newyorker--2020-03-09--“The Liver,” by Matthew Klam

“The Liver,” by Matthew Klam

In the morning , the blinds let in light .
I lay on a recliner against the wall , with my coat wrapped around my head , and heard the nurse pump the blood-pressure thing .
I ’ d set up a barrier , a towel hanging over the back of a chair , for privacy .
I ’ d been reclining here , listening to ice blow against the window , since about four .
Kathy sat up in bed , looking pale , with blue lips and a puffy face .
She was still on morphine and seemed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in , pushing a cart , and wanted to know if she ’ d felt milk coming out .
Kathy stiffly undid her robe and both her hands trembled and I saw the funny webbed bandage across her belly .
It was sort of threatening and serious and a little sickening , but I was so happy I didn ’ t care .
I got up then .
My pants were open .
I shut them .
The second nurse wheeled the cart to the edge of the bed .
She wore red @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her hair in a tight bun that stood straight up on her head like a bowling pin .
She stepped back to let the first nurse , who was older , explain the breast-pumping machine .
The older nurse was tall but stooped , and wore a short-sleeved blouse with kittens on it .
Kathy ’ s breasts looked full .
She put the cups up to her boobs and the machine started sucking .
There was nothing .
Then the first drop of milk , bright yellow , dribbled down into the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” Kathy said .
“ I ’ m a fountain.
” Then another drop .
The dairy had come in .
What we needed now was a baby .
The baby had come—two months before her due date—after a late-night run to the emergency room , where it became clear that , for some reason , Kathy was in labor .
We ’ d planned on spring , the beautiful explosion of April , the full , ready , ripened flowering , but it was February , and she ’ d been @ @ @ @ @ @ @ days , and then it was two o ’ clock in the morning and snowing like crazy , and she ’ s lying there in our bed at home , moaning .
I suggested the possible psychosomatic reasons for her pain , urging her to reflect on any anxiety that could be causing it .
But when she called the E.R .
the doctor was alarmed .
We put on our boots and got in the car and plowed across Western Ave. in silence , the only ones on the road , shocked @ @ @ @ @ @ @ buried and fences swamped in drifts , each spindly vein of every branch articulated in gloppy white , and more coming down .
The airport was closed , power lines bowed in swooping arcs , almost to the ground , and we held ourselves steady , a little dumbstruck , passing stuck city buses and evergreen boughs lying broken in the street , and finally spun up the hill toward a glowing “ Emergency ” sign , under a great overhanging deck , and a tall security guard in a rabbit-fur helmet took @ @ @ @ @ @ @ E.R .
nurse seemed alarmed , too , and called an emergency-labor specialist , and they tried over the next few hours to get it to stop but couldn ’ t .
And the baby was facing forward , which was wrong , and was breech , also wrong , appearing onscreen with her hands and feet pushed against the front of her bubble as if she were driving a truck .
A new doctor appeared , an older man , an expert in premature birth , who looked out the window and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ There goes my golf game.
” He was worried that the cord might suffocate her , and that once he got her out her lungs might not work , or , after those first breaths , other things , even at this venerable gestational age of thirty-three weeks .
He said the name of something , then told you what it meant ; nothing was too dark or devastating to divulge—brain hemorrhaging and colon perforations and invading bacteria , rips in the insulation around her nerves .
And , as she grew , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , before we knew the whole story—a higher incidence of cerebral palsy , mental retardation .
It had begun wrong and now the wrongness would never end .
After some hours of labor , they tested the oxygen level in the baby ’ s blood to see how she was doing .
During the worst parts , Kathy attacked the wall with her claws .
In between contractions , it got quieter , because there was nothing left to say .
I ’ d jog to the nurses ’ station , to complain @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pedestrian bridge where the ancient , red-sweatered volunteer ladies looked out over the hospital grounds , cataloguing the snowfall with immense concentration .
They were trapped , too .
We agonized over how much weight the roof could take .
Then the doctor did another test and suddenly new faces rushed into the room and put Kathy on a gurney while she signed papers .
I saw it all , the seven layers of skin and tissue , the yellowish fat , the muscle wall , the wall of the uterus , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ what to expect , so when the baby emerged , blue , screaming like a maniac , it was whatever I ’ d been feeling plus relief , ratcheted all the way up .
Her lungs worked , she appeared to have all her parts , and they took her away .
Kathy gave me a crimped smile , just a head behind a sheet , flying high on morphine .
Out in the hall , I didn ’ t think about the night before , as the quiet of a cool , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ those feelings far away .
Instead , I thought of the T-shirt I ’ d thrown on back home in the dark , which said “ Donald Trump , ” with “ Fuck ” in smaller script above it .
A new mother walked toward me from the nursery , the lady from the room next to ours , haggard in her big pink nightgown , pushing her baby in front of her .
The baby , a day old , lay flat in an open tray , and looked gigantic , ten @ @ @ @ @ @ @ It was as long as a tuba and its face was pinkish white and its cheeks rested on its shoulders .
No veins on its head , its skin wasn ’ t mottled , it didn ’ t have a wrinkled , wizened , thoughtful grimace .
It looked sturdy enough to be drinking a glass of gin .
I ’ d seen the grandparents the night before , trim and tanned in matching V-neck sweaters , celebrating .
The new father , as luck would have it , had been moping around @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the moron , but now the mother was alone .
Her belly was still large , and she walked by , head down , with an exhausted , shell-shocked , stumbling gait .

Audio available Listen to this story Audio: Matthew Klam reads.
In the morning, the blinds let in light. I lay on a recliner against the wall, with my coat wrapped around my head, and heard the nurse pump the blood-pressure thing. I’d set up a barrier, a towel hanging over the back of a chair, for privacy. I’d been reclining here, listening to ice blow against the window, since about four. Kathy sat up in bed, looking pale, with blue lips and a puffy face. She was still on morphine and seemed serene and angelic.
Another nurse walked in, pushing a cart, and wanted to know if she’d felt milk coming out. Kathy stiffly undid her robe and both her hands trembled and I saw the funny webbed bandage across her belly. It was sort of threatening and serious and a little sickening, but I was so happy I didn’t care. I got up then. My pants were open. I shut them.
The second nurse wheeled the cart to the edge of the bed. She wore red lipstick and hoop earrings, and had her hair in a tight bun that stood straight up on her head like a bowling pin. She stepped back to let the first nurse, who was older, explain the breast-pumping machine. The older nurse was tall but stooped, and wore a short-sleeved blouse with kittens on it.
Kathy’s breasts looked full. She put the cups up to her boobs and the machine started sucking. There was nothing. Then the first drop of milk, bright yellow, dribbled down into the bottle. “Oh, my God,” Kathy said. “I’m a fountain.” Then another drop. The dairy had come in. What we needed now was a baby.
The baby had come—two months before her due date—after a late-night run to the emergency room, where it became clear that, for some reason, Kathy was in labor. We’d planned on spring, the beautiful explosion of April, the full, ready, ripened flowering, but it was February, and she’d been having contractions, undiagnosed, for two days, and then it was two o’clock in the morning and snowing like crazy, and she’s lying there in our bed at home, moaning. I suggested the possible psychosomatic reasons for her pain, urging her to reflect on any anxiety that could be causing it. But when she called the E.R. the doctor was alarmed.
We put on our boots and got in the car and plowed across Western Ave. in silence, the only ones on the road, shocked at the sight of it—street signs half buried and fences swamped in drifts, each spindly vein of every branch articulated in gloppy white, and more coming down. The airport was closed, power lines bowed in swooping arcs, almost to the ground, and we held ourselves steady, a little dumbstruck, passing stuck city buses and evergreen boughs lying broken in the street, and finally spun up the hill toward a glowing “Emergency” sign, under a great overhanging deck, and a tall security guard in a rabbit-fur helmet took Kathy inside while I parked.
The E.R. nurse seemed alarmed, too, and called an emergency-labor specialist, and they tried over the next few hours to get it to stop but couldn’t. And the baby was facing forward, which was wrong, and was breech, also wrong, appearing onscreen with her hands and feet pushed against the front of her bubble as if she were driving a truck. A new doctor appeared, an older man, an expert in premature birth, who looked out the window and clapped his hands and said, “There goes my golf game.” He was worried that the cord might suffocate her, and that once he got her out her lungs might not work, or, after those first breaths, other things, even at this venerable gestational age of thirty-three weeks. He said the name of something, then told you what it meant; nothing was too dark or devastating to divulge—brain hemorrhaging and colon perforations and invading bacteria, rips in the insulation around her nerves. And, as she grew, it might be months, or years, before we knew the whole story—a higher incidence of cerebral palsy, mental retardation. It had begun wrong and now the wrongness would never end.
After some hours of labor, they tested the oxygen level in the baby’s blood to see how she was doing. During the worst parts, Kathy attacked the wall with her claws. In between contractions, it got quieter, because there was nothing left to say. I’d jog to the nurses’ station, to complain for her, stopping on the elevated pedestrian bridge where the ancient, red-sweatered volunteer ladies looked out over the hospital grounds, cataloguing the snowfall with immense concentration. They were trapped, too. We agonized over how much weight the roof could take.
Then the doctor did another test and suddenly new faces rushed into the room and put Kathy on a gurney while she signed papers.
I saw it all, the seven layers of skin and tissue, the yellowish fat, the muscle wall, the wall of the uterus, the blood. I hadn’t known what to expect, so when the baby emerged, blue, screaming like a maniac, it was whatever I’d been feeling plus relief, ratcheted all the way up. Her lungs worked, she appeared to have all her parts, and they took her away. Kathy gave me a crimped smile, just a head behind a sheet, flying high on morphine.
Out in the hall, I didn’t think about the night before, as the quiet of a cool, gleaming hospital at dawn helped me push those feelings far away. Instead, I thought of the T-shirt I’d thrown on back home in the dark, which said “Donald Trump,” with “Fuck” in smaller script above it. A new mother walked toward me from the nursery, the lady from the room next to ours, haggard in her big pink nightgown, pushing her baby in front of her. The baby, a day old, lay flat in an open tray, and looked gigantic, ten or twenty pounds, at least. It was as long as a tuba and its face was pinkish white and its cheeks rested on its shoulders. No veins on its head, its skin wasn’t mottled, it didn’t have a wrinkled, wizened, thoughtful grimace. It looked sturdy enough to be drinking a glass of gin. I’d seen the grandparents the night before, trim and tanned in matching V-neck sweaters, celebrating. The new father, as luck would have it, had been moping around with a full-length cast on one leg, the moron, but now the mother was alone. Her belly was still large, and she walked by, head down, with an exhausted, shell-shocked, stumbling gait.
On the seventh floor, I scrubbed to my elbows and entered the sanctity of the nicu. The baby was sleeping in a plastic case, on her side, wrapped in a blanket, machines bleeping and whooping around her—breathing on her own, with the monitors above her. The apparatus around my kid, the oxygen tube in her nose, the crooked little hat on her head, her wormy pallor scared me. Behind me, two big men in soccer jerseys came through the door and crowded the nurses’ station. In the corner, a young doctor with a shaved head and a young doctor with a three-day beard stood chuckling, their arms folded.
The first time I saw her, she was the size of a lemon, fourteen weeks old, swimming and slithering in magnified staticky grays. As the technician slid the thing across Kathy’s belly, the parts ballooned, dissolved, flowed together like mercury. “Bladder, kidney, thigh bone,” she said, as she captured their images and checked them off on a list. A black circle for the stomach, a foot, the arm bones, two tiny rows of what appeared to be teeth, curved into a smile—the spine. But the woman couldn’t find the nasal bone or the heart. The baby was positioned so that her skull cast a shadow. The O.B. entered the room and frowned; the photos were no good. Then Kathy pressed her fingertips into her side, and for a second I saw the baby’s four-chambered heart, blood moving in a trapezoid, like the ocean patterns around North America.
Kathy’s pregnancy ushered in a new period of mystery, and was as unstoppable as the time that came before it, the months that stretched into years of hoping and trying and failing to make a baby.
We’d met as housemates, over the breakfast table, and, in the first endearing sign, sought approval for other lovers, her guy in the white leather jacket with fringes, my scowling Teamster lawyer. Kathy worked in neuro P.T., with people who’d injured their brains, and she was some years from having a doctorate. She was blond, Lutheran, selfish, thin, and Nordic. She watched violent cop shows at night, identifying (I assume) with the victim. Every so often, she knocked on my door at bedtime, looking overheated and bloodshot, and sat on my bed on a crying jag.
Her father died when she was a kid, and an older brother was killed in a car accident. Kathy’s mom, in a state of dissociation from her remaining children, moved out to the beach with a new boyfriend, dropping off groceries once a week for Kathy and her younger siblings back home. Kathy’s own brushes with death soon followed, on the backs of motorcycles, in cars that rolled. She was, understandably, braced for disaster. She’d been traumatized by her calamities and had a low tolerance for suffering. Or high—I couldn’t figure out which.
After the second miscarriage, we became intolerant of people who were pregnant or had small kids, and of people with their own health problems, and of people who did or said anything that got in the way of their boisterous commiseration with our struggle. Eventually, there was just my old friend David, now wealthy from developing shopping centers, and another barren couple, Tom and Jessica, and my office buddy, Maria, a loud, unashamed Greek woman who looked like Fred Flintstone and told hilarious stories of her one-night stands, and Kathy’s Watergate hairdresser, Amistad, and his shiny boyfriend, Rick.
At some point, when it wasn’t going so hot, I went to South Carolina to write a report for the coalition I worked for, on liquor-store employees who slip on wet floors, fall on their own guns, and shoot themselves. I left home again for a bulletin on the rights of undocumented immigrants being harmed in industrial settings; it would be part of a booklet we’d wave at Congress when our bill came up, and ship to news bureaus in our expensively illustrated year-end portfolio. I met a man who’d been crushed in an accident at an engine-casting factory near the Ontario border, which the insurance people refused to cover, then I spent two weeks at the factory where he’d been crushed, sitting at a card table by a two-story stamping machine, freezing my ass off. At night, I’d relax at the dining-room table in my bed-and-breakfast and talk with the proprietor, sipping her rum, thankful to have this work that was so removed from reality.
Back home, there were blighted starts and an ectopic pregnancy. We took a break from trying, and rode our bicycles together, and sat by the river in Georgetown and chatted. “I guess I’ve got a couple of good follicles,” Kathy explained, and so we started again. She had appointments and things to inject herself with. “You should jerk off today so we can do it Friday, F.Y.I.”
We were forced to apply all kinds of porn to the problem.
“Do you think any of them are attractive?” she asked.
“Santa’s helper.”
She didn’t lay a hand on me when we did it anymore, and afterward I was sorry to have to put her through this insemination. When we weren’t conducting our marital affairs, I was cordial. As a couple, we were finished, though still copulating. Between the dirty footage and the dregs of hope, the furtive inelegance of our biological necessity, we stayed in business.
That summer, I travelled to a liquefied-natural-gas ship in the Gulf of Mexico, and when I came home there was nothing left to fix, nothing left to want, and I sat shaking like a coward. But she had news. Then she was ten weeks pregnant, and twelve. . . .
We got the chance to leave our history behind, transcend our suffering through a whole new language, one without freighted insults, and threats to end things or to bankrupt the other and cut off his dick. We traded old problems for new ones as the pregnancy blossomed into another kind of misery that I could only witness: an acid stomach at the end of her first trimester, so powerful she had to sleep practically standing against a wall; mysterious pains that shot down her legs, an agony that drove her, crippled and pantsless, into sobbing pleas for Vicodin. She became clumsy, forgetful, and fun. We were both a little amazed, and she ate like a crocodile, and laughed at her belly, and her anguish gave me traction. That she held my DNA mattered, and I caught myself staring dreamily, and smooched her for no reason, and sniffed her hair, and did her laundry, and anytime I heard her in the other room, breathing hard as she attempted to put on her shoes, a nameless euphoria overtook me. Something was happening to her, for our sake, and she became more, somehow—more willing, more sturdy, tenderly accepting of whatever I did to comfort her. At last, it wasn’t her fault, and it wasn’t my fault, and it wasn’t the kid’s fault. The kid was invisible, though unapologetic and a little cruel, considering. We’d have a baby soon, it would be as simple as that; it wouldn’t be anybody else’s, although I had no idea what it would be.
The nurse appeared, holding a bottle of formula the size of a tube of lipstick, and asked if I wanted to do the feeding. Before I could start, we had to do the diaper. Before that, I had to put on a gown. The nurse opened the hatches of the isolette and I reached in. A green plastic splint was taped to the baby’s right arm to hold it flat for the shunts of her I.V.s. There were five very thin wires stuck to her chest with sticky pads, and one thicker wire taped to her ankle, and the wires draped down to the floor and then up to a monitor above her. I had to dodge all those to get the diaper on my kid, as her body wilted in my hands. The top parts and the bottom parts didn’t seem connected. The middle was the droopiest. And then she began to wail, a faint, crackly sound, thrashing weakly, and kept going and wouldn’t stop, because I was standing on the wires, ripping them off her skin. The alarm blasted, signalling heart failure. It was the same bone-jangling shriek that comes out of a fire alarm. Another nurse appeared, but mine waved her off, pressed a button to stop it, and then helped lift the wires out of the way.
“Sorry,” I said.
“It’s all right.”
The baby seemed to be sleeping again.
“There’s poo on her foot,” the nurse said. “And you’ve got the diaper on backward.”
The diaper had a picture of Baby Elmo on the front. I had to pull the tabs to the edge of the picture.
Then the nurse slid a U-shaped pillow around my waist and tightened the strap and I wore it like a guy selling peanuts at the ballpark. She showed me how to keep the baby upright with one hand, bottle in the other, one finger of that hand pressed up under the baby’s chin, to remind her to suck. I did that. She started eating like crazy.
In order to eat, a kid needed to suck, swallow, and breathe at once, but the brain wasn’t wired for that until it was fully cooked. In this case, that was two months away. So with possible choking and asphyxiation looming, the idea now was to not kill her. I had to hunch about ten feet over to see what I was doing. I got a crick in my neck. She needed to eat every two hours, or things would spiral down from here and a new plan would go into effect. She’d been doing O.K. so far.
“What a cutie,” said a woman in a rocking chair a few feet away, holding her baby. It was the first compliment. It was such a lie that it hurt to hear. My kid was purple and scrunched and writhing, with a crabby look on her face like that of a guy on line at the Department of Motor Vehicles.
“Thanks.” I felt ridiculous. “She’s a little bug.”
A man leaned over the woman’s shoulder. “Well, now,” he said. He also held a kid, wrapped tight. He swung it around in the crook of his arm like a salami.
“I’m Lizzie,” the woman said in a high-pitched voice, waving her baby’s hand. “What’s your name?”
“I don’t know.” My kid didn’t have a name yet.
They’d been in the nicu for eight weeks. They had twins, a boy and a girl. Until today, the boy had been across the hall in an even more intensive intensive care. They explained how to read the monitors, and pointed out the stash of sticky pads for the wires, and told me how much this place cost a day, and laughed because they couldn’t pay for it and their parents were dead. The woman was short and svelte with dark eyes, and the guy was tall, bald, and heavyish, and looked like a hippopotamus. As they laughed, the boy baby’s breathing dipped onscreen. When the number turned red, the woman stood and killed the siren as the dad waved a wand in front of the kid’s nose, casually, as if he were misting a fern.
“That’s apnea,” the dad said. “That’s normal. It’s what we all do—we stop breathing between breaths.”And it was especially normal in infants, he said, and even more in preemies.


newyorker--2020-03-09--Jeff Sessions’s Opponent, Tommy Tuberville, Takes a Beating in Israel

Tommy Tuberville , who will face Jeff Sessions in a March 31st runoff to be Alabama ’ s Republican nominee for the U.S. Senate , has never held public office , but he did spend ten years as the coach of the Auburn University football team , going head to head with Nick Saban , the legendary coach for the University of Alabama—the Crimson Tide—a team that Tuberville managed to beat six times in a row .
Tuberville ’ s campaign literature proposes that politics is a lot like coaching .
His first TV ad opened with a clip of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ( voice-over : “ I ’ m a fighter ” ) .
He learned some foreign policy , too , as the coach of Texas Tech , in Lubbock .
( “ Somebody asked me , ‘ What ’ s Lubbock look like ?
’ It looked like Iraq.
” ) His campaign , which employs Sean Spicer as a consultant , has focussed on immigration .
Tuberville , a devout Christian who believes that Donald Trump was sent by God , has been telling voters that America ’ s cities are in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ law has taken over , ” he said recently .
“ We have more Middle Easterners coming across that border at times than we do people from Latin America.
” He added , “ They ’ re coming over here to tear this country down.
” Tuberville likely doesn ’ t know that there ’ s a neighborhood in the Middle East that ’ s often overrun by Alabamians .
There , his rival is not Sessions but Saban .
On David Street , in the Old City of Jerusalem—a warren bustling with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Western Wall—is a gift shop run by a Palestinian named Hani Imam .
He took it over from his father , twenty years ago .
As a young man , Imam spent a decade in the U.S. , where he studied business at the University of Alabama .
At first , he ran his shop the way his fellow tchotchke merchants ran theirs , but he felt himself pining for the American South , land of open spaces , barbecue , and Southeastern Conference football .
Homesick , he put up a few @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the shop ’ s name to Alabama : The Heart of Dixie .
Afterward , he and the other Arab merchants on his street occasionally found their stalls mobbed by tourists from Alabama .
Sometimes forty of them come at once .
“ We get a lot of people from Birmingham , ” Imam said the other day .
“ But our best customers are from Tuscaloosa .
They go crazy.
” In his shop , wearing an Alabama cap , he said that the new name was initially meant only as a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ there was a market for religious artifacts stamped with Alabama ’ s logo .
He posted a sign outside that announces “ Welcome to Bama Country.
” In the window is a framed , autographed photo of Saban .
Inside are the custom items : Crimson Tide shofroth , Crimson Tide arks of the covenant , Crimson Tide menorahs and mezuzahs .
Tourists like the coasters stamped with “ Shalom Y ’ all.
” “ Most of the Jewish stuff I sell goes to Christians , ” he said .
“ But I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Alabama.
’ ” The shop is tiny , accommodating only a few customers at a time , and the overflow of waiting Southerners helps the neighboring merchants .
Imam has tried to educate and convert the other shopkeepers by showing them highlight reels of the team .
“ They think it ’ s a bunch of big guys beating the hell out of each other , ” he said .
“ But a lot of them claim to be Alabama fans .
A lot of my neighbors , whenever they see Americans , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , man , Roll Tide !
’ ” Imam said that he doesn ’ t recognize the Alabama he used to know in Tuberville ’ s political rhetoric .
“ The people were very , very friendly , ” he said .
“ The fact that I was foreign and had a heavy foreign accent , it didn ’ t bother them any .
They invited me into their homes and their churches .
Of course , the language is totally different .
If you speak English , it does not mean you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the store , I ’ ll say , ‘ Y ’ all come back now , ya hear ?
’ Just to get them in the shopping mood.
” Imam gave Tuberville points for running a solid program at Auburn .
But Tuberville , he thinks , could learn something from the multicultural bonhomie on his street in Jerusalem .
“ People manage to live together and to respect one another , ” he said .
As for the U.S. elections , Imam feels that the best candidate is sitting on the sidelines @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , he ’ s a good human , he ’ s very popular , ” he said .
“ He knows how to recruit people , which is very important for a politician .
People love winners.
” The man ?
“ Nick Saban .
He is really a genius .
He ’ d definitely be elected .
As President !
Easy.
” He considered Saban ’ s platform : “ He has a lot of compassion for people that did not have everything in life , poor people , less privileged people @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” ♦

Tommy Tuberville, who will face Jeff Sessions in a March 31st runoff to be Alabama’s Republican nominee for the U.S. Senate, has never held public office, but he did spend ten years as the coach of the Auburn University football team, going head to head with Nick Saban, the legendary coach for the University of Alabama—the Crimson Tide—a team that Tuberville managed to beat six times in a row. Tuberville’s campaign literature proposes that politics is a lot like coaching. His first TV ad opened with a clip of him on the field berating a referee (voice-over: “I’m a fighter”). He learned some foreign policy, too, as the coach of Texas Tech, in Lubbock. (“Somebody asked me, ‘What’s Lubbock look like?’ It looked like Iraq.”)
His campaign, which employs Sean Spicer as a consultant, has focussed on immigration. Tuberville, a devout Christian who believes that Donald Trump was sent by God, has been telling voters that America’s cities are in the grip of terrorists. “Sharia law has taken over,” he said recently. “We have more Middle Easterners coming across that border at times than we do people from Latin America.” He added, “They’re coming over here to tear this country down.”
Tuberville likely doesn’t know that there’s a neighborhood in the Middle East that’s often overrun by Alabamians. There, his rival is not Sessions but Saban. On David Street, in the Old City of Jerusalem—a warren bustling with religious-souvenir stores, not far from the Western Wall—is a gift shop run by a Palestinian named Hani Imam. He took it over from his father, twenty years ago. As a young man, Imam spent a decade in the U.S., where he studied business at the University of Alabama. At first, he ran his shop the way his fellow tchotchke merchants ran theirs, but he felt himself pining for the American South, land of open spaces, barbecue, and Southeastern Conference football. Homesick, he put up a few photographs of the Crimson Tide and changed the shop’s name to Alabama: The Heart of Dixie. Afterward, he and the other Arab merchants on his street occasionally found their stalls mobbed by tourists from Alabama.
Sometimes forty of them come at once. “We get a lot of people from Birmingham,” Imam said the other day. “But our best customers are from Tuscaloosa. They go crazy.” In his shop, wearing an Alabama cap, he said that the new name was initially meant only as a tribute, but he quickly found that there was a market for religious artifacts stamped with Alabama’s logo.
“The vertical lines are very slimming.” Cartoon by Barbara Smaller Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
He posted a sign outside that announces “Welcome to Bama Country.” In the window is a framed, autographed photo of Saban. Inside are the custom items: Crimson Tide shofroth, Crimson Tide arks of the covenant, Crimson Tide menorahs and mezuzahs. Tourists like the coasters stamped with “Shalom Y’all.” “Most of the Jewish stuff I sell goes to Christians,” he said. “But I ordered some prayer rugs that say ‘Alabama.’ ” The shop is tiny, accommodating only a few customers at a time, and the overflow of waiting Southerners helps the neighboring merchants. Imam has tried to educate and convert the other shopkeepers by showing them highlight reels of the team. “They think it’s a bunch of big guys beating the hell out of each other,” he said. “But a lot of them claim to be Alabama fans. A lot of my neighbors, whenever they see Americans, they’ll say, ‘Hey, man, Roll Tide!’ ”
Imam said that he doesn’t recognize the Alabama he used to know in Tuberville’s political rhetoric. “The people were very, very friendly,” he said. “The fact that I was foreign and had a heavy foreign accent, it didn’t bother them any. They invited me into their homes and their churches. Of course, the language is totally different. If you speak English, it does not mean you can understand people from Alabama. In the store, I’ll say, ‘Y’all come back now, ya hear?’ Just to get them in the shopping mood.”
Imam gave Tuberville points for running a solid program at Auburn. But Tuberville, he thinks, could learn something from the multicultural bonhomie on his street in Jerusalem. “People manage to live together and to respect one another,” he said. As for the U.S. elections, Imam feels that the best candidate is sitting on the sidelines. “He’s very successful, he’s a good human, he’s very popular,” he said. “He knows how to recruit people, which is very important for a politician. People love winners.” The man? “Nick Saban. He is really a genius. He’d definitely be elected. As President! Easy.” He considered Saban’s platform: “He has a lot of compassion for people that did not have everything in life, poor people, less privileged people. He would definitely be a Democrat.” ♦


newyorker--2020-03-09--Slide Show: New Yorker Cartoons March 16, 2020

“ Can you come look under my bed ?
It seems like a complete waste of storage space .
”

“Can you come look under my bed? It seems like a complete waste of storage space.”
Cartoon by P. C. Vey


newyorker--2020-03-09--My High-School Commute, by Colin Jost

My High-School Commute, by Colin Jost

My grandfather worked four jobs .
He was a fireman , a handyman , a substitute teacher , and a housepainter .
With those jobs , he was able to put four children through college .
That ’ s where he spent all his money , because he knew that education was the best way to get ahead in life .
( This was before Instagram and sex tapes . )
“ Protect your brain !
” he always told me .
“ Because it ’ s all you got !
Your brain is your ticket to wherever you want @ @ @ @ @ @ @ might have been Ms. Frizzle from “ The Magic School Bus.
” ) It was definitely my ticket out of Staten Island , because it got me into a Catholic high school called Regis,1 which would change the course of the rest of my life .
I was extremely lucky to get accepted to Regis , because ( a ) it ’ s one of the best high schools in the country and ( b ) it ’ s free .
For Catholics in New York , Regis is almost like the Watchtower @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Tens of thousands of kids apply for a hundred and twenty spots in each class .
To this day , if a Catholic mother hears that I went to Regis , she will grab my face and say , “ God bless !
What a wonderful place !
” The only catch was that Regis was in Manhattan .
So on a good day it took me an hour and a half each way to get there .
I took a bus , then a ferry , then a subway—which , when you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ like you ’ re emigrating from China to San Francisco in the eighteen-forties .
But no one complained about the commute , because it was a free high school , and we all felt insanely grateful to be there .
As my grandfather reminded me , “ If you don ’ t want to make the trip , there are plenty of kids who would take your place !
” Then he ’ d say , “ By the way , did you hear about the boy who stuck his head out the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and his head ripped clean off his body ?
Protect your brain !
” Initially , my parents were very worried about their overweight , dirty-blond , gap-toothed fourteen-year-old commuting alone into New York City and taking the subway home late at night .
( My freshman photo is a real “ Come and get it !
” to subway pedophiles . )
Like many of the kids at Regis , I was book smart and street illiterate .
There was a nickname for New York in the nineteen-thirties that I always loved @ @ @ @ @ @ @ most of us , coming from the suburbs and suddenly being in the middle of Manhattan with no adult supervision after school ended , New York was a wonder city on every level .
Some of my friends used this freedom to do actual fun things , like taking Ecstasy and sneaking into clubs like the Limelight ( a deconsecrated church where you could dance on the altar ) or Tunnel ( which seemed to get shut down once a month because someone O.D.
’ d or got stabbed ) .
Police referred @ @ @ @ @ @ @ supermarket.
” ( Which today is just a Walmart . )
I was way too afraid to try drugs , because , again , my brain was all I had !
So I enjoyed the nerdier perks of being in Manhattan , like seeing a David Lynch movie that never would have played on Staten Island .
Or sneaking into a private club to watch poets pay tribute to Robert Giroux , one of the founders of the publishing house Farrar , Straus & Giroux .
You know , crazy teen-age high jinks @ @ @ @ @ @ @ squeaky clean , though .
Occasionally , I would sign out of school under the guise of visiting a nearby museum , but would instead run off to play billiards at a local pool hall , like one of the troubled teens in “ The Music Man.
” Or my friend Milosz and I would go to the Knitting Factory or a performance-art space called ABC No Rio .
We ’ d share a forty of malt liquor and watch a twelve-person band called the World / Inferno Friendship Society perform punk-klezmer songs @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and the Austro-Hungarian actor Peter Lorre .
The closest thing we had to that on Staten Island was a waiter who sang “ That ’ s amore !
” And , one time , my friend Pete and I went to an Italian restaurant downtown and ordered “ one glass of red wine , please !
” And they brought it !
One glass of red wine for two out-of-control teens .
Then we stumbled home , flying from the wine but also terrified because we thought “ The Blair Witch Project ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for us next .
( Did I mention that we were book smart ? )
I got to meet the most intimidating and sophisticated girls in the world .
Girls who attended fancy neighboring schools with names like Marymount , Chapin , Spence , and Nightingale—names that just sounded rich .
We would have high-school dances and somehow persuade them to attend , and I felt like a way chubbier Jay Gatsby faking a cultured air to mask my Staten Island-bootlegger upbringing .
( That ’ s still how I feel ninety-five per @ @ @ @ @ @ @ my friends and I would hang out for hours after school , because no one wanted to go home .
The adventure of the city was so much more exciting than anything waiting for us in the outer boroughs .
It was like a slightly more grown-up version of “ The Goonies.
” Only , our treasure ?
Was knowledge .
And our Sloth ?
Was a guy on the subway who looked like Sloth .
And look at that .
.
.
he ’ s unzipping his pants .
“ Hey-y-y , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ upside of having an hour-and-a-half commute is that you can get a lot of homework done on the way home .
( And on the way to school in the morning you can cram for all the tests you didn ’ t study for the night before . )
There were also many days when homework and studying were disregarded in favor of extremely juvenile and dangerous behavior .
Like doing “ dips ” on the chain-link ropes between two moving subway cars .
Or seeing who could run across all four subway @ @ @ @ @ @ @ side without “ touching the third rail ” and “ dying.
” Or tying your friend ’ s hands to the subway pole and then “ pantsing ” him so that he was naked and couldn ’ t pull up his pants .
And then , if a stranger on the train tried to help him , you ’ d yell , “ He ’ s touching that kid !
” Really smart , cool stuff like that .
There were scarier moments , like when a group of older , much stronger @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one night , jumped us , and broke my friend Pete ’ s nose .
Or the time when I was standing on the corner of Houston and Bowery and watched a man step into the street and get hit at full speed by a city bus , and his body basically exploded in front of me .
That was very , very disturbing , and I can still close my eyes and picture pieces of him lying on Houston Street .
But it ’ s also New York , so fifteen minutes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ day .
I was always on edge when I travelled home alone late at night .
I was very conscious of never smiling , because I was afraid that if I smiled someone would punch me .
I actively tried to look sad , and , in keeping with my living-in-my-head approach to life , I would invent awful things that had happened to me to tell a robber so that he would feel guilty and then not rob me .
Like , I expected a robber to say , “ I ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was going to steal your ten dollars , but after hearing that your cat killed your sister I can not in good conscience take your money .
In fact , here ’ s five dollars from me .
In memory of your sister , Noxzema .
”

My grandfather worked four jobs. He was a fireman, a handyman, a substitute teacher, and a housepainter. With those jobs, he was able to put four children through college. That’s where he spent all his money, because he knew that education was the best way to get ahead in life. (This was before Instagram and sex tapes.)
“Protect your brain!” he always told me. “Because it’s all you got! Your brain is your ticket to wherever you want to go.” (I think he might have been Ms. Frizzle from “The Magic School Bus.”)
It was definitely my ticket out of Staten Island, because it got me into a Catholic high school called Regis,1 which would change the course of the rest of my life. I was extremely lucky to get accepted to Regis, because (a) it’s one of the best high schools in the country and (b) it’s free. For Catholics in New York, Regis is almost like the Watchtower building for Jehovah’s Witnesses. Tens of thousands of kids apply for a hundred and twenty spots in each class. To this day, if a Catholic mother hears that I went to Regis, she will grab my face and say, “God bless! What a wonderful place!”
The only catch was that Regis was in Manhattan. So on a good day it took me an hour and a half each way to get there.
I took a bus, then a ferry, then a subway—which, when you type it into Google Maps, looks like you’re emigrating from China to San Francisco in the eighteen-forties.
But no one complained about the commute, because it was a free high school, and we all felt insanely grateful to be there. As my grandfather reminded me, “If you don’t want to make the trip, there are plenty of kids who would take your place!” Then he’d say, “By the way, did you hear about the boy who stuck his head out the bus window and hit a telephone pole and his head ripped clean off his body? Protect your brain!”
Initially, my parents were very worried about their overweight, dirty-blond, gap-toothed fourteen-year-old commuting alone into New York City and taking the subway home late at night. (My freshman photo is a real “Come and get it!” to subway pedophiles.) Like many of the kids at Regis, I was book smart and street illiterate. There was a nickname for New York in the nineteen-thirties that I always loved: the Wonder City. And for most of us, coming from the suburbs and suddenly being in the middle of Manhattan with no adult supervision after school ended, New York was a wonder city on every level.
Some of my friends used this freedom to do actual fun things, like taking Ecstasy and sneaking into clubs like the Limelight (a deconsecrated church where you could dance on the altar) or Tunnel (which seemed to get shut down once a month because someone O.D.’d or got stabbed). Police referred to Tunnel as “an open-air drug supermarket.” (Which today is just a Walmart.)
I was way too afraid to try drugs, because, again, my brain was all I had! So I enjoyed the nerdier perks of being in Manhattan, like seeing a David Lynch movie that never would have played on Staten Island. Or sneaking into a private club to watch poets pay tribute to Robert Giroux, one of the founders of the publishing house Farrar, Straus & Giroux. You know, crazy teen-age high jinks!
I wasn’t always so squeaky clean, though. Occasionally, I would sign out of school under the guise of visiting a nearby museum, but would instead run off to play billiards at a local pool hall, like one of the troubled teens in “The Music Man.” Or my friend Milosz and I would go to the Knitting Factory or a performance-art space called ABC No Rio. We’d share a forty of malt liquor and watch a twelve-person band called the World / Inferno Friendship Society perform punk-klezmer songs about Weimar Germany, Paul Robeson, and the Austro-Hungarian actor Peter Lorre. The closest thing we had to that on Staten Island was a waiter who sang “That’s amore! ” And, one time, my friend Pete and I went to an Italian restaurant downtown and ordered “one glass of red wine, please!” And they brought it! One glass of red wine for two out-of-control teens. Then we stumbled home, flying from the wine but also terrified because we thought “The Blair Witch Project” was real and the witch was coming for us next. (Did I mention that we were book smart?)
I got to meet the most intimidating and sophisticated girls in the world. Girls who attended fancy neighboring schools with names like Marymount, Chapin, Spence, and Nightingale—names that just sounded rich. We would have high-school dances and somehow persuade them to attend, and I felt like a way chubbier Jay Gatsby faking a cultured air to mask my Staten Island-bootlegger upbringing. (That’s still how I feel ninety-five per cent of the time.)
All my friends and I would hang out for hours after school, because no one wanted to go home. The adventure of the city was so much more exciting than anything waiting for us in the outer boroughs. It was like a slightly more grown-up version of “The Goonies.” Only, our treasure? Was knowledge. And our Sloth? Was a guy on the subway who looked like Sloth. And look at that . . . he’s unzipping his pants. “Hey-y-y, you guy-y-y-ys!!!”
The upside of having an hour-and-a-half commute is that you can get a lot of homework done on the way home. (And on the way to school in the morning you can cram for all the tests you didn’t study for the night before.) There were also many days when homework and studying were disregarded in favor of extremely juvenile and dangerous behavior. Like doing “dips” on the chain-link ropes between two moving subway cars. Or seeing who could run across all four subway tracks to the platform on the other side without “touching the third rail” and “dying.” Or tying your friend’s hands to the subway pole and then “pantsing” him so that he was naked and couldn’t pull up his pants. And then, if a stranger on the train tried to help him, you’d yell, “He’s touching that kid!” Really smart, cool stuff like that.
There were scarier moments, like when a group of older, much stronger teen-agers followed us off the train late one night, jumped us, and broke my friend Pete’s nose. Or the time when I was standing on the corner of Houston and Bowery and watched a man step into the street and get hit at full speed by a city bus, and his body basically exploded in front of me. That was very, very disturbing, and I can still close my eyes and picture pieces of him lying on Houston Street. But it’s also New York, so fifteen minutes later you just move on with your day.


The Mail

Hannah Fry asks whether tech companies ’ large-scale social experiments , such as measuring the emotional impact that negative posts have on Facebook users , are sufficiently regulated ( Books , March 2nd ) .
She is right to point out that such tests are not subject to federal regulations protecting human subjects in biomedical research .
But she doesn ’ t mention that the experiments fall outside the federal definition of “ research.
” The protections for human subjects set out by the Department of Health and Human Services apply only to studies that are “ designed to develop @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , undertaken with the intent of public dissemination .
Because market research is not meant to be seen by the public , the rules protecting human subjects are not generally applicable—and there are no equivalent federal protections for consumers whose behavior is studied by private organizations seeking monetary gain .
Most of the corporate practices that Fry cites are questionable not due to a lack of consumer consent but because they may run afoul of other protections that our regulatory system is supposed to provide : truth in advertising , safety of roads @ @ @ @ @ @ @ competitive markets .
Sam Knight ’ s profile of Jake Fiennes , the conservation manager of the Holkham Estate , in England , showcases an approach to environmentally responsible farming ( “ Betting the Farm , ” February 17th & 24th ) .
Readers may wonder whether the nature-friendly ethos Fiennes espouses , as well as the inspiring results he is getting , can be applied to more modest plots .
By following a set of principles universally recognized for optimizing soil health , home gardeners can increase the biodiversity and ecological function @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has at Holkham .
These include keeping the ground covered , minimizing any disturbance of the soil , and avoiding pesticides , chemical fertilizers , and herbicides .
Pioneering work by Fiennes , as well as by Charlie Burrell and Isabella Tree , reminds us that nature can recover quickly under favorable conditions .
Building up healthy soils can help farmers and gardeners sequester atmospheric carbon safely underground while creating a hospitable habitat for pollinators like bees , birds , and butterflies .
Julian Lucas explores whether slavery reënactments are powerful teaching tools @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , perhaps , to traumatize students ( “ The Fugitive Cure , ” February 17th & 24th ) .
About twenty years ago , I taught a course at Marymount College , in Tarrytown , New York , in which my students , a diverse group of young women , read sections of Harriet Jacobs ’ s “ Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl.
” I brought into the classroom large pieces of cardboard that I had cut to create an enclosure the size of the attic crawl space in which @ @ @ @ @ @ @ describes spending several minutes in a crawl space created for the same purpose by a reënactor .
In my class , only two or three students were willing to enter the enclosure , even for a minute .
I am still puzzling over an explanation for their reluctance .
Letters should be sent with the writer ’ s name , address , and daytime phone number via e-mail to themail @ newyorker.com .
Letters may be edited for length and clarity , and may be published in any medium .
We regret that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ can not reply to every letter .

Experimental Methods
Hannah Fry asks whether tech companies’ large-scale social experiments, such as measuring the emotional impact that negative posts have on Facebook users, are sufficiently regulated (Books, March 2nd). She is right to point out that such tests are not subject to federal regulations protecting human subjects in biomedical research. But she doesn’t mention that the experiments fall outside the federal definition of “research.” The protections for human subjects set out by the Department of Health and Human Services apply only to studies that are “designed to develop or contribute to generalizable knowledge”—i.e., undertaken with the intent of public dissemination. Because market research is not meant to be seen by the public, the rules protecting human subjects are not generally applicable—and there are no equivalent federal protections for consumers whose behavior is studied by private organizations seeking monetary gain. Most of the corporate practices that Fry cites are questionable not due to a lack of consumer consent but because they may run afoul of other protections that our regulatory system is supposed to provide: truth in advertising, safety of roads and consumer products, and access to competitive markets.
Jennifer Steele
Associate Professor, School of Education
American University
Washington, D.C.
Farm Fresh
Sam Knight’s profile of Jake Fiennes, the conservation manager of the Holkham Estate, in England, showcases an approach to environmentally responsible farming (“Betting the Farm,” February 17th & 24th). Readers may wonder whether the nature-friendly ethos Fiennes espouses, as well as the inspiring results he is getting, can be applied to more modest plots. By following a set of principles universally recognized for optimizing soil health, home gardeners can increase the biodiversity and ecological function of their yards, just as Fiennes has at Holkham. These include keeping the ground covered, minimizing any disturbance of the soil, and avoiding pesticides, chemical fertilizers, and herbicides. Pioneering work by Fiennes, as well as by Charlie Burrell and Isabella Tree, reminds us that nature can recover quickly under favorable conditions. Building up healthy soils can help farmers and gardeners sequester atmospheric carbon safely underground while creating a hospitable habitat for pollinators like bees, birds, and butterflies.
Diana Donlon
Executive Director, Soil Centric
San Anselmo, Calif.
Simulating Slavery
Julian Lucas explores whether slavery reënactments are powerful teaching tools or serve more to trivialize history and, perhaps, to traumatize students (“The Fugitive Cure,” February 17th & 24th). About twenty years ago, I taught a course at Marymount College, in Tarrytown, New York, in which my students, a diverse group of young women, read sections of Harriet Jacobs’s “Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl.” I brought into the classroom large pieces of cardboard that I had cut to create an enclosure the size of the attic crawl space in which Jacobs hid for seven years. Lucas describes spending several minutes in a crawl space created for the same purpose by a reënactor. In my class, only two or three students were willing to enter the enclosure, even for a minute. I am still puzzling over an explanation for their reluctance.
Jordy Bell
Croton-on-Hudson, N.Y.
•
Letters should be sent with the writer’s name, address, and daytime phone number via e-mail to themail@newyorker.com. Letters may be edited for length and clarity, and may be published in any medium. We regret that owing to the volume of correspondence we cannot reply to every letter.


The Band, Disbanded

When Robbie Robertson , the guitarist and principal songwriter for the Band , wrote for the group ’ s three singers—Levon Helm , Rick Danko , and Richard Manuel—he thought of himself as composing “ movie songs.
” “ I was like their director , ” Robertson , who is seventy-six , said the other day .
“ I knew each of their instruments , their voices , their playing , so I was casting them to play these characters.
” He cast Helm as Virgil Caine in “ The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down ” ; Danko embodied @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Stage Fright ” ; Manuel was seven lives in to his allotted nine in “ The Shape I ’ m In.
” Even new , those songs sounded old .
Now that the Band ’ s vocalists are dead—the wizardly keyboardist Garth Hudson is the only other surviving member—the characters that Robertson concocted for his bandmates loom even more mythic .
One day , Virgil Caine might be all of Levon Helm that listeners will know .
But not if Robertson can help it .
He was visiting New York for the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , “ Once Were Brothers , ” based on his 2016 memoir , “ Testimony.
” The film , directed by the twenty-six-year-old Daniel Roher—one of the few non-gray hairs in the audience , at Lincoln Center—counteracts the mythmaking of the songs by introducing viewers to the musicians as they were before fame found them .
“ Once Were Brothers ” locates the genius of the Band ’ s music in the early years they spent backing Ronnie Hawkins , the Arkansas-born rockabilly singer .
“ We played the Chitlin Circuit , we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ music , great blues , and tremendous rock and roll , ” Robertson said a couple of days after the première , seated on a white leather banquette in the Pleiades bar , in the Surrey hotel on Madison Avenue , as the Rolling Stones played from a speaker overhead .
“ And then Garth would turn us on to certain classical pieces that were haunting and beautiful.
” When the five sat down to make music of their own , facing one another in a circle in the basement of Big Pink @ @ @ @ @ @ @ York , all those influences came out , and the result sounded so unlike anything else being recorded at the time ( the late sixties to the mid-seventies ) that it birthed a new genre : Americana .
“ We were just mixing some of this with some of that , and , holy shit , it had an effect , ” Robertson said .
“ It sent rumbles around the world.
” Drugs and alcohol hit the Band ’ s rhythm section hard : “ I would be , like , ‘ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to be the guy whining , but we got work to do !
And this is getting in the way !
’ ” ( Still , as he recalls in “ Testimony , ” he fought to get Helm off cocaine , but then continued to snort it himself . )
“ My mother was a Mohawk Indian , ” Robertson went on .
“ Her and all of her relatives , they would have one drink and change personalities.
” At the bar , he left his glass of wine unfinished .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ This Wheel ’ s on Fire , ” written seventeen years after the Band played its last concert , in 1976 ( Martin Scorsese made “ The Last Waltz ” about it ) , portrayed Robertson as a canny operator who saw the opportunity—when the others were addled by substance abuse—to help himself to what should have been their share of the publishing royalties .
Robertson said that he felt “ awful ” about the unfair accusation , which the others didn ’ t support , but he didn ’ t respond publicly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ about the booking agent , the manager , the lawyer , the accountant , everybody , ” Robertson explained .
“ As Rick Danko said to me , ‘ That ’ s just Levon.
’ ” “ The Last Waltz ” became the first gig in Robertson ’ s second career , scoring films , many of them Scorsese ’ s .
Meanwhile , the rest of the Band soldiered on without a lead guitarist .
They never broke up .
“ We just wanted a little breather , and then we would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ out of the hat , ” Robertson said .
The group had even booked a date at a studio .
“ And I went to the studio and I waited and I waited , and nobody showed up .
Everybody just forgot to come back.
” Manuel hanged himself in 1986 ; Danko died of heart failure in 1999 , at fifty-two ; and Helm , who remained in Woodstock and hosted musical nights in his barn , succumbed to cancer in 2012 .
Robertson visited Helm before he died , but the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ already unresponsive .
Robertson is going full steam .
“ I just had maybe the busiest year of my life , ” he said .
It included the documentary , which he narrates ; the score for “ The Irishman ” ; a new album , “ Sinematic ” ; and a fiftieth-anniversary edition of the Band ’ s second album , which includes an unreleased set at the Woodstock festival .
He also has five grandkids , who call him Papa Rob .
“ And I ’ m just about to sign @ @ @ @ @ @ @ make the story of the Band !
” he announced .
Jez Butterworth , the British playwright and screenwriter , is writing the script .
It took fifty years , but Robertson ’ s movie songs are finally coming to the multiplex .
Who will play him ?
♦

Robbie Robertson Illustration by João Fazenda
When Robbie Robertson, the guitarist and principal songwriter for the Band, wrote for the group’s three singers—Levon Helm, Rick Danko, and Richard Manuel—he thought of himself as composing “movie songs.”
“I was like their director,” Robertson, who is seventy-six, said the other day. “I knew each of their instruments, their voices, their playing, so I was casting them to play these characters.” He cast Helm as Virgil Caine in “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down”; Danko embodied the man caught in the spotlight in “Stage Fright”; Manuel was seven lives in to his allotted nine in “The Shape I’m In.”
Even new, those songs sounded old. Now that the Band’s vocalists are dead—the wizardly keyboardist Garth Hudson is the only other surviving member—the characters that Robertson concocted for his bandmates loom even more mythic. One day, Virgil Caine might be all of Levon Helm that listeners will know. But not if Robertson can help it.
He was visiting New York for the première of a documentary about the Band, “Once Were Brothers,” based on his 2016 memoir, “Testimony.” The film, directed by the twenty-six-year-old Daniel Roher—one of the few non-gray hairs in the audience, at Lincoln Center—counteracts the mythmaking of the songs by introducing viewers to the musicians as they were before fame found them.
“Once Were Brothers” locates the genius of the Band’s music in the early years they spent backing Ronnie Hawkins, the Arkansas-born rockabilly singer. “We played the Chitlin Circuit, we heard incredible gospel music, fantastic mountain music, great blues, and tremendous rock and roll,” Robertson said a couple of days after the première, seated on a white leather banquette in the Pleiades bar, in the Surrey hotel on Madison Avenue, as the Rolling Stones played from a speaker overhead. “And then Garth would turn us on to certain classical pieces that were haunting and beautiful.”
When the five sat down to make music of their own, facing one another in a circle in the basement of Big Pink, their house near Woodstock, New York, all those influences came out, and the result sounded so unlike anything else being recorded at the time (the late sixties to the mid-seventies) that it birthed a new genre: Americana. “We were just mixing some of this with some of that, and, holy shit, it had an effect,” Robertson said. “It sent rumbles around the world.”
Drugs and alcohol hit the Band’s rhythm section hard: “I would be, like, ‘Guys! I don’t want to be the guy whining, but we got work to do! And this is getting in the way!’ ” (Still, as he recalls in “Testimony,” he fought to get Helm off cocaine, but then continued to snort it himself.) “My mother was a Mohawk Indian,” Robertson went on. “Her and all of her relatives, they would have one drink and change personalities.” At the bar, he left his glass of wine unfinished.
Helm, in his book, “This Wheel’s on Fire,” written seventeen years after the Band played its last concert, in 1976 (Martin Scorsese made “The Last Waltz” about it), portrayed Robertson as a canny operator who saw the opportunity—when the others were addled by substance abuse—to help himself to what should have been their share of the publishing royalties. Robertson said that he felt “awful” about the unfair accusation, which the others didn’t support, but he didn’t respond publicly. “Levon used to say shit about the booking agent, the manager, the lawyer, the accountant, everybody,” Robertson explained. “As Rick Danko said to me, ‘That’s just Levon.’ ”
“The Last Waltz” became the first gig in Robertson’s second career, scoring films, many of them Scorsese’s. Meanwhile, the rest of the Band soldiered on without a lead guitarist. They never broke up. “We just wanted a little breather, and then we would come back together and pull a rabbit out of the hat,” Robertson said. The group had even booked a date at a studio. “And I went to the studio and I waited and I waited, and nobody showed up. Everybody just forgot to come back.”
Manuel hanged himself in 1986; Danko died of heart failure in 1999, at fifty-two; and Helm, who remained in Woodstock and hosted musical nights in his barn, succumbed to cancer in 2012. Robertson visited Helm before he died, but the former drummer was too far gone, already unresponsive.
Robertson is going full steam. “I just had maybe the busiest year of my life,” he said. It included the documentary, which he narrates; the score for “The Irishman”; a new album, “Sinematic”; and a fiftieth-anniversary edition of the Band’s second album, which includes an unreleased set at the Woodstock festival. He also has five grandkids, who call him Papa Rob. “And I’m just about to sign the papers with Warner Bros. Pictures to make the story of the Band!” he announced. Jez Butterworth, the British playwright and screenwriter, is writing the script. It took fifty years, but Robertson’s movie songs are finally coming to the multiplex. Who will play him? ♦
A previous version of this article misstated the location of Big Pink.


newyorker--2020-03-09--Walking the Princess Di Walk

Walking the Princess Di Walk

So you ’ re going to be a princess .
Felicidades !
Now get to work .
You have a public to win over , and stuffy new in-laws to impress .
There are practical matters , too .
After Kate Middleton ’ s engagement to Prince William , she got busy choosing a wedding gown and presiding over official functions , such as the naming of a lifeboat in North Wales .
Meghan Markle had to sort out her immigration forms and convert to the Anglican Church .
“ The biggest adjustment is not being able to do what @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Dickie Arbiter , a former press secretary to Queen Elizabeth II , said recently .
“ You can ’ t suddenly decide , Oh , I ’ m going to go out to the shops.
” The actress Jeanna de Waal is in her princess-preparation phase , as the star of the new Broadway musical “ Diana.
” De Waal , who is thirty-one , has been working on the role for two years .
She spent hours listening to Princess Diana ’ s interviews on YouTube , to master her posh speech @ @ @ @ @ @ @ biography “ probably ten times , ” she said .
But the biggest challenge was physical .
“ I tend to have bad posture , ” de Waal , who began her career in the Queen musical “ We Will Rock You , ” said .
( The director Des McAnuff once told her , “ Your posture ’ s holding you back , dear.
” ) The real Diana attended the Institut Alpin Videmanette , a finishing school in Switzerland .
She was five-ten , and de Waal is five-four , so @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hidden platforms—which make maintaining her royal bearing even more of a challenge .
“ When you ’ re trying to portray a painful moment at home , or nursing a baby , you don ’ t want people to be , like , ‘ She looks like she ’ s in stripper heels , ’ ” de Waal said .
Last summer , one of the show ’ s producers , Beth Williams , told her about Gyrotonic , an exercise program that Williams and her husband do three times a week .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ was created by Juliu Horvath , a Romanian-born dancer who had ruptured his Achilles tendon while performing with the Houston Ballet .
He moved to the Virgin Islands and developed his method , living in a mountain hut .
Then he opened a practice in Chelsea , at a studio called White Cloud , “ which sounds very culty , but it ’ s not , ” an instructor named Abbe Ouziel said .
She and de Waal were at a bustling Upper West Side branch , upstairs from a ramen place .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ techniques for golfers , equestrians , and pregnant women .
De Waal ’ s was her first customized princess workout .
Ouziel led her to a contraption called the Cobra , part of the Gyrotonic Expansion System .
De Waal , who wore black workout gear that matched her nail polish , straddled the seat .
She arched her back and spread her arms in a breaststroke motion , clutching stirrup handles .
“ Take in a nice big inhale , and on the exhale unwind your spine , ” Ouizel said .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , feeling dizzy .
“ So much oxygen to the brain !
” Next , she lay on her back , her feet fastened to a pulley system , and stretched out her legs with frog kicks , scissor formations , and figure eights .
“ I feel like I ’ m the producers ’ racehorse , ” she said .
“ ‘ She ’ s massaged and moisturized and she ’ s ready for the race !
’ ” Ouziel rolled out a royal-looking paisley yoga mat , and de Waal put @ @ @ @ @ @ @ practiced her stance .
“ Make sure your shoulders are over your hips , ” Ouziel advised , as de Waal yanked on the pulleys .
Finally , Ouziel placed a weighted disk on de Waal ’ s head .
“ When I take the weight off , you want to keep that sensation of reaching up through the crown of your head , ” Ouziel said .
Afterward , de Waal headed to the Longacre Theatre .
She was born in Bavaria , to a South African father and a British mother @ @ @ @ @ @ @ town near Birmingham , England , when she was six .
Princess Diana died three years later .
“ I have a memory of being woken up and my grandma being very upset , and it being on the telly all day , ” she recalled .
At the theatre , she went up to her dressing room and practiced her princess gait in a pair of tan costume heels , trying to look placid .
Diana , too , had to make the job look easy under strain .
“ She ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , but she ’ s doing those things with her shoulders completely relaxed , and smiling for the cameras , ” de Waal said .
Royalty , as Markle discovered , comes with scrutiny , and so does playing the people ’ s princess .
“ I ’ ve got to ask , Why the hell would she want to play Princess Diana ?
” Arbiter , the former royal aide , said a few days later , on the phone from England .
“ It ’ s a very brave thing to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ off .
If she doesn ’ t , she must be prepared.
” ♦

Jeanna de Waal Illustration by João Fazenda
So you’re going to be a princess. Felicidades! Now get to work. You have a public to win over, and stuffy new in-laws to impress. There are practical matters, too. After Kate Middleton’s engagement to Prince William, she got busy choosing a wedding gown and presiding over official functions, such as the naming of a lifeboat in North Wales. Meghan Markle had to sort out her immigration forms and convert to the Anglican Church. “The biggest adjustment is not being able to do what you like when you like,” Dickie Arbiter, a former press secretary to Queen Elizabeth II, said recently. “You can’t suddenly decide, Oh, I’m going to go out to the shops.”
The actress Jeanna de Waal is in her princess-preparation phase, as the star of the new Broadway musical “Diana.” De Waal, who is thirty-one, has been working on the role for two years. She spent hours listening to Princess Diana’s interviews on YouTube, to master her posh speech, and read Andrew Morton’s biography “probably ten times,” she said. But the biggest challenge was physical. “I tend to have bad posture,” de Waal, who began her career in the Queen musical “We Will Rock You,” said. (The director Des McAnuff once told her, “Your posture’s holding you back, dear.”) The real Diana attended the Institut Alpin Videmanette, a finishing school in Switzerland. She was five-ten, and de Waal is five-four, so the production designed her special shoes with hidden platforms—which make maintaining her royal bearing even more of a challenge. “When you’re trying to portray a painful moment at home, or nursing a baby, you don’t want people to be, like, ‘She looks like she’s in stripper heels,’ ” de Waal said.
Last summer, one of the show’s producers, Beth Williams, told her about Gyrotonic, an exercise program that Williams and her husband do three times a week. Originally called Yoga for Dancers, it was created by Juliu Horvath, a Romanian-born dancer who had ruptured his Achilles tendon while performing with the Houston Ballet. He moved to the Virgin Islands and developed his method, living in a mountain hut. Then he opened a practice in Chelsea, at a studio called White Cloud, “which sounds very culty, but it’s not,” an instructor named Abbe Ouziel said. She and de Waal were at a bustling Upper West Side branch, upstairs from a ramen place. Gyrotonic, Ouziel explained, has specialized techniques for golfers, equestrians, and pregnant women. De Waal’s was her first customized princess workout.
Ouziel led her to a contraption called the Cobra, part of the Gyrotonic Expansion System. De Waal, who wore black workout gear that matched her nail polish, straddled the seat. She arched her back and spread her arms in a breaststroke motion, clutching stirrup handles. “Take in a nice big inhale, and on the exhale unwind your spine,” Ouizel said.
“Woo!” de Waal said, feeling dizzy. “So much oxygen to the brain!”
Next, she lay on her back, her feet fastened to a pulley system, and stretched out her legs with frog kicks, scissor formations, and figure eights. “I feel like I’m the producers’ racehorse,” she said. “ ‘She’s massaged and moisturized and she’s ready for the race!’ ” Ouziel rolled out a royal-looking paisley yoga mat, and de Waal put on a pair of platform heels and practiced her stance. “Make sure your shoulders are over your hips,” Ouziel advised, as de Waal yanked on the pulleys. Finally, Ouziel placed a weighted disk on de Waal’s head. “When I take the weight off, you want to keep that sensation of reaching up through the crown of your head,” Ouziel said.
Afterward, de Waal headed to the Longacre Theatre. She was born in Bavaria, to a South African father and a British mother, and moved to Solihull, a town near Birmingham, England, when she was six. Princess Diana died three years later. “I have a memory of being woken up and my grandma being very upset, and it being on the telly all day,” she recalled. At the theatre, she went up to her dressing room and practiced her princess gait in a pair of tan costume heels, trying to look placid. Diana, too, had to make the job look easy under strain. “She’s fighting, she’s surviving, but she’s doing those things with her shoulders completely relaxed, and smiling for the cameras,” de Waal said.
Royalty, as Markle discovered, comes with scrutiny, and so does playing the people’s princess. “I’ve got to ask, Why the hell would she want to play Princess Diana?” Arbiter, the former royal aide, said a few days later, on the phone from England. “It’s a very brave thing to do. I hope she pulls it off. If she doesn’t, she must be prepared.” ♦


newyorker--2020-03-09--“Nia,” by Patricia Spears Jones

“Nia,” by Patricia Spears Jones

It sounds better in Spanish , precario Prettier .
As if it isn ’ t what it is and there ’ s that o My how will the rent get paid ?
The deadline Met and who ghosted me first—valley lover Or that other one .
Delicacy of skin .
Quick steps , quick stops And the direction is what ?
There ’ s no where there and the last shift Is the one where tongues load a stack of sighs Bridge tall and mythic .
This day and the next—volcanic shards Roll toward the door , even if mountains @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
How the heart steadily beats as the sirens Careen and angry men launch their best lives Ever by taking so many others .
It is a miracle This heart steadily beating even as the next question Threatens a late spring storm , ground broken By lightning—the raindrops rhythmic patter Honors percussionists—those that beat beat beat Their instrument with a purpose—Nia .
Knowing how one off-beat collapses the genesis Augurs harsher storms— Where the purpose becomes precarious .
Where death enters white armed , white throated , Where the body drops like lightning @ @ @ @

Audio: Read by the author.
It sounds better in Spanish, precario
Prettier. As if it isn’t what it is and there’s that o
My how will the rent get paid? The deadline
Met and who ghosted me first—valley lover
Or that other one.
Delicacy of skin. Quick steps, quick stops
And the direction is what?
There’s no where there and the last shift
Is the one where tongues load a stack of sighs
Bridge tall and mythic.
This day and the next—volcanic shards
Roll toward the door, even if mountains
Are in the far distance—thousands of miles.
How the heart steadily beats as the sirens
Careen and angry men launch their best lives
Ever by taking so many others. It is a miracle
This heart steadily beating even as the next question
Threatens a late spring storm, ground broken
By lightning—the raindrops rhythmic patter
Honors percussionists—those that beat beat beat
Their instrument with a purpose—Nia.
Knowing how one off-beat collapses the genesis
Augurs harsher storms—
Where the purpose becomes precarious.
Where death enters white armed, white throated,
Where the body drops like lightning on rain-moist ground.


newyorker--2020-03-09--Briefly Noted Book Reviews

Briefly Noted Book Reviews

The Golden Thread , by Kassia St. Clair ( Liveright ) .
In an enlivening history of fabric , St. Clair takes aim at those who trivialize the study of clothing .
“ We live surrounded by cloth , ” she writes .
“ We are swaddled in it at birth and shrouds are drawn over our faces in death.
” Rather than a broad overview , St. Clair provides a cleverly structured patchwork of vignettes spanning the eras and the continents : Paleolithic bast threads excavated in a cave in Georgia ; the patterns of ancient China ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ nimble waves ” ) ; the inflatable rubber-and-nylon suits that weighed down Mercury astronauts as they journeyed into space .
Her descriptions of textiles and the people who created and wore them are sensual and even moving .
Smacked , by Eilene Zimmerman ( Random House ) .
Opening with the author ’ s discovery of the body of her ex-husband , Peter , a fifty-one-year-old corporate attorney in San Diego , this memoir explores the factors that have led to a precipitous increase in so-called white-collar addiction in the United States @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to his family , friends , and colleagues , until an autopsy found cocaine and opioids in his system .
Zimmerman charts a startling rise in anxiety and depression among even the youngest professionals , attributing it to a toxic blend of ultracompetitiveness , workaholism , and isolation from family and the wider community .
The corresponding spike in drug use underscores the book ’ s central message : that a reformation of “ inhumane ” corporate culture is urgently needed .
Writers & Lovers , by Lily King ( Grove ) .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ thirty-one-year-old writer beset with student debt , living in an adapted potting shed in Boston , and laboring over her début .
Distractions from work include grief ( her mother died suddenly while abroad ) and a choice between two men , both writers themselves .
One is young and unreliable but irresistible ; the other is older and established and has children , something she craves .
“ It ’ s always a choice between fireworks and coffee in bed , ” an acquaintance tells her .
The love-triangle plot proves to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ book ’ s true subject—overcoming , and making art from , hardship .
The Cactus League , by Emily Nemens ( Farrar , Straus & Giroux ) .
An ode to baseball , this début novel , by the editor of The Paris Review , unfolds across nine “ innings , ” told from several perspectives .
During spring training , in Scottsdale , the superstar left fielder of a Los Angeles team , struggling with a divorce , becomes involved with a “ cleat chaser , ” whose charms draw him into @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s Taliesin West house .
When his handlers attempt damage control , it emerges that his problems go deeper .
As Nemens portrays the life of the team—a pitcher is in thrall to pain pills ; players ’ wives hold a lingerie party—it starts to seem almost an organism , each constituent part brushing against others in a larger story of competition , survival , and obsession .

The Golden Thread, by Kassia St. Clair (Liveright). In an enlivening history of fabric, St. Clair takes aim at those who trivialize the study of clothing. “We live surrounded by cloth,” she writes. “We are swaddled in it at birth and shrouds are drawn over our faces in death.” Rather than a broad overview, St. Clair provides a cleverly structured patchwork of vignettes spanning the eras and the continents: Paleolithic bast threads excavated in a cave in Georgia; the patterns of ancient China’s silks (“mirrored flower,” “nimble waves”); the inflatable rubber-and-nylon suits that weighed down Mercury astronauts as they journeyed into space. Her descriptions of textiles and the people who created and wore them are sensual and even moving.
Smacked, by Eilene Zimmerman (Random House). Opening with the author’s discovery of the body of her ex-husband, Peter, a fifty-one-year-old corporate attorney in San Diego, this memoir explores the factors that have led to a precipitous increase in so-called white-collar addiction in the United States. Peter’s addiction was unknown to his family, friends, and colleagues, until an autopsy found cocaine and opioids in his system. Zimmerman charts a startling rise in anxiety and depression among even the youngest professionals, attributing it to a toxic blend of ultracompetitiveness, workaholism, and isolation from family and the wider community. The corresponding spike in drug use underscores the book’s central message: that a reformation of “inhumane” corporate culture is urgently needed.
Writers & Lovers, by Lily King (Grove). The narrator of this novel is a thirty-one-year-old writer beset with student debt, living in an adapted potting shed in Boston, and laboring over her début. Distractions from work include grief (her mother died suddenly while abroad) and a choice between two men, both writers themselves. One is young and unreliable but irresistible; the other is older and established and has children, something she craves. “It’s always a choice between fireworks and coffee in bed,” an acquaintance tells her. The love-triangle plot proves to be a nimble vehicle for exploring the book’s true subject—overcoming, and making art from, hardship.
The Cactus League, by Emily Nemens (Farrar, Straus & Giroux). An ode to baseball, this début novel, by the editor of The Paris Review, unfolds across nine “innings,” told from several perspectives. During spring training, in Scottsdale, the superstar left fielder of a Los Angeles team, struggling with a divorce, becomes involved with a “cleat chaser,” whose charms draw him into a drunken incident at Frank Lloyd Wright’s Taliesin West house. When his handlers attempt damage control, it emerges that his problems go deeper. As Nemens portrays the life of the team—a pitcher is in thrall to pain pills; players’ wives hold a lingerie party—it starts to seem almost an organism, each constituent part brushing against others in a larger story of competition, survival, and obsession.