newyorker--2020-04-27--In Memoriam: The Handshake

In Memoriam: The Handshake

The handshake , a widespread social custom that has forged political alliances , sealed multibillion-dollar business deals , and taught fathers “ a thing or two ” about prospective sons-in-law , died alone last month , in quarantine .
It was at least two thousand eight hundred years old .
( An early appearance : a limestone dais , carved in the mid-ninth century B.C.E.
, depicting the Assyrian king Shalmaneser III hand in hand with a Babylonian ally . )
The cause of death ?
Sudden awareness by the general population that every surface on earth—and , especially , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ surfaces—are misted with an invisible , potentially lethal cocktail of viral droplets .
The shake had been on life support since early March .
After declaring a national emergency at a Rose Garden press conference , President Trump shook hands with assorted executives .
Then Bruce Greenstein , the chief strategy-and-innovation officer of LHC Group , extended an elbow .
The dominoes were falling .
Mercado Libre , a Latin-American e-commerce platform , moved to replace the handshake in its logo with an elbow bump .
The director general of the World Health @ @ @ @ @ @ @ greeting people with a “ hand-on-heart ” gesture .
Others found the habit hard to shake .
On March 9th , the Dutch Prime Minister announced a national no-shake policy , then turned and shook hands with a health official .
“ Oh , sorry !
” he said .
“ We can ’ t do that anymore .
Sorry , sorry.
” Dorothea Johnson , the founder of the Protocol School of Washington and a co-author of “ The Power of Handshaking , ” couldn ’ t bear the news .
Reached @ @ @ @ @ @ @ said , “ It ’ s how we connect to someone when we first meet them .
Touching someone , it helps you create a friendship , a relationship .
It ’ s so important.
” In “ Primary Colors , ” the author , Joe Klein , calls the handshake “ the threshold act , the beginning of politics.
” Rabin and Arafat , Reagan and Gorbachev , Nixon and the King of Rock and Roll , all went palm-to-palm .
The U.S. President , according to one estimate , shakes hands @ @ @ @ @ @ @ In 1907 , President Teddy Roosevelt , known for his “ pump handling , ” shook more than eight thousand hands in a single afternoon .
Afterward , his biographer wrote , he went upstairs to “ scrub himself clean.
” A solid shake relies on a combination of grip and intuition .
Pamela Holland , a co-author of “ Help !
Was That a Career Limiting Move ?
, ” has advised , “ Go in , thumb up , at a right angle .
Make sure you make the full contact @ @ @ @ @ @ @ three pumps , then drop .
It ’ s a little like a kiss : You ’ ll know when it ’ s over.
” A lot can go wrong .
There are arm-twisters , bone-crushers , yankers , dead fish .
“ Some people are totally unsophisticated , ” Johnson said .
Like who ?
She demurred .
She once shook hands with Trump , a known handshake hater , but decorum held .
“ Not soft , not hard , ” she recalled .
“ It was brief .
He is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is often said that handshakes evolved as a way to show that you weren ’ t holding a weapon .
( The up-and-down motion would dislodge a dagger that had been hidden up a sleeve . )
The Greeks put an image of the shake on gravestones , using it to link the living and the dead .
Romans , who put it on coins , used it to link the living and the stuff they wanted to buy .
The Quakers popularized it ; they considered it to be more egalitarian than @ @ @ @ @ @ @ handshaking is riddled with conscientious objectors , ahead of their time .
In 2015 , a U.C.L.A .
hospital established a “ handshake-free zone ” in its neonatal intensive-care unit .
( Research suggests that substituting fist bumps cuts germ transmission by ninety per cent . )
But the U.C.L.A .
policy lasted just six months .
In France , an Algerian woman was recently denied citizenship for refusing to shake an official ’ s hand at her naturalization ceremony .
She appealed on religious grounds ; her petition was denied .
Sanda @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the University of Illinois , have conducted a series of studies on the ritual ’ s longevity .
Their conclusion : it ’ s a little like sex .
“ Handshake activity activates a part of the brain that also processes other types of reward stimulus : good food , or drinks , or something related to , um , closer physical interactions , ” Florin said .
The handshake is survived by the elbow bump , the foot shake , the peace sign , and the wave .
“ These customs do @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ The replacements might seem awkward at first , because the handshake is so natural , so automatic , so ingrained .
But people will find a new way.
” In lieu of flowers , send Purell .
♦

The handshake, a widespread social custom that has forged political alliances, sealed multibillion-dollar business deals, and taught fathers “a thing or two” about prospective sons-in-law, died alone last month, in quarantine. It was at least two thousand eight hundred years old. (An early appearance: a limestone dais, carved in the mid-ninth century B.C.E., depicting the Assyrian king Shalmaneser III hand in hand with a Babylonian ally.)
The cause of death? Sudden awareness by the general population that every surface on earth—and, especially, the appendages we use to touch said surfaces—are misted with an invisible, potentially lethal cocktail of viral droplets. The shake had been on life support since early March. After declaring a national emergency at a Rose Garden press conference, President Trump shook hands with assorted executives. Then Bruce Greenstein, the chief strategy-and-innovation officer of LHC Group, extended an elbow. The dominoes were falling. Mercado Libre, a Latin-American e-commerce platform, moved to replace the handshake in its logo with an elbow bump. The director general of the World Health Organization tweeted that he would now be greeting people with a “hand-on-heart” gesture. Others found the habit hard to shake. On March 9th, the Dutch Prime Minister announced a national no-shake policy, then turned and shook hands with a health official. “Oh, sorry!” he said. “We can’t do that anymore. Sorry, sorry.”
Dorothea Johnson, the founder of the Protocol School of Washington and a co-author of “The Power of Handshaking,” couldn’t bear the news. Reached by telephone, in Maine, she said, “It’s how we connect to someone when we first meet them. Touching someone, it helps you create a friendship, a relationship. It’s so important.”
In “Primary Colors,” the author, Joe Klein, calls the handshake “the threshold act, the beginning of politics.” Rabin and Arafat, Reagan and Gorbachev, Nixon and the King of Rock and Roll, all went palm-to-palm. The U.S. President, according to one estimate, shakes hands with sixty-five thousand people per year. In 1907, President Teddy Roosevelt, known for his “pump handling,” shook more than eight thousand hands in a single afternoon. Afterward, his biographer wrote, he went upstairs to “scrub himself clean.”
A solid shake relies on a combination of grip and intuition. Pamela Holland, a co-author of “Help! Was That a Career Limiting Move?,” has advised, “Go in, thumb up, at a right angle. Make sure you make the full contact, web to web. Two to three pumps, then drop. It’s a little like a kiss: You’ll know when it’s over.” A lot can go wrong. There are arm-twisters, bone-crushers, yankers, dead fish. “Some people are totally unsophisticated,” Johnson said. Like who? She demurred. She once shook hands with Trump, a known handshake hater, but decorum held. “Not soft, not hard,” she recalled. “It was brief. He is very adept at moving on.”
It is often said that handshakes evolved as a way to show that you weren’t holding a weapon. (The up-and-down motion would dislodge a dagger that had been hidden up a sleeve.) The Greeks put an image of the shake on gravestones, using it to link the living and the dead. Romans, who put it on coins, used it to link the living and the stuff they wanted to buy. The Quakers popularized it; they considered it to be more egalitarian than bowing. And yet the history of handshaking is riddled with conscientious objectors, ahead of their time. In 2015, a U.C.L.A. hospital established a “handshake-free zone” in its neonatal intensive-care unit. (Research suggests that substituting fist bumps cuts germ transmission by ninety per cent.) But the U.C.L.A. policy lasted just six months. In France, an Algerian woman was recently denied citizenship for refusing to shake an official’s hand at her naturalization ceremony. She appealed on religious grounds; her petition was denied.
Sanda and Florin Dolcos, psychology researchers at the University of Illinois, have conducted a series of studies on the ritual’s longevity. Their conclusion: it’s a little like sex. “Handshake activity activates a part of the brain that also processes other types of reward stimulus: good food, or drinks, or something related to, um, closer physical interactions,” Florin said.
The handshake is survived by the elbow bump, the foot shake, the peace sign, and the wave. “These customs do evolve,” Sanda Dolcos said. “The replacements might seem awkward at first, because the handshake is so natural, so automatic, so ingrained. But people will find a new way.” In lieu of flowers, send Purell. ♦
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-04-27--Briefly Noted Book Reviews

Briefly Noted Book Reviews

A Thousand Moons , by Sebastian Barry ( Viking ) .
This spare , lyrical sequel to “ Days Without End ” takes place in the backwoods of Tennessee , a state scarred by the Civil War .
Winona , a young Lakota woman , lives in a community that is prejudiced against her race and her sex , yet she finds fulfilling work and a besotted fiancé .
However , after she is brutally attacked , she is forced to reckon with her past traumas , and with the cruelties faced by Native Americans .
Barry ’ s atmospheric @ @ @ @ @ @ @ language and hardscrabble spirit .
“ Be wise , ” Winona tells herself .
“ Trouble always comes and no use wishing it didn ’ t .
Thing is , to get through it—and out the other side.
” How Much of These Hills Is Gold , by C Pam Zhang ( Riverhead ) .
In this stylized and complex début novel , two children , born near the end of the gold rush , wander through harsh Western landscapes searching for a place to bury their father , a failed prospector .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ to work on the railroads , died years before . )
The story is narrated by the soft , scholastic twelve-year-old Lucy , as she journeys with her younger sibling , Sam , who struts in imitation of their father , and of the cowboys of their time .
While the book presents a counter-narrative to conventional tales of America ’ s origins , it also interrogates the more intimate dimensions of belonging and memory , asking , over and over , “ What makes a home a home ?
” The Hot @ @ @ @ @ @ @ House ) .
In 1985 , a group of cognitive scientists released a study in which they concluded that hot streaks—one of the most avidly contested phenomena in sports—were a myth .
Cohen , a sportswriter , begins his exploration of the subject with basketball , but soon broadens his scope to consider Einstein ’ s annus mirabilis , in 1905 ( his output : special relativity , the photoelectric effect , and E=mc2 ) , and Shakespeare ’ s , which occurred during the plague year of 1606 .
Sports statistics offer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reflect heightened abilities rather than chance and circumstance , but , as Cohen notes , the belief in them has its own value , because it implies that people can “ transcend their places in the world.
” What Is the Grass , by Mark Doty ( Norton ) .
The author of this appreciation of “ Leaves of Grass ” animates Walt Whitman ’ s joyful proclamation that everything is connected .
Doty interweaves an account of his own coming of age as a gay man with passionate close readings of Whitman @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , showing him to be lustful and wise , sure and self-doubting , and to draw on both Biblical language and the rough yawps of slang to create a new style .
In the eighteen-fifties , before the Civil War , Whitman evoked a country in which the kind of affinity Doty practices here might bind us—in which “ democracy might be founded in the body , on the affection between bodies ” —and called out to his compatriots in that imagined future .

A Thousand Moons, by Sebastian Barry (Viking). This spare, lyrical sequel to “Days Without End” takes place in the backwoods of Tennessee, a state scarred by the Civil War. Winona, a young Lakota woman, lives in a community that is prejudiced against her race and her sex, yet she finds fulfilling work and a besotted fiancé. However, after she is brutally attacked, she is forced to reckon with her past traumas, and with the cruelties faced by Native Americans. Barry’s atmospheric prose captures the mid-nineteenth century’s language and hardscrabble spirit. “Be wise,” Winona tells herself. “Trouble always comes and no use wishing it didn’t. Thing is, to get through it—and out the other side.”
How Much of These Hills Is Gold, by C Pam Zhang (Riverhead). In this stylized and complex début novel, two children, born near the end of the gold rush, wander through harsh Western landscapes searching for a place to bury their father, a failed prospector. (Their mother, shipped from China to work on the railroads, died years before.) The story is narrated by the soft, scholastic twelve-year-old Lucy, as she journeys with her younger sibling, Sam, who struts in imitation of their father, and of the cowboys of their time. While the book presents a counter-narrative to conventional tales of America’s origins, it also interrogates the more intimate dimensions of belonging and memory, asking, over and over, “What makes a home a home?”
The Hot Hand, by Ben Cohen (Custom House). In 1985, a group of cognitive scientists released a study in which they concluded that hot streaks—one of the most avidly contested phenomena in sports—were a myth. Cohen, a sportswriter, begins his exploration of the subject with basketball, but soon broadens his scope to consider Einstein’s annus mirabilis, in 1905 (his output: special relativity, the photoelectric effect, and E=mc2), and Shakespeare’s, which occurred during the plague year of 1606. Sports statistics offer some answers as to whether streaks indeed reflect heightened abilities rather than chance and circumstance, but, as Cohen notes, the belief in them has its own value, because it implies that people can “transcend their places in the world.”
What Is the Grass, by Mark Doty (Norton). The author of this appreciation of “Leaves of Grass” animates Walt Whitman’s joyful proclamation that everything is connected. Doty interweaves an account of his own coming of age as a gay man with passionate close readings of Whitman that probe the poet’s multitudes, showing him to be lustful and wise, sure and self-doubting, and to draw on both Biblical language and the rough yawps of slang to create a new style. In the eighteen-fifties, before the Civil War, Whitman evoked a country in which the kind of affinity Doty practices here might bind us—in which “democracy might be founded in the body, on the affection between bodies”—and called out to his compatriots in that imagined future.


newyorker--2020-04-27--Chris Ware’s “Still Life”

Chris Ware’s “Still Life”

The latest issue of The New Yorker features “ April 15th , 2020 , ” a kaleidoscopic account of a single day in New York , which has become an epicenter of the coronavirus pandemic .
In it , dozens of the magazine ’ s writers and contributors capture snapshots of life—on the streets , on fire escapes and tugboats , and in hospitals , apartments , attics , and subways .
The result is a fractal portrait of the city , and Chris Ware ’ s cover is a fitting complement .
Ware recently wrote to us about his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lived in Chicago for thirty years , I ’ ve only ever been a visitor to New York , but I love it like no other city .
Teeming with unpredictable people and unimaginable places and unforeseeable moments , life there is measured not in hours but in densely packed minutes that can fill up a day with a year ’ s worth of life .
Lately , however , closed up in our homes against a worldwide terror , time everywhere has seemed to slur , to become almost Groundhog Day-ish , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , as my fellow New Yorker contributor Masha Gessen more precisely put it , ‘ loopy , dotted , and sometimes perpendicular to itself.
’ But disaster can also have a recalibrating quality .
It reminds us that the real things of life ( breakfast , grass , spouse ) can , in normal times , become clotted over by anxieties and nonsense .
We ’ re at low tide , but , as my wife , a biology teacher , said to me this morning , ‘ For a while , we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ And really , when you do , it is pretty marvellous.
” For other views of the city , see below :

The latest issue of The New Yorker features “April 15th, 2020,” a kaleidoscopic account of a single day in New York, which has become an epicenter of the coronavirus pandemic. In it, dozens of the magazine’s writers and contributors capture snapshots of life—on the streets, on fire escapes and tugboats, and in hospitals, apartments, attics, and subways. The result is a fractal portrait of the city, and Chris Ware’s cover is a fitting complement. Ware recently wrote to us about his relationship to New York:
“Having lived in Chicago for thirty years, I’ve only ever been a visitor to New York, but I love it like no other city. Teeming with unpredictable people and unimaginable places and unforeseeable moments, life there is measured not in hours but in densely packed minutes that can fill up a day with a year’s worth of life. Lately, however, closed up in our homes against a worldwide terror, time everywhere has seemed to slur, to become almost Groundhog Day-ish, forced into a sort of present-perfect tense—or, as my fellow New Yorker contributor Masha Gessen more precisely put it, ‘loopy, dotted, and sometimes perpendicular to itself.’ But disaster can also have a recalibrating quality. It reminds us that the real things of life (breakfast, grass, spouse) can, in normal times, become clotted over by anxieties and nonsense. We’re at low tide, but, as my wife, a biology teacher, said to me this morning, ‘For a while, we get to just step back and look.’ And really, when you do, it is pretty marvellous.”
For other views of the city, see below:


newyorker--2020-04-27--What to Watch During the Lockdown: Month 38

“ BOILED HAM AND PARSNIPS ” When Sight & Sound reviewed the film on its release , in 1972 , it conceded that Kasimir Kaschomski ’ s five-hour black-and-white account of a Ukrainian peasant woman ’ s struggle to prepare the eponymous meal “ might not be for everyone , ” but we ’ re long past that .
The film , presented in four chapters , titled “ Walk to the Market , ” “ The Haggle , ” “ The Walk Home Again , ” and “ The Preparation of the Ham , ” culminates in scum-flecked bubbles @ @ @ @ @ @ @ weirdly hypnotic hold on the viewer .
Ulnyano Melnik had never appeared before a camera until “ Boiled Ham , ” and she never appeared before one again .
But you ’ ll believe every step of the two-hour walk , and every obstinate syllable of the haggle .
She ’ s not in the kitchen scenes much ; Kaschomski lets the ham take center stage , a breathtaking piece of cinematic bravery that pays off .
Try not to binge !
My family and I made this last for two nights .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ Netflix Ukraine—you can change the settings on your account . )
MACON McCALMAN RETROSPECTIVE You are , I ’ m guessing , unfamiliar with the work of Macon McCalman , who died in 2005 , with a hundred and fifteen movie and television credits to his name .
I was unfamiliar with it , too , until I picked a random film on IMDb ( “ Smokey and the Bandit ” ) and a random character ( Mr .
B . )
, and set out to watch every single McCalman performance I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hard to come by , certainly , and , if anyone has access to the 1977 TV series “ Carter County , ” I ’ m looking for the episode titled , with an ominous inelegance , “ By the Light of the Moonlight , ” in which McCalman plays Drunk .
But he was Goodspeed in an episode of “ Wonder Woman , ” Dr. Harry Capello in “ Hart to Hart , ” and Ned Avery in “ Barnaby Jones.
” Chances are , if you watched TV in the seventies @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to now .
He had the enviable ability to play different characters in the same series without anyone noticing : he was both Dolph Masterson and Kibbee in “ Lou Grant , ” Mark Duncan and Wendall Glendale in “ Maude ” ( both episodes filmed in 1977 ) , Dr. Kalsa and George Endicott in “ Diff ’ rent Strokes.
” The pandemic gives us a chance to celebrate his work .
There was so much of it that you ’ ll be watching forever , unless you shoot yourself first .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ YouTube , but check any old VHS tapes you have in the garage . )
1997 NATIVITY PLAY , ST. SWITHIN ’ S SCHOOL You ’ ve seen “ Downton Abbey ” three times .
You ’ ve even seen the movie .
You ’ ve watched “ Poldark , ” “ The Forsyte Saga , ” “ Grantchester , ” “ Victoria , ” “ Upstairs , Downstairs , ” and everything Jane Austen so much as thought about writing .
Where to go for your posh Brit fix ?
Try this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ St. Swithin ’ s primary school , in southwest London , filmed on a shaky but passable camcorder by a proud front-row parent .
Harry Smith-Walker plays Joseph with youthful enthusiasm , although he tends to shout his lines , and his reaction to the flatulence of a Wise Man does break the fourth wall momentarily .
St. Swithin ’ s didn ’ t accept girls until 2002 , so Nigel Parker-Lawrence plays Mary , with a rather winning modesty , although , as was true in so many pre-twenty-first-century productions , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ woman is obscured by Mary the mother .
Politics buffs will be excited to know that Smith-Walker is now a Junior Minister for Work and Pensions in Boris Johnson ’ s Cabinet .
( Twenty-one minutes .
YouTube . )
DARLINGTON V. GAINSBOROUGH TRINITY , OCTOBER , 2016 You ’ ve probably seen every highlights package in every field of sporting endeavor by now , so why not watch full games between teams you ’ ve never heard of ?
Darlington , from County Durham , is in the sixth division of English @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Their clash a few years back was uploaded to YouTube , where it has been viewed by eighteen hundred people .
Prepare for the match by finding out a little bit about the history of the two clubs—Darlington formed in 1883 and turned pro in 1908 , and very little has happened to the team since .
Gainsborough Trinity , ten years older than Darlington , was originally called Trinity Recreationists .
It reached the giddy heights of the English second division in 1896 , but it ’ s been mostly downhill @ @ @ @ @ @ @ nineteen-year-old born in California , is on loan to Gainsborough from Lincoln City , so Americans can keep an eye on one of their own .
( Two hours and seven minutes , including a blank screen during halftime .
YouTube . )
“ CATS ” Cats was widely derided at the time of its release , in 2019 , but , if you have literally seen everything else on every streaming service , then perhaps it ’ s worth .
.
.
Actually , I hate this job , and I quit @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Bible .
Talk to your family .
Try to make a replica of the old Ebbets Field out of used chewing gum .
There will be a vaccine soon .
♦

“BOILED HAM AND PARSNIPS” When Sight & Sound reviewed the film on its release, in 1972, it conceded that Kasimir Kaschomski’s five-hour black-and-white account of a Ukrainian peasant woman’s struggle to prepare the eponymous meal “might not be for everyone,” but we’re long past that. The film, presented in four chapters, titled “Walk to the Market,” “The Haggle,” “The Walk Home Again,” and “The Preparation of the Ham,” culminates in scum-flecked bubbles in the pan, which exert a weirdly hypnotic hold on the viewer. Ulnyano Melnik had never appeared before a camera until “Boiled Ham,” and she never appeared before one again. But you’ll believe every step of the two-hour walk, and every obstinate syllable of the haggle. She’s not in the kitchen scenes much; Kaschomski lets the ham take center stage, a breathtaking piece of cinematic bravery that pays off. Try not to binge! My family and I made this last for two nights. (Five hours and twenty-one minutes. Netflix Ukraine—you can change the settings on your account.)
MACON McCALMAN RETROSPECTIVE You are, I’m guessing, unfamiliar with the work of Macon McCalman, who died in 2005, with a hundred and fifteen movie and television credits to his name. I was unfamiliar with it, too, until I picked a random film on IMDb (“Smokey and the Bandit”) and a random character (Mr. B.), and set out to watch every single McCalman performance I could find. Some of them are hard to come by, certainly, and, if anyone has access to the 1977 TV series “Carter County,” I’m looking for the episode titled, with an ominous inelegance, “By the Light of the Moonlight,” in which McCalman plays Drunk. But he was Goodspeed in an episode of “Wonder Woman,” Dr. Harry Capello in “Hart to Hart,” and Ned Avery in “Barnaby Jones.” Chances are, if you watched TV in the seventies or the eighties, you ignored him—up to now. He had the enviable ability to play different characters in the same series without anyone noticing: he was both Dolph Masterson and Kibbee in “Lou Grant,” Mark Duncan and Wendall Glendale in “Maude” (both episodes filmed in 1977), Dr. Kalsa and George Endicott in “Diff’rent Strokes.” The pandemic gives us a chance to celebrate his work. There was so much of it that you’ll be watching forever, unless you shoot yourself first. (Eighty-one hours, approx. Mostly YouTube, but check any old VHS tapes you have in the garage.)
1997 NATIVITY PLAY, ST. SWITHIN’S SCHOOL You’ve seen “Downton Abbey” three times. You’ve even seen the movie. You’ve watched “Poldark,” “The Forsyte Saga,” “Grantchester,” “Victoria,” “Upstairs, Downstairs,” and everything Jane Austen so much as thought about writing. Where to go for your posh Brit fix? Try this nativity play put on by the exclusive St. Swithin’s primary school, in southwest London, filmed on a shaky but passable camcorder by a proud front-row parent. Harry Smith-Walker plays Joseph with youthful enthusiasm, although he tends to shout his lines, and his reaction to the flatulence of a Wise Man does break the fourth wall momentarily. St. Swithin’s didn’t accept girls until 2002, so Nigel Parker-Lawrence plays Mary, with a rather winning modesty, although, as was true in so many pre-twenty-first-century productions, the part is underwritten, and Mary the woman is obscured by Mary the mother. Politics buffs will be excited to know that Smith-Walker is now a Junior Minister for Work and Pensions in Boris Johnson’s Cabinet. (Twenty-one minutes. YouTube.)
DARLINGTON V. GAINSBOROUGH TRINITY, OCTOBER, 2016 You’ve probably seen every highlights package in every field of sporting endeavor by now, so why not watch full games between teams you’ve never heard of? Darlington, from County Durham, is in the sixth division of English football; Gainsborough Trinity is from Lincolnshire. Their clash a few years back was uploaded to YouTube, where it has been viewed by eighteen hundred people. Prepare for the match by finding out a little bit about the history of the two clubs—Darlington formed in 1883 and turned pro in 1908, and very little has happened to the team since. Gainsborough Trinity, ten years older than Darlington, was originally called Trinity Recreationists. It reached the giddy heights of the English second division in 1896, but it’s been mostly downhill ever since. Jordan Adebayo-Smith, a nineteen-year-old born in California, is on loan to Gainsborough from Lincoln City, so Americans can keep an eye on one of their own. (Two hours and seven minutes, including a blank screen during halftime. YouTube.)
“CATS” Cats was widely derided at the time of its release, in 2019, but, if you have literally seen everything else on every streaming service, then perhaps it’s worth . . . Actually, I hate this job, and I quit. Read “Ulysses” or the Bible. Talk to your family. Try to make a replica of the old Ebbets Field out of used chewing gum. There will be a vaccine soon. ♦
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-04-27--COVID-19 Through a Nurse’s Lens

COVID-19 Through a Nurse’s Lens

Cady Chaplin is an intensive-care nurse at Lenox Hill Hospital .
She just turned thirty .
Her closest friend at work is Karen Cunningham , who is twenty years older and made a mid-career turn from photography to nursing .
When they met , five years ago , Chaplin and Cunningham hit it off immediately .
They live in the same neighborhood—South Park Slope , in Brooklyn—and often take the subway together to the hospital , which is on East Seventy-seventh Street , in Manhattan .
Along the way , the two I.C.U .
nurses talk about everything from the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and dangerous procedure of intubation .
These days , the days of -19 , Chaplin and Cunningham inhabit a twilight world that is celebrated by their fellow New Yorkers but only faintly seen .
Cunningham , an admirer of the “ Country Doctor ” photographs that W. Eugene Smith took for Life , in 1948 , wanted to document what was going on in the intensive-care units and got permission from the hospital to bring her camera to work .
She photographed her friend over two long shifts in mid-April .
Lenox Hill @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with the coronavirus raging through the city , nearly the entire hospital is a critical-care unit .
Chaplin and Cunningham ’ s twelve-hour shifts are a blur of sickness , urgency , risk , and loss .
Trapped by necessity behind their masks and face shields , inhaling their own exhalations , they experience ferocious headaches .
Moments of relief are rare and fleeting .
The hospital P.A .
system plays “ Here Comes the Sun ” when a -19 patient is being discharged , and the staff cheers as the gurney carrying @ @ @ @ @ @ @ too often , though , the Beatles are interrupted by an announcement of a Code Blue : an emergency call for C.P.R .
The death toll is relentless , and older doctors and nurses have told Chaplin that the only thing comparable to -19 was the height of the crisis .
But nothing ever equals anything else .
In those days , no one was “ sheltering in place.
” Now every patient , every colleague , every surface , every friend is a potential threat .
Chaplin , whose roommate left for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ago , comes home to solitude .

Cady Chaplin is an intensive-care nurse at Lenox Hill Hospital. She just turned thirty. Her closest friend at work is Karen Cunningham, who is twenty years older and made a mid-career turn from photography to nursing. When they met, five years ago, Chaplin and Cunningham hit it off immediately. They live in the same neighborhood—South Park Slope, in Brooklyn—and often take the subway together to the hospital, which is on East Seventy-seventh Street, in Manhattan. Along the way, the two I.C.U. nurses talk about everything from the latest Tilda Swinton movie to the intricate and dangerous procedure of intubation.
These days, the days of COVID -19, Chaplin and Cunningham inhabit a twilight world that is celebrated by their fellow New Yorkers but only faintly seen. Cunningham, an admirer of the “Country Doctor” photographs that W. Eugene Smith took for Life, in 1948, wanted to document what was going on in the intensive-care units and got permission from the hospital to bring her camera to work. She photographed her friend over two long shifts in mid-April.


The Mail

Casey Cep ’ s sophisticated analysis of that quintessential New Yorker Dorothy Day made me forget the virus , at least for a few minutes , and look forward to reading John Loughery and Blythe Randolph ’ s biography of the would-be saint ( Books , April 13th ) .
But it also made me want to put in a good word for Forster Batterham , who is sometimes misconstrued as the villain of Day ’ s story .
The usual understanding is that Batterham was an atheist cad who “ did not believe in marriage , ” as Cep @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his collection of Day ’ s letters , reveals that the emotional relationship between the two persisted for years .
Why didn ’ t Batterham marry Day , despite her entreaties ?
Surely their unconventionality as a couple was a significant roadblock , as were their religious disagreements .
( Batterham ’ s relatives , whom I know through my academic endeavors , have told me that he lamented , wryly , that Day “ left me for another man—God.
” ) Perhaps a third factor was that Day had already been married @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she wed shortly after her abortion , and whom she abandoned a year later , in Europe .
Nevertheless , the letters between Day and Batterham show that they remained connected , if at a distance , for the rest of their lives .
Thank you for publishing Jonathan Blitzer ’ s beautiful eulogy for Juan Sanabria , a New York City doorman who passed away from COVID-19 ( Postscript , April 20th ) .
During this time of constant statistical updates about numbers of cases , I.C.U .
admissions , available ventilators @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , it is easy to lose sight of the magnitude of the human tragedy .
By telling the story of one man who became ill , and of the people—his family , his colleagues , and the residents of the building where he worked—who are bereft at his loss , you have enlarged our comprehension of what is happening behind the numbers .
Truly , the only thing spreading more rapidly than the virus is grief .
We , as the No White Saviors team , are writing in response to Ariel Levy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ whose organization operated a dangerous , unregistered medical clinic in Jinja , Uganda ( “ The Mission , ” April 13th ) .
A core tenet of our work is holding missionary and development organizations , such as the one run by Bach , accountable for their unethical actions in local communities .
It is unfortunate that The New Yorker seems to feel that Bach , who is currently under investigation for her role in the deaths of multiple children , is more worthy of a sympathetic profile than those Ugandans whose lives @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The article represents a missed opportunity for the magazine to show how the horrific actions of Bach , like those of others who abuse their power and privilege , harmed the very people she was claiming to help .
We hope to make it clear that this case should never be boiled down to a personal issue between N.W.S .
and Bach .
Our organization was formed out of a collective desire to put justice first and to insure that human rights are upheld .
Levy ’ s piece seems to privilege Bach @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Ugandans .
This is a disservice not only to your readers but to those whose voices are so often ignored .
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 can not reply to every letter .

A Higher Love
Casey Cep’s sophisticated analysis of that quintessential New Yorker Dorothy Day made me forget the virus, at least for a few minutes, and look forward to reading John Loughery and Blythe Randolph’s biography of the would-be saint (Books, April 13th). But it also made me want to put in a good word for Forster Batterham, who is sometimes misconstrued as the villain of Day’s story. The usual understanding is that Batterham was an atheist cad who “did not believe in marriage,” as Cep notes. But Robert Ellsberg, in his collection of Day’s letters, reveals that the emotional relationship between the two persisted for years. Why didn’t Batterham marry Day, despite her entreaties? Surely their unconventionality as a couple was a significant roadblock, as were their religious disagreements. (Batterham’s relatives, whom I know through my academic endeavors, have told me that he lamented, wryly, that Day “left me for another man—God.”) Perhaps a third factor was that Day had already been married once, to Berkeley Tobey, whom she wed shortly after her abortion, and whom she abandoned a year later, in Europe. Nevertheless, the letters between Day and Batterham show that they remained connected, if at a distance, for the rest of their lives.
Jack Selzer
State College, Penn.
The Dimensions of Grief
Thank you for publishing Jonathan Blitzer’s beautiful eulogy for Juan Sanabria, a New York City doorman who passed away from COVID-19 (Postscript, April 20th). During this time of constant statistical updates about numbers of cases, I.C.U. admissions, available ventilators, and deaths owing to the pandemic, it is easy to lose sight of the magnitude of the human tragedy. By telling the story of one man who became ill, and of the people—his family, his colleagues, and the residents of the building where he worked—who are bereft at his loss, you have enlarged our comprehension of what is happening behind the numbers. Truly, the only thing spreading more rapidly than the virus is grief.
Elizabeth M. Swift
Sylva, N.C.
Mission in Uganda
We, as the No White Saviors team, are writing in response to Ariel Levy’s article about Renée Bach, whose organization operated a dangerous, unregistered medical clinic in Jinja, Uganda (“The Mission,” April 13th). A core tenet of our work is holding missionary and development organizations, such as the one run by Bach, accountable for their unethical actions in local communities. It is unfortunate that The New Yorker seems to feel that Bach, who is currently under investigation for her role in the deaths of multiple children, is more worthy of a sympathetic profile than those Ugandans whose lives were irreversibly affected by her choices. The article represents a missed opportunity for the magazine to show how the horrific actions of Bach, like those of others who abuse their power and privilege, harmed the very people she was claiming to help.
We hope to make it clear that this case should never be boiled down to a personal issue between N.W.S. and Bach. Our organization was formed out of a collective desire to put justice first and to insure that human rights are upheld. Levy’s piece seems to privilege Bach’s feelings over the lives of Ugandans. This is a disservice not only to your readers but to those whose voices are so often ignored.
Alaso Olivia Patience, Kelsey Nielsen, and Lubega Wendy
Kampala, Uganda
•
Letters should be sent with the writer’s name, address, and daytime phone number via e-mail to themail@newyorker.com. Letters may be edited for length and clarity, and may be published in any medium. We regret that owing to the volume of correspondence we cannot reply to every letter.


newyorker--2020-04-27--Slide Show: New Yorker Cartoons May 4, 2020

“ I got you a rat to remind you of the subway .
”

“I got you a rat to remind you of the subway.”
Cartoon by Liza Donnelly


newyorker--2020-04-27--A Pre-Pandemic Night Out with Stephen Malkmus

On a Monday evening , back when such places were still open , the singer and guitarist Stephen Malkmus took a seat at Sharlene ’ s , a dive bar on Flatbush Avenue , in Brooklyn , where happy hour runs from 1 to 7 p.m .
It was just before the release of “ Traditional Techniques , ” the second album that Malkmus , who is fifty-three , has made without the Jicks , his longtime backing band , or as a member of Pavement , the indie-rock group he fronted during the nineteen-nineties .
He described the album @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bit ironic.
” The phrase was borrowed from the German philosopher Theodor Adorno , who , in 1965 , characterized the Beatles ’ music as “ no more than traditional techniques in a degraded form.
” “ I was a little stoned that day , ” Malkmus said .
“ I thought , I ’ d like to attach myself to the Frankfurt School .
That makes me seem smart.
” The record features non-Western instrumentation ( rabab , kaval , udu , daf ) and borrows from contemporary African artists , such @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the desert-rock band Tinariwen .
The results are rich , dynamic , and pleasantly warm .
Besides Adorno , the title also alludes to the folk LPs put out by niche labels such as Vanguard and Folkways in the eighties .
“ There ’ s this cottage industry of labels where the musicians look like math teachers , ” he said .
“ They wear total normie outfits .
It ’ s normie radicalism.
” Though it has since been corrected , “ Traditional ” was briefly misspelled on the album ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Malkmus said .
“ It kind of worked.
” Sharlene ’ s is a few blocks southeast of Barclays Center , where the Brooklyn Nets were scheduled to play the Phoenix Suns that night .
( Weeks later , the N.B.A .
suspended the season , because of the coronavirus outbreak , and four Nets players tested positive for covid-19 . )
In the mid-nineties , when alternative culture was reaching a sarcastic apex , indie rock and athletics felt fundamentally at odds .
( Skateboarding was cool , but professional , uniform-requiring @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be taken seriously . )
As the guitarist and vocalist in Pavement , a group that has been credibly dubbed the greatest indie-rock band of all time , Malkmus became the central avatar of the vaguely aloof slacker aesthetic .
Pavement ’ s music was stylishly disaffected ; its most ardent fans were bookish outsiders .
( The writer Chuck Klosterman once noted that the band has “ a lot of abstract credibility among people who get mad at the radio.
” ) Yet Malkmus has always been a sports fan .
He @ @ @ @ @ @ @ two years away from qualifying for the senior team in his club league—and speaks about various N.B.A .
franchises and players with casual fluency .
As he headed to the arena , he described himself as “ post-team.
” He wore a blue sweater , a terry-cloth wristband , and a Milwaukee Bucks hat .
“ I started as a college-basketball fan , because my father was really into U.C.L.A .
They were a pretty progressive team in terms of the type of basketball they played .
They dominated the early seventies , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ come and go .
In the last fifteen years , I realized that if I have to like a pro sport—well , I don ’ t have to—I relate to basketball.
” He lives in Portland , Oregon , but he does not consider himself a serious Trail Blazers fan .
“ I feel like a person without roots .
I ’ m from central California , so I used to go to Sacramento games.
” The city ’ s team , the Kings , had just moved there .
“ They came @ @ @ @ @ @ @ not particularly good .
I ’ m not going to throw my allegiance down , ” he said , laughing .
“ We ’ re transient people in California.
” While the players warmed up on the court , Malkmus cracked open a tallboy of Brooklyn Lager .
“ I would like to be one of those guys more than any other athlete , ” he said , as they stretched and shot baskets .
“ I know it takes an incredible amount of work , and travel , and boring nights , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ like to be hanging with James Harden and LeBron at some cool after-party in L.A. with secret bottle service.
” Barclays Center contains a windowless cinder-block room with the words “ Love ” and “ JOY ” posted on the wall .
It is known as the Meditation Room .
Though the door is often locked , it is intended as a place for hysterical fans to pause and gather themselves .
Malkmus said that sports have never made him cry .
At his most worked up , he might curse at the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ unusual .
He keeps his cool .
That evening , the Nets won , 119–97 .
“ Another great night for the city of Brooklyn , ” he said dryly .
♦

Stephen Malkmus Illustration by João Fazenda
On a Monday evening, back when such places were still open, the singer and guitarist Stephen Malkmus took a seat at Sharlene’s, a dive bar on Flatbush Avenue, in Brooklyn, where happy hour runs from 1 to 7 p.m. It was just before the release of “Traditional Techniques,” the second album that Malkmus, who is fifty-three, has made without the Jicks, his longtime backing band, or as a member of Pavement, the indie-rock group he fronted during the nineteen-nineties. He described the album’s title as “a little bit ironic.” The phrase was borrowed from the German philosopher Theodor Adorno, who, in 1965, characterized the Beatles’ music as “no more than traditional techniques in a degraded form.”
“I was a little stoned that day,” Malkmus said. “I thought, I’d like to attach myself to the Frankfurt School. That makes me seem smart.” The record features non-Western instrumentation (rabab, kaval, udu, daf ) and borrows from contemporary African artists, such as the Tuareg guitarist Mdou Moctar and the desert-rock band Tinariwen. The results are rich, dynamic, and pleasantly warm. Besides Adorno, the title also alludes to the folk LPs put out by niche labels such as Vanguard and Folkways in the eighties. “There’s this cottage industry of labels where the musicians look like math teachers,” he said. “They wear total normie outfits. It’s normie radicalism.” Though it has since been corrected, “Traditional” was briefly misspelled on the album’s cover. “Trad atonal,” Malkmus said. “It kind of worked.”
Sharlene’s is a few blocks southeast of Barclays Center, where the Brooklyn Nets were scheduled to play the Phoenix Suns that night. (Weeks later, the N.B.A. suspended the season, because of the coronavirus outbreak, and four Nets players tested positive for covid-19.) In the mid-nineties, when alternative culture was reaching a sarcastic apex, indie rock and athletics felt fundamentally at odds. (Skateboarding was cool, but professional, uniform-requiring sports were too earnest and all-American to be taken seriously.) As the guitarist and vocalist in Pavement, a group that has been credibly dubbed the greatest indie-rock band of all time, Malkmus became the central avatar of the vaguely aloof slacker aesthetic. Pavement’s music was stylishly disaffected; its most ardent fans were bookish outsiders. (The writer Chuck Klosterman once noted that the band has “a lot of abstract credibility among people who get mad at the radio.”) Yet Malkmus has always been a sports fan. He is an avid tennis player—he’s two years away from qualifying for the senior team in his club league—and speaks about various N.B.A. franchises and players with casual fluency.
As he headed to the arena, he described himself as “post-team.” He wore a blue sweater, a terry-cloth wristband, and a Milwaukee Bucks hat. “I started as a college-basketball fan, because my father was really into U.C.L.A. They were a pretty progressive team in terms of the type of basketball they played. They dominated the early seventies,” he said. “Now I come and go. In the last fifteen years, I realized that if I have to like a pro sport—well, I don’t have to—I relate to basketball.” He lives in Portland, Oregon, but he does not consider himself a serious Trail Blazers fan. “I feel like a person without roots. I’m from central California, so I used to go to Sacramento games.” The city’s team, the Kings, had just moved there. “They came from Kansas City, and they were not particularly good. I’m not going to throw my allegiance down,” he said, laughing. “We’re transient people in California.”
While the players warmed up on the court, Malkmus cracked open a tallboy of Brooklyn Lager. “I would like to be one of those guys more than any other athlete,” he said, as they stretched and shot baskets. “I know it takes an incredible amount of work, and travel, and boring nights, and airplane flights. But I would like to be hanging with James Harden and LeBron at some cool after-party in L.A. with secret bottle service.”
Barclays Center contains a windowless cinder-block room with the words “Love” and “JOY” posted on the wall. It is known as the Meditation Room. Though the door is often locked, it is intended as a place for hysterical fans to pause and gather themselves. Malkmus said that sports have never made him cry. At his most worked up, he might curse at the TV, but even that’s unusual. He keeps his cool. That evening, the Nets won, 119–97. “Another great night for the city of Brooklyn,” he said dryly. ♦


newyorker--2020-04-27--“The Wish for a Good Young Country Doctor,” by Allan Gurganus

“ They were so grateful there was somebody to send for .
And , when he did turn up , Markus was a fine looker , with a deep voice .
Sober and polite and right out of an accredited Illinois school—well , it reassured .
Little beard , such dark eyes .
And with a plain way that out this far means real skill .
No wonder the worship started !
Even old Doc Eaton couldn ’ t have got such a sudden following .
Old Eaton , see , people still tipped a hat to him downtown .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ the folks in sight ?
But they knew about his serving those family-way city girls , and about certain other mistakes he ’ d buried .
Plus , there was a drug habit he got into real bad at the end .
Strange , somebody like that waiting so late to find a vice .
Like some delayed vacation for him to retire into .
Old Eaton soon drifted into falling asleep while standing there mid-operation , hands ’ d fly up all of a sudden palsied , so the mayor and a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , for Petrie , fresh as paint out of university .
Fourth in his class , too .
“ But , even if Doc Petrie had come during a normal healthy season around here , he woulda been quite a standout .
I mean , unmarried , fine-looking as still shows here , if in a darker-than-Swedish kind of way—but that would ’ ve been romantic to all these towheaded braided girls for miles hereabouts .
“ He kept asking locals to please , please just call him Mark , but ‘ doctor @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
And those folks of ours that hadn ’ t yet come down with the cholera ?
Instead of hiding from Petrie , they took to bringing him fresh-dug beets from out their gardens and sending their daughters over with the food .
Matchmaking !
And here it was the middle of our terrible epidemic year .
I guess it was superstition .
Because the more folks got sick the healthier and taller did that boy look .
He ’ d turn up at church , and , my mother ’ s mother @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Petrie , white shirt , black tie , black suit like you see here , he walked into the Lutheran chapel and the whole place , choir and sourpuss preacher and all , applauded .
.
.
.
It made him stay away , of course .
Man never set foot in there again .
And he ’ d only come into their sanctuary hoping to find a little support from On High , a little quiet , relief from farm folks that were turning gray and becoming a puddle at both ends @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the cholera bug does to you , I guess .
Liquefies .
It ’ s awful catching .
And the doctor was soon the only person brave or fool enough to duck under the orange quarantine ropes , ignoring warning signs he himself had nailed to the doors of those farmhouses worst hit .
“ Locals were real glad Doc Petrie was up on the techniques of 1849 from our best state school .
Taxpayer money well spent .
But , listen , there were no techniques , except don ’ t wash @ @ @ @ @ @ @ where the poisons will drift , which was exactly what they went out and did , poor fools .
And too soon the Mengers and the Hurleys , then the Hopwoods and the Mortensens , they all come down with it .
‘ Come down , ’ you hear me ?
Going back like this , I fall right into my grandmother ’ s voice .
Now , after suchlike buildup , you might think there ’ s not much of a story to the rest of it .
But what ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ up around him during the worst part of our plague .
All La Verne left enough bread puddings and bushelled fruit outside his house to where he couldn ’ t open the front door of a morning .
Had to go out around the back to see what gifts had him so locked in .
Doc kept busy , writing off for help , him so new to the practice and out here in this throwback sickness .
But most doctors elsewhere had their own hands full .
Still , Petrie made newspaper @ @ @ @ @ @ @ along .
He listed do ’ s and don ’ ts , most of them a scared boy ’ s purest guesswork .
Mainly meant to keep folks ’ panic down .
And , at the end , he added how important it was that people stick by each other through the worst .
The doctor wrote how civilization depends on nobody going untended .
“ And then Petrie ‘ strongly suggested ’ that families gather into bands to insure that no matter how bad it got somebody ’ d stay put and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tribes , especially those with farmland adjoining , they went along with him on this .
And , oh , but that sure saved many a local .
Later , they gave Doc Petrie all the credit .
His idea : the Health Alliances , they were called , and that still holds .
Nowadays , they ’ re mainly used for tornado-watch and swapping Christmas gifts .
Community granges , like , but they ’ re still called the Petrie Alliances .
“ Was a real warm June , that June , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ but good , you know , for how stuff grows in soil this black .
Young girls brought him masses of zinnias , and they got into his house , and folks heard tell that more than one threw herself at him .
What he did , who knows .
And yet you kind of hope he at least tried something with a few of our better-looking ones that were spunky .
They weren ’ t all peaches , trust me .
“ Petrie would be home in his rental , hurting his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ burn the infection off them , washing up , and shucking off his pants and throwing hot water and soap even over his good shoes , standing there alone wearing nothing but his shirttails , and more girls would come in .
Folks swear that for weeks there were virgins turning up at all hours of the night .
And their parents right aware of where the daughters ’ d gone and what for at this ungodly hour .
Guess I can still hear them : ‘ Now , daughter , don ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ get a jump on Doc ahead of you .
Why , sister , when this is over , after all he ’ s done to help our county , he can stand for governor , sure .
They say Boss Brinsley alone gave him two hundred-dollar gold pieces when their spoiled littlest girl pulled through .
But brush back your hair off your face , why don ’ t you .
Show those features .
Grace Cunningham is not a patch on anybody pretty as you.
’ Oh , but it was a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to God .
“ Now , this , ” and here she awkwardly angled off the stool , finally scooping up the painting and clamping its lower edge against the glass counter between us .
“ This portrait of Petrie came to me , it ’ d be just five weeks back .
Been hanging up in the public library on the square since our town fathers commissioned his portrait , eighteen and fifty.
” Theodosia finally placed into my hands the oil painting .
His image was pulling away from old yellow @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a shop in Cedar Rapids .
“ This painting , see , was done from a daguerreotype they got his mother to send .
Talented local lady painted it , one Miss Beech , a teacher who ’ d been at the church the few times he set foot in there before they applauded him off .
He still kept introducing himself as Mark—maybe it was what his mother called him .
But he ’ d got too important to ever be that casual around .

Most kids lose or break their toys. I curated mine.
In 1976, the University of Iowa renamed an existing history-and-literature program America Studies. It drafted me and some other merry hippie Ivy graduates to blanket the state and gather “existing folk manifestations.” We plundered far-flung Salvation Army thrift stores and rural junk shops. We hunted the simple tools and dolls that our essays overinterpreted. Those startup treasures helped found my folk collection, one that’s not unknown today.
Handwrought nineteenth-century artifacts were criminally cheap then. “Midwesterners don’t know what they have, or had,” we Easterners gloated after country raids.
Prior to radio, before television, savage winters spent indoors turned many German-Americans into excellent wood-carvers. Unable to afford child whimsies (even from the Sears catalogue), a farmer just whittled his brood’s amusements. Those things sure lasted! Here we have a horse-drawn-farm-cart toy, scaled for one specific kid. You can still feel the father’s February yearning for a warm harvest, his love for the mismatched horses hand-portrayed and for his boy, born to inherit Dobbin, Paint, and the family acreage.
These days, I’m sometimes interviewed about my collection. Lazier reporters ask me to name my most valuable find. It was actually a gift. I divide my career into two rough phases: “Toys” and “Post-Childish Things.” And this—hung right over my rolltop desk—still marks the turning point between the two.
We cheerful avid youngsters, lured to Iowa City, were given five twenties a month to spend on outsider art. Our professor, born in Rome, jokingly called this “ethnographic colonialism within one’s native land.” His lectures were persuasive and dynamic; he was callous in the pan-gender bedding of his students, yet sensitive to how all empires fall. He’d grown up amid artistic beauty that was broken to pieces but left in place.
We set off every Friday full of caffeine and an acquisitive sleekness that sometimes passed for sexy. Wearing thrift-shop moose-motif sweaters, driving borrowed jalopies, we were cerebral hucksters out to pillage the second-flight antique shops of eastern Iowa, western Illinois. The odder our finds, the brainier we felt. Uncover some handwrought gimcrack, write an article about it, read it aloud in class, then seek publication in some journal suitably obscure. Our Roman professor stressed the long view, advising us, “Sapete sempre che voi siete stranieri . . . in un Paese molto più strano.” And, this being a state school, he immediately translated, “Always know you are strangers . . . in a land far stranger.”
We clocked many country miles during a long Friday’s “picking.” Toward the end of such a trek, my classmates were heading back from the western edge of Illinois, bound for Iowa City, in a borrowed Ford wagon; I followed in my overloaded Jeep. We stopped for gas and bathrooms. Then the others waved goodbye. I’d spent eighty of my allotted hundred. My haul? A rural mailbox, made in a 1946 shop class and shaped like not one or two but three Scottish terriers, two white, the middle one black, whose conjoined mouths accepted letters, parcels. A pink chintz hostess smock edged with so much nineteen-forties rickrack it looked all but Aztec. And my hands-down most ironic iconic Find of the Week: a handsomely lettered five-foot-long sign explaining, “You’ve Got to Be a Football Hero to Get Along with the Beautiful Girls. THEREFORE, GO TECH!”
This kind of joke was then thought “smart.” And no one was more enslaved to fashionable smartness than a hyper-educated boy of twenty-six with a twenty-nine-inch waist and, so Mother always hinted, a colossal I.Q. I look back on him with a curatorial mixture of pride, amusement, and pity. I think he condescended to the very loot he intended to save then praise. (But surely that problem’s built into the notion of taking a graduate degree in “self-taught artists”!)
Though tired and hungry, I felt greedy for one more twenty-dollar prize. Proud as I was of my football pep-squad board, I knew I’d not yet found this outing’s “it.” I imagined discovering, in every dairy barn I passed, some primitive oil portrait of Lincoln, painted when he was yet a beardless state legislator here.
My friends swore they’d save me a stool at Hamburg Inn No. 1. The blue-plate special, this being Friday, was surely fried fish. Sunset offered a limitless salmon-orange. In one farmyard, a tractor tire on its side—painted white—had been filled with soil, then white geraniums. Dusk now turned these all the colors of a campfire. Tidied fields shadowed toward something sinister. And should that huge rooster be crowing right at sundown? I sped through a pretty little town called La Verne. And, just as its propane gasworks and beauty parlor (itchily called LuAnn’s House o’ Hair) gave way to corn-green countryside, I spied a dangling Colonial sign whose girlish freehand promised:
Theodosia’s Antiques
(real and imagined)
Only Thing Reasonable Here?
Our Prices
“Well, hell. Somebody’s thinking,” I said aloud.
I aimed my Jeep toward the unlit store, which, up close, looked out of business. I’d already popped my clutch to find reverse when I flicked on my headlights, then my high beams, then braked. That cigar-store-Indian thing bent in the window? With jewelry all over it? It appeared to be either some dressmaker’s dummy or perhaps a human being. Oosh, it’d definitely moved.
“Evening,” I said, smiling through the door chimes’ sweet-and-sour tinkling. “You must be the eponymous The-o . . .”
“Herself.” I warranted one courtly, bitter nod.
Caught hovering at her window, worried this might seem invitational, the owner must’ve made a fast crablike retreat to a high stool. The climb still had her panting. She presided behind an outmoded silver cash register that itself looked like a costly toy, circa 1923.
What had bent her so? Fever? Birth defect? Her spine showed the exact angle of an opened safety pin; its clasp, her hooded face. Theodosia, weighing less than ninety pounds, seemed to wear her best stuff. A county’s worth of timepieces were pinned to her otherwise concave chest. Ladies’ watches, some with clock faces visible, others locketed away, a few on pulleys that allowed easy consulting, quick return. Their metals glinted across her front like military decorations.
It was the day’s last stop, so I quickly scanned, nose wrinkling. I sometimes imagined I could smell the hidden treasure. Where was “it”? Maybe lurking within reach of this “it” girl. Her backbone might’ve been cruelly bowed, but her deep-set eyes gleamed my way, briar-sharp. Theodosia seemed one of those maimed or homely people who—feeling themselves unimprovable—make a militant point of glaring you down. Seated on high, she flaunted her un-assets as a form of deficit flirting.
At that age, I still likely looked my best. (I remained ignorant of my face value, even while trading on the bargains it brought. You really notice your looks only once you’ve lost them.) Now barging toward the poorest-lit corner of her two-room shop, I felt “it,” hiding. Ballroom chairs stacked to the ceiling. Narrow pathways corkscrewed tributes to her bent spine. Theodosia offered no chat, none of the usual jolly prying: “So, where’d you folks say you’re from? You with the Depression-glass convention in Moline, betcha.” Nothing but her alum gaze, her arms crossed over six pounds of locket clocks.


newyorker--2020-04-27--“Eviction,” by Eavan Boland

“Eviction,” by Eavan Boland

Back from Dublin , my grandmother finds an eviction notice on her door .
Now she is in court for @ @ @ @ @ are amused .
These are the Petty Sessions , this is Drogheda , this is @ @ @ @ @ comments fill a column in the newspaper .
Was the notice well served ?
Was @ @ @ @ @ Is she a weekly or a monthly tenant ?
In which one of the plaintiffs @ @ @ @ @ registered ?
The case comes to an end , is dismissed .
Leaving behind the @ @ @ @ @ the room she entered .
Leaving behind the reason I have always resisted history .
@ @ @ @ @ in tears .
A nation is rising to the light .
History notes the second @ @ @ @ @ Nor does it know the answer as to why on a winter evening in a @ @ @ @ @ the page of the Drogheda Argus and Leinster Journal , 1904 , knowing as I @ @ @ @ @ no agency , none at all .
Nor my rage .

Audio: Read by the author.
Back from Dublin, my grandmother
finds an eviction notice on her door.
Now she is in court for rent arrears.
The lawyers are amused.
These are the Petty Sessions,
this is Drogheda, this is the Bank Holiday.
Their comments fill a column in the newspaper.
Was the notice well served?
Was it served at all?
Is she a weekly or a monthly tenant?
In which one of the plaintiffs’ rent books
is she registered?
The case comes to an end, is dismissed.
Leaving behind the autumn evening.
Leaving behind the room she entered.
Leaving behind the reason I have always
resisted history.
A woman leaves a courtroom in tears.
A nation is rising to the light.
History notes the second, not the first.
Nor does it know the answer as to why
on a winter evening
in a modern Ireland
I linger over the page of the Drogheda
Argus and Leinster Journal, 1904,
knowing as I do that my attention has
no agency, none at all. Nor my rage.


newyorker--2020-04-27--The Four Seasons Goes Green Zone

The Four Seasons Goes Green Zone

The New York Four Seasons is not the most welcoming hotel , architecturally speaking .
Designed by I. M. Pei and situated on East Fifty-seventh Street , between Madison and Park , it greets visitors with an intimidating slab of limestone façade and a metal awning that seems to want to clobber you .
Reviewing the building in the Times when it opened , in 1993 , Paul Goldberger was taken by “ a reception desk that looks like a Judgment Day platform.
” Rooms now start at twelve hundred and ninety-five dollars .
Or they did , two months @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Four Seasons closed in March .
On April 2nd it reopened , transformed into the city ’ s cheapest and most civic-minded hotel—the first to host health-care workers free of charge .
As of last week , there were a hundred and sixty such guests , sleeping , showering , and enjoying grab-and-go meals between long shifts of attempting to save the lives of Covid-19 patients .
All are screened each time they enter the hotel , which is now using its more human-scaled entrance on East Fifty-eighth Street .
Nurses take @ @ @ @ @ @ @ before people are admitted to the “ green zone ” ( or banished to the “ red zone ” for possible off-site treatment ) .
Videos provided by the Four Seasons show that the lobby ’ s usual cadre of super-attentive valets , bellhops , and concierges has been replaced by impassive metal stanchions , green directional arrows , and yellow crime-scene tape to enforce social distancing , although the onyx , marble , and soaring ceilings remain .
“ It ’ s basically hospital housing , but Four Seasons-style , ” explained @ @ @ @ @ @ @ physician at Columbia University Medical Center , speaking on the phone from her eighth-floor room .
“ You know why you ’ re here when you walk into the building , ” she said , describing the lobby ’ s vibe as “ purposeful.
” But , she added , “ the bed itself is still a Four Seasons bed.
” Like many guests , she was keeping away from home so as not to expose her family to the virus ; Kass has a son with a compromised immune system due to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was really a godsend , ” she said .
“ I have so many doctor friends who are living in their basements , or a closet .
I have friends who have rented Airbnbs .
I have a friend who rented an R.V .
She and her husband are both E.R .
doctors , and their daughter had a liver transplant like my son did , so they moved to the R.V .
in the driveway and their au pair is living with the children inside the house.
” Another hotel guest is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who had volunteered for New York duty .
She flew in without knowing how she ’ d be accommodated , so it was a nice surprise , she said , when she heard , upon landing , that the Four Seasons had a room for her .
She found many of the usual amenities—fancy shampoo , body wash , zillion-thread-count sheets—but also some more of-the-moment ones : “ Big things of hand sanitizer , paper towels , disinfectant , gloves , biohazard bags to put our scrubs in as we walk in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ let alone turndown service , but Burnett said that guests can leave bags of dirty towels and linens out in the hallway for pickup , reducing the number of interactions between guests and staff .
( According to a spokesperson , the hotel has roughly a hundred employees still on the job , down from its usual five hundred . )
The New York Four Seasons took this mission on at the prompting of its owner , Ty Warner , the Beanie Baby mogul .
Rudy Tauscher , the hotel ’ s general @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a mere five days—with the help of International SOS , a medical and travel-security consultancy .
A German native , Tauscher has been working in New York hospitality for more than twenty years .
On 9/11 , he was managing the Trump International Hotel and Tower , which took in guests who had been working in the World Trade Center .
He remembers hosting people from Cantor Fitzgerald .
“ It was terrible , ” he said .
He added that the coronavirus pandemic poses a different kind of challenge , and not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his staff : “ We ’ re very service-driven .
The human touch and connecting with humans is in our DNA , as with most of the luxury industry .
But we are eliminating as much of that as possible.
” He sounded a bit rueful , or maybe just sleep-deprived .
He , too , is self-isolating from family and friends—as well as from guests and staff .
“ No more mingling , ” he said .
“ It ’ s all very abstract at this point.
” Several other city hotels @ @ @ @ @ @ @ encouragement , have followed in the Four Seasons ’ wake , including the InterContinental Times Square , Room Mate Grace , Yotel , and the Hudson Hotel .
( Not the Trump International , however ; as Tauscher pointed out , it is in a different category , owing to its many floors of residential condominiums . )
Wythe Hotel , in Williamsburg , has partnered with N.Y.U .
Langone to house some of that hospital ’ s staff .
Like Tauscher , Peter Lawrence , Wythe ’ s owner , expressed a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at present circumstances .
“ Hospitality people solve issues with empathy and kindness , by gathering people together and cooking for them and caring for them .
And none of our skills are relevant at the moment ; some are even dangerous , ” he wrote in an e-mail .
“ But we are starting to do our small part now.
” ♦

The New York Four Seasons is not the most welcoming hotel, architecturally speaking. Designed by I. M. Pei and situated on East Fifty-seventh Street, between Madison and Park, it greets visitors with an intimidating slab of limestone façade and a metal awning that seems to want to clobber you. Reviewing the building in the Times when it opened, in 1993, Paul Goldberger was taken by “a reception desk that looks like a Judgment Day platform.” Rooms now start at twelve hundred and ninety-five dollars. Or they did, two months ago.
Like so many businesses, the Four Seasons closed in March. On April 2nd it reopened, transformed into the city’s cheapest and most civic-minded hotel—the first to host health-care workers free of charge. As of last week, there were a hundred and sixty such guests, sleeping, showering, and enjoying grab-and-go meals between long shifts of attempting to save the lives of Covid-19 patients. All are screened each time they enter the hotel, which is now using its more human-scaled entrance on East Fifty-eighth Street. Nurses take temperatures and run through checklists of symptoms before people are admitted to the “green zone” (or banished to the “red zone” for possible off-site treatment). Videos provided by the Four Seasons show that the lobby’s usual cadre of super-attentive valets, bellhops, and concierges has been replaced by impassive metal stanchions, green directional arrows, and yellow crime-scene tape to enforce social distancing, although the onyx, marble, and soaring ceilings remain.
“It’s basically hospital housing, but Four Seasons-style,” explained Dr. Dara Kass, an E.R. physician at Columbia University Medical Center, speaking on the phone from her eighth-floor room. “You know why you’re here when you walk into the building,” she said, describing the lobby’s vibe as “purposeful.” But, she added, “the bed itself is still a Four Seasons bed.” Like many guests, she was keeping away from home so as not to expose her family to the virus; Kass has a son with a compromised immune system due to a liver transplant. “This room was really a godsend,” she said. “I have so many doctor friends who are living in their basements, or a closet. I have friends who have rented Airbnbs. I have a friend who rented an R.V. She and her husband are both E.R. doctors, and their daughter had a liver transplant like my son did, so they moved to the R.V. in the driveway and their au pair is living with the children inside the house.”
“I got you a rat to remind you of the subway.” Cartoon by Liza Donnelly Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
Another hotel guest is Hallie Burnett, a nurse from Houston who had volunteered for New York duty. She flew in without knowing how she’d be accommodated, so it was a nice surprise, she said, when she heard, upon landing, that the Four Seasons had a room for her. She found many of the usual amenities—fancy shampoo, body wash, zillion-thread-count sheets—but also some more of-the-moment ones: “Big things of hand sanitizer, paper towels, disinfectant, gloves, biohazard bags to put our scrubs in as we walk in the door.” There is no housekeeping, let alone turndown service, but Burnett said that guests can leave bags of dirty towels and linens out in the hallway for pickup, reducing the number of interactions between guests and staff. (According to a spokesperson, the hotel has roughly a hundred employees still on the job, down from its usual five hundred.)
The New York Four Seasons took this mission on at the prompting of its owner, Ty Warner, the Beanie Baby mogul. Rudy Tauscher, the hotel’s general manager, organized the operational changes—effected in a mere five days—with the help of International SOS, a medical and travel-security consultancy. A German native, Tauscher has been working in New York hospitality for more than twenty years. On 9/11, he was managing the Trump International Hotel and Tower, which took in guests who had been working in the World Trade Center. He remembers hosting people from Cantor Fitzgerald. “It was terrible,” he said. He added that the coronavirus pandemic poses a different kind of challenge, and not only because of the health risks to his staff: “We’re very service-driven. The human touch and connecting with humans is in our DNA, as with most of the luxury industry. But we are eliminating as much of that as possible.” He sounded a bit rueful, or maybe just sleep-deprived. He, too, is self-isolating from family and friends—as well as from guests and staff. “No more mingling,” he said. “It’s all very abstract at this point.”
Several other city hotels, with Governor Andrew Cuomo’s encouragement, have followed in the Four Seasons’ wake, including the InterContinental Times Square, Room Mate Grace, Yotel, and the Hudson Hotel. (Not the Trump International, however; as Tauscher pointed out, it is in a different category, owing to its many floors of residential condominiums.) Wythe Hotel, in Williamsburg, has partnered with N.Y.U. Langone to house some of that hospital’s staff. Like Tauscher, Peter Lawrence, Wythe’s owner, expressed a kind of existential hotelier’s regret at present circumstances. “Hospitality people solve issues with empathy and kindness, by gathering people together and cooking for them and caring for them. And none of our skills are relevant at the moment; some are even dangerous,” he wrote in an e-mail. “But we are starting to do our small part now.” ♦
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-04-27--More Money More Problems in Kenya Barris’s “#blackAF”

Think of the hashtag # blackAF as a millennial remix of mantras of self-love— “ Black is beautiful , ” “ I ’ m black and I ’ m proud.
” The phrase , printed on T-shirts and stamped on skin , has become a kind of shorthand for a politics of affirmation .
But does it also veil a prickly insecurity ?
“ Black as fuck ” is the kind of thing an artist or a businessman might say about his work or his behavior in order to foreclose critique .
After all , who is anyone to question @ @ @ @ @ @ @ earnestly , the phrase makes some people wary : Why the fuck do you feel that you have to proclaim your blackness ?
On the other hand : Why the fuck is it such big deal to you if I do ?
The forty-five-year-old showrunner , producer , and writer Kenya Barris wants to be the commercial auteur of this identity paranoia .
He is best known for the show “ black-ish , ” which débuted on ABC in 2014 , garnered a wave of hosannas from critics , and spawned two spinoffs @ @ @ @ @ @ @ potentially hundred-million-dollar deal with Netflix , a boon to his long-term project to make risky television about the black bourgeoisie .
In “ # blackAF , ” Barris ’ s inaugural Netflix series , he stars as Kenya , the filthy-rich creator of a successful show , called “ black-ish , ” who lives in a McMansion in Los Angeles with his six children and his lawyer wife , Joya ( a very funny and liberated Rashida Jones ) .
“ black-ish ” fans will get the most out of “ # blackAF @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , foulmouthed twin .
As the Hollywood producer Tim Story , playing himself , puts it , in a brutal rib midway through the season , “ ‘ black-ish ’ seems to tap into the hearts and minds of fifty-five-year-old white women.
” “ # blackAF ” has alienated some black critics , who have argued that it simply retreads passé conversations about race and authenticity .
The trap of seeking to be representative is one of the show ’ s subjects ; still , Kenya ’ s personal dysphoria inevitably says something @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Non-critics seem to have a higher tolerance for the show ’ s flaws , perhaps because it ’ s funny .
Barris isn ’ t trying to make his magnum opus—he just wants to blow off some steam .
One of the show ’ s strengths is its filleting of stale network-sitcom character silhouettes .
The Barris family is a picture of caustic dysfunction .
One son is a “ pathological fucking liar ” ; Kenya berates another for being “ soft.
” The youngest , a baby , toddles into the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shit my diaper , Mommy.
” It ’ s nothing for Kenya to call his daughter a “ THOT , ” or for her to retort that he is a “ dick.
” Kenya ’ s garish Balenciaga tracksuits cloak a miser who worries that , in moving on up , from Inglewood to Encino , he ’ s become a fraud , artistic and otherwise , and that he ’ s passed the trait on to his privileged children .
In “ black-ish , ” Barris sublimated his creative fear—that he was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from the hunger of the “ black wave ” in Hollywood—into the character of Dre , the head of the “ urban division ” at an advertising agency .
In “ # blackAF , ” you wonder , and worry more than a bit , about whether Barris is acting at all .
The obvious corollary to “ # blackAF ” is “ Curb Your Enthusiasm , ” but Barris is no Larry David , not yet—his writing doesn ’ t do enough to distinguish the viewpoint of the show from that of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” also contains shades of “ The Bernie Mac Show ” and “ Real Husbands of Hollywood , ” Kevin Hart ’ s prescient , self-skewering series for BET .
But Kenya ’ s nouveau-riche anxieties belong most clearly to a broader tradition of black-male complaint : his wild swings from pomposity to soul-deadness and self-doubt recall comedians like Richard Pryor and Chris Rock , and rappers from Future to Jay-Z .
His identity crisis is represented by a fat gold chain , which he makes plans to sell— “ am I a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stays on his neck all season long , an albatross .
I was raised by nineties black television .
UPN , Fox , and the WB were flush with sitcoms that featured black characters living in all-black worlds who didn ’ t seem to emit a whiff of self-consciousness : “ Martin , ” “ The Wayans Bros. , ” “ Sister , Sister , ” “ Living Single , ” “ A Different World.
” It ’ s said that only now are we living in the golden age of black film @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on a thirst for universal appeal .
The rupture between nineties sitcoms and the current mode of autobiographical black television reflects the fact that black artists have joined the ranks of TV producers , showrunners , and writers .
It also owes something to the investment of the white critical establishment in black culture .
Today ’ s satirical series can feel like extravagant forms of therapy made by power brokers who are dealing with the fact that they are no longer broke or powerless .
Issa Rae has “ Insecure ” ; @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a fictionalization of her early life as a screenwriter .
Hattie , Waithe ’ s avatar , wants to work for the showrunner of “ My Bae , ” a series that she considers pandering and cynical .
Her boss , folding her arms—a gesture of encouragement disguised as one of contempt—suggests that Hattie make her own show .
Whereas “ black-ish ” was shot like a mockumentary , the framing device of “ # blackAF ” comes from Drea ( Iman Benson ) , Kenya ’ s second-oldest daughter and his intellectual @ @ @ @ @ @ @ about her family for her application to the film program at N.Y.U.
, and Kenya outfits her with a film crew .
( “ They shot ‘ The Revenant ’ with less than this , O.K .
?
” she says . )
“ # blackAF ” is a messy show about the mess of making television ; Barris ’ s casting of some of the “ black-ish ” actors , and his recycling of the Greek-chorus motif ( in the earlier show , a team of demographically diverse people at the advertising @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a TV writers ’ room ) gives “ # blackAF ” a television-for-television-writers appeal .
Barris is responding , in part , to the curdling of the Zeitgeist since the Obama era , a period in which any art that seemed to analyze the performance of blackness was immediately deemed resonant .
On each episode of “ black-ish , ” Barris used a trademark monologue to link a character ’ s personal crisis to structural racism .
In “ # blackAF , ” he parodies the speciousness of that device .
“ Being @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are , ” Kenya says , unironically invoking slavery to justify his Mr. Porter addiction .
The show ’ s treatment of Juneteenth performs a similar function , reminding us of the way in which “ black-ish ” commemorated the holiday with a soaring piece of edutainment .
In this series , perhaps truer to life , Juneteenth is just an excuse to drink brown liquor and bake a “ freedom cake.
” In the fifth episode , which stands out for its surge of contained conflict , Kenya is asked to speak @ @ @ @ @ @ @ which he loathes , made by an up-and-coming black director .
Everyone else , white and black , seems to love it .
In advance of the event , he assembles a black-Hollywood counsel , including Tim Story , Will Packer , Ava DuVernay , and Issa Rae—who play themselves—over FaceTime .
“ We do it all the time with white stuff , ” Kenya says , after he realizes that his peers are holding back from giving their true opinion of the film .
“ Why can ’ t we do it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ roundly dismissed by everyone except Waithe , who agrees to sit on the panel with him and to back him up on his critiques of the movie .
But , when the time comes , she sells him out onstage , praising the film and babbling on about the power of representation .
Barris and Waithe are impressively willing to parody themselves , but the result feels like self-defense masquerading as satire .
The other seven episodes blur into one another , lacking story or situation .
I couldn ’ t get enough @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , rich-bitch mom , and I will never complain about a Nia Long cameo , especially one in which she ’ s playing a hustler publicist .
But “ # blackAF ” desperately needs fewer riffs and an expanded character universe to leaven its atmosphere of crushing self-indulgence .
At the end of the season , Kenya has a pat , sitcom-style epiphany while watching a rerun of “ black-ish ” on a family vacation to Fiji .
“ Such a good show , ” he says to himself .
One kind of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” It was another kind that led to “ # blackAF.
” ♦

Think of the hashtag #blackAF as a millennial remix of mantras of self-love—“Black is beautiful,” “I’m black and I’m proud.” The phrase, printed on T-shirts and stamped on skin, has become a kind of shorthand for a politics of affirmation. But does it also veil a prickly insecurity? “Black as fuck” is the kind of thing an artist or a businessman might say about his work or his behavior in order to foreclose critique. After all, who is anyone to question anyone else’s blackness? Employed earnestly, the phrase makes some people wary: Why the fuck do you feel that you have to proclaim your blackness? On the other hand: Why the fuck is it such big deal to you if I do?
The forty-five-year-old showrunner, producer, and writer Kenya Barris wants to be the commercial auteur of this identity paranoia. He is best known for the show “black-ish,” which débuted on ABC in 2014, garnered a wave of hosannas from critics, and spawned two spinoffs. In 2018, he signed a potentially hundred-million-dollar deal with Netflix, a boon to his long-term project to make risky television about the black bourgeoisie. In “#blackAF,” Barris’s inaugural Netflix series, he stars as Kenya, the filthy-rich creator of a successful show, called “black-ish,” who lives in a McMansion in Los Angeles with his six children and his lawyer wife, Joya (a very funny and liberated Rashida Jones). “black-ish” fans will get the most out of “#blackAF,” which is like its rawer, foulmouthed twin. As the Hollywood producer Tim Story, playing himself, puts it, in a brutal rib midway through the season, “ ‘black-ish’ seems to tap into the hearts and minds of fifty-five-year-old white women.”
“#blackAF” has alienated some black critics, who have argued that it simply retreads passé conversations about race and authenticity. The trap of seeking to be representative is one of the show’s subjects; still, Kenya’s personal dysphoria inevitably says something about the state of the black race. Non-critics seem to have a higher tolerance for the show’s flaws, perhaps because it’s funny. Barris isn’t trying to make his magnum opus—he just wants to blow off some steam. One of the show’s strengths is its filleting of stale network-sitcom character silhouettes. The Barris family is a picture of caustic dysfunction. One son is a “pathological fucking liar”; Kenya berates another for being “soft.” The youngest, a baby, toddles into the expansive kitchen and declares, “I shit my diaper, Mommy.” It’s nothing for Kenya to call his daughter a “THOT,” or for her to retort that he is a “dick.”
Kenya’s garish Balenciaga tracksuits cloak a miser who worries that, in moving on up, from Inglewood to Encino, he’s become a fraud, artistic and otherwise, and that he’s passed the trait on to his privileged children. In “black-ish,” Barris sublimated his creative fear—that he was a glorified barrow boy who had benefitted from the hunger of the “black wave” in Hollywood—into the character of Dre, the head of the “urban division” at an advertising agency. In “#blackAF,” you wonder, and worry more than a bit, about whether Barris is acting at all.
The obvious corollary to “#blackAF” is “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” but Barris is no Larry David, not yet—his writing doesn’t do enough to distinguish the viewpoint of the show from that of its repellent protagonist. “#blackAF” also contains shades of “The Bernie Mac Show” and “Real Husbands of Hollywood,” Kevin Hart’s prescient, self-skewering series for BET. But Kenya’s nouveau-riche anxieties belong most clearly to a broader tradition of black-male complaint: his wild swings from pomposity to soul-deadness and self-doubt recall comedians like Richard Pryor and Chris Rock, and rappers from Future to Jay-Z. His identity crisis is represented by a fat gold chain, which he makes plans to sell—“am I a coon?” he asks himself—but which stays on his neck all season long, an albatross.
I was raised by nineties black television. UPN, Fox, and the WB were flush with sitcoms that featured black characters living in all-black worlds who didn’t seem to emit a whiff of self-consciousness: “Martin,” “The Wayans Bros.,” “Sister, Sister,” “Living Single,” “A Different World.” It’s said that only now are we living in the golden age of black film and TV, but that judgment hinges on a thirst for universal appeal. The rupture between nineties sitcoms and the current mode of autobiographical black television reflects the fact that black artists have joined the ranks of TV producers, showrunners, and writers. It also owes something to the investment of the white critical establishment in black culture. Today’s satirical series can feel like extravagant forms of therapy made by power brokers who are dealing with the fact that they are no longer broke or powerless. Issa Rae has “Insecure”; Lena Waithe has “Twenties,” a fictionalization of her early life as a screenwriter. Hattie, Waithe’s avatar, wants to work for the showrunner of “My Bae,” a series that she considers pandering and cynical. Her boss, folding her arms—a gesture of encouragement disguised as one of contempt—suggests that Hattie make her own show.
Whereas “black-ish” was shot like a mockumentary, the framing device of “#blackAF” comes from Drea (Iman Benson), Kenya’s second-oldest daughter and his intellectual rival. She is making a documentary about her family for her application to the film program at N.Y.U., and Kenya outfits her with a film crew. (“They shot ‘The Revenant’ with less than this, O.K.?” she says.) “#blackAF” is a messy show about the mess of making television; Barris’s casting of some of the “black-ish” actors, and his recycling of the Greek-chorus motif (in the earlier show, a team of demographically diverse people at the advertising company; in the new one, a TV writers’ room) gives “#blackAF” a television-for-television-writers appeal. Barris is responding, in part, to the curdling of the Zeitgeist since the Obama era, a period in which any art that seemed to analyze the performance of blackness was immediately deemed resonant. On each episode of “black-ish,” Barris used a trademark monologue to link a character’s personal crisis to structural racism. In “#blackAF,” he parodies the speciousness of that device. “Being dripped is literally part of who we are,” Kenya says, unironically invoking slavery to justify his Mr. Porter addiction. The show’s treatment of Juneteenth performs a similar function, reminding us of the way in which “black-ish” commemorated the holiday with a soaring piece of edutainment. In this series, perhaps truer to life, Juneteenth is just an excuse to drink brown liquor and bake a “freedom cake.”
In the fifth episode, which stands out for its surge of contained conflict, Kenya is asked to speak on a panel about a film, which he loathes, made by an up-and-coming black director. Everyone else, white and black, seems to love it. In advance of the event, he assembles a black-Hollywood counsel, including Tim Story, Will Packer, Ava DuVernay, and Issa Rae—who play themselves—over FaceTime. “We do it all the time with white stuff,” Kenya says, after he realizes that his peers are holding back from giving their true opinion of the film. “Why can’t we do it with our stuff?” He is roundly dismissed by everyone except Waithe, who agrees to sit on the panel with him and to back him up on his critiques of the movie. But, when the time comes, she sells him out onstage, praising the film and babbling on about the power of representation. Barris and Waithe are impressively willing to parody themselves, but the result feels like self-defense masquerading as satire.
The other seven episodes blur into one another, lacking story or situation. I couldn’t get enough of Jones as a loving, self-absorbed, rich-bitch mom, and I will never complain about a Nia Long cameo, especially one in which she’s playing a hustler publicist. But “#blackAF” desperately needs fewer riffs and an expanded character universe to leaven its atmosphere of crushing self-indulgence. At the end of the season, Kenya has a pat, sitcom-style epiphany while watching a rerun of “black-ish” on a family vacation to Fiji. “Such a good show,” he says to himself. One kind of innocence allowed Barris to make “black-ish.” It was another kind that led to “#blackAF.” ♦