newyorker--2020-05-27--Dispatches from the Front Lines of the Streaming Wars

My wonderful , beautiful girl , whom I am dating casually—I write to you with awful news .
Just as we feared , the Streaming Wars are upon us , and they are as horrific as their name suggests .
Now that Disney+ and Apple TV+ have dropped their programming bombs upon our homes , we are officially engaged in the most gruesome conflict our generation has ever seen .
We ’ ve all been conscripted as soldiers in this fight—men , women , and children alike , forced to stand up for the content we believe in or risk @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it was like when they rebooted “ Murphy Brown ” only to swiftly cancel it ?
The stakes could not be higher .
Already we have given so much of our lives to these services , and yet they only ask more of our bodies , our souls , our minds , and , of course , our money .
Eight dollars here , five dollars there , twelve dollars over there .
The financial and emotional toll is unspeakable .
Emily , please send word on how you and yours are faring @ @ @ @ @ @ @ am afraid that , as you belong to a Hulu , Disney+ , HBO Max , and Crackle family , and I hail from a Netflix , Apple TV+ , Amazon Prime , and CBS All Access clan , we may find ourselves across enemy lines—and I probably can ’ t make it to that work thing you have on the 27th .
As the harsh reality of war continues to make itself known , I can ’ t help but wonder if those spearheading these content attacks from their offices in Los @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on our daily lives .
Each week , it ’ s another reboot .
Prequels , sequels , and spinoffs as far as the eye can see .
It ’ s chaos .
In times like these , we should be more united than ever , but instead these attacks drive us apart , forging an impossible divide between us .
People ask me how I can call someone who does not watch , who could not watch , “ The Good Fight ” my bae ?
( Seriously , though , it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and I wish you ’ d give it a chance . )
My bosses say , “ Hey , can you stop watching TV while you work ?
Or we ’ re going to have to fire you soon.
” Like I can focus on work when there is a war going on !
How I long to Netflix and chill with you , Emily .
Like in the old days , before the Streaming Wars , when there were only a couple of services and hundreds of cable channels and thousands of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ But perhaps it is naïve of me to romanticize simpler times in this way .
What the fuck is Peacock ?
As I type this to you , my eyes burn , my fingers cramp .
Day in and day out , I remain glued to my screen , trying to consume all the content that is being delivered to me , but it is just not physically possible .
My contact lenses have been seared into my eyes from lack of removal .
However , I know I am lucky .
I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ others have sustained from their hours of bingeing .
Among my kin , the Streaming Wars have been hardest on my brother .
Overwhelmed by choices , he has sworn off television altogether , choosing to neglect his patriotic duty .
He ’ s going to read books , he says .
Like books are anything but TV shows that haven ’ t been optioned by Reese Witherspoon yet !
He ’ ll forever be pitied , viewed as a scourge upon society .
No one will have a way to find common @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t seen “ Tiger King ” or “ The Mandalorian.
” He doesn ’ t even know what a Quibi is .
How will future generations judge us if we sit on the sidelines , allowing the golden age of television to go unwatched ?
Which brings me to the question : Have you been receiving my messages ?
You emphasized my last text , which I appreciate , but that does not quite count as a reply .
At long last , the Streaming Wars have come to an end !
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ had already merged with HBO and Apple ) , and all were acquired by Disney .
Finally , there is one centralized place to watch everything , owned by one corporation that will only grow richer with each passing day—the way things should be .
But , my sweetheart , I fear you may have fallen victim to the Streaming Wars .
Or perhaps you ’ ve been a little busy since Viacom eliminated your role in their merger with CBS ?
In any event , if you are still receiving these missives @ @ @ @ @ @ @ please , send nudes .
The very day that the Streaming Wars came to an end , Caleb died from dehydration .
However , his story will soon be forever immortalized in a Crackle limited series , executive-produced by Reese Witherspoon .

They’re spending billions of dollars to fund hundreds of new movies and TV shows to compete with established players Netflix, Amazon and Hulu in what’s become known as the Streaming Wars.
—The Washington Post.
Dearest Emily,
My wonderful, beautiful girl, whom I am dating casually—I write to you with awful news. Just as we feared, the Streaming Wars are upon us, and they are as horrific as their name suggests. Now that Disney+ and Apple TV+ have dropped their programming bombs upon our homes, we are officially engaged in the most gruesome conflict our generation has ever seen. We’ve all been conscripted as soldiers in this fight—men, women, and children alike, forced to stand up for the content we believe in or risk its brutal demise. You remember what it was like when they rebooted “Murphy Brown” only to swiftly cancel it? The stakes could not be higher.
Already we have given so much of our lives to these services, and yet they only ask more of our bodies, our souls, our minds, and, of course, our money. Eight dollars here, five dollars there, twelve dollars over there. The financial and emotional toll is unspeakable.
Emily, please send word on how you and yours are faring as soon as you can. I am afraid that, as you belong to a Hulu, Disney+, HBO Max, and Crackle family, and I hail from a Netflix, Apple TV+, Amazon Prime, and CBS All Access clan, we may find ourselves across enemy lines—and I probably can’t make it to that work thing you have on the 27th.
Yours,
Caleb
My sweet Emily,
As the harsh reality of war continues to make itself known, I can’t help but wonder if those spearheading these content attacks from their offices in Los Angeles understand the implications of their actions on our daily lives. Each week, it’s another reboot. Prequels, sequels, and spinoffs as far as the eye can see. It’s chaos.
In times like these, we should be more united than ever, but instead these attacks drive us apart, forging an impossible divide between us. People ask me how I can call someone who does not watch, who could not watch, “The Good Fight” my bae? (Seriously, though, it’s really good, Emily, and I wish you’d give it a chance.) My bosses say, “Hey, can you stop watching TV while you work? Or we’re going to have to fire you soon.” Like I can focus on work when there is a war going on!
How I long to Netflix and chill with you, Emily. Like in the old days, before the Streaming Wars, when there were only a couple of services and hundreds of cable channels and thousands of hours of YouTube videos to peruse. But perhaps it is naïve of me to romanticize simpler times in this way.
Yours,
Caleb
Emily,
What the fuck is Peacock?
Caleb
Darling Emily,
As I type this to you, my eyes burn, my fingers cramp. Day in and day out, I remain glued to my screen, trying to consume all the content that is being delivered to me, but it is just not physically possible. My contact lenses have been seared into my eyes from lack of removal. However, I know I am lucky. I can only imagine the gruesome injuries that others have sustained from their hours of bingeing.
Among my kin, the Streaming Wars have been hardest on my brother. Overwhelmed by choices, he has sworn off television altogether, choosing to neglect his patriotic duty. He’s going to read books, he says. Like books are anything but TV shows that haven’t been optioned by Reese Witherspoon yet!
He’ll forever be pitied, viewed as a scourge upon society. No one will have a way to find common ground with him, because he hasn’t seen “Tiger King” or “The Mandalorian.” He doesn’t even know what a Quibi is. How will future generations judge us if we sit on the sidelines, allowing the golden age of television to go unwatched?
Which brings me to the question: Have you been receiving my messages? You emphasized my last text, which I appreciate, but that does not quite count as a reply.
All best,
Caleb
Faithful Emily,
At long last, the Streaming Wars have come to an end! Amazon has merged with Netflix (which had already merged with HBO and Apple), and all were acquired by Disney. Finally, there is one centralized place to watch everything, owned by one corporation that will only grow richer with each passing day—the way things should be.
But, my sweetheart, I fear you may have fallen victim to the Streaming Wars. Or perhaps you’ve been a little busy since Viacom eliminated your role in their merger with CBS? In any event, if you are still receiving these missives and a celebratory mood strikes you, please, send nudes.
Yours,
Caleb
The very day that the Streaming Wars came to an end, Caleb died from dehydration. However, his story will soon be forever immortalized in a Crackle limited series, executive-produced by Reese Witherspoon.


newyorker--2020-05-27--When COVID-19 Starts to Feel Normal

When COVID-19 Starts to Feel Normal

There are patterns and rhythms to life in a hospital ’ s emergency department .
Many local clinics are closed on weekends , and many people don ’ t want to go to the hospital on their days off , and so Mondays tend to be busy ; midafternoons are hectic , until things cool off , by eight or nine .
Diseases also behave in recognizable ways .
Chest pain radiating to the arm suggests a heart attack and , even as I talk with a patient , a sequence of diagnostic tests , medications , and specialists unspools @ @ @ @ @ @ @ weakness on one side suggest stroke , and from the moment I learn about those symptoms I can see the entire course of treatment , from the medical workup to rehab , in my mind ’ s eye .
These days , perhaps because people are afraid to come to the hospital , we ’ re not seeing as many heart attacks or strokes .
Instead , a new pattern runs through our days , persisting even though Boston is past the peak of the coronavirus pandemic ’ s first wave .
In @ @ @ @ @ @ @ patients hospitalized with COVID-19 in Massachusetts , many of them in critical condition ; now , there are around two thousand five hundred .
The virus continues to circulate—there are still hundreds of new positive test results every day in the state—and patients continue to come in very sick .
Over the radio , we still hear the familiar radio messages from ambulance crews : “ Sixty-five-year-old male with fever , cough , and difficulty breathing , ” they might say .
“ Requesting isolation precautions .
E.T.A .
five minutes.
” On @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , my colleagues intubated at least one critically ill COVID-19 patient every hour for much of their shift .
The social-distancing regime may be beginning to lift , but Boston ’ s experience with the coronavirus is far from over .
Diagnostic tests for the virus still take hours or sometimes days to return results , and so we ’ ve become used to figuring out for ourselves which new patients have COVID-19 , relying on symptoms , blood tests , imaging , and intuition .
In the E.R .
where I work @ @ @ @ @ @ @ patient arrives .
A team of nurses connects a variety of monitors—an inflatable cuff to measure blood pressure , nine electrode stickers to trace the heart ’ s rate and rhythm , and a small plastic box called an oximeter , clipped to a fingertip to measure oxygen levels .
While this is happening , we are also observing .
Does the patient appear attentive and alert , making good eye contact , or is he confused or in pain ?
Is he clammy ?
( Clamminess can herald serious illness : an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a patient is sweating , his doctor should be , too . )
Most important , we watch what we call the work of breathing .
Ten to twenty breaths per minute is normal , more than thirty is worrisome .
A struggling patient might use his shoulder and neck muscles to breathe , or purse his lips .
In the most severe cases , the skin between each rib sucks inward , or “ retracts , ” with each desperate breath .
All of this information contributes to what we call gestalt—a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ which refers to the total picture of how ill a patient is .
Sometimes the gestalt comes into focus quickly .
Medics bring in a woman with shortness of breath and , as she is transferred to a gurney , we notice that she is breathing rapidly , using her shoulders to do so , and that she appears clammy and inattentive .
Numbers begin to appear on her monitor—heart rate elevated at a hundred and twenty beats per minute , blood pressure abnormally low , oxygen level of seventy per cent flashing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to one hundred and three Fahrenheit , ” a nurse calls out .
We see immediately that she is critically ill , probably from COVID-19 , and requires immediate attention .
For less critically ill patients with whom we are able to converse , the gestalt tends to reveal itself slowly , through a series of questions .
We ask about symptoms and how they ’ ve evolved ; we also ask about symptoms they haven ’ t had , to help exclude possibilities .
A coronavirus infection , when it isn ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ first , and COVID-19 may make itself felt through minor symptoms that can evoke the common cold , the flu , or even allergies .
And yet , while those familiar ailments primarily affect the nose , the throat , and the pharynx—together called the upper respiratory tract—the coronavirus seems to skip directly to the lower respiratory tract , multiplying in the lungs .
A minority of COVID-19 patients , therefore , report nasal congestion and sore throat ; more experience lung-centric problems such as cough and shortness of breath .
( As @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ve also learned to look out for other , stranger symptoms .
Recently , I cared for a middle-aged mother of several children who came to the hospital complaining only of diarrhea and weakness ; occasionally , the virus attacks the heart , and we were surprised to find that hers was failing .
Other patients have described neurologic symptoms , such as impaired taste , headaches , or memory problems .
Kidney failure has been reported , too . )
In the lungs , the tiny air sacs called alveoli get damaged @ @ @ @ @ @ @ spreads .
The result is pneumonia—an inflammatory response to the damage .
In the eighteenth century , doctors detected it using a technique called percussion : tap a finger smartly against the chest , and afflicted lungs sound dull , while healthy ones are drum-like and resonant .
Today , we use X-rays .
Plugged alveoli attenuate the rays , and so appear on film as white patches .
It ’ s easy to recognize the lacy white streaks of COVID-19 pneumonia reaching , cobweb-like , through the lower fields of both lungs @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in an X-ray ordered for a dislocated shoulder , say , or after a car accident .
Occasionally , a chain around a patient ’ s neck appears on the film , fastened to a wedding band or crucifix—a reminder that each image represents more than just another case of COVID-19 .
The coronavirus may seem like an equal-opportunity threat , afflicting prime ministers as well as bus drivers .
But the truth is that it ’ s especially vicious when it spreads within marginalized populations .
Last month , in Louisiana , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the deaths caused by COVID-19 , more than twice their share of that state ’ s population ; in Chicago , the risk of dying of COVID-19 if you ’ re black is six times the risk if you ’ re white .
Similar trends have been reported in the Carolinas , Nevada , Connecticut , Wisconsin , and New York .
In Boston , our Hispanic population has borne the brunt of the disease : at Massachusetts General Hospital , Hispanics have comprised as much as forty per cent of COVID-19 inpatients @ @ @ @ @ @ @ about nine per cent over all . )
And so , in addition to asking our patients about their most recent symptoms , we take note of their chronic health problems , their ethnicities , and the circumstances in which they live .
Only one in five African-Americans have jobs that allow them to work remotely ; crowded housing arrangements increase exposure and transmission ; minorities have long suffered from inadequate access to health care , and carry a higher burden of chronic illness as a result .
We ’ ve grown used @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ re as familiar to us now as the ones that attend heart attacks and strokes—but these social patterns , which have also always been there , now stand out with disturbing vividness .

There are patterns and rhythms to life in a hospital’s emergency department. Many local clinics are closed on weekends, and many people don’t want to go to the hospital on their days off, and so Mondays tend to be busy; midafternoons are hectic, until things cool off, by eight or nine. Diseases also behave in recognizable ways. Chest pain radiating to the arm suggests a heart attack and, even as I talk with a patient, a sequence of diagnostic tests, medications, and specialists unspools in my head. Difficulty speaking and weakness on one side suggest stroke, and from the moment I learn about those symptoms I can see the entire course of treatment, from the medical workup to rehab, in my mind’s eye.
These days, perhaps because people are afraid to come to the hospital, we’re not seeing as many heart attacks or strokes. Instead, a new pattern runs through our days, persisting even though Boston is past the peak of the coronavirus pandemic’s first wave. In April, there were nearly four thousand patients hospitalized with COVID-19 in Massachusetts, many of them in critical condition; now, there are around two thousand five hundred. The virus continues to circulate—there are still hundreds of new positive test results every day in the state—and patients continue to come in very sick. Over the radio, we still hear the familiar radio messages from ambulance crews: “Sixty-five-year-old male with fever, cough, and difficulty breathing,” they might say. “Requesting isolation precautions. E.T.A. five minutes.” On one particularly rough day earlier this month, my colleagues intubated at least one critically ill COVID-19 patient every hour for much of their shift. The social-distancing regime may be beginning to lift, but Boston’s experience with the coronavirus is far from over.
Diagnostic tests for the virus still take hours or sometimes days to return results, and so we’ve become used to figuring out for ourselves which new patients have COVID-19, relying on symptoms, blood tests, imaging, and intuition. In the E.R. where I work, two things happen simultaneously when a patient arrives. A team of nurses connects a variety of monitors—an inflatable cuff to measure blood pressure, nine electrode stickers to trace the heart’s rate and rhythm, and a small plastic box called an oximeter, clipped to a fingertip to measure oxygen levels. While this is happening, we are also observing. Does the patient appear attentive and alert, making good eye contact, or is he confused or in pain? Is he clammy? (Clamminess can herald serious illness: an old medical adage suggests that, if a patient is sweating, his doctor should be, too.) Most important, we watch what we call the work of breathing. Ten to twenty breaths per minute is normal, more than thirty is worrisome. A struggling patient might use his shoulder and neck muscles to breathe, or purse his lips. In the most severe cases, the skin between each rib sucks inward, or “retracts,” with each desperate breath.
All of this information contributes to what we call gestalt—a German word meaning pattern or shape, which refers to the total picture of how ill a patient is. Sometimes the gestalt comes into focus quickly. Medics bring in a woman with shortness of breath and, as she is transferred to a gurney, we notice that she is breathing rapidly, using her shoulders to do so, and that she appears clammy and inattentive. Numbers begin to appear on her monitor—heart rate elevated at a hundred and twenty beats per minute, blood pressure abnormally low, oxygen level of seventy per cent flashing red on the screen. “Febrile to one hundred and three Fahrenheit,” a nurse calls out. We see immediately that she is critically ill, probably from COVID-19, and requires immediate attention.
For less critically ill patients with whom we are able to converse, the gestalt tends to reveal itself slowly, through a series of questions. We ask about symptoms and how they’ve evolved; we also ask about symptoms they haven’t had, to help exclude possibilities. A coronavirus infection, when it isn’t asymptomatic, is often mild at first, and COVID-19 may make itself felt through minor symptoms that can evoke the common cold, the flu, or even allergies. And yet, while those familiar ailments primarily affect the nose, the throat, and the pharynx—together called the upper respiratory tract—the coronavirus seems to skip directly to the lower respiratory tract, multiplying in the lungs. A minority of COVID-19 patients, therefore, report nasal congestion and sore throat; more experience lung-centric problems such as cough and shortness of breath. (As the pandemic has progressed, we’ve also learned to look out for other, stranger symptoms. Recently, I cared for a middle-aged mother of several children who came to the hospital complaining only of diarrhea and weakness; occasionally, the virus attacks the heart, and we were surprised to find that hers was failing. Other patients have described neurologic symptoms, such as impaired taste, headaches, or memory problems. Kidney failure has been reported, too.)
In the lungs, the tiny air sacs called alveoli get damaged or filled with debris as the infection spreads. The result is pneumonia—an inflammatory response to the damage. In the eighteenth century, doctors detected it using a technique called percussion: tap a finger smartly against the chest, and afflicted lungs sound dull, while healthy ones are drum-like and resonant. Today, we use X-rays. Plugged alveoli attenuate the rays, and so appear on film as white patches. It’s easy to recognize the lacy white streaks of COVID-19 pneumonia reaching, cobweb-like, through the lower fields of both lungs. Sometimes this signature appears unexpectedly, in an X-ray ordered for a dislocated shoulder, say, or after a car accident. Occasionally, a chain around a patient’s neck appears on the film, fastened to a wedding band or crucifix—a reminder that each image represents more than just another case of COVID-19.
The coronavirus may seem like an equal-opportunity threat, afflicting prime ministers as well as bus drivers. But the truth is that it’s especially vicious when it spreads within marginalized populations. Last month, in Louisiana, African-Americans accounted for seventy per cent of the deaths caused by COVID-19, more than twice their share of that state’s population; in Chicago, the risk of dying of COVID-19 if you’re black is six times the risk if you’re white. Similar trends have been reported in the Carolinas, Nevada, Connecticut, Wisconsin, and New York. In Boston, our Hispanic population has borne the brunt of the disease: at Massachusetts General Hospital, Hispanics have comprised as much as forty per cent of COVID-19 inpatients. (Normally, they account for about nine per cent over all.) And so, in addition to asking our patients about their most recent symptoms, we take note of their chronic health problems, their ethnicities, and the circumstances in which they live. Only one in five African-Americans have jobs that allow them to work remotely; crowded housing arrangements increase exposure and transmission; minorities have long suffered from inadequate access to health care, and carry a higher burden of chronic illness as a result. We’ve grown used to the diagnostic patterns that accompany COVID-19—they’re as familiar to us now as the ones that attend heart attacks and strokes—but these social patterns, which have also always been there, now stand out with disturbing vividness.
Once the diagnosis is made, treatment also follows a predictable path. At first, we provide oxygen—just a few litres per minute for mild cases, delivered by nasal cannula. Sicker patients may require a special mask called a non-rebreather, which delivers higher concentrations of oxygen: these measures are usually sufficient to stabilize them, at least momentarily, while we wait for blood work to come in. (COVID-19 produces a distinct pattern of abnormalities in the blood, characterized by high inflammatory markers and a low number of lymphocytes, a kind of white blood cell.) In some patients, however, the disease has progressed to a more deadly phase: acute respiratory distress syndrome, or ARDS, an overexuberant inflammatory response, triggered by the infection, that causes grievous collateral damage to already foundering lungs. In chest X-rays of people with ARDS, the lungs are so damaged that they take on the appearance of densely frosted glass. These patients sometimes breathe as though they were running a marathon, because they can’t get enough oxygen. They can’t keep up the effort indefinitely. Some estimates suggest that as many as ten or twenty per cent of COVID-19 patients who are ill enough to need hospitalization reach this point. For them, the next step is intubation, a procedure in which a plastic tube is introduced into the trachea and connected to a ventilator.
Ancient physicians understood that control of the airway could be critical. Egyptian papyri and the Rigveda describe tracheotomy, a procedure to open the trachea by cutting through the neck; Alexander the Great is said to have saved a suffocating soldier this way, using the tip of his dagger. The Roman physician Galen observed that a hollow reed passed between the vocal cords, which sit above the trachea, could be used to ventilate the lungs of a dog. A Spanish opera singer became the first person to perform laryngoscopy, or inspection of the vocal cords, in 1854, using a system of small mirrors. By the turn of the twentieth century, better tools had evolved, so precise that physicians could not just see the cords but safely guide an endotracheal tube through them.
As I stand at the head of a patient’s bed, preparing for intubation, I hold in my hand a descendent of those early tools. Called a laryngoscope, it consists of a cylindrical handle connected to a curved, dull metal blade. The blade is about fifteen centimetres long, and resembles a miniature scythe. The latest models have a camera embedded in the tip, connected by fibre-optic cable to a video screen. As our nurses draw up syringes of sedative and paralytic medications, I have a moment to consider the invisible marauder attacking the patient in front of me, and laying waste whole families and communities in my city, and to entire countries and continents. It hangs over everything in this patient’s room, millions upon millions of pieces of it, like a fine dust. It is on me, and I am grateful for my P.P.E.
“Ready?” the nurse controlling the I.V. asks, his voice muffled by an N95 respirator.
“Go,” I say, and he pushes a bolus of sedative to render the patient unconscious.
“Etomidate is in,” he says, chasing it with a paralytic medication, to relax the muscles of the patient’s airway. “Rocuronium is in.”
We wait thirty seconds while the medications take effect, watching the patient’s breathing slow and then stop. From there, it’s a race between intubation and hypoxemia—a dearth of oxygen in the blood—which can precipitate cardiac arrest. Recently, I had a patient whose oxygen levels dropped from ninety-eight to eighteen per cent in the ninety seconds it took me to intubate him—a level I had never before seen in a living person. I kept my finger on his neck, feeling his pulse, so that if his heart stopped we could begin chest compressions immediately. I felt it slow and weaken, but continue, just barely.
With my patient now fully paralyzed and no longer breathing, I pry open his jaw with one hand and slide the laryngoscope blade gingerly over the tongue with the other, careful not to break any teeth. The base of the tongue leads to the epiglottis, a flap of tissue that protects the trachea. I nudge the tip of the laryngoscope just beyond the epiglottis into an anatomical cul-de-sac called the vallecula, and lever the blade up. This maneuver lifts the epiglottis and brings the vocal cords into view. They look like the anther and column of an orchid, and I thread the endotracheal tube through them and into the trachea. Then I pull the blade out, and the nurses secure the tube with cloth tape and connect it to a ventilator.


newyorker--2020-05-27--How Mask Mandates Were Beaten Down in Rural Oklahoma

On April 6th , at the last in-person meeting of the Guthrie city council , the mayor , Steve Gentling , wore a purple face mask and sat six feet from each of his colleagues .
The dais where council members typically sit elbow to elbow was half full , to allow for proper social distancing ; the lectern where citizens normally air their grievances in five-minute monologues stood empty .
Guthrie , Oklahoma , a town thirty miles north of Oklahoma City , was on the cusp of locking down in response to the coronavirus , along with the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the council had not yet codified how the confusing new nomenclature— “ stay at home ” vs. “ shelter in place ” —would be enforced on local streets .
The city manager , speaking through an orange mask , presented a proposal that he said was inspired by an effective virus response in Central Europe : mandatory face masks for all residents while in public , with a fine of as much as five hundred dollars for noncompliance .
The council , which is nonpartisan , passed the measure unanimously .
Guthrie , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , became one of the first places in the U.S. to require face masks in public .
To Gentling and other council members , legally mandating the use of face masks in public represented a compromise between the need to protect community health and the need to keep Guthrie ’ s economy functioning .
“ We were following C.D.C .
guidance , ” Gentling told me .
“ We felt that the mask was a pretty important barrier to the spread of the virus.
” ( Singapore , Germany , and about fifty @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . )
At least four other Oklahoma communities soon followed Guthrie ’ s lead in requiring them .
Chickasha , a small oil town surrounded by towering rigs south of Oklahoma City , passed a mask ordinance in mid-April .
“ The face mask doesn ’ t protect me , ” Chris Mosley , the mayor , said .
“ It keeps me from possibly infecting somebody else.
” Oklahoma and its four million people are easy to stereotype as an extreme endpoint of American mythology—skepticism of big government , worship of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , independent settler .
There ’ s some truth and brutal history to all of it .
In the response to the coronavirus , though , local officials were unlikely leaders in forcing the state to respond to the virus by enacting government mandates designed to insure public health .
First , mayors in the state ’ s major cities , Oklahoma City and Tulsa , issued shelter-in-place orders for all residents .
( The governor had only ordered a “ safe at home ” order in which people over sixty-five or with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . )
Then it was Guthrie and other small towns , seemingly the furthest removed from the threat of the virus , that took the most extreme measures to stop it .
As politics gets more local , the sway of national ideology often ebbs .
Many of the city councils governing rural life across Oklahoma are nonpartisan , as are an estimated seventy per cent of municipal governments across the country .
In Guthrie and Chickasha , the mayors are registered Republicans who voted for Donald Trump in the 2016 election .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ officials ’ recommendations as the President sometimes has , and they ’ ve responded to the threat more aggressively than has the state ’ s Republican governor , Kevin Stitt.
“ When you ’ re dealing with local politics , survival is all that ’ s going on , ” Mosley , the Chickasha mayor , told me .
“ Party affiliation doesn ’ t really matter.
” When the Guthrie city council enacted its face-mask ordinance , the town and the surrounding area of Logan County , which has a total population @ @ @ @ @ @ @ confirmed cases of COVID-19 .
( The state of New York had more than two hundred thousand cases when Governor Andrew Cuomo issued a similar decree , via executive order , more than a week later . )
About two-thirds of Oklahoma ’ s confirmed cases , and nearly seventy per cent of its deaths , have occurred in largely rural areas that don ’ t have the medical infrastructure to handle a virus outbreak .
About sixty-five per cent of Oklahoma ’ s counties , including the one where Guthrie is located @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
For them , the fear is not having as many coronavirus cases as Oklahoma City .
It ’ s having as many as Guymon , a town of eleven thousand in the western panhandle that now has more than seven hundred confirmed cases , the second most in the state , due to an outbreak at a pork-processing plant .
“ A lot of these rural hospitals have either been cut back or closed , ” Randolph Hubach , the director of the Sexual Health Research Lab at Oklahoma State University , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , told me .
“ The extent to which we ’ ve really hindered the capacity of rural communities and public health in general is starting to show in our incidence rates , but also in our death rates.
” After the Guthrie ordinance passed , the majority of residents began wearing masks , and some praised the council ’ s leadership .
But Gentling also began fielding calls from irate residents , who said the government couldn ’ t force them to wear masks .
Someone posted on a local Facebook page @ @ @ @ @ @ @ contract the virus and die .
In another Oklahoma-based Facebook group , which promotes parental rights to keep their children unvaccinated , Guthrie residents railed against the requirement .
Frank Urbanic , a criminal-defense attorney in Oklahoma City , found ten residents to serve as plaintiffs in a lawsuit against Guthrie , arguing that the ordinance violated the Constitution and was an example of government overreach .
( The case was later dismissed by a federal judge . )
On April 27th , after the lawsuit was filed , the city amended its @ @ @ @ @ @ @ required in places where social distancing was impossible , such as grocery stores .
On May 5th , a month after the council enacted the mask requirement , it met again , this time via Zoom rather than at city hall .
Enthusiasm for the mask ordinance among Guthrie ’ s leaders had evaporated .
Mask-wearing was a personal responsibility , one councillor said .
Another added that aligning with the more lenient state directives made more sense .
The council voted , 6–1 , to rescind the mask rule .
Urbanic and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ abandon the measure .
“ We sent a message to not only Guthrie but every other city that the people in the city are not going to just sit back and take whatever laws that are made , ” Urbanic told me .
“ There are people who are going to question these things and take action when necessary.
” Only Gentling voted in favor of keeping it .
“ I would have liked to see it go at least a couple of weeks , until our next city council meeting , to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” he told me .
“ We ’ re not over this by a long stretch.
” Led by Stitt , the Republican governor , Oklahoma ’ s state government is currently implementing one of the country ’ s fastest reopening plans .
By early June , many businesses could be operating near normal capacity .
The number of confirmed cases in the state—six thousand one hundred and eleven , as of May 26th , along with three hundred and eighteen deaths—has not matched the dire figures that were forecast a month ago @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as a vindication of the state ’ s mitigation plan .
“ I want Oklahoma to be the first state in the nation to get its wings back , ” he said in an address on May 14th .
But George Monks , the president of the Oklahoma State Medical Association , called the timeline “ hasty at best.
” Available data from the state health department show that the percentage of people who have tested positive for COVID-19 antibodies—meaning they have previously carried the virus—could be as low as 3.3 per cent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the estimate is about twenty per cent . )
Opponents , like the fifty-five thousand members of a Facebook group called “ Save our State : Calling on Governor Stitt to Act NOW , ” believe that the governor is endangering public health .
Local leaders in Guthrie and other towns have found themselves caught between state politics , economic imperatives , and a clear scientific consensus .

On April 6th, at the last in-person meeting of the Guthrie city council, the mayor, Steve Gentling, wore a purple face mask and sat six feet from each of his colleagues. The dais where council members typically sit elbow to elbow was half full, to allow for proper social distancing; the lectern where citizens normally air their grievances in five-minute monologues stood empty. Guthrie, Oklahoma, a town thirty miles north of Oklahoma City, was on the cusp of locking down in response to the coronavirus, along with the rest of the United States, but the council had not yet codified how the confusing new nomenclature—“stay at home” vs. “shelter in place”—would be enforced on local streets. The city manager, speaking through an orange mask, presented a proposal that he said was inspired by an effective virus response in Central Europe: mandatory face masks for all residents while in public, with a fine of as much as five hundred dollars for noncompliance. The council, which is nonpartisan, passed the measure unanimously. Guthrie, a community of roughly eleven thousand people, became one of the first places in the U.S. to require face masks in public.
To Gentling and other council members, legally mandating the use of face masks in public represented a compromise between the need to protect community health and the need to keep Guthrie’s economy functioning. “We were following C.D.C. guidance,” Gentling told me. “We felt that the mask was a pretty important barrier to the spread of the virus.” (Singapore, Germany, and about fifty other countries also require masks in public.) At least four other Oklahoma communities soon followed Guthrie’s lead in requiring them. Chickasha, a small oil town surrounded by towering rigs south of Oklahoma City, passed a mask ordinance in mid-April. “The face mask doesn’t protect me,” Chris Mosley, the mayor, said. “It keeps me from possibly infecting somebody else.”
Oklahoma and its four million people are easy to stereotype as an extreme endpoint of American mythology—skepticism of big government, worship of the free market, deification of the rugged, independent settler. There’s some truth and brutal history to all of it. In the response to the coronavirus, though, local officials were unlikely leaders in forcing the state to respond to the virus by enacting government mandates designed to insure public health. First, mayors in the state’s major cities, Oklahoma City and Tulsa, issued shelter-in-place orders for all residents. (The governor had only ordered a “safe at home” order in which people over sixty-five or with underlying health conditions were told do so.) Then it was Guthrie and other small towns, seemingly the furthest removed from the threat of the virus, that took the most extreme measures to stop it.
As politics gets more local, the sway of national ideology often ebbs. Many of the city councils governing rural life across Oklahoma are nonpartisan, as are an estimated seventy per cent of municipal governments across the country. In Guthrie and Chickasha, the mayors are registered Republicans who voted for Donald Trump in the 2016 election. But they haven’t dismissed public-health officials’ recommendations as the President sometimes has, and they’ve responded to the threat more aggressively than has the state’s Republican governor, Kevin Stitt.“When you’re dealing with local politics, survival is all that’s going on,” Mosley, the Chickasha mayor, told me. “Party affiliation doesn’t really matter.”
Steve Gentling, the mayor of Guthrie, Oklahoma, voted in favor of keeping the town’s mask ordinance. “We’re not over this by a long stretch.”
When the Guthrie city council enacted its face-mask ordinance, the town and the surrounding area of Logan County, which has a total population of forty-eight thousand, had only six confirmed cases of COVID-19. (The state of New York had more than two hundred thousand cases when Governor Andrew Cuomo issued a similar decree, via executive order, more than a week later.) About two-thirds of Oklahoma’s confirmed cases, and nearly seventy per cent of its deaths, have occurred in largely rural areas that don’t have the medical infrastructure to handle a virus outbreak. About sixty-five per cent of Oklahoma’s counties, including the one where Guthrie is located, lack a single I.C.U. bed. For them, the fear is not having as many coronavirus cases as Oklahoma City. It’s having as many as Guymon, a town of eleven thousand in the western panhandle that now has more than seven hundred confirmed cases, the second most in the state, due to an outbreak at a pork-processing plant. “A lot of these rural hospitals have either been cut back or closed,” Randolph Hubach, the director of the Sexual Health Research Lab at Oklahoma State University, who studies health outcomes in rural Oklahoma, told me. “The extent to which we’ve really hindered the capacity of rural communities and public health in general is starting to show in our incidence rates, but also in our death rates.”
After the Guthrie ordinance passed, the majority of residents began wearing masks, and some praised the council’s leadership. But Gentling also began fielding calls from irate residents, who said the government couldn’t force them to wear masks. Someone posted on a local Facebook page that he hoped the city councillors would contract the virus and die. In another Oklahoma-based Facebook group, which promotes parental rights to keep their children unvaccinated, Guthrie residents railed against the requirement. Frank Urbanic, a criminal-defense attorney in Oklahoma City, found ten residents to serve as plaintiffs in a lawsuit against Guthrie, arguing that the ordinance violated the Constitution and was an example of government overreach. (The case was later dismissed by a federal judge.)
On April 27th, after the lawsuit was filed, the city amended its ordinance to state that masks were only required in places where social distancing was impossible, such as grocery stores. On May 5th, a month after the council enacted the mask requirement, it met again, this time via Zoom rather than at city hall. Enthusiasm for the mask ordinance among Guthrie’s leaders had evaporated. Mask-wearing was a personal responsibility, one councillor said. Another added that aligning with the more lenient state directives made more sense. The council voted, 6–1, to rescind the mask rule. Urbanic and his clients were pleased to see Guthrie abandon the measure. “We sent a message to not only Guthrie but every other city that the people in the city are not going to just sit back and take whatever laws that are made,” Urbanic told me. “There are people who are going to question these things and take action when necessary.” Only Gentling voted in favor of keeping it. “I would have liked to see it go at least a couple of weeks, until our next city council meeting, to see if the numbers stayed low,” he told me. “We’re not over this by a long stretch.”
Led by Stitt, the Republican governor, Oklahoma’s state government is currently implementing one of the country’s fastest reopening plans. By early June, many businesses could be operating near normal capacity. The number of confirmed cases in the state—six thousand one hundred and eleven, as of May 26th, along with three hundred and eighteen deaths—has not matched the dire figures that were forecast a month ago. Stitt has cast his reopening plan as a vindication of the state’s mitigation plan. “I want Oklahoma to be the first state in the nation to get its wings back,” he said in an address on May 14th.
But George Monks, the president of the Oklahoma State Medical Association, called the timeline “hasty at best.” Available data from the state health department show that the percentage of people who have tested positive for COVID-19 antibodies—meaning they have previously carried the virus—could be as low as 3.3 per cent. (In New York City, the estimate is about twenty per cent.) Opponents, like the fifty-five thousand members of a Facebook group called “Save our State: Calling on Governor Stitt to Act NOW,” believe that the governor is endangering public health. Local leaders in Guthrie and other towns have found themselves caught between state politics, economic imperatives, and a clear scientific consensus.
The day after Guthrie enacted its mask ordinance, in April, Altus, a city of eighteen thousand in the southwestern corner of the state, also implemented one. Four days later, Chickasha followed suit. Ada, another rural community southeast of Oklahoma City, passed its mask requirement in late April. On May 1st, Stillwater, the home of Oklahoma State University, became the largest city in the state to pass a mask ordinance. That morning, at a local Walmart, several belligerent customers threatened violence toward employees who were trying to enforce the mask rule, according to the Stillwater Police Department. Another person called the police and threatened to use a firearm if an officer tried to force him to wear a mask. The mayor of Stillwater rescinded the ordinance the same afternoon. Other Oklahoma towns with mask requirements, such as Chickasha, Ada, and Altus, revoked their orders, too.
Norman, the home of the University of Oklahoma, has forced certain businesses to stay closed longer than the governor’s mandate and required employers to provide masks to their workers. Two local police officers privately decried the moves. In early May, an officer in a nearby town advocated a public hanging of Norman’s mayor, Breea Clark, in a Facebook group called “Re-open Norman.” Clark filed a police report and cited the message as an alleged threat. “People are scared, depressed and even angry right now, and I appear to be an outlet for those volatile emotions,” she said in a statement. Around the same time, a police officer in Norman responded to an e-mail about the department’s face-mask protocols with a meme of Ku Klux Klan members from the film “Django Unchained.” The Norman Police Department said that it is conducting an internal review of the officer’s actions.
As in other parts of the country, focus is now shifting in Oklahoma to trying to stem the economic fallout caused by the pandemic. Yet state and local officials continue to strike discordant tones. Last week, Governor Stitt called the choice to wear a mask a “personal preference.” Municipal leaders in Guthrie, Stillwater, and other towns are still urging residents to wear masks in public. Mosley described rebooting Chickasha’s economy and preserving its health as a juggling act. “They play upon each other,” he said. “It’s never ending.”
The shifting policies and deluge of conflicting information from state and local officials, as well as from Washington, has made it difficult for businesses owners to make decisions on how to safely reopen. Blue Spruce, a coffee and gelato shop in downtown Stillwater, opened its doors on May 1st, after weeks of offering only limited takeout. “Stoked to see you all!” the shop wrote on its Facebook page. But business was slow, and the store’s owners, Colby and Kristen Bennett, fretted that they might be jeopardizing people’s health by encouraging them to go out. By May 3rd, the store was once again closed. “We kind of rushed a decision on that and we kind of had to reëvaluate,” Colby Bennett told me. “I’d rather protect someone’s life over their livelihood.” On May 15th, Blue Spruce reopened its doors, with employees required to wear face masks. Business has been surprisingly brisk.
Other business owners in Stillwater mandate that their employees wear masks, but there’s little they can do to insure that customers follow suit. Coral Szumiloski, a server at a restaurant near the Oklahoma State campus, said customers rarely enter wearing a mask since the business reopened, on May 4th. She asked her boss to assign her to a different role, to lower her risk of contracting the virus and bringing it to her grandparents when she had planned to visit them, on Mother’s Day. “I think all of us as a whole there would really rather people be coming in and wearing masks,” she said. “It just shows that they’re not taking any of this seriously.”
Paige Lee, who runs a law practice in Stillwater with her husband, told me that she has kept the front door of her office locked since reopening, on May 1st, and plans to institute a mask policy whenever she starts accepting walk-in visitors. The town has had only twenty-two confirmed cases of the virus, but Lee has chosen to follow the mayor and the city council’s advice, which still recommends that people wear masks. The cross-chatter from state and local leaders has confused and frustrated Oklahomans for whom the virus, more than in most states, has been invisible. What people can see here is the mask, a symbol of whether you believe that the worst is over or that it may be yet to come. “It’s confusing, right?” Lee told me. “You have to decide who do you believe and who do you trust, because you don’t really get to see it with your own eyes.”
In Guthrie, the restaurants have reopened, but they’re not as crowded as they once were. Fewer people are wearing masks now that there’s no requirement. But the mayor continues to be a fierce advocate for them. On May 19th, the Guthrie city council held its first in-person meeting in more than a month. Temperatures were taken at the door. Seating was arranged at least six feet apart. Masks were mandatory. “People just have a short memory, I guess,” Gentling told me. “Part of my role, and city council’s role, is to make sure our memory is a lot longer.”


newyorker--2020-05-28--The Death of George Floyd, in Context

The Death of George Floyd, in Context

Two incidents separated by twelve hours and twelve hundred miles have taken on the appearance of the control and the variable in a grotesque experiment about race in America .
On Monday morning , in New York City ’ s Central Park , a white woman named Amy Cooper called 911 and told the dispatcher that an African-American man was threatening her .
The man she was talking about , Christian Cooper , who is no relation , filmed the call on his phone .
They were in the Ramble , a part of the park favored by bird-watchers , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ simply requested that she leash her dog—something that is required in the area .
In the video , before making the call , Ms. Cooper warns Mr. Cooper that she is “ going to tell them there ’ s an African-American man threatening my life.
” Her needless inclusion of the race of the man she fears serves only to summon the ancient impulse to protect white womanhood from the threats posed by black men .
For anyone with a long enough memory or a recent enough viewing of the series “ When @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of this altercation becomes part of the story : we know what happened to five young black and brown men who were falsely accused of attacking a white woman in Central Park .
On Monday evening , in Minneapolis , Minnesota , a forty-six-year-old black man named George Floyd died in a way that highlighted the implications that calls such as the one Amy Cooper placed can have ; George Floyd is who Christian Cooper might have been .
( The police made no arrests and filed no summons in Central Park .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ ; she was also fired from her job . )
Police responding to a call from a shopkeeper , about someone trying to pass a potentially counterfeit bill , arrested Floyd .
Surveillance video shows a compliant man being led away in handcuffs .
But cellphone video later shows a white police officer kneeling on Floyd ’ s neck for seven minutes , despite protests from onlookers that his life is in jeopardy .
In an echo of the police killing of Eric Garner , in 2014 , Floyd repeatedly says , “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and then , “ I ’ m about to die.
” When the officer eventually removes his knee , Floyd ’ s body is limp and unresponsive .
A person nearby can be heard saying , “ They just killed him.
” Floyd was taken to a hospital , where he was pronounced dead .
A police statement saids that Floyd appeared to be in “ medical distress , ” but made no mention of his being pinned to the ground with the weight of a police officer compressing his airway .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ horrific but not surprising ; terrible but not unusual , depicting a kind of incident that is periodically reënacted in the United States .
It ’ s both necessary and , at this point , pedestrian to observe that policing in this country is mediated by race .
On Tuesday , in Minneapolis , hundreds of protesters , many wearing face masks to guard against COVID-19 , braved the pandemic to protest at the spot where Floyd died .
Outside a nearby precinct house , police cars were pelted with rocks , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ But , within twenty-four hours of the video coming to light , the Minneapolis Police Department fired the officer who had knelt on Floyd and three others who had been at the scene .
Mayor Jacob Frey tweeted that the firings were “ the right call , ” but here , too , context matters .
In November , 2015 , police responding to calls of a dispute between a man and a woman in north Minneapolis fatally shot a twenty-four-year-old African-American man named Jamar Clark .
Police and paramedics on the scene @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had attempted to grab an officer ’ s gun ; bystanders claimed that he was handcuffed and on the ground when the shot was fired .
Clark ’ s death was followed by more than two weeks of demonstrations outside the Fourth Police Precinct in Minneapolis , led by Black Lives Matter ; an attempt to disrupt holiday shopping at the Mall of America , in protest ; and cascading contempt from black residents that , two years later , factored into Mayor Betsy Hodges losing her reëlection bid .
In light of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ about police culpability in Floyd ’ s death .
“ Being black in America should not be a death sentence , ” he said on Tuesday .
The larger question , however , is whether the officers involved will face any legal consequences .
The Twin Cities area has been an outsized part of the dialogue about the police use of force .
The year after Clark ’ s death , Philando Castile was fatally shot in Falcon Heights , Minnesota , by a police officer who was alarmed because Castile had a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he had identified himself as a licensed gun owner .
( Castile ’ s girlfriend recorded the aftermath of shooting on her phone . )
In 2017 , Justine Damond was fatally shot by a police officer who was responding to her own call about a possible assault taking place behind her Minneapolis home .
No charges were brought against officers in Clark ’ s death .
Jeronimo Yanez , the officer who killed Castile , was fired from the department , but was acquitted of second-degree-manslaughter charges .
Mohamed Noor , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of third-degree murder and second-degree manslaughter , and was sentenced to twelve and a half years in prison .
The Damond case was atypical , both in that it involved the fatal shooting of a white woman by a black officer of Somali descent , and that Damond was an Australian citizen , which generated international pressure for a conviction in the case .
No charges were brought against Officer Daniel Pantaleo in the death of Eric Garner , on Staten Island , whose arrest was also recorded on video by a bystander @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Floyd ’ s death .
( He was fired from the department in 2019 . )
By odd coincidence , “ American Trial , ” a film that features a mock trial of Pantaleo for murder , was just released .
The investigation into Floyd ’ s death also exists in the context of an ongoing investigation into the death of Ahmaud Arbery , a twenty-five-year-old African-American who was shot in southeast Georgia when two men attempted to enact a citizen ’ s arrest while a third recorded a video of the incident @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fatal police force in Louisville , Kentucky , where Breonna Taylor , a twenty-six-year-old African-American E.M.T.
, was shot to death in her apartment by officers who were conducting a drug raid at what her family said was the wrong address .
There is more to be said about the burgeoning genre of videos capturing the deaths of black Americans , and the complex combination of revulsion and compulsion that accompanies their viewing .
They are the macabre documentary of current events , but the question remains about whether they do more to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at the center of their narratives .
Death is too intimate a phenomenon to not be distorted by a mass audience .
Yesterday , very few of us knew who George Floyd was , what he cared about , how he lived his life .
Today , we know him no better save for the grim way in which that life met its end .

Two incidents separated by twelve hours and twelve hundred miles have taken on the appearance of the control and the variable in a grotesque experiment about race in America. On Monday morning, in New York City’s Central Park, a white woman named Amy Cooper called 911 and told the dispatcher that an African-American man was threatening her. The man she was talking about, Christian Cooper, who is no relation, filmed the call on his phone. They were in the Ramble, a part of the park favored by bird-watchers, including Christian Cooper, and he had simply requested that she leash her dog—something that is required in the area. In the video, before making the call, Ms. Cooper warns Mr. Cooper that she is “going to tell them there’s an African-American man threatening my life.” Her needless inclusion of the race of the man she fears serves only to summon the ancient impulse to protect white womanhood from the threats posed by black men. For anyone with a long enough memory or a recent enough viewing of the series “When They See Us,” the locale of this altercation becomes part of the story: we know what happened to five young black and brown men who were falsely accused of attacking a white woman in Central Park.
On Monday evening, in Minneapolis, Minnesota, a forty-six-year-old black man named George Floyd died in a way that highlighted the implications that calls such as the one Amy Cooper placed can have; George Floyd is who Christian Cooper might have been. (The police made no arrests and filed no summons in Central Park. Amy Cooper has apologized for her actions; she was also fired from her job.) Police responding to a call from a shopkeeper, about someone trying to pass a potentially counterfeit bill, arrested Floyd. Surveillance video shows a compliant man being led away in handcuffs. But cellphone video later shows a white police officer kneeling on Floyd’s neck for seven minutes, despite protests from onlookers that his life is in jeopardy. In an echo of the police killing of Eric Garner, in 2014, Floyd repeatedly says, “I can’t breathe,” and then, “I’m about to die.” When the officer eventually removes his knee, Floyd’s body is limp and unresponsive. A person nearby can be heard saying, “They just killed him.” Floyd was taken to a hospital, where he was pronounced dead. A police statement said that Floyd appeared to be in “medical distress,” but made no mention of his being pinned to the ground with the weight of a police officer compressing his airway.
The video of Floyd’s death is horrific but not surprising; terrible but not unusual, depicting a kind of incident that is periodically reënacted in the United States. It’s both necessary and, at this point, pedestrian to observe that policing in this country is mediated by race. On Tuesday, in Minneapolis, hundreds of protesters, many wearing face masks to guard against COVID-19, braved the pandemic to protest at the spot where Floyd died. Outside a nearby precinct house, police cars were pelted with rocks, and officers responded by firing tear gas. But, within twenty-four hours of the video coming to light, the Minneapolis Police Department fired the officer who had knelt on Floyd and three others who had been at the scene. Mayor Jacob Frey tweeted that the firings were “the right call,” but here, too, context matters.
In November, 2015, police responding to calls of a dispute between a man and a woman in north Minneapolis fatally shot a twenty-four-year-old African-American man named Jamar Clark. Police and paramedics on the scene claimed that Clark had resisted arrest and had attempted to grab an officer’s gun; bystanders claimed that he was handcuffed and on the ground when the shot was fired. Clark’s death was followed by more than two weeks of demonstrations outside the Fourth Police Precinct in Minneapolis, led by Black Lives Matter; an attempt to disrupt holiday shopping at the Mall of America, in protest; and cascading contempt from black residents that, two years later, factored into Mayor Betsy Hodges losing her reëlection bid. In light of that history, Frey has been unequivocal about police culpability in Floyd’s death. “Being black in America should not be a death sentence,” he said on Tuesday.
The larger question, however, is whether the officers involved will face any legal consequences. The Twin Cities area has been an outsized part of the dialogue about the police use of force. The year after Clark’s death, Philando Castile was fatally shot in Falcon Heights, Minnesota, by a police officer who was alarmed because Castile had a gun in his car, even though he had identified himself as a licensed gun owner. (Castile’s girlfriend recorded the aftermath of the shooting on her phone.) In 2017, Justine Damond was fatally shot by a police officer who was responding to her own call about a possible assault taking place behind her Minneapolis home. No charges were brought against officers in Clark’s death. Jeronimo Yanez, the officer who killed Castile, was fired from the department, but was acquitted of second-degree-manslaughter charges. Mohamed Noor, the officer who shot Damond, was convicted of third-degree murder and second-degree manslaughter, and was sentenced to twelve and a half years in prison. The Damond case was atypical, both in that it involved the fatal shooting of a white woman by a black officer of Somali descent, and that Damond was an Australian citizen, which generated international pressure for a conviction in the case. No charges were brought against Officer Daniel Pantaleo in the death of Eric Garner, on Staten Island, whose arrest was also recorded on video by a bystander, and has been widely referenced since Floyd’s death. (He was fired from the department in 2019.) By odd coincidence,“American Trial,” a film that features a mock trial of Pantaleo for murder, was just released.
The investigation into Floyd’s death also exists in the context of an ongoing investigation into the death of Ahmaud Arbery, a twenty-five-year-old African-American who was shot in southeast Georgia when two men attempted to enact a citizen’s arrest while a third recorded a video of the incident. There is yet another investigation of fatal police force in Louisville, Kentucky, where Breonna Taylor, a twenty-six-year-old African-American E.M.T., was shot to death in her apartment by officers who were conducting a drug raid at what her family said was the wrong address.
There is more to be said about the burgeoning genre of videos capturing the deaths of black Americans, and the complex combination of revulsion and compulsion that accompanies their viewing. They are the macabre documentary of current events, but the question remains about whether they do more to humanize or to objectify the unwilling figures at the center of their narratives. Death is too intimate a phenomenon to not be distorted by a mass audience. Yesterday, very few of us knew who George Floyd was, what he cared about, how he lived his life. Today, we know him no better save for the grim way in which that life met its end.
Race, Policing, and Black Lives Matter Protests


newyorker--2020-05-27--The Multiple, Unfolding Crises for African-Americans in Minneapolis

A Minneapolis police officer knelt on the neck of an African-American man named George Floyd for several minutes on Monday , as Floyd begged the officer to stop , said , “ I can ’ t breathe , ” and eventually lost consciousness .
Floyd , who was forty-six , was pronounced dead at a hospital that evening .
After video footage of Floyd ’ s asphyxiation , which was taken by bystanders , circulated online , the mayor of Minneapolis , Jacob Frey , announced on Tuesday that the four officers who had been at the scene had been @ @ @ @ @ @ @ call , ” Frey said on Twitter .
“ Being Black in America should not be a death sentence.
” The police had responded to a call that Floyd had used a forged check at a nearby deli and , in their first statement about the incident , noted only that he appeared to be “ suffering medical distress.
” On Tuesday , the F.B.I .
joined Minnesota ’ s criminal investigation of the incident , as Floyd ’ s family called for the four officers to be charged with murder .
That @ @ @ @ @ @ @ protests in the streets of Minneapolis , which were followed that evening by clashes between riot police and protesters outside a precinct station .
Protesters chanted “ I can ’ t breathe , ” which became a Black Lives Matter slogan after the death of Eric Garner , in New York , in 2014 .
The Minneapolis area has been the site of several contested police shootings and Black Lives Matter protests—most notably , after Philando Castile was pulled over and fatally shot by police in a suburb of Saint Paul , in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was fired from the police department but acquitted of manslaughter .
On Wednesday , I spoke by phone with Leslie Redmond , who , at twenty-eight , is an attorney and the president of the Minneapolis chapter of the N.A.A.C.P .
During our conversation , which has been edited for length and clarity , we talked about racial inequities in Minneapolis , how activists are thinking about protests in the midst of a pandemic , and what steps she wants authorities to take regarding Floyd ’ s death .
What have the past @ @ @ @ @ @ @ area ?
It has been crazy .
People on the ground are very upset and sad and disheartened , and rightfully so .
I think about our young people , and how hard they are taking this .
If people put it into perspective , for young people , they have grown up their entire lives watching black bodies murdered on social media , in real time , with no grief counsellors , with no therapy , with no one to help them make sense of it .
And , to be honest @ @ @ @ @ @ @ if we could make sense of it if we wanted to , because we are all just outraged and trying to figure it out .
What I have also seen , though , is black leaders coming together , and I am super thankful for Medaria Arradondo , who is the first African-American police chief we have ever had in Minneapolis .
The way that he stepped up and brought us together during this time is just so honorable , and I know we wouldn ’ t be having the progress we are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ police chief .
And I think about five years ago—in the fall before Philando Castile , there was Jamar Clark , who was killed by police officers in Minneapolis .
We had a completely different police chief , a woman named Janeé Harteau , and it was horrible .
It was a completely different response .
You didn ’ t see any action or accountability .
[ The Minneapolis Police Department conducted an internal investigation of Clark ’ s shooting and determined that the officers had not violated its use-of-force policy . ]
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ right thing and fire all four of those officers , and for the mayor to support him , was a major step in the right direction .
It doesn ’ t take away from the pain and hurt people are feeling on the ground , but it moves us in the right direction of getting some justice for Mr. Floyd .
What is your level of trust in the mayor on these issues ?
I am thankful for Mayor Frey .
I think he has been showing good leadership .
But it is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ specific situation and this moment .
It is about what follows it .
Minnesota has some of the worst racial disparities in the nation .
I tell people that even before COVID-19 we were in a state of emergency , and then that put us into a state of emergency times two .
And now imagine having to deal with a black man being murdered by the government , by police officers , during this global pandemic .
And so the burden has just been added to African-American communities , but the resources @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
There has been no big lump sum that was poured into the community for us to pour into ourselves .
And so that ’ s what I mean about it not just being about this moment—it ’ s about the moment that will follow , and the resources and communication that will follow this moment .
There were some demonstrations last night , but how do you think about organizing and marching and protests when there is a pandemic going on ?
Protests are essential , and they have always been a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a tactic .
But we are protesting to build power , and that is what people have to understand .
A lot of people don ’ t really understand what goes on before and after .
Black leadership was in communication with Chief Arradondo and in physical meetings with Chief Arradondo since 10 A.M. that morning .
The protests didn ’ t start until 5 P.M. And so there was a lot of work being done before and after .
At the protests , for people who were on the ground originally , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ intent to push people back .
And not only did most of the people in the crowd have masks on , but there were community organizations passing out masks , as they were already doing because of COVID-19 .
People asked why I didn ’ t have one on .
Because of the tear gas , a lot of us had to remove our masks , but it wasn ’ t people blatantly trying to not social-distance and protect themselves .
Protesting feels generally like a much harder thing to do , with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s very complicated , and the reality of the situation is that we shouldn ’ t be in it .
That is the biggest issue here .
Had even one of these officers stepped up to say , “ Hey , this man is in handcuffs already .
He is down on the ground .
He doesn ’ t need officers on his neck and back for over three minutes , with bystanders pleading , and telling you he is bleeding and that he can ’ t breathe.
” And , you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ biggest things is that this is not just a civil-rights issue—this is a human-rights issue , and the fact is that black people ’ s humanity is being denied constantly .
And I worry about the humanity of individuals , and not just the police , because we know a lot of black people are dying at the hands of non-police officers .
But specifically police officers—how can they turn off their humanity and kill black people in cold blood for what a lot of the time seems like nothing ?
It reminds @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lynching in America .
And now we are just being lynched without the ropes .

A Minneapolis police officer knelt on the neck of an African-American man named George Floyd for several minutes on Monday, as Floyd begged the officer to stop, said, “I can’t breathe,” and eventually lost consciousness. Floyd, who was forty-six, was pronounced dead at a hospital that evening. After video footage of Floyd’s asphyxiation, which was taken by bystanders, circulated online, the mayor of Minneapolis, Jacob Frey, announced on Tuesday that the four officers who had been at the scene had been fired. “This is the right call,” Frey said on Twitter. “Being Black in America should not be a death sentence.” The police had responded to a call that Floyd had used a forged check at a nearby deli and, in their first statement about the incident, noted only that he appeared to be “suffering medical distress.”
On Tuesday, the F.B.I. joined Minnesota’s criminal investigation of the incident, as Floyd’s family called for the four officers to be charged with murder. That afternoon, thousands of people gathered for protests in the streets of Minneapolis, which were followed that evening by clashes between riot police and protesters outside a precinct station. Protesters chanted “I can’t breathe,” which became a Black Lives Matter slogan after the death of Eric Garner, in New York, in 2014. The Minneapolis area has been the site of several contested police shootings and Black Lives Matter protests—most notably, after Philando Castile was pulled over and fatally shot by police in a suburb of Saint Paul, in 2016. The officer who killed Castile was fired from the police department but acquitted of manslaughter.
On Wednesday, I spoke by phone with Leslie Redmond, who, at twenty-eight, is an attorney and the president of the Minneapolis chapter of the N.A.A.C.P. During our conversation, which has been edited for length and clarity, we talked about racial inequities in Minneapolis, how activists are thinking about protests in the midst of a pandemic, and what steps she wants authorities to take regarding Floyd’s death.
What have the past couple days been like in the Minneapolis area?
It has been crazy. People on the ground are very upset and sad and disheartened, and rightfully so. I think about our young people, and how hard they are taking this. If people put it into perspective, for young people, they have grown up their entire lives watching black bodies murdered on social media, in real time, with no grief counsellors, with no therapy, with no one to help them make sense of it. And, to be honest, I don’t even know if we could make sense of it if we wanted to, because we are all just outraged and trying to figure it out.
What I have also seen, though, is black leaders coming together, and I am super thankful for Medaria Arradondo, who is the first African-American police chief we have ever had in Minneapolis. The way that he stepped up and brought us together during this time is just so honorable, and I know we wouldn’t be having the progress we are having if he wasn’t the police chief. And I think about five years ago—in the fall before Philando Castile, there was Jamar Clark, who was killed by police officers in Minneapolis. We had a completely different police chief, a woman named Janeé Harteau, and it was horrible. It was a completely different response. You didn’t see any action or accountability. [The Minneapolis Police Department conducted an internal investigation of Clark’s shooting and determined that the officers had not violated its use-of-force policy.] So for Chief Arradondo to do the right thing and fire all four of those officers, and for the mayor to support him, was a major step in the right direction. It doesn’t take away from the pain and hurt people are feeling on the ground, but it moves us in the right direction of getting some justice for Mr. Floyd.
What is your level of trust in the mayor on these issues?
I am thankful for Mayor Frey. I think he has been showing good leadership. But it is not just about what happens in this specific situation and this moment. It is about what follows it. Minnesota has some of the worst racial disparities in the nation. I tell people that even before COVID-19 we were in a state of emergency, and then that put us into a state of emergency times two. And now imagine having to deal with a black man being murdered by the government, by police officers, during this global pandemic. And so the burden has just been added to African-American communities, but the resources and the support have not been added. There has been no big lump sum that was poured into the community for us to pour into ourselves. And so that’s what I mean about it not just being about this moment—it’s about the moment that will follow, and the resources and communication that will follow this moment.
There were some demonstrations last night, but how do you think about organizing and marching and protests when there is a pandemic going on?
Protests are essential, and they have always been a part of the strategy. They are a tactic. But we are protesting to build power, and that is what people have to understand. A lot of people don’t really understand what goes on before and after. Black leadership was in communication with Chief Arradondo and in physical meetings with Chief Arradondo since 10 A.M. that morning. The protests didn’t start until 5 P.M. And so there was a lot of work being done before and after.
At the protests, for people who were on the ground originally, there was a really good effort and intent to push people back. And not only did most of the people in the crowd have masks on, but there were community organizations passing out masks, as they were already doing because of COVID-19. People asked why I didn’t have one on. Because of the tear gas, a lot of us had to remove our masks, but it wasn’t people blatantly trying to not social-distance and protect themselves.
Protesting feels generally like a much harder thing to do, with so many additional complications now.
It’s very complicated, and the reality of the situation is that we shouldn’t be in it. That is the biggest issue here. Had even one of these officers stepped up to say, “Hey, this man is in handcuffs already. He is down on the ground. He doesn’t need officers on his neck and back for over three minutes, with bystanders pleading, and telling you he is bleeding and that he can’t breathe.”
And, you know, Isaac, one of my biggest things is that this is not just a civil-rights issue—this is a human-rights issue, and the fact is that black people’s humanity is being denied constantly. And I worry about the humanity of individuals, and not just the police, because we know a lot of black people are dying at the hands of non-police officers. But specifically police officers—how can they turn off their humanity and kill black people in cold blood for what a lot of the time seems like nothing? It reminds you of much of the history of lynching in America. And now we are just being lynched without the ropes.
What are some of the racial disparities in Minneapolis and in Minnesota that concern you?
Different reports come out frequently, and almost every year Minnesota is on the list for having some of the worst disparities in the nation. That is the case with education—so, specifically, when we talk about truancy and blacks being disproportionately impacted by discipline. And when it comes to the housing market, and when it comes to jobs, and who is getting arrested and stopped.


newyorker--2020-05-27--Trump Lashes Out at Spell-Check for Treating Him Unfairly

WASHINGTON ( The Borowitz Report ) —Accusing it of treating him “ very unfairly , ” Donald Trump lashed out @ @ @ @ @ used spelling tool spell-check .
“ Almost every time I type a word , spell-check @ @ @ @ @ under it , ” he tweeted .
“ It never put a red squiggly line @ @ @ @ @ ” “ Spell-check is rigged against conservatives , ” he charged .
Trump accused spell-check @ @ @ @ @ Amendment rights by interfering with what he called “ freedom of spelling.
” “ Freedom @ @ @ @ @ the Conitution , ” he wrote .
In his most direct threat to the spelling @ @ @ @ @ , if spell-check did not stop putting red squiggly lines under his words , he @ @ @ @ @ ” Trump also said that he was in talks with the Education Secretary , Betsy @ @ @ @ @ altogether .

WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report)—Accusing it of treating him “very unfairly,” Donald Trump lashed out on Wednesday at the widely used spelling tool spell-check.
“Almost every time I type a word, spell-check puts a red squiggly line under it,” he tweeted. “It never put a red squiggly line under Obama’s words.”
“Spell-check is rigged against conservatives,” he charged.
Trump accused spell-check of infringing on his First Amendment rights by interfering with what he called “freedom of spelling.”
“Freedom of Spelling is guaranteed by the Conitution,” he wrote.
In his most direct threat to the spelling tool, he warned that, if spell-check did not stop putting red squiggly lines under his words, he would “close it down.”
Trump also said that he was in talks with the Education Secretary, Betsy DeVos, about eliminating spelling altogether.


newyorker--2020-05-27--Amid the Pandemic, Is Hong Kong Facing a Different Kind of Death?

In the middle of a pandemic that has killed more than three hundred and fifty thousand people worldwide , what does it mean for a city to die ?
Last Friday morning , at the annual meeting of China ’ s National People ’ s Congress , the Prime Minister , Li Keqiang , put forward a national-security law that would ban “ treason , secession , sedition , and subversion ” in the semiautonomous city of Hong Kong .
Under the law , Beijing has the authority to bypass the territory ’ s own parliament to crack down on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to its political legitimacy .
Mike Pompeo , the U.S. Secretary of State , called the measure a “ death knell.
” On Twitter , journalists , pundits , and politicians made similar pronouncements .
Lo Kin-hei , a leader of the Democratic Party , tweeted , “ No matter how prepared we are to witness the death of our loved city , and no matter how many times it felt like it is dying , it still pains me to see another part of the remaining flesh is gone.
” On Sunday @ @ @ @ @ @ @ masks , took to Hong Kong ’ s main thoroughfares in demonstrations similar to those that have convulsed the city since last year , when Beijing proposed an extradition bill that would have allowed people arrested in Hong Kong to be tried on the mainland .
On Wednesday , protests erupted again , when the local legislature began debating a bill that would criminalize disrespect of the Chinese national anthem .
Police in surgical masks fired repeated rounds of pepper pellets into the air and rounded up dozens of people , including schoolchildren @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sentiment I heard many times in Hong Kong last year : a city dies when it can no longer determine its fate .
By that standard , of course , Hong Kong has been dying for a long time .
A Fortune magazine cover story titled “ The Death of Hong Kong , ” published in 1995 , begins , “ It ’ s time to stop pretending .
Supposedly , Britain ’ s handover in less than 750 days of Hong Kong , the world ’ s most aggressively pro-business economy , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ largest still officially communist dictatorship , is going to be a nonevent.
” Predicting many of the erosions of judicial independence that have come to pass in the twenty-five years since , the piece characterized Hong Kong as “ a captive colony of Beijing ” that will increasingly resemble “ just another mainland city , governed by corruption and political connections rather than the even-handed rule of law.
” In Hong Kong , the question of laws—who gets to make them and what ends they should serve—is an existential one .
“ Whether @ @ @ @ @ @ @ live defines whether we live , ” is how a young protester put it to me in September .
A previous version of the new law , which also sought to criminalize subversion against the mainland , was proposed in 2003 and abandoned after half a million Hong Kongers marched against it .
“ In 2003 , there was anxiety about Beijing ’ s governance , but we weren ’ t empty of hope , ” a retired schoolteacher told me .
But Hong Kong ’ s resilience prevailed ; until now , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the city has deteriorated in the past decade , as critics of the Chinese leadership are “ spirited away ” to China , and pro-democracy legislators are “ disqualified ” without explanation .
Last year , when millions of people marched against the now shelved extradition bill , the central government in Beijing began losing patience .
A battle of the wills between protesters and the government occasionally led to chaos and violence .
I found myself going back and forth between the drama on the streets and the various theatrical productions around @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the stage .
One of the most memorable pieces I saw was “ Luting : Goodbye History , Hello Future , ” part of a quartet of plays that contemplates the meaning of Hong Kong ’ s evolution from a backwater village to a British colony to an international metropolis to a besieged city .
At one point , the play became a satire , depicting two imagined futures , presented on twin stages .
One laid out the dangers of democracy ( populism ) , and the other portrayed the implacability of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Sure , one might seem preferable to the other , but neither future was perfect : democracy was not presented as an unimprovable utopia .
At the time , the piece struck me as an expression of Hong Kong ’ s new self-awareness , a sign that it was alive and committed to forging its own identity .
But , when I spoke to writers and artists in Hong Kong , many said that any feeling of hope they had was tinged with foreboding .
“ There ’ s a sense that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ trapped in another ’ s narrative of what Hong Kong should be , ” a theatre director told me .
The events of this week are another clash of narratives .
Pro-democracy demonstrators may believe that they are fighting for their rights and their identity , but Beijing maintains that the protests are led by “ hooligans and terrorists ” and are largely the work of foreign governments—particularly the U.S. government—set on undermining the Communist Party .
As Prime Minister Li put it on Friday , establishing a “ sound ” legal system @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ fulfill the government ’ s constitutional responsibilities ” is in the interest of maintaining peace and stability for the Hong Kong people .
The Chinese media , under the aegis of the government , have already begun reframing the narrative .
“ Yes , there would be a death knell , ” an editorial in the nationalistic newspaper Global Times announced , “ but for the U.S. ’ s interference in Hong Kong affairs.
” According to an editorial published by the state mouthpiece Xinhua News , Hong Kong is the “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to hinder the great rejuvenation of the Chinese nation.
” Tensions between the United States and China have been building in recent months , to a degree that has many observers alarmed ; on Tuesday , President Trump warned of a “ strong response ” to Beijing ’ s actions .
Over the weekend , I spoke with the playwright Candice Chong and Chan Chu Hei , the director of “ Luting , ” over Google Meet .
Both expressed shock , but not exactly surprise , over the recent events .
They @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a play that Chong wrote last year , “ May 35th , ” which centers on the 1989 Tiananmen Square massacre .
Three decades later , even mentioning the massacre is still taboo on the mainland , and details of the events surrounding it are scrubbed from history books and the Internet .
( May 35th is code for June 4th , the date the government cracked down on the student-led pro-democracy protests , leaving hundreds , if not thousands , of people dead—the exact death toll is still unknown . )
In @ @ @ @ @ @ @ interview parents of some of the students who had died .
She was born in Fujian and immigrated to Hong Kong with her parents when she was two ; she was twelve at the time of the massacre , and remembers reading about it in the newspapers .
“ My mind wasn ’ t politically oriented then , ” she said .
“ But I think I always wanted to make sense of the story.
” Chan , a native Hong Konger , was a student at the Hong Kong Academy for Performing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as the young leaders in Tiananmen .
“ I was very naïve and stupid before June 4th , ” he said .
“ But the incomprehensible violence of that day has informed every project I ’ ve worked on since.
” For both Chan and Chong , the theatre has provided a way to examine the relationship between their personal narrative and the historical one , of reckoning with the past and preserving it .

In the middle of a pandemic that has killed more than three hundred and fifty thousand people worldwide, what does it mean for a city to die? Last Friday morning, at the annual meeting of China’s National People’s Congress, the Prime Minister, Li Keqiang, put forward a national-security law that would ban “treason, secession, sedition, and subversion” in the semiautonomous city of Hong Kong. Under the law, Beijing has the authority to bypass the territory’s own parliament to crack down on any activity that it defines as threatening to its political legitimacy. Mike Pompeo, the U.S. Secretary of State, called the measure a “death knell.” On Twitter, journalists, pundits, and politicians made similar pronouncements. Lo Kin-hei, a leader of the Democratic Party, tweeted, “No matter how prepared we are to witness the death of our loved city, and no matter how many times it felt like it is dying, it still pains me to see another part of the remaining flesh is gone.” On Sunday, thousands of people, wearing protective masks, took to Hong Kong’s main thoroughfares in demonstrations similar to those that have convulsed the city since last year, when Beijing proposed an extradition bill that would have allowed people arrested in Hong Kong to be tried on the mainland. On Wednesday, protests erupted again, when the local legislature began debating a bill that would criminalize disrespect of the Chinese national anthem. Police in surgical masks fired repeated rounds of pepper pellets into the air and rounded up dozens of people, including schoolchildren.
Lo’s words echoed a sentiment I heard many times in Hong Kong last year: a city dies when it can no longer determine its fate. By that standard, of course, Hong Kong has been dying for a long time. A Fortune magazine cover story titled “The Death of Hong Kong,” published in 1995, begins, “It’s time to stop pretending. Supposedly, Britain’s handover in less than 750 days of Hong Kong, the world’s most aggressively pro-business economy, to China, the world’s largest still officially communist dictatorship, is going to be a nonevent.” Predicting many of the erosions of judicial independence that have come to pass in the twenty-five years since, the piece characterized Hong Kong as “a captive colony of Beijing” that will increasingly resemble “just another mainland city, governed by corruption and political connections rather than the even-handed rule of law.”
In Hong Kong, the question of laws—who gets to make them and what ends they should serve—is an existential one. “Whether we have a say in how we live defines whether we live,” is how a young protester put it to me in September. A previous version of the new law, which also sought to criminalize subversion against the mainland, was proposed in 2003 and abandoned after half a million Hong Kongers marched against it. “In 2003, there was anxiety about Beijing’s governance, but we weren’t empty of hope,” a retired schoolteacher told me. But Hong Kong’s resilience prevailed; until now, it always has.
The situation in the city has deteriorated in the past decade, as critics of the Chinese leadership are “spirited away” to China, and pro-democracy legislators are “disqualified” without explanation. Last year, when millions of people marched against the now shelved extradition bill, the central government in Beijing began losing patience. A battle of the wills between protesters and the government occasionally led to chaos and violence. I found myself going back and forth between the drama on the streets and the various theatrical productions around the city that were documenting it on the stage. One of the most memorable pieces I saw was “Luting: Goodbye History, Hello Future,” part of a quartet of plays that contemplates the meaning of Hong Kong’s evolution from a backwater village to a British colony to an international metropolis to a besieged city.
At one point, the play became a satire, depicting two imagined futures, presented on twin stages. One laid out the dangers of democracy (populism), and the other portrayed the implacability of autocracy (the erasure of history). Sure, one might seem preferable to the other, but neither future was perfect: democracy was not presented as an unimprovable utopia. At the time, the piece struck me as an expression of Hong Kong’s new self-awareness, a sign that it was alive and committed to forging its own identity.
But, when I spoke to writers and artists in Hong Kong, many said that any feeling of hope they had was tinged with foreboding. “There’s a sense that, whatever we create, we are trapped in another’s narrative of what Hong Kong should be,” a theatre director told me. The events of this week are another clash of narratives. Pro-democracy demonstrators may believe that they are fighting for their rights and their identity, but Beijing maintains that the protests are led by “hooligans and terrorists” and are largely the work of foreign governments—particularly the U.S. government—set on undermining the Communist Party. As Prime Minister Li put it on Friday, establishing a “sound” legal system to “safeguard national security” and “fulfill the government’s constitutional responsibilities” is in the interest of maintaining peace and stability for the Hong Kong people.
The Chinese media, under the aegis of the government, have already begun reframing the narrative. “Yes, there would be a death knell,” an editorial in the nationalistic newspaper Global Times announced, “but for the U.S.’s interference in Hong Kong affairs.” According to an editorial published by the state mouthpiece Xinhua News, Hong Kong is the “ ‘main card’ for external forces to hinder the great rejuvenation of the Chinese nation.” Tensions between the United States and China have been building in recent months, to a degree that has many observers alarmed; on Tuesday, President Trump warned of a “strong response” to Beijing’s actions.
Over the weekend, I spoke with the playwright Candice Chong and Chan Chu Hei, the director of “Luting,” over Google Meet. Both expressed shock, but not exactly surprise, over the recent events. They have been working on a production of a play that Chong wrote last year, “May 35th,” which centers on the 1989 Tiananmen Square massacre. Three decades later, even mentioning the massacre is still taboo on the mainland, and details of the events surrounding it are scrubbed from history books and the Internet. (May 35th is code for June 4th, the date the government cracked down on the student-led pro-democracy protests, leaving hundreds, if not thousands, of people dead—the exact death toll is still unknown.)
In 2017, Chong went to Beijing to interview parents of some of the students who had died. She was born in Fujian and immigrated to Hong Kong with her parents when she was two; she was twelve at the time of the massacre, and remembers reading about it in the newspapers. “My mind wasn’t politically oriented then,” she said. “But I think I always wanted to make sense of the story.” Chan, a native Hong Konger, was a student at the Hong Kong Academy for Performing Arts in 1989—he was the same age as the young leaders in Tiananmen. “I was very naïve and stupid before June 4th,” he said. “But the incomprehensible violence of that day has informed every project I’ve worked on since.” For both Chan and Chong, the theatre has provided a way to examine the relationship between their personal narrative and the historical one, of reckoning with the past and preserving it.
In the past, Chan and Chong have attended the annual candle-lit vigil in Hong Kong’s Victoria Park, the only commemoration of the massacre permitted on Chinese soil. “I never thought that writing about the incident could become prohibited in Hong Kong,” Chong said. “But, in the last few days, the possibility is verging closer and closer to a probability.” To both the playwright and the director, this shift in narrative is significant, and the documentation of it even more so. With the latest proposed security legislation, if you dare to question Beijing’s version, you are liable to be accused of subversion. But to Chong and Chan the real fear is not knowing where the line might lie, and the danger, as a result, is policing one’s own imagination. Neither has much interest in promulgating a particular political ideology. “It is in the nature of art to be boundary-less,” Chong said. “But, if parameters are set on what I can think on the page and the stage, then the project of creation itself becomes futile, because you are a captive inside your head. Fear is the end point. It annihilates everything that came before and after.” As Chong spoke, she bounced her eight-month-old daughter on her lap. “I’ve already been an immigrant once,” she said. “My parents came to Hong Kong with so many fears but also hopes of making a better life here. Now that I have made this place my home, is it my fate to be always uprooted from home?”
Chan said that the experience of watching men and women his age dying to defend their vision of patriotism, in Tiananmen, led him to discover an attachment he had not known that he felt to his birthplace. He said, “I knew I was neither mainlander Chinese nor British, but what did it mean to call Hong Kong my home?” The question had been both an inspiration and a source of anxiety. Hong Kong’s story has never been straightforward, Chan said. And the fact that he could play some part in its telling felt like a privilege and a testament to the city’s vibrancy. But, in the past few days, he has felt for the first time that, to continue telling Hong Kong’s story unmolested, he may have to leave it. “If you ask me what the future might bring me or this place that has made me,” he said, “I can frankly say that, at this moment, I am afraid to imagine.”
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