newyorker--2020-07-19--Chance the Rapper Is Still Figuring Things Out

Chancelor Johnathan Bennett , better known as Chance the Rapper , grew up on the South Side of Chicago .
His father worked as an aide to both Harold Washington , the first Black mayor of the city , and Barack Obama , when he was still a rising figure in Illinois state politics .
When Chance was in grade school , he loved the gospel , jazz , and R. & B. music that his parents played at home , but when he came across Kanye West ’ s “ The College Dropout , ” a seed was planted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the age of thirteen or fourteen , he told Obama that he had ambitions to be a professional .
The future President responded , “ Word.
” In high school , while on suspension for marijuana possession , Chance recorded a mixtape called “ 10 Day.
” That was 2011 .
The work to follow–– “ Acid Rap , ” “ Coloring Book ” and , most recently , “ The Big Day ” —has established his reputation as an artist of musical and lyrical originality .
Chance has also been one of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ business , both nationally and on the local level , where he has been a sharp critic of Rahm Emanuel , the former mayor of Chicago , and of the city ’ s police force .
In recent months , he has marched in Black Lives Matter demonstrations while trying to write and record new music .
There is , though , another thread to Chance ’ s career , that of a young man—a star by twenty—growing into his art and ideas .
That journey has not always been smooth .
In @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of one of his concerts appeared in MTV News , Chance ’ s team pressured the outlet to yank the piece—an odd move for an artist who otherwise trumpeted a diverse , local , and independent press .
And , in 2018 , when Kanye West voiced his support for Trump , Chance came , perhaps too hastily , to his mentor ’ s defense .
( “ Black people don ’ t have to be democrats , ” he tweeted . )
He later apologized , writing that his comment was “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” and was rooted only in his discontent with years of Democratic neglect in Chicago .
This interview , which was edited with Mengfei Chen , was conducted for The New Yorker Radio Hour earlier this month––just before Kanye West announced his candidacy for the Presidency and then , just as quickly , withdrew .
During that fleeting candidacy , Chance sort-of endorsed West and expressed his continuing ambivalence about Joe Biden .
( As he put it on Twitter , “ And yall out here tryna convince me to vote for Biden @ @ @ @ @ @ @ met with some sharp criticism , and soon Chance was “ sprinting down the hill , ” acknowledging that “ everyone voting for Biden isn ’ t necessarily doing so enthusiastically.
” We talked about his own thoughts on electoral politics , his faith , and more .
Our exchange has been edited for length and clarity .
Chance , we ’ re going to talk about music , I promise .
But with so much else going on in the world , particularly in Chicago and so many other cities , it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Tell me a little bit about what your life has been like for these past several weeks .
It ’ s been jarring .
It ’ s been very much an awakening .
I think everybody ’ s been struggling with finding out how we ’ ve all been either affected by , or complicit in , the white male patriarchy that this nation is built on .
As a Black man , though , what have you learned ?
It ’ s obvious that many white people have , if they ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ awakened to some degree about many things .
But what is it that you didn ’ t know that you know now , three weeks later ?
So many things .
One would be starting to understand the separation of the Black church from white evangelicalism , and how different the views on equality , kindness , compassion , and neighborly love are , how intentional some white evangelicals are about not speaking on white supremacy in the country and within the church .
I ’ ve been reading James Cone , who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ liberation theology .
And , in my first read , I didn ’ t think that he was saying anything that was too outlandish .
When I went out and , just among my friends or even on the Internet , spoke on things that I was learning from it , the combativeness that it was met with was just surprising for me .
But it was about understanding that the violence that Black males are met with in the country is way more highlighted than the injustices that Black women have had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ recent weeks .
And I think we see so many companies are coming out and making statements on prejudices within their spaces .
Do you think it ’ s sincere ?
The thing is , I don ’ t think a company can be sincere , because it ’ s not a human being .
I couldn ’ t call it sincere , but what I would say is that I think it ’ s substantial .
All of these events , especially when they ’ re covered by the media and broadcasted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
It becomes a documented thing that these people had to come out and either admit to some forms of racism , or at least admit to the systemic injustices of the United States .
Whether it ’ s virtue signalling or not , it happened .
What is the saying ?
Admitting things is the first step .
You mentioned James Cone , who wrote a terrific book about the many kinds of ways that Malcolm X and Martin Luther King converge .
We now have a movement , Black Lives Matter @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a Malcolm X or Martin Luther King .
In fact , it ’ s very distinctly and deliberately leaderless .
What ’ s your experience of a movement that ’ s quite different than the one of your parents and grandparents ?
I ’ m twenty-seven .
My generation was taught that the civil-rights movement ended in the sixties with the death of Martin Luther King , Jr. , and that the Civil Rights Act put things as they should be .
If anything , that belief was reinforced with the election of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ injustices of America were a thing of the past .
I think what this movement has shown us and teaches is that we ’ re very far from an equitable or equal society , and that we will be the generation that fixes it .
I guess the best answer is I don ’ t see a difference between the two movements .
They ’ re both fighting for the exact same thing .
You , in a sense , grew up into this .
Your father worked for Harold Washington , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ also , for a time , a little-known Illinois state senator and then U.S. senator named Barack Obama .
I wonder how you thought about the importance of the Obama Presidency then—and maybe that ’ s changed .
Yeah , like you said , when I first met him , he wasn ’ t President .
He had just lost an election for Congress .
And I just thought he was the coolest dude in the world .
Was he different back then ?
I mean , he ’ s been aged by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I think he ’ s always just been a super smooth dude .
And in his elections , whether it was for senator , President , or the second term , I don ’ t think that the energy in the room , in terms of what we thought the outcome was going to be , was necessarily positive .
We didn ’ t think that he was going to be elected , or reëlected .
And so , when he won each time , it was a really big deal .

Chancelor Johnathan Bennett, better known as Chance the Rapper, grew up on the South Side of Chicago. His father worked as an aide to both Harold Washington, the first Black mayor of the city, and Barack Obama, when he was still a rising figure in Illinois state politics. When Chance was in grade school, he loved the gospel, jazz, and R. & B. music that his parents played at home, but when he came across Kanye West’s “The College Dropout,” a seed was planted. He started rapping and, at the age of thirteen or fourteen, he told Obama that he had ambitions to be a professional. The future President responded, “Word.”
In high school, while on suspension for marijuana possession, Chance recorded a mixtape called “10 Day.” That was 2011. The work to follow––“Acid Rap,” “Coloring Book” and, most recently, “The Big Day”—has established his reputation as an artist of musical and lyrical originality. Chance has also been one of the most politically engaged figures in the business, both nationally and on the local level, where he has been a sharp critic of Rahm Emanuel, the former mayor of Chicago, and of the city’s police force. In recent months, he has marched in Black Lives Matter demonstrations while trying to write and record new music.
There is, though, another thread to Chance’s career, that of a young man—a star by twenty—growing into his art and ideas. That journey has not always been smooth. In 2016, when a mildly skeptical review of one of his concerts appeared in MTV News, Chance’s team pressured the outlet to yank the piece—an odd move for an artist who otherwise trumpeted a diverse, local, and independent press. And, in 2018, when Kanye West voiced his support for Trump, Chance came, perhaps too hastily, to his mentor’s defense. (“Black people don’t have to be democrats,” he tweeted.) He later apologized, writing that his comment was “a deflection from the real conversation,” and was rooted only in his discontent with years of Democratic neglect in Chicago.
This interview, which was edited with Mengfei Chen, was conducted for The New Yorker Radio Hour earlier this month––just before Kanye West announced his candidacy for the Presidency and then, just as quickly, withdrew. During that fleeting candidacy, Chance sort-of endorsed West and expressed his continuing ambivalence about Joe Biden. (As he put it on Twitter, “And yall out here tryna convince me to vote for Biden. Smfh.”) The comments were met with some sharp criticism, and soon Chance was “sprinting down the hill,” acknowledging that “everyone voting for Biden isn’t necessarily doing so enthusiastically.” We talked about his own thoughts on electoral politics, his faith, and more. Our exchange has been edited for length and clarity.
Chance, we’re going to talk about music, I promise. But with so much else going on in the world, particularly in Chicago and so many other cities, it feels like we should start there. Tell me a little bit about what your life has been like for these past several weeks.
It’s been jarring. It’s been very much an awakening. I think everybody’s been struggling with finding out how we’ve all been either affected by, or complicit in, the white male patriarchy that this nation is built on.
As a Black man, though, what have you learned? It’s obvious that many white people have, if they’re not lying about it, been awakened to some degree about many things. But what is it that you didn’t know that you know now, three weeks later?
So many things. One would be starting to understand the separation of the Black church from white evangelicalism, and how different the views on equality, kindness, compassion, and neighborly love are, how intentional some white evangelicals are about not speaking on white supremacy in the country and within the church.
I’ve been reading James Cone, who was one of the pioneers in Black liberation theology. And, in my first read, I didn’t think that he was saying anything that was too outlandish. When I went out and, just among my friends or even on the Internet, spoke on things that I was learning from it, the combativeness that it was met with was just surprising for me. But it was about understanding that the violence that Black males are met with in the country is way more highlighted than the injustices that Black women have had to deal with, even in the recent weeks. And I think we see so many companies are coming out and making statements on prejudices within their spaces.
Do you think it’s sincere?
The thing is, I don’t think a company can be sincere, because it’s not a human being. I couldn’t call it sincere, but what I would say is that I think it’s substantial. All of these events, especially when they’re covered by the media and broadcasted, create a time stamp on things. It becomes a documented thing that these people had to come out and either admit to some forms of racism, or at least admit to the systemic injustices of the United States. Whether it’s virtue signalling or not, it happened. What is the saying? Admitting things is the first step.
You mentioned James Cone, who wrote a terrific book about the many kinds of ways that Malcolm X and Martin Luther King converge. We now have a movement, Black Lives Matter, that’s not led by a Malcolm X or Martin Luther King. In fact, it’s very distinctly and deliberately leaderless. What’s your experience of a movement that’s quite different than the one of your parents and grandparents?
I’m twenty-seven. My generation was taught that the civil-rights movement ended in the sixties with the death of Martin Luther King, Jr., and that the Civil Rights Act put things as they should be. If anything, that belief was reinforced with the election of Barack Obama. We believed that the injustices of America were a thing of the past. I think what this movement has shown us and teaches is that we’re very far from an equitable or equal society, and that we will be the generation that fixes it. I guess the best answer is I don’t see a difference between the two movements. They’re both fighting for the exact same thing.
You, in a sense, grew up into this. Your father worked for Harold Washington, the first Black mayor of Chicago, and also, for a time, a little-known Illinois state senator and then U.S. senator named Barack Obama. I wonder how you thought about the importance of the Obama Presidency then—and maybe that’s changed.
Yeah, like you said, when I first met him, he wasn’t President. He had just lost an election for Congress. And I just thought he was the coolest dude in the world.
Was he different back then?
I mean, he’s been aged by the Oval Office, obviously. But I think he’s always just been a super smooth dude. And in his elections, whether it was for senator, President, or the second term, I don’t think that the energy in the room, in terms of what we thought the outcome was going to be, was necessarily positive. We didn’t think that he was going to be elected, or reëlected. And so, when he won each time, it was a really big deal.


newyorker--2020-07-19--Driving Cross-Country: A Coronavirus Diary

My journey across this deeply troubled country got off to a glum start .
I had set off just after lunch on my biannual trip back to the Hudson Valley from Stanford University , where I teach during the winter and spring .
I was heading first to southern Utah , to visit a friend , so I decided to spend the night at a highway hotel in Barstow , California , which I had selected for two reasons : it was roughly a six hours ’ drive from Palo Alto , and recent reviews have noted that it is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , put on a face mask and a pair of lime-green nitrile gloves from a stash of supplies that I had brought along , unhooked my dog , a two-year-old Whoodle named Linus , from his seat belt , and walked into the hotel .
A clerk stood behind a Plexiglas window , which , for a minute , allayed my fears of venturing out into our *COVID*-19-infected nation .
I gave her my name and she smiled .
“ Oh , honey , ” she said .
“ You don ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
It ’ s a bit much , don ’ t you think ?
” No , I said to myself .
Have you looked at the surging numbers in Southern California ?
I am not even sure it ’ s enough .
But she shrugged , handed me my key card , and chuckled at the sight of my brightly gloved hand .
There was a bottle of hand sanitizer on the counter next to a sign advising guests to cover their faces , yet I couldn ’ t help but notice @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the lobby wearing a mask .
I went to my room , which seemed neat and clean .
Nonetheless , I took one of my three bottles of Clorox spray and wiped down every surface , changed my gloves , picked up the TV remote , and nearly drowned it in disinfectant .
Then I took Linus for a walk .
The hotel was near a seemingly endless number of chain restaurants : McDonald ’ s , In-N-Out Burger , Del Taco , and Taco Bell .
Directly across the parking lot there @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was hungry , and I peered inside : the restaurant was full even on a Tuesday night , and the only people I saw wearing masks were the servers .
I decided to dine in my room , on a PowerBar and beef jerky .
This is my third trip across America by car .
I have lived much of my life working as a foreign correspondent , in Hong Kong , London , Moscow , and Rome .
For decades , I have travelled extensively in Asia , Africa , and Europe @ @ @ @ @ @ @ health .
But I am also a bit of a stereotypical New Yorker ; until last year , except for an occasional foray to Chicago or Atlanta , my experience of America had occurred mostly on the coasts .
The first two journeys had been a revelation , in part because my itinerary required little planning other than to head toward the coast I wasn ’ t on .
Each day , I would drive for six or seven hours , type the words “ dog friendly hotel ” into Google , check @ @ @ @ @ @ @ park and a locally recommended place to eat .
Then I would read or watch a baseball game ( remember those ? )
and go to sleep .
The trips were fun and random in a way that my life is not .
I met fascinating and unexpected people at the dog parks , including , last December , on the way back to school , a former meth dealer just out of prison , whom I encountered in Amarillo with his adorable border collie .
He steered me to a fantastic taco @ @ @ @ @ @ @ world .
I don ’ t expect the same kind of serendipity on this trip .
I have a sleeping bag , in case it comes to that , and enough hand sanitizer to disinfect the nation .
But I have spent the past hundred days in nearly total seclusion in Santa Clara County , which was among the first regions to order people to shelter in place .
COVID-19 turned Stanford into a ghost town nearly overnight .
The spring quarter had not yet begun , but one day there were thousands @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and the next day they were gone .
I taught a class with a hundred and thirty students and never met any of them , except on Zoom .
The dorms were shut , the gyms were closed , and so were the laboratories .
When I walked across the vast campus with Linus , I felt as if I were in a scene that somehow was cut out of “ The Leftovers.
” To be honest , I ’ m excited to go home , but also a bit worried about leaving @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I have been sick a bunch in the past couple of years , but once again feel vigorous and healthy .
I ’ ll do whatever I can to avoid this virus .
I just drove across the Mojave Desert , where , at noon , the temperature reached a hundred and ten .
Unless you see the desert , I am not sure you can fully grasp how something so desolate can be so beautiful .
I needed to charge the car and walk Linus , and I decided to stop on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pass by Harrah ’ s , the Bellagio , and Caesars Palace .
I counted a hundred and thirty-seven people during my thirty-minute stroll , and only seventeen wore masks .
Not exactly a scientific poll , but not encouraging , either .
It isn ’ t easy to interview people with a mask on your face and a leash in your hand , but I gave it a try .
Those I spoke to offered a variety of answers to my single question : Why are you not wearing a mask ?
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ when it is hot , ” a man told me .
I didn ’ t want to get into a debate , but clearly no one had told that to the virus : the day before , Nevada recorded four hundred and eighty-three new cases , the highest number there since the epidemic began .
The most remarkable answer came from a lanky woman in a yellow sundress who was headed to the Bellagio .
She had come with her husband from Oregon to gamble a little , she said , and to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ At some point , you just have to live your life , ” she told me , “ and we were not born with masks on.
” I got back into my car , and headed for Utah .
As I approached the state line , I heard Governor Andrew Cuomo announce that people coming to New York from states with high rates of new infections—and Utah is one—could be asked to isolate themselves for the first two weeks upon arrival .
Kanab is a strange and beautiful place , one part emerging @ @ @ @ @ @ @ craft shops ) and two parts deep-red town in a deep-red state ( gun stores galore ) .
Utah has not supported a Democratic Presidential nominee since 1964 , when Lyndon Johnson won forty-four of the states .
I arrived late in the afternoon and threw a Frisbee with Linus for longer than I wanted to , but it ’ s hard to deny a dog that has been stuck in a car most of the day .
Kanab is a gateway to Zion and Bryce Canyon National Parks , and sits about @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Grand Canyon .
Willow Canyon Outdoor , which sells books and the best hiking gear in town , also sells the best espresso .
The shopkeepers were strict about limiting the number of people inside and refused to allow any maskless person to enter .
It wasn ’ t the only place to take the pandemic seriously , but in the rest of the town the threat was mostly ignored .

June 23rd, Barstow, California
My journey across this deeply troubled country got off to a glum start. I had set off just after lunch on my biannual trip back to the Hudson Valley from Stanford University, where I teach during the winter and spring. I was heading first to southern Utah, to visit a friend, so I decided to spend the night at a highway hotel in Barstow, California, which I had selected for two reasons: it was roughly a six hours’ drive from Palo Alto, and recent reviews have noted that it is particularly attentive to cleanliness.
I parked, put on a face mask and a pair of lime-green nitrile gloves from a stash of supplies that I had brought along, unhooked my dog, a two-year-old Whoodle named Linus, from his seat belt, and walked into the hotel. A clerk stood behind a Plexiglas window, which, for a minute, allayed my fears of venturing out into our *COVID*-19-infected nation. I gave her my name and she smiled. “Oh, honey,” she said. “You don’t have to wear that thing in here. It’s a bit much, don’t you think?” No, I said to myself. Have you looked at the surging numbers in Southern California? I am not even sure it’s enough. But she shrugged, handed me my key card, and chuckled at the sight of my brightly gloved hand.
There was a bottle of hand sanitizer on the counter next to a sign advising guests to cover their faces, yet I couldn’t help but notice that I was the only person in the lobby wearing a mask. I went to my room, which seemed neat and clean. Nonetheless, I took one of my three bottles of Clorox spray and wiped down every surface, changed my gloves, picked up the TV remote, and nearly drowned it in disinfectant. Then I took Linus for a walk.
The hotel was near a seemingly endless number of chain restaurants: McDonald’s, In-N-Out Burger, Del Taco, and Taco Bell. Directly across the parking lot there was a Chili’s. I was hungry, and I peered inside: the restaurant was full even on a Tuesday night, and the only people I saw wearing masks were the servers. I decided to dine in my room, on a PowerBar and beef jerky.
This is my third trip across America by car. I have lived much of my life working as a foreign correspondent, in Hong Kong, London, Moscow, and Rome. For decades, I have travelled extensively in Asia, Africa, and Europe, mostly covering issues of global public health. But I am also a bit of a stereotypical New Yorker; until last year, except for an occasional foray to Chicago or Atlanta, my experience of America had occurred mostly on the coasts. The first two journeys had been a revelation, in part because my itinerary required little planning other than to head toward the coast I wasn’t on. Each day, I would drive for six or seven hours, type the words “dog friendly hotel” into Google, check in somewhere, and find a dog park and a locally recommended place to eat. Then I would read or watch a baseball game (remember those?) and go to sleep. The trips were fun and random in a way that my life is not. I met fascinating and unexpected people at the dog parks, including, last December, on the way back to school, a former meth dealer just out of prison, whom I encountered in Amarillo with his adorable border collie. He steered me to a fantastic taco truck.
All that happened in another world. I don’t expect the same kind of serendipity on this trip. I have a sleeping bag, in case it comes to that, and enough hand sanitizer to disinfect the nation. But I have spent the past hundred days in nearly total seclusion in Santa Clara County, which was among the first regions to order people to shelter in place. COVID-19 turned Stanford into a ghost town nearly overnight. The spring quarter had not yet begun, but one day there were thousands of students bustling about on campus, and the next day they were gone. I taught a class with a hundred and thirty students and never met any of them, except on Zoom. The dorms were shut, the gyms were closed, and so were the laboratories. When I walked across the vast campus with Linus, I felt as if I were in a scene that somehow was cut out of “The Leftovers.”
To be honest, I’m excited to go home, but also a bit worried about leaving my safe place to get there. I have been sick a bunch in the past couple of years, but once again feel vigorous and healthy. I’ll do whatever I can to avoid this virus.
June 24th, Las Vegas
I just drove across the Mojave Desert, where, at noon, the temperature reached a hundred and ten. Unless you see the desert, I am not sure you can fully grasp how something so desolate can be so beautiful. I needed to charge the car and walk Linus, and I decided to stop on the strip, so that I could pass by Harrah’s, the Bellagio, and Caesars Palace. I counted a hundred and thirty-seven people during my thirty-minute stroll, and only seventeen wore masks. Not exactly a scientific poll, but not encouraging, either. It isn’t easy to interview people with a mask on your face and a leash in your hand, but I gave it a try. Those I spoke to offered a variety of answers to my single question: Why are you not wearing a mask? “The virus cannot infect you when it is hot,” a man told me. I didn’t want to get into a debate, but clearly no one had told that to the virus: the day before, Nevada recorded four hundred and eighty-three new cases, the highest number there since the epidemic began. The most remarkable answer came from a lanky woman in a yellow sundress who was headed to the Bellagio. She had come with her husband from Oregon to gamble a little, she said, and to regain a sense of community. “At some point, you just have to live your life,” she told me, “and we were not born with masks on.” I got back into my car, and headed for Utah. As I approached the state line, I heard Governor Andrew Cuomo announce that people coming to New York from states with high rates of new infections—and Utah is one—could be asked to isolate themselves for the first two weeks upon arrival.


newyorker--2020-07-19--How Munich Turned Its Coronavirus Outbreak Into a Scientific Study

On a bright morning in May , Isabel Klugherz , a medical student at Ludwig-Maximilians University , in Munich , arrived at the geographical center of the city ’ s Milbertshofen district .
Over the previous month , as Munich ’ s streets emptied under lockdown orders , an exception had been granted for roving medical students in mint-green scrubs and face masks .
The university ’ s department for infectious diseases was screening for the seroprevalence of SARS-CoV-2—antibody testing—by sending police-escorted teams on the winding pattern of a predetermined algorithm , otherwise known as a random walk .
Start @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , continue past a few houses , cross to the other side of the street , select the third house , and knock .
In the past month , Klugherz had knocked on nearly a thousand doors , and residents had been overwhelmingly enthusiastic about participating ; one man had pronounced it more important than his Sunday celebration of the Holy Mass .
That morning , the algorithm led Klugherz into a quiet road of whitewashed modernist buildings .
The day before , she had texted a friend who lived nearby to let @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the area .
Now , unexpectedly , the algorithm led her to his door .
She rang the bell .
When her friend answered , and found Klugherz standing outside , he was still in his pajamas .
In late March , the government of the state of Bavaria , which includes Munich , was trying to decide how to respond to what appeared to be an accelerating community spread of COVID-19 .
Michael Hoelscher , the director of the Department of Infectious Diseases and Tropical Medicine at L.M.U.
, was involved in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ citywide lockdown .
That , to him , was a foregone conclusion .
Considering the disease ’ s rate of transmission , under the most extreme scenarios , it could take about two and a half years to reach herd immunity in Germany .
“ Not an option , ” Hoelscher said .
What was less clear was how the city could effectively track the disease ’ s spread .
Because so many cases of COVID-19 appeared asymptomatic , as Hoelscher had first noted in a paper published in January , diagnostic testing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ So I said , ‘ O.K.
, we need something , ’ he told me .
The only way to get an accurate measurement of the epidemic , he reasoned , was to implement wide-scale antibody testing .
Within six hours , just before the lockdown was announced , on March 21st , he received a million euros from the government .
Hoelscher is tall , with a wave of blond hair that he keeps brushed back cleanly from his face ; on the day we met , he was dressed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ layered over a blue Oxford shirt .
Like many infectious-disease researchers of his generation , Hoelscher began his career working on H.I.V .
and AIDS .
In the early two-thousands , he ran a study on sex workers and bar workers in Tanzania to learn whether it was possible to be infected with H.I.V .
more than once .
( Deborah Birx , the coördinator of the White House Coronavirus Task Force , was one of his collaborators . )
“ Take H.I.V.
, ” Hoelscher said .
“ You have the disease @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and that immune response , No .
1 , is not able to kill the virus itself .
But it can also not protect you from getting a second H.I.V .
infection.
” The H.I.V .
virus , his team discovered , was able to “ hide ” itself in the immune response , transcribing its genome into the cells .
“ So that ’ s an example where the antibody doesn ’ t help against it , ” he said .
“ In history so far , we only have been able @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the natural immune response would be able to prevent a secondary infection.
” SARS-CoV-2 is obviously different .
But it is also exhibiting unusual features .
“ It can affect multiple organs , ” Hoelscher said .
“ Not only the lower respiratory tract .
It can replicate in the upper respiratory tract , it can most likely replicate in different organs.
” The course of the disease , the time that it remains in the body , is long , and in some cases , his team found , the immune response @ @ @ @ @ @ @ after an infection .
“ Absolutely surprising or frightening , ” Hoelscher said , “ is that there might be really some reason to believe that you can not eliminate it from your body.
” Not far from Hoelscher ’ s office , L.M.U .
had set up a testing tent near the poplar trees of Leopoldstrasse , an imperious boulevard that runs through town .
Test subjects who preferred to have their blood drawn outside of their home could come here instead .
Outside the tent ’ s entrance , I met @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who works in Hoelscher ’ s lab .
Pritsch is helping to run the study , but he had come to the tent to get tested himself .
In late April , medical students he ’ d trained had followed the algorithm and ended up at his front door .
“ My home was my castle , ” Pritsch told me .
“ When I came home after sixteen hours of work , I had my five minutes of free time.
” And then they rang his bell .
“ Even at home @ @ @ @ @ @ @ coronavirus thing , ” he said .
Two students in scrubs and masks welcomed him into the tent and offered him a new mask .
He signed a consent form , which he ’ d helped write , and then pushed up his sleeve as one of the students knotted a rubber tourniquet around his upper arm .
Pritsch suggested , wryly , that he would probably check his own data .
( “ Don ’ t write that !
” he said . )

On a bright morning in May, Isabel Klugherz, a medical student at Ludwig-Maximilians University, in Munich, arrived at the geographical center of the city’s Milbertshofen district. Over the previous month, as Munich’s streets emptied under lockdown orders, an exception had been granted for roving medical students in mint-green scrubs and face masks. The university’s department for infectious diseases was screening for the seroprevalence of SARS-CoV-2—antibody testing—by sending police-escorted teams on the winding pattern of a predetermined algorithm, otherwise known as a random walk. Start in the center of an electoral district, continue past a few houses, cross to the other side of the street, select the third house, and knock. In the past month, Klugherz had knocked on nearly a thousand doors, and residents had been overwhelmingly enthusiastic about participating; one man had pronounced it more important than his Sunday celebration of the Holy Mass. That morning, the algorithm led Klugherz into a quiet road of whitewashed modernist buildings. The day before, she had texted a friend who lived nearby to let him know that she would be in the area. Now, unexpectedly, the algorithm led her to his door. She rang the bell. When her friend answered, and found Klugherz standing outside, he was still in his pajamas.
In late March, the government of the state of Bavaria, which includes Munich, was trying to decide how to respond to what appeared to be an accelerating community spread of COVID-19. Michael Hoelscher, the director of the Department of Infectious Diseases and Tropical Medicine at L.M.U., was involved in official debates about whether to impose a citywide lockdown. That, to him, was a foregone conclusion. Considering the disease’s rate of transmission, under the most extreme scenarios, it could take about two and a half years to reach herd immunity in Germany. “Not an option,” Hoelscher said. What was less clear was how the city could effectively track the disease’s spread. Because so many cases of COVID-19 appeared asymptomatic, as Hoelscher had first noted in a paper published in January, diagnostic testing alone would only provide a partial measurement. “So I said, ‘O.K., we need something,’ he told me. The only way to get an accurate measurement of the epidemic, he reasoned, was to implement wide-scale antibody testing. Within six hours, just before the lockdown was announced, on March 21st, he received a million euros from the government.
Hoelscher is tall, with a wave of blond hair that he keeps brushed back cleanly from his face; on the day we met, he was dressed in slim-fitting jeans and a normcore sweater layered over a blue Oxford shirt. Like many infectious-disease researchers of his generation, Hoelscher began his career working on H.I.V. and AIDS. In the early two-thousands, he ran a study on sex workers and bar workers in Tanzania to learn whether it was possible to be infected with H.I.V. more than once. (Deborah Birx, the coördinator of the White House Coronavirus Task Force, was one of his collaborators.) “Take H.I.V.,” Hoelscher said. “You have the disease, you produce an immune response, and that immune response, No. 1, is not able to kill the virus itself. But it can also not protect you from getting a second H.I.V. infection.” The H.I.V. virus, his team discovered, was able to “hide” itself in the immune response, transcribing its genome into the cells. “So that’s an example where the antibody doesn’t help against it,” he said. “In history so far, we only have been able to produce or manufacture a vaccine if the natural immune response would be able to prevent a secondary infection.”
Michael Hoelscher, the director of Ludwig-Maximilians University’s Department of Infectious Diseases and Tropical Medicine, has studied H.I.V. and AIDS.
SARS-CoV-2 is obviously different. But it is also exhibiting unusual features. “It can affect multiple organs,” Hoelscher said. “Not only the lower respiratory tract. It can replicate in the upper respiratory tract, it can most likely replicate in different organs.” The course of the disease, the time that it remains in the body, is long, and in some cases, his team found, the immune response does not develop until nearly two months after an infection. “Absolutely surprising or frightening,” Hoelscher said, “is that there might be really some reason to believe that you cannot eliminate it from your body.”
Not far from Hoelscher’s office, L.M.U. had set up a testing tent near the poplar trees of Leopoldstrasse, an imperious boulevard that runs through town. Test subjects who preferred to have their blood drawn outside of their home could come here instead. Outside the tent’s entrance, I met Michael Pritsch, a young infectious-disease doctor who works in Hoelscher’s lab. Pritsch is helping to run the study, but he had come to the tent to get tested himself. In late April, medical students he’d trained had followed the algorithm and ended up at his front door. “My home was my castle,” Pritsch told me. “When I came home after sixteen hours of work, I had my five minutes of free time.” And then they rang his bell. “Even at home, I’m not without this coronavirus thing,” he said. Two students in scrubs and masks welcomed him into the tent and offered him a new mask. He signed a consent form, which he’d helped write, and then pushed up his sleeve as one of the students knotted a rubber tourniquet around his upper arm. Pritsch suggested, wryly, that he would probably check his own data. (“Don’t write that!” he said.)


newyorker--2020-07-19--The Cryptic Crossword: No. 67

The Cryptic Crossword: No. 67

Some clues have been edited for clarity .
Subscribers can find explanations of this puzzle ’ s answers in our @ @

Some clues have been edited for clarity. Subscribers can find explanations of this puzzle’s answers in our archive.


newyorker--2020-07-19--The Essential and Enduring Strength of John Lewis

By the time John Lewis made his exit from this realm , on Friday , his life had been bound so tightly and for so long to the mythos of the movement for democracy in America that it was difficult to separate him from it .
For this reason , a friend who texted me “ John Lewis is gone , what are we going to do now ?
” was not only reacting to grief but expressing a real and common sentiment .
Lewis , who spoke at the March on Washington , chaired the Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , representing Georgia ’ s Fifth District , succumbed to pancreatic cancer , a ruthless and efficient plague whose diagnosis is fatal around ninety-five per cent of the time .
When he revealed his condition , last December , hope persisted despite those odds , in part because , for many people , the thought of confronting the reactionary , racist , and antidemocratic realities of the Trump era without one of the nation ’ s most potent symbols of decency was too difficult to countenance .
Those contrasts were not merely hypothetical @ @ @ @ @ @ @ announced that he would attend the opening of the Mississippi Civil Rights Museum , Lewis said that he would not .
The then White House press secretary , Sarah Huckabee Sanders , seemed to accuse Lewis of failing to show proper respect for the movement .
Months earlier , Trump had attacked the Fifth District as “ crime-infested ” and suggested that the blame lay with Lewis .
I wrote at the time that Trump ’ s disdain for Lewis betrayed a theme : having never grasped the concept of sacrifice , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have been defined by it .
No criticism that Lewis issued about Trump was as strong an indictment as the simple facts of his life : born to Alabama sharecroppers , stalwart of SNCC , leader , exemplar of humility .
The civil-rights movement is best understood as a collaboration between two groups of people : the martyrs who died for the cause , and the stalwarts who were tasked with living for it .
The first group is most commonly associated with Martin Luther King , Jr. , whose death , at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an entire section of American history into before and after .
But a different , strange , and particular burden befell the second group , the people who survived the manifold dangers of Albany , Anniston , Jackson , and Little Rock , and were then witness to the trials of crack and AIDS , violence , and mass incarceration .
They were tasked with institutionalizing and defending the movement ’ s hard-won gains against the slow accretion of power by people who hoped to remake the present in the image of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Andrew Young , Marion Barry , and Eleanor Holmes Norton , transitioned into elected office as the post from which he would undertake this work .
It was not an easy undertaking .
John Lewis ran for Congress in 1986 , in a race that pitted him against his former SNCC colleague Julian Bond , by then a Georgia state senator who was well connected in the district and heavily favored to win .
Lewis prevailed in a bitter contest , in which , reportedly to make fighting drug abuse an issue in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ take a drug test .
( Bond said that it would trivialize the issue . )
The bare-knuckles politicking was a departure for Lewis , who , throughout his tenure in the civil-rights movement and his time as the chairman of SNCC , had been thought of as “ too nice.
” The fact was , though , that there had always been political infighting in the movement .
In 1966 , Lewis was ousted as SNCC chairman by Stokely Carmichael , a brilliant orator whose militant politics were to the left of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the emerging radical Zeitgeist .
Even decades later , Lewis referred to the move as “ almost like a coup.
” The politics of the movement surfaced again , in 2008 , when I interviewed Lewis about the possibility of the first Black President being elected .
The conversation turned to Lewis ’ s role in the 1963 March on Washington .
He was by that time the last surviving speaker from the event , and he recalled how his speech , a firebrand condemnation of the Democratic Party that culminated in a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , through the heart of Dixie , the way Sherman did ” and “ burn Jim Crow to the ground—nonviolently , ” had alarmed the other participants so much that several refused to participate if he gave it .
The impasse was resolved when King personally oversaw a more conciliatory edit of the address .
The story was significant as part of Lewis ’ s first-person narrative of the movement , but it also implicitly served another purpose .
Lewis had been harshly criticized in his district for supporting Hillary Clinton over Barack @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Lewis was a superdelegate and not bound to support the same candidate as his district , which voted overwhelmingly for Obama .
The old criticism of Lewis being too moderate for the moment had resurfaced and , in reminding me of that moment in 1963 , he was subtly pointing to the fact that he had not been too moderate to nearly get himself killed on behalf of his constituents before many of them had even been born .
It was not insignificant that Lewis was associated with a specific theatre of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ brutality .
He was among the marchers attacked at the Edmund Pettus Bridge during the “ Bloody Sunday ” demonstrations in Selma , Alabama , that were part of the campaign for a national voting-rights act .
He wrote of the moment in his memoir “ Walking with the Wind , ” from 1998 : Lewis , who was bleeding badly , somehow made it back across the bridge .
He returned to the church that had been a staging area for the march and gave a speech denouncing Lyndon B. Johnson ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t know how President Johnson can send troops to Vietnam , I don ’ t see how he can send troops to the Congo , I don ’ t see how he can send troops to Africa , and can ’ t send troops to Selma ” he said .

The news of John Lewis’s death prompts a question: What does one do when a figure of his stature departs? Photograph by David Deal / Redux
By the time John Lewis made his exit from this realm, on Friday, his life had been bound so tightly and for so long to the mythos of the movement for democracy in America that it was difficult to separate him from it. For this reason, a friend who texted me “John Lewis is gone, what are we going to do now?” was not only reacting to grief but expressing a real and common sentiment. Lewis, who spoke at the March on Washington, chaired the Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee, and served seventeen terms in Congress, representing Georgia’s Fifth District, succumbed to pancreatic cancer, a ruthless and efficient plague whose diagnosis is fatal around ninety-five per cent of the time. When he revealed his condition, last December, hope persisted despite those odds, in part because, for many people, the thought of confronting the reactionary, racist, and antidemocratic realities of the Trump era without one of the nation’s most potent symbols of decency was too difficult to countenance.
Those contrasts were not merely hypothetical. In 2017, when President Trump announced that he would attend the opening of the Mississippi Civil Rights Museum, Lewis said that he would not. The then White House press secretary, Sarah Huckabee Sanders, seemed to accuse Lewis of failing to show proper respect for the movement. Months earlier, Trump had attacked the Fifth District as “crime-infested” and suggested that the blame lay with Lewis. I wrote at the time that Trump’s disdain for Lewis betrayed a theme: having never grasped the concept of sacrifice, the President is contemptuous of people whose lives have been defined by it. No criticism that Lewis issued about Trump was as strong an indictment as the simple facts of his life: born to Alabama sharecroppers, stalwart of SNCC, leader, exemplar of humility.
The civil-rights movement is best understood as a collaboration between two groups of people: the martyrs who died for the cause, and the stalwarts who were tasked with living for it. The first group is most commonly associated with Martin Luther King, Jr., whose death, at the hands of an assassin, cleaved an entire section of American history into before and after. But a different, strange, and particular burden befell the second group, the people who survived the manifold dangers of Albany, Anniston, Jackson, and Little Rock, and were then witness to the trials of crack and AIDS, violence, and mass incarceration. They were tasked with institutionalizing and defending the movement’s hard-won gains against the slow accretion of power by people who hoped to remake the present in the image of the past. Lewis, like his peers Andrew Young, Marion Barry, and Eleanor Holmes Norton, transitioned into elected office as the post from which he would undertake this work. It was not an easy undertaking.
John Lewis ran for Congress in 1986, in a race that pitted him against his former SNCC colleague Julian Bond, by then a Georgia state senator who was well connected in the district and heavily favored to win. Lewis prevailed in a bitter contest, in which, reportedly to make fighting drug abuse an issue in the campaign, he challenged Bond to take a drug test. (Bond said that it would trivialize the issue.) The bare-knuckles politicking was a departure for Lewis, who, throughout his tenure in the civil-rights movement and his time as the chairman of SNCC, had been thought of as “too nice.” The fact was, though, that there had always been political infighting in the movement. In 1966, Lewis was ousted as SNCC chairman by Stokely Carmichael, a brilliant orator whose militant politics were to the left of Lewis’s and more reflective of the emerging radical Zeitgeist. Even decades later, Lewis referred to the move as “almost like a coup.”
The politics of the movement surfaced again, in 2008, when I interviewed Lewis about the possibility of the first Black President being elected. The conversation turned to Lewis’s role in the 1963 March on Washington. He was by that time the last surviving speaker from the event, and he recalled how his speech, a firebrand condemnation of the Democratic Party that culminated in a pledge to “march through the South, through the heart of Dixie, the way Sherman did” and “burn Jim Crow to the ground—nonviolently,” had alarmed the other participants so much that several refused to participate if he gave it. The impasse was resolved when King personally oversaw a more conciliatory edit of the address.
The story was significant as part of Lewis’s first-person narrative of the movement, but it also implicitly served another purpose. Lewis had been harshly criticized in his district for supporting Hillary Clinton over Barack Obama during the 2008 Democratic Presidential primaries. Lewis was a superdelegate and not bound to support the same candidate as his district, which voted overwhelmingly for Obama. The old criticism of Lewis being too moderate for the moment had resurfaced and, in reminding me of that moment in 1963, he was subtly pointing to the fact that he had not been too moderate to nearly get himself killed on behalf of his constituents before many of them had even been born. It was not insignificant that Lewis was associated with a specific theatre of the struggle and a particular instance of brutality. He was among the marchers attacked at the Edmund Pettus Bridge during the “Bloody Sunday” demonstrations in Selma, Alabama, that were part of the campaign for a national voting-rights act. He wrote of the moment in his memoir “Walking with the Wind,” from 1998:
The first of the troopers came over me, a large, husky man. Without a word, he swung his club against the left side of my head. I didn’t feel any pain, just the thud of the blow and my legs giving way. I raised an arm—a reflex motion—as I curled up in the “prayer for protection” position. And then the same trooper hit me again. And everything started to spin.
Lewis, who was bleeding badly, somehow made it back across the bridge. He returned to the church that had been a staging area for the march and gave a speech denouncing Lyndon B. Johnson’s priorities. “I don’t know how President Johnson can send troops to Vietnam, I don’t see how he can send troops to the Congo, I don’t see how he can send troops to Africa, and can’t send troops to Selma” he said.
The footage of brutal bedlam in Selma pressured Johnson to support what eventually became the Voting Rights Act of 1965. There had already been a great deal of blood spilled in pursuit of justice: two years earlier, the S.C.L.C. activist Annell Ponder and SNCC activist Fannie Lou Hamer had been arrested along with three others and beaten, Hamer by male prison inmates at the behest of the white guards; Andrew Goodman, James Chaney, and Michael Schwerner had already been murdered near Philadelphia, Mississippi; and Jimmie Lee Jackson, an activist with the Selma campaign, had been killed by an Alabama police officer just a month earlier. But the correlation of a causal relationship between the bloodshed at the bridge and the signature legislation were cinched as cause and effect in both the history and the mythology of the movement.
It then fell to Lewis to serve as the guardian of the legislation each time it came up for renewal in Congress. It’s therefore difficult to reconcile the present state of the Voting Rights Act—gutted by the Supreme Court’s 2013 Shelby County v. Holder decision, which nonetheless left an avenue to reinstate key sections of the law should Congress author a suitable revision of it—and the posthumous praise for Lewis that has emanated from the Republicans who have refused to support it. The Senate Majority Leader, Mitch McConnell, tweeted his fond remembrance of singing “We Shall Overcome” with Lewis, a claim that immediately suggests that McConnell should have been singing that song in the second person. Lewis was too good a man to be praised by Mitch McConnell.


newyorker--2020-07-19--The Two Sides of the Bowery

The Two Sides of the Bowery

As a kid , I liked to watch the “ Bowery Boys ” movies on TV .
The series featured a gang of nutty juvenile delinquents in funny situations getting into all kinds of trouble .
Before I moved to New York , this was how I pictured the Bowery , as a playful hangout for ne ’ er-do-wells and drunkards .
I first saw the Bowery with my own eyes in September of 1974 .
At the corner of Bowery and Houston , you were likely to see a bunch of guys drinking cheap wine , such as Thunderbird @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for dear life to the chain-link fence that surrounded the lot there .
One or two would be vomiting , and another would have his pants down around his ankles as he relieved himself and then wiped his ass with his bare hands in broad daylight while traffic whizzed by .
Some of the crazier guys would venture out into the intersection to direct traffic .
Others would ask for a handout from people in cars stopped at the light while “ cleaning ” their windshields with an oily rag or a piece @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , these poor drunks were known as bums .
There were many dreadful flophouses on the Bowery where you would never want to end up .
The American composer Stephen Foster , who wrote “ Oh , Susanna ” and “ Camptown Races , ” spent the last , alcoholic years of his life on the Bowery , in the eighteen-sixties ; it was in one of those flophouses that his songwriting partner George Cooper found him , collapsed and bleeding , and took him to Bellevue Hospital , where Foster died a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , with thirty-eight cents in his wallet .
It was not unusual to have to step over or around a dead body as you walked down the street .
Most of these corpses were men who drank themselves to death or toppled out of a flophouse window .
The long history of the Bowery is one of crime , misadventure , debauchery , desperation , and death .
Pickpockets and thieves hung out in every bar .
People were drugged , robbed , and kidnapped .
Muggers lurked in the shadows .
I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ end up a bum and , if things got bad , my family would surely look after me .
Jamie Dalglish , a good friend from the Rhode Island School of Design ( RISD ) and a great painter , had a loft at 52 Bond Street , with his wife , Susan .
David Byrne had been camping out at their place , sleeping on the couch and helping them fix things up ; David was now in a relationship with Andrea Kovacs , another friend of mine from RISD .
Jamie @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Jamie knew that I was planning to start a band in New York , and he told me that there was something going on across the Bowery , at a place called CBGB , which stood for Country Bluegrass Blues—the styles of music preferred by its owner , Hilly Kristal .
I went over to see what was happening that very night .
I had been dreaming of a place where my as-yet-unformed band could play .
I imagined that there could be somewhere as important to our band as the Cavern @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to the Beatles in their early days , a welcoming place for people who craved interesting new music .
That night , when I walked into CBGB , it seemed lonely and sad , a real Bowery dive .
No one was there .
No music played , not even on the jukebox .
The place smelled of beer , dog shit , and roach spray .
I asked the bartender for a bottle of Rolling Rock .
Then I heard the sound of a pool game in the back of the club @ @ @ @ @ @ @ over the uneven floor .
There were four guys shooting pool .
One of them was dressed in a silver , iridescent sharkskin suit , black shirt , and purple tie , with big , silver Elvis Presley shades .
His hair was about an eighth of an inch long all over .
It was a wild look .
I watched them play for a few minutes , and then I asked them whether there was going to be any music that night .
The guy in the sharkskin suit said , in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Mexican accent , “ No , man .
Not tonight , but come back on Friday and the Ramones will be here.
” Hmm , I thought—Mexican music ?
I told him , “ O.K.
, I ’ ll be back.
” I took the subway back to Long Island City , where my girlfriend , Tina Weymouth , and I were enjoying the hospitality of her brother , Yann , and his girlfriend , Julia McFarlane .
Yann was well over six feet tall and super-bright , fit , and handsome .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ the daughter of the Washington Post publisher Katharine Graham .
He gave Tina and me no end of encouragement .
I joined Tina , Yann , and Julia for a glass of wine and told them about CBGB .
I said that in the morning I would get the Village Voice and start looking for a loft .
Yann , who was a loft-living pioneer , told me to forget the Village Voice : “ Look in the New York Times ’ industrial real-estate section .
Look for a raw space.
” That @ @ @ @ @ @ @ loft .
He did all the design and construction work himself—he had been I. M. Pei ’ s chief designer for the east wing of the National Gallery and would be again for the Grand Louvre , in Paris , but now he was branching out on his own .
Yann and Julia were kind to us , but we didn ’ t want to impose on them for too long .
I had the first bout of insomnia in my life that night .
I felt anxious about finding a place to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ starting a band , and succeeding as an artist .
In the daylight hours , I had great confidence and never doubted myself , but , at night , when I lay down to sleep , the wheels would not stop turning and I imagined the worst .
I had chosen the life of an artist , and the real meaning of that was beginning to sink in .
There were no guarantees of anything .
Tina and I were on our own , and we had to be brave .
The next @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a loft .
I needed a place where a band could rehearse and Tina could paint , since she had not yet agreed to join the band .
Of course , we would also need to live there .
Most of the places I found were either dungeons or run-down factories .
One place we went to see , in Alphabet City , was on fire ; smoke was billowing out the windows , yet no one came to put the fire out .
I found this incredible , but it was the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 1974 .
The Ramones were not a Mexican band after all .
They were four guys about my age .
The guitarist and bass player had stylish shag haircuts like the Bay City Rollers .
The drummer was tiny and had a minimalist playing style .
The singer was tall , shockingly skinny , and sang with a faux British accent .
Their songs were hard , loud , and very fast .
“ Blitzkrieg Bop , ” for instance , is a hundred and seventy-six beats per minute and only about two @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the middle of a song and yell at one another about mistakes they ’ d made or just to announce that they didn ’ t feel like playing that song tonight .
I had never seen anything like it .
With song titles such as “ I Don ’ t Care , ” “ Beat on the Brat , ” and “ I Don ’ t Wan na Walk Around with You , ” the Ramones seemed like a conceptual-art piece .
Even though they had a lot of polishing up to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I loved them .
As I left CBGB that weekend , the pretty girl at the door told me that next week a cool band called Television was playing .
I told her that I ’ d be there .

As a kid, I liked to watch the “Bowery Boys” movies on TV. The series featured a gang of nutty juvenile delinquents in funny situations getting into all kinds of trouble. Before I moved to New York, this was how I pictured the Bowery, as a playful hangout for ne’er-do-wells and drunkards.
I first saw the Bowery with my own eyes in September of 1974. At the corner of Bowery and Houston, you were likely to see a bunch of guys drinking cheap wine, such as Thunderbird or Night Train, and hanging on for dear life to the chain-link fence that surrounded the lot there. One or two would be vomiting, and another would have his pants down around his ankles as he relieved himself and then wiped his ass with his bare hands in broad daylight while traffic whizzed by. Some of the crazier guys would venture out into the intersection to direct traffic. Others would ask for a handout from people in cars stopped at the light while “cleaning” their windshields with an oily rag or a piece of dirty newspaper. In those days, these poor drunks were known as bums.
There were many dreadful flophouses on the Bowery where you would never want to end up. The American composer Stephen Foster, who wrote “Oh, Susanna” and “Camptown Races,” spent the last, alcoholic years of his life on the Bowery, in the eighteen-sixties; it was in one of those flophouses that his songwriting partner George Cooper found him, collapsed and bleeding, and took him to Bellevue Hospital, where Foster died a few days later, at age thirty-eight, with thirty-eight cents in his wallet.
It was not unusual to have to step over or around a dead body as you walked down the street. Most of these corpses were men who drank themselves to death or toppled out of a flophouse window. The long history of the Bowery is one of crime, misadventure, debauchery, desperation, and death. Pickpockets and thieves hung out in every bar. People were drugged, robbed, and kidnapped. Muggers lurked in the shadows. I kept telling myself that I would never end up a bum and, if things got bad, my family would surely look after me.
Jamie Dalglish, a good friend from the Rhode Island School of Design (RISD) and a great painter, had a loft at 52 Bond Street, with his wife, Susan. David Byrne had been camping out at their place, sleeping on the couch and helping them fix things up; David was now in a relationship with Andrea Kovacs, another friend of mine from RISD. Jamie and Susan were warm and generous people. Jamie knew that I was planning to start a band in New York, and he told me that there was something going on across the Bowery, at a place called CBGB, which stood for Country Bluegrass Blues—the styles of music preferred by its owner, Hilly Kristal. I went over to see what was happening that very night.
I had been dreaming of a place where my as-yet-unformed band could play. I imagined that there could be somewhere as important to our band as the Cavern Club and the Star Club had been to the Beatles in their early days, a welcoming place for people who craved interesting new music. That night, when I walked into CBGB, it seemed lonely and sad, a real Bowery dive. No one was there. No music played, not even on the jukebox. The place smelled of beer, dog shit, and roach spray. I asked the bartender for a bottle of Rolling Rock. Then I heard the sound of a pool game in the back of the club. I followed the sound, tripping over the uneven floor. There were four guys shooting pool. One of them was dressed in a silver, iridescent sharkskin suit, black shirt, and purple tie, with big, silver Elvis Presley shades. His hair was about an eighth of an inch long all over. It was a wild look. I watched them play for a few minutes, and then I asked them whether there was going to be any music that night. The guy in the sharkskin suit said, in what sounded to me like a heavy Mexican accent, “No, man. Not tonight, but come back on Friday and the Ramones will be here.” Hmm, I thought—Mexican music? I told him, “O.K., I’ll be back.”
I took the subway back to Long Island City, where my girlfriend, Tina Weymouth, and I were enjoying the hospitality of her brother, Yann, and his girlfriend, Julia McFarlane. Yann was well over six feet tall and super-bright, fit, and handsome. He was recently divorced from Lally, the daughter of the Washington Post publisher Katharine Graham. He gave Tina and me no end of encouragement. I joined Tina, Yann, and Julia for a glass of wine and told them about CBGB. I said that in the morning I would get the Village Voice and start looking for a loft. Yann, who was a loft-living pioneer, told me to forget the Village Voice: “Look in the New York Times’ industrial real-estate section. Look for a raw space.” That’s how he had found his loft. He did all the design and construction work himself—he had been I. M. Pei’s chief designer for the east wing of the National Gallery and would be again for the Grand Louvre, in Paris, but now he was branching out on his own.
Yann and Julia were kind to us, but we didn’t want to impose on them for too long. I had the first bout of insomnia in my life that night. I felt anxious about finding a place to live, getting a day job, starting a band, and succeeding as an artist. In the daylight hours, I had great confidence and never doubted myself, but, at night, when I lay down to sleep, the wheels would not stop turning and I imagined the worst. I had chosen the life of an artist, and the real meaning of that was beginning to sink in. There were no guarantees of anything. Tina and I were on our own, and we had to be brave.
The next morning, I started the search for a loft. I needed a place where a band could rehearse and Tina could paint, since she had not yet agreed to join the band. Of course, we would also need to live there. Most of the places I found were either dungeons or run-down factories. One place we went to see, in Alphabet City, was on fire; smoke was billowing out the windows, yet no one came to put the fire out. I found this incredible, but it was the reality of the Lower East Side in 1974.
The Ramones were not a Mexican band after all. They were four guys about my age. The guitarist and bass player had stylish shag haircuts like the Bay City Rollers. The drummer was tiny and had a minimalist playing style. The singer was tall, shockingly skinny, and sang with a faux British accent. Their songs were hard, loud, and very fast. “Blitzkrieg Bop,” for instance, is a hundred and seventy-six beats per minute and only about two minutes long. Sometimes they would stop in the middle of a song and yell at one another about mistakes they’d made or just to announce that they didn’t feel like playing that song tonight. I had never seen anything like it. With song titles such as “I Don’t Care,” “Beat on the Brat,” and “I Don’t Wanna Walk Around with You,” the Ramones seemed like a conceptual-art piece. Even though they had a lot of polishing up to do, they were wholly original and I loved them. As I left CBGB that weekend, the pretty girl at the door told me that next week a cool band called Television was playing. I told her that I’d be there.


newyorker--2020-07-20--Christoph Niemann’s “Voices of Change”

Christoph Niemann’s “Voices of Change”

The latest issue of The New Yorker , which is drawn almost entirely from the archives , is tuned to the key of American dissent .
Inside , one can find Calvin Trillin ’ s dispatch , from 1964 , on voter registration in Jackson , Mississippi ; Charlayne Hunter-Gault on a memorial service for Langston Hughes ; Ellen Willis on an anti-abortion rally ; Hilton Als ’ s Profile of Toni Morrison ; and Nathan Heller on the legacy of Cesar Chavez .
Outside , there ’ s something new : a cover by Christoph Niemann , a frequent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ talked to the artist about his relationship to New Yorker covers , the imagery of dissent , and his thoughts on the pandemic .
This week ’ s issue pulls from The New Yorker archive .
Do you have any favorite vintage covers that have informed your own ?
I love going back to old covers .
Not necessarily for direct inspiration but for encouragement to be more extreme in pushing visual concepts .
I especially like looking at the covers from the first years .
They are gorgeous .
So many of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and the way that they set up visual rhythms .
In particular , the view of Manhattan from Brooklyn Bridge Park is very dear to me .
The artistic reinvention of this quintessential New York theme—water , bridges , and skyscrapers—is beautiful to observe through the years .
Some favorites are the covers from the May 21 , 1927 ; June 6 , 1931 ; and March 26 , 1938 , issues .
I ’ m glad that , with this new image , I could contribute a facet to that story .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ of American dissent .
What , in your mind , is the visual vocabulary for “ American ” and for “ dissent ” ?
The raised fist is perhaps our most prominent and urgent visual symbol for dissent .
My image uses abstraction to create a connection between the person raising their arm and Lady Liberty .
Growing up , the statue seemed to me like the most obvious visual symbol for the United States and its aspiration .
It ’ s shocking that this philosophy has been marginalized .
Imagine the outrage @ @ @ @ @ @ @ floor of Congress and said , “ Give me your tired , your poor , your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.
” You live in Germany , where the pandemic seems more under control .
If America continues to experience outbreaks , where do you think the country is headed ?
Oh dear , such predictions are above my pay grade .
I don ’ t think anybody has the perfect strategy to tackle the pandemic .
I ’ m sure that , in retrospect , we will learn of many decisions @ @ @ @ @ @ @ In Europe , at least , a majority of people seem to accept that a course of action based on the best estimates of experts is the least bad option .
For New Yorkers and Americans , the challenge is that the energy needed to fight the virus has to be used to tackle the madness coming from the White House .
In some ways , the pandemic seems to have surfaced crises that already existed or that were bound to occur in time .
Do you think anything positive will come of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the last months have been productive—without travel and social contact , it ’ s easier to focus .
But that ’ s a very egocentric perspective .
The havoc the pandemic has wreaked on society medically , emotionally , and economically is devastating , and I fear we haven ’ t even seen the full extent yet .
For more covers featuring New York ’ s skyline , see below :

The latest issue of The New Yorker, which is drawn almost entirely from the archives, is tuned to the key of American dissent. Inside, one can find Calvin Trillin’s dispatch, from 1964, on voter registration in Jackson, Mississippi; Charlayne Hunter-Gault on a memorial service for Langston Hughes; Ellen Willis on an anti-abortion rally; Hilton Als’s Profile of Toni Morrison; and Nathan Heller on the legacy of Cesar Chavez. Outside, there’s something new: a cover by Christoph Niemann, a frequent contributor to the magazine. We recently talked to the artist about his relationship to New Yorker covers, the imagery of dissent, and his thoughts on the pandemic.
This week’s issue pulls from The New Yorker archive. Do you have any favorite vintage covers that have informed your own?
I love going back to old covers. Not necessarily for direct inspiration but for encouragement to be more extreme in pushing visual concepts. I especially like looking at the covers from the first years. They are gorgeous. So many of the images are daring in their abstraction and the way that they set up visual rhythms.
“June, 20, 1925” and “July 25, 1925,” by H. O. Hofman.
In particular, the view of Manhattan from Brooklyn Bridge Park is very dear to me. The artistic reinvention of this quintessential New York theme—water, bridges, and skyscrapers—is beautiful to observe through the years. Some favorites are the covers from the May 21, 1927; June 6, 1931; and March 26, 1938, issues. I’m glad that, with this new image, I could contribute a facet to that story.
“May 21, 1927,” by Illonka Karasz; “June 6, 1931,” by Theodore G. Haupt; “March 26, 1938,” by Arthur K. Kronengold.
The theme of this issue is voices of American dissent. What, in your mind, is the visual vocabulary for “American” and for “dissent”?
The raised fist is perhaps our most prominent and urgent visual symbol for dissent. My image uses abstraction to create a connection between the person raising their arm and Lady Liberty. Growing up, the statue seemed to me like the most obvious visual symbol for the United States and its aspiration. It’s shocking that this philosophy has been marginalized. Imagine the outrage if a politician today stood on the floor of Congress and said, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”
You live in Germany, where the pandemic seems more under control. If America continues to experience outbreaks, where do you think the country is headed?
Oh dear, such predictions are above my pay grade. I don’t think anybody has the perfect strategy to tackle the pandemic. I’m sure that, in retrospect, we will learn of many decisions that turned out to be wrong. In Europe, at least, a majority of people seem to accept that a course of action based on the best estimates of experts is the least bad option. For New Yorkers and Americans, the challenge is that the energy needed to fight the virus has to be used to tackle the madness coming from the White House.
In some ways, the pandemic seems to have surfaced crises that already existed or that were bound to occur in time. Do you think anything positive will come of it?
For me, personally, the last months have been productive—without travel and social contact, it’s easier to focus. But that’s a very egocentric perspective. The havoc the pandemic has wreaked on society medically, emotionally, and economically is devastating, and I fear we haven’t even seen the full extent yet.
For more covers featuring New York’s skyline, see below:


newyorker--2020-07-20--Until Black Women Are Free, None of Us Will Be Free

I first encountered the Combahee River Collective Statement in a women ’ s-studies class , my second year of college at SUNY Buffalo .
We had been reading about divisions within the feminist movement in the late nineteen-sixties and early nineteen-seventies , and the emergence of a body of thought captured in the framework of “ Black feminism.
” The Combahee River Collective was a small organization , but it involved some of the luminaries of Black feminism : Barbara Smith and her twin sister , Beverly Smith , as well as Demita Frazier , Cheryl Clarke , Akasha Hull @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and Audre Lorde .
Equally dismayed by the direction of the feminist movement , which they believed to be dominated by middle-class white women , and the suffocating masculinity in Black-nationalist organizations , they set out to formulate their own politics and strategies in response to their distinct experiences as Black women .
But they were not only reacting to the deficits they found in organizations led by white women and Black men .
They were also inspired by the national liberation and anti-colonial movements , from the Algerian struggle against the French @ @ @ @ @ @ @ American war .
The C.R.C .
saw themselves as revolutionaries whose aspirations far exceeded women ’ s rights : they aspired to the overthrow of capitalism .
The Black women of the C.R.C .
were not the first to break with white feminist and Black-nationalist organizations .
In many ways , they built on the work of the Third World Women ’ s Alliance , which was an outgrowth of the Black Women ’ s Liberation Committee—a caucus of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee .
What distinguished the C.R.C .
from those groups @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , which was first collected in Zillah Eisenstein ’ s anthology “ Capitalist Patriarchy and the Case for Socialist Feminism , ” in 1978 .
Reading the statement for the first time , two things struck me .
The first was its effort to combine socialist politics with feminism .
I had been a socialist since I was fourteen , and , in the groups that I had become active with , feminism was always painted as hostile to socialism .
As it was explained to me , feminists saw the world as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ between classes .
The Combahee Statement obliterated that premise .
Theoretically rich and strategically nimble , it imagined a course of politics that could take Black women from the margins of society to the center of a revolution .
Because Black women were among the most marginalized people in this country , their political struggles brought them into direct conflict with the intertwined malignancies of capitalism—racism , sexism , and poverty .
Thus , the women of the C.R.C believed that , if Black women were successful in their struggles and movements , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ their immediate demands .
As they put it , “ If Black women were free , it would mean that everyone else would have to be free since our freedom would necessitate the destruction of all the systems of oppression.
” My other revelation came out of their insistence that “ Black feminism ” was necessary to clearly articulate the experiences of Black women .
It had never occurred to me that the framework of “ race ” was not nearly capacious enough to capture the particular ways that Black women experienced American @ @ @ @ @ @ @ variety of racism in the U.S. that left most Black people with a bitter edge , at least those in my family .
I had seen my father harassed by police , in Cincinnati , Ohio , for jaywalking .
When I was seven , I saw my father jump in to stop a group of white teen-agers from threatening my older brother , only to have the police blame him for the altercation .
But my mother ’ s experiences were altogether different .
She and my father met in high school @ @ @ @ @ @ @ landed in graduate school , at SUNY Buffalo , in the early nineteen-seventies .
While my father believed that a revolution was within the grasp of those who fought hard enough to make it happen , my mother , who had studied English , French , and Spanish in college , was finishing her doctorate and raising me and my brother .
My father left when I was two , and my mother took us to Dallas , where she worked as a reading specialist for the Dallas Independent School District .
Three @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and one , a Vietnam veteran , lived in our garage for a time , as he tried to jump-start his life .
When , in the early eighties , my mother got burned out from haggling with less qualified white male administrators and a fancy career that was going nowhere fast , she started a house-cleaning business .
She didn ’ t know about the Volcker Shock and the recession that would follow .
My mother ’ s advanced degrees could not protect her from bankruptcy in 1982 .
They could @ @ @ @ @ @ @ turned off , or a steady stream of bill collectors from coming to our front door .
They could not help her relax , work less , or be more present .
My mother died at fifty-two , fifteen years after she filed for bankruptcy ; the chronic exhaustion she felt from work was masking the symptoms of an untreated and ultimately deadly case of lupus .
Doris Jeanne Taylor ’ s life was unceremoniously extinguished two weeks to the day she entered the hospital .
It was years before I pulled those @ @ @ @ @ @ @ life together .
I was still annoyed by her absence and neglect when I was younger .
It was not until long after her death that I saw the composite portrait of a single Black mother , raising two kids with a bankruptcy scuttling her credit , a perpetually faulty car draining her bank account , and a broad network of family members to care for .
Racism alone could not explain what killed my mother .
Gender was also an incomplete answer .
It was the overlap of race , gender , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a class that she poked around the edges of but could not ultimately break into .
Black feminism made sense of my mother ’ s life of work , her compulsory caretaking and debt .
It made sense of her senseless death , just shy of the twenty-first century .
Malcolm X made it plain : “ The most neglected person in America is the Black woman.
” All of this stood in stark contradiction to what , as a young person , I had understood “ feminism ” to be .
I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ white women primarily concerned with glass ceilings and access to abortion .
Those were fine things to act against and struggle for , but they felt like lightweight politics in contrast to the things that my nineteen-year-old self was concerned about : the U.S. presence in the Middle East , police brutality and racism , poverty and inequality .
The women of the C.R.C .
described how the myriad ways that Black women experienced oppression could translate into a radical rejection of the status quo .
As they explained , “ Black feminists @ @ @ @ @ @ @ not define themselves as feminists have all experienced sexual oppression as a constant factor in our day-to-day existence.
” And they were doing even more than that : the Combahee Statement was also written to describe how race , gender , and sexual orientation were woven together in the lives of queer Black women .
In describing the distinct experiences of Black women who were lesbians , they pioneered what would eventually become known as “ intersectionality ” —the idea that multiple identities can be constantly and simultaneously present within one person ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lesbians could not be reduced to gender , race , class , or sexuality .
The C.R.C .
demanded politics that could account for all , and not just aspects of their identity .

I first encountered the Combahee River Collective Statement in a women’s-studies class, my second year of college at SUNY Buffalo. We had been reading about divisions within the feminist movement in the late nineteen-sixties and early nineteen-seventies, and the emergence of a body of thought captured in the framework of “Black feminism.” The Combahee River Collective was a small organization, but it involved some of the luminaries of Black feminism: Barbara Smith and her twin sister, Beverly Smith, as well as Demita Frazier, Cheryl Clarke, Akasha Hull, Margo Okazawa-Rey, Chirlane McCray, and Audre Lorde. Equally dismayed by the direction of the feminist movement, which they believed to be dominated by middle-class white women, and the suffocating masculinity in Black-nationalist organizations, they set out to formulate their own politics and strategies in response to their distinct experiences as Black women. But they were not only reacting to the deficits they found in organizations led by white women and Black men. They were also inspired by the national liberation and anti-colonial movements, from the Algerian struggle against the French occupation to the Vietnamese resistance to the American war. The C.R.C. saw themselves as revolutionaries whose aspirations far exceeded women’s rights: they aspired to the overthrow of capitalism.
The Black women of the C.R.C. were not the first to break with white feminist and Black-nationalist organizations. In many ways, they built on the work of the Third World Women’s Alliance, which was an outgrowth of the Black Women’s Liberation Committee—a caucus of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee. What distinguished the C.R.C. from those groups was the explanatory power of their statement, which was first collected in Zillah Eisenstein’s anthology “Capitalist Patriarchy and the Case for Socialist Feminism,” in 1978. Reading the statement for the first time, two things struck me. The first was its effort to combine socialist politics with feminism. I had been a socialist since I was fourteen, and, in the groups that I had become active with, feminism was always painted as hostile to socialism. As it was explained to me, feminists saw the world as divided between men and women and not between classes. The Combahee Statement obliterated that premise. Theoretically rich and strategically nimble, it imagined a course of politics that could take Black women from the margins of society to the center of a revolution. Because Black women were among the most marginalized people in this country, their political struggles brought them into direct conflict with the intertwined malignancies of capitalism—racism, sexism, and poverty. Thus, the women of the C.R.C believed that, if Black women were successful in their struggles and movements, they would have an impact far beyond their immediate demands. As they put it, “If Black women were free, it would mean that everyone else would have to be free since our freedom would necessitate the destruction of all the systems of oppression.”
My other revelation came out of their insistence that “Black feminism” was necessary to clearly articulate the experiences of Black women. It had never occurred to me that the framework of “race” was not nearly capacious enough to capture the particular ways that Black women experienced American society. I had seen the everyday variety of racism in the U.S. that left most Black people with a bitter edge, at least those in my family. I had seen my father harassed by police, in Cincinnati, Ohio, for jaywalking. When I was seven, I saw my father jump in to stop a group of white teen-agers from threatening my older brother, only to have the police blame him for the altercation. But my mother’s experiences were altogether different. She and my father met in high school, dated through college, and eventually landed in graduate school, at SUNY Buffalo, in the early nineteen-seventies. While my father believed that a revolution was within the grasp of those who fought hard enough to make it happen, my mother, who had studied English, French, and Spanish in college, was finishing her doctorate and raising me and my brother. My father left when I was two, and my mother took us to Dallas, where she worked as a reading specialist for the Dallas Independent School District. Three of her brothers followed her to Dallas, and one, a Vietnam veteran, lived in our garage for a time, as he tried to jump-start his life. When, in the early eighties, my mother got burned out from haggling with less qualified white male administrators and a fancy career that was going nowhere fast, she started a house-cleaning business. She didn’t know about the Volcker Shock and the recession that would follow. My mother’s advanced degrees could not protect her from bankruptcy in 1982. They could not stop our lights from being periodically turned off, or a steady stream of bill collectors from coming to our front door. They could not help her relax, work less, or be more present. My mother died at fifty-two, fifteen years after she filed for bankruptcy; the chronic exhaustion she felt from work was masking the symptoms of an untreated and ultimately deadly case of lupus. Doris Jeanne Taylor’s life was unceremoniously extinguished two weeks after she entered the hospital.
It was years before I pulled those different strands of my mother’s life together. I was still annoyed by her absence and neglect when I was younger. It was not until long after her death that I saw the composite portrait of a single Black mother, raising two kids with a bankruptcy scuttling her credit, a perpetually faulty car draining her bank account, and a broad network of family members to care for. Racism alone could not explain what killed my mother. Gender was also an incomplete answer. It was the overlap of race, gender, and the aspirations to the comfort of a class that she poked around the edges of but could not ultimately break into. Black feminism made sense of my mother’s life of work, her compulsory caretaking and debt. It made sense of her senseless death, just shy of the twenty-first century. Malcolm X made it plain: “The most neglected person in America is the Black woman.”
All of this stood in stark contradiction to what, as a young person, I had understood “feminism” to be. I had seen feminism as the domain of white women primarily concerned with glass ceilings and access to abortion. Those were fine things to act against and struggle for, but they felt like lightweight politics in contrast to the things that my nineteen-year-old self was concerned about: the U.S. presence in the Middle East, police brutality and racism, poverty and inequality. The women of the C.R.C. described how the myriad ways that Black women experienced oppression could translate into a radical rejection of the status quo. As they explained, “Black feminists and many more Black women who do not define themselves as feminists have all experienced sexual oppression as a constant factor in our day-to-day existence.” And they were doing even more than that: the Combahee Statement was also written to describe how race, gender, and sexual orientation were woven together in the lives of queer Black women. In describing the distinct experiences of Black women who were lesbians, they pioneered what would eventually become known as “intersectionality”—the idea that multiple identities can be constantly and simultaneously present within one person’s body. The experiences of Black lesbians could not be reduced to gender, race, class, or sexuality. The C.R.C. demanded politics that could account for all, and not just aspects of their identity.
Most important, the C.R.C. saw themselves as socialists and as part of the broader left, but they understood that no mass movement for socialism could be organized without responding to the particular forms of oppression experienced by Black women, Chicana women, lesbians, single mothers, and so many other groups. Their point was a simple one: you cannot expect people to join your movement by telling them to put their particular issues on hold for the sake of some ill-defined “unity” at a later date. Solidarity was the bridge by which different groups of people could connect on the basis of mutual understanding, respect, and the old socialist edict that an injury to one was an injury to all. It was mind-blowing!