newyorker--2020-08-17--“Cicadia,” by David Gilbert

“Cicadia,” by David Gilbert

“ I have no idea how to roll a joint , ” Ben says from the front seat of the Rabbit .
“ Just roll it in the rolling paper , ” Rodney tells him .
“ Yeah , yeah , I ’ m doing that , but it falls apart.
” “ Have you licked it ?
Like , licked the paper ?
” Ben angles his head down .
Then stops himself .
“ Are you messing with me ?
” “ How would I be messing with you ?
” “ I don ’ t know .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ never mind.
” Ben starts over again , his fingers and tongue trying to massage the joint into shape , and Max pokes in from the back seat by saying , “ Looks like you ’ re nibbling on a tiny ear of corn , ” which is an innocent enough comment , but Max still regrets how he sounds , all dismissive and snide , full of ridicule for no good reason .
Just as he regrets calling Rodney pizza face in the pizza parlor ( that was mean and stupid ) @ @ @ @ @ @ @ destined to marry a rich douche bag ( that was mean but accurate ) and regrets asking his dad how they could be related when all his dad wanted was for Max to join him at the Reds game ( that was mean , though , in fairness , his dad was wearing his size-too-small Johnny Bench jersey and holding up a foam “ We ’ re # 1 ” finger ) .
Poor Dad .
Grabbing Max by the shoulders and fake-throttling him .
And Max could feel the man ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ resentment , and , even worse , his melancholy over losing this boy who was once up for anything Dad-related .
Max squirming to get away .
As if parents were pervs .
His dad finally releasing him and performing a coup de grâce with that foam finger to the chest .
The Max inside Max sighs .
Wishes he could run back into the belly of Old Spice and Marlboros .
But Dad is done , and what ’ s been done can only be redone .
The memories Max lugs around @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sloshing near the rim as he tries to navigate another day without getting soaked .
The constant reckoning .
Even the street lights on Observatory Avenue are in synch with this theme , hanging over the road like gallows , suggesting punishment from some unseen tyrant .
This was an early impression Max has never been able to shake , and now it ’ s permanently etched into this drive : ghost bodies swaying above the traffic .
But nowadays Max pushes for Rodney to go faster through this stretch of road and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the wink from the girl in the red beret .
A definite wink .
As she raised two watermelon wine coolers into the air .
Max has only recently noticed her .
Like , really noticed her .
In the last dozen soundings of this summer night .
She was standing in the background , on the outer edge of his imagination , with the other nameless girls drinking by the fridge as the Talking Heads sang about warning signs—oh , man , what an opening that song has , with the drums @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the killer bass line .
Chris and Tina .
Max thinks of them fondly , as if they were pals .
And it ’ s one of those songs Max has to listen to over and over , the way it opens him up , like deep down , revealing him to himself , the uncanny pleasure becoming a compulsion , more , more , more , listening on repeat until all the raised hairs have been plucked and he can move on , scrubbed and numbed .
Max is shocked at how @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
It seems inconceivable .
This girl in the red beret , this winking girl .
But afterward he always notices her and always looks extra hard when he ’ s looking in her general direction , as if she might shrug and step forward .
There seems to be an unspoken rapport between them .
And he can swear her winks are evolving .
Shifting from theatrical to sarcastic to ironic to playful and then circling back to innocent .
A wink wrapped in winks .
And maybe she ’ s getting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from the fridge , a statue reflecting its internal manic entropy .
Smiling wider .
Or grimacing with a sense of humor .
Or , better yet , with a sense of the absurd .
Here we go again .
The most recent addition to his mental scrapbook was the sight of her chin tilting as if she could hear him loitering beneath her window , collecting pebbles .
What ’ re you doing down there ?
And Max ’ s insides turned into Alka-Seltzer .
All this spooky attraction at a distance @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his eyes trying to reach back toward the fridge .
And then he goes upstairs with Rodney and Ben and never sees her again , even after he slugs Blaine and Blaine falls into the pool and everyone cheers except the girl with the red beret , who ’ s gone .
But gone where ?
Come back , please .
She has a round face .
Short black hair .
A pale complexion .
Every frame of her might as well have been snipped from its source and taped to the walls @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Bow-shaped lips .
Freckles straddling her nose .
She seems to flutter with mutual conspiracy .
As if they were prisoners planning an escape , passing notes between their eyes .
Maybe she ’ s French .
So step on it , Rodney , the it never wavering above forty miles per hour .
And either way they ’ ll soon get lost and have to ask directions from the man walking his golden retriever .
Because Max and Rodney and Ben are heading into unfamiliar territory : the land of rich @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Izod shirts and lit-from-within hair , none of these Hardys or Chips or Sheps working over the summer , except on their tennis and golf swings at Kenwood , where Max and Rodney and Ben labor as their wombats for three-thirty-five an hour .
Ben does a few more twists and licks and then presents the joint in behold fashion .
“ Seems a bit pudgy in the middle , ” Rodney says .
“ But it does have a joint-like presence.
” Max always liked that line .
A joint-like presence .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ anything , they maintain a certain uncontaminated existence , mainly so that they can talk shit about everyone else .
By far their greatest obsession is their own tight bond , which started in second grade and now seems biological , like when Rodney chugged his RC Cola and Ben burped .
And yet Max can sense himself separating .
He ’ s always prided himself on his straight B-minus persona : tests and papers crafted into meticulous examples of average work .
It was almost like an art project .
But this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mistake racked a near-perfect score , and while this was laughable , he was curious , maybe even pissed , about the few questions he missed .
I mean , what the fuck ?
So he ’ s decided to try this fall .
Like , really try .
Apply himself .
Realize his full potential .
His newest art project is to get into Yale , all because of Blaine and his inescapable Yale crew-neck T-shirt , Blaine strutting around as if he were already accepted , Blaine and his Yalie father @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Labrador retriever named Davenport .
This summer Max has put down Stephen King and Philip K. Dick and Robert A. Heinlein and picked up Kafka and Schulz and Borges and Burroughs and whatever else Lou Reed recommended in that article .
Oh , and the other thing : Max has grown six inches in the past eighteen months , his baby fat acting like rocket fuel .
He went from boy to man in a disorienting flash , his shins and knees aching as if he had climbed twenty flights of stairs .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ world might be bigger than the world of Rodney and Ben and southwest Ohio , which was always a shit hole but now seems braided with the limited fate of his friends .
Max suspects that he ’ s bound for something better .
Like an actual life .
Max in Chicago .
Max in New York or L.A .
He has visions of being a writer .
He ’ s been reading “ The Metamorphosis ” and nodding a lot .
Yeah , ridiculous , Max thinks , as the Rabbit passes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ same stretch of Observatory Avenue , the same boy in the back seat of the same Country Squire station wagon lifting his hand and waving .
Like Max is seeing Max .
Damned by the gods .
A suburban Sisyphus and Cincinnati is his rock .
Nobody ’ s getting older , but we ’ re all aging , or so Max thinks as he waves back .

Audio available Listen to this story Audio: David Gilbert reads.
There was once a beginning and it involved sprinklers and green grass, but that happened a long time ago. Right now it’s Saturday night, the night of the big night, in the eternal return of suburban Cincinnati, summer of 1986. The neighborhood in question could be Indian Hill. Or Oakley. Or Stetson Square. Though in reality it’s Hyde Park that the boys are driving through, fresh from their stop at Graeter’s Ice Cream, which might elicit a few nods from the locals in the know—Graeter’s and its black-raspberry chocolate chip, the flavor of choice for all three boys. They lick their cones in almost comedic unison. Like they’re ten again. Speed three-fourths of pleasure. Feeling the cold against the humid air, the sweet smooth taste on their tongues, the tart undertones, the bits of chocolate like smaller deeper holes, like memories within memories. No matter how familiar, this moment is still a delight. Best friends cruising together. On the cusp of senior year. The sky water-colored in dark blues and grays and blacks, the moon eyeballing them through the clouds. On the radio, “I Got You” by the Split Enz, which could’ve been playing on the radio of every car on every street, the sound so big, so all-encompassing, filling the night with its fear and longing, its something wrong:
I got you, that’s all I want
I won’t forget, that’s a whole lot
As usual, Max sits by himself in the back seat, while up front Rodney guides his banged-up Rabbit along Observatory Avenue, and Ben attempts to roll a joint from the bag of weed they stole earlier from Rodney’s older brother. It’s a classic scene, well remembered: the three of them sneaking into Oscar’s room while Oscar naps, huge and hairy and half-naked in bed, resembling an ogre in an Ohio State football jersey. The boys tiptoe about like secret agents, rifle through Oscar’s bureau, his desk, his bedside table, his closet, wherever he might stash his stash in this wreck of a room. Dirty laundry litters the floor, the walls decorated with posters of girls and cars and girls on cars and that blown-away Maxell-tape dude, which Max always notices, because his name is in there, but also because Max is the designated philosopher in this group and he appreciates how life moves pretty fast, regardless of high fidelity. Next summer will be the summer before college, before everything changes. Not that Max believes this anymore, as he watches himself go through the motions of searching for the weed. Looking here, looking there. Discovering the Penthouse and the Lubriderm and the discarded tube sock. Check, check, and check. Max is relieved when this part is done, even as his expression never wavers from slapstick repulsion. What used to seem funny and disgusting now just seems small and human and maybe even tender. So Oscar chokes the chicken. Perhaps a lot. Big fucking deal. And yet here they are giggling for the millionth time. Max tries to distract himself by taking note of the minor details in the background of Oscar’s room. The records, the books, the clutter on the bureau, things through which he might discover the hidden Oscar. The trumpet always intrigues him. As does the Evel Knievel action figure: all those failed attempts, all those broken bones. Meanwhile, Ben and Rodney are waving their hands against the primal Oscar stench, which Oscar escalates by passing gas in his sleep, the resulting fart like a bee escaping his asshole. A large, fat bee. It stings Ben in the nose, Ben who’s squeamish, who gags, and Rodney mimes cracking up, Rodney who’s easily amused, and Ben slaps Rodney, and Rodney slaps Ben, and back and forth they go, slap-slap-slap, the two of them always getting into ridiculous slap fights, until Oscar starts to rustle and snort, and all three boys freeze, because if Oscar wakes up and discovers these fudge packers snooping around his room, let alone trying to steal his weed, well, he’ll massacre them.
In this charged atmosphere, Max stares at his friends, like really stares at them, Rodney with his front tooth perfectly chipped, as if Pythagoras lived in his mouth, Ben with his pinch-pot face. Once again Max tries to communicate something meaningful, something real beyond the repetition, the eyes behind his eyes attempting to pierce the eyes behind their eyes. You guys in there? You with me? Max sort of whispering without whispering. Hello, hello? Like NASA sending those messages into outer space. And sometimes Max thinks he catches a murmur of something. An alien crackle in the static. Like earlier, when they went swimming in the old quarry and experienced the never-boring bliss of sunning themselves on those rocks. They could’ve been ancient creatures, immutable yet resigned to the daily grind. Tortoises, maybe. Or the cicadas buzzing in the trees, electrifying the air after seventeen years underground. Kindred bug spirits just wanting to get laid. Or, as Rodney put it, in full fuck mode, Rodney’s arms and legs spread-eagled, his skin covered in almost ludicrous levels of acne. And that’s when Ben chimed in with: Imagine if we were fags, we’d be fucking each other non-stop. Even the cicadas seem thrown by this sentiment. Of course, Rodney and Max tease Ben about his inverted logic, but this time around Max could swear he heard something different in Ben’s tone, as if the same chords were strummed but with more feeling, transmitting a simple yet sincere truth to his friends: I love you guys, like, with all my heart. And Max wants to respond in kind, wants to tell Ben he finally understands—I love you, too—but Max is stuck with the same old wisecracks as Ben gets up and jumps into the water, and Rodney yawps and dives in after, and Max stands by the edge in typical Max-musing fashion. How many boys and how many years have been swallowed up by this pit? And here they are, splashing around yet again, whatever offense already forgotten. Max steps off the edge. The rush of falling is always a thrill, the fast never getting faster before ending with the Max-shaped flume and Max weightless underwater. Like being born in reverse. Listening for other heartbeats in the hydrosphere. But back in the stink of Oscar’s room there are no signs of extraterrestrial life from Rodney or Ben, just the normal geek routine as Oscar rolls on his belly and returns to his midday nap. Soon Max finds the weed where he always finds the weed—stuffed in a box of scented Kleenex—and they’re gone.
“I have no idea how to roll a joint,” Ben says from the front seat of the Rabbit.
“Just roll it in the rolling paper,” Rodney tells him.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m doing that, but it falls apart.”
“Have you licked it? Like, licked the paper?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve licked it,” Ben says.
“Did you lick it enough?”
“Um, I think I did.”
“Maybe lick it some more.”
Ben angles his head down. Then stops himself. “Are you messing with me?”
“How would I be messing with you?”
“I don’t know . . . you know . . . never mind.”
Ben starts over again, his fingers and tongue trying to massage the joint into shape, and Max pokes in from the back seat by saying, “Looks like you’re nibbling on a tiny ear of corn,” which is an innocent enough comment, but Max still regrets how he sounds, all dismissive and snide, full of ridicule for no good reason. Just as he regrets calling Rodney pizza face in the pizza parlor (that was mean and stupid) and regrets telling Claire she’s destined to marry a rich douche bag (that was mean but accurate) and regrets asking his dad how they could be related when all his dad wanted was for Max to join him at the Reds game (that was mean, though, in fairness, his dad was wearing his size-too-small Johnny Bench jersey and holding up a foam “We’re #1” finger). Poor Dad. Grabbing Max by the shoulders and fake-throttling him. And Max could feel the man’s enduring affection, and his lack of resentment, and, even worse, his melancholy over losing this boy who was once up for anything Dad-related. Max squirming to get away. As if parents were pervs. His dad finally releasing him and performing a coup de grâce with that foam finger to the chest. The Max inside Max sighs. Wishes he could run back into the belly of Old Spice and Marlboros. But Dad is done, and what’s been done can only be redone. The memories Max lugs around seem to fill a bucket, everything sloshing near the rim as he tries to navigate another day without getting soaked. The constant reckoning. Even the street lights on Observatory Avenue are in synch with this theme, hanging over the road like gallows, suggesting punishment from some unseen tyrant. This was an early impression Max has never been able to shake, and now it’s permanently etched into this drive: ghost bodies swaying above the traffic. But nowadays Max pushes for Rodney to go faster through this stretch of road and launch them straight into the party and the wink from the girl in the red beret. A definite wink. As she raised two watermelon wine coolers into the air. Max has only recently noticed her. Like, really noticed her. In the last dozen soundings of this summer night. She was standing in the background, on the outer edge of his imagination, with the other nameless girls drinking by the fridge as the Talking Heads sang about warning signs—oh, man, what an opening that song has, with the drums, phaser on snare, and then the killer bass line. Chris and Tina. Max thinks of them fondly, as if they were pals. And it’s one of those songs Max has to listen to over and over, the way it opens him up, like deep down, revealing him to himself, the uncanny pleasure becoming a compulsion, more, more, more, listening on repeat until all the raised hairs have been plucked and he can move on, scrubbed and numbed. Max is shocked at how he could’ve missed this girl. It seems inconceivable. This girl in the red beret, this winking girl. But afterward he always notices her and always looks extra hard when he’s looking in her general direction, as if she might shrug and step forward. There seems to be an unspoken rapport between them. And he can swear her winks are evolving. Shifting from theatrical to sarcastic to ironic to playful and then circling back to innocent. A wink wrapped in winks. And maybe she’s getting closer by the micron. Breaking away from the fridge, a statue reflecting its internal manic entropy. Smiling wider. Or grimacing with a sense of humor. Or, better yet, with a sense of the absurd. Here we go again. The most recent addition to his mental scrapbook was the sight of her chin tilting as if she could hear him loitering beneath her window, collecting pebbles. What’re you doing down there? And Max’s insides turned into Alka-Seltzer. All this spooky attraction at a distance while he babbles on with Claire, his eyes trying to reach back toward the fridge. And then he goes upstairs with Rodney and Ben and never sees her again, even after he slugs Blaine and Blaine falls into the pool and everyone cheers except the girl with the red beret, who’s gone. But gone where? Come back, please. She has a round face. Short black hair. A pale complexion. Every frame of her might as well have been snipped from its source and taped to the walls of his memory, arrows charting connections. Bow-shaped lips. Freckles straddling her nose. She seems to flutter with mutual conspiracy. As if they were prisoners planning an escape, passing notes between their eyes. Maybe she’s French. So step on it, Rodney, the it never wavering above forty miles per hour. And either way they’ll soon get lost and have to ask directions from the man walking his golden retriever. Because Max and Rodney and Ben are heading into unfamiliar territory: the land of rich preppies, with their popped collars and Izod shirts and lit-from-within hair, none of these Hardys or Chips or Sheps working over the summer, except on their tennis and golf swings at Kenwood, where Max and Rodney and Ben labor as their wombats for three-thirty-five an hour.


newyorker--2020-08-17--Be Your Own Bubble Boy

Be Your Own Bubble Boy

Under quarantine , some people feel like they ’ ve turned into the proverbial boy in the plastic bubble ; others are desperately trying to turn into him .
The other day , a New York City quarantiner used one of his online purchases ( electric air pump , $ 38.66 ) to inflate a second one ( four-foot-wide plastic wearable bumper ball , $ 117 ) , before it dawned on him that his apartment ’ s narrow doorway would not permit egress .
D ’ oh !
Remembering the scene from the Laurence Olivier film “ Henry V @ @ @ @ @ @ @ full armor , is lowered onto his horse with a winch , the quarantiner deflated his bubble ball a bit , put it on his fire escape , reinflated it , and then lowered it four flights down to the sidewalk with a piece of twine .
Huzzah .
The bubble , which has a column of air through its middle , like a tall doughnut , weighs eighteen pounds and , when worn , extends from the quarantiner ’ s hips to six inches above his head .
Though the bubble , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , is considered a toy or a sporting good , the online customer reviews for bubble balls suggest a broader range of uses : “ Fun way to tire out your kids.
” “ Great for couples therapy.
” “ Like a mini-vacation in a terrarium of your own sweat.
” The quarantiner had a different application in mind : extreme hygiene .
“ You ’ re looking at the future , or some version of it , ” he said , in greeting , to the proprietor of a deli .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t fit through your doorway.
” The deli man smiled and said , “ Maybe I squeeze you.
” No amount of squeezing would have helped the quarantiner—who wore a mask under the bubble—to gain entrance to a nearby market .
Outside , a kind passerby in a wheelchair consoled him : “ That ’ s a tough store anyway—very narrow aisles.
” The quarantiner did manage to squeak through the doors of the Morton Williams grocery store on Bleecker Street , but shopping was cumbersome , because his arms were grasping the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ To put a package of mozzarella into his shopping basket , he had to wriggle an arm out from under the bubble and then skyhook the cheese .
In the process , he knocked over a display of stroopwafels .
At the checkout , the quarantiner accidentally exposed his head when he was compelled to lift the bubble over one of the store ’ s Plexiglas sneeze shields ; he thought about Shelley Winters in “ The Poseidon Adventure.
” The quarantiner called up Andrew Akers , a New Zealander who , in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ der Sluis , built a Zorb in his garage and went on to pioneer commercial Zorbing .
Had biocontainment been on Akers ’ s mind when he made his Zorb ?
“ Not at all !
” he said .
“ We only thought about rolling people down hills .
No redeeming features.
” Did he have any advice for the quarantiner ?
“ Don ’ t let anyone sneeze on your bubble.
” Although most people ’ s reactions to the quarantiner ’ s bubble were positive—one night , a drunk , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ You look like how I feel !
” —there were occasional lows .
“ Can I kick you ?
” a young man in Washington Square Park wondered aloud .
At the Union Square farmers ’ market , an elderly woman stared diagnostically , before offering up the information that the coronavirus can live on plastic .
For context , the quarantiner re-watched the overripe 1976 TV movie “ The Boy in the Plastic Bubble , ” starring John Travolta .
He loved the scene in which Buzz Aldrin , the astronaut @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , “ The thing I remember most was the loss of freedom .
I felt like I was in a fishbowl.
” Then the quarantiner called Jorge Gutierrez , the owner of Knockerball NYC—which rents out bumper balls to groups—for advice on navigating doorways .
Gutierrez suggested , “ Butter it up.
” The next day , back in the bubble , the quarantiner squeaked through the unforgiving entryway of a Citibank A.T.M .
vestibule ; a pedestrian stared with equal parts glee and terror .
“ I ’ m not a bank @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ I ’ m just trying not to resort to butter.
” ♦

Illustration by João Fazenda
Under quarantine, some people feel like they’ve turned into the proverbial boy in the plastic bubble; others are desperately trying to turn into him. The other day, a New York City quarantiner used one of his online purchases (electric air pump, $38.66) to inflate a second one (four-foot-wide plastic wearable bumper ball, $117), before it dawned on him that his apartment’s narrow doorway would not permit egress. D’oh! Remembering the scene from the Laurence Olivier film “Henry V” in which a knight, in full armor, is lowered onto his horse with a winch, the quarantiner deflated his bubble ball a bit, put it on his fire escape, reinflated it, and then lowered it four flights down to the sidewalk with a piece of twine. Huzzah.
The bubble, which has a column of air through its middle, like a tall doughnut, weighs eighteen pounds and, when worn, extends from the quarantiner’s hips to six inches above his head. Though the bubble, like its more immersive predecessor the Zorb, is considered a toy or a sporting good, the online customer reviews for bubble balls suggest a broader range of uses: “Fun way to tire out your kids.” “Great for couples therapy.” “Like a mini-vacation in a terrarium of your own sweat.”
The quarantiner had a different application in mind: extreme hygiene. “You’re looking at the future, or some version of it,” he said, in greeting, to the proprietor of a deli. “But, unfortunately, I can’t fit through your doorway.” The deli man smiled and said, “Maybe I squeeze you.”
No amount of squeezing would have helped the quarantiner—who wore a mask under the bubble—to gain entrance to a nearby market. Outside, a kind passerby in a wheelchair consoled him: “That’s a tough store anyway—very narrow aisles.” The quarantiner did manage to squeak through the doors of the Morton Williams grocery store on Bleecker Street, but shopping was cumbersome, because his arms were grasping the ball’s two inner handles. To put a package of mozzarella into his shopping basket, he had to wriggle an arm out from under the bubble and then skyhook the cheese. In the process, he knocked over a display of stroopwafels. At the checkout, the quarantiner accidentally exposed his head when he was compelled to lift the bubble over one of the store’s Plexiglas sneeze shields; he thought about Shelley Winters in “The Poseidon Adventure.”
The quarantiner called up Andrew Akers, a New Zealander who, in 1994, with his partner Duane van der Sluis, built a Zorb in his garage and went on to pioneer commercial Zorbing. Had biocontainment been on Akers’s mind when he made his Zorb? “Not at all!” he said. “We only thought about rolling people down hills. No redeeming features.” Did he have any advice for the quarantiner? “Don’t let anyone sneeze on your bubble.”
Although most people’s reactions to the quarantiner’s bubble were positive—one night, a drunk, maskless reveller on Hudson Street exclaimed, “You look like how I feel!”—there were occasional lows. “Can I kick you?” a young man in Washington Square Park wondered aloud. At the Union Square farmers’ market, an elderly woman stared diagnostically, before offering up the information that the coronavirus can live on plastic.
For context, the quarantiner re-watched the overripe 1976 TV movie “The Boy in the Plastic Bubble,” starring John Travolta. He loved the scene in which Buzz Aldrin, the astronaut, visits the title character and confesses, “The thing I remember most was the loss of freedom. I felt like I was in a fishbowl.” Then the quarantiner called Jorge Gutierrez, the owner of Knockerball NYC—which rents out bumper balls to groups—for advice on navigating doorways. Gutierrez suggested, “Butter it up.”
The next day, back in the bubble, the quarantiner squeaked through the unforgiving entryway of a Citibank A.T.M. vestibule; a pedestrian stared with equal parts glee and terror. “I’m not a bank robber,” the quarantiner told her.“I’m just trying not to resort to butter.” ♦
More on the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-08-17--The Very Normal Life of Daisy Edgar-Jones

Like many British actors , Daisy Edgar-Jones , twenty-two , has appeared in period pieces— “ Gentleman Jack , ” on the BBC , in which she plays a wide-eyed innocent in a huge bonnet , who , as Edgar-Jones put it , gets “ a little bit infatuated ” with the lead “ and then is never seen again , ” and “ Pond Life , ” an indie film set in the nineties , in which “ one of the characters is listening to a Walkman.
” But she ’ s best known for more Zeitgeisty material : @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the Emmy-nominated BBC and Hulu adaptation of Sally Rooney ’ s novel “ Normal People , ” set in County Sligo and Dublin , in which Edgar-Jones stars as Marianne , a prickly high-school outcast who falls in love with Connell ( Paul Mescal ) , a kindly jock in a chain necklace so iconic that , in real life , it has its own Instagram account ( @ connellschain ) .
“ Normal People , ” in normal times , would likely have found an eager audience , as Rooney ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ quarantine era , it arrived with uncanny power .
“ It ’ s quite hard to watch things now and not be very aware of people ’ s closeness , ” Edgar-Jones said .
“ When they shake hands or embrace , you think , Oh , gosh .
It ’ s strange—things are so different now.
” On a Zoom from her flat in North London , Edgar-Jones wore a green blouse and big earrings ; a bun accentuated prominent , Marianne-like bangs .
She sat in front of a gray closet @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a cloud mural and a painting of two nattily dressed crocodiles .
“ I think what ‘ Normal People ’ really does celebrate is human connection and intimacy , and that is something we ’ re all hyper-aware of craving , ” she said .
Marianne encourages Connell to go to Trinity College , and to become a writer ; Connell encourages Marianne to love and to be loved .
The series takes an unhurried approach to the intricacies of human connection , from casual nudity to thoughtful conversation ; the camera lingers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as if the viewer were hanging out with the characters in real time .
Edgar-Jones had the uncommon experience of becoming famous overnight while being unable to leave her house , doing interviews and virtual appearances in front of the gray closet door , in the flat she shares with her boyfriend and two friends .
Her life is otherwise that of a conventional twentysomething .
“ My flatmates and I have played a lot of board games , ” she said .
“ We find karaoke songs on YouTube and sing them @ @ @ @ @ @ @ learned a lot of TikTok dances.
” She grew up in North London , the only child of a Scottish entertainment-executive father and a Northern Irish film-editor mother ; she and her mother would speak in different accents together for fun .
She attended a small girls ’ school and joined the National Youth Theatre at fourteen .
( “ I did a Juliet speech for my audition , ” she said .
In school , studying Shakespeare , “ we had to watch the Baz Luhrmann ‘ Romeo + Juliet , ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Danes ’ s performance.
” ) At seventeen , she was cast in a revival of “ Cold Feet , ” a “ Friends ” -like British sitcom , where she learned more about comic timing .
“ And with ‘ Normal People ’ ” —not a comedy— “ the dynamic between Connell and Marianne was so much about timing and beats , ” she said .
“ Letting things sit , choosing when to come back in , allowing an actor to take the time they needed .
That was a core @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for the show , she hadn ’ t read “ Normal People.
” “ My friend had bought it for my flatmate and was , like , ‘ It ’ s my favorite book ever.
’ She ’ s actually writing her dissertation on Sally Rooney now.
” Then , she said , “ I read it in a day .
I loved it so much .
I ’ ve always loved romances.
” She was drawn to Rooney ’ s evocation of her characters ’ inner lives .
“ They are both @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t shy away from the darker sides .
Often , you get quite a lighthearted version of young love and growing up.
” Her other favorite romances aren ’ t so lighthearted , either .
“ Obviously , ‘ Romeo and Juliet , ’ ” she said .
There ’ s also “ The Hunger Games , ” she added , and laughed .
“ It ’ s got love elements .
Oh , and Patti Smith ’ s ‘ Just Kids ’ —kind of a love story between her and Robert @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I want to write down every writer she references and read their books , go look at all the art , listen to those records .
.
.
.
The way she talks about the Chelsea Hotel—walking down the corridor and looking through the door and there ’ s Hendrix .
I wonder if we have an equivalent.
” Smith ’ s book was popular on the set of “ Normal People.
” Mescal is a fan , too .
“ I lent it to him and he read it , ” Edgar-Jones @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an adaptation of another book : H. G. Wells ’ s “ The War of the Worlds.
” In the show , she plays a blind earthling coping with an alien invasion .
Are there other literary adaptations she admires ?
“ I ’ d love to see them adapt Patti Smith , actually , ” she said .
Perhaps she and Mescal could star ?
Edgar-Jones reeled a bit .
“ I don ’ t think I ’ m cool enough to be Patti Smith !
” she said , laughing .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ God.
” ♦

Daisy Edgar-Jones Illustration by João Fazenda
Like many British actors, Daisy Edgar-Jones, twenty-two, has appeared in period pieces—“Gentleman Jack,” on the BBC, in which she plays a wide-eyed innocent in a huge bonnet, who, as Edgar-Jones put it, gets “a little bit infatuated” with the lead “and then is never seen again,” and “Pond Life,” an indie film set in the nineties, in which “one of the characters is listening to a Walkman.” But she’s best known for more Zeitgeisty material: her breakout role, this year, in the Emmy-nominated BBC and Hulu adaptation of Sally Rooney’s novel “Normal People,” set in County Sligo and Dublin, in which Edgar-Jones stars as Marianne, a prickly high-school outcast who falls in love with Connell (Paul Mescal), a kindly jock in a chain necklace so iconic that, in real life, it has its own Instagram account (@connellschain).
“Normal People,” in normal times, would likely have found an eager audience, as Rooney’s best-selling novel did; in the quarantine era, it arrived with uncanny power. “It’s quite hard to watch things now and not be very aware of people’s closeness,” Edgar-Jones said. “When they shake hands or embrace, you think, Oh, gosh. It’s strange—things are so different now.” On a Zoom from her flat in North London, Edgar-Jones wore a green blouse and big earrings; a bun accentuated prominent, Marianne-like bangs. She sat in front of a gray closet door, in a bedroom decorated with a cloud mural and a painting of two nattily dressed crocodiles. “I think what ‘Normal People’ really does celebrate is human connection and intimacy, and that is something we’re all hyper-aware of craving,” she said. Marianne encourages Connell to go to Trinity College, and to become a writer; Connell encourages Marianne to love and to be loved. The series takes an unhurried approach to the intricacies of human connection, from casual nudity to thoughtful conversation; the camera lingers on a hand or a moment, as if the viewer were hanging out with the characters in real time.
Edgar-Jones had the uncommon experience of becoming famous overnight while being unable to leave her house, doing interviews and virtual appearances in front of the gray closet door, in the flat she shares with her boyfriend and two friends. Her life is otherwise that of a conventional twentysomething. “My flatmates and I have played a lot of board games,” she said. “We find karaoke songs on YouTube and sing them. We’ve, like, learned a lot of TikTok dances.” She grew up in North London, the only child of a Scottish entertainment-executive father and a Northern Irish film-editor mother; she and her mother would speak in different accents together for fun. She attended a small girls’ school and joined the National Youth Theatre at fourteen. (“I did a Juliet speech for my audition,” she said. In school, studying Shakespeare, “we had to watch the Baz Luhrmann ‘Romeo + Juliet,’ and I fell in love with Claire Danes’s performance.”) At seventeen, she was cast in a revival of “Cold Feet,” a “Friends”-like British sitcom, where she learned more about comic timing. “And with ‘Normal People’ ”—not a comedy—“the dynamic between Connell and Marianne was so much about timing and beats,” she said. “Letting things sit, choosing when to come back in, allowing an actor to take the time they needed. That was a core part of the process.”
Before auditioning for the show, she hadn’t read “Normal People.” “My friend had bought it for my flatmate and was, like, ‘It’s my favorite book ever.’ She’s actually writing her dissertation on Sally Rooney now.” Then, she said, “I read it in a day. I loved it so much. I’ve always loved romances.” She was drawn to Rooney’s evocation of her characters’ inner lives. “They are both incredibly complex and flawed. Sally doesn’t shy away from the darker sides. Often, you get quite a lighthearted version of young love and growing up.”
Her other favorite romances aren’t so lighthearted, either. “Obviously, ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ ” she said. There’s also “The Hunger Games,” she added, and laughed. “It’s got love elements. Oh, and Patti Smith’s ‘Just Kids’—kind of a love story between her and Robert Mapplethorpe.” She went on, “I want to write down every writer she references and read their books, go look at all the art, listen to those records. . . . The way she talks about the Chelsea Hotel—walking down the corridor and looking through the door and there’s Hendrix. I wonder if we have an equivalent.”
Smith’s book was popular on the set of “Normal People.” Mescal is a fan, too. “I lent it to him and he read it,” Edgar-Jones said. Her other current series is an adaptation of another book: H. G. Wells’s “The War of the Worlds.” In the show, she plays a blind earthling coping with an alien invasion. Are there other literary adaptations she admires? “I’d love to see them adapt Patti Smith, actually,” she said. Perhaps she and Mescal could star? Edgar-Jones reeled a bit. “I don’t think I’m cool enough to be Patti Smith!” she said, laughing. “I wish! Oh, my God.” ♦


Virtual Freshman Orientation

Welcome , freshmen , to your first year at William McKinley Virtual High School .
Even in the midst of a global pandemic , we ’ re committed to providing you with a classic all-American high-school experience—online .
At McKinley Virtual High , education comes first .
In math , you will learn the principles of geometry .
The four walls of your bedroom form a rectangle .
No point in learning the other shapes .
For science class , you will engage in the global race for a COVID-19 vaccine .
Sure , it ’ s unlikely that the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , but the scientific method says you have to test everything .
Except drinking bleach .
Science has always known that you can ’ t drink bleach .
Socially distant P.E .
will look a little different .
This year , students will have to pummel themselves with dodgeballs .
If you wear glasses , you must leave them on .
It ’ s all part of the educational experience .
To simulate the locker-room environment , you will split into two Zoom “ breakout rooms ” —one for girls and one for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ assured me that this is both legal and a cherished part of high school .
For those of you who are self-conscious about your changing bodies , please know this : you are not normal .
You are the only one who has ever looked like that .
Google “ fifteen-year-old boy normal ” and you ’ ll see .
In lieu of a school-provided gym uniform , please change into whatever clothes make your body look lumpiest .
While there ’ s no substitute for the healthy meals prepared in our cafeteria @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of a school meal by squirting ketchup on a slice of pound cake .
High school is about social life , too .
Even in virtual high school , you will quickly find new friends and establish social circles .
But some things will be a little different .
Drama kids : though the school ’ s production of “ Our Town ” has been cancelled , you ’ ll be happy to know that all of you got the lead role .
Debate team : you will now be holding practice sessions @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ( Resolved : the SleepTech 2000 is an imperfect mattress pad . )
Goths : your belief that the world is a purposeless wasteland of dysfunction and fear used to set you apart .
But , now that we ’ re all in agreement on that , maybe it ’ s time to find a new thing—have you tried jogging ?
Bullies : you ’ ll have to cope with your parents ’ divorces some other way .
Popular kids : don ’ t worry , even through the small window into your @ @ @ @ @ @ @ still tell that you ’ re rich .
Stoners : as you were .
This is really your time .
And , since we won ’ t be able to find out who would have been that kid whose rolling backpack runs over everyone ’ s feet , please just raise your hand now .
( Thanks , I had a hunch it was you . )
I know that virtual high school must be a disappointment .
Many of you had big plans for this year .
Some of you were going @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from different backgrounds .
After a series of comical misunderstandings and a dance montage , you would have learned to like—maybe even love—one another .
This will no longer be possible .
Detention will be virtual , too .
You will watch a nine-hour video about corn .
One of you was going to be crowned homecoming queen , only to break the tiara into dozens of pieces and share it with the entire class .
I can not emphasize enough how unsanitary that is .
Still others were going to connect with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ walk of life , who would have shown you that poetry is just like rap , and that , through the written word , you could transcend your background .
Maybe next year .
And , if you were planning to take off your glasses and reveal that you ’ ve actually been hot the whole time , please sign up for a time slot .
When you all do it at the same time it doesn ’ t work .
As you imagine yourselves stepping through the doors of William McKinley Virtual @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a President who did not live through the pandemic of 1918 , since he was shot in the chest in 1901 .
What a lucky break .
I can ’ t wait to see you all at graduation .
Maybe .
♦

Welcome, freshmen, to your first year at William McKinley Virtual High School. Even in the midst of a global pandemic, we’re committed to providing you with a classic all-American high-school experience—online.
At McKinley Virtual High, education comes first. In math, you will learn the principles of geometry. The four walls of your bedroom form a rectangle. No point in learning the other shapes. For science class, you will engage in the global race for a COVID-19 vaccine. Sure, it’s unlikely that the cure is dog food mixed with Clearasil, but the scientific method says you have to test everything. Except drinking bleach. Science has always known that you can’t drink bleach.
Socially distant P.E. will look a little different. This year, students will have to pummel themselves with dodgeballs. If you wear glasses, you must leave them on. It’s all part of the educational experience. To simulate the locker-room environment, you will split into two Zoom “breakout rooms”—one for girls and one for boys—and get naked. Our lawyers have assured me that this is both legal and a cherished part of high school. For those of you who are self-conscious about your changing bodies, please know this: you are not normal. You are the only one who has ever looked like that. Google “fifteen-year-old boy normal” and you’ll see. In lieu of a school-provided gym uniform, please change into whatever clothes make your body look lumpiest.
While there’s no substitute for the healthy meals prepared in our cafeteria, you can re-create the nutritional profile of a school meal by squirting ketchup on a slice of pound cake.
High school is about social life, too. Even in virtual high school, you will quickly find new friends and establish social circles. But some things will be a little different. Drama kids: though the school’s production of “Our Town” has been cancelled, you’ll be happy to know that all of you got the lead role. Debate team: you will now be holding practice sessions in the reviews section of Amazon.com. (Resolved: the SleepTech 2000 is an imperfect mattress pad.) Goths: your belief that the world is a purposeless wasteland of dysfunction and fear used to set you apart. But, now that we’re all in agreement on that, maybe it’s time to find a new thing—have you tried jogging? Bullies: you’ll have to cope with your parents’ divorces some other way. Popular kids: don’t worry, even through the small window into your lives which a Webcam provides we can still tell that you’re rich. Stoners: as you were. This is really your time. And, since we won’t be able to find out who would have been that kid whose rolling backpack runs over everyone’s feet, please just raise your hand now. (Thanks, I had a hunch it was you.)
I know that virtual high school must be a disappointment. Many of you had big plans for this year. Some of you were going to find yourselves in detention with students from different backgrounds. After a series of comical misunderstandings and a dance montage, you would have learned to like—maybe even love—one another. This will no longer be possible. Detention will be virtual, too. You will watch a nine-hour video about corn.
One of you was going to be crowned homecoming queen, only to break the tiara into dozens of pieces and share it with the entire class. I cannot emphasize enough how unsanitary that is. Still others were going to connect with an ambitious young English teacher from another walk of life, who would have shown you that poetry is just like rap, and that, through the written word, you could transcend your background. Maybe next year. And, if you were planning to take off your glasses and reveal that you’ve actually been hot the whole time, please sign up for a time slot. When you all do it at the same time it doesn’t work.
As you imagine yourselves stepping through the doors of William McKinley Virtual High, think of our namesake, a President who did not live through the pandemic of 1918, since he was shot in the chest in 1901. What a lucky break.
I can’t wait to see you all at graduation. Maybe. ♦


newyorker--2020-08-17--Michael Rakowitz’s Art of Return

Michael Rakowitz’s Art of Return

Michael Rakowitz was looking for Kubba , a stall in London ’ s Borough Market that serves Iraqi cuisine .
The air was temperamental : a cold mist clung to hair between bouts of drizzling rain .
Rakowitz had arrived on a red-eye from Chicago , where he runs a nine-person studio , producing sculpture that shows frequently on the international art circuit .
He had wrapped himself in a dark coat and a checkered kaffiyeh , which pushed up against his wavy , disordered hair .
The stall had just opened , and he had never been to it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ It should be here , ” he said , looking up from a map quizzically .
Kubba ’ s owner , the chef Philip Juma , is a friend and a collaborator of Rakowitz .
Last year , they prepared an Iraqi dinner at London ’ s Whitechapel Gallery , to celebrate the launch of a cookbook that Rakowitz had edited .
The book was tied to his most visible public installation : a large sculpture in Trafalgar Square , inspired by an Iraqi monument built in ancient Nineveh—a gypsum carving of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lamassu , which was destroyed by ISIS in 2015 .
Rakowitz had “ reappeared ” the lamassu using the ephemera of exile : cans of Iraqi date syrup in five different brands .
To underscore that the project was as much about the present as about the past , the cookbook included dishes by Juma and chefs like Yotam Ottolenghi , as well as by Rakowitz ’ s mother , who was born to Baghdadi Jewish parents in India .
Its title is taken from a Mesopotamian proverb : “ A house with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Although Rakowitz is known as a sculptor—this year , he was awarded the hundred-thousand-dollar Nasher Prize—the act of making things is often secondary to his art .
He frequently deploys found objects to create what Artforum once called “ simple but dizzying interventions.
” The pieces can be playful , sometimes invoking his own pop-culture obsessions , like the Beatles , or food .
In 2011 , at a Park Avenue restaurant , he staged a “ happening , ” titled “ Spoils , ” which involved a meal of venison atop date @ @ @ @ @ @ @ looted from Saddam Hussein ’ s palace .
( He had purchased them on eBay . )
When the Iraqi government demanded that the plates be returned , Rakowitz considered it part of the work , and rushed to get them to Iraq ’ s Prime Minister , who was visiting Washington .
They were ferried to Baghdad on a government plane—journeying , through diaspora , from tyrant to elected leader .
“ Spoils ” ended when the plates were surrendered , but many of Rakowitz ’ s other pieces evolve over years @ @ @ @ @ @ @ art .
“ These things are part of a lived work , ” he told me .
In 2004 , a year after the invasion of Iraq , he reconstituted an import-export business that had belonged to his late maternal grandfather , Nissim bin Ishaq Daoud bet Aziz , and offered to export to Iraq anything that anyone wanted , free of charge .
He called the piece “ Return , ” and ended up shipping three items : a bootleg CD-ROM of Microsoft Office 98 , a battery for a discontinued Nokia @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
( “ They were portraits of the sender and the receiver , ” he told me . )
Later , as he expanded on the idea artistically , he also began to broker samples of Iraqi goods to American grocery stores .
Rakowitz , who is forty-six , wears a handlebar mustache , shaped in a half-Ottoman , half-hipster style , with curls at each end .
His typically unshaven face is expressive , shifting between uncertainty , empathy , melancholy , and thoughtfulness .
Like a character from W. G. Sebald @ @ @ @ @ @ @ immersed in historical memory , often pursuing the trace routes of exile , with the apparent hope that the ensuing art might heal the traumas of dispossession , of war , of expatriation .
As Arab Jews , Rakowitz ’ s family had to navigate a triple dislocation : in Iraq , in America , and among other Jews they encountered as émigrés , who could not comprehend their attachment to Arab culture .
Nissim Daoud was born in Ottoman Baghdad in 1899 , when a thriving community of Jews made up a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
But , in 1941 , an Iraqi nationalist aligned with the Nazis orchestrated a coup , and began stoking ethnic tension , which erupted in a pogrom that killed two hundred Baghdadi Jews .
Daoud fled to Bombay , part of an exodus that in the coming decades would reduce the city ’ s Jewish population to less than ten .
From India , Daoud helped British intelligence monitor Nazi activity in the Middle East .
After India achieved independence , he moved again , settling on Long Island .
Rakowitz grew @ @ @ @ @ @ @ grandparents ’ house .
“ They were the first installation artists I ever met , ” he told me .
“ Their home was an immersive environment .
What was on the floor , what was on the wall , what came out of the stereo , what came out of the kitchen was from Iraq .
It was tinged with a brokenhearted longing.
” Although Rakowitz has never been to Iraq—perhaps he never will go , he told me—the influence of his family ’ s estrangement is legible in much of his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ forth something that is dead , ” his mother told me .
“ He converts a discarded thing into something else—to say , ‘ Look , acknowledge us.
’ ” We found Kubba around a corner .
When Rakowitz saw Philip Juma , a thin young man of Iraqi Christian heritage , he quickened his pace and embraced him .
“ Ashat eedak , ” he said— “ Bless your hands , ” traditional Arabic praise for someone who works in the kitchen .
As we stood in the damp air , Juma @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Rakowitz explained why he had come .
The lamassu in Trafalgar Square , a temporary installation , was scheduled to come down in a month ; he wanted to secure a home for it .
He also had a new commission , in the seaside town of Margate , where T. S. Eliot worked on “ The Waste Land.
” As Juma cooked , Rakowitz spoke about the Margate project , which was inspired by a monument in Basra that Saddam had dedicated to soldiers who died in his ill-planned war with Iran @ @ @ @ @ @ @ countries , the likeness of uniformed men , cast in metal at an imposing scale , stood and pointed accusingly toward Iran .
Ostensibly , the monument was a memorial , but it also functioned as a dictator ’ s warning to Basra ’ s Shiite population , whose faith spanned the border .
After the 2003 invasion , Iraqis living nearby destroyed it .
One told the Times , “ We don ’ t want our children growing up to hate Iran.
” Rakowitz told Juma that he wanted to transform the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ I worked with veterans , ” he explained .
“ They have become not just pacifists but devoutly dedicated to dismantling the military-industrial complex.
” His sculpture would be of a British vet who had been stationed in Basra when the Saddam-era monument was torn down .
Instead of pointing accusingly over a border , it would point toward Parliament , which had made the decision to go to war in Iraq .
In Margate , Rakowitz planned to erect it near a nineteenth-century statue of a man looking out for shipwrecks @ @ @ @ @ @ @ which nine rescuers died .
The sculptures , facing opposite ways , would stand at human scale , each in its way speaking of sacrifice and deliverance .
“ I was trained by artists who were always interested in the quiet , in the counter-monument , ” Rakowitz said .
Whereas Saddam ’ s monument asserted authority , the Margate sculpture was meant to expose vulnerability .
It would be cast in concrete and embedded with war mementos contributed by veterans and residents of Margate , which was heavily bombed in the Second @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to see these things in the piece , like fossils , ” Rakowitz told Juma .
But the physical installation would be only a part of the work .
“ It ’ s not just the sculpture , ” he said .
“ It ’ s the social space that the sculpture activates.
” He was hoping to cook an Iraqi meal with Juma beside the work .

“This is evil!” Rakowitz said and grinned.
The meeting was a social visit, but it was also, in a sense, part of the piece. As the artist Krzysztof Wodiczko later told me, “Art can set the conditions for different parts of society to connect, to change their thinking on the site of the work and during the process of making it. That is expected in Michael’s work. There is something diabolical, in a good sense, about the man. He is a kind of magician, someone who connects things that should not be connected, someone who can surprise.”
In Borough Market, rain began to gather overhead, and seagulls cawed. As we left Kubba, Rakowitz talked about the mementos that he was gathering for the Margate sculpture. “I am always building a collection for these works,” he said. In his studio, in Chicago, there is a chalkboard diagram that he has not erased since 2015: a memorial to a cherished conversation. “I’m never going to be neat,” he told me, ruefully. Several years ago, he saw Leonard Cohen’s Olivetti typewriter on eBay and bought it; likewise, an Iraqi military helmet inspired by Darth Vader. Both purchases evolved into projects. “I am a firm believer that if you sit with an object long enough it starts to tell you about itself,” he said.
Rakowitz stopped walking and pulled out a worn plastic bag containing azure beads and a broken thread. “Lapis lazuli, from Afghanistan,” he said. “They broke about a year ago, but in Iraq you are always supposed to have a blue stone. It’s protection against evil, and ever since I was a kid I have never left the house without a blue stone.”
The beads were a gift from a collaborator in Bamyan, where, in 2001, the Taliban destroyed ancient Buddhas carved into travertine cliffs. Rakowitz, moved by their absence, organized a stone-carving workshop there, to train Afghans in the art of their ancestors. He planned to tell the story at the Documenta (13) exhibition, at a museum in Kassel, Germany. But, as he worked, the project changed. Learning that Allied forces in the Second World War had bombed the museum, destroying some of its rare books, he asked an Afghan artist to sculpt simulacra of the volumes using Bamyan travertine. As Rakowitz saw it, the ravaged artifacts could be made to reëmerge, to haunt and to rehabilitate, with “one cultural trauma suturing another.” He called the work “What Dust Will Rise?”
The piece echoed Rakowitz’s early interest in sculpture, which began in high school, when a stone carver invited him to apprentice. “To this day, stone is the material that I love the most,” he said, though he rarely uses it now. “The removal of material is something that I took to. It was therapeutic.”
As an undergraduate at SUNY Purchase, Rakowitz was drawn to Donald Judd’s Minimalism and to Richard Serra’s monumentalism, until he enrolled in a class taught by Allan Wexler, who had a more symbolic approach to sculpture. In one piece, Wexler took apart a Braun coffeemaker, then rebuilt it to expose its inner workings. In others, he examined the Seder as a form of art. “It’s performance—it’s the projection of magical meaning onto objects,” Rakowitz recalled.
From Purchase, Rakowitz found his way to a graduate program for public art at M.I.T., which had six faculty members and about as many students. Rakowitz lacked fluency in art theory, and at first felt lost. He crafted tiny pieces in bottle caps, which he surreptitiously screwed onto bottles in stores. He liked the idea of a surprise micro-exhibition, but, he told me, “I think my teachers felt it was contentless.” Wodiczko, who taught there, encouraged him to be more finely attuned, to engage in “fearless listening.”
On a winter break, Rakowitz travelled to Jordan, for a government-sponsored program in al-Karak, a town with a grand citadel built by Crusaders, to develop the area’s historic stone architecture for tourism. He quickly drifted from the program; the trip brought him closer to Iraq than he had ever been, and he found himself less interested in relics than in the daily life of the Near East. Visiting a Bedouin encampment, he studied shelters made from tapestries. “I was amazed,” he told me. “The tents were set up differently every night, to react to wind patterns—in some cases for ventilation, in some to make sure the tent would not collapse.”
“It wouldn’t do for you to approach this desk.” Cartoon by Frank Cotham Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
Back in Boston, Rakowitz was walking out of a movie one night when he noticed a homeless man sleeping under a building’s ventilation grate for warmth. “Immediately, in my head, there was this constellation: the wind from the desert, and this wind that is the by-product of a building’s heating system,” he told me. “In both cases, there were nomads, and I saw what it would mean to harness all of this air and to materialize it, like a cloud.” He imagined shelters for homeless people, made from garbage bags and duct tape, that could attach to building vents. They would inflate and be heated by the exhaust. He would call them paraSITEs.
Rakowitz built the shelters according to their inhabitants’ preferences, making them acts of expression, too. One day at M.I.T., he discussed them with the artist Joan Jonas, recounting the homeless men’s biographies and desires: one wanted a shelter resembling Jabba the Hutt; another, a dome. “She says, ‘You know, the work is beyond just the shelter,’ ” Rakowitz recalled. “ ‘You’re talking about dispossession. You’re telling me this is about Massachusetts. You’re actually talking about Baghdad.’ It was incredible. She gave me permission to story-tell.”
After completing his degree, Rakowitz moved to New York, where he continued making paraSITE shelters. (He still builds them every winter.) At the time, Mayor Rudolph Giuliani was cracking down on homelessness, and, when the Times learned of Rakowitz’s project, a Metro-desk reporter covered it as an anti-Giuliani agitation. Carolyn Christov-Bakargiev, then a curator at PS1, read the piece, and liked that the shelters were not easily understood as art. “His love for the specificity of each individual attracted my attention,” she told me. She invited him to show at the museum. When Rakowitz learned that PS1’s environmental controls were too poor to protect climate-sensitive works, he ran a pipe between a gallery space and an outer wall, to balance its temperature. “It was really shocking to me,” she recalled. “I thought I was giving him a break. Instead, he saw PS1 as a place that needed help.”
Rakowitz had an appointment near the Thames. By the time we began heading over from Borough Market, it was dusk, and the streets glistened under the lights. He fell into a reflective mood. “When I was growing up, I had a lot of trouble with numbers,” he told me. “Learning how to read the clock was stressful. My grandmother told me about these singing towers in Baghdad that told the time. I didn’t know it then, but she was talking about minarets.” In the late nineties, Rakowitz devised a piece that connected his grandmother’s story with an object from his collection: a mosque-shaped alarm clock, which Muslims used in places where broadcasting the call to prayer was discouraged. Equipped with the clock and a megaphone, he went to the tops of high buildings and broadcast the call five times a day.
The American-led invasion of Iraq, in 2003, had a momentous effect on him. “I was split down the middle,” he told me. “The place that my grandparents had fled from was being bombed by the place that they had fled to.” As coalition bombs fell on Baghdad, he recalled his teen-age experience of the 1991 Gulf War—how, during a run of CNN programming, his mother, Yvonne, had remarked, “You know, there are no Iraqi restaurants in New York.” The comment stuck. In 2001, during the invasion of Afghanistan, New Yorkers had showed solidarity by lining up at an Afghan café called Khyber Pass; at the onset of the Iraq War, two years later, there was no comparable place to go. This absence seemed to touch on a deeper cultural invisibility—one that had made it easier to initiate the attack and harder to heal its wounds. In response, Rakowitz enlisted Yvonne and launched his first culinary intervention, “Enemy Kitchen,” cooking Iraqi dishes and teaching recipes.
The more he explored Iraq as a subject, the more his art drew on his associations with it. The following year, he and Yvonne had a series of intense conversations about his grandfather. Nissim Daoud had died when Rakowitz was young, but the two shared a deep bond. “They were like one heartbeat,” Yvonne recalled. Rakowitz’s first playthings were Daoud’s worry beads; when he was a teen-ager, his mother gave them to him, along with Daoud’s electric razor. “His hairs were in there,” Rakowitz told me. “I was breathless. It was an instant memorial.”
When Rakowitz reopened Daoud’s import-export company, in 2004, he was interested in the human dimensions of trade with a war-torn society. “I wanted to show how a system worked, but I didn’t feel like I needed to be an objective, disembodied voice,” he said. His title, “Return,” hinted at a personal yearning. The items he shipped had, like him, never been in Iraq; could one think of them going back?
“Return,” which began as a rented mailbox in Queens, grew into a career-defining project. One day in 2006, Rakowitz was in Brooklyn, shopping in Sahadi’s, the grocery on Atlantic Avenue where his grandparents had shopped, when he encountered a can labelled “Second House Products Date Syrup.” He was intrigued. His grandfather had made date syrup with a mortar and pestle; later, his children bought it imported. When Rakowitz took the can to the register, Charlie Sahadi told him, “Your mother’s going to love this. It’s from Baghdad.”
Rakowitz looked at the label: “Product of Lebanon.” Baffled, he asked how that could be, and Sahadi explained that it was a marketing deception, begun before the 2003 invasion, to circumvent sanctions. Dates—once Iraq’s second-largest export—were smuggled across the border, labelled, then shipped onward. After Saddam’s fall, the practice continued amid wartime restrictions.


Cartoon Caption Contest

Each week , we provide a cartoon in need of a caption .
You , the reader , submit your @ @ @ @ @ three finalists , and you vote for your favorite .
Anyone age thirteen or older @ @ @ @ @ To read the complete rules , click here .

Each week, we provide a cartoon in need of a caption. You, the reader, submit your caption here, we choose three finalists, and you vote for your favorite. Anyone age thirteen or older can enter or vote. To read the complete rules, click here.
P. C. Vey Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop


newyorker--2020-08-17--In Alaska, Trump Doubles Down on Environmental Vandalism

Of all the jobs I ’ ve ever watched humans do , few have seemed more appealing to me than counting salmon at the head of the Ugashik River , in Alaska .
Every hour , the man charged with this duty would rouse himself from his cabin in that vast and sweeping wilderness , climb a ladder into what looked like a lifeguard ’ s chair , and then stare down at the stream—with a clicker in his hand , like an usher at a movie theatre .
Each time he saw the flash of a fish passing upstream @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Several times a day he ’ d send his count to headquarters and then climb back down—assuming , of course , that grizzlies had not appeared to do some fishing , in which case he would wait in his perch .
It is well known that the world ’ s fisheries are in hideous decline , a problem that will grow even worse as oceans continue to warm .
But some Alaskan salmon are an exception to the rule—because of that guy in the chair with the clicker .
His job is to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ upstream to spawn .
The biologists he reports to have worked out complex models of the state ’ s rivers ; they know how many fish are required to keep the runs strong .
After an initial early fishing season , when they ’ re convinced that plenty of fish have made it through , they ’ ll open—maybe only for a few hours—the fishing season downstream in Bristol Bay .
And when they do , it is chaos—dozens and dozens of high-powered boats milling around in a narrow strip of water , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ boundary like runners crowding the starting line of a race .
When the time comes , they drop their nets and surge forward ; it ’ s possible to catch thousands of salmon in minutes .
It ’ s old-fashioned cowboy capitalism , complete with trash-talking on the radio—but when the fishing window closes again , it all shuts down immediately .
That ’ s partly because state troopers make sure of it , but mostly it ’ s because everyone understands the basic logic : salmon are the golden eggs of Bristol @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t let enough fish back upstream , then you ’ ve killed the proverbial goose .
It ’ s the resource equivalent of wearing a mask and staying six feet apart : biology sets the limits , and Alaskans have long obeyed them , with good results .
There are few enough success stories like this in the world .
Which is why it ’ s even more aggravating than usual to watch the Trump Administration try to mess things up .
Some years ago , a big mining corporation proposed building the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and other metals—on the headwaters of some of the streams that feed into Bristol Bay .
The open pit mine would be more than a mile square , and a third of a mile deep ( imagine that ) , surrounded by dams holding back the highly toxic products of the mining process .
Not surprisingly , the Obama-era E.P.A .
decided that this was a bad idea and blocked the development of the mine .
Not surprisingly , President Trump met with Alaska ’ s Republican governor , who cheerfully announced that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was “ doing everything he can to work with us on our mining concerns.
” Not surprisingly , the Trump E.P.A .
chose not to block the project .
I say not surprisingly , because , of course , the Trump Administration has done everything in its power to gut the country ’ s environmental regulations—and with more success than it ’ s had in many other policy realms .
On Monday , the Administration announced that it will start selling drilling rights in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge , the country ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The move reverses more than a half-century of efforts to block drilling in the country ’ s largest remaining wilderness .
Environmental groups will go to court to halt Trump ’ s move , which shows the likely irreversible damage that the Administration is inflicting .
But in the case of Pebble Mine , the outcome was probably overdetermined .
It ’ s hard to imagine that the President would be much impressed by , say , the remarkable science showing that the decomposing bodies of salmon that have finished spawning fertilize @ @ @ @ @ @ @ can literally find nutrients from marine algae from the open ocean in the wood of these pine trees .
Alaska ’ s salmon run ranks with the migration of the monarchs and the wandering of the caribou on the list of the world ’ s epoch events .
Endangering it to get some “ precious ” metals requires a fundamental misunderstanding of the word .
But it is clear what the President values : among the most famous pre-Presidency pictures of Trump are those from his hundred-million-dollar penthouse , invariably described as “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , on the other hand , is the thing that your wife orders at a benefit dinner .
Still , there have been some interesting recent developments .
The President ’ s unflinchingly loyal eldest son , Donald , Jr. , earlier this month tweeted the opinion that , “ as a sportsman who has spent plenty of time in the area , ” the “ headwaters of Bristol Bay and surrounding fishery are too unique and fragile to take any chances with.
” It ’ s possible that Donald , Jr. , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to killing large animals in this vicinity—but it ’ s also possible that political reality is beginning to weigh on the Pebble Mine project .
Despite strong support from corporate boosters like the Alaska Chamber of Commerce , many Alaskans oppose it .
The Independent senatorial candidate Al Gross , who is running to take on the Republican incumbent Dan Sullivan—and who , as his campaign ads point out , has actually killed a grizzly in self-defense “ after it snuck up on him ” —is an outspoken opponent of the mine .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Cook Political Report recently shifted the race from Solid to Likely Republican .
Some have started to speculate that Sullivan may need to oppose the mine as well .
But it ’ s increasingly clear that the only way to actually block the project will be—as with so many issues—to elect Joe Biden in November .
( Even that won ’ t prevent a last-minute vandalism spree , as the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge announcement showed . )
Earlier this month , Biden said in a statement that the headwater of this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a mine .
The Obama-Biden Administration reached that conclusion when we ran a rigorous , science-based process in 2014 , and it is still true today.
” Indeed .
Bristol Bay is a place for salmon—and for very careful people .

Of all the jobs I’ve ever watched humans do, few have seemed more appealing to me than counting salmon at the head of the Ugashik River, in Alaska. Every hour, the man charged with this duty would rouse himself from his cabin in that vast and sweeping wilderness, climb a ladder into what looked like a lifeguard’s chair, and then stare down at the stream—with a clicker in his hand, like an usher at a movie theatre. Each time he saw the flash of a fish passing upstream, he’d count it. Several times a day he’d send his count to headquarters and then climb back down—assuming, of course, that grizzlies had not appeared to do some fishing, in which case he would wait in his perch.
It is well known that the world’s fisheries are in hideous decline, a problem that will grow even worse as oceans continue to warm. But some Alaskan salmon are an exception to the rule—because of that guy in the chair with the clicker. His job is to make sure that enough salmon make it upstream to spawn. The biologists he reports to have worked out complex models of the state’s rivers; they know how many fish are required to keep the runs strong. After an initial early fishing season, when they’re convinced that plenty of fish have made it through, they’ll open—maybe only for a few hours—the fishing season downstream in Bristol Bay.
And when they do, it is chaos—dozens and dozens of high-powered boats milling around in a narrow strip of water, inching toward the front of an invisible boundary like runners crowding the starting line of a race. When the time comes, they drop their nets and surge forward; it’s possible to catch thousands of salmon in minutes. It’s old-fashioned cowboy capitalism, complete with trash-talking on the radio—but when the fishing window closes again, it all shuts down immediately. That’s partly because state troopers make sure of it, but mostly it’s because everyone understands the basic logic: salmon are the golden eggs of Bristol Bay, and if you don’t let enough fish back upstream, then you’ve killed the proverbial goose. It’s the resource equivalent of wearing a mask and staying six feet apart: biology sets the limits, and Alaskans have long obeyed them, with good results.
There are few enough success stories like this in the world. Which is why it’s even more aggravating than usual to watch the Trump Administration try to mess things up. Some years ago, a big mining corporation proposed building the Pebble Mine—to extract gold, copper, and other metals—on the headwaters of some of the streams that feed into Bristol Bay. The open pit mine would be more than a mile square, and a third of a mile deep (imagine that), surrounded by dams holding back the highly toxic products of the mining process. Not surprisingly, the Obama-era E.P.A. decided that this was a bad idea and blocked the development of the mine. Not surprisingly, President Trump met with Alaska’s Republican governor, who cheerfully announced that the President had assured him that he was “doing everything he can to work with us on our mining concerns.” Not surprisingly, the Trump E.P.A. chose not to block the project.
I say not surprisingly, because, of course, the Trump Administration has done everything in its power to gut the country’s environmental regulations—and with more success than it’s had in many other policy realms. On Monday, the Administration announced that it will start selling drilling rights in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, the country’s largest, by December, 2021. The move reverses more than a half-century of efforts to block drilling in the country’s largest remaining wilderness. Environmental groups will go to court to halt Trump’s move, which shows the likely irreversible damage that the Administration is inflicting.
But in the case of Pebble Mine, the outcome was probably overdetermined. It’s hard to imagine that the President would be much impressed by, say, the remarkable science showing that the decomposing bodies of salmon that have finished spawning fertilize the forests lining the streams. You can literally find nutrients from marine algae from the open ocean in the wood of these pine trees. Alaska’s salmon run ranks with the migration of the monarchs and the wandering of the caribou on the list of the world’s epoch events. Endangering it to get some “precious” metals requires a fundamental misunderstanding of the word. But it is clear what the President values: among the most famous pre-Presidency pictures of Trump are those from his hundred-million-dollar penthouse, invariably described as “decorated with 24k. gold.” Salmon, on the other hand, is the thing that your wife orders at a benefit dinner.
Still, there have been some interesting recent developments. The President’s unflinchingly loyal eldest son, Donald, Jr., earlier this month tweeted the opinion that, “as a sportsman who has spent plenty of time in the area,” the “headwaters of Bristol Bay and surrounding fishery are too unique and fragile to take any chances with.” It’s possible that Donald, Jr., is, in fact, looking forward to killing large animals in this vicinity—but it’s also possible that political reality is beginning to weigh on the Pebble Mine project. Despite strong support from corporate boosters like the Alaska Chamber of Commerce, many Alaskans oppose it. The Independent senatorial candidate Al Gross, who is running to take on the Republican incumbent Dan Sullivan—and who, as his campaign ads point out, has actually killed a grizzly in self-defense “after it snuck up on him”—is an outspoken opponent of the mine. He’s doing well enough that the Cook Political Report recently shifted the race from Solid to Likely Republican. Some have started to speculate that Sullivan may need to oppose the mine as well.
But it’s increasingly clear that the only way to actually block the project will be—as with so many issues—to elect Joe Biden in November. (Even that won’t prevent a last-minute vandalism spree, as the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge announcement showed.) Earlier this month, Biden said in a statement that the headwater of this great fishery “is no place for a mine. The Obama-Biden Administration reached that conclusion when we ran a rigorous, science-based process in 2014, and it is still true today.” Indeed. Bristol Bay is a place for salmon—and for very careful people.


newyorker--2020-08-17--The Importance of the Post Office to American Democracy

This November , record numbers of people are expected to vote by mail , in large part because of the coronavirus pandemic .
But a new Postmaster General , Louis DeJoy , recently made major cuts to the Postal Service , raising fears that Republicans are trying to defund the Post Office , delay deliveries , and cause late-arriving ballots to go uncounted in November .
The Postal Service , which was experiencing delays even before the latest cuts , recently warned forty-six states that it may not be able to deliver ballots in time for them to be counted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an interview on Fox Business Network , Donald Trump said explicitly what many people have suspected .
“ They need that money in order to have the Post Office work so it can take all of these millions and millions of ballots , ” he said , of Democrats ’ pandemic relief bill , which includes funding for the Postal Service and state election officials .
“ If they don ’ t get those two items , that means you can ’ t have universal mail-in voting because they ’ re not equipped @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Post Office become integral to the functioning of a free and fair society , and has it always been politicized ?
To answer these questions , I recently spoke by phone with Winifred Gallagher , the author of “ How the Post Office Created America , ” which tells the story of the institution ’ s creation in the eighteenth century and describes its role in the United States through the modern era .
During our conversation , which has been edited for length and clarity , we also talked about how various @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the problems that bedeviled the institution before Trump , and why the President ’ s meddling is so dangerous .
Why was the United States Postal Service , then the Post Office Department , created ?
It actually started way before the Post Office Department .
The Post has been integral to America since colonial days .
Among the first concerted acts of the patriots—like Jefferson and Adams and thousands of others—was that they created underground postal systems to dodge British spies in the 1760s and 1770s .
These were called the Committees @ @ @ @ @ @ @ created the Constitutional Post in 1774 , which became the Post Office Department in 1775 , a year before the Declaration .
So , it ’ s really the oldest government agency .
The whole idea of a communication system is woven into the DNA of America right from the beginning .
The Post Office that was established in 1775 was so the revolutionaries and the generals and the logistics people could communicate with each other during the war .
Our first Postmaster General was Benjamin Franklin .
But , in 1792 , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Washington , Madison , Rush , and men who , like Franklin , were Enlightenment thinkers .
They decided that they would use the Post Office for the political purpose of generating an informed electorate , by using the mail to deliver cheap newspapers , the cost of which would be paid for by very costly letter postage .
At that time , very few people sent letters , mostly businessmen and lawyers and people like that .
If you ’ ve read Alexis de Tocqueville , he arrived in 1831 and he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ were about public affairs , and how pervasive the Post Office system was .
This was at a time we had already had five times more post offices than France and two times more than Great Britain .
We were still wet behind the ears as a country .
So this was a decision that they made that really created the United States as a global information and communication superpower .
Around this time , you also had Andrew Jackson intent on politicizing the Post Office .
What was his role in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an interesting role .
The first President to engage in overt partisanship involving the Post Office was actually Jefferson , who was in office between 1801 and 1809 .
He actually replaced ten per cent of federal employees , most of whom then worked for the Post Office , with his own supporters .
But Jackson , who was in from 1829 to 1837 , really institutionalized postal patronage with his spoils system .
He created this rotation-in-office policy that replaced thirteen per cent of the postal workers , and postal workers were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with his Democrats , regardless of merit .
So he fired perfectly capable people who were more associated with the Federalist/Whig faction of John Quincy Adams , which also hurt , not incidentally , the very good postal service in the Whigs ’ New England .
Jackson made the Postmaster General a Cabinet officer , which was a big deal .
Jackson also took his very righteous Postmaster General , John McLean , who was a brilliant executive , and kicked him upstairs to the Supreme Court , and installed his cronies .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ spoils system allowed whichever party won the White House to hand out tens of thousands of jobs to its supporters .
So , in a bizarre way , even though it was born from partisanship , it was kind of nonpartisan because both parties exploited it to the highest degree .
How much politicization was there from that time up until the Nixon era ?
Both parties used it for their advantage in terms of handing out patronage jobs .
But , in general , the Post Office has always gotten a lot @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the great Postmaster Generals have been Republicans .
We want to think in our day and age that it ’ s the Democrats who look out for the little people , but , during the golden age of the Post Office , between 1890 and World War One , roughly corresponding to the Progressive Era , the Republican Postmaster General John Wanamaker sided with the common people against the robber-baron monopolies , especially banking and rail .
He was an interesting guy .
He made a fortune with Wanamaker Department Stores , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ could have been a robber baron himself .
But he wanted another challenge , and he decided on public service , so he took on the Post Office , and then it was phenomenally powerful .
People wondered at it .
Railway mail service sped up the mail , and the cars were stocked with postal clerks who sorted all the letters while the trains were moving .
People some days got same-day replies .
It was a huge engine of America as a global power .
He felt that , the same @ @ @ @ @ @ @ merchandise for reasonable prices , the Postal Service could do the same .
But in rural areas , you had almost no horizons .
If you needed something , you had to pay what the store wanted to charge for it .
The railroad monopolies charged a fortune to ship a parcel to you .
His big claim was rural free delivery .
During the Civil War , people who lived in cities got home delivery of letters .
Before that , everyone had to go to the post office to pick up @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t get that service until he pushed hard for it , and it wasn ’ t enacted until he was out of office .
The Democrats wouldn ’ t give him the satisfaction of this happening ( see above ) until he left office , but he was really the philosopher king of changing and redefining the Post Office from simply being about information and communication to also being about things .
He advocated for rural free delivery , and postal savings , which gave banking services to average people whom the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ parcel post , which brought goods to rural people .
So , can you say that was political ?
Yes .
But it was democratic , and in favor of the people .
The Post Office is by nature political , if political means related to the government and public affairs , but political to serve what end ?
Is it serving democracy or partisanship ?

This November, record numbers of people are expected to vote by mail, in large part because of the coronavirus pandemic. But a new Postmaster General, Louis DeJoy, recently made major cuts to the Postal Service, raising fears that Republicans are trying to defund the Post Office, delay deliveries, and cause late-arriving ballots to go uncounted in November. The Postal Service, which was experiencing delays even before the latest cuts, recently warned forty-six states that it may not be able to deliver ballots in time for them to be counted. And, last Thursday, in an interview on Fox Business Network, Donald Trump said explicitly what many people have suspected. “They need that money in order to have the Post Office work so it can take all of these millions and millions of ballots,” he said, of Democrats’ pandemic relief bill, which includes funding for the Postal Service and state election officials. “If they don’t get those two items, that means you can’t have universal mail-in voting because they’re not equipped to have it.”
How did the Post Office become integral to the functioning of a free and fair society, and has it always been politicized? To answer these questions, I recently spoke by phone with Winifred Gallagher, the author of “How the Post Office Created America,” which tells the story of the institution’s creation in the eighteenth century and describes its role in the United States through the modern era. During our conversation, which has been edited for length and clarity, we also talked about how various administrations have managed the Post Office, the problems that bedeviled the institution before Trump, and why the President’s meddling is so dangerous.
Why was the United States Postal Service, then the Post Office Department, created?
It actually started way before the Post Office Department. The Post has been integral to America since colonial days. Among the first concerted acts of the patriots—like Jefferson and Adams and thousands of others—was that they created underground postal systems to dodge British spies in the 1760s and 1770s. These were called the Committees of Correspondence. And then the patriots created the Constitutional Post in 1774, which became the Post Office Department in 1775, a year before the Declaration. So, it’s really the oldest government agency. The whole idea of a communication system is woven into the DNA of America right from the beginning.
The Post Office that was established in 1775 was so the revolutionaries and the generals and the logistics people could communicate with each other during the war. Our first Postmaster General was Benjamin Franklin. But, in 1792, a major political decision was made by Washington, Madison, Rush, and men who, like Franklin, were Enlightenment thinkers. They decided that they would use the Post Office for the political purpose of generating an informed electorate, by using the mail to deliver cheap newspapers, the cost of which would be paid for by very costly letter postage.
At that time, very few people sent letters, mostly businessmen and lawyers and people like that. If you’ve read Alexis de Tocqueville, he arrived in 1831 and he was absolutely stupefied by how well-informed Americans were about public affairs, and how pervasive the Post Office system was. This was at a time we had already had five times more post offices than France and two times more than Great Britain. We were still wet behind the ears as a country. So this was a decision that they made that really created the United States as a global information and communication superpower.
Around this time, you also had Andrew Jackson intent on politicizing the Post Office. What was his role in the history of the institution?
It was an interesting role. The first President to engage in overt partisanship involving the Post Office was actually Jefferson, who was in office between 1801 and 1809. He actually replaced ten per cent of federal employees, most of whom then worked for the Post Office, with his own supporters. But Jackson, who was in from 1829 to 1837, really institutionalized postal patronage with his spoils system. He created this rotation-in-office policy that replaced thirteen per cent of the postal workers, and postal workers were three quarters of the federal workforce, with his Democrats, regardless of merit. So he fired perfectly capable people who were more associated with the Federalist/Whig faction of John Quincy Adams, which also hurt, not incidentally, the very good postal service in the Whigs’ New England.
Jackson made the Postmaster General a Cabinet officer, which was a big deal. Jackson also took his very righteous Postmaster General, John McLean, who was a brilliant executive, and kicked him upstairs to the Supreme Court, and installed his cronies. And, from then on, the spoils system allowed whichever party won the White House to hand out tens of thousands of jobs to its supporters. So, in a bizarre way, even though it was born from partisanship, it was kind of nonpartisan because both parties exploited it to the highest degree.
How much politicization was there from that time up until the Nixon era?
Both parties used it for their advantage in terms of handing out patronage jobs. But, in general, the Post Office has always gotten a lot of bipartisan support, and many of the great Postmaster Generals have been Republicans. We want to think in our day and age that it’s the Democrats who look out for the little people, but, during the golden age of the Post Office, between 1890 and World War One, roughly corresponding to the Progressive Era, the Republican Postmaster General John Wanamaker sided with the common people against the robber-baron monopolies, especially banking and rail.
He was an interesting guy. He made a fortune with Wanamaker Department Stores, and became one of these rich guys who could have been a robber baron himself. But he wanted another challenge, and he decided on public service, so he took on the Post Office, and then it was phenomenally powerful. People wondered at it. Railway mail service sped up the mail, and the cars were stocked with postal clerks who sorted all the letters while the trains were moving. People some days got same-day replies. It was a huge engine of America as a global power. He felt that, the same way his department store gave people good merchandise for reasonable prices, the Postal Service could do the same.
But in rural areas, you had almost no horizons. If you needed something, you had to pay what the store wanted to charge for it. The railroad monopolies charged a fortune to ship a parcel to you. His big claim was rural free delivery. During the Civil War, people who lived in cities got home delivery of letters. Before that, everyone had to go to the post office to pick up their mail. But country people didn’t get that service until he pushed hard for it, and it wasn’t enacted until he was out of office. The Democrats wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of this happening (see above) until he left office, but he was really the philosopher king of changing and redefining the Post Office from simply being about information and communication to also being about things. He advocated for rural free delivery, and postal savings, which gave banking services to average people whom the banks wouldn’t serve, and parcel post, which brought goods to rural people. So, can you say that was political? Yes. But it was democratic, and in favor of the people. The Post Office is by nature political, if political means related to the government and public affairs, but political to serve what end? Is it serving democracy or partisanship?
So then tell me about the Nixon reorganization, which seems like the birth of the modern U.S.P.S. Why was it undertaken, and why was it so important?
Well, he finally ended the spoils system with the Postal Reorganization Act. The Post Office experienced a terrible crisis back in the late sixties, where it was running at such a deficit that there were just big postal meltdowns, most famously in Chicago. So everybody realized that something had to be done to fix it up. Between two World Wars and the Depression, the Post Office had been totally starved of resources. And then during the postwar economic boom, the mail volume doubled, and post offices were still dealing with equipment that Benjamin Franklin recognized, so there were a bunch of things that brought the crisis to a head.
So Nixon turned it into the U.S.P.S., which was a government-business hybrid run by a board of governors who are nominated by the President and confirmed by the Senate. Also, in the nineteen-seventies, interestingly, a small but vocal libertarian group—Senator James Buckley, William F. Buckley’s brother, was a leader of the crowd here—started agitating to privatize the Post. Their position was, What’s the value of government? Why shouldn’t everything be privatized? They started rumblings then, and there is still rumbling, put it isn’t a popular position.


newyorker--2020-08-17--Isabel Wilkerson on America’s Caste System

In this moment of historical reckoning , many Americans are being introduced to such concepts as intersectionality , white fragility @ @ @ @ @ Wilkerson , the author of the best-selling book “ The Warmth of Other Suns , @ @ @ @ @ concept into our national conversation : caste .
As she researched the Jim Crow system @ @ @ @ @ realized that “ every aspect of life was so tightly controlled and scripted and restricted @ @ @ @ @ term to capture the depth and organized repression that people were living under.
” She @ @ @ @ @ “ the only word that was sufficient was ‘ caste.
’ ” The United States @ @ @ @ @ a rigid social hierarchy that depends on a psychological as well as a legal system @ @ @ @ @ book is “ Caste : The Origins of Our Discontents , ” which has already @ @ @ @ @ classic .
She says that “ we need a new framework for understanding the divisions @ @ @ @ @ where we are .
”

Download a transcript.|||
Photograph from ZUMA / Alamy
In this moment of historical reckoning, many Americans are being introduced to such concepts as intersectionality, white fragility, and anti-racism. Isabel Wilkerson, the author of the best-selling book “The Warmth of Other Suns,” is introducing a little-discussed concept into our national conversation: caste. As she researched the Jim Crow system in the South, she realized that “every aspect of life was so tightly controlled and scripted and restricted that race was an insufficient term to capture the depth and organized repression that people were living under.” She explains to David Remnick that “the only word that was sufficient was ‘caste.’ ” The United States, Wilkerson argues, is a rigid social hierarchy that depends on a psychological as well as a legal system of enforcement. Her new book is “Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents,” which has already been hailed as a modern classic. She says that “we need a new framework for understanding the divisions and how we got to where we are.”