newyorker--2020-03-22--The Dream of Turning Texas Blue Depends on Latino Voters

The weekend before Super Tuesday , Manuel Ortiz , a student at the University of Texas at Austin , drove to Montopolis , a majority-Latino neighborhood on the city ’ s southeastern edge .
He was joined by four other college students , all canvassers for the Texas Youth Power Alliance , an initiative that aims to register three hundred thousand new voters before November .
Ivy , the group ’ s field organizer , parked her aqua Honda in front of Nuestra Señora de los Dolores , a Mission-style Catholic church built in the fifties .
She wore oversized @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a sweetly commanding tone .
“ Avoid dogs , ” she said .
“ Don ’ t go through ‘ No Trespassing ’ signs , gated areas , or ones with , like , a gun sign.
” The shadow of the 2016 election , when Texas , reliably red , registered among the lowest voter turnouts of any state , loomed over the canvassers ’ efforts .
Ortiz , who was dressed in a light-wash denim jacket adorned with pins—of Selena , a raised fist , and a prickly pear—was feeling restless @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he has developed a sort of poised patience and has learned to listen without pressing .
His cacti-patterned bag was filled with dozens of voting guides en español .
Latinos , who make up nearly forty per cent of the state ’ s twenty-nine million people , have long had the lowest turnout of any demographic group in Texas .
Within his family , Ortiz told me , he is the most dedicated voter .
His older sister had called the day before to say that she had cast her ballot in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ yet convinced his parents to do so .
“ My mom got really uncomfortable in the last Senate election , ” he said .
“ She felt overwhelmed with the system , those weird voting machines—they can scare people.
” His parents are from San Luis Potosí , a state in central Mexico known for its mining industry .
They settled in Southern California in the eighties , and became eligible for amnesty under a sweeping immigration-reform bill signed by Ronald Reagan in 1986 .
Before Ortiz was born , the family moved @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Texas , where residents have been voting Republican since the late sixties and Latinos remain a minority .
The outcome of the 2016 election , Ortiz ’ s first as a voter , “ hurt a lot to see , ” he told me .
“ All of those people had heard his ” —Donald Trump ’ s— “ hateful rhetoric and they were O.K .
with it .
But it also made me want to fight back.
” Early this year , he had mailed an absentee ballot back home .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ which is generally a lot more conservative , to know that there is some Democratic presence there , ” he said .
For Ortiz , moving to Austin for college , in 2017 , was a liberating experience .
In Eula , he said , he had been enrolled in English-as-a-second-language classes in elementary school , though he had grown up bilingual .
In Austin , he was majoring in anthropology and sustainability studies .
There were more provoking conversations to engage in , and more live concerts to choose from .
None @ @ @ @ @ @ @ status of his parents or judged him for speaking to them in Spanish .
He could finally embrace all that before had been a source of shame , without wondering whether he was Latino or American enough .
And with this feeling came the realization that he belongs to a group of people who , in a matter of years , will become the majority in Texas .
He wanted others like him to know that they were not alone—that , through their votes , they could , and should , make their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ re constantly being marginalized , it feels like nobody is fighting for you , ” Ortiz said .
“ What ’ s important is getting those young voters engaged and talking to them .
Maybe they can realize , Oh , these people are actually genuinely interested in hearing what I have to say.
” Texas has been voting Republican for four decades ; nonetheless , a new narrative has recently surfaced about the state—that it is not so much red as it is non-voting .
In 2018 , when Beto O ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Ted Cruz , he helped drive high turnout and historic wins for the Democratic Party across Texas , including fourteen seats in the state legislature and two seats in the House of Representatives .
In counties with large Latino populations , participation rose almost three hundred per cent since the 2014 midterm election .
Democratic donors took note of the increased competition in Texas , and some have shifted their focus toward the state .
Tory Gavito , the head of Way to Win , a multimillion-dollar progressive-donor network , told me , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a blessing and a curse .
It ’ s a challenge , of course , because it requires massive resources.
” The Lone Star State has twenty-one media markets and several metropolitan areas , Gavito explained , making it immensely difficult for campaigns to penetrate .
“ On the flip side , the scale is nothing but opportunity , ” she said .
“ Whereas in a state like North Carolina , where the margins are very slim and the demographic changes are not as pronounced , you have to have everything go @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Democrats have been able to expand their base in Texas partly because the state ’ s population is growing fast but also because it is becoming increasingly diverse , young , and urban .
And , to a large extent , Latinos are driving that demographic growth .
Nearly half of all Texans under the age of eighteen are Latino , and two million of them will become eligible to vote in the next decade .
The key , for Democrats , is to make sure that they become involved in the political @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Ortiz started volunteering with a progressive group called Jolt , which organizes young Latinos , and began canvassing in neighborhoods , such as Montopolis , that are often neglected by political campaigns .
“ This is when I first got to truly understand that not all people have the same access to information about voting , ” Ortiz said .
“ I met people who told me they didn ’ t know their polling location or even about early voting.
” For Cristina Tzintzún Ramirez , who founded Jolt after the 2016 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ campaign , for which she crafted the Latino-outreach plan , set a historic precedent .
The campaign had managed to engage Latinos on a variety of issues beyond immigration , including health care and education .
It recognized that voters in the Rio Grande Valley had different concerns than those in Dallas , and that a blanket message would not suffice .
The campaign also hosted rallies with musicians such as Los Tigres del Norte , a premier Mexican norteño band , and understood that successful Latino outreach entailed more than having campaign @ @ @ @ @ @ @ didn ’ t run away from Texas ’ s rich diversity—he embraced it , ” Tzintzún Ramirez told me .
“ Every time , over the last twenty years , that we ’ ve run Republican-light , moderate Democrats , who can swing Republican voters and don ’ t necessarily speak to the diversity of the state , we ’ ve gotten farther and farther from actually flipping the state.
” The main challenge for such a theory of change is that it requires unprecedented turnout levels—which means overcoming , in a short @ @ @ @ @ @ @ suppression .
“ It is not so long ago that Latinos were actually lynched when they tried to vote , ” Gavito said .
In the years leading up to the First World War , Texas Rangers participated in the executions of Latinos across the state , through vigilante violence and lynch mobs .
Estimates of the total number of Latinos killed at the border in the early twentieth century vary , from the hundreds to the thousands ; Sonia Hernandez , an associate professor of history at Texas A .
& M. @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to Forget , said that the number could be as high as five thousand .
“ Texas is where the South meets the West , ” Gavito went on .
“ We have a legacy of slavery in the state .
We have a legacy of stealing lands and killing Mexican landowners who lived here from before the state was part of the United States of America.
” Many Latinos in Texas did not cast their first votes until the mid-seventies , when Congress passed an amendment to the Voting Rights Act of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ballots ; until then , English-only ballots had effectively served as literacy tests for Latino voters .
Around this time , Willie C. Velasquez , a Mexican-American activist , established the Southwest Voter Registration Education Project , in San Antonio .
Since its founding , S.V.R.E.P.
, which is headquartered in a small , unassuming house southwest of the city , has registered nearly three million voters .
“ Willie called Congressman [ John ] Lewis—who was not a congress member at the time but a member of the civil-rights movement—and they gave @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the current president of S.V.R.E.P.
, said .
“ He started with a folding chair , a folding table , a rotary phone , and a phone book .
Willie would begin at nine in the morning every day .
He would call up people and say , ‘ Are you registered to vote ?
’ ”

The weekend before Super Tuesday, Manuel Ortiz, a student at the University of Texas at Austin, drove to Montopolis, a majority-Latino neighborhood on the city’s southeastern edge. He was joined by four other college students, all canvassers for the Texas Youth Power Alliance, an initiative that aims to register three hundred thousand new voters before November. Ivy, the group’s field organizer, parked her aqua Honda in front of Nuestra Señora de los Dolores, a Mission-style Catholic church built in the fifties. She wore oversized glasses and spoke to the others in a sweetly commanding tone. “Avoid dogs,” she said. “Don’t go through ‘No Trespassing’ signs, gated areas, or ones with, like, a gun sign.” The shadow of the 2016 election, when Texas, reliably red, registered among the lowest voter turnouts of any state, loomed over the canvassers’ efforts. Ortiz, who was dressed in a light-wash denim jacket adorned with pins—of Selena, a raised fist, and a prickly pear—was feeling restless but keen. As a canvasser, he has developed a sort of poised patience and has learned to listen without pressing. His cacti-patterned bag was filled with dozens of voting guides en español.
Latinos, who make up nearly forty per cent of the state’s twenty-nine million people, have long had the lowest turnout of any demographic group in Texas. Within his family, Ortiz told me, he is the most dedicated voter. His older sister had called the day before to say that she had cast her ballot in the Democratic primary, but he had not yet convinced his parents to do so. “My mom got really uncomfortable in the last Senate election,” he said. “She felt overwhelmed with the system, those weird voting machines—they can scare people.” His parents are from San Luis Potosí, a state in central Mexico known for its mining industry. They settled in Southern California in the eighties, and became eligible for amnesty under a sweeping immigration-reform bill signed by Ronald Reagan in 1986. Before Ortiz was born, the family moved to Eula, a settlement in northern Texas, where residents have been voting Republican since the late sixties and Latinos remain a minority. The outcome of the 2016 election, Ortiz’s first as a voter, “hurt a lot to see,” he told me. “All of those people had heard his”—Donald Trump’s—“hateful rhetoric and they were O.K. with it. But it also made me want to fight back.” Early this year, he had mailed an absentee ballot back home. “I want people from my area, which is generally a lot more conservative, to know that there is some Democratic presence there,” he said.
“If you’re constantly being marginalized,” Manuel Ortiz says, “it feels like nobody is fighting for you.”
For Ortiz, moving to Austin for college, in 2017, was a liberating experience. In Eula, he said, he had been enrolled in English-as-a-second-language classes in elementary school, though he had grown up bilingual. In Austin, he was majoring in anthropology and sustainability studies. There were more provoking conversations to engage in, and more live concerts to choose from. None of his classmates inquired about the legal status of his parents or judged him for speaking to them in Spanish. He could finally embrace all that before had been a source of shame, without wondering whether he was Latino or American enough. And with this feeling came the realization that he belongs to a group of people who, in a matter of years, will become the majority in Texas. He wanted others like him to know that they were not alone—that, through their votes, they could, and should, make their voices heard. “If you’re constantly being marginalized, it feels like nobody is fighting for you,” Ortiz said. “What’s important is getting those young voters engaged and talking to them. Maybe they can realize, Oh, these people are actually genuinely interested in hearing what I have to say.”
Texas has been voting Republican for four decades; nonetheless, a new narrative has recently surfaced about the state—that it is not so much red as it is non-voting. In 2018, when Beto O’Rourke narrowly lost a Senate challenge to Ted Cruz, he helped drive high turnout and historic wins for the Democratic Party across Texas, including fourteen seats in the state legislature and two seats in the House of Representatives. In counties with large Latino populations, participation rose almost three hundred per cent since the 2014 midterm election. Democratic donors took note of the increased competition in Texas, and some have shifted their focus toward the state. Tory Gavito, the head of Way to Win, a multimillion-dollar progressive-donor network, told me, “The scale of Texas is both a blessing and a curse. It’s a challenge, of course, because it requires massive resources.” The Lone Star State has twenty-one media markets and several metropolitan areas, Gavito explained, making it immensely difficult for campaigns to penetrate. “On the flip side, the scale is nothing but opportunity,” she said. “Whereas in a state like North Carolina, where the margins are very slim and the demographic changes are not as pronounced, you have to have everything go right to win those statewide elections.”
Democrats have been able to expand their base in Texas partly because the state’s population is growing fast but also because it is becoming increasingly diverse, young, and urban. And, to a large extent, Latinos are driving that demographic growth. Nearly half of all Texans under the age of eighteen are Latino, and two million of them will become eligible to vote in the next decade. The key, for Democrats, is to make sure that they become involved in the political process. In the fall of 2018, Ortiz started volunteering with a progressive group called Jolt, which organizes young Latinos, and began canvassing in neighborhoods, such as Montopolis, that are often neglected by political campaigns. “This is when I first got to truly understand that not all people have the same access to information about voting,” Ortiz said. “I met people who told me they didn’t know their polling location or even about early voting.”
For Cristina Tzintzún Ramirez, who founded Jolt after the 2016 election, O’Rourke’s campaign, for which she crafted the Latino-outreach plan, set a historic precedent. The campaign had managed to engage Latinos on a variety of issues beyond immigration, including health care and education. It recognized that voters in the Rio Grande Valley had different concerns than those in Dallas, and that a blanket message would not suffice. The campaign also hosted rallies with musicians such as Los Tigres del Norte, a premier Mexican norteño band, and understood that successful Latino outreach entailed more than having campaign materials translated into Spanish. “Beto didn’t run away from Texas’s rich diversity—he embraced it,” Tzintzún Ramirez told me. “Every time, over the last twenty years, that we’ve run Republican-light, moderate Democrats, who can swing Republican voters and don’t necessarily speak to the diversity of the state, we’ve gotten farther and farther from actually flipping the state.”
The main challenge for such a theory of change is that it requires unprecedented turnout levels—which means overcoming, in a short period, decades of intimidation and voter suppression. “It is not so long ago that Latinos were actually lynched when they tried to vote,” Gavito said. In the years leading up to the First World War, Texas Rangers participated in the executions of Latinos across the state, through vigilante violence and lynch mobs. Estimates of the total number of Latinos killed at the border in the early twentieth century vary, from the hundreds to the thousands; Sonia Hernandez, an associate professor of history at Texas A. & M. and a co-founder of the nonprofit Refusing to Forget, said that the number could be as high as five thousand. “Texas is where the South meets the West,” Gavito went on. “We have a legacy of slavery in the state. We have a legacy of stealing lands and killing Mexican landowners who lived here from before the state was part of the United States of America.”
Many Latinos in Texas did not cast their first votes until the mid-seventies, when Congress passed an amendment to the Voting Rights Act of 1965 that required states to offer Spanish-language ballots; until then, English-only ballots had effectively served as literacy tests for Latino voters. Around this time, Willie C. Velasquez, a Mexican-American activist, established the Southwest Voter Registration Education Project, in San Antonio. Since its founding, S.V.R.E.P., which is headquartered in a small, unassuming house southwest of the city, has registered nearly three million voters. “Willie called Congressman [John] Lewis—who was not a congress member at the time but a member of the civil-rights movement—and they gave us a training,” Lydia Camarillo, the current president of S.V.R.E.P., said. “He started with a folding chair, a folding table, a rotary phone, and a phone book. Willie would begin at nine in the morning every day. He would call up people and say, ‘Are you registered to vote?’ ”
The morning of Super Tuesday, Julián Castro, the former Housing and Urban Development Secretary and Presidential candidate, stopped by an Elizabeth Warren campaign event in San Antonio. Castro, who served as the city’s mayor from 2009 to 2014, reminisced about the days when his mother, Rosie, a Chicano-rights activist, fought hard for her community. “When my mother was young, the barriers that were put up were much more rigid and much more explicit,” Castro told me. “It’s up to these generations that are coming up now to take that baton and go the next step.” He went on, “Attitudes have improved in our society. The laws are not as explicitly racist as they used to be—they provide more opportunity to get people registered or get them involved—but they still don’t encourage participation.” In 2013, the Supreme Court issued Shelby County v. Holder, a decision that allowed Texas to pass new election-and-voting laws without federal scrutiny. Within twenty-four hours, the state implemented one of the strictest voter-identification laws in the country, under which a concealed-handgun license, but not a student I.D. card, is considered a valid form of photo identification. Last year, the state banned temporary polling locations and straight-ticket voting. Hundreds of voting centers have been shut down, disproportionately affecting counties where minority populations are booming.


newyorker--2020-03-23--Han Ong on the Language of Tennis

Han Ong on the Language of Tennis

Your story in this week ’ s issue , “ Futures , ” revolves around a father and his eighteen-year-old son who host tennis players from other countries , who are competing in a tournament in La Jolla .
Where did that scenario come from ?
Were you once an aspiring tennis player yourself ?
Last question first : the people who know me are laughing at the suggestion that I could be a tennis player—I am such a klutz !
However , I have been tennis-crazy ever since I was a child , in Manila .
Don ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ no one from my family or my cohort even remotely cared about tennis .
Also , the Philippines is a golf and basketball country .
But tennis—forget about it .
I am always looking to make use in my fiction of the vast body of tennis knowledge that I ’ ve accumulated because of my passion for the sport .
The idea for the story came in dribs and drabs .
First , I wanted to write about the tennis minor leagues—the heartbreaks and the , you could say , foolish persistence of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ It occurs to me now that it ’ s a world like that of Chekhov ’ s “ Three Sisters , ” where the siblings sigh and dream of Moscow throughout the play , and the most potent emotion is yearning . )
And then , I thought , Why not tell it from the point of view of someone whose family hosts these players , opening their home simply out of love for the game ?
And maybe I could track the coming of age of the family ’ s son , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
I wasn ’ t sure if this would be a play or a film script—so , already , I was thinking in terms of scenes and dialogue .
To tell the story in prose was a late call , and it paid me back with pleasant surprises .
For example , I ’ d always imagined the host family to be working class .
( I was picturing a stage or film set that was humble ; drabness has always had a visual allure for me . )
But , once I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ family became stinking rich , and that milieu provided comedy that egged me on with further inventions : the swans who occupy the swimming pool , the support check that Toby ’ s father writes for the visiting players .
The match-fixing and the cheating I folded into the story on the spot , as I was writing .
Toby lives vicariously through the visiting tennis players , since he isn ’ t talented enough to have his own career in tennis .
Why is he so inescapably drawn to the game ?
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ ardor and took things from there .
But you could also say that it ’ s the strongest bond he shares with his father .
They lead fairly separate lives , and tennis is one of the few things that bring them together—as boosters and befrienders of the players they host , as spectators at those players ’ matches , and as tennis fans who share a specialized lingo : Nadal , Bollettieri , Challengers .
And , also , there ’ s this to consider : what might bar entry into the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ barrier at all to Toby .
Not only does he have a tennis court in his own back yard but his father can afford to send him to an expensive tennis academy like Bollettieri , in Florida .
You could say that , as a signifier of class , tennis is perfect for Toby .
Toby , like Martin , the Chilean player who has caused trouble by taking a bribe to throw a match , is at a crossroads in his life .
But whereas Martin sees two paths—pursue his tennis dream @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of it—Toby seems to have no sense of his own future .
Or does he ?
Do you ?
You ’ re right .
He doesn ’ t .
And I don ’ t , either .
All I know of Toby is in the story .
But maybe he ’ ll start a tennis or tennis-adjacent business .
Maybe he ’ ll purchase the local Challengers tournament and a few others , becoming an entrepreneur , following in his father ’ s footsteps .
There are several characters in the story for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ How do you capture the rhythms of speech for a Czech man speaking English , a Chilean man speaking English , a Chinese man speaking English ?
Do you hear these voices in your mind ?
Tennis is an international sport .
Decades of watching it has accustomed me to hearing English spoken with a foreign accent , with funny and sometimes moving slippages in the language .
Nadal is a prime example .
For someone who learned English fairly late in life , he speaks it excellently , although sometimes with a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ And , though I didn ’ t base the characters in the story on any of these players , looking back , I recall hearing Tomáš Berdych ( a Czech ) and Fernando González ( a Chilean ) and Li Na ( a Chinese player ) being interviewed , and that must have given me some grounding when I was writing .
Why did you decide to write most of the story in the present tense ?
Because the present tense perfectly captures the I-don ’ t-know-where-this-is-going experience I had while writing the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tense , making up this incident that is just happening , and then the next thing that is also just happening , and whatever connections exist between them ( or fail to ) I will smooth over later , but , in the meantime , I ’ m having fun , and I hope that some of this fun transfers to the characters and the story .
Toby lives with his father and no mention is made of what has happened to his mother .
Do you have an idea where she might @ @ @ @ @ @ @ character that he be motherless ?
The motherlessness is an extra touch of loneliness .
It might be useful to think of taking notes away from a piece of music—what are you left with ?
Or , rather , how are the vibrations changed ?
Is it a pall or is it freedom ?
Maybe both , but inching closer to the latter ?
Certainly , Toby never mentions that he doesn ’ t have a mother .
I don ’ t actually know what happened to Mrs. Toby ’ s Father .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ abandoned the family .
Her divorcing Toby ’ s father , though , is not a scenario I can consider .
I can ’ t tell you why I think that , but I do .
Are there any great works of fiction about tennis ?
Well , Google lists Nabokov , Martin Amis , and David Foster Wallace , but I ’ ve never read any of their fictions that use tennis or are about the game .
And apparently , also according to Google , only in Wallace ’ s work @ @ @ @ @ @ @ there would seem to be very little tennis in fiction , in general .
There ’ s probably more baseball or football in fiction—the same market share those sports have of the general public awareness .
But I love the world of the sport so much , its lores and idiosyncrasies , that it ’ s hard to pass up the opportunity to spend more time in it .

Photograph Courtesy Han Ong
Your story in this week’s issue, “Futures,” revolves around a father and his eighteen-year-old son who host tennis players from other countries, who are competing in a tournament in La Jolla. Where did that scenario come from? Were you once an aspiring tennis player yourself?
Last question first: the people who know me are laughing at the suggestion that I could be a tennis player—I am such a klutz! However, I have been tennis-crazy ever since I was a child, in Manila. Don’t ask where it came from, as no one from my family or my cohort even remotely cared about tennis. Also, the Philippines is a golf and basketball country. But tennis—forget about it.
I am always looking to make use in my fiction of the vast body of tennis knowledge that I’ve accumulated because of my passion for the sport. The idea for the story came in dribs and drabs. First, I wanted to write about the tennis minor leagues—the heartbreaks and the, you could say, foolish persistence of the players with three-digit rankings. (It occurs to me now that it’s a world like that of Chekhov’s “Three Sisters,” where the siblings sigh and dream of Moscow throughout the play, and the most potent emotion is yearning.) And then, I thought, Why not tell it from the point of view of someone whose family hosts these players, opening their home simply out of love for the game? And maybe I could track the coming of age of the family’s son, through his encounters with the transitory players. I wasn’t sure if this would be a play or a film script—so, already, I was thinking in terms of scenes and dialogue. To tell the story in prose was a late call, and it paid me back with pleasant surprises. For example, I’d always imagined the host family to be working class. (I was picturing a stage or film set that was humble; drabness has always had a visual allure for me.) But, once I’d started the story, the family became stinking rich, and that milieu provided comedy that egged me on with further inventions: the swans who occupy the swimming pool, the support check that Toby’s father writes for the visiting players. The match-fixing and the cheating I folded into the story on the spot, as I was writing.
Toby lives vicariously through the visiting tennis players, since he isn’t talented enough to have his own career in tennis. Why is he so inescapably drawn to the game?
I simply gave Toby my own tennis ardor and took things from there. But you could also say that it’s the strongest bond he shares with his father. They lead fairly separate lives, and tennis is one of the few things that bring them together—as boosters and befrienders of the players they host, as spectators at those players’ matches, and as tennis fans who share a specialized lingo: Nadal, Bollettieri, Challengers. And, also, there’s this to consider: what might bar entry into the sport for someone like Martin is no barrier at all to Toby. Not only does he have a tennis court in his own back yard but his father can afford to send him to an expensive tennis academy like Bollettieri, in Florida. You could say that, as a signifier of class, tennis is perfect for Toby.
Toby, like Martin, the Chilean player who has caused trouble by taking a bribe to throw a match, is at a crossroads in his life. But whereas Martin sees two paths—pursue his tennis dream or grow up and accept the impossibility of it—Toby seems to have no sense of his own future. Or does he? Do you?
You’re right. He doesn’t. And I don’t, either. All I know of Toby is in the story. But maybe he’ll start a tennis or tennis-adjacent business. Maybe he’ll purchase the local Challengers tournament and a few others, becoming an entrepreneur, following in his father’s footsteps.
There are several characters in the story for whom English is a second language. How do you capture the rhythms of speech for a Czech man speaking English, a Chilean man speaking English, a Chinese man speaking English? Do you hear these voices in your mind?
Tennis is an international sport. Decades of watching it has accustomed me to hearing English spoken with a foreign accent, with funny and sometimes moving slippages in the language. Nadal is a prime example. For someone who learned English fairly late in life, he speaks it excellently, although sometimes with a funny Spanish mispronunciation or misplaced emphasis. And, though I didn’t base the characters in the story on any of these players, looking back, I recall hearing Tomáš Berdych (a Czech) and Fernando González (a Chilean) and Li Na (a Chinese player) being interviewed, and that must have given me some grounding when I was writing.
Why did you decide to write most of the story in the present tense?
Because the present tense perfectly captures the I-don’t-know-where-this-is-going experience I had while writing the story. I am in the present tense, making up this incident that is just happening, and then the next thing that is also just happening, and whatever connections exist between them (or fail to) I will smooth over later, but, in the meantime, I’m having fun, and I hope that some of this fun transfers to the characters and the story.
Toby lives with his father and no mention is made of what has happened to his mother. Do you have an idea where she might be? Is it important to his character that he be motherless?
The motherlessness is an extra touch of loneliness. It might be useful to think of taking notes away from a piece of music—what are you left with? Or, rather, how are the vibrations changed? Is it a pall or is it freedom? Maybe both, but inching closer to the latter? Certainly, Toby never mentions that he doesn’t have a mother. I don’t actually know what happened to Mrs. Toby’s Father. Maybe she passed away or maybe she abandoned the family. Her divorcing Toby’s father, though, is not a scenario I can consider. I can’t tell you why I think that, but I do.
Are there any great works of fiction about tennis?
Well, Google lists Nabokov, Martin Amis, and David Foster Wallace, but I’ve never read any of their fictions that use tennis or are about the game. And apparently, also according to Google, only in Wallace’s work is tennis a major component. So there would seem to be very little tennis in fiction, in general. There’s probably more baseball or football in fiction—the same market share those sports have of the general public awareness. But I love the world of the sport so much, its lores and idiosyncrasies, that it’s hard to pass up the opportunity to spend more time in it.


newyorker--2020-03-23--How Joseph Smith and the Early Mormons Challenged American Democracy

It was an unlikely candidacy : a thirty-eight-year-old mayor from the heartland who pitched himself as the solution to partisan gridlock , played up his military experience , talked often about his faith , and promised to end the country ’ s moral decline .
He was fond of quoting the Founding Fathers , had an army of grassroots supporters , and came from a swing state .
But the year was 1844 , the state was Illinois , the parties were the Whigs and the Democrats , and the candidate was Joseph Smith , the founder of the Church @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Whether or not the country would have been with Joe , we ’ ll never know : on June 27th , a few months after announcing his candidacy , the first Mormon to run for President became the first Presidential candidate to be assassinated .
Smith ’ s death marked the end of a decisive period in Mormon history , one that is less familiar to most outsiders than the Church ’ s founding , in New York State , or its eventual move to Utah , where , against considerable odds , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the chaotic months of Smith ’ s Presidential campaign and his effort to establish a theocracy in Illinois are the subject of the historian Benjamin E. Park ’ s new book , “ Kingdom of Nauvoo : The Rise and Fall of a Religious Empire on the American Frontier ” ( Liveright ) .
Park ’ s book is a compelling history , built from contemporaneous accounts and from the previously unreleased minutes of the Council of Fifty , a governing body of sorts that Smith convened in Nauvoo , Illinois , when @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and anticipating the Second Coming of Christ .
Its minutes help clarify Smith ’ s sometimes contradictory political theology , and Park ’ s explication of them elevates “ Kingdom of Nauvoo ” from pure religious history to the realm of political theory .
Park , an ambidextrous thinker , is equally sensitive to the danger the state can pose to religious minorities and to the danger that a religious institution can pose to the secular state .
In his account , the early Mormons were a rowdy band of neo-Puritans who mounted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The tensions that they experienced—between the right to religious freedom and the limits of religious tolerance—still persist today .
Smith was twenty-one and a few years into a floundering career as a treasure hunter when , per his own account , he unearthed a set of golden plates buried in upstate New York .
This was in 1827 , during the Second Great Awakening , when charismatic preachers were stoking religious fires around the country .
Smith ’ s parents had been drawn into this religious passion—especially his father , who dabbled @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with prophecies .
Smith ’ s own visions were of an angel named Moroni , who appeared to him several times before finally instructing him to retrieve the plates buried in Hill Cumorah .
By then , Smith had married a woman named Emma Hale , who helped transcribe the words that Smith claimed to translate from the plates—engravings in a language that he called “ reformed Egyptian.
” Smith finished the transcription by 1830 and found a printer who agreed to run off five thousand copies .
The result , the Book @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of a Jewish family in Jerusalem , who , around 600 B.C.
, build a boat and sail to the Americas—where , six centuries later , the risen Christ preaches to their descendants .
In an age when people were hungry for evidence of God ’ s continued involvement in the world , and in a country anxious to assert itself on the global stage , Smith ’ s scriptures offered appealing assurances : not only was the United States a holy land where Jesus himself had walked but God was still speaking @ @ @ @ @ @ @ there .
Smith attracted a circle of followers , mostly men of modest means—farmers , clerks , small-time pastors , and schoolteachers—from New York and Pennsylvania at first , then from farther afield .
But self-declared prophets seldom sit well with the political establishment , and , almost immediately , Smith and his adherents got into trouble with the law .
Some of their antagonists were motivated by personal animus toward Smith dating to his pre-Prophet , huckstering , treasure-hunting days ; others were dismayed by the unconventional nature of Mormonism , with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and its insistence that other churches had fallen away from Christ ’ s true gospel .
It wasn ’ t long before Smith was arrested for being a “ disorderly person , ” one in a series of charges by various authorities attempting to stymie his religious movement : banking fraud , illegal banking , fornication , threatening a public official , conspiring to assassinate a public official , incitement of a riot , perjury , polygamy , and treason against two states .
As grave as some of those charges were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ problems faced by members of the new faith .
Anti-Mormon mobs harassed known believers and attacked their houses ; they even tarred and feathered Smith one night in 1832 .
Hostilities like these gradually pushed the Mormons farther and farther toward the frontier : they established their first new Jerusalem in Kirtland , Ohio ; then a newer new Jerusalem in Independence , Missouri ; and their newest new Jerusalem in Far West , Missouri .
In each place , local opposition increased in tandem with the growth of the Mormon population .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ s command , Mormons voted as a bloc , upsetting the political order .
In 1838 , having already been evicted from one Missouri county , they went to vote in the county seat of another , where a mob attempted to stop them .
There were allegations of violence in what came to be known as the Gallatin County Election Day Battle , and subsequent vigilantism left more than twenty people dead .
During this period , the Missouri governor , Lilburn Boggs , declared in an executive order that “ the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and must be exterminated or driven from the state if necessary for the public peace.
” Three days later , seventeen Mormons were murdered by soldiers near Shoal Creek , in Caldwell County .
The next day , Smith was arrested and imprisoned for four months , during which time thousands of Mormon refugees moved to Illinois , where they had been promised protection by the state legislature , whose members included a young Abraham Lincoln .
Smith escaped from jail before standing trial—possibly with the help of sympathetic guards—and he and other @ @ @ @ @ @ @ D.C. , to plead their case before the federal government .
Aggrieved but also entitled , they carried four hundred and eighty-one individual petitions for reparations from harm suffered in state-sanctioned violence , demanding compensation for everything from lost livestock to lost husbands .
The largest of the claims came from Smith himself , who demanded a hundred thousand dollars for loss of property and what he described as false imprisonment .
Those petitions represented a peculiar understanding of American federalism : predictably , the Mormons got nowhere with their argument that the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ actions of a particular state .
“ What can I do ?
” President Martin Van Buren asked incredulously , before giving the same answer that Congress offered when presented with the petitions : “ I can do nothing for you.
” It was the first of many contradictory lessons the Mormons would learn about how the federal government adjudicates between the will of the majority and the rights of a minority .
Disillusioned and angered , Smith and the others headed back to Illinois , where the Mormons had already chosen a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ called Commerce , so they bought it .
Smith changed the name to Nauvoo , which he believed to be the Hebrew word for “ beautiful city .
”

It was an unlikely candidacy: a thirty-eight-year-old mayor from the heartland who pitched himself as the solution to partisan gridlock, played up his military experience, talked often about his faith, and promised to end the country’s moral decline. He was fond of quoting the Founding Fathers, had an army of grassroots supporters, and came from a swing state. But the year was 1844, the state was Illinois, the parties were the Whigs and the Democrats, and the candidate was Joseph Smith, the founder of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Whether or not the country would have been with Joe, we’ll never know: on June 27th, a few months after announcing his candidacy, the first Mormon to run for President became the first Presidential candidate to be assassinated. Smith’s death marked the end of a decisive period in Mormon history, one that is less familiar to most outsiders than the Church’s founding, in New York State, or its eventual move to Utah, where, against considerable odds, its members came to flourish. But the chaotic months of Smith’s Presidential campaign and his effort to establish a theocracy in Illinois are the subject of the historian Benjamin E. Park’s new book, “Kingdom of Nauvoo: The Rise and Fall of a Religious Empire on the American Frontier” (Liveright).
Park’s book is a compelling history, built from contemporaneous accounts and from the previously unreleased minutes of the Council of Fifty, a governing body of sorts that Smith convened in Nauvoo, Illinois, when he was feeling besieged by his enemies and anticipating the Second Coming of Christ. Its minutes help clarify Smith’s sometimes contradictory political theology, and Park’s explication of them elevates “Kingdom of Nauvoo” from pure religious history to the realm of political theory. Park, an ambidextrous thinker, is equally sensitive to the danger the state can pose to religious minorities and to the danger that a religious institution can pose to the secular state. In his account, the early Mormons were a rowdy band of neo-Puritans who mounted a fundamental challenge to the democratic experiment. The tensions that they experienced—between the right to religious freedom and the limits of religious tolerance—still persist today.
Smith was twenty-one and a few years into a floundering career as a treasure hunter when, per his own account, he unearthed a set of golden plates buried in upstate New York. This was in 1827, during the Second Great Awakening, when charismatic preachers were stoking religious fires around the country. Smith’s parents had been drawn into this religious passion—especially his father, who dabbled in divination until his dreams were filled with prophecies. Smith’s own visions were of an angel named Moroni, who appeared to him several times before finally instructing him to retrieve the plates buried in Hill Cumorah. By then, Smith had married a woman named Emma Hale, who helped transcribe the words that Smith claimed to translate from the plates—engravings in a language that he called “reformed Egyptian.”
Smith finished the transcription by 1830 and found a printer who agreed to run off five thousand copies. The result, the Book of Mormon, begins as the record of a Jewish family in Jerusalem, who, around 600 B.C., build a boat and sail to the Americas—where, six centuries later, the risen Christ preaches to their descendants. In an age when people were hungry for evidence of God’s continued involvement in the world, and in a country anxious to assert itself on the global stage, Smith’s scriptures offered appealing assurances: not only was the United States a holy land where Jesus himself had walked but God was still speaking to the men and women who lived there. Smith attracted a circle of followers, mostly men of modest means—farmers, clerks, small-time pastors, and schoolteachers—from New York and Pennsylvania at first, then from farther afield.
But self-declared prophets seldom sit well with the political establishment, and, almost immediately, Smith and his adherents got into trouble with the law. Some of their antagonists were motivated by personal animus toward Smith dating to his pre-Prophet, huckstering, treasure-hunting days; others were dismayed by the unconventional nature of Mormonism, with its new scriptures, its occasional glossolalia, and its insistence that other churches had fallen away from Christ’s true gospel. It wasn’t long before Smith was arrested for being a “disorderly person,” one in a series of charges by various authorities attempting to stymie his religious movement: banking fraud, illegal banking, fornication, threatening a public official, conspiring to assassinate a public official, incitement of a riot, perjury, polygamy, and treason against two states.
As grave as some of those charges were, they were the least of the problems faced by members of the new faith. Anti-Mormon mobs harassed known believers and attacked their houses; they even tarred and feathered Smith one night in 1832. Hostilities like these gradually pushed the Mormons farther and farther toward the frontier: they established their first new Jerusalem in Kirtland, Ohio; then a newer new Jerusalem in Independence, Missouri; and their newest new Jerusalem in Far West, Missouri. In each place, local opposition increased in tandem with the growth of the Mormon population. It worsened when, at Smith’s command, Mormons voted as a bloc, upsetting the political order. In 1838, having already been evicted from one Missouri county, they went to vote in the county seat of another, where a mob attempted to stop them. There were allegations of violence in what came to be known as the Gallatin County Election Day Battle, and subsequent vigilantism left more than twenty people dead. During this period, the Missouri governor, Lilburn Boggs, declared in an executive order that “the Mormons must be treated as enemies, and must be exterminated or driven from the state if necessary for the public peace.” Three days later, seventeen Mormons were murdered by soldiers near Shoal Creek, in Caldwell County.
“Honey, it’s Lorna from next door. She wants to borrow three hundred cups of sugar.” Cartoon by David Ostow Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
The next day, Smith was arrested and imprisoned for four months, during which time thousands of Mormon refugees moved to Illinois, where they had been promised protection by the state legislature, whose members included a young Abraham Lincoln. Smith escaped from jail before standing trial—possibly with the help of sympathetic guards—and he and other Mormon leaders then went to Washington, D.C., to plead their case before the federal government. Aggrieved but also entitled, they carried four hundred and eighty-one individual petitions for reparations from harm suffered in state-sanctioned violence, demanding compensation for everything from lost livestock to lost husbands. The largest of the claims came from Smith himself, who demanded a hundred thousand dollars for loss of property and what he described as false imprisonment.
Those petitions represented a peculiar understanding of American federalism: predictably, the Mormons got nowhere with their argument that the national government should compensate them for the actions of a particular state. “What can I do?” President Martin Van Buren asked incredulously, before giving the same answer that Congress offered when presented with the petitions: “I can do nothing for you.” It was the first of many contradictory lessons the Mormons would learn about how the federal government adjudicates between the will of the majority and the rights of a minority. Disillusioned and angered, Smith and the others headed back to Illinois, where the Mormons had already chosen a place to resettle. The town was called Commerce, so they bought it. Smith changed the name to Nauvoo, which he believed to be the Hebrew word for “beautiful city.”
The city of Nauvoo took shape in an age when Ralph Waldo Emerson claimed that every intellectual had “a draft of a new community in his waistcoat pocket.” But Smith’s plans went far beyond the scribbling stage: within a dozen years of its founding, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had more than twenty thousand members, and Nauvoo quickly grew to be more populous than Chicago. But, unlike the Windy City, Nauvoo, operating under a permissive charter from the state of Illinois, developed a distinctly theocratic character: its independent judiciary could deny the validity of arrest warrants issued by neighboring authorities in order to shield Church members from prosecution, and its standing militia of several hundred armed men, known as the Nauvoo Legion, was empowered to protect citizens from any threat. Smith was made a Lieutenant General, a title previously held in the United States only by George Washington, and organized parades to show off the legion’s strength. (This was the military experience he would boast about during his Presidential campaign; he later added to his résumé a term as Nauvoo’s mayor.)
The city’s grandest feature was its enormous tabernacle. Smith wanted the temple of Nauvoo to rival the one built by Solomon; when it was finished, thanks to the tithe in time and muscle required of every resident, it was twice as tall as the White House. Smith had continued to receive revelations about how the faithful were meant to serve God, so this new sanctuary housed new religious rituals. One of them called for posthumous baptism, through which Mormons could baptize a living person as a proxy for someone already deceased. Another—which would divide the Church, attract the permanent suspicion of the state, and forever taint the public perception of the faith—called for plural marriage.
The origins of this rite are not well known. As Park observes in “Kingdom of Nauvoo,” it is striking that a faith so devoted to record-keeping did not document the doctrine of polygamy. “As committed as he was to the ritual’s significance,” Park writes, of Smith, “he was similarly committed to its secrecy, knowing that its exposure would lead to Nauvoo’s downfall.” Smith publicly denied knowledge of polygamous marriages, and the few records of those unions which do exist refer to them as “sealings”—or, even more cryptically, simply connect the names of the united with “was,” an abbreviation for “wed and sealed.” One of the only documents Smith ever recorded which attests to the practice is a blessing he wrote for the family of one of his teen-age wives, assuring her and her relatives of their salvation. Another of Smith’s plural wives—whose marriage to Smith was followed, within a few weeks, by that of her sister—later explained that these marriages were “too sacred to be talked about.” Such furtiveness makes it difficult to track the development of the doctrine, much less Smith’s theological justification for it. Some historians, including Park, believe that he took his first plural wife in April, 1841, though whenever it happened, he did not tell Emma, and it was some time before she learned the truth. If he’d been elected President, the nation’s cumulative total of First Ladies would instantly have tripled: by then, he had taken more than thirty wives, the youngest of whom was thought to be fourteen, and the oldest of whom was fifty-six.
Originally, only Smith had multiple wives. But he gradually revealed the practice to other Mormon leaders, inviting them, selectively, to witness his plural marriages, then encouraging them to pursue their own. Not everyone approved: Smith’s brother Hyrum initially led the opposition, condemning polygamy and calling for a moral revival in Nauvoo. Hyrum was a widower, and his hostility to the practice weakened after he learned of its supposed posthumous benefits, through which he could be united in the afterlife with both his late wife and any future ones. Other Mormons remained unenthusiastic. Emma tried to marshal resistance among women through the Church’s all-female Relief Society; in response, Smith tried to stifle the organization. Emma then threatened him with divorce, at which point he promised to take no additional wives and signed his property over to her and their children, in order to secure their financial well-being in case of rival claims.


newyorker--2020-03-23--The High Schooler Who Became a COVID-19 Watchdog

Last week , as cities across the country shut down in an effort to slow the spread of COVID-19 , President Trump said , “ We have a problem that , a month ago , nobody thought about.
” Well , somebody did .
On December 29th , as Trump vacationed with his family at Mar-a-Lago , Avi Schiffmann , a seventeen-year-old from Washington State , launched a homemade Web site to track the movement of the coronavirus .
Since then , the site , ncov2019.live , has had more than a hundred million visitors .
“ I wanted to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ but I never thought it would end up being this big , ” the high-school junior said last week over FaceTime .
Schiffmann , gap-toothed and bespectacled , was sitting on his bed wearing a blue T-shirt and baggy pajama bottoms .
It was late morning .
He was at his mother ’ s house , on Mercer Island , outside Seattle .
Somewhere in the room his cat , Louie , mewed .
Behind him hung a Ferrari poster .
Using a coding tactic known as “ web-scraping , ” Schiffmann ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ around the globe—the W.H.O.
, the C.D.C.
, Yonhap News Agency in South Korea—and displays the latest number of COVID-19 cases .
It features simple graphics and easy-to-read tables divided by nation , continent , and state .
Data automatically updates every minute .
In a politicized pandemic , where rumor and panic run amok , the site has become a reputable , if unlikely , watchdog .
Schiffmann goes to Mercer Island High School .
( Its mascot : Herbert the Snail . )
He began teaching himself to code when he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ videos , and has made more than thirty Web sites .
“ Programming is a great creative medium , ” he said .
“ Instead of using a paintbrush or something , you can just type a bunch of funky words and make a coronavirus site.
” One of his first projects , in elementary school , was what he calls “ a stick-figure animation hub.
” Later sites collated the scores for his county ’ s high-school sports games , aggregated news of global protests , and displayed the weather forecast on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ going from one thing to another , which is good , but I also try to focus him in , ” his mother , Nathalie Acher , said .
“ I ’ m not techy at all myself .
I see it as just really boring .
He sees it as an art form.
” Schiffmann created the virus project during a family ski weekend in Snoqualmie Pass .
Acher , who is a primary-care doctor , said that , when he had finished building it ( he ’ d skipped a ski @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as though he ’ d discovered the cure for cancer.
” Flattening the curve has been an isolating experience for many , but Schiffmann has never had so much attention .
“ I ’ m getting e-mail after e-mail , ” he said .
“ Every couple of seconds it ’ s a new one.
” Some people suggest changes to the site .
“ They ’ re , like , ‘ Great Web site !
’ ” he said .
“ And then they send a massive list of demands , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ‘ O.K.
, later.
’ ” While his twelfth-grade friends worry about whether the prom will be cancelled , Schiffmann is navigating global fame.
“ I literally see myself on , like , African news Web sites , Thailand , Taiwan—like , everywhere , ” he said .
He had two podcast interviews scheduled for that day .
Then he was off to a photo shoot .
“ I want more professional photos , because I don ’ t like the ones that the news places use.
” ( “ I look weird @ @ @ @ @ @ @ few days earlier , his school had shut down .
But he had already skipped the last week of classes to focus on the site , he said , “ when it kind of blew up.
” His mother , whose medical colleagues use the site , had given up coaxing him to return .
“ Maybe learning algebra can come later , ” she said .
( Her son is a C student . )
Schiffmann took the virus threat seriously before many others did .
“ I ’ ve been kind @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I watched it spread very fast , and around the entire world .
I mean , it just kind of went everywhere.
” He took his own precautions .
“ I got masks a while ago .
I got , like , fifteen for seventeen dollars .
Now you can ’ t even buy a single mask for , like , less than forty.
” His mother chimed in .
“ I wish I had listened to him , ” she said .
“ But , in his teen-ager way , he ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ eyes huge and be , like , ‘ There are fifty thousand more cases !
’ and I ’ d be , like , ‘ Yeah , but they ’ re over there , not here.
’ ” Now that the grownups of the world are finally , and appropriately , freaking out , it is hard for Schiffmann not to feel righteous vindication .
“ If you told someone three months ago that we should spend , like , ten billion dollars in upgrading the United States ’ health care , they @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Nah , ’ ” he said .
“ Now , everyone ’ s , like , ‘ Oh , my God , yes.
’ But this is the kind of stuff we should have done a long time ago.
” ♦

Avi Schiffmann Illustration by João Fazenda
Last week, as cities across the country shut down in an effort to slow the spread of COVID-19, President Trump said, “We have a problem that, a month ago, nobody thought about.” Well, somebody did. On December 29th, as Trump vacationed with his family at Mar-a-Lago, Avi Schiffmann, a seventeen-year-old from Washington State, launched a homemade Web site to track the movement of the coronavirus. Since then, the site, ncov2019.live, has had more than a hundred million visitors. “I wanted to just make the data easily accessible, but I never thought it would end up being this big,” the high-school junior said last week over FaceTime. Schiffmann, gap-toothed and bespectacled, was sitting on his bed wearing a blue T-shirt and baggy pajama bottoms. It was late morning. He was at his mother’s house, on Mercer Island, outside Seattle. Somewhere in the room his cat, Louie, mewed. Behind him hung a Ferrari poster.
Using a coding tactic known as “web-scraping,” Schiffmann’s site collates data from different sources around the globe—the W.H.O., the C.D.C., Yonhap News Agency in South Korea—and displays the latest number of COVID-19 cases. It features simple graphics and easy-to-read tables divided by nation, continent, and state. Data automatically updates every minute. In a politicized pandemic, where rumor and panic run amok, the site has become a reputable, if unlikely, watchdog.
Schiffmann goes to Mercer Island High School. (Its mascot: Herbert the Snail.) He began teaching himself to code when he was seven, mainly by watching YouTube videos, and has made more than thirty Web sites. “Programming is a great creative medium,” he said. “Instead of using a paintbrush or something, you can just type a bunch of funky words and make a coronavirus site.” One of his first projects, in elementary school, was what he calls “a stick-figure animation hub.” Later sites collated the scores for his county’s high-school sports games, aggregated news of global protests, and displayed the weather forecast on Mars. “His brain is constantly going from one thing to another, which is good, but I also try to focus him in,” his mother, Nathalie Acher, said. “I’m not techy at all myself. I see it as just really boring. He sees it as an art form.”
Schiffmann created the virus project during a family ski weekend in Snoqualmie Pass. Acher, who is a primary-care doctor, said that, when he had finished building it (he’d skipped a ski day), “he was beaming as though he’d discovered the cure for cancer.” Flattening the curve has been an isolating experience for many, but Schiffmann has never had so much attention. “I’m getting e-mail after e-mail,” he said. “Every couple of seconds it’s a new one.” Some people suggest changes to the site. “They’re, like, ‘Great Web site!’ ” he said. “And then they send a massive list of demands, and I’m just, like, ‘O.K., later.’ ”
While his twelfth-grade friends worry about whether the prom will be cancelled, Schiffmann is navigating global fame.“I literally see myself on, like, African news Web sites, Thailand, Taiwan—like, everywhere,” he said. He had two podcast interviews scheduled for that day. Then he was off to a photo shoot. “I want more professional photos, because I don’t like the ones that the news places use.” (“I look weird,” he said.) A few days earlier, his school had shut down. But he had already skipped the last week of classes to focus on the site, he said, “when it kind of blew up.” His mother, whose medical colleagues use the site, had given up coaxing him to return. “Maybe learning algebra can come later,” she said. (Her son is a C student.)
Schiffmann took the virus threat seriously before many others did. “I’ve been kind of concerned for a while, because I watched it spread very fast, and around the entire world. I mean, it just kind of went everywhere.” He took his own precautions. “I got masks a while ago. I got, like, fifteen for seventeen dollars. Now you can’t even buy a single mask for, like, less than forty.” His mother chimed in. “I wish I had listened to him,” she said. “But, in his teen-ager way, he’d come down the stairs with his eyes huge and be, like, ‘There are fifty thousand more cases!’ and I’d be, like, ‘Yeah, but they’re over there, not here.’ ”
Now that the grownups of the world are finally, and appropriately, freaking out, it is hard for Schiffmann not to feel righteous vindication. “If you told someone three months ago that we should spend, like, ten billion dollars in upgrading the United States’ health care, they would have been, like, ‘Nah,’ ” he said. “Now, everyone’s, like, ‘Oh, my God, yes.’ But this is the kind of stuff we should have done a long time ago.” ♦
A Guide to the Coronavirus


Some Coronavirus Guidelines

These are the two most important words to remember .
There is no cause for alarm .
The chances of you or someone you know contracting the virus remain extremely small .
Though you probably will contract the virus at some point .
Wash your hands .
These are the three most important words to remember .
We know we just said that don ’ t panic were the two most important words .
But , if there were five words to remember , it would be those five .
While you are not panicking , take the time to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s a simple thing we all do every day .
And that doesn ’ t have to change .
Except for the number of times you do it .
If you wash your hands , say , an average of five times a day , keep doing that .
But add an additional thirty to forty times a day .
It ’ s that simple .
There ’ s no magic number .
But close to fifty is a good place to be .
And don ’ t worry if you do it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ good that if you do it less than that you will contract the most serious strain of the virus , which can result in death .
Again .
What are the two to five words we must remember ?
Don ’ t panic wash your hands .
That ’ s really all you need to know .
A lot .
Let ’ s add the words “ a lot.
” Wash your hands more than you ever thought a person could wash his or her hands .
Even if your hands start to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is perfectly normal and not a cause for concern if the backs of your hands begin to get dry or crack or bleed profusely .
That ’ s fine .
There ’ s no law that says you can ’ t walk around with bloody hands .
This isn ’ t complicated .
Some have made it sound complicated , but it ’ s not .
Except for the complication of us having no idea where the next breakout area will be .
But you don ’ t have to worry .
It @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it does look like the next major outbreak will be very close to where you are right now .
If you follow these seven simple words—don ’ t panic wash your hands a lot never leave your home ( let ’ s add those four ) —you will in all probability be fine , even though you will likely contract the virus but will have little memory of contracting it owing to your fever , loss of consciousness , and complete inability to use any part of your body .
How much should @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
This much : you don ’ t need a face mask .
Think about that .
Think about how safe you are if you can walk around without a face mask .
And the reason is that a face mask does absolutely nothing but make you look silly .
And by “ walk around ” we mean walk around your home , not outdoors , which without a mask would be akin to suicide .
But there ’ s no need to panic .
Yet .
Low-level stress and anxiety are perfectly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this is not .
Stress is so normal that most Americans are feeling it right now .
Which is a perfectly healthy response mechanism .
And by “ healthy ” we mean incredibly dangerous , since stress is a leading cause of heart disease .
The good news is that if you continue worrying you can avoid contracting the virus entirely by dying of a premature heart attack .
These few smallish changes to your daily life—hand washing , wearing latex gloves , not going out of doors , never touching another living @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Also , where possible , avoid surfaces of any kind , Trader Joe ’ s products , and the earth ’ s atmosphere , since all of those things might have been exposed to the virus .
Don ’ t touch your face , which is now the most dangerous place in the world .
If there are four words to use as a guide to remaining alive during this pandemic , it ’ s these : don ’ t touch your face .
Add them to our list of other words @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hands a lot never leave your home don ’ t touch your face .
Simple .
If you do that , you will have , at best , a fifty-per-cent chance of living through the night .
And that ’ s great news .
Question : Is my mouth part of my face , and can I brush my teeth if I have washed my hands , donned surgical gloves , unwrapped a new toothbrush , and managed to rinse without touching my lips ?
The answer is yes .
If you have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shakes my hand against my will ?
Don ’ t worry .
That happens .
It ’ s important to go about your daily life and do the things you normally do .
As long as those things involve not leaving your home .
Ever .
Somebody shook your hand , you say ?
You ’ re fine .
Wash your hands .
But scratch the person first .
Hard .
On the neck .
Then scream .
You could say something like “ You prick !
” Or “ What the fuck @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Something like that .
In fact , it might be good to add those words to the most important words you need to remember during this crisis .
Then run and wash your hands and then wash them again and then pray to whichever god you pray to .
But don ’ t panic .
These things happen .
When we said crisis just then , we certainly didn ’ t mean a global emergency .
We merely meant that the world , as you knew it , is over .
But , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for panic .
If there are roughly nine words you should remember , it ’ s these : This will all be over soon .
Or possibly never .
♦

Don’t panic.
These are the two most important words to remember. There is no cause for alarm. The chances of you or someone you know contracting the virus remain extremely small. Though you probably will contract the virus at some point.
Wash your hands. These are the three most important words to remember. We know we just said that don’t panic were the two most important words. But, if there were five words to remember, it would be those five.
While you are not panicking, take the time to wash your hands again. It’s a simple thing we all do every day. And that doesn’t have to change. Except for the number of times you do it. If you wash your hands, say, an average of five times a day, keep doing that. But add an additional thirty to forty times a day. It’s that simple. There’s no magic number. But close to fifty is a good place to be. And don’t worry if you do it less than that. Though chances are good that if you do it less than that you will contract the most serious strain of the virus, which can result in death.
Again. What are the two to five words we must remember? Don’t panic wash your hands. That’s really all you need to know.
A lot. Let’s add the words “a lot.” Wash your hands more than you ever thought a person could wash his or her hands. Even if your hands start to bleed. Which they will. It is perfectly normal and not a cause for concern if the backs of your hands begin to get dry or crack or bleed profusely. That’s fine. There’s no law that says you can’t walk around with bloody hands.
This isn’t complicated. Some have made it sound complicated, but it’s not. Except for the complication of us having no idea where the next breakout area will be. But you don’t have to worry. It’s a big country. Though it does look like the next major outbreak will be very close to where you are right now.
If you follow these seven simple words—don’t panic wash your hands a lot never leave your home (let’s add those four)—you will in all probability be fine, even though you will likely contract the virus but will have little memory of contracting it owing to your fever, loss of consciousness, and complete inability to use any part of your body.
How much should you not feel the need to panic? This much: you don’t need a face mask. Think about that. Think about how safe you are if you can walk around without a face mask. And the reason is that a face mask does absolutely nothing but make you look silly. And by “walk around” we mean walk around your home, not outdoors, which without a mask would be akin to suicide.
But there’s no need to panic. Yet. Low-level stress and anxiety are perfectly normal during a global crisis, which this is not. Stress is so normal that most Americans are feeling it right now. Which is a perfectly healthy response mechanism. And by “healthy” we mean incredibly dangerous, since stress is a leading cause of heart disease. The good news is that if you continue worrying you can avoid contracting the virus entirely by dying of a premature heart attack.
These few smallish changes to your daily life—hand washing, wearing latex gloves, not going out of doors, never touching another living being—don’t have to be painful. Also, where possible, avoid surfaces of any kind, Trader Joe’s products, and the earth’s atmosphere, since all of those things might have been exposed to the virus.
Don’t touch your face, which is now the most dangerous place in the world. If there are four words to use as a guide to remaining alive during this pandemic, it’s these: don’t touch your face. Add them to our list of other words. Don’t panic wash your hands a lot never leave your home don’t touch your face. Simple. If you do that, you will have, at best, a fifty-per-cent chance of living through the night. And that’s great news.
Question: Is my mouth part of my face, and can I brush my teeth if I have washed my hands, donned surgical gloves, unwrapped a new toothbrush, and managed to rinse without touching my lips?
The answer is yes. If you have a death wish.
What if someone shakes my hand against my will?
Don’t worry. That happens. It’s important to go about your daily life and do the things you normally do. As long as those things involve not leaving your home. Ever. Somebody shook your hand, you say? You’re fine. Wash your hands. But scratch the person first. Hard. On the neck. Then scream. You could say something like “You prick!” Or “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Something like that. In fact, it might be good to add those words to the most important words you need to remember during this crisis. Then run and wash your hands and then wash them again and then pray to whichever god you pray to. But don’t panic. These things happen.
When we said crisis just then, we certainly didn’t mean a global emergency. We merely meant that the world, as you knew it, is over. But, again, there’s no need for panic. If there are roughly nine words you should remember, it’s these: This will all be over soon. Or possibly never. ♦


newyorker--2020-03-23--Life on Coronavirus Lockdown in China

Life on Coronavirus Lockdown in China

On the twenty-seventh day of the coronavirus lockdown in Chengdu , in southwestern China , five masked men appeared in the lobby of my apartment building in order to deliver a hundred-inch TCL Xclusive television .
It was late morning , and I was taking my nine-year-old twin daughters , Ariel and Natasha , outside to get some air .
The three of us also were wearing surgical masks , and we stopped to watch the deliverymen .
I had never seen such an enormous TV ; it arrived in an eight-foot-long box that weighed more than three hundred pounds @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an elevator with a tape measure , trying to figure out whether the box would fit .
Otherwise , it was going to be a long haul up the stairs to the twenty-eighth floor .
By that point , the country was deep into the most ambitious quarantine in history , with at least seven hundred and sixty million people confined largely to their homes .
The legal groundwork had been established on January 20th , when the National Health Commission designated the highest level of treatment and control to fight the new @ @ @ @ @ @ @ COVID-19 .
After that , provinces and municipalities issued their own regulations , and the Chengdu government passed its first measures on January 24th .
They were tightened seven days later , when it became clear that the epidemic had reached a point of crisis : during that week , the number of reported deaths in China had increased more than sixfold .
By the end of January , there were a total of 11,791 confirmed cases , with two hundred and fifty-nine deaths .
My family rents an apartment in a nine-building @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Chengdu , where I teach writing at a local university .
We chose the place , last September , primarily for its location : the apartment blocks are situated beside a pleasant , tree-lined stretch of the Fu River , and there ’ s a subway stop outside one of the side gates .
But , after the quarantine began , the subway was deserted and both side entrances were chained shut .
Anybody who arrived at the main gate was greeted by an infrared temperature gun to the forehead .
The gun @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a white hazmat suit , and , behind him , a turnstile led to a thick plastic mat soaked with a bleach solution .
A sign read “ Shoe Sole Disinfecting Area , ” and there was always a trail of wet prints leading away from the mat , like a footbath at a public swimming pool .
Compared with other places , our compound ’ s restrictions were relatively light .
We could leave and return as often as we pleased , provided that we carried passes that had been issued by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ level of the Communist Party .
The majority of my friends in other parts of China were restricted to one individual per household going out every two days , and often that person had to tell the authorities where she was headed .
Even at our complex , which has few foreign residents , it was rare for people to go outside .
All restaurants , government offices , and most shops had been closed , and , after the Lunar New Year holiday ended , in February , all schools would be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Chengdu measures even banned “ every sort of group dinner party.
” Most of my neighbors ordered things on Taobao , one of the world ’ s biggest e-commerce sites , and they got their food delivered from Fresh Hema , a nationwide grocery chain that has a branch nearby .
( Both Taobao and Hema are owned by the Alibaba Group , a Chinese technology company . )
All day , motorcycle deliverymen handed off items to the security guards , who trundled through the compound ’ s grounds with dollies and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bags .
In my lobby , the most packages I counted at any time was a hundred and twenty-five , all of them marked with apartment numbers in black ink .
Sometimes it was possible to see what was inside .
On the morning that the Xclusive TV was delivered , the contents of other packages reinforced the impression that people had settled in for the long haul : two electric power strips for Apartment 1101 , three bottles of Omo laundry detergent for 3003 , a huge box of fresh ginger for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a conversation with one of the TV deliverymen .
He was standing near the elevator door , and he wore his surgical mask in the position that I call “ the holster.
” This is when a man keeps the straps around his ears but pulls the mask down beneath his chin , usually so that he can spit or smoke a cigarette .
Another Chengdu measure demanded that citizens stop spitting , but I still occasionally saw people holstering their masks and hawking loogies .
I asked the deliveryman what he would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fit inside the elevator .
He pulled the mask back over his face .
People were much warier of strangers than usual , and sometimes if I got in the elevator with another resident he turned his back to me .
Most people were aware that our compound was , at least by local standards , a hot spot .
On the various apps that mapped the government-issued statistics for coronavirus cases , our compound lit up bright red .
There had been a positive test for a resident somewhere in the complex—the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ deliverymen weren ’ t making fast progress with the TV , and Ariel and Natasha were eager to leave , so we went out the gate .
Next to the river , a long row of ride-share bikes had hardly been touched for weeks , and I used my phone to unlock one .
The twins liked the challenge of riding the adult-size bikes—they took turns wobbling along the empty riverside path .
After that , we visited the zombie subway station .
It was still operating , but the place was silent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on an endless loop , that warned nonexistent passengers to watch their step .
Ariel and Natasha ran up and down all the escalators in the wrong direction , laughing .
This was our usual morning routine during the lockdown .
They hadn ’ t seen another child their age for nearly a month .
After we returned to the compound , and had the infrared gun pointed at our foreheads , and crossed the bleach footbath , the deliverymen were returning with the empty box on a dolly .
The man wearing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ d removed the top half of the box and stood the TV on its end they ’ d been able to fit it in the elevator .
He still didn ’ t seem very eager to talk .
Last September , my wife , Leslie , and I enrolled the girls in the third grade at a local public school , in part so they would learn Chinese .
Like the other students , they also took English , and Unit 2 in their textbook was titled “ My Body.
” All anatomical @ @ @ @ @ @ @ injuries , illnesses , or mishaps .
There were cartoons of children lying in hospital beds , with labels that identified the patient , the age , and the symptom : “ Bill—8 years old—foot hurts ” ; “ Ben—10 years old—leg hurts ” ; “ Lily—9 years old—ear hurts.
” One lesson read :

On the twenty-seventh day of the coronavirus lockdown in Chengdu, in southwestern China, five masked men appeared in the lobby of my apartment building in order to deliver a hundred-inch TCL Xclusive television. It was late morning, and I was taking my nine-year-old twin daughters, Ariel and Natasha, outside to get some air. The three of us also were wearing surgical masks, and we stopped to watch the deliverymen. I had never seen such an enormous TV; it arrived in an eight-foot-long box that weighed more than three hundred pounds. Two of the deliverymen stood inside an elevator with a tape measure, trying to figure out whether the box would fit. Otherwise, it was going to be a long haul up the stairs to the twenty-eighth floor.
By that point, the country was deep into the most ambitious quarantine in history, with at least seven hundred and sixty million people confined largely to their homes. The legal groundwork had been established on January 20th, when the National Health Commission designated the highest level of treatment and control to fight the new coronavirus, which eventually became known as COVID-19. After that, provinces and municipalities issued their own regulations, and the Chengdu government passed its first measures on January 24th. They were tightened seven days later, when it became clear that the epidemic had reached a point of crisis: during that week, the number of reported deaths in China had increased more than sixfold. By the end of January, there were a total of 11,791 confirmed cases, with two hundred and fifty-nine deaths.
My family rents an apartment in a nine-building complex not far from the center of Chengdu, where I teach writing at a local university. We chose the place, last September, primarily for its location: the apartment blocks are situated beside a pleasant, tree-lined stretch of the Fu River, and there’s a subway stop outside one of the side gates. But, after the quarantine began, the subway was deserted and both side entrances were chained shut. Anybody who arrived at the main gate was greeted by an infrared temperature gun to the forehead. The gun was wielded by a government-assigned volunteer in a white hazmat suit, and, behind him, a turnstile led to a thick plastic mat soaked with a bleach solution. A sign read “Shoe Sole Disinfecting Area,” and there was always a trail of wet prints leading away from the mat, like a footbath at a public swimming pool.
Compared with other places, our compound’s restrictions were relatively light. We could leave and return as often as we pleased, provided that we carried passes that had been issued by the neighborhood committee, the most local level of the Communist Party. The majority of my friends in other parts of China were restricted to one individual per household going out every two days, and often that person had to tell the authorities where she was headed. Even at our complex, which has few foreign residents, it was rare for people to go outside. All restaurants, government offices, and most shops had been closed, and, after the Lunar New Year holiday ended, in February, all schools would be suspended indefinitely. One of the new Chengdu measures even banned “every sort of group dinner party.”
Most of my neighbors ordered things on Taobao, one of the world’s biggest e-commerce sites, and they got their food delivered from Fresh Hema, a nationwide grocery chain that has a branch nearby. (Both Taobao and Hema are owned by the Alibaba Group, a Chinese technology company.) All day, motorcycle deliverymen handed off items to the security guards, who trundled through the compound’s grounds with dollies and shopping carts, dropping off boxes and bags. In my lobby, the most packages I counted at any time was a hundred and twenty-five, all of them marked with apartment numbers in black ink. Sometimes it was possible to see what was inside. On the morning that the Xclusive TV was delivered, the contents of other packages reinforced the impression that people had settled in for the long haul: two electric power strips for Apartment 1101, three bottles of Omo laundry detergent for 3003, a huge box of fresh ginger for 3704.
I tried to strike up a conversation with one of the TV deliverymen. He was standing near the elevator door, and he wore his surgical mask in the position that I call “the holster.” This is when a man keeps the straps around his ears but pulls the mask down beneath his chin, usually so that he can spit or smoke a cigarette. Another Chengdu measure demanded that citizens stop spitting, but I still occasionally saw people holstering their masks and hawking loogies. I asked the deliveryman what he would do if the TV wouldn’t fit inside the elevator.
“It’ll fit,” he said. “No problem.”
He pulled the mask back over his face. People were much warier of strangers than usual, and sometimes if I got in the elevator with another resident he turned his back to me. Most people were aware that our compound was, at least by local standards, a hot spot. On the various apps that mapped the government-issued statistics for coronavirus cases, our compound lit up bright red. There had been a positive test for a resident somewhere in the complex—the only one in our neighborhood.
The deliverymen weren’t making fast progress with the TV, and Ariel and Natasha were eager to leave, so we went out the gate. Next to the river, a long row of ride-share bikes had hardly been touched for weeks, and I used my phone to unlock one. The twins liked the challenge of riding the adult-size bikes—they took turns wobbling along the empty riverside path. After that, we visited the zombie subway station. It was still operating, but the place was silent except for a public-service message, played on an endless loop, that warned nonexistent passengers to watch their step. Ariel and Natasha ran up and down all the escalators in the wrong direction, laughing. This was our usual morning routine during the lockdown. They hadn’t seen another child their age for nearly a month.
After we returned to the compound, and had the infrared gun pointed at our foreheads, and crossed the bleach footbath, the deliverymen were returning with the empty box on a dolly. The man wearing the holster explained that once they’d removed the top half of the box and stood the TV on its end they’d been able to fit it in the elevator. He still didn’t seem very eager to talk.
Last September, my wife, Leslie, and I enrolled the girls in the third grade at a local public school, in part so they would learn Chinese. Like the other students, they also took English, and Unit 2 in their textbook was titled “My Body.” All anatomical vocabulary was taught in the context of injuries, illnesses, or mishaps. There were cartoons of children lying in hospital beds, with labels that identified the patient, the age, and the symptom: “Bill—8 years old—foot hurts”; “Ben—10 years old—leg hurts”; “Lily—9 years old—ear hurts.” One lesson read:
In the morning, I play with Lucky. He bites my hand! It really hurts.
At lunchtime, I bite my tongue. It really hurts.
In the afternoon, I play football with Andy. He kicks my leg. It really hurts.
This is a very bad day!
For weeks, Ariel and Natasha returned home imitating the class’s taped dialogues, which invariably ended with the phrase “I’m going to the hospital!” It seemed to confirm an unscientific impression that I’ve long held of the Chinese view of health: namely, that people are even more fearful about children’s safety here than they are in other places I’ve lived. My daughters often complained that at recess the simple jungle-gym equipment at their school was strictly limited to sixth graders, because teachers believed that younger children would injure themselves.
After the epidemic began, though, I saw that recurring phrase—“I’m going to the hospital!”—in a new light. The textbook was accurate: if somebody’s ear hurts, often her only option is to go straight to the hospital. In China, there’s no comprehensive primary-care system, which is one reason that the coronavirus spiralled out of control so quickly in Wuhan, the capital of Hubei Province, where the epidemic started. Some of the most awful images from the early days were videos of mob scenes at hospitals, where terrified citizens, many of them sick, clamored to be tested and treated. Contact in these crowds undoubtedly accelerated the rate of infection.