newyorker--2020-07-11--A Thriving Digital Space for Willi Smith, Streetwear Genius

What ’ s a museum to do when it launches a show about a late genius of streetwear , and no one can walk up the street to see it ?
On March 13th , as the coronavirus swept through New York City , Cooper Hewitt , Smithsonian Design Museum had to close the retrospective “ Willi Smith : Street Couture ” at the end of its opening day .
Since then , though , the show ’ s Willi Smith Digital Community Archive , organized by the Web-design service Cargo into neighborhoods such as “ Performance ” and “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for fashion flâneurs—a place where Smith ’ s friends and colleagues can swap memories during an evening in quarantine .
Willi Smith was born in Philadelphia in 1948 , the quiet son of loving parents , who , he told Women ’ s Wear Daily , kept “ more clothes in the house than food.
” His grandmother cleaned houses for a family that was close to the designer Arnold Scaasi , and she helped her fashion-obsessed grandson secure an internship at the courtier ’ s house , where Smith assisted in designing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Smith began a fashion program at the Parsons School of Design ; two years later , according to the curator Alexandra Cunningham Cameron ’ s introduction to the exhibition ’ s catalogue , he was kicked out for dating another male student .
Smith would soon prove , however , that he had no need for academic connections or credentials—or the closet .
He met Bethann Hardison , a young model who would become his longtime fit model and collaborator ; her sporty style found expression in the blockbuster collections that Smith @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the lead designer for Digits , which included the kind of voluminous yet flattering jumpsuits in creamy palettes that you can still spot on women from Joshua Tree to Ridgewood .
Despite Smith ’ s success , Digits went bust , but he carried on under his own name , collaborating with dance troupes and Knoll International .
WilliWear , launched with his business and creative partner Laurie Mallet , in 1976 , “ was a brand that you would see everyone wearing on the street , ” Hardison tells the writer Jonathan @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s catalogue .
“ That ’ s why editors started referring to it as streetwear.
” Smith seems to have preferred the loftier term “ street couture , ” but he brought a democratic flair to his creations , selling his patterns so that anyone could bring them to life , and packaging them with illustrations of both men and women sporting the same finished product .
For Smith , gender was material to be played with , and so were the clothes themselves .
“ He always avoided identifying his audience , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was very siloed and segregated , ” Cunningham Cameron told me .
“ He wanted to flip all that and say that if someone is wearing WilliWear , you don ’ t know what ’ s in their bank account .
You don ’ t know where they ’ re coming from.
” From the beginning , Smith intersected with the art world as much as the fashion scene .
After leaving Parsons , he befriended the artists Christo and Jeanne-Claude , whom he assisted in fabricating “ Wedding Dress , ” a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a train should be .
The trio would collaborate often , most notably for “ Surrounded Islands , ” in 1983 , when the French pair wrapped islands in Miami ’ s Biscayne Bay in pink polypropylene—Smith whipped up matching uniforms in pink , long-sleeve cotton , which they then sold from a truck as souvenirs .
( Cunningham Cameron found one of the uniforms in her parents ’ garage and wears it with pride . )
In 1984 , Smith became the first designer to launch T-shirt collections with fine artists , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Barbara Kruger , and Futura .
He also made inroads into Hollywood , designing the confections worn by the H.B.C.U .
homecoming queens and their courts in Spike Lee ’ s “ School Daze , ” from 1988 .
Smith was , in short , everywhere , and everywhere was where his clothes made sense : at one ’ s desk , at a buzzy dinner table , at the bar afterward , even on the cruisy West Village piers that inspired the innovative showrooms and boutiques he designed with the postmodern architectural @ @ @ @ @ @ @ create clothing that people could move in , in both a metaphorical and physical sense.
” Cunningham Cameron said .
In 1986 , WilliWear grossed a cool twenty-five million dollars .
And then , in 1987 , he was gone .
Smith died of AIDS-related complications before his fortieth birthday .
It ’ s a grim coincidence that the first institutional retrospective of a designer whose life was cut short by a pandemic was , itself , cut short by another pandemic .
The online community archive offers hope and a sense of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the legacy of previous hubs ( such as the one attached to the Victoria and Albert Museum ’ s Mary Quant show , and the National Museum of African American History and Culture ’ s community-curation activities ) .
The archive honors the achievements of black queer artists like Smith , centers the contributions of the many women around him , and joyfully blurs the lines between scholarship , recollection , and gossip .
In one submission , the makeup virtuoso Linda Mason describes coming up with the D.I.Y .
looks for the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , in 1984 : “ I applied cream makeup colors to the palms of their hands , turquoise , green , yellow , red , and instructed them to smear it on their faces as they walked down the runway.
” She also shares a photo of Smith in drag while on the set of “ Expedition , ” a satirical short , from 1986 , in which a white man explores a fictional Africa .
( The film , made to promote Smith ’ s spring 1986 collection , is streaming via @ @ @ @ @ @ @ both ahead of its time and deeply right now . )
The archive makes clear that Smith left a world that still holds his form , like fabric holds a shape .
“ Fashion is better because of him ; retail environments as well , ” the architect Jack Travis says .
“ I ’ m not sure how many truly realize this fact.
” Vijay Agarwal , the manager of WilliWear ’ s Mumbai factory , offers the hilarious origin story of the famed “ Bombay shorts , ” one of Smith @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s assistant , Elyn Rosenthal , reminds us that Smith once showed a collection to women who were incarcerated at Rikers Island .
“ A few of the inmates were our models , and when they came out there was a lot of excitement , ” Rosenthal writes .
Hardison tells a priceless story of convincing Smith to buy some work by Jean-Michel Basquiat , and the painter thanking her with a lifetime supply of weed .
Elsewhere , everyone from Veronica Webb to Lynne Tillman offer their own WilliWear memories , to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
On my first day of high school , in the early nineties , I wore a black WilliWear jacket with olive pinstripes , which I ’ d found at a discount store , over a Smiths T-shirt and beads .
It gave my chubby body structure , my sissiness a letter of recommendation , and my Walkman somewhere to hide .
High school didn ’ t go well for me , but what I ’ d give to still have that jacket .

What’s a museum to do when it launches a show about a late genius of streetwear, and no one can walk up the street to see it? On March 13th, as the coronavirus swept through New York City, Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum had to close the retrospective “Willi Smith: Street Couture” at the end of its opening day. Since then, though, the show’s Willi Smith Digital Community Archive, organized by the Web-design service Cargo into neighborhoods such as “Performance” and “Patterns,” has become a home for fashion flâneurs—a place where Smith’s friends and colleagues can swap memories during an evening in quarantine.
Willi Smith was born in Philadelphia in 1948, the quiet son of loving parents, who, he told Women’s Wear Daily, kept “more clothes in the house than food.” His grandmother cleaned houses for a family that was close to the designer Arnold Scaasi, and she helped her fashion-obsessed grandson secure an internship at the couturier’s house, where Smith assisted in designing outfits for Elizabeth Taylor. In 1965, Smith began a fashion program at the Parsons School of Design; two years later, according to the curator Alexandra Cunningham Cameron’s introduction to the exhibition’s catalogue, he was kicked out for dating another male student. Smith would soon prove, however, that he had no need for academic connections or credentials—or the closet.
He met Bethann Hardison, a young model who would become his longtime fit model and collaborator; her sporty style found expression in the blockbuster collections that Smith made, beginning in 1969, as the lead designer for Digits, which included the kind of voluminous yet flattering jumpsuits in creamy palettes that you can still spot on women from Joshua Tree to Ridgewood. Despite Smith’s success, Digits went bust, but he carried on under his own name, collaborating with dance troupes and Knoll International. WilliWear, launched with his business and creative partner Laurie Mallet, in 1976, “was a brand that you would see everyone wearing on the street,” Hardison tells the writer Jonathan Michael Square, in the show’s catalogue. “That’s why editors started referring to it as streetwear.” Smith seems to have preferred the loftier term “street couture,” but he brought a democratic flair to his creations, selling his patterns so that anyone could bring them to life, and packaging them with illustrations of both men and women sporting the same finished product. For Smith, gender was material to be played with, and so were the clothes themselves. “He always avoided identifying his audience, because at the time the fashion system was very siloed and segregated,” Cunningham Cameron told me. “He wanted to flip all that and say that if someone is wearing WilliWear, you don’t know what’s in their bank account. You don’t know where they’re coming from.”
From the beginning, Smith intersected with the art world as much as the fashion scene. After leaving Parsons, he befriended the artists Christo and Jeanne-Claude, whom he assisted in fabricating “Wedding Dress,” a satin singlet with a rope-bound burden where a train should be. The trio would collaborate often, most notably for “Surrounded Islands,” in 1983, when the French pair wrapped islands in Miami’s Biscayne Bay in pink polypropylene—Smith whipped up matching uniforms in pink, long-sleeve cotton, which they then sold from a truck as souvenirs. (Cunningham Cameron found one of the uniforms in her parents’ garage and wears it with pride.) In 1984, Smith became the first designer to launch T-shirt collections with fine artists, including Keith Haring, Jenny Holzer, Barbara Kruger, and Futura. He also made inroads into Hollywood, designing the confections worn by the H.B.C.U. homecoming queens and their courts in Spike Lee’s “School Daze,” from 1988. Smith was, in short, everywhere, and everywhere was where his clothes made sense: at one’s desk, at a buzzy dinner table, at the bar afterward, even on the cruisy West Village piers that inspired the innovative showrooms and boutiques he designed with the postmodern architectural provocateurs SITE. “He wanted to create clothing that people could move in, in both a metaphorical and physical sense.” Cunningham Cameron said. In 1986, WilliWear grossed a cool twenty-five million dollars.
And then, in 1987, he was gone. Smith died of AIDS-related complications before his fortieth birthday. It’s a grim coincidence that the first institutional retrospective of a designer whose life was cut short by a pandemic was, itself, cut short by another pandemic. The online community archive offers hope and a sense of connection, though, by building on the legacy of previous hubs (such as the one attached to the Victoria and Albert Museum’s Mary Quant show, and the National Museum of African American History and Culture’s community-curation activities). The archive honors the achievements of black queer artists like Smith, centers the contributions of the many women around him, and joyfully blurs the lines between scholarship, recollection, and gossip. In one submission, the makeup virtuoso Linda Mason describes coming up with the D.I.Y. looks for the models in Smith’s SUB-Urban show, in 1984: “I applied cream makeup colors to the palms of their hands, turquoise, green, yellow, red, and instructed them to smear it on their faces as they walked down the runway.” She also shares a photo of Smith in drag while on the set of “Expedition,” a satirical short, from 1986, in which a white man explores a fictional Africa. (The film, made to promote Smith’s spring 1986 collection, is streaming via the archive; it’s somehow both ahead of its time and deeply right now.)
The archive makes clear that Smith left a world that still holds his form, like fabric holds a shape. “Fashion is better because of him; retail environments as well,” the architect Jack Travis says. “I’m not sure how many truly realize this fact.” Vijay Agarwal, the manager of WilliWear’s Mumbai factory, offers the hilarious origin story of the famed “Bombay shorts,” one of Smith’s best-selling designs. Smith’s assistant, Elyn Rosenthal, reminds us that Smith once showed a collection to women who were incarcerated at Rikers Island. “A few of the inmates were our models, and when they came out there was a lot of excitement,” Rosenthal writes. Hardison tells a priceless story of convincing Smith to buy some work by Jean-Michel Basquiat, and the painter thanking her with a lifetime supply of weed. Elsewhere, everyone from Veronica Webb to Lynne Tillman offer their own WilliWear memories, to which I’ll add my own. On my first day of high school, in the early nineties, I wore a black WilliWear jacket with olive pinstripes, which I’d found at a discount store, over a Smiths T-shirt and beads. It gave my chubby body structure, my sissiness a letter of recommendation, and my Walkman somewhere to hide. High school didn’t go well for me, but what I’d give to still have that jacket.


newyorker--2020-07-11--Louisiana Primary Election 2020: Live Results, Maps, and Analysis

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newyorker--2020-07-12--The Halted Progress of Criminal-Justice Reform

The cause of criminal-justice reform has been , in recent years , a welcome exception to the extreme polarization that has afflicted so much of our politics .
Since 2008 , the prison population has dropped in most parts of the country , in both red states and blue .
It ’ s gone down sixteen per cent in Louisiana and twenty-two per cent in South Carolina , which is roughly similar to reductions in more liberal places , such as California ( twenty-six per cent ) and New York ( twenty-one per cent ) .
The fight against mass @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bipartisanship in Washington , in 2018 , when Congress overwhelmingly passed , and President Trump signed , the First Step Act , which made modest improvements in federal sentencing practices .
But this progress , at least at the federal level , has come to a halt .
In the weeks since protests erupted around the nation following the murder of George Floyd , in Minneapolis , on May 25th , the President has returned to the “ law and order ” bluster that characterized his 2016 campaign .
More to the point @ @ @ @ @ @ @ General William Barr , has engaged in precisely the kinds of excesses that the reform movement has endeavored to correct .
Most of the protests were peaceful , of course , but there was some violence and destruction of property .
These sorts of crimes have traditionally belonged in the bailiwick of state prosecutors , who handle most violent crime in the United States .
Yet Barr ’ s prosecutors have stepped in and charged at least seventy people with crimes in connection with the protests .
In Mobile , Alabama , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a window of a police cruiser .
Such an act is a paradigmatic state crime—an assault—but federal prosecutors contrived to bring a case for “ civil disorder , ” drawing on a rarely used federal law .
Bringing the case in federal court allows Barr to posture against the protesters and , even more important , to make them eligible for longer prison sentences , as is usually the case in federal prosecutions .
The most egregious example of this kind of federal excess is taking place in New York , where prosecutors @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of responding to a crime with an injustice .
On May 29th , two well-regarded lawyers , Colinford Mattis and Urooj Rahman , participated in protests in Fort Greene .
According to the complaint filed in federal court , just after midnight , Rahman stepped out of a minivan driven by Mattis and flung a Molotov cocktail through a broken window of an unoccupied police car .
( In another part of Brooklyn , Samantha Shader , a twenty-seven-year-old woman from upstate New York , was charged in a separate Molotov-cocktail attack on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ any injuries . )
The two lawyers are both in their early thirties .
Mattis is a graduate of Princeton and of New York University ’ s law school , and he worked until recently at a well-known corporate law firm in Manhattan .
He is active in community affairs in Brooklyn , and is responsible for the care of several young family members .
Rahman , a graduate of Fordham University ’ s college and law school , worked at Bronx Legal Services .
Neither had a criminal record .
( Shader @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in different parts of the country . )
Mattis and Rahman have pleaded not guilty , but the case against them appears strong .
According to prosecutors , there is video evidence of Rahman throwing the improvised bomb , and police found the ingredients to make Molotov cocktails in Mattis ’ s van .
In bringing the case against them , though , the Justice Department has engaged in grotesque overreach .
If convicted of the charges in the indictment , Mattis and Rahman face a minimum of forty-five years and a maximum @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they were prosecuted in state court , as they should be , they would likely face five years or less . )
The case demonstrates the perversity of mandatory-minimum sentences , which remain common in federal court , despite the changes wrought by the First Step Act .
The problems with mandatory minimums only begin with the simple fact that they keep people in prison for too many years .
They also concentrate power in the hands of prosecutors and remove discretion from judges , who usually have a broader perspective on the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mandatory minimums warp the entire judicial system , by putting unbearable pressure on defendants ( and their lawyers ) to enter guilty pleas and avoid the risk posed by a trial .
( Prosecutors often waive the minimums if defendants offer to plead guilty . )
The case of Mattis and Rahman illustrates this point clearly .
Faced with the certainty of decades of prison time if convicted by a jury , what defendant wouldn ’ t try to cut a deal for a lesser sentence ?
In federal court today , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ guilty rather than go to trial .
But a system in which practically no one goes to trial gives government prosecutors far too much power .
Judges and juries are supposed to operate as a check on prosecutors , and they can ’ t do that job if nearly every defendant pleads guilty .
Too often , prosecutors , like those in the case of Mattis and Rahman , use indictments to extort guilty pleas rather than to achieve justice .
This is , in many respects , a hopeful moment for progress @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in cities like Philadelphia , Milwaukee , and San Francisco are pulling back from the mindless pursuit of more convictions and longer sentences .
Eric Gonzalez , the Brooklyn District Attorney , is also a reformer , which may be a reason that Barr ’ s minions snatched the Molotov-cocktail cases away from him .
The Attorney General has expressed nothing but contempt for more civilized approaches to law enforcement .
In a speech in February , he attacked the new generation of prosecutors , asserting , “ These D.A.s think they are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hurting them .
These policies actually lead to greater criminality.
” This , to put it charitably , is unproven .
Reformers have been winning elections around the country not because their constituents want “ greater criminality ” but because they recognize that we have incarcerated too many people ( and particularly too many people of color ) for too long .
As usual , Barr is channelling his boss , who has responded to the George Floyd protests with ugly spasms of race-baiting and bigotry .
But , as bad as Trump @ @ @ @ @ @ @ elsewhere , Barr ’ s actions are worse , because individuals and communities will be paying the costs for years , or decades , to come .
♦

Illustration by João Fazenda
The cause of criminal-justice reform has been, in recent years, a welcome exception to the extreme polarization that has afflicted so much of our politics. Since 2008, the prison population has dropped in most parts of the country, in both red states and blue. It’s gone down sixteen per cent in Louisiana and twenty-two per cent in South Carolina, which is roughly similar to reductions in more liberal places, such as California (twenty-six per cent) and New York (twenty-one per cent). The fight against mass incarceration even engendered a brief moment of bipartisanship in Washington, in 2018, when Congress overwhelmingly passed, and President Trump signed, the First Step Act, which made modest improvements in federal sentencing practices.
But this progress, at least at the federal level, has come to a halt. In the weeks since protests erupted around the nation following the murder of George Floyd, in Minneapolis, on May 25th, the President has returned to the “law and order” bluster that characterized his 2016 campaign. More to the point, the Justice Department, under Attorney General William Barr, has engaged in precisely the kinds of excesses that the reform movement has endeavored to correct. Most of the protests were peaceful, of course, but there was some violence and destruction of property. These sorts of crimes have traditionally belonged in the bailiwick of state prosecutors, who handle most violent crime in the United States. Yet Barr’s prosecutors have stepped in and charged at least seventy people with crimes in connection with the protests. In Mobile, Alabama, a protester allegedly used a bat to break a window of a police cruiser. Such an act is a paradigmatic state crime—an assault—but federal prosecutors contrived to bring a case for “civil disorder,” drawing on a rarely used federal law. Bringing the case in federal court allows Barr to posture against the protesters and, even more important, to make them eligible for longer prison sentences, as is usually the case in federal prosecutions.
The most egregious example of this kind of federal excess is taking place in New York, where prosecutors in Brooklyn may be on the verge of responding to a crime with an injustice. On May 29th, two well-regarded lawyers, Colinford Mattis and Urooj Rahman, participated in protests in Fort Greene. According to the complaint filed in federal court, just after midnight, Rahman stepped out of a minivan driven by Mattis and flung a Molotov cocktail through a broken window of an unoccupied police car. (In another part of Brooklyn, Samantha Shader, a twenty-seven-year-old woman from upstate New York, was charged in a separate Molotov-cocktail attack on a police van; neither attack caused any injuries.)
The two lawyers are both in their early thirties. Mattis is a graduate of Princeton and of New York University’s law school, and he worked until recently at a well-known corporate law firm in Manhattan. He is active in community affairs in Brooklyn, and is responsible for the care of several young family members. Rahman, a graduate of Fordham University’s college and law school, worked at Bronx Legal Services. Neither had a criminal record. (Shader did have a record of various arrests in different parts of the country.) Mattis and Rahman have pleaded not guilty, but the case against them appears strong. According to prosecutors, there is video evidence of Rahman throwing the improvised bomb, and police found the ingredients to make Molotov cocktails in Mattis’s van.
In bringing the case against them, though, the Justice Department has engaged in grotesque overreach. If convicted of the charges in the indictment, Mattis and Rahman face a minimum of forty-five years and a maximum of life in prison. (If they were prosecuted in state court, as they should be, they would likely face five years or less.) The case demonstrates the perversity of mandatory-minimum sentences, which remain common in federal court, despite the changes wrought by the First Step Act. The problems with mandatory minimums only begin with the simple fact that they keep people in prison for too many years. They also concentrate power in the hands of prosecutors and remove discretion from judges, who usually have a broader perspective on the appropriate levels of punishment. Moreover, mandatory minimums warp the entire judicial system, by putting unbearable pressure on defendants (and their lawyers) to enter guilty pleas and avoid the risk posed by a trial. (Prosecutors often waive the minimums if defendants offer to plead guilty.)
The case of Mattis and Rahman illustrates this point clearly. Faced with the certainty of decades of prison time if convicted by a jury, what defendant wouldn’t try to cut a deal for a lesser sentence? In federal court today, a remarkable ninety-seven per cent of defendants plead guilty rather than go to trial. But a system in which practically no one goes to trial gives government prosecutors far too much power. Judges and juries are supposed to operate as a check on prosecutors, and they can’t do that job if nearly every defendant pleads guilty. Too often, prosecutors, like those in the case of Mattis and Rahman, use indictments to extort guilty pleas rather than to achieve justice.
This is, in many respects, a hopeful moment for progress in the criminal-justice system. District attorneys in cities like Philadelphia, Milwaukee, and San Francisco are pulling back from the mindless pursuit of more convictions and longer sentences. Eric Gonzalez, the Brooklyn District Attorney, is also a reformer, which may be a reason that Barr’s minions snatched the Molotov-cocktail cases away from him. The Attorney General has expressed nothing but contempt for more civilized approaches to law enforcement. In a speech in February, he attacked the new generation of prosecutors, asserting, “These D.A.s think they are helping people, but they end up hurting them. These policies actually lead to greater criminality.” This, to put it charitably, is unproven. Reformers have been winning elections around the country not because their constituents want “greater criminality” but because they recognize that we have incarcerated too many people (and particularly too many people of color) for too long.
As usual, Barr is channelling his boss, who has responded to the George Floyd protests with ugly spasms of race-baiting and bigotry. But, as bad as Trump’s invective is on Twitter and elsewhere, Barr’s actions are worse, because individuals and communities will be paying the costs for years, or decades, to come. ♦
Race, Policing, and Black Lives Matter Protests


newyorker--2020-07-12--“Many a Little Makes,” by Sarah Shun-lien Bynum

The third time Imogen dipped into the bowl , she presented the spatula to Mari .
“ No , thanks , ” Mari said lightly , and drew back .
She deliberately did not say what she wanted to say , what was foremost in her mind , what was exactly the thing her mother had spoken ominously of : salmonella .
Because her mother was usually wrong .
Her mother , for instance , had assumed that , just because Bree was eight years older than her sister , there had to be “ different fathers , ” as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tactful tone she used made Mari want to strangle her .
“ It ’ s the same dad , ” Mari had announced in a clipped voice .
“ And don ’ t worry , him and her mom are married .
And , yes , she will be at home the whole time we ’ re there.
” “ He and her mom , ” her own mother had answered , at which point Mari had covered her ears and let out a moan .
Yet three large eggs had plopped glisteningly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ eggs probably teeming with bacteria , and just the sight of the yellowness slicking the spatula was making Mari feel queasy .
That and the sickly sweet smell .
And the buzzy fluorescent lights in Bree ’ s kitchen .
And all the saliva being passed around freely .
By now her friends were looking at each other and smiling .
They ’ d seen right through her airy demurral .
Panther-like , Imogen hopped down from the counter while Bree closed in on Mari from the other side .
She handed the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the bowl , dragging the length of her finger along its interior and then extracting it , coated .
She slid the finger into her mouth .
“ It ’ s the best part , ” Bree said .
She swam the spatula closer to Mari ’ s face .
“ Trust us .
It ’ s delicious.
” “ I don ’ t want to , ” Mari said from under the collar of her T-shirt , which she ’ d pulled up over her nose .
“ Just a little , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ little tiny taste.
” Bree stuck out her tongue and delicately pressed the spatula to its tip .
“ See ?
” Imogen continued .
“ It ’ ll be that tiny .
You ’ ll barely taste it.
” Mouth ajar , Bree darted her tongue in and out , in and out , in and out , very fast .
Where did she learn to do that ?
It looked disturbing , like in a Prince kind of way .
A yellow droplet sat at the end of her flickering tongue @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ You ’ re pressuring me.
” Her voice was muffled beneath the T-shirt .
“ I don ’ t like eating batter or being pressured or throwing up all night and getting hospitalized.
” “ Who said anything about throwing up ?
” She yanked her shirt back down and glared at them .
“ Hello—salmonella ?
” Somehow it sounded less insane when her mother said it .
Imogen and Bree stared at her , speechless .
Then they both cackled .
“ Salmonella ?
” they repeated .
“ Salmonella @ @ @ @ @ @ @ look of silent understanding passed among the three of them .
With a gasp , Mari shoved past Imogen and dove toward the TV room .
They flew after her , unleashed , made swift by their socks on the linoleum .
Over and around the leather sectional they chased her , careful to avoid the glowing fish tank , no one shrieking or laughing because , upstairs , Bevin was already asleep .
Just their heavy breathing filled the room , and when the two of them finally pinned her to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of their chests were heaving rapidly , in unison , like they had run a mile together with matching strides .
“ Chariots of Fire ” was one of her top-five favorite films .
Though she didn ’ t like to run herself , the sight of British men running was very moving .
Whenever they sang “ Jerusalem ” in morning meeting , she and Imogen and Bree would entertain themselves by surreptitiously acting out the words : they would mime the seizing of the bow , and the spear , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hills , and they would attack the low note in “ arrows of de-sire ” with fake solemnity .
But even as they joked around , Mari found the song unspeakably beautiful .
That ardent phrase— “ Bring me my chariot of fire !
” —stirred her .
When the cake batter touched her face , it was not cold , as she thought it might be ; it felt only thick and wet .
Her eyes were closed at this point .
And her mouth , too , of course .
Nothing—not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ or anything not her own—would cross the threshold .
Her lips were squeezed so tightly that they tingled .
No one was getting in or out : she kept herself intact , impervious to the panting weight of Imogen and Bree on top of her .
With satisfaction , she felt their bodies slacken , the energy dissolving—they were thwarted , and there was nothing to do now but smear batter on Mari ’ s face .
Even with her eyes shut , she could tell when it was Imogen doing it and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Chariots of Fire , ” where the two men ran extremely fast but for different reasons : the Scottish one because he believed so much in God , the Jewish one because he wanted to fit in and show that he was better than all the anti-Semites he met in college .
The perfunctory swipes across her cheek—that was Imogen , having already lost interest in the whole thing—but in the precisely centered dabs on her forehead , her nose , her mouth , her chin , she felt the warmth of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and care .
After they hoisted themselves off her , Mari made her way unsteadily toward the hall bathroom , eyes slitted and face sticky , and it was here that she caught a whiff of the cake baking in the oven .
She had never smelled anything like it before .
Initially , it reminded her of the cloying scent of Play-Doh , which she had always hated , and in fact hated so much that when she was small she ’ d refused to touch the stuff , but as she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the sweetness , a smell similar to that of butter and eggs and vanilla and flour but not quite the real thing , a smell that was artificial but also intoxicating and somehow more intoxicating for being fake .
She didn ’ t have to taste it to know ahead of time how much she was going to like this cake .
How moist it would be and how warm , how its faint chemical aftertaste would make her go back for more .
Wiping off her face above the sink , she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ now on the only kind of cake she wanted for her birthday was yellow cake from a box .
In the middle of seventh grade , Mari heard the Smiths for the first time , on a late-night radio show that played the day ’ s most-requested songs .
She had to spend extra money when buying the band ’ s record , because it was imported from the U.K. ; it had a Dutch-blue cover with a black-and-white photograph on it of a handsome man in profile , in a tank top—a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one of the Smiths , despite a superficial resemblance to their bass player .
Printed tinily on the inside record sleeve was every word to every song , which is how she learned that the correct words were “ I am the son and the heir ” and not “ I am the sun and the air , ” as she ’ d originally thought .
At first , she felt unsophisticated for having heard it this way , but then it occurred to her that maybe the ambiguity was deliberate , a @ @ @ @

She yanked her shirt back down and glared at them. “Hello—salmonella?”
Somehow it sounded less insane when her mother said it. Imogen and Bree stared at her, speechless. Then they both cackled. “Salmonella?” they repeated. “Salmonella?” Their eyes glittered. A look of silent understanding passed among the three of them.
With a gasp, Mari shoved past Imogen and dove toward the TV room. They flew after her, unleashed, made swift by their socks on the linoleum. Over and around the leather sectional they chased her, careful to avoid the glowing fish tank, no one shrieking or laughing because, upstairs, Bevin was already asleep. Just their heavy breathing filled the room, and when the two of them finally pinned her to the floor, she could feel how all of their chests were heaving rapidly, in unison, like they had run a mile together with matching strides.
“Chariots of Fire” was one of her top-five favorite films. Though she didn’t like to run herself, the sight of British men running was very moving. Whenever they sang “Jerusalem” in morning meeting, she and Imogen and Bree would entertain themselves by surreptitiously acting out the words: they would mime the seizing of the bow, and the spear, and the countenance divine shining forth upon the hills, and they would attack the low note in “arrows of de-sire ” with fake solemnity. But even as they joked around, Mari found the song unspeakably beautiful. That ardent phrase—“Bring me my chariot of fire!”—stirred her.
When the cake batter touched her face, it was not cold, as she thought it might be; it felt only thick and wet. Her eyes were closed at this point. And her mouth, too, of course. Nothing—not Duncan Hines, or egg-borne bacteria, or anything not her own—would cross the threshold. Her lips were squeezed so tightly that they tingled. No one was getting in or out: she kept herself intact, impervious to the panting weight of Imogen and Bree on top of her. With satisfaction, she felt their bodies slacken, the energy dissolving—they were thwarted, and there was nothing to do now but smear batter on Mari’s face. Even with her eyes shut, she could tell when it was Imogen doing it and when it was Bree. Like in “Chariots of Fire,” where the two men ran extremely fast but for different reasons: the Scottish one because he believed so much in God, the Jewish one because he wanted to fit in and show that he was better than all the anti-Semites he met in college. The perfunctory swipes across her cheek—that was Imogen, having already lost interest in the whole thing—but in the precisely centered dabs on her forehead, her nose, her mouth, her chin, she felt the warmth of Bree’s attention, her thoroughness and care.
After they hoisted themselves off her, Mari made her way unsteadily toward the hall bathroom, eyes slitted and face sticky, and it was here that she caught a whiff of the cake baking in the oven. She had never smelled anything like it before. Initially, it reminded her of the cloying scent of Play-Doh, which she had always hated, and in fact hated so much that when she was small she’d refused to touch the stuff, but as she inhaled again she found something spreading underneath the sweetness, a smell similar to that of butter and eggs and vanilla and flour but not quite the real thing, a smell that was artificial but also intoxicating and somehow more intoxicating for being fake. She didn’t have to taste it to know ahead of time how much she was going to like this cake. How moist it would be and how warm, how its faint chemical aftertaste would make her go back for more. Wiping off her face above the sink, she decided to tell her mother that from now on the only kind of cake she wanted for her birthday was yellow cake from a box.
In the middle of seventh grade, Mari heard the Smiths for the first time, on a late-night radio show that played the day’s most-requested songs. She had to spend extra money when buying the band’s record, because it was imported from the U.K.; it had a Dutch-blue cover with a black-and-white photograph on it of a handsome man in profile, in a tank top—a man who turned out not to be one of the Smiths, despite a superficial resemblance to their bass player. Printed tinily on the inside record sleeve was every word to every song, which is how she learned that the correct words were “I am the son and the heir” and not “I am the sun and the air,” as she’d originally thought. At first, she felt unsophisticated for having heard it this way, but then it occurred to her that maybe the ambiguity was deliberate, a mark of genius.
After Mari bought the record, the Smiths became the most important part of her life. She made friends with a girl in her class named Melanie, because Melanie was the only other person she knew who had heard of them. For Mari’s birthday, Melanie wrote a pretend letter in which Johnny Marr, the guitarist, declared his love for her. Speaking as herself, Melanie pointed out that the similarity between Mari’s first name and Johnny’s last name couldn’t be entirely coincidental.
Imogen and Bree didn’t have strong feelings either way about the Smiths—Imogen liked soft rock with soaring choruses, and Bree listened to the kind of dance music played on Kiss 108—but still they were Mari’s best friends. She went back and forth between trying to convert Imogen and Bree to her excellent taste and wanting to keep the Smiths as something sacredly her own. But how could you help but share that which took up so much space in your mind? She talked about the band daily, and, although her friends wouldn’t necessarily know a Smiths song if it hit them over the head, they could recite the names and instruments of the band members, and could recognize them in photos; they now knew that Manchester was a city not only in New Hampshire but also in Northern England, that there was nothing Morrissey relished more than going to a stationery shop and sniffing envelopes. They trailed behind Mari and took turns carrying her book bag as she drifted down the dim aisles of Paine Brothers, inhaling, grazing the reams of paper with her fingertips, attempting through her senses to transport her soul elsewhere.
When that didn’t work, they went across the street to get pizza. Each of them could order for the others: Bree always got sausage-and-mushroom with a medium-sized Sprite. Imogen liked Hawaiian, her favorite meat product being Canadian bacon, but Dino’s didn’t offer that by the slice; you had to order a whole pizza. For just a slice, she’d take pepperoni, as long as there wasn’t too much oil pooling in the pepperoni cups. Mari had stopped eating animals and wanted only two cheese slices and a cup of water, which was free. Without needing to confer, they headed to the booth in the back corner, so that Bree could gaze up at the wood-veneer wall and enjoy the signed photograph of the baseball player who looked like Bruce Boxleitner, star of “Scarecrow and Mrs. King.” That was her favorite TV show, just as Imogen’s was “Jeopardy!,” just as Mari’s was “Masterpiece Theatre.”
The facts in which they were fluent could fill a three-drawer file cabinet: age at which ears were pierced, history of broken bones and origins of scars, score on most recent math test, recurring bad dream, favorite words in French, despised body parts, last book read, secret source of pride, pet peeves, pet names, scents of deodorant and hair conditioner.
There were also things about one another that they didn’t know.
For example: Mari got her period in the sixth grade, right before she turned twelve. By the time she exited the bathroom—sobered, walking strangely, feeling diapered—her mother had already placed calls to her father (he was at work) and to both of her grandmothers (California, Ohio) to tell them the news. From that moment on, Mari didn’t speak of her period to anyone. Discreetly, she carried the necessary implements in an unassuming cotton pouch that looked like a mouse. She had found it in the top drawer of her mother’s dresser, a home to scarves and handkerchiefs and the occasional purposeless gift from relatives in Japan. It was an abstract, teardrop-shaped mouse, with a few inches of silk cord extending from the bottom and, where the tip of its nose would be, a single snap. With this snap as the only form of closure on an otherwise open-mouthed mouse, the pouch was not capable of safely holding much—not money or makeup and certainly not jewelry, nothing small. But Mari discovered that it did well enough with pads, and, in fact, the pads made the mouse look plump, almost like a stuffed toy, and soon the sight of it nestled in her book bag ceased to cause her any embarrassment, so that eventually, a year later, when she had graduated to tampons, she kept these along with her pads inside the mouse, which by then had lost its tail.


newyorker--2020-07-12--Sunday Reading: Summer Sojourns

Sunday Reading: Summer Sojourns

Summer is here .
It arrived , it seems , while we were “ doom-scrolling ” for the latest pandemic updates .
While this summer is obviously different from previous years ’ , there ’ s still the desire for escape .
This week , we ’ re bringing you a selection of pieces about summer vacations in and outside of the city .
In “ Our Perfect Summer , ” David Sedaris chronicles his family ’ s summer sojourns in Emerald Isle , North Carolina .
In “ Hard Up in New York , ” Jonathan Franzen recalls the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to the city to explore its “ romantically deserted vistas ” and become a novelist .
In her short story “ The Lazy River , ” Zadie Smith writes about a group of British families vacationing at a hotel in a small town in southern Spain .
Finally , in “ New York Local , ” Adam Gopnik describes a summer he spent as a city locavore , eating food grown in the five boroughs .
We hope that these pieces offer a reprieve from the heat and a whole lot more .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ time to have a beach house all our own .
It ’ s 1981 , the city is fractured , and you ’ re only just holding it together .
“ We are on vacation , from life and from struggle both .
We are ‘ going with the ﬂow.
’ ” Eating the fruits of the five boroughs .

Photograph by Chandan Khanna / Getty
Summer is here. It arrived, it seems, while we were “doom-scrolling” for the latest pandemic updates. While this summer is obviously different from previous years’, there’s still the desire for escape. This week, we’re bringing you a selection of pieces about summer vacations in and outside of the city. In “Our Perfect Summer,” David Sedaris chronicles his family’s summer sojourns in Emerald Isle, North Carolina. In “Hard Up in New York,” Jonathan Franzen recalls the summer of 1981, when he moved to the city to explore its “romantically deserted vistas” and become a novelist. In her short story “The Lazy River,” Zadie Smith writes about a group of British families vacationing at a hotel in a small town in southern Spain. Finally, in “New York Local,” Adam Gopnik describes a summer he spent as a city locavore, eating food grown in the five boroughs. We hope that these pieces offer a reprieve from the heat and a whole lot more.
—David Remnick
Photograph by Elliott Erwitt / Magnum
One day, it seemed the right time to have a beach house all our own.
It’s 1981, the city is fractured, and you’re only just holding it together.
“We are on vacation, from life and from struggle both. We are ‘going with the ﬂow.’ ”
Photograph by Josef Astor
Eating the fruits of the five boroughs.


newyorker--2020-07-12--Sarah Shun-lien Bynum on Friendship and Class

Your novella “ Many a Little Makes ” revolves around three girls as they become young women , but the story is told in retrospect , from an adult perspective .
It ’ s appropriate , then , that the narrative is one of seeing memories in a new light .
The novella opens with texts from Bree to Mari .
As a fiction writer , it ’ s your job to write from the interior perspective of various characters , but writing texts in their voices seems like a stranger task .
What were the principal challenges , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to do ?
With Bree ’ s texts , I wanted to capture the warmth and liveliness of her voice in particular , and more generally I was just having fun with the eccentricities of middle-aged texting .
There ’ s such a wild variety of approaches among people my age and older : some texts include salutations and full sentences while others consist of randomly capitalized words and unpunctuated fragments , decorated freely with emojis .
My favorite thing is the erratic mix of old and new habits—we ’ ve adopted this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ can ’ t completely let go of certain ingrained ideas about written correspondence .
Every so often , I receive lengthy texts that have the reflective , intimate feel of a traditional letter , yet they ’ re written in shorthand , filled with abbreviations and acronyms and unwanted autocorrections .
I love that incongruity .
The challenge of working with texts in a story is similar to that of using diary entries or letters or found documents : there ’ s the risk of them feeling too obviously like a device .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ delivering exposition , and especially useful at conveying information that the narrative ’ s central consciousness wouldn ’ t have access to otherwise , and the challenge lies in making sure that the texts ( or letters , etc . )
don ’ t come across as purely utilitarian .
Voice can be a way of softening their pragmatic appearance , and , in the case of Bree , an opportunity to imagine how this bright , avid girl might sound as an adult , as someone who ’ s grown up to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
You write so well , so specifically , about the dynamics of young friendship—the shared passions , the accepted divergences .
But there ’ s an added class dynamic here : Bree seems distinctly working-class to the other two girls , while Imogen seems to come from the most refined—or just richest—background .
( Naturally , they end up hanging out mostly at Imogen ’ s house . )
How does the class dynamic complicate their friendship , and what were you especially attuned to in writing their friendship ?
I think @ @ @ @ @ @ @ girls ’ friendship possible at first .
If Bree had been a typical upper-middle-class white girl , Mari would have seen her as a threat , a destabilizing force in her long-standing relationship with Imogen .
That girl would have stirred up a lot of insecurity and unease .
But , when Bree arrives as a new student in the sixth grade , she is immediately marked as being different—because of the way she dresses , because of the neighborhood she comes from—and this difference makes her acceptable to Mari , who has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ difference , being Japanese-American at a predominantly white private school .
In a naïve and unarticulated way , Mari believes that social difference is one of the things that she and Bree have in common .
But , as I was writing about the girls ’ friendship , I was trying to focus more on other sources of commonality , other lines of alliance : being unathletic , liking cake batter , getting one ’ s period , never having kissed a boy .
I was interested in how these alliances are constantly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a dynamic and not alarming way .
There are such deep reserves of trust and familiarity and devotion among these three girls—their friendship feels strong enough to accommodate shifts in closeness , changes in tastes and interests , the seeking of new experiences .
Until it ’ s not—and it ’ s at this point , when the friendship is truly tested , that class reënters the fray and plays a deciding role .
When Mari ’ s mother learns about Bree and Nicholas ’ s sexual relationship , her immediate instinct is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ family : these are parents she knows well , they live in the same community , their daughters have been going to school together for years .
The closeness between the two families has been facilitated by their shared class background , and , while Mari ’ s mother would have probably insisted at the time that class in no way informed her reaction , ultimately her first thought is for the Picketts and not for Bree .
As a young teen , Bree was , to some degree , punished for the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ woman .
The punishment seemed appropriate when the women were all young , but Mari is now rethinking her reaction .
What ’ s changed in the interim—is it cultural , personal , or both ?
Experience , time , maturity , cultural conversations about gender and power—all of this has prompted Mari to rethink her younger self ’ s response to Bree ’ s sexuality .
She now perceives the unfairness and misplacement of the punishment ; she ’ s aware of how sexist attitudes influenced her unsympathetic judgment of Bree .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ she still feels emotionally conflicted about her friend .
She doesn ’ t realize the extent to which her feelings are conflicted until the end of the novella , when her negligence is revealed to her , shamefully .
Mari knows that the past narrative—of Bree as transgressor , as sexual threat—is wrong .
But the narrative that ’ s replaced it—the story of her inexperience and vulnerability , the story in which she ’ s taken advantage of , used by someone older—doesn ’ t feel right to Mari , either .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , frustrated by her own intransigence , wanting to remember her friend as a girl with all of her will and avidity intact .
This novella is part of your new collection , “ Likes , ” which comes out in September .
How does “ Many a Little Makes ” fit in with the other stories , and what are some of its shared preoccupations ?
“ Many a Little Makes ” appears right in the middle of the collection , and , like the stories that come before and after it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ contradictions of love .
That sounds grander and more abstract than the stories actually are , but it ’ s the only phrase I could think of that ’ s broad enough to include all of them .
They ’ re stories about connection and disconnection—in other words , friendship and marriage and adolescence and parenthood .
Some of them take place over decades , some in less than an hour ; some are preoccupied with memory and the workings of time , but all of them have at least one foot , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ present .
Many of them explore the role that movies and television and popular culture and social media play in shaping both our fantasies and our lived experiences , and several of the stories erase the distinction between fantasy and real life altogether .
Like the novella , the collection as a whole is interested in how “ many a little makes a mickle ” —in how small , quotidian , unremarkable moments can end up accumulating into something immeasurable .

Photograph by Mara Casey
Your novella “Many a Little Makes” revolves around three girls as they become young women, but the story is told in retrospect, from an adult perspective. It’s appropriate, then, that the narrative is one of seeing memories in a new light. The novella opens with texts from Bree to Mari. As a fiction writer, it’s your job to write from the interior perspective of various characters, but writing texts in their voices seems like a stranger task. What were the principal challenges, and what did it give you a chance to do?
With Bree’s texts, I wanted to capture the warmth and liveliness of her voice in particular, and more generally I was just having fun with the eccentricities of middle-aged texting. There’s such a wild variety of approaches among people my age and older: some texts include salutations and full sentences while others consist of randomly capitalized words and unpunctuated fragments, decorated freely with emojis. My favorite thing is the erratic mix of old and new habits—we’ve adopted this mode of instant communication, but we can’t completely let go of certain ingrained ideas about written correspondence. Every so often, I receive lengthy texts that have the reflective, intimate feel of a traditional letter, yet they’re written in shorthand, filled with abbreviations and acronyms and unwanted autocorrections. I love that incongruity.
The challenge of working with texts in a story is similar to that of using diary entries or letters or found documents: there’s the risk of them feeling too obviously like a device. They’re an efficient means of delivering exposition, and especially useful at conveying information that the narrative’s central consciousness wouldn’t have access to otherwise, and the challenge lies in making sure that the texts (or letters, etc.) don’t come across as purely utilitarian. Voice can be a way of softening their pragmatic appearance, and, in the case of Bree, an opportunity to imagine how this bright, avid girl might sound as an adult, as someone who’s grown up to live a largely happy and unconventional life.
You write so well, so specifically, about the dynamics of young friendship—the shared passions, the accepted divergences. But there’s an added class dynamic here: Bree seems distinctly working-class to the other two girls, while Imogen seems to come from the most refined—or just richest—background. (Naturally, they end up hanging out mostly at Imogen’s house.) How does the class dynamic complicate their friendship, and what were you especially attuned to in writing their friendship?
I think the class dynamic is what makes the girls’ friendship possible at first. If Bree had been a typical upper-middle-class white girl, Mari would have seen her as a threat, a destabilizing force in her long-standing relationship with Imogen. That girl would have stirred up a lot of insecurity and unease. But, when Bree arrives as a new student in the sixth grade, she is immediately marked as being different—because of the way she dresses, because of the neighborhood she comes from—and this difference makes her acceptable to Mari, who has always felt a sense of her own difference, being Japanese-American at a predominantly white private school. In a naïve and unarticulated way, Mari believes that social difference is one of the things that she and Bree have in common.
But, as I was writing about the girls’ friendship, I was trying to focus more on other sources of commonality, other lines of alliance: being unathletic, liking cake batter, getting one’s period, never having kissed a boy. I was interested in how these alliances are constantly shifting within the trio, but in a dynamic and not alarming way. There are such deep reserves of trust and familiarity and devotion among these three girls—their friendship feels strong enough to accommodate shifts in closeness, changes in tastes and interests, the seeking of new experiences.
Until it’s not—and it’s at this point, when the friendship is truly tested, that class reënters the fray and plays a deciding role. When Mari’s mother learns about Bree and Nicholas’s sexual relationship, her immediate instinct is to feel protective of Nicholas’s family: these are parents she knows well, they live in the same community, their daughters have been going to school together for years. The closeness between the two families has been facilitated by their shared class background, and, while Mari’s mother would have probably insisted at the time that class in no way informed her reaction, ultimately her first thought is for the Picketts and not for Bree.
As a young teen, Bree was, to some degree, punished for the act of having sex as a young woman. The punishment seemed appropriate when the women were all young, but Mari is now rethinking her reaction. What’s changed in the interim—is it cultural, personal, or both?
Experience, time, maturity, cultural conversations about gender and power—all of this has prompted Mari to rethink her younger self’s response to Bree’s sexuality. She now perceives the unfairness and misplacement of the punishment; she’s aware of how sexist attitudes influenced her unsympathetic judgment of Bree. But, despite this adult understanding, she still feels emotionally conflicted about her friend. She doesn’t realize the extent to which her feelings are conflicted until the end of the novella, when her negligence is revealed to her, shamefully.
Mari knows that the past narrative—of Bree as transgressor, as sexual threat—is wrong. But the narrative that’s replaced it—the story of her inexperience and vulnerability, the story in which she’s taken advantage of, used by someone older—doesn’t feel right to Mari, either. She’s dissatisfied by both versions, frustrated by her own intransigence, wanting to remember her friend as a girl with all of her will and avidity intact.
This novella is part of your new collection, “Likes,” which comes out in September. How does “Many a Little Makes” fit in with the other stories, and what are some of its shared preoccupations?
“Many a Little Makes” appears right in the middle of the collection, and, like the stories that come before and after it, it’s interested in the contradictions of love. That sounds grander and more abstract than the stories actually are, but it’s the only phrase I could think of that’s broad enough to include all of them. They’re stories about connection and disconnection—in other words, friendship and marriage and adolescence and parenthood. Some of them take place over decades, some in less than an hour; some are preoccupied with memory and the workings of time, but all of them have at least one foot, like this one does, in the present. Many of them explore the role that movies and television and popular culture and social media play in shaping both our fantasies and our lived experiences, and several of the stories erase the distinction between fantasy and real life altogether. Like the novella, the collection as a whole is interested in how “many a little makes a mickle”—in how small, quotidian, unremarkable moments can end up accumulating into something immeasurable.


newyorker--2020-07-12--How to Plan a Space Mission

How to Plan a Space Mission

In October of 2017 , Rob Weryk discovered an interstellar object in his hotel room at the Marriott in Provo , Utah .
Weryk , an astronomer and postdoctoral fellow at the University of Hawaii , was in town for the forty-ninth meeting of the American Astronomical Society ’ s Division for Planetary Sciences .
One morning , before heading off for a day of presentations , he opened his laptop to go through data he had downloaded from a telescope called Pan-STARRS , which is situated at the Haleakala Observatory , on Maui .
The panoramic telescope stares fixedly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , searching for changes over time .
Special software flags anything that moves for review .
Weryk noticed that , on October 19th , something new had been detected .
Visually , it was uninterpretable—a dot , or maybe noise in the image .
Still , once the movement had been spotted , it was possible to go back in time , locating it in the pre-discovery , or “ precovery , ” data .
Weryk used these previous observations to reconstruct the object ’ s flight path .
It behaved oddly : @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , from dust motes to Jupiter , it didn ’ t seem gravitationally tethered to the sun .
As he investigated , an astonishing picture emerged .
Long-period comets , which are just barely bound to our solar system , might move at one or two kilometres per second .
This object was travelling at twenty-six .
He asked a colleague in Europe to take a look .
He also contacted astronomers at the Canada-France-Hawaii Telescope , on the Big Island of Hawaii , who added the object ’ s coördinates to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the following night .
He wrote to the individual directors of other telescopes , explaining why the object merited observation time .
A team and a consensus grew , with scholars around the world using their telescopes to study what was now almost certainly the first interstellar object to be observed entering our solar system .
They named it ‘ Oumuamua—a Hawaiian word meaning “ scout.
” Two years later , at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory , in Pasadena , California , an astronautical engineer named Randii Wessen stood before a wall-sized whiteboard @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Facing him were eighteen researchers—planetary scientists , astrophysicists , engineers—most in their mid-twenties , all graduate students or postdocs .
Bald , bearded , and trim at sixty-one , Wessen worked on the Voyager and Cassini space probes .
He is now the lead study architect of J.P.L.
’ s so-called A-Team—a group in charge of early space-mission concept planning at the lab ’ s Innovation Foundry .
( The team is named both for the discipline of mission architecture and for the nineteen-eighties TV show about a crack team of do-gooding mercenaries @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of thousands of identified objects in the solar system are exactly alike ; each must be explored according to its own characteristics .
Successful missions , therefore , emerge from the spot where the proved and the fantastic intersect .
The best way to explore Io , Jupiter ’ s volcanic moon , could be an orbiter , but it could also be a lava boat .
Often , these so-crazy-they-might-work solutions begin on Wessen ’ s whiteboards .
The young researchers were there as part of the agency ’ s annual Planetary @ @ @ @ @ @ @ scientists in disparate fields how to work together to plan missions to other worlds .
Before arriving in Pasadena , they had attended eleven weekly teleconferences taught by experts on every aspect of mission development .
On Slack and over the phone , they had debated different targets of hypothetical exploration .
They had settled , finally , on the idea of intercepting and inspecting an ‘ Oumuamua-like interstellar object—a mission unlike any NASA had attempted .
In Pasadena , during the seminar ’ s final meetings , they hoped to design a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ object came from and whether it contained the basic components of life .
They would then present their mission plan and spacecraft design to a review panel of space-exploration veterans charged with tearing it apart .
“ So you ’ re actually going to try to figure out which system this thing came from ?
” Wessen asked the group .
On the board , he wrote out the question : “ Which star or star-forming region did the object originate from ?
” He gawked theatrically at what he had written .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ how you would do that , ” he said .
“ With three different isotope measurements and the trajectory information and the metallicity , ” Jesse Tarnas , a doctoral candidate in planetary science from Brown University , said .
“ I think it is feasible to potentially constrain the core cluster that it might have come from.
” “ Four billion years ago ?
” Wessen asked .
“ And you think it went in a straight line since then ?
” “ No , ” Tarnas said .
“ But , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ compositions .
.
.
.
” He outlined a strategy : use telescopes to deduce , from the light reflecting off and absorbed by the object , which metals it was made from ; match those observations with stars along its trajectory ; make an educated guess about its system of origin .
From the back of the room , another member of the A-Team—one of a dozen observers—voiced her skepticism .
“ It ’ s really going to be hard to do that , ” she said .
“ And if you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and there ’ s anybody in the exoplanet community there , they ’ re going to tell you that objective is not going to work.
” Since the beginning of the seminar , experts at J.P.L .
had been explaining to the researchers just how difficult their mission would be .
Finding a target was the first challenge : even assuming , optimistically , the discovery of one interstellar object per year , the team might have to wait twenty years for a candidate with the right speed and trajectory .
It would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in advance what the object was or how it might behave .
It could be an inert husk speeding through space ; alternatively , frozen and comet-like , it might awaken with heat of the sun , spewing gas , dust , ice , and grains fatal to any approaching probe .
After discovering the object , mission planners would have just a few weeks to decide whether to launch .
In Left Field , Wessen and the researchers worked their way through these complexities and others .
Eight hours later , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from ceiling to floor—was filled with dry-erase marker .
The next day , six rolling whiteboards were covered , too .
The Planetary Science Summer Seminar exists because NASA ’ s budget is small relative to the costs of space exploration .
As a result , the agency makes no exploration decisions unilaterally ; it crowd-sources its ideas from the planetary-science community .
When funding permits , it issues “ announcements of opportunity ” to American laboratories , universities , and corporations , asking for their ideas .
Submitting institutions launch their own @ @ @ @ @ @ @ which arrive at NASA headquarters by the dozens , are then “ competed ” against each other , “ downselected ” to a handful for further development , and narrowed to a final duo for a head-to-head competition .
If a spacecraft and mission are selected , hundreds of millions of dollars will flow to the winning team , and careers and lives will be transformed .
Many planetary scientists spend decades trying to get something off the ground , and most fail to do so .
Actual mission proposals run thousands of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ work and significant research funding .
Students at the seminar experience the process in miniature .
They create a “ science traceability matrix ” —a document showing how a mission ’ s objectives , hypotheses , instruments , and trajectory fit together as a seamless whole .
In designing their spacecraft , they use the same software and methodologies that are employed in real multibillion-dollar flight projects .
In the end , they deliver their presentation to some of the same decision-makers who evaluate full-scale proposals .
While summer-seminar missions don ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ slow refinement of concepts across decades .
The work regularly yields papers published in peer-reviewed journals , and the instructors are often developing missions themselves .
( Karl Mitchell , who teaches at the summer school , is also the project scientist on Trident , a Triton mission currently in competition for NASA selection . )

In October of 2017, Rob Weryk discovered an interstellar object in his hotel room at the Marriott in Provo, Utah. Weryk, an astronomer and postdoctoral fellow at the University of Hawaii, was in town for the forty-ninth meeting of the American Astronomical Society’s Division for Planetary Sciences. One morning, before heading off for a day of presentations, he opened his laptop to go through data he had downloaded from a telescope called Pan-STARRS, which is situated at the Haleakala Observatory, on Maui. The panoramic telescope stares fixedly at vast fields of the night sky, searching for changes over time. Special software flags anything that moves for review.
Weryk noticed that, on October 19th, something new had been detected. Visually, it was uninterpretable—a dot, or maybe noise in the image. Still, once the movement had been spotted, it was possible to go back in time, locating it in the pre-discovery, or “precovery,” data. Weryk used these previous observations to reconstruct the object’s flight path. It behaved oddly: unlike everything else in the solar system, from dust motes to Jupiter, it didn’t seem gravitationally tethered to the sun. As he investigated, an astonishing picture emerged. Long-period comets, which are just barely bound to our solar system, might move at one or two kilometres per second. This object was travelling at twenty-six.
He asked a colleague in Europe to take a look. He also contacted astronomers at the Canada-France-Hawaii Telescope, on the Big Island of Hawaii, who added the object’s coördinates to the list of targets the telescope should view the following night. He wrote to the individual directors of other telescopes, explaining why the object merited observation time. A team and a consensus grew, with scholars around the world using their telescopes to study what was now almost certainly the first interstellar object to be observed entering our solar system. They named it ‘Oumuamua—a Hawaiian word meaning “scout.”
Two years later, at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, in Pasadena, California, an astronautical engineer named Randii Wessen stood before a wall-sized whiteboard in a room called Left Field. Facing him were eighteen researchers—planetary scientists, astrophysicists, engineers—most in their mid-twenties, all graduate students or postdocs. Bald, bearded, and trim at sixty-one, Wessen worked on the Voyager and Cassini space probes. He is now the lead study architect of J.P.L.’s so-called A-Team—a group in charge of early space-mission concept planning at the lab’s Innovation Foundry. (The team is named both for the discipline of mission architecture and for the nineteen-eighties TV show about a crack team of do-gooding mercenaries.) No two of the hundreds of thousands of identified objects in the solar system are exactly alike; each must be explored according to its own characteristics. Successful missions, therefore, emerge from the spot where the proved and the fantastic intersect. The best way to explore Io, Jupiter’s volcanic moon, could be an orbiter, but it could also be a lava boat. Often, these so-crazy-they-might-work solutions begin on Wessen’s whiteboards.
The young researchers were there as part of the agency’s annual Planetary Science Summer Seminar—a program designed to teach scientists in disparate fields how to work together to plan missions to other worlds. Before arriving in Pasadena, they had attended eleven weekly teleconferences taught by experts on every aspect of mission development. On Slack and over the phone, they had debated different targets of hypothetical exploration. They had settled, finally, on the idea of intercepting and inspecting an ‘Oumuamua-like interstellar object—a mission unlike any NASA had attempted. In Pasadena, during the seminar’s final meetings, they hoped to design a spacecraft capable of determining where such an object came from and whether it contained the basic components of life. They would then present their mission plan and spacecraft design to a review panel of space-exploration veterans charged with tearing it apart.
“So you’re actually going to try to figure out which system this thing came from?” Wessen asked the group. On the board, he wrote out the question: “Which star or star-forming region did the object originate from?” He gawked theatrically at what he had written. “I don’t even know how you would do that,” he said.
“With three different isotope measurements and the trajectory information and the metallicity,” Jesse Tarnas, a doctoral candidate in planetary science from Brown University, said. “I think it is feasible to potentially constrain the core cluster that it might have come from.”
“Four billion years ago?” Wessen asked. “And you think it went in a straight line since then?”
“No,” Tarnas said. “But, look, you characterize three different isotopic compositions. . . .” He outlined a strategy: use telescopes to deduce, from the light reflecting off and absorbed by the object, which metals it was made from; match those observations with stars along its trajectory; make an educated guess about its system of origin.
From the back of the room, another member of the A-Team—one of a dozen observers—voiced her skepticism. “It’s really going to be hard to do that,” she said. “And if you go to NASA and say that, and there’s anybody in the exoplanet community there, they’re going to tell you that objective is not going to work.” Since the beginning of the seminar, experts at J.P.L. had been explaining to the researchers just how difficult their mission would be. Finding a target was the first challenge: even assuming, optimistically, the discovery of one interstellar object per year, the team might have to wait twenty years for a candidate with the right speed and trajectory. It would be impossible, moreover, to know in advance what the object was or how it might behave. It could be an inert husk speeding through space; alternatively, frozen and comet-like, it might awaken with heat of the sun, spewing gas, dust, ice, and grains fatal to any approaching probe. After discovering the object, mission planners would have just a few weeks to decide whether to launch.
In Left Field, Wessen and the researchers worked their way through these complexities and others. Eight hours later, the big whiteboard—fifty feet wide, and stretching from ceiling to floor—was filled with dry-erase marker. The next day, six rolling whiteboards were covered, too.
The Planetary Science Summer Seminar exists because NASA’s budget is small relative to the costs of space exploration. As a result, the agency makes no exploration decisions unilaterally; it crowd-sources its ideas from the planetary-science community. When funding permits, it issues “announcements of opportunity” to American laboratories, universities, and corporations, asking for their ideas. Submitting institutions launch their own internal competitions; the best proposals, which arrive at NASA headquarters by the dozens, are then “competed” against each other, “downselected” to a handful for further development, and narrowed to a final duo for a head-to-head competition. If a spacecraft and mission are selected, hundreds of millions of dollars will flow to the winning team, and careers and lives will be transformed. Many planetary scientists spend decades trying to get something off the ground, and most fail to do so.
Actual mission proposals run thousands of pages; developing one requires years of work and significant research funding. Students at the seminar experience the process in miniature. They create a “science traceability matrix”—a document showing how a mission’s objectives, hypotheses, instruments, and trajectory fit together as a seamless whole. In designing their spacecraft, they use the same software and methodologies that are employed in real multibillion-dollar flight projects. In the end, they deliver their presentation to some of the same decision-makers who evaluate full-scale proposals. While summer-seminar missions don’t take flight, they contribute to the slow refinement of concepts across decades. The work regularly yields papers published in peer-reviewed journals, and the instructors are often developing missions themselves. (Karl Mitchell, who teaches at the summer school, is also the project scientist on Trident, a Triton mission currently in competition for NASA selection.)
When participants arrive at J.P.L.’s campus, they find that it consists of about a hundred buildings, great and small, clustered along the San Gabriel mountains. In the cavernous high bays, spacecraft are built; in the outdoor Mars Yard, rovers are tested on simulated Martian terrain. The Space Flight Operations Facility is the mission control center for spacecraft across the solar system; it receives trajectory and science data from far-off probes and sends instructions back. Engineers call it the Center of the Universe.
Building 301, where the Innovation Foundry is situated, is more nondescript. It contains cubicles, conference rooms, water coolers, and offices for the planning-focussed A-Team and another group, Team X, which specializes in spacecraft design. In Wessen’s office, a globe of the moon sits near a plastic alien skull; a copy of “The Ten Special Commandments for a Would-Be Planet Hunter,” signed by its author, Clyde Tombaugh, the discoverer of Pluto, hangs on the wall, near a signed scientific paper by Jan Oort, who hypothesized the existence of a cloud of comets and other space debris surrounding the solar system. From behind his desk, Wessen explained that winning mission approval is not a purely scientific endeavor. Many of those charged with judging mission proposals lack any scientific background; they are political appointees, accountants, managers, and engineers. Planners can’t justify the inclusion of a thermal infrared spectrometer on the basis of its noteworthy wavelength range alone; they must also explain to an accountant why the device is cost-effective. Ultimately, Wessen said, the only way to sell a highly technical mission to stakeholders with diverse, often non-technical backgrounds is to tell a story. At the summer seminar, he cites the storytelling model used by the film studio Pixar, whose tales are conceptualized through a six-step process:


newyorker--2020-07-13--Marilynne Robinson on Expanding the World of “Gilead”

Your story in this week ’ s issue , “ Jack and Della , ” is adapted from your forthcoming novel , “ Jack , ” the fourth book in your Gilead series .
Were you planning , from the beginning , to make this a four-part series ?
I never actually planned to write a second Gilead novel , or a first one , for that matter .
The origin of each of the books is the same : I have the sensation of a distinctive voice in my mind , which I know will support a novel-length narrative @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Gileadites is probably due to the fact that all of them have more life than their first appearance—a story told in someone else ’ s voice—can accommodate .
I always think I am embarking on an enormous novel , then find it has ended at about three hundred pages .
Finally , it seems I have written one enormous novel .
The titular Jack , the son of Robert Boughton , was , in a sense , the black sheep of his family , and broke his father ’ s heart by leaving @ @ @ @ @ @ @ In “ Gilead , ” he comes back to see whether he can bring his common-law wife , Della , who is Black , and their child to live there .
What made you want to devote a whole novel to this character ?
His voice was in my head .
Do you think that Jack ’ s is the last voice from “ Gilead ” that will inhabit you , or might there be others to come ?
On the basis of previous experience , I really can ’ t say .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ you reimagine Jack ’ s first encounters with Della , which were described in passing in “ Gilead.
” When you were writing “ Gilead , ” did you have a clear sense of Della , or is her character essentially new to this book ?
Yes , she was quite real to me .
When the story begins , Jack is newly released from prison .
He ’ s wearing a dark suit he ’ s bought to wear to his mother ’ s funeral , though he has made no plans @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he in a particularly susceptible state ?
Jack is not in the habit of being treated with kindness or courtesy .
He doesn ’ t feel at all deserving of them , because he is , at that very time , hurting his father and his family yet again .
And he can talk with Della .
They have interests and background in common .
So the meeting is emotionally charged for him .
Jack has been a problem since boyhood , a constant heartbreak for his reverend father .
When Della tells @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he hopes she won ’ t put it down next to him , because he doesn ’ t want to be tempted to steal it .
Are his “ defects of character ” actually his character , as he suspects ?
Could he change ?
Do people change ?
Or do they find and accept the opportunity to manifest another side of their character ?
Or do they accept the grace of being accepted , faults and all ?
I consider this an open question .
Della clearly sees that Jack has misled @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with a questionable past .
And he ’ s white .
Why does she pursue contact with him , knowing how dangerous it is in nineteen-fifties Missouri , where miscegenation is illegal ?
Della is interested in Jack and attracted to him , as people are to one another .
And she doesn ’ t want to abide by the constraints of the larger society or the constraints of her father ’ s resistance to the norms of the larger society .
She wants to act on the basis of her own feelings @

Photograph by Basso Cannarsa / Agence Opale / Alamy
Your story in this week’s issue, “Jack and Della,” is adapted from your forthcoming novel, “Jack,” the fourth book in your Gilead series. Were you planning, from the beginning, to make this a four-part series?
I never actually planned to write a second Gilead novel, or a first one, for that matter. The origin of each of the books is the same: I have the sensation of a distinctive voice in my mind, which I know will support a novel-length narrative. That these voices all belong to Gileadites is probably due to the fact that all of them have more life than their first appearance—a story told in someone else’s voice—can accommodate. I always think I am embarking on an enormous novel, then find it has ended at about three hundred pages. Finally, it seems I have written one enormous novel.
The titular Jack, the son of Robert Boughton, was, in a sense, the black sheep of his family, and broke his father’s heart by leaving home after impregnating a young girl. In “Gilead,” he comes back to see whether he can bring his common-law wife, Della, who is Black, and their child to live there. What made you want to devote a whole novel to this character?
His voice was in my head.
Do you think that Jack’s is the last voice from “Gilead” that will inhabit you, or might there be others to come?
On the basis of previous experience, I really can’t say.
In “Jack and Della,” you reimagine Jack’s first encounters with Della, which were described in passing in “Gilead.” When you were writing “Gilead,” did you have a clear sense of Della, or is her character essentially new to this book?
Yes, she was quite real to me.
When the story begins, Jack is newly released from prison. He’s wearing a dark suit he’s bought to wear to his mother’s funeral, though he has made no plans to go to the service. Is he in a particularly susceptible state?
Jack is not in the habit of being treated with kindness or courtesy. He doesn’t feel at all deserving of them, because he is, at that very time, hurting his father and his family yet again. And he can talk with Della. They have interests and background in common. So the meeting is emotionally charged for him.
Jack has been a problem since boyhood, a constant heartbreak for his reverend father. When Della tells him about a book she has, he hopes she won’t put it down next to him, because he doesn’t want to be tempted to steal it. Are his “defects of character” actually his character, as he suspects? Could he change?
Do people change? Or do they find and accept the opportunity to manifest another side of their character? Or do they accept the grace of being accepted, faults and all? I consider this an open question.
Della clearly sees that Jack has misled her, that he is a drifter with a questionable past. And he’s white. Why does she pursue contact with him, knowing how dangerous it is in nineteen-fifties Missouri, where miscegenation is illegal?
Della is interested in Jack and attracted to him, as people are to one another. And she doesn’t want to abide by the constraints of the larger society or the constraints of her father’s resistance to the norms of the larger society. She wants to act on the basis of her own feelings.


newyorker--2020-07-13--Getting Out of Town Without a Patdown

Getting Out of Town Without a Patdown

Road trips require rest stops ; commercial air travel mandates queueing up for the T.S.A .
Is there a better way to get out of town during a pandemic ?
According to a regional air carrier called JSX , there is .
It has two dozen planes ( maximum capacity : thirty passengers ) that fly between private terminals and dedicated hangars .
The flights cost about the same as their commercial counterparts , but , Alex Wilcox , JSX ’ s C.E.O.
, said , “ we fall just underneath the line at which you become required to use @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that commercial air travel subjects us to these days.
” In Los Angeles , JSX operates out of its own hangar at the Hollywood Burbank Airport—it ’ s like Teterboro without the limousines .
“ At least we ’ re not at LAX , ” a passenger named Alisha Wanninger said the other day , as she waited for JSX ’ s 9:30 a.m. flight to Las Vegas .
She and her boyfriend had a layover there before continuing on to Phoenix to celebrate her birthday .
The plan , she said , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lay out—super low-key.
” She added , “ We don ’ t want to be around too many people.
” Because JSX is not a commercial airline , it doesn ’ t need to screen its passengers at T.S.A .
checkpoints .
It runs background checks at the time of booking .
A.I.-enabled thermal sensors take travellers ’ temperatures and trigger an alarm if they register more than 100.4 degrees .
I.D.s ?
Scanned from a distance .
Boarding passes ?
Surfaced on a mobile app .
Security ?
Conducted by two metal @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and by a human “ airport-service concierge ” ( A.S.C . )
, who swabs bags for explosives and then loads them onto the plane .
“ There are no overhead bins , ” Wilcox explained , “ so there ’ s not going to be anyone standing on top of you for two minutes.
” Once the plane lands , bag handles are sanitized and summarily stepped back from .
“ Touch less is obviously the theme here , ” Wilcox said .
JSX is also installing plastic shields between seats and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ removable , ” he said , “ so if you ’ re travelling with somebody you live with , for example , there ’ s no need for that ” —in theory .
Masks ?
Mandatory .
“ We ’ ve had a few people come in without them—people who weren ’ t from L.A. , who haven ’ t gotten the memo , ” Nick Sturtevant , an A.S.C.
, said .
“ They come in and say , ‘ Oh , sorry , we don ’ t have masks .
Do @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he informs them that they can purchase one for three dollars , “ miraculously , they ’ ll pull out their bandanna or the mask they happened to have.
” Ariana Diaz , JSX ’ s brand manager , said that the mask policy is enforced in the lounge as well .
But what about the gentleman over there in the armchair , with an N95 mask resting on top of his head like a pair of Persols ?
“ That ’ s probably a very special case , ” she said .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” ( It was , via a P.A .
announcement . )
Nearby , a young man in a Gucci tracksuit , sans mask , said into his phone , “ We ’ re in the lounge—go look at Instagram.
” Diaz shook her head .
An A.S.C .
named David Harris said that the Vegas flights had been pretty smooth .
“ The customers we ’ re getting aren ’ t intoxicated , ” he said .
“ No bachelorette parties.
” At 9:50 A.M. , the passengers boarded , and the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hangar , Marcell Jones , another A.S.C.
, grabbed a cannister of Clorox wipes .
“ We always did tabletops , countertops , the coffee machine , and touch screens , but we never did the seats , ” she said , wiping down the armchair previously occupied by the “ very special case.
” “ I like it , to be honest , ” she said of the new policy .
“ Look at the Domino ’ s commercials saying , ‘ Now , when your pizza comes out of the oven @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Why were you touching it before ?
” Harris began preparing for the next round of passengers .
He predicted that JSX flights would remain calm for now , even though cities have started reopening .
“ You can say ‘ Vegas is open , New York ’ s open , ’ ” Harris said .
“ But it ’ s about restoring confidence in people .
A lot of them are saying , ‘ Eh , even though Vegas is open , I ’ m probably not going to do that this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ passengers who had just departed , he added , “ Well , you ’ re always going to have the people who will go.
” ♦

Road trips require rest stops; commercial air travel mandates queueing up for the T.S.A. Is there a better way to get out of town during a pandemic? According to a regional air carrier called JSX, there is. It has two dozen planes (maximum capacity: thirty passengers) that fly between private terminals and dedicated hangars. The flights cost about the same as their commercial counterparts, but, Alex Wilcox, JSX’s C.E.O., said, “we fall just underneath the line at which you become required to use a terminal and suffer all the indignities that commercial air travel subjects us to these days.” In Los Angeles, JSX operates out of its own hangar at the Hollywood Burbank Airport—it’s like Teterboro without the limousines. “At least we’re not at LAX,” a passenger named Alisha Wanninger said the other day, as she waited for JSX’s 9:30 a.m. flight to Las Vegas. She and her boyfriend had a layover there before continuing on to Phoenix to celebrate her birthday. The plan, she said, was to “drink some wine, lay out—super low-key.” She added, “We don’t want to be around too many people.”
Because JSX is not a commercial airline, it doesn’t need to screen its passengers at T.S.A. checkpoints. It runs background checks at the time of booking. A.I.-enabled thermal sensors take travellers’ temperatures and trigger an alarm if they register more than 100.4 degrees. I.D.s? Scanned from a distance. Boarding passes? Surfaced on a mobile app. Security? Conducted by two metal pillars, which screen for weapons, and by a human “airport-service concierge” (A.S.C.), who swabs bags for explosives and then loads them onto the plane. “There are no overhead bins,” Wilcox explained, “so there’s not going to be anyone standing on top of you for two minutes.” Once the plane lands, bag handles are sanitized and summarily stepped back from. “Touch less is obviously the theme here,” Wilcox said. JSX is also installing plastic shields between seats and seat rows. “They’re removable,” he said, “so if you’re travelling with somebody you live with, for example, there’s no need for that”—in theory.
Masks? Mandatory. “We’ve had a few people come in without them—people who weren’t from L.A., who haven’t gotten the memo,” Nick Sturtevant, an A.S.C., said. “They come in and say, ‘Oh, sorry, we don’t have masks. Do you have any?’ ” When he informs them that they can purchase one for three dollars, “miraculously, they’ll pull out their bandanna or the mask they happened to have.” Ariana Diaz, JSX’s brand manager, said that the mask policy is enforced in the lounge as well. But what about the gentleman over there in the armchair, with an N95 mask resting on top of his head like a pair of Persols? “That’s probably a very special case,” she said. “Ideally, that would be addressed.” (It was, via a P.A. announcement.) Nearby, a young man in a Gucci tracksuit, sans mask, said into his phone, “We’re in the lounge—go look at Instagram.” Diaz shook her head.
An A.S.C. named David Harris said that the Vegas flights had been pretty smooth. “The customers we’re getting aren’t intoxicated,” he said. “No bachelorette parties.” At 9:50 A.M., the passengers boarded, and the plane taxied away. Back in the hangar, Marcell Jones, another A.S.C., grabbed a cannister of Clorox wipes. “We always did tabletops, countertops, the coffee machine, and touch screens, but we never did the seats,” she said, wiping down the armchair previously occupied by the “very special case.” “I like it, to be honest,” she said of the new policy. “Look at the Domino’s commercials saying, ‘Now, when your pizza comes out of the oven, nobody has to touch it.’ Why were you touching it before?”
Harris began preparing for the next round of passengers. He predicted that JSX flights would remain calm for now, even though cities have started reopening. “You can say ‘Vegas is open, New York’s open,’ ” Harris said. “But it’s about restoring confidence in people. A lot of them are saying, ‘Eh, even though Vegas is open, I’m probably not going to do that this summer.’ ” Referring to the twenty-nine passengers who had just departed, he added, “Well, you’re always going to have the people who will go.” ♦
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