newyorker--2020-05-01--Growing Up and Coming Out in Noelle Stevenson’s “The Fire Never Goes Out”

If you follow—or , really , go anywhere near—comics or animation for young people now , you ’ ve almost surely encountered Noelle Stevenson .
First noticed for online fan art about the Avengers , she turned her scrappy dragons-and-castles story “ Nimona ” into a successful Web comic in 2012 , then ( with help from a trade press ) into one of the bookstore hits of 2015 .
By that point , she was drawing cover art for big-name novelists and comics writers , such as Ryan North and Rainbow Rowell , and writing for Marvel and DC @ @ @ @ @ @ @ feminist summer-camp comic “ Lumberjanes.
” That success led to an animation writing job and , despite her youth , to her position as the showrunner for “ She-Ra and the Princesses of Power , ” a delightful , action-packed , queer-friendly , candy-colored Netflix reboot of the nineteen-eighties cartoon .
“ Nimona , ” “ Lumberjanes , ” and “ She-Ra ” share a sensibility : all-ages , girl-powered , whimsical but with a streak of angst , grounded in fantasy and in campfire tales , with multiple characters designed to help @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ The Fire Never Goes Out , ” Stevenson ’ s new book , reflects that sensibility , but it ’ s an altogether different sort of work : the volume gathers short autobiographical comics that Stevenson drew ( and often posted on the Web ) between 2010 and 2019 .
It ’ s a memoir of sorts , with slices of life from the end of Stevenson ’ s teens to near the present day .
It ’ s also a coming-out story , a love story , a tale of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ story about mental health and illness , showing the young artist figuring out what she must do—first to make art and then to get well .
Stevenson shows a bit of the art that got her noticed : the “ Broship of the Rings ” ( Tolkien characters done up in contemporary casual wear ) ; Thor and Captain America as ballet dancers , one of her “ ten billion Avengers comics.
” Later , she poses beside a statue of She-Ra .
But most of these pages have nothing directly to do @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bits of Stevenson ’ s life , as she negotiates her distance from religion or arranges a cross-country move .
Some feel like fanzines , heartfelt , handwritten , illustrated meditations on what lifts up women , in particular , and what brings us down : “ when you only ever see one kind of woman ’ s body portrayed , sometimes you wonder if you might be a different species from them.
” ( Both “ Lumberjanes ” and “ She-Ra ” represent a range of women ’ s and girls ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ roll on , a delightfully cartoony , Goth-lite style—not far from “ Nimona ” —gives way to curvilinear self-portraits that welcome color and highlight facial expression .
The borderless panels , and also the cavorting or angst-ridden versions of the artist herself , evoke the venerable Jules Feiffer .
Those latter panels depict Stevenson in art school , in Baltimore and then in L.A. , braving freeway traffic , washing dishes , holding hands with her eventual wife ( the comics creator Molly Ostertag ) , or speaking directly to the viewer .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ annual year-in-review comics , which sum up her life over the previous twelve months ; she has done them every year since 2011 .
Stevenson draws herself leaving art school , saying goodbye to her younger self , packing a suitcase , with a melancholy smile , bluejeans , auburn hair , and a boatload of charm .
After she begins to land high-prestige comics , she illustrates herself dressed like a “ Lumberjanes ” character ( shorts , plain top , whistle on lanyard ) , lifting a crown over her head @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The caption reads , “ is this what you wanted to be ?
” These pages show how a life feels while it ’ s being lived : neither all good nor all bad , both inspirational and painful .
They also present what Stevenson calls the “ fire ” of youth , at once a creative drive and a danger .
As the comics show Stevenson learning to work in L.A. , they also show her struggles with “ the monster that lives inside me , ” a sometimes debilitating mental illness @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 2015 , Stevenson became the “ youngest ever nominee ” for the National Book Award in children ’ s literature ; in the same year , she writes ( in a hand-lettered script that ’ s one of the volume ’ s small charms ) , “ I officially burned out .
But , well , I got better ?
” Her romantic life got worse before it got better , too : “ Do you remember being young and so on fire with the idea of love that you went dancing and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ asks herself .
“ That was .
.
.
before your soft baby heart crystallized.
” Internal dialogue accompanies drawings of Stevenson in flames , of an empty heart-shaped box , of quartz-like shards coming out of her chest .
Coming out step by step , Stevenson figures out how to tell the world that she loves women in general , and Molly in particular : “ Does Grandma know Molly is my girlfriend ?
.
.
.
I think she figured it out after that picture of you at Pride.
” She @ @ @ @ @ @ @ real-life outfits—how to represent her gender and her style : “ I don ’ t want to wear a suit .
.
.
.
It ’ s just better than a dress.
” And she contributes a splendid six-page spread—the whole of her “ 2017 Year in Review ” —to the emerging queer and trans genre we might call ( after its most impressive online example ) the énouement , in which older selves visit younger selves and show them their happier future .
And it really seems happy .
As much as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s gift for whimsy and joy is never far away .
When Stevenson falls in love for good , it ’ s with Ostertag , and the sketches of that experience are literally too cute for words : the cartoonist nuzzling her new lover , bringing her coffee or tea , seated and smiling and blushing , without captions , with a tiny pink heart above her gray-scale hair .
“ In my softness I was as strong as I ’ d ever been , ” she writes to Ostertag , “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Color photographs of the new pair—one with a kitten !
—offset the hand-drawn images and add to the effect of intimacy .
Not just a love story , not just a success story , Stevenson ’ s collection of journals and sketches holds together best as a record of emotional turmoil and partial recovery , distant kin to the more focussed “ confessional ” work of Ellen Forney ( “ Marbles ” ) or even Allie Brosh ( “ Hyperbole and a Half ” ) .
Brisk sketches of the cartoonist looking @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an exemplary page , the few sentences of which will resonate with many of her readers ( as they sure do with me ) : “ Your fear of doing wrong is keeping you from doing good .
.
.
.
You fear hurting people but maybe because you fear being disliked .
You ’ re not strong or brave in the way you want to be.
” These kinds of fears send us into the arms of loved ones , and sometimes , quite rightly , to medication .
They can also @ @ @ @ @ @ @ we want to be , what love means for us , how we want to be seen , and whether things can calm down .
And—to judge by the entries for 2018 and 2019—things have .
Stevenson shows us how she has found a way “ to control your fire so that it warms instead of destroys.
” She also finds a conventional , romantic , and entirely satisfying happy ending , though “ ending ” feels like the wrong word .
More firmly than any thoroughly plotted and unified book ever could @ @ @ @ @ @ @ adult life will open up before us , surprise us , throw us sharp curves , and go on .
Stevenson and her readers know that she has found love , and a vocation , and a brace of fantasy princesses she can steer toward an animated-TV happy ending , but nobody knows what will come next .

If you follow—or, really, go anywhere near—comics or animation for young people now, you’ve almost surely encountered Noelle Stevenson. First noticed for online fan art about the Avengers, she turned her scrappy dragons-and-castles story “Nimona” into a successful Web comic in 2012, then (with help from a trade press) into one of the bookstore hits of 2015. By that point, she was drawing cover art for big-name novelists and comics writers, such as Ryan North and Rainbow Rowell, and writing for Marvel and DC Comics, and also for the lighthearted feminist summer-camp comic “Lumberjanes.” That success led to an animation writing job and, despite her youth, to her position as the showrunner for “She-Ra and the Princesses of Power,” a delightful, action-packed, queer-friendly, candy-colored Netflix reboot of the nineteen-eighties cartoon.
“Nimona,” “Lumberjanes,” and “She-Ra” share a sensibility: all-ages, girl-powered, whimsical but with a streak of angst, grounded in fantasy and in campfire tales, with multiple characters designed to help troubled young readers through their personal darkness. “The Fire Never Goes Out,” Stevenson’s new book, reflects that sensibility, but it’s an altogether different sort of work: the volume gathers short autobiographical comics that Stevenson drew (and often posted on the Web) between 2010 and 2019. It’s a memoir of sorts, with slices of life from the end of Stevenson’s teens to near the present day. It’s also a coming-out story, a love story, a tale of disorientingly rapid professional triumph, and a story about mental health and illness, showing the young artist figuring out what she must do—first to make art and then to get well.
Stevenson shows a bit of the art that got her noticed: the “Broship of the Rings” (Tolkien characters done up in contemporary casual wear); Thor and Captain America as ballet dancers, one of her “ten billion Avengers comics.” Later, she poses beside a statue of She-Ra. But most of these pages have nothing directly to do with Hollywood properties: they offer us bits of Stevenson’s life, as she negotiates her distance from religion or arranges a cross-country move. Some feel like fanzines, heartfelt, handwritten, illustrated meditations on what lifts up women, in particular, and what brings us down: “when you only ever see one kind of woman’s body portrayed, sometimes you wonder if you might be a different species from them.” (Both “Lumberjanes” and “She-Ra” represent a range of women’s and girls’ body types.) As the years roll on, a delightfully cartoony, Goth-lite style—not far from “Nimona”—gives way to curvilinear self-portraits that welcome color and highlight facial expression. The borderless panels, and also the cavorting or angst-ridden versions of the artist herself, evoke the venerable Jules Feiffer.
Those latter panels depict Stevenson in art school, in Baltimore and then in L.A., braving freeway traffic, washing dishes, holding hands with her eventual wife (the comics creator Molly Ostertag), or speaking directly to the viewer. Punctuating the collection are Stevenson’s annual year-in-review comics, which sum up her life over the previous twelve months; she has done them every year since 2011. Stevenson draws herself leaving art school, saying goodbye to her younger self, packing a suitcase, with a melancholy smile, bluejeans, auburn hair, and a boatload of charm. After she begins to land high-prestige comics, she illustrates herself dressed like a “Lumberjanes” character (shorts, plain top, whistle on lanyard), lifting a crown over her head, mouth flat and not smiling. The caption reads, “is this what you wanted to be?”
The book is a coming-out story, a love story, a tale of disorientingly rapid professional triumph, and a story about mental health and illness. Illustration by Noelle Stevenson / Courtesy HarperCollins
These pages show how a life feels while it’s being lived: neither all good nor all bad, both inspirational and painful. They also present what Stevenson calls the “fire” of youth, at once a creative drive and a danger. As the comics show Stevenson learning to work in L.A., they also show her struggles with “the monster that lives inside me,” a sometimes debilitating mental illness that can invigorate or sadden. In 2015, Stevenson became the “youngest ever nominee” for the National Book Award in children’s literature; in the same year, she writes (in a hand-lettered script that’s one of the volume’s small charms), “I officially burned out. But, well, I got better?”
Her romantic life got worse before it got better, too: “Do you remember being young and so on fire with the idea of love that you went dancing and singing through the house?” she asks herself. “That was . . . before your soft baby heart crystallized.” Internal dialogue accompanies drawings of Stevenson in flames, of an empty heart-shaped box, of quartz-like shards coming out of her chest. Coming out step by step, Stevenson figures out how to tell the world that she loves women in general, and Molly in particular: “Does Grandma know Molly is my girlfriend? . . . I think she figured it out after that picture of you at Pride.” She learns—by drawing herself and by trying on real-life outfits—how to represent her gender and her style: “I don’t want to wear a suit. . . . It’s just better than a dress.” And she contributes a splendid six-page spread—the whole of her “2017 Year in Review”—to the emerging queer and trans genre we might call (after its most impressive online example) the énouement, in which older selves visit younger selves and show them their happier future.
And it really seems happy. As much as she illustrates angst and sadness, Stevenson’s gift for whimsy and joy is never far away. When Stevenson falls in love for good, it’s with Ostertag, and the sketches of that experience are literally too cute for words: the cartoonist nuzzling her new lover, bringing her coffee or tea, seated and smiling and blushing, without captions, with a tiny pink heart above her gray-scale hair. “In my softness I was as strong as I’d ever been,” she writes to Ostertag, “and I reached again for your hand.” Color photographs of the new pair—one with a kitten!—offset the hand-drawn images and add to the effect of intimacy.
Not just a love story, not just a success story, Stevenson’s collection of journals and sketches holds together best as a record of emotional turmoil and partial recovery, distant kin to the more focussed “confessional” work of Ellen Forney (“Marbles”) or even Allie Brosh (“Hyperbole and a Half”). Brisk sketches of the cartoonist looking baffled, or near tears, punctuate an exemplary page, the few sentences of which will resonate with many of her readers (as they sure do with me): “Your fear of doing wrong is keeping you from doing good. . . . You fear hurting people but maybe because you fear being disliked. You’re not strong or brave in the way you want to be.” These kinds of fears send us into the arms of loved ones, and sometimes, quite rightly, to medication.
They can also prompt introspection about what kind of people we want to be, what love means for us, how we want to be seen, and whether things can calm down. And—to judge by the entries for 2018 and 2019—things have. Stevenson shows us how she has found a way “to control your fire so that it warms instead of destroys.” She also finds a conventional, romantic, and entirely satisfying happy ending, though “ending” feels like the wrong word. More firmly than any thoroughly plotted and unified book ever could, collections like this can show how adult life will open up before us, surprise us, throw us sharp curves, and go on. Stevenson and her readers know that she has found love, and a vocation, and a brace of fantasy princesses she can steer toward an animated-TV happy ending, but nobody knows what will come next.


newyorker--2020-05-01--The Pandemic Crisis Inside America’s Prisons and Jails

Three months ago , we devoted an entire episode to the effects of mass incarceration , and the movement to end it .
Now , as the coronavirus pandemic puts inmates and workers in disproportionate danger , that effort is gaining sudden traction ; according to U.C.L.A.
’ s School of Law , states and counties have released some forty thousand inmates nationwide .
Plus , John Cassidy talks about the pain of mass unemployment ; we meet Chika , a rapper hailed by Diddy as “ best of the new school ” ; and Mike Birbiglia imagines his own @ @ @ @ @ @ @ discuss mass unemployment and the different stages of our current financial downturn .
The Pandemic Is Wreaking Havoc in America ’ s Prisons and Jails With the pandemic putting inmates—who can not maintain social distance—as well as corrections workers in danger , the movement for decarceration suddenly seems politically possible .
Chika ’ s Devotion to Rap But Not the Game Gen-Z , queer , plus-size , and a first-generation American , the young artist is a new face in the world of hip-hop .
But her devotion to the craft of rap @ @ @ @ @ @ @ says he ’ s O.K .
with dying , as long as he gets to do it his way .
By meteor , for example .

Illustration by Golden Cosmos
Three months ago, we devoted an entire episode to the effects of mass incarceration, and the movement to end it. Now, as the coronavirus pandemic puts inmates and workers in disproportionate danger, that effort is gaining sudden traction; according to U.C.L.A.’s School of Law, states and counties have released some forty thousand inmates nationwide. Plus, John Cassidy talks about the pain of mass unemployment; we meet Chika, a rapper hailed by Diddy as “best of the new school”; and Mike Birbiglia imagines his own death.
The Economic Fallout of COVID-19
John Cassidy and David Remnick discuss mass unemployment and the different stages of our current financial downturn.
The Pandemic Is Wreaking Havoc in America’s Prisons and Jails
With the pandemic putting inmates—who cannot maintain social distance—as well as corrections workers in danger, the movement for decarceration suddenly seems politically possible.
Chika’s Devotion to Rap But Not the Game
Gen-Z, queer, plus-size, and a first-generation American, the young artist is a new face in the world of hip-hop. But her devotion to the craft of rap is decidedly old school.
Mike Birbiglia Imagines His Own Death
The comedian says he’s O.K. with dying, as long as he gets to do it his way. By meteor, for example.


newyorker--2020-05-01--Michigan Governor Arrogantly Forcing Residents to Remain Alive

LANSING ( The Borowitz Report ) —Gretchen Whitmer , the governor of Michigan , is “ arrogantly forcing the residents @ @ @ @ @ alive , ” Attorney General William Barr charged on Friday .
In a blistering takedown @ @ @ @ @ Barr said that Whitmer was “ depriving Michiganders of their constitutionally enshrined right to die @ @ @ @ @ that the Justice Department could soon file a lawsuit against Whitmer , Barr alleged that @ @ @ @ @ keeping her state ’ s residents breathing ” represented “ government overreach at its worst.
@ @ @ @ @ Whitmer ’ s “ blatant anti-coronavirus bias ” would likely come back to haunt her @ @ @ @ @ “ Gretchen Whitmer never asked Michiganders for their consent to remain alive , and they @ @ @ @ @ any time soon , ” Barr said .

LANSING (The Borowitz Report)—Gretchen Whitmer, the governor of Michigan, is “arrogantly forcing the residents of her state to remain alive,” Attorney General William Barr charged on Friday.
In a blistering takedown of the Democratic governor, Barr said that Whitmer was “depriving Michiganders of their constitutionally enshrined right to die before their time.”
Hinting that the Justice Department could soon file a lawsuit against Whitmer, Barr alleged that her “unhinged obsession with keeping her state’s residents breathing” represented “government overreach at its worst.”
Barr also suggested that Whitmer’s “blatant anti-coronavirus bias” would likely come back to haunt her at the ballot box.
“Gretchen Whitmer never asked Michiganders for their consent to remain alive, and they won’t forget that any time soon,” Barr said.


newyorker--2020-05-01--The Essential Workers Filling New York’s Coronavirus Wards

The diversity of New York is on full display in its hospital rooms .
Some days , I organize my rounds not by where patients are located but by what language they speak : Spanish , Chinese , English , Creole .
That way , I can keep the same interpreter on the phone as I make my way from room to room .
One in five Americans speaks a language other than English at home ; half of New Yorkers do .
One morning , I gown up and step inside a patient ’ s room , the interpreter @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The patient is a deliveryman I admitted earlier that week ; his breathing has worsened each day , requiring escalating doses of oxygen via nasal cannula , and now a face mask .
I must tell him that , should his breathing worsen further , the next step will be intubation .
I speak carefully , in short paragraphs , pausing to allow the interpreter to translate .
The man stares at me from behind his mask , waiting to learn what his future holds .
Thirty seconds after I stop talking , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his dark eyes widen , and slow recognition spreads across his face .
He asks what intubation entails , and I explain .
Again a delay ; again the unwelcome news starts to register .
He asks how long he ’ ll remain on the ventilator .
We can ’ t know for sure , I say , but I hope it ’ s not long .
Tears escape his eyes and his breathing quickens .
I worry that the conversation itself will tip him into extremis .
During the coronavirus pandemic , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ than once a day , but today I vow to return .
Outside , I rub foam sanitizer into my hands and remove my face shield .
I forget that the interpreter is still on the line .
“ Will that be all , doctor ?
” she says , a minute later , from my pocket .
“ Yes , ” she says .
“ There have been a lot of those conversations lately.
” In New York City , social distancing is working .
The virus has claimed at least twelve @ @ @ @ @ @ @ declined steadily since April 7th , when nearly five hundred and sixty people died of COVID-19 .
New cases and hospitalizations have also fallen in recent weeks , even though many hospitals remain nearly full .
But , as this wave of the coronavirus starts to slow , I can ’ t help but notice that many of the people still getting infected are those who don ’ t have the luxury of distance—those who , by necessity or by trade , expose themselves and their families to the virus every day .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s safe to reopen the economy , but for essential workers it never closed .
Each morning , during the apex of the deadliest pandemic in a century , these men and women have been venturing out into the epicenter of disease , to cook and clean , deliver food and carry mail , drive buses and stock shelves , patrol the streets and tend to the ill .
Many have paid with their health—some with their lives .
It ’ s becoming clear that essential workers experience a disproportionate share of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ During one week not long ago , I cared for a police officer , a grocery-store clerk , and a bus driver .
During another , my clinical service of fifteen patients included three food deliverymen .
( The last time I can recall caring for a delivery worker was more than two years ago : his leg was broken after he was hit by an S.U.V .
at a busy Manhattan intersection . )
The burden falls unevenly among racial and ethnic groups : in New York City , people of color @ @ @ @ @ @ @ essential workers .
Three-fifths of cleaning workers are Latino ; more than forty per cent of public-transit workers are black .
Latinos comprise twenty-nine per cent of the city ’ s population , but thirty-four per cent of all cases ; black people are twenty-two per cent of the population but represent twenty-eight per cent of COVID-19 deaths .
Many factors contribute .
Communities of color have higher rates of poverty , housing instability , and chronic disease .
They ’ re more likely to consist of dense or multigenerational households , in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ These communities have experienced frequent , sometimes egregious , bias from the health-care system , which has engendered lasting mistrust and leads some people to forgo needed care .
In a pandemic , just going to work is risky .
“ All one has to do is stand on a platform and you ’ ll see that the trains are filled with black and brown and low-income people going into communities to service those who are able to telecommute , ” Eric Adams , Brooklyn ’ s borough president , recently said .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s public-transit workers have died of COVID-19 since the first M.T.A .
worker death was reported , on March 26th . )
And yet many essential workers have little choice but to stay on the job during the pandemic—either because they can ’ t afford to take time off or because they ’ re told that they aren ’ t allowed to .
One study found that fifty-five per cent of retail and food-service workers , many of whom have been declared essential , have no paid sick leave , and fewer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ take two weeks off—the recommended COVID-19 quarantine period .
The basic process by which doctors collect a medical history has not changed in a century .
You start with a patient ’ s “ chief complaint ” —the primary reason for seeking medical care .
You make your way through the “ history of present illness , ” exploring the onset , pace , character , and severity of symptoms .
( When exactly did that cough start ?
What color is your phlegm ?
Does your chest hurt more when breathing deeply @ @ @ @ @ @ @ move to preëxisting conditions , medications , and allergies .
Tucked somewhere down below is the social history .
At its best , the social history is how we explore who patients are as individuals—how their jobs and hobbies and lives intersect with their current predicaments .
It ’ s meant to illuminate how nonmedical factors may have contributed to illness , but also to give us a more complete understanding of what ’ s important to the person we ’ re caring for .
For busy doctors , though , it ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ questions : Do you smoke ?
Drink alcohol ?
Do drugs ?
The entire social history in a doctor ’ s note might read , “ No toxic habits.
” It ’ s turning out that , in this pandemic , social history is profoundly important .
As we learn more about the epidemiology of the virus , I find myself exploring these details with great interest .
Where do you live ?
How many rooms ?
How many people are in those rooms ?
Does your work require you to come in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reveal how much risk specific households and families are shouldering .
One of the many new faces in my hospital belongs to Khalid Haynes , a softspoken African-American man in his mid-twenties .
COVID-19 has created administrative demands in addition to clinical ones ; Haynes is one of many new patient coördinators who have arrived to keep the hospital running .
( Other new hires have been helping to build new I.C.U.s , or transfer patients between facilities . )
He began his career as a personal trainer , before starting work as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
There , he answered phones , greeted patients , and verified insurance ; as the coronavirus began to spread across the city , his clinic turned to telemedicine , and he began working remotely .
In late March , he received a call from his manager saying that he was being dispatched to the hospital as an essential worker .
In his new role , he ’ d help troubleshoot and distribute iPads to doctors , so that their patients could see their families .
Haynes has kind eyes , horn-rimmed glasses @ @ @ @ @ @ @ our first encounter , I rushed past in a pre-caffeine daze , and he stopped me to ask about my day , insisting on a genuine answer .
Two weeks after he started at the hospital , his grandmother died of COVID-19 .
“ That gave me a really painful perspective on how important this role is , ” he told me .
“ I couldn ’ t see my grandmother before she died .
I don ’ t want that to happen to anyone else .
”

The diversity of New York is on full display in its hospital rooms. Some days, I organize my rounds not by where patients are located but by what language they speak: Spanish, Chinese, English, Creole. That way, I can keep the same interpreter on the phone as I make my way from room to room. One in five Americans speaks a language other than English at home; half of New Yorkers do.
One morning, I gown up and step inside a patient’s room, the interpreter on speakerphone in my scrubs pocket. The patient is a deliveryman I admitted earlier that week; his breathing has worsened each day, requiring escalating doses of oxygen via nasal cannula, and now a face mask. I must tell him that, should his breathing worsen further, the next step will be intubation.
I speak carefully, in short paragraphs, pausing to allow the interpreter to translate. The man stares at me from behind his mask, waiting to learn what his future holds. Thirty seconds after I stop talking, as the interpreter completes her translation, his dark eyes widen, and slow recognition spreads across his face.
He asks what intubation entails, and I explain. Again a delay; again the unwelcome news starts to register. He asks how long he’ll remain on the ventilator. We can’t know for sure, I say, but I hope it’s not long. Tears escape his eyes and his breathing quickens. I worry that the conversation itself will tip him into extremis. During the coronavirus pandemic, I’ve avoided entering rooms more than once a day, but today I vow to return.
Outside, I rub foam sanitizer into my hands and remove my face shield. I forget that the interpreter is still on the line.
“Will that be all, doctor?” she says, a minute later, from my pocket.
“Yeah, thank you,” I reply. “That was pretty rough, right?”
“Yes,” she says. “There have been a lot of those conversations lately.”
In New York City, social distancing is working. The virus has claimed at least twelve thousand lives, but single-day deaths have declined steadily since April 7th, when nearly five hundred and sixty people died of COVID-19. New cases and hospitalizations have also fallen in recent weeks, even though many hospitals remain nearly full.
But, as this wave of the coronavirus starts to slow, I can’t help but notice that many of the people still getting infected are those who don’t have the luxury of distance—those who, by necessity or by trade, expose themselves and their families to the virus every day. We’re now debating whether it’s safe to reopen the economy, but for essential workers it never closed. Each morning, during the apex of the deadliest pandemic in a century, these men and women have been venturing out into the epicenter of disease, to cook and clean, deliver food and carry mail, drive buses and stock shelves, patrol the streets and tend to the ill. Many have paid with their health—some with their lives.
It’s becoming clear that essential workers experience a disproportionate share of death and disease owing to COVID-19. During one week not long ago, I cared for a police officer, a grocery-store clerk, and a bus driver. During another, my clinical service of fifteen patients included three food deliverymen. (The last time I can recall caring for a delivery worker was more than two years ago: his leg was broken after he was hit by an S.U.V. at a busy Manhattan intersection.)
The burden falls unevenly among racial and ethnic groups: in New York City, people of color comprise three-quarters of the city’s essential workers. Three-fifths of cleaning workers are Latino; more than forty per cent of public-transit workers are black. Latinos comprise twenty-nine per cent of the city’s population, but thirty-four per cent of all cases; black people are twenty-two per cent of the population but represent twenty-eight per cent of COVID-19 deaths. Many factors contribute. Communities of color have higher rates of poverty, housing instability, and chronic disease. They’re more likely to consist of dense or multigenerational households, in which the virus spreads more easily. These communities have experienced frequent, sometimes egregious, bias from the health-care system, which has engendered lasting mistrust and leads some people to forgo needed care.
In a pandemic, just going to work is risky. “All one has to do is stand on a platform and you’ll see that the trains are filled with black and brown and low-income people going into communities to service those who are able to telecommute,” Eric Adams, Brooklyn’s borough president, recently said. (About a hundred of the city’s public-transit workers have died of COVID-19 since the first M.T.A. worker death was reported, on March 26th.) And yet many essential workers have little choice but to stay on the job during the pandemic—either because they can’t afford to take time off or because they’re told that they aren’t allowed to. One study found that fifty-five per cent of retail and food-service workers, many of whom have been declared essential, have no paid sick leave, and fewer than ten per cent of them can take two weeks off—the recommended COVID-19 quarantine period.
The basic process by which doctors collect a medical history has not changed in a century. You start with a patient’s “chief complaint”—the primary reason for seeking medical care. You make your way through the “history of present illness,” exploring the onset, pace, character, and severity of symptoms. (When exactly did that cough start? What color is your phlegm? Does your chest hurt more when breathing deeply or walking quickly?) Then you move to preëxisting conditions, medications, and allergies.
Tucked somewhere down below is the social history. At its best, the social history is how we explore who patients are as individuals—how their jobs and hobbies and lives intersect with their current predicaments. It’s meant to illuminate how nonmedical factors may have contributed to illness, but also to give us a more complete understanding of what’s important to the person we’re caring for. For busy doctors, though, it’s often reduced to a few mechanical questions: Do you smoke? Drink alcohol? Do drugs? The entire social history in a doctor’s note might read, “No toxic habits.”
It’s turning out that, in this pandemic, social history is profoundly important. As we learn more about the epidemiology of the virus, I find myself exploring these details with great interest. Where do you live? How many rooms? How many people are in those rooms? Does your work require you to come in close contact with others? The answers reveal how much risk specific households and families are shouldering.
One of the many new faces in my hospital belongs to Khalid Haynes, a softspoken African-American man in his mid-twenties. COVID-19 has created administrative demands in addition to clinical ones; Haynes is one of many new patient coördinators who have arrived to keep the hospital running. (Other new hires have been helping to build new I.C.U.s, or transfer patients between facilities.) He began his career as a personal trainer, before starting work as a patient coördinator at an integrative-health clinic. There, he answered phones, greeted patients, and verified insurance; as the coronavirus began to spread across the city, his clinic turned to telemedicine, and he began working remotely. In late March, he received a call from his manager saying that he was being dispatched to the hospital as an essential worker. In his new role, he’d help troubleshoot and distribute iPads to doctors, so that their patients could see their families.
Haynes has kind eyes, horn-rimmed glasses, and an easygoing charm. During our first encounter, I rushed past in a pre-caffeine daze, and he stopped me to ask about my day, insisting on a genuine answer. Two weeks after he started at the hospital, his grandmother died of COVID-19. “That gave me a really painful perspective on how important this role is,” he told me. “I couldn’t see my grandmother before she died. I don’t want that to happen to anyone else.”
Haynes lives in Harlem with two roommates. Each morning, he takes the subway two stops, and then catches a shuttle to work. He has selected three outfits for work, which he plans to wear and wash for the duration of his time in the hospital, to avoid contaminating the rest of his wardrobe. One of his roommates has also lost a loved one to the virus, and plans to move back to California to be closer to family; Haynes, therefore, has started searching for a new roommate. Last week, someone showed interest, but quickly backed out after learning that he worked at the hospital. “He shut it down immediately,” Haynes told me. “I said, ‘I’m not working directly with patients. I’m in the background.’ He said, ‘I don’t care.’ ”
Every male member of the Haynes family is currently working outside the home: his brother is a manager at Walgreens, and his father is a dispatcher in the N.Y.P.D. His mother is “praying for us, just trying to keep the faith,” he said. I asked Haynes how he felt about so many members of one family assuming so much risk. “I guess we all just feel our work is important,” he said. “People need food. They need medicine. They need to feel safe. Our approach is ‘These jobs have to get done and we’re going to do them.’ ”
The pandemic has revealed much of what’s good in American medicine: the professionalism of health-care workers, the system’s ability to rapidly expand capacity, but also much of what’s broken—fragmented care, unequal access, and deep social inequities. The evidence on language-discordant care—care given when clinicians and patients don’t speak the same language—is particularly discouraging. At my hospital, we’re fortunate to have translation services at the ready. Even so, communication has been a challenge. Many patients are acutely ill or delirious. After weeks of intubation, their voices are barely audible. (The endotracheal tube presses on the vocal cords, sometimes damaging them.) Those who can talk must compete with a face mask and the constant hiss of oxygen. The patient struggles to speak; the interpreter struggles to hear; I’m left straining, shouting, repeating, and reconstructing.
Hospitals are required by law to provide an interpreter for patients who need one. But that is no guarantee that the interpreters are used. Calling in an interpreter takes time, both because one may not immediately be available, especially for rare dialects, and because of the three-way back-and-forth that ensues between clinician, patient, and interpreter. These challenges have been exacerbated during the pandemic, and reports have emerged of overwhelmed clinicians forgoing interpreters altogether, leaving those who don’t speak English confused and alone.
Even before COVID-19, many patients with limited English proficiency reported having to communicate without an interpreter during their hospital stay. After arriving at the emergency department, such patients are more likely to undergo diagnostic procedures—X-rays, ultrasounds, stress tests—and more likely to be admitted than patients who speak English. When basic communication falters, and taking a medical history becomes difficult or impossible, doctors reach for other tools, some of which are expensive, risky, or both. Data on outcomes are also troubling. Patients who don’t speak English are less likely to have their symptoms controlled; they remain in hospitals longer; and they’re more likely to return after discharge.
Research has also consistently shown that care is better when clinicians and patients are from similar backgrounds. In one study, researchers randomly assigned more than six hundred black men in Oakland to a black male doctor or a non-black male doctor within the same clinic. Patients were asked about how many preventive tests they wanted to take—blood-pressure measurements, for example, or blood draws for diabetes and cholesterol screening. Ideally, patients in such a setting would engage in preventative testing to look after their health. Those with a black doctor were much more likely to opt for every test. The effect was especially large for tests that were invasive, and that required trust between doctor and patient.


newyorker--2020-05-01--Tamar Adler Will Help You Cook with Food Scraps, Deliciously

It ’ s thanks to the food writer Tamar Adler that a shelf of my refrigerator is currently lined with mismatched jars , labelled and dated : “ celery braising liquid , 4-17 ” ; “ tortilla española oil , 4-20 ” ; “ cabbagey schmaltz , 4-22.
” “ The lovely , oily liquid left once a vegetable is cooked is a perfect concentrate of everything that went into its cooking , ” Adler writes , in her book “ An Everlasting Meal : Cooking with Economy and Grace.
” “ It should be treated as a potion that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ butter and olive oil , cloves of garlic , lemon peels , sprigs of thyme , splashes of wine , cracks of pepper , and vegetable that created it.
” “ An Everlasting Meal ” is modelled after M. F. K. Fischer ’ s “ How to Cook a Wolf , ” which was published , in the middle of the Second World War , to encourage home cooks to find pleasure in food even during times of shortages and strife .
“ An Everlasting Meal ” was published in 2011 ; in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to extraordinary luck , the coronavirus pandemic has not so far threatened my own family ’ s income or access to food .
But the fact that it has even minorly disrupted the obscene , apparently precarious convenience of my life—and that it seems in many ways to portend more and potentially greater disasters in the future—has inspired me to become thriftier and more resourceful .
Adler ’ s book offers many strategies for how to do this , from making oeufs en restes ( eggs in leftovers ) to cooking from the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bamboo shoots and artichoke hearts is dubbed “ A Salad for a Natural Disaster.
” ) My favorite chapter is “ How to Catch Your Tail , ” in which she explains how to use cooking scraps and liquids that you might normally throw away .
I ’ ve long been a committed recycler ; since childhood , I ’ ve washed and reused glass and plastic containers and ziplock bags .
Before this period of self-isolation , I was in the at-least-sometimes habit of freezing carrot peels and onion skins to make @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the leaves ; and pouring bacon fat into a jar , when I remembered , to scramble eggs or fry stale rice .
Now , every time I move to throw anything away , I find myself asking : Is this really trash ?
It ’ s more gratifying than it sounds , in part because I have Adler ’ s voice in my head , making the practice seem not only pragmatic but also empowering and even beautiful .
“ The bones and shells and peels of things are where a lot @ @ @ @ @ @ @ writes .
“ It ’ s no more or less lamb for being meat or bone ; it ’ s no more or less pea for being pea or pod.
” The other day I peeled potatoes to make a tortilla española , and instead of tossing the shreds of skin into the garbage , I tossed them in a bowl of olive oil and salt , and then put them onto a sheet pan and roasted them in a hot oven : a crispy , savory cocktail snack par excellence .
I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ d oven-braised a head of celery that had gone limp in my crisper , consisting mostly of olive oil , with a splash of wine , to sauté some leek tops , a sliced zucchini , and a handful of frozen peas .
I learned from Adler ’ s Instagram account , where she ’ s been sharing some of her latest research , that she ’ s currently at work on a cookbook that will dive deeper into the subject .
On a recent afternoon , I spoke with her via FaceTime @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Valley , early spring light illuminated her dark-blonde bob .
My mind had been blown by a recent Instagram post in which she described cooking with banana peels , by soaking and spicing them and using them as the basis for a chutney and for a Thoran , a Kerala-style dry curry .
Now she showed me her “ fruit-scrap vinegar , ” a salvation of the saddest specimens : the peels and cores of apples whose flesh was too mushy for anything but sauce , withered grapes ; desiccated citrus would work @ @ @ @ @ @ @ went into jars with water and sugar , where they would ferment for weeks , until they tasted like vinegar and were ready to be strained .
( If you found a “ mother ” —a substance similar to a SCOBY , or symbiotic culture of bacteria and yeast , used to make kombucha—in a bottle of store-bought vinegar , you could add a piece of that to speed the process along . )
They ’ d be great in vinaigrettes , Adler explained , but also mellow and sweet enough to drink @ @ @ @ @ @ @ overstuffed box on her kitchen counter she plucked an index card on which she ’ d scrawled a recipe she was particularly proud of : “ Burger bolognese !
” she crowed .
She ’ d grilled a bunch of beef patties with her three-and-half-year old son , who ’ d previously loved them and then abruptly decided he didn ’ t .
Into a pasta sauce they went .
“ It was amazing , ” she said , “ because of the smokiness .
It tasted like it had pancetta in it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it was just flamy.
” She held up a tub of mayonnaise ; instead of rinsing it out when only the unreachable dregs remained , she had added garlic , yogurt , tahini , water , and salt , to make a Halal-style white sauce .
She ’ d done the same with a near-empty jar of honey , turning it into a mustardy vinaigrette .
The manuscript of Adler ’ s new book is due in August .
( Until then , she is soliciting recipe requests , at cookmygarbage @ gmail.com @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pandemic had changed the way she was thinking about the project .
“ Therapists are posting on Twitter that the only patients of theirs who are dealing with everything fine are the ones who have been gripped by anxiety and depression forever , ” she said .
“ For me , this way of cooking has been so important for so long .
If , somehow , we ’ re able to hold on to this sense of preservation and frugality and craft after all this , I think that ’ ll be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ enough to get the book to people before they forget what this was like.
” Skins of 3–4 bananas ( if you peel them in the morning and are cooking later , soak them in acidulate water , with lemon , vinegar , or a piece of turmeric ) 2 cloves garlic , minced 2-inch ( or so ) piece of ginger , peeled and julienned 1 tsp .
ground cumin 1 tsp .
ground coriander 1 tsp .
ground asafetida ( If you have it !
If not , don ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ¼ tsp .
ground turmeric , or a little fresh turmeric , grated or minced 1 Tbsp .
fat ( peanut oil , canola oil , coconut oil , or ghee ) 1 tsp .
nigella and/or black mustard seeds , or cumin seeds , or a combo 1 small onion , diced 10 curry leaves 1 red chili or habanero or other chili , sliced , or a bunch of sliced pickled chilies ¼ cup dried shredded coconut , or hazelnut flour , or almond flour 2 Tbsp.–¼ cup water cilantro and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ) Wash and dry banana peels , removing ends and any big brown spots , and finely slice .
Make a paste of garlic , ginger , cumin , coriander , turmeric , and salt .
Heat fat in a large pan .
Add seeds .
When they start to pop , add onion , garlic-spice paste , and curry leaves .
Sauté for a couple of minutes .
Add banana peel , chili , coconut , and water .
Simmer for fifteen or so minutes , until peels are tender and delicious @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lime , if you have them , and eat over rice .

“If, somehow, we’re able to hold on to this sense of preservation and frugality and craft after all this, I think that’ll be great,” Tamar Adler says. Photograph by Emily Johnston
It’s thanks to the food writer Tamar Adler that a shelf of my refrigerator is currently lined with mismatched jars, labelled and dated: “celery braising liquid, 4-17”; “tortilla española oil, 4-20”; “cabbagey schmaltz, 4-22.” “The lovely, oily liquid left once a vegetable is cooked is a perfect concentrate of everything that went into its cooking,” Adler writes, in her book “An Everlasting Meal: Cooking with Economy and Grace.” “It should be treated as a potion that has collected the imprint of the good butter and olive oil, cloves of garlic, lemon peels, sprigs of thyme, splashes of wine, cracks of pepper, and vegetable that created it.”
“An Everlasting Meal” is modelled after M. F. K. Fischer’s “How to Cook a Wolf,” which was published, in the middle of the Second World War, to encourage home cooks to find pleasure in food even during times of shortages and strife. “An Everlasting Meal” was published in 2011; in 2020, it seems prescient. Thanks to extraordinary luck, the coronavirus pandemic has not so far threatened my own family’s income or access to food. But the fact that it has even minorly disrupted the obscene, apparently precarious convenience of my life—and that it seems in many ways to portend more and potentially greater disasters in the future—has inspired me to become thriftier and more resourceful.
Adler’s book offers many strategies for how to do this, from making oeufs en restes (eggs in leftovers) to cooking from the pantry. (A recipe featuring canned bamboo shoots and artichoke hearts is dubbed “A Salad for a Natural Disaster.”) My favorite chapter is “How to Catch Your Tail,” in which she explains how to use cooking scraps and liquids that you might normally throw away. I’ve long been a committed recycler; since childhood, I’ve washed and reused glass and plastic containers and ziplock bags. Before this period of self-isolation, I was in the at-least-sometimes habit of freezing carrot peels and onion skins to make stock; sautéeing kale stems along with the leaves; and pouring bacon fat into a jar, when I remembered, to scramble eggs or fry stale rice. Now, every time I move to throw anything away, I find myself asking: Is this really trash?
It’s more gratifying than it sounds, in part because I have Adler’s voice in my head, making the practice seem not only pragmatic but also empowering and even beautiful. “The bones and shells and peels of things are where a lot of their goodness resides,” she writes. “It’s no more or less lamb for being meat or bone; it’s no more or less pea for being pea or pod.” The other day I peeled potatoes to make a tortilla española, and instead of tossing the shreds of skin into the garbage, I tossed them in a bowl of olive oil and salt, and then put them onto a sheet pan and roasted them in a hot oven: a crispy, savory cocktail snack par excellence. I used the liquid in which I’d oven-braised a head of celery that had gone limp in my crisper, consisting mostly of olive oil, with a splash of wine, to sauté some leek tops, a sliced zucchini, and a handful of frozen peas.
I learned from Adler’s Instagram account, where she’s been sharing some of her latest research, that she’s currently at work on a cookbook that will dive deeper into the subject. On a recent afternoon, I spoke with her via FaceTime. In her kitchen in the Hudson Valley, early spring light illuminated her dark-blonde bob. My mind had been blown by a recent Instagram post in which she described cooking with banana peels, by soaking and spicing them and using them as the basis for a chutney and for a Thoran, a Kerala-style dry curry. Now she showed me her “fruit-scrap vinegar,” a salvation of the saddest specimens: the peels and cores of apples whose flesh was too mushy for anything but sauce, withered grapes; desiccated citrus would work, too, she said. All went into jars with water and sugar, where they would ferment for weeks, until they tasted like vinegar and were ready to be strained. (If you found a “mother”—a substance similar to a SCOBY, or symbiotic culture of bacteria and yeast, used to make kombucha—in a bottle of store-bought vinegar, you could add a piece of that to speed the process along.) They’d be great in vinaigrettes, Adler explained, but also mellow and sweet enough to drink, cut with seltzer.
From an overstuffed box on her kitchen counter she plucked an index card on which she’d scrawled a recipe she was particularly proud of: “Burger bolognese!” she crowed. She’d grilled a bunch of beef patties with her three-and-half-year old son, who’d previously loved them and then abruptly decided he didn’t. Into a pasta sauce they went. “It was amazing,” she said, “because of the smokiness. It tasted like it had pancetta in it, and it didn’t, it was just flamy.” She held up a tub of mayonnaise; instead of rinsing it out when only the unreachable dregs remained, she had added garlic, yogurt, tahini, water, and salt, to make a Halal-style white sauce. She’d done the same with a near-empty jar of honey, turning it into a mustardy vinaigrette.
The manuscript of Adler’s new book is due in August. (Until then, she is soliciting recipe requests, at cookmygarbage@gmail.com.) I asked her whether the pandemic had changed the way she was thinking about the project. “Therapists are posting on Twitter that the only patients of theirs who are dealing with everything fine are the ones who have been gripped by anxiety and depression forever,” she said. “For me, this way of cooking has been so important for so long. If, somehow, we’re able to hold on to this sense of preservation and frugality and craft after all this, I think that’ll be great. I hope I work fast enough to get the book to people before they forget what this was like.”
Banana-Skin Thoran
Ingredients
Skins of 3–4 bananas (if you peel them in the morning and are cooking later, soak them in acidulate water, with lemon, vinegar, or a piece of turmeric)
2 cloves garlic, minced
2-inch (or so) piece of ginger, peeled and julienned
1 tsp. ground cumin
1 tsp. ground coriander
1 tsp. ground asafetida (If you have it! If not, don’t sweat it)
1 tsp. salt
¼ tsp. ground turmeric, or a little fresh turmeric, grated or minced
1 Tbsp. fat (peanut oil, canola oil, coconut oil, or ghee)
1 tsp. nigella and/or black mustard seeds, or cumin seeds, or a combo
1 small onion, diced
10 curry leaves
1 red chili or habanero or other chili, sliced, or a bunch of sliced pickled chilies
¼ cup dried shredded coconut, or hazelnut flour, or almond flour
2 Tbsp.–¼ cup water
cilantro and lime juice, to taste (optional)
Instructions
Wash and dry banana peels, removing ends and any big brown spots, and finely slice. Make a paste of garlic, ginger, cumin, coriander, turmeric, and salt. Heat fat in a large pan. Add seeds. When they start to pop, add onion, garlic-spice paste, and curry leaves. Sauté for a couple of minutes. Add banana peel, chili, coconut, and water. Simmer for fifteen or so minutes, until peels are tender and delicious. Garnish with cilantro and squeeze with lime, if you have them, and eat over rice.


newyorker--2020-05-01--Daily Cartoon: Friday, May 1st

Daily Cartoon: Friday, May 1st

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newyorker--2020-05-01--Will the Coronavirus Pandemic Really Change the Way We Think?

The coronavirus pandemic , everyone tells us , is changing and will change everything that we think , believe , expect , and do .
It ’ s what used to be called a “ world historical moment.
” Yet the curious thing about this certainty is that it seems to sit comfortably with the reality that , to a first approximation , no one has actually changed any view about anything because of the pandemic .
The sins that you think the plague is punishing are the sins you were preaching against before it began .
If , like @ @ @ @ @ @ @ believed in the absolute importance of national health insurance , of “ socialized medicine , ” then looking at the mess of the American health system under extreme duress—even at the simple reality that many of our doctors are primarily small businessmen and our hospitals profit-seeking firms—you are more than ever convinced of the necessity of Medicare for All .
But this truth , undeniable on its own terms , does run silently aground against the parallel truth that , despite excellent , public-spirited health-care systems , France and Italy have per-capita mortality @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , where the system is quick and flexible and universal , is shut down even more tightly than New York .
On the other hand , if , like the distinguished historian Niall Ferguson , you accept the importance of escaping , Brexit style , from big transnational bureaucracies , such as the European Union , you find proof in the superiority of the small , flexible , responsive city-state model you have long preferred—although the skill with which , say , Singapore has actually evaded the plague seems to alter from week @ @ @ @ @ @ @ issues of identity and inequality are central to our time , then the harsh proof that prejudice and poverty have created disproportionate casualties in the African-American community during the pandemic is the central fact .
( And yet , it would be strange to look past the parallel evidence that men of all kinds and classes are dying from the virus more often than women—a correlation that seems to be largely biological , because even female mice have stronger defenses against coronaviruses than male mice do . )
And if you were indignant @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , you have no time for them now ; if you hated people cancelling “ Baby , It ’ s Cold Outside ” before the plague started , you are even colder about it now .
( Though coming out against the culture wars now would be more impressive if you had ever been enthusiastic about them in the first place . )
In fact , it makes no more sense to moralize this virus than it did to moralize earlier plagues .
This pandemic has acted with equal cruelty in theocratic societies @ @ @ @ @ @ @ citadels .
To the degree that states seem to be more or less successful against the pandemic—predictably , in Iceland , or unpredictably , in Greece—the true and full cause of their escape is as yet unclear .
California may have done so much better than New York simply by closing sooner , but its advantage was at most three days , with New York seeming to pay an unduly large price for a reasonably small delay .
Certainly , plagues X-ray each government ’ s inequities and flaws , but they do @ @ @ @ @ @ @ exposes the failures of the authoritarian opaqueness of China ’ s Communist Party as much as it does the indecencies of the Trump Administration .
To seek one set of social sins as somehow central to the crisis is to miss the reason they put the “ pan ” in pandemic .
Nor is it necessarily our weaknesses and dysfunctions that account for our fatalities ; it is often our greatest strengths and virtues as people and communities that are responsible for the worst consequences .
New York City is the U.S. epicenter @ @ @ @ @ @ @ less serious in America if it were not for us .
But the best guesses as to why point to what are largely consequences of many of the most admirable things about the city and its people ; things that are as good and as green as mass transit , high-rise living , and the glorious density of kinds that make New York New York .
( The habit of driving alone in cars rather than crowding together on subways may be one reason that California has suffered less than New York , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ alone in cars is now morally virtuous . )
And the intergenerational mingling of Italy—until months ago , one of the boasts and joys of Italian life—seems partly responsible for that beautiful country ’ s woeful record .
At a time when people longed for community , they had it , and have suffered for it .
There is no surprise in this .
Far from making us revise our fundamentals and reform our thoughts , major historical crises almost invariably reinforce our previous beliefs , and make us entrench deeper into our @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it was apparent that no European power ’ s war aims could be achieved , and that to continue the course would entail only meaningless mass slaughter .
But that didn ’ t make the European leaders revise their views ; it just made them redouble the effort .
They just dug in—literally , into the mud on the Western front , and ideologically , into the dogmas of heroic militarism and the necessity of war .
What makes it hard to maintain our intellectual integrity in such times is that crises can @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have to struggle to see straight and recognize the limits of what they expose .
It is not false to see a vast difference between the Five O ’ Clock Follies of Donald Trump and the noontime sanities of Andrew Cuomo .
( One New Yorker is so dependent for reassurance on Cuomo ’ s appearances that she claims to feel calmer as soon as she hears the odd New Age-y music that precedes them . )
But while Cuomo ’ s candor and clarity may have helped flatten the curve , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the face of the uncertainties he has had to rely on essentially the same therapies that until Trump ’ s latest swerves , the White House had , however reluctantly , enjoined as well : shutdowns and social distancing .
The performances have moral content in themselves , but everyone ’ s efficacy is severely limited in the face of an as yet incurable virus .
If there is a point to be drawn from the plague it is , perhaps , that we are caught in a conundrum of numbers not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ scale of modern populations—about nine million people in New York City—are so vast that even small statistical minorities represent huge numbers of human beings .
The COVID-19 “ truthers ” —the self-proclaimed and mostly self-instructed skeptics about the gravity of the coronavirus crisis—are not entirely wrong when they point to what are , by historical standards , the limited fatalities of this plague and to the accompanying truth that the fatalities largely fall in predictable groups , chiefly of the elderly and the already ill .
But in this country alone that “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ thousand people dead already , many of whom were healthy and some of whom were young .
Even a small percent of an enormous population is an enormous number .
In times past , societies accepted mortality from infectious disease as part of existence—death as part of life—without stopping work or study or love or dinner .
( When Beth March dies after contracting scarlet fever , in “ Little Women , ” it is heartbreaking , but not surprising . )
It is a part of the moral acquisition of our time @ @ @ @ @ @ @ way , and part of our material improvement that we don ’ t have to feel this way .
We could , until recently , rely on science to relieve us of a good deal of our suffering .
That we have so little to rely on for the moment may be the real lesson that the plague is teaching—a lesson , really , in the fragility of progress and the suddenness of its possible reversion .
Such ambivalence , at least , contains more truth , if of a tragic kind , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ • Twenty-four hours at the epicenter of the pandemic : nearly fifty New Yorker writers and photographers fanned out to document life in New York City on April 15th .
• Seattle leaders let scientists take the lead in responding to the coronavirus .
New York leaders did not .
• Can survivors help cure the disease and rescue the economy ?
• What the coronavirus has revealed about American medicine .
• Can we trace the spread of COVID-19 and protect privacy at the same time ?
• The coronavirus is likely @ @ @ @ @ @ @ before a vaccine is widely available .
• How to practice social distancing , from responding to a sick housemate to the pros and cons of ordering food .
• The long crusade of Dr. Anthony Fauci , the infectious-disease expert pinned between Donald Trump and the American people .
• What to read , watch , cook , and listen to under quarantine .

The coronavirus pandemic, everyone tells us, is changing and will change everything that we think, believe, expect, and do. It’s what used to be called a “world historical moment.” Yet the curious thing about this certainty is that it seems to sit comfortably with the reality that, to a first approximation, no one has actually changed any view about anything because of the pandemic. The sins that you think the plague is punishing are the sins you were preaching against before it began. If, like Bernie Sanders and his followers, you believed in the absolute importance of national health insurance, of “socialized medicine,” then looking at the mess of the American health system under extreme duress—even at the simple reality that many of our doctors are primarily small businessmen and our hospitals profit-seeking firms—you are more than ever convinced of the necessity of Medicare for All. But this truth, undeniable on its own terms, does run silently aground against the parallel truth that, despite excellent, public-spirited health-care systems, France and Italy have per-capita mortality rates worse than our own. Paris, where the system is quick and flexible and universal, is shut down even more tightly than New York.
On the other hand, if, like the distinguished historian Niall Ferguson, you accept the importance of escaping, Brexit style, from big transnational bureaucracies, such as the European Union, you find proof in the superiority of the small, flexible, responsive city-state model you have long preferred—although the skill with which, say, Singapore has actually evaded the plague seems to alter from week to week.
If you see that issues of identity and inequality are central to our time, then the harsh proof that prejudice and poverty have created disproportionate casualties in the African-American community during the pandemic is the central fact. (And yet, it would be strange to look past the parallel evidence that men of all kinds and classes are dying from the virus more often than women—a correlation that seems to be largely biological, because even female mice have stronger defenses against coronaviruses than male mice do.)
And if you were indignant about the “culture wars” before, you have no time for them now; if you hated people cancelling “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” before the plague started, you are even colder about it now. (Though coming out against the culture wars now would be more impressive if you had ever been enthusiastic about them in the first place.)
In fact, it makes no more sense to moralize this virus than it did to moralize earlier plagues. This pandemic has acted with equal cruelty in theocratic societies, social-democratic ones, and in free-market citadels. To the degree that states seem to be more or less successful against the pandemic—predictably, in Iceland, or unpredictably, in Greece—the true and full cause of their escape is as yet unclear. California may have done so much better than New York simply by closing sooner, but its advantage was at most three days, with New York seeming to pay an unduly large price for a reasonably small delay. Certainly, plagues X-ray each government’s inequities and flaws, but they do so indifferently, universally. This one exposes the failures of the authoritarian opaqueness of China’s Communist Party as much as it does the indecencies of the Trump Administration. To seek one set of social sins as somehow central to the crisis is to miss the reason they put the “pan” in pandemic.
Nor is it necessarily our weaknesses and dysfunctions that account for our fatalities; it is often our greatest strengths and virtues as people and communities that are responsible for the worst consequences. New York City is the U.S. epicenter of this pandemic—the picture would look much less serious in America if it were not for us. But the best guesses as to why point to what are largely consequences of many of the most admirable things about the city and its people; things that are as good and as green as mass transit, high-rise living, and the glorious density of kinds that make New York New York. (The habit of driving alone in cars rather than crowding together on subways may be one reason that California has suffered less than New York, but that does not mean that driving alone in cars is now morally virtuous.) And the intergenerational mingling of Italy—until months ago, one of the boasts and joys of Italian life—seems partly responsible for that beautiful country’s woeful record. At a time when people longed for community, they had it, and have suffered for it.
There is no surprise in this. Far from making us revise our fundamentals and reform our thoughts, major historical crises almost invariably reinforce our previous beliefs, and make us entrench deeper into our dogma. By Christmas of 1914, it was apparent that no European power’s war aims could be achieved, and that to continue the course would entail only meaningless mass slaughter. But that didn’t make the European leaders revise their views; it just made them redouble the effort. They just dug in—literally, into the mud on the Western front, and ideologically, into the dogmas of heroic militarism and the necessity of war.
What makes it hard to maintain our intellectual integrity in such times is that crises can expose some political truths, though we have to struggle to see straight and recognize the limits of what they expose. It is not false to see a vast difference between the Five O’Clock Follies of Donald Trump and the noontime sanities of Andrew Cuomo. (One New Yorker is so dependent for reassurance on Cuomo’s appearances that she claims to feel calmer as soon as she hears the odd New Age-y music that precedes them.) But while Cuomo’s candor and clarity may have helped flatten the curve, the plague has not nearly ended, and in the face of the uncertainties he has had to rely on essentially the same therapies that until Trump’s latest swerves, the White House had, however reluctantly, enjoined as well: shutdowns and social distancing. The performances have moral content in themselves, but everyone’s efficacy is severely limited in the face of an as yet incurable virus.
If there is a point to be drawn from the plague it is, perhaps, that we are caught in a conundrum of numbers not easily parsed by human minds. The scale of modern populations—about nine million people in New York City—are so vast that even small statistical minorities represent huge numbers of human beings. The COVID-19 “truthers”—the self-proclaimed and mostly self-instructed skeptics about the gravity of the coronavirus crisis—are not entirely wrong when they point to what are, by historical standards, the limited fatalities of this plague and to the accompanying truth that the fatalities largely fall in predictable groups, chiefly of the elderly and the already ill. But in this country alone that “limited” number means more than sixty thousand people dead already, many of whom were healthy and some of whom were young. Even a small percent of an enormous population is an enormous number.
In times past, societies accepted mortality from infectious disease as part of existence—death as part of life—without stopping work or study or love or dinner. (When Beth March dies after contracting scarlet fever, in “Little Women,” it is heartbreaking, but not surprising.) It is a part of the moral acquisition of our time that we don’t feel this way, and part of our material improvement that we don’t have to feel this way. We could, until recently, rely on science to relieve us of a good deal of our suffering. That we have so little to rely on for the moment may be the real lesson that the plague is teaching—a lesson, really, in the fragility of progress and the suddenness of its possible reversion. Such ambivalence, at least, contains more truth, if of a tragic kind, than the simplicities of ideological self-soothing.
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-05-01--What Is the Point of Justin Amash’s Third-Party Run for President?

Justin Amash , who represents Michigan ’ s Third Congressional District , first won election to Congress in 2010 , riding the Tea Party wave .
He was thirty years old , and he hated the Affordable Care Act and—even with millions of Americans still out of work in the long aftermath of the Great Recession—unemployment benefits .
Once in Washington , he co-founded the Freedom Caucus , which antagonized the Republican Party ’ s leadership as much as President Barack Obama , and forced government-paralyzing political battles over the debt ceiling .
Amash preferred ideology to partisanship , explained @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cultivated a reputation as that peculiar Washington type : the insider ’ s outsider .
Half a decade later , the Freedom Caucus went Trumpist .
Amash ’ s supposed allies in the cause of limited government—Mark Meadows , Jim Jordan—became some of the most ardent supporters of President Trump ’ s big-government conservatism .
Amash drifted away .
Last summer , he left the Republican Party , and became an independent .
Earlier this year , he was the sole non-Democrat in the House to vote for Trump ’ s impeachment .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ was taking the first steps toward seeking the Libertarian Party ’ s nomination for the Presidency .
“ Let ’ s do this , ” he tweeted .
What is “ this , ” exactly ?
Amash ’ s announcement contained a collection of terms—2020 , Michigan , third-party bid—that combined to trigger the anxieties of those who still think often of how close Trump came to losing in 2016 .
When Amash cast his impeachment vote against Trump , he was celebrated on the left for his independence .
But even though @ @ @ @ @ @ @ third-party run since the moment he left the Republican Party , last year , his announcement this week was greeted with criticism , and not just by Democrats .
“ Amash can ’ t win , ” Joe Walsh , another former Freedom Caucus member turned Trump antagonist , wrote in the Washington Post this week .
“ But he can siphon enough votes from the Democratic nominee , Joe Biden , to hand the election to Trump.
” This was a common response .
Third-party candidates have been blamed by Democrats for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Presidents—first Ralph Nader , in 2000 , and then Jill Stein and Gary Johnson , in 2016 .
Is Amash setting himself up to play spoiler ?
It should be noted that the data gurus are pretty dismissive of that prospect .
“ He ’ s unlikely to get a large percentage of the vote or have any impact on who wins the election , ” CNN ’ s Harry Enten wrote , in an article breaking down the polling trends and Amash ’ s prospects .
Enten rests his analysis on the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Trump and Hillary Clinton were “ the two least-liked major party candidates of all time , ” they still combined to attract ninety-four per cent of the vote .
It ’ s very difficult for third-party candidates to make an over-all dent in the prospects of major-party candidates .
But what about in particular states where the margin is close ?
In 2016 , Clinton lost Michigan by 0.2 points .
Michigan is Amash ’ s home state .
Could a particularly strong showing from him there hurt Joe Biden in November ?
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ 2016 , then there is a shot that any small bump for Amash could affect the outcome of the election , ” Enten wrote .
“ Right now , though , Biden holds a significant lead in Michigan.
” After his announcement , Amash did a little press tour—the political press is starved for news right now , and his straight shooting has always made for good copy .
But the coronavirus crisis has paralyzed all of American life right now , and that includes the Presidential campaign .
We ’ re in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ presumptive Democratic nominee , is having trouble staying in the public eye .
Amash will have an even harder time .

Justin Amash, who represents Michigan’s Third Congressional District, first won election to Congress in 2010, riding the Tea Party wave. He was thirty years old, and he hated the Affordable Care Act and—even with millions of Americans still out of work in the long aftermath of the Great Recession—unemployment benefits. Once in Washington, he co-founded the Freedom Caucus, which antagonized the Republican Party’s leadership as much as President Barack Obama, and forced government-paralyzing political battles over the debt ceiling. Amash preferred ideology to partisanship, explained his votes on social media, and cultivated a reputation as that peculiar Washington type: the insider’s outsider. Half a decade later, the Freedom Caucus went Trumpist. Amash’s supposed allies in the cause of limited government—Mark Meadows, Jim Jordan—became some of the most ardent supporters of President Trump’s big-government conservatism. Amash drifted away. Last summer, he left the Republican Party, and became an independent. Earlier this year, he was the sole non-Democrat in the House to vote for Trump’s impeachment. This week, he announced that he was taking the first steps toward seeking the Libertarian Party’s nomination for the Presidency. “Let’s do this,” he tweeted.
What is “this,” exactly? Amash’s announcement contained a collection of terms—2020, Michigan, third-party bid—that combined to trigger the anxieties of those who still think often of how close Trump came to losing in 2016. When Amash cast his impeachment vote against Trump, he was celebrated on the left for his independence. But even though he’d been hinting at a third-party run since the moment he left the Republican Party, last year, his announcement this week was greeted with criticism, and not just by Democrats. “Amash can’t win,” Joe Walsh, another former Freedom Caucus member turned Trump antagonist, wrote in the Washington Post this week. “But he can siphon enough votes from the Democratic nominee, Joe Biden, to hand the election to Trump.” This was a common response. Third-party candidates have been blamed by Democrats for the victories of the past two Republican Presidents—first Ralph Nader, in 2000, and then Jill Stein and Gary Johnson, in 2016. Is Amash setting himself up to play spoiler?
It should be noted that the data gurus are pretty dismissive of that prospect. “He’s unlikely to get a large percentage of the vote or have any impact on who wins the election,” CNN’s Harry Enten wrote, in an article breaking down the polling trends and Amash’s prospects. Enten rests his analysis on the fact that, in 2016, when Trump and Hillary Clinton were “the two least-liked major party candidates of all time,” they still combined to attract ninety-four per cent of the vote. It’s very difficult for third-party candidates to make an over-all dent in the prospects of major-party candidates. But what about in particular states where the margin is close? In 2016, Clinton lost Michigan by 0.2 points. Michigan is Amash’s home state. Could a particularly strong showing from him there hurt Joe Biden in November? “If 2020 is as close as 2016, then there is a shot that any small bump for Amash could affect the outcome of the election,” Enten wrote. “Right now, though, Biden holds a significant lead in Michigan.”
After his announcement, Amash did a little press tour—the political press is starved for news right now, and his straight shooting has always made for good copy. But the coronavirus crisis has paralyzed all of American life right now, and that includes the Presidential campaign. We’re in an environment where Biden, as the presumptive Democratic nominee, is having trouble staying in the public eye. Amash will have an even harder time.


newyorker--2020-05-02--How to Relax with a Candle While Thoroughly Following Candle-Safety Protocol

Are you ready to totally relax with a candle ?
No ?
Let ’ s try it anyway .
Cuddle up with a flame-retardant blanket and take a tentative seat because it ’ s candle relaxation time !
Here are steps for getting started : Write a letter to your niece , just in case she decides to visit and finds only a pile of ash .
You could say something like “ I was trying to relax with one of my candles .
Hope you ’ re well .
Please take care of my gem collection.
” Survey the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , spread out on your kitchen table , coated in dust .
Rearrange them a little bit .
Now you ’ re one step closer to lighting your first candle , all by yourself !
Pick up a candle and try reading the label .
Unfortunately , all it says is “ Gardenia and orange blossom .
Good luck and try your best .
Sincerely , California Candles.
” Get renters ’ insurance .
This is a good idea in general , actually .
Tell everyone you encounter to get renters ’ insurance @ @ @ @ @ @ @ happen .
Send your friends text messages about renters ’ insurance .
Write a LinkedIn post about it , and then create a Snapchat story about renters ’ insurance for the young people .
Also , make a TikTok video .
Don ’ t forget to write a book .
Great job !
You ’ ve continued to delay lighting your candle .
Think about how you would light a candle , if you were to light one .
Snapping your fingers is , unfortunately , not an option .
Locate the lighter @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cool .
Spend twenty minutes trying to get it to ignite .
Acknowledge that it ’ s a really old lighter and deserves to retire .
Visit a hardware store and look for matches .
Go ahead and buy the big box of matches !
Once you figure out how to light a candle , you will probably be lighting them all the time .
When you get home , clear everything from the kitchen table .
Put away all the newspapers , the wooden salt and pepper grinders , the shopping bags @ @ @ @ @ @ @ chosen candle in the middle of the table and place the matchbox next to it .
Load the candle into the candle holster .
If you don ’ t have a candle holster , you can also use a candle harness .
Both of these are simple contraptions that you can make with rubber bands , twist ties , duct tape , and magnets .
Secure the candle holster or harness to the table so that the candle absolutely can not tip over , even if you were to skip pebbles in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ brick fortress around the candle .
If the candle does tip over somehow , despite your precautions , the bricks will trap the flames , keep you safe , and protect your gems .
Make sure to leave an opening at the top of the fortress so that oxygen can reach the candle and the fire can keep burning .
Remember , your goal is to light a flame so that you can look at it , think about eternity , and begin your hundred-per-cent , no-holds-barred relaxation experience .
Light the match @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it because no one else is here .
Do it quickly .
Now reach over the fortress walls , hold the flame to the wick , and light that wick .
Blow out the match .
Done !
Wipe your sweaty hands on your shirt .
Ease into your chair , gently place your hands in your lap , and sit .
No , you can ’ t look at your phone .
Just sit there with your feet flat on the floor , preferably away from any part of the table , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that tiny flame , gently surging and striving to get out of your seat .
Nope , sit back down .
Count to thirty .
You lit that candle and you ’ re sitting across from it .
You did it !
Feel proud that you conquered your fear of small fires and lit your first candle on your own .
Take a photo of your candle and post it on Instagram .
Receive a call from your mom , who saw your Instagram post .
Listen to her say , “ I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ candle .
Did you know that a thousand and forty-six people died last year because they lit a candle , the candle fell over , and then they caught on fire ?
You can make your own decisions .
That is all I wanted to say.
” Blow out the candle .
Feel your shoulder muscles un-tense .
Take a deep breath .
At last , you can truly relax .

Are you ready to totally relax with a candle? No? Let’s try it anyway. Cuddle up with a flame-retardant blanket and take a tentative seat because it’s candle relaxation time! Here are steps for getting started:
Write a letter to your niece, just in case she decides to visit and finds only a pile of ash. You could say something like “I was trying to relax with one of my candles. Hope you’re well. Please take care of my gem collection.”
Survey the many candles your friends have given you, spread out on your kitchen table, coated in dust. Rearrange them a little bit. Now you’re one step closer to lighting your first candle, all by yourself!
Pick up a candle and try reading the label. Unfortunately, all it says is “Gardenia and orange blossom. Good luck and try your best. Sincerely, California Candles.”
Get renters’ insurance. This is a good idea in general, actually. Tell everyone you encounter to get renters’ insurance, because you never know what might happen. Send your friends text messages about renters’ insurance. Write a LinkedIn post about it, and then create a Snapchat story about renters’ insurance for the young people. Also, make a TikTok video. Don’t forget to write a book. Great job! You’ve continued to delay lighting your candle.
Think about how you would light a candle, if you were to light one. Snapping your fingers is, unfortunately, not an option. Locate the lighter you bought in high school to look cool. Spend twenty minutes trying to get it to ignite. Acknowledge that it’s a really old lighter and deserves to retire. Visit a hardware store and look for matches. Go ahead and buy the big box of matches! Once you figure out how to light a candle, you will probably be lighting them all the time.
When you get home, clear everything from the kitchen table. Put away all the newspapers, the wooden salt and pepper grinders, the shopping bags, and your gems. Put your chosen candle in the middle of the table and place the matchbox next to it.
Load the candle into the candle holster. If you don’t have a candle holster, you can also use a candle harness. Both of these are simple contraptions that you can make with rubber bands, twist ties, duct tape, and magnets.
Secure the candle holster or harness to the table so that the candle absolutely cannot tip over, even if you were to skip pebbles in the candle’s direction.
Build a brick fortress around the candle. If the candle does tip over somehow, despite your precautions, the bricks will trap the flames, keep you safe, and protect your gems. Make sure to leave an opening at the top of the fortress so that oxygen can reach the candle and the fire can keep burning. Remember, your goal is to light a flame so that you can look at it, think about eternity, and begin your hundred-per-cent, no-holds-barred relaxation experience.
Light the match. No, you have to do it because no one else is here. Do it quickly. Now reach over the fortress walls, hold the flame to the wick, and light that wick. Blow out the match. Done! Wipe your sweaty hands on your shirt.
Ease into your chair, gently place your hands in your lap, and sit.
No, you can’t look at your phone. Just sit there with your feet flat on the floor, preferably away from any part of the table, for extra safety. Imagine you are that tiny flame, gently surging and striving to get out of your seat. Nope, sit back down.
Count to thirty. You lit that candle and you’re sitting across from it. You did it! Feel proud that you conquered your fear of small fires and lit your first candle on your own. Take a photo of your candle and post it on Instagram.
Receive a call from your mom, who saw your Instagram post. Listen to her say, “I see that you are relaxing with a candle. Did you know that a thousand and forty-six people died last year because they lit a candle, the candle fell over, and then they caught on fire? You can make your own decisions. That is all I wanted to say.”
Blow out the candle. Feel your shoulder muscles un-tense. Take a deep breath. At last, you can truly relax.