newyorker--2020-04-13--The Life and Death of Juan Sanabria, One of New York City’s First Coronavirus Victims

This story was first published on newyorker.com on April 1 , 2020 , at 6 A.M .
The version below appears in the April 20 , 2020 , issue .
At 860 Grand Concourse , a residential apartment building in the Bronx , the doorman ’ s post is just inside the front door , on a landing between two flights of stairs .
One of them leads up to the offices of a dentist and a lawyer , who , along with several physicians , rent commercial space .
The other goes down past two pairs of gold-painted columns @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an elevator services seven floors with a hundred and eleven apartments .
Tuesday through Saturday , between eight in the morning and five in the evening , tenants going down to or coming up from the lobby could expect a greeting from a trim , punctilious man with close-cropped hair .
He wore a navy-blue uniform that hung loosely off his narrow shoulders .
His name was Juan Sanabria .
There was an art to Sanabria ’ s salutations .
Dana Frishkorn , who ’ s lived in the building for three and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ called her by her first name when she entered , and never failed to tell her “ Take care ” when she left .
Yet somehow Sanabria knew that Anthony Tucker , who has spent five years in the building , preferred to be called by his last name .
“ Hey , Tuck , ” Sanabria would say , extending his hand for a fist bump .
When Tony Chen , who runs a boutique tour company and lives on the seventh floor , limped into the building one morning , addled @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a foot stretch that helped .
On another day , when a tenant showed up at the front door with a large couch to take up to his apartment , even though the building ’ s rules mandated the use of a side door , Sanabria stood watch to make sure a meddlesome neighbor didn ’ t wander over .
“ With Juan , you always got the sense that he was more knowledgeable than he let on , ” Georgeen Comerford , who has lived in the building for nearly fifty years @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at CUNY , she described Sanabria as a “ mensch who appreciated the ironies.
” He would call her mámi , and wink , when she passed through the lobby .
It wasn ’ t just that you were glad to see him , she said .
“ If you didn ’ t see him , you wanted to know where he was .
When he wasn ’ t around , you felt it.
” Uncharacteristically , Sanabria wasn ’ t around the last week of February .
His eighty-two-year-old mother , with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Avenue , was suffering from emphysema ; he had taken her to a nearby hospital .
When word spread in the building that Sanabria ’ s mother was ill , no one was surprised to learn that he was by her side .
“ It was who he was , ” Jimmy Montalvo , one of the other doormen , told me .
Montalvo and Sanabria were neighbors—Montalvo got his job at the building through Sanabria , three years ago—and frequently had breakfast together at their corner bodega ; Sanabria was always bringing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ said .
“ He took good care of her.
” Even when Sanabria was away from 860 Grand Concourse , during a break or on his days off , he gave the impression that he was never far .
James Tirado , the youngest and newest doorman on staff , used to get calls and texts from Sanabria , checking up on him .
“ How ’ s the day going ?
” Sanabria would ask .
“ Is everything going O.K .
for you ?
” By the time his mother ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ returned to work , on March 3rd , he was beginning to feel ill himself .
There were still very few publicly known COVID-19 cases in New York City , and his symptoms—dizziness and fatigue—were not yet widely associated with the disease .
He wasn ’ t coughing , and he didn ’ t have a fever .
He went home anyway , to rest for a few days .
On Monday , March 9th , his day off , he returned to 860 Grand Concourse , to consult with a doctor on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” he called him .
He was feeling worse , and had developed a cough .
Tirado noticed him wheezing as he passed the doorman ’ s post .
While he waited for the doctor , Sanabria called one of his stepdaughters , Walkiris Cruz-Perez , a nurse at Columbia-Presbyterian .
She was in the Dominican Republic at the time , getting dental work done , but she was concerned enough to call him an ambulance .
“ He would never call one for himself , ” she said .
“ But I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I said to him , ‘ Go to Columbia .
Go to my hospital .
Don ’ t go to Lincoln.
’ ” She was referring to the Bronx hospital where Sanabria was born , and which he held in almost superstitiously high esteem .
Lincoln was where he had taken his mother a week earlier , and where one of his best friends had died , a few years before .
He ’ d even considered applying for a part-time job there as a security guard .
It took about twenty minutes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the orderlies to load him into the back .
Not yet feverish , he insisted—in his usual , stoic way—that he was feeling just fine .
What was most telling , though , was the fact that he did not object to being taken to the hospital ; almost compulsively protective of others , he was finally ceding control to someone else , which struck Walkiris as worrisome .
She talked him through the situation on FaceTime , as Tirado watched from the door .
It would be the last time anyone from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ days after Sanabria ’ s death , his former tenants and co-workers staggered between shock and grief .
Contributing to the over-all sense of loss was their collective realization that , while they each felt close to him , most of them actually knew little about him .
Montalvo , for instance , was vaguely aware that Sanabria had served in the military , yet he never learned any of the details .
One tenant in the building , a thirty-eight-year-old nurse and Navy reservist named Frankie Hamilton , knew about Sanabria ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ swapped stories about training at a facility near Throgs Neck , in the Bronx .
But he didn ’ t know anything about Sanabria ’ s family .
Another tenant told me , “ I kept hearing that he had a daughter who was a nurse , but also that his daughter was a cop .
Which was it ?
” He had two stepdaughters , actually—a nurse and an N.Y.P.D .
officer .
He spoke about each of them constantly , with an unabashed and even grandiloquent sense of pride .
Yet @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ways to different people .
Julia Donahue-Wait , a registered nurse herself , knew all about Walkiris ’ s career .
But she would be at work during the day , when Sanabria ’ s other stepdaughter , Waleska , often dropped in to meet him for lunch .
Waleska ’ s precinct , the Forty-fourth , includes the stretch of Grand Concourse where Sanabria worked .
Several times a week , they went to a deli down the street and ate in his break room at the building .
“ When I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ would stand at the front door and talk about my son , ” Waleska told me .
Their conversations revolved around three things , she said : her child , her mother , and her work .
“ He loved that I was a cop .
He was always telling me about things that would happen around the neighborhood .
”

This story was first published on newyorker.com on April 1, 2020, at 6 A.M. The version below appears in the April 20, 2020, issue.
At 860 Grand Concourse, a residential apartment building in the Bronx, the doorman’s post is just inside the front door, on a landing between two flights of stairs. One of them leads up to the offices of a dentist and a lawyer, who, along with several physicians, rent commercial space. The other goes down past two pairs of gold-painted columns and into the main lobby, where an elevator services seven floors with a hundred and eleven apartments. Tuesday through Saturday, between eight in the morning and five in the evening, tenants going down to or coming up from the lobby could expect a greeting from a trim, punctilious man with close-cropped hair. He wore a navy-blue uniform that hung loosely off his narrow shoulders. His name was Juan Sanabria.
There was an art to Sanabria’s salutations. Dana Frishkorn, who’s lived in the building for three and a half years, appreciated that he called her by her first name when she entered, and never failed to tell her “Take care” when she left. Yet somehow Sanabria knew that Anthony Tucker, who has spent five years in the building, preferred to be called by his last name. “Hey, Tuck,” Sanabria would say, extending his hand for a fist bump. When Tony Chen, who runs a boutique tour company and lives on the seventh floor, limped into the building one morning, addled by plantar fasciitis, Sanabria showed him a foot stretch that helped. On another day, when a tenant showed up at the front door with a large couch to take up to his apartment, even though the building’s rules mandated the use of a side door, Sanabria stood watch to make sure a meddlesome neighbor didn’t wander over.
“With Juan, you always got the sense that he was more knowledgeable than he let on,” Georgeen Comerford, who has lived in the building for nearly fifty years, told me. A photography professor at CUNY, she described Sanabria as a “mensch who appreciated the ironies.” He would call her mámi, and wink, when she passed through the lobby. It wasn’t just that you were glad to see him, she said. “If you didn’t see him, you wanted to know where he was. When he wasn’t around, you felt it.”
Uncharacteristically, Sanabria wasn’t around the last week of February. His eighty-two-year-old mother, with whom he shared an apartment on Ogden Avenue, was suffering from emphysema; he had taken her to a nearby hospital. When word spread in the building that Sanabria’s mother was ill, no one was surprised to learn that he was by her side. “It was who he was,” Jimmy Montalvo, one of the other doormen, told me. Montalvo and Sanabria were neighbors—Montalvo got his job at the building through Sanabria, three years ago—and frequently had breakfast together at their corner bodega; Sanabria was always bringing food back for his mother, Montalvo said. “He took good care of her.” Even when Sanabria was away from 860 Grand Concourse, during a break or on his days off, he gave the impression that he was never far. James Tirado, the youngest and newest doorman on staff, used to get calls and texts from Sanabria, checking up on him. “How’s the day going?” Sanabria would ask. “Is everything going O.K. for you?”
By the time his mother’s health had improved, and Sanabria returned to work, on March 3rd, he was beginning to feel ill himself. There were still very few publicly known COVID-19 cases in New York City, and his symptoms—dizziness and fatigue—were not yet widely associated with the disease. He wasn’t coughing, and he didn’t have a fever. He went home anyway, to rest for a few days. On Monday, March 9th, his day off, he returned to 860 Grand Concourse, to consult with a doctor on the first floor—his “doctor friend,” he called him. He was feeling worse, and had developed a cough. Tirado noticed him wheezing as he passed the doorman’s post.
While he waited for the doctor, Sanabria called one of his stepdaughters, Walkiris Cruz-Perez, a nurse at Columbia-Presbyterian. She was in the Dominican Republic at the time, getting dental work done, but she was concerned enough to call him an ambulance. “He would never call one for himself,” she said. “But I made him promise me one thing. I said to him, ‘Go to Columbia. Go to my hospital. Don’t go to Lincoln.’ ” She was referring to the Bronx hospital where Sanabria was born, and which he held in almost superstitiously high esteem. Lincoln was where he had taken his mother a week earlier, and where one of his best friends had died, a few years before. He’d even considered applying for a part-time job there as a security guard.
It took about twenty minutes for the ambulance to arrive and for the orderlies to load him into the back. Not yet feverish, he insisted—in his usual, stoic way—that he was feeling just fine. What was most telling, though, was the fact that he did not object to being taken to the hospital; almost compulsively protective of others, he was finally ceding control to someone else, which struck Walkiris as worrisome. She talked him through the situation on FaceTime, as Tirado watched from the door. It would be the last time anyone from the building saw Sanabria.
In the days after Sanabria’s death, his former tenants and co-workers staggered between shock and grief. Contributing to the over-all sense of loss was their collective realization that, while they each felt close to him, most of them actually knew little about him. Montalvo, for instance, was vaguely aware that Sanabria had served in the military, yet he never learned any of the details. One tenant in the building, a thirty-eight-year-old nurse and Navy reservist named Frankie Hamilton, knew about Sanabria’s time in the Navy because they swapped stories about training at a facility near Throgs Neck, in the Bronx. But he didn’t know anything about Sanabria’s family. Another tenant told me, “I kept hearing that he had a daughter who was a nurse, but also that his daughter was a cop. Which was it?”
He had two stepdaughters, actually—a nurse and an N.Y.P.D. officer. He spoke about each of them constantly, with an unabashed and even grandiloquent sense of pride. Yet he shared stories about them in different ways to different people. Julia Donahue-Wait, a registered nurse herself, knew all about Walkiris’s career. But she would be at work during the day, when Sanabria’s other stepdaughter, Waleska, often dropped in to meet him for lunch. Waleska’s precinct, the Forty-fourth, includes the stretch of Grand Concourse where Sanabria worked. Several times a week, they went to a deli down the street and ate in his break room at the building. “When I didn’t have time, we would stand at the front door and talk about my son,” Waleska told me. Their conversations revolved around three things, she said: her child, her mother, and her work. “He loved that I was a cop. He was always telling me about things that would happen around the neighborhood.”
Sanabria, the son of Puerto Rican parents, grew up near the old Yankee Stadium, in the Bronx. After high school, he joined the Navy, where he served for the next twenty years. Travelling was an obsession of his—in the service, he spent time in the Philippines and the Bahamas—but he also loved structure and a sense of routine. “I used to say to him, ‘Juan, you’re just weird!’ ” Mimi Roman, his oldest friend, told me. (The two of them were born on the same day: August 13, 1967.) “He had to have everything in order. He’d always have his way of doing things.” After he was given a diagnosis of celiac disease, a digestive disorder that rendered him allergic to gluten, he adjusted his diet and stuck to it. “It was always everything in moderation,” Roman said.
In his mid-thirties, Sanabria retired from the military and returned home, finding a job as a janitor at a local elementary school. The youngest of four children, he was fanatically devoted to his parents; he worked overtime so that they’d have money to take vacations. In 2003, looking for an additional source of income, he began working part time at 860 Grand Concourse, covering odd shifts and filling in for the other doormen when they were sick or on vacation. He was perfectly suited for a job that rewarded dependability and charm. Unflaggingly serious about work, he also had a mischievous side, playing practical jokes and making people laugh. “He had goals in life,” Roman said. “He wanted to achieve things. He didn’t want to ever be stuck. He knew all about his surroundings. He was up on things. I used to call him ‘the news’ because he always knew what was going on.”


newyorker--2020-04-13--When This Is All Over

When This Is All Over

When this is all over , I will never turn down an invitation to a party .
Not that I get many , but , hey , maybe that will change when everything is back to normal .
Well , not normal .
Back to different ?
The new normal , I guess .
When this is all over , I will never complain about having to go to work .
Every day , I will get down on my knees and kiss that gray carpeting , as long as the industrial fibres do not irritate my lips too badly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I will always wash my hands .
With soap , too .
And hot water , even though I find cold water more refreshing .
When this is all over , I will sometimes think , “ You know what ?
Maybe it wasn ’ t so bad .
After all , falling down into a really big hole and not being able to get out for what has been at least a few weeks on account of the even bigger rock that rolled down a hill and got stuck on top of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ actually make a good story to tell my grandchildren someday .
Provided that all of the Mountain Dew I ’ ve been drinking down here doesn ’ t leave me sterile.
” When this is all over , I will remind myself that it was bad , falling down into a really big hole and not being able to get out for what has been at least a few weeks on account of the even bigger rock that rolled down a hill and got stuck on top of what could have been my @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , I will take a pickaxe with me everywhere I go so that I can tunnel my way out of any similarly unfortunate situations .
When this is all over , I will probably never want to eat Doritos again , but if I do I will gladly lick my fingers and enjoy the flavor of the dirt-free orange dust .
When this is all over , I will watch where I am going while walking home from 7-Eleven at 3 A.M. And I won ’ t take any shortcuts .
A different @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is all over , I will request that AMC rerun the “ Three Stooges ” marathon I was stocking up for .
It really is the least they can do , especially if they dug this hole .
AMC is not one of my top suspects , but , with no solid leads as of yet , I am skeptical of everyone .
When this is all over , I will write the Rock a letter explaining my current situation and ask him for a shout-out or a signed head shot .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , but , honestly , I have been meaning to write him for a while anyway .
I think he stole my idea to make a movie about the board game Jumanji .
When this is all over , I will also reach out to the band Hole and say , “ You ’ re only happy when it rains ?
I ’ m only happy when I ’ m not trapped in a big hole that ’ s covered by a giant rock .
.
.
.
It ’ s a long @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hear back from them , but if they do respond I hope they put me in touch with their label .
Boy , have I got stories to tell .
Yes , I am a musical artist , and , no , Hole does not sing that “ Only Happy When It Rains ” song , now that I think about it .
Yeah , that was definitely Garbage .
Whatever .
Being down here has me feeling like garbage .
So there is still a connection .
When this is all over @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a rock and a hard place to get out of ” a phrase that people say .
It could be shorthand for when you have only two options and both are bad .
Like Mountain Dew or Doritos , after weeks of consuming only those two things .
When this is all over , I will need someone to catch me up on the latest trends and all the important news I missed out on .
You know , which dances people are doing , what new Oreo flavor is out there , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Maybe over a pitcher of beer that I sneaked into a batting cage ?
Sorry , sorry—let ’ s just say that I am eager to get back on the dating scene .
When this is all over , I will hug the people I love and not let go until I have slipped into their back pockets the mixtape I will record about all of this , titled “ Under da Rock , ” which I will release under my new rap name , Lil Hole Guy .
When this is all @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Well , not big holes and giant rocks , but the little things .
♦

When this is all over, I will never turn down an invitation to a party. Not that I get many, but, hey, maybe that will change when everything is back to normal. Well, not normal. Back to different? The new normal, I guess.
When this is all over, I will never complain about having to go to work. Every day, I will get down on my knees and kiss that gray carpeting, as long as the industrial fibres do not irritate my lips too badly.
When this is all over, I will always wash my hands. With soap, too. And hot water, even though I find cold water more refreshing.
When this is all over, I will sometimes think, “You know what? Maybe it wasn’t so bad. After all, falling down into a really big hole and not being able to get out for what has been at least a few weeks on account of the even bigger rock that rolled down a hill and got stuck on top of what could have been my exit will actually make a good story to tell my grandchildren someday. Provided that all of the Mountain Dew I’ve been drinking down here doesn’t leave me sterile.”
When this is all over, I will remind myself that it was bad, falling down into a really big hole and not being able to get out for what has been at least a few weeks on account of the even bigger rock that rolled down a hill and got stuck on top of what could have been my exit.
When this is all over, I will take a pickaxe with me everywhere I go so that I can tunnel my way out of any similarly unfortunate situations.
When this is all over, I will probably never want to eat Doritos again, but if I do I will gladly lick my fingers and enjoy the flavor of the dirt-free orange dust.
When this is all over, I will watch where I am going while walking home from 7-Eleven at 3 A.M. And I won’t take any shortcuts. A different shortcut, at least.
When this is all over, I will request that AMC rerun the “Three Stooges” marathon I was stocking up for. It really is the least they can do, especially if they dug this hole. AMC is not one of my top suspects, but, with no solid leads as of yet, I am skeptical of everyone.
When this is all over, I will write the Rock a letter explaining my current situation and ask him for a shout-out or a signed head shot. The rock/Rock connection might not be that strong, but, honestly, I have been meaning to write him for a while anyway. I think he stole my idea to make a movie about the board game Jumanji.
When this is all over, I will also reach out to the band Hole and say, “You’re only happy when it rains? I’m only happy when I’m not trapped in a big hole that’s covered by a giant rock. . . . It’s a long story.” I do not expect to hear back from them, but if they do respond I hope they put me in touch with their label. Boy, have I got stories to tell. Yes, I am a musical artist, and, no, Hole does not sing that “Only Happy When It Rains” song, now that I think about it. Yeah, that was definitely Garbage. Whatever. Being down here has me feeling like garbage. So there is still a connection.
When this is all over, I will make “caught between a rock and a hard place to get out of” a phrase that people say. It could be shorthand for when you have only two options and both are bad. Like Mountain Dew or Doritos, after weeks of consuming only those two things.
When this is all over, I will need someone to catch me up on the latest trends and all the important news I missed out on. You know, which dances people are doing, what new Oreo flavor is out there, and which celebrities have gone viral. Maybe over a pitcher of beer that I sneaked into a batting cage? Sorry, sorry—let’s just say that I am eager to get back on the dating scene.
When this is all over, I will hug the people I love and not let go until I have slipped into their back pockets the mixtape I will record about all of this, titled “Under da Rock,” which I will release under my new rap name, Lil Hole Guy.
When this is all over, I will appreciate everything. Well, not big holes and giant rocks, but the little things. ♦


newyorker--2020-04-13--“Toad Circus,” by Julia Story

“Toad Circus,” by Julia Story

The day after my toad circus the toads were all dead , crunchy and silent in their window well .
@ @ @ @ @ doorway to walk through to get to the world of lilacs : purple , contagious @ @ @ @ @ but the steady invisible breathing of flowers .
I knew I had to tell someone @ @ @ @ @ I first walked to the park and stayed there until dusk , sitting on the @ @ @ @ @ of the rusty and dangerous merry-go-round ; I can ’ t remember which .
When @ @ @ @ @ walked home , certain that they were worried and maybe even out looking for me @ @ @ @ @ I saw them busy in the kitchen through the window , so I hid in @ @ @ @ @ was good and dark , a living thing on a swing set in the gloom @ @ @ @ @ head cracking open for the first time and I went in .

Audio: Read by the author.
The day after my toad circus the toads were all dead, crunchy and silent in their window well. I wanted to draw a doorway to walk through to get to the world of lilacs: purple, contagious green leaves and no movement but the steady invisible breathing of flowers. I knew I had to tell someone what I had done so I first walked to the park and stayed there until dusk, sitting on the glider or in the middle of the rusty and dangerous merry-go-round; I can’t remember which. When it was nearly dark I walked home, certain that they were worried and maybe even out looking for me. When I got there I saw them busy in the kitchen through the window, so I hid in the back yard until it was good and dark, a living thing on a swing set in the gloom, the attic in my head cracking open for the first time and I went in.


newyorker--2020-04-16--How We Can Build a Hardier World After the Coronavirus

The coronavirus pandemic has revealed one particularly shocking thing about our societies and economies : they have been operating on a very thin margin .
The edifice seems so shiny and substantial , a world of silver jets stitching together cities of towering skyscrapers , a globe of soaring markets and smartphone connectivity .
But a couple of months into this disease and it ’ s all tottering , the jets grounded and the cities silent and the markets reeling .
One industry after another is heading for bankruptcy , and no one knows if they will come back .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ may have seemed , it wasn ’ t very sturdy .
Some people—the President , for instance—think that we can just put it all back like it was before , with a “ big bang , ” once the “ invisible enemy ” is gone .
But any prosperity built on what was evidently a shaky foundation is going to seem Potemkinish going forward ; we don ’ t want always to feel as if we ’ re just weeks away from some kind of chaos .
So if we ’ re thinking @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and more resilient form , we ’ ll have to learn what a more stable footing might look like .
I think that we can take an important lesson from the doctors dealing with the coronavirus , and that ’ s related to comorbidity , or underlying conditions .
It turns out , not surprisingly , that if you ’ ve got diabetes or hypertension , or have a suppressed immune system , you ’ re far more likely to be felled by COVID-19 .
Societies , too , come with underlying conditions @ @ @ @ @ @ @ planet right now are inequality and ecological turmoil .
They ’ ve both spiked in the past few decades , with baleful results that normally stay just below the surface , felt but not fully recognized .
But as soon as something else goes wrong—a new microbe launches a pandemic , say—they become starkly evident .
Inequality , in this instance , means that people have to keep working , even if they ’ re not well , because they lack health insurance and live day to day , paycheck to paycheck , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Ecological instability , especially the ever-climbing mercury , means that even as governors try to cope with the pandemic they must worry , too , about the prospect of another spring with massive flooding across the Midwest , or how they ’ ll cope if wildfire season gets out of control .
Last month , the U.S. Forest Service announced that , owing to the pandemic , it is suspending controlled burns , for instance , “ one of the most effective tools for increasing California ’ s resiliency to fire.
” God @ @ @ @ @ @ @ or two while this one is still preoccupying us—but simple math means that it ’ s almost inevitable .
And , of course , all these things interact with one another : inequality means that some people must live near sources of air pollution that most of us wouldn ’ t tolerate , which in turn means that their lungs are weakened , which in turn means they can ’ t fight off the coronavirus .
( It also means that some of the same people can lack access to good food , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . )
And , if there ’ s a massive wildfire , smoke fills the air for weeks , weakening everybody ’ s lungs , but especially those at the bottom of the ladder .
When there ’ s a hurricane and people need to flee , the stress and the trauma can compromise immune systems .
Simply living at the sharp end of an unequal and racist society can do the same thing .
And so on , in an unyielding spiral of increasing danger .
Since we must rebuild our economies @ @ @ @ @ @ @ out as much ecological havoc and inequality as we can—as much danger as we can .
That won ’ t be easy , but there are clear and obvious steps that would help—there are ways to structure the increased use of renewable energy that will confront inequality at the same time .
Much will be written about such plans in the months to come , but at the level of deepest principle here ’ s what ’ s key , I think : from a society that has prized growth above all and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with justice and ecology , we need to start emphasizing sturdiness , hardiness , resiliency .
( And a big part of that is fairness . )
The resulting world won ’ t be quite as shiny , but , somehow , shininess seems less important now .
Mary Annaïse Heglar is one of the freshest and most important voices in the climate movement .
She ’ s the writer-in-residence at Columbia University ’ s Earth Institute in partnership with the Natural Resources Defense Council .
Her personal essays—most of which revolve around @ @ @ @ @ @ @ most engaging writing I know on a subject that often inspires earnestness ; a recent favorite was in Wired magazine .
This interview has been condensed for clarity .
You say , “ The facts have been on our side for a very long time , but we ’ re still losing.
” Why ?
The science on climate change has been crystal clear for literally decades .
As Amy Westervelt has illustrated beautifully , on her podcast “ Drilled , ” the fossil-fuel companies knew that before anyone else .
James Hansen @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change ( the precursor to the Paris Agreement ) dates back to 1992 .
We didn ’ t wind up in a climate crisis for lack of information , or even for lack of clearly communicated information .
What was done was not done out of ignorance—it was done out of malice and greed .
If all we had to do was have the right facts , we ’ d have been done a long time ago .
People feel as if they can ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ re not scientifically inclined .
What do you tell them ?
What I tell them is , “ Girl , me , neither !
” But you don ’ t need a scientific background or inclination to be part of the climate movement or conversation .
This is not about science ; it ’ s about justice .
The science proves the severity of the injustice , sure , but it ’ s not the entire story .
There ’ s a place for everyone in the climate movement because everyone , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ concept of “ no fair.
” Everyone always asks me , “ What should I be doing as an individual ?
” But is that even the right way to frame the question ?
I get that question all the time , too , and it ’ s really frustrating .
As I argue in my article , if you ’ re ready to graduate beyond the things that everyone should be doing—like cutting your carbon footprint , and voting for the climate , and showing up to demonstrations—then you ’ ve reached @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to become a bona-fide climate person .
That means you ’ re past the one-size-fits-all activism .
It ’ s time for your activism to mold to you , and only you can do that .
No one told Greta [ Thunberg ] to strike , no one told Jamie and Nadia [ the teen-age climate activists Jamie Margolin and Nadia Nazar ] to help start Zero Hour .
They just did it .
No one told me to write—in fact , plenty of people told me not to !
There ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and so much that the people already involved with it haven ’ t thought of .
There ’ s so much room for new ideas and new voices , so if you ’ re a new or aspiring climate person , you ’ re right on time .
The better question would be “ What can I do next ?
” An even better question would be “ How did you find your niche in climate ?
” And then take those answers and carve out your own niche .

The coronavirus pandemic has revealed one particularly shocking thing about our societies and economies: they have been operating on a very thin margin. The edifice seems so shiny and substantial, a world of silver jets stitching together cities of towering skyscrapers, a globe of soaring markets and smartphone connectivity. But a couple of months into this disease and it’s all tottering, the jets grounded and the cities silent and the markets reeling. One industry after another is heading for bankruptcy, and no one knows if they will come back. In other words, however shiny it may have seemed, it wasn’t very sturdy. Some people—the President, for instance—think that we can just put it all back like it was before, with a “big bang,” once the “invisible enemy” is gone. But any prosperity built on what was evidently a shaky foundation is going to seem Potemkinish going forward; we don’t want always to feel as if we’re just weeks away from some kind of chaos.
So if we’re thinking about building civilization back in a hardier and more resilient form, we’ll have to learn what a more stable footing might look like. I think that we can take an important lesson from the doctors dealing with the coronavirus, and that’s related to comorbidity, or underlying conditions. It turns out, not surprisingly, that if you’ve got diabetes or hypertension, or have a suppressed immune system, you’re far more likely to be felled by COVID-19.
Societies, too, come with underlying conditions, and the two that haunt our planet right now are inequality and ecological turmoil. They’ve both spiked in the past few decades, with baleful results that normally stay just below the surface, felt but not fully recognized. But as soon as something else goes wrong—a new microbe launches a pandemic, say—they become starkly evident. Inequality, in this instance, means that people have to keep working, even if they’re not well, because they lack health insurance and live day to day, paycheck to paycheck, and hence they can spread disease. Ecological instability, especially the ever-climbing mercury, means that even as governors try to cope with the pandemic they must worry, too, about the prospect of another spring with massive flooding across the Midwest, or how they’ll cope if wildfire season gets out of control. Last month, the U.S. Forest Service announced that, owing to the pandemic, it is suspending controlled burns, for instance, “one of the most effective tools for increasing California’s resiliency to fire.” God forbid that we get another big crisis or two while this one is still preoccupying us—but simple math means that it’s almost inevitable.
And, of course, all these things interact with one another: inequality means that some people must live near sources of air pollution that most of us wouldn’t tolerate, which in turn means that their lungs are weakened, which in turn means they can’t fight off the coronavirus. (It also means that some of the same people can lack access to good food, and are more likely to be diabetic.) And, if there’s a massive wildfire, smoke fills the air for weeks, weakening everybody’s lungs, but especially those at the bottom of the ladder. When there’s a hurricane and people need to flee, the stress and the trauma can compromise immune systems. Simply living at the sharp end of an unequal and racist society can do the same thing. And so on, in an unyielding spiral of increasing danger.
Since we must rebuild our economies, we need to try to engineer out as much ecological havoc and inequality as we can—as much danger as we can. That won’t be easy, but there are clear and obvious steps that would help—there are ways to structure the increased use of renewable energy that will confront inequality at the same time. Much will be written about such plans in the months to come, but at the level of deepest principle here’s what’s key, I think: from a society that has prized growth above all and been willing to play fast and loose with justice and ecology, we need to start emphasizing sturdiness, hardiness, resiliency. (And a big part of that is fairness.) The resulting world won’t be quite as shiny, but, somehow, shininess seems less important now.
Passing the Mic
Mary Annaïse Heglar is one of the freshest and most important voices in the climate movement. She’s the writer-in-residence at Columbia University’s Earth Institute in partnership with the Natural Resources Defense Council. Her personal essays—most of which revolve around themes of climate justice—are some of the most engaging writing I know on a subject that often inspires earnestness; a recent favorite was in Wired magazine. This interview has been condensed for clarity.
You say, “The facts have been on our side for a very long time, but we’re still losing.” Why?
The science on climate change has been crystal clear for literally decades. As Amy Westervelt has illustrated beautifully, on her podcast “Drilled,” the fossil-fuel companies knew that before anyone else. James Hansen testified before Congress thirty-two years ago. The United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (the precursor to the Paris Agreement) dates back to 1992. We didn’t wind up in a climate crisis for lack of information, or even for lack of clearly communicated information. What was done was not done out of ignorance—it was done out of malice and greed. If all we had to do was have the right facts, we’d have been done a long time ago.
People feel as if they can’t take part in the fight because they’re not scientifically inclined. What do you tell them?
What I tell them is, “Girl, me, neither!” But you don’t need a scientific background or inclination to be part of the climate movement or conversation. This is not about science; it’s about justice. The science proves the severity of the injustice, sure, but it’s not the entire story. There’s a place for everyone in the climate movement because everyone, even the smallest toddler, understands the concept of “no fair.”
Everyone always asks me, “What should I be doing as an individual?” But is that even the right way to frame the question?
I get that question all the time, too, and it’s really frustrating. As I argue in my article, if you’re ready to graduate beyond the things that everyone should be doing—like cutting your carbon footprint, and voting for the climate, and showing up to demonstrations—then you’ve reached the point where you’re ready to become a bona-fide climate person. That means you’re past the one-size-fits-all activism. It’s time for your activism to mold to you, and only you can do that. No one told Greta [Thunberg] to strike, no one told Jamie and Nadia [the teen-age climate activists Jamie Margolin and Nadia Nazar] to help start Zero Hour. They just did it. No one told me to write—in fact, plenty of people told me not to! There’s so much to be done on climate, and so much that the people already involved with it haven’t thought of. There’s so much room for new ideas and new voices, so if you’re a new or aspiring climate person, you’re right on time. The better question would be “What can I do next?” An even better question would be “How did you find your niche in climate?” And then take those answers and carve out your own niche.
Climate School
As Earth Day approaches, Denis Hayes, who spearheaded the original observance, in 1970, writes in the Seattle Times about what had been the plans for a mass fiftieth-anniversary day of action next week. The activities will be going online, instead, at EarthDayLive, but Hayes points out that we’ll get a real chance to show our commitment on November 3rd. His essay is worth looking at for the vintage photographs alone, but he adds an aside that I didn’t know: just days after the original protest, in which some twenty million Americans participated, the escalation of the war in Cambodia and the shootings at Kent State drove it out of the news.
Cutting down rain forests is a bad idea because it helps wreck the climate. It also increases the chances that diseases will jump from animals to humans, according to a new Stanford study. The veteran writer David Quammen distills some of those lessons in a new interview, based on his book “Spillover,” from 2012. I confess that I had no idea that one in four mammal species on our planet was a bat.


newyorker--2020-04-16--How to Cut Your Bangs During a Global Crisis

You ’ ve been doing the socially responsible thing and staying home , but now your bangs are so long that you look like a little kid hiding under a table , peeking out from beneath the tablecloth .
These unprecedented times call for unprecedented measures—you must cut your own bangs .
First , believe in yourself .
You ’ re a natural at cutting hair !
Sure , the last time you cut someone ’ s hair was when you were five years old and playing salon with your Barbies , but those Mohawks were really professional .
You @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ve also got sharp scissors , I hope ?
Choose a room with good lighting .
If you forgot to stockpile light bulbs because you were too busy buying “ sweatpants that don ’ t look like sweatpants , ” don ’ t worry .
You can use the lemon-bergamot candles you stress-ordered in bulk for extra illumination .
Watch a bunch of YouTube video tutorials .
But , first , get distracted by that video of the goat that likes to wear a duck costume .
Eventually stumble on a how-to video @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bangs—exactly the look you ’ re going for !
Develop the arm strength and endurance required for holding a sharp object near your head .
Pretend you ’ re like that guy in “ Free Solo ” who prepares to climb El Capitan by doing a bunch of test runs and pullups .
If you can ’ t do a pullup , try doing bicep curls with the calligraphy book you own for some reason .
Ask your partner if he can cut your bangs for you instead .
Realize that he ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ laundry line without falling out of the window .
Lay your hair-cutting tools out on the kitchen table .
Pay respect to the brave souls before you who have cut their own bangs , like a matador praying before a bullfight .
Use a comb to separate the front of your hair and create a triangular section .
Spend twenty minutes wondering if the section looks triangular enough .
Hold your bangs taut with one hand .
Tremble as you wield a pair of scissors last used to cut your jeans .
Try @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one pant leg is longer than the other now .
Start snipping your hair at an angle and cut slowly .
Wow , you ’ re actually doing it !
You are cutting your own bangs !
O.K.
, so you were a little overenthusiastic , and now you look less like Zooey Deschanel and more like a fourteenth-century monk .
But rest assured that your bangs would be considered stylish if you were living in bubonic-plague times !
Spend the next few weeks chasing your spouse around the apartment , persuading him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Let your hair grow out and buy gift cards to your neighborhood salon .

You’ve been doing the socially responsible thing and staying home, but now your bangs are so long that you look like a little kid hiding under a table, peeking out from beneath the tablecloth. These unprecedented times call for unprecedented measures—you must cut your own bangs.
First, believe in yourself. You’re a natural at cutting hair! Sure, the last time you cut someone’s hair was when you were five years old and playing salon with your Barbies, but those Mohawks were really professional. You’ve got this! You’ve also got sharp scissors, I hope?
Choose a room with good lighting. If you forgot to stockpile light bulbs because you were too busy buying “sweatpants that don’t look like sweatpants,” don’t worry. You can use the lemon-bergamot candles you stress-ordered in bulk for extra illumination.
Watch a bunch of YouTube video tutorials. But, first, get distracted by that video of the goat that likes to wear a duck costume. Eventually stumble on a how-to video featuring a woman who has Zooey Deschanel–type bangs—exactly the look you’re going for!
Develop the arm strength and endurance required for holding a sharp object near your head. Pretend you’re like that guy in “Free Solo” who prepares to climb El Capitan by doing a bunch of test runs and pullups. If you can’t do a pullup, try doing bicep curls with the calligraphy book you own for some reason.
Ask your partner if he can cut your bangs for you instead. Realize that he’s too busy trying to hang the laundry line without falling out of the window.
Lay your hair-cutting tools out on the kitchen table. Pay respect to the brave souls before you who have cut their own bangs, like a matador praying before a bullfight.
Use a comb to separate the front of your hair and create a triangular section. Spend twenty minutes wondering if the section looks triangular enough.
Hold your bangs taut with one hand. Tremble as you wield a pair of scissors last used to cut your jeans. Try not to dwell on the fact that one pant leg is longer than the other now.
Start snipping your hair at an angle and cut slowly. Wow, you’re actually doing it! You are cutting your own bangs!
Step back and admire your handiwork.
O.K., so you were a little overenthusiastic, and now you look less like Zooey Deschanel and more like a fourteenth-century monk. But rest assured that your bangs would be considered stylish if you were living in bubonic-plague times!
Spend the next few weeks chasing your spouse around the apartment, persuading him to let you cut his hair.
Let your hair grow out and buy gift cards to your neighborhood salon.


newyorker--2020-04-16--Grieving with Brahms After a Mother’s Death

My mother , the mineralogist Daphne Ross , died on February 24th , at the age of ninety-one , of complications from Parkinson ’ s disease .
It was late evening in Los Angeles when my brother called with the news , and I got to the airport in time for a red-eye to Washington , D.C .
Unable to sleep , I spent the flight listening to late-period works by Johannes Brahms : his two clarinet sonatas , his Clarinet Quintet and Trio , his final pieces for piano .
I broke down in tears only once , when @ @ @ @ @ @ @ recording of the later piano music , offered up the Intermezzo Opus 117 , No .
1 .
I used to play the piece myself , on an upright piano that sat in my parents ’ basement .
I would sometimes launch into it after one of my discordant late-Romantic improvisations , which I believed to be evidence of my tragic teen-age genius , and which , I knew , tested my mother ’ s patience , even if she never said so .
I could tell she was listening when the flow @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to a trickle , or stopped altogether .
I turned to Brahms because I always turn to Brahms , in moods bright or dark .
I identify with the protagonist of Wallace Stevens ’ s “ Anglais Mort à Florence , ” for whom Brahms is a “ dark familiar.
” People who claim to find Brahms dry or dismal—it ’ s not an uncommon opinion , even among otherwise discerning music lovers—are speaking gibberish that I can ’ t debate , because I don ’ t understand a word .
I find @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sympathetic of composers .
There is enormous sadness in his work , and yet it is a sadness that glows with understanding , that eases gloom by sharing its own .
The music seems in a strange way to be listening to you , even as you listen to it .
At a time when an uncommonly large number of people are experiencing grief , I recommend Brahms as a counsellor and confidant .
I ’ m not proposing that this or any music should be used as a palliative .
We rob @ @ @ @ @ @ @ we treat it as a utility to manage our emotions .
Philip Kennicott , in his new book “ Counterpoint : A Memoir of Bach and Mourning , ” speaks my mind : “ I bristle at the idea that music is consoling or has healing power .
It is a cliché of lazy music talk , the sort of thing said by people who give money to the symphony and have their names chiseled on the wall of the opera house.
” It is also a cliché of the digital age , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ : individual creative voices are bundled into playlists designed to help us wake up , focus , zone out , make love , and fall asleep .
Kennicott continues , “ Music , if anything , makes us raw , more susceptible to pain , nostalgia , and memory.
” His lyrical and haunting book tells of how he immersed himself in Bach ’ s Goldberg Variations in the wake of his own mother ’ s death .
The music guides him through the complexity of his feelings—his experience as a son was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ emerge on the other side .
Bach is undoubtedly music ’ s supreme companion of extreme distress .
The human species has yet to undergo a catastrophe that Bach did not see coming long in advance .
The opening chorus of the St. John Passion , which I ’ ve listened to many times in recent weeks , conveys both the overwhelming power of fateful events and the helplessness that we feel in their face .
But , on the plane to D.C. that night , Bach would have been too raw , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ passes through layers of reflection .
He is the great poet of the ambiguous , in-between , nameless emotions : ambient unease , pervasive wistfulness , bemused resignation , contained rage , ironic merriment , smiling through tears , the almost pleasurable fatigue of deep depression .
In a repertory full of arrested adolescents , he is the most adult of composers .
In the world of Brahms , it is , above all , always late .
Light is waning , shadows are growing , silence is encroaching .
The topic of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ familiar one ; the adjectives “ autumnal ” and “ elegiac ” follow him everywhere .
Scholars have tried to parse Brahmsian melancholy in terms biographical , philosophical , and sociopolitical .
He was a self-contained man who never married and prized his separateness .
He belonged to a generation that saw the irreversible transformation of nature in the age of steam and speed .
Reinhold Brinkmann , in his book “ Late Idyll , ” speaks of Brahms ’ s consciousness of his latecomer status in musical history , at the end @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and reached its height with Haydn , Mozart , Beethoven , and Schubert .
After him came the deluge of twentieth-century music , of which he got a glimpse in the hotheaded youthful works of Mahler and Richard Strauss .
It ’ s wrong , however , to view Brahms as a backward-looking or nostalgic composer , at least in the conventional sense of nostalgia .
Nicole Grimes , in her finely perceptive book “ Brahms ’ s Elegies ” ( dedicated to her mother ’ s memory ) , cites the concept @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the late literary scholar Svetlana Boym .
Unlike restorative nostalgia , which envisions a return to home , reflective nostalgia “ delays the homecoming—wistfully , ironically , desperately , ” in Boym ’ s words .
“ Reflective nostalgia dwells on the ambivalences of human longing and belonging and does not shy away from the contradictions of modernity.
” Restorative nostalgia tends toward the reactionary ; reflective nostalgia can be fully modern .
Brahms certainly belongs to the latter category .
Opus 117 , No .
1 begins with a lullaby of heartbreaking @ @ @ @ @ @ @ way to a middle section of brooding , bass-excavating arpeggios , and when the lullaby returns it is embroidered , dispersed , distanced from reality .
Before the final cadence , it comes to a halt , as if silently shuddering .
The idea that there is something surreptitiously radical about Brahms is hardly new .
In 1933 , Arnold Schoenberg delivered a lecture titled “ Brahms the Progressive , ” describing how his predecessor ’ s intricate developmental techniques influenced his own modernist methods .
There are moments in Brahms when the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by a thread .
This happens especially in some of the late piano pieces , when stable tonal progressions grow scarce and you feel an abyss opening underneath a calm surface .
The atmosphere of fragility is of a piece with Brahms ’ s skepticism toward organized religion , his almost existential sense of the human condition .
He pondered the tremendous questions that Schopenhauer and Nietzsche raised in their philosophical writing , though he did not necessarily accept their answers .
There were limits to Brahms ’ s progressivism .
As Grimes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ strains of German idealist philosophy that younger artists were abandoning , and , despite his agnosticism , he revered German Protestant culture .
He was , after all , never too radical for my mother , who was a devout Greek Orthodox Christian , and who resisted the more modern music that has been the focus of my work as a critic .
She once proudly reported to me that she had enjoyed parts of Olivier Messiaen ’ s “ Quartet for the End of Time , ” but for the most part @ @ @ @ @ @ @ nineteenth centuries .
The Viennese classical tradition , with its intermingling of songfulness and sophistication , was her home ground .
Mozart was always the pinnacle , particularly when played by Rudolf Serkin , her musical idol .
Her most memorable celebrity encounter was riding in an elevator with Mr. Serkin before a concert .

My mother, the mineralogist Daphne Ross, died on February 24th, at the age of ninety-one, of complications from Parkinson’s disease. It was late evening in Los Angeles when my brother called with the news, and I got to the airport in time for a red-eye to Washington, D.C. Unable to sleep, I spent the flight listening to late-period works by Johannes Brahms: his two clarinet sonatas, his Clarinet Quintet and Trio, his final pieces for piano. I broke down in tears only once, when Radu Lupu, on his incomparable Decca recording of the later piano music, offered up the Intermezzo Opus 117, No. 1. I used to play the piece myself, on an upright piano that sat in my parents’ basement. I would sometimes launch into it after one of my discordant late-Romantic improvisations, which I believed to be evidence of my tragic teen-age genius, and which, I knew, tested my mother’s patience, even if she never said so. I could tell she was listening when the flow of water from the kitchen faucet slowed to a trickle, or stopped altogether.
I turned to Brahms because I always turn to Brahms, in moods bright or dark. I identify with the protagonist of Wallace Stevens’s “Anglais Mort à Florence,” for whom Brahms is a “dark familiar.” People who claim to find Brahms dry or dismal—it’s not an uncommon opinion, even among otherwise discerning music lovers—are speaking gibberish that I can’t debate, because I don’t understand a word. I find him the most companionable, the most sympathetic of composers. There is enormous sadness in his work, and yet it is a sadness that glows with understanding, that eases gloom by sharing its own. The music seems in a strange way to be listening to you, even as you listen to it. At a time when an uncommonly large number of people are experiencing grief, I recommend Brahms as a counsellor and confidant.
I’m not proposing that this or any music should be used as a palliative. We rob the art form of its dignity when we treat it as a utility to manage our emotions. Philip Kennicott, in his new book “Counterpoint: A Memoir of Bach and Mourning,” speaks my mind: “I bristle at the idea that music is consoling or has healing power. It is a cliché of lazy music talk, the sort of thing said by people who give money to the symphony and have their names chiseled on the wall of the opera house.” It is also a cliché of the digital age, which routinely subjugates music to life-style needs: individual creative voices are bundled into playlists designed to help us wake up, focus, zone out, make love, and fall asleep. Kennicott continues, “Music, if anything, makes us raw, more susceptible to pain, nostalgia, and memory.” His lyrical and haunting book tells of how he immersed himself in Bach’s Goldberg Variations in the wake of his own mother’s death. The music guides him through the complexity of his feelings—his experience as a son was far more fraught than mine—and lets him emerge on the other side.
Bach is undoubtedly music’s supreme companion of extreme distress. The human species has yet to undergo a catastrophe that Bach did not see coming long in advance. The opening chorus of the St. John Passion, which I’ve listened to many times in recent weeks, conveys both the overwhelming power of fateful events and the helplessness that we feel in their face. But, on the plane to D.C. that night, Bach would have been too raw, too dire. With Brahms, everything passes through layers of reflection. He is the great poet of the ambiguous, in-between, nameless emotions: ambient unease, pervasive wistfulness, bemused resignation, contained rage, ironic merriment, smiling through tears, the almost pleasurable fatigue of deep depression. In a repertory full of arrested adolescents, he is the most adult of composers.
In the world of Brahms, it is, above all, always late. Light is waning, shadows are growing, silence is encroaching. The topic of lateness and loneliness in Brahms is a familiar one; the adjectives “autumnal” and “elegiac” follow him everywhere. Scholars have tried to parse Brahmsian melancholy in terms biographical, philosophical, and sociopolitical. He was a self-contained man who never married and prized his separateness. He belonged to a generation that saw the irreversible transformation of nature in the age of steam and speed. Reinhold Brinkmann, in his book “Late Idyll,” speaks of Brahms’s consciousness of his latecomer status in musical history, at the end of a line that began with Bach and reached its height with Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert. After him came the deluge of twentieth-century music, of which he got a glimpse in the hotheaded youthful works of Mahler and Richard Strauss.
It’s wrong, however, to view Brahms as a backward-looking or nostalgic composer, at least in the conventional sense of nostalgia. Nicole Grimes, in her finely perceptive book “Brahms’s Elegies” (dedicated to her mother’s memory), cites the concept of reflective nostalgia, as defined by the late literary scholar Svetlana Boym. Unlike restorative nostalgia, which envisions a return to home, reflective nostalgia “delays the homecoming—wistfully, ironically, desperately,” in Boym’s words. “Reflective nostalgia dwells on the ambivalences of human longing and belonging and does not shy away from the contradictions of modernity.” Restorative nostalgia tends toward the reactionary; reflective nostalgia can be fully modern. Brahms certainly belongs to the latter category. Opus 117, No. 1 begins with a lullaby of heartbreaking simplicity and purity, but it gives way to a middle section of brooding, bass-excavating arpeggios, and when the lullaby returns it is embroidered, dispersed, distanced from reality. Before the final cadence, it comes to a halt, as if silently shuddering.
The idea that there is something surreptitiously radical about Brahms is hardly new. In 1933, Arnold Schoenberg delivered a lecture titled “Brahms the Progressive,” describing how his predecessor’s intricate developmental techniques influenced his own modernist methods. There are moments in Brahms when the entire tonal system seems to be hanging by a thread. This happens especially in some of the late piano pieces, when stable tonal progressions grow scarce and you feel an abyss opening underneath a calm surface. The atmosphere of fragility is of a piece with Brahms’s skepticism toward organized religion, his almost existential sense of the human condition. He pondered the tremendous questions that Schopenhauer and Nietzsche raised in their philosophical writing, though he did not necessarily accept their answers.
There were limits to Brahms’s progressivism. As Grimes points out, he remained true to strains of German idealist philosophy that younger artists were abandoning, and, despite his agnosticism, he revered German Protestant culture. He was, after all, never too radical for my mother, who was a devout Greek Orthodox Christian, and who resisted the more modern music that has been the focus of my work as a critic. She once proudly reported to me that she had enjoyed parts of Olivier Messiaen’s “Quartet for the End of Time,” but for the most part she stayed put in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The Viennese classical tradition, with its intermingling of songfulness and sophistication, was her home ground. Mozart was always the pinnacle, particularly when played by Rudolf Serkin, her musical idol. Her most memorable celebrity encounter was riding in an elevator with Mr. Serkin before a concert.
My mother had a difficult childhood, marked by family discord and financial desperation. A brilliant student, she found her calling as a scientist, yet she also had substantial artistic gifts. There was no mistaking her avid response when I applied myself to music, art, and writing. Deprived of a stable upbringing, she created an idyll for me and my brother. My chest of drawers was decorated with Winnie-the-Pooh paintings that were just as good as what you see in the books. At Christmastime, our household had not just one main tree but four miniature trees, each equipped with tiny handmade presents. In late adolescence, I took it on myself to disrupt that idyll. I veered from being a well-behaved boy to a somewhat chaotic one. In college, I had a near-fatal drunken accident, which shook her more than I could have imagined. I came out as gay, which, after a struggle, she accepted. Even in periods when I drew away, my life was shaped around the love of words and music that I inherited from her. In later years, I did my best to make amends. Reading Kennicott’s book reminds me of how fortunate I was.
Last Christmas, I spent a couple of weeks at my parents’ house. My mother would pass her waking hours in an armchair in the library. One of her miniature trees stood nearby. On Christmas Day, I played a few CDs for her: John Langstaff’s first “Christmas Revels” record, which she adored; Mozart concertos with Serkin; bel-canto arias with Renée Fleming, another favorite; and Brahms’s Clarinet Quintet, the most serenely lyrical of his late works, and the one she cherished the most. Her head tilted to the side, her eyes twinkled, her mouth worked itself into a smile. She had something to say, but I couldn’t make it out, as was often the case toward the end. So we listened together, and Brahms listened to us both.


When SARS Ended

In the spring of 2003 , my family and I were living in Hong Kong , in a colonial-era flat near Victoria Peak , the mountain that dominates the city ’ s skyline .
The previous year , just to the north , a coronavirus had emerged that caused severe acute respiratory syndrome , or SARS .
The virus , called SARS-CoV , had jumped the species barrier in a market , travelling from bats to civets to people .
Its mortality rate was around ten per cent .
Initially , the Chinese government covered up the epidemic , threatening @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Then , as the infection spread , it imposed a drastic crackdown on all social interaction .
The national May Day holiday , when hundreds of millions of people travel around the country on vacation , was cancelled , and the Rolling Stones called off their concerts .
Hong Kongers enacted social isolation even before it was ordered , and many expats departed , including my wife and daughters .
By March , the city felt deserted .
Night clubs were closed , restaurants abandoned , shopping malls desolate .
The drive @ @ @ @ @ @ @ then east along Hong Kong Island to my offices in Quarry Bay , usually a half-hour struggle through some of the densest traffic in the world , was now a fleet five minutes .
For those who remember SARS firsthand , the unfolding of the current COVID-19 pandemic has been eerily familiar .
The new coronavirus appears to have spilled over in Hubei Province , a few hundred miles north of Guangdong Province , where SARS emerged ; China ’ s decisions—the initial coverup , the cancellation of Lunar New Year celebrations , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ past , too .
( Its measures appear to be working ; as of this writing , the spread of infection in mainland China has slowed dramatically . )
Los Angeles , the city where I live now , looks the way Hong Kong did then .
On Saturday night , I walked down to Sunset Boulevard , the city ’ s iconic thoroughfare , and stood in the middle of the street .
The signals went from green to red to green again ; no cars came .
Happy cities may be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cities in the grip of disease share a common emptiness .
Hong Kong had been in crisis even before SARS .
In 1997 , Great Britain had handed the city over to China , in an agreement known as One Country , Two Systems .
After reunification , Shanghai threatened to become China ’ s new financial capital , and people in Hong Kong worried that they would soon be living in “ just another Chinese city ” ; its real-estate markets began a precipitous decline , and restrictions on civil liberties threatened @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a knockout blow to a city already reeling .
I was in Hong Kong because I edited Time Asia , an international edition of the newsweekly with a staff of sixty-two and bureaus around the region .
When SARS broke out , we couldn ’ t work from home—the Internet wasn ’ t good enough .
Instead , we watched from our offices as the green-and-white-roofed Star Ferry boats travelled , empty , across Victoria Harbor .
Each afternoon , we waited for the Hong Kong Department of Health to release its numbers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ guessing how many new cases there would be .
The idea was to get close but not go over ; an optimist , I always lowballed .
We were trying to make light of a reality that had become terrifying .
Hong Kong ’ s hospital system had crashed .
Hundreds of front-line health workers had been infected , most of them through so-called super-spreader events .
In the first , a mainland doctor , Liu Jianlun , had treated a patient in Guangdong who would later become known as the Poison King @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be traced back to him .
After meeting the Poison King , Liu , who was in Hong Kong for a wedding , checked into the Metropole Hotel , went shopping on Nathan Road , and then returned to the hotel , where he vomited ; the next day , he admitted himself to Kwong Wah Hospital , warned the attending physicians that what he had was highly contagious , and lost consciousness , ultimately infecting a half-dozen doctors and nurses .
A larger cluster of cases at Prince of Wales Hospital , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ visited the Metropole , resulted in more than a hundred hospital workers falling ill .
Some of the standard treatments for patients in respiratory distress—including the use of nebulizers , humidifier-like devices that turn liquid medicine into a breathable mist—ended up spreading the virus through the wards .
These stories and others deepened our dread ; the government ’ s obfuscation compounded it .
We learned that officials had been hiding cases , moving patients out the back doors of hospitals while World Health Organization inspectors came in the front .
We suspected @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was worse than what we did .
We imagined vast wards of the infected , gasping for breath .
The Hang Seng Index , which tracks stocks listed on Hong Kong ’ s exchange , shed fifteen per cent of its value between January and April .
After a prankster falsely suggested that the city was going to be sealed off , some A.T.M.s briefly ran out of cash .
Then , as if things couldn ’ t get any worse , on the first of April , Leslie Cheung , the openly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ starred in “ Happy Together ” and “ Farewell My Concubine , ” leapt from the twenty-fourth floor of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel .
Cheung had always felt like a lucky charm for Hong Kong—a beloved and approachable celebrity we could see drinking in Lan Kwai Fong on any given night .
Cheung ’ s death—he had suffered from depression—darkened our already dour moods .
Barely visible from my office windows was Amoy Gardens , an orange-and-beige housing complex .
Nineteen buildings , each about thirty stories tall , housed about nineteen thousand @ @ @ @ @ @ @ notorious epicenter of the virus—the place , it was said , where SARS had gone airborne .
On March 14th , an infected man visited his brother ’ s apartment ; a week later , the complex had three or four cases ; the next day , six or seven more .
Soon , more than sixty new cases a day were emerging at Amoy Gardens , until there were nearly three hundred and thirty , many of them in block E , where the brother ’ s unit was located .
What @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was its banality .
It looked exactly like every other housing estate in Hong Kong .
As television anchors solemnly intoned over footage of the apartments , with their 7-Eleven , McDonald ’ s , and ParknShop downstairs , one couldn ’ t help but think that what was happening there could happen anywhere .
( Later , it would turn out that the design of the drainage systems in the apartments had facilitated the spread of SARS . )
Meanwhile , in our offices , we wore protective gear .
Talked about @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Outside of work , we lived solitary lives .
Every social event was postponed into the indefinite future .
I ate dinner alone in my flat , its diamond-necklace view of the city eerily dark .
My lunch each day consisted of Chicken McNuggets .
I had thought it through and concluded that , from slaughter to preparation , the McNugget process was such that no nugget risked contact with potentially virus-bearing human flesh .
The industrial workers wore rubber gloves and masks ; the nuggets were deep-fried in boiling oil hot enough @ @ @ @ @ @ @ virus inactive .

In the spring of 2003, my family and I were living in Hong Kong, in a colonial-era flat near Victoria Peak, the mountain that dominates the city’s skyline. The previous year, just to the north, a coronavirus had emerged that caused severe acute respiratory syndrome, or SARS. The virus, called SARS-CoV, had jumped the species barrier in a market, travelling from bats to civets to people. Its mortality rate was around ten per cent.
Initially, the Chinese government covered up the epidemic, threatening and silencing the physicians who issued warnings. Then, as the infection spread, it imposed a drastic crackdown on all social interaction. The national May Day holiday, when hundreds of millions of people travel around the country on vacation, was cancelled, and the Rolling Stones called off their concerts. Hong Kongers enacted social isolation even before it was ordered, and many expats departed, including my wife and daughters. By March, the city felt deserted. Night clubs were closed, restaurants abandoned, shopping malls desolate. The drive down Kennedy Road to Gloucester Road and then east along Hong Kong Island to my offices in Quarry Bay, usually a half-hour struggle through some of the densest traffic in the world, was now a fleet five minutes.
For those who remember SARS firsthand, the unfolding of the current COVID-19 pandemic has been eerily familiar. The new coronavirus appears to have spilled over in Hubei Province, a few hundred miles north of Guangdong Province, where SARS emerged; China’s decisions—the initial coverup, the cancellation of Lunar New Year celebrations, the rapid, gigantic mobilization—have echoed the past, too. (Its measures appear to be working; as of this writing, the spread of infection in mainland China has slowed dramatically.) Los Angeles, the city where I live now, looks the way Hong Kong did then. On Saturday night, I walked down to Sunset Boulevard, the city’s iconic thoroughfare, and stood in the middle of the street. The signals went from green to red to green again; no cars came. Happy cities may be happy in their own ways, but cities in the grip of disease share a common emptiness.
Hong Kong had been in crisis even before SARS. In 1997, Great Britain had handed the city over to China, in an agreement known as One Country, Two Systems. After reunification, Shanghai threatened to become China’s new financial capital, and people in Hong Kong worried that they would soon be living in “just another Chinese city”; its real-estate markets began a precipitous decline, and restrictions on civil liberties threatened its nominal sovereignty. SARS felt like a knockout blow to a city already reeling.
I was in Hong Kong because I edited Time Asia, an international edition of the newsweekly with a staff of sixty-two and bureaus around the region. When SARS broke out, we couldn’t work from home—the Internet wasn’t good enough. Instead, we watched from our offices as the green-and-white-roofed Star Ferry boats travelled, empty, across Victoria Harbor. Each afternoon, we waited for the Hong Kong Department of Health to release its numbers. We kept a betting pool, guessing how many new cases there would be. The idea was to get close but not go over; an optimist, I always lowballed.
We were trying to make light of a reality that had become terrifying. Hong Kong’s hospital system had crashed. Hundreds of front-line health workers had been infected, most of them through so-called super-spreader events. In the first, a mainland doctor, Liu Jianlun, had treated a patient in Guangdong who would later become known as the Poison King, because of how many cases could be traced back to him. After meeting the Poison King, Liu, who was in Hong Kong for a wedding, checked into the Metropole Hotel, went shopping on Nathan Road, and then returned to the hotel, where he vomited; the next day, he admitted himself to Kwong Wah Hospital, warned the attending physicians that what he had was highly contagious, and lost consciousness, ultimately infecting a half-dozen doctors and nurses. A larger cluster of cases at Prince of Wales Hospital, originating from an airport worker who had visited the Metropole, resulted in more than a hundred hospital workers falling ill. Some of the standard treatments for patients in respiratory distress—including the use of nebulizers, humidifier-like devices that turn liquid medicine into a breathable mist—ended up spreading the virus through the wards.
These stories and others deepened our dread; the government’s obfuscation compounded it. We learned that officials had been hiding cases, moving patients out the back doors of hospitals while World Health Organization inspectors came in the front. We suspected that what we didn’t know was worse than what we did. We imagined vast wards of the infected, gasping for breath.
The Hang Seng Index, which tracks stocks listed on Hong Kong’s exchange, shed fifteen per cent of its value between January and April. After a prankster falsely suggested that the city was going to be sealed off, some A.T.M.s briefly ran out of cash. Then, as if things couldn’t get any worse, on the first of April, Leslie Cheung, the openly bisexual Cantopop crooner and actor who had starred in “Happy Together” and “Farewell My Concubine,” leapt from the twenty-fourth floor of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. Cheung had always felt like a lucky charm for Hong Kong—a beloved and approachable celebrity we could see drinking in Lan Kwai Fong on any given night. Cheung’s death—he had suffered from depression—darkened our already dour moods.
Barely visible from my office windows was Amoy Gardens, an orange-and-beige housing complex. Nineteen buildings, each about thirty stories tall, housed about nineteen thousand people. The complex had become a notorious epicenter of the virus—the place, it was said, where SARS had gone airborne. On March 14th, an infected man visited his brother’s apartment; a week later, the complex had three or four cases; the next day, six or seven more. Soon, more than sixty new cases a day were emerging at Amoy Gardens, until there were nearly three hundred and thirty, many of them in block E, where the brother’s unit was located. What was terrifying about the Amoy Gardens cluster was its banality. It looked exactly like every other housing estate in Hong Kong. As television anchors solemnly intoned over footage of the apartments, with their 7-Eleven, McDonald’s, and ParknShop downstairs, one couldn’t help but think that what was happening there could happen anywhere. (Later, it would turn out that the design of the drainage systems in the apartments had facilitated the spread of SARS.)
Meanwhile, in our offices, we wore protective gear. Talked about hand washing. Kept our distance. Outside of work, we lived solitary lives. Every social event was postponed into the indefinite future. I ate dinner alone in my flat, its diamond-necklace view of the city eerily dark. My lunch each day consisted of Chicken McNuggets. I had thought it through and concluded that, from slaughter to preparation, the McNugget process was such that no nugget risked contact with potentially virus-bearing human flesh. The industrial workers wore rubber gloves and masks; the nuggets were deep-fried in boiling oil hot enough, I hoped, to render any virus inactive.
At the time, many of us pinned our hopes on the “seasonality” of the virus. Infectious diseases often become more or less potent depending on the time of year; respiratory viruses—influenza in particular—are known to be seasonal. Other coronaviruses, like the ones that cause the common cold, ebb as the days lengthen and the sun rises higher in the sky. If there’s a flu season, we asked, why couldn’t there be a SARS season, too?
Marc Lipsitch, a Harvard epidemiologist, has written a widely discussed blog post on the question of whether the new coronavirus—SARS-CoV-2—could be seasonal. Lipsitch explains that seasonality depends on four factors: the environment (some viruses survive best in dry, cold air); human behavior (people cluster differently in summer and winter); the human immune system (in general, it’s weaker in the cold months); and the dynamics of disease more generally (an epidemic that begins in one season tends to end in another). Seasonality, in other words, isn’t just about weather. It’s a complex phenomenon, in which environmental, epidemiological, and human elements intertwine.
“Seasonality is a universal driver of almost all of our infectious diseases,” Micaela Martinez, an infectious-disease ecologist at Columbia’s Mailman School of Public Health, told me. Martinez’s research focusses on identifying the causal mechanisms behind seasonality. It’s possible, for instance, that, for certain diseases, circadian rhythms matter: because the location of some immune-system cells in the body varies depending on the time of day, longer days could change how the immune system responds to an infection. (Many of COVID-19’s worst symptoms—fever, inflammation, fluid in the lungs—are the result of inappropriate immune-system responses.) Martinez stressed how much is unknown about the biology of seasonality. “I hope for seasonal decline,” she said. But, in the case of SARS-CoV-2, seasonal factors could be outweighed by the scale of the outbreak and the ease with which the virus spreads.
Both SARS-CoV and SARS CoV-2 are RNA coronaviruses. “Fields Virology,” the standard medical-school text on the subject, notes that “coronaviruses mutate at a high frequency because of the high error frequencies of RNA polymerases.” (RNA is a single long strand; unlike double-helixed DNA, it has no second strand to check its errors.) “When you have a mutation, there tends to be a survival disadvantage for the virus,” Charles Prober, a pediatric epidemiologist at Stanford University, told me. It’s possible, therefore, to imagine that SARS-CoV-2 could mutate its way into a seasonal decline. As an “optimist,” Prober said, he was hoping for such an outcome. There’s room for luck in an epidemic. It’s also possible, through bad decisions, to squander a lucky break.
We didn’t know it yet, but that week—the week of Leslie Cheung’s death—was the point of maximum hysteria and fear. In early April, while we were betting on the number of new cases and wondering about the extent of the coverup, Hong Kong passed its inflection point, with the number of new infections sinking below that of cleared cases. As April turned to May, and warmer days commenced, we looked around and realized that we were still alive.
What had actually happened? In retrospect, it seems likely that several factors converged. We had all effectively self-quarantined (or, in the case of my wife and daughters, actually departed). Schools had been closed for more than a month. Everyone in the city had been wearing surgical masks, without exception; on television, even government officials appeared in scrubs and full protective gear.
The medical system had adapted, too. Prior to SARS, some hospitals had become lax, relying on antibiotics for infection control instead of maintaining disinfection as a steady state. What worked against SARS, I wrote later, in my book about the outbreak, “China Syndrome,” were “Florence Nightingale-style proscriptions: protective layers of masks, goggles, gloves, galoshes, and gowns. Sealed wards. Quarantine. Ventilation. This was not Nobel Prize-winning medicine. Yet it was effective.” Modern hospital systems aren’t accustomed to swarms of critical respiratory cases. But Hong Kong’s hospitals, after becoming overwhelmed, had adjusted.


newyorker--2020-04-16--The Effect of the Coronavirus on America’s Black Communities

The old African-American aphorism “ When white America catches a cold , black America gets pneumonia ” has a new , morbid twist : when white America catches the novel coronavirus , black Americans die .
Thousands of white Americans have also died from the virus , but the pace at which African-Americans are dying has transformed this public-health crisis into an object lesson in racial and class inequality .
According to a Reuters report , African-Americans are more likely to die of COVID-19 than any other group in the U.S .
It is still early in the course of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is incomplete , but the partial view is enough to prompt a sober reflection on this bitter harvest of American racism .
Louisiana , with more than twenty-one thousand reported infections , has the largest number of coronavirus cases outside of the Northeast and the Midwest .
When the state ’ s governor , John Bel Edwards , announced recently that it would begin to provide data about the racial and ethnic breakdowns of those who have died , he included the grim acknowledgement that African-Americans , thirty-three per cent of Louisiana ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the dead .
The small city of Albany , Georgia , two hundred miles south of Atlanta , was the site of a heroic civil-rights standoff between the city ’ s black residents and its white police chief in the early nineteen-sixties .
Today , more than twelve hundred people in the county have confirmed COVID-19 cases , and at least seventy-eight people have died .
According to earlier reports , eighty-one per cent of the dead are African-American .
In Michigan , African-Americans make up fourteen per cent of the state @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , they account for thirty-three per cent of its reported infections and forty per cent of its deaths .
Twenty-six per cent of the state ’ s infections and twenty-five per cent of deaths are in Detroit , a city that is seventy-nine per cent African-American .
COVID-19 is also ravaging the city ’ s suburbs that have large black populations .
The virus has shaken African-Americans in Chicago , who account for fifty-two per cent of the city ’ s confirmed cases and a startling seventy-two per cent of deaths—far outpacing their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
As many have already noted , this macabre roll call reflects the fact that African-Americans are more likely to have preëxisting health conditions that make the coronavirus particularly deadly .
This is certainly true .
These conditions—diabetes , asthma , heart disease , and obesity—are critical factors , and they point to the persistence of racial discrimination , which has long heightened black vulnerability to premature death , as the scholar Ruthie Wilson Gilmore has said for years .
Racism in the shadow of American slavery has diminished almost all of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are poorer , more likely to be underemployed , condemned to substandard housing , and given inferior health care because of their race .
These factors explain why African-Americans are sixty per cent more likely to have been diagnosed with diabetes than white Americans , and why black women are sixty per cent more likely to have high blood pressure than white women .
Such health disparities are as much markers of racial inequality as mass incarceration or housing discrimination .
It is easy to simply point to the prevalence of these health @ @ @ @ @ @ @ explanation for their rising death rates .
But it is also important to acknowledge that black vulnerability is especially heightened by the continued ineptitude of the federal government in response to the coronavirus .
The mounting carnage in Trump ’ s America did not have to happen to the extent that it has .
COVID-19 testing remains maddeningly inconsistent and unavailable , with access breaking down along the predictable lines .
In Philadelphia , a scientist at Drexel University found that , in Zip Codes with a “ lower proportion of minorities and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of tests were administered .
In Zip Codes with a higher number of unemployed and uninsured residents , there were fewer tests .
Taken together , testing in higher-income neighborhoods is six times greater than it is in poorer neighborhoods .
Inconsistent testing , in combination with steadfast denials from the White House about the threat of the virus , exacerbated the appalling lack of preparation for this catastrophe .
With more early coördination , hospitals might have procured the necessary equipment and staffed up properly , potentially avoiding the onslaught that has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ In the Detroit area , where the disease is surging , about fifteen hundred hospital workers , including five hundred nurses at Beaumont Health , Michigan ’ s largest hospital system , are off of the job with symptoms of COVID-19 .
Early in the crisis , at New York City ’ s Mount Sinai Hospital , nurses were reduced to wearing garbage bags for their protection .
Across the country , health-care providers are being asked to ration face masks and shields , dramatically raising the potential of their own infection , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ already overextended hospitals .
The early wave of disproportionate black deaths was hastened by Trumpian malfeasance , but the deaths to come are the predictable outcome of decades of disinvestment and institutional neglect .
In mid-March , Toni Preckwinkle , the president of the Cook County Board in Illinois , which encompasses Chicago , lamented the COVID-19 crisis and proclaimed that “ we are all in this together , ” but , weeks later , she closed the emergency room of the public Provident Hospital in the predominantly black South Side .
Preckwinkle @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a month and was a response to a single health-care worker becoming infected with the virus .
Leave aside the fact that nurses , doctors , and other health-care workers have been testing positive for COVID-19 across the country , and their facilities have not been shuttered .
It is a decision that simply could not have been made , in the midst of a historic pandemic , in any of the city ’ s wealthy , white neighborhoods on the North Side .
Meanwhile , in Cook County Jail , three hundred @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ninety-six correctional officers have tested positive for COVID-19 .
Not only have officials not closed the county jail as a result but they also have yet to release a significant number of jailed people , even though the facility has the highest density of COVID-19 cases in Chicago .
These are the kinds of decisions that explain why there is a thirty-year difference in life expectancy—in the same city—between the black neighborhood of Englewood and the white neighborhood of Streeterville .
They are also just the latest examples of the ways that racism @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that government officials make , regardless of their intentions .
Preckwinkle is African-American , and the chairperson of the Cook County Democratic Party , but her decisions regarding Provident Hospital and Cook County Jail will still deeply wound African-Americans across Chicago .
The rapidity with which the pandemic has consumed black communities is shocking , but it also provides an unvarnished look into the dynamics of race and class that existed long before it emerged .
The most futile conversation in the U.S. is the argument about whether race or class is the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ In reality , they can not be separated from each other .
African-Americans are suffering through this crisis not only because of racism but also because of how racial discrimination has tied them to the bottom of the U.S. class hierarchy .

The old African-American aphorism “When white America catches a cold, black America gets pneumonia” has a new, morbid twist: when white America catches the novel coronavirus, black Americans die.
Thousands of white Americans have also died from the virus, but the pace at which African-Americans are dying has transformed this public-health crisis into an object lesson in racial and class inequality. According to a Reuters report, African-Americans are more likely to die of COVID-19 than any other group in the U.S. It is still early in the course of the pandemic, and the demographic data is incomplete, but the partial view is enough to prompt a sober reflection on this bitter harvest of American racism.
Louisiana, with more than twenty-one thousand reported infections, has the largest number of coronavirus cases outside of the Northeast and the Midwest. When the state’s governor, John Bel Edwards, announced recently that it would begin to provide data about the racial and ethnic breakdowns of those who have died, he included the grim acknowledgement that African-Americans, thirty-three per cent of Louisiana’s population, comprise seventy per cent of the dead.
The small city of Albany, Georgia, two hundred miles south of Atlanta, was the site of a heroic civil-rights standoff between the city’s black residents and its white police chief in the early nineteen-sixties. Today, more than twelve hundred people in the county have confirmed COVID-19 cases, and at least seventy-eight people have died. According to earlier reports, eighty-one per cent of the dead are African-American.
In Michigan, African-Americans make up fourteen per cent of the state’s population, but, currently, they account for thirty-three per cent of its reported infections and forty per cent of its deaths. Twenty-six per cent of the state’s infections and twenty-five per cent of deaths are in Detroit, a city that is seventy-nine per cent African-American. COVID-19 is also ravaging the city’s suburbs that have large black populations.
The virus has shaken African-Americans in Chicago, who account for fifty-two per cent of the city’s confirmed cases and a startling seventy-two per cent of deaths—far outpacing their proportion of the city’s population.
As many have already noted, this macabre roll call reflects the fact that African-Americans are more likely to have preëxisting health conditions that make the coronavirus particularly deadly. This is certainly true. These conditions—diabetes, asthma, heart disease, and obesity—are critical factors, and they point to the persistence of racial discrimination, which has long heightened black vulnerability to premature death, as the scholar Ruthie Wilson Gilmore has said for years. Racism in the shadow of American slavery has diminished almost all of the life chances of African-Americans. Black people are poorer, more likely to be underemployed, condemned to substandard housing, and given inferior health care because of their race. These factors explain why African-Americans are sixty per cent more likely to have been diagnosed with diabetes than white Americans, and why black women are sixty per cent more likely to have high blood pressure than white women. Such health disparities are as much markers of racial inequality as mass incarceration or housing discrimination.
It is easy to simply point to the prevalence of these health conditions among African-Americans as the most important explanation for their rising death rates. But it is also important to acknowledge that black vulnerability is especially heightened by the continued ineptitude of the federal government in response to the coronavirus. The mounting carnage in Trump’s America did not have to happen to the extent that it has. COVID-19 testing remains maddeningly inconsistent and unavailable, with access breaking down along the predictable lines. In Philadelphia, a scientist at Drexel University found that, in Zip Codes with a “lower proportion of minorities and higher incomes,” a higher number of tests were administered. In Zip Codes with a higher number of unemployed and uninsured residents, there were fewer tests. Taken together, testing in higher-income neighborhoods is six times greater than it is in poorer neighborhoods.
Inconsistent testing, in combination with steadfast denials from the White House about the threat of the virus, exacerbated the appalling lack of preparation for this catastrophe. With more early coördination, hospitals might have procured the necessary equipment and staffed up properly, potentially avoiding the onslaught that has occurred. The consequences are devastating. In the Detroit area, where the disease is surging, about fifteen hundred hospital workers, including five hundred nurses at Beaumont Health, Michigan’s largest hospital system, are off of the job with symptoms of COVID-19. Early in the crisis, at New York City’s Mount Sinai Hospital, nurses were reduced to wearing garbage bags for their protection. Across the country, health-care providers are being asked to ration face masks and shields, dramatically raising the potential of their own infection, and thereby increasing the strain on the already overextended hospitals.
The early wave of disproportionate black deaths was hastened by Trumpian malfeasance, but the deaths to come are the predictable outcome of decades of disinvestment and institutional neglect. In mid-March, Toni Preckwinkle, the president of the Cook County Board in Illinois, which encompasses Chicago, lamented the COVID-19 crisis and proclaimed that “we are all in this together,” but, weeks later, she closed the emergency room of the public Provident Hospital in the predominantly black South Side. Preckwinkle claimed that the closure would last for a month and was a response to a single health-care worker becoming infected with the virus. Leave aside the fact that nurses, doctors, and other health-care workers have been testing positive for COVID-19 across the country, and their facilities have not been shuttered. It is a decision that simply could not have been made, in the midst of a historic pandemic, in any of the city’s wealthy, white neighborhoods on the North Side.
Meanwhile, in Cook County Jail, three hundred and twenty-three inmates and a hundred and ninety-six correctional officers have tested positive for COVID-19. Not only have officials not closed the county jail as a result but they also have yet to release a significant number of jailed people, even though the facility has the highest density of COVID-19 cases in Chicago. These are the kinds of decisions that explain why there is a thirty-year difference in life expectancy—in the same city—between the black neighborhood of Englewood and the white neighborhood of Streeterville. They are also just the latest examples of the ways that racism is the ultimate result of the decisions that government officials make, regardless of their intentions. Preckwinkle is African-American, and the chairperson of the Cook County Democratic Party, but her decisions regarding Provident Hospital and Cook County Jail will still deeply wound African-Americans across Chicago.
The rapidity with which the pandemic has consumed black communities is shocking, but it also provides an unvarnished look into the dynamics of race and class that existed long before it emerged. The most futile conversation in the U.S. is the argument about whether race or class is the main impediment to African-American social mobility. In reality, they cannot be separated from each other. African-Americans are suffering through this crisis not only because of racism but also because of how racial discrimination has tied them to the bottom of the U.S. class hierarchy.
Since emancipation, racism has underwritten black economic hardship. That hardship is expressed through the concentration of African-Americans in low-wage jobs—many of which are now ironically designated “essential.” According to a report in the Times, Annie Grant, a fifty-five-year-old black woman who worked at the Tyson Foods poultry plant in Camilla, Georgia, said that she was suffering from fevers and chills, and she told her children that she was ordered to return to work despite exhibiting symptoms of the virus. Earlier this month, she died from COVID-19. Two more workers at the plant have died, and others have complained about the lack of protective equipment and the difficulty of social distancing there, but Tyson has kept it open. (A spokesperson for Tyson Foods has said that the company has instituted safeguards for employees, including “an adequate supply of protective face coverings for production workers.”) When Vice-President Mike Pence spoke about the role of low-wage, essential work amid a widening outbreak in food-processing plants, he said, “You are giving a great service to the people of the United States of America, and we need you to continue, as a part of what we call critical infrastructure, to show up and do your job.”