newyorker--2020-06-04--Racism, Police Violence, and the Climate Are Not Separate Issues

I find that lots of people are surprised to learn that , by overwhelming margins , the two groups of Americans who care most about climate change are Latinx Americans and African-Americans .
But , of course , those communities tend to be disproportionately exposed to the effects of global warming : working jobs that keep you outdoors , or on the move , on an increasingly hot planet , and living in densely populated and polluted areas .
( For many of the same reasons , these communities have proved disproportionately vulnerable to diseases such as the coronavirus .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ that money buys insulation , and white people , over all , have more of it .
Over the years , the environmental movement has morphed into the environmental-justice movement , and it ’ s been a singularly interesting and useful change .
Much of the most dynamic leadership of this fight now comes from Latinx and African-American communities , and from indigenous groups ; more to the point , the shift has broadened our understanding of what “ environmentalism ” is all about .
John Muir , who has some claim to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ explained that “ when we try to pick out anything by itself , we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe.
” He was talking about ecosystems , but it turns out that he was more correct than he knew : the political world is hopelessly ( and hopefully ) intertwined with the natural world .
So , for instance , living in a community with high levels of air pollution impairs human bodies—it raises blood pressure , increases cancer .
But so does living in a place with a brutal @ @ @ @ @ @ @ put it : Or , to put it another way , having a racist and violent police force in your neighborhood is a lot like having a coal-fired power plant in your neighborhood .
And having both ?
And maybe some smoke pouring in from a nearby wildfire ?
African-Americans are three times as likely to die from asthma as the rest of the population .
“ I Can ’ t Breathe ” is the daily condition of too many people in this country .
One way or another , there are a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ necks .
The job of people who care about the future—which is another way of saying the environmentalists—is to let everyone breathe easier .
But that simply can ’ t happen without all kinds of change .
Some of it looks like solar panels for rooftops , and some of it looks like radically reimagined police forces .
All of it is hitched together .
Nina Lakhani is the environmental-justice reporter for the Guardian .
Prior to that , she was a freelance reporter whose work took her to many parts of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she chronicled the sad story told in her new book , “ Who Killed Berta Cáceres ?
” The interview has been edited for clarity and length .
Why was Berta Cáceres killed—what fight was she involved in ?
Berta Cáceres was murdered after leading a long campaign to stop construction of an internationally financed hydroelectric dam on the Gualcarque River , in Rio Blanco , western Honduras .
The Agua Zarca Dam was among scores of environmentally destructive mega projects in indigenous territories sanctioned by the post-coup government , without the legally @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sacred by the indigenous Lenca people , who rely on the river for food , medicine , water , and spiritual nourishment .
The proposed dam would have diverted the river from the Rio Blanco community , who are mostly subsistence farmers , ruining their sustainable lives and forcing them to migrate to towns and cities—or the U.S.—in order to survive .
The community asked Berta , who was the coördinator of the Council of Popular and Indigenous Organizations of Honduras ( COPINH ) , to help them stop construction of the dam @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wave of terror against her and the community , which included harassment , defamation , trumped-up criminal charges , and dozens of threats .
But they couldn ’ t silence her , so they killed her , on March 2 , 2016 .
Somebody pulled the trigger—but who was behind that person ?
Berta was hated by the powerful network of political , economic , religious , and military élites that controls Honduras .
We know that a hit squad , a group of poor young men , were paid to murder Berta @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her bedroom , close to midnight ; another shot Gustavo Castro , a Mexican environmentalist and dear friend of Berta ’ s , who was staying at her house .
He was injured , but survived by playing dead .
Also present was the getaway-car driver and a former special-forces sergeant , who was coördinating the mission at the house .
The trial , which took place in late 2018 , convicted those four and three others , whom I ’ d describe as middlemen .
Don ’ t get me wrong—they played @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for and ordered the murder have not been prosecuted , even though the court ruled that Berta was killed because her actions were delaying the dam construction and costing the Honduran company building the dam , DESA , money .
David Castillo , the former executive president of the company , and a U.S.-trained former intelligence officer , is the only person so far accused of masterminding the crime .
He ’ s been in prison , awaiting trial , for twenty-seven months .
But the evidence strongly suggests that other company executives @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the country ’ s most powerful clans , should be investigated—yet none have even been formally questioned .
[ DESA has denied that Castillo or anyone else at the company was involved in the crime . ]
The possible role played by any state officials—police , military , judges , prosecutors , and politicians—before , during , and after the murder has never been investigated .

I find that lots of people are surprised to learn that, by overwhelming margins, the two groups of Americans who care most about climate change are Latinx Americans and African-Americans. But, of course, those communities tend to be disproportionately exposed to the effects of global warming: working jobs that keep you outdoors, or on the move, on an increasingly hot planet, and living in densely populated and polluted areas. (For many of the same reasons, these communities have proved disproportionately vulnerable to diseases such as the coronavirus.) One way of saying it is that money buys insulation, and white people, over all, have more of it.
Over the years, the environmental movement has morphed into the environmental-justice movement, and it’s been a singularly interesting and useful change. Much of the most dynamic leadership of this fight now comes from Latinx and African-American communities, and from indigenous groups; more to the point, the shift has broadened our understanding of what “environmentalism” is all about. John Muir, who has some claim to being the original modern environmentalist, once explained that “when we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe.” He was talking about ecosystems, but it turns out that he was more correct than he knew: the political world is hopelessly (and hopefully) intertwined with the natural world. So, for instance, living in a community with high levels of air pollution impairs human bodies—it raises blood pressure, increases cancer. But so does living in a place with a brutal police force. As one study recently put it:
When faced with a threat, the body produces hormones and other signals that turn on the systems that are necessary for survival in the short term. These changes include accelerated heart rate and increased respiratory rate. But when the threat becomes reoccurring and persistent—as is the case with police brutality—the survival process becomes dangerous and causes rapid wear and tear on body organs and elevated allostatic load. Deterioration of organs and systems caused by increased allostatic load occurs more frequently in Black populations and can lead to conditions such as diabetes, stroke, ulcers, cognitive impairment, autoimmune disorders, accelerated aging, and death.
Or, to put it another way, having a racist and violent police force in your neighborhood is a lot like having a coal-fired power plant in your neighborhood. And having both? And maybe some smoke pouring in from a nearby wildfire? African-Americans are three times as likely to die from asthma as the rest of the population. “I Can’t Breathe” is the daily condition of too many people in this country. One way or another, there are a lot of knees on a lot of necks.
The job of people who care about the future—which is another way of saying the environmentalists—is to let everyone breathe easier. But that simply can’t happen without all kinds of change. Some of it looks like solar panels for rooftops, and some of it looks like radically reimagined police forces. All of it is hitched together.
Passing the Mic
Nina Lakhani is the environmental-justice reporter for the Guardian. Prior to that, she was a freelance reporter whose work took her to many parts of the world, including Central America, where she chronicled the sad story told in her new book, “Who Killed Berta Cáceres?” The interview has been edited for clarity and length.
Why was Berta Cáceres killed—what fight was she involved in?
Berta Cáceres was murdered after leading a long campaign to stop construction of an internationally financed hydroelectric dam on the Gualcarque River, in Rio Blanco, western Honduras. The Agua Zarca Dam was among scores of environmentally destructive mega projects in indigenous territories sanctioned by the post-coup government, without the legally required consultation. The Gualcarque is considered sacred by the indigenous Lenca people, who rely on the river for food, medicine, water, and spiritual nourishment. The proposed dam would have diverted the river from the Rio Blanco community, who are mostly subsistence farmers, ruining their sustainable lives and forcing them to migrate to towns and cities—or the U.S.—in order to survive. The community asked Berta, who was the coördinator of the Council of Popular and Indigenous Organizations of Honduras (COPINH), to help them stop construction of the dam through peaceful actions. This unleashed a wave of terror against her and the community, which included harassment, defamation, trumped-up criminal charges, and dozens of threats. But they couldn’t silence her, so they killed her, on March 2, 2016.
Somebody pulled the trigger—but who was behind that person?
Berta was hated by the powerful network of political, economic, religious, and military élites that controls Honduras. We know that a hit squad, a group of poor young men, were paid to murder Berta: a gunman shot her dead in her bedroom, close to midnight; another shot Gustavo Castro, a Mexican environmentalist and dear friend of Berta’s, who was staying at her house. He was injured, but survived by playing dead. Also present was the getaway-car driver and a former special-forces sergeant, who was coördinating the mission at the house. The trial, which took place in late 2018, convicted those four and three others, whom I’d describe as middlemen. Don’t get me wrong—they played important roles. But those who paid for and ordered the murder have not been prosecuted, even though the court ruled that Berta was killed because her actions were delaying the dam construction and costing the Honduran company building the dam, DESA, money. David Castillo, the former executive president of the company, and a U.S.-trained former intelligence officer, is the only person so far accused of masterminding the crime. He’s been in prison, awaiting trial, for twenty-seven months. But the evidence strongly suggests that other company executives, who are members of one of the country’s most powerful clans, should be investigated—yet none have even been formally questioned. [DESA has denied that Castillo or anyone else at the company was involved in the crime.] The possible role played by any state officials—police, military, judges, prosecutors, and politicians—before, during, and after the murder has never been investigated.
What can we say about the role indigenous communities play in protecting the environment?
Indigenous people across the world mobilize against damaging environmental activities to protect their sacred lands, water, and traditional way of life, and they are involved in forty-one per cent of documented environmental conflicts, according to a new study analyzing nearly three thousand community movements. Across the board, environmental defenders face high rates of criminalization, physical violence, and assassination, but the risk is significantly higher when indigenous people are involved. In my experience reporting from across Mexico and Central America, environmentally destructive projects—such as mining, dams, logging, and tourism resorts—are imposed on indigenous communities without any consultation or compensation, and when they resist investors and politicians try to discredit them as anti-development and anti-green energy. This simply isn’t true. Imposing these environmentally destructive projects, including clean-energy projects, will destroy indigenous communities who could teach us so much about sustainability.
Climate School
Organized labor is often lumped in with progressive groups as a champion of environmental progress, and, indeed, many unions are engaged in the fight for a Green New Deal. But, as the climate journalist Steve Horn reminds us, in an incisive piece of reporting, other unions have continued to fight for pipelines and other big fossil-fuel initiatives. Some of them are joining with the former Obama Administration Energy Secretary Ernest Moniz in a coalition to back “clean coal,” natural gas, and other fossil-fuel projects. It will be fateful to see which vision carries the day, as the Democrats choose an energy future: the other pole is represented here, by Varshini Prakash, whom Senator Bernie Sanders has named to the joint task force on climate that he formed with Joe Biden. (The chairs are Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and the former Secretary of State John Kerry.)
A new study finds that four more years of Donald Trump could delay global-emissions cuts by a decade, since it will not just depress action here but give other leaders around the world a good excuse for inaction.


newyorker--2020-06-04--Social-Media Challenges That Are Too Complicated to Go Viral

Social media is bursting with creative challenges to keep everyone entertained during quarantine .
The most popular are centered around dancing ( like the # SavageChallenge ) , while others involve dressing up ( like the # DontRushChallenge ) or re-creating great works of art ( like the # GettyMuseChallenge ) .
With so many challenges on the Internet , there are inevitably some that are either too hard or just not fun enough to get their fifteen seconds of fame .
Here are a few challenges that were too complicated to go viral .
Sorry , Levi ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ again .
We ’ ve progressed to a highly developed sweatpants culture .
“ Watch the ‘ Cats ’ Film from Start to Finish ” Challenge Sure , people have time .
But people don ’ t want to spend it experiencing another disaster .
“ Spell ‘ Zach Galifianakis ’ on the First Try ” Challenge Before folks get to the last name , they will botch the spelling of his first name by choosing “ K ” instead of “ H. ” We ’ ve been failing at this as a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Any person participating in this challenge is just signing up to have their daily parental meltdown recorded .
“ Read the Thousand Six Hundred and Twenty-nine Unread E-mails in Your Inbox ” Challenge If those e-mails wanted to be read , they should ’ ve been sent to somebody who wants to read them .
“ Don ’ t Hit Snooze and Lie Back Down After the First Alarm ” Challenge Very dangerous .
Please do not try this at home .
This challenge can be executed correctly only by the gifted chefs @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and Don ’ t Look in the Tissue ” Challenge We know what ’ s in the tissue , but , so far , in the battle of us versus the temptation , the temptation is undefeated .
“ Reorganize the Kitchen Pantry Without Using Hands ” Challenge Impossible .
Many of us are still mustering the strength and courage to reorganize the kitchen pantry with our hands .

Social media is bursting with creative challenges to keep everyone entertained during quarantine. The most popular are centered around dancing (like the #SavageChallenge), while others involve dressing up (like the #DontRushChallenge) or re-creating great works of art (like the #GettyMuseChallenge).
With so many challenges on the Internet, there are inevitably some that are either too hard or just not fun enough to get their fifteen seconds of fame. Here are a few challenges that were too complicated to go viral.
“Put on Jeans” Challenge
Sorry, Levi’s, we’re never wearing jeans again. We’ve progressed to a highly developed sweatpants culture.
“Watch the ‘Cats’ Film from Start to Finish” Challenge
Sure, people have time. But people don’t want to spend it experiencing another disaster.
“Spell ‘Zach Galifianakis’ on the First Try” Challenge
Before folks get to the last name, they will botch the spelling of his first name by choosing “K” instead of “H.” We’ve been failing at this as a society for more than a decade.
“Solve a Kid’s Geometry Homework” Challenge
Any person participating in this challenge is just signing up to have their daily parental meltdown recorded.
“Read the Thousand Six Hundred and Twenty-nine Unread E-mails in Your Inbox” Challenge
If those e-mails wanted to be read, they should’ve been sent to somebody who wants to read them.
“Don’t Hit Snooze and Lie Back Down After the First Alarm” Challenge
Very dangerous. Please do not try this at home.
“Make Your Pancakes Golden Brown” Challenge
This challenge can be executed correctly only by the gifted chefs at IHOP.
“Blow Your Nose and Don’t Look in the Tissue” Challenge
We know what’s in the tissue, but, so far, in the battle of us versus the temptation, the temptation is undefeated.
“Reorganize the Kitchen Pantry Without Using Hands” Challenge
Impossible. Many of us are still mustering the strength and courage to reorganize the kitchen pantry with our hands.
“Explain the TikTok App” Challenge
Good luck with that, Generation Z.


newyorker--2020-06-04--Campaigning During the Coronavirus: The Race for New York’s Seventeenth Congressional District

Last November , Allison Fine resigned from the board of the prominent pro-choice group NARAL to enter the Democratic primary in New York ’ s Seventeenth Congressional District .
Fine , a self-described futurist and activist , has written three books about online organizing , including “ Momentum : Igniting Social Change in the Connected Age.
” She came into her campaign already thinking about the tensions between new and old ways of connecting with people , and of building support .
Then COVID-19 arrived .
For those campaigning in the Seventeenth , which was hit by the virus as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , this meant that the very mechanics of the election were thrown into question .
In-person campaigning was suspended .
Local news attention turned elsewhere .
Potential voters were out of work , stuck at home , and , in some cases , dying .
Fine called her friend Seth Godin , a digital-marketing pioneer , who lives a few towns over .
“ I said , ‘ All right , this will not be traditional in any sense of the word .
What do I do ?
’ ” Fine told me @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ‘ You know exactly what to do.
’ ” Fine announced that her campaign would go fully digital and embrace relational organizing , a buzzy term among political operatives for decentralizing campaigns and empowering volunteers .
“ The whole idea is to focus on identifying individual supporters , ” she said , “ and then providing them with tools to share information—about issues , or about me , or about the election—with their network.
” In mid-March , Fine let her field team go , paused her fund-raising ( “ I just @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in time , as a human being , ask people for money ” ) , and adjusted her plans for paid media , devoting more resources to online ads .
She made the centerpiece of her campaign a daily newsletter , which goes out to a list of five thousand subscribers .
It ’ s an intentionally stripped-down product : a chatty subject line followed by a short list of informational and diverting links , which Fine puts together every morning , after she ’ s had her breakfast and read through a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ We spend the rest of the day in conversation online on different platforms , whether it ’ s Facebook Live , Instagram , Twitter—wherever it is , ” she said .
“ We ’ ve gone all-in with building and strengthening a social network to connect with voters.
” In recent weeks , much attention has been paid to how Donald Trump and Joe Biden—two of the most famous politicians on the planet , facing off in perhaps the most consequential election in America ’ s history—will navigate campaigning during the coronavirus crisis @ @ @ @ @ @ @ other , essentially anonymous people running for office—whether for the local school board or the U.S. Senate—this year ?
Fine is facing six opponents , several of them better known and better funded than she .
But each candidate is trying to respond to the same situation : how to reach people at a time of social distancing , how to hold people ’ s attention at a time of maximum distraction , and how to talk about the issues—from climate change to the noise of planes landing at Westchester County Airport—during a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ running for office , and the people who cover the people who are running , think elections are like the Super Bowl , in the sense that everyone is paying attention and it is universally absorbed , when , in fact , they ’ re a lot more like a local bowling league , ” Godin said , when I called him to talk about the race .
Most political campaigns , Godin believes , are operating as if it ’ s still the twentieth century , when people consumed media passively and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” he said , “ is going to expose what electoral politics in the United States actually has become.
” The Seventeenth District is an arrowhead-shaped patch of New York State split fairly neatly in two , both geographically and culturally , by the lower Hudson River .
Situated just north of New York City , and full of wealthy commuters , it is among the most affluent congressional districts in the country .
And , yet , politically , like many districts , it is not a coherent whole .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in terms of the political culture of the two halves of the district , ” Barry Caro , a local political consultant , told me .
The eastern half of the Seventeenth covers northern and central Westchester County , including the towns of Chappaqua and Scarsdale—perhaps America ’ s quintessential rich suburbs , once a backdrop for John Cheever ’ s short stories and today the home of Bill and Hillary Clinton .
These bastions of Northeastern wealth are surrounded by pockets of poorer communities .
The district ’ s western half , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ more uniformly middle class .
It is often described simply as more blue-collar and conservative than Westchester , though locals will tell you it ’ s a blend of white , black , immigrant , and Hasidic Jewish communities .
Since 1989 , the region has been represented in Congress by Nita Lowey , a Democrat who quietly rose to become the first woman in history to chair the powerful House Appropriations Committee .
“ Nita Lowey has been around for so long that people ’ s careers began and ended waiting for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Mark Lungariello , a political reporter for the Journal News , the district ’ s most important daily , said .
In October , that path finally opened .
Lowey , who is eighty-two , announced that she would not seek reëlection in 2020 .
A rush of candidates came forward .
There were , at one point , sixteen people in the race ; early on , it was rumored that even Chelsea Clinton , the former First Daughter , would seek the seat .
Now , with less than a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , which is scheduled for June 23rd , the field is down to seven candidates .
In addition to Fine , there are two Davids : David Carlucci , a state senator from Rockland County and a founding member of the Independent Democratic Conference , which for years voted with Republican lawmakers to block progressive legislation in Albany ; and David Buchwald , a veteran state assemblyman from Westchester County with a particular interest in Trump ’ s taxes .
There is also Mondaire Jones , a young , lefty lawyer who supports @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a former Defense Department official who has raised her profile in recent years as a Trump-Russia analyst on MSNBC ; Asha Castleberry-Hernandez , a military veteran running as a national-security candidate ; and Adam Schleifer , a former federal prosecutor who is heir to a local pharmaceutical fortune .
( An eighth candidate , Catherine Parker , a Westchester County legislator , dropped out at the end of May . )
In such a blue district , the Democratic primary essentially is the election .
The winner later this month will almost certainly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in Congress .
But , at this point , it ’ s very hard to say who that winner will be .
There ’ s been no public polling in the race , and it ’ s widely believed that , in most , if not all , of the private polls commissioned by the campaigns , “ undecided ” still led the field going into the race ’ s final weeks .
In April , in an attempt to create safer conditions for voting , Governor Andrew Cuomo ordered that all voters @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the mail .
But it ’ s plausible that , because of the size of the field , ten or fifteen thousand votes , in a district with more than seven hundred thousand residents , may be enough to win a seat in Congress .
Meanwhile , the race has become one of the most expensive primaries in the country , with three candidates—Farkas , Jones , and Schleifer—poised to spend more than a million dollars each , and three others—Buchwald , Fine , and Carlucci—raising hundreds of thousands of dollars of their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the district are expected to be a blizzard of television ads , mailers , and phone calls , all trying to make up for the lack of organic local interest in the race .
“ They ’ re in the blind , ” Barrett Seaman , a former White House correspondent for Time magazine who now writes for the Hudson Independent , a local monthly , said .
“ They ’ re just a bunch of people with blindfolds on wandering through a room wondering when they ’ re going to hit a @ @ @

Last November, Allison Fine resigned from the board of the prominent pro-choice group NARAL to enter the Democratic primary in New York’s Seventeenth Congressional District. Fine, a self-described futurist and activist, has written three books about online organizing, including “Momentum: Igniting Social Change in the Connected Age.” She came into her campaign already thinking about the tensions between new and old ways of connecting with people, and of building support. Then COVID-19 arrived. For those campaigning in the Seventeenth, which was hit by the virus as hard as anywhere else in the country, this meant that the very mechanics of the election were thrown into question. In-person campaigning was suspended. Local news attention turned elsewhere. Potential voters were out of work, stuck at home, and, in some cases, dying. Fine called her friend Seth Godin, a digital-marketing pioneer, who lives a few towns over. “I said, ‘All right, this will not be traditional in any sense of the word. What do I do?’ ” Fine told me. “And he laughed and said, ‘You know exactly what to do.’ ”
Fine announced that her campaign would go fully digital and embrace relational organizing, a buzzy term among political operatives for decentralizing campaigns and empowering volunteers. “The whole idea is to focus on identifying individual supporters,” she said, “and then providing them with tools to share information—about issues, or about me, or about the election—with their network.” In mid-March, Fine let her field team go, paused her fund-raising (“I just couldn’t, at that moment in time, as a human being, ask people for money”), and adjusted her plans for paid media, devoting more resources to online ads. She made the centerpiece of her campaign a daily newsletter, which goes out to a list of five thousand subscribers. It’s an intentionally stripped-down product: a chatty subject line followed by a short list of informational and diverting links, which Fine puts together every morning, after she’s had her breakfast and read through a hard copy of the Times. “We spend the rest of the day in conversation online on different platforms, whether it’s Facebook Live, Instagram, Twitter—wherever it is,” she said. “We’ve gone all-in with building and strengthening a social network to connect with voters.”
In recent weeks, much attention has been paid to how Donald Trump and Joe Biden—two of the most famous politicians on the planet, facing off in perhaps the most consequential election in America’s history—will navigate campaigning during the coronavirus crisis. But what about the thousands of other, essentially anonymous people running for office—whether for the local school board or the U.S. Senate—this year? Fine is facing six opponents, several of them better known and better funded than she. But each candidate is trying to respond to the same situation: how to reach people at a time of social distancing, how to hold people’s attention at a time of maximum distraction, and how to talk about the issues—from climate change to the noise of planes landing at Westchester County Airport—during a pandemic. “The people who are running for office, and the people who cover the people who are running, think elections are like the Super Bowl, in the sense that everyone is paying attention and it is universally absorbed, when, in fact, they’re a lot more like a local bowling league,” Godin said, when I called him to talk about the race. Most political campaigns, Godin believes, are operating as if it’s still the twentieth century, when people consumed media passively and television was king. “The pandemic,” he said, “is going to expose what electoral politics in the United States actually has become.”
The Seventeenth District is an arrowhead-shaped patch of New York State split fairly neatly in two, both geographically and culturally, by the lower Hudson River. Situated just north of New York City, and full of wealthy commuters, it is among the most affluent congressional districts in the country. And, yet, politically, like many districts, it is not a coherent whole. “It’s an absolute chasm, in terms of the political culture of the two halves of the district,” Barry Caro, a local political consultant, told me. The eastern half of the Seventeenth covers northern and central Westchester County, including the towns of Chappaqua and Scarsdale—perhaps America’s quintessential rich suburbs, once a backdrop for John Cheever’s short stories and today the home of Bill and Hillary Clinton. These bastions of Northeastern wealth are surrounded by pockets of poorer communities. The district’s western half, Rockland County—the point of the arrowhead— is more uniformly middle class. It is often described simply as more blue-collar and conservative than Westchester, though locals will tell you it’s a blend of white, black, immigrant, and Hasidic Jewish communities.
Since 1989, the region has been represented in Congress by Nita Lowey, a Democrat who quietly rose to become the first woman in history to chair the powerful House Appropriations Committee. “Nita Lowey has been around for so long that people’s careers began and ended waiting for a clear path to that seat,” Mark Lungariello, a political reporter for the Journal News, the district’s most important daily, said. In October, that path finally opened. Lowey, who is eighty-two, announced that she would not seek reëlection in 2020. A rush of candidates came forward. There were, at one point, sixteen people in the race; early on, it was rumored that even Chelsea Clinton, the former First Daughter, would seek the seat.
Now, with less than a month to go before the Democratic primary, which is scheduled for June 23rd, the field is down to seven candidates. In addition to Fine, there are two Davids: David Carlucci, a state senator from Rockland County and a founding member of the Independent Democratic Conference, which for years voted with Republican lawmakers to block progressive legislation in Albany; and David Buchwald, a veteran state assemblyman from Westchester County with a particular interest in Trump’s taxes. There is also Mondaire Jones, a young, lefty lawyer who supports Medicare for All; Evelyn Farkas, a former Defense Department official who has raised her profile in recent years as a Trump-Russia analyst on MSNBC; Asha Castleberry-Hernandez, a military veteran running as a national-security candidate; and Adam Schleifer, a former federal prosecutor who is heir to a local pharmaceutical fortune. (An eighth candidate, Catherine Parker, a Westchester County legislator, dropped out at the end of May.)
In such a blue district, the Democratic primary essentially is the election. The winner later this month will almost certainly be the Seventeenth’s next representative in Congress. But, at this point, it’s very hard to say who that winner will be. There’s been no public polling in the race, and it’s widely believed that, in most, if not all, of the private polls commissioned by the campaigns, “undecided” still led the field going into the race’s final weeks. In April, in an attempt to create safer conditions for voting, Governor Andrew Cuomo ordered that all voters in the state receive absentee-ballot applications in the mail. But it’s plausible that, because of the size of the field, ten or fifteen thousand votes, in a district with more than seven hundred thousand residents, may be enough to win a seat in Congress. Meanwhile, the race has become one of the most expensive primaries in the country, with three candidates—Farkas, Jones, and Schleifer—poised to spend more than a million dollars each, and three others—Buchwald, Fine, and Carlucci—raising hundreds of thousands of dollars of their own. The next three weeks in the district are expected to be a blizzard of television ads, mailers, and phone calls, all trying to make up for the lack of organic local interest in the race. “They’re in the blind,” Barrett Seaman, a former White House correspondent for Time magazine who now writes for the Hudson Independent, a local monthly, said. “They’re just a bunch of people with blindfolds on wandering through a room wondering when they’re going to hit a wall.”
On April 17th, Mondaire Jones held a Zoom “town hall” event with several community figures—including a city councilmember from Peekskill, the mayor of the town of Irvington, and a food-bank organizer from Nyack—to discuss local COVID-19-response efforts. Jones, a thirty-three-year-old graduate of Harvard Law School, grew up in Section 8 housing in Rockland County, and he likes to say that he’s running to represent the same people whose homes his grandmother once cleaned. If elected, he would be the first openly gay black member of Congress. Last July, he declared his intention to challenge Lowey, before she announced her retirement. He’s drawn endorsements from prominent progressives, including Elizabeth Warren, raised hundreds of thousands of dollars online, and enjoys the support of what both he and his opponents describe as an “army” of college-age volunteers from around the country. “I’m the best opportunity remaining in the year 2020 to elect a progressive to Congress,” he told me.
Jones and his campaign have a political insurgent’s faith in doorstep conversions. They had been preparing for a spring of canvassing and in-person events, and were expecting to benefit from the kind of positive press that other progressive newcomers have recently received in blue districts. But Jones, like all of his opponents, has been forced to move many of the public-facing parts of his campaign onto Zoom. For the April 17th town hall, the campaign asked its supporters to each recruit two other people to watch the event. About ninety people logged on.
In the short time since Zoom has become a venue for political events, campaigns and organizing groups around the country have traded tips and best practices. Jones’s campaign knew, for instance, that, to avoid unwanted attendees, a Zoom link should be posted on Facebook only on the day of an event. But not much time had been spent thinking about other security measures. The event in April began smoothly, with Jones introducing his guests and attendees dropping questions into the app’s chat box. About halfway through, though, one of the participants hijacked the proceedings with Zoom’s screen-share function. The Jones campaign had been Zoombombed. Graphic child pornography suddenly appeared before everyone’s eyes. “It was really, really bad,” Jones said. After a few agonizing moments of confusion, the campaign’s digital director told everyone to log off. Jones and his guests did their best to resume the conversation moments later, after disabling the screen-share function, but nearly half the event’s attendees didn’t return.
Afterward, Jones’s campaign reported the incident to both Zoom and the F.B.I. Jones personally texted as many of the attendees as his campaign could track down to let them know that a therapist had volunteered to host a Zoom event for anyone who felt the need to talk about what they’d seen. About fifteen people took the campaign up on the offer. The campaign also gave some staffers two days off, to process what had happened. In late May, the campaign heard from Zoom. “[W]e have experienced an unexpected surge in support requests,” a form e-mail said. “Thank you for choosing Zoom to stay connected and safe in these uncertain times.”
The incident was actually the second Zoombombing in the race. Two days earlier, a virtual event for Evelyn Farkas, who served as the Deputy Assistant Secretary of Defense for Russia, Ukraine, and Eurasia in the Obama Administration, was interrupted by a half-dozen people, some of whom held up “Make America Great Again” posters while others played pornography and made racist declarations. “She’s been pretty constantly attacked by trolls on social media, foreign and domestic, since she spoke out against the Trump-Russia connection,” Matt Urfirer, Farkas’s deputy campaign manager, told a local newspaper.
Farkas grew up in the district but made her career in Washington. After Donald Trump’s election, she became a regular face on MSNBC. (“She was one of the first to raise the alarm about President Trump’s corrupt ties to Russia,” her campaign bio reads. “She was attacked by Fox News, Sean Hannity, and conservative media, but she would not be silenced.”) In November, she announced her entry into the race on the set of “Morning Joe.” Going into the spring, Farkas was raising large sums of money, and earning endorsements from foreign-policy big shots, including the former Secretary of State John Kerry and the former Defense Secretary Leon Panetta. “I want someone representing us in Washington who understands what’s at risk,” she told me. “What’s going on internationally.” But her opponents were accusing her of carpetbagging. Zoom was the venue through which she has been trying to introduce herself to the district. She’s tapped her network for special guests to boost turnout at digital “forums”; Zeke Emanuel, the noted health-care-policy expert and brother of Rahm Emanuel, came on to talk about the coronavirus crisis. But she’s been careful not to tax her audience. “These aren’t very long sessions,” she said. “Because people get really fatigued in their homes, trying to balance family and everything else.”
It’s difficult to measure what effect all these Zoom events are having on the race, and how far into the community they’re reaching. “Face-to-face interactions are the way you make an impression on people,” Caro, the political consultant, said. “Zoom or Google Hangouts or any kind of video conferencing—it creates such a higher barrier for entry to average voters that you end up, to a much larger extent than you would under normal campaigning, I think, just speaking to a subset of the electorate.” The ability to read a room is part of what separates good politicians from bad ones. In-person energy is how candidates build rapport, hone stump speeches, and figure out if they’re connecting with people. Before this year, local campaigns were won in living rooms as much as anywhere else. “Not only do you not have the carrot sticks, and the crudité, and the hummus, and the Pinot Grigio, or whatever it is,” Adam Schleifer, who is running in his first-ever campaign, told me, “but you’re sort of just in this somewhat artificial environment on the laptop.”
Door knocking may be out, but phone-banking is still in. Several of the candidates in the Seventeenth have adopted what has become a common campaign tactic during the pandemic: making “check-in” calls to voters. Rather than to simply push a candidate or a cause, in the Seventeenth and elsewhere, calls are being made to check in with people, to see how they are, to attempt to make human connection. Jones in particular has a robust phone-banking operation. And yet, if these calls do reach a person in need, what, really, can a campaign do? Several of the candidates in the Seventeenth told me of referring people to nonprofits or other resources. In this sense, the two candidates in the race who currently hold state-level office—David Carlucci and David Buchwald—hold an advantage. People are calling them. “My phone in the Senate has been ringing off the hook—our offices are physically closed, but the phone lines are still open,” Carlucci, Rockland County’s state senator, told me. People are calling with questions about unemployment benefits, small-business loans, testing access, and health care. “As a state senator, people don’t seek me out when things are going great,” he said. “They come find me when stuff has hit the fan.” Since in-person campaigning was shut down, some of Carlucci’s opponents have accused him of blurring the lines between his current job and his campaign. Voting-instruction mailers sent from his state-senate office, for example, prominently featured his face and name. “Obviously, I can’t ask people for their vote or anything like that, or tell them that I’m running, when I’m working in that capacity,” he told me. “But it does just help prove my worth, and that’s what I’ve always done.”
Despite trailing in fund-raising, and not being particularly interested in digital campaigning, it is a widely held assumption around the district that Carlucci is in as good a position as anyone to win the election on June 23rd. It would be an astonishing development for New York Democratic politics: in 2011, when Carlucci was first elected to the state senate, he helped form the Independent Democratic Caucus, a moderate group that effectively served to empower Republicans and thwart more liberal Democrats in the chamber. In 2018, the I.D.C. felt the wrath of New York State’s liberal voters: six of its eight members fell to primary challengers. Carlucci was among the two who survived. Now, running for Congress in one of the bluest districts in the state, he has made an effort to shed his centrist image. His campaign Web site describes him as an “experienced, progressive Democrat”; recently, he expressed support for a Green New Deal and a public option for health care. With so many other candidates in the race splitting the vote in Westchester County, Carlucci could conceivably win a plurality on little more than his name recognition in Rockland. “Look, I’ve managed to piss off everyone at least once or twice,” he told me. “You just hopefully didn’t piss them off too many times that it’s beyond the point of no return.”
Like Carlucci, David Buchwald has been leaning into his day job. A state assemblyman, he’s been fielding constituent calls, and in March he introduced legislation to provide loans to small businesses hurt by the pandemic. “I spend a lot of my time now getting folks on the front lines the things they need to respond,” he told me. “This is one of those circumstances where being a good state assemblyman and being a strong Democratic candidate for Congress are fully aligned.” Instead of spending his mornings shaking hands on the platforms of Metro-North stations, he’s spending his afternoons on conference calls with Cuomo’s office and other state legislators. A former intern in Lowey’s office, Buchwald is also campaigning on a bespoke issue of national relevance: a former tax attorney, Buchwald helped write the law that makes Trump’s state tax returns available to Congress. He fears that a split of the vote in Westchester may hand Carlucci the seat. “There are candidates who are trying to go after their share of what are called the anti-Carlucci votes, and I don’t think that that approach actually harms Senator Carlucci,” he told me. “I am a believer that those who are concerned about Senator Carlucci should recognize that there is quite a contrast between Rockland David and Westchester David. With Westchester David, you get a state legislator with real progressive accomplishments who has been true blue.”
The remaining dark horse is Adam Schleifer, whose father, Leonard Schleifer, is the C.E.O. of Regeneron, a pharmaceutical company based in Tarrytown, which is now in the race to find drugs to combat COVID-19. His opponents universally scoff at the fact that Schleifer has been able to spend over a million dollars of his and his family’s money to run countless TV ads and blanket the district with mailers, which have helped him go from a curiosity to a legitimate contender. Schleifer, who is thirty-eight, hates the idea of being seen as a rich-kid candidate. An early campaign video he made, titled “Why I’m Running,” makes no mention of his father but, rather, focusses on his grandfather, who survived the Holocaust; his brother, who has special needs; and his mother, whom Schleifer credits with inspiring his interest in the law. And he has packed his schedule with Zoom meetings, phone calls, and interviews, to make his campaign more than an ad buy. In an interview, he described Regeneron as an unprofitable company that had “setback after setback” for decades, until it hit upon a treatment for macular degeneration, in 2011. (It has since developed drugs for Ebola and other diseases.) When his holdings in Regeneron suddenly ballooned his net worth, he quit his corporate law job to work in the public sector, first as a consumer-protection regulator in Andrew Cuomo’s gubernatorial administration and then as an assistant U.S. Attorney in Los Angeles, where he contributed to the “Varsity Blues” college-admissions scam case. “I taught a section of con law in law school,” he told me. “I am a scholar of the law. I understand government. I’ve worked in Article II. I’ve worked in Article III. The article left is Article I.”


newyorker--2020-06-04--How the Protests Have Changed the Pandemic

In the final months of the First World War , after the initial wave of the influenza pandemic had waned and as the United States and its allies were mounting the Hundred Days Offensive , the city of Philadelphia planned a parade .
The U.S. had only recently introduced a federal income tax and was struggling to raise revenue ; local officials were under pressure to sell war bonds , known as Liberty Loans .
Around the country , parades would be venues for both patriotism and fund-raising .
Philadelphia doctors , alarmed by the prospect of a large gathering @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s health commissioner , Wilmer Krusen , to cancel its parade .
But city officials , although they distributed flyers urging people to cover their mouths when sneezing or coughing , allowed it to proceed .
On September 28 , 1918 , two hundred thousand people watched and cheered as a miles-long procession of troops , Boy Scouts , and women ’ s auxiliaries made its way down Broad Street .
Warplanes were displayed on floats , and John Philip Sousa led an impressive group of marching bands , while bond salesmen @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hundreds of millions of dollars .
But , within seventy-two hours , not a single hospital bed in Philadelphia remained unoccupied .
In the coming weeks , nearly fifty thousand residents would become infected with influenza ; in the month after the parade , ten thousand died of it .
In St. Louis , which had cancelled its parade , fewer than seven hundred people died of influenza during the same period .
The killing of George Floyd is not the hawking of government bonds , and the coronavirus is not influenza .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ even those held outdoors , even with precautions , are potential super-spreader events—opportunities for a virus to explode through a population .
In the past week , tens of thousands of Americans have taken to the streets in scores of cities to protest racial injustice and police brutality ; by Wednesday , more than nine thousand had been arrested .
Many of the cautious , phased reopening plans state governments had put in place have been upended .
As a matter of racial justice , the case for protest is unequivocal : Floyd @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the latest in a series .
From a public-health perspective , however , the situation is more complex .
Fragile progress toward containing the coronavirus has been threatened .
Last month , we debated how far the virus could travel when we speak loudly , and how close together tables at restaurants should be ; this month , we may learn how much virus is expelled from the nose and mouth when pepper spray irritates the lungs .
Even before the protests , confirmed coronavirus cases were holding steady or increasing in many @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as Minneapolis , Los Angeles , and Atlanta , which saw some of the largest protests .
Last week , Minnesota recorded its highest single-day COVID-19 death toll to date .
The state ’ s health commissioner , Jan Malcolm , warned that the protests would “ very predictably accelerate the spread ” of the coronavirus ; the mayor of Atlanta , Keisha Lance Bottoms , advised demonstrators that they “ probably need to go get a COVID test this week.
” Howard Markel , a physician and medical historian at the University @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is sympathetic to the demands of the protesters but deeply concerned about viral risk .
“ As a historian , I ’ m uncomfortable predicting the future , ” he said .
“ But , as a doctor , I believe these protests will lead to a spike in cases .
The only question is how large the spike will be.
” The close proximity of protesters creates obvious concerns , but , from an infectious-disease standpoint , that ’ s just the beginning .
What starts as a socially distanced endeavor may @ @ @ @ @ @ @ exert themselves as they march , shout , and push against barricades .
“ You watch these protests and often people are being corralled together with sawhorses , ” Markel said .
“ They ’ re yelling , screaming , and , of course , droplets are flying everywhere.
” Though most protests have been peaceful , some have entailed violent encounters with law enforcement .
“ Now consider the dispersal tactics used by police : tear gas and pepper spray , ” Markel continued .
“ They make you cry , they @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mucus—all of which exacerbates spread of the virus.
” Tear gas can collect on masks , making them unbearable to wear .
Some protesters are arrested and taken to jail , where rates of viral transmission are astronomical .
Others wait at crowded bus stops or take the subway home , where the virus spreads to friends , neighbors , and family members .
When I spoke with Ashish Jha , the director of the Harvard Global Health Institute , he told me that he hopes that , because the protests are outside @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be limited .
But he also warned that cases could surge , particularly if people don ’ t have the opportunity to engage in safe practices .
“ I support the protesters and what they ’ re protesting for , ” Jha said .
“ But obviously we ’ re in the middle of a pandemic .
We have to walk a fine line .
I care deeply about issues of justice , but I also care deeply about people not getting sick.
” Meanwhile , Jha said , too much focus on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ could itself be dangerous .
“ If we do see cases spike , people are going to say it ’ s all the protesters , ” he said .
“ I can see those headlines already.
” The protests coincide with many other factors—restaurant and workplace reopenings , elective surgeries , barbecues and pool parties .
It will be hard to disentangle the effects of the demonstrations from the effects of planned reopening .
Still , Jha said , “ Even if it ’ s not clear exactly what causes a surge , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it on the protests.
” Miranda Yaver , a political scientist at the University of California , Los Angeles , who studies public health , decided to join the protests in her city , despite the personal and pandemic risks .
Yaver has an endocrine disorder that requires regular treatment , which makes her more vulnerable to COVID-19 .
Still , she felt compelled to participate .
“ Silence is what allows for the perpetuation of these disparities , ” she said .
“ I ’ m scared there will be terrible COVID @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I ’ m also scared of what happens when we allow racial injustice to go unchecked.
” A veteran demonstrator , Yaver has participated in dozens of protests , beginning with marches against the Iraq War and continuing through the deaths of Eric Garner and Michael Brown .
She came across plans for the Los Angeles demonstrations on Twitter , drew up a sign ( “ White Silence = Violence ” ) and made her way to City Hall , where thousands had gathered .
That was the first time she was tear-gassed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ crazy , ” she said .
“ I couldn ’ t see .
The next day , they started shooting rubber bullets at the crowd.
” Yaver returned to protest for the next several days .
In her experience , most demonstrators wore masks , but adequate social distancing was impossible .
“ Mass gatherings like this are a nightmare from a public-health perspective , ” she said .
“ I carry real guilt about participating .
But I ’ d feel more guilt about being a passive observer .
There ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Bell , who lives in Charlottesville , Virginia , is both an infectious-disease and a critical-care physician—exactly the sort of doctor one wants when contending with a hyper-contagious virus that sends people to the I.C.U .
Since the start of the pandemic , he ’ s been caring for COVID-19 patients and helping to develop the response plan for his hospital , at the University of Virginia .
Bell moved with his family to Charlottesville in 2017 , a month before white supremacists and neo-Nazis descended on the city for the Unite the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , as a black man , he ’ s been disturbed but not surprised by both the most recent examples of police brutality and the disproportionate coronavirus death toll among African-Americans .
( Nationally , the COVID-19 mortality rate for black Americans is two-point-four times higher than the rate for whites . )

In the final months of the First World War, after the initial wave of the influenza pandemic had waned and as the United States and its allies were mounting the Hundred Days Offensive, the city of Philadelphia planned a parade. The U.S. had only recently introduced a federal income tax and was struggling to raise revenue; local officials were under pressure to sell war bonds, known as Liberty Loans. Around the country, parades would be venues for both patriotism and fund-raising. Philadelphia doctors, alarmed by the prospect of a large gathering during the pandemic, beseeched the city’s health commissioner, Wilmer Krusen, to cancel its parade. But city officials, although they distributed flyers urging people to cover their mouths when sneezing or coughing, allowed it to proceed.
On September 28, 1918, two hundred thousand people watched and cheered as a miles-long procession of troops, Boy Scouts, and women’s auxiliaries made its way down Broad Street. Warplanes were displayed on floats, and John Philip Sousa led an impressive group of marching bands, while bond salesmen worked the crowd. The parade raised hundreds of millions of dollars. But, within seventy-two hours, not a single hospital bed in Philadelphia remained unoccupied. In the coming weeks, nearly fifty thousand residents would become infected with influenza; in the month after the parade, ten thousand died of it. In St. Louis, which had cancelled its parade, fewer than seven hundred people died of influenza during the same period.
The killing of George Floyd is not the hawking of government bonds, and the coronavirus is not influenza. But parallels remain: mass gatherings, even those held outdoors, even with precautions, are potential super-spreader events—opportunities for a virus to explode through a population. In the past week, tens of thousands of Americans have taken to the streets in scores of cities to protest racial injustice and police brutality; by Wednesday, more than nine thousand had been arrested. Many of the cautious, phased reopening plans state governments had put in place have been upended. As a matter of racial justice, the case for protest is unequivocal: Floyd’s killing was grotesque, and the latest in a series. From a public-health perspective, however, the situation is more complex. Fragile progress toward containing the coronavirus has been threatened. Last month, we debated how far the virus could travel when we speak loudly, and how close together tables at restaurants should be; this month, we may learn how much virus is expelled from the nose and mouth when pepper spray irritates the lungs.
Even before the protests, confirmed coronavirus cases were holding steady or increasing in many parts of the country—including in cities such as Minneapolis, Los Angeles, and Atlanta, which saw some of the largest protests. Last week, Minnesota recorded its highest single-day COVID-19 death toll to date. The state’s health commissioner, Jan Malcolm, warned that the protests would “very predictably accelerate the spread” of the coronavirus; the mayor of Atlanta, Keisha Lance Bottoms, advised demonstrators that they “probably need to go get a COVID test this week.” Howard Markel, a physician and medical historian at the University of Michigan, told me that he is sympathetic to the demands of the protesters but deeply concerned about viral risk. “As a historian, I’m uncomfortable predicting the future,” he said. “But, as a doctor, I believe these protests will lead to a spike in cases. The only question is how large the spike will be.”
The close proximity of protesters creates obvious concerns, but, from an infectious-disease standpoint, that’s just the beginning. What starts as a socially distanced endeavor may quickly devolve as events unfold. Demonstrators exert themselves as they march, shout, and push against barricades. “You watch these protests and often people are being corralled together with sawhorses,” Markel said. “They’re yelling, screaming, and, of course, droplets are flying everywhere.” Though most protests have been peaceful, some have entailed violent encounters with law enforcement. “Now consider the dispersal tactics used by police: tear gas and pepper spray,” Markel continued. “They make you cry, they cause your nose and mouth to secrete mucus—all of which exacerbates spread of the virus.” Tear gas can collect on masks, making them unbearable to wear. Some protesters are arrested and taken to jail, where rates of viral transmission are astronomical. Others wait at crowded bus stops or take the subway home, where the virus spreads to friends, neighbors, and family members.
When I spoke with Ashish Jha, the director of the Harvard Global Health Institute, he told me that he hopes that, because the protests are outside, their impact on coronavirus transmission will be limited. But he also warned that cases could surge, particularly if people don’t have the opportunity to engage in safe practices. “I support the protesters and what they’re protesting for,” Jha said. “But obviously we’re in the middle of a pandemic. We have to walk a fine line. I care deeply about issues of justice, but I also care deeply about people not getting sick.” Meanwhile, Jha said, too much focus on the protests as a source of infection could itself be dangerous. “If we do see cases spike, people are going to say it’s all the protesters,” he said. “I can see those headlines already.” The protests coincide with many other factors—restaurant and workplace reopenings, elective surgeries, barbecues and pool parties. It will be hard to disentangle the effects of the demonstrations from the effects of planned reopening. Still, Jha said, “Even if it’s not clear exactly what causes a surge, it may become politically convenient to blame it on the protests.”
Miranda Yaver, a political scientist at the University of California, Los Angeles, who studies public health, decided to join the protests in her city, despite the personal and pandemic risks. Yaver has an endocrine disorder that requires regular treatment, which makes her more vulnerable to COVID-19. Still, she felt compelled to participate. “Silence is what allows for the perpetuation of these disparities,” she said. “I’m scared there will be terrible COVID outbreaks because of these protests, but I’m also scared of what happens when we allow racial injustice to go unchecked.”
A veteran demonstrator, Yaver has participated in dozens of protests, beginning with marches against the Iraq War and continuing through the deaths of Eric Garner and Michael Brown. She came across plans for the Los Angeles demonstrations on Twitter, drew up a sign (“White Silence = Violence”) and made her way to City Hall, where thousands had gathered. That was the first time she was tear-gassed. “My eyes were burning like crazy,” she said. “I couldn’t see. The next day, they started shooting rubber bullets at the crowd.” Yaver returned to protest for the next several days. In her experience, most demonstrators wore masks, but adequate social distancing was impossible. “Mass gatherings like this are a nightmare from a public-health perspective,” she said. “I carry real guilt about participating. But I’d feel more guilt about being a passive observer. There’s no win-win or easy answer.”
Taison Bell, who lives in Charlottesville, Virginia, is both an infectious-disease and a critical-care physician—exactly the sort of doctor one wants when contending with a hyper-contagious virus that sends people to the I.C.U. Since the start of the pandemic, he’s been caring for COVID-19 patients and helping to develop the response plan for his hospital, at the University of Virginia. Bell moved with his family to Charlottesville in 2017, a month before white supremacists and neo-Nazis descended on the city for the Unite the Right rally. He told me that, as a black man, he’s been disturbed but not surprised by both the most recent examples of police brutality and the disproportionate coronavirus death toll among African-Americans. (Nationally, the COVID-19 mortality rate for black Americans is two-point-four times higher than the rate for whites.)
Watching the current protests, Bell has wanted to join them; at the same time, he has worried about how they may worsen the pandemic. “The question is: How do you balance these competing needs to advocate for your life?” Bell said. “I’m a black man and a physician. I can’t choose one identity over the other, nor do I want to. Two competing factors, racism and COVID, are killing my community. It feels really unfair that I can’t fight both at the same time.” He and his wife have discussed this quandary many times without resolving it. I asked him what he says to patients or friends who tell him that they want to participate. “I tell them that, in addition to the long-standing threat of police brutality, there’s the added threat of COVID right now,” he said. “I tell them that, if you feel compelled to go, do the best you can: wear a mask, stay socially distanced, don’t share megaphones or water. Obviously, that’s all going to be very hard in this raw, emotional moment, but it may be the only choice you have if you want your voice heard.”
Bell has made a study of the trends that explain the disproportionate disease burden that black communities are bearing during the pandemic. In addition to working in jobs with greater exposure to the virus, African-Americans have higher rates of chronic disease; those rates, in turn, are attributable to poverty, unsafe neighborhoods, limited access to medical care, and persistent and pervasive prejudice. A growing body of research has suggested that chronic discrimination leaves its mark on the body by hardening arteries, disrupting sleep, raising blood pressure, propagating inflammation, and interfering with genetic machinery. “There’s a direct connection between the high COVID burden and structural racism,” Bell said. “That’s a powerful word, but it’s important to call it out.”


newyorker--2020-06-04--Protesting Past Curfew in New York City

Protesting Past Curfew in New York City

Early in the afternoon on Monday , I walked down Broadway in Greenwich Village .
I saw broken windows at Warehouse Wines & Spirits , a Citibank , and a Foot Locker .
To prevent more scenes like this , Mayor Bill de Blasio issued an emergency executive order that afternoon , imposing the first citywide curfew since 1943 , when an uprising in Harlem was sparked by a white police officer shooting a black soldier .
“ WHEREAS , the City remains subject to State and City Declarations of Emergency related to the novel coronavirus disease , COVID-19 ; @ @ @ @ @ @ @ been happening primarily during the hours of darkness , and it is especially difficult to preserve public safety during such hours ; and WHEREAS , the imposition of a curfew is necessary to protect the City and its residents from severe endangerment and harm to their health , safety and property , ” de Blasio ’ s order read .
On Monday night , thousands of demonstrators responded to the new 11 P.M. curfew in the only possible way : by staying outside for as long as they could .
As the clock @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of several hundred marchers making their way down Atlantic Avenue in Crown Heights , Brooklyn .
They had begun at the Barclays Center , travelled east down Eastern Parkway , and were now doubling back west , almost making a full circle .
An ancient gray Volvo station wagon kept the walkers supplied with water and Cheetos , dematerializing and rematerializing like a ghost ship depending on the police presence .
( “ We zip around , that ’ s what we do , ” the driver , who was white , told @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had managed to avoid getting pulled over . )
At Grand Army Plaza , there was some discussion about whether to split forces and take the park .
“ There ’ s no need to go in circles , let ’ s stay right here , ” one demonstrator suggested , but she was overruled .
“ I ’ ll walk all night , ” another vowed , as they turned down Washington Avenue , chanting , “ Fuck the curfew.
” Over the weekend , police and protesters had been in sustained @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Flatbush Avenue in front of the Barclays Center ; the Eighty-eighth Precinct , in Clinton Hill bordering Bedford-Stuyvesant ; particular intersections in Flatbush .
Now , as the numbers of protesters grew , and they settled on the strategy of breaking into ambulatory groups , the dynamic changed .
Marchers , now monitored by police in the air and on the ground , would for the most part walk , for as long and as far as they could , with violence mostly contained to the moments when the police blocked them at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ false perception that things had calmed down when , really , they had simply evolved .
On Monday night , in spite of the curfew , looters ransacked stores in Manhattan and the Bronx but , in the end , much of the documented violence was perpetuated not by them but by the police , as they took protesters into custody .
With the curfew , the Mayor appeared to have given the N.Y.P.D .
carte blanche to arrest whomever it wanted after nightfall , and process them through a crowded Central Booking @ @ @ @ @ @ @ health ?
And whose safety ?
And whose city , exactly , was protected by the order ?
No single body was organizing the demonstrations on Tuesday .
Activist groups would announce rallies on social media , and other activists would compile and disseminate the information .
Supporters at home monitored police scanners and Department of Transportation traffic cameras to keep people on the ground updated .
The first of the rallies had begun at 1 P.M. , in Foley Square .
I took the subway there , from Bushwick , and my @ @ @ @ @ @ @ protesters .
After our long spring of sweatpants , fashion had returned : one demonstrator wore pink digi-camouflage pants and a rhinestone headband ; another , a tie-dyed sweatshirt with an X-ed out happy face .
Everyone in New York City under the age of thirty had a destination now .
Except for security guards and workers at the few fast-food restaurants that were still open , the Financial District was utterly deserted .
Did anyone still live in Manhattan ?
“ This location of Au Bon Pain will close on May 17 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bakery read .
In sharp contrast to the outer boroughs , where pedestrians still jostled on the sidewalks as they did their errands , a sense of abandonment pervaded the neighborhood .
One reason the movement has grown so quickly is the ease with which New York ’ s streets and sidewalks can be navigated right now .
The city ’ s signage remained frozen in its old context .
It was hard not to notice how much of the advertising insisted on goodness and detoxification , on ethics , heritage , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ re about to enjoy was roasted : 5.2 miles away , ” advertising on the darkened windows of For Five Coffee Roasters chirped .
By the evening , thousands of protesters who had begun their day in Foley Square were still roaming the city , even as other groups continued to convene : a gathering at Stonewall , organized by the Queer Detainee Empowerment Project and Decrim NY ; another on the steps of the New York Public Library at Bryant Park , organized by Black Lives Matter .
By 6 P.M. , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Mayor ’ s residence , Gracie Mansion , on the Upper East Side .
The group was large enough to cover several city blocks .
They shared mutual applause and thank-yous with health-care workers from Lenox Hill Hospital as they turned and marched south , down Lexington Avenue .
The police managed to cut one half of the group off from the other , but the two nodes had lives of their own , and continued , amoeba-like , one south and the other west .
As the latter group walked crosstown @ @ @ @ @ @ @ officers on motorcycles could be seen speeding west down Fifty-seventh street .
Later , on the West Side Highway , a few dozen protesters from another group would be arrested .
The group I followed paused for an hour or so outside the Trump International Hotel at Columbus Circle .
The police guarded the front entrance , which was also protected by metal barriers .
At one point , a man in a suit and tie emerged from the hotel , flanked by two officers , to survey the scene .
“ Who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ asked .
“ Blink twice if you ’ re not racist.
” Standing on one of the pillars that marked the entrance to Central Park , a white , bearded man wearing a safety vest blew a shofar to cheers .
A slight figure climbed on a concrete barrier and asked for quiet .
“ My name is Diamond Carter and I am a sixteen-year-old gay woman , ” she said .
She wore a Snoopy shirt and spoke on a white megaphone given to her by a stranger .
“ Everybody ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
But not everybody ’ s bad .
We need to work on love .
We need to do this shit together .
Togetherness , that ’ s the only way we ’ re going to get through this.
” The crowd cheered .

Early in the afternoon on Monday, I walked down Broadway in Greenwich Village. I saw broken windows at Warehouse Wines & Spirits, a Citibank, and a Foot Locker. To prevent more scenes like this, Mayor Bill de Blasio issued an emergency executive order that afternoon, imposing the first citywide curfew since 1943, when an uprising in Harlem was sparked by a white police officer shooting a black soldier. “WHEREAS, the City remains subject to State and City Declarations of Emergency related to the novel coronavirus disease, COVID-19; and WHEREAS, the violent acts have been happening primarily during the hours of darkness, and it is especially difficult to preserve public safety during such hours; and WHEREAS, the imposition of a curfew is necessary to protect the City and its residents from severe endangerment and harm to their health, safety and property,” de Blasio’s order read.
On Monday night, thousands of demonstrators responded to the new 11 P.M. curfew in the only possible way: by staying outside for as long as they could. As the clock struck eleven, I joined a group of several hundred marchers making their way down Atlantic Avenue in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. They had begun at the Barclays Center, travelled east down Eastern Parkway, and were now doubling back west, almost making a full circle. An ancient gray Volvo station wagon kept the walkers supplied with water and Cheetos, dematerializing and rematerializing like a ghost ship depending on the police presence. (“We zip around, that’s what we do,” the driver, who was white, told me, when I asked how he had managed to avoid getting pulled over.) At Grand Army Plaza, there was some discussion about whether to split forces and take the park. “There’s no need to go in circles, let’s stay right here,” one demonstrator suggested, but she was overruled. “I’ll walk all night,” another vowed, as they turned down Washington Avenue, chanting, “Fuck the curfew.”
Over the weekend, police and protesters had been in sustained confrontation at particular spots of contention: Flatbush Avenue in front of the Barclays Center; the Eighty-eighth Precinct, in Clinton Hill bordering Bedford-Stuyvesant; particular intersections in Flatbush. Now, as the numbers of protesters grew, and they settled on the strategy of breaking into ambulatory groups, the dynamic changed. Marchers, now monitored by police in the air and on the ground, would for the most part walk, for as long and as far as they could, with violence mostly contained to the moments when the police blocked them at intersections or bridges. This gave the false perception that things had calmed down when, really, they had simply evolved.
On Monday night, in spite of the curfew, looters ransacked stores in Manhattan and the Bronx but, in the end, much of the documented violence was perpetuated not by them but by the police, as they took protesters into custody. With the curfew, the Mayor appeared to have given the N.Y.P.D. carte blanche to arrest whomever it wanted after nightfall, and process them through a crowded Central Booking, which raised some questions: Whose health? And whose safety? And whose city, exactly, was protected by the order?
No single body was organizing the demonstrations on Tuesday. Activist groups would announce rallies on social media, and other activists would compile and disseminate the information.
Supporters at home monitored police scanners and Department of Transportation traffic cameras to keep people on the ground updated. The first of the rallies had begun at 1 P.M., in Foley Square. I took the subway there, from Bushwick, and my train car was populated almost exclusively by protesters. After our long spring of sweatpants, fashion had returned: one demonstrator wore pink digi-camouflage pants and a rhinestone headband; another, a tie-dyed sweatshirt with an X-ed out happy face. Everyone in New York City under the age of thirty had a destination now.
Except for security guards and workers at the few fast-food restaurants that were still open, the Financial District was utterly deserted. Did anyone still live in Manhattan? “This location of Au Bon Pain will close on May 17,” photocopied announcements on a deserted bakery read. In sharp contrast to the outer boroughs, where pedestrians still jostled on the sidewalks as they did their errands, a sense of abandonment pervaded the neighborhood. One reason the movement has grown so quickly is the ease with which New York’s streets and sidewalks can be navigated right now. The city’s signage remained frozen in its old context. It was hard not to notice how much of the advertising insisted on goodness and detoxification, on ethics, heritage, and authenticity. “The coffee you’re about to enjoy was roasted: 5.2 miles away,” advertising on the darkened windows of For Five Coffee Roasters chirped.
Marchers distributed snacks, water, and first-aid supplies, as well as milk and saline solution, to treat the effects of pepper spray.
By the evening, thousands of protesters who had begun their day in Foley Square were still roaming the city, even as other groups continued to convene: a gathering at Stonewall, organized by the Queer Detainee Empowerment Project and Decrim NY; another on the steps of the New York Public Library at Bryant Park, organized by Black Lives Matter. By 6 P.M., some four thousand protesters had arrived at the Mayor’s residence, Gracie Mansion, on the Upper East Side. The group was large enough to cover several city blocks. They shared mutual applause and thank-yous with health-care workers from Lenox Hill Hospital as they turned and marched south, down Lexington Avenue. The police managed to cut one half of the group off from the other, but the two nodes had lives of their own, and continued, amoeba-like, one south and the other west. As the latter group walked crosstown on Fifty-ninth Street, a brigade of officers on motorcycles could be seen speeding west down Fifty-seventh street. Later, on the West Side Highway, a few dozen protesters from another group would be arrested.
The group I followed paused for an hour or so outside the Trump International Hotel at Columbus Circle. The police guarded the front entrance, which was also protected by metal barriers. At one point, a man in a suit and tie emerged from the hotel, flanked by two officers, to survey the scene. “Who do you serve?” the protesters asked. “Blink twice if you’re not racist.” Standing on one of the pillars that marked the entrance to Central Park, a white, bearded man wearing a safety vest blew a shofar to cheers. A slight figure climbed on a concrete barrier and asked for quiet. “My name is Diamond Carter and I am a sixteen-year-old gay woman,” she said. She wore a Snoopy shirt and spoke on a white megaphone given to her by a stranger. “Everybody’s angry. Everybody hates the police. But not everybody’s bad. We need to work on love. We need to do this shit together. Togetherness, that’s the only way we’re going to get through this.” The crowd cheered.


newyorker--2020-06-04--In a Tumultuous Moment, Barack Obama Chooses Reflection

There are many modes of President Barack Obama , and the one that appeared , on Wednesday , in a Zoom town hall was calm , reflective , optimistic about policy , attuned to injustice , and certain , to his bones , that the current situation was not a complete disaster—or at least not an irredeemable one .
“ I ’ ve heard some people say , ‘ You have a pandemic , then you have these protests , this reminds me of the sixties , and the chaos , the discord and distrust across the country , ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of his words to allow viewers to take in his Zoom look—casual , open-collared shirt , with the lighting falling more on an unevenly filled bookcase than on him .
“ I know enough about that history to say there is something different.
” There is , he said , a “ broad coalition ” that didn ’ t exist in the sixties , and , even with reports of the violence of a “ tiny minority , ” polls show that a majority think that the protests are justified .
“ That @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by politicians , or the result of spotlights in news articles , ” Obama said .
“ That ’ s a direct result of the activities and organization and mobilization and engagement of so many young people across the country who put themselves out on the line to make a difference .
So I just have to say thank you to them.
” In short : You ’ re not alone , and what you do has meaning and value , as you do , and it is part of a larger picture @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Don ’ t panic , and don ’ t despair .
Obama hadn ’ t previously spoken in a live forum about the protests that have spread across the country since the police killing , in Minneapolis , of George Floyd ; an essay the former President wrote was posted on Medium on Monday , the same day his successor in the White House deployed police and the National Guard to clear peaceful protesters from Lafayette Square , and threatened to deploy the military in states , whether their governors like it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Wednesday was under the auspices of a group he helped found , My Brother ’ s Keeper , whose mission is “ building safe and supportive communities for boys and young men of color.
” The structure of the forum , which was collegial and inclusive , seemed part of the point .
It included a panel of activists and Obama ’ s former Attorney General Eric Holder , in what Brittany Packnett Cunningham , the moderator and a co-founder of Campaign Zero , a group that works against police violence , called @ @ @ @ @ @ @ were other , more electrifying messages that Obama could have given that would , in the moment , have been more emotionally satisfying—a speech he could have given , a spotlight he could have occupied .
This is the one he chose , but there is something enduring about it .
Obama did not gloss over the pain in the country .
In the past few weeks , he said , structural problems , particularly with racism , had been “ thrown into high relief ” ; there had been “ too much @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Like the other panelists , he said the names of some of those who had died : Floyd , Breonna Taylor , Sean Bell , Ahmaud Arbery , and others .
“ Your lives matter , ” he said , addressing young people in his virtual audience .
“ You should be able to learn and make mistakes and live a life of joy without having to worry about what ’ s going to happen when you walk to the store or go for a jog , or driving down the street , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ park.
” ( That last was a reference to an incident last week in New York ’ s Central Park , in which a white woman called the police on a black bird-watcher . )
Regardless of what he thought about the analogies to the sixties , he had been rereading James Baldwin ’ s “ The Fire Next Time , ” and found it apt .
( On Thursday , he tweeted out a link to an essay by Baldwin in The New Yorker which Baldwin later expanded into the book .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ the current moment , with young people “ galvanized.
” He also believed that there were “ folks in law enforcement ” who are outraged by what has happened , and want change .
And he had ideas : his foundation had helped put together a report on “ specific , evidence-based reforms.
” He also asked Cunningham to go through a list of her organization ’ s eight immediate proposals for reducing police violence , which include banning chokeholds and establishing a “ duty to intervene ” on the part of officers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Derek Chauvin had his knee on Floyd ’ s neck , three other officers stood by ; they have now been charged with aiding and abetting the killing , while Chauvin has been charged with second-degree murder . )
Obama emphasized that many of these reforms must “ take place at the local level ” —states , cities , towns .
He had made a similar point in his Medium piece , in which he also admonished the small number of people who had engaged in violence to both “ model ” a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ consider what the damage meant in local terms .
“ I saw an elderly black woman being interviewed today in tears because the only grocery store in her neighborhood had been trashed , ” he wrote .
When thinking about progress , he said in the town hall , “ we need to be clear about where change is going to happen.
” Coming from a former President , those were somewhat cryptic words , particularly since he also offered a defense of electoral politics , which he worried that some had lost @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had “ been hearing a little bit of chatter in the Internet about voting versus protest , politics and participation versus civil disobedience and direct action .
This is not an either/or .
This is a both/and.
” But the example he gave of the product of that joint effort was not his own Presidency , although he praised Holder ’ s work in addressing police violence .
Instead , he cited another panelist , Philipe Cunningham , a trans man elected to the Minneapolis city council , as proof of the efficacy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ those folks in order to ultimately deliver the goods.
” Obama never mentioned Donald Trump by name , or what sort of goods he has been delivering .
In some ways , that was striking , on a day when James Mattis , a retired Marine general , who submitted his resignation as Trump ’ s Defense Secretary in late 2018 , put out an appalled statement , via The Atlantic , about how Trump ’ s talk of using troops to “ dominate ” cities was a violation of the Constitution , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ undermined the “ moral ground that ensures a trusted bond between men and women in uniform and the society they are sworn to protect.
” There were hopes that the statement might be a turning point ; Senator Lisa Murkowsi , Republican of Alaska , called Mattis ’ s words “ true and honest and necessary and overdue.
” But , as consequential and as welcome as Mattis ’ s words are , he has until now been largely quiet about Trump—too quiet , given what he undoubtedly witnessed while serving in his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ spoken out often enough over the years , often taking risks or making bold gestures to do so—whether about race , or guns , or when he began singing “ Amazing Grace ” after the shootings in Charleston , or , for that matter , when he first announced that he was running for President—to earn a moment of reflection and a chance to listen to other voices , such as the activists on his panel .
He has had an effect on the national discourse , one that Mattis , too , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , to Obama ’ s point about there being a broader coalition now than there was a few decades ago , Mattis urged Americans thinking about the events of recent days not to be distracted by “ a small number of lawbreakers ” : the protesters ’ call for justice was “ a wholesome and unifying demand—one that all of us should be able to get behind.
” Mattis also decried “ three years without mature leadership , ” implicitly acknowledging what Obama brought to the White House , along with what has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ don ’ t feel like , well , nothing ’ s going to happen once we figure this out , ” Obama said , toward the end of the event .
He repeated a line from Martin Luther King , Jr. , that he often cites : “ The arc of the moral universe is long , but it bends toward justice.
” “ We bend it !
” Obama said .
“ All of you have bent it.
” There was , in his riff on King ’ s phrase , an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ curve—Obama had , earlier , mentioned the disparities in the toll taken by the coronavirus pandemic , which has not gone away—and also a sense of accomplishment .
“ Keep working , and stay hopeful , ” Obama said as he signed off .
“ Proud of you.
” But there is so much to do .
And , before this chapter is through , there may be more that Obama needs to say , with more fire next time .

There are many modes of President Barack Obama, and the one that appeared, on Wednesday, in a Zoom town hall was calm, reflective, optimistic about policy, attuned to injustice, and certain, to his bones, that the current situation was not a complete disaster—or at least not an irredeemable one. “I’ve heard some people say, ‘You have a pandemic, then you have these protests, this reminds me of the sixties, and the chaos, the discord and distrust across the country,’ ” he said, pausing between some of his words to allow viewers to take in his Zoom look—casual, open-collared shirt, with the lighting falling more on an unevenly filled bookcase than on him. “I know enough about that history to say there is something different.” There is, he said, a “broad coalition” that didn’t exist in the sixties, and, even with reports of the violence of a “tiny minority,” polls show that a majority think that the protests are justified. “That’s not the consequence of speeches by politicians, or the result of spotlights in news articles,” Obama said. “That’s a direct result of the activities and organization and mobilization and engagement of so many young people across the country who put themselves out on the line to make a difference. So I just have to say thank you to them.” In short: You’re not alone, and what you do has meaning and value, as you do, and it is part of a larger picture of American progress, as you are. Don’t panic, and don’t despair.
Obama hadn’t previously spoken in a live forum about the protests that have spread across the country since the police killing, in Minneapolis, of George Floyd; an essay the former President wrote was posted on Medium on Monday, the same day his successor in the White House deployed police and the National Guard to clear peaceful protesters from Lafayette Square, and threatened to deploy the military in states, whether their governors like it or not. Obama’s appearance Wednesday was under the auspices of a group he helped found, My Brother’s Keeper, whose mission is “building safe and supportive communities for boys and young men of color.” The structure of the forum, which was collegial and inclusive, seemed part of the point. It included a panel of activists and Obama’s former Attorney General Eric Holder, in what Brittany Packnett Cunningham, the moderator and a co-founder of Campaign Zero, a group that works against police violence, called a “family conversation.” Perhaps there were other, more electrifying messages that Obama could have given that would, in the moment, have been more emotionally satisfying—a speech he could have given, a spotlight he could have occupied. This is the one he chose, but there is something enduring about it.
Obama did not gloss over the pain in the country. In the past few weeks, he said, structural problems, particularly with racism, had been “thrown into high relief”; there had been “too much violence,” for too long. Like the other panelists, he said the names of some of those who had died: Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Sean Bell, Ahmaud Arbery, and others. “Your lives matter,” he said, addressing young people in his virtual audience. “You should be able to learn and make mistakes and live a life of joy without having to worry about what’s going to happen when you walk to the store or go for a jog, or driving down the street, or looking at some birds in the park.” (That last was a reference to an incident last week in New York’s Central Park, in which a white woman called the police on a black bird-watcher.) Regardless of what he thought about the analogies to the sixties, he had been rereading James Baldwin’s “The Fire Next Time,” and found it apt. (On Thursday, he tweeted out a link to an essay by Baldwin in The New Yorker which Baldwin later expanded into the book.)
Obama saw “opportunity” in the current moment, with young people “galvanized.” He also believed that there were “folks in law enforcement” who are outraged by what has happened, and want change. And he had ideas: his foundation had helped put together a report on “specific, evidence-based reforms.” He also asked Cunningham to go through a list of her organization’s eight immediate proposals for reducing police violence, which include banning chokeholds and establishing a “duty to intervene” on the part of officers who witness police violence. (While Derek Chauvin had his knee on Floyd’s neck, three other officers stood by; they have now been charged with aiding and abetting the killing, while Chauvin has been charged with second-degree murder.) Obama emphasized that many of these reforms must “take place at the local level”—states, cities, towns. He had made a similar point in his Medium piece, in which he also admonished the small number of people who had engaged in violence to both “model” a “higher ethical code” and to consider what the damage meant in local terms. “I saw an elderly black woman being interviewed today in tears because the only grocery store in her neighborhood had been trashed,” he wrote. When thinking about progress, he said in the town hall, “we need to be clear about where change is going to happen.”
Coming from a former President, those were somewhat cryptic words, particularly since he also offered a defense of electoral politics, which he worried that some had lost faith in. He said that he had “been hearing a little bit of chatter in the Internet about voting versus protest, politics and participation versus civil disobedience and direct action. This is not an either/or. This is a both/and.” But the example he gave of the product of that joint effort was not his own Presidency, although he praised Holder’s work in addressing police violence. Instead, he cited another panelist, Philipe Cunningham, a trans man elected to the Minneapolis city council, as proof of the efficacy of electoral politics: “You need those folks in order to ultimately deliver the goods.”
Obama never mentioned Donald Trump by name, or what sort of goods he has been delivering. In some ways, that was striking, on a day when James Mattis, a retired Marine general, who submitted his resignation as Trump’s Defense Secretary in late 2018, put out an appalled statement, via The Atlantic, about how Trump’s talk of using troops to “dominate” cities was a violation of the Constitution, and an act of division, and undermined the “moral ground that ensures a trusted bond between men and women in uniform and the society they are sworn to protect.” There were hopes that the statement might be a turning point; Senator Lisa Murkowsi, Republican of Alaska, called Mattis’s words “true and honest and necessary and overdue.” But, as consequential and as welcome as Mattis’s words are, he has until now been largely quiet about Trump—too quiet, given what he undoubtedly witnessed while serving in his Cabinet. In contrast, Obama has spoken out often enough over the years, often taking risks or making bold gestures to do so—whether about race, or guns, or when he began singing “Amazing Grace” after the shootings in Charleston, or, for that matter, when he first announced that he was running for President—to earn a moment of reflection and a chance to listen to other voices, such as the activists on his panel. He has had an effect on the national discourse, one that Mattis, too, may have learned something from. Indeed, to Obama’s point about there being a broader coalition now than there was a few decades ago, Mattis urged Americans thinking about the events of recent days not to be distracted by “a small number of lawbreakers”: the protesters’ call for justice was “a wholesome and unifying demand—one that all of us should be able to get behind.” Mattis also decried “three years without mature leadership,” implicitly acknowledging what Obama brought to the White House, along with what has been lost.
“I hope people don’t feel like, well, nothing’s going to happen once we figure this out,” Obama said, toward the end of the event. He repeated a line from Martin Luther King, Jr., that he often cites: “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” “We bend it!” Obama said. “All of you have bent it.” There was, in his riff on King’s phrase, an echo of the injunction to flatten the curve—Obama had, earlier, mentioned the disparities in the toll taken by the coronavirus pandemic, which has not gone away—and also a sense of accomplishment. “Keep working, and stay hopeful,” Obama said as he signed off. “Proud of you.” But there is so much to do. And, before this chapter is through, there may be more that Obama needs to say, with more fire next time.
Race, Policing, and Black Lives Matter Protests


newyorker--2020-06-04--The Killing of George Floyd and the Origins of American Racism

The killing of George Floyd has inspired a renewed public reckoning with America ’ s legacy of racism .
Racial @ @ @ @ @ the origins of the country , and so pervasive in all of our institutions , @ @ @ @ @ all of us can be hard to grasp .
The anti-racism trainer Suzanne Plihcik joins @ @ @ @ @ the concept of white racial superiority was constructed in America , and what people can @ @ @ @ @ .

|||
Photograph by David Ramos / Getty
The killing of George Floyd has inspired a renewed public reckoning with America’s legacy of racism. Racial prejudice is so ingrained in the origins of the country, and so pervasive in all of our institutions, that its insidious effects on all of us can be hard to grasp. The anti-racism trainer Suzanne Plihcik joins Dorothy Wickenden to discuss how the concept of white racial superiority was constructed in America, and what people can do to oppose structural racism.