newyorker--2020-06-01--Maxine Hong Kingston’s Genre-Defying Life and Work

Later that day , I again met Kingston on the deck of her family ’ s home .
She appeared from inside the house with two glasses of iced tea and her manila envelope .
From the deck , you could see past the valley toward Waikīkī .
Some young men installing a solar panel across the street chatted and listened to Travis Scott at a respectable volume .
Kingston opened the envelope and showed me some of her novel , which she has tentatively titled “ Posthumously , Maxine.
” It was formatted in dense blocks of text , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I could die at any moment , ” she said .
“ So I was writing a work which could end at any moment .
And it ’ ll be O.K.
, because I ’ m not working for this heading toward a climax and then a reconciliation and ending.
” Joseph came out to give me a CD of his latest album , “ Love Doll , ” before leaving for work .
“ There ’ s something in there to offend anybody and everybody , ” he said , chuckling .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ pop tune called “ Bonging Along , ” which she had posted on her Facebook page .
“ Robert Pinsky said that he loved the recitative from that song , ” she told me proudly .
“ The poet laureate of the United States !
” The idea for publishing a novel posthumously came to Kingston after learning of Mark Twain ’ s autobiography , which wasn ’ t released in uncensored form until 2010 , a hundred years after his death .
If Kingston knew that she wouldn ’ t have to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ would be able to write more freely .
At first , her notes represented an attempt to capture each day ’ s “ intensity , ” she said .
In time , she realized that she had written about twelve hundred single-spaced pages .
She continued writing .
She told her agent , Sandy Dijkstra , that the book would remain unpublished for a hundred years .
“ I was stunned , shocked , and more , ” Dijkstra said in an e-mail , “ and told her that I could not promise @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a century from now.
” Kingston has not shown her any of it .
“ Maybe you can persuade Maxine to show it to us MUCH SOONER , ” she said .
“ Magical thinking works on the page , but not so well in real life.
” Kingston leaned across the table and asked me if I remembered that , at the beginning of “ Tripmaster Monkey , ” Wittman imagines leaping off the Golden Gate Bridge .
She pointed out that , at the end of “ Broad Margin , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ own life .
In that book , Kingston goes on to list the people in her life who have died in the past four years .
“ Each one who dies , I want to go with you , ” she writes , before wondering , on the next page , “ Why continue to live ?
” “ In all of these books , I ’ m preparing the reader and myself to deal with suicide , ” she said .
“ You know how when you go to the doctor you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ you , ‘ Do you have any suicidal thoughts ?
’ ” she asked .
“ I always put ‘ No.
’ But the truth is that I have suicidal thoughts every day and I don ’ t tell anybody .
I ’ ve been through therapy and everything , but I don ’ t even tell my therapist .
I don ’ t want to upset them .
Isn ’ t that a dumb reason ?
” When she was a child , she remembers asking God to strike her dead , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ I pretty much know that I ’ m not going to do it , ” she said .
But the writer ’ s privilege is to explore where this darkness comes from .
“ I don ’ t want my family to think that I think about killing myself every day , you know ?
” she said .
“ And , so , this word ‘ posthumously , ’ I can delve into it and see what ’ s going on.
” She reached into the manila envelope and took @ @ @ @ @ @ @ She put on a pair of glasses and read a vignette in which Maxine and Earll are flying home , worried that they will miss their connecting flight .
They try to enlist the help of various flight attendants , but nobody seems to care .
They make their way to the front of the plane , hugging their bags to their bodies as the door opens and they run to the next gate .
Maxine sees a young Asian-American soldier , who smiles at her , and then another .
She wonders @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” and offer to carry her luggage .
But they don ’ t .
Earll eventually reaches the gate and blocks the door so that the plane can ’ t leave until Maxine arrives .
When Kingston speaks , her sentences rise and fall , as if she were trying to tame her thoughts .
But when she reads there ’ s a cool theatricality , an assertiveness that snaps everything into place .
After she finished the scene , she removed her glasses and smiled .
“ I ’ m being self-indulgent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had turned gray and it began to pour , the water draining into a small tiled fountain that Joseph had built along the edge of the house .
I assumed that the Asian-American soldier and the flight attendants held some deeper meaning .
She demurred .
“ There ’ s nothing cosmic about trying to get the plane , ” she said .
“ It ’ s just the present.
” A way of expelling passing feelings of pettiness .
When the scholar Edward Said was nearing the end of his life , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ style , ” how artists ’ work accommodates the awareness that their days are numbered .
He describes them engaging in works full of formal complexity , experimentation , and contradiction , all of it meant as some kind of final statement of what art can be .
What Kingston read to me—the story about the plane , another about going to Chinatown with Earll to buy a winter melon for the New Year ’ s dinner—had little to do with the status of the novel or the possibilities of art .
She @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The Maxine in these pieces , she explained , is her “ actual self ” —how she hopes that Hana Mĕi will remember her .
( The book will be available to her grandchildren during their lifetime . )
I remarked on how different these vignettes were from her work from the seventies and eighties ; they were bereft of drama or utopian longing , of attempts to “ make my mind large , as the universe is large , so there is room for contradictions , ” as she once wrote @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she replied , is “ where there isn ’ t great drama happening.
” I thought about what Kingston had said about the veterans ’ group : A writer is always alone , even when she is collaborating , or giving herself over .
These sketches of her life weren ’ t for anyone but her .
They were not , as the mother in “ The Woman Warrior ” said , “ a story to grow on , ” outlining who we might be in the future .
“ It ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she said .
“ I am really enjoying going to buy that winter melon .
I ’ m deeply into it.
” They are moments that allow her to anchor in the serene here and now of everyday life .
“ I ’ m so sane in my work .
That ’ s why it ’ s fiction.
” The rain had stopped , and it was time for me to leave .
We planned to meet in the East Bay in late March .
Maybe we could go for a walk at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” the latest Disney adaptation of the Chinese folktale that she refashioned for “ The Woman Warrior.
” It was the week before everyone learned about social distancing .
It had become harder to find baby formula and hand sanitizer on the island , though hoarding still seemed like a plot point in a dystopian novel .
Downstairs , Earll was sitting at a table reading the newspaper .
He had turned eighty-three a few days earlier , and I wished him a belated happy birthday .
We chatted about Super Tuesday @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I shook Earll ’ s hand , and Maxine jumped between us .
“ We ’ re not supposed to touch !
” she exclaimed , laughing , and pulled the door shut .
♦

“The Woman Warrior” conveys the sense of being told a story, and recognizing it as such. To many readers, the dark, psychological tales offer an authentic account of what it was like to grow up in an immigrant household. But Kingston plants seeds of doubt that this experience can be generalized. “Chinese Americans,” she writes, “when you try to understand what things in you are Chinese, how do you separate what is peculiar to childhood, to poverty, insanities, one family, your mother who marked your growing with stories, from what is Chinese? What is Chinese tradition and what is the movies?”
By the end of “The Woman Warrior,” Little Dog has taken the scraps of her family’s story, passed down from her mother, and added to it: “The beginning is hers, the ending, mine.” The poet and novelist Ocean Vuong told me that his life was both “mirrored and altered” by “The Woman Warrior”: “I found Maxine’s audacious centering of Chinese-American life, its idiosyncrasies, political inflections, its refusal to sugarcoat or cast the façade of an elegant surface over immigrants, startlingly life affirming.” In his novel “On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous,” from 2019, the narrator is named Little Dog, partly as a nod to Kingston.
“The Woman Warrior” initially created divisions among Asian-American writers and readers. In 1974, Jeffery Paul Chan, Frank Chin, Lawson Fusao Inada, and Shawn Wong had published a galvanizing collection titled “Aiiieeeee! An Anthology of Asian-American Writers.” They shared Kingston’s interest in the psychological entanglements of being Asian-American. Chin also studied literature at Berkeley, though he and Kingston never met. But the “Aiiieeeee!” authors were invested in a kind of brash realism that clashed with the hallucinatory play of “The Woman Warrior.” After Chin read the book, he wrote Kingston the first of many letters accusing her of purposely misrepresenting Chinese culture. Other Asian-American male critics dismissed her as someone who aired the community’s dirty laundry and capitalized on the trendiness of American feminism. The rift between Chin and Kingston continues to this day, standing in for different versions of authenticity—whether the concept is something stirring and immovable or is more contingent and intimate, perhaps even ugly. Chin once wrote her a heated letter saying that the only reason for meeting would be for “a public fight, but I’m not anxious for that.”
Kingston pulled out a sheet of handwritten notes detailing various translations of my Chinese name. (Joseph and Saki have named their son Malu Hua, which shares a Chinese character with mine.) The café had closed, and we sat outside, on the patio. The only sounds were from chirping birds, clucking chickens, the occasional snort of a distant pig. She pointed out a shack a few yards away, where Robert Louis Stevenson had once worked. When she moved to Mānoa, she took comfort in knowing that a fellow-writer had found inspiration looking out at this valley.
“I write something that I wish for,” Kingston said. “In ‘China Men,’ there’s the story of my grandfather who traded his son for a daughter. Actually, that happened, and the son was my father. My grandmother got really mad and they traded back.” In the book, this man seems kind, even charming, in his obsession with bringing some feminine energy into their home. “The way I wrote it was to show how he loved her, how he just wanted to hold her, and he wanted to sing to her. But I wrote it to give myself a grandfather who would love me as a girl.” Growing up, she said, she’d always heard people in her family say that they didn’t want girls. “So I wrote it for myself.”
When she completed “China Men,” she and Earll flew to New York. After reading the manuscript, Elliott told her that she had failed. “You don’t understand men,” she remembers him saying. “They’re lonelier than this.”
Devastated, Kingston got on a bus uptown to her friend Lilah Kan’s apartment, where she and Earll were staying. “I just felt terrible,” she said. She was met by Kan, Earll, and about ten friends, who greeted her with champagne and pot to celebrate her big meeting. They went ahead with the party, as she retreated into the corner with her Selectric typewriter and wrote a scene based on her father’s time in New York. So much of the immigrant story is joyless hard work. America is so free that you are even free to work through the holidays, Kingston wrote. She wanted to give the immigrant workers a day off. Her father enjoys a night out on the town, ending up at a tearoom, where Chinese men could buy dances with white women. Her father fox-trots with as many blondes as he desires, then returns home alone, wondering if his wife will ever make it to America.
“I give the narrative to all these men, but there’s still this voice that’s me,” Kingston told me. “My father is dancing with this blonde—I described the cascading blond hair, the beautiful blue eyes. And I hope that the reader understands that I am very lonely, ’cause that’s the opposite description of me. That’s not me. Maybe indirectly you can feel my being left out of this scene.” Usually a slow and methodical writer, she finished the scene in an hour. Then she read what she had written aloud to the party. “Is this lonely enough?” she asked.
“China Men” won the 1981 National Book Award for nonfiction. Kingston attended the award ceremony in New York wearing leis from her Hawaiian friends. She donated her papers to Berkeley’s Bancroft Library. At the ceremony, Kingston pulled her father aside and showed him a display featuring some of his notes written as poetry in the margins of her books. “My writing, my writing!” her father, a shy man, cried out.
In 1984, Kingston visited China for the first time, touring the country as part of a delegation of writers sponsored by U.C.L.A. and the Chinese Writers Association. She spent time with Leslie Marmon Silko and Toni Morrison. In an e-mail, Silko recalled the three of them visiting an old storytellers’ hall in southern China. “The Woman Warrior,” she wrote, “is storytelling at its highest level, where webs of narrative conjure the ghosts that stand up and reveal all.”
One day, they were on a boat going down the Li River, and Morrison saw a young woman doing laundry along the shore. Morrison waved to her and said, “Goodbye, Maxine.” She gets it, Kingston thought. If immigration hadn’t brought her to the U.S., “that could have been me,” she said. “Were you my possible other life?”
In the summer of 1991, Kingston’s father died. She and Earll had moved to Oakland; she was teaching at Berkeley and writing her next book. That fall, she was driving home from Stockton, where her family had gathered to mark the hundredth day since her father’s death, when she heard on the radio that a fire was sweeping through the East Bay. She began driving faster, hoping to reach their house in the hills of northern Oakland before the fire did. Firefighters had set up barricades along the main roads, so she sneaked up the side of the hill on foot. Her house had burned to the ground. She saw the pages of the manuscript for her next book, but they disintegrated into ashes when she touched them. It was her only copy.
Kingston had been a hundred and fifty-six “excellent” pages into the sequel to “Tripmaster Monkey: His Fake Book” (1989), a novel about a brooding dreamer named Wittman Ah Sing, who aspires to write a play that will feature everyone he has ever met, and in the process end the Vietnam War. Ecstatic and overwhelming, it occasionally reads like a trippy handbook for how to be a good friend.
As we sat on the patio, Kingston said, “I remember standing there in the fire and facing loss. And one of the feelings that really strongly came to me was this community is gone and, you know, people kept talking about rebuilding, and there’s no rebuilding. The community that was here, which was formed at random, it’s gone.”
Kingston realized that her life as a writer had begun to exacerbate a sense of loneliness. She couldn’t reconstruct the missing book, nor did she want to. After the fire, she began asking people at her readings to bring things for her—talismans, other objects, maybe even their own stories. She wanted to write with other people.
At a reading at San José State University, she invited a man named Bob Golling to a writing workshop that she was organizing at Berkeley for veterans. Golling had been trying for years to write a story about an experience he had before going to Vietnam. In June, 1993, he went to the first meeting, and listened to everyone else’s “hair-raising” stories from the war. There was a brief writing exercise, but he couldn’t produce anything. Afterward, he said, he drove home, feeling that he had been “singularly unsuccessful,” and thought that he would never go back. But Kingston arranged another meeting the following month, and Golling kept writing. The workshop for veterans has continued ever since, and Golling now helps plan and organize the meetings. Eventually, he published his story, about his job escorting the bodies of deceased servicemen, in “Veterans of War, Veterans of Peace,” a collection edited by Kingston, from 2006.


newyorker--2020-06-01--Haruki Murakami on Symbols and When a Monkey Is Simply a Monkey

Your story in this week ’ s issue , “ Confessions of a Shinagawa Monkey , ” is perhaps a continuation of a story that was published in The New Yorker in 2006 , “ A Shinagawa Monkey.
” Where did the idea of this monkey who steals names come from , and what made you go back to him after so long ?
After I published that first story about the monkey , I really wondered what fate might have befallen him after he was captured , but for a long time I didn ’ t have the opportunity @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I didn ’ t have to hurry , since the monkey would wait for me , wherever he happened to be .
Is there any significance to the fact that the monkey comes from the Shinagawa ward in Tokyo ?
No , there ’ s no significance at all .
It just had a nice ring to it .
Speaking of which , Brooklyn Monkey sounds pretty good , too .
Is the monkey who is raised by humans and then outcast by them and by his own kind a symbol of something @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
Generally speaking , you wouldn ’ t expect a monkey to be out there actually stealing people ’ s names , so I have no problem with people thinking he must be some kind of symbol or metaphor , and that , likewise , names are a symbol or metaphor .
That ’ s entirely up to the reader .
For me ( the author ) , I just thought it wouldn ’ t be so strange if there were a monkey somewhere who was obsessed with stealing people ’ s names @ @ @ @ @ @ @ public reading of an abridged version of the story and the audience laughed a lot , which I enjoyed very much .
One motif in my fiction might be the inability to fit into a group , small or large .
But if I were to go on and say something like , “ In the literary world in Japan , too .
.
.
” things might get a bit sticky , so it ’ s best to see the monkey as simply a monkey , and nothing more .
The monkey @ @ @ @ @ @ @ older than he was in the first story .
Has he changed in other ways ?
He ’ s old and lonely , and he doesn ’ t belong anywhere .
That ’ s the Shinagawa Monkey now .
Let ’ s hope that he has , if only a little bit , taken on the pain of our own aging , loneliness , and isolation—mine and yours .
Fiction can have an effect like that .
Just like Madame Bovary taking on your sins .
Perhaps in writing him , you were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and isolation and give it to him !
Why did you make the monkey a fan of Bruckner ’ s Seventh Symphony ?
It ’ s because I listened to this symphony many times while writing this story .
That ’ s the only reason .
Hmmm .
.
.
maybe the Shinagawa Monkey should write a book titled “ Bruckner for Monkeys.
” Do you agree with him that possessing someone ’ s name is almost like possessing part of that person ?
In these days of social distancing , perhaps that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ someone ?
That ’ s a wonderful thought .
If there were a public lecture called “ Love in the Time of the Coronavirus : An Evening With a Shinagawa Monkey , ” I ’ d definitely want to hear it .
The narrator of the story is a writer and a curious , open-minded person .
Is he a stand-in for you ?
I ’ ve always loved listening to other people ’ s stories .
And if the one I ’ m listening to happens to be told by a monkey @ @ @ @ @ @ @ more enjoyable .
The narrator says that the monkey ’ s story wouldn ’ t make a good piece of fiction because it has no theme or point .
Do you think “ Confessions of a Shinagawa Monkey ” has a theme or a point ?
I ’ ve hardly ever thought about the theme or the point of the stories I write .
I ’ ve had a number of opportunities to discuss my work with college students in their classes , and the students always seem to end up confused , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ theme or the point of my stories .
But that doesn ’ t bother me at all .

Photograph by Kevin Trageser / Redux
Your story in this week’s issue, “Confessions of a Shinagawa Monkey,” is perhaps a continuation of a story that was published in The New Yorker in 2006, “A Shinagawa Monkey.” Where did the idea of this monkey who steals names come from, and what made you go back to him after so long?
After I published that first story about the monkey, I really wondered what fate might have befallen him after he was captured, but for a long time I didn’t have the opportunity to write a sequel. I figured I didn’t have to hurry, since the monkey would wait for me, wherever he happened to be.
Is there any significance to the fact that the monkey comes from the Shinagawa ward in Tokyo?
No, there’s no significance at all. It just had a nice ring to it. Speaking of which, Brooklyn Monkey sounds pretty good, too.
Is the monkey who is raised by humans and then outcast by them and by his own kind a symbol of something, or is he just a monkey?
Generally speaking, you wouldn’t expect a monkey to be out there actually stealing people’s names, so I have no problem with people thinking he must be some kind of symbol or metaphor, and that, likewise, names are a symbol or metaphor. That’s entirely up to the reader. For me (the author), I just thought it wouldn’t be so strange if there were a monkey somewhere who was obsessed with stealing people’s names.
In Japan, I gave a public reading of an abridged version of the story and the audience laughed a lot, which I enjoyed very much.
One motif in my fiction might be the inability to fit into a group, small or large. But if I were to go on and say something like “In the literary world in Japan, too . . .” things might get a bit sticky, so it’s best to see the monkey as simply a monkey, and nothing more.
The monkey is “elderly” now, much older than he was in the first story. Has he changed in other ways?
He’s old and lonely, and he doesn’t belong anywhere. That’s the Shinagawa Monkey now. Let’s hope that he has, if only a little bit, taken on the pain of our own aging, loneliness, and isolation—mine and yours. Fiction can have an effect like that. Just like Madame Bovary taking on your sins.
Perhaps in writing him, you were able to discard some of your age and isolation and give it to him! Why did you make the monkey a fan of Bruckner’s Seventh Symphony?
It’s because I listened to this symphony many times while writing this story. That’s the only reason. Hmmm . . . maybe the Shinagawa Monkey should write a book titled “Bruckner for Monkeys.”
Do you agree with him that possessing someone’s name is almost like possessing part of that person? In these days of social distancing, perhaps that would be the safest way to love someone?
That’s a wonderful thought. If there were a public lecture called “Love in the Time of the Coronavirus: An Evening With a Shinagawa Monkey,” I’d definitely want to hear it.
The narrator of the story is a writer and a curious, open-minded person. Is he a stand-in for you?
I’ve always loved listening to other people’s stories. And if the one I’m listening to happens to be told by a monkey, I think that makes it even more enjoyable.
The narrator says that the monkey’s story wouldn’t make a good piece of fiction because it has no theme or point. Do you think “Confessions of a Shinagawa Monkey” has a theme or a point?
I’ve hardly ever thought about the theme or the point of the stories I write. I’ve had a number of opportunities to discuss my work with college students in their classes, and the students always seem to end up confused, because they can’t find the theme or the point of my stories. But that doesn’t bother me at all.
(Haruki Murakami’s responses were translated, from the Japanese, by Philip Gabriel.)


The Mail

Evan Osnos ’ s survey of how country-club Republicans have embraced Trumpism was brilliantly done ( “ The Greenwich Rebellion , ” May 11th ) .
Osnos makes their conversion to winner-take-all libertarianism seem so natural that one wonders whether the super-rich ever felt the need for , as John Kenneth Galbraith termed it , “ a truly superior moral justification for selfishness.
” Members of the older generation in Greenwich , Connecticut , who called the prominent resident Prescott Bush a “ Ten Commandments man , ” must have admired both his sense of decorum and his moral stature @ @ @ @ @ @ @ absence of religious congregations prompts one to wonder whether a turn away from faith has led members of the one per cent to usher in what Osnos calls “ a vision of politics that forgives cruelty as the price of profit.
” A decline in the importance of religious services—as a moral and reputational obligation among peers—has perhaps hastened wealthy Republicans ’ embrace of cruelty toward the vulnerable as the price of profit for themselves .
I was saddened , but not surprised , to read Osnos ’ s account of the ubiquitous @ @ @ @ @ @ @ owners in Greenwich , where I grew up .
My brother and I , as children in the Round Hill Road area , once surreptitiously stocked our coaster wagon with canned goods from our mother ’ s pantry and sold them to neighbors—ostensibly to raise money for cancer research , but actually to buy candy at the Round Hill Store .
When our mother discovered the ruse , we were punished and made to send the money to the American Cancer Society .
It was a life lesson about questionable entrepreneurship—one commonly taught @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Ten years ago , at age seventy , I took my wife back to Round Hill Road , to see the grounds of Seabury House , the former conference center of the Episcopal Church , where my siblings and I spent hours playing .
But there was no way to get near the estate .
All access was blocked off by high walls .
I enjoyed Hua Hsu ’ s piece on mycophiles—in particular , his discussion of the mycologist and mushroom evangelist Paul Stamets ( Books , May 18th ) .
I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a mention of Stamets ’ s twenty-third-century sci-fi namesake , Lieutenant Commander Paul Stamets , a character on the show “ Star Trek : Discovery.
” In the series , Stamets , played by Anthony Rapp , is a so-called astromycologist who serves as the ship ’ s “ spore-drive specialist.
” His responsibilities include using spores from a particular species of fungus to move the ship instantaneously to any point in the universe , travelling along a subspace “ mycelial plane.
” Real-world scientists have deemed this propulsion system nonviable , but @ @ @ @ @ @ @ whose purpose , as Manu Saadia wrote in this magazine , in 2016 , was “ to imagine foreign , even utopian futures ” —is in keeping with the real Stamets ’ s advocacy for the use of fungi to improve our world .
Stamets and other mycophiles seem to intuit that the ability to create such utopias might involve , as Hsu puts it , “ giving oneself up to the weft of a connected world , and making peace with one ’ s smallness.
” Letters should be sent with the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and daytime phone number via e-mail to themail @ newyorker.com .
Letters may be edited for length and clarity , and may be published in any medium .
We regret that owing to the volume of correspondence we can not reply to every letter .

The Walls of Round Hill
Evan Osnos’s survey of how country-club Republicans have embraced Trumpism was brilliantly done (“The Greenwich Rebellion,” May 11th). Osnos makes their conversion to winner-take-all libertarianism seem so natural that one wonders whether the super-rich ever felt the need for, as John Kenneth Galbraith termed it, “a truly superior moral justification for selfishness.” Members of the older generation in Greenwich, Connecticut, who called the prominent resident Prescott Bush a “Ten Commandments man,” must have admired both his sense of decorum and his moral stature. In this vivid chronicle, the absence of religious congregations prompts one to wonder whether a turn away from faith has led members of the one per cent to usher in what Osnos calls “a vision of politics that forgives cruelty as the price of profit.” A decline in the importance of religious services—as a moral and reputational obligation among peers—has perhaps hastened wealthy Republicans’ embrace of cruelty toward the vulnerable as the price of profit for themselves.
Claudia Koonz
Chapel Hill, N.C.
I was saddened, but not surprised, to read Osnos’s account of the ubiquitous high stone walls erected by wealthy property owners in Greenwich, where I grew up. My brother and I, as children in the Round Hill Road area, once surreptitiously stocked our coaster wagon with canned goods from our mother’s pantry and sold them to neighbors—ostensibly to raise money for cancer research, but actually to buy candy at the Round Hill Store. When our mother discovered the ruse, we were punished and made to send the money to the American Cancer Society. It was a life lesson about questionable entrepreneurship—one commonly taught in that once inviting countryside environment. Ten years ago, at age seventy, I took my wife back to Round Hill Road, to see the grounds of Seabury House, the former conference center of the Episcopal Church, where my siblings and I spent hours playing. But there was no way to get near the estate. All access was blocked off by high walls.
William Heuss
South Yarmouth, Mass.
Fungi: The Final Frontier
I enjoyed Hua Hsu’s piece on mycophiles—in particular, his discussion of the mycologist and mushroom evangelist Paul Stamets (Books, May 18th). I must admit that I was hoping for a mention of Stamets’s twenty-third-century sci-fi namesake, Lieutenant Commander Paul Stamets, a character on the show “Star Trek: Discovery.” In the series, Stamets, played by Anthony Rapp, is a so-called astromycologist who serves as the ship’s “spore-drive specialist.” His responsibilities include using spores from a particular species of fungus to move the ship instantaneously to any point in the universe, travelling along a subspace “mycelial plane.” Real-world scientists have deemed this propulsion system nonviable, but the spirit of the concept—in a show whose purpose, as Manu Saadia wrote in this magazine, in 2016, was “to imagine foreign, even utopian futures”—is in keeping with the real Stamets’s advocacy for the use of fungi to improve our world. Stamets and other mycophiles seem to intuit that the ability to create such utopias might involve, as Hsu puts it, “giving oneself up to the weft of a connected world, and making peace with one’s smallness.”
Tracy L. Bealer
New York City
•
Letters should be sent with the writer’s name, address, and daytime phone number via e-mail to themail@newyorker.com. Letters may be edited for length and clarity, and may be published in any medium. We regret that owing to the volume of correspondence we cannot reply to every letter.


newyorker--2020-06-01--Zoom Fatigue? Try Houseparty

Zoom Fatigue? Try Houseparty

There have been reports , lately , of people suffering from something called “ Zoom fatigue.
” It ’ s a second pandemic we should have seen coming : the video-conferencing tool Zoom , for weeks the most downloaded app in the App Store , has caused widespread burnout .
What to do ?
One could try this spring ’ s second-most downloaded app and see if it ’ s any better .
Houseparty , launched in 2016 , allows users to convene in “ rooms ” of up to eight people and entertain themselves with virtual board games ( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ quizzes .
Before the pandemic , Houseparty was a Gen-Z hangout , a mid-tier player in the video-calling leagues .
Then the app gained fifty million new users in one month .
It ’ s the virtual living room to Zoom ’ s virtual office .
On a recent Sunday , a few newbies—an educator in the U.K. , an obstetrician in New York City , a P.R .
manager for an ovulation-tracking app in Berlin—gathered on Houseparty for a birthday celebration .
The app was glitching .
“ I can ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ said , as he poured himself a glass of sparkling rosé .
“ Shall we switch to Zoom ?
” Three hours later and six thousand miles to the west , Julia Onken was getting ready to do a group workout on Houseparty ; she works in marketing for the app .
At twenty-six , she was already a little old to be on the app—before the lockdown , she said , ninety per cent of users were under twenty-four , though older generations have since been catching on .
As a millennial @ @ @ @ @ @ @ arrange a meeting on Houseparty , “ FaceTime is so pre-Covid.
” Onken , who lives in San Francisco , said , “ I haven ’ t left my apartment , but I ’ m more social than I think I ’ ve ever been.
” The night before , she ’ d had a first date with a guy who lives three blocks away .
“ We matched on Bumble , and he suggested FaceTime and wine , ” she said .
“ I was , like , Houseparty and White Claw @ @ @ @ @ @ @ imagine that they physically inhabit their digital space .
Opening the app sends an alert that you are “ in the house , ” where you can “ wave ” at others , or , if you like , “ ghost ” them .
As at an actual social event , it can be hard to avoid old acquaintances .
Signing up sends a notification to every user who has your number : your boss , your therapist , your ex .
Friends can wander into groups at will—or by accident—unless someone “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it can be hard to hear over the chatter .
Despite the cheery prompts that the app provides— “ Harry Potter is the same age as Kim Kardashian , ” “ You can ’ t hum while holding your nose ” —conversation tends toward small talk .
An activity helps .
Once Onken was ready , Aimee Jen , a thirty-year-old in black leggings and a baggy gray T-shirt , joined the room .
“ This is my first time on Houseparty , ” she said , through a chirrup of feedback .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” She , too , was stuck at home , although her dog , a diabetic mutt named George , sometimes forced her out of the house .
At noon , the women opened Instagram and started a live Barry ’ s Bootcamp class .
While Jen fiddled with her volume , Onken performed a series of squats .
On Instagram , a muscle-bound instructor shouted into the camera : “ Let ’ s go hard !
Hold it !
We ’ ve got eight seconds , then we ’ re going to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ !
In four !
In three !
Two !
One !
” Onken lay on her back with the soles of her feet in closeup .
On the other side of the split screen , the dog sauntered into the shot and sat on Jen ’ s legs .
After catching her breath , Onken was on to her next Houseparty appointment , a pub quiz with college friends in London .
“ We ’ ve been hosting these quizzes every few days , ” Georgina Coward , a fashion merchandiser , who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ You can get really upset and depressed , or you can just make the most of it.
” Her co-host , Fiona Endersen , agreed .
“ We were finding that conversations went straight back to coronavirus , ” she said .
“ But , with this , people feel like they ’ ve escaped for an hour.
” The room filled up , and Coward , holding a big inflatable microphone , started asking questions : Zayn Malik ’ s age ( twenty-seven ) , the scent of a candle recently @ @ @ @ @ @ @ vagina ) .
The contestants , lonely but not alone , slumped on sofas or lounged in bed , half-drunk wineglasses foregrounded in their rectangles of screen .
For a sonic round , Coward and Endersen sang snatches from “ The Sound of Music.
” Onken was stumped .
“ I don ’ t know a single musical !
” she said .
The first prize , a four-pack of toilet paper , went to Coward ’ s brother .
Endersen told him he could pick it up when the lockdown ended—unless somebody @ @ @ @ @ @ @ There ’ d be another quiz next week , she said .
“ For now , there ’ s nothing else to do but call people.
” ♦

There have been reports, lately, of people suffering from something called “Zoom fatigue.” It’s a second pandemic we should have seen coming: the video-conferencing tool Zoom, for weeks the most downloaded app in the App Store, has caused widespread burnout.
What to do? One could try this spring’s second-most downloaded app and see if it’s any better. Houseparty, launched in 2016, allows users to convene in “rooms” of up to eight people and entertain themselves with virtual board games (including a Pictionary knockoff) and trivia quizzes. Before the pandemic, Houseparty was a Gen-Z hangout, a mid-tier player in the video-calling leagues. Then the app gained fifty million new users in one month. It’s the virtual living room to Zoom’s virtual office.
On a recent Sunday, a few newbies—an educator in the U.K., an obstetrician in New York City, a P.R. manager for an ovulation-tracking app in Berlin—gathered on Houseparty for a birthday celebration. The app was glitching. “I can’t really hear anyone,” the Berliner said, as he poured himself a glass of sparkling rosé. “Shall we switch to Zoom?”
Three hours later and six thousand miles to the west, Julia Onken was getting ready to do a group workout on Houseparty; she works in marketing for the app. At twenty-six, she was already a little old to be on the app—before the lockdown, she said, ninety per cent of users were under twenty-four, though older generations have since been catching on. As a millennial recently texted a friend, trying to arrange a meeting on Houseparty, “FaceTime is so pre-Covid.”
Onken, who lives in San Francisco, said, “I haven’t left my apartment, but I’m more social than I think I’ve ever been.” The night before, she’d had a first date with a guy who lives three blocks away. “We matched on Bumble, and he suggested FaceTime and wine,” she said. “I was, like, Houseparty and White Claw?”
Houseparty users are encouraged to imagine that they physically inhabit their digital space. Opening the app sends an alert that you are “in the house,” where you can “wave” at others, or, if you like, “ghost” them. As at an actual social event, it can be hard to avoid old acquaintances. Signing up sends a notification to every user who has your number: your boss, your therapist, your ex. Friends can wander into groups at will—or by accident—unless someone “locks the room.” Once inside, it can be hard to hear over the chatter. Despite the cheery prompts that the app provides—“Harry Potter is the same age as Kim Kardashian,” “You can’t hum while holding your nose”—conversation tends toward small talk. An activity helps.
Once Onken was ready, Aimee Jen, a thirty-year-old in black leggings and a baggy gray T-shirt, joined the room. “This is my first time on Houseparty,” she said, through a chirrup of feedback. “I feel so old and uncool.” She, too, was stuck at home, although her dog, a diabetic mutt named George, sometimes forced her out of the house.
At noon, the women opened Instagram and started a live Barry’s Bootcamp class. While Jen fiddled with her volume, Onken performed a series of squats. On Instagram, a muscle-bound instructor shouted into the camera: “Let’s go hard! Hold it! We’ve got eight seconds, then we’re going to lay on the floor, in five! In four! In three! Two! One!” Onken lay on her back with the soles of her feet in closeup. On the other side of the split screen, the dog sauntered into the shot and sat on Jen’s legs.
After catching her breath, Onken was on to her next Houseparty appointment, a pub quiz with college friends in London. “We’ve been hosting these quizzes every few days,” Georgina Coward, a fashion merchandiser, who was quarantining in Southwark, said. “You can get really upset and depressed, or you can just make the most of it.” Her co-host, Fiona Endersen, agreed. “We were finding that conversations went straight back to coronavirus,” she said. “But, with this, people feel like they’ve escaped for an hour.”
The room filled up, and Coward, holding a big inflatable microphone, started asking questions: Zayn Malik’s age (twenty-seven), the scent of a candle recently released by Gwyneth Paltrow (her own vagina). The contestants, lonely but not alone, slumped on sofas or lounged in bed, half-drunk wineglasses foregrounded in their rectangles of screen. For a sonic round, Coward and Endersen sang snatches from “The Sound of Music.” Onken was stumped. “I don’t know a single musical!” she said.
The first prize, a four-pack of toilet paper, went to Coward’s brother. Endersen told him he could pick it up when the lockdown ended—unless somebody else won it in the meantime. There’d be another quiz next week, she said. “For now, there’s nothing else to do but call people.” ♦
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-06-01--“Pursuit as Happiness,” by Ernest Hemingway

That year we had planned to fish for marlin off the Cuban coast for a month .
The month started the tenth of April and by the tenth of May we had twenty-five marlin and the charter was over .
The thing to have done then would have been to buy some presents to take back to Key West and fill the Anita with just a little more expensive Cuban gas than was necessary to run across , get cleared , and go home .
But the big fish had not started to run .
“ Do you want to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Mr. Josie asked .
He owned the Anita and was chartering her for ten dollars a day .
The standard charter price then was thirty-five a day .
“ If you want to stay , I can cut her to nine dollars.
” “ Where would we get the nine dollars ?
” “ You pay me when you get it .
You got good credit with the Standard Oil Company at Belot across the bay , and when we get the bill I can pay them from last month ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ weather , you can write something.
” “ All right , ” I said , and we fished another month .
We had forty-two marlin by then and still the big ones had not come .
There was a dark , heavy stream close in to the Morro—sometimes there would be acres of bait—and there were flying fish going out from under the bows and birds working all the time .
But we had not raised one of the huge marlin , although we were catching , or losing , white marlin each @ @ @ @ @ @ @ five .
We were very popular along the waterfront because we butchered all our fish and gave them away , and when we came in past the Morro Castle and up the channel toward the San Francisco piers with a marlin flag up we could see the crowd starting to run for the docks .
The fish was worth from eight to twelve cents a pound that year to a fisherman and twice that in the market .
The day we came in with five flags , the police had to charge the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and bad .
But that was an ugly and bad year ashore .
“ The goddam police running off our regular clients and getting all the fish , ” Mr. Josie said .
“ To hell with you , ” he told a policeman who was reaching down for a ten-pound piece of marlin .
“ I never saw your ugly face before .
What ’ s your name ?
” The policeman gave him his name .
“ Is he in the compromiso book , Cap ?
” The compromiso book was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the people to whom we had promised fish .
“ Write him down in the compromiso book for next week for a small piece , Cap , ” Mr. Josie said .
“ Now , policeman , you go the hell away from here and club somebody who isn ’ t a friend of ours .
I seen enough damn police in my life .
Go on .
Take the club and the pistol both and get off the dock unless you ’ re a dock police.
” Finally , the fish was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the book and the book was full of promises for next week .
“ You go on up to the Ambos Mundos and get washed up , Cap .
Take a shower and I ’ ll meet you there .
Then we can go to the Floridita and talk things over .
That policeman got on my nerves.
” “ You come on up and take a shower , too.
” “ No .
I can clean up good here .
I didn ’ t sweat like you did today.
” So I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a shortcut to the Ambos Mundos Hotel and checked if I had any mail at the desk and then rode up in the elevator to the top floor .
My room was on the northeast corner and the trade wind blew through the windows and made it cool .
I looked out the window at the roofs of the old part of town and across at the harbor and watched the Orizaba go out slowly down the harbor with all her lights on .
I was tired from working so many fish and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ But I knew that if I lay down I might go to sleep , so I sat on the bed and looked out the window and watched the bats hunting and then , finally , I undressed and took a shower and got into some fresh clothes and went downstairs .
Mr. Josie was waiting in the doorway of the hotel .
“ You must be tired , Ernest , ” he said .
“ I ’ m tired , ” he said .
“ Just from watching you pull on fish .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ all-time record .
Seven and the eye of an eighth.
” Neither Mr. Josie nor I liked to think of the eye of the eighth fish , but we always stated the record in this way .
We were walking up the narrow sidewalk on Obispo Street and Mr. Josie was looking at all the lighted windows of the shops .
He never bought anything until it was time to go home .
But he liked to look at everything there was for sale .
We passed the last two stores and the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ door of the old Floridita .
“ You better sit down , Cap , ” Mr. Josie said .
“ No .
I feel better standing up at the bar.
” “ Beer , ” said Mr. Josie .
“ German beer .
What you drinking , Cap ?
” Constante made the daiquiri and left enough in the shaker for two more .
I was waiting for Mr. Josie to bring up the subject .
He brought it up as soon as his beer came .
“ Carlos says they ’ ve @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” he said .
Carlos was our Cuban mate and a great commercial marlin fisherman .
“ He says he never saw such a current and when they come they ’ ll be something like we never seen .
He says they ’ ve got to come.
” “ If you want to try another month , Cap , I can make her eight dollars a day and I can cook , instead of us wasting money on sandwiches .
We can run into the cove for lunch and I ’ ll @ @ @ @ @ @ @ getting those wavy-striped bonito all the time .
They ’ re as good as little tuna .
Carlos says he can pick us up stuff cheap in the market when he goes for bait .
Then we can eat supper nights in the Perla of San Francisco restaurant .
I ate there good last night for thirty-five cents.
” “ You got to eat , Cap .
That ’ s maybe why you ’ re a little tired today.
” “ I know it .
But are you sure you want to try @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t have to be hauled out for another month .
Why should we leave it when the big ones are coming ?
” “ You have anything you ’ d rather do ?
” “ Do you think they ’ ll really come ?
” “ Carlos says they ’ ve got to come.
” “ Then suppose we hook one and we can ’ t handle him on this tackle we have.
” “ We ’ ve got to handle him .
You can stay with him forever if you eat @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to eat good .
Then I ’ ve been thinking about something else .
”

That year we had planned to fish for marlin off the Cuban coast for a month. The month started the tenth of April and by the tenth of May we had twenty-five marlin and the charter was over. The thing to have done then would have been to buy some presents to take back to Key West and fill the Anita with just a little more expensive Cuban gas than was necessary to run across, get cleared, and go home. But the big fish had not started to run.
“Do you want to try her another month, Cap?” Mr. Josie asked. He owned the Anita and was chartering her for ten dollars a day. The standard charter price then was thirty-five a day. “If you want to stay, I can cut her to nine dollars.”
“Where would we get the nine dollars?”
“You pay me when you get it. You got good credit with the Standard Oil Company at Belot across the bay, and when we get the bill I can pay them from last month’s charter money. If we get bad weather, you can write something.”
“All right,” I said, and we fished another month. We had forty-two marlin by then and still the big ones had not come. There was a dark, heavy stream close in to the Morro—sometimes there would be acres of bait—and there were flying fish going out from under the bows and birds working all the time. But we had not raised one of the huge marlin, although we were catching, or losing, white marlin each day and on one day I caught five.
We were very popular along the waterfront because we butchered all our fish and gave them away, and when we came in past the Morro Castle and up the channel toward the San Francisco piers with a marlin flag up we could see the crowd starting to run for the docks. The fish was worth from eight to twelve cents a pound that year to a fisherman and twice that in the market. The day we came in with five flags, the police had to charge the crowd with clubs. It was ugly and bad. But that was an ugly and bad year ashore.
“The goddam police running off our regular clients and getting all the fish,” Mr. Josie said. “To hell with you,” he told a policeman who was reaching down for a ten-pound piece of marlin. “I never saw your ugly face before. What’s your name?”
The policeman gave him his name.
“Is he in the compromiso book, Cap?”
“Nope.”
The compromiso book was where we wrote down the names of the people to whom we had promised fish.
“Write him down in the compromiso book for next week for a small piece, Cap,” Mr. Josie said. “Now, policeman, you go the hell away from here and club somebody who isn’t a friend of ours. I seen enough damn police in my life. Go on. Take the club and the pistol both and get off the dock unless you’re a dock police.”
Finally, the fish was all butchered and apportioned out according to the book and the book was full of promises for next week.
“You go on up to the Ambos Mundos and get washed up, Cap. Take a shower and I’ll meet you there. Then we can go to the Floridita and talk things over. That policeman got on my nerves.”
“You come on up and take a shower, too.”
“No. I can clean up good here. I didn’t sweat like you did today.”
So I walked up the cobbled street that was a shortcut to the Ambos Mundos Hotel and checked if I had any mail at the desk and then rode up in the elevator to the top floor. My room was on the northeast corner and the trade wind blew through the windows and made it cool. I looked out the window at the roofs of the old part of town and across at the harbor and watched the Orizaba go out slowly down the harbor with all her lights on. I was tired from working so many fish and I felt like going to bed. But I knew that if I lay down I might go to sleep, so I sat on the bed and looked out the window and watched the bats hunting and then, finally, I undressed and took a shower and got into some fresh clothes and went downstairs. Mr. Josie was waiting in the doorway of the hotel.
“You must be tired, Ernest,” he said.
“No,” I lied.
“I’m tired,” he said. “Just from watching you pull on fish. That’s only two under our all-time record. Seven and the eye of an eighth.” Neither Mr. Josie nor I liked to think of the eye of the eighth fish, but we always stated the record in this way.
We were walking up the narrow sidewalk on Obispo Street and Mr. Josie was looking at all the lighted windows of the shops. He never bought anything until it was time to go home. But he liked to look at everything there was for sale. We passed the last two stores and the lottery-ticket office and pushed open the swinging door of the old Floridita.
“You better sit down, Cap,” Mr. Josie said.
“No. I feel better standing up at the bar.”
“Beer,” said Mr. Josie. “German beer. What you drinking, Cap?”
“Frozen daiquiri without sugar.”
Constante made the daiquiri and left enough in the shaker for two more. I was waiting for Mr. Josie to bring up the subject. He brought it up as soon as his beer came.
“Carlos says they’ve got to come in this next month,” he said. Carlos was our Cuban mate and a great commercial marlin fisherman. “He says he never saw such a current and when they come they’ll be something like we never seen. He says they’ve got to come.”
“He told me, too.”
“If you want to try another month, Cap, I can make her eight dollars a day and I can cook, instead of us wasting money on sandwiches. We can run into the cove for lunch and I’ll cook in there. We’re getting those wavy-striped bonito all the time. They’re as good as little tuna. Carlos says he can pick us up stuff cheap in the market when he goes for bait. Then we can eat supper nights in the Perla of San Francisco restaurant. I ate there good last night for thirty-five cents.”
“I didn’t eat last night and saved money.”
“You got to eat, Cap. That’s maybe why you’re a little tired today.”
“I know it. But are you sure you want to try another month?”
“She don’t have to be hauled out for another month. Why should we leave it when the big ones are coming?”
“You have anything you’d rather do?”
“No. You?”
“Do you think they’ll really come?”
“Carlos says they’ve got to come.”
“Then suppose we hook one and we can’t handle him on this tackle we have.”
“We’ve got to handle him. You can stay with him forever if you eat good. And we’re going to eat good. Then I’ve been thinking about something else.”
“What?”
“If you go to bed early and don’t have any social life, you can wake up at daylight and start to write and you can get a day’s work done by eight o’clock. Carlos and I’ll have everything ready to go and you just step on board.”
“O.K.,” I said. “No social life.”
“That social life is what wears you out, Cap. But I don’t mean none at all. Just take it on Saturday nights.”
“Fine,” I said. “Social life on Saturday nights only. Now, what would you suggest I write?”
“That’s up to you, Cap. I don’t want to interfere with that. You always did good when you worked.”
“What would you like to read?”
“Why don’t you write good short stories about Europe or out West or when you were on the bum or war or that sort of thing? Why don’t you write one about just things that you and I know? Write one about what the Anita’s seen. You could put in enough social life to make it appeal to everybody.”
“I’m laying off social life.”
“Sure, Cap. But you got plenty to remember. Laying off won’t harm you now.”
“No,” I said. “Thank you very much, Mr. Josie. I’ll start working in the morning.”
“What I think we ought to do before we start on the new system is for you to eat a big rare steak tonight so you’ll be strong tomorrow and wake up wanting to work and fit to fish. Carlos says the big ones can come any day now. Cap, you got to be at your best for them.”
“Do you think one more of these would do me any harm?”
“Hell no, Cap. All they got in them is rum and a little lime juice and maraschino. That isn’t going to hurt a man.”
Just then two girls we knew came into the bar. They were very nice-looking girls and they were fresh for the evening.
“The fishermen,” one said in Spanish.
“The two big healthy fishermen in from the sea,” the other girl said.
“N.S.L.,” Mr. Josie said to me.
“No social life,” I confirmed.
“You have secrets?” one of the girls asked. She was an awfully nice-looking girl and in her profile you could not see the slight imperfection where some early friend’s right hand had marred the purity of the line of her rather beautiful nose.
“The Cap and I are talking business,” Mr. Josie said to the two girls, and they went down to the far end of the bar. “You see how easy it is?” Mr. Josie asked. “I’ll handle the social end and all you have to do is get up in the mornings early and write and be in shape to fish. Big fish. The kind that can run over a thousand pounds.”


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You , the reader , submit your @ @ @ @ @ three finalists , and you vote for your favorite .
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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.
Lars Kenseth Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop


newyorker--2020-06-01--A Weekend of Anger and Defiance Across New York City

The next day , in Harlem , the clouds were marshmallow white and the sun shone over the plaza in front of the Adam Clayton Powell , Jr. , state office building at 125th Street , where , at one in the afternoon , hundreds of demonstrators streamed in to gather around the statue of Powell , the state ’ s first black member of the House of Representatives .
The day before , Derek Chauvin , the officer who killed George Floyd in Minneapolis , had been charged with third-degree murder .
The protesters were not satisfied .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” they shouted .
As before , the crowd was multiracial and young , although there were a few more people over forty , and even a few small children .
Two people in light blue medical scrubs held a sign that read “ Healthcare Workers Against Police Brutality.
” The night before , Mayor Bill de Blasio had said , “ We don ’ t ever want to see another night like this.
” That day , perhaps because of his message , or because of the political power of Harlem , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ A dozen or so officers , spaced apart , stood at the entrance of the office building .
The demonstrators policed themselves , more or less , waving people off the street to maintain the flow of traffic .
The memory of the night before dissipated , and a sense of exhilaration at the gathering of hundreds of people on a beautiful spring Saturday after how many days of social distancing—seventy ?
eighty ?
—was undeniable , the anger and risk notwithstanding .
The protest was barely thirty minutes old when a majority @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Powell Boulevard , walking at a New Yorker ’ s clip along multiple city blocks .
A driver of a Farmland Fresh dairy truck on the northbound side honked to applause ; fists were raised through sunroofs ; a UPS deliveryman in his brown uniform recorded video on the sidewalk , smiling under his sun visor ; a family banged on pots and pans from an upstairs window .
“ These people , they ’ ve had enough , ” I heard a bystander say , as she recorded the march on her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stores of Harlem—flower shops , laundromats , Ateliers DuBois antiques—the demonstrators happily chanting , “ N.Y.P.D.
, suck my dick.
” Any members of the police on hand to hear this kept themselves scarce .
At 116th Street , the protesters paused for a moment and knelt , fists raised .
A helicopter hovered overhead , but , as the marchers reached F.D.R .
Drive , the sun glittering off the East River , they broke into a run of jubilation .
The police closed in at the Ninety-sixth Street exit , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the southbound side .
The protesters at the front clashed with them in a flurry of pepper-spraying , shoving , punching , screaming , and zip-tying , arrested protesters shouting out their mothers ’ phone numbers as they were dragged into vans , while others scattered at a run .
The march fell apart , despite shouted pleas to stay together .
A small remainder of a hundred or so people retreated from the highway and gathered under some scaffolding next to a gas station .
A young man climbed the scaffold to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , small , and slight , and wore his hair tied up in a poofy ponytail .
He had round gold-framed glasses , pants emblazoned with the NASA logo , and a T-shirt with the words “ Speak Out or Shut Up.
” The group now had a de-facto leader , and he happened to have a sense of style .
He said we could call him Tito .
Now Tito reminded everyone of the importance of not scattering at the first sign of police .
“ Make a friend , ” he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ They ’ re your new brother and sister , new uncle and aunt .
Grab their information.
” The group , which had seemed on the verge of dissipating , found a renewed sense of purpose .
“ Remember to be like water , be like water , and follow what they do in Hong Kong and all the other countries .
Organize , ” he continued .
“ When they try to block us , we turn the corner.
” “ I don ’ t know .
We got ta figure @ @ @ @ @ @ @ continued into the heart of the leafy , shuttered , and depopulated Upper East Side , where the drivers who were made to halt looked on with the stone-faced not-seeing that New Yorkers reserve for displays of evangelism on the subway .
The marchers passed a person walking a poodle , and a young woman whose velvety Scottish Fold cat glared from her purse .
Solitary elders , trapped in their apartments by the coronavirus , gazed down from terraces in bemusement or longing .
A hush hung over the leafy side streets @ @ @ @ @ @ @ support from behind glass entryways .

“Suck my dick—how ’bout that? How ’bout that?” a black woman in a camouflage jacket and glasses yelled, her hair tied up in a scarf. “Y’all supposed to be protecting me. Nobody give a fuck about us, but we got to listen to y’all. ‘Move back, do this, do that.’ ” Her voice broke, and her invective dissolved into a series of long, wordless screams. “Let it out,” a friend said, putting his body between her and the police, facing her, looking into her eyes, holding her arms.
By 10 P.M., the last group of protesters on Atlantic was pushed past the going-out-of-business signs in the windows of Modell’s Sporting Goods, but small clusters still roamed the neighborhood, and a police car was set on fire next to Fort Greene Park. I biked east to the Eighty-eighth Precinct, in Bed-Stuy, on a tip from an observer who saw my press pass. “I work for the city—don’t tell anyone,” he said, with an air of conspiracy, and gave me the address. The brownstone-lined streets of Fort Greene and Clinton Hill were dark and deserted. Signs of the path of the demonstrators would periodically appear—garbage bags ripped open; an abandoned M.T.A. bus, its length spray-painted with the words “SAY THEIR NAMES.”
At Classon and Greene, a line of officers stood before the shell of a wrecked police van facing a group of thirty or forty demonstrators who were shouting at them, some with their arms raised, moving out of the way of cars that continued passing through the intersection. One car, an unmarked black sedan, pausing at the stop sign, blipped its siren and flashed its lights. An object bounced off its roof. “That was a brick,” a protester on the sidewalk said, in a flat tone of neutral observation. A few minutes later, the police took out their nightsticks and suddenly rushed. The protesters, most of them standing on Classon, turned toward Greene, running up the sidewalk where I stood. I should have abandoned the Citibike I was holding and followed them. Instead I tried to turn the heavy bike on its axis, which is a little like trying to reverse the course of a container ship. As the protesters fled, I was left amid a swarm of angry officers in visors and helmets. I tried to shrink against the metal pole of a street sign. A plainclothes officer in a T-shirt stopped, took a look at me, and, with great efficiency, doubled back and shoved me to the ground.
The next day, in Harlem, the clouds were marshmallow white and the sun shone over the plaza in front of the Adam Clayton Powell, Jr., state office building at 125th Street, where, at one in the afternoon, hundreds of demonstrators streamed in to gather around the statue of Powell, the state’s first black member of the House of Representatives. The day before, Derek Chauvin, the officer who killed George Floyd in Minneapolis, had been charged with third-degree murder. The protesters were not satisfied. “First degree, not third degree!” they shouted. As before, the crowd was multiracial and young, although there were a few more people over forty, and even a few small children. Two people in light blue medical scrubs held a sign that read “Healthcare Workers Against Police Brutality.”
The night before, Mayor Bill de Blasio had said, “We don’t ever want to see another night like this.” That day, perhaps because of his message, or because of the political power of Harlem, the visible police presence was smaller. A dozen or so officers, spaced apart, stood at the entrance of the office building. The demonstrators policed themselves, more or less, waving people off the street to maintain the flow of traffic. The memory of the night before dissipated, and a sense of exhilaration at the gathering of hundreds of people on a beautiful spring Saturday after how many days of social distancing—seventy? eighty?—was undeniable, the anger and risk notwithstanding.
Marchers on Saturday afternoon in Harlem. Supportive onlookers at the First Spanish United Methodist Church.
The protest was barely thirty minutes old when a majority contingent began marching south down Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard, walking at a New Yorker’s clip along multiple city blocks. A driver of a Farmland Fresh dairy truck on the northbound side honked to applause; fists were raised through sunroofs; a UPS deliveryman in his brown uniform recorded video on the sidewalk, smiling under his sun visor; a family banged on pots and pans from an upstairs window. “These people, they’ve had enough,” I heard a bystander say, as she recorded the march on her phone.
The march passed the shuttered stores of Harlem—flower shops, laundromats, Ateliers DuBois antiques—the demonstrators happily chanting, “N.Y.P.D., suck my dick.” Any members of the police on hand to hear this kept themselves scarce. At 116th Street, the protesters paused for a moment and knelt, fists raised. A helicopter hovered overhead, but, as the marchers reached F.D.R. Drive, the sun glittering off the East River, they broke into a run of jubilation.
The police closed in at the Ninety-sixth Street exit, a line of bicycles blocking the way on the southbound side. The protesters at the front clashed with them in a flurry of pepper-spraying, shoving, punching, screaming, and zip-tying, arrested protesters shouting out their mothers’ phone numbers as they were dragged into vans, while others scattered at a run. The march fell apart, despite shouted pleas to stay together. A small remainder of a hundred or so people retreated from the highway and gathered under some scaffolding next to a gas station. A young man climbed the scaffold to give a speech. He was black, small, and slight, and wore his hair tied up in a poofy ponytail. He had round gold-framed glasses, pants emblazoned with the NASA logo, and a T-shirt with the words “Speak Out or Shut Up.” The group now had a de-facto leader, and he happened to have a sense of style. He said we could call him Tito. Now Tito reminded everyone of the importance of not scattering at the first sign of police. “Make a friend,” he said, hanging off the scaffolding. “They’re your new brother and sister, new uncle and aunt. Grab their information.” The group, which had seemed on the verge of dissipating, found a renewed sense of purpose. “Remember to be like water, be like water, and follow what they do in Hong Kong and all the other countries. Organize,” he continued. “When they try to block us, we turn the corner.”
“Where we going?” someone asked.
“I don’t know. We gotta figure that out.”
And so the march continued into the heart of the leafy, shuttered, and depopulated Upper East Side, where the drivers who were made to halt looked on with the stone-faced not-seeing that New Yorkers reserve for displays of evangelism on the subway. The marchers passed a person walking a poodle, and a young woman whose velvety Scottish Fold cat glared from her purse. Solitary elders, trapped in their apartments by the coronavirus, gazed down from terraces in bemusement or longing. A hush hung over the leafy side streets, a few masked doormen waving in support from behind glass entryways.


newyorker--2020-06-01--George Floyd, Houston’s Protests, and Living Without the Benefit of the Doubt

About a decade ago , I lived in Houston ’ s Third Ward neighborhood , a few blocks away from Emancipation Park .
It ’ s the oldest park in Houston , and the oldest in Texas ; during the Jim Crow era , as the Third Ward changed shape , it was the only park open to black city residents .
There ’ ve been renovations to it in recent years—including the addition of a rec center with classrooms , a basketball court , and a cultural center—but it ’ s one of the few spots in the area @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the midst of Houston ’ s steadily advancing gentrification .
On weekends , I ’ d bike down Elgin Street , hooking a right toward the park , before the shotgun houses and gas stations phase into town houses and skyscrapers ; then I ’ d eat whatever sandwich I ’ d packed in my bag on one of the curbs at the park ’ s edge .
It usually wasn ’ t very busy , but sometimes it was .
It was mostly local folks , and mostly black and brown , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the pool , or on the baseball field .
Families played music and ate sitting on their cars just beside the fields of grass .
Last week , a few hundred people gathered in the park to hold a vigil for George Floyd , the black man who was killed , in Minneapolis , on May 25th , when a police officer knelt on his neck—as he lay pinned face down , in handcuffs—for nearly nine minutes .
Floyd grew up in the Third Ward .
His family moved to Houston from North @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and lived in Cuney Homes , a housing project not too far from the park .
Floyd came of age in the neighborhood ; one of his teachers from elementary school , whom David Remnick spoke to over the weekend , saved an essay that Floyd wrote in the second grade about how he wanted to become a Supreme Court justice .
He attended Jack Yates High School , where he played basketball and football—one year , he helped his team make it to the state championship , although they lost—before receiving a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ He returned to Texas to enroll at Texas A .
& M–Kingsville , a few hours outside the city , where he also played .
But , before the end of his sophomore year , Floyd made his way back to Houston .
At some point , back in the city , he fell in with the local rap scene .
This would ’ ve been the early nineties , as Houston ’ s oozing , lurching , chopped-and-screwed sound was expanding and distorting , molding the city ’ s residents and reshaping @ @ @ @ @ @ @ imprint .
There ’ s even a cameo from Floyd , under the name Big Floyd , on a DJ Screw mixtape , “ Sittin ’ on Top of the World ” ; growing up , I heard the freestyles at least a handful of times floating from speakers in Alief , at parties or in the barbershop , or just out in the world , which was an achievement that any number of the city ’ s burgeoning rap stars would ’ ve dreamed of .
Floyd didn ’ t ultimately seek @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this quiet way he made himself inextricable from the neighborhood ; he inhabited several realities simultaneously , in the way that the benefit of the doubt , when you ’ re given it , can allow you to do .
Ideally , Floyd would ’ ve been given the privilege , like so many in this country , of continuing that way .
In Houston , this past Friday , as protests swelled around the country , the police set up a cordon around the city , and occasionally a handful of squad @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
By the time I arrived downtown , late in the afternoon , protesters had formed a wall between themselves and policemen on horseback .
Helicopters flew above us , a handful of cops peered from the corners of nearby buildings , and a contingent of skateboarders who frequent the area circled both groups .
The horses were a familiar sight : at a Houston protest for incarcerated undocumented children last year , seemingly a lifetime ago , police rode the animals , flanking protesters as we made our way through the city @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this time around : you could reach out and grab the anger .
Nearly every protester wore a mask , or a scarf , or a sort of home-fashioned facial covering , which made an already balmy evening a little less tolerable—a reminder that our hands had been forced in the middle of a pandemic .
Organizers maneuvered the crowd from one block to another , imploring people to allow cars to make their way through .
The rap that blasted from car speakers mingled with the tinkling melody of an ice-cream truck @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Most of the protesters looked to be in their twenties and thirties .
I passed a black couple walking their dogs alongside the protest ’ s route , just across the street , who nodded ; an older white couple holding signs ; a gaggle of Latinx teens distributing water bottles .
A handful of medical staff leaned against a building , smoking and raising their fists .
Other passersby stood for a moment , watching the crowd progress along its path , before they returned to their own .
But the relative @ @ @ @ @ @ @ my position and timing : later , I ’ d find out that an upswell I ’ d seen from the other end of the street was a young woman being trampled by a horse .
Later in the evening , an hour or so after I ’ d made it out of downtown , the police department shut roadways in and out of the area , gridlocking the folks who hadn ’ t yet left .
Friday night , windows at the Bravery Chef Hall food court were smashed and items inside @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was minimal .
Still , more than a hundred protesters were arrested on Friday night , and a similar number on Saturday night .
Another march downtown , toward City Hall , is planned for Tuesday afternoon .
Naturally , the public conversation has begun to drift toward the question of what this moment means , and where we will go from here , and what this solidarity pledged en masse will tangibly yield .
Over the weekend , friends of mine living abroad—veterans of their own protests—sent screenshots of tips for navigating @ @ @ @ @ @ @ some of whom have profited off the amplification of diverse voices , remained silent .
Some have taken pains to note the infiltration of the protests by “ outside agitators , ” while others have argued that the damage done to cities and businesses is a natural by-product of grief and exasperation .
As ever , many things can be true simultaneously .
But , at the end of the day , a man is dead .
He was suffocated in the street , with a knee on his neck , under the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he is gone .
Not very long ago , a well-meaning white acquaintance asked me how it felt to incessantly think about living , in the United States , in the shadow of total police impunity .
I answered , after blinking at him , by saying that I didn ’ t incessantly think about it .
Nor did I not incessantly think about it .
It ’ s just the same way that you ( and you know who you are ) don ’ t think about putting one foot in front @ @ @ @ @ @ @ go about our lives ; at the same time , there is this thing right here , which is to say everywhere in this country , that might end it at any time .
We still play in the park , and we might be shot and killed for that .
We still snack in our living rooms , and we might be shot and killed for that .
We still read in our cars , and we might be shot and killed for that .
We still blast our favorite music , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for that .
We still pull into the grocery-store parking lot , and we might be shot and killed for that .
We still babysit , and we might be shot and killed for that .
We still ring in the New Year , and we might be shot and killed for that .
We still drive home from dinner with our partners , and we might be shot and killed for that .
We still go out and about only to find ourselves misidentified , owing to an administrative error in an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shot and killed for that .
We still go for walks in the neighborhood , and we might be shot and killed for that .
We still take naps at home , and we might be shot and killed for that .
We can be killed for any of these things—or anything else , really—with total impunity for the killers .
Maybe someone will record it .
Maybe we ’ ll become a hashtag , our existence flattened into the virtual universe of typed sentiments , joining a list that ’ s only @ @ @ @ @ @ @ life .
Maybe not .
Who knows .
But it ’ s enough to make us upset .
Surely you can understand .

More than a hundred demonstrators in Houston protesting the killing of George Floyd were arrested on Friday night. Photograph by Mark Felix / AFP / Getty
About a decade ago, I lived in Houston’s Third Ward neighborhood, a few blocks away from Emancipation Park. It’s the oldest park in Houston, and the oldest in Texas; during the Jim Crow era, as the Third Ward changed shape, it was the only park open to black city residents. There’ve been renovations to it in recent years—including the addition of a rec center with classrooms, a basketball court, and a cultural center—but it’s one of the few spots in the area that’s retained its autonomy in the midst of Houston’s steadily advancing gentrification. On weekends, I’d bike down Elgin Street, hooking a right toward the park, before the shotgun houses and gas stations phase into town houses and skyscrapers; then I’d eat whatever sandwich I’d packed in my bag on one of the curbs at the park’s edge. It usually wasn’t very busy, but sometimes it was. It was mostly local folks, and mostly black and brown, but sometimes not. People congregated by the pool, or on the baseball field. Families played music and ate sitting on their cars just beside the fields of grass.
Last week, a few hundred people gathered in the park to hold a vigil for George Floyd, the black man who was killed, in Minneapolis, on May 25th, when a police officer knelt on his neck—as he lay pinned face down, in handcuffs—for nearly nine minutes. Floyd grew up in the Third Ward. His family moved to Houston from North Carolina when he was a child, and lived in Cuney Homes, a housing project not too far from the park. Floyd came of age in the neighborhood; one of his teachers from elementary school, whom David Remnick spoke to over the weekend, saved an essay that Floyd wrote in the second grade about how he wanted to become a Supreme Court justice. He attended Jack Yates High School, where he played basketball and football—one year, he helped his team make it to the state championship, although they lost—before receiving a scholarship to play basketball in Florida. He returned to Texas to enroll at Texas A. & M–Kingsville, a few hours outside the city, where he also played. But, before the end of his sophomore year, Floyd made his way back to Houston.
At some point, back in the city, he fell in with the local rap scene. This would’ve been the early nineties, as Houston’s oozing, lurching, chopped-and-screwed sound was expanding and distorting, molding the city’s residents and reshaping our sense of Houston’s cultural imprint. There’s even a cameo from Floyd, under the name Big Floyd, on a DJ Screw mixtape, “Sittin’ on Top of the World”; growing up, I heard the freestyles at least a handful of times floating from speakers in Alief, at parties or in the barbershop, or just out in the world, which was an achievement that any number of the city’s burgeoning rap stars would’ve dreamed of. Floyd didn’t ultimately seek out a music career, but in this quiet way he made himself inextricable from the neighborhood; he inhabited several realities simultaneously, in the way that the benefit of the doubt, when you’re given it, can allow you to do. Ideally, Floyd would’ve been given the privilege, like so many in this country, of continuing that way.
In Houston, this past Friday, as protests swelled around the country, the police set up a cordon around the city, and occasionally a handful of squad cars blared down one road or another. By the time I arrived downtown, late in the afternoon, protesters had formed a wall between themselves and policemen on horseback. Helicopters flew above us, a handful of cops peered from the corners of nearby buildings, and a contingent of skateboarders who frequent the area circled both groups. The horses were a familiar sight: at a Houston protest for incarcerated undocumented children last year, seemingly a lifetime ago, police rode the animals, flanking protesters as we made our way through the city.
But the air felt palpably charged this time around: you could reach out and grab the anger. Nearly every protester wore a mask, or a scarf, or a sort of home-fashioned facial covering, which made an already balmy evening a little less tolerable—a reminder that our hands had been forced in the middle of a pandemic. Organizers maneuvered the crowd from one block to another, imploring people to allow cars to make their way through. The rap that blasted from car speakers mingled with the tinkling melody of an ice-cream truck, which drew a respectable line. Most of the protesters looked to be in their twenties and thirties. I passed a black couple walking their dogs alongside the protest’s route, just across the street, who nodded; an older white couple holding signs; a gaggle of Latinx teens distributing water bottles. A handful of medical staff leaned against a building, smoking and raising their fists. Other passersby stood for a moment, watching the crowd progress along its path, before they returned to their own.
But the relative calm I witnessed was a product of my position and timing: later, I’d find out that an upswell I’d seen from the other end of the street was a young woman being trampled by a horse. Later in the evening, an hour or so after I’d made it out of downtown, the police department shut roadways in and out of the area, gridlocking the folks who hadn’t yet left. Friday night, windows at the Bravery Chef Hall food court were smashed and items inside were looted, but the damage downtown was minimal. Still, more than a hundred protesters were arrested on Friday night, and a similar number on Saturday night. Another march downtown, toward City Hall, is planned for Tuesday afternoon.
Naturally, the public conversation has begun to drift toward the question of what this moment means, and where we will go from here, and what this solidarity pledged en masse will tangibly yield. Over the weekend, friends of mine living abroad—veterans of their own protests—sent screenshots of tips for navigating riots. Other figures and entities, some of whom have profited off the amplification of diverse voices, remained silent. Some have taken pains to note the infiltration of the protests by “outside agitators,” while others have argued that the damage done to cities and businesses is a natural by-product of grief and exasperation. As ever, many things can be true simultaneously. But, at the end of the day, a man is dead. He was suffocated in the street, with a knee on his neck, under the guise of the law, and now he is gone.
Not very long ago, a well-meaning white acquaintance asked me how it felt to incessantly think about living, in the United States, in the shadow of total police impunity. I answered, after blinking at him, by saying that I didn’t incessantly think about it. Nor did I not incessantly think about it. It’s just the same way that you (and you know who you are) don’t think about putting one foot in front of the other. We have to go about our lives; at the same time, there is this thing right here, which is to say everywhere in this country, that might end it at any time. We still play in the park, and we might be shot and killed for that. We still snack in our living rooms, and we might be shot and killed for that. We still read in our cars, and we might be shot and killed for that. We still blast our favorite music, and we might be shot and killed for that. We still pull into the grocery-store parking lot, and we might be shot and killed for that. We still babysit, and we might be shot and killed for that. We still ring in the New Year, and we might be shot and killed for that. We still drive home from dinner with our partners, and we might be shot and killed for that. We still go out and about only to find ourselves misidentified, owing to an administrative error in an office somewhere, and we might be shot and killed for that. We still go for walks in the neighborhood, and we might be shot and killed for that. We still take naps at home, and we might be shot and killed for that. We can be killed for any of these things—or anything else, really—with total impunity for the killers.
Maybe someone will record it. Maybe we’ll become a hashtag, our existence flattened into the virtual universe of typed sentiments, joining a list that’s only multiplied in the course of my adult life. Maybe not. Who knows. But it’s enough to make us upset. Surely you can understand.
Race, Policing, and Black Lives Matter Protests