into a widely acknowledged symbol for racist violence in America, both modern and historic.
“I love it,” Regina Woods told me, eyeing the street art in front of her newly opened hair salon, which now abuts the first letter “L” in the mural. “We’ve seen that to some people our lives don’t matter. Sometimes it’s sad that they have to be reminded. But if that’s what it takes, that’s what it takes.” Inside her salon, called the Loc Shop, Woods pays homage to the legacy of the surrounding neighborhood. Along one wall are illustrations of prominent Greenwood entrepreneurs from the early twentieth century, who transformed the dusty plains north of Tulsa’s railroad tracks into a thriving business district. The opposite wall bears a painting, commissioned from a local artist, of the neighborhood’s storied nickname, Black Wall Street. The back wall includes images of some of the country’s first black female millionaires, including Madam C. J. Walker, the entrepreneur, marketing visionary, and philanthropist who built a sprawling business empire in the early nineteen-hundreds by deploying hundreds of specially trained sales agents across the U.S. and Caribbean to sell her trademark cosmetics and hair products. “Madam C. J. Walker actually had an agent here on Black Wall Street,” Woods pointed out.
The agent’s name was Mabel Little. She moved to Tulsa in 1913 and opened a hair salon in the Greenwood district in 1917. Little started a professional organization in the city for beauticians and became an adoptive mother to eleven children. Her salon, home, and church were all burned to the ground in 1921, when white rioters destroyed the Greenwood neighborhood, killing as many as three hundred black residents. But Little and others rebuilt, and she would remain a neighborhood fixture into the twenty-first century. Little’s name does not appear in Woods’s new shop, but her inspiration can be felt there. “I have stylists that are coming in that were working out of their house,” Woods told me. “Now they have the opportunity to get certified and get in a salon. Hopefully, this is a launching pad to one day start opening up their own salons.”
Although time and HBO attached glamour to the Black Wall Street mythos, Greenwood’s success stemmed from black businesspeople and landowners patiently working together to build up their community, one person at a time. The simplicity of Greenwood’s strategy magnified the tragedy of its destruction. As protests over the killing of George Floyd have spread, Black Wall Street has become a commonly invoked symbol of black people’s inability to pursue common pleasures that white people take for granted. “The carelessness with which that officer killed George Floyd, that eight minutes did something to people,” Erik Byrd, who had driven more than twenty hours with a lifelong friend to participate in the Juneteenth festivities and see Black Wall Street for himself, told me. A native of Los Angeles, Byrd has seen the way violence transforms communities. He watched the 1965 Watts riots from his roof as an eight-year-old child, and participated in the 1992 unrest that followed the acquittal of four Los Angeles Police Department officers who were videotaped beating Rodney King. “I put in work, I’m not gonna lie,” he told me. “I got my loot on. I was part of the revolt.”


After Juneteenth

Tennille Newbold is a twenty-six-year-old medical assistant at a community health center in Manhattan .
In the midst of a Juneteenth celebration in Central Park—a kind of barbecue-picnic political rally , on the grounds of what was once Seneca Village , where freed black people and Irish immigrants lived—she stepped to a microphone and announced that one of the three Louisville police officers who shot and killed Breonna Taylor in her home , in March , would be dismissed from the force .
A cheer went up , but not a very loud one .
This was a small step @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for justice .
Afterward , Newbold talked about why the moment struck her so deeply .
“ The truth is , I am Breonna Taylor , ” she said .
“ She was an essential worker , and so am I .
She was a black woman , and so am I .
She was my age , an E.M.T .
I look in the mirror , and I see Breonna Taylor .
I go to work in the morning , and I see Breonna Taylor.
” Newbold said that she makes $ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her life in East Harlem .
Her father works as a civilian cook at Rikers Island .
She ’ s taking many hours of classes to get ahead and hoping that she ’ ll soon become a practical nurse .
Nothing in her life , Newbold said , has raised her expectations , her sense of hope , like these past few weeks , an exhausting and exhilarating blur of demonstrations and marches .
“ I got arrested in my scrubs trying to protect a black man from the cops at a demonstration @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she said .
“ I got taken in .
Eleven hours , no phone call .
And I went to work the next morning .
It ’ s been a lot of torment and trauma .
But , finally , you see a lot of people paying attention .
Maybe because there ’ s less distraction .
Before , there was always the playoffs , the Super Bowl , some election campaign , some celebrity doing something on TV—always something to distract everyone .
It took a pandemic to get people to finally @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lives matter.
” History , and its litany of lost chances , the pile of vanishing declarations , the volumes of vaporous government studies , can be so disheartening to consider that it ’ s hard for anyone to confess suddenly to a brightening outlook .
What followed eight years of a black President , after all ?
Ta-Nehisi Coates , a writer who has always been mindful of staying within the lines of realism , told me that he ’ s emerged from all that ’ s taken place in recent weeks @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I ’ m feeling pretty good , ” he said .
“ I ’ m not sure that people realize just how quickly the needle has moved .
Even people in the middle ground are now talking about systemic racism .
Look at the rapidity with which so many people are finally seeing things for what they are .
It ’ s hard to argue that there isn ’ t actual progress.
” For Coates , a pivotal moment of the past few weeks came when officials initially failed to act against the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s neck .
That was followed by the uprising on the streets of Minneapolis and in many cities beyond––and then a string of indictments .
And , in its majority , the American public reacted not against the scattered instances of looting but against the original injustice , the sickening refusal of a white police officer to recognize the humanity of a black man whose alleged offense was to pass off a counterfeit twenty-dollar bill .
But why this time ?
“ I always thought that people underrated the power of Obama ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ By having a black President , you make a statement about black humanity .
Which is why a lot of people may have responded differently to George Floyd than they responded to , say , the death [ in 1955 ] of Emmett Till .
In the era of the civil-rights movement , there was also this spectacle of brutality against black people .
But this is a different time .
Many more people can see themselves in George Floyd .
People have a living memory of a black President .
So @ @ @ @ @ @ @ change , but I ’ ve long believed that if you can ’ t see the humanity in your midst , or under your knee , then it doesn ’ t matter .
Now you have more and more people who actually see black people as human.
” Opal Tometi , a community activist and one of the founders of Black Lives Matter , agreed with Coates that there has been movement in public consciousness , even if it has come at a terrible price .
“ Yes , there is a shift @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , as she marched on Juneteenth .
“ It ’ s unfortunate that the filming and photographing and hash-tagging of broken Black bodies had to be the catalyst for this shift , but there is one .
Now the question is , how do we mobilize , move forward , support Black agency , and activate our allies ?
” Tometi , and Alicia Garza and Patrisse Cullors , her Black Lives Matter co-founders , have always refused to take on the mantle of centralized , charismatic leadership , insisting that the civil-rights @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for that model .
She said that a community model— “ all in the trenches , side by side ” —has been essential in the movement ’ s growth .
“ I ’ m hopeful and optimistic that everyone will keep the same energy that they have now , two weeks from now , two years from now , two hundred years from now , and more , ” Tometi said .
“ It ’ s hard not to let thoughts creep in , like , ‘ Is this just performative ?
’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ But I know , at minimum , that the rhetoric has changed , and there ’ s more self-awareness from people outside the black community around what is actually happening .
And there is a clear resolve for change .
The goal is for that rhetoric and awareness to turn into action and real change.
” The writer and scholar Imani Perry told me that the moment has not only been a breakthrough in the way people think about policing—and the opinion ranges from reformist to abolitionist—but also in the way they see @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Take the health of the nation , ” Perry said .
“ Over the years , we ’ ve developed concrete knowledge , data about the disparities in health care , the disparities in medical outcomes .
We ’ ve known for a long time about the biases , the unequal treatment .
Then along comes COVID-19 , and then the demonstrations , and everything is made plain to so many people.
” At the Seneca Village Juneteenth celebration , nearly all the signs were in a consistent key : “ Black Lives @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Now.
” But , at one point , a small group marched by with signs that referred , in the harshest terms possible , to the current President and the need to remove the “ fascist ” come November .
When I raised the 2020 election with Coates , he said , “ Voting is essential—and insufficient .
I hear a lot of people denigrate the protests in the streets by saying , ‘ Yeah , but will they show up to vote ?
’ I would say , ‘ I ’ m @ @ @ @ @ @ @ will you show up to protest ?
’ Without protest , those indictments in Minneapolis and Atlanta might not have come as quickly as they did .
Or look at Joe Biden .
He ’ s moved from crime-bill-era Joe Biden to where he is now largely as the result of protest , of people holding his feet to the fire .
Voting is civic hygiene .
You have to take out the trash .
You can ’ t not do that .
But that ’ s just the beginning , it ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ household .
”

Tennille Newbold is a twenty-six-year-old medical assistant at a community health center in Manhattan. In the midst of a Juneteenth celebration in Central Park—a kind of barbecue-picnic political rally, on the grounds of what was once Seneca Village, where freed black people and Irish immigrants lived—she stepped to a microphone and announced that one of the three Louisville police officers who shot and killed Breonna Taylor in her home, in March, would be dismissed from the force.
A cheer went up, but not a very loud one. This was a small step, after all, in the demand for justice. Afterward, Newbold talked about why the moment struck her so deeply. “The truth is, I am Breonna Taylor,” she said. “She was an essential worker, and so am I. She was a black woman, and so am I. She was my age, an E.M.T. I look in the mirror, and I see Breonna Taylor. I go to work in the morning, and I see Breonna Taylor.”
Newbold said that she makes $16.35 an hour. She has lived her life in East Harlem. Her father works as a civilian cook at Rikers Island. She’s taking many hours of classes to get ahead and hoping that she’ll soon become a practical nurse.
Nothing in her life, Newbold said, has raised her expectations, her sense of hope, like these past few weeks, an exhausting and exhilarating blur of demonstrations and marches. “I got arrested in my scrubs trying to protect a black man from the cops at a demonstration on the West Side Highway,” she said. “I got taken in. Eleven hours, no phone call. And I went to work the next morning. It’s been a lot of torment and trauma. But, finally, you see a lot of people paying attention. Maybe because there’s less distraction. Before, there was always the playoffs, the Super Bowl, some election campaign, some celebrity doing something on TV—always something to distract everyone. It took a pandemic to get people to finally focus on this one fact: black lives matter.”
History, and its litany of lost chances, the pile of vanishing declarations, the volumes of vaporous government studies, can be so disheartening to consider that it’s hard for anyone to confess suddenly to a brightening outlook. What followed eight years of a black President, after all? Ta-Nehisi Coates, a writer who has always been mindful of staying within the lines of realism, told me that he’s emerged from all that’s taken place in recent weeks in a distinctly optimistic mood.
“I’m feeling pretty good,” he said. “I’m not sure that people realize just how quickly the needle has moved. Even people in the middle ground are now talking about systemic racism. Look at the rapidity with which so many people are finally seeing things for what they are. It’s hard to argue that there isn’t actual progress.”
For Coates, a pivotal moment of the past few weeks came when officials initially failed to act against the officer who kneeled on George Floyd’s neck. That was followed by the uprising on the streets of Minneapolis and in many cities beyond––and then a string of indictments. And, in its majority, the American public reacted not against the scattered instances of looting but against the original injustice, the sickening refusal of a white police officer to recognize the humanity of a black man whose alleged offense was to pass off a counterfeit twenty-dollar bill.
But why this time? “I always thought that people underrated the power of Obama’s symbolism,” Coates said. “By having a black President, you make a statement about black humanity. Which is why a lot of people may have responded differently to George Floyd than they responded to, say, the death [in 1955] of Emmett Till. In the era of the civil-rights movement, there was also this spectacle of brutality against black people. But this is a different time. Many more people can see themselves in George Floyd. People have a living memory of a black President. So, yes, we need real policy change, but I’ve long believed that if you can’t see the humanity in your midst, or under your knee, then it doesn’t matter. Now you have more and more people who actually see black people as human.”
Oakland, California. Photograph by Marissa Leshnov for The New Yorker
Opal Tometi, a community activist and one of the founders of Black Lives Matter, agreed with Coates that there has been movement in public consciousness, even if it has come at a terrible price. “Yes, there is a shift,” she said, by text, as she marched on Juneteenth. “It’s unfortunate that the filming and photographing and hash-tagging of broken Black bodies had to be the catalyst for this shift, but there is one. Now the question is, how do we mobilize, move forward, support Black agency, and activate our allies?”
Tometi, and Alicia Garza and Patrisse Cullors, her Black Lives Matter co-founders, have always refused to take on the mantle of centralized, charismatic leadership, insisting that the civil-rights movement of the sixties paid in blood for that model. She said that a community model—“all in the trenches, side by side”—has been essential in the movement’s growth.
“I’m hopeful and optimistic that everyone will keep the same energy that they have now, two weeks from now, two years from now, two hundred years from now, and more,” Tometi said. “It’s hard not to let thoughts creep in, like, ‘Is this just performative?’ ‘Is change actually happening?’ But I know, at minimum, that the rhetoric has changed, and there’s more self-awareness from people outside the black community around what is actually happening. And there is a clear resolve for change. The goal is for that rhetoric and awareness to turn into action and real change.”
Oakland, California. Photograph by Marissa Leshnov for The New Yorker
The writer and scholar Imani Perry told me that the moment has not only been a breakthrough in the way people think about policing—and the opinion ranges from reformist to abolitionist—but also in the way they see many realms of day-to-day life. “Take the health of the nation,” Perry said. “Over the years, we’ve developed concrete knowledge, data about the disparities in health care, the disparities in medical outcomes. We’ve known for a long time about the biases, the unequal treatment. Then along comes COVID-19, and then the demonstrations, and everything is made plain to so many people.”
At the Seneca Village Juneteenth celebration, nearly all the signs were in a consistent key: “Black Lives Matter,” “Black History Is Now.” But, at one point, a small group marched by with signs that referred, in the harshest terms possible, to the current President and the need to remove the “fascist” come November.
When I raised the 2020 election with Coates, he said, “Voting is essential—and insufficient. I hear a lot of people denigrate the protests in the streets by saying, ‘Yeah, but will they show up to vote?’ I would say, ‘I’m glad you’re voting, but will you show up to protest?’ Without protest, those indictments in Minneapolis and Atlanta might not have come as quickly as they did. Or look at Joe Biden. He’s moved from crime-bill-era Joe Biden to where he is now largely as the result of protest, of people holding his feet to the fire. Voting is civic hygiene. You have to take out the trash. You can’t not do that. But that’s just the beginning, it’s what’s expected of the household.”


newyorker--2020-06-20--The Faces of Those Marching for Racial Justice in New York

It can be both mesmerizing and inspiring to see the thousands of people that have filled the streets of cities and towns in the weeks since the police killing of George Floyd .
They fan out from parks and squares , fill up side streets , move through thoroughfares , their message amplified by sheer numbers .
But Al J. Thompson , a photographer who is originally from Jamaica , and who now lives in Rockland County , just outside of the Bronx , prefers to focus on the faces of the individuals within the surging masses .
During recent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s City Hall and in the Bronx , Thompson has moved through the crowds looking for subjects , whom he photographs individually or in small groups .
He has found that people lately are eager to be a part of the record .
Usually , when taking pictures in the streets , just about half of the people he approaches agree to have their portraits taken ; in the recent protests , everyone whom he has asked has said yes .
When someone agrees to be photographed , he asks them to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , a half-block or so away from the center of the action .
In a turbulent moment , Thompson ’ s portraits are notable for their quietude .
“ I almost feel like I ’ ve been in the minority here , ” Thompson said .
“ Violent imagery has its day .
But where I come in , what I like to see is not the chaos.
” Thompson used to work in fashion , among other industries , and says that fashion photography gave him an education—even when shooting a portrait @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a protest , he is attuned to the need to arrange the light , the sitters , their clothes , and their faces to the best effect .

It can be both mesmerizing and inspiring to see the thousands of people that have filled the streets of cities and towns in the weeks since the police killing of George Floyd. They fan out from parks and squares, fill up side streets, move through thoroughfares, their message amplified by sheer numbers. But Al J. Thompson, a photographer who is originally from Jamaica, and who now lives in Rockland County, just outside of the Bronx, prefers to focus on the faces of the individuals within the surging masses. During recent protests, including those at New York’s City Hall and in the Bronx, Thompson has moved through the crowds looking for subjects, whom he photographs individually or in small groups. He has found that people lately are eager to be a part of the record. Usually, when taking pictures in the streets, just about half of the people he approaches agree to have their portraits taken; in the recent protests, everyone whom he has asked has said yes.
Nyack, New York. June 1, 2020.
When someone agrees to be photographed, he asks them to move to the periphery of the crowd, a half-block or so away from the center of the action. In a turbulent moment, Thompson’s portraits are notable for their quietude. “I almost feel like I’ve been in the minority here,” Thompson said. “Violent imagery has its day. But where I come in, what I like to see is not the chaos.” Thompson used to work in fashion, among other industries, and says that fashion photography gave him an education—even when shooting a portrait in the busy and crowded setting of a protest, he is attuned to the need to arrange the light, the sitters, their clothes, and their faces to the best effect.


newyorker--2020-06-20--Lessons in Valor and Its Myths, from London’s Memorial to Heroic Self-Sacrifice

On a recent Monday morning , as the coronavirus lockdown began to ease , I left my apartment , in central London , and walked to Postman ’ s Park , a small green spot that doubles as the churchyard of St. Botolph ’ s , Aldersgate .
Throughout our self-quarantine in April and May , my partner and I had passed through the park every couple of days , seeking fresh air along a route that felt predictable and not too populous .
First , we ’ d head west , through Smithfield Market , to the grassy square @ @ @ @ @ @ @ where only the homeless now sat together in the sunshine , then south , along empty back streets , to the river .
We ’ d follow it east for a while , before coming north again , via the vacant steps of St. Paul ’ s Cathedral , to arrive among the trees and benches of Postman ’ s Park .
Away from news and work and private worry , passing through squares we knew to have been plague pits in centuries past , we thought more clearly about the dead and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , were exchanged .
There has been a church at the park since the twelfth century .
By the eighteen-fifties , St. Botolph ’ s burial ground had accumulated so many graves that it rose like a small plateau above the surrounding streets .
Gradually , the graves were cleared , headstones stacked in corners , and , by 1900 , the whole plot was converted into a park , named for the nearby headquarters of the General Post Office .
On a normal weekday in June , the park fills up with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lawns or sitting in the shade near a little pond and fountain .
Since lockdown began , the parkgoers have been mostly like us , pedestrians out for their one government-approved bout of daily exercise , or cyclists arriving from further-flung parts of London , seeking out the park ’ s most curious feature .
Opposite the southwestern gate sits a wing of St. Bartholomew ’ s Hospital .
During our walks , we saw hardly a soul going in or out of its glass atrium , where a sign announces that the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the western side of the park , abutting a plain red brick apartment block , there is a wood-framed open loggia , fifty feet long and nine feet tall , with a bench inside and fifty-four glazed ceramic plaques above it .
This is the Memorial to Heroic Self-Sacrifice , installed in the early years of the twentieth century to record certain fatal acts of valor in everyday life .
The plaques commemorate a fearful , also faintly absurd , litany of shipwrecks , fires , drownings , gassings , and rail or @ @ @ @ @ @ @ long enough , and you will hear first-time visitors mouthing aghast the fate of Elizabeth Coghlam , in 1902 : “ Died saving her family and house by carrying blazing paraffin to the yard.
” Or , wondering aloud , “ Quicksand is real ?
, ” at the awful demise , in the same year , of Arthur Strange and Mark Tomlinson , who were engulfed in a doomed effort to save two drowning girls .
The memorial was the project of G. F. Watts , a Victorian painter of considerable renown @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” “ Love and Death , ” “ Mammon ” —earned him the inflated title “ England ’ s Michelangelo.
” In 1887 , Watts wrote to the London Times , proposing that an unusual monument be erected as part of the coming celebration of Queen Victoria ’ s Golden Jubilee .
“ Among other ways of commemorating this 50th year of Her Majesty ’ s reign , it would surely be of national interest to collect a complete record of the stories of heroism in every-day life , ” he wrote .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ the eighteen-sixties , and had amassed , mostly from newspaper reports , a list of quotidian heroes .
He had in mind at first a vast figure in Hyde Park , but that idea came to nothing—something similar was later erected as “ Physical Energy , ” in Kensington Gardens .
Instead , as the century closed , Watts secured a corner of the new park at St. Botolph ’ s , and set about having tablets made .
There are six police officers and two firemen among the memorialized—the rest are “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from eight to sixty-one .
Here is Thomas Griffin , who , in 1899 , was a young laborer at a sugar refinery in Battersea ; following an explosion , he ran into a steam-filled room , thinking a friend was inside , and was scalded to death .
Mary Rogers died in the same year ; she was a stewardess on board the steam ferry Stella , which sank on the crossing from Southampton to Guernsey .
Survivors reported that Rogers refused to board a lifeboat , for fear of overcrowding , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the water reached her , crying , “ Lord , save me !
” A local newspaper called her death “ Homeric in its majesty.
” In his letter to the Times , Watts singled out the case of Alice Ayres , who , in April of 1885 , saved three children from a burning house ; she was fatally injured when she jumped from an upper window into the street .
Ayres is one of several heroes featured in the memorial who were well known at the time of its construction .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ where firemen carried her coffin , and soon her death was the subject of popular poems , children ’ s stories , and a mural by Walter Crane , which depicted Alice on the window ledge with a child in her arms .
( Viewers of the 2004 film “ Closer , ” directed by Mike Nichols and based on Patrick Marber ’ s play of the same name , may recall Jude Law taking Natalie Portman to Postman ’ s Park , where they look at the Memorial to Heroic Self-Sacrifice—it ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ movie , returning to the park , that Law ’ s character , a struggling English writer , realizes where the young American woman he knows as Alice Ayres got her name . )
Picturesque death was , of course , a staple of the Victorian imagination : there was hardly a dismal reality , whether in the realm of war , disease , industry , or crime , that could not be turned to purest sentiment .
But Watts ’ s inscriptions are strikingly laconic .
Reading and rereading them during lockdown @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ news in three lines ” that the French anarchist Félix Fénéon wrote , in 1906 , for the newspaper Le Matin .
Fénéon , who was the subject of a recently curtailed exhibition at MOMA ( which is now available online ) , condensed his faits divers into nuggets of economic prose , describing murder , accident , suicide , and strife .
There is often an ironic tone in his miniature tales .
“ Finding his daughter , 19 , insufficiently austere , Jallat , watchmaker of Saint-Étienne , killed her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 11 children left.
” “ Nurse Elise Bachmann , whose day off was yesterday , put on a public display of insanity.
” Watts , by contrast , is mostly a purveyor of plain fact : “ George Frederick Simonds of Islington , rushed into a burning house to save an aged widow , and died of his injuries , Dec 1 , 1886.
” Occasionally , though , emotion intrudes , such as when he conveys the last words of Solomon Galaman , age eleven , who had rescued his younger brother @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I saved him but I could not save myself.
” What did Watts mean by “ heroism ” and “ self-sacrifice ” ?
It is hard today not to balk at the latter as applied to Mary Rogers , whose ferry captain was rumored to have been racing a competitor at lethal speed , or as applied to the four men , working quite without safety equipment , who were overcome by gas in a shaft at a sewage plant in East Ham , in 1895—the local council tried hard to avoid legal @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s families .
What Watts and Fénéon have in common , as storytellers , is the wealth of detail they have left out , but which remains implied .
Most obvious : predicaments of class and gender .
( All of the dead seem to have been white . )
In the Times , Watts wrote , “ The material prosperity of a nation is not an abiding possession , the deeds of the people are.
” But heroism and self-sacrifice seem to have meant , for many of the men , women @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , merely succumbing to the risks of their economic station in life .

On a recent Monday morning, as the coronavirus lockdown began to ease, I left my apartment, in central London, and walked to Postman’s Park, a small green spot that doubles as the churchyard of St. Botolph’s, Aldersgate. Throughout our self-quarantine in April and May, my partner and I had passed through the park every couple of days, seeking fresh air along a route that felt predictable and not too populous. First, we’d head west, through Smithfield Market, to the grassy square of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where only the homeless now sat together in the sunshine, then south, along empty back streets, to the river. We’d follow it east for a while, before coming north again, via the vacant steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral, to arrive among the trees and benches of Postman’s Park. Away from news and work and private worry, passing through squares we knew to have been plague pits in centuries past, we thought more clearly about the dead and dying. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exchanged.
There has been a church at the park since the twelfth century. By the eighteen-fifties, St. Botolph’s burial ground had accumulated so many graves that it rose like a small plateau above the surrounding streets. Gradually, the graves were cleared, headstones stacked in corners, and, by 1900, the whole plot was converted into a park, named for the nearby headquarters of the General Post Office. On a normal weekday in June, the park fills up with lunchtime office workers, crowding the modest lawns or sitting in the shade near a little pond and fountain. Since lockdown began, the parkgoers have been mostly like us, pedestrians out for their one government-approved bout of daily exercise, or cyclists arriving from further-flung parts of London, seeking out the park’s most curious feature. Opposite the southwestern gate sits a wing of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. During our walks, we saw hardly a soul going in or out of its glass atrium, where a sign announces that the hospital has no emergency room.
On the western side of the park, abutting a plain red brick apartment block, there is a wood-framed open loggia, fifty feet long and nine feet tall, with a bench inside and fifty-four glazed ceramic plaques above it. This is the Memorial to Heroic Self-Sacrifice, installed in the early years of the twentieth century to record certain fatal acts of valor in everyday life. The plaques commemorate a fearful, also faintly absurd, litany of shipwrecks, fires, drownings, gassings, and rail or street-traffic disasters. Hang around the memorial long enough, and you will hear first-time visitors mouthing aghast the fate of Elizabeth Coghlam, in 1902: “Died saving her family and house by carrying blazing paraffin to the yard.” Or, wondering aloud, “Quicksand is real?,” at the awful demise, in the same year, of Arthur Strange and Mark Tomlinson, who were engulfed in a doomed effort to save two drowning girls.
A closer view of some of the glazed ceramic plaques in the Memorial to Heroic Self-Sacrifice. Photograph by Chris Dorney / Alamy
The memorial was the project of G. F. Watts, a Victorian painter of considerable renown, whose allegorical compositions—“Hope,” “Love and Death,” “Mammon”—earned him the inflated title “England’s Michelangelo.” In 1887, Watts wrote to the London Times, proposing that an unusual monument be erected as part of the coming celebration of Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee. “Among other ways of commemorating this 50th year of Her Majesty’s reign, it would surely be of national interest to collect a complete record of the stories of heroism in every-day life,” he wrote. Watts had been attempting exactly that since the eighteen-sixties, and had amassed, mostly from newspaper reports, a list of quotidian heroes. He had in mind at first a vast figure in Hyde Park, but that idea came to nothing—something similar was later erected as “Physical Energy,” in Kensington Gardens. Instead, as the century closed, Watts secured a corner of the new park at St. Botolph’s, and set about having tablets made.
There are six police officers and two firemen among the memorialized—the rest are “ordinary” people, ranging in age from eight to sixty-one. Here is Thomas Griffin, who, in 1899, was a young laborer at a sugar refinery in Battersea; following an explosion, he ran into a steam-filled room, thinking a friend was inside, and was scalded to death. Mary Rogers died in the same year; she was a stewardess on board the steam ferry Stella, which sank on the crossing from Southampton to Guernsey. Survivors reported that Rogers refused to board a lifeboat, for fear of overcrowding, and raised her arms to Heaven as the water reached her, crying, “Lord, save me!” A local newspaper called her death “Homeric in its majesty.” In his letter to the Times, Watts singled out the case of Alice Ayres, who, in April of 1885, saved three children from a burning house; she was fatally injured when she jumped from an upper window into the street. Ayres is one of several heroes featured in the memorial who were well known at the time of its construction. Hundreds attended Ayres’s funeral, where firemen carried her coffin, and soon her death was the subject of popular poems, children’s stories, and a mural by Walter Crane, which depicted Alice on the window ledge with a child in her arms. (Viewers of the 2004 film “Closer,” directed by Mike Nichols and based on Patrick Marber’s play of the same name, may recall Jude Law taking Natalie Portman to Postman’s Park, where they look at the Memorial to Heroic Self-Sacrifice—it’s only at the end of the movie, returning to the park, that Law’s character, a struggling English writer, realizes where the young American woman he knows as Alice Ayres got her name.)
Picturesque death was, of course, a staple of the Victorian imagination: there was hardly a dismal reality, whether in the realm of war, disease, industry, or crime, that could not be turned to purest sentiment. But Watts’s inscriptions are strikingly laconic. Reading and rereading them during lockdown, I was reminded first of the “news in three lines” that the French anarchist Félix Fénéon wrote, in 1906, for the newspaper Le Matin. Fénéon, who was the subject of a recently curtailed exhibition at MOMA (which is now available online), condensed his faits divers into nuggets of economic prose, describing murder, accident, suicide, and strife. There is often an ironic tone in his miniature tales. “Finding his daughter, 19, insufficiently austere, Jallat, watchmaker of Saint-Étienne, killed her. It is true that he has 11 children left.” “Nurse Elise Bachmann, whose day off was yesterday, put on a public display of insanity.” Watts, by contrast, is mostly a purveyor of plain fact: “George Frederick Simonds of Islington, rushed into a burning house to save an aged widow, and died of his injuries, Dec 1, 1886.” Occasionally, though, emotion intrudes, such as when he conveys the last words of Solomon Galaman, age eleven, who had rescued his younger brother from being run over: “Mother I saved him but I could not save myself.”
What did Watts mean by “heroism” and “self-sacrifice”? It is hard today not to balk at the latter as applied to Mary Rogers, whose ferry captain was rumored to have been racing a competitor at lethal speed, or as applied to the four men, working quite without safety equipment, who were overcome by gas in a shaft at a sewage plant in East Ham, in 1895—the local council tried hard to avoid legal responsibility for compensating the dead men’s families. What Watts and Fénéon have in common, as storytellers, is the wealth of detail they have left out, but which remains implied. Most obvious: predicaments of class and gender. (All of the dead seem to have been white.) In the Times, Watts wrote, “The material prosperity of a nation is not an abiding possession, the deeds of the people are.” But heroism and self-sacrifice seem to have meant, for many of the men, women, and children recorded in the memorial, merely succumbing to the risks of their economic station in life.
Among the dead named on the plaques are two doctors, William Lucas and Samuel Rabbeth, both of whom died of diphtheria, which they contracted while administering tracheotomies in the hopes of restoring their patients’ breathing. Lucas, his inscription says, “risked poison for himself rather than lessen any chance of saving a child’s life.” (That is to say, he sucked infected fluid from the child’s neck wound.) On the London Transport bus shelters that my partner and I pass by on our regular walks, there is, at the time of this writing, a message broadcast in a recurring video: “THANK YOU / to our amazing NHS staff / #thankyouNHS.” It is almost a surprise, so many weeks into this horror, to see British health-care workers mentioned in public without the word “heroes” nearby. We have grown used to the headlines and hashtags, joined the weekly public applause, heard the recovering Prime Minister’s gratitude to his immigrant nurses—his ashen-faced talk of duty, courage, and devotion. All while doctors and nurses have waited, and waited, for adequate protection, widespread testing, free health care for overseas staff, and coherent messages or behavior from politicians and officials. The things a nation may conceal from itself inside an idea of heroism.


newyorker--2020-06-21--Ian Holm’s Ways of Seeing

Ian Holm’s Ways of Seeing

For people who love movies or the stage , the death of a favorite actor is an event .
Not the end of an era , exactly , or the fall of a curtain : more a dimming of the lights .
No longer , we realize , will certain corners of experience receive such illumination .
When it was announced on Friday , for instance , that Sir Ian Holm had died , at the age of eighty-eight , those of us who had always admired him were left not merely saddened but bereft .
Now that he is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ such economy of gesture and for so compellingly steady a gaze ?
Who else can persuade us , as Holm did , that , before we begin hectoring or hungering for the world , it needs to be studied ?
Look at two examples of his looking .
The first , as it happens , is out of this world—on board the Nostromo , a spaceship that drips and clanks like an old fishing smack .
Even if you ’ re too nervous to have seen “ Alien ” ( 1979 ) , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t bear to watch , you will know that something erupts from a man ’ s chest .
What you may not know is that the scene , through rife with panic and spattered with blood , concludes in a moment of quietness .
Most of the victim ’ s crewmates are in shock , and you can hardly blame them , but one of them—a fellow named Ash , played by Holm—keeps his cool .
As the mini-monster scuttles away , ready for its growth spurt , Ash stares after it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Much later , we will learn that he is a robot , tasked with retrieving this purest and most destructive of creatures ; in no way , however , does our discovery lessen the force of his wondering , or explain it away .
Shifting from outer space to a summer afternoon , on an idling river , we find Holm as the Reverend Charles Dodgson , in “ Dreamchild ” ( 1985 ) .
His hands pull at the oars of a boat , and his eyes rest and lock on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who sits beside her sister in the stern , facing the man of God .
Something in his scrutiny unnerves her , and , without warning , she splashes water in Dodgson ’ s face—a dreadful breach of etiquette , for which Alice is chided by her mother , and for which she then atones by leaning forward , apologizing to Dodgson , and planting a kiss on his cheek .
She pats him dry with her handkerchief ; he grows more flustered still and starts to stutter .
Not for the first @ @ @ @ @ @ @ both light with innocence and fraught with inadmissible emotions , has landed Dodgson ( or , to give him his alias , Lewis Carroll ) , in trouble .
Neither he nor Alice is quite at ease in Wonderland .
The point is that , whatever Holm chose to contemplate , we couldn ’ t help attending to him .
His powers of concentration were centripetal .
He could steal a scene as if pocketing a gold ring , found on the floor of a tunnel .
Given the chance , he could @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I ’ ve talked to mention “ Chariots of Fire ” ( 1981 ) , they always , without exception , mention Holm ’ s performance as the trainer Sam Mussabini , which brought him an Oscar nomination for Best Actor in a Supporting Role .
It is Sam who prepares Harold Abrahams ( Ben Cross ) for the hundred-metre sprint at the Paris Olympics of 1924 , and who , on the day , can ’ t bring himself to watch the race .
Instead , he waits alone in a nearby @ @ @ @ @ @ @ last , he hears “ God Save the King ” and sees the Union Jack flag ascend .
His boy has won .
And how does he signal his joy ?
By sitting on the bed and punching a fist through the top of his straw boater .
He laughs at his own audacity , then quickly stifles the laugh .
Again , it ’ s the clarity of Holm ’ s movement that stays with you .
Any more would mean less .
There are plenty of supporting players who , when @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the promotion ; through no fault of their own , the limelight does not become them .
Other actors make themselves at home there , without relinquishing their strain of modesty : Warren Oates , say , in “ Two-Lane Blacktop ” ( 1971 ) , or Holm , in Atom Egoyan ’ s “ The Sweet Hereafter ” ( 1997 ) .
The film is snowbound in sadness , set before and after a bus crash in which children died or suffered serious injuries , and Holm plays a lawyer who arrives @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Is he honestly sympathetic , we ask , or might he be milking the calamity—for money , for professional satisfaction , or as a means of fighting off griefs of his own ?
If those questions remain unanswered , it ’ s because Holm doesn ’ t milk the setup .
I can think of some stars whose careers , in this regard , grow into one-man dairy industries , but never do we sense that Holm is taking advantage of a part to show us what he can do .
One of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Holm onstage only once , in Harold Pinter ’ s “ Moonlight , ” in 1993 .
Four years later , he played King Lear—the leader of the pack , among leading roles—at the National Theatre , in London , to an acclaim so immense that tickets were impossible to come by .
I remember lining up for returns , in vain .
But he clearly didn ’ t flinch from prominence , for , as early as the mid-nineteen-sixties , he could be seen on the BBC , as Richard III .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ Olivier had all but swallowed the part whole in his cinematic version , as rich in its histrionic hues as in its furnishings : How on earth do you follow that ?
Holm ’ s solution is to rein in the glee and to muffle the Machiavel .
Long swathes of speech are delivered to the camera , often in closeup , and , as befits a character who claims to have been born with teeth , this Richard , spurning grandiloquence , confines himself largely to nips and snaps .
“ Was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ d ?
/ Was ever woman in this humour won ?
, ” he inquires , having initiated his seduction of the widowed Lady Anne .
“ I ’ ll have her , ” he adds , with a short smile and a cock of the head , and it ’ s there , in that Pinterish injection of venom , lasting half a second , that we glimpse the depth of his depravity .
This command of menace was not unparalleled .
It was formidable , forged in Holm ’ s Shakespearean @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in his collaborations with Pinter , but other actors were similarly steeled .
What made Holm unique was that the very poise that made him so menacing could be deployed , equally , in the service of the benign .
His kindliness was never bland , for he also had the mettle for adventure ; and what , pray , is the purpose of adventure , if not to test us and to puzzle us with perplexity ?

In performances of great composure, Ian Holm, who died on Friday, showed audiences how to study the world. Photograph from Hulton Archive / Getty
For people who love movies or the stage, the death of a favorite actor is an event. Not the end of an era, exactly, or the fall of a curtain: more a dimming of the lights. No longer, we realize, will certain corners of experience receive such illumination. When it was announced on Friday, for instance, that Sir Ian Holm had died, at the age of eighty-eight, those of us who had always admired him were left not merely saddened but bereft. Now that he is gone, where can we turn for such economy of gesture and for so compellingly steady a gaze? Who else can persuade us, as Holm did, that, before we begin hectoring or hungering for the world, it needs to be studied?
Look at two examples of his looking. The first, as it happens, is out of this world—on board the Nostromo, a spaceship that drips and clanks like an old fishing smack. Even if you’re too nervous to have seen “Alien” (1979), or if you saw it but couldn’t bear to watch, you will know that something erupts from a man’s chest. What you may not know is that the scene, through rife with panic and spattered with blood, concludes in a moment of quietness. Most of the victim’s crewmates are in shock, and you can hardly blame them, but one of them—a fellow named Ash, played by Holm—keeps his cool.
As the mini-monster scuttles away, ready for its growth spurt, Ash stares after it, in a kind of analytic trance. Much later, we will learn that he is a robot, tasked with retrieving this purest and most destructive of creatures; in no way, however, does our discovery lessen the force of his wondering, or explain it away.
Shifting from outer space to a summer afternoon, on an idling river, we find Holm as the Reverend Charles Dodgson, in “Dreamchild” (1985). His hands pull at the oars of a boat, and his eyes rest and lock on Alice Liddell (Amelia Shankley), who sits beside her sister in the stern, facing the man of God. Something in his scrutiny unnerves her, and, without warning, she splashes water in Dodgson’s face—a dreadful breach of etiquette, for which Alice is chided by her mother, and for which she then atones by leaning forward, apologizing to Dodgson, and planting a kiss on his cheek. She pats him dry with her handkerchief; he grows more flustered still and starts to stutter. Not for the first time, the act of observation, both light with innocence and fraught with inadmissible emotions, has landed Dodgson (or, to give him his alias, Lewis Carroll), in trouble. Neither he nor Alice is quite at ease in Wonderland.
The point is that, whatever Holm chose to contemplate, we couldn’t help attending to him. His powers of concentration were centripetal. He could steal a scene as if pocketing a gold ring, found on the floor of a tunnel. Given the chance, he could filch an entire film. Whenever moviegoers I’ve talked to mention “Chariots of Fire” (1981), they always, without exception, mention Holm’s performance as the trainer Sam Mussabini, which brought him an Oscar nomination for Best Actor in a Supporting Role. It is Sam who prepares Harold Abrahams (Ben Cross) for the hundred-metre sprint at the Paris Olympics of 1924, and who, on the day, can’t bring himself to watch the race. Instead, he waits alone in a nearby hotel room, from where, at last, he hears “God Save the King” and sees the Union Jack flag ascend. His boy has won. And how does he signal his joy? By sitting on the bed and punching a fist through the top of his straw boater. He laughs at his own audacity, then quickly stifles the laugh. Again, it’s the clarity of Holm’s movement that stays with you. Any more would mean less.
There are plenty of supporting players who, when granted a leading role, falter in the promotion; through no fault of their own, the limelight does not become them. Other actors make themselves at home there, without relinquishing their strain of modesty: Warren Oates, say, in “Two-Lane Blacktop” (1971), or Holm, in Atom Egoyan’s “The Sweet Hereafter” (1997). The film is snowbound in sadness, set before and after a bus crash in which children died or suffered serious injuries, and Holm plays a lawyer who arrives in town to represent their families. Is he honestly sympathetic, we ask, or might he be milking the calamity—for money, for professional satisfaction, or as a means of fighting off griefs of his own? If those questions remain unanswered, it’s because Holm doesn’t milk the setup. I can think of some stars whose careers, in this regard, grow into one-man dairy industries, but never do we sense that Holm is taking advantage of a part to show us what he can do.
One of my great regrets is that I saw Holm onstage only once, in Harold Pinter’s “Moonlight,” in 1993. Four years later, he played King Lear—the leader of the pack, among leading roles—at the National Theatre, in London, to an acclaim so immense that tickets were impossible to come by. I remember lining up for returns, in vain. But he clearly didn’t flinch from prominence, for, as early as the mid-nineteen-sixties, he could be seen on the BBC, as Richard III. It was only a decade since Laurence Olivier had all but swallowed the part whole in his cinematic version, as rich in its histrionic hues as in its furnishings: How on earth do you follow that? Holm’s solution is to rein in the glee and to muffle the Machiavel. Long swathes of speech are delivered to the camera, often in closeup, and, as befits a character who claims to have been born with teeth, this Richard, spurning grandiloquence, confines himself largely to nips and snaps. “Was ever woman in this humour woo’d? / Was ever woman in this humour won?,” he inquires, having initiated his seduction of the widowed Lady Anne. “I’ll have her,” he adds, with a short smile and a cock of the head, and it’s there, in that Pinterish injection of venom, lasting half a second, that we glimpse the depth of his depravity.


newyorker--2020-06-21--Sunday Reading: Medical Tales

Sunday Reading: Medical Tales

In 2008 , the medical writer Atul Gawande published a fascinating piece in The New Yorker about a woman who had developed an unbearable itch on her scalp .
Topical treatments and medicine wouldn ’ t help , and , eventually , the woman entered the hospital only to discover that her attempts to alleviate the persistent itch had produced an even more severe affliction .
Gawande ’ s story is spine-tingling in its depiction of a condition that ’ s as perplexing as it is unsettling .
Stories about maladies often illuminate deeper truths about the mysteries and complexities @ @ @ @ @ @ @ we ’ re bringing you a selection of captivating medical tales .
In “ The Case of the Eleven Blue Men , ” from 1947 , Berton Roueché describes a mysterious case in which multiple New Yorkers developed a bluish hue to their skin after accidentally ingesting a toxic chemical .
In “ A Sudden Illness , ” Laura Hillenbrand , the author of “ Seabiscuit , ” writes about her longtime struggle with chronic fatigue syndrome .
In “ The Abyss , ” Oliver Sacks visits a man with amnesia who happens @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Joan Acocella recounts the lessons of the Black Death , the devastating outbreak of the bubonic plague that spread across Europe in the mid-fourteenth century , and Margaret Talbot explores the complicated toll of the syndrome known as Munchausen by proxy .
In “ Swamp Nurse , ” Katherine Boo follows a Louisiana caregiver as she helps young mothers from poor families in the bayou navigate their lives .
Stephen King recalls a severe accident that impeded his ability to write , and Malcolm Gladwell profiles John Rock , the co-creator of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Good Doctor , ” Tracy Kidder chronicles Dr. Paul Farmer ’ s efforts to advocate for public-health services for those living in poverty around the globe .
Finally , in “ The Lyme Wars , ” Michael Specter examines the ongoing battle over how to treat Lyme disease in America .
We hope that you find these stories as intriguing and illuminating as we do .
Its mysterious power may be a clue to a new theory about brains and bodies .
How did a bowl of oatmeal source one of the rarest @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
Munchausen syndrome by proxy is a rare , bizarre disorder .
Why are so many women being accused of it ?
What ’ s the best hope for the first child of a poor mother ?
After an accident , Stephen King had to learn to write again .
What the co-inventor of the Pill didn ’ t know : menstruation can endanger women ’ s health .
Paul Farmer set out twenty years ago to heal the world .
He still thinks he can .
The Lyme-disease infection rate is growing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to treat it .

Photograph from Getty
In 2008, the medical writer Atul Gawande published a fascinating piece in The New Yorker about a woman who had developed an unbearable itch on her scalp. Topical treatments and medicine wouldn’t help, and, eventually, the woman entered the hospital only to discover that her attempts to alleviate the persistent itch had produced an even more severe affliction. Gawande’s story is spine-tingling in its depiction of a condition that’s as perplexing as it is unsettling. Stories about maladies often illuminate deeper truths about the mysteries and complexities of our bodies. This week, we’re bringing you a selection of captivating medical tales. In “The Case of the Eleven Blue Men,” from 1947, Berton Roueché describes a mysterious case in which multiple New Yorkers developed a bluish hue to their skin after accidentally ingesting a toxic chemical. In “A Sudden Illness,” Laura Hillenbrand, the author of “Seabiscuit,” writes about her longtime struggle with chronic fatigue syndrome. In “The Abyss,” Oliver Sacks visits a man with amnesia who happens to retain a remarkable knowledge of music. Joan Acocella recounts the lessons of the Black Death, the devastating outbreak of the bubonic plague that spread across Europe in the mid-fourteenth century, and Margaret Talbot explores the complicated toll of the syndrome known as Munchausen by proxy. In “Swamp Nurse,” Katherine Boo follows a Louisiana caregiver as she helps young mothers from poor families in the bayou navigate their lives. Stephen King recalls a severe accident that impeded his ability to write, and Malcolm Gladwell profiles John Rock, the co-creator of the birth-control pill. In “The Good Doctor,” Tracy Kidder chronicles Dr. Paul Farmer’s efforts to advocate for public-health services for those living in poverty around the globe. Finally, in “The Lyme Wars,” Michael Specter examines the ongoing battle over how to treat Lyme disease in America. We hope that you find these stories as intriguing and illuminating as we do.
Its mysterious power may be a clue to a new theory about brains and bodies.
Photograph by Micha Bar-Am / Magnum
How did a bowl of oatmeal source one of the rarest types of poisoning recorded in medical literature?
Photograph by Jacqueline O’Neill
How Laura Hillenbrand's life changed.
Photograph by Jiri Rezac
Music and amnesia.
Interpreting the plague.
Munchausen syndrome by proxy is a rare, bizarre disorder. Why are so many women being accused of it?
Photograph by Alec Soth for The New Yorker / Magnum
What’s the best hope for the first child of a poor mother?
After an accident, Stephen King had to learn to write again.
Photograph by Mark Borthwick
What the co-inventor of the Pill didn’t know: menstruation can endanger women’s health.
Paul Farmer set out twenty years ago to heal the world. He still thinks he can.
The Lyme-disease infection rate is growing. So is the battle over how to treat it.