newyorker--2020-01-24--Joe Biden’s Battle with Bernie Sanders for Working-Class Voters

Joe Biden has been the leading candidate for the Democratic nomination for President since before he entered the race last year , but he has been an unusual kind of front-runner .
He is on the road less than his rivals , he speaks to smaller crowds , and , perhaps most surprising for a politician of his pedigree , he has raised less money than several other candidates , despite having some of the biggest donors .
He has introduced no memorable policy ideas , he is the subject of broad disdain on Twitter , and in the debates @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Even Saturday Night Live , where the impressions of the Democratic candidates have generally been sterling , has struggled to get a read on Biden , first assigning Woody Harrelson ( who played him as dim and voluble ) and then Jason Sudeikis ( who reprised his impression from the Obama Administration , playing Biden as backslapping and over the top ) .
Both impressions cast Biden as a younger version of himself , a pol who played to the rafters , although the figure who has appeared on the stump this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and for Joe Biden , in particular—unusually subdued .
Biden ’ s handlers have generally kept him away from contentious interviews , and , though he has occasionally snapped at a reporter or challenged a hostile audience member to a fight , the strategy seems generally to have worked .
Biden has proceeded through the early nominating contest as if he were encased in bubble wrap .
Biden ’ s swing through Iowa this past weekend was meant to include four events , but an ice storm shrank it to two ( ominous @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ north of Ames ” ) .
On Saturday morning , he arrived at the first one , a candidate forum sponsored by the state teachers ’ union , in a West Des Moines Sheraton , a few minutes late and apologetic that his wife , Jill , a longtime English teacher , had not been able to join him .
The educators had imposed a strict fifteen-minute limit on the speakers ( Amy Klobuchar ’ s microphone was cut off when she exceeded it ) , but even within these strict confines @ @ @ @ @ @ @ head bowed , his eyes mostly on the prepared text in front of him and his voice often subsumed into a throaty mumble , giving a thickly emotional account of the labor of teaching .
Biden described it as a work of “ anguish ” and “ pride ” and called it an “ embarrassment and a shame ” that teachers were not more highly valued .
“ A child brings every problem they have to school—everything , their hopes , their dreams , and it ’ s not just their talents and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ anxieties , ” he said .
“ It requires a considerable amount of empathy and understanding on your part and I might add an awful lot of patience and , I would argue , love.
” Biden recalled working as a school-bus driver while he was a law student , in the late sixties .
He remembered an eighth grader he dropped off , “ and the parent was never around.
” The welfare of these children hinged on the bus driver and on the janitor , he said , and on “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ these jobs.
” With the clock winding down , Biden mentioned that he wanted to fully fund a federal special-education program and significantly increase funding for schools that serve poor students , but those seemed incidental to the speech .
A union official presented Biden with a bouquet of yellow roses , the same one that each of the other candidates had recieved , and the former Vice-President took the opportunity to dawdle , saying , “ My special gift to—I shouldn ’ t say this but I will—when I ’ m in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to tell her how much I love her for real , it ’ s a yellow rose.
” The teachers gave a long expressive “ Awww ” and then Biden was gone , replaced by Pete Buttigieg , whose speech was so crisply plotted that you could have measured its turns with a protractor .
Biden is a singular character in this field , because his politics are not about ideology or program but about emotions .
His campaign inevitably tunnels back into his history or his character—it is always finally about him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Toole , in a penetrating essay for The New York Review of Books , recently called Biden “ the most gothic figure in American politics , ” and on the trail the heavy subject matter of his life comes up often .
At Simpson College , in Indianola , that afternoon , a warmup speaker told the story of the first great tragedy of Biden ’ s life—the death of his first wife and infant daughter in a car accident , in 1972 , just after his election to the Senate .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ about this , ” Biden said—he would say versions of this three times—but he obviously wanted to talk about it , more than student debt or public health care or national security , and so he did .
“ I was in Washington hiring staff , and I got a phone call from my fire department saying there ’ s been an accident , that my wife and three children were broadsided by a tractor trailer and my wife was dead and my daughter was dead and my two boys were in bad @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , matter of fact .
“ And it ’ s true , I did not want , at the time , to go to the Senate.
” But a group of senators , both Republicans and Democrats , sat with him and talked him through it , and encouraged him not to give up his office .
Biden said , “ In retrospect , the decency of the people I ’ ve worked with on both sides of the aisle saved my sanity.
” Everything grows more personal through Biden ’ s eyes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the phone call , the Oval Office , the Senate chamber , the hospital bedside , the late-night host ’ s desk where he and Stephen Colbert commune about loss .
He is still trying to make politics small enough that it can be understood as an emotional transaction , in which reconciliation is possible .
Sometimes this works better than others .
When the New York Times ’ TV series “ The Weekly ” ran an episode featuring the editorial board ’ s interviews of the Democratic candidates , its warmest scene @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ elevator , between Biden and a security guard named Jacquelyn .
“ I love you , I do , ” Jacquelyn said , shaking her head with the gravity of it .
Biden , matching her seriousness , said , “ Thank you , ” and then , “ You got a camera ?
Once we get out , we ’ ll take one okay ?
” The video went viral .
He came out of the interview not even among the editorial board ’ s top four choices .
It wasn @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the security guard or the failure to sway the opinion leaders—was the setup and which the punch line .
One of the most interesting lines on the 2020 primary has been advanced by the aides to Bernie Sanders , who have long argued that Sanders is not primarily in competition with Elizabeth Warren , the other progressive in the race , but with Biden .
Though Sanders ’ s support skews younger and Biden ’ s older , both campaigns depend on working-class voters .
The contest between the two older men is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s summer conflicts with Kamala Harris and Sanders ’ s recent ones with Warren have shown , but as the nominating contest reaches its critical phase the contrast between them is still the race ’ s most elemental one .
The demands that each candidate is making of working-class Democrats are different but weighty .
Biden is asking that they place their trust in him personally , above any political program—in his judgment , in his good faith , in the significance of his history with Barack Obama .
But Sanders is in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ demand : that they believe in the transformative power of politics itself .

Joe Biden has been the leading candidate for the Democratic nomination for President since before he entered the race last year, but he has been an unusual kind of front-runner. He is on the road less than his rivals, he speaks to smaller crowds, and, perhaps most surprising for a politician of his pedigree, he has raised less money than several other candidates, despite having some of the biggest donors. He has introduced no memorable policy ideas, he is the subject of broad disdain on Twitter, and in the debates he has often faded into the background. Even “Saturday Night Live,” where the impressions of the Democratic candidates have generally been sterling, has struggled to get a read on Biden, first assigning Woody Harrelson (who played him as dim and voluble) and then Jason Sudeikis (who reprised his impression from the Obama Administration, playing Biden as backslapping and over the top). Both impressions cast Biden as a younger version of himself, a pol who played to the rafters, although the figure who has appeared on the stump this year has been—for a Presidential candidate, and for Joe Biden in particular—unusually subdued. Biden’s handlers have generally kept him away from contentious interviews, and, though he has occasionally snapped at a reporter or challenged a hostile audience member to a fight, the strategy seems generally to have worked. Biden has proceeded through the early nominating contest as if he were encased in bubble wrap.
Biden’s swing through Iowa this past weekend was meant to include four events, but an ice storm shrank it to two. (Ominous highway billboards warned commuters not to venture “north of Ames.”) On Saturday morning, he arrived at the first one, a candidate forum sponsored by the state teachers’ union, in a West Des Moines Sheraton, a few minutes late and apologetic that his wife, Jill, a longtime English teacher, had not been able to join him. The educators had imposed a strict fifteen-minute limit on the speakers (Amy Klobuchar’s microphone was cut off when she exceeded it), but even within these strict confines Biden wandered. He spoke with his head bowed, his eyes mostly on the prepared text in front of him and his voice often subsumed into a throaty mumble, giving a thickly emotional account of the labor of teaching. Biden described it as a work of “anguish” and “pride” and called it an “embarrassment and a shame” that teachers were not more highly valued. “A child brings every problem they have to school—everything, their hopes, their dreams, and it’s not just their talents and their aspirations but their fears and their anxieties,” he said. “It requires a considerable amount of empathy and understanding on your part, and, I might add, an awful lot of patience, and, I would argue, love.”
Biden recalled working as a school-bus driver while he was a law student, in the late sixties. He remembered an eighth grader he dropped off, “and the parent was never around.” The welfare of these children hinged on the bus driver and on the janitor, he said, and on “the passion it takes to do all these jobs.” With the clock winding down, Biden mentioned that he wanted to fully fund a federal special-education program and significantly increase funding for schools that serve poor students, but those seemed incidental to the speech. A union official presented Biden with a bouquet of yellow roses, the same one that each of the other candidates had recieved, and the former Vice-President took the opportunity to dawdle, saying, “My special gift to—I shouldn’t say this but I will—when I’m in trouble or I really, really want to tell her how much I love her for real, it’s a yellow rose.” The teachers gave a long, expressive “Awww,” and then Biden was gone, replaced by Pete Buttigieg, whose speech was so crisply plotted that you could have measured its turns with a protractor.
Biden is a singular character in this field, because his politics are not about ideology or policy but about emotions. His campaign inevitably tunnels back into his history or his character—it is always finally about him. The Irish critic Fintan O’Toole, in a penetrating essay for The New York Review of Books, recently called Biden “the most gothic figure in American politics,” and on the trail the heavy subject matter of his life comes up often. At Simpson College, in Indianola, that afternoon, a warmup speaker told the story of the first great tragedy of Biden’s life: the death of his first wife and infant daughter, in a car accident, in 1972, just after his election to the Senate. “I didn’t expect to talk about this,” Biden said—he would say versions of this three times—but he obviously wanted to talk about it, more than student debt or public health care or national security, and so he did. “I was in Washington hiring staff, and I got a phone call from my fire department saying there’s been an accident, that my wife and three children were broadsided by a tractor trailer and my wife was dead and my daughter was dead and my two boys were in bad shape.” He said all this quickly, matter of fact. “And it’s true, I did not want, at the time, to go to the Senate.” But a group of senators, both Republicans and Democrats, sat with him and talked him through it, and encouraged him not to give up his office. Biden said, “In retrospect, the decency of the people I’ve worked with on both sides of the aisle saved my sanity.” Everything grows more personal through Biden’s eyes: the hand on the shoulder, the phone call, the Oval Office, the Senate chamber, the hospital bedside, the late-night host’s desk where he and Stephen Colbert commune about loss. He is still trying to make politics small enough that it can be understood as an emotional transaction, in which reconciliation is possible.
Sometimes this works better than others. When the New York Times’ TV series “The Weekly” ran an episode featuring the editorial board’s interviews of the Democratic candidates, its warmest scene was the encounter, in the Times’ elevator, between Biden and a security guard named Jacquelyn. “I love you, I do,” Jacquelyn said, shaking her head with the gravity of it. Biden, matching her seriousness, said, “Thank you,” and then, “You got a camera? Once we get out, we’ll take one, O.K.?” The video went viral. He came out of the interview not even among the editorial board’s top four choices. It wasn’t clear which scene—the encounter with the security guard or the failure to sway the opinion leaders—was the setup and which the punch line.
One of the most interesting lines on the 2020 primary has been advanced by the aides to Bernie Sanders, who have long argued that Sanders is not primarily in competition with Elizabeth Warren, the other progressive in the race, but with Biden. Though Sanders’s support skews younger and Biden’s older, both campaigns depend on working-class voters. The contest between the two older men is not exactly hermetic, as Biden’s summer conflicts with Kamala Harris and Sanders’s recent ones with Warren have shown, but as the nominating contest reaches its critical phase the contrast between them is still the race’s most elemental one. The demands that each candidate is making of working-class Democrats are different but weighty. Biden is asking that they place their trust in him personally, above any political program—in his judgment, in his good faith, in the significance of his history with Barack Obama. But Sanders is in some ways making an even more ambitious demand: that they believe in the transformative power of politics itself.
In recent weeks, Biden has been travelling often with surrogates—among them John Kerry and the former Connecticut senator Chris Dodd, steady hands from the past. But, when I caught him in Indianola, he had a more interesting surrogate with him: the freshman representative from Iowa’s First District, Abby Finkenauer, who is, at thirty-one, the second-youngest woman in Congress, after Sanders’s great ally Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. Finkenauer, whose fiancé is Elizabeth Warren’s Iowa political director, had been a highly sought endorsement in the state, and she seemed determined to leave the impression that Biden could be something other than a pragmatic choice. It was a sleepy room, as Biden events often are, but Finkenauer seemed intent on waking it up. It mattered, she said, that her grandfather, a firefighter, had supported Biden back in 2008. “He’s, like, Abby, just trust me: He gets it. He understands the way that we grew up.” Finkenauer described her time on the trail with Biden, saying that she had spent three days travelling with him as they listened to stories of working-class woe. “He heard those stories. And I saw the look on his face.” Eventually, she wound up, saying, “It gives me no greater honor as a working-class kid from Sherrill, Iowa, who is now a congresswoman from Iowa, to introduce the working-class kid from Scranton, Pennsylvania. . . . ”
I’d been watching Biden throughout this introduction, and he didn’t throw his head back in familiar laughter, as he often did when Obama spoke about him, but held a formal seated pose—one knee over the other, hands clasped over the top knee, face sombre. Watching him watch Finkenauer, I had the fleeting sense that his gaze was essentially paternal, that it all somehow had to do with the death of Beau Biden, the son whom he had so valorized, of brain cancer, in 2015, and that this explained the invocation of the watchful janitor that morning and the general tone of generational regret—the note, at times, that parents have not quite deserved their children. Hugging Finkenauer and taking the microphone, he chided her gently for leaning on the “working class,” saying that sometimes Obama made it sound like Biden had crawled out of a mine carrying a lunch pail, when in fact his father had been in sales. And then he was off again, on working-class contingency and intergenerational regret.
The Biden campaign can seem narrowly pitched (to those, even, who share his generational perspective, or have a grandparent handy to remind them), but there are plenty of voters whose liberalism is not idealistic, who trust Democrats more than they do politics. This past fall, I took a trip through South Carolina, Biden’s presumed stronghold, to get a sense of the political sentiment in the state. Nearly two-thirds of South Carolina Democrats are African-American, and many of the Party activists I spoke with, black and white, considered themselves working class. I noticed how precarious their sense of social progress often was—how much it seemed like a step forward and another back. The head of the state’s teachers’ association (it isn’t a union, because South Carolina prohibits collective bargaining for public-sector employees) explained that the current state of activism there was a middle-school teacher’s fight to prevent her district from requiring her to work an after-school concession stand. In Columbia, I met Jennifer Bishop, who, with her husband, runs a politically influential black church; she described the appeal of the Biden campaign as its incrementalism. “My focus is on the community, because of the population we serve,” she said. “Health care is critical. Education is critical.” The traditional Democratic Party apparatus could seem prosaic, but it had often delivered. Bishop said, “You know, it’s not about niceties. I need you to be forceful. I need your reality. Because of what we’re fighting on the ground.” Another way she might have put it is that there are plenty of working-class Democrats—many of them African-American or Latino, and many of them living in conservative places—who have been made especially vulnerable by the Trump Administration, and they might want to turn the temperature down.
Are there enough for Biden to win? This weekend, Sanders will tour Iowa, accompanied by Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Michael Moore, and a few musical acts—Bon Iver, Vampire Weekend. Biden has been going around with retired senators and current representatives. One vision expands politics until it encompasses the culture; the other aims to shrink it until it fits once again in the Senate chamber, in a trusted figure in the Oval Office, in imperfect deals cut in good faith. Biden moved slowly and elegantly around the room in Indianola, with his shoulders relaxed and microphone down. He was shrinking the distance between himself and his audience, diverting them away from first principles and talking about emotions—a pol in a time of ideologues, still somehow leading in the polls. How strange it would be if this era of unrest and self-discovery—the mass progressive uprising of the Trump era—ended with Democrats choosing him.


newyorker--2020-01-24--The Difficulty of Being a Cultural Ambassador in 2020

In May , 1965 , Langston Hughes invited Paule Marshall , a younger , less famous , but no less brilliant writer , to accompany him and William Melvin Kelley on a cultural tour of Europe sponsored by the State Department .
Hughes , Marshall , and Kelley—black writers who espoused the everyday beauty and worthiness of their communities—would have likely disagreed with the political ideologies of the sponsors of their expedition , but the trio also had reasons to hope that acting as emissaries could do some good .
John F. Kennedy was dead , but Martin Luther King @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Movement leaders and cultural figures , including Marshall herself , were putting steady pressure on President Lyndon B. Johnson to reinforce the Civil Rights Act by signing the Voting Rights Act .
Progress hung in a precarious balance , but if you squinted you might be able to see a brighter future ahead .
Marshall , an early Vietnam War protester and an active member of Northern organizations that supported the civil-rights movement in the South , was nervous when the group went to a pre-tour State Department briefing in Washington , D.C. @ @ @ @ @ @ @ thick dossier listing the details of her activist history , then quickly set the file aside .
It was an unsubtle reminder of the government ’ s surveillance capabilities , and perhaps a veiled threat to insure that Marshall tamped down her more radical inclinations while on tour .
However intimidating it may have been , the dossier didn ’ t preclude Marshall from participating .
“ The fact that I would be openly critical of its policies could well serve as proof that the country was truly a democracy committed to respecting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ most vocal detractors , ” Marshall recalls in her memoir .
“ Thus , Washington might well come out the winner every time I opened my mouth.
” In 1965 , there was no Twitter from which the President hurled threats and insults at American citizens , no cable news network dedicated to providing a platform for noxious propaganda and debunked conspiracy theories .
In 1965 , Lyndon B. Johnson was not declaring himself above every law , check , balance , and critique .
And the government , while far from living @ @ @ @ @ @ @ not broadcasting a dangerous , pugilistic counter-narrative as Hughes , Marshall , and Kelley traversed the European continent .
It was a simpler time to be a cultural worker called upon by one ’ s country to share one ’ s view of the country .
This past fall , I was approached by a cultural-affairs specialist at the U.S. Embassy in Berlin about doing a multicity tour through Germany in celebration of Black History Month .
Marshall was on my mind as I accepted .
The European tour changed Marshall ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Hughes and broadening her perspective , if not her readership .
Mine wouldn ’ t be a tour of the Continent , and I would be alone , but the plan felt glamorous and sufficiently ambitious : Berlin , Leipzig , Halle , Hamburg , Frankfurt , Cologne , and Bonn in just nine days .
I was on a fiction fellowship at the American Academy in Berlin , and I was not ready to come home , where I , like many other independent writers and artists , have to navigate an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I argue with people whom I ’ ve known and loved for a long time about the immorality of using the word “ illegal ” to describe a child ; where I spend many moviegoing experiences on edge for fear that I might be machine-gunned before the credits roll .
I agreed to participate in the tour not only in order to extend my time away from these now quotidian American conditions but also hoping that I could do some good .
A mistake .
My brain was working with an outdated system @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 4th , President Trump tweeted a litany of threats toward the Iranian government and people , warning them against retaliating for the killing of Qassem Suleimani .
The most damning tweet threatened to “ HIT VERY FAST AND VERY HARD ” fifty-two targets within the country , some of which are “ important to Iran & the Iranian culture.
” Like many others , I was horrified , and also shocked at my own ability to still be shocked by this President .
The United States Ambassador to Germany , Richard Grenell , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s mendacious sparring style on social media and in the press , retweeted the President ’ s thread .
The official Twitter account of the U.S. Embassy in Berlin echoed the Ambassador ’ s rhetoric throughout the week .
Senior members of the Administration have since backed away from the President ’ s threat to attack Iran ’ s cultural sites ( which would be a war crime , according to the United Nations ) , and the President has too , though he has not deleted the original tweets .
This @ @ @ @ @ @ @ something beyond the pale and those around him assure us that it will never come to pass , or that the public misconstrued his words , but the original message lingers , both in our minds and , often , in his timeline .
On Wednesday , January 8th , I pulled out of the Embassy-sponsored tour .
For cultural workers without the protection of university tenure or other secure institutional backing , the stakes of being affiliated with the wrong people or organizations , thereby alienating our readership or audience , are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the many-brimmed hat of opposition researcher , publicist , and political strategist .
We comb through the biographies of the philanthropists who fund our prizes and fellowships , making sure our participation doesn ’ t harm the larger work that we intend to do through our art or hang a cloud over that most fickle of modern intangibles—optics .
The organizations we partner with do much the same vetting , lest we enter a room of strangers eager to hear what we have to say and somehow kill the mood .
Under the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ workers who agree to participate in official events is akin to swimming upstream in boiling waters .
Civil servants , thinking of the long game—the point in the future when Trump will be gone and our democracy will be restored—task cultural workers with creating a counter-narrative of America while their employer puts forth a pernicious , deleterious version of the country .
But how will this anticipated moment of restored democracy arrive if we behave as if events unfolding in this country were normal , as if our collective house were not on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in effect , saying , “ These are the lies we are currently obligated to put forth , but you are welcome to be our guest and , within reason , present a different opinion , ” as if countering lies with facts were a mere matter of perspective .
Even worse , whatever critiques you do make feed the image that the members of the current Administration have carefully constructed for themselves : embattled , scorned by the élite ( artists , no matter their income , are always classified as members @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wielders of their own special brand of truth .
What we have learned as we enter the fourth year of the Trump Administration is that it feeds off attention of nearly any kind—to such an extent that I was initially loath to even mention the Ambassador ’ s name .
The President ’ s threat to Iran ’ s cultural sites not only exemplified the depth of his Islamophobia and interest in prizing certain cultures over others ; it also highlighted the worst of this President ’ s penchant for contradictory narratives .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ and also wipe out evidence of centuries ’ worth of cultural accomplishments made in their country .
Then he would turn around and paint those same citizens as victims of a terrible , oppressive regime , while simultaneously keeping in place the ban that prevents them from travelling to the United States and restricting their ability to seek asylum .
In my case , participating in Embassy-sponsored events in Germany would be tacitly co-signing the President ’ s narrative of winners and losers in the larger world order : the universities , theatres @ @ @ @ @ @ @ scheduled to appear in Germany being winners , worthy of artistic engagement , and the mosques , libraries , and institutions of his enemies being losers .

In May, 1965, Langston Hughes invited Paule Marshall, a younger, less famous, but no less brilliant writer, to accompany him and William Melvin Kelley on a cultural tour of Europe sponsored by the State Department. Hughes, Marshall, and Kelley—black writers who espoused the everyday beauty and worthiness of their communities—would have likely disagreed with the political ideologies of the sponsors of their expedition, but the trio also had reasons to hope that acting as emissaries could do some good. John F. Kennedy was dead, but Martin Luther King, Jr., was yet alive. Movement leaders and cultural figures, including Marshall herself, were putting steady pressure on President Lyndon B. Johnson to reinforce the Civil Rights Act by signing the Voting Rights Act. Progress hung in a precarious balance, but if you squinted you might be able to see a brighter future ahead.
Marshall, an early Vietnam War protester and an active member of Northern organizations that supported the civil-rights movement in the South, was nervous when the group went to a pre-tour State Department briefing in Washington, D.C. A civil servant presented Marshall with a thick dossier listing the details of her activist history, then quickly set the file aside. It was an unsubtle reminder of the government’s surveillance capabilities, and perhaps a veiled threat to insure that Marshall tamped down her more radical inclinations while on tour. However intimidating it may have been, the dossier didn’t preclude Marshall from participating. “The fact that I would be openly critical of its policies could well serve as proof that the country was truly a democracy committed to respecting the First Amendment rights of even its most vocal detractors,” Marshall recalls in her memoir. “Thus, Washington might well come out the winner every time I opened my mouth.”
In 1965, there was no Twitter from which the President hurled threats and insults at American citizens, no cable news network dedicated to providing a platform for noxious propaganda and debunked conspiracy theories. In 1965, Lyndon B. Johnson was not declaring himself above every law, check, balance, and critique. And the government, while far from living up to its highest creeds, was not broadcasting a dangerous, pugilistic counter-narrative as Hughes, Marshall, and Kelley traversed the European continent. It was a simpler time to be a cultural worker called upon by one’s country to share one’s view of the country.
This past fall, I was approached by a cultural-affairs specialist at the U.S. Embassy in Berlin about doing a multicity tour through Germany in celebration of Black History Month. Marshall was on my mind as I accepted. The European tour changed Marshall’s writing life by deepening her friendship with Hughes and broadening her perspective, if not her readership. Mine wouldn’t be a tour of the Continent, and I would be alone, but the plan felt glamorous and sufficiently ambitious: Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Hamburg, Frankfurt, Cologne, and Bonn in just nine days. I was on a fiction fellowship at the American Academy in Berlin, and I was not ready to come home, where I, like many other independent writers and artists, have to navigate an exploitative health-care system for coverage; where I argue with people whom I’ve known and loved for a long time about the immorality of using the word “illegal” to describe a child; where I spend many moviegoing experiences on edge for fear that I might be machine-gunned before the credits roll. I agreed to participate in the tour not only in order to extend my time away from these now quotidian American conditions but also hoping that I could do some good. A mistake. My brain was working with an outdated system of norms.
On Saturday, January 4th, President Trump tweeted a litany of threats toward the Iranian government and people, warning them against retaliating for the killing of Qassem Suleimani. The most damning tweet threatened to “HIT VERY FAST AND VERY HARD” fifty-two targets within the country, some of which are “important to Iran & the Iranian culture.” Like many others, I was horrified, and also shocked at my own ability to still be shocked by this President. The United States Ambassador to Germany, Richard Grenell, a Trump loyalist who mirrors the President’s mendacious sparring style on social media and in the press, retweeted the President’s thread. The official Twitter account of the U.S. Embassy in Berlin echoed the Ambassador’s rhetoric throughout the week. Senior members of the Administration have since backed away from the President’s threat to attack Iran’s cultural sites (which would be a war crime, according to the United Nations), and the President has too, though he has not deleted the original tweets. This is a familiar pattern: Trump says something beyond the pale and those around him assure us that it will never come to pass, or that the public misconstrued his words, but the original message lingers, both in our minds and, often, in his timeline. On Wednesday, January 8th, I pulled out of the Embassy-sponsored tour.
For cultural workers without the protection of university tenure or other secure institutional backing, the stakes of being affiliated with the wrong people or organizations, thereby alienating our readership or audience, are high. We are obligated to don the many-brimmed hat of opposition researcher, publicist, and political strategist. We comb through the biographies of the philanthropists who fund our prizes and fellowships, making sure our participation doesn’t harm the larger work that we intend to do through our art or hang a cloud over that most fickle of modern intangibles—optics. The organizations we partner with do much the same vetting, lest we enter a room of strangers eager to hear what we have to say and somehow kill the mood.
Under the Trump Administration, the challenge for cultural workers who agree to participate in official events is akin to swimming upstream in boiling waters. Civil servants, thinking of the long game—the point in the future when Trump will be gone and our democracy will be restored—task cultural workers with creating a counter-narrative of America while their employer puts forth a pernicious, deleterious version of the country. But how will this anticipated moment of restored democracy arrive if we behave as if events unfolding in this country were normal, as if our collective house were not on fire?
These cultural attachés are, in effect, saying, “These are the lies we are currently obligated to put forth, but you are welcome to be our guest and, within reason, present a different opinion,” as if countering lies with facts were a mere matter of perspective. Even worse, whatever critiques you do make feed the image that the members of the current Administration have carefully constructed for themselves: embattled, scorned by the élite (artists, no matter their income, are always classified as members of the élite), and the wielders of their own special brand of truth. What we have learned as we enter the fourth year of the Trump Administration is that it feeds off attention of nearly any kind—to such an extent that I was initially loath to even mention the Ambassador’s name.
The President’s threat to Iran’s cultural sites not only exemplified the depth of his Islamophobia and interest in prizing certain cultures over others; it also highlighted the worst of this President’s penchant for contradictory narratives. He would endanger civilians if necessary, and also wipe out evidence of centuries’ worth of cultural accomplishments made in their country. Then he would turn around and paint those same citizens as victims of a terrible, oppressive regime, while simultaneously keeping in place the ban that prevents them from travelling to the United States and restricting their ability to seek asylum. In my case, participating in Embassy-sponsored events in Germany would be tacitly co-signing the President’s narrative of winners and losers in the larger world order: the universities, theatres, and civic centers where I was scheduled to appear in Germany being winners, worthy of artistic engagement, and the mosques, libraries, and institutions of his enemies being losers.


newyorker--2020-01-24--The Epic Story of Africa’s Flourishing Cultures

“ Sahel : Art and Empires on the Shores of the Sahara , ” which opens on Jan. 30 at @ @ @ @ @ epic story of a network of African cultures that flourished , from the fourth century @ @ @ @ @ the vast region that now encompasses Mali , Mauritania , Niger , and Senegal .
@ @ @ @ @ on view—in wood , stone , gold , ceramic , bronze , cloth , and @ @ @ @ @ above , of a mother and child and a man with a turned head , @ @ @ @ @ people of Mali .

“Sahel: Art and Empires on the Shores of the Sahara,” which opens on Jan. 30 at the Met, tells the epic story of a network of African cultures that flourished, from the fourth century through the nineteenth, in the vast region that now encompasses Mali, Mauritania, Niger, and Senegal. Among the two hundred treasures on view—in wood, stone, gold, ceramic, bronze, cloth, and more—are the magnificent figures pictured above, of a mother and child and a man with a turned head, both made by the Bamana people of Mali.


newyorker--2020-01-24--Can a Novel Capture the Contradictions of Female Desire?

Miranda Popkey ’ s début novel , “ Topics of Conversation , ” opens in Italy , in 2000 .
The unnamed narrator , twenty-one and set to begin graduate coursework in the fall , has been brought along on a wealthy friend ’ s family vacation .
She ’ s the babysitter .
One evening , after the children are asleep , their mother , Artemisia , a formidable psychoanalyst who born in Argentina , joins the narrator on the hotel terrace .
Prompted by a bottle of wine , a pack of cigarettes , and the narrator ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she is soon recounting the events that hastened the collapse of an earlier marriage .
The narrator , mesmerized by the older woman ’ s poise , the conviction of her self-knowledge , listens but barely speaks .
Artemisia ’ s story is about power : who has it and why , how it animates and shapes desire .
The story ’ s denouement may or may not warrant the label of rape .
Artemisia doesn ’ t use the word .
The word she does use is “ violence.
” Her husband @ @ @ @ @ @ @ against the wall , one hand on her shoulder , one on her neck .
But instead of fear , it was appreciation and relief that overwhelmed her : appreciation because he had restored to their relationship the power hierarchy that she preferred , relief because she had been “ released from control.
” This is a startling opening scene , but what startles most is not , as one might expect , the husband ’ s display of brutality .
It ’ s the vast disparity , the deep conflict , between @ @ @ @ @ @ @ control and her desire for sexual submission .
Toward the middle of the book , some fourteen years after this Italian vacation , the same disparity crops up once more—but here it ’ s the narrator who internalizes it .
Of the intervening years , we have learned that she married and abruptly divorced a kale-loving man , a classmate in her grad-school cohort , whom she describes as “ nice ” and “ ever so understanding.
” She is mocking him .
He is exactly the kind of partner a liberated woman @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she despises him for it .
Divorced and living with her young son in California , the narrator has assembled a group of other single mothers .
Again , there is wine and talk .
This time , it is the narrator who holds forth , carefully unfurling her own story .
She recites it with a dramatic sense of remove ; with time , the narrative has accrued significance , like rust on iron left in the damp .
The story takes place in a hotel room .
She is twenty— “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , if still a college student—when she begins an affair with a married professor in his early forties .
The hotel is where they spend their first night together .
He pushes her , fully clothed , face-first onto the bed , then sets one hand on her back and one on her neck and presses down .
He steps back .
When she twitches , he says , “ Don ’ t fucking move.
” Maybe twenty minutes pass before he orders her to get up .
They do not have sex @ @ @ @ @ @ @ watching me , ” she reveals to her audience of other mothers , “ I didn ’ t have to do anything .
There were no choices to make.
” She liked it .
She would never have known to ask for it .
This contrast—of women raring to assert their agency in one context , then willing , even eager , to relinquish it another—captured my interest in part because of its familiarity .
I ’ d seen it crop up recently in widely praised works both written by and featuring brazen @ @ @ @ @ @ @ white women .
It ’ s in Sally Rooney ’ s “ Conversations with Friends , ” when Frances tries unsuccessfully to get Nick—older , married , kind—to choke and hit her during sex .
And in Rooney ’ s “ Normal People , ” when Marianne discloses to gentle , sensitive Connell , her on-again-off-again boyfriend , that another man has hit her with a belt , choked her—that she asked for it , enjoyed it .
It ’ s also in the second season of Phoebe Waller-Bridge ’ s TV series @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the priest she lusts after .
All she truly wants is someone ( by implication him , or maybe Him ) to tell her “ what to wear every morning , ” to instruct her on “ what to like , what to hate , what to rage about .
.
.
what to believe in .
.
.
how to live my life.
” These scenes both do and do not seem like ordinary kink .
All sex , of course , is psychological , but the source of the charge here @ @ @ @ @ @ @ game .
What vitalizes them is the friction of the characters ’ incongruent desires : on the one hand , to embrace the simplicity of someone else ’ s authority ; on the other , to assert their own authorship .
Popkey ’ s narrator , though not a writer , has a literary sensibility—her dissertation is on “ female pain in Jacobean revenge tragedies , ” and her idea of a beach read is “ The Journals of Sylvia Plath , 1950–1962 ” —and it ’ s on masterly display in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a plotting author , she engineers a game : they will go around in a circle relaying their origin stories , the narrative that explains how they got to this place , “ with the wine and the kid and the no partner , the moment when that became inevitable.
” It ’ s a premise that grants her permission to deliver a personal monologue , to test-drive the story of her becoming .
She tweaks some of the facts ( instead of a student , she ’ s an intern ; instead @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a peer ) , but she is emphatic in the authority of what she ’ s saying .
She tells the single moms that “ there ’ s a line ” through her life , and “ it runs straight from that hotel room.
” Does she believe all this ?
Is she trying to make herself believe it ?
Years earlier , listening to Artemisia , she envied the older woman ’ s narrative control : “ I , at twenty-one , did not , had not yet settled on the governing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ yet realized the folly of governing narratives.
” And yet , a part of her seems to hope authorial mastery will overcome personal folly : “ of course life is random , a series of coincidences , etc.
, but .
.
.
to live you must attempt to make sense of it , and that ’ s what narrative ’ s for.
” Maybe if she tells the narrative well enough , it will be true .
And if it is true , then maybe she can finally be coherent ; the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ those moments that reek of self-sabotage or that hurt people she loves , were all along foreordained , set in motion by that catalyzing moment .
Even if she had tried to , she could never have done anything otherwise .
The right narrative , she understands , can release her of responsibility .
Rooney ’ s Frances and Marianne and Waller-Bridge ’ s Fleabag share with Popkey ’ s narrator a literary proclivity , which can also manifest as an anxiety .
They , too , want to assemble the type of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ proof .
Frances gets her first story published in the course of the novel , Marianne is bookish and academically successful , and they are both so-called digital natives .
For them , communicating through text and e-mail , Facebook and I.M.—which is to say through writing—is as instinctive as speech , sometimes preferable to it .
“ I had been so terribly noisy and theatrical all the way through , ” Frances worries after sleeping with Nick the first time , “ that it was impossible now to act indifferent like I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is to craft—and control—a persona , however deliberate , however fussed over , however much it resembles ( or not ) one ’ s I.R.L .
self .
Waller-Bridge ’ s Fleabag is likewise aware of her audience—not an online one , although all of us watching at home are , in a sense , her followers—and may in fact be the one who ’ s most invested in authorial control .
When she turns to the camera , to us , with direct narration , her clever quips and wry asides annotate @ @ @ @ @ @ @ not observers of a neutral story unfolding ; we are observers of a story unfolding the way she wants it to .

Miranda Popkey’s protagonist reckons with “the folly of governing narratives.” Photograph by Elena Seibert
Miranda Popkey’s début novel, “Topics of Conversation,” opens in Italy, in 2000. The unnamed narrator, twenty-one and set to begin graduate coursework in the fall, has been brought along on a wealthy friend’s family vacation. She’s the babysitter. One evening, after the children are asleep, their mother, Artemisia, a formidable psychoanalyst who was born in Argentina, joins the narrator on the hotel terrace. Prompted by a bottle of wine, a pack of cigarettes, and the narrator’s talk of a recent breakup, she is soon recounting the events that hastened the collapse of an earlier marriage. The narrator, mesmerized by the older woman’s poise, the conviction of her self-knowledge, listens but barely speaks.
Artemisia’s story is about power: who has it and why, how it animates and shapes desire. The story’s dénouement may or may not warrant the label of rape. Artemisia doesn’t use that word. The word she does use is “violence.” Her husband showed her his strength, pushing her against the wall, one hand on her shoulder, one on her neck. But, instead of fear, it was appreciation and relief that overwhelmed her: appreciation because he had restored to their relationship the power hierarchy that she preferred, relief because she had been “released from control.” This is a startling opening scene, but what startles most is not, as one might expect, the husband’s display of brutality. It’s the vast disparity, the deep conflict, between Artemisia’s desire for absolute narrative control and her desire for sexual submission.
Toward the middle of the book, some fourteen years after this Italian vacation, the same disparity crops up once more—but here it’s the narrator who internalizes it. Of the intervening years, we have learned that she married and abruptly divorced a kale-loving man, a classmate in her grad-school cohort, whom she describes as “nice” and “ever so understanding.” She is mocking him. He is exactly the kind of partner a liberated woman is supposed to want, and yet she despises him for it. Divorced and living with her young son in California, the narrator has assembled a group of other single mothers. Again, there is wine and talk. This time, it is the narrator who holds forth, carefully unfurling her own story. She recites it with a dramatic sense of remove; with time, the narrative has accrued significance, like rust on iron left in the damp. The story takes place in a hotel room. She is twenty—“an adult,” she makes explicit, if still a college student—when she begins an affair with a married professor in his early forties. The hotel is where they spend their first night together. He pushes her, fully clothed, face-first onto the bed, then sets one hand on her back and one on her neck and presses down. He steps back. When she twitches, he says, “Don’t fucking move.” Maybe twenty minutes pass before he orders her to get up. They do not have sex. “The whole time he was watching me,” she reveals to her audience of other mothers, “I didn’t have to do anything. There were no choices to make.” She liked it. She would never have known to ask for it.
This contrast—of women raring to assert their agency in one context, then willing, even eager, to relinquish it another—captured my interest in part because of its familiarity. I’d seen it crop up recently in widely praised works both written by and featuring brazen, outspoken, and almost always middle-class white women. It’s in Sally Rooney’s “Conversations with Friends,” when Frances tries unsuccessfully to get Nick—older, married, kind—to choke and hit her during sex. And in Rooney’s “Normal People,” when Marianne discloses to gentle, sensitive Connell, her on-again-off-again boyfriend, that another man has hit her with a belt, choked her—that she asked for it, enjoyed it. It’s also in the second season of Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s TV series “Fleabag,” when Fleabag confesses—literally—to the priest she lusts after. All she truly wants is someone (by implication him, or maybe Him) to tell her “what to wear every morning,” to instruct her on “what to like, what to hate, what to rage about . . . what to believe in . . . how to live my life.”
These scenes both do and do not seem like ordinary kink. All sex, of course, is psychological, but the source of the charge here is more than just a dom-sub mind game. What vitalizes them is the friction of the characters’ incongruent desires: on the one hand, to embrace the simplicity of someone else’s authority; on the other, to assert their own authorship. Popkey’s narrator, though not a writer, has a literary sensibility—her dissertation is on “female pain in Jacobean revenge tragedies,” and her idea of a beach read is “The Journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950–1962”—and it’s on masterly display in the scene with the single moms. Like a plotting author, she engineers a game: they will go around in a circle relaying their origin stories, the narrative that explains how they got to this place, “with the wine and the kid and the no partner, the moment when that became inevitable.” It’s a premise that grants her permission to deliver a personal monologue, to test-drive the story of her becoming. She tweaks some of the facts (instead of a student, she’s an intern; instead of a professor, he’s a peer), but she is emphatic in the authority of what she’s saying. She tells the single moms that “there’s a line” through her life, and “it runs straight from that hotel room.”
Does she believe all this? Is she trying to make herself believe it? Years earlier, listening to Artemisia, she envied the older woman’s narrative control: “I, at twenty-one, did not, had not yet settled on the governing narrative of my life. Had not yet realized the folly of governing narratives.” And yet, a part of her seems to hope authorial mastery will overcome personal folly: “of course life is random, a series of coincidences, etc., but . . . to live you must attempt to make sense of it, and that’s what narrative’s for.” Maybe if she tells the narrative well enough it will be true. And, if it is true, then maybe she can finally be coherent; the past decisions that perplex her most, those moments that reek of self-sabotage or that hurt people she loves, were all along foreordained, set in motion by that catalyzing moment. Even if she had tried to, she could never have done anything otherwise. The right narrative, she understands, can release her of responsibility.
Rooney’s Frances and Marianne and Waller-Bridge’s Fleabag share with Popkey’s narrator a literary proclivity, which can also manifest as an anxiety. They, too, want to assemble the type of story that is also a kind of proof. Frances gets her first story published in the course of the novel, Marianne is bookish and academically successful, and they are both so-called digital natives. For them, communicating through text and e-mail, Facebook and I.M.—which is to say through writing—is as instinctive as speech, sometimes preferable to it. “I had been so terribly noisy and theatrical all the way through,” Frances worries after sleeping with Nick the first time, “that it was impossible now to act indifferent like I did in e-mails.” To be online is to craft—and control—a persona, however deliberate, however fussed over, however much it resembles (or not) one’s I.R.L. self. Waller-Bridge’s Fleabag is likewise aware of her audience—not an online one, although all of us watching at home are, in a sense, her followers—and may in fact be the one who’s most invested in authorial control. When she turns to the camera, to us, with direct narration, her clever quips and wry asides annotate and editorialize the plot. We are not observers of a neutral story unfolding; we are observers of a story unfolding the way she wants it to.
These women behave in ways that are harmful to people they care about—Frances to Nick, Marianne to Connell, Fleabag to her best friend, Popkey’s narrator to her offenseless husband—sometimes with tragic consequences. Most of all, they do things to hurt themselves: drink too much, eat too little, carve wounds into their skin. What kind of person am I, they worry, to be so self-contemptuous, so bent on self-defeat? Their behavior mystifies them, and they discover that the selective work of authorship can relieve their confusion: if they choose some moments from their past and discard others, if they arrange these moments in just the right way, they might be able to understand themselves as logical and consistent, free of the messy task of figuring out what they want, and the even messier one of fully accepting these wants.
Is whatever these women want—and however they decide—O.K.? What if they want bad things? “Bad” because they have been deemed perverse, or illogical, or are likely to undermine longer-term goals; “bad” because they could be harmful. Such vexed questions spurred me to revisit “Does Anyone Have the Right to Sex?,” a vibrant, perspicacious essay by Amia Srinivasan, a professor of philosophy at the University of Oxford, and published in 2018, in the London Review of Books. The essay, among other things, resurrected a feminist debate that for years had been mostly dormant: Should feminism have anything to say about desire? Should feminism develop a political critique of sexuality? During the sex wars of the nineteen-eighties, anti-porn radical feminists like Catharine MacKinnon and Andrea Dworkin argued that heterosexual sex under patriarchy inevitably normalizes male violence and reinforces female inequality; women should, on account of this, consider repudiating their desires. Celibacy and political lesbianism were the theory put into practice.
Sex-positive feminists countered that the radical critique denied women the right to pleasurable sex. Women should instead be taken at their word: if a woman says that she enjoys submitting to a man—the activity that, at least superficially, seems most to reënact women’s subjugation by men outside of the bedroom—or if she says she finds it emancipatory, then feminists must believe her. For feminism to do otherwise risks slut-shaming, prudery, and charging others with false consciousness—creating yet more binds for the very people it means to liberate. Srinivasan reactivates the argument because, although she too is wary of these risks, she is equally distressed by the implication that a feminism without a critique of desire gives cover to wants that replicate more general patterns of oppression and exclusion. The “rape fantasy,” or the “unfuckability of black women and Asian men,” or the “sexual disgust expressed towards disabled, trans and fat bodies” passes for mere personal preference—nothing at all to be done about it.
Popkey is plainly conversant in these debates. In an early chapter, the narrator listens to a woman’s story about a date rape that took place on her college campus, at a party she attended: a twenty-one-year-old undergraduate, still a virgin and in her behavior more innocent than most, was assaulted by a thirtysomething male grad student, widely known to be something of a lech, a “sexual predator.” The friend wonders why no one tried to alert the unworldly undergrad, much less intervene. “We told ourselves she must have known what she was getting into. We told ourselves that she was an adult. . . . The porn wars were over and porn had won and we were porn-positive, we were sex-positive, we probably wouldn’t have even called ourselves feminist. Who were we to judge.” Walking home after hearing the story, the narrator ruminates on the woman’s account, tries to assess her own desires in light of it. “Could what the graduate student did be wrong,” the narrator asks, “and what I sometimes felt I wanted also be right.” Of course, what’s right for some may not be right for others. As Srinivasan notes, in a summary of intersectional feminism, sexual submission may have an altogether different valence for a woman of color, or a trans woman, than it does for a white woman—like Popkey’s narrator, who “by virtue of her whiteness, is already taken to be a paradigm of female beauty.”
If the feminist debates parse desire on a theoretical level, Popkey’s novel reveals where these analyses intersect with the more mundane, familiar kinds of self-analysis: Should I choose one direction or the other, act this way or that? She depicts what it feels like to exist, actually live, at that intersection, which can so often bring about paralysis. Always there is a “churning,” as the narrator calls it, that ongoing fusillade of impulses and counter-impulses reverberating through the closed system of the mind; we weigh facts and then counterfactuals, consider social or cultural conventions, weave a thick weft of reality and fantasy, deference and denial, then wish we could tear the tapestry apart. How can we ever know what it is that we want, rather than what we have been taught to want, or what we resist wanting because it, too, is what we have been taught?
Years after her ur-erotic hotel-room encounter, the narrator finds herself in another hotel room, this time with a man she has picked up in the bar downstairs. Her husband is at home and thinks she is away at a job interview or visiting friends; she can’t remember. Alone with the stranger, the narrator tells him that she wants to be dominated. This time she’s articulating her desire, rather than discovering it through someone else’s, and in the act of articulation she can’t help but come face to face with her own agency. But the fantasy itself is for the opposite: “I hate making choices,” she says. Desire inevitably leads to a paucity of control; we make decisions, take chances, but don’t always get what we want. Or we get what we thought we wanted, but it leaves us worse for the wear, exposes the way we didn’t know ourselves, or someone else, well enough. Giving up control to someone else can be a way of regaining control by relinquishing the stakes and, in turn, the possibility of being disappointed—of trying and failing, of feeling responsible for doing the wrong thing. If choice can be its own kind of prison, submission can be an escape plan.
At the end of the novel, we find the narrator facing entrapment and casting around for an alternate means of escape. She lives with her son in Fresno, where life is lonely and remote. The days of relaying stories with women seem to be in the past. Now, when others inquire about her life, she no longer holds forth: “Sometimes I say nothing. Silence: The great conversation killer.” Once more, she seeks an explanation for how she has arrived at her destination. She bought a house in this small town, she says, because of a short story she read. The short story is by a man, about a man. The author is an “exemplary jeans wearer”; the protagonist is a promiscuous husband who leaves his wife, driving off into the distance, from Maine all the way to California. En route he stops in various towns and calls up former mistresses, asking each one in turn to run away with him. All the women decline. When eventually he dials a number that is disconnected, the story ends. The town he’s in—it’s Fresno. The man must have stayed there, Popkey’s narrator concludes, because “he has run out of road.”
The narrator seems to fear that she, too, has reached the end of the story; the “line” that she traced for the single moms has turned into a dispersion of dots. And so, it seems, she has turned to other people’s “governing narratives,” just as she once turned to Artemisia’s. In the story, inspired by Sam Shepard’s short story “Coalinga 1/2 Way,” the man is “abhorrent,” and yet the story demands that the reader empathize with him. “Did I imagine myself as the lone driver, making a life for myself in a town full of strangers?” the narrator asks. “Yes, I did. Pay attention to enough men and you will begin to think of yourself as one. You will think of this as an improvement over fantasizing about being mistreated by one and you will, probably, be right.” On the one hand, this new independent life might be seen as an achievement, proof of her autonomy—the kind of life that women are judged for having and men are not. But it’s not just a man’s freedom she has borrowed; it’s literally a man’s narrative. The act of submission is replaced by the act of substitution. And if she’s merely borrowing, can we really say she’s gotten what she wants?
When a literary protagonist introduces the question of literary influence, we ought to wonder what all this means, at the meta-level, for the novelist herself. One clue comes in the novel’s end notes, in three and a half pages of “Works (Not) Cited,” an expansive list of titles including books by the authors Annie Ernaux, Norman Rush, Janet Malcolm, and Mary Gaitskill, films by Olivier Assayas and Paul Verhoeven, and episodes of “Frasier” and “Mad Men.” (It also includes Srinivasan’s essay.) These are works the author credits for giving shape to the novel, and, in some cases, she says, they are referred to only “elliptically.” This polyphonic model of influence—of many voices speaking and listening, avoiding and arguing—might be seen as an alternative to the narrator’s longing for a single origin story, her longing for total authorial control. In acknowledging that she is part of a wide-ranging conversation, rather than a singular narrative, Popkey, by contrast, suggests that she may be willing to cede some of this control. On the novel’s final page, the narrator finally admits: “Perhaps all this time I have been wrong about the story’s protagonist.” She is referring to the “abhorrent” protagonist of the Shepard story, but, in a book that grapples explicitly with how and why we craft narratives, with the perils and gratifications of the stories we invent and inherit, the line invites another reading. Popkey may in fact be making an admission of her own, casting doubt on the narrative that she herself has constructed, acknowledging the ultimate impossibility of the authorial pursuit.


newyorker--2020-01-24--Trolling Day at Donald Trump’s Impeachment Trial

When a two-decade-old video clip of Lindsey Graham blared out of a monitor on the Senate floor Thursday afternoon , it was clear that this was going to be an edgier sort of day in the impeachment trial of Donald John Trump .
Graham , one of Trump ’ s most vehement defenders in the Senate , was shown in the video , younger and with much more hair , confidently announcing that of course a President can be impeached for transgressions that are not covered by criminal law .
He was , in other words , a strong witness @ @ @ @ @ @ @ prosecuting the case against Trump .
As Thursday went on , so were Trump ’ s F.B.I .
director and Attorney General , two of his former Russia advisers , his former Homeland Security director , and a Harvard law professor who ’ s now serving on Trump ’ s legal team .
Welcome to Trolling Day at the Trump trial .
During hours of arguments , on Thursday afternoon and late into the night , that were meant as a prebuttal to Trump ’ s forthcoming defense , the House managers sought @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the President ’ s lawyers .
The best witnesses they called were all the President ’ s men .
The managers presented video clip after video clip demolishing the President as a mere parrot of Russian propaganda , who repeated Russian-inspired falsehoods about the 2016 campaign and his Presidential rival Joe Biden , even as he withheld crucial aid to Russia ’ s enemy , Ukraine .
There was “ no information ” to support Trump ’ s insistence that Ukraine , not Russia , interfered in the 2016 U.S. election ; it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ fictional narrative ” divorced from anything having to do with U.S. foreign policy or its national interest .
Trump ’ s accusers were not # NeverTrump Republicans or Democrats .
They were senior officials in the Trump Administration .
It was devastating .
So it was surprising when I noticed several Republican senators becoming visibly excited during the presentation .
One of the House managers , Sylvia Garcia , of Texas , had just begun talking , and many of the senators ’ seats were empty—I counted more than a dozen—when she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ out to be of great interest to Graham and other staunch Trump defenders : the matter of Joe Biden and what he did or didn ’ t do in Ukraine .
As Garcia talked of Biden , Graham , who had ducked out of the chamber and actually missed his video-star turn a little while earlier , turned to his neighbor , John Barrasso , of Wyoming , to whisper something .
Graham grinned and wrote down notes on his legal pad .
A row behind him , Ted Cruz , of Texas @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on his newly goateed face .
A couple rows in front of Graham , Rand Paul , of Kentucky , actually raised his arm in the air and pointed emphatically .
It seemed odd that Republicans should be excited by any aspect of the Democratic argument .
On the issue of Biden , Garcia was attempting to methodically dismantle the claims that Biden had corruptly demanded the firing of Ukraine ’ s former prosecutor general in order to protect his son , Hunter Biden , who was then serving on the board of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The allegations against Vice-President Biden are groundless , ” Garcia said .
She then recounted several lies and misrepresentations that have been advanced on Trump ’ s behalf , showing how he had specifically demanded investigations of the Bidens by the Ukrainian President and never mentioned the more noble goal of taking on “ corruption ” in Ukraine .
She also covered the evidence that Trump had pushed Ukraine to “ smear ” Biden without caring whether there was an actual investigation .
Citing the testimony of Trump ’ s own Ambassador to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s goal was only that there be a public announcement of an investigation , to embarrass one of his toughest potential Democratic challengers in 2020 .
But the Republicans were not reacting to the information Garcia described—information that has been well covered in the course of the impeachment proceedings .
They were responding to what they saw as the opportunity created by Garcia ’ s presentation : By talking so much about Biden , wasn ’ t she offering the Senate a reason to call Biden and his son as witnesses ?
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ idea that some of the senators and Trump ’ s lawyer , Jay Sekulow , promoted during a break in the trial .
“ They have opened the door , ” Sekulow told reporters .
“ It ’ s now relevant.
” ( Graham , for his part , later told reporters that he would resist the effort to call Biden . )
“ WOW , ” Josh Hawley , another one of the Republicans who perked up when Garcia spoke , tweeted .
“ House managers make extended argument that Hunter Biden @ @ @ @ @ @ @ no conflict of interest w/ Joe Biden getting rid of prosecutor that had jurisdiction over Burisma .
If we call witnesses , gon na need to hear from both Bidens.
” This was not exactly on the level , of course .
Cruz , Hawley , and others had been pushing Republican leaders on this point for weeks , as it became clear that the matter of whether or not to call witnesses had become the main , and arguably only , suspense surrounding the trial .
Democrats insist that the Senate can @ @ @ @ @ @ @ demands Trump Administration documents and witnesses who the President blocked from the House .
Next week , they only need four Republicans to join with them to get the chance .
But Republicans , fearing that they may lose the vote , are eager to extract a price .
There is talk of a John Bolton-for-Biden trade .
( This has been adamantly denied by Senate Democratic Leader Chuck Schumer , although the Washington Post has cited “ Democratic officials ” as having had discussions about it . )
Every time the House @ @ @ @ @ @ @ will use the occasion to demand his testimony , no matter how irrelevant it is to the question of whether Trump abused the power of his office .
On Saturday , Trump ’ s legal team will begin their case .
I have no doubt that we will be hearing a lot about Joe Biden .
The 2020 Presidential campaign is casting a long shadow over the Trump impeachment trial , not least because Trump is the only President to run for reëlection while facing such a proceeding .
Republicans , of course @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that voters , and not senators , should decide whether Trump should remain in office , and pointing out that voters will have the opportunity to do so a mere ten months from now .
But the Democratic Presidential race , which begins in just eleven days , with the Iowa caucuses , is even more immediately affected by the trial .
Will Biden ’ s fortunes be harmed by his unflattering cameo in the matter ?
Or will he perhaps be helped by the fact that his major rivals in the Democratic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of campaigning in Iowa in order to attend the entire duration of the trial ?
Sitting in the Senate press gallery this week , I ’ ve spent hours observing the Democratic candidates , four of whom are on Trump jury duty .
Amy Klobuchar , of Minnesota , who has staked her campaign on spending time in Iowa , which she is no longer able to do , sits in the back row and chats amiably with her neighbor , Delaware ’ s Chris Coons .
She dashes off to the MSNBC @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
One aisle over sits Michael Bennet , of Colorado , a long-shot candidate who waited patiently on Thursday morning to talk to the press throng in the Senate basement before the day ’ s proceedings began .
Elizabeth Warren , the Massachusetts Democrat whose fortunes in the Presidential race have risen and fallen , sits in the front of the chamber , and her head is often bowed over a white legal pad .
She has taken to drinking a glass of milk in the afternoon , and , when I watched @ @ @ @ @ @ @ turning the pages in a printed handout of the House managers ’ presentation that the senators had been given .

When a two-decade-old video clip of Lindsey Graham blared out of a monitor on the Senate floor Thursday afternoon, it was clear that this was going to be an edgier sort of day in the impeachment trial of Donald John Trump. Graham, one of Trump’s most vehement defenders in the Senate, was shown in the video, younger and with much more hair, confidently announcing that of course a President can be impeached for transgressions that are not covered by criminal law. He was, in other words, a strong witness for the House Democratic managers who are prosecuting the case against Trump. As Thursday went on, so were Trump’s F.B.I. director and Attorney General, two of his former Russia advisers, his former Homeland Security director, and a Harvard law professor who’s now serving on Trump’s legal team. Welcome to Trolling Day at the Trump trial.
During hours of arguments, on Thursday afternoon and late into the night, that were meant as a prebuttal to Trump’s forthcoming defense, the House managers sought to anticipate and undercut the arguments of the President’s lawyers. The best witnesses they called were all the President’s men. The managers presented video clip after video clip demolishing the President as a mere parrot of Russian propaganda, who repeated Russian-inspired falsehoods about the 2016 campaign and his Presidential rival Joe Biden, even as he withheld crucial aid to Russia’s enemy, Ukraine. There was “no information” to support Trump’s insistence that Ukraine, not Russia, interfered in the 2016 U.S. election; it was “completely debunked,” a “fictional narrative” divorced from anything having to do with U.S. foreign policy or its national interest. Trump’s accusers were not #NeverTrump Republicans or Democrats. They were senior officials in the Trump Administration. It was devastating.
So it was surprising when I noticed several Republican senators becoming visibly excited during the presentation. One of the House managers, Sylvia Garcia, of Texas, had just begun talking, and many of the senators’ seats were empty—I counted more than a dozen—when she started. But her topic soon turned out to be of great interest to Graham and other staunch Trump defenders: the matter of Joe Biden and what he did or didn’t do in Ukraine. As Garcia talked of Biden, Graham, who had ducked out of the chamber and actually missed his video-star turn a little while earlier, turned to his neighbor, John Barrasso, of Wyoming, to whisper something. Graham grinned and wrote down notes on his legal pad. A row behind him, Ted Cruz, of Texas, had an uncharacteristic look of delight on his newly goateed face. A couple rows in front of Graham, Rand Paul, of Kentucky, actually raised his arm in the air and pointed emphatically.
It seemed odd that Republicans should be excited by any aspect of the Democratic argument. On the issue of Biden, Garcia was attempting to methodically dismantle the claims that Biden had corruptly demanded the firing of Ukraine’s former prosecutor general in order to protect his son, Hunter Biden, who was then serving on the board of the Ukrainian energy company Burisma. “The allegations against Vice-President Biden are groundless,” Garcia said. She then recounted several lies and misrepresentations that have been advanced on Trump’s behalf, showing how he had specifically demanded investigations of the Bidens by the Ukrainian President and never mentioned the more noble goal of taking on “corruption” in Ukraine. She also covered the evidence that Trump had pushed Ukraine to “smear” Biden without caring whether there was an actual investigation. Citing the testimony of Trump’s own Ambassador to the European Union, Garcia said Trump’s goal was only that there be a public announcement of an investigation, to embarrass one of his toughest potential Democratic challengers in 2020.
But the Republicans were not reacting to the information Garcia described—information that has been well covered in the course of the impeachment proceedings. They were responding to what they saw as the opportunity created by Garcia’s presentation: By talking so much about Biden, wasn’t she offering the Senate a reason to call Biden and his son as witnesses? Sure enough, that is exactly the idea that some of the senators and Trump’s lawyer Jay Sekulow promoted during a break in the trial. “They have opened the door,” Sekulow told reporters. “It’s now relevant.” (Graham, for his part, later told reporters that he would resist the effort to call Biden.) “WOW,” Josh Hawley, another one of the Republicans who perked up when Garcia spoke, tweeted. “House managers make extended argument that Hunter Biden’s work w/Burisma entirely appropriate & no conflict of interest w/ Joe Biden getting rid of prosecutor that had jurisdiction over Burisma. If we call witnesses, gonna need to hear from both Bidens.”
This was not exactly on the level, of course. Cruz, Hawley, and others had been pushing Republican leaders on this point for weeks, as it became clear that the matter of whether to call witnesses had become the main, and arguably only, suspense surrounding the trial. Democrats insist that the Senate can only have a fair trial if it demands Trump Administration documents and witnesses who the President blocked from the House. Next week, they only need four Republicans to join with them to get the chance. But Republicans, fearing that they may lose the vote, are eager to extract a price. There is talk of a John Bolton-for-Biden trade. (This has been adamantly denied by Senate Democratic Leader Chuck Schumer, although the Washington Post has cited “Democratic officials” as having had discussions about it.) Every time the House managers mention the former Vice-President, Republicans will use the occasion to demand his testimony, no matter how irrelevant it is to the question of whether Trump abused the power of his office. On Saturday, Trump’s legal team will begin their case. I have no doubt that we will be hearing a lot about Joe Biden.
The 2020 Presidential campaign is casting a long shadow over the Trump impeachment trial, not least because Trump is the only President to run for reëlection while facing such a proceeding. Republicans, of course, constantly bring this up, arguing that voters, and not senators, should decide whether Trump should remain in office, and pointing out that voters will have the opportunity to do so a mere ten months from now.
But the Democratic Presidential race, which begins in just eleven days, with the Iowa caucuses, is even more immediately affected by the trial. Will Biden’s fortunes be harmed by his unflattering cameo in the matter? Or will he perhaps be helped by the fact that his major rivals in the Democratic race will miss the final few days of campaigning in Iowa in order to attend the entire duration of the trial?
Sitting in the Senate press gallery this week, I’ve spent hours observing the Democratic candidates, four of whom are on Trump jury duty. Amy Klobuchar, of Minnesota, who has staked her campaign on spending time in Iowa, which she is no longer able to do, sits in the back row and chats amiably with her neighbor, Delaware’s Chris Coons. She dashes off to the MSNBC or CNN cameras on the short breaks. One aisle over sits Michael Bennet, of Colorado, a long-shot candidate who waited patiently on Thursday morning to talk to the press throng in the Senate basement before the day’s proceedings began. Elizabeth Warren, the Massachusetts Democrat whose fortunes in the Presidential race have risen and fallen, sits in the front of the chamber, and her head is often bowed over a white legal pad. She has taken to drinking a glass of milk in the afternoon, and, when I watched her on Thursday, she was attentively turning the pages in a printed handout of the House managers’ presentation that the senators had been given.
The most mystifying character is Bernie Sanders, who has spent the vast majority of what should have been his best week of the campaign staring blankly into space as far as I could tell. Sanders, confined to his Senate desk, has been surging in the polls. A new CNN survey shows him pulling ahead of Biden to a small lead in the national contest for the first time since Biden entered the race; other polls this week have shown him leading both in Iowa and in the New Hampshire primary. But Sanders has been nothing more than a cipher on the Senate floor. He sits in between two assiduous note-takers, Ben Cardin, of Maryland, and Tammy Baldwin, of Wisconsin, but rarely interacts with them. As House managers began their case against Trump, on Wednesday, Sanders sat there, unmoving. He did not read anything, or pass notes, or get up and stand restlessly in the back of the room, as many other senators did. There was a legal pad on the desk in front of him, but it remained blank, an empty expanse of snowy white, untouched by any pen. On the second day of their case, his legal pad was yellow, and just as untouched. Unlike the others, Sanders does not clamor to talk to reporters and get his instant trial analysis out on the breaks, and his Twitter feed is devoid of the real-time courtroom commentary that many attention-seeking senators provide.
But, of course, Sanders doesn’t really need to say anything. The entire political world is talking about him anyway. Hillary Clinton was quoted in a documentary this week saying that “nobody likes him.” Barack Obama is reportedly very concerned that he will emerge as the Party’s nominee. Trump is even tweeting about Sanders, cheering on a self-proclaimed socialist opponent he’d love to run against and weighing in with his opinion that the Democratic Party will never allow Sanders to win. If the Vermont senator does go on to beat Biden in the early primaries, after sitting out the final stage of the race at his small wooden Senate desk, will history perhaps record him as the true winner of Donald Trump’s impeachment trial?


newyorker--2020-01-24--“Take Her Out”: Donald Trump’s Role in the Ukraine Scheme Is Reportedly Caught on Tape

Lordy , there are tapes—or , at least , one tape .
When Lev Parnas , one of Rudy Giuliani ’ s Ukraine bagmen , gave an interview to MSNBC ’ s Rachel Maddow last week , he recalled attending a private dinner in April , 2018 , at the Trump International Hotel , on Pennsylvania Avenue , where the hotel ’ s proprietor , who works part time as the forty-fifth President of the United States , ordered a White House aide to fire Marie Yovanovitch , a veteran diplomat who was then serving as the U.S .
Ambassador @ @ @ @ @ @ @ many damaging claims that Parnas made to Maddow , prompting Trump ’ s supporters to dismiss him as a self-serving fantasist .
But , on Friday , it emerged that Igor Fruman , Parnas ’ s sidekick and fellow-defendant , has provided a tape recording to federal prosecutors that features Trump using mob-boss language to order Yovanovitch ’ s axing .
ABC News , in a report published on Friday morning , as the House managers were preparing to wrap up their presentation in the Senate impeachment trial , said that it has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ voice that “ appears to be President Trump ’ s ” says of Yovanovitch , “ Get rid of her !
Get her out tomorrow .
I don ’ t care .
Get her out tomorrow .
Take her out .
O.K.
?
Do it.
” The White House ’ s response to the ABC News story didn ’ t deny that Trump attended the dinner , which reportedly took place on April 30 , 2018 , or that the President used the language attributed to him in the ABC News report .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ had the right to place people who support his agenda and his policies within his Administration , ” the White House press secretary , Stephanie Grisham , said in a statement .
Nobody has suggested that Trump didn ’ t have the authority to replace Yovanovitch ; the issue is why he did it , and why has he been lying about his relationship with Parnas .
Just last week , Trump said , “ I don ’ t know him at all .
Don ’ t know what he ’ s about @ @ @ @ @ @ @ comes from , know nothing about him .
I can only tell you this thing is a big hoax.
” Are those statements still operative ?
Grisham didn ’ t mention them , of course .
ABC News didn ’ t say how it got access to the recording , which appears to have been made by Fruman , a longtime business associate of Parnas .
He used a phone “ placed down on a table with the audio still recording the conversation between the Commander-in-Chief and other guests , ” the report @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Parnas ’ s defense lawyer , Joseph Bondy , confirmed to the Daily Beast that Parnas was aware of the tape ’ s existence and said that Fruman made it .
“ Last year , before he was arrested , Mr. Parnas personally heard a recording of his April 30 , 2018 , dinner with the president and others , made by Mr. Fruman , at which the subject of Ambassador Yovanovitch was discussed , ” Bondy told the news site .
“ We have hoped that , to the extent this recording @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to Congress for use in the impeachment trial.
” The ABC News report said that the U.S. Attorney ’ s Office for the Southern District of New York , which brought the charges against Parnas and Fruman , and which is reportedly also investigating their relationship with Giuliani , has a copy of the recording .
Will it be handed over to Congress , and will Parnas be called as a witness in the impeachment trial ?
Given the Republicans ’ abject stonewalling , this seems unlikely .
On Friday afternoon , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ presentation “ does not appear to have accomplished its chief objective of persuading enough Republicans that they need to hear from live witnesses and see withheld documents.
” Still , Parnas seems eager to be deposed ; issuing a subpoena to him wouldn ’ t raise any executive-privilege issues , and he has a story to tell that is germane to the trial .
Clearly , he has some credibility issues .
But , at the very least , he would be able to convey to the Senate the sordid origins of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the proceeding .
Parnas claims to have worked with Giuliani for more than a year to persuade the government of Ukraine to open a number of investigations that Giuliani and Trump wanted , including one into a Ukrainian company that employed Hunter Biden .
Evidently , the participants in this scheme viewed Yovanovitch , a veteran diplomat who was appointed to her post during the Obama Administration , as a barrier to their progress .
During the dinner with the President , it seems that Parnas tried to do something about it .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ appears to belong to him is heard telling Trump that Yovanovitch had been bad-mouthing him in Kyiv and that “ we got ta get rid of ” her , ABC News reported .
The voice goes on , “ She ’ s basically walking around telling everybody , ‘ Wait , he ’ s gon na get impeached , just wait.
’ ” These remarks from Parnas prompted Trump ’ s order to “ take her out , ” according to the ABC News report .
They didn ’ t lead to Yovanovitch @ @ @ @ @ @ @ however .
She wasn ’ t called back to Washington until May , 2019 .
In his interview with Maddow , Parnas recalled that there was silence in the hotel room after Trump issued his order .
Then , according to Parnas , Johnny DeStefano , a White House staffer who was also at the dinner , responded , “ We can ’ t do that right now because Pompeo ” —Mike Pompeo , who replaced Rex Tillerson as Secretary of State— “ hasn ’ t been confirmed yet .
”

Lordy, there are tapes—or, at least, one tape. When Lev Parnas, one of Rudy Giuliani’s Ukraine bagmen, gave an interview to MSNBC’s Rachel Maddow last week, he recalled attending a private dinner in April, 2018, at the Trump International Hotel, on Pennsylvania Avenue, where the hotel’s proprietor, who works part time as the forty-fifth President of the United States, ordered a White House aide to fire Marie Yovanovitch, a veteran diplomat who was then serving as the U.S. Ambassador to Ukraine.
This was one of many damaging claims that Parnas made to Maddow, prompting Trump’s supporters to dismiss him as a self-serving fantasist. But, on Friday, it emerged that Igor Fruman, Parnas’s sidekick and fellow-defendant, has provided a tape recording to federal prosecutors that features Trump using mob-boss language to order Yovanovitch’s axing. ABC News, in a report published on Friday morning, as the House managers were preparing to wrap up their presentation in the Senate impeachment trial, said that it has reviewed a tape recording in which a voice that “appears to be President Trump’s” says of Yovanovitch, “Get rid of her! Get her out tomorrow. I don’t care. Get her out tomorrow. Take her out. O.K.? Do it.”
The White House’s response to the ABC News story didn’t deny that Trump attended the dinner, which reportedly took place on April 30, 2018, or that the President used the language attributed to him in the ABC News report. “Every President in our history has had the right to place people who support his agenda and his policies within his Administration,” the White House press secretary, Stephanie Grisham, said in a statement.
Nobody has suggested that Trump didn’t have the authority to replace Yovanovitch; the issue is why he did it, and why has he been lying about his relationship with Parnas. Just last week, Trump said, “I don’t know him at all. Don’t know what he’s about, don’t know where he comes from, know nothing about him. I can only tell you this thing is a big hoax.” Are those statements still operative? Grisham didn’t mention them, of course.
ABC News didn’t say how it got access to the recording, which appears to have been made by Fruman, a longtime business associate of Parnas. He used a phone “placed down on a table with the audio still recording the conversation between the Commander-in-Chief and other guests,” the report said. Early on Friday afternoon, Parnas’s defense lawyer, Joseph Bondy, confirmed to the Daily Beast that Parnas was aware of the tape’s existence and said that Fruman made it. “Last year, before he was arrested, Mr. Parnas personally heard a recording of his April 30, 2018, dinner with the president and others, made by Mr. Fruman, at which the subject of Ambassador Yovanovitch was discussed,” Bondy told the news site. “We have hoped that, to the extent this recording still existed, it would be released to Congress for use in the impeachment trial.”
The ABC News report said that the U.S. Attorney’s Office for the Southern District of New York, which brought the charges against Parnas and Fruman, and which is reportedly also investigating their relationship with Giuliani, has a copy of the recording. Will it be handed over to Congress, and will Parnas be called as a witness in the impeachment trial? Given the Republicans’ abject stonewalling, this seems unlikely. On Friday afternoon, the Times reported that the House managers’ presentation “does not appear to have accomplished its chief objective of persuading enough Republicans that they need to hear from live witnesses and see withheld documents.”
Still, Parnas seems eager to be deposed; issuing a subpoena to him wouldn’t raise any executive-privilege issues, and he has a story to tell that is germane to the trial. Clearly, he has some credibility issues. But, at the very least, he would be able to convey to the Senate the sordid origins of the scheme that lies at the center of the proceeding.
Parnas claims to have worked with Giuliani for more than a year to persuade the government of Ukraine to open a number of investigations that Giuliani and Trump wanted, including one into a Ukrainian company that employed Hunter Biden. Evidently, the participants in this scheme viewed Yovanovitch, a veteran diplomat who was appointed to her post during the Obama Administration, as a barrier to their progress. During the dinner with the President, it seems that Parnas tried to do something about it. On the recording, a voice that appears to belong to him is heard telling Trump that Yovanovitch had been bad-mouthing him in Kyiv and that “we gotta get rid of” her, ABC News reported. The voice goes on, “She’s basically walking around telling everybody, ‘Wait, he’s gonna get impeached, just wait.’ ”
These remarks from Parnas prompted Trump’s order to “take her out,” according to the ABC News report. They didn’t lead to Yovanovitch’s immediate removal from Kyiv, however. She wasn’t called back to Washington until May, 2019. In his interview with Maddow, Parnas recalled that there was silence in the hotel room after Trump issued his order. Then, according to Parnas, Johnny DeStefano, a White House staffer who was also at the dinner, responded, “We can’t do that right now because Pompeo”—Mike Pompeo, who replaced Rex Tillerson as Secretary of State—“hasn’t been confirmed yet.”