newyorker--2020-06-18--What the Supreme Court’s Surprise Decision on DACA Means for Hundreds of Thousands of Dreamers

For the past several months , Luis Cortes , a thirty-two-year-old immigration lawyer , has started his days with a routine that he called his “ heart-attack breakfast.
” It consisted of sitting down to his computer , just before seven each morning , and refreshing the Web site of the U.S. Supreme Court .
Cortes , who lives in the state of Washington , arrived in the U.S. , from Mexico , when he was less than a year old .
Since 2013 , he has been a recipient of Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals , an Obama-era program @ @ @ @ @ @ @ thousand immigrants who came to the U.S. as children and lacked legal status .
When the Trump Administration cancelled DACA , in September , 2017 , the advice Cortes gave his clients was the same course of action that he adopted himself : he continued renewing his status , which is good for two years , while a series of lawsuits in federal courts kept the program alive .
After multiple judges ruled against the President , finding that the Administration had cancelled the program without proper justification , the Trump Administration appealed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the Justices heard oral arguments about whether the President had lawfully ended the program .
On Thursday , in a stunning and unexpected decision , the Justices ruled , 5–4 , that the Trump Administration ’ s move was unlawful .
“ I CAN ’ T FUCKING BELIEVE IT , ” Cortes texted me , in all caps , a few moments after the decision came down .
The case turned on a technical matter , and the majority opinion , written by Chief Justice John Roberts , responded to it narrowly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ DACA or its recession are sound policies , ” Roberts wrote .
“ ‘ The wisdom ’ of those decisions ‘ is none of our concern.
’ ” Instead , what was at issue was how the Administration had cancelled DACA , not whether it could , or even should , have done so .
A statute known as the Administrative Procedure Act forbids the government from making sweeping , consequential policy decisions that are “ arbitrary and capricious.
” And yet , as DACA ’ s defenders had argued in a brief @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Administration “ never questioned DHS ’ s original reasons for adopting DACA , nor suggested that the circumstances supporting the policy had changed.
” In 2017 , top officials at the White House and Justice Department preëmptively decided to cancel DACA , and then forced the leadership at the Department of Homeland Security , which is in charge of the program , to sign off on the change .
The rationale D.H.S .
ultimately gave was , as one former official told me , “ basically a one-liner ” : the Administration claimed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ unlawful and unlikely to stand up in court .
After this argument failed repeatedly in federal courts , in 2017 and 2018 , the new head of the Department of Homeland Security , Kirstjen Nielsen , attempted to revise the Administration ’ s reasoning in a short memo purporting to provide a more complete explanation .
The Court called this “ a post-hoc rationalization ” —if the government wanted to cite “ new reasons ” for cancelling DACA , it needed to make a “ new decision.
” According to the Court , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reasons offered nine months after the rescission and after three different courts had identified flaws in the original explanation.
” Notably , though , the Court ’ s ruling does not prevent Trump from trying to cancel the program again ; he ’ ll just need to start from scratch , and offer a more plausible justification for doing so .
DACA was always much more than a protection from deportation ; it allowed its recipients to get work visas and driver ’ s licenses , to qualify for bank loans , to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ financial aid .
The program ’ s seven hundred thousand recipients have become the main mooring for the rest of their families , who often depend on their salaries and lawful status for food , medical care , and visibility .
According to a study by the Center for American Progress , one and a half million people across the country live in a household with a DACA recipient , and some two hundred and fifty thousand U.S.-born children have at least one parent with DACA status .
In the past three years @ @ @ @ @ @ @ program , broad swaths of the country have continued to depend on the basic protections that the policy affords .
In May , lawyers fighting the cancellation of DACA filed an additional brief to the Supreme Court detailing the role of the program ’ s recipients in combating the coronavirus pandemic .
There are currently some twenty-seven thousand DACA recipients employed in the health-care sector , working as doctors , nurses , and home health aides .
COVID-19 , the lawyers wrote , “ throws into sharp relief DACA recipients ’ important contributions @ @ @ @ @ @ @ consequences of eliminating their ability to live and work without fear of imminent deportation.
” When Trump first tried to cancel DACA , economists estimated that it would starve the U.S. economy of hundreds of billions of dollars over the following decade ; the current recession would likely have broadened that damage .
In early 2018 , Cortes joined the legal team defending DACA , arguing a series of motions in federal court and eventually preparing briefs before the Supreme Court .
As a lawyer representing a case , he was calm and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ remedies ; as a person with DACA status , the son of an undocumented mother and a deported father , the stakes were existential .
When we spoke late last night , the conversation turned toward what seemed , to both of us , to be a likelier outcome .
Given the composition of the Court , and its history of supporting Trump ’ s most aggressive anti-immigrant policies , even current and former members of the Administration expected the Justices to side with the President .
What would Cortes do then ?
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ court immediately , ” he replied .
“ We ’ ll try to make sure that ICE doesn ’ t use DACA recipients ’ applications against them to make arrests.
” Even if that ’ s no longer at the top of his list of concerns , Cortes is clear-eyed about Thursday ’ s victory .
DACA recipients remain in limbo—the policy does not give them a path to citizenship , and the Trump Administration has shown how precarious their situation will always be unless Congress takes decisive action .
Since 2001 , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a bill , which a clear majority of American voters support , to formalize the legal status of Dreamers .
“ I can ’ t think of one circumstance when the government just passed a law to help disenfranchised people , ” Cortes told me .
“ It has had to come with a community struggle .
We have to pressure the government to do the right thing.
” After the decision Thursday morning , the phone at Cortes ’ s law office started ringing .
Clients were calling with questions about DACA @ @ @ @ @ @ @ recipients but stopped renewing their applications , because they ’ d grown scared that the Trump Administration would come after them ; others were on the verge of applying when Trump cancelled it , in 2017 .
“ There ’ s a mini-generation of undocumented youth who were just getting old enough to apply , ” Cortes told me .
( To qualify , an applicant must be fifteen years old . )
“ Then everything went up in the air , and they had to start making plans without DACA .
Now @ @ @ @ @ @ @ school , looking out at this economy , and trying to figure out what to do .
”

For the past several months, Luis Cortes, a thirty-two-year-old immigration lawyer, has started his days with a routine that he called his “heart-attack breakfast.” It consisted of sitting down to his computer, just before seven each morning, and refreshing the Web site of the U.S. Supreme Court. Cortes, who lives in the state of Washington, arrived in the U.S., from Mexico, when he was less than a year old. Since 2013, he has been a recipient of Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, an Obama-era program that shields from deportation some seven hundred thousand immigrants who came to the U.S. as children and lacked legal status. When the Trump Administration cancelled DACA, in September, 2017, the advice Cortes gave his clients was the same course of action that he adopted himself: he continued renewing his status, which is good for two years, while a series of lawsuits in federal courts kept the program alive. After multiple judges ruled against the President, finding that the Administration had cancelled the program without proper justification, the Trump Administration appealed to the Supreme Court. Last November, the Justices heard oral arguments about whether the President had lawfully ended the program. On Thursday, in a stunning and unexpected decision, the Justices ruled, 5–4, that the Trump Administration’s move was unlawful. “I CAN’T FUCKING BELIEVE IT,” Cortes texted me, in all caps, a few moments after the decision came down.
The case turned on a technical matter, and the majority opinion, written by Chief Justice John Roberts, responded to it narrowly. “We do not decide whether DACA or its rescission are sound policies,” Roberts wrote. “ ‘The wisdom’ of those decisions ‘is none of our concern.’ ” Instead, what was at issue was how the Administration had cancelled DACA, not whether it could, or even should, have done so. A statute known as the Administrative Procedure Act forbids the government from making sweeping, consequential policy decisions that are “arbitrary and capricious.” And yet, as DACA’s defenders had argued in a brief before the Supreme Court, the Trump Administration “never questioned DHS’s original reasons for adopting DACA, nor suggested that the circumstances supporting the policy had changed.”
In 2017, top officials at the White House and Justice Department preëmptively decided to cancel DACA, and then forced the leadership at the Department of Homeland Security, which is in charge of the program, to sign off on the change. The rationale D.H.S. ultimately gave was, as one former official told me, “basically a one-liner”: the Administration claimed that its lawyers had found the program unlawful and unlikely to stand up in court. After this argument failed repeatedly in federal courts, in 2017 and 2018, the new head of the Department of Homeland Security, Kirstjen Nielsen, attempted to revise the Administration’s reasoning in a short memo purporting to provide a more complete explanation. The Court called this “a post-hoc rationalization”—if the government wanted to cite “new reasons” for cancelling DACA, it needed to make a “new decision.” According to the Court, D.H.S. could not “rely on reasons offered nine months after the rescission and after three different courts had identified flaws in the original explanation.” Notably, though, the Court’s ruling does not prevent Trump from trying to cancel the program again; he’ll just need to start from scratch, and offer a more plausible justification for doing so.
DACA was always much more than a protection from deportation; it allowed its recipients to get work visas and driver’s licenses, to qualify for bank loans, to enroll in school, and to secure financial aid. The program’s seven hundred thousand recipients have become the main mooring for the rest of their families, who often depend on their salaries and lawful status for food, medical care, and visibility. According to a study by the Center for American Progress, one and a half million people across the country live in a household with a DACA recipient, and some two hundred and fifty thousand U.S.-born children have at least one parent with DACA status. In the past three years, since Trump attempted to rescind the program, broad swaths of the country have continued to depend on the basic protections that the policy affords. In May, lawyers fighting the cancellation of DACA filed an additional brief to the Supreme Court detailing the role of the program’s recipients in combating the coronavirus pandemic. There are currently some twenty-seven thousand DACA recipients employed in the health-care sector, working as doctors, nurses, and home health aides. COVID-19, the lawyers wrote, “throws into sharp relief DACA recipients’ important contributions to the country and the significant adverse consequences of eliminating their ability to live and work without fear of imminent deportation.” When Trump first tried to cancel DACA, economists estimated that it would starve the U.S. economy of hundreds of billions of dollars over the following decade; the current recession would likely have broadened that damage.
In early 2018, Cortes joined the legal team defending DACA, arguing a series of motions in federal court and eventually preparing briefs before the Supreme Court. As a lawyer representing a case, he was calm and methodical about the possible outcomes and legal remedies; as a person with DACA status, the son of an undocumented mother and a deported father, the stakes were existential. When we spoke late last night, the conversation turned toward what seemed, to both of us, to be a likelier outcome. Given the composition of the Court, and its history of supporting Trump’s most aggressive anti-immigrant policies, even current and former members of the Administration expected the Justices to side with the President. What would Cortes do then? “We plan to go back to court immediately,” he replied. “We’ll try to make sure that ICE doesn’t use DACA recipients’ applications against them to make arrests.”
Even if that’s no longer at the top of his list of concerns, Cortes is clear-eyed about Thursday’s victory. DACA recipients remain in limbo—the policy does not give them a path to citizenship, and the Trump Administration has shown how precarious their situation will always be unless Congress takes decisive action. Since 2001, Congress has tried and failed to pass a bill, which a clear majority of American voters support, to formalize the legal status of Dreamers. “I can’t think of one circumstance when the government just passed a law to help disenfranchised people,” Cortes told me. “It has had to come with a community struggle. We have to pressure the government to do the right thing.”
After the decision Thursday morning, the phone at Cortes’s law office started ringing. Clients were calling with questions about DACA. Some of them had once been recipients but stopped renewing their applications, because they’d grown scared that the Trump Administration would come after them; others were on the verge of applying when Trump cancelled it, in 2017. “There’s a mini-generation of undocumented youth who were just getting old enough to apply,” Cortes told me. (To qualify, an applicant must be fifteen years old.) “Then everything went up in the air, and they had to start making plans without DACA. Now a lot of them are graduating high school, looking out at this economy, and trying to figure out what to do.”


newyorker--2020-06-18--A Memory of Solidarity Day, on Juneteenth, 1968

To many Americans , the public outpouring over racism that has been taking place in America since George Floyd ’ s murder feels like a long-postponed renewal of the momentous reckoning that shook the nation , and then ebbed , more than half a century ago .
That instant was one of the first memories I have of this country ; my family had been living abroad , most recently in Taiwan .
We returned when I was eleven , to Lake Barcroft , Virginia , a white middle-class suburb of Washington , D.C. , just a few months before @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Jr. , on April 4 , 1968 .
What I can recall most clearly is the sense of tragedy that instantly befell our new home .
My parents were white California liberals .
They spoke often about King and the struggle for civil rights .
I suppose they were trying to prepare us for the racism that existed in our country .
I was one of five children : three of us were white , one was Asian , one Hispanic .
Racism was not only an abhorrent concept ; it was the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ family .
The speech that Robert F. Kennedy gave in Indianapolis a few hours after King was murdered made my parents cry .
The last time I could remember seeing them so stricken was in Taiwan , when I was six , and John F. Kennedy had just been assassinated .
A week after King ’ s death , my father took me for a drive around Washington .
I recall it being a Saturday morning , and what my memory carries is the two of us driving slowly through empty streets , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had been torched and plundered in the previous days of rage and despair .
I don ’ t remember anything else , not even what we said , except that my father was not angry , only sad , at what we saw .
Later that month , with my parents ’ encouragement , I volunteered to sell bumper stickers for the Poor People ’ s Campaign , which King had been organizing when he was killed .
The campaign was coming to Washington , my parents said .
Some three thousand people @ @ @ @ @ @ @ arrive in caravans and live in Resurrection City , a tent encampment set up on the Mall .
There would be a march to the Lincoln Memorial .
If King hadn ’ t been killed , he would have led it , they told me , but now that task fell to his widow , Coretta Scott King , and the Reverend Ralph David Abernathy , the president of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference .
Excited to be allowed to participate , I went out to sell my bumper stickers , going house @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stickers , which I was to sell for a dollar apiece , to go toward the campaign ’ s expenses , were black and white , and printed with King ’ s phrase “ I have a Dream .
.
.
One America.
” But I managed to sell only a few ; my parents made me stop after two people had chased me away from their front doors .
One threatened to unleash his Dobermans , and shouted “ Fuck you !
” I had not heard the term many times before @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it to me .
I was frightened by the dogs , shocked by the hatred , and disappointed that I wasn ’ t allowed to continue , but felt a child ’ s pride in the effort I had made .
The whole family went to the march , on what was called Solidarity Day .
It had been originally planned for May 30th , but was postponed to June 19th .
That was Juneteenth , the date that Texas became the last state in the Confederacy to learn that the Civil War @ @ @ @ @ @ @ surrender—and that enslaved people were , officially , at least , emancipated—more than two years after Lincoln had issued that proclamation .
We walked through Resurrection City , a bedraggled place full of people and purposeful activity , and joined a great crowd on the Mall , stretching from the Washington Monument to the Lincoln Memorial .
I had never seen such a sight , and it seemed to say that King ’ s dream not only remained alive after his death but had become more viable .
A slew of famous people @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Coretta Scott King and Ralph Abernathy .
Bobby Kennedy , who had suggested that King bring the campaign to the capital , had himself been assassinated just two weeks before , in Los Angeles , but the remaining Democratic Presidential candidates Eugene McCarthy and Hubert Humphrey addressed the crowd ; Humphrey was booed .
Walter Reuther , the head of the United Auto Workers , gave a rousing speech .
Eartha Kitt sang and spoke in Spanish—Latino groups also took part in the campaign .
But the person I remember most vividly was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ what she had done , and was awed by the sight of her .
There were statements of grief and of anger , but also of reconciliation and unity , and the hope that , like the song we sang said , we would overcome .
We didn ’ t .
The next day , the police fired tear gas into Resurrection City .
On June 24th , the day the campaigners ’ permit expired , a thousand police officers raided the site and dismantled it , arresting more than a hundred people @ @ @ @ @ @ @ later , my family left the country again , this time for Indonesia .
I remember feeling relieved to be going .
The Poor People ’ s Campaign soon ended , after renewed unrest in the city , and more arrests .
King ’ s hope to have Congress take up an Economic Bill of Rights for all Americans was not realized .
There has been much progress since then , of course , but it has been fitful , to say the least , and now , fifty years later , we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ open racism of George Wallace ’ s Presidential campaign to Donald Trump ’ s dog-whistles .
Echoing that time , Trump warned , “ When the looting starts , the shooting starts , ” and threatened to turn “ vicious dogs ” on protesters outside the White House .
Last week , the President said that his first in-person rally since the onset of the coronavirus pandemic would be held in Tulsa , Oklahoma—on Juneteenth .
Coming after his Tweets opposing the Pentagon ’ s mooted plans to rename military bases named for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ date seemed intended as a provocation .
So did the venue : from May 31 to June 1 , 1921 , Tulsa was the site of the worst racist massacre in American history , which left thirty-five blocks of black-owned homes and businesses burned , and as many as three hundred African-Americans dead .
Trump backed off the date , but his rally will go ahead a day later , in Tulsa .
For three and a half years , many Americans have acquiesced to the fact that a race-baiting tormentor is their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an appeal could be made to his better nature , that he could be persuaded to be civil and inclusive , to be Presidential .
That capacity just isn ’ t there ; there is no better nature .
But now another moment of national reckoning has arrived and , come November , there will be another chance to achieve a better country .
• The death of George Floyd , in context .
• The civil-rights lawyer Bryan Stevenson examines the frustration and despair behind the protests .
• Who , David @ @ @ @ @ @ @ behind the racial unrest ?
• A sociologist examines the so-called pillars of whiteness that prevent white Americans from confronting racism .
• The Black Lives Matter co-founder Opal Tometi on what it would mean to defund police departments , and what comes next .
• The quest to transform the United States can not be limited to challenging its brutal police .

To many Americans, the public outpouring over racism that has been taking place in America since George Floyd’s murder feels like a long-postponed renewal of the momentous reckoning that shook the nation, and then ebbed, more than half a century ago. That instant was one of the first memories I have of this country; my family had been living abroad, most recently in Taiwan. We returned when I was eleven, to Lake Barcroft, Virginia, a white middle-class suburb of Washington, D.C., just a few months before the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., on April 4, 1968. What I can recall most clearly is the sense of tragedy that instantly befell our new home.
My parents were white California liberals. They spoke often about King and the struggle for civil rights. I suppose they were trying to prepare us for the racism that existed in our country. I was one of five children: three of us were white, one was Asian, one Hispanic. Racism was not only an abhorrent concept; it was the antithesis of who we were as a family. The speech that Robert F. Kennedy gave in Indianapolis a few hours after King was murdered made my parents cry. The last time I could remember seeing them so stricken was in Taiwan, when I was six, and John F. Kennedy had just been assassinated.
A week after King’s death, my father took me for a drive around Washington. I recall it being a Saturday morning, and what my memory carries is the two of us driving slowly through empty streets, seeing the devastation of the neighborhoods that had been torched and plundered in the previous days of rage and despair. I don’t remember anything else, not even what we said, except that my father was not angry, only sad, at what we saw.
Later that month, with my parents’ encouragement, I volunteered to sell bumper stickers for the Poor People’s Campaign, which King had been organizing when he was killed. The campaign was coming to Washington, my parents said. Some three thousand people from different parts of the country would arrive in caravans and live in Resurrection City, a tent encampment set up on the Mall. There would be a march to the Lincoln Memorial. If King hadn’t been killed, he would have led it, they told me, but now that task fell to his widow, Coretta Scott King, and the Reverend Ralph David Abernathy, the president of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference.
Excited to be allowed to participate, I went out to sell my bumper stickers, going house to house, ringing doorbells. The stickers, which I was to sell for a dollar apiece, to go toward the campaign’s expenses, were black and white, and printed with King’s phrase “I have a Dream . . . One America.” But I managed to sell only a few; my parents made me stop after two people had chased me away from their front doors. One threatened to unleash his Dobermans, and shouted “Fuck you!” I had not heard the term many times before; certainly no adult had ever said it to me. I was frightened by the dogs, shocked by the hatred, and disappointed that I wasn’t allowed to continue, but felt a child’s pride in the effort I had made.
The whole family went to the march, on what was called Solidarity Day. It had been originally planned for May 30th, but was postponed to June 19th. That was Juneteenth, the date that Texas became the last state in the Confederacy to learn that the Civil War was over—two months after Lee’s surrender—and that enslaved people were, officially, at least, emancipated—more than two years after Lincoln had issued that proclamation. We walked through Resurrection City, a bedraggled place full of people and purposeful activity, and joined a great crowd on the Mall, stretching from the Washington Monument to the Lincoln Memorial. I had never seen such a sight, and it seemed to say that King’s dream not only remained alive after his death but had become more viable.
A slew of famous people spoke that day, in addition to Coretta Scott King and Ralph Abernathy. Bobby Kennedy, who had suggested that King bring the campaign to the capital, had himself been assassinated just two weeks before, in Los Angeles, but the remaining Democratic Presidential candidates Eugene McCarthy and Hubert Humphrey addressed the crowd; Humphrey was booed. Walter Reuther, the head of the United Auto Workers, gave a rousing speech. Eartha Kitt sang and spoke in Spanish—Latino groups also took part in the campaign. But the person I remember most vividly was Rosa Parks—I knew who she was and what she had done, and was awed by the sight of her. There were statements of grief and of anger, but also of reconciliation and unity, and the hope that, like the song we sang said, we would overcome.
We didn’t. The next day, the police fired tear gas into Resurrection City. On June 24th, the day the campaigners’ permit expired, a thousand police officers raided the site and dismantled it, arresting more than a hundred people, including Abernathy. A few weeks later, my family left the country again, this time for Indonesia. I remember feeling relieved to be going.
The Poor People’s Campaign soon ended, after renewed unrest in the city, and more arrests. King’s hope to have Congress take up an Economic Bill of Rights for all Americans was not realized. There has been much progress since then, of course, but it has been fitful, to say the least, and now, fifty years later, we’ve come from the unabashed, open racism of George Wallace’s Presidential campaign to Donald Trump’s dog-whistles. Echoing that time, Trump warned, “When the looting starts, the shooting starts,” and threatened to turn “vicious dogs” on protesters outside the White House.
Last week, the President said that his first in-person rally since the onset of the coronavirus pandemic would be held in Tulsa, Oklahoma—on Juneteenth. Coming after his Tweets opposing the Pentagon’s mooted plans to rename military bases named for Confederate generals, the announcement of the date seemed intended as a provocation. So did the venue: from May 31 to June 1, 1921, Tulsa was the site of the worst racist massacre in American history, which left thirty-five blocks of black-owned homes and businesses burned, and as many as three hundred African-Americans dead. Trump backed off the date, but his rally will go ahead a day later, in Tulsa.
For three and a half years, many Americans have acquiesced to the fact that a race-baiting tormentor is their President. Some seemed to think that an appeal could be made to his better nature, that he could be persuaded to be civil and inclusive, to be Presidential. That capacity just isn’t there; there is no better nature. But now another moment of national reckoning has arrived and, come November, there will be another chance to achieve a better country.
Race, Policing, and Black Lives Matter Protests


newyorker--2020-06-18--Assa Traoré and the Fight for Black Lives in France

For four years , Assa Traoré has been fighting to establish the true circumstances surrounding the death of her brother , Adama Traoré , on July 19 , 2016 , on the premises of the gendarmerie of the village of Persan , forty miles north of Paris .
As the head of the Truth for Adama committee , she has become one of the animating forces of resistance to police violence and systemic racism in France .
On May 31st , she posted a flyer on her social-media channels , calling for a protest in front of the Tribunal de @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ Un pays sans Justice est un Pays qui appelle à la Révolte !
” it read .
( “ A country without justice is a country that calls for a revolt !
” ) “ Justice pour Adama , Justice pour George Floyd , Justice pour Tous !
” French authorities forbade the demonstration , on the basis that it violated a ban on gatherings of ten or more people .
Traoré insisted that the event go ahead , expecting , she told me , “ Ten thousand , no more.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ prefecture ’ s estimate ) and eighty thousand people ( the organizers ’ ) showed up , to her astonishment and presumably to that of the French government , which had spent the past four years , Traoré says , “ acting as though Adama didn ’ t exist.
” Many of the protesters carried signs that read “ Black Lives Matter , ” or , recalling the kindred final words of Adama Traoré and George Floyd , “ Je n ’ arrive plus à respirer ” and “ I Can ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the international media , which ignored Adama Traoré altogether , the protest wasn ’ t simply a demonstration of foreign concern for horrific events in a faraway land .
“ We are Black Lives Matter , ” Assa Traoré said , the other day , sitting on a leather couch at her apartment , in Ivry-sur-Seine .
“ The two fights echo each other , so that we ’ re pulling back the curtain on France , in saying , ‘ People of the whole word , look what ’ s happening here.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ I saw you all become targets , ” Assa writes in “ Lettre á Adama ” ( “ Letter to Adama ” ) , her book , from 2017 , of Adama and his male peers .
According to a report by the Défenseur des Droits , France ’ s civil-liberties ombudsman , the French police subject people of black and Arab appearance to identity checks twenty times more frequently than they do people who appear to be white .
Running for president in 2012 , François Hollande promised to institute a receipt @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , but abandoned the plan under police pressure in wake of the 2015 terrorist attacks .
In 2016 , France ’ s highest court held the state responsible for “ gross misconduct ” in practicing racial and ethnic profiling .
Civil-liberties groups describe the stops as frequent , arbitrary , and ineffective .
A new report by Human Rights Watch , issued this week , characterizes the practice as “ a brutal means ” of exercising police authority , “ often accompanied by intrusive searches of bags and mobile phones , as well @ @ @ @ @ @ @ children , sometimes as young as ten years old.
” After the June 2nd protests in Paris and other cities , Twitter went crazy for a picture of a barricade that protesters had erected in the middle of an avenue using flaming Lime scooters , plus the odd moped , bike , and bistro chair .
This wasn ’ t just a bunch of French people “ cosplaying Les Mis , ” the historian Arthur Asseraf explained in a thread .
“ We are not a country of baguettes and nice people in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ only country that has a problem with a racist police : this is not about France , or the USA .
People are trying to connect the situations they face around the world.
” The global struggle has local particularities , its own set of painful dates and sacred names .
The sociologist Mathieu Rigouste has written that “ the modern-day French police are shaped by the violence of their history , ” having honed their methods of “ surveillance and repression ” in the former French colonies .
The majority of their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
They include the dozens , maybe hundreds , of demonstrators for Algerian independence that the Police Nationale shot and threw into the Seine , in October of 1961 ; the striking workers massacred in Guadeloupe , in May of 1967 ; Zyed Benna and Bouna Traoré , electrocuted as they fled an identity check on the way home from a soccer game ; Théo Lukhaka , beaten and sodomized with a police baton ; Lamine Dieng , whose family , after thirteen years of litigation , received a hundred-and-forty-five-thousand-euro settlement from the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ slogan goes , “ Théo and Adama remind us why Zyed and Bouna ran.
” Working alongside other activists , Assa Traoré has built a movement that speaks in the voice of France ’ s young black and Arab citizens rather than on their behalf .
By contrast , the slogan of SOS Racisme , the emblematic anti-racist movement of the nineteen-eighties , is “ Touche pas à mon pote , ” or “ Don ’ t touch my friend.
” Unlike SOS Racisme , which is closely aligned with the Socialist Party @ @ @ @ @ @ @ aloof from party politics .
Its aims are both narrow ( obtaining a conviction ; banning certain police techniques ) and far-reaching ( challenging the entire system of “ social elimination of blacks and Arabs ” that makes the concrete goals so hard to accomplish ) .
Its iconography is revolutionary : Traoré , an admirer of Angela Davis , whom she met in 2018 , is often pictured with a fist in the air .
Early on , she rejected the archetype of grieving relation , preferring to meet the public with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” leading a “ machine of war.
” She speaks of “ Generation Adama , ” an analogue to the “ Climate Generation ” collectively mobilizing to save the planet .
Assa Traoré was in Croatia on the day her brother died .
A special-education teacher in Sarcelles , a Paris suburb , she was chaperoning a group of students on their first trip abroad .
When she learned of her brother ’ s death , she recalls , she felt an “ electricity ” going through her .
“ I ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ m going to defend us.
” she writes .
“ Do they know who we are ?
Do they think we ’ re going to keep quiet ?
” She never went back to her teaching job .
Last year , the French singer Mallaury released a song called “ Assa ” : “ Head high , arms raised , you lead the fight.
” The afternoon of the protest , representatives of the Paris prefecture came looking for Assa at her apartment .
She recalled , “ I told my sister @ @ @ @ @ @ @ If they want to see me , come get me , I ’ m at the Tribunal de Justice !
’ ” ( The prefecture did not respond to requests for comment . )
In the French press , Traoré is often likened to Antigone , avenging her dead brother at all costs .
The comparison is a little off : as the sociologist Geoffroy de Lagasnerie , who often collaborates with Traoré , has pointed out , she is calling for the enforcement of the law rather than revolting against it .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ securing a proper burial for her brother , Traoré says that she is trying to secure proper lives for “ all the Adamas.
” At her apartment , she was taking calls via wireless earbuds and admonishing two of her sons to clear the dishes from their afternoon snack .
As they watched “ Peter Rabbit ” on TV , she talked about the damage that the fight has inflicted on her family .
On the day of Adama ’ s death , none of her many siblings was in prison ; four @ @ @ @ @ @ @ years after his death , although three have been released .
Traoré is facing several charges for public defamation , as the result of a Facebook post in which she named the three police officers that she believes killed Adama .
She believes that the charges are part of a campaign of harassment against the family , while its critics have used them , along with accusations against Adama , to cast doubt on their credibility .
Last week , a prominent morning show aired a segment titled “ Who is the Traoré @ @ @ @ @ @ @ correspondent spent six minutes cataloguing the criminal records of various siblings .

For four years, Assa Traoré has been fighting to establish the true circumstances surrounding the death of her brother, Adama Traoré, on July 19, 2016, on the premises of the gendarmerie of the village of Persan, forty miles north of Paris. As the head of the Truth for Adama committee, she has become one of the animating forces of resistance to police violence and systemic racism in France. On May 31st, she posted a flyer on her social-media channels, calling for a protest in front of the Tribunal de Paris on the evening of June 2nd. “Un pays sans Justice est un Pays qui appelle à la Révolte! ” it read. (“A country without justice is a country that calls for a revolt!”) “Justice pour Adama, Justice pour George Floyd, Justice pour Tous! ”
French authorities forbade the demonstration, on the basis that it violated a ban on gatherings of ten or more people. Traoré insisted that the event go ahead, expecting, she told me, “Ten thousand, no more.” Somewhere between twenty thousand (the prefecture’s estimate) and eighty thousand people (the organizers’) showed up, to her astonishment and presumably to that of the French government, which had spent the past four years, Traoré says, “acting as though Adama didn’t exist.” Many of the protesters carried signs that read “Black Lives Matter,” or, recalling the kindred final words of Adama Traoré and George Floyd, “Je n’arrive plus à respirer” and “I Can’t Breathe.” Contrary to some reports in the international media, which ignored Adama Traoré altogether, the protest wasn’t simply a demonstration of foreign concern for horrific events in a faraway land. “We are Black Lives Matter,” Assa Traoré said, the other day, sitting on a leather couch at her apartment, in Ivry-sur-Seine. “The two fights echo each other, so that we’re pulling back the curtain on France, in saying, ‘People of the whole word, look what’s happening here.’ ”
“I saw you, I saw you all become targets,” Assa writes in “Lettre à Adama” (“Letter to Adama”), her book, from 2017, of Adama and his male peers. According to a report by the Défenseur des Droits, France’s civil-liberties ombudsman, the French police subject people of black and Arab appearance to identity checks twenty times more frequently than they do people who appear to be white. Running for president in 2012, François Hollande promised to institute a receipt system in order to monitor identity checks, but abandoned the plan under police pressure in wake of the 2015 terrorist attacks. In 2016, France’s highest court held the state responsible for “gross misconduct” in practicing racial and ethnic profiling. Civil-liberties groups describe the stops as frequent, arbitrary, and ineffective. A new report by Human Rights Watch, issued this week, characterizes the practice as “a brutal means” of exercising police authority, “often accompanied by intrusive searches of bags and mobile phones, as well as humiliating body searches, even in children, sometimes as young as ten years old.”
After the June 2nd protests in Paris and other cities, Twitter went crazy for a picture of a barricade that protesters had erected in the middle of an avenue using flaming Lime scooters, plus the odd moped, bike, and bistro chair. This wasn’t just a bunch of French people “cosplaying Les Mis,” the historian Arthur Asseraf explained in a thread. “We are not a country of baguettes and nice people in villages. We are also not the only country that has a problem with a racist police: this is not about France, or the USA. People are trying to connect the situations they face around the world.” The global struggle has local particularities, its own set of painful dates and sacred names. The sociologist Mathieu Rigouste has written that “the modern-day French police are shaped by the violence of their history,” having honed their methods of “surveillance and repression” in the former French colonies. The majority of their victims are young black and Arab men. They include the dozens, maybe hundreds, of demonstrators for Algerian independence that the Police Nationale shot and threw into the Seine, in October of 1961; the striking workers massacred in Guadeloupe, in May of 1967; Zyed Benna and Bouna Traoré, electrocuted as they fled an identity check on the way home from a soccer game; Théo Lukhaka, beaten and sodomized with a police baton; Lamine Dieng, whose family, after thirteen years of litigation, received a hundred-and-forty-five-thousand-euro settlement from the government, this week. A popular slogan goes, “Théo and Adama remind us why Zyed and Bouna ran.”
Working alongside other activists, Assa Traoré has built a movement that speaks in the voice of France’s young black and Arab citizens rather than on their behalf. By contrast, the slogan of SOS Racisme, the emblematic anti-racist movement of the nineteen-eighties, is “Touche pas à mon pote,” or “Don’t touch my friend.” Unlike SOS Racisme, which is closely aligned with the Socialist Party, the Adama campaign has stayed pointedly aloof from party politics. Its aims are both narrow (obtaining a conviction; banning certain police techniques) and far-reaching (challenging the entire system of “social elimination of blacks and Arabs” that makes the concrete goals so hard to accomplish). Its iconography is revolutionary: Traoré, an admirer of Angela Davis, whom she met in 2018, is often pictured with a fist in the air. Early on, she rejected the archetype of grieving relation, preferring to meet the public with stone-faced discipline–a “soldier, despite myself,” leading a “machine of war.” She speaks of “Generation Adama,” an analogue to the “Climate Generation” collectively mobilizing to save the planet.
Assa Traoré was in Croatia on the day her brother died. A special-education teacher in Sarcelles, a Paris suburb, she was chaperoning a group of students on their first trip abroad. When she learned of her brother’s death, she recalls, she felt an “electricity” going through her. “I’m going to defend you, I’m going to defend us.” she writes. “Do they know who we are? Do they think we’re going to keep quiet?” She never went back to her teaching job. Last year, the French singer Mallaury released a song called “Assa”: “Head high, arms raised, you lead the fight.” The afternoon of the protest, representatives of the Paris prefecture came looking for Assa at her apartment. She recalled, “I told my sister, ‘Take nothing from them. If they want to see me, come get me, I’m at the Tribunal de Justice!’ ” (The prefecture did not respond to requests for comment.)
In the French press, Traoré is often likened to Antigone, avenging her dead brother at all costs. The comparison is a little off: as the sociologist Geoffroy de Lagasnerie, who often collaborates with Traoré, has pointed out, she is calling for the enforcement of the law rather than revolting against it. Furthermore, while Antigone was intent upon securing a proper burial for her brother, Traoré says that she is trying to secure proper lives for “all the Adamas.” At her apartment, she was taking calls via wireless earbuds and admonishing two of her sons to clear the dishes from their afternoon snack. As they watched “Peter Rabbit” on TV, she talked about the damage that the fight has inflicted on her family. On the day of Adama’s death, none of her many siblings was in prison; four of her brothers were imprisoned in the years after his death, although three have been released. Traoré is facing several charges for public defamation, as the result of a Facebook post in which she named the three police officers that she believes killed Adama. She believes that the charges are part of a campaign of harassment against the family, while its critics have used them, along with accusations against Adama, to cast doubt on their credibility. Last week, a prominent morning show aired a segment titled “Who is the Traoré Family?,” in which a correspondent spent six minutes cataloguing the criminal records of various siblings.
Mara-Siré Traoré, Assa and Adama’s father, immigrated to France from Mali in 1960, the year of Malian independence. Both of his grandfathers, as Assa recalls in “Letter to Adama,” had “already spilled blood to defend France” during the Second World War, one of them returning home “at retirement age, less a leg.” In France, Mara-Siré went to work as a street cleaner, then on the trains, before leading a construction crew in charge of waterproofing buildings. He became a French citizen in 1968, and, the next year, married a white Frenchwoman from Picardy. They had two sons. They divorced. Three more wives (one “white, Catholic, baptized” and two black, Muslim, and Malian) and fifteen more children followed, forming an enormous blended family. “We are seventeen brothers and sisters,” Assa Traoré writes in “Le Combat Adama,” her second book. “There are no half brothers or half sisters, no stepmothers. We consider ourselves all part of the same family. And the Traoré family, it’s a family of all colors.”
Adama and his twin, Hawa, were born in 1992. Assa remembers Adama as an endearing, smiley boy. In 1999, Mara-Siré died, depriving the family of its financial and emotional center. At fourteen, Assa recalls, Adama already had a “sad and negative” vision of the future, even if his friends knew him as a charismatic figure. One called him “the mayor,” while another remembered, “When Adama was there, law enforcement didn’t do whatever they wanted. He demanded that the officers identify themselves, that they respect us. Adama refused the systematic tutoiement”—being addressed, rudely, in the second person informal—“of the police.”
July 19, 2016, was Adama’s twenty-fourth birthday. His mother rang him in the morning, mentioning that the mairie, or town hall, had just called to say that his identification card, which he was in the process of renewing, was ready. France was in the middle of a heat wave. At three o’clock in the afternoon, one brother ran into Adama, with a couple of friends, drinking a lemonade on the terrace of a local café. By early evening, another brother, Bagui, had joined him there. The police were looking to arrest Bagui for “extortion from a vulnerable person.” (Bagui was convicted on the extortion charge; he is now awaiting trial for the attempted murder of a policeman during clashes after Adama’s death.) A trio of officers pulled up and got out of their car, asking the brothers for their papers. Bagui coöperated; Adama, who had recently been in jail and whose identity card was at the mairie, took off on foot.
The officers gave chase. There is no recording of what happened next, and what record there is largely depends on police accounts. However, it is more or less agreed upon that an officer caught Adama and handcuffed him before he broke away again, fleeing to the apartment of an acquaintance. A team of three officers eventually found him there. Traore’s family believes that the officers tackled him—one of them admitted, in an initial statement, that “he took the weight of our three bodies at the moment of his arrest.” The weight of the officers’ three bodies totalled five hundred and fifty-one pounds. They handcuffed Traoré again, as he lay on the floor, stomach down. He said that he was having trouble breathing. Instead of taking him to a nearby hospital, the police put him in the car and drove him to the Persan station, a few minutes away. When they took him out of the car, he was unconscious. The police have claimed that they placed him on his side, in the lateral recovery position, but a fireman who was called to the scene at 5:44 P.M. testified that he found Traoré lying on his stomach, handcuffed, “face against the ground.” At 7:07 P.M., Traoré was pronounced dead. A short while later, his mother went to the police station and was told that he was simply being held for questioning. It wasn’t until eleven o’clock that the family was informed of his death.


newyorker--2020-06-18--Arkansas Prisoners Organize Against Unchecked Racism and the Coronavirus

The Cummins Unit , a penitentiary in southeastern Arkansas , opened in 1902 .
Designed as a prison for black @ @ @ @ @ and system of unpaid labor have been likened to slavery .
The population at Cummins @ @ @ @ @ has been devastated by the coronavirus—the prison has the tenth-largest outbreak of COVID-19 in the @ @ @ @ @ Dorothy Wickenden to discuss what incarcerated men in Cummins told her about their study group @ @ @ @ @ ; about black identity in America ; how they have organized to demand adequate measures @ @ @ @ @ what they think about the protests following the killing of George Floyd .

Photograph from AP / Shutterstock
The Cummins Unit, a penitentiary in southeastern Arkansas, opened in 1902. Designed as a prison for black men, its rigid hierarchy and system of unpaid labor have been likened to slavery. The population at Cummins, still overwhelmingly black, has been devastated by the coronavirus—the prison has the tenth-largest outbreak of COVID-19 in the country. Rachel Aviv joins Dorothy Wickenden to discuss what incarcerated men in Cummins told her about their study group, called the Think Tank; about black identity in America; how they have organized to demand adequate measures against the pandemic; and what they think about the protests following the killing of George Floyd.


newyorker--2020-06-18--Susan Collins Puts Bolton Book in Amazon Cart but Remains Undecided About Placing Order

WASHINGTON ( The Borowitz Report ) —Senator Susan Collins has put John Bolton ’ s new book in her Amazon cart but is undecided about placing an order for it , Collins confirmed on Thursday .
Speaking to reporters at the Senate , Collins called the decision to pull the trigger on the Bolton book “ one of the most wrenching of my career.
” “ My computer ’ s cursor has hovered over the ‘ Place your order ’ button for hours without clicking on it , ” she said .
“ This is not a decision I take @ @ @ @ @ @ @ indicated that , even if she ultimately decides to buy Bolton ’ s book , she is leaving open the possibility of returning the book to Amazon .
“ All options are on the table , ” she said .
In her most revealing statement , Collins admitted that she has more than three hundred other items in her Amazon cart that she has yet to commit to buying .
Those items include sunglasses , a hand mixer , several pairs of capri pants , and a beekeeping kit .
Collins said that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ beekeeping as a hobby , she is troubled and concerned about the behavior of bees .

WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report)—Senator Susan Collins has put John Bolton’s new book in her Amazon cart but is undecided about placing an order for it, Collins confirmed on Thursday.
Speaking to reporters at the Senate, Collins called the decision to pull the trigger on the Bolton book “one of the most wrenching of my career.”
“My computer’s cursor has hovered over the ‘Place your order’ button for hours without clicking on it,” she said. “This is not a decision I take lightly.”
The Republican senator from Maine indicated that, even if she ultimately decides to buy Bolton’s book, she is leaving open the possibility of returning the book to Amazon.
“All options are on the table,” she said.
In her most revealing statement, Collins admitted that she has more than three hundred other items in her Amazon cart that she has yet to commit to buying.
Those items include sunglasses, a hand mixer, several pairs of capri pants, and a beekeeping kit.
Collins said that, although she is interested in pursuing beekeeping as a hobby, she is troubled and concerned about the behavior of bees.


newyorker--2020-06-18--How Police-Union Power Helped Increase Abuses

Police unions have long had a singular—and divisive—place in American labor .
What is different at this fraught moment , however , is that these unions , long considered untouchable , due to their extraordinary power on the streets and among politicians , face a potential reckoning , as their conduct roils not just one city but the entire nation .
Since the nineteen-sixties , when police unions first became like traditional unions and won the right to bargain collectively , they have had a controversial history .
And recent studies suggest that their political and bargaining power has enabled @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that they have helped increase police abuses in the United States .
A 2018 University of Oxford study of the hundred largest American cities found that the extent of protections in police contracts was directly and positively correlated with police violence and other abuses against citizens .
A 2019 University of Chicago study found that extending collective-bargaining rights to Florida sheriffs ’ deputies led to a forty per cent statewide increase in cases of violent misconduct—translating to nearly twelve additional such incidents annually .
In a forthcoming study , Rob Gillezeau , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from the nineteen-fifties to the nineteen-eighties , the ability of police to collectively bargain led to a substantial rise in police killings of civilians , with a greater impact on people of color .
“ With the caveat that this is very early work , ” Gillezeau wrote on Twitter , on May 30th , “ it looks like collective bargaining rights are being used to protect the ability of officers to discriminate in the disproportionate use of force against the non-white population.
” Other studies revealed that many existing mechanisms for disciplining @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Chicago radio station , found that , between 2007 and 2015 , Chicago ’ s Independent Police Review Authority investigated four hundred shootings by police and deemed the officers justified in all but two incidents .
Since 2012 , when Minneapolis replaced its civilian review board with an Office of Police Conduct Review , the public has filed more than twenty-six hundred misconduct complaints , yet only twelve resulted in a police officer being punished .
The most severe penalty : a forty-hour suspension .
When the St. Paul Pioneer Press reviewed appeals @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it discovered that arbitrators ruled in favor of the discharged police and corrections officers and ordered them reinstated forty-six per cent of the time .
( Non-law-enforcement workers were reinstated at a similar rate . )
For those demanding more accountability , a large obstacle is that disciplinary actions are often overturned if an arbitrator finds that the penalty the department meted out is tougher than it was in a similar , previous case—no matter if the penalty in the previous case seemed far too lenient .
To critics , all of this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ enforcement is woefully broken , and that police unions have far too much power .
They contend that robust protections , including qualified immunity , give many police officers a sense of impunity—an attitude exemplified by Derek Chauvin keeping his knee on George Floyd ’ s neck for nearly nine minutes , even as onlookers pleaded with him to stop .
“ We ’ re at a place where something has to change , so that police collective bargaining no longer contributes to police violence , ” Benjamin Sachs , a labor-law professor @ @ @ @ @ @ @ said that bargaining on “ matters of discipline , especially related to the use of force , has insulated police officers from accountability , and that predictably can increase the problem.
” For decades , members of the public have complained about police violence and police unions , and a relatively recent development—mobile-phone videos—has sparked even more public anger .
These complaints grew with the killings of Eric Garner , Laquan McDonald , Walter Scott , Tamir Rice , Philando Castile , and many others .
Each time , there were protests and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the matter blew over .
Until the horrific killing of George Floyd .
Historians often talk of two distinct genealogies for policing in the North and in the South , and both help to explain the crisis that the police and its unions find themselves in today .
Northern cities began to establish police departments in the eighteen-thirties ; by the end of the century , many had become best known for using ruthless force to crush labor agitation and strikes , an aim to which they were pushed by the industrial and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Chicago police killed four strikers and injured dozens more at the McCormick Reaper Works .
In the South , policing has very different roots : slave patrols , in which white men brutally enforced slave codes , checking to see whether black people had proper passes whenever they were off their masters ’ estates and often beating them if they did something the patrols didn ’ t like .
Khalil Gibran Muhammad , a historian at Harvard , said that the patrols “ were explicit in their design to empower the entire white @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of black people.
” At the turn of the twentieth century , many police officers—frustrated , like other workers , with low pay and long hours—formed fraternal associations , rather than unions , to seek better conditions—mayors and police commissioners insisted that the police had no more right to join a union than did soldiers and sailors .
In 1897 , a group of Cleveland police officers sought to form a union and petitioned the American Federation of Labor—founded in 1886 , with Samuel Gompers as its first president—to grant them a union @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , saying , “ It is not within the province of the trade union movement to especially organize policemen , no more than to organize militiamen , as both policemen and militiamen are often controlled by forces inimical to the labor movement.
” After the First World War , millions of workers began protesting that their wages lagged far behind inflation , and many police officers got swept up in the ferment .
In 1919 , Boston ’ s city police applied to the A.F.L .
for a charter ; they were angry @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pay hundreds of dollars for uniforms .
The police commissioner , Edwin Upton Curtis , forbade his officers from joining any outside organization other than patriotic groups , such as the American Legion .
The police proceeded to unionize , and Curtis suspended nineteen of the union ’ s leaders for insubordination .
When most of the city ’ s fifteen hundred police officers walked off the job , rioting and widespread looting engulfed the city .
Curtis fired eleven hundred strikers , and Calvin Coolidge , who was then the governor of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ saying , “ There is no right to strike against the public safety by anybody , anywhere , anytime.
” Coolidge ’ s stance thrust him into the national spotlight .
He went on to serve as Vice-President and President .
For decades , that stance deterred police unionization .
But , in the nineteen-fifties and sixties , with private-sector unions winning middle-class wages and solid benefits for millions of workers , police officers again started rumbling for a union .
Their fraternal orders weren ’ t doing enough ; the police wanted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and militant .
In the early sixties , police engaged in a work slowdown in New York and a sit-in in Detroit .
In 1964 , New York ’ s mayor , Robert F. Wagner , Jr. , blessed a compromise between his police commissioner and the Patrolmen ’ s Benevolent Association .
The P.B.A .
renounced the right to strike and was recognized as the bargaining agent for the city ’ s police .
Wagner had previously agreed to bargain with other municipal unions , but he had held off with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ role and of fears that officers might strike .
( The National Labor Relations Act of 1935—sponsored by Wagner ’ s father , Senator Robert F. Wagner , Sr.—gave most private-sector workers a federal right to unionize and collectively bargain , but left it up to individual states and cities to decide whether to grant the same rights to government employees . )
As a full-fledged union , the P.B.A .
didn ’ t wait long to declare war against any push for increased accountability .
In 1966 , New York ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ after being pressed by the Congress of Racial Equality , added four civilian members to the city ’ s Civilian Complaint Review Board ; the original three members were deputy police commissioners .
Then , as now , many African-Americans complained about police misconduct .
The P.B.A.
, which renamed itself the Police Benevolent Association last year , bitterly resisted adding civilians to the board .
When the City Council held a hearing on civilian review , the union mounted a five-thousand-member picket line in protest .
The P.B.A .
then organized a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
It put up posters showing a young white woman exiting a subway and heading onto a dark , deserted street .
“ The Civilian Review Board must be stopped , ” the poster read .
“ Her life .
.
.
your life .
.
.
may depend on it .
.
.
.
[ A ] police officer must not hesitate .
If he does .
.
.
the security and safety of your family may be jeopardized.
” As the vote approached , the P.B.A.
’ s president , John @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , declaring , “ I ’ m sick and tired of giving in to minority groups with their whims and their gripes and shouting.
” Lindsay , the American Civil Liberties Union , and New York ’ s two senators—the Republican Jacob Javits and the Democrat Robert F. Kennedy—opposed the P.B.A.-backed referendum .
In a humbling defeat for liberals , sixty-three per cent of New Yorkers voted to abolish the review board .
Across the U.S. , a similar dynamic played out .
First , many cities followed New York ’ s lead @ @ @ @ @ @ @ unions .
Initially , newly established unions focussed on winning better wages and benefits .
A major recession in the early eighties and the anti-tax fervor of the Reagan era caused budget crunches in many cities .
Local leaders told police unions and other public-sector unions that they had little money for raises .
In turn , the police demanded increased protections for officers facing disciplinary proceedings .

Police unions have long had a singular—and divisive—place in American labor. What is different at this fraught moment, however, is that these unions, long considered untouchable, due to their extraordinary power on the streets and among politicians, face a potential reckoning, as their conduct roils not just one city but the entire nation. Since the nineteen-sixties, when police unions first became like traditional unions and won the right to bargain collectively, they have had a controversial history. And recent studies suggest that their political and bargaining power has enabled them to win disciplinary systems so lax that they have helped increase police abuses in the United States.
A 2018 University of Oxford study of the hundred largest American cities found that the extent of protections in police contracts was directly and positively correlated with police violence and other abuses against citizens. A 2019 University of Chicago study found that extending collective-bargaining rights to Florida sheriffs’ deputies led to a forty per cent statewide increase in cases of violent misconduct—translating to nearly twelve additional such incidents annually.
In a forthcoming study, Rob Gillezeau, a professor and researcher, concluded that, from the nineteen-fifties to the nineteen-eighties, the ability of police to collectively bargain led to a substantial rise in police killings of civilians, with a greater impact on people of color. “With the caveat that this is very early work,” Gillezeau wrote on Twitter, on May 30th, “it looks like collective bargaining rights are being used to protect the ability of officers to discriminate in the disproportionate use of force against the non-white population.”
Other studies revealed that many existing mechanisms for disciplining police are toothless. WBEZ, a Chicago radio station, found that, between 2007 and 2015, Chicago’s Independent Police Review Authority investigated four hundred shootings by police and deemed the officers justified in all but two incidents. Since 2012, when Minneapolis replaced its civilian review board with an Office of Police Conduct Review, the public has filed more than twenty-six hundred misconduct complaints, yet only twelve resulted in a police officer being punished. The most severe penalty: a forty-hour suspension. When the St. Paul Pioneer Press reviewed appeals involving terminations from 2014 to 2019, it discovered that arbitrators ruled in favor of the discharged police and corrections officers and ordered them reinstated forty-six per cent of the time. (Non-law-enforcement workers were reinstated at a similar rate.) For those demanding more accountability, a large obstacle is that disciplinary actions are often overturned if an arbitrator finds that the penalty the department meted out is tougher than it was in a similar, previous case—no matter if the penalty in the previous case seemed far too lenient.
To critics, all of this highlights that the disciplinary process for law enforcement is woefully broken, and that police unions have far too much power. They contend that robust protections, including qualified immunity, give many police officers a sense of impunity—an attitude exemplified by Derek Chauvin keeping his knee on George Floyd’s neck for nearly nine minutes, even as onlookers pleaded with him to stop. “We’re at a place where something has to change, so that police collective bargaining no longer contributes to police violence,” Benjamin Sachs, a labor-law professor at Harvard, told me. Sachs said that bargaining on “matters of discipline, especially related to the use of force, has insulated police officers from accountability, and that predictably can increase the problem.”
For decades, members of the public have complained about police violence and police unions, and a relatively recent development—mobile-phone videos—has sparked even more public anger. These complaints grew with the killings of Eric Garner, Laquan McDonald, Walter Scott, Tamir Rice, Philando Castile, and many others. Each time, there were protests and urgent calls for police reform, but the matter blew over. Until the horrific killing of George Floyd.
Historians often talk of two distinct genealogies for policing in the North and in the South, and both help to explain the crisis that the police and its unions find themselves in today. Northern cities began to establish police departments in the eighteen-thirties; by the end of the century, many had become best known for using ruthless force to crush labor agitation and strikes, an aim to which they were pushed by the industrial and financial élite. In 1886, the Chicago police killed four strikers and injured dozens more at the McCormick Reaper Works. In the South, policing has very different roots: slave patrols, in which white men brutally enforced slave codes, checking to see whether black people had proper passes whenever they were off their masters’ estates and often beating them if they did something the patrols didn’t like. Khalil Gibran Muhammad, a historian at Harvard, said that the patrols “were explicit in their design to empower the entire white population” to control “the movements of black people.”
At the turn of the twentieth century, many police officers—frustrated, like other workers, with low pay and long hours—formed fraternal associations, rather than unions, to seek better conditions—mayors and police commissioners insisted that the police had no more right to join a union than did soldiers and sailors. In 1897, a group of Cleveland police officers sought to form a union and petitioned the American Federation of Labor—founded in 1886, with Samuel Gompers as its first president—to grant them a union charter. The A.F.L. rejected them, saying, “It is not within the province of the trade union movement to especially organize policemen, no more than to organize militiamen, as both policemen and militiamen are often controlled by forces inimical to the labor movement.”
After the First World War, millions of workers began protesting that their wages lagged far behind inflation, and many police officers got swept up in the ferment. In 1919, Boston’s city police applied to the A.F.L. for a charter; they were angry about their meagre salaries and having to pay hundreds of dollars for uniforms. The police commissioner, Edwin Upton Curtis, forbade his officers from joining any outside organization other than patriotic groups, such as the American Legion. The police proceeded to unionize, and Curtis suspended nineteen of the union’s leaders for insubordination. When most of the city’s fifteen hundred police officers walked off the job, rioting and widespread looting engulfed the city. Curtis fired eleven hundred strikers, and Calvin Coolidge, who was then the governor of Massachusetts, supported his hard line, saying, “There is no right to strike against the public safety by anybody, anywhere, anytime.” Coolidge’s stance thrust him into the national spotlight. He went on to serve as Vice-President and President.
For decades, that stance deterred police unionization. But, in the nineteen-fifties and sixties, with private-sector unions winning middle-class wages and solid benefits for millions of workers, police officers again started rumbling for a union. Their fraternal orders weren’t doing enough; the police wanted collective bargaining. Officers became increasingly impatient, and militant. In the early sixties, police engaged in a work slowdown in New York and a sit-in in Detroit.
In 1964, New York’s mayor, Robert F. Wagner, Jr., blessed a compromise between his police commissioner and the Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association. The P.B.A. renounced the right to strike and was recognized as the bargaining agent for the city’s police. Wagner had previously agreed to bargain with other municipal unions, but he had held off with the police, because of its singular role and of fears that officers might strike. (The National Labor Relations Act of 1935—sponsored by Wagner’s father, Senator Robert F. Wagner, Sr.—gave most private-sector workers a federal right to unionize and collectively bargain, but left it up to individual states and cities to decide whether to grant the same rights to government employees.) As a full-fledged union, the P.B.A. didn’t wait long to declare war against any push for increased accountability. In 1966, New York’s new mayor, John V. Lindsay, after being pressed by the Congress of Racial Equality, added four civilian members to the city’s Civilian Complaint Review Board; the original three members were deputy police commissioners. Then, as now, many African-Americans complained about police misconduct. The P.B.A., which renamed itself the Police Benevolent Association last year, bitterly resisted adding civilians to the board. When the City Council held a hearing on civilian review, the union mounted a five-thousand-member picket line in protest. The P.B.A. then organized a public referendum aimed at eliminating the board. It put up posters showing a young white woman exiting a subway and heading onto a dark, deserted street. “The Civilian Review Board must be stopped,” the poster read. “Her life . . . your life . . . may depend on it. . . . [A] police officer must not hesitate. If he does . . . the security and safety of your family may be jeopardized.” As the vote approached, the P.B.A.’s president, John Cassese, had played on racial divisions, declaring, “I’m sick and tired of giving in to minority groups with their whims and their gripes and shouting.” Lindsay, the American Civil Liberties Union, and New York’s two senators—the Republican Jacob Javits and the Democrat Robert F. Kennedy—opposed the P.B.A.-backed referendum. In a humbling defeat for liberals, sixty-three per cent of New Yorkers voted to abolish the review board.
Across the U.S., a similar dynamic played out. First, many cities followed New York’s lead and agreed to bargain with their police unions. Initially, newly established unions focussed on winning better wages and benefits. A major recession in the early eighties and the anti-tax fervor of the Reagan era caused budget crunches in many cities. Local leaders told police unions and other public-sector unions that they had little money for raises. In turn, the police demanded increased protections for officers facing disciplinary proceedings.
Since the eighties, police contracts in New York and many other cities have added one protection after another that have made it harder to hold officers accountable for improper use of force or other misconduct. Such protections included keeping an officer’s disciplinary record secret, erasing an officer’s disciplinary record after a few years, or delaying any questioning of officers for twenty-four or forty-eight hours after an incident such as a police shooting. “They have these unusual protections they’ve bargained very hard for, measures that insulate them from accountability,” William P. Jones, a history professor at the University of Minnesota and the president of the Labor and Working-Class History Association, told me. Jones said that other public-employee unions have some of the same protections but that police unions “are particularly effective utilizing them in their favor.”
In 2017, a Reuters a special report on police-union contracts in eighty-two cities found that most required departments to erase disciplinary records, in some cases after only six months. Eighteen cities expunged suspensions from an officer’s record in three years or less. Anchorage, Alaska, removed demotions, suspensions, and disciplinary transfers after twenty-four months. Reuters also found that almost half of the contracts let officers accused of wrongdoing see their entire investigative file—including witness statements, photos, and videos—before being questioned, making it easier for them to finesse their way through disciplinary interrogations.
Joseph McCartin, a labor historian at Georgetown, told me that one political factor explains why police unions have won so many protections. “They have more clout than other public-sector unions, like the teachers or sanitation workers, because they have often been able to command the political support of Republicans,” he said. “That’s given them a big advantage.”
The string of police killings captured on mobile phones increased public dismay with police unions. After the killing of George Floyd, they became a pariah. Many protesters, and even some unions, including the Writers Guild of America, East, have called on the A.F.L.-C.I.O., the nation’s main labor federation, to expel the International Union of Police Associations, which represents a hundred thousand law-enforcement officers. The Association of Flight Attendants adopted a resolution demanding that police unions immediately enact policies to “actively address racism in law enforcement and especially to hold officers accountable for violence against citizens, or be removed from the Labor movement.” The Service Employees International Union, with two million members, has called for “holding public security unions accountable to racial justice,” and the Seattle area’s main labor coalition issued an ultimatum to the local police union: acknowledge and address racism in law enforcement or risk being kicked out.


newyorker--2020-06-18--John Bolton’s Baffling Anecdote About a “Rocket Man” CD

Of all the revelations contained in John R. Bolton ’ s “ The Room Where It Happened ” —a memoir of his tumultuous stint as President Trump ’ s national-security adviser—one of the goofiest and most ludicrous is that Trump was , according to Bolton , briefly but thoroughly obsessed with delivering an autographed compact disc of Elton John ’ s “ Rocket Man ” to Kim Jong Un , the Supreme Leader of North Korea .
In 2017 , Trump began referring to Kim as “ Rocket Man ” on Twitter ; it was a flippant and bizarre response @ @ @ @ @ @ @ denuclearize and its frequent missile launches .
By conveying the CD , Trump wanted Kim to know that “ Rocket Man ” was a chummy pet name—a term of endearment .
“ He definitely likes sending up rockets , doesn ’ t he ?
” Trump told reporters .
“ I like him , he likes me , we have a good relationship.
” It ’ s hard to know exactly what sort of fraternal warmth Trump thought the CD might communicate .
( It is also hard to understand what the CD @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is a song on Elton John ’ s 1972 LP “ Honky Chateau , ” not its own album .
Was it a burned CD containing a single track ?
A CD single ?
Autographed by whom ? )
In October of 2018 , Trump asked Secretary of State Mike Pompeo to make the hand-off during a trip to North Korea , but Pompeo never sat down with Kim ; the CD remained tucked into his luggage .
Trump was undeterred .
“ Getting this CD to Kim remained a high priority for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ With all the heinous , destructive , and devastating behavior described in Bolton ’ s book , the “ Rocket Man ” debacle is , of course , largely insignificant and thoroughly stupid .
The song was a hit back in 1972—Trump was just twenty-six when it came out—reaching No .
2 on the U.K. charts and No .
6 on the Hot 100 .
The lyrics were written by Bernie Taupin , John ’ s longtime collaborator , and supposedly inspired by “ The Rocket Man , ” a short story by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Lyrically , “ Rocket Man ” feels like a spiritual riff on David Bowie ’ s “ Space Oddity , ” from 1969 , in which an astronaut named Major Tom is launched into outer space and forced to reckon with the enormity ( and peril ) of his experience : “ And I ’ m floating in a most peculiar way / And the stars look very different today / For here / Am I sitting in a tin can.
” Taupin and John ’ s rocket man is also changed by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ narrator is , by his own admission , no great genius— “ And all this science I don ’ t understand / It ’ s just my job five days a week ” —and the rocket he blindly commands is a spaceship , not a nuclear missile , but the narrative particulars don ’ t seem especially germane to Trump ’ s appraisal of or affection for the song , or his idea that it should have been presented to Kim Jong Un as a kind of jocular gag gift .
It is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the song resists allegorical interpretation , or any interpretation at all .
The original “ Rocket Man ” is a lovely , aching song .
If you ’ re willing to entertain the idea that its evocation of space travel is in fact a metaphor , it ’ s possible to hear it as a story about alienation and loneliness , of feeling hopelessly disconnected from the people and places you love .
But if Bolton ’ s book inspires you to revisit the track this week—and why not ?
—I recommend @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , which was released in 1991 , for a tribute album titled “ Two Rooms : Celebrating the Songs of Elton John & Bernie Taupin.
” Bush certainly knows how to express sorrow , but her arrangement of “ Rocket Man ” is cluttered , reggae-inflected , and , when she arrives at the chorus , nearly boisterous .
Her voice—high and spectral , imbued with a sort of otherworldly wisdom—does something different with Taupin ’ s lyrics .
When she sings , “ I think it ’ s gon na be a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ becomes possible , for a moment , to believe that she ’ s singing about a sublime and welcome experience : a long , long time with something beautiful .
It ’ s a welcome fantasy .

Of all the revelations contained in John R. Bolton’s “The Room Where It Happened”—a memoir of his tumultuous stint as President Trump’s national-security adviser—one of the goofiest and most ludicrous is that Trump was, according to Bolton, briefly but thoroughly obsessed with delivering an autographed compact disc of Elton John’s “Rocket Man” to Kim Jong Un, the Supreme Leader of North Korea. In 2017, Trump began referring to Kim as “Rocket Man” on Twitter; it was a flippant and bizarre response to North Korea’s refusal to denuclearize and its frequent missile launches. By conveying the CD, Trump wanted Kim to know that “Rocket Man” was a chummy pet name—a term of endearment. “He definitely likes sending up rockets, doesn’t he?” Trump told reporters. “I like him, he likes me, we have a good relationship.”
It’s hard to know exactly what sort of fraternal warmth Trump thought the CD might communicate. (It is also hard to understand what the CD contained, exactly—“Rocket Man” is a song on Elton John’s 1972 LP “Honky Chateau,” not its own album. Was it a burned CD containing a single track? A CD single? Autographed by whom?) In October of 2018, Trump asked Secretary of State Mike Pompeo to make the hand-off during a trip to North Korea, but Pompeo never sat down with Kim; the CD remained tucked into his luggage. Trump was undeterred. “Getting this CD to Kim remained a high priority for several months,” Bolton writes.
With all the heinous, destructive, and devastating behavior described in Bolton’s book, the “Rocket Man” debacle is, of course, largely insignificant and thoroughly stupid. The song was a hit back in 1972—Trump was just twenty-six when it came out—reaching No. 2 on the U.K. charts and No. 6 on the Hot 100. The lyrics were written by Bernie Taupin, John’s longtime collaborator, and supposedly inspired by “The Rocket Man,” a short story by Ray Bradbury, published in 1951. Lyrically, “Rocket Man” feels like a spiritual riff on David Bowie’s “Space Oddity,” from 1969, in which an astronaut named Major Tom is launched into outer space and forced to reckon with the enormity (and peril) of his experience: “And I’m floating in a most peculiar way / And the stars look very different today / For here / Am I sitting in a tin can.” Taupin and John’s rocket man is also changed by his experience:
And I think it’s gonna be a long, long time
Till touchdown brings me round again to find
I’m not the man they think I am at home.
Oh, no, no, no. I’m a rocket man.
The song’s narrator is, by his own admission, no great genius—“And all this science I don’t understand / It’s just my job five days a week”—and the rocket he blindly commands is a spaceship, not a nuclear missile, but the narrative particulars don’t seem especially germane to Trump’s appraisal of or affection for the song, or his idea that it should have been presented to Kim Jong Un as a kind of jocular gag gift. It is perhaps unsurprising that Trump’s reading of the song resists allegorical interpretation, or any interpretation at all.
The original “Rocket Man” is a lovely, aching song. If you’re willing to entertain the idea that its evocation of space travel is in fact a metaphor, it’s possible to hear it as a story about alienation and loneliness, of feeling hopelessly disconnected from the people and places you love. But if Bolton’s book inspires you to revisit the track this week—and why not?—I recommend cueing up Kate Bush’s version, which was released in 1991, for a tribute album titled “Two Rooms: Celebrating the Songs of Elton John & Bernie Taupin.” Bush certainly knows how to express sorrow, but her arrangement of “Rocket Man” is cluttered, reggae-inflected, and, when she arrives at the chorus, nearly boisterous. Her voice—high and spectral, imbued with a sort of otherworldly wisdom—does something different with Taupin’s lyrics. When she sings, “I think it’s gonna be a long, long time,” it becomes possible, for a moment, to believe that she’s singing about a sublime and welcome experience: a long, long time with something beautiful. It’s a welcome fantasy.


newyorker--2020-06-18--“The Great,” Reviewed: A Proudly Fictional, Pleasurably Vulgar Spin on Catherine the Great

In his 2011 biography of Catherine the Great ( born Sophie of Anhalt-Zerbst , in Pomerania , in 1729 ) , the late historian Robert K. Massie writes of her that “ more than any other monarch of her day , there was always a wide latitude for humor.
” Perhaps it was Catherine ’ s way of “ soften [ ing ] imperial presence with a sense of humor and a quick tongue , ” as Massie puts it , that enabled her to enact one of the greatest coups d ’ état in monarchical history : in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ arriving in Saint Petersburg as a teen-age bride to the future Peter III , the ( allegedly ) impotent and ill-tempered Emperor of Russia , she orchestrated a plan to overthrow him and ascend to the throne herself .
Peter died just eight days after the coup , likely at an assassin ’ s hand , at a palace called Ropsha .
Catherine , who ruled Russia for the next thirty-four years , proclaimed that Peter ’ s cause of death was “ hemorrhoidal colic , ” and then gave Ropsha to her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ helped her devise and execute the scheme .
When it came to seizing power , the empress was deadly serious , which made her good-humored affect all the more threatening .
She was a voracious reader—of Voltaire and other Enlightenment philosophers , mostly—a hobby that sharpened her mind and her tongue .
When she arrived on Russian soil , she was a lamb .
By the time she took the throne , she was a viper .
“ The Great ” —a droll , morbid new ten-episode series about Catherine and Peter that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pretend to be historically accurate : the show ’ s title card comes with an asterisk proclaiming it to be an “ occasionally true story.
” The series ’ creator , Tony McNamara , plays fast and loose with the biographical facts that were so painstakingly recorded in Massie ’ s doorstopper .
For the sake of dramatic expediency , the series compresses Catherine ’ s sprawling , ruthless ambitions into a compact , jewel-box time frame .
The fictional Catherine , played with flinty cunning by Elle Fanning , does not wait @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
In the first episode , she looks forward to her new life as an empress with a swooning , girlish romanticism , but her outlook begins to darken almost from the moment she attends her first palace feast .
Historians tell us that Peter III was a hotheaded man who was rendered unattractive after a battle with smallpox ; he had far more passion for military stratagems than for his wife—or any other woman , for that matter .
In her memoirs , Catherine succinctly roasted him as an “ idiot.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ( Nicholas Hoult ) retains the idiocy but is also dashing and debonair , a frattish sybarite with a sadist ’ s taste for violence and an insatiable sexual appetite .
He coldly greets his bride-to-be by saying , “ You look taller in your portrait , ” after staring for long seconds at her backside .
Despite its rollicking biographical liberties , “ The Great ” does seem to preserve something of Catherine ’ s quick , curious manner .
With her rosy cheeks , wide eyes , and frothy wardrobe , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and blood-hungry the next .
By the end of the first episode , Catherine has come to see that the only way to liberate herself from a tyrant is to learn his ways ; that to escape her terrible marriage , she must become terrible herself .
In this way , “ The Great ” pleasingly avoids smearing a shiny feminist gloss over the empress ’ s story .
In the fifth episode , titled “ War and Vomit , ” Catherine visits the front lines of a Russian battlefield while carrying a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ order to pose for an official “ battle painting.
” When she offers a cookie to a bloody soldier who says that he can not take one , because he has lost his fingers , she proceeds to shove a macaron directly into his mouth .
“ It ’ s pistachio , if that ’ s helpful , ” she says .
McNamara , who wrote the screenplay for “ The Favourite , ” from 2018 , has distinguished himself with a style of royal satire that provokes moral and physical repulsion in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as a petulant , tyrannical Queen Anne , and Rachel Weisz and Emma Stone as the ladies-in-waiting warring for her attention—subverted queenly history by foregrounding Anne ’ s battles with gout and ravenous sexual demands .
It is suggested that perhaps subsisting on a regular diet of mutton and cream at a time when plumbing technology was not very advanced may have led monarchs to smell like ripe gorgonzola , and to act just as sour .
The same nauseating sense of hedonism pervades “ The Great.
” The show is ostentatiously vulgar @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” into nearly every scene , as if it is fine seasoning ) and gross ( I gasped when the archbishop , having informed Catherine that he must check whether her “ interior wall has been breached , ” reaches up to moisten two fingers in his mouth ) .
Excess and violence are horrifically intertwined .
In a late episode , Peter , afraid that someone is planning to overthrow him , sets up five “ torture stations ” at the palace to try to smoke out the traitor .
“ This @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the court doctor , surveying the scene from a balcony .
In order to prove that she is no traitor ( even though she absolutely is one ) , Catherine offers to sit at the fingernail-pulling station herself .
The ensuing closeup , of Fanning writhing in pain , is enough to turn your stomach , but it also makes a point .
Nobody is spared in Peter ’ s palace , least of all his flaxen bride .
The show is , despite all this , somehow a comedy , full of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Women are for seeding , not reading , ” Peter tells Catherine , early in the show .
Later , she reads him a passage by Diderot : “ Man will never be free until the last king has been strangled with the entrails of the last priest.
” ) It is also a visual feast , with lavish set dressings and richly colored costumes .
I couldn ’ t help thinking , as I watched , that given the global halt in film production due to the pandemic , “ The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ period piece to be released this year .
There are fatty pheasants and cookie towers , hunting expeditions and ballroom escapades .
Hoult prances around in animal pelts , waistcoats , and a comically large cross necklace , looking like a spoiled little boy who raided his mother ’ s fairy box .
When Catherine tells him to listen to his people and give them what they want , he snorts , “ What they want ?
It ’ s a novel idea .
Possibly French ?
” “ I am a prisoner @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Catherine says , in a line that echoes the assessment in her memoirs .
Like “ The Favourite , ” “ The Great ” extends great sympathy to its monarch , held captive in a life she did not choose , while also mercilessly skewering her ruthlessness and misplaced largesse .
The show may not be historically accurate , but it slices through history like a hot poker , to royalty ’ s rancid core .

With her rosy cheeks, wide eyes, and frothy wardrobe, Elle Fanning, as Catherine, can look absolutely guileless one second and blood-hungry the next. Photograph by Ollie Upton / Hulu
In his 2011 biography of Catherine the Great (born Sophie of Anhalt-Zerbst, in Pomerania, in 1729), the late historian Robert K. Massie writes of her that “more than any other monarch of her day, there was always a wide latitude for humor.” Perhaps it was Catherine’s way of “soften[ing] imperial presence with a sense of humor and a quick tongue,” as Massie puts it, that enabled her to enact one of the greatest coups d’état in monarchical history: in the summer of 1762, eighteen years after arriving in Saint Petersburg as a teen-age bride to the future Peter III, the (allegedly) impotent and ill-tempered Emperor of Russia, she orchestrated a plan to overthrow him and ascend to the throne herself. Peter died just eight days after the coup, likely at an assassin’s hand, at a palace called Ropsha. Catherine, who ruled Russia for the next thirty-four years, proclaimed that Peter’s cause of death was “hemorrhoidal colic,” and then gave Ropsha to her lover, Grigory Orlov, who had helped her devise and execute the scheme. When it came to seizing power, the empress was deadly serious, which made her good-humored affect all the more threatening. She was a voracious reader—of Voltaire and other Enlightenment philosophers, mostly—a hobby that sharpened her mind and her tongue. When she arrived on Russian soil, she was a lamb. By the time she took the throne, she was a viper.
“The Great”—a droll, morbid new ten-episode series about Catherine and Peter that started streaming on Hulu last month—does not pretend to be historically accurate: the show’s title card comes with an asterisk proclaiming it to be an “occasionally true story.” The series’ creator, Tony McNamara, plays fast and loose with the biographical facts that were so painstakingly recorded in Massie’s doorstopper. For the sake of dramatic expediency, the series compresses Catherine’s sprawling, ruthless ambitions into a compact, jewel-box time frame. The fictional Catherine, played with flinty cunning by Elle Fanning, does not wait almost two decades before staging her revolt. In the first episode, she looks forward to her new life as an empress with a swooning, girlish romanticism, but her outlook begins to darken almost from the moment she attends her first palace feast. Historians tell us that Peter III was a hotheaded man who was rendered unattractive after a battle with smallpox; he had far more passion for military stratagems than for his wife—or any other woman, for that matter. In her memoirs, Catherine succinctly roasted him as an “idiot.” In “The Great,” Peter (Nicholas Hoult) retains the idiocy but is also dashing and debonair, a frattish sybarite with a sadist’s taste for violence and an insatiable sexual appetite. He coldly greets his bride-to-be by saying, “You look taller in your portrait,” after staring for long seconds at her backside.
Despite its rollicking biographical liberties, “The Great” does seem to preserve something of Catherine’s quick, curious manner. With her rosy cheeks, wide eyes, and frothy wardrobe, Fanning can look absolutely guileless one second and blood-hungry the next. By the end of the first episode, Catherine has come to see that the only way to liberate herself from a tyrant is to learn his ways; that to escape her terrible marriage, she must become terrible herself. In this way, “The Great” pleasingly avoids smearing a shiny feminist gloss over the empress’s story. In the fifth episode, titled “War and Vomit,” Catherine visits the front lines of a Russian battlefield while carrying a Tiffany-blue box full of macarons, in order to pose for an official “battle painting.” When she offers a cookie to a bloody soldier who says that he cannot take one, because he has lost his fingers, she proceeds to shove a macaron directly into his mouth. “It’s pistachio, if that’s helpful,” she says.
McNamara, who wrote the screenplay for “The Favourite,” from 2018, has distinguished himself with a style of royal satire that provokes moral and physical repulsion in equal measure. That film—starring Olivia Colman as a petulant, tyrannical Queen Anne, and Rachel Weisz and Emma Stone as the ladies-in-waiting warring for her attention—subverted queenly history by foregrounding Anne’s battles with gout and ravenous sexual demands. It is suggested that perhaps subsisting on a regular diet of mutton and cream at a time when plumbing technology was not very advanced may have led monarchs to smell like ripe gorgonzola, and to act just as sour. The same nauseating sense of hedonism pervades “The Great.” The show is ostentatiously vulgar (McNamara peppers the word “cunt” into nearly every scene, as if it is fine seasoning) and gross (I gasped when the archbishop, having informed Catherine that he must check whether her “interior wall has been breached,” reaches up to moisten two fingers in his mouth). Excess and violence are horrifically intertwined. In a late episode, Peter, afraid that someone is planning to overthrow him, sets up five “torture stations” at the palace to try to smoke out the traitor. “This looks great!” he says to the court doctor, surveying the scene from a balcony. In order to prove that she is no traitor (even though she absolutely is one), Catherine offers to sit at the fingernail-pulling station herself. The ensuing closeup, of Fanning writhing in pain, is enough to turn your stomach, but it also makes a point. Nobody is spared in Peter’s palace, least of all his flaxen bride.
The show is, despite all this, somehow a comedy, full of vituperative one-liners and thistle-sharp insults. (“Women are for seeding, not reading,” Peter tells Catherine, early in the show. Later, she reads him a passage by Diderot: “Man will never be free until the last king has been strangled with the entrails of the last priest.”) It is also a visual feast, with lavish set dressings and richly colored costumes. I couldn’t help thinking, as I watched, that given the global halt in film production due to the pandemic, “The Great” may be the last over-the-top period piece to be released this year. There are fatty pheasants and cookie towers, hunting expeditions and ballroom escapades. Hoult prances around in animal pelts, waistcoats, and a comically large cross necklace, looking like a spoiled little boy who raided his mother’s fairy box. When Catherine tells him to listen to his people and give them what they want, he snorts, “What they want? It’s a novel idea. Possibly French?” “I am a prisoner here, married to an idiot,” Catherine says, in a line that echoes the assessment in her memoirs. Like “The Favourite,” “The Great” extends great sympathy to its monarch, held captive in a life she did not choose, while also mercilessly skewering her ruthlessness and misplaced largesse. The show may not be historically accurate, but it slices through history like a hot poker, to royalty’s rancid core.