newyorker--2020-02-21--I Went to Hogwarts for Seven Years and Did Not Learn Math or Spelling, and Now I Can’t Get a Job

Dear Headmaster McGonagall : I am a recent Hogwarts graduate , and , although my time with you was a literal fantasy , I unfortunately did not learn a lot of basic skills , like math or spelling , at your skool .
You may say , “ Why do you need arithmetic ?
You ’ re a wizard .
You can do magic !
” To which I reply , sure , for some wizard careers that ’ s great , but other wizards work in middle management and just want a normal nine-to-five gig .
When I graduated @ @ @ @ @ @ @ need was my wand and a couple of choice incantations , but these days , without at least a little algebra , you ’ re not even qualified to work in Bertie Bott ’ s retail department .
It ’ s hard out here for a poorly rounded wizard .
Recently , I went on magical LinkedIn and saw almost none of my Hogwarts class of 2007 represented at top-tier wizarding companies .
It ’ s not difficult to speculate why—without the assistance of Hermione Granger , half of my fellow-Gryffindors couldn ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I am not sure that the instruction we received from Hagrid the giant is technically certifiable .
Additionally , I can not sit still for more than four hours a day without embarking on spontaneous adventures , and my vocabulary is poop .
Thanks to the Hogwarts curriculum , I can withstand mind control and even limited torture , but I can not write a compelling cover letter without humiliating grammatical error ’ s .
Why is literature not a course at your skool ?
I can enchant my quill to write my @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to make my thoughts enchanting .
I heard that Durmstrang students have a skool newspaper .
You know what Hogwarts has ?
A three-headed dog lurking in the castle , with permission to kill whoever it finds .
Indeedly , my life was constantly endangered while at Hogwarts , which was an academic distracshun .
I have also noticed that some employers have dismissive attitudes toward Hogwarts graduates .
For instance , I spoke to a recruiter from Gringotts who told me that they don ’ t accept candidates from party skools .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ had friends die here , but not from drinking .
( It ’ s because they were murdered . )
You may or may not be aware , but the economy has changed , and the need for my skills defying Lord Voldemort has lessened .
You know what would have been a better use of class time ?
The study of foreign languages .
Geography .
Brexit .
Also , does it seem like graduating students from Slytherin House skew racist ?
Can we please get them some liberal-arts exposure ?
Perhaps @ @ @ @ @ @ @ gifted alumna , Hermione Granger , is as well read as she is only because she spent all of her time braking into an illegal library .
I believe designating any part of a library as “ forbidden ” sends the wrong type of message to students , especially in a skool where skipping classes and even fighting your professors is kind of chill .
Obviously , the culture surrounding education needs to change .
Realistically , here is what I am qualified to be : As you can imagine , this does @ @ @ @ @ @ @ interview season .
My wife and I have a son , and soon we will need to consider where to send our brave boy .
I hope that , by the time he comes of skool age , Hogwarts will have evolved into the type of academic institution capable of preparing him for the highly technical competitive war zone that is the modern wizarding job market .
In the meantime , is there an alumni network I can send my resumay to ?

Dear Headmaster McGonagall:
I am a recent Hogwarts graduate, and, although my time with you was a literal fantasy, I unfortunately did not learn a lot of basic skills, like math or spelling, at your skool.
You may say, “Why do you need arithmetic? You’re a wizard. You can do magic!” To which I reply, sure, for some wizard careers that’s great, but other wizards work in middle management and just want a normal nine-to-five gig. When I graduated, I thought that all I would need was my wand and a couple of choice incantations, but these days, without at least a little algebra, you’re not even qualified to work in Bertie Bott’s retail department.
It’s hard out here for a poorly rounded wizard. Recently, I went on magical LinkedIn and saw almost none of my Hogwarts class of 2007 represented at top-tier wizarding companies. It’s not difficult to speculate why—without the assistance of Hermione Granger, half of my fellow-Gryffindors couldn’t even conjugating most verbs, and I am not sure that the instruction we received from Hagrid the giant is technically certifiable. Additionally, I cannot sit still for more than four hours a day without embarking on spontaneous adventures, and my vocabulary is poop.
Thanks to the Hogwarts curriculum, I can withstand mind control and even limited torture, but I cannot write a compelling cover letter without humiliating grammatical error’s. Why is literature not a course at your skool? I can enchant my quill to write my thoughts, but I never learned how to make my thoughts enchanting. I heard that Durmstrang students have a skool newspaper. You know what Hogwarts has? A three-headed dog lurking in the castle, with permission to kill whoever it finds. Indeedly, my life was constantly endangered while at Hogwarts, which was an academic distracshun.
I have also noticed that some employers have dismissive attitudes toward Hogwarts graduates. For instance, I spoke to a recruiter from Gringotts who told me that they don’t accept candidates from party skools. Are we a party skool? I had friends die here, but not from drinking. (It’s because they were murdered.)
You may or may not be aware, but the economy has changed, and the need for my skills defying Lord Voldemort has lessened. You know what would have been a better use of class time? The study of foreign languages. Geography. Brexit. Also, does it seem like graduating students from Slytherin House skew racist? Can we please get them some liberal-arts exposure?
Perhaps most disturbing of all, our most gifted alumna, Hermione Granger, is as well read as she is only because she spent all of her time braking into an illegal library. I believe designating any part of a library as “forbidden” sends the wrong type of message to students, especially in a skool where skipping classes and even fighting your professors is kind of chill. Obviously, the culture surrounding education needs to change.
Realistically, here is what I am qualified to be:
A troll hunter
An auror
An eccentric teacher at Hogwarts
As you can imagine, this does not make me an appealing prospect for interview season.
My wife and I have a son, and soon we will need to consider where to send our brave boy. I hope that, by the time he comes of skool age, Hogwarts will have evolved into the type of academic institution capable of preparing him for the highly technical competitive war zone that is the modern wizarding job market. In the meantime, is there an alumni network I can send my resumay to?
Seamus Finnigan
Class of 2007


newyorker--2020-02-22--The Climate Crisis: What to Really Worry About

I was a climate-change denier .
To be honest , I didn ’ t believe there was a climate , let alone that it was changing .
And even when I discovered that it was changing ( it rained on my birthday ) , I focussed on the wrong issues .
I thought that global warming would mean longer spring breaks , that melting glaciers meant long overdue revenge for the Titanic .
But there are unseen consequences of climate change .
Ever since I got the Internet , I ’ ve been educating myself .
I ’ ve learned @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an issue for hippies , science dweebs , and conspiracy theorists .
This affects us all .
Humidity is already on the rise .
The air ’ s much wetter today than it was back when you were in summer camp in the nineteen-eighties or nineteen-nineties , even accounting for water balloons , squirt guns , and wet dreams .
Moisture is ocean sweat .
And the ocean is sweating like a pig .
The atmosphere is the locker room , and we ’ re all about to be stuffed in the locker @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
And my locker analogy perfectly explains it .
Yep .
Clothes will be damp , too .
What—we invented dryers ?
True , and we all share credit for that .
But soon the government will have no choice but to mandate that we use the energy-saver setting , pay the dryer tax , or die .
No more pushing appliances to combustion so that you can lay on a mountain of warm underwear .
Are you hearing me ?
These are your socks we ’ re talking about .
Your wife @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t supposed to put in the dryer in the first place .
Your children ’ s hamster .
You know those days when it rains and you don ’ t go to work because you ’ re not a hundred per cent on your look ?
That ’ s gon na be every day .
Eventually , you will have to either go to work looking like Alf or surrender your job .
In other words , your wife and adolescent children will have to support you financially , on top of supporting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ you ’ ve been drinking .
I predict that , by 2050 , flights will be delayed by more than a year .
But not an exact year .
You will not be able to plan a year ahead , if that ’ s what you were thinking .
I ’ ve already run those projections , and they crashed my computer , in concert with some adult videos that I streamed .
All of this stems from extreme weather fluctuations .
( The flight delays , not the videos . )
Here @ @ @ @ @ @ @ turn .
Everyone is going to claim that they were shouting “ We need to do something !
” and that “ no one would listen !
” And , of course , they ’ ll blame guys like me and you .
Oh , I can hear it now : “ Marc , you literally stood up at Thanksgiving , threw ice cubes at everyone , and yelled , ‘ Not melting yet , huh ?
’ ” You ’ ll deny it .
They ’ ll show the video .
You @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ ll bring up the trash bonfires , with a smug look .
You ’ ll reach for but find no more ice cubes to throw .
Then you ’ ll know it ’ s too late .
Not the fun kind of flu , when you ’ re faking it to skip work .
The real kind , when your temperature skyrockets and you call your son “ a devil-witch who brought demons into my brain.
” By then other people will claim they ’ re also sick .
This will minimize @ @ @ @ @ @ @ will be shortages—saltines , broth , and Gatorade will cost thousands of dollars , and you will have to raid your son ’ s stash .
Streaming services will strain as everyone tries to watch “ Cheers ” and “ Frasier ” at the same time .
Who will bring me my SOUP ?
!
Nothing Will Ever Smell Fully Good Ever Again When you watch those movies about Versailles or England during the time of the rich weirdos with the pastry makeup and the balloon gowns , what you don ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and breath must have been .
It can happen like that .
Oh , did I mention that mildew will take over the world ?
Or that we ’ ll eat mold on every single food—no longer just on greenbreads , as is the status quo ?
Did I mention any of that ?
It ’ s just a matter of time before there ’ s a Hurricane Marc .
And let me tell you , no one thinks it ’ s cute when your hurricane takes their city .
Ask my friend @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s gotten since Hurricane Sandy .
Ask my other friend Katrina why she had to legally change her name .
( She ’ s now called Typhoon Hagibis . )
Because climate can send entire groups of people fleeing their homes , some of my extended family may ask to stay with me .
I don ’ t want that at all .
There ’ s barely enough room for my ex-kids once a month .
Ditto my second , secret family .
Wildfires cause evacuations .
This means traffic for the rest @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , like when you ’ re looting your neighbor ’ s abandoned , burning house .
Nor the short-term fun kind , when you end up with yet another mouth to feed nine months later .
I ’ m talking about the bad kind , when you ’ re stuck in a subway , having to pee , and the other passengers tie you up after you try to become the train ’ s leader .
The Tulum party scene is already eroding before our very eyes .
There ’ s gross seaweed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , harshing my vibe and ruining my mistress ’ s vacation .
I dread Tulum ’ s sunbathing conditions once the sun has finally out-hotness-ed the beach babes .
No one will want to hire a thirty-nine-year-old advertising executive who exclusively promoted Exxon and the beef industry to profit from the suffering of future generations .
Demographics—I mean people—will develop content-resistant advertising immunity and insist that the only product they desperately need is water , and then I ’ m finished .
As for volcanoes , who knows ?
But I ’ ve @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ ll come back .
It doesn ’ t take a genius to know that burying carbon in the ground is bound to wake up some folks .
And that ’ s when the really bad smells begin .
Here are a bunch of other things that Obama and NASA and the Paris Accordions of the planet just “ forgot ” to mention : • Rising sea levels will give the appearance that I ’ m not as tall as I am .
• Polar bears will go extinct before I get a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ might affect Forest Whitaker .
Not sure how , but he ’ s been in less stuff lately .
• My Antarctica time-share will be worthless .
• Sharks will take over Montauk ’ s Surf Lodge ( whales not on the list . )
• Teen-age activists will distract us from important Miley Cyrus gossip .
• Waaaay more umbrellas will get turned inside out .
• Fewer birds means fewer carrier pigeons .
How will I file my taxes then ?
• Everyone ’ s going to want to talk about @ @ @ @ @ @ @ rather than just turning up the air conditioner .
• Jerry Seinfeld ’ s show “ Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee ” will come to be known as “ Comedians and Cats Eating Compost.
” So stop being so selfish !
This isn ’ t about the future of planet Earth .
It ’ s not about the human race .
It ’ s about me .

I was a climate-change denier. To be honest, I didn’t believe there was a climate, let alone that it was changing. And even when I discovered that it was changing (it rained on my birthday), I focussed on the wrong issues. I thought that global warming would mean longer spring breaks, that melting glaciers meant long overdue revenge for the Titanic.
But there are unseen consequences of climate change. Ever since I got the Internet, I’ve been educating myself. I’ve learned that it’s no longer just an issue for hippies, science dweebs, and conspiracy theorists. This affects us all.
Damp Towels
Humidity is already on the rise. The air’s much wetter today than it was back when you were in summer camp in the nineteen-eighties or nineteen-nineties, even accounting for water balloons, squirt guns, and wet dreams. Moisture is ocean sweat. And the ocean is sweating like a pig. The atmosphere is the locker room, and we’re all about to be stuffed in the locker. They call this the greenhouse effect. And my locker analogy perfectly explains it.
Damp Clothes
Yep. Clothes will be damp, too. What—we invented dryers? True, and we all share credit for that. But soon the government will have no choice but to mandate that we use the energy-saver setting, pay the dryer tax, or die. No more pushing appliances to combustion so that you can lay on a mountain of warm underwear. Are you hearing me? These are your socks we’re talking about. Your wife’s bra that you weren’t supposed to put in the dryer in the first place. Your children’s hamster.
Frizzy Hair
You know those days when it rains and you don’t go to work because you’re not a hundred per cent on your look? That’s gonna be every day. Eventually, you will have to either go to work looking like Alf or surrender your job. In other words, your wife and adolescent children will have to support you financially, on top of supporting you emotionally and physically, like when you’ve been drinking.
Flight Delays
I predict that, by 2050, flights will be delayed by more than a year. But not an exact year. You will not be able to plan a year ahead, if that’s what you were thinking. I’ve already run those projections, and they crashed my computer, in concert with some adult videos that I streamed. All of this stems from extreme weather fluctuations. (The flight delays, not the videos.)
“I Told You So”s
Here’s where it takes a scary turn. Everyone is going to claim that they were shouting “We need to do something!” and that “no one would listen!” And, of course, they’ll blame guys like me and you. Oh, I can hear it now: “Marc, you literally stood up at Thanksgiving, threw ice cubes at everyone, and yelled, ‘Not melting yet, huh?’ ” You’ll deny it. They’ll show the video. You’ll destroy the video. They’ll bring up the trash bonfires, with a smug look. You’ll reach for but find no more ice cubes to throw. Then you’ll know it’s too late.
More Flu, Less Sympathy
Not the fun kind of flu, when you’re faking it to skip work. The real kind, when your temperature skyrockets and you call your son “a devil-witch who brought demons into my brain.” By then other people will claim they’re also sick. This will minimize their sympathy for your plight. There will be shortages—saltines, broth, and Gatorade will cost thousands of dollars, and you will have to raid your son’s stash. Streaming services will strain as everyone tries to watch “Cheers” and “Frasier” at the same time. Who will bring me my SOUP?!
Nothing Will Ever Smell Fully Good Ever Again
When you watch those movies about Versailles or England during the time of the rich weirdos with the pastry makeup and the balloon gowns, what you don’t realize is how bad their body odor and breath must have been. It can happen like that. Oh, did I mention that mildew will take over the world? Or that we’ll eat mold on every single food—no longer just on greenbreads, as is the status quo? Did I mention any of that?
More Hurricane Names
It’s just a matter of time before there’s a Hurricane Marc. And let me tell you, no one thinks it’s cute when your hurricane takes their city. Ask my friend Sandy how many party invitations she’s gotten since Hurricane Sandy. Ask my other friend Katrina why she had to legally change her name. (She’s now called Typhoon Hagibis.)
Climate Refugees
Because climate can send entire groups of people fleeing their homes, some of my extended family may ask to stay with me. I don’t want that at all. There’s barely enough room for my ex-kids once a month. Ditto my second, secret family.
Wildfires
Wildfires cause evacuations. This means traffic for the rest of us.
Power Outages
Not the fun kind, like when you’re looting your neighbor’s abandoned, burning house. Nor the short-term fun kind, when you end up with yet another mouth to feed nine months later. I’m talking about the bad kind, when you’re stuck in a subway, having to pee, and the other passengers tie you up after you try to become the train’s leader.
Beach Erosion
The Tulum party scene is already eroding before our very eyes. There’s gross seaweed and icky jellyfish in my swimming zone, harshing my vibe and ruining my mistress’s vacation. I dread Tulum’s sunbathing conditions once the sun has finally out-hotness-ed the beach babes.
Disappearing Jobs
No one will want to hire a thirty-nine-year-old advertising executive who exclusively promoted Exxon and the beef industry to profit from the suffering of future generations. Demographics—I mean people—will develop content-resistant advertising immunity and insist that the only product they desperately need is water, and then I’m finished.
Volcanoes
As for volcanoes, who knows? But I’ve never trusted them.
Zombies
Definitely, they’ll come back. It doesn’t take a genius to know that burying carbon in the ground is bound to wake up some folks. And that’s when the really bad smells begin.
Not terrified yet?
Here are a bunch of other things that Obama and NASA and the Paris Accordions of the planet just “forgot” to mention:
Rising sea levels will give the appearance that I’m not as tall as I am.
Polar bears will go extinct before I get a chance to eat one.
Deforestation might affect Forest Whitaker. Not sure how, but he’s been in less stuff lately.
My Antarctica time-share will be worthless.
Sharks will take over Montauk’s Surf Lodge (whales not on the list.)
Teen-age activists will distract us from important Miley Cyrus gossip.
Waaaay more umbrellas will get turned inside out.
Fewer birds means fewer carrier pigeons. How will I file my taxes then?
Everyone’s going to want to talk about the weather, blah blah blah, rather than just turning up the air conditioner.
Jerry Seinfeld’s show “Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee” will come to be known as “Comedians and Cats Eating Compost.”
So stop being so selfish! This isn’t about the future of planet Earth. It’s not about the human race. It’s about me.


newyorker--2020-02-22--A View of the Revolution in Lebanon from Martyrs’ Square

Hezbollah ’ s leader , Hassan Nasrallah , strongly opposes overthrowing the current government , which he has historically been @ @ @ @ @ a press conference , Nasrallah told protesters , in direct statements , that they were @ @ @ @ @ their efforts as an exercise in futility .
One evening at Martyrs ’ Square , @ @ @ @ @ Hezbollah and Amal were heading downtown on motorcycles , and recommended that those of us @ @ @ @ @ conflict leave immediately .
On my way home , I saw hundreds of these men @ @ @ @ @ s flags and shouting a battle cry .
My taxi driver , a man old @ @ @ @ @ the 1958 crisis and the civil war of the nineteen-seventies and eighties shook his head @ @ @ @ @ are going to be problems tonight .
”

During a peaceful demonstration on November 12, 2019, a Lebanese Army soldier shot and killed a protester named Alaa Abou Fakher. Fakher, a father of three, is said to have been the first martyr of the revolution. In the protests’ early months, violent incidents were rare, but security forces have since become more aggressive. Martyrs’ Square, where revolutionaries memorialized Fakher after his death, has calmed. Today, most of the tents are inactive or were destroyed: the revolution is unfolding in the streets.
A previous version of this article mischaracterized an argument by panelists at the Hub and misidentified Lokman Slim as a speaker on the panel.


newyorker--2020-02-22--“Vitalina Varela,” Reviewed: An Audacious Drama About the Struggles of an Immigrant Community

The new film by the Portuguese director Pedro Costa , “ Vitalina Varela , ” which opens Friday ( after playing at the New York Film Festival last fall ) , is a work of daring paradox .
Despite its avant-garde stylings , it ’ s a film of virtual archeology , one that recovers the colossal symbolic power of classical American cinema—while nonetheless bearing the burden of new , unchallenged conventions , those of cinematic modernism .
Costa ’ s film fuses fiction and nonfiction in its casting , with actors who play characters with their own names and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The protagonist is played by a woman named Vitalina Varela , a nonprofessional actor from Cape Verde ; the character travels to Lisbon , for the first time , to see her ailing husband , Joaquim , on his deathbed .
But she arrives too late : she gets there three days after his death ( as actually happened to Varela in real life ) .
Though Joaquim ’ s friends try to deter Vitalina from staying , she moves into his rundown apartment in a sunken alleyway in the Cova da Moura @ @ @ @ @ @ @ part of his community .
From the start , Costa endows the tale with a pictorial majesty , rooted in a hands-on transformation of film-noir , Expressionist-rooted cinematography .
His images ( realized by the director of photography Leonardo Simões ) feature piercing bursts of light and sepulchral shadows , striated and fragmentary illumination that blends with largely static frames to fuse space and mood , action and emotion .
Above all , Costa avoids naturalistic tropes and , by filming Varela and the other residents of her late husband ’ s complex @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and deliberate pacing , he reflects their grandeur and their strength—as well as their presence as agents of history , even secret agents .
( There ’ s a majestic and poignant moment , both artificial and profoundly authentic , when a barefoot Vitalina descends , in the middle of the night , an airplane ’ s metal staircase and is greeted , on the tarmac of the runway , by the airport ’ s night maintenance crew—her husband ’ s friends , who inform her of his death . )
The society @ @ @ @ @ @ @ films is presented as a world apart , a community that is literally subterranean , immured behind the high walls of a dug-out alley , requiring passage through a dank and dilapidated tunnel , seemingly separated from the city at large by a perma-shadow , enshrouded in an endless night at the margins of Portuguese society .
Pushed into homelessness , forced into a cycle of crime and incarceration , relegated to substandard housing ( from which Costa extracts several touches of grim humor , as when Vitalina , while showering , is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ) , the residents of Cova de Moura inhabit a perpetual realm of furtive darkness that offers them the cover in which to survive outside the gaze of hostile authority and the menacing chill of official indifference .
The pressure , the shadows , the chill all appear as a palpable thickness of air , an atmosphere of a virtual postindustrial sludge that afflicted Joaquim and still afflicts his neighbors and friends with an unshakable torpor , rendering even their heroic daily exertions for survival sluggish , distracted , and bemused .
These @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , in which the hostility that they face and the exclusion in which they live has seeped into their bones and turned their energies self-consuming and self-exhausting .
Aspects of Costa ’ s artistry are startlingly original—yet others are no less startlingly conventional .
He amplifies the sense of weightiness with a lugubrious pacing , using long takes of gradual , incremental , or slight action .
It ’ s conspicuous application of the style that is often encapsulated as “ slow cinema ” —a term and an idea that I find less @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a movie is governed by the flow of ideas more than of physical action .
Yet it ’ s precisely here that Costa often yields to often-used and overused methods and styles of the international art-house cinema , in which the willful display of defying the norms of commercial cinema amounts to a kind of branding or positioning as part of a system of production that ’ s conspicuously outside the mainstream one .
This self-signification is itself a paradox , insofar as Costa himself approaches the story of Vitalina with an utterly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s none of art-house cinema ’ s frame-breaking , no sense of the director ’ s own implication in the lives of the characters , his interaction with the performers , or the transactional and transformative effect of his presence .
Costa ’ s self-concealing method is no mere affectation : it also creates a virtual bridge between the modes of classical realism and arch modernism—to assert that the new tradition of European art-house productions and the studio-era one of Hollywood movies aren ’ t inherently contradictory but , rather , can @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The result is that Costa ultimately—and quite ultimately , after a long and ostentatious buildup of moods and motives—brings “ Vitalina Varela ” to a high pitch of cinephilic expressivity .
As Vitalina gets to know more of the life that Joaquim lived , in their decades of separation , through his acquaintances—especially a priest , played by Ventura , a longtime participant in Costa ’ s films—she becomes more than a part of her new community .
She becomes its catalyst , the outsider who turns into an insider and , by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and to revitalize its residents , by way of her own focussed resolve , her undiminished yet long-untapped energies .
The climactic scenes of the film , in which Vitalina takes part in restoring the community ’ s rituals and sparks Joaquim ’ s friends ’ and neighbors ’ newly invigorated efforts to improve their homes and take control of their lives , are scenes of mighty and ecstatic daylight .
In their symbolic outpouring of civic passion and their sense of spiritual transfiguration , they ’ re reminiscent of—and virtual restorations @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The redemptive power and philosophical complexity of these spare yet monumental images are inseparable from the nontheatrical yet imposing presences of Varela , Ventura , and the rest of the cast , as well as from the demonstration of do-it-yourself art-house inventiveness with which they ’ re created .

The new film by the Portuguese director Pedro Costa, “Vitalina Varela,” which opens Friday (after playing at the New York Film Festival last fall), is a work of daring paradox. Despite its avant-garde stylings, it’s a film of virtual archeology, one that recovers the colossal symbolic power of classical American cinema—while nonetheless bearing the burden of new, unchallenged conventions, those of cinematic modernism.
Costa’s film fuses fiction and nonfiction in its casting, with actors who play characters with their own names and sharing elements of their own experience. The protagonist is played by a woman named Vitalina Varela, a nonprofessional actor from Cape Verde; the character travels to Lisbon, for the first time, to see her ailing husband, Joaquim, on his deathbed. But she arrives too late: she gets there three days after his death (as actually happened to Varela in real life). Though Joaquim’s friends try to deter Vitalina from staying, she moves into his rundown apartment in a sunken alleyway in the Cova da Moura neighborhood and becomes an integral, inspiring part of his community.
From the start, Costa endows the tale with a pictorial majesty, rooted in a hands-on transformation of film-noir, Expressionist-rooted cinematography. His images (realized by the director of photography Leonardo Simões) feature piercing bursts of light and sepulchral shadows, striated and fragmentary illumination that blends with largely static frames to fuse space and mood, action and emotion. Above all, Costa avoids naturalistic tropes and, by filming Varela and the other residents of her late husband’s complex with poised gestures, declamatory diction, and deliberate pacing, he reflects their grandeur and their strength—as well as their presence as agents of history, even secret agents. (There’s a majestic and poignant moment, both artificial and profoundly authentic, when a barefoot Vitalina descends, in the middle of the night, an airplane’s metal staircase and is greeted, on the tarmac of the runway, by the airport’s night maintenance crew—her husband’s friends, who inform her of his death.)
The society of black Cape Verdean immigrants whom Costa films is presented as a world apart, a community that is literally subterranean, immured behind the high walls of a dug-out alley, requiring passage through a dank and dilapidated tunnel, seemingly separated from the city at large by a perma-shadow, enshrouded in an endless night at the margins of Portuguese society. Pushed into homelessness, forced into a cycle of crime and incarceration, relegated to substandard housing (from which Costa extracts several touches of grim humor, as when Vitalina, while showering, is hit with a spray of falling cement), the residents of Cova de Moura inhabit a perpetual realm of furtive darkness that offers them the cover in which to survive outside the gaze of hostile authority and the menacing chill of official indifference.
The pressure, the shadows, the chill all appear as a palpable thickness of air, an atmosphere of a virtual postindustrial sludge that afflicted Joaquim and still afflicts his neighbors and friends with an unshakable torpor, rendering even their heroic daily exertions for survival sluggish, distracted, and bemused. These immigrants endure an apathy of inner colonialism, in which the hostility that they face and the exclusion in which they live has seeped into their bones and turned their energies self-consuming and self-exhausting.
Aspects of Costa’s artistry are startlingly original—yet others are no less startlingly conventional. He amplifies the sense of weightiness with a lugubrious pacing, using long takes of gradual, incremental, or slight action. It’s conspicuous application of the style that is often encapsulated as “slow cinema”—a term and an idea that I find less than useful, because the pace of a movie is governed by the flow of ideas more than of physical action. Yet it’s precisely here that Costa often yields to often-used and overused methods and styles of the international art-house cinema, in which the willful display of defying the norms of commercial cinema amounts to a kind of branding or positioning as part of a system of production that’s conspicuously outside the mainstream one.
This self-signification is itself a paradox, insofar as Costa himself approaches the story of Vitalina with an utterly sealed-off, unbroken dramatic realism. There’s none of art-house cinema’s frame-breaking, no sense of the director’s own implication in the lives of the characters, his interaction with the performers, or the transactional and transformative effect of his presence. Costa’s self-concealing method is no mere affectation: it also creates a virtual bridge between the modes of classical realism and arch modernism—to assert that the new tradition of European art-house productions and the studio-era one of Hollywood movies aren’t inherently contradictory but, rather, can be forged into an artistic continuum.
The result is that Costa ultimately—and quite ultimately, after a long and ostentatious buildup of moods and motives—brings “Vitalina Varela” to a high pitch of cinephilic expressivity. As Vitalina gets to know more of the life that Joaquim lived, in their decades of separation, through his acquaintances—especially a priest, played by Ventura, a longtime participant in Costa’s films—she becomes more than a part of her new community. She becomes its catalyst, the outsider who turns into an insider and, by her presence, helps to transform it, and to revitalize its residents, by way of her own focussed resolve, her undiminished yet long-untapped energies.
The climactic scenes of the film, in which Vitalina takes part in restoring the community’s rituals and sparks Joaquim’s friends’ and neighbors’ newly invigorated efforts to improve their homes and take control of their lives, are scenes of mighty and ecstatic daylight. In their symbolic outpouring of civic passion and their sense of spiritual transfiguration, they’re reminiscent of—and virtual restorations of—scenes from films by John Ford. The redemptive power and philosophical complexity of these spare yet monumental images are inseparable from the nontheatrical yet imposing presences of Varela, Ventura, and the rest of the cast, as well as from the demonstration of do-it-yourself art-house inventiveness with which they’re created.


newyorker--2020-02-22--The Union at the Center of the Medicare for All Fight in Nevada

Subscribers to The New Yorker ’ s new 2020 election newsletter , On the Trail , received this piece in their in-boxes .
Sign up to receive future installments .
“ Labor got its foothold in Las Vegas with Al Bramlet , a flamboyant union worker who arrived in Las Vegas in 1946 and made a deal with the Mafia , ” Sara Mosle wrote in The New Yorker , in 1996 .
“ Bramlet promised to recruit workers to the remote desert town in return for union recognition and a few perks for himself.
” Howard Hughes eventually pushed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ murdered .
But the union he led , the Culinary Workers Union Local 226 , remained .
This year , for the first time ever , Nevadans can vote early in the state ’ s caucuses , and the Culinary Union ’ s headquarters , a cluster of low-slung buildings north of the Strip , was designated an early-voting site .
When I stopped by , on Tuesday morning , the room for voters was still being set up .
“ Just so you know , ” I overheard one union member tell @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lot of chatter that we ’ re the best thing to ever happen.
” The Culinary—representing guest-room attendants , food-and-drink servers , porters , bellhops , and laundry and kitchen workers—is as locally significant as any union in the country .
In the nineties , when Mosle wrote her story , the Culinary was transitioning from an era in which it was led by men who held “ front of the house ” jobs to one in which it was led by women who held “ back of the house ” jobs .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , which contains Las Vegas , is now more than thirty per cent Hispanic .
In 2012 , Geoconda Argüello-Kline , a Nicaraguan immigrant , was elected the first Latina leader of the Culinary .
The organization has fought for job security , wages , and other benefits for its sixty thousand members .
It also runs a heralded health-care system—members pay no deductibles or premiums and only some modest co-pays , and they have access to a health-care center maintained by the union .
The Culinary has no desire to trade in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has placed it in the middle of the most intense policy dispute of the 2020 Democratic Presidential primary .
As the race turned toward Nevada this month , the union began distributing a scorecard of the candidates , which said that Bernie Sanders—the champion of Medicare for All , which would replace all private health-care plans—would “ end ” the union ’ s health care .
Soon after , the union put out a statement saying that Sanders ’ s supporters had “ viciously attacked the Culinary Union and working families in Nevada @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on what certain healthcare proposals might do to take away the system of care we have built.
” Last week , the Nevada Independent reported that two of the union ’ s top officials had received personal threats : “ Secretary-Treasurer Geoconda Argüello-Kline , for instance , has come under attack for her Nicaraguan heritage , and union spokeswoman Bethany Khan was accused of being paid off by former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton and other Democratic establishment types.
” Sanders , for his part , walked a more conciliatory line than he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Last week , he tweeted his support of the union “ fighting for health care , a pension and fair wages.
” On Tuesday , during a CNN town hall , he said , “ I will condemn , absolutely , anybody , including my campaign or any other campaign , that makes vicious personal attacks against people.
” There was speculation about whom the union might endorse , and whether one of Sanders ’ s more moderate opponents would benefit from this dispute .
In the end , the union chose @ @ @ @ @ @ @ headquarters , I met Carmela Perez , a union member who works at the MGM Grand .
Born in Mexico , Perez emigrated in the late nineteen-nineties and struggled for several years to provide for her family , working low-paying , nonunion jobs .
Then somebody told her about the Culinary and how it had a facility to train people for casino jobs .
She got a job , as a dishwasher , that paid twelve dollars and seventy-five cents an hour , before moving to a pantry job—which the union also trained @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dollars an hour .
At first , she said , she had a hard time believing the extent of the health benefits that she was offered .
“ I was , like , How is this possible ?
” she told me .
“ There are people out there who wouldn ’ t give you a stick of gum.
” She ’ s against Medicare for All , she said .
“ Look , I think it ’ s a good idea to give health care to everyone , but don ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ What ’ s going to happen tomorrow ?
What are the Republicans trying to do with Obamacare ?
Repeal it , right ?
What ’ s going to happen if other Presidents don ’ t think the same as Sanders ?
So , what ’ s more valuable : a bird in the hand or a hundred in the air ?
” It was time for early voting to start .
People were lined up in the parking lot , and the union ’ s leadership held a little rally around a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who once ran the Culinary Training Academy , and who has endorsed Joe Biden , gave some remarks .
Afterward , I asked him how the union ’ s concerns could be better incorporated into conversations about health care in Washington .
“ We need to elect more of our own members , like me , who come out of the union and know what these issues actually mean , ” he said .
A few minutes later , Perez reappeared in the parking lot .
The Nevada caucus process allows early voters @ @ @ @ @ @ @ President , in order of their preference .
Perez picked Biden , Amy Klobuchar , and Tom Steyer .
Polls show that among Latino voters , both nationally and in Nevada , Sanders leads the 2020 field , a fact that his campaign has actively touted .
The political arm of the immigrant-rights group Make the Road has endorsed him .
On Tuesday night , I attended a phone-banking session that the group held in a rented storefront , a few miles north of the strip .
Angelica Romero , a guest-room attendant @ @ @ @ @ @ @ twenty-seven years , after emigrating from Guadalajara , Mexico , is a member of the Culinary Union .
These past few weeks , she ’ s been volunteering with Make the Road ’ s political arm , knocking on doors , talking to voters .
“ I support my union ; I ’ m with them a hundred per cent , ” she told me .
“ But we have different opinions.
” She supports Medicare for All , she said , because “ it ’ s about fairness.
” Her daughter doesn @ @ @ @ @ @ @ instance , and “ we all deserve it.
” “ For me , democracy is about everyone participating and having a vote , ” she said .
“ Obviously , I ’ d like everyone to be on my side .
But that ’ s the great thing about this country .
”

Subscribers to The New Yorker’s new 2020 election newsletter, On the Trail, received this piece in their in-boxes. Sign up to receive future installments.
“Labor got its foothold in Las Vegas with Al Bramlet, a flamboyant union worker who arrived in Las Vegas in 1946 and made a deal with the Mafia,” Sara Mosle wrote in The New Yorker, in 1996. “Bramlet promised to recruit workers to the remote desert town in return for union recognition and a few perks for himself.” Howard Hughes eventually pushed the Mafia out. Bramlet wound up murdered. But the union he led, the Culinary Workers Union Local 226, remained. This year, for the first time ever, Nevadans can vote early in the state’s caucuses, and the Culinary Union’s headquarters, a cluster of low-slung buildings north of the Strip, was designated an early-voting site. When I stopped by, on Tuesday morning, the room for voters was still being set up. “Just so you know,” I overheard one union member tell another, “there’s a lot of chatter that we’re the best thing to ever happen.”
The Culinary—representing guest-room attendants, food-and-drink servers, porters, bellhops, and laundry and kitchen workers—is as locally significant as any union in the country. In the nineties, when Mosle wrote her story, the Culinary was transitioning from an era in which it was led by men who held “front of the house” jobs to one in which it was led by women who held “back of the house” jobs. The population of Clark County, Nevada, which contains Las Vegas, is now more than thirty per cent Hispanic. In 2012, Geoconda Argüello-Kline, a Nicaraguan immigrant, was elected the first Latina leader of the Culinary. The organization has fought for job security, wages, and other benefits for its sixty thousand members. It also runs a heralded health-care system—members pay no deductibles or premiums and only some modest co-pays, and they have access to a health-care center maintained by the union. The Culinary has no desire to trade in its health-care plan, a fact that has placed it in the middle of the most intense policy dispute of the 2020 Democratic Presidential primary.
As the race turned toward Nevada this month, the union began distributing a scorecard of the candidates, which said that Bernie Sanders—the champion of Medicare for All, which would replace all private health-care plans—would “end” the union’s health care. Soon after, the union put out a statement saying that Sanders’s supporters had “viciously attacked the Culinary Union and working families in Nevada simply because our union has provided facts on what certain healthcare proposals might do to take away the system of care we have built.” Last week, the Nevada Independent reported that two of the union’s top officials had received personal threats: “Secretary-Treasurer Geoconda Argüello-Kline, for instance, has come under attack for her Nicaraguan heritage, and union spokeswoman Bethany Khan was accused of being paid off by former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton and other Democratic establishment types.”
Sanders, for his part, walked a more conciliatory line than he often does in the face of criticism. Last week, he tweeted his support of the union “fighting for health care, a pension and fair wages.” On Tuesday, during a CNN town hall, he said, “I will condemn, absolutely, anybody, including my campaign or any other campaign, that makes vicious personal attacks against people.” There was speculation about whom the union might endorse, and whether one of Sanders’s more moderate opponents would benefit from this dispute. In the end, the union chose not to endorse anybody.
At the headquarters, I met Carmela Perez, a union member who works at the MGM Grand. Born in Mexico, Perez emigrated in the late nineteen-nineties and struggled for several years to provide for her family, working low-paying, nonunion jobs. Then somebody told her about the Culinary and how it had a facility to train people for casino jobs. She got a job, as a dishwasher, that paid twelve dollars and seventy-five cents an hour, before moving to a pantry job—which the union also trained her for—that raised her wages to nineteen dollars an hour. At first, she said, she had a hard time believing the extent of the health benefits that she was offered. “I was, like, How is this possible?” she told me. “There are people out there who wouldn’t give you a stick of gum.” She’s against Medicare for All, she said. “Look, I think it’s a good idea to give health care to everyone, but don’t touch ours,” she said. “What’s going to happen tomorrow? What are the Republicans trying to do with Obamacare? Repeal it, right? What’s going to happen if other Presidents don’t think the same as Sanders? So, what’s more valuable: a bird in the hand or a hundred in the air?”
It was time for early voting to start. People were lined up in the parking lot, and the union’s leadership held a little rally around a podium. The congressman Steven Horsford, who once ran the Culinary Training Academy, and who has endorsed Joe Biden, gave some remarks. Afterward, I asked him how the union’s concerns could be better incorporated into conversations about health care in Washington. “We need to elect more of our own members, like me, who come out of the union and know what these issues actually mean,” he said. A few minutes later, Perez reappeared in the parking lot. The Nevada caucus process allows early voters to choose three to five candidates for President, in order of their preference. Perez picked Biden, Amy Klobuchar, and Tom Steyer.
Polls show that among Latino voters, both nationally and in Nevada, Sanders leads the 2020 field, a fact that his campaign has actively touted. The political arm of the immigrant-rights group Make the Road has endorsed him. On Tuesday night, I attended a phone-banking session that the group held in a rented storefront, a few miles north of the strip. Angelica Romero, a guest-room attendant who has lived in Las Vegas for twenty-seven years, after emigrating from Guadalajara, Mexico, is a member of the Culinary Union. These past few weeks, she’s been volunteering with Make the Road’s political arm, knocking on doors, talking to voters. “I support my union; I’m with them a hundred per cent,” she told me. “But we have different opinions.” She supports Medicare for All, she said, because “it’s about fairness.” Her daughter doesn’t have health insurance, for instance, and “we all deserve it.” “For me, democracy is about everyone participating and having a vote,” she said. “Obviously, I’d like everyone to be on my side. But that’s the great thing about this country.”


newyorker--2020-02-22--Nevada Democratic Caucuses: Live Results, Maps, and Analysis

After faring poorly with Latinos in 2016 , Bernie Sanders created an entirely new approach for 2020 .

The state’s Democratic caucuses are February 22nd. The congressional primary is June 9th. Follow the latest election results ahead of the 2020 Presidential election.


newyorker--2020-02-23--The Unhealed Wounds of a Mass Arrest of Black Students at Ole Miss, Fifty Years Later

Late in the afternoon of February 24 , 1970 , in the University of Mississippi cafeteria , forty students of the recently chartered Black Student Union ( B.S.U . )
lined up in front of the cafeteria before it opened for dinner .
The forty protesters grabbed their food , and each of them took over a separate table as the white students stared back at them silently , or left their seats , or placed their trays on the cafeteria ’ s conveyor belt and walked out .
Kenneth Mayfield , then a second-year student , grabbed his mini @ @ @ @ @ @ @ eating to the strains of Eldridge Cleaver ’ s cry for Black Power on “ Soul on Wax.
” The B.S.U .
members had already attempted a form of protest .
Members of the B.S.U .
presented a list of twenty-seven demands to the university ’ s chancellor , Porter L. Fortune , Jr. ; the demands included hiring black faculty , forming a black-studies program , establishing more scholarships for black students , and eliminating Confederate imagery at official university gatherings .
Next , the group brought a Confederate flag—then an unofficial @ @ @ @ @ @ @ where they burned it .
( In 1972 , abuse of the Confederate flag was illegal in Mississippi , though this law was largely unenforced . )
Undaunted , the B.S.U .
members moved from the cafeteria to the Ole Miss campus-security office to file a complaint .
“ They handed each one of us a form , and we filled it out , ” Mayfield said .
“ I put my name on the form , ” he said , “ and I wrote the source of my complaint , in bold @ @ @ @ @ @ @ His classmates did the same .
It was one of those balmy days in Mississippi in late winter , just before spring arrives .
Again , white students happening past mostly ignored the protesters .
The evening after the cafeteria protest and flag-burning , Mayfield recalled , “ We were in a Black Student Union meeting and somebody commented , ‘ We ’ ve got a group that ’ s performing right here in Mississippi—it is international and interracial.
’ ” The group was Up with People , the wholesome and positive travelling @ @ @ @ @ @ @ moment , the students—sixty-one in all—decided to march to Fulton Chapel , where admission to the Up with People concert was two dollars .
“ I remember somebody saying , ‘ Step aside , we ’ ve already paid our dues—we ’ re going in , ’ ” Mayfield said .
Once inside , where Up with People had already taken the stage , the B.S.U .
members started to chant , “ What you gon na do ?
Do it to him .
What you gon na do ?
Do it to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Ole Miss administration .
Soon Up with People invited the protesters to join them onstage , where the students offered a Black Power salute .
A few began grabbing the microphones .
As the musical group launched into one of their most famous songs , “ What Color Is God ’ s Skin ?
” ( “ Black , brown , it ’ s yellow , it ’ s red , it is white .
/ Every man ’ s the same in the good Lord ’ s sight.
” ) , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , “ He sure ain ’ t white , he sure ain ’ t white.
” Just before they headed to Fulton Chapel , Mayfield recalled , the protesters acknowledged the possibility that they could be arrested for their impromptu action .
A year before , eight white students had been jailed for protesting mandatory R.O.T.C.
, and after their arrest they were placed on probation for the remainder of their time at the university .
Mayfield remembered telling his friends , “ The worst-case scenario : you get a little probation .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ of school.
” At the time of the Up with People protest , more than seven years had passed since James Meredith became the first black student to enroll at Ole Miss , in 1962 , after a legal battle that reached the Supreme Court , and over the objections of Mississippi ’ s governor and state legislature .
President John F. Kennedy ’ s Administration ordered five hundred U.S. marshals to insure Meredith ’ s safety as he arrived on campus and added military police and troops from the Mississippi National Guard @ @ @ @ @ @ @ learned there needed to be additional support .
Two days of rioting ensued , leading to two deaths and some two hundred injuries .
Much of the rioting was concentrated around University Circle ; there , the grounds are dominated by the Greek columns and red brick of the Lyceum building , which was constructed with slave labor .
A gray-stone Confederate soldier stands in the Lyceum ’ s shadow , and , in 1962 , it served as a rallying point for those opposed to integration of the university .
Now , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ its demands for the elimination of Confederate imagery , the monument will be moved to a Confederate cemetery elsewhere on campus , pending the final approval of the university ’ s governing board .
Then , and even today , many Ole Miss students and alumni wished to preserve the campus as a simulacrum of Southern exceptionalism—a memorial to the Lost Cause .
Confederate-heritage groups still tour the campus , pointing out the old marching grounds of the University Greys , a Civil War regiment formed by Ole Miss students in 1861 .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ the university ’ s link to secession as a shield that made black students feel unwelcome and unlikely to enroll .
It is something I felt when I arrived , as a freshman , in 1974 , four years after the Up with People protest and twelve years after Meredith walked up the blood-stained steps of the Lyceum to register for classes .
Two months before the Up with People protest , M. M. Roberts , the president of the governing board of the university system of Mississippi , acknowledged in a public @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Every time I read a definition , I say , Well , that ’ s me , ” Roberts said .
“ I have no apologies for it , though .
.
.
.
But it ’ s my philosophy .
Many of you don ’ t share that philosophy and it doesn ’ t bother me .
.
.
.
I don ’ t share yours.
” There were fewer than two hundred black students enrolled at Ole Miss in 1970 , among a population of some seven thousand students , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the face of persistent racist harassment : threatening notes pushed under their doors , loud knocks in the middle of the night , accompanied by taunts and racial slurs , physical intimidation .
“ I remember being on my way to class one day , and some big football-looking guys blocked the sidewalk , ” Donald Cole , a participant in the Up with People protest , said .
“ It had been raining , and it was muddy .
When I came upon them , I knew I couldn ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to get off the sidewalk , walk in the mud .
Of course , I was alone .
So that ’ s the path that I chose , as opposed to a more violent one.
” It is difficult to imagine anyone wanting to threaten Don Cole , who has a bright , wide smile and speaks with a gentle Southern lilt .
He is tall and slender , of regal bearing , and , at the age of sixty-nine , his face is unwrinkled and youthful .
But if you ask him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ago , his face contorts , and he seems to age before your eyes .
An encounter with Cole provides an answer to the question that W. E. B .
Du Bois asks in “ The Souls of Black Folk ” : “ How does it feel to be a problem ?
” In 1969 , Frank Moak , then the dean of students , wrote that black students at Ole Miss “ come bearing feelings that have been pent up for years and years and possibly centuries .
Suddenly these feelings are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , making them feel they have a mission to change radically the whole structure of society to accommodate the anxieties they have been subjected to.
” Moak encouraged black students to be patient .
The same year , in an article in the Memphis Commercial Appeal , he said , “ Problems are only compounded when black students eliminate completely from their vocabulary the word ‘ patience ’ and substitute the word ‘ now .
’ ”

The front page of the Daily Mississippian from February 25, 1970, with a picture of the student protest from the previous afternoon.
Late in the afternoon of February 24, 1970, in the University of Mississippi cafeteria, forty students of the recently chartered Black Student Union (B.S.U.) lined up in front of the cafeteria before it opened for dinner. The forty protesters grabbed their food, and each of them took over a separate table as the white students stared back at them silently, or left their seats, or placed their trays on the cafeteria’s conveyor belt and walked out. Kenneth Mayfield, then a second-year student, grabbed his mini stereo, and the students found themselves eating to the strains of Eldridge Cleaver’s cry for Black Power on “Soul on Wax.” The B.S.U. members had already attempted a form of protest. Members of the B.S.U. presented a list of twenty-seven demands to the university’s chancellor, Porter L. Fortune, Jr.; the demands included hiring black faculty, forming a black-studies program, establishing more scholarships for black students, and eliminating Confederate imagery at official university gatherings. Next, the group brought a Confederate flag—then an unofficial symbol of the university—into the cafeteria, where they burned it. (In 1972, abuse of the Confederate flag was illegal in Mississippi, though this law was largely unenforced.)
Undaunted, the B.S.U. members moved from the cafeteria to the Ole Miss campus-security office to file a complaint. “They handed each one of us a form, and we filled it out,” Mayfield said. “I put my name on the form,” he said, “and I wrote the source of my complaint, in bold print, as ‘racism.’ ” His classmates did the same. It was one of those balmy days in Mississippi in late winter, just before spring arrives. Again, white students happening past mostly ignored the protesters.
The evening after the cafeteria protest and flag-burning, Mayfield recalled, “We were in a Black Student Union meeting and somebody commented, ‘We’ve got a group that’s performing right here in Mississippi—it is international and interracial.’ ” The group was Up with People, the wholesome and positive travelling revue. In the spur of the moment, the students—sixty-one in all—decided to march to Fulton Chapel, where admission to the Up with People concert was two dollars. “I remember somebody saying, ‘Step aside, we’ve already paid our dues—we’re going in,’ ” Mayfield said. Once inside, where Up with People had already taken the stage, the B.S.U. members started to chant, “What you gonna do? Do it to him. What you gonna do? Do it to him”—the “him” being the Ole Miss administration. Soon Up with People invited the protesters to join them onstage, where the students offered a Black Power salute. A few began grabbing the microphones. As the musical group launched into one of their most famous songs, “What Color Is God’s Skin?” (“Black, brown, it’s yellow, it’s red, it is white. / Every man’s the same in the good Lord’s sight.”), Mayfield tried to yell into a microphone, “He sure ain’t white, he sure ain’t white.”
Just before they headed to Fulton Chapel, Mayfield recalled, the protesters acknowledged the possibility that they could be arrested for their impromptu action. A year before, eight white students had been jailed for protesting mandatory R.O.T.C., and after their arrest they were placed on probation for the remainder of their time at the university. Mayfield remembered telling his friends, “The worst-case scenario: you get a little probation. You don’t get kicked out of school.”
At the time of the Up with People protest, more than seven years had passed since James Meredith became the first black student to enroll at Ole Miss, in 1962, after a legal battle that reached the Supreme Court, and over the objections of Mississippi’s governor and state legislature. President John F. Kennedy’s Administration ordered five hundred U.S. marshals to insure Meredith’s safety as he arrived on campus and added military police and troops from the Mississippi National Guard and the U.S. Border Patrol when he learned there needed to be additional support. Two days of rioting ensued, leading to two deaths and some two hundred injuries. Much of the rioting was concentrated around University Circle; there, the grounds are dominated by the Greek columns and red brick of the Lyceum building, which was constructed with slave labor. A gray-stone Confederate soldier stands in the Lyceum’s shadow, and, in 1962, it served as a rallying point for those opposed to integration of the university. Now, fifty years after the B.S.U. delivered its demands for the elimination of Confederate imagery, the monument will be moved to a Confederate cemetery elsewhere on campus, pending the final approval of the university’s governing board.
Then, and even today, many Ole Miss students and alumni wished to preserve the campus as a simulacrum of Southern exceptionalism—a memorial to the Lost Cause. Confederate-heritage groups still tour the campus, pointing out the old marching grounds of the University Greys, a Civil War regiment formed by Ole Miss students in 1861. The state’s white-power structure emphasized the university’s link to secession as a shield that made black students feel unwelcome and unlikely to enroll. It is something I felt when I arrived, as a freshman, in 1974, four years after the Up with People protest and twelve years after Meredith walked up the blood-stained steps of the Lyceum to register for classes. Two months before the Up with People protest, M. M. Roberts, the president of the governing board of the university system of Mississippi, acknowledged in a public speech that he was a racist. “Every time I read a definition, I say, Well, that’s me,” Roberts said. “I have no apologies for it, though. . . . But it’s my philosophy. Many of you don’t share that philosophy and it doesn’t bother me. . . . I don’t share yours.”
There were fewer than two hundred black students enrolled at Ole Miss in 1970, among a population of some seven thousand students, and they had grown weary and impatient in the face of persistent racist harassment: threatening notes pushed under their doors, loud knocks in the middle of the night, accompanied by taunts and racial slurs, physical intimidation. “I remember being on my way to class one day, and some big football-looking guys blocked the sidewalk,” Donald Cole, a participant in the Up with People protest, said. “It had been raining, and it was muddy. When I came upon them, I knew I couldn’t proceed, and the only option was to get off the sidewalk, walk in the mud. Of course, I was alone. So that’s the path that I chose, as opposed to a more violent one.”
It is difficult to imagine anyone wanting to threaten Don Cole, who has a bright, wide smile and speaks with a gentle Southern lilt. He is tall and slender, of regal bearing, and, at the age of sixty-nine, his face is unwrinkled and youthful. But if you ask him to remember the events of fifty years ago, his face contorts, and he seems to age before your eyes. An encounter with Cole provides an answer to the question that W. E. B. Du Bois asks in “The Souls of Black Folk”: “How does it feel to be a problem?”
In 1969, Frank Moak, then the dean of students, wrote that black students at Ole Miss “come bearing feelings that have been pent up for years and years and possibly centuries. Suddenly these feelings are heaped on the shoulders of this generation, making them feel they have a mission to change radically the whole structure of society to accommodate the anxieties they have been subjected to.” Moak encouraged black students to be patient. The same year, in an article in the Memphis Commercial Appeal, he said, “Problems are only compounded when black students eliminate completely from their vocabulary the word ‘patience’ and substitute the word ‘now.’ ”
Moak was making an oblique reference to the Black Power movement. For the Ole Miss students, however, black power—as a concept, as a slogan—did not mean violence and separatism. It simply meant recognition and awareness of their presence at a university that wanted to act as though they weren’t there.
“As a black person at Ole Miss, your presence was just tolerated,” Theron Evans, who was a freshman participant in the Up with People protest, said. To be black on campus was to be somehow hyper-conspicuous and invisible at once. Activists complained that the campus newspaper, the Daily Mississippian, left black students with “no voice at all” in the six years following James Meredith’s admission. In February, 1970, Jesse Dent, a B.S.U. organizer, told the paper, “To get any changes made, any organization, not just the Black Student Union, should keep the administration in a state of alarm at all times. . . . Then they’ll finally do something.” Mayfield said that Ole Miss, in part, turned him “from a conformist-type Negro to a black person on a mission.”
Cole recalled that he admired Stokely Carmichael, who succeeded John Lewis as head of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee and was a founder of the Black Power movement. “Stokely was admired by all of us in the Black Student Union because he seemed to get more respect with his loud and demanding approach than we did with our written demands,” Cole said. None of the students I interviewed remembered a particular political philosophy that informed their actions; they simply agreed that they were tired of being ignored.
The sound engineers at Fulton Chapel cut the microphones during “What Color Is God’s Skin?” Members of the audience told the protesters that the Mississippi Highway Patrol had the building surrounded. “My name is Chief Stringer,” a man who greeted them outside, on the steps of the chapel, said. The other highway patrolmen on the scene were holding rifles. “I’m in charge here,” Mayfield remembers him saying, “and all of you are under arrest.” They were accused of breach of peace and trespassing, the latter charge despite the fact that they were all tuition-paying Ole Miss students.
At the height of the civil-rights movement, in 1964, the Mississippi state legislature passed a bill that gave the Highway Patrol massive police powers to intervene in protests, even allowing the governor to order them into situations without the request of local authorities. On the night of Up with People, the protesters wondered how the Highway Patrol had managed to arrive at Fulton Chapel so fast—no more than fifteen minutes after the protest had commenced, according to the students.
A recently declassified F.B.I. file reveals that the B.S.U. was placed under the Bureau’s surveillance soon after its founding, in 1968. The F.B.I. sought to “expeditiously conduct” an investigation to determine the identity of the leaders of the B.S.U., and also “any extremist, especially leaders and develop background regarding each.” (Kenneth Mayfield, for example, is described in the F.B.I. file as “a loud, boisterous, and outspoken student who leans toward the ‘black power’ leadership.”) In addition to the F.B.I. surveillance, the students were also being monitored by the Mississippi State Sovereignty Commission, a homegrown spy agency that existed primarily to curb public protest in the state. In an internal memo from May, 1969, J. Edgar Hoover recommended placing informants inside the B.S.U. By November of the same year, the F.B.I. had one informant inside the group—his or her name is redacted in the file—and was looking for more. It is likely that, on the night of the Up with People protest, the informant tipped off the Ole Miss police department, who then called the Highway Patrol.
News of the protest and arrests moved across campus fast. Soon eighteen other black students gathered nearby in solidarity. Ten others staged a protest at the home of Chancellor Fortune. All of them were arrested, too. “If you were black and walking around the Ole Miss campus in the aftermath of that event, you were arrested,” John C. Brittain, the attorney who represented the protesters, said. Forty-nine of the students that evening found themselves locked inside the Lafayette County jail after their arrest. The remaining forty were taken on an hour-plus-long bus ride to the notorious Parchman Farm Penitentiary, in the heart of the Mississippi Delta, a place synonymous with crime and punishment in Mississippi. It was at Parchman, in a section of the prison known as Little Alcatraz, where the state of Mississippi placed the Freedom Riders, in 1961, and later other civil-rights protesters for a “breach of peace,” the same charge that had been levied against the Ole Miss students. (Earlier that month, a group of eight hundred and ninety-four students from the nearby Mississippi Valley State College had been jailed at Parchman, for protesting their campus living conditions and the quality of instruction at the college; the Times called this roundup “the greatest mass arrest ever conducted on an American campus.”)
Right up to the moment when he stepped inside the police cruiser, Mayfield recalled, he remained focussed on how the group’s actions would attract attention to their cause. “What better publicity could you get than the publicity we were getting right then? My feeling was that we would get attention for the arrest, standing up for a good cause,” he said.
The following day, the front page of the Daily Mississippian carried a picture of the protest, under the headline “Eighty-nine Blacks Arrested.” The faces of eight student protesters—a few of them with fists raised in Black Power salutes, and again identified in the caption only as “blacks”—were visible in the photograph.
At age seventy-five, John Brittain is fit and trim, a nationally ranked masters runner. In 1970, he was fresh out of Howard University Law School. As an undergraduate there, he befriended Stokely Carmichael and immersed himself in civil-rights activism on campus, and he had just taken a job with North Mississippi Rural Legal Services, which served clients who lived below the poverty line. Late that February evening, he found himself representing all eighty-nine Ole Miss students. “The principle in both domestic and international law is called collective punishment,” Brittain said. “The arrest that evening was illegal because there’s no probable cause against any one of them, but they did it figuring if they arrest everybody, somebody is bound to tell them something.”
The students in the county jail were released after about twenty-four hours, and the students at Parchman after just under forty-eight. Hoping to clog up the system enough to get the charges dropped, Brittain pushed for a separate jury trial for each student. The strategy worked, and the local prosecutor dropped the charges. But the students were still subject to disciplinary hearings for violating the Ole Miss code of conduct. “And I jammed that up, too, by requesting an evidentiary hearing in every one of those cases,” Brittain said. Eighty-one of the students were suspended for one day and placed on academic probation, without hearings. The remaining eight students were marked as the ring leaders, because of photographic evidence capturing them onstage at Fulton Chapel: Cole, Evans, Mayfield, John Donald, Paul Jackson, Alva Peyton, Henrieese Roberts, and Linnie Willis (née Liggins). “This should asure [sic] that they won’t be involved in any more disturbance,” a Mississippi State Sovereignty Commission investigator wrote in March, 1970.
“We did not have any weapons, and our protest was completely nonviolent,” Willis, who was a senior at the time, recalled. Like Mayfield, she was sent to the Lafayette County jail that night. “I went to jail in my home town, not at Parchman; that was worse, since I became a marked person and could never be employed in Oxford.” By the time she was expelled, Willis had completed all of the requirements to earn her bachelor’s degree, but Ole Miss would not give her a diploma. Since she could not find work in Oxford, she moved North, settling in Toledo, Ohio, where she worked in public-housing advocacy for thirty-four years.
“The whole situation caused me to change the entire direction of my life,” Willis said. “We were committed to trying to change the atmosphere at Ole Miss and have black students feel at home. We all made a huge sacrifice.”
Among the eight students who were expelled, there are two doctors and four lawyers, including Mayfield and John Donald, a Memphis civil-court judge. And there is Donald Cole, who returned to Ole Miss to attain his Ph.D. in mathematics and went on to become a math professor and administrator at the university. “At the time of our leaving Ole Miss, so united, I had no idea of what the future would hold for anybody,” Cole said. After their expulsion, at the end of the school year, Cole and Mayfield, who have sustained a lifelong friendship, moved to Gary, Indiana, where they worked together in a steel mill and applied to other colleges. Within a few months, they were admitted to Tougaloo College, in Jackson, a school with a record of civil-rights activism, and where they completed their undergraduate degrees. Eventually, both would attend the University of Michigan, where Mayfield would earn a law degree and Cole a master’s in mathematics. After graduating from Michigan, Mayfield returned to Mississippi to work as a civil-rights attorney.
Cole returned to Ole Miss to pursue his doctorate, but had difficulty talking about the events of 1970. “It was as if it was a dark side of life that should be kept hidden,” he said. “I felt I had done wrong and should feel guilty about that part of my past.
“There was a risk in coming back, and something worse would happen,” Cole continued. “But when I came here the first time, I was representing more than myself.” Why did he return to Ole Miss? “I’m often asked that question, and I have never been able to give a good answer, even to myself,” he said. “I had never failed at anything, and I had come here to get a degree, and I had failed to get a degree.” Cole felt that he had left in disgrace, with what he called “a jail certificate” instead of a diploma. Returning gave him “another shot at redeeming myself.” After Cole received his doctorate, he worked in the aerospace industry, and eventually on the faculty of Florida A. & M. University. Then Ole Miss called him to come back to work in its administration. “I felt that I had to work to make this institution something to be proud of,” he said.
This week, Cole will join some of his fellow B.S.U. activists, including five of the eight expelled students who have agreed to attend, on the Ole Miss campus for a fiftieth-anniversary commemoration of the protests. “This is more than a story that needs to be told,” Garrett Felber, a University of Mississippi history professor who initiated the anniversary events, said. “It represents intergenerational trauma and community harm that needs to be repaired.” What repair might look like to the University of Mississippi remains uncertain. Mayfield and Theron Evans both told me that they want some sense of “closure.” And Willis recently received a call from the provost, telling her that she will finally receive the diploma she earned fifty years ago.


newyorker--2020-02-23--How Did the Democrats End Up Here?

How Did the Democrats End Up Here?

Early in last week ’ s Democratic Presidential debate , in Las Vegas , just before it began to seem as if Michael Bloomberg ’ s cutman might rush onto the stage during a commercial break , carrying a spit bucket and an ice pack , the former mayor of New York made an observation about the candidates .
“ If we took off this panel everybody that was wrong on criminal justice sometime in their careers , ” he said , “ there ’ d be nobody else up here.
” He was almost right .
A crude way @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Democratic field is to note that voters have a choice of : a former mayor who championed stop-and-frisk practices that targeted African-American and Latino men ; another former mayor , who fired a black police chief after he recorded phone calls in which senior white officers made racist comments ; a former prosecutor who may have helped send a wrongfully accused black teen-ager to prison ; a former Vice-President who co-wrote the 1994 crime bill ; a democratic socialist who voted for and defended that bill ; or Senator Elizabeth Warren , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and has no comparable stain on her record .
Individual politicians often face liabilities with particular segments of the electorate .
It ’ s unusual , though , for so many in one field to be susceptible on such a similar theme ; a now entirely white Democratic slate is being asked to explain past positions on criminal-justice issues , and , specifically , the effects of those positions on people of color .
How did the Democrats end up here ?
Part of the problem dates to the 1994 crime bill @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee , and President Bill Clinton signed into law .
The bill was a response to alarming rates of violent crime—and to Republicans ’ accusations that Democrats were soft on the issue .
It included an assault-weapons ban and the Violence Against Women Act , but it also imposed harsh federal sentences and mandatory “ three strikes ” rules .
Even so , no one in the Democratic leadership then could have predicted that criminal-justice reform would factor quite as it has in current politics .
Hillary @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 2013 , but it wasn ’ t until 2016 that she was called out for a remark she had made in 1996 , about “ superpredators , ” saying that “ we have to bring them to heel.
” Before this election , Biden was rarely challenged on his role in the crime bill .
The problem isn ’ t just the bill but the cultural devastation of mass incarceration that it seemed to engender , and that cloud has hung over the Party , creating vulnerabilities even for younger , more progressive @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Harris ’ s 2020 campaign was hounded by concerns regarding her years as a prosecutor , and Senator Cory Booker dropped out before questions were widely raised about oversight of the Newark Police Department during his tenure as mayor .
In an unimaginable irony—it seems that nearly all our current ironies were unimaginable not long ago—the situation has provided an opportunity for Donald Trump .
The President frequently appears challenged by the English language , but he is fluent in cynicism .
In 2016 , he both proclaimed that he was the “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ African-Americans , “ What do you have to lose ?
” In fact , almost a million fewer African-Americans voted that year than in 2012 .
Some portion of that drop reflected the fact that it was the first election in eight years without a black candidate at the top of the ticket ; another part may be attributed to voter-suppression tactics .
But it also stemmed from a perception that Hillary Clinton was no different , or at least no better , than Trump on matters of race—and that perception was driven @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 2016 , Trump won just eight per cent of the black vote , but he got a surprising thirteen per cent of the black male vote .
It is pedestrian , at this point , to note that there were differences between Trump and Clinton .
Big ones .
Trump ’ s racial cynicism reached a zenith with his signing , in December , 2018 , of the First Step Act , which sets out to redress the disparities of federal sentencing guidelines .
But he is no reformer .
He pushed his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to crack down on low-level drug offenders .
Sessions also instructed U.S .
Attorneys to seek the death penalty in some drug cases , and halted programs that sought to reform chronically troubled police departments .
Nonetheless , Trump is courting the black vote .
He regularly touts a record low unemployment rate among African-Americans ( while declining to point out that it is sixty-seven per cent higher than the national average ) .
In September , he told leaders from historically black colleges and universities that his commitment to them was “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Administration by far.
” In October , he hosted a photo-ready gathering of black conservatives at the White House .
At this year ’ s State of the Union address , he introduced people of color who were recipients of his beneficence—schoolchildren , veterans , a single mother—even as he slipped a Presidential Medal of Freedom to Rush Limbaugh .
Most pointedly , his campaign aired an ad during the Super Bowl that featured Alice Marie Johnson , a black woman who had served twenty-two years of a life term for a nonviolent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sentence , at the behest of Kim Kardashian .
He still has a ways to go .
Last month , the Washington Post reported that eighty-three per cent of African-Americans believe that Trump is a racist , and sixty-five per cent think that this is “ a bad time ” to be black in America .
His strategy , though , seems designed to persuade black voters not so much that he is better than they thought but that the Democratic nominee will be worse .
( Given the latest news reports , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in Russian social-media disinformation campaigns , as it did in 2016 . )
The no-difference argument will still be false , regardless of who the Democrats ’ eventual nominee is , on every issue—criminal justice , health care , education , gun control , immigration , climate change—that disproportionately affects people of color .
And no Democrat will ask Hollywood to bring back movies like the racist classic “ Gone with the Wind , ” as Trump did at a rally last week .
It is undeniable that Trump stokes the fury of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is his clear hope to induce despair in those who do not .
The imperative for Democrats is to defeat not only Trump but also the cynicism that abides him .
One calculation for his reëlection isn ’ t how many African-Americans will vote for him .
It ’ s how many will be dissuaded from voting at all .
♦

Illustration by João Fazenda
Early in last week’s Democratic Presidential debate, in Las Vegas, just before it began to seem as if Michael Bloomberg’s cutman might rush onto the stage during a commercial break, carrying a spit bucket and an ice pack, the former mayor of New York made an observation about the candidates. “If we took off this panel everybody that was wrong on criminal justice sometime in their careers,” he said, “there’d be nobody else up here.”
He was almost right. A crude way of summarizing the remaining viable contenders in the Democratic field is to note that voters have a choice of: a former mayor who championed stop-and-frisk practices that targeted African-American and Latino men; another former mayor, who fired a black police chief after he recorded phone calls in which senior white officers made racist comments; a former prosecutor who may have helped send a wrongfully accused black teen-ager to prison; a former Vice-President who co-wrote the 1994 crime bill; a democratic socialist who voted for and defended that bill; or Senator Elizabeth Warren, who has held office only since 2013, and has no comparable stain on her record. Individual politicians often face liabilities with particular segments of the electorate. It’s unusual, though, for so many in one field to be susceptible on such a similar theme; a now entirely white Democratic slate is being asked to explain past positions on criminal-justice issues, and, specifically, the effects of those positions on people of color.
How did the Democrats end up here? Part of the problem dates to the 1994 crime bill, which Joe Biden spearheaded, as the chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, and President Bill Clinton signed into law. The bill was a response to alarming rates of violent crime—and to Republicans’ accusations that Democrats were soft on the issue. It included an assault-weapons ban and the Violence Against Women Act, but it also imposed harsh federal sentences and mandatory “three strikes” rules. Even so, no one in the Democratic leadership then could have predicted that criminal-justice reform would factor quite as it has in current politics. Hillary Clinton held public office from 2001 to 2013, but it wasn’t until 2016 that she was called out for a remark she had made in 1996, about “superpredators,” saying that “we have to bring them to heel.” Before this election, Biden was rarely challenged on his role in the crime bill. The problem isn’t just the bill but the cultural devastation of mass incarceration that it seemed to engender, and that cloud has hung over the Party, creating vulnerabilities even for younger, more progressive, and nonwhite Democrats. Senator Kamala Harris’s 2020 campaign was hounded by concerns regarding her years as a prosecutor, and Senator Cory Booker dropped out before questions were widely raised about oversight of the Newark Police Department during his tenure as mayor.
In an unimaginable irony—it seems that nearly all our current ironies were unimaginable not long ago—the situation has provided an opportunity for Donald Trump. The President frequently appears challenged by the English language, but he is fluent in cynicism. In 2016, he both proclaimed that he was the “law and order” candidate and asked African-Americans, “What do you have to lose?” In fact, almost a million fewer African-Americans voted that year than in 2012. Some portion of that drop reflected the fact that it was the first election in eight years without a black candidate at the top of the ticket; another part may be attributed to voter-suppression tactics. But it also stemmed from a perception that Hillary Clinton was no different, or at least no better, than Trump on matters of race—and that perception was driven by concerns about criminal justice. In 2016, Trump won just eight per cent of the black vote, but he got a surprising thirteen per cent of the black male vote.
It is pedestrian, at this point, to note that there were differences between Trump and Clinton. Big ones. Trump’s racial cynicism reached a zenith with his signing, in December, 2018, of the First Step Act, which sets out to redress the disparities of federal sentencing guidelines. But he is no reformer. He pushed his first Attorney General, Jeff Sessions, to crack down on low-level drug offenders. Sessions also instructed U.S. Attorneys to seek the death penalty in some drug cases, and halted programs that sought to reform chronically troubled police departments.
Nonetheless, Trump is courting the black vote. He regularly touts a record low unemployment rate among African-Americans (while declining to point out that it is sixty-seven per cent higher than the national average). In September, he told leaders from historically black colleges and universities that his commitment to them was “bigger and better and stronger than any Administration by far.” In October, he hosted a photo-ready gathering of black conservatives at the White House. At this year’s State of the Union address, he introduced people of color who were recipients of his beneficence—schoolchildren, veterans, a single mother—even as he slipped a Presidential Medal of Freedom to Rush Limbaugh. Most pointedly, his campaign aired an ad during the Super Bowl that featured Alice Marie Johnson, a black woman who had served twenty-two years of a life term for a nonviolent drug offense, before Trump commuted her sentence, at the behest of Kim Kardashian.
He still has a ways to go. Last month, the Washington Post reported that eighty-three per cent of African-Americans believe that Trump is a racist, and sixty-five per cent think that this is “a bad time” to be black in America. His strategy, though, seems designed to persuade black voters not so much that he is better than they thought but that the Democratic nominee will be worse. (Given the latest news reports, we can expect this reasoning to feature in Russian social-media disinformation campaigns, as it did in 2016.) The no-difference argument will still be false, regardless of who the Democrats’ eventual nominee is, on every issue—criminal justice, health care, education, gun control, immigration, climate change—that disproportionately affects people of color. And no Democrat will ask Hollywood to bring back movies like the racist classic “Gone with the Wind,” as Trump did at a rally last week.
It is undeniable that Trump stokes the fury of voters who support him; less recognized is his clear hope to induce despair in those who do not. The imperative for Democrats is to defeat not only Trump but also the cynicism that abides him. One calculation for his reëlection isn’t how many African-Americans will vote for him. It’s how many will be dissuaded from voting at all. ♦