newyorker--2020-06-11--Norah Jones’s Extraordinary At-Home Concerts

Last Thursday afternoon , Norah Jones took a seat at a piano in her home and played a sequence of minor chords , humming as she did .
She was wearing a striped dress , hoop earrings , and a dark cap of the kind sold in the corner groceries of Brooklyn .
New Yorkers were marching , to protest the killing of George Floyd by police in Minneapolis , and Jones fit the music to the moment .
The sequence of minor chords was Duke Ellington ’ s “ Fleurette Africaine , ” composed for a jazz festival in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the movements for national independence in Africa were full of hope and strife .
In her handling , the piece was a lamentation .
Her performance soon drew attention on Facebook and YouTube , where she has been posting videos and playing short concerts since March .
With the city reopening , three months of stay-at-home orders are suddenly past , and so , it might seem , are the at-home concerts : the ensemble collaborations across Zoom , the marathons of Beethoven and Satie , the crude videos offered by classic rockers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with most , Jones ’ s at-home performances have been modest : small batches of covers and requests , played before a propped-up phone .
But they represent a distinct moment in her career .
Twenty years after she broke in at the Living Room , on the Lower East Side , and eighteen years after her first record , “ Come Away with Me , ” won five Grammy Awards and made her famous at age twenty-three , Jones ’ s onscreen living room has become a refuge from her celebrity , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ deeply from the home piano , as if returning to the source .
As quarantine began , Jones had recently finished recording her seventh studio record , “ Pick Me Up Off the Floor.
” Blue Note Records had produced a lavish video for “ I ’ m Alive , ” a song that Jones co-wrote with Jeff Tweedy , of Wilco .
Posted on YouTube on March 13th , the video captured the easy socializing that the coronavirus pandemic had done away with : it shows an at-home drinks party , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and song , with Jones playing an upright piano and Tweedy strumming an acoustic guitar .
And yet the video put her music—again—in the easy-listening category , making it an accessory to jazz-and-cocktails style .
Jones posted her first at-home video the next week .
The camera showed her sitting at an upright piano in a plain white room ; a man in a plaid flannel shirt sat on a couch nearby , playing a lap steel guitar .
The song was the Guns N ’ Roses power ballad “ Patience ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ ll be just fine .
.
.
” ( The video has been viewed more than four million times . )
She posted a couple of videos of herself on guitar , doing songs from her rock band Puss N Boots .
Then she settled at the piano , dug into requests , and found a weekly groove on late Thursday afternoons .
I ’ ve been cycling through the mini-concerts ever since .
The videos vary in length from under five minutes to nearly a half hour , distinguished one from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ clothes : black shirt , red dress , green hoodie , star-spangled army jacket , black T-shirt silk-screened with an image of the Golden Girls .
The room is sparsely furnished : flat-screen television , guitar , equine bric-a-brac .
Each page carries a link to a different nonprofit organization .
The songs are joined with the smallest bits of talk .
They ’ re something other than performances , for Jones mostly faces the piano , not the camera .
They have the air of something overheard , as if she ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ your apartment shares a wall with .
And the music ?
The music is what Jones ’ s music has been all along : standards , in the broadest sense , and originals akin to the standards , all founded on her economical , artful piano playing and her extraordinary voice .
Jones has always worked with bands featuring other strong musicians—whether they ’ re local heroes in New York or jazz standouts , such as the drummer Brian Blade—and their playing has been part of the concerts ’ appeal .
As she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , its bone structure brought into sight .
“ Come Away with Me , ” her first hit , is more plaintive than seductive .
“ I Remember Clifford , ” a classic elegy for the trumpeter Clifford Brown , is stripped back to a spiritual ; it comes in as a request from Jones ’ s own mother , Sue Jones , who remembers Norah playing it over and over as a young woman in Texas .
John Prine ’ s “ That ’ s the Way the World Goes Round ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on the road , with Richard Julian—is delivered as a matter-of-fact piece of testimony to mark Prine ’ s death , from COVID-19 .
One week , Jones bears down like a student on an enveloping arrangement of a composition by her father , Ravi Shankar , the celebrated sitarist .
She had been booked to play his music in London on his centenary , in April .
Another week , she plays a plonking , loose-limbed , this-one ’ s-on-us eighty-seventh-birthday set for Willie Nelson—the namesake of her alt-country band , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a song as unsubtle as its title .
“ Damn , Willie , that song is harsh , ” she says to the camera .
The live-at-home approach suits Jones ideally .
It foregrounds her directness and natural musicianship , reminding us ( as if we could have forgotten ) that she is a truly great singer and a stylish pianist .
It relieves her of the burden of filling the big spaces of summer jazz festivals and their outsized expectations for high volume , bold emotion , and between-song patter .
It @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dogged her career : Is she a jazz singer ?
A twenty-first-century chanteuse ?
An old-soul millennial with the American songbook in her bones ?
Does it matter ?
It doesn ’ t .
On the road , Jones has played “ Bessie Smith , ” by the Band , with a full band .
Done at home , on upright piano , the song joins her to the most legendary homemade music of recent times—Bob Dylan and the Band ’ s “ The Basement Tapes , ” recorded in a house near @ @ @ @ @ @ @ back to the era before recordings , when music was made by people using voices and instruments to pass the time , express fugitive emotions , and give pleasure to others .
There are no standards on “ Pick Me Up Off the Floor ” ; Jones composed all the songs , solely or with others .
On the record , they foreground her characteristic moods of melancholy and regret .
On the upright piano , they sound as dark as the songs of Leonard Cohen .
“ Were You Watching ?
, @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , is pure , smoldering accusation .
“ Tryin ’ to Keep It Together ” sounds as if it was written mid-calamity : the singer working the stiff rope of that phrase to self-lacerating effect .
“ Hah—that song was written two years ago , ” Jones told me over the phone .
It was left off the record for balance ’ s sake— “ Got to get rid of one of the sad ones !
” she said sardonically—and then reinstated as a bonus track .
“ A friend of mine said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it last week ’ ” —as a response to the churn of current events .
“ But I ’ m not that good a liar.
” She has been writing new songs in response to the present .
“ My six-year-old has been waking up in the middle of the night for three months now , and I walk him back to his room and sit and wait for him to fall back asleep , ” she told me .
“ I try not to look at my phone in the dead of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ all the things that are happening .
A song will come to you , sometimes , and one came to me.
” She played it right after the Ellington piece in last week ’ s show .
It ’ s a cross between a street scene and a lullaby , focussed on the need to “ love , listen , and learn.
” Unidentified on YouTube , it sounded like a standard that Nina Simone might have sung—the sound of an artist trying to keep it together in a time of protest .

Last Thursday afternoon, Norah Jones took a seat at a piano in her home and played a sequence of minor chords, humming as she did. She was wearing a striped dress, hoop earrings, and a dark cap of the kind sold in the corner groceries of Brooklyn. New Yorkers were marching, to protest the killing of George Floyd by police in Minneapolis, and Jones fit the music to the moment. The sequence of minor chords was Duke Ellington’s “Fleurette Africaine,” composed for a jazz festival in Senegal in the early sixties, when the movements for national independence in Africa were full of hope and strife. In her handling, the piece was a lamentation.
Her performance soon drew attention on Facebook and YouTube, where she has been posting videos and playing short concerts since March.
With the city reopening, three months of stay-at-home orders are suddenly past, and so, it might seem, are the at-home concerts: the ensemble collaborations across Zoom, the marathons of Beethoven and Satie, the crude videos offered by classic rockers as palliatives for restive audiences. Compared with most, Jones’s at-home performances have been modest: small batches of covers and requests, played before a propped-up phone. But they represent a distinct moment in her career. Twenty years after she broke in at the Living Room, on the Lower East Side, and eighteen years after her first record, “Come Away with Me,” won five Grammy Awards and made her famous at age twenty-three, Jones’s onscreen living room has become a refuge from her celebrity, an ill-lit space where she is drawing deeply from the home piano, as if returning to the source.
As quarantine began, Jones had recently finished recording her seventh studio record, “Pick Me Up Off the Floor.” Blue Note Records had produced a lavish video for “I’m Alive,” a song that Jones co-wrote with Jeff Tweedy, of Wilco. Posted on YouTube on March 13th, the video captured the easy socializing that the coronavirus pandemic had done away with: it shows an at-home drinks party, a fantasia of food, wine, friendship, and song, with Jones playing an upright piano and Tweedy strumming an acoustic guitar. And yet the video put her music—again—in the easy-listening category, making it an accessory to jazz-and-cocktails style.
Jones posted her first at-home video the next week. The camera showed her sitting at an upright piano in a plain white room; a man in a plaid flannel shirt sat on a couch nearby, playing a lap steel guitar. The song was the Guns N’ Roses power ballad “Patience”: “Take it slow, things’ll be just fine . . .” (The video has been viewed more than four million times.) She posted a couple of videos of herself on guitar, doing songs from her rock band Puss N Boots. Then she settled at the piano, dug into requests, and found a weekly groove on late Thursday afternoons.
I’ve been cycling through the mini-concerts ever since. The videos vary in length from under five minutes to nearly a half hour, distinguished one from the next by the musician’s clothes: black shirt, red dress, green hoodie, star-spangled army jacket, black T-shirt silk-screened with an image of the Golden Girls. The room is sparsely furnished: flat-screen television, guitar, equine bric-a-brac. Each page carries a link to a different nonprofit organization. The songs are joined with the smallest bits of talk. They’re something other than performances, for Jones mostly faces the piano, not the camera. They have the air of something overheard, as if she’s a neighbor in the apartment that your apartment shares a wall with.
And the music? The music is what Jones’s music has been all along: standards, in the broadest sense, and originals akin to the standards, all founded on her economical, artful piano playing and her extraordinary voice.
Jones has always worked with bands featuring other strong musicians—whether they’re local heroes in New York or jazz standouts, such as the drummer Brian Blade—and their playing has been part of the concerts’ appeal. As she plays solo, the music is exposed, its bone structure brought into sight. “Come Away with Me,” her first hit, is more plaintive than seductive. “I Remember Clifford,” a classic elegy for the trumpeter Clifford Brown, is stripped back to a spiritual; it comes in as a request from Jones’s own mother, Sue Jones, who remembers Norah playing it over and over as a young woman in Texas. John Prine’s “That’s the Way the World Goes Round”—a Johnny-and-June-style duet when Jones did it on the road, with Richard Julian—is delivered as a matter-of-fact piece of testimony to mark Prine’s death, from COVID-19. One week, Jones bears down like a student on an enveloping arrangement of a composition by her father, Ravi Shankar, the celebrated sitarist. She had been booked to play his music in London on his centenary, in April. Another week, she plays a plonking, loose-limbed, this-one’s-on-us eighty-seventh-birthday set for Willie Nelson—the namesake of her alt-country band, the Little Willies—featuring “Permanently Lonely,” a song as unsubtle as its title. “Damn, Willie, that song is harsh,” she says to the camera.
The live-at-home approach suits Jones ideally. It foregrounds her directness and natural musicianship, reminding us (as if we could have forgotten) that she is a truly great singer and a stylish pianist. It relieves her of the burden of filling the big spaces of summer jazz festivals and their outsized expectations for high volume, bold emotion, and between-song patter. It skirts the question of genre that has dogged her career: Is she a jazz singer? A twenty-first-century chanteuse? An old-soul millennial with the American songbook in her bones? Does it matter? It doesn’t. On the road, Jones has played “Bessie Smith,” by the Band, with a full band. Done at home, on upright piano, the song joins her to the most legendary homemade music of recent times—Bob Dylan and the Band’s “The Basement Tapes,” recorded in a house near Woodstock, in 1967—and winds her music back to the era before recordings, when music was made by people using voices and instruments to pass the time, express fugitive emotions, and give pleasure to others.
There are no standards on “Pick Me Up Off the Floor”; Jones composed all the songs, solely or with others. On the record, they foreground her characteristic moods of melancholy and regret. On the upright piano, they sound as dark as the songs of Leonard Cohen. “Were You Watching?,” written with the poet Emily Fiskio, is pure, smoldering accusation. “Tryin’ to Keep It Together” sounds as if it was written mid-calamity: the singer working the stiff rope of that phrase to self-lacerating effect.
“Hah—that song was written two years ago,” Jones told me over the phone. It was left off the record for balance’s sake—“Got to get rid of one of the sad ones!” she said sardonically—and then reinstated as a bonus track. “A friend of mine said, ‘You should pretend you wrote it last week’ ”—as a response to the churn of current events. “But I’m not that good a liar.”
She has been writing new songs in response to the present. “My six-year-old has been waking up in the middle of the night for three months now, and I walk him back to his room and sit and wait for him to fall back asleep,” she told me. “I try not to look at my phone in the dead of night, but I was reading about all the things that are happening. A song will come to you, sometimes, and one came to me.” She played it right after the Ellington piece in last week’s show. It’s a cross between a street scene and a lullaby, focussed on the need to “love, listen, and learn.” Unidentified on YouTube, it sounded like a standard that Nina Simone might have sung—the sound of an artist trying to keep it together in a time of protest.


newyorker--2020-06-11--Protests Against Police Brutality and Systemic Racism Push Trump and the G.O.P. to a Breaking Point

During Donald Trump ’ s 2016 campaign , mainstream Republicans expressed disgust with his divisive rhetoric , but once he @ @ @ @ @ in line behind him .
The protests in the wake of the murder of George @ @ @ @ @ of reckoning for the Republican Party .
In recent weeks , several senators and former @ @ @ @ @ have spoken out against the President , including his onetime Defense Secretary , James Mattis @ @ @ @ @ making “ a mockery of our Constitution.
” Susan B. Glasser , a New Yorker @ @ @ @ @ Wickenden to discuss how Trump 's response to the demonstrations is changing the dynamics of @ @ @ @

Photograph by Joris van Gennip / Redux
During Donald Trump’s 2016 campaign, mainstream Republicans expressed disgust with his divisive rhetoric, but once he became President, they fell in line behind him. The protests in the wake of the murder of George Floyd have created a moment of reckoning for the Republican Party. In recent weeks, several senators and former members of the Trump Administration have spoken out against the President, including his onetime Defense Secretary, James Mattis, who accused him of making “a mockery of our Constitution.” Susan B. Glasser, a New Yorker staff writer, joins Dorothy Wickenden to discuss how Trump's response to the demonstrations is changing the dynamics of the 2020 campaign.


newyorker--2020-06-11--Ivanka Trump and Charles Koch Fuel a Cancel-Culture Clash at Wichita State

A showdown over who rules America ’ s college campuses came to a head in Kansas on Wednesday , in a clash that might be called Cancel Culture vs. the Big Donors .
It began last week , when a technical college affiliated with Wichita State University scrapped plans for a virtual commencement address by Donald Trump ’ s daughter Ivanka , in a bow to student and faculty criticism of the President ’ s response to the nationwide protests over George Floyd ’ s killing .
On Twitter , Ivanka blamed “ cancel culture , ” calling it “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ brokered by the university , Ivanka ’ s remarks , instead of headlining the event , were demoted to being one in a menu of choices during the ceremony , on June 6th .
If they wished , students could click on a link and see her dressed for the occasion , in a regal white sheath and turquoise earrings and brooch , as she addressed them as “ wartime ” graduates .
The approach of Wichita State University ’ s president , Jay Golden , won praise from students and faculty members @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
But the decision roiled the school ’ s conservative corporate donors , including , reportedly , the billionaire libertarian oil magnate Charles Koch , the owner of Koch Industries , the largest company in Wichita and one of the two largest private companies in the country .
According to the Wichita Eagle , Koch Industries threatened to withdraw its financial support for the university ; its basketball arena bears Koch ’ s name .
The newspaper ’ s story cited a letter , sent to the Kansas Board of Regents , by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Steve Clark , which called for Golden to be fired and warned that Koch Industries and other major corporate donors—including Dan Carney , the founder of Pizza Hut—were “ very upset and quite vocal in their decisions to disavow any further support.
” In his letter , according to the Eagle , Clark described a conversation that he ’ d had with Koch Industries ’ chief financial officer , Steve Feilmeier , the chair of a fund-raising campaign for a new business building on campus .
“ He advised me he ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ association with the University , ” Clark reportedly wrote .
“ He is also advising that Koch Industries rescind all their financial support for programs at the University they ’ ve previously funded.
” In an interview , Clark told the Eagle , “ We had Koch in the fold .
Now we ’ re going to lose them , and they ’ ll never be back.
” To avoid risking the loss of millions of dollars in financial support for the university , Clark called on the Board of Regents to fire @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a closed-door session on the matter on Wednesday , while students held a rally and circulated a campus petition in support of Golden , which has now garnered eighty-seven hundred signatures .
After meeting for four hours , the board issued an equivocal statement supporting “ freedom of speech and diversity and inclusion.
” Tajahnae Stocker , one of the W.S.U .
students who helped organize the rally , told the Eagle , “ The Koch brothers have had a huge influence for way too long , and now is about time to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ check to the university.
” Clark , who had called for Golden ’ s dismissal , declined to comment .
The political pressure that wealthy donors exert on universities rarely gets aired so publicly .
But there ’ s no mystery in why W.S.U .
might quake at the prospect of alienating the Kochs .
Charles Koch , whose fortune is estimated to be slightly more than fifty billion dollars , has reportedly given or pledged some fifteen million to W.S.U .
in the past seven years .
In addition , Koch has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ university ’ s Institute for the Study of Economic Growth .
Although W.S.U .
is a public university , the Koch-funded center is a think tank devoted to promoting the billionaire ’ s personal political philosophy , which promotes private enterprise , and not government , as the panacea to virtually all societal problems .
In recent years , exposing college students to his libertarian ideology has been a major focus of Koch ’ s philanthropy , and there are now similar Koch-funded programs at some three hundred American colleges and universities .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ Ivanka Trump , Koch has not been a full-throated supporter of her father , nor a donor to his campaigns .
However , Koch and his private political operation have enthusiastically backed a number of Trump Administration policies , including the 2018 corporate tax cuts and the Administration ’ s rollbacks of environmental regulations .
In a statement sent to me on Wednesday , a spokesman for Koch Industries tried to distance the company from the controversy .
“ Steve Clark is a private citizen who is not affiliated with Koch Industries , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ views were inaccurate and do not represent Koch Industries.
” The statement went on to say that the company “ is continuing its commitments to WSU ” and believes in “ academic freedom.
” Yet it also said , “ We object to speaker disinvitations , ” adding that “ universities offer students opportunities to encounter new ideas and think for themselves .
Limiting access to unpopular speakers , viewpoints , and scholarship doesn ’ t protect students , it cuts off the chance to engage , debate , and criticize.
” A @ @ @ @ @ @ @ matter of free speech sounds noble .
But some of the professors and students who led the protests against Ivanka Trump ’ s commencement address dismissed that argument as specious .
Jennifer Ray , an associate professor of photo media at Wichita State , who wrote an open letter to the administration opposing the address that gathered nearly five hundred signatures , pointed out that “ any student who wants to opt-in and hear Ivanka Trump ’ s speech can .
It wasn ’ t cancelled , or censored .
It ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ listen to .
So , this First Amendment talk doesn ’ t really apply .
The people who are complaining know full well that the speech is available .
They just don ’ t like the politics .
It was all about the symbolism.
” Ray acknowledged that her reason for opposing the speech was symbolic as well .
“ It would have sent a message that the university was against the protesters , ” she said .
“ Instead , the university tried to neutralize the situation .
They did the right @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Amira Coleman , an aspiring opera singer who is a senior at W.S.U .
and an African-American supporter of the Black Lives Matter movement , noted that “ Ivanka ’ s speech is still available for anyone who wants to watch it .
They just didn ’ t want it to be the headliner .
It was a compromise , yet the donors said they wanted to pull their donations .
It was not an act of censorship .
It was a shift of focus from Ivanka to the needs of the black @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is getting punished for listening to the students here .
That ’ s sad.
” If , in fact , there is any threat to free speech on campus , Ray suggested , the episode showed that it is posed by the school ’ s big donors .
“ The real peril is these business partnerships , ” she told me .
“ They think they own the school .
That ’ s the First Amendment issue .
”

A showdown over who rules America’s college campuses came to a head in Kansas on Wednesday, in a clash that might be called Cancel Culture vs. the Big Donors. It began last week, when a technical college affiliated with Wichita State University scrapped plans for a virtual commencement address by Donald Trump’s daughter Ivanka, in a bow to student and faculty criticism of the President’s response to the nationwide protests over George Floyd’s killing. On Twitter, Ivanka blamed “cancel culture,” calling it “antithetical to academia.” In a compromise brokered by the university, Ivanka’s remarks, instead of headlining the event, were demoted to being one in a menu of choices during the ceremony, on June 6th. If they wished, students could click on a link and see her dressed for the occasion, in a regal white sheath and turquoise earrings and brooch, as she addressed them as “wartime” graduates.
The approach of Wichita State University’s president, Jay Golden, won praise from students and faculty members who had circulated petitions opposing the address. But the decision roiled the school’s conservative corporate donors, including, reportedly, the billionaire libertarian oil magnate Charles Koch, the owner of Koch Industries, the largest company in Wichita and one of the two largest private companies in the country. According to the Wichita Eagle, Koch Industries threatened to withdraw its financial support for the university; its basketball arena bears Koch’s name. The newspaper’s story cited a letter, sent to the Kansas Board of Regents, by another corporate booster of the school, Steve Clark, which called for Golden to be fired and warned that Koch Industries and other major corporate donors—including Dan Carney, the founder of Pizza Hut—were “very upset and quite vocal in their decisions to disavow any further support.”
In his letter, according to the Eagle, Clark described a conversation that he’d had with Koch Industries’ chief financial officer, Steve Feilmeier, the chair of a fund-raising campaign for a new business building on campus. “He advised me he’s resigning . . . from any further association with the University,” Clark reportedly wrote. “He is also advising that Koch Industries rescind all their financial support for programs at the University they’ve previously funded.” In an interview, Clark told the Eagle, “We had Koch in the fold. Now we’re going to lose them, and they’ll never be back.” To avoid risking the loss of millions of dollars in financial support for the university, Clark called on the Board of Regents to fire Golden.
Instead, the board held a closed-door session on the matter on Wednesday, while students held a rally and circulated a campus petition in support of Golden, which has now garnered eighty-seven hundred signatures. After meeting for four hours, the board issued an equivocal statement supporting “freedom of speech and diversity and inclusion.” Tajahnae Stocker, one of the W.S.U. students who helped organize the rally, told the Eagle, “The Koch brothers have had a huge influence for way too long, and now is about time to start supporting us instead of supporting a check to the university.”
Clark, who had called for Golden’s dismissal, declined to comment.
The political pressure that wealthy donors exert on universities rarely gets aired so publicly. But there’s no mystery in why W.S.U. might quake at the prospect of alienating the Kochs. Charles Koch, whose fortune is estimated to be slightly more than fifty billion dollars, has reportedly given or pledged some fifteen million to W.S.U. in the past seven years. In addition, Koch has committed $3.6 million to fund the university’s Institute for the Study of Economic Growth. Although W.S.U. is a public university, the Koch-funded center is a think tank devoted to promoting the billionaire’s personal political philosophy, which promotes private enterprise, and not government, as the panacea to virtually all societal problems. In recent years, exposing college students to his libertarian ideology has been a major focus of Koch’s philanthropy, and there are now similar Koch-funded programs at some three hundred American colleges and universities. Despite reportedly bridling at the disinvitation of Ivanka Trump, Koch has not been a full-throated supporter of her father, nor a donor to his campaigns. However, Koch and his private political operation have enthusiastically backed a number of Trump Administration policies, including the 2018 corporate tax cuts and the Administration’s rollbacks of environmental regulations.
In a statement sent to me on Wednesday, a spokesman for Koch Industries tried to distance the company from the controversy. “Steve Clark is a private citizen who is not affiliated with Koch Industries,” the statement read. “His views were inaccurate and do not represent Koch Industries.” The statement went on to say that the company “is continuing its commitments to WSU” and believes in “academic freedom.” Yet it also said, “We object to speaker disinvitations,” adding that “universities offer students opportunities to encounter new ideas and think for themselves. Limiting access to unpopular speakers, viewpoints, and scholarship doesn’t protect students, it cuts off the chance to engage, debate, and criticize.”
A wealthy donor casting the controversy as a matter of free speech sounds noble. But some of the professors and students who led the protests against Ivanka Trump’s commencement address dismissed that argument as specious. Jennifer Ray, an associate professor of photo media at Wichita State, who wrote an open letter to the administration opposing the address that gathered nearly five hundred signatures, pointed out that “any student who wants to opt-in and hear Ivanka Trump’s speech can. It wasn’t cancelled, or censored. It’s on a menu of speakers they can listen to. So, this First Amendment talk doesn’t really apply. The people who are complaining know full well that the speech is available. They just don’t like the politics. It was all about the symbolism.”
Ray acknowledged that her reason for opposing the speech was symbolic as well. “It would have sent a message that the university was against the protesters,” she said. “Instead, the university tried to neutralize the situation. They did the right thing. It was quite brave.”
Amira Coleman, an aspiring opera singer who is a senior at W.S.U. and an African-American supporter of the Black Lives Matter movement, noted that “Ivanka’s speech is still available for anyone who wants to watch it. They just didn’t want it to be the headliner. It was a compromise, yet the donors said they wanted to pull their donations. It was not an act of censorship. It was a shift of focus from Ivanka to the needs of the black community here. And now the president is getting punished for listening to the students here. That’s sad.”
If, in fact, there is any threat to free speech on campus, Ray suggested, the episode showed that it is posed by the school’s big donors. “The real peril is these business partnerships,” she told me. “They think they own the school. That’s the First Amendment issue.”


newyorker--2020-06-11--Saying Goodbye During the Coronavirus Pandemic in “The Last Call”

On April 15th , a little more than six weeks after it recorded its first confirmed case of COVID-19 , New York City experienced eight thousand and twenty-one new cases of the virus , its highest such daily tally .
In that time , the city had become the epicenter of the coronavirus pandemic in the United States , which itself had surpassed any other country in the world in confirmed cases .
On Monday , a hundred days after that first case was recorded , the city began “ phase one ” of its reopening .
It comes as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ destruction wrought by the pandemic : more than two hundred and twelve thousand confirmed cases , resulting in nearly twenty-one thousand and four hundred deaths , an abysmal mortality rate of almost ten per cent .
( The U.S. rate , according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention , is around five and a half per cent , which is consistent with the world average as recorded by the World Health Organization . )
“ The Last Call , ” a short documentary co-produced by The New Yorker and the PBS @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for the new “ Frontline ” documentary “ The Virus : What Went Wrong , ” illustrates the personal pain behind just one of those numbers .
Jessica Caro , a New York City nurse , saw multiple members of her family contract the virus .
Caro ’ s daughter grew ill in early March , developing a cough and a fever .
“ You know , normal nurse mom is just , like , throwing her some Motrin and saying , ‘ You ’ ll be fine , you ’ ll be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ But then , “ the first time that I finally got a thermometer on her , I almost dropped it , because it was a hundred and five.
” Numerous text exchanges between Caro and her mother are shown onscreen , in text bubbles .
“ How ’ s Jianna ?
” one reads , referring to Caro ’ s daughter .
Above it appears Caro ’ s mother ’ s name as recorded in her phone : Mami .
During Jianna ’ s illness , the presence of the coronavirus had not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the U.S. ; New York and the rest of the country could still speculate on the magnitude of what was to come .
Caro got her daughter tested for strep throat , mononucleosis , the flu , all of which came back negative .
The one test that she couldn ’ t secure for her was also the most important , in light of the budding pandemic ’ s exponential growth .
On the advice of her daughter ’ s doctor , Caro called New York State ’ s coronavirus hotline , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was denied one—her daughter hadn ’ t travelled to China , been in contact with someone who was known to have tested positive , and wasn ’ t , at the time , despite being ill , short of breath .
“ At that point , I was furious , ” Caro says .
Just as Caro ’ s daughter began recovering , her disabled aunt became ill .
Both Caro ’ s aunt and grandmother lived with Caro ’ s mother , in the Riverdale section of the Bronx , in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ time the family called 911 , to take Caro ’ s aunt to the hospital , “ they would kind of tell us the same thing , ” Caro says .
“ Like , ‘ Listen , the hospitals are just overwhelmed .
She ’ s sick but she ’ s not that sick .
We can take her , but she may not come back , because this is how bad it is over there.
’ ” Caro ’ s aunt was finally taken to the hospital on April 4th , after @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at this time that Caro ’ s mother told her , reluctantly , that she , too , had developed a fever and had started coughing .
She implored Caro to stay away , for fear of infecting her .
One text message that she sends Caro in the following days is especially poignant : “ Today I still feel weak I took a bath and had something to eat ” —modest activities that , in health , would easily be taken for granted , but which , in a state suffused with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ like final comforts .
The last time that Caro was able to fully speak with her mother , they talked of how much they loved each other , and how they wished to embrace : Caro stood outside her mother ’ s apartment door , while her mother stood on the other side , looking through the peephole .
It was at this time , Caro later learned , that her mother started becoming short of breath .
The following morning , paramedics picked her up to take her to the hospital .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ placed on a ventilator .
In an especially powerful scene , we see a medical worker FaceTiming with Caro , so that Caro can see her mother hooked up to a ventilator .
When the worker pans to the hospital bed , the image brings both relief and horror : Caro ’ s mother is still alive—and fighting , as Caro urges her to—but she also appears to be being swallowed by the very machine whose tubes she herself was made to swallow , almost one with the device that ’ s helping @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” Caro says : my beautiful mother .
“ I love you so much.
” Caro ’ s mother died on her eightieth birthday , after sixteen days on the ventilator .
She died in the way most of the pandemic ’ s more than four hundred thousand victims have died : alone , without friends or family near , the final consolation of her daughter ’ s voice , if indeed she could register it , coming through a phone held in the hand of a stranger .
“ It ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ says , “ that that ’ s what this virus has left us with.
” This story and video were co-published with the PBS series “ Frontline .
”

On April 15th, a little more than six weeks after it recorded its first confirmed case of COVID-19, New York City experienced eight thousand and twenty-one new cases of the virus, its highest such daily tally. In that time, the city had become the epicenter of the coronavirus pandemic in the United States, which itself had surpassed any other country in the world in confirmed cases. On Monday, a hundred days after that first case was recorded, the city began “phase one” of its reopening. It comes as New York continues to reel from the destruction wrought by the pandemic: more than two hundred and twelve thousand confirmed cases, resulting in nearly twenty-one thousand and four hundred deaths, an abysmal mortality rate of almost ten per cent. (The U.S. rate, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, is around five and a half per cent, which is consistent with the world average as recorded by the World Health Organization.) “The Last Call,” a short documentary co-produced by The New Yorker and the PBS series “Frontline,” during reporting for the new “Frontline” documentary “The Virus: What Went Wrong,” illustrates the personal pain behind just one of those numbers.
Jessica Caro, a New York City nurse, saw multiple members of her family contract the virus. Caro’s daughter grew ill in early March, developing a cough and a fever. “You know, normal nurse mom is just, like, throwing her some Motrin and saying, ‘You’ll be fine, you’ll be fine,’ ” Caro says. But then, “the first time that I finally got a thermometer on her, I almost dropped it, because it was a hundred and five.” Numerous text exchanges between Caro and her mother are shown onscreen, in text bubbles. “How’s Jianna?” one reads, referring to Caro’s daughter. Above it appears Caro’s mother’s name as recorded in her phone: Mami.
During Jianna’s illness, the presence of the coronavirus had not yet become a fact of daily life in the U.S.; New York and the rest of the country could still speculate on the magnitude of what was to come. Caro got her daughter tested for strep throat, mononucleosis, the flu, all of which came back negative. The one test that she couldn’t secure for her was also the most important, in light of the budding pandemic’s exponential growth. On the advice of her daughter’s doctor, Caro called New York State’s coronavirus hotline, to request a COVID-19 test, but was denied one—her daughter hadn’t travelled to China, been in contact with someone who was known to have tested positive, and wasn’t, at the time, despite being ill, short of breath. “At that point, I was furious,” Caro says.
Just as Caro’s daughter began recovering, her disabled aunt became ill. Both Caro’s aunt and grandmother lived with Caro’s mother, in the Riverdale section of the Bronx, in the apartment where Caro grew up. Every time the family called 911, to take Caro’s aunt to the hospital, “they would kind of tell us the same thing,” Caro says. “Like, ‘Listen, the hospitals are just overwhelmed. She’s sick but she’s not that sick. We can take her, but she may not come back, because this is how bad it is over there.’ ” Caro’s aunt was finally taken to the hospital on April 4th, after her condition had deteriorated. It was at this time that Caro’s mother told her, reluctantly, that she, too, had developed a fever and had started coughing. She implored Caro to stay away, for fear of infecting her. One text message that she sends Caro in the following days is especially poignant: “Today I still feel weak I took a bath and had something to eat”—modest activities that, in health, would easily be taken for granted, but which, in a state suffused with illness and fear, are heart-wrenching, like final comforts.
The last time that Caro was able to fully speak with her mother, they talked of how much they loved each other, and how they wished to embrace: Caro stood outside her mother’s apartment door, while her mother stood on the other side, looking through the peephole. It was at this time, Caro later learned, that her mother started becoming short of breath. The following morning, paramedics picked her up to take her to the hospital. That night, she was intubated and placed on a ventilator.
In an especially powerful scene, we see a medical worker FaceTiming with Caro, so that Caro can see her mother hooked up to a ventilator. When the worker pans to the hospital bed, the image brings both relief and horror: Caro’s mother is still alive—and fighting, as Caro urges her to—but she also appears to be being swallowed by the very machine whose tubes she herself was made to swallow, almost one with the device that’s helping pump her lungs. “Mama linda,” Caro says: my beautiful mother. “I love you so much.”
Caro’s mother died on her eightieth birthday, after sixteen days on the ventilator. She died in the way most of the pandemic’s more than four hundred thousand victims have died: alone, without friends or family near, the final consolation of her daughter’s voice, if indeed she could register it, coming through a phone held in the hand of a stranger. “It’s just not fair,” Caro says, “that that’s what this virus has left us with.”
This story and video were co-published with the PBS series “Frontline.”


newyorker--2020-06-11--Suggested Slogans for the Biden Campaign

Endorsed by Obama—Remember Him ?
Actually , Let ’ s Not Talk About Policies Take One for the Team It ’ s Been My Turn for a While Now Actually , Let ’ s Not Talk About the Past Turn the Music Down , for Chrissakes Shoot from the Hip , Aim for the Leg Not Me Too , Us Old , but Also , White Actually , Let ’ s Not Talk About Me at All You Don ’ t Wan na Vote for Me ?
Tough Luck , Kiddo .
I Don ’ t Need Your Freaking Vote @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Vote for Trump .
Are You Out of Your Friggin ’ Melon ?
So , No , I ’ m Not Perfect .
But Neither Are You .
Now There ’ s a Friggin ’ Pandemic , and If You Haven ’ t Heard , It ’ s Coming for the Olds .
My Friend Carl and I Will Take the Pandemic Out Back Behind the Schoolyard and Give It a Little Boom Boom Boom and That ’ ll Be the Last You Hear of That .
They Didn ’ t Call @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
It ’ s Because I Beat Up All the Little Chumps !
How ’ s That for a Slogan ?
Joe Biden : Beats Up Chumps .
I Love It .
Now Get Outta My House , I Got ta Take a Whiz .
So , Yeah , Vote for Joe .
You ’ re So Friggin ’ Welcome .
Is This Thing On ?

Ginny Hogan, Jason Adam Katzenstein, Josh Freedman

A Return to Slightly Less Bad
Endorsed by Obama—Remember Him?
Actually, Let’s Not Talk About Policies
Take One for the Team
It’s Been My Turn for a While Now
Actually, Let’s Not Talk About the Past
Turn the Music Down, for Chrissakes
Not Racist Recently
Shoot from the Hip, Aim for the Leg
Tired of New Things
Not Me Too, Us
Old, but Also, White
Actually, Let’s Not Talk About Me at All
Live, Laugh, Love
Ridin’ the Joe Joe train
Everyone Gaffes
Putting the “er” in “America”
You Don’t Wanna Vote for Me? Tough Luck, Kiddo. I Don’t Need Your Freaking Vote. Go Ahead, Make My Day. Vote for Trump. Are You Out of Your Friggin’ Melon? So, No, I’m Not Perfect. But Neither Are You. Now There’s a Friggin’ Pandemic, and If You Haven’t Heard, It’s Coming for the Olds. My Friend Carl and I Will Take the Pandemic Out Back Behind the Schoolyard and Give It a Little Boom Boom Boom and That’ll Be the Last You Hear of That. They Didn’t Call Me Joe Steel Hands for Freaking Nothing. It’s Because I Beat Up All the Little Chumps! How’s That for a Slogan? Joe Biden: Beats Up Chumps. I Love It. Now Get Outta My House, I Gotta Take a Whiz. So, Yeah, Vote for Joe. You’re So Friggin’ Welcome.
Is This Thing On?


newyorker--2020-06-11--Trump Blasts Milley: “This Is Not the Military I Avoided Serving In”

WASHINGTON ( The Borowitz Report ) —In a series of angry tweets on Thursday , Donald J. Trump lashed out at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff , General Mark Milley , declaring , “ This is not the military I avoided serving in.
” Calling Milley ’ s apology for appearing in last week ’ s controversial church photo op “ a disgrace , ” Trump said , “ The United States military of my youth was known for courage and valor , which is why I got a podiatrist ’ s note to get out of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that episode from a half century ago , Trump said , “ As I watched my podiatrist dictate that note , I thought about the great institution of the U.S. military , which I would be exempted from participating in .
That institution is unrecognizable today.
” With his apology , Trump claimed , “ Mark Milley has besmirched the memories of all the Americans who fought so hard to avoid fighting.
” In his most caustic broadside against Milley , Trump questioned the general ’ s ability to lead U.S. forces and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ someone else ” to launch the American invasion of Seattle .

WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report)—In a series of angry tweets on Thursday, Donald J. Trump lashed out at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Mark Milley, declaring, “This is not the military I avoided serving in.”
Calling Milley’s apology for appearing in last week’s controversial church photo op “a disgrace,” Trump said, “The United States military of my youth was known for courage and valor, which is why I got a podiatrist’s note to get out of being a part of it.”
Recalling that episode from a half century ago, Trump said, “As I watched my podiatrist dictate that note, I thought about the great institution of the U.S. military, which I would be exempted from participating in. That institution is unrecognizable today.”
With his apology, Trump claimed, “Mark Milley has besmirched the memories of all the Americans who fought so hard to avoid fighting.”
In his most caustic broadside against Milley, Trump questioned the general’s ability to lead U.S. forces and said that he might have to find “someone else” to launch the American invasion of Seattle.


newyorker--2020-06-11--Sonny Rollins on the Pandemic, Protests, and Music

The gains and revolutions , both political and musical , of the past sixty years can be measured in many ways , but few methods are more insightful than tracing the path of Sonny Rollins , a tenor saxophonist whose life is a portrait , which is to say a reimagining , of American freedom .
When Rollins was twenty-seven , in 1958 , he released “ Freedom Suite , ” one of the first recordings in postwar jazz to acutely protest racial injustice and demand civil rights .
The liner notes , written by Rollins , are no less @ @ @ @ @ @ @ rooted in Negro culture : its colloquialisms ; its humor ; its music .
How ironic that the Negro , who more than any other people can claim America ’ s culture as his own , is being persecuted and repressed , that the Negro , who has exemplified the humanities in his very existence , is being rewarded with inhumanity.
” For Rollins , who is eighty-nine , the pandemic , the protests , and the President are familiar features of an ongoing civil-rights movement which Rollins bore early witness to .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ not .
“ I don ’ t think things will change in this country , ” Rollins told me last week , by phone , from his home , in Woodstock , New York , two days after George Floyd ’ s death and five days before National Guard units deployed tear gas on protesters outside the White House , clearing the way for the President to lift a Bible , fix a wooden smile , and pose for the cameras .
The occasion of my call with Rollins was not the death @ @ @ @ @ @ @ compounding crises of police violence and militarized assaults on constitutionally protected assembly .
But these themes are scarcely separable from our conversation ’ s original focus : Rollins ’ s music and memory ; the wish to hear if he ’ s O.K.—if he ’ s safe and settled , spared of a virus that has claimed his compatriots Henry Grimes , Ellis Marsalis , and Lee Konitz—and firmly aware that he is not just admired and loved but heard .
This interview has been edited and condensed .
How are you doing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is like for you right now , especially during this pandemic .
This is O.K .
for me because I am trying to live in a different world , besides the world of the illness .
I ’ m trying to live in a world of the spirit wherein I am concentrating on things such as the golden rule .
This is my big thing ; I am trying to live by it .
The main thing is do unto others as you would have them do unto you .
Sure , everybody @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it .
We live in a world where it ’ s about “ I ’ ve got ta get mine , and—too bad for you—I ’ ve got ta get mine first.
” Six years ago or so , you were diagnosed with respiratory issues .
You told Hilton Als at the time that it limits your breathing and you get fatigued .
How are you now ?
My breathing seems to be O.K .
My main problem is that I can ’ t blow my horn anymore .
I ’ m surviving @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t blow my horn .
How does it feel not to be able to blow your horn ?
[ Laughs ] Well , that ’ s where living in the spirit world comes in .
It felt pretty bad .
I had a rough time getting through it , because I like blowing my horn .
When I had to stop , it was quite a traumatic deal for me .
Do you see this pandemic bringing into focus certain meanings in life ?
Do you sense changes with all the distancing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ m ninety years old in a few months , so that ’ s no big deal , living .
I ’ m not trying to live .
I ’ ve lived all this time , way beyond any of my compatriots .
The universe doesn ’ t owe me anything as far as the length of my life is concerned .
I lived through 9/11 .
I was right in my apartment six blocks from the World Trade Center when I heard a plane come in—pow .
And then another plane hits .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ to be evacuated the next day .
So , by that , no , I don ’ t think this pandemic means anything .
Look , people will turn around and do the same thing .
If everything is straightened out next week , people are gon na live the same way they ’ re living now .
They ’ re not going to give a fuck about the golden rule or anything else besides what ’ s comfortable for them .
That ’ s all people do .
I don ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ People will go back to the way they are—most people .
There might be a few who might try to get the bigger picture of what this pandemic might mean , but I thought that was going to happen at 9/11 , and , indeed , it did , for about three months .
Everybody was nice to each other , kind to each other .
For three months .
And then it came back down : “ Me first.
” That brings to mind your album “ Without a Song : The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ real strength and contributions to the world in response to crisis and trauma .
What lessons might you have for younger musicians , such as Akwetey John Orraca-Tetteh , who are processing trauma and trying to stay focussed on their music ?
It ’ s not about your music—it ’ s about what makes your music your music .
You ’ ve got to have a feeling like that .
You have to have a reason for your music .
Have something besides the technical .
Make it for something .
Make it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , whatever it is .
You know what I mean ?
I do .
You ’ re very clearly describing it , and you ’ ve said that art outlives technology and the political moment , that art survives the material life of our bodies .
Can we talk Presidents ?
Starting with Lester Young .
I say “ President ” because everyone calls him Pres .
Do you think we should write Lester Young in as President this November ?
Do you think he ’ d make a better fit than the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ [ Laughs ] Well , I don ’ t really know the present occupant personally , but I knew Lester Young personally , and I would go with Lester Young .
His music speaks for itself , and he ’ s a human being whose personality , whose humanity , made his music what it was .
A great musician , but also a great person .
One of the first records you got was Lester Young ’ s “ Sometimes I ’ m Happy.
” On the subject of happiness , what @ @ @ @ @ @ @ been blessed to do music all my life .
I didn ’ t get where I wanted , but I was always trying to get there .
I had a career , people knew me , liked me , so I can ’ t be sad about it , but it ’ s still one of these things that I have to really keep on top of .
You mention self-criticism in almost every interview .
I ’ d like to ask what your relationship to self-criticism is today , but also to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ do they relate ?
I focus much more on the negative side .
I understand that people appreciate me , and I ’ m so happy about that , but , as for myself ?
No .
I could have done more .
If I had my druthers , I would have started playing earlier , done what my mother wanted me to do , which was play piano , instead of playing stickball on the streets of New York .
If you hadn ’ t played stickball , you wouldn ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Bois walking the neighborhood , like you ’ ve said .
You wouldn ’ t have joined the parades for him or Paul Robeson , or rallied outside for the Scottsboro Boys in exactly the same way .
Would you really take back stickball ?

The gains and revolutions, both political and musical, of the past sixty years can be measured in many ways, but few methods are more insightful than tracing the path of Sonny Rollins, a tenor saxophonist whose life is a portrait, which is to say a reimagining, of American freedom. When Rollins was twenty-seven, in 1958, he released “Freedom Suite,” one of the first recordings in postwar jazz to acutely protest racial injustice and demand civil rights. The liner notes, written by Rollins, are no less resonant today: “America is deeply rooted in Negro culture: its colloquialisms; its humor; its music. How ironic that the Negro, who more than any other people can claim America’s culture as his own, is being persecuted and repressed, that the Negro, who has exemplified the humanities in his very existence, is being rewarded with inhumanity.”
For Rollins, who is eighty-nine, the pandemic, the protests, and the President are familiar features of an ongoing civil-rights movement which Rollins bore early witness to. Much has changed, and much has not. “I don’t think things will change in this country,” Rollins told me last week, by phone, from his home, in Woodstock, New York, two days after George Floyd’s death and five days before National Guard units deployed tear gas on protesters outside the White House, clearing the way for the President to lift a Bible, fix a wooden smile, and pose for the cameras.
The occasion of my call with Rollins was not the death of Floyd. It was not the compounding crises of police violence and militarized assaults on constitutionally protected assembly. But these themes are scarcely separable from our conversation’s original focus: Rollins’s music and memory; the wish to hear if he’s O.K.—if he’s safe and settled, spared of a virus that has claimed his compatriots Henry Grimes, Ellis Marsalis, and Lee Konitz—and firmly aware that he is not just admired and loved but heard. This interview has been edited and condensed.
How are you doing? I want to hear what life is like for you right now, especially during this pandemic.
This is O.K. for me because I am trying to live in a different world, besides the world of the illness. I’m trying to live in a world of the spirit wherein I am concentrating on things such as the golden rule. This is my big thing; I am trying to live by it. The main thing is do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Sure, everybody knows it, but nobody lives by it. We live in a world where it’s about “I’ve gotta get mine, and—too bad for you—I’ve gotta get mine first.”
Six years ago or so, you were diagnosed with respiratory issues. You told Hilton Als at the time that it limits your breathing and you get fatigued. How are you now?
My breathing seems to be O.K. My main problem is that I can’t blow my horn anymore. I’m surviving, but my problem is I can’t blow my horn.
How does it feel not to be able to blow your horn?
[Laughs] Well, that’s where living in the spirit world comes in. It felt pretty bad. I had a rough time getting through it, because I like blowing my horn. When I had to stop, it was quite a traumatic deal for me.
Do you see this pandemic bringing into focus certain meanings in life? Do you sense changes with all the distancing?
For one thing, I’m ninety years old in a few months, so that’s no big deal, living. I’m not trying to live. I’ve lived all this time, way beyond any of my compatriots. The universe doesn’t owe me anything as far as the length of my life is concerned.
I lived through 9/11. I was right in my apartment six blocks from the World Trade Center when I heard a plane come in—pow. And then another plane hits. We all came downstairs. I had to be evacuated the next day. So, by that, no, I don’t think this pandemic means anything.
Look, people will turn around and do the same thing. If everything is straightened out next week, people are gonna live the same way they’re living now. They’re not going to give a fuck about the golden rule or anything else besides what’s comfortable for them.
That’s all people do. I don’t expect this pandemic to mean anything. People will go back to the way they are—most people. There might be a few who might try to get the bigger picture of what this pandemic might mean, but I thought that was going to happen at 9/11, and, indeed, it did, for about three months. Everybody was nice to each other, kind to each other. For three months. And then it came back down: “Me first.”
That brings to mind your album “Without a Song: The 9/11 Concert.” You’ve shown real strength and contributions to the world in response to crisis and trauma. What lessons might you have for younger musicians, such as Akwetey John Orraca-Tetteh, who are processing trauma and trying to stay focussed on their music?
It’s not about your music—it’s about what makes your music your music. You’ve got to have a feeling like that. You have to have a reason for your music. Have something besides the technical. Make it for something. Make it for kindness, make it for peace, whatever it is. You know what I mean?
I do. You’re very clearly describing it, and you’ve said that art outlives technology and the political moment, that art survives the material life of our bodies.
Exactly.
Can we talk Presidents? Starting with Lester Young. I say “President” because everyone calls him Pres. Do you think we should write Lester Young in as President this November? Do you think he’d make a better fit than the current occupant of the Oval Office?
[Laughs] Well, I don’t really know the present occupant personally, but I knew Lester Young personally, and I would go with Lester Young. His music speaks for itself, and he’s a human being whose personality, whose humanity, made his music what it was. A great musician, but also a great person.
One of the first records you got was Lester Young’s “Sometimes I’m Happy.” On the subject of happiness, what gives you happiness?
I’ve been blessed to do music all my life. I didn’t get where I wanted, but I was always trying to get there. I had a career, people knew me, liked me, so I can’t be sad about it, but it’s still one of these things that I have to really keep on top of.
You mention self-criticism in almost every interview. I’d like to ask what your relationship to self-criticism is today, but also to self-acceptance, self-praise, self-compassion. How do they relate?
I focus much more on the negative side. I understand that people appreciate me, and I’m so happy about that, but, as for myself? No. I could have done more. If I had my druthers, I would have started playing earlier, done what my mother wanted me to do, which was play piano, instead of playing stickball on the streets of New York.
If you hadn’t played stickball, you wouldn’t have seen W. E. B. Du Bois walking the neighborhood, like you’ve said. You wouldn’t have joined the parades for him or Paul Robeson, or rallied outside for the Scottsboro Boys in exactly the same way. Would you really take back stickball?
[Laughs] If you put it that way, it’s a pretty hard choice. My grandmother was the one who was an activist in my family. I was a little boy and marching with her down Lenox Avenue, in Harlem, for W. E. B. Du Bois and Paul Robeson and the Scottsboro Boys, having an idea of civil rights. I wouldn’t want to not have that. I’m very proud that I was able to get that feeling, to be educated and understand how important that was.


newyorker--2020-06-12--Georgia’s Primary Is Another Election Warning Sign

Subscribers to The New Yorker ’ s new 2020 election newsletter , On the Trail , received this piece in their in-boxes .
Sign up to receive future installments .
Can America hold proper elections in a year of pandemic , protest , and Donald Trump ?
The early evidence is not encouraging .
Since COVID-19 arrived in the U.S. , Ohio postponed a primary election at the last minute and Wisconsin plowed ahead with one , thanks to a Democratic governor ’ s waffling and Republican Party intransigence .
Other states have rushed to adopt vote-by-mail and early-voting procedures @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and resources lacking .
Republicans in Congress have refused to sign on to Democratic proposals that would provide election funding to states , and Trump has taken to denouncing any attempts to make voting easier this year as threats to his party ’ s power .
America could hold proper elections this year if it wanted to , but its heart isn ’ t in it right now .
This week , our rolling election crisis hit Georgia , a state with a long history of voter suppression , whose current governor , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ modern-day suppression tactics .
Long lines and malfunctioning machines at polling places , which have become an Election Day staple for voters in many parts of the country , were compounded by untrained poll workers ( veteran workers in many states are refusing to work for fear of catching the coronavirus ) and administrative chaos .
( In Fulton County , the top two mail-in-ballot officials came down with the coronavirus in recent weeks ; one of them died . )
After you watch this drone footage from the Times of the lines @ @ @ @ @ @ @ read my colleague Charles Bethea ’ s report from the ground , which includes accounts from a number of people who voted , or who tried to vote , on Tuesday , like this one : Kate Whitney , a thirty-one-year-old design researcher , also arrived early at her polling location , the West Oakland Missionary Baptist Church , in a poor part of Fulton County .
She ’ d requested an absentee ballot—because her father is ill and she worried about exposure to the coronavirus—but never received one .
At her polling @ @ @ @ @ @ @ also dealing with problems , which delayed voting until around nine o ’ clock .
“ When you put the new cards in the machine , ” Whitney said , “ it would say that the data was invalid on the card.
” In the first two hours , Whitney told me , eight people , at most , were successfully able to vote .
Volunteers brought chairs outside to encourage people to stay , but , Whitney said , “ we ’ d already lost a significant number as the day got @ @ @ @ @ @ @ work.
” In Georgia , state and local officials are currently blaming each other .
State officials are trying to emphasize that the problems took place in only a few of the state ’ s numerous counties—as if that weren ’ t exactly the issue .
But , as election experts , and Democrats in Congress , have been saying for weeks , safeguarding our elections this year , even more than most years , is a job bigger than any one precinct or state .
You should also read Jeffrey Toobin ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Roberts ’ s crucial vote in Shelby County v. Holder , the 2013 Supreme Court decision that undid much of the 1965 Voting Rights Act , and how that decision reverberated this week in Georgia .
Our problems , as we ’ ve seen in the pandemic and been reminded by the recent protests against police violence , are overlapping .
That goes for our election problems , too .

Subscribers to The New Yorker’s new 2020 election newsletter, On the Trail, received this piece in their in-boxes. Sign up to receive future installments.
Can America hold proper elections in a year of pandemic, protest, and Donald Trump? The early evidence is not encouraging. Since COVID-19 arrived in the U.S., Ohio postponed a primary election at the last minute and Wisconsin plowed ahead with one, thanks to a Democratic governor’s waffling and Republican Party intransigence. Other states have rushed to adopt vote-by-mail and early-voting procedures, but public education has been spotty and resources lacking. Republicans in Congress have refused to sign on to Democratic proposals that would provide election funding to states, and Trump has taken to denouncing any attempts to make voting easier this year as threats to his party’s power. America could hold proper elections this year if it wanted to, but its heart isn’t in it right now.
This week, our rolling election crisis hit Georgia, a state with a long history of voter suppression, whose current governor, Brian Kemp, is the exemplar of modern-day suppression tactics. Long lines and malfunctioning machines at polling places, which have become an Election Day staple for voters in many parts of the country, were compounded by untrained poll workers (veteran workers in many states are refusing to work for fear of catching the coronavirus) and administrative chaos. (In Fulton County, the top two mail-in-ballot officials came down with the coronavirus in recent weeks; one of them died.) After you watch this drone footage from the Times of the lines in the Atlanta area, you should read my colleague Charles Bethea’s report from the ground, which includes accounts from a number of people who voted, or who tried to vote, on Tuesday, like this one:
Kate Whitney, a thirty-one-year-old design researcher, also arrived early at her polling location, the West Oakland Missionary Baptist Church, in a poor part of Fulton County. She’d requested an absentee ballot—because her father is ill and she worried about exposure to the coronavirus—but never received one. At her polling location, there were three poll workers also dealing with problems, which delayed voting until around nine o’clock. “When you put the new cards in the machine,” Whitney said, “it would say that the data was invalid on the card.” In the first two hours, Whitney told me, eight people, at most, were successfully able to vote. Volunteers brought chairs outside to encourage people to stay, but, Whitney said, “we’d already lost a significant number as the day got hotter and people had to get to work.”
In Georgia, state and local officials are currently blaming each other. State officials are trying to emphasize that the problems took place in only a few of the state’s numerous counties—as if that weren’t exactly the issue. But, as election experts, and Democrats in Congress, have been saying for weeks, safeguarding our elections this year, even more than most years, is a job bigger than any one precinct or state. You should also read Jeffrey Toobin’s column on the legacy of John Roberts’s crucial vote in Shelby County v. Holder, the 2013 Supreme Court decision that undid much of the 1965 Voting Rights Act, and how that decision reverberated this week in Georgia. Our problems, as we’ve seen in the pandemic and been reminded by the recent protests against police violence, are overlapping. That goes for our election problems, too.


newyorker--2020-06-12--How You’ll Be Punished in Hell, Based on Your Tipping Practices

You only put a dollar in the tip jar if the barista could see you doing it .
You ’ ll spend eternity trying to make eye contact with any one of the thousands of people being tortured alongside you .
Anyone .
You will never succeed .
You tipped if the person cutting your hair was hot .
You ’ ll pay in the underworld , by only having three profiles to swipe through on Tinder .
None of them will ever match you back—and one of them is your second cousin , whom you regrettably find slightly attractive @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and only if the server didn ’ t charge you for the three extra sides of smoked-paprika aioli you ordered .
The only sustenance you ’ ll be provided in the afterlife is mozzarella sticks , still semi-frozen in the middle , and served without marinara sauce .
You never tipped , because it wasn ’ t your job to supplement the wages of someone who otherwise was making $ 2.63 an hour .
Your retribution is an eternity spent working at a TGI Fridays , making and remaking the same spiked @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who will never be satisfied with the iced-tea-to-lemonade-to-vodka ratio .
You threw the two pennies you received as change into the tip jar because you didn ’ t feel like carrying around the coins .
Your eternity is spent being just a few dollars short of your Whole Foods transaction total , with a massive line of finance dudes each buying only one item forming behind you .
It ’ s thirsty Thursday , and they are not happy with you .
You tipped hotel housekeeping staff with those fake twenty-dollar bills that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Your final judgment will entail listening exclusively to Jeff Buckley ’ s version of “ Hallelujah , ” on repeat , forever .
It ’ s a beautiful song , but , believe us , you will suffer .
You intentionally started bar fights so that you ’ d get kicked out before you had to pay or tip .
You ’ ll get your comeuppance when you ’ re doomed to ride out an eternal hangover while a Fourth of July parade passes by your window .
Also , you have no @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tip on the customer copy of the receipt so you could technically claim that you didn ’ t tip when it clears on your credit card .
Hope you enjoyed real crabmeat on the mortal plane of existence , because you ’ ll only be eating the fake stuff once you leave your corporeal form .
Oh , and crab rangoon doesn ’ t exist in Hell .
As a universal rule , you didn ’ t tip your servers , bartenders , baristas , mail carriers , dog walkers , cat sitters @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stylists , or nail technicians .
Maybe they should ’ ve done better in school , was your warped justification .
Well , get ready for an eternity with no food , alcohol , coffee , self-care packages , dogs , cats , or travel .
And prepare to live in filth and look like shit while doing it !

Circle I: Limbo
You only put a dollar in the tip jar if the barista could see you doing it. You’ll spend eternity trying to make eye contact with any one of the thousands of people being tortured alongside you. Anyone. You will never succeed.
Circle II: Lust
You tipped if the person cutting your hair was hot. You’ll pay in the underworld, by only having three profiles to swipe through on Tinder. None of them will ever match you back—and one of them is your second cousin, whom you regrettably find slightly attractive.
Circle III: Gluttony
You gave maybe ten per cent, and only if the server didn’t charge you for the three extra sides of smoked-paprika aioli you ordered. The only sustenance you’ll be provided in the afterlife is mozzarella sticks, still semi-frozen in the middle, and served without marinara sauce.
Circle IV: Greed
You never tipped, because it wasn’t your job to supplement the wages of someone who otherwise was making $2.63 an hour. Your retribution is an eternity spent working at a TGI Fridays, making and remaking the same spiked Arnold Palmer for a very picky woman who will never be satisfied with the iced-tea-to-lemonade-to-vodka ratio.
Circle V: Wrath
You threw the two pennies you received as change into the tip jar because you didn’t feel like carrying around the coins. Your eternity is spent being just a few dollars short of your Whole Foods transaction total, with a massive line of finance dudes each buying only one item forming behind you. It’s thirsty Thursday, and they are not happy with you.
Circle VI: Heresy
You tipped hotel housekeeping staff with those fake twenty-dollar bills that have Bible verses on the back. Your final judgment will entail listening exclusively to Jeff Buckley’s version of “Hallelujah,” on repeat, forever. It’s a beautiful song, but, believe us, you will suffer.
Circle VII: Violence
You intentionally started bar fights so that you’d get kicked out before you had to pay or tip. You’ll get your comeuppance when you’re doomed to ride out an eternal hangover while a Fourth of July parade passes by your window. Also, you have no ibuprofen or Pepto.
Circle VIII: Fraud
You wrote your tip on the customer copy of the receipt so you could technically claim that you didn’t tip when it clears on your credit card. Hope you enjoyed real crabmeat on the mortal plane of existence, because you’ll only be eating the fake stuff once you leave your corporeal form. Oh, and crab rangoon doesn’t exist in Hell.
Circle IX: Treachery
As a universal rule, you didn’t tip your servers, bartenders, baristas, mail carriers, dog walkers, cat sitters, Lyft drivers, housekeepers, hair stylists, or nail technicians. Maybe they should’ve done better in school, was your warped justification. Well, get ready for an eternity with no food, alcohol, coffee, self-care packages, dogs, cats, or travel. And prepare to live in filth and look like shit while doing it!


newyorker--2020-06-12--A Top Sommelier Is Upending Culinary Perspectives with His Ham Bar

In her 1976 book , “ The Taste of Country Cooking , ” the late , great chef Edna Lewis wrote that , in her home town of Freetown , Virginia , a farming community founded by former slaves , “ ham held the same rating as the basic black dress .
If you had a ham in the meat house , any situation could be faced.
” André Mack has a ham in the meat house , and then some .
In January , Mack , a sommelier and winemaker who once ran the beverage program at Per Se @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ham bar , ” in Prospect-Leﬀerts Gardens , with a menu oﬀering no fewer than ten diﬀerent country hams , all sourced domestically , plus American-made wines ( including bottles from his own label , Maison Noir , out of Oregon ) , cheeses , and other charcuterie .
And then , just as he was starting to consistently ﬁll its twenty seats , the coronavirus swept through New York .
Luckily , & Sons was always conceived as a two-part operation : Mack , who lives in the neighborhood with his wife @ @ @ @ @ @ @ their four boys , had already planned to open & Sons Buttery , a ham-centric grocery , next door .
( He also owns Vyne Yard , a nearby wine store . )
The Buttery was slated to début in July , but , after the bar was forced to close , he got the shop open for curbside pickup in April .
As of last week , customers may enter the premises , two at a time .
Thanks to & Sons Buttery , I have added to my larder luscious , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , from Tennessee , hickory-smoked and hung to dry for around two years , and ruddy , bracingly funky slices of cured Lady Edison , from North Carolina .
I have swooned over springy pale-pink mortadella , speckled with bright-green Sicilian pistachios , made from Midwest-raised , heritage-breed pork by Tempesta Artisans , a small company in Chicago .
Mack recently told me that his decision to carry only domestic products has been taken by some as a nationalistic gesture , but “ that ’ s not it , ” he said .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ France—I realized that we could do that here .
We ’ ve been curing hams for over one hundred years .
It ’ s a celebration of American food heritage.
” The ham that Mack grew up on was of the spiral-cut , glazed , and baked variety , plus a New Jersey specialty called Taylor Pork Roll ; his mother is from Trenton , and her family was from North Carolina .
As an adult , Mack developed a passion for European charcuterie , and for vintage meat slicers : “ First @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , I was , like , ‘ What ’ s that thing back there that looks like a Ferrari ?
’ ” In 2013 , he bought a slicer on Craigslist , from a deli on Long Island , and was shocked to find that it was made , in 1910 , in the United States .
American country hams , though produced in a similar fashion to jamón serrano or prosciutto , have not traditionally been sliced thin , Mack noted— “ You cut off hunks of it , you threw it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ including David Chang and Sean Brock were starting to treat them like the finest salumi .
Mack had been excited by the renaissance of American cheese and wine in the past couple of decades .
Now was the time for American ham .
Upending perspectives in the culinary world is familiar territory for Mack , who was the first black person to win the prestigious Best Young Sommeliers Competition , hosted by a gastronomical society founded in Paris in 1950 .
He started his career waiting tables at a Red Lobster in Texas @ @ @ @ @ @ @ watching a lot of “ Frasier.
” “ The way they talked about wine just made it seem like I was missing out , ” he told me .
“ That show gave me the courage to walk into a wine store , ” where , when someone poured him a taste and asked what he thought , he quipped , “ It ’ s no Château d ’ Yquem ” —a Frasier favorite—and got a big laugh .
“ Everybody ’ s , like , ‘ How is it being a black @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ It ’ s no different than any other day of my life , ” Mack said .
“ Every day I show up , I challenge the status quo .
Hey , I ’ m here .
That ’ s how I choose to confront it.
” ♦

In her 1976 book, “The Taste of Country Cooking,” the late, great chef Edna Lewis wrote that, in her home town of Freetown, Virginia, a farming community founded by former slaves, “ham held the same rating as the basic black dress. If you had a ham in the meat house, any situation could be faced.” André Mack has a ham in the meat house, and then some. In January, Mack, a sommelier and winemaker who once ran the beverage program at Per Se, opened & Sons, a “ham bar,” in Prospect-Leﬀerts Gardens, with a menu oﬀering no fewer than ten diﬀerent country hams, all sourced domestically, plus American-made wines (including bottles from his own label, Maison Noir, out of Oregon), cheeses, and other charcuterie. And then, just as he was starting to consistently ﬁll its twenty seats, the coronavirus swept through New York.
Mack, who lives in the neighborhood with his wife and four sons, was excited by the renaissance of American cheese and wine in the past two decades, and thought it was time for charcuterie. Photograph by Makeda Sandford for The New Yorker
Luckily, & Sons was always conceived as a two-part operation: Mack, who lives in the neighborhood with his wife, the writer Phoebe Damrosch, and their four boys, had already planned to open & Sons Buttery, a ham-centric grocery, next door. (He also owns Vyne Yard, a nearby wine store.) The Buttery was slated to début in July, but, after the bar was forced to close, he got the shop open for curbside pickup in April. As of last week, customers may enter the premises, two at a time.
The country hams and other varieties of charcuterie that Mack stocks are made in states including Tennessee, Kentucky, Iowa, and New York. Photograph by Makeda Sandford for The New Yorker
Thanks to & Sons Buttery, I have added to my larder luscious, creamy sheets of Benton’s Extra-Aged, from Tennessee, hickory-smoked and hung to dry for around two years, and ruddy, bracingly funky slices of cured Lady Edison, from North Carolina. I have swooned over springy pale-pink mortadella, speckled with bright-green Sicilian pistachios, made from Midwest-raised, heritage-breed pork by Tempesta Artisans, a small company in Chicago. Mack recently told me that his decision to carry only domestic products has been taken by some as a nationalistic gesture, but “that’s not it,” he said. “The way we romanticize Italy and France—I realized that we could do that here. We’ve been curing hams for over one hundred years. It’s a celebration of American food heritage.”
& Sons also carries American cheeses, C.S.A.-style produce boxes, assorted drygoods including beans and grits, and sourdough bread. Photograph by Makeda Sandford for The New Yorker
The ham that Mack grew up on was of the spiral-cut, glazed, and baked variety, plus a New Jersey specialty called Taylor Pork Roll; his mother is from Trenton, and her family was from North Carolina. As an adult, Mack developed a passion for European charcuterie, and for vintage meat slicers: “First time I went into any Bastianich restaurant, I was, like, ‘What’s that thing back there that looks like a Ferrari?’ ” In 2013, he bought a slicer on Craigslist, from a deli on Long Island, and was shocked to find that it was made, in 1910, in the United States. American country hams, though produced in a similar fashion to jamón serrano or prosciutto, have not traditionally been sliced thin, Mack noted—“You cut off hunks of it, you threw it in the frying pan”—but chefs including David Chang and Sean Brock were starting to treat them like the finest salumi. Mack had been excited by the renaissance of American cheese and wine in the past couple of decades. Now was the time for American ham.
The ham-adjacent charcuterie includes this Italian-style capicola, made, in New York, from a Berkshire pork shoulder that’s cured in hot pepper and paprika before it’s cooked. Photograph by Makeda Sandford for The New Yorker
Upending perspectives in the culinary world is familiar territory for Mack, who was the first black person to win the prestigious Best Young Sommeliers Competition, hosted by a gastronomical society founded in Paris in 1950. He started his career waiting tables at a Red Lobster in Texas. After college, he found himself watching a lot of “Frasier.” “The way they talked about wine just made it seem like I was missing out,” he told me. “That show gave me the courage to walk into a wine store,” where, when someone poured him a taste and asked what he thought, he quipped, “It’s no Château d’Yquem”—a Frasier favorite—and got a big laugh. “Everybody’s, like, ‘How is it being a black man in such a white industry?’ It’s no different than any other day of my life,” Mack said. “Every day I show up, I challenge the status quo. Hey, I’m here. That’s how I choose to confront it.” ♦
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-06-12--An Installation by Felix Gonzalez-Torres Honors Sweetness and Loss

In 1990 , Felix Gonzalez-Torres , one of America ’ s most important and emotionally eloquent contemporary artists—who died of @ @ @ @ @ , at the age of thirty-eight—made a simple but radical piece : a pile of @ @ @ @ @ the taking , which was replenished when it was depleted .
This meditation on the @ @ @ @ @ inevitability of loss is being re-created by some thousand people worldwide through July 5 ; @ @ @ @ @ Web sites of the Andrea Rosen and David Zwirner galleries .

In 1990, Felix Gonzalez-Torres, one of America’s most important and emotionally eloquent contemporary artists—who died of AIDS-related causes, in 1996, at the age of thirty-eight—made a simple but radical piece: a pile of fortune cookies, free for the taking, which was replenished when it was depleted. This meditation on the sweetness of life and the inevitability of loss is being re-created by some thousand people worldwide through July 5; images are online at the Web sites of the Andrea Rosen and David Zwirner galleries.


newyorker--2020-06-12--Is Bill de Blasio the Loneliest Man in New York City?

On the evening of May 29th , a New York state senator named Zellnor Myrie , a mild-mannered son of Caribbean immigrants from Flatbush , went to join a protest against police abuse outside the Barclays Center , in downtown Brooklyn .
It was one of the first large rallies in New York City protesting the killing of George Floyd , in Minneapolis , last month .
Myrie , who is thirty-three , was elected two years ago as part of a wave of young progressive Democrats hoping to turn the legislature into an engine for change on issues from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ prominent supporter was New York City ’ s mayor , Bill de Blasio , who has long considered himself the helmsman of the city ’ s progressives .
“ We need to elect Zellnor to hold a true Democratic majority in the State Senate , ” de Blasio said , in an August , 2018 , endorsement .
“ A fairer future for Central Brooklyn depends on it.
” Myrie lives with his mother , a home-health aide , in the same apartment building on Flatbush Avenue where he was raised .
A @ @ @ @ @ @ @ went on to college at Fordham and has a law degree from Cornell .
Despite growing up in a neighborhood where police often rousted young black men on the street , Myrie never had a severely bad encounter with officers .
That changed about an hour after he got to the protest .
He arrived at the Barclays Center around 6 P.M. , wearing a neon-green T-shirt with the words “ Senator Myrie ” on the back , meeting a fellow-legislator , Diana Richardson , a State Assembly member from Brooklyn .
People @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is a good crowd , and we are walking around , ” he recalled .
But , as the sun set , police officers started aggressively moving protesters from the street .
Myrie and Richardson were hemmed in by a line of officers with bicycles .
Behind them was a second line of officers , wearing helmets with plastic visors from the department ’ s Strategic Response Group , a special squad developed under William Bratton , de Blasio ’ s former police commissioner , to respond to threats of terrorism and civil @ @ @ @ @ @ @ move , Myrie said that he complied .
But he was jarred as bicycle wheels banged into his legs and back .
“ I see them pushing everyone , weaponizing their bikes , ” he recalled .
“ Then I start getting shoved by the S.R.G .
officers as well.
” When he turned to tell the cops that there was no need to push , he saw an officer wearing a face shield aim a can of pepper spray at him .
“ I see the orange chemical leaving the canister , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a haunting image for me .
I get hit directly in the eyes.
” As Myrie roared in pain , he heard shouts of “ cuff him , cuff him.
” His arms were twisted behind him as plastic zip ties were tightly bound on his wrists .
“ It was pain like I never felt in my life , ” he said .
“ I had never been pepper-sprayed .
It was a combination of the burning and the bewilderment at being arrested while trying to keep the peace.
” In that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that if he made the wrong movement it could cost him his life .
“ Even talking about it now it is a really difficult thing to process , ” he said last week .
“ Here , I had been at a protest against police brutality .
I hadn ’ t thrown a bottle , hadn ’ t become belligerent , hadn ’ t put my hands on the officers—and here I was seeing my life pass before my eyes.
” Before Myrie could be loaded on a bus to be taken @ @ @ @ @ @ @ recognized him and ordered him released and given medical treatment .
De Blasio , who has insisted that his police force has been restrained in its treatment of peaceful demonstrators , later tried to call Myrie , but missed him .
Myrie said that he was not in a hurry to call back .
“ I think the Mayor has always operated from a place of good intentions , ” Myrie said .
“ I never questioned that he wanted to do the right thing by the most New Yorkers .
But I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in this city , the police department being chief among them , that appear to have more influence over the process , and that is unacceptable.
” When Bill de Blasio first took office , in 2014 , it would have been hard to imagine that he would wind up captive to his own police department .
At a time when many New Yorkers were straining under heavy-handed policing and the surging cost of living in the city , de Blasio , formerly the public advocate , rose to the occasion .
Ending @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the core of his campaign .
He seemed to understand exactly what moment the city was in , and what the majority of its citizens wanted .
During his first few years in office , he made good on a campaign pledge to end stop-and-frisk policing , and chalked up a scorecard of achievements to help even the scales in an unequal city : free pre-K and after-school programs , paid sick leave , a minimum wage of fifteen dollars an hour for city employees , minimal rent hikes in regulated buildings .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ interest in the nitty-gritty business of governing , twice attempting foolish gambits to make himself a national political figure .
In 2015 , he tried to host a forum in Iowa where Democratic Presidential candidates would discuss inequality and his “ Progressive Agenda.
” “ I can ’ t tell you how many hours were wasted talking about who can come to the Iowa forum , ” a former aide said last week .
“ Everyone was rolling their eyes.
” No candidate took him up on his invitation , and the event @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tried again , this time running as a candidate for President himself .
The result was that he squandered more than a year of his second term raising funds and traipsing through primary states .
He dropped out last September , after never having risen above one per cent in the polls .
Back home , de Blasio was chronically late to meetings and events .
In November , 2014 , he missed the moment of silence at a memorial marking a 2001 plane crash on the Rockaway Peninsula that claimed two hundred @ @ @ @ @ @ @ said that the boat he ’ d decided to take to the event had been delayed .
Later , de Blasio acknowledged that he had left late after “ a very rough night.
” Meetings at City Hall have had to be arranged around his daily routine of being driven in his mayoral convoy from Gracie Mansion , on the Upper East Side , to the Y.M.C.A .
in his old neighborhood of Park Slope , simply to sit astride ordinary exercise machines that he could find within a few blocks of his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an appointment before ten-thirty or eleven , ” the former aide said .
New Yorkers may have got their best glimpse of the mayor de Blasio might have become in July , 2014 , after the death of Eric Garner , who was put in a banned chokehold by a police officer named Daniel Pantaleo while being arrested on a petty charge of selling untaxed cigarettes .
After a grand jury declined to indict Pantaleo , de Blasio spoke movingly at a Staten Island church about how he and his wife , Chirlane @ @ @ @ @ @ @ talked to their son , Dante , about “ a history that still hangs over us , the dangers he may face ” in encounters with police .

On the evening of May 29th, a New York state senator named Zellnor Myrie, a mild-mannered son of Caribbean immigrants from Flatbush, went to join a protest against police abuse outside the Barclays Center, in downtown Brooklyn. It was one of the first large rallies in New York City protesting the killing of George Floyd, in Minneapolis, last month.
Myrie, who is thirty-three, was elected two years ago as part of a wave of young progressive Democrats hoping to turn the legislature into an engine for change on issues from housing to criminal justice. His most prominent supporter was New York City’s mayor, Bill de Blasio, who has long considered himself the helmsman of the city’s progressives. “We need to elect Zellnor to hold a true Democratic majority in the State Senate,” de Blasio said, in an August, 2018, endorsement. “A fairer future for Central Brooklyn depends on it.”
Myrie lives with his mother, a home-health aide, in the same apartment building on Flatbush Avenue where he was raised. A product of local public schools, he went on to college at Fordham and has a law degree from Cornell. Despite growing up in a neighborhood where police often rousted young black men on the street, Myrie never had a severely bad encounter with officers.
That changed about an hour after he got to the protest. He arrived at the Barclays Center around 6 P.M., wearing a neon-green T-shirt with the words “Senator Myrie” on the back, meeting a fellow-legislator, Diana Richardson, a State Assembly member from Brooklyn. People were cheering and protesting. “It is a good crowd, and we are walking around,” he recalled. But, as the sun set, police officers started aggressively moving protesters from the street. Myrie and Richardson were hemmed in by a line of officers with bicycles. Behind them was a second line of officers, wearing helmets with plastic visors from the department’s Strategic Response Group, a special squad developed under William Bratton, de Blasio’s former police commissioner, to respond to threats of terrorism and civil unrest.
When police ordered protesters to move, Myrie said that he complied. But he was jarred as bicycle wheels banged into his legs and back. “I see them pushing everyone, weaponizing their bikes,” he recalled. “Then I start getting shoved by the S.R.G. officers as well.” When he turned to tell the cops that there was no need to push, he saw an officer wearing a face shield aim a can of pepper spray at him. “I see the orange chemical leaving the canister,” he said. “It is a haunting image for me. I get hit directly in the eyes.”
As Myrie roared in pain, he heard shouts of “cuff him, cuff him.” His arms were twisted behind him as plastic zip ties were tightly bound on his wrists. “It was pain like I never felt in my life,” he said. “I had never been pepper-sprayed. It was a combination of the burning and the bewilderment at being arrested while trying to keep the peace.”
In that volatile instant, it occurred to Myrie that if he made the wrong movement it could cost him his life. “Even talking about it now it is a really difficult thing to process,” he said last week. “Here, I had been at a protest against police brutality. I hadn’t thrown a bottle, hadn’t become belligerent, hadn’t put my hands on the officers—and here I was seeing my life pass before my eyes.”
Before Myrie could be loaded on a bus to be taken to central booking, a police supervisor recognized him and ordered him released and given medical treatment. De Blasio, who has insisted that his police force has been restrained in its treatment of peaceful demonstrators, later tried to call Myrie, but missed him. Myrie said that he was not in a hurry to call back.
“I think the Mayor has always operated from a place of good intentions,” Myrie said. “I never questioned that he wanted to do the right thing by the most New Yorkers. But I have to say that there are forces in this city, the police department being chief among them, that appear to have more influence over the process, and that is unacceptable.”
When Bill de Blasio first took office, in 2014, it would have been hard to imagine that he would wind up captive to his own police department. At a time when many New Yorkers were straining under heavy-handed policing and the surging cost of living in the city, de Blasio, formerly the public advocate, rose to the occasion. Ending racial injustice and police abuse were at the core of his campaign. He seemed to understand exactly what moment the city was in, and what the majority of its citizens wanted. During his first few years in office, he made good on a campaign pledge to end stop-and-frisk policing, and chalked up a scorecard of achievements to help even the scales in an unequal city: free pre-K and after-school programs, paid sick leave, a minimum wage of fifteen dollars an hour for city employees, minimal rent hikes in regulated buildings.
But de Blasio quickly seemed to lose interest in the nitty-gritty business of governing, twice attempting foolish gambits to make himself a national political figure. In 2015, he tried to host a forum in Iowa where Democratic Presidential candidates would discuss inequality and his “Progressive Agenda.” “I can’t tell you how many hours were wasted talking about who can come to the Iowa forum,” a former aide said last week. “Everyone was rolling their eyes.” No candidate took him up on his invitation, and the event was cancelled.
Last year, he tried again, this time running as a candidate for President himself. The result was that he squandered more than a year of his second term raising funds and traipsing through primary states. He dropped out last September, after never having risen above one per cent in the polls.
Back home, de Blasio was chronically late to meetings and events. In November, 2014, he missed the moment of silence at a memorial marking a 2001 plane crash on the Rockaway Peninsula that claimed two hundred and sixty-five lives. His office initially said that the boat he’d decided to take to the event had been delayed. Later, de Blasio acknowledged that he had left late after “a very rough night.”
Meetings at City Hall have had to be arranged around his daily routine of being driven in his mayoral convoy from Gracie Mansion, on the Upper East Side, to the Y.M.C.A. in his old neighborhood of Park Slope, simply to sit astride ordinary exercise machines that he could find within a few blocks of his city-supplied home. “We never made an appointment before ten-thirty or eleven,” the former aide said.
New Yorkers may have got their best glimpse of the mayor de Blasio might have become in July, 2014, after the death of Eric Garner, who was put in a banned chokehold by a police officer named Daniel Pantaleo while being arrested on a petty charge of selling untaxed cigarettes. After a grand jury declined to indict Pantaleo, de Blasio spoke movingly at a Staten Island church about how he and his wife, Chirlane McCray, who is black, had talked to their son, Dante, about “a history that still hangs over us, the dangers he may face” in encounters with police.
But de Blasio’s courage failed him a few days later, after a man gunned down two young police officers. The killer, who then shot himself, had threatened on social media to kill cops, citing the deaths of Garner and other police victims. The police-union chief, Patrick Lynch, accused de Blasio of having stoked anti-police sentiment. “There’s blood on many hands tonight,” Lynch told reporters outside the hospital where the victims were taken. “That blood on the hands starts on the steps of City Hall in the office of the mayor.” At the funeral of one of the victims, in a well-orchestrated maneuver, hundreds of police officers turned their backs to a video screen showing the Mayor.
According to the former aide, the incident left de Blasio “terrified of his own police.” Instead of ordering Pantaleo fired, he and his police commissioners dithered for five years before terminating him last summer. When, in 2016, lawyers in the police department said that they wanted to stop providing public notice of disciplinary actions taken against officers, arguing that it was illegal under a state law known as 50-A, de Blasio went along with them. Disclosing disciplinary actions had been standard for years, even under the militantly pro-cop Rudy Giuliani. It was one of the few narrow windows providing any transparency into police accountability.
Brad Lander, a Democratic City Council member who holds de Blasio’s former seat, representing Park Slope, in Brooklyn, said that he had urged the Mayor’s aides to take a tougher stand on the issue. “I told them, ‘Let a judge make you do it,’ ” Lander said last week. (In the wake of the protests, the State Legislature voted this week to repeal the law, as part of a package of other police reforms. New York’s governor, Andrew Cuomo, has said that he will sign the legislation.)