newyorker--2020-07-29--Why We Love the New New Normal

Why We Love the New New Normal

Back in the spring of 2020 , a lot of so-called experts had doom-and-gloom takes about the long-term changes that COVID-19 would bring to society .
Boy , were they wrong .
We answered each challenge by innovating—and , two years later , we ’ re thriving more than ever .
Naysayers warned that we ’ d have trouble adjusting to doing everything online—shopping , working , going to school , socializing via Zoom “ happy hours ” —but that ’ s not a concern anymore , ever since the Internet went out for good .
It ’ s amazing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Can ’ t Hardly Wait ” after a few hundred viewings of that old , reliable VHS tape ( the only physical media we had in our homes when we lost the streaming services ) .
When the murder hornets showed up , as we were settling into our long quarantine , some pessimists thought that we had to get rid of them .
But , if we didn ’ t have the murder hornets , who would fight the super-aggressive rats that are always trying to steal our canned food ?
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ bit , and that ’ s a win in my book .
It wasn ’ t easy when a typo in the fourteenth federal coronavirus-relief bill mandated that every American pay the treasury two thousand dollars per month , but nothing could take away our can-do attitude until the fifteenth coronavirus-relief bill said we had to send that over , too .
Was it disturbing when sharks learned how to fly ?
Perhaps .
But what a joy it was to ride them for that one day before they then also learned to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ though they ’ re furious ( and very hungry ) —look , that ’ s their business .
When a series of mysterious electromagnetic pulses from outer space started killing everyone who heard any musical chord except D minor , did we grouse ?
No—our artists adapted .
It ’ s a perfectly fine chord , and the Billboard 200 is filled with fun hits such as “ I Miss B Minor , ” “ Is It Also Permissible to Play the Individual Notes Within D Minor ?
, ” and the song @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Least Also Let Me Play a Plain Old D. ” The pundits said that we ’ d never be able to go back to work under these conditions—but we get there every day in our individual motorcoffins , which protect us from light , air , and other humans , all of which have proved quite deadly .
Plus , look at the gigantic spike in motorcoffin sales .
It ’ s a pleasure to take a relaxing motorcoffin ride on Saturdays from 10 to 11 P.M. , the National Hour of Rest @ @ @ @ @ @ @ told has been shortened to 10 to 10:45 .
There were those who acted like the sky was falling when the sky started falling , but the more resourceful among us have used chunks of fallen sky to build sky-chunk-protection helmets and sell them on Etsy .
Just make sure to wear one when you ’ re dropping off your latest shipment at the post office—and remember that , after recent changes to federal law , the post office is a machine that sucks in your package and shoots it back into your @ @ @ @ @ @ @ all the new joys we ’ re experiencing , and just try not to smile .
No , really , try not to—if you do , you ’ ll be risking your life , thanks to the emergence of 2022 ’ s GRIN ( Gladness-activated Recombinant Incineration Norovirus ) pandemic , which makes smiling people explode .

Back in the spring of 2020, a lot of so-called experts had doom-and-gloom takes about the long-term changes that COVID-19 would bring to society. Boy, were they wrong. We answered each challenge by innovating—and, two years later, we’re thriving more than ever.
Naysayers warned that we’d have trouble adjusting to doing everything online—shopping, working, going to school, socializing via Zoom “happy hours”—but that’s not a concern anymore, ever since the Internet went out for good. It’s amazing the deep meaning we can find in “Can’t Hardly Wait” after a few hundred viewings of that old, reliable VHS tape (the only physical media we had in our homes when we lost the streaming services).
When the murder hornets showed up, as we were settling into our long quarantine, some pessimists thought that we had to get rid of them. But, if we didn’t have the murder hornets, who would fight the super-aggressive rats that are always trying to steal our canned food? The murder hornets slow them down a bit, and that’s a win in my book.
It wasn’t easy when a typo in the fourteenth federal coronavirus-relief bill mandated that every American pay the treasury two thousand dollars per month, but nothing could take away our can-do attitude until the fifteenth coronavirus-relief bill said we had to send that over, too.
Was it disturbing when sharks learned how to fly? Perhaps. But what a joy it was to ride them for that one day before they then also learned to get angry. And now, even though they’re furious (and very hungry)—look, that’s their business.
When a series of mysterious electromagnetic pulses from outer space started killing everyone who heard any musical chord except D minor, did we grouse? No—our artists adapted. It’s a perfectly fine chord, and the Billboard 200 is filled with fun hits such as “I Miss B Minor,” “Is It Also Permissible to Play the Individual Notes Within D Minor?,” and the song of summer, “This Is Awful—At Least Also Let Me Play a Plain Old D.”
The pundits said that we’d never be able to go back to work under these conditions—but we get there every day in our individual motorcoffins, which protect us from light, air, and other humans, all of which have proved quite deadly. Plus, look at the gigantic spike in motorcoffin sales. It’s a pleasure to take a relaxing motorcoffin ride on Saturdays from 10 to 11 P.M., the National Hour of Rest, which I’ve just been told has been shortened to 10 to 10:45.
There were those who acted like the sky was falling when the sky started falling, but the more resourceful among us have used chunks of fallen sky to build sky-chunk-protection helmets and sell them on Etsy. Just make sure to wear one when you’re dropping off your latest shipment at the post office—and remember that, after recent changes to federal law, the post office is a machine that sucks in your package and shoots it back into your face as punishment.
So think about all the new joys we’re experiencing, and just try not to smile. No, really, try not to—if you do, you’ll be risking your life, thanks to the emergence of 2022’s GRIN (Gladness-activated Recombinant Incineration Norovirus), which makes smiling people explode.


newyorker--2020-07-29--“My First Sessions” Explores the Relationship Between Therapy and Culture

American popular culture can make it seem as though everyone is seeing a therapist : the TV Mob boss Tony Soprano describes his panic attacks and anxiety dreams ; an abused wife in “ Big Little Lies ” unpacks the shifting power dynamics in her household and her fantasies ; a money-laundering couple in “ Ozark ” bicker about their sense of security and fear .
New Yorker cartoonists have imagined men and women of all sorts ( along with toddlers , the Grim Reaper , and a Christmas tree ) taking to the psychoanalyst ’ s couch .
In @ @ @ @ @ @ @ don ’ t get it—for reasons of availability , affordability , or other barriers to getting care .
The National Alliance on Mental Illness estimates that , in the U.S. , one in five adults experiences mental illness every year , but less than half of them receive treatment .
A few years ago , when the New York-based filmmaker Wendy Cong Zhao—whose family emigrated from Nanchang , China , to a Massachusetts suburb , when she was eleven—looked into resources for Chinese immigrants , she was surprised by the lack of options @ @ @ @ @ @ @ group meetings , a social-media outlet offering flimsy psychological advice ; she tried calling a city hotline that advertised Mandarin-speaking counsellors , but no one ever seemed to be on duty .
A couple of months into this quest , Zhao met Fan Jiang , who worked at a community center in Manhattan ’ s Chinatown and had been through a related struggle .
“ My First Sessions , ” the short animated documentary above , uses Jiang ’ s experience as a window into how challenging it can be to overcome cultural @ @ @ @ @ @ @ when deciding to seek psychological care .
“ The undertone of my life has always tilted gloomy .
It ’ s a state of mind , ” Jiang told me over the phone .
“ If something unhappy happens , I tend to wallow in it.
” Growing up , in the southern Chinese town of Qingyuan , Jiang always hid any negative emotions—she got used to treating anger and sadness as if they were her dark secrets .
“ I felt that if I revealed them to anyone , I would no @ @ @ @ @ @ @ me .
What Jiang thought of as “ her dark side ” some people call the blues .
Zhao had heard others brush off such feelings , in Chinese , as “ personality problems ” or “ temper issues.
” Not wanting to be seen as weak or sick , some people go out of their way to fend off the clinical-sounding word “ depression.
” In 2006 , Jiang moved to Oregon for college .
Encouraged by a friend and overwhelmed by her chronic unhappiness , Jiang finally went to see a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ up to him , perhaps owing to a lingering childhood belief that to show your emotion was to lose , or perhaps because she mistrusted men .
Moving to a new country , as she did , takes a lot of mental adjustment , Jiang said .
“ When people switch environments , they have to deal with big shocks in terms of their sense of identity and recognition .
Especially so when they move abroad—their whole support systems change.
” She worries for Chinese students at American universities today ; in addition @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , during the coronavirus pandemic they also have to deal with Presidential threats of visa restrictions , heightened racism toward Asians , unpredictable travel bans , and an escalating diplomatic crisis between China and the U.S. Jiang ’ s experience with therapy extends well beyond what we see in the film .
After college , she moved to New York City and attended Columbia University , where she got a degree in psychological counselling .
She started a service group for international students , as well as working as a counsellor at the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ told me that , when she was little , she had been fascinated by the idea of psychology .
An only child , she had sometimes felt that she had a hard time with interpersonal relationships .
“ I reckoned that psychologists were able to read people ’ s hearts , ” she said .
“ I wanted to obtain such skills to make everyone like me.
” Now , back in Shenzhen , she runs a peer and mentorship program with a mental-health focus , helping teen-agers develop their sense of self @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Zhao had the challenge of representing visceral feelings visually : in one scene , when Jiang is deep in a bout of anxiety , a cartoon version of her transforms into a buzzing circular blob .
Zhao used to draw ambiguous , malleable , often faceless bodies , which seem to be melting , if not drowning , in figures connected to them—perhaps her way of representing the process of having one ’ s sense of self eclipsed by concern over image .
( Worrying about other people ’ s opinions is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have yet to meet anyone who is truly free of such concerns . )
“ I ’ m very introverted , ” Zhao told me .
“ A lot of my art kind of naturally becomes about that internal journey.
” In her current work , she is exploring mixing animation , live action , and other art forms in nonfiction storytelling .
After the initial therapy sessions she describes in the film , Jiang ended up seeing more than half a dozen therapists before she found someone she really liked , whom @ @ @ @ @ @ @ six years .
“ I ’ m not saying therapy is the best way to go , especially for Chinese people , ” Zhao said—perhaps , as with Jiang ’ s work , mental-health support can take many forms— “ but it is certainly one option .
A very valid option .
I just hope for more conversation and for people not to reject it right away .
”

American popular culture can make it seem as though everyone is seeing a therapist: the TV Mob boss Tony Soprano describes his panic attacks and anxiety dreams; an abused wife in “Big Little Lies” unpacks the shifting power dynamics in her household and her fantasies; a money-laundering couple in “Ozark” bicker about their sense of security and fear. New Yorker cartoonists have imagined men and women of all sorts (along with toddlers, the Grim Reaper, and a Christmas tree) taking to the psychoanalyst’s couch. In fact, many people who need therapy don’t get it—for reasons of availability, affordability, or other barriers to getting care. The National Alliance on Mental Illness estimates that, in the U.S., one in five adults experiences mental illness every year, but less than half of them receive treatment. A few years ago, when the New York-based filmmaker Wendy Cong Zhao—whose family emigrated from Nanchang, China, to a Massachusetts suburb, when she was eleven—looked into resources for Chinese immigrants, she was surprised by the lack of options. She discovered a handful of monthly group meetings, a social-media outlet offering flimsy psychological advice; she tried calling a city hotline that advertised Mandarin-speaking counsellors, but no one ever seemed to be on duty. A couple of months into this quest, Zhao met Fan Jiang, who worked at a community center in Manhattan’s Chinatown and had been through a related struggle. “My First Sessions,” the short animated documentary above, uses Jiang’s experience as a window into how challenging it can be to overcome cultural stigma, or just personal resistance, when deciding to seek psychological care.
“The undertone of my life has always tilted gloomy. It’s a state of mind,” Jiang told me over the phone. “If something unhappy happens, I tend to wallow in it.” Growing up, in the southern Chinese town of Qingyuan, Jiang always hid any negative emotions—she got used to treating anger and sadness as if they were her dark secrets. “I felt that if I revealed them to anyone, I would no longer be lovable,” she told me. What Jiang thought of as “her dark side” some people call the blues. Zhao had heard others brush off such feelings, in Chinese, as “personality problems” or “temper issues.” Not wanting to be seen as weak or sick, some people go out of their way to fend off the clinical-sounding word “depression.” In 2006, Jiang moved to Oregon for college. Encouraged by a friend and overwhelmed by her chronic unhappiness, Jiang finally went to see a therapist, but she initially resisted opening up to him, perhaps owing to a lingering childhood belief that to show your emotion was to lose, or perhaps because she mistrusted men.
Moving to a new country, as she did, takes a lot of mental adjustment, Jiang said. “When people switch environments, they have to deal with big shocks in terms of their sense of identity and recognition. Especially so when they move abroad—their whole support systems change.” She worries for Chinese students at American universities today; in addition to adjustments to social and classroom expectations, during the coronavirus pandemic they also have to deal with Presidential threats of visa restrictions, heightened racism toward Asians, unpredictable travel bans, and an escalating diplomatic crisis between China and the U.S.
Jiang’s experience with therapy extends well beyond what we see in the film. After college, she moved to New York City and attended Columbia University, where she got a degree in psychological counselling. She started a service group for international students, as well as working as a counsellor at the community center, in Chinatown. Jiang told me that, when she was little, she had been fascinated by the idea of psychology. An only child, she had sometimes felt that she had a hard time with interpersonal relationships. “I reckoned that psychologists were able to read people’s hearts,” she said. “I wanted to obtain such skills to make everyone like me.” Now, back in Shenzhen, she runs a peer and mentorship program with a mental-health focus, helping teen-agers develop their sense of self.
In animating Jiang’s experience, Zhao had the challenge of representing visceral feelings visually: in one scene, when Jiang is deep in a bout of anxiety, a cartoon version of her transforms into a buzzing circular blob. Zhao used to draw ambiguous, malleable, often faceless bodies, which seem to be melting, if not drowning, in figures connected to them—perhaps her way of representing the process of having one’s sense of self eclipsed by concern over image. (Worrying about other people’s opinions is such a fruitless pursuit, but I have yet to meet anyone who is truly free of such concerns.) “I’m very introverted,” Zhao told me. “A lot of my art kind of naturally becomes about that internal journey.” In her current work, she is exploring mixing animation, live action, and other art forms in nonfiction storytelling.
After the initial therapy sessions she describes in the film, Jiang ended up seeing more than half a dozen therapists before she found someone she really liked, whom she has been seeing for more than six years. “I’m not saying therapy is the best way to go, especially for Chinese people,” Zhao said—perhaps, as with Jiang’s work, mental-health support can take many forms—“but it is certainly one option. A very valid option. I just hope for more conversation and for people not to reject it right away.”


newyorker--2020-07-29--How “Memorial Drive” Tries to Make Sense of a Mother’s Murder

Three weeks after her stepfather murdered her mother by shooting her at close range , the nineteen-year-old Natasha Trethewey , who would go on , more than two decades later , to win a Pulitzer Prize for poetry , met her mother in a dream .
“ We walk a rutted path , ” Trethewey writes , in her new memoir , “ Memorial Drive , ” “ so close our shoulders nearly touch , neither of us speaking , both of us in our traces.
” In the dream , a man comes out of the dimness .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and yet I smile , lifting my hand and speaking a greeting as he passes.
” Trethewey ’ s mother turns to her , revealing “ a hole , the size of a quarter , in the center of her forehead .
From it comes a light so bright , so piercing , that I suffer the kind of momentary blindness brought on by staring at the sun—her face nothing but light ringed in darkness when she speaks : ‘ Do you know what it means to have a wound that never heals @ @ @ @ @ @ @ random associations and mundane reënactments , the brain ’ s nightly janitorial work .
This dream , though , is a history and a prophecy .
There is the bullet hole that never closes ; there is also the loss that Trethewey , invoking Federico García Lorca ’ s idea of duende— “ a demon that drives an artist , causing trouble or pain ” —sees as the wellspring of her work .
“ Memorial Drive ” recounts Trethewey ’ s childhood in the Deep South .
She was born in 1966 to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in a state , Mississippi , that had not yet repealed its ban on miscegenation .
The date of Trethewey ’ s birth coincided with the hundredth anniversary of Confederate Memorial Day , “ a holiday glorifying .
.
.
the Lost Cause , and white supremacy ” ; at one point , the Klan burned a cross in her parents ’ driveway .
Growing up , Trethewey noticed that strangers treated her father with respect and her mother with curtness or condescension .
But she also flowered in the embrace of her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ great aunts and uncles , all less than a block away—in a home that raised her to be proud of her mixed heritage .
Hybridity helped define Trethewey ’ s literary canon .
Her father , also a writer , filled his daughter ’ s ears with Greek myths .
Her Aunt Sugar conferred an appreciation for the Psalms , their cadences , and for the exactitude of scientific language .
( Years back , Sugar had worked in a research lab in Chicago . )
The neighborhood kids honed Trethewey ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dozens .
These details are carefully chosen : sparse but vivid .
Trethewey ’ s souvenirs from the past , inflected with the knowledge of the poet she ’ d become , have the intentionality of memorials , not just memories .
Trethewey ’ s mother , Gwendolyn Ann Turnbough , remains the cloudiest part of the story .
As in the dream , Gwen is hard to glimpse through her brilliance , the outsized effect that she has on her daughter—and through the defenses that she has cultivated as a Black woman @ @ @ @ @ @ @ necessity of dissembling , the art of making of one ’ s face an inscrutable mask.
” But Gwen ’ s marriage ends , and she moves , with Tasha , age six , to Atlanta , where they end up in an apartment on Memorial Drive , which “ winds east from downtown ending at Stone Mountain , the nation ’ s largest monument to the Confederacy.
” ( Years later , when Trethewey returns to the scene of her mother ’ s murder , the swell of Stone Mountain in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ here and what is not.
” ) The street is a kind of literalization of Trethewey ’ s driving artistic force—her demon .
It marks where the public , social wound of racism and the private , personal wound of Gwen ’ s death overlap .
In Atlanta , Trethewey ’ s mother dates and eventually marries a man named Joel Grimmette , who lets slip first his peculiarity and then his malice : he borrows Tasha ’ s hairbrush , leaving it tangled with greasy hairs , and devises secret punishments for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is at work to threaten committing her to a hospital .
One night , when Tasha is in the fifth grade , she hears Joel punch Gwen in their bedroom .
She confronts her mother , who gives her a diary as consolation .
This experience of mutual helplessness , of two people failing to rescue the person they love most , has its own role to play in Trethewey ’ s artistic development .
When she realizes that Joel is reading her diary , Tasha tastes for the first time the power @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” for an audience .
“ You stupid motherfucker !
” she writes , in the diary .
“ Do you think I don ’ t know what you ’ re doing ?
” Joel is too embarrassed to acknowledge the question .
Lorca claimed , of duende ’ s relationship to poetry , that “ in trying to heal the wound that never heals lies the strangeness.
” He was talking about an effect on the reader—about the alluring strangeness that art bestows on life—but Trethewey makes clear the extent to which @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her task .
Much of the book ’ s memorializing occurs at a remove .
The narrator pays unusual attention to photographs , as if only documentary evidence were trustworthy .
She hunts for clues in professional portraits of her mother—Gwen doesn ’ t smile ; a corner of light hovers behind her head—and in a snapshot of herself and Gwen leaning toward each other in the living room , like two plants .
She dissects an image of her blended family : Tasha watches the others from a short distance , on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s new life.
” The narrator-detective seems to fear missing something , or that she has already missed something , and that that is why reality feels so surreal .
( “ Memorial Drive ” has been marketed , in part , as “ true crime , ” a bizarre designation that only makes sense if it refers to Trethewey ’ s patient investigation of what grief means . )
And the book swarms with fantasy .
Tasha catches a fever and dreams that she is lying in a white room ; a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ rains down from above .
Characters tumble through various myths , as if dropped into Trethewey ’ s father ’ s bedtime stories .
Gwen is Persephone : “ She picks a bright flower and the earth splits open beneath her , taking her into its dark throat.
” Gwen is Eurydice .
Tasha is Orpheus , Odysseus , Narcissus .
“ It ’ s a kind of magical thinking , ” Trethewey writes , of the child ’ s urge to stave off disaster through play .
But fantasy doesn ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dreams know more than waking life is willing to admit .
After Gwen leaves Joel for the first time , he shows up at a high-school football game where Tasha is cheerleading .
Tasha smiles and mouths the words “ Hey , Big Joe.
” Trethewey later learns that Joel “ told his psychologist .
.
.
he ’ d brought a gun with him , planning to kill me right then and there , on the track around the football field , to punish my mother.
” Joel didn ’ t carry @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , because Tasha had greeted him kindly .
In the vision that Trethewey had when she was nineteen , she sees herself waving to Joel , on the track , moments before Gwen turns to her with a bullet wound—as if the girl had traded her life for her mother ’ s .
This is dream logic .
Or , put a different way , it takes a dream to expose the illogic that has penetrated Trethewey ’ s days , so strong is her survivor ’ s guilt .

Three weeks after her stepfather murdered her mother by shooting her at close range, the nineteen-year-old Natasha Trethewey, who would go on, more than two decades later, to win a Pulitzer Prize for poetry, met her mother in a dream. “We walk a rutted path,” Trethewey writes, in her new memoir, “Memorial Drive,” “so close our shoulders nearly touch, neither of us speaking, both of us in our traces.” In the dream, a man comes out of the dimness. “I know what he has done, and yet I smile, lifting my hand and speaking a greeting as he passes.” Trethewey’s mother turns to her, revealing “a hole, the size of a quarter, in the center of her forehead. From it comes a light so bright, so piercing, that I suffer the kind of momentary blindness brought on by staring at the sun—her face nothing but light ringed in darkness when she speaks: ‘Do you know what it means to have a wound that never heals?’ ”
Most dreams consist of random associations and mundane reënactments, the brain’s nightly janitorial work. This dream, though, is a history and a prophecy. There is the bullet hole that never closes; there is also the loss that Trethewey, invoking Federico García Lorca’s idea of duende—“a demon that drives an artist, causing trouble or pain”—sees as the wellspring of her work. “Memorial Drive” recounts Trethewey’s childhood in the Deep South. She was born in 1966 to a white father and a Black mother in a state, Mississippi, that had not yet repealed its ban on miscegenation. The date of Trethewey’s birth coincided with the hundredth anniversary of Confederate Memorial Day, “a holiday glorifying . . . the Lost Cause, and white supremacy”; at one point, the Klan burned a cross in her parents’ driveway. Growing up, Trethewey noticed that strangers treated her father with respect and her mother with curtness or condescension. But she also flowered in the embrace of her mother’s extended family—a grandmother, great aunts and uncles, all less than a block away—in a home that raised her to be proud of her mixed heritage. Hybridity helped define Trethewey’s literary canon. Her father, also a writer, filled his daughter’s ears with Greek myths. Her Aunt Sugar conferred an appreciation for the Psalms, their cadences, and for the exactitude of scientific language. (Years back, Sugar had worked in a research lab in Chicago.) The neighborhood kids honed Trethewey’s verbal dexterity during endless rounds of the dozens. These details are carefully chosen: sparse but vivid. Trethewey’s souvenirs from the past, inflected with the knowledge of the poet she’d become, have the intentionality of memorials, not just memories.
Trethewey was born in 1966 to a white father and a Black mother in a state, Mississippi, that had not yet repealed its ban on miscegenation. Photograph courtesy Natasha Trethewey
Trethewey’s mother, Gwendolyn Ann Turnbough, remains the cloudiest part of the story. As in the dream, Gwen is hard to glimpse through her brilliance, the outsized effect that she has on her daughter—and through the defenses that she has cultivated as a Black woman: “my mother had witnessed the necessity of dissembling, the art of making of one’s face an inscrutable mask.” But Gwen’s marriage ends, and she moves, with Tasha, age six, to Atlanta, where they end up in an apartment on Memorial Drive, which “winds east from downtown ending at Stone Mountain, the nation’s largest monument to the Confederacy.” (Years later, when Trethewey returns to the scene of her mother’s murder, the swell of Stone Mountain in the distance reminds her “what is remembered here and what is not.”) The street is a kind of literalization of Trethewey’s driving artistic force—her demon. It marks where the public, social wound of racism and the private, personal wound of Gwen’s death overlap.
In Atlanta, Trethewey’s mother dates and eventually marries a man named Joel Grimmette, who lets slip first his peculiarity and then his malice: he borrows Tasha’s hairbrush, leaving it tangled with greasy hairs, and devises secret punishments for the girl, waiting until her mother is at work to threaten committing her to a hospital. One night, when Tasha is in the fifth grade, she hears Joel punch Gwen in their bedroom. She confronts her mother, who gives her a diary as consolation. This experience of mutual helplessness, of two people failing to rescue the person they love most, has its own role to play in Trethewey’s artistic development. When she realizes that Joel is reading her diary, Tasha tastes for the first time the power of “compos[ing] herself” for an audience. “You stupid motherfucker!” she writes, in the diary. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing?” Joel is too embarrassed to acknowledge the question.
Lorca claimed, of duende’s relationship to poetry, that “in trying to heal the wound that never heals lies the strangeness.” He was talking about an effect on the reader—about the alluring strangeness that art bestows on life—but Trethewey makes clear the extent to which she, too, is disoriented by her task. Much of the book’s memorializing occurs at a remove. The narrator pays unusual attention to photographs, as if only documentary evidence were trustworthy. She hunts for clues in professional portraits of her mother—Gwen doesn’t smile; a corner of light hovers behind her head—and in a snapshot of herself and Gwen leaning toward each other in the living room, like two plants. She dissects an image of her blended family: Tasha watches the others from a short distance, on “the periphery of my mother’s new life.” The narrator-detective seems to fear missing something, or that she has already missed something, and that that is why reality feels so surreal. (“Memorial Drive” has been marketed, in part, as “true crime,” a bizarre designation that only makes sense if it refers to Trethewey’s patient investigation of what grief means.) And the book swarms with fantasy. Tasha catches a fever and dreams that she is lying in a white room; a trapdoor opens in the ceiling and filth rains down from above. Characters tumble through various myths, as if dropped into Trethewey’s father’s bedtime stories. Gwen is Persephone: “She picks a bright flower and the earth splits open beneath her, taking her into its dark throat.” Gwen is Eurydice. Tasha is Orpheus, Odysseus, Narcissus.
“It’s a kind of magical thinking,” Trethewey writes, of the child’s urge to stave off disaster through play. But fantasy doesn’t only provide distraction or distance. Some dreams know more than waking life is willing to admit. After Gwen leaves Joel for the first time, he shows up at a high-school football game where Tasha is cheerleading. Tasha smiles and mouths the words “Hey, Big Joe.” Trethewey later learns that Joel “told his psychologist . . . he’d brought a gun with him, planning to kill me right then and there, on the track around the football field, to punish my mother.” Joel didn’t carry out the plan, he later said, because Tasha had greeted him kindly. In the vision that Trethewey had when she was nineteen, she sees herself waving to Joel, on the track, moments before Gwen turns to her with a bullet wound—as if the girl had traded her life for her mother’s. This is dream logic. Or, put a different way, it takes a dream to expose the illogic that has penetrated Trethewey’s days, so strong is her survivor’s guilt.
If Gwen is sometimes hard to find in this dream, Trethewey, in the final third of the memoir, banishes storytelling altogether. In 2005, the poet was out to dinner with her husband when a man approached her. He’d served as a police officer in 1985 and was called to the scene when Gwen was shot. The man told Trethewey about a file of evidence, at the courthouse, containing her mother’s last words written on a yellow legal pad. Gwen had been trying to leave Joel, and the file also included a statement to police describing a harrowing incident in which he kidnapped her, raped her, and attempted to force a needle into her arm, saying that it was a lethal injection. There were autopsy reports, “indications of police indifference,” and a twenty-seven-page transcript of two phone calls Gwen had recorded with Joel in the days leading up to her death. Trethewey inlays these materials directly into the book, like a witness entering facts into the record.
The effect is devastating. Gwen’s voice, withheld from the memoir until now, is clear and self-possessed. She seems exactly like the classically heroic mother that Trethewey remembers: kind and principled and brave. But she also sounds, in the phone transcripts with Joel, like anyone in her situation might. She sounds like a woman asking an abusive man for her life back. And, in her detailed statement to the police, Gwen sounds like no more or less than a civilian doing exactly what the authorities require of her so that they can protect her, which is their job. (One aspect of the “police indifference” cited in the report: an officer who was supposed to be guarding Gwen’s home on the night of her murder left early.) This marks another profound break from the true-crime genre. Being murdered doesn’t make Gwen special; it makes her ordinary—another Black woman whom the country has failed. And so Trethewey offers us an unvarnished, individuated Gwen in the precise moment that she snatches her away, leaving Persephone and Eurydice, photographs and dreams, an avenue lined with memorials, everything but her.


newyorker--2020-07-29--Daily Cartoon: Wednesday, July 29th

Daily Cartoon: Wednesday, July 29th

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newyorker--2020-07-29--What to Stream: “The Last Days of Immanuel Kant,” a Physical Comedy of the Philosophical Life

The nineteen-nineties were a dead zone for the U.S. distribution of international and independent films .
While a handful of flashy breakout hits were being widely hailed ( and over-hailed ) , many of the best movies of the decade were left unreleased and largely unseen .
One of the most distinctive and original films of the time , Philippe Collin ’ s “ The Last Days of Immanuel Kant , ” from 1996 ( which has turned up on YouTube ) , is a delicious cinematic paradox .
It follows the famously abstemious and abstruse philosopher as he ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s a physical comedy filled with neo-slapstick intimacy—one of the rare cinematic heirs to the works of Jacques Tati and Buster Keaton .
As promised by its title , the movie is a historical bio-pic set in a narrow time frame , but it opens enormous vistas by way of filigreed artistic imagination .
The aged Kant ( who died at seventy-nine , in 1804 , in his native Königsberg ) is played by the British actor David Warrilow , one of Samuel Beckett ’ s key interpreters ( and a founder @ @ @ @ @ @ @ theatre company ) , and his collaboration with Collin in realizing both the character and the comedy is giddily thrilling .
The movie ’ s images , which are severely constructed in a shadowy black-and-white palette ( thanks to the cinematographer Jacques Bouquin ) , make Warrilow ’ s exquisitely subtle range of gestures , expressions , and inflections register resoundingly .
The first scene , of the philosopher enduring the visit of an artist who has come to draw his silhouette ( by posing him between translucent paper and candlelight ) , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , along with its tone .
While grumpily sitting still , Kant delivers an unsought lecture on his attempt to cure his troublesome cough by retraining his lifelong habit of breathing through his mouth .
( “ Divert !
Concentrate !
” ) The strict intellectual subordination of the body to the mind—and the rigid , artificial , unintentionally absurd yet endearing repertory of daily habits and gestures that results—is the core of the movie .
( Spoiler alert : as the title suggests , the body wins . )
For that matter @ @ @ @ @ @ @ out to be contagious .
Though he was unmarried , he didn ’ t live alone—he had a household and spent much time interacting with his friend and unofficial majordomo Wasianski ( played by André Wilms ) and the manservant Lampe ( Roland Amstutz ) —and much of the movie ’ s action is centered on Kant ’ s obsessional domestic routine and the petty agonies of its perturbations .
( The script , by Collin and André Scala , is loosely based on the memoirs of the real-life Wasianski , as retold @ @ @ @ @ @ @ morning , Lampe awakens Kant with the same phrase ( “ Herr Professor , it ’ s time !
” ) —and undoes the cord leading from the bed to the doorknob in case the philosopher should awaken during the night and need to get out in the dark .
He serves Kant a pot of coffee with a similarly fixed motto ( “ Herr Professor , here is the coffee !
” ) and—after the philosopher takes three quick slugs of it with the same three brusque gestures—hands him his pipe for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the newspaper .
When the coffee is delayed , Kant vents his anger with derisive twists of metaphysical irony regarding deferred happiness and the comforts of death .
The film depicts Kant ’ s famous punctuality by way of his daily stroll through a park lane : a governess times the end of her entrusted children ’ s play , and a foreman the end of his workers ’ break , according to when the philosopher passes by ( followed by Lampe , a dozen steps back , who must carry a parasol @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ) .
Unyielding in his habits , his senses infinitesimally calibrated to register changes of routine , of temperature , and of environment , he ’ s similarly attuned to his own metabolism and the minutiae of his physical state , all with an overarching philosophical principle at stake , the maintenance of health in view of the preservation of life—and the pursuit of his colossal intellectual project , which , in his late seventies , remained in full swing .
In Warrilow ’ s almost balletic incarnation , Kant ’ s gait @ @ @ @ @ @ @ infirmity , is a delicately hunched-over , stiff-kneed plod .
After Kant suffers a fall , the scene of his retraining himself to walk is a virtuoso duet between Warrilow and Collin ’ s camera , with the philosopher ’ s deliberate back-and-forth trudge shown in a gliding closeup until he contentedly achieves a juking new swing in his step , with his cane flourished in the air .
One of the prime aesthetic joys of the film is Collin ’ s assertive and carefully calibrated , choreographic attention to parts of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ total physical constraint that Kant endures under the power of his own will—and to the irrational comedy that the exaggerated force of reason sparks .
Kant ’ s unintentional bedtime antics—removing tight undergarments without removing his nightgown , tucking himself into a sleeping bag by pulling its string with his teeth—could be borrowed from Charlie Chaplin .
Collin , with a precise graphic attention , makes much of Kant ’ s heaped-over body after a night of bad sleep , his hunched back while he riskily bends over the candle on his desk @ @ @ @ @ @ @ string beans and two pieces of meat to display to a dinner companion the “ mystery of Königsberg ” and its seven bridges .
With all his hyper-rational calculation—and his coldly rationalistic treatment of those nearest to him—Warrilow ’ s Kant is a holy innocent , so raptly possessed by his ideas that he goes through life ( except when vexed ) with a twinkling eye and an impish smile , as if gleefully yet barely guarding a secret .
Yet he ’ s a self-aware innocent , playing with a clock and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ routine .
He ’ s also a tenderhearted one , who ’ s moved to tears upon reading a letter from a despairing woman who thanks him for the consolations of his philosophy .
Kant ’ s spirit of intellectually distilled simplicity impels him to pursue , literally and figuratively , the shortest path between two points , whether pushing through a lavish estate ’ s densely overgrown garden to reach the charming vistas of a reflective pool or slaking his sudden hunger , during a carriage ride , by hastily calling out @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a coin , a half-eaten roll and then devouring it .
Collin , a longtime film critic , is also a longtime music enthusiast ( he has also directed television documentaries about music ) who infuses the movie with his distinctive combination of cinematic and musical insights .
At Kant ’ s dinner party for five friends , witty and wary discussions of Napoleon and his conquests are followed by a party song ( with lyrics by Collin ) that serves as a lofty homage to a similar scene in Howard Hawks ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ replaces romantic sentiment with sardonic pessimism .
As for the movie ’ s score , it doesn ’ t have one—instead , Collin inflects the action with audio clips from rehearsals led by the conductor Arturo Toscanini of pieces by Beethoven , Wagner , and Verdi .
The effect of these surprising interjections ( complete with the conductor ’ s voice ) is to pose , insistently yet gracefully , the very premise of Collin ’ s directorial project—the possibility of access to realizing , with artistic immediacy , the creative inspirations of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , “ The Last Days ” is a movie about the body winding down while the mind is fully ablaze .
Collin films its incidents with a whimsical sense of ellipsis , suspending them delicately between keen physicality and rarefied metaphor , between arch comedy and mortal pathos .
The promised end similarly comes with a double dose of elision and dance , a gracefully infinitesimal gesture of desperate infirmity and a painterly tableau reminiscent of a sensual Fragonard landscape—vinegared with the terminally skeptical logic of an idealist to the end .

The nineteen-nineties were a dead zone for the U.S. distribution of international and independent films. While a handful of flashy breakout hits were being widely hailed (and over-hailed), many of the best movies of the decade were left unreleased and largely unseen. One of the most distinctive and original films of the time, Philippe Collin’s “The Last Days of Immanuel Kant,” from 1996 (which has turned up on YouTube), is a delicious cinematic paradox. It follows the famously abstemious and abstruse philosopher as he’s anticipating his death, yet it’s a physical comedy filled with neo-slapstick intimacy—one of the rare cinematic heirs to the works of Jacques Tati and Buster Keaton.
As promised by its title, the movie is a historical bio-pic set in a narrow time frame, but it opens enormous vistas by way of filigreed artistic imagination. The aged Kant (who died at seventy-nine, in 1804, in his native Königsberg) is played by the British actor David Warrilow, one of Samuel Beckett’s key interpreters (and a founder of New York’s Mabou Mines theatre company), and his collaboration with Collin in realizing both the character and the comedy is giddily thrilling. The movie’s images, which are severely constructed in a shadowy black-and-white palette (thanks to the cinematographer Jacques Bouquin), make Warrilow’s exquisitely subtle range of gestures, expressions, and inflections register resoundingly.
The first scene, of the philosopher enduring the visit of an artist who has come to draw his silhouette (by posing him between translucent paper and candlelight), sets the movie’s philosophical framework, along with its tone. While grumpily sitting still, Kant delivers an unsought lecture on his attempt to cure his troublesome cough by retraining his lifelong habit of breathing through his mouth. (“Divert! Concentrate!”) The strict intellectual subordination of the body to the mind—and the rigid, artificial, unintentionally absurd yet endearing repertory of daily habits and gestures that results—is the core of the movie. (Spoiler alert: as the title suggests, the body wins.)
For that matter, Kant’s rigorous discipline turns out to be contagious. Though he was unmarried, he didn’t live alone—he had a household and spent much time interacting with his friend and unofficial majordomo Wasianski (played by André Wilms) and the manservant Lampe (Roland Amstutz)—and much of the movie’s action is centered on Kant’s obsessional domestic routine and the petty agonies of its perturbations. (The script, by Collin and André Scala, is loosely based on the memoirs of the real-life Wasianski, as retold by Thomas De Quincey.) Each morning, Lampe awakens Kant with the same phrase (“Herr Professor, it’s time!”)—and undoes the cord leading from the bed to the doorknob in case the philosopher should awaken during the night and need to get out in the dark. He serves Kant a pot of coffee with a similarly fixed motto (“Herr Professor, here is the coffee!”) and—after the philosopher takes three quick slugs of it with the same three brusque gestures—hands him his pipe for a smoke and, soon thereafter, the newspaper. When the coffee is delayed, Kant vents his anger with derisive twists of metaphysical irony regarding deferred happiness and the comforts of death.
The film depicts Kant’s famous punctuality by way of his daily stroll through a park lane: a governess times the end of her entrusted children’s play, and a foreman the end of his workers’ break, according to when the philosopher passes by (followed by Lampe, a dozen steps back, who must carry a parasol whether or not it’s needed). Unyielding in his habits, his senses infinitesimally calibrated to register changes of routine, of temperature, and of environment, he’s similarly attuned to his own metabolism and the minutiae of his physical state, all with an overarching philosophical principle at stake, the maintenance of health in view of the preservation of life—and the pursuit of his colossal intellectual project, which, in his late seventies, remained in full swing.
In Warrilow’s almost balletic incarnation, Kant’s gait, affected poignantly by age and impinging infirmity, is a delicately hunched-over, stiff-kneed plod. After Kant suffers a fall, the scene of his retraining himself to walk is a virtuoso duet between Warrilow and Collin’s camera, with the philosopher’s deliberate back-and-forth trudge shown in a gliding closeup until he contentedly achieves a juking new swing in his step, with his cane flourished in the air.
One of the prime aesthetic joys of the film is Collin’s assertive and carefully calibrated, choreographic attention to parts of the body, to gestures, to the total physical constraint that Kant endures under the power of his own will—and to the irrational comedy that the exaggerated force of reason sparks. Kant’s unintentional bedtime antics—removing tight undergarments without removing his nightgown, tucking himself into a sleeping bag by pulling its string with his teeth—could be borrowed from Charlie Chaplin. Collin, with a precise graphic attention, makes much of Kant’s heaped-over body after a night of bad sleep, his hunched back while he riskily bends over the candle on his desk, and his dainty arrangement of seven string beans and two pieces of meat to display to a dinner companion the “mystery of Königsberg” and its seven bridges.
With all his hyper-rational calculation—and his coldly rationalistic treatment of those nearest to him—Warrilow’s Kant is a holy innocent, so raptly possessed by his ideas that he goes through life (except when vexed) with a twinkling eye and an impish smile, as if gleefully yet barely guarding a secret. Yet he’s a self-aware innocent, playing with a clock and mockingly miming the regularity of his own routine. He’s also a tenderhearted one, who’s moved to tears upon reading a letter from a despairing woman who thanks him for the consolations of his philosophy. Kant’s spirit of intellectually distilled simplicity impels him to pursue, literally and figuratively, the shortest path between two points, whether pushing through a lavish estate’s densely overgrown garden to reach the charming vistas of a reflective pool or slaking his sudden hunger, during a carriage ride, by hastily calling out to a child and buying, for a coin, a half-eaten roll and then devouring it.
Collin, a longtime film critic, is also a longtime music enthusiast (he has also directed television documentaries about music) who infuses the movie with his distinctive combination of cinematic and musical insights. At Kant’s dinner party for five friends, witty and wary discussions of Napoleon and his conquests are followed by a party song (with lyrics by Collin) that serves as a lofty homage to a similar scene in Howard Hawks’s “Ball of Fire” but replaces romantic sentiment with sardonic pessimism. As for the movie’s score, it doesn’t have one—instead, Collin inflects the action with audio clips from rehearsals led by the conductor Arturo Toscanini of pieces by Beethoven, Wagner, and Verdi. The effect of these surprising interjections (complete with the conductor’s voice) is to pose, insistently yet gracefully, the very premise of Collin’s directorial project—the possibility of access to realizing, with artistic immediacy, the creative inspirations of history in the present tense.
Ultimately, “The Last Days” is a movie about the body winding down while the mind is fully ablaze. Collin films its incidents with a whimsical sense of ellipsis, suspending them delicately between keen physicality and rarefied metaphor, between arch comedy and mortal pathos. The promised end similarly comes with a double dose of elision and dance, a gracefully infinitesimal gesture of desperate infirmity and a painterly tableau reminiscent of a sensual Fragonard landscape—vinegared with the terminally skeptical logic of an idealist to the end.


newyorker--2020-07-29--How Hot Will the Future Feel?

How Hot Will the Future Feel?

Even among the grim daily toll of pandemic deaths and job losses , the most fateful numbers in the news last week probably came from a huge study carried out by a team of scientists at the World Climate Research Programme .
It wove together the warming that we ’ ve observed so far , the latest understanding of feedback effects from clouds and other systems , and the record of the climate in the deep past to conclude that doubling the amount of carbon in the atmosphere ( which , at current rates , will occur toward the middle @ @ @ @ @ @ @ average surface temperature on Earth between two and a half and four degrees Celsius .
This is the first significant narrowing of that range in decades—ever since the nineteen-eighties , we ’ ve been saying one and a half to four and a half degrees .
Now , though , researchers are essentially ruling out the bottom end of the range : two and a half degrees , now essentially the best-case scenario , is an enormous number .
Dealing with the volume and complexity of data “ was such a long and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Kate Marvel , at NASA ’ s Goddard Institute , said .
James Hansen , the former Goddard chief and the world ’ s premier climate scientist , said , “ It is an impressive , comprehensive study , and I am not just saying that because I agree with the result .
Whoever shepherded this deserves our gratitude.
” Indeed , they do .
But , in truth , the numbers—what we might call pure climatology—can tell us only so much .
What will haunt our future are two other variables , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ calculate .
The first is : How much damage will that extra heat wreak ?
So far , scientists—who tend to be conservative in their forecasts—have under-predicted everything from coral die-off to Arctic ice melt .
The past week , during which the Atlantic-hurricane alphabet hit “ H ” earlier in the season than ever before , provided more reminders that even the one degree Celsius that the temperature has already risen is an awful lot .
In China , record rains were powering remarkably dangerous flooding along the Yangtze River—by last weekend @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for the Three Gorges Dam , the largest structure of its kind in the world .
But , again , the level of damage that comes from rising temperatures—let ’ s call it applied climatology—is not as telling , ultimately , as our collective ability to respond to that damage .
The brittleness of political systems in the face of change on this scale is even scarier than the brittleness of dams .
The Times Magazine offered a remarkable glimpse into such a possibility this week , with a long examination of climate @ @ @ @ @ @ @ more and more people find themselves in zones too hot to support life , they will move , and , as we already know , those movements provoke both compassion and demagoguery .
“ The best outcome requires not only good will and the careful management of turbulent political forces ; without preparation and planning , the sweeping scale of change could prove wildly destabilizing , ” Abrahm Lustgarten writes .
“ The United Nations and others warn that in the worst case , the governments of the nations most affected by climate @ @ @ @ @ @ @ into war.
” The pandemic shows us above all , I think , that twenty-first-century survival depends on an ability to handle chaos : that our political leaders , and our other institutions , have to devote themselves as never before to humane competence .
And , as this summer ’ s racial reckoning should remind us , the pain that ’ s coming needs to be distributed far more fairly .
We ’ re fast running out of margin .
The capacity of political systems to respond to extreme stress can ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ response of physical systems to extra carbon , but it will be measured , as with COVID-19 , in deaths .
Just on a much larger scale .
Robert Bullard is a genuine American hero , the kind of man who should be up on a pedestal .
In 1979 , he conducted a landmark study of the placement of waste dumps in Houston ; it found that almost all of them were in Black neighborhoods , even though the city ’ s population was only a quarter Black .
It was one @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to talk about environmental racism ; that this scourge—and its counterpart , environmental justice—is now much nearer to the center of conversation is in no small measure thanks to Bullard ’ s long career of scholarship .
A distinguished professor at Texas Southern University , he and colleagues recently restarted the National Black Environmental Justice Network , which they originally founded in 1999 .
Tell us about the National Black Environmental Justice Network .
What ’ s your hope for what it can accomplish ?
Racism is baked into America ’ s DNA @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The National Black Environmental Justice Network was relaunched in June , 2020 , to mobilize forces to address urgent health and environmental threats converging on Black America .
These multiple threats include rollbacks of environmental protections and regulations ; government efforts to invalidate the Affordable Care Act ; disproportionate hospitalizations and deaths of Black Americans from COVID-19 ; special health risks posed by COVID-19 to Black essential front-line workers , students , teachers , administrators/staff , and household members in school districts that are being unduly pressured to reopen ; economic risks @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stimulus loans ; heightened risks to Black coastal communities created by the new FEMA COVID-19 operational guidance , warning people to “ shelter in place ” during the 2020 hurricane season ; theft of Black transformative wealth from environmental racism , racial redlining , and housing discrimination ; and voter suppression , closure and consolidation of voting locations , and unavailability of absentee/mail-in voting , forcing Black people to choose between protecting their health and exercising their right to vote during the era of COVID-19 .
“ I Can ’ t Breathe ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the fight against police brutality .
Can you explain what that phrase means in environmental terms ?
America is segregated , and so is pollution .
Some people and communities have the “ wrong complexion for protection.
” The phrase “ I can ’ t breathe ” took on a special meaning beginning in the nineteen-nineties , during “ toxic tours ” [ of industrial sites in heavily polluted cities ] and community protests against racist industrial facility-siting practices that turned people-of-color communities into pollution hot spots and environmental “ sacrifice zones.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ more polluted air than whites .
Blacks and Latinos are disproportionately “ burdened ” with breathing air polluted by whites .
Blacks are exposed to fifty-six per cent and Latinos are exposed to sixty-three per cent more pollution than they cause .
Whites enjoy a “ pollution advantage , ” by breathing seventeen per cent less air pollution than they cause .
People of color in forty-six states live with more air pollution than whites .
More pollution means more illnesses and deaths .
African-Americans are almost three times more likely than whites @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are four times more likely to be admitted to the hospital for asthma and ten times more likely to die from asthma than white children .
Breathing is natural .
Pollution is unnatural .
Just as with climate activism , there ’ s a powerful new wave of young civil-rights leaders .
What should they all be asking of their elders ?

Even among the grim daily toll of pandemic deaths and job losses, the most fateful numbers in the news last week probably came from a huge study carried out by a team of scientists at the World Climate Research Programme. It wove together the warming that we’ve observed so far, the latest understanding of feedback effects from clouds and other systems, and the record of the climate in the deep past to conclude that doubling the amount of carbon in the atmosphere (which, at current rates, will occur toward the middle of the century) will raise the average surface temperature on Earth between two and a half and four degrees Celsius. This is the first significant narrowing of that range in decades—ever since the nineteen-eighties, we’ve been saying one and a half to four and a half degrees. Now, though, researchers are essentially ruling out the bottom end of the range: two and a half degrees, now essentially the best-case scenario, is an enormous number. Dealing with the volume and complexity of data “was such a long and painful process,” one researcher, Kate Marvel, at NASA’s Goddard Institute, said. James Hansen, the former Goddard chief and the world’s premier climate scientist, said, “It is an impressive, comprehensive study, and I am not just saying that because I agree with the result. Whoever shepherded this deserves our gratitude.”
Indeed, they do. But, in truth, the numbers—what we might call pure climatology—can tell us only so much. What will haunt our future are two other variables, both of which are even harder to calculate. The first is: How much damage will that extra heat wreak? So far, scientists—who tend to be conservative in their forecasts—have under-predicted everything from coral die-off to Arctic ice melt. The past week, during which the Atlantic-hurricane alphabet hit “H” earlier in the season than ever before, provided more reminders that even the one degree Celsius that the temperature has already risen is an awful lot. In China, record rains were powering remarkably dangerous flooding along the Yangtze River—by last weekend, people were beginning to raise fears for the Three Gorges Dam, the largest structure of its kind in the world.
But, again, the level of damage that comes from rising temperatures—let’s call it applied climatology—is not as telling, ultimately, as our collective ability to respond to that damage. The brittleness of political systems in the face of change on this scale is even scarier than the brittleness of dams. The Times Magazine offered a remarkable glimpse into such a possibility this week, with a long examination of climate migration—present and future—from Central America. As more and more people find themselves in zones too hot to support life, they will move, and, as we already know, those movements provoke both compassion and demagoguery. “The best outcome requires not only good will and the careful management of turbulent political forces; without preparation and planning, the sweeping scale of change could prove wildly destabilizing,” Abrahm Lustgarten writes. “The United Nations and others warn that in the worst case, the governments of the nations most affected by climate change could topple as whole regions devolve into war.”
The pandemic shows us above all, I think, that twenty-first-century survival depends on an ability to handle chaos: that our political leaders, and our other institutions, have to devote themselves as never before to humane competence. And, as this summer’s racial reckoning should remind us, the pain that’s coming needs to be distributed far more fairly. We’re fast running out of margin. The capacity of political systems to respond to extreme stress can’t be predicted as numerically as the response of physical systems to extra carbon, but it will be measured, as with COVID-19, in deaths. Just on a much larger scale.
Passing the Mic
Robert Bullard is a genuine American hero, the kind of man who should be up on a pedestal. In 1979, he conducted a landmark study of the placement of waste dumps in Houston; it found that almost all of them were in Black neighborhoods, even though the city’s population was only a quarter Black. It was one of the first times that people started to talk about environmental racism; that this scourge—and its counterpart, environmental justice—is now much nearer to the center of conversation is in no small measure thanks to Bullard’s long career of scholarship. A distinguished professor at Texas Southern University, he and colleagues recently restarted the National Black Environmental Justice Network, which they originally founded in 1999.
Tell us about the National Black Environmental Justice Network. What’s your hope for what it can accomplish?
Racism is baked into America’s DNA. All communities are not created equal. The National Black Environmental Justice Network was relaunched in June, 2020, to mobilize forces to address urgent health and environmental threats converging on Black America. These multiple threats include rollbacks of environmental protections and regulations; government efforts to invalidate the Affordable Care Act; disproportionate hospitalizations and deaths of Black Americans from COVID-19; special health risks posed by COVID-19 to Black essential front-line workers, students, teachers, administrators/staff, and household members in school districts that are being unduly pressured to reopen; economic risks to small Black-owned businesses cut out of stimulus loans; heightened risks to Black coastal communities created by the new FEMA COVID-19 operational guidance, warning people to “shelter in place” during the 2020 hurricane season; theft of Black transformative wealth from environmental racism, racial redlining, and housing discrimination; and voter suppression, closure and consolidation of voting locations, and unavailability of absentee/mail-in voting, forcing Black people to choose between protecting their health and exercising their right to vote during the era of COVID-19.
“I Can’t Breathe” has become a kind of slogan of the fight against police brutality. Can you explain what that phrase means in environmental terms?
America is segregated, and so is pollution. Some people and communities have the “wrong complexion for protection.” The phrase “I can’t breathe” took on a special meaning beginning in the nineteen-nineties, during “toxic tours” [of industrial sites in heavily polluted cities] and community protests against racist industrial facility-siting practices that turned people-of-color communities into pollution hot spots and environmental “sacrifice zones.” People of color breathe thirty-eight per cent more polluted air than whites. Blacks and Latinos are disproportionately “burdened” with breathing air polluted by whites. Blacks are exposed to fifty-six per cent and Latinos are exposed to sixty-three per cent more pollution than they cause. Whites enjoy a “pollution advantage,” by breathing seventeen per cent less air pollution than they cause. People of color in forty-six states live with more air pollution than whites. More pollution means more illnesses and deaths. African-Americans are almost three times more likely than whites to die from asthma. Black children are four times more likely to be admitted to the hospital for asthma and ten times more likely to die from asthma than white children. Breathing is natural. Pollution is unnatural.
Just as with climate activism, there’s a powerful new wave of young civil-rights leaders. What should they all be asking of their elders?
It is important for young leaders and activists to know the history of social movements in the United States, so as to learn and build on the successes. Every successful social movement in the U.S. has had a strong youth- and student-led wing—whether civil rights, women’s rights, antiwar, peace and justice, conservation and environment, environmental and climate justice, etc. They should also know racial justice was largely missing or marginalized in most majority-white-led movements. A big mistake. Young leaders have a great opportunity today to make equity the dominant lens for blending racial, economic, and gender justice in our quest for health, environmental, climate, civil-rights, and human-rights work. Those of us who are elders and veterans in the struggle, if invited, can assist and support intergenerational movement-building and leadership development in running the “marathon relay” race for justice to the finish line—each generation is expected to run its 26.2 miles and pass the baton on to the next to run it 26.2 miles. That’s how we win.
Climate School
Speaking of racism in the movement, the Sierra Club, the oldest and most important of America’s environmental groups, released a letter titled “Pulling Down Our Monuments.” It acknowledges that one of the group’s founders, John Muir, was all too much a man of his time, and pledges a series of reforms to insure that the club “changes to elevate the voices and experiences of staff of color across the organization.” The letter continues, “We know that the systems of power that got us here will not enable the transformational change we need.” Muir is a complex figure—he was one of the first white people to acknowledge that humans themselves were not at the center of creation. But his prejudices about his fellow-humans were very real, and make for painful reading.
The University of Dayton was an early proponent of fossil-fuel divestment—the Marianist Catholic university signed up in 2014, even before Pope Francis issued his “Laudato Si’ ” encyclical. At the time, many predicted that schools that eschewed fossil fuels from their portfolios would suffer financially. Dayton was willing to take a hit, but it has just released an in-depth study showing that there’s been no hit. The portfolio “has performed generally very much like a non-divested portfolio. And that’s been our goal all along,” a school official said. Since Dayton’s action, at least a hundred and eighty other Catholic institutions around the world have committed to divestment, and the Pope formally endorsed divestment earlier this year.


newyorker--2020-07-29--Why America Feels Like a Post-Soviet State

I ’ ve been plagued by a nauseating sense of recognition lately .
Story after story of the pandemic response in the United States reminds me of the country that I spent most of my professional life writing about : the Soviet Union and also the Russian state that was born after its collapse but which couldn ’ t shake many of its traits .
One persistent Soviet trait is the ways in which Russian institutions handle information—what we might call “ the culture of reporting upstairs.
” The best-known example is the Soviet government ’ s coverup of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Chernobyl nuclear disaster .
This wasn ’ t only , or even primarily , a matter of suppressing uncomfortable truths .
What drove officials to lie was not so much a desire to conceal the facts from ordinary people as it was a need to supply the leadership with upbeat reports .
For many officials , before and after Chernobyl , the production of cheerful stories that were entirely divorced from reality was a full-time job .
They lied about the number of shoes that the country ’ s factories had made @ @ @ @ @ @ @ roads that its workers had built .
( Once , when I was eleven or so , my parents saw a television story about a newly built road and decided to take a trip to it in our recently acquired Zhiguli car .
It turned out that there was no road—only a few feet of pavement where the report had been filmed . )
Little that was made or said by official Soviet institutions fit , worked as intended , or made any sense , because so much of it existed only for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ An old Soviet joke : “ What doesn ’ t buzz and doesn ’ t fit in your ass ?
A Soviet machine for buzzing inside your ass.
” ) I find myself recognizing this culture in the U.S. now , when , for example , I read a report in the Times on how the Trump Administration convinced itself , back in April , that the COVID-19 pandemic was on the wane .
Or when the Administration shifted the duty of collecting coronavirus data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Services—the C.D.C .
had been pliant but not , it seemed , pliant enough for Trump .
Could moving data collection to a Cabinet agency explain why the curve of new cases seemed to flatten ?
I felt a similar sense of recognition when I read the Times ’ report on the fifty-two-million-dollar temporary hospital in New York City that ended up treating a total of seventy-nine COVID-19 patients , while people died of the virus in other hospitals , sometimes for lack of access to care .
The facility , set up @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Center , in Queens , turned some patients away because they weren ’ t sick enough and others because they had a fever .
Because confusion reigned over whether patients could be transferred there from other hospitals , very few were .
The chaos recalled the U.S.N.S .
Comfort , which also was supposed to ease the burden on hospitals in New York City .
At what was nearly the local peak of the pandemic , only twenty of its thousand beds were occupied .
Arcane and absurd rules and procedures kept it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ back to all the times when I would tell a story about Russia to an American friend , and how they couldn ’ t understand how nonsensical rules could govern and destroy people ’ s lives .
I could never really explain it , and I always had the sense that my friends didn ’ t quite believe me .
For example : a person who had served time in prison in the U.S.S.R. could not obtain a residence registration—a government permit to live at a particular address—if they didn ’ t have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t get a job without a residence registration ; not working , in turn , was an offense punishable by incarceration .
The intentional institutional ineptitude and callous nihilism of contemporary Russian society is the product of a seventy-year Soviet totalitarian experiment—or so I have long believed .
No such experiment took place in the United States .
So how is it that the pandemic has made the U.S. resemble the post-Soviet Russian state ?
Part of the explanation lies with Donald Trump himself , in the ways in which he performs power @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the absence of totalitarianism—a Mafia boss without a Mafia—and to an astonishing degree he gets away with this act .
He has created a culture of reporting upstairs that is reminiscent of the Central Committee of the Communist Party ; as a result , Deborah Birx , once a highly respected public-health leader , is suddenly willing to obscure the impact of COVID-19 for him , and the C.D.C .
downplays its own safety guidance in urging schools to reopen .
Some of the enabling behavior in Trump ’ s entourage can @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ability to damage almost any Republican politician ’ s career with a single tweet .
But it is harder to understand why people who could leave the government to work in the private sector , without having to appease a deranged boss or debase themselves daily , continue to take part in his show .
It may be obvious to an individual within a labyrinthine bureaucracy that things ought to be done differently—that a person should not be turned away from a hospital for having a fever—but individual actors have little power as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cases of the Billie Jean King Tennis Center and the U.S.N.S .
Comfort , one might have imagined Governor Andrew Cuomo or Mayor Bill de Blasio intervening to cut through red tape—each of them likes a grand gesture , and in their coronavirus responses they worked not in concert with but explicitly in opposition to the President .
Still , bureaucratic absurdities dominated much of their conduct , and in the end they enforced irrational and inhumane rules .
The U.S. and Russia have vastly different cultures , incomparable histories , disparate ideological @ @ @ @ @ @ @ similarity that unites them , however , is radical inequality .
In the Soviet Union , members of the Party élite lived in a different universe than the rest of the country .
They had their own neighborhoods , schools , roads , resorts , stores , and , of course , their own health-care system .
This is still true .
A wealthy and well-connected Russian can receive world-class medical care , while ordinary people are reduced , much like in Soviet days , to having to buy their own disposable syringes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the hospital .
Wealthy Americans also live in a different universe , and when they get sick they land in different hospitals than middle- and lower-class Americans—which , as the coronavirus has shown , makes it much more likely that they will survive .
This radical inequality was a direct cause of the Soviet culture of reporting upstairs .
The people who received and passed on the final reports of the number of shoes manufactured and roads built did not wear the shoes and did not travel the roads .
It did not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ because those other people who used the shoes and roads , the ordinary Russians , might as well have never existed .
This same culture permeates Trump ’ s Washington .
Members of his Administration will not die because of a shortage of nursing care ; they will not be turned away from any medical facility , and their children will not be attending any of the public schools that the Administration is forcing to reopen .
They feel invincible .
Trump can refuse to wear a mask , and his officials can @ @ @ @ @ @ @ briefings , because when they talk about the pandemic they are not talking about themselves .
Neither was Cuomo , nor was de Blasio , talking about himself when he held briefings in New York .
The disproportionate number of deaths among poor New Yorkers—the plain reality that many died because they had lesser medical care or no medical care—does not detract from New York ’ s pride in successfully flattening the curve .
This fundamental sense of division—of alienation—between the people who run things and the people who die is what makes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ : the runaway bureaucracy , the adverse incentives , the lying .
It ’ s possible because we are not in this together .
More on the Coronavirus • To protect American lives and revive the economy , Donald Trump and Jared Kushner should listen to Anthony Fauci rather than trash him .
• We should look to students to conceive of appropriate school-reopening plans .
It is not too late to ask what they really want .
• A pregnant pediatrician on what children need during the crisis .
• Trump is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reëlection campaign exploit the pandemic to maximize profits .
• Meet the high-finance mogul in charge of our economic recovery .
• The coronavirus is likely to reshape architecture .
What kinds of space are we willing to live and work in now ?

I’ve been plagued by a nauseating sense of recognition lately. Story after story of the pandemic response in the United States reminds me of the country that I spent most of my professional life writing about: the Soviet Union and also the Russian state that was born after its collapse but which couldn’t shake many of its traits.
One persistent Soviet trait is the ways in which Russian institutions handle information—what we might call “the culture of reporting upstairs.” The best-known example is the Soviet government’s coverup of the extent, nature, and danger of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster. This wasn’t only, or even primarily, a matter of suppressing uncomfortable truths. What drove officials to lie was not so much a desire to conceal the facts from ordinary people as it was a need to supply the leadership with upbeat reports. For many officials, before and after Chernobyl, the production of cheerful stories that were entirely divorced from reality was a full-time job. They lied about the number of shoes that the country’s factories had made and about the length and location of roads that its workers had built. (Once, when I was eleven or so, my parents saw a television story about a newly built road and decided to take a trip to it in our recently acquired Zhiguli car. It turned out that there was no road—only a few feet of pavement where the report had been filmed.) Little that was made or said by official Soviet institutions fit, worked as intended, or made any sense, because so much of it existed only for the purpose of reporting upstairs. (An old Soviet joke: “What doesn’t buzz and doesn’t fit in your ass? A Soviet machine for buzzing inside your ass.”)
I find myself recognizing this culture in the U.S. now, when, for example, I read a report in the Times on how the Trump Administration convinced itself, back in April, that the COVID-19 pandemic was on the wane. Or when the Administration shifted the duty of collecting coronavirus data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention to the Department of Health and Human Services—the C.D.C. had been pliant but not, it seemed, pliant enough for Trump. Could moving data collection to a Cabinet agency explain why the curve of new cases seemed to flatten? I felt a similar sense of recognition when I read the Times’ report on the fifty-two-million-dollar temporary hospital in New York City that ended up treating a total of seventy-nine COVID-19 patients, while people died of the virus in other hospitals, sometimes for lack of access to care. The facility, set up at the Billie Jean King National Tennis Center, in Queens, turned some patients away because they weren’t sick enough and others because they had a fever. Because confusion reigned over whether patients could be transferred there from other hospitals, very few were. The chaos recalled the U.S.N.S. Comfort, which also was supposed to ease the burden on hospitals in New York City. At what was nearly the local peak of the pandemic, only twenty of its thousand beds were occupied. Arcane and absurd rules and procedures kept it from admitting more patients. I thought back to all the times when I would tell a story about Russia to an American friend, and how they couldn’t understand how nonsensical rules could govern and destroy people’s lives. I could never really explain it, and I always had the sense that my friends didn’t quite believe me. For example: a person who had served time in prison in the U.S.S.R. could not obtain a residence registration—a government permit to live at a particular address—if they didn’t have a job, and they couldn’t get a job without a residence registration; not working, in turn, was an offense punishable by incarceration.
The intentional institutional ineptitude and callous nihilism of contemporary Russian society is the product of a seventy-year Soviet totalitarian experiment—or so I have long believed. No such experiment took place in the United States. So how is it that the pandemic has made the U.S. resemble the post-Soviet Russian state? Part of the explanation lies with Donald Trump himself, in the ways in which he performs power. He acts like a totalitarian leader in the absence of totalitarianism—a Mafia boss without a Mafia—and to an astonishing degree he gets away with this act. He has created a culture of reporting upstairs that is reminiscent of the Central Committee of the Communist Party; as a result, Deborah Birx, once a highly respected public-health leader, is suddenly willing to obscure the impact of COVID-19 for him, and the C.D.C. downplays its own safety guidance in urging schools to reopen. Some of the enabling behavior in Trump’s entourage can be explained by the President’s ability to damage almost any Republican politician’s career with a single tweet. But it is harder to understand why people who could leave the government to work in the private sector, without having to appease a deranged boss or debase themselves daily, continue to take part in his show.
It may be obvious to an individual within a labyrinthine bureaucracy that things ought to be done differently—that a person should not be turned away from a hospital for having a fever—but individual actors have little power as cogs in the machine. In the cases of the Billie Jean King Tennis Center and the U.S.N.S. Comfort, one might have imagined Governor Andrew Cuomo or Mayor Bill de Blasio intervening to cut through red tape—each of them likes a grand gesture, and in their coronavirus responses they worked not in concert with but explicitly in opposition to the President. Still, bureaucratic absurdities dominated much of their conduct, and in the end they enforced irrational and inhumane rules.
The U.S. and Russia have vastly different cultures, incomparable histories, disparate ideological influences, and divergent economies. One similarity that unites them, however, is radical inequality. In the Soviet Union, members of the Party élite lived in a different universe than the rest of the country. They had their own neighborhoods, schools, roads, resorts, stores, and, of course, their own health-care system. This is still true. A wealthy and well-connected Russian can receive world-class medical care, while ordinary people are reduced, much like in Soviet days, to having to buy their own disposable syringes and pay cash for nursing care in the hospital. Wealthy Americans also live in a different universe, and when they get sick they land in different hospitals than middle- and lower-class Americans—which, as the coronavirus has shown, makes it much more likely that they will survive.