newyorker--2020-07-24--The Online Movement to #FreeBritney

The Online Movement to #FreeBritney

“ All eyes on me , in the center of the ring , just like a circus , ” Britney Spears sang , in 2008 .
Indeed , from its beginning , the pop singer ’ s career has been defined as much by the visual as by the aural .
A child performer from Kentwood , Louisiana , who first appeared on Disney ’ s “ Mickey Mouse Club ” when she was eleven , Spears broke into the widest possible public consciousness , in 1998 , with her multiplatinum début single , “ …Baby One More Time.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ honey pressed through a sieve , but her look in the music video was at least as memorable .
In a white button-down tied above an exposed midriff , a slip of a kilt paired with knee socks , and two braids fixed in pink bows , Spears ’ s Catholic-schoolgirl Lolita instantly defined the dominant turn-of-the-millennium version of young womanhood : blonde and tan , with her bare navel rising over a low waistband , she was half young girl and half “ Girls Gone Wild.
” In the five years that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ successful pop star in the world , and a master image creator .
In 1999 , she posed for the cover of Rolling Stone in a black push-up bra and baby-pink shorts , with a princess phone held to her ear .
In 2001 , at the MTV music awards , she paired a spangly belly-dancer outfit with a live , pale-yellow python .
The same year , she wore matching all-denim with her then boyfriend , Justin Timberlake , on the American Music Awards red carpet .
But as Spears ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ held over the visual aspect of her career turned wobblier as well .
After her relationship with Timberlake ended , she wed a childhood friend named Jason Alexander , in 2004 , in Las Vegas—although that union was annulled after fifty-five hours .
Later that year , she married Kevin Federline , one of her backup dancers , and then had two children in quick succession .
The couple divorced acrimoniously in 2007 .
In those years , Spears ’ s life became mediated to the public less through red carpets and more @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shuffling into a gas-station restroom while barefoot , exiting a car en route to a club sans underwear , and driving with one of her young sons in her lap rather than strapped into a car seat .
Between 2007 and 2008 , she had a drawn-out mental breakdown , during which her circumstances were not just endlessly documented by photographers but seemingly aggravated by their presence : she shaved her own hair , as more than seventy paparazzi reportedly looked on ; she attacked a photographer ’ s car with an umbrella @ @ @ @ @ @ @ strapped to a gurney , after a reported substance-induced break , on her way to the first of two involuntary 5150 psychiatric holds .
In 2008 , in the midst of this breakdown , a court established a conservatorship over her estate , assets , and personal well-being , which , twelve years later , is still in effect .
Such a conservatorship , also known as a legal guardianship in some states , is usually used in the cases of people who are unable to make their own decisions , such as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ infirm .
Under the conservatorship ’ s strictures , a 2016 Times investigation into Spears ’ s affairs explained , the singer “ can not make key decisions , personal or financial , without the approval of her conservators : her father , Jamie Spears , and a lawyer , Andrew M. Wallet .
Her most mundane purchases , from a drink at Starbucks to a song on iTunes , are tracked in court documents.
” But Spears ’ s case has proved rare in that , over the past dozen years , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ several albums , going on world tours , acting as a judge on the TV show “ The X Factor , ” and , for four years , headlining a Las Vegas residency .
The Times piece suggested that , if her seeming stability continued , the guardianship ’ s strictures might loosen .
In the years since , however , the conservatorship has remained in place .
The single time that Spears has publicly discussed her feelings about it was in a 2008 documentary , in which she compared her situation to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ what separates the conservatorship from a jail sentence is that the former is “ never-ending.
” But because her public appearances are highly controlled , and catching a view of her outside of her music videos or stage shows has become increasingly rare , her sense of her situation has largely remained an enigma .
One key sphere that might allow for a less mediated look at Spears ’ s day-to-day life , however , is her Instagram account , where she has nearly twenty-six million followers and posts regularly .
Until early @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ( “ Self-love : it costs nothing and you gain everything ” ) , feisty quips ( “ You think you know me ?
Think again ” ) , workout videos , and heavily filtered pictures of flowers , butterflies , and kittens—in the manner of Instagram circa 2014—all tied up with a seemingly random smattering of emojis , made Spears ’ s account seem “ delightfully basic , ” in the words of the Web site Highsnobiety .
It was cutesy , even cozy : the singer seemed like a wealthy suburban @ @ @ @ @ @ @ behind the trend curve , rather than a global pop star .
But , starting in 2019 , several crises took place in the Spears empire .
In March of that year , the Dickensianly named Wallet resigned his position as co-conservator with no explanation .
And , at a hearing in September of last year , Jamie Spears , who had ruptured his colon several months prior , asked a judge for permission to step down temporarily from his role as conservator , to focus on his health .
The judge decreed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ care manager , would take over the personal aspects of the conservatorship , while Jamie Spears remained responsible for the star ’ s business affairs .
( The request for the change in conservators came , too , in the wake of an alleged altercation between Jamie and one of Spears ’ s teen sons , after which a restraining order was granted to the children against their grandfather . )
More concerning , perhaps , was Spears ’ s announcement , in January of 2019 , that she was cancelling her new @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hiatus due to her father ’ s health , after which her Instagram went dark for three months .
In early April , TMZ reported that she had been admitted to a mental-health facility .
Amid the general guardedness of Spears ’ s enterprise , these shifts served as clues to fans that something might be amiss .
In May of 2019 , Larry Rudolph , Spears ’ s longtime manager , told the Washington Post that the star ’ s conservatorship “ is not a jail .
It helps Britney make business @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she can ’ t do on her own right now.
” But fans were suspicious .
Was Spears in trouble ?
Were her rights as an adult woman abused under the terms of the conservatorship ?
The hashtag # FreeBritney began gaining in popularity on Instagram .
Fuel was added to the movement ’ s fire when , in a phone call made that same month to “ Britney ’ s Gram , ” a Spears-themed podcast , an anonymous tipster , who said that he was linked to a law firm connected @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was forced against her will to cancel her residency and enter a mental-health facility in January , months earlier than had been reported .

Fans, concerned about a conservatorship that controls Spears’s estate, have begun parsing her Instagram account for clues about her well-being. Photograph by Jean Baptiste Lacroix / WireImage / Getty
“All eyes on me, in the center of the ring, just like a circus,” Britney Spears sang, in 2008. Indeed, from its beginning, the pop singer’s career has been defined as much by the visual as by the aural. A child performer from Kentwood, Louisiana, who first appeared on Disney’s “Mickey Mouse Club” when she was eleven, Spears broke into the widest possible public consciousness, in 1998, with her multiplatinum début single, “…Baby One More Time.” Spears’s vocals were like thick honey pressed through a sieve, but her look in the music video was at least as memorable. In a white button-down tied above an exposed midriff, a slip of a kilt paired with knee socks, and two braids fixed in pink bows, Spears’s Catholic-schoolgirl Lolita instantly defined the dominant turn-of-the-millennium version of young womanhood: blonde and tan, with her bare navel rising over a low waistband, she was half young girl and half “Girls Gone Wild.” In the five years that followed, Spears was perhaps the most successful pop star in the world, and a master image creator. In 1999, she posed for the cover of Rolling Stone in a black push-up bra and baby-pink shorts, with a princess phone held to her ear. In 2001, at the MTV music awards, she paired a spangly belly-dancer outfit with a live, pale-yellow python. The same year, she wore matching all-denim with her then boyfriend, Justin Timberlake, on the American Music Awards red carpet.
But as Spears’s life became messier, the once-tight control held over the visual aspect of her career turned wobblier as well. After her relationship with Timberlake ended, she wed a childhood friend named Jason Alexander, in 2004, in Las Vegas—although that union was annulled after fifty-five hours. Later that year, she married Kevin Federline, one of her backup dancers, and then had two children in quick succession. The couple divorced acrimoniously in 2007. In those years, Spears’s life became mediated to the public less through red carpets and more through tabloid-media paparazzi: she was caught shuffling into a gas-station restroom while barefoot, exiting a car en route to a club sans underwear, and driving with one of her young sons in her lap rather than strapped into a car seat. Between 2007 and 2008, she had a drawn-out mental breakdown, during which her circumstances were not just endlessly documented by photographers but seemingly aggravated by their presence: she shaved her own hair, as more than seventy paparazzi reportedly looked on; she attacked a photographer’s car with an umbrella; she was taken from her home strapped to a gurney, after a reported substance-induced break, on her way to the first of two involuntary 5150 psychiatric holds.
In 2008, in the midst of this breakdown, a court established a conservatorship over her estate, assets, and personal well-being, which, twelve years later, is still in effect. Such a conservatorship, also known as a legal guardianship in some states, is usually used in the cases of people who are unable to make their own decisions, such as the old or the mentally or physically infirm. Under the conservatorship’s strictures, a 2016 Times investigation into Spears’s affairs explained, the singer “cannot make key decisions, personal or financial, without the approval of her conservators: her father, Jamie Spears, and a lawyer, Andrew M. Wallet. Her most mundane purchases, from a drink at Starbucks to a song on iTunes, are tracked in court documents.” But Spears’s case has proved rare in that, over the past dozen years, she has also worked consistently, releasing several albums, going on world tours, acting as a judge on the TV show “The X Factor,” and, for four years, headlining a Las Vegas residency. The Times piece suggested that, if her seeming stability continued, the guardianship’s strictures might loosen. In the years since, however, the conservatorship has remained in place. The single time that Spears has publicly discussed her feelings about it was in a 2008 documentary, in which she compared her situation to “Groundhog Day,” suggesting that what separates the conservatorship from a jail sentence is that the former is “never-ending.” But because her public appearances are highly controlled, and catching a view of her outside of her music videos or stage shows has become increasingly rare, her sense of her situation has largely remained an enigma.
One key sphere that might allow for a less mediated look at Spears’s day-to-day life, however, is her Instagram account, where she has nearly twenty-six million followers and posts regularly. Until early 2019, a combination of inspirational quotes (“Self-love: it costs nothing and you gain everything”), feisty quips (“You think you know me? Think again”), workout videos, and heavily filtered pictures of flowers, butterflies, and kittens—in the manner of Instagram circa 2014—all tied up with a seemingly random smattering of emojis, made Spears’s account seem “delightfully basic,” in the words of the Web site Highsnobiety. It was cutesy, even cozy: the singer seemed like a wealthy suburban mom leading her best life several years behind the trend curve, rather than a global pop star.
But, starting in 2019, several crises took place in the Spears empire. In March of that year, the Dickensianly named Wallet resigned his position as co-conservator with no explanation. And, at a hearing in September of last year, Jamie Spears, who had ruptured his colon several months prior, asked a judge for permission to step down temporarily from his role as conservator, to focus on his health. The judge decreed that Jodi Montgomery, Britney’s care manager, would take over the personal aspects of the conservatorship, while Jamie Spears remained responsible for the star’s business affairs. (The request for the change in conservators came, too, in the wake of an alleged altercation between Jamie and one of Spears’s teen sons, after which a restraining order was granted to the children against their grandfather.)
More concerning, perhaps, was Spears’s announcement, in January of 2019, that she was cancelling her new Las Vegas residency and taking a work hiatus due to her father’s health, after which her Instagram went dark for three months. In early April, TMZ reported that she had been admitted to a mental-health facility. Amid the general guardedness of Spears’s enterprise, these shifts served as clues to fans that something might be amiss. In May of 2019, Larry Rudolph, Spears’s longtime manager, told the Washington Post that the star’s conservatorship “is not a jail. It helps Britney make business decisions and manage her life in ways she can’t do on her own right now.” But fans were suspicious. Was Spears in trouble? Were her rights as an adult woman abused under the terms of the conservatorship? The hashtag #FreeBritney began gaining in popularity on Instagram. Fuel was added to the movement’s fire when, in a phone call made that same month to “Britney’s Gram,” a Spears-themed podcast, an anonymous tipster, who said that he was linked to a law firm connected to the conservatorship, claimed that Spears was forced against her will to cancel her residency and enter a mental-health facility in January, months earlier than had been reported.
In late April, Spears came as close as she would to breaking her silence, assuring her followers that her “situation is unique, but I promise I’m doing what’s best at this moment,” reminding them that “I am strong and stand up for what I want,” and asking them not to “believe everything you read and hear.” The plea seemed to change little. Fans continued to express their fears that the limits placed on Spears by her conservatorship were harming her, and that it might be kept in place due to the greed of those around her. (Spears, it has been reported, pays upward of a million dollars a year in legal fees and other expenses to the conservatorship, of which her father took home a hundred and twenty-eight thousand dollars in 2019; in 2018, a few months prior to his resignation, Wallet successfully petitioned to have his annual salary raised to four hundred and twenty-six thousand dollars.) On dedicated Instagram and Twitter accounts, fans have continued advocating for her release. There have been some real-life actions, too: on Wednesday, a few dozen #FreeBritney activists gathered in protest, carrying signs (“She’s a Prisoner!” “Conservatorships Care About Money, Not People!”), in front of the Stanley Mosk Courthouse, in downtown Los Angeles, where a hearing reviewing Montgomery’s temporary role as conservator took place. A change.org petition calling for Spears to be allowed to hire her own legal representation to help release her from her conservatorship has so far collected more than two hundred and thirty thousand signatures.
Amid these developments, Spears’s Instagram feed has become a Rosetta stone, with master semioticians parsing its merest signs for hidden meaning. In her posts, what had once seemed merely kooky now appeared sinister to some. Deeply tan, seemingly in fighting physical shape, and often wearing a crop top, a choker, and extremely low-rise shorts—styles reminiscent of her earlier, turn-of-the-millennium heyday—Spears often posts identical or near-identical high-contrast selfies, taken at close range, which fans have compared to hostage headshots. In video clips that she posts, she is smiling, mostly wordlessly and a bit hesitantly, as she twirls, poses, dances, or catwalks, always within a tightly circumscribed area. In a recent video, set to the tune of the Weeknd’s “Blinding Lights,” she brandishes a bouquet of roses and minces back and forth, never straying far from the backdrop of a white wall behind her, while wearing a yellow top and tiny white pants. To look at her feed is to experience a claustrophobia that is almost physical: seemingly all recorded within the walls of Spears’s estate, her photos and videos appear, in the context of her conservatorship, like part of a Victorian novel with Gothic overtones, in which a Southern Californian, present-day Bertha Mason was being stowed away in an attic. In the comments, fans share their guesses: Is Britney modelling a yellow top because, on a previous post, a follower asked her to wear the color if she were in danger? Is she blinking “S.O.S.” in Morse code to signify her distress? Is she spelling something with her arms when she’s dancing? Does she follow a hundred and sixteen people because, when turned upside down, that number becomes 911? Is the woman in the videos and pictures even Britney at all?


newyorker--2020-07-24--Who Gets to Be Italian?

Who Gets to Be Italian?

The decision about whether to reopen schools may determine children ’ s futures , the survival of teachers , and @ @ @ @ @ to rebound ; it pits the lives that will be lost if schools open against @ @ @ @ @ loss if they don ’ t .
Emily Oster , an economist at Brown University @ @ @ @ @ and don ’ t know about the dangers of in-person classes .
And we look @ @ @ @ @ Italians—the children of African immigrants—to change Italy ’ s laws and demand birthright citizenship .
@ @ @ @ @ How to Reopen Schools An economist at Brown University and coauthor of the COVID Explained @ @ @ @ @ impossible trade-offs required by in-person classes .
Children of African immigrants born in Italy may @ @ @ @ @ considered foreigners by the law .
Some are fighting to change that .

Illustration by Golden Cosmos
The decision about whether to reopen schools may determine children’s futures, the survival of teachers, and the economy’s ability to rebound; it pits the lives that will be lost if schools open against the long-term effects of learning loss if they don’t. Emily Oster, an economist at Brown University, reviews what we do and don’t know about the dangers of in-person classes. And we look at the struggle of Black Italians—the children of African immigrants—to change Italy’s laws and demand birthright citizenship.
Emily Oster on Whether and How to Reopen Schools
An economist at Brown University and coauthor of the COVID Explained Web site discusses the seemingly impossible trade-offs required by in-person classes.
Black Italians Fight to Be Italian
Children of African immigrants born in Italy may spend their whole lives there considered foreigners by the law. Some are fighting to change that.


newyorker--2020-07-24--The Comorbidities of the National Football League

The nationwide protests for Black liberation have set off the most profound examination of systemic racism in a generation , exposing the oppressive structures that underly policing , journalism , and academia .
The N.F.L.
’ s reckoning should be imminent .
Despite being the wealthiest professional sports league in the world , the N.F.L.
, where about two-thirds of the players are Black , has a lower average salary and league minimum than the N.B.A .
and the M.L.B.
, and the below-average salaries , taken together with the N.F.L.
’ s shrinking average career span ( from five @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , between 2008 and 2014 ) , show the discrepancy between player risk and league reward , which is a gentler way of saying disposability .
“ Without Black players , there would be no National Football League , ” the league ’ s commissioner , Roger Goodell said , in a June 5th video , from his Westchester mansion , in acknowledgment of the Black Lives Matter protests .
But the league is attempting to survive the coronavirus pandemic in the way it always has : by banking on the devaluation of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a day after twenty-seven hundred Americans died from the coronavirus , the N.F.L .
released its regular-season schedule .
The first game , between the Houston Texans and the Kansas City Chiefs , is set for September 10th , in Kansas City , Missouri—one of forty-three states that have recently seen increases in infection .
The N.F.L .
also announced that it would be reopening team facilities on May 19th , before some states with training camps had even declared a lifting of stay-at-home orders .
“ I think there definitely will be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Miami Dolphins owner Stephen Ross said , on May 26th , just as Florida ’ s coronavirus cases began spiking to record highs .
“ The N.F.L.
, I think , will be ready to go .
I know we ’ re all looking forward to it .
I know I am.
” Two days later , Goodell told reporters that “ we are prepared for the 2020 season.
” In June , the news broke that an unspecified number of players on the Dallas Cowboys and the Houston Texans had tested @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the U.S. has seen a record number of new cases ; ten of the twenty-two states with an N.F.L .
franchise are either pausing their reopenings or shutting down businesses again .
The league ’ s chief medical officer , Allen Sills , expects the number of infected players , now at fifty-nine , to increase : “ Because we think that this disease will remain endemic in society , it shouldn ’ t be a surprise that new positive cases arise , ” he said in May .
The league has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to training camp this summer , with players expected to appear in person by July 28th , but there ’ s been no planning to deal with any new surge of infections and no mitigation strategy for what might be an even more devastating winter spike .
On June 18th , Sills , remaining optimistic , said that the league “ will make adjustments as necessary to meet the public-health environment as we prepare to play the 2020 season as scheduled.
” Many players seem more alarmed than Sills , with good reason @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a new helmet that has a mouth shield , approved by its own doctors , meant to slow the spread of airborne droplets ; some players are already refusing to play if wearing the shield becomes mandatory .
Further , the league announced that , as part of negotiations with the players ’ union , it will cancel its preseason games , reduce training-camp roster sizes to make social distancing easier , and allow players to opt out of the season by August 1st , though few specifics around the opt-outs have become @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the whole spider-web effect of contamination that ’ s hard to wrap your head around and kind of figure out , ” the Atlanta Falcons center and union treasurer , Alex Mack , told ESPN last month .
“ I guess the fear of the unknown , to me , concerns me.
” Mack ’ s words echo those of health-care personnel , grocery-store employees , teachers , and other workers who have received little guidance or protection from their employers .
These “ essential ” workers , a disproportionate number of whom @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hardest hit by COVID-19 .
As often happens with N.F.L .
news , President Trump , who has long harbored dreams of owning an N.F.L .
franchise , was quick to offer support for the unaltered schedule .
“ I think it ’ s a great decision , ” Trump said , on Fox News , on May 8th .
“ Keep the season going .
It ’ s a shame when , fifty years from now , when you look at records and you see a dead season , it ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to “ come back ” as they existed pre-COVID-19 , even as the global presence of the virus reaches new peaks , is to blithely hand-wave at the hundred and forty thousand Americans the virus has killed so far , a wrenching mark of moral collapse .
But the N.F.L.
’ s dismissal of Black suffering is an existential imperative .
In 2005 , Bennet Omalu , a Nigerian-American doctor then based in Pittsburgh , published a pathbreaking discovery of chronic traumatic encephalopathy , or C.T.E.
, a progressive , degenerative brain disease @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ( Iron Mike ) Webster .
The N.F.L .
has worked tirelessly to erase , co-opt , and stymie C.T.E .
research because of its implications for the sport .
In a May 2016 report , the Democratic staff of the House ’ s Energy and Commerce Committee chided the N.F.L .
for backing out of a signed agreement with the National Institutes for Health to contribute sixteen million dollars in private-donor funding to Boston University for a C.T.E .
study on living athletes because the league would not be able to steer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The behavior of the NFL leadership and their medical advisors is inconsistent with their public commitment to ‘ support science and medicine and allow them to make those decision , ’ ” the report reads .
The N.F.L .
denied the accusations in the report .
“ There is no dispute that there were concerns raised about both the nature of the study in question and possible conflicts of interest , ” a spokesperson said in a statement to the Washington Post .
The next year , Boston University published the results of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ brains of a hundred and eleven deceased N.F.L .
players and found the presence of the disease in ninety-nine per cent of them .
There are striking similarities between the N.F.L.
’ s handling of Omalu ’ s research and of the sideline protests against police brutality that got Colin Kaepernick blackballed from the league .
In 2007 , Goodell , then newly appointed as commissioner , held what the N.F.L .
called a “ Concussion Summit.
” Notably absent from the invitee list was Omalu ; Omalu ’ s colleague , Julian @ @ @ @ @ @ @ instead .
The N.F.L .
never accepted Omalu ’ s work but instituted concussion protocols based on his findings .
The Concussion Summit was , in other words , the medical analogue to Inspire Change , an apolitical initiative introduced after Kaepernick and other players knelt during the national anthem as a demonstration against racist police violence—an initiative that would , in the N.F.L.
’ s words , address how “ players , owners and the league work together to create positive change in communities across America.
” Yet the owners continued to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Goodell ’ s recent speech about Black Lives Matter parroted Kaepernick ’ s language without using his name .
( He has since weakly encouraged N.F.L .
teams to open their rosters to Kaepernick . )

The nationwide protests for Black liberation have set off the most profound examination of systemic racism in a generation, exposing the oppressive structures that underly policing, journalism, and academia. The N.F.L.’s reckoning should be imminent. Despite being the wealthiest professional sports league in the world, the N.F.L., where about two-thirds of the players are Black, has a lower average salary and league minimum than the N.B.A. and the M.L.B., and the below-average salaries, taken together with the N.F.L.’s shrinking average career span (from five years to two and a half years, between 2008 and 2014), show the discrepancy between player risk and league reward, which is a gentler way of saying disposability. “Without Black players, there would be no National Football League,” the league’s commissioner, Roger Goodell said, in a June 5th video, from his Westchester mansion, in acknowledgment of the Black Lives Matter protests. But the league is attempting to survive the coronavirus pandemic in the way it always has: by banking on the devaluation of Black life.
On May 7th, a day after twenty-seven hundred Americans died from the coronavirus, the N.F.L. released its regular-season schedule. The first game, between the Houston Texans and the Kansas City Chiefs, is set for September 10th, in Kansas City, Missouri—one of forty-three states that have recently seen increases in infection. The N.F.L. also announced that it would be reopening team facilities on May 19th, before some states with training camps had even declared a lifting of stay-at-home orders. “I think there definitely will be a football season this year,” the Miami Dolphins owner Stephen Ross said, on May 26th, just as Florida’s coronavirus cases began spiking to record highs. “The N.F.L., I think, will be ready to go. I know we’re all looking forward to it. I know I am.” Two days later, Goodell told reporters that “we are prepared for the 2020 season.” In June, the news broke that an unspecified number of players on the Dallas Cowboys and the Houston Texans had tested positive for COVID-19, and since then, the U.S. has seen a record number of new cases; ten of the twenty-two states with an N.F.L. franchise are either pausing their reopenings or shutting down businesses again.
The league’s chief medical officer, Allen Sills, expects the number of infected players, now at fifty-nine, to increase: “Because we think that this disease will remain endemic in society, it shouldn’t be a surprise that new positive cases arise,” he said in May. The league has announced a vague two-phase plan for returning to training camp this summer, with players expected to appear in person by July 28th, but there’s been no planning to deal with any new surge of infections and no mitigation strategy for what might be an even more devastating winter spike. On June 18th, Sills, remaining optimistic, said that the league “will make adjustments as necessary to meet the public-health environment as we prepare to play the 2020 season as scheduled.” Many players seem more alarmed than Sills, with good reason. The N.F.L. last week débuted a new helmet that has a mouth shield, approved by its own doctors, meant to slow the spread of airborne droplets; some players are already refusing to play if wearing the shield becomes mandatory. Further, the league announced that, as part of negotiations with the players’ union, it will cancel its preseason games, reduce training-camp roster sizes to make social distancing easier, and allow players to opt out of the season by August 1st, though few specifics around the opt-outs have become public. “It’s just the whole spider-web effect of contamination that’s hard to wrap your head around and kind of figure out,” the Atlanta Falcons center and union treasurer, Alex Mack, told ESPN last month. “I guess the fear of the unknown, to me, concerns me.” Mack’s words echo those of health-care personnel, grocery-store employees, teachers, and other workers who have received little guidance or protection from their employers. These “essential” workers, a disproportionate number of whom are Black, have been among the hardest hit by COVID-19.
As often happens with N.F.L. news, President Trump, who has long harbored dreams of owning an N.F.L. franchise, was quick to offer support for the unaltered schedule. “I think it’s a great decision,” Trump said, on Fox News, on May 8th. “Keep the season going. It’s a shame when, fifty years from now, when you look at records and you see a dead season, it’s a shame.” To clamor for sports to “come back” as they existed pre-COVID-19, even as the global presence of the virus reaches new peaks, is to blithely hand-wave at the hundred and forty thousand Americans the virus has killed so far, a wrenching mark of moral collapse. But the N.F.L.’s dismissal of Black suffering is an existential imperative.
In 2005, Bennet Omalu, a Nigerian-American doctor then based in Pittsburgh, published a pathbreaking discovery of chronic traumatic encephalopathy, or C.T.E., a progressive, degenerative brain disease, in the former Steelers center Michael (Iron Mike) Webster. The N.F.L. has worked tirelessly to erase, co-opt, and stymie C.T.E. research because of its implications for the sport. In a May 2016 report, the Democratic staff of the House’s Energy and Commerce Committee chided the N.F.L. for backing out of a signed agreement with the National Institutes for Health to contribute sixteen million dollars in private-donor funding to Boston University for a C.T.E. study on living athletes because the league would not be able to steer the study’s findings. “The behavior of the NFL leadership and their medical advisors is inconsistent with their public commitment to ‘support science and medicine and allow them to make those decision,’ ” the report reads. The N.F.L. denied the accusations in the report. “There is no dispute that there were concerns raised about both the nature of the study in question and possible conflicts of interest,” a spokesperson said in a statement to the Washington Post. The next year, Boston University published the results of a study in which researchers examined the brains of a hundred and eleven deceased N.F.L. players and found the presence of the disease in ninety-nine per cent of them.
There are striking similarities between the N.F.L.’s handling of Omalu’s research and of the sideline protests against police brutality that got Colin Kaepernick blackballed from the league. In 2007, Goodell, then newly appointed as commissioner, held what the N.F.L. called a “Concussion Summit.” Notably absent from the invitee list was Omalu; Omalu’s colleague, Julian Bailes, presented Omalu’s research instead. The N.F.L. never accepted Omalu’s work but instituted concussion protocols based on his findings. The Concussion Summit was, in other words, the medical analogue to Inspire Change, an apolitical initiative introduced after Kaepernick and other players knelt during the national anthem as a demonstration against racist police violence—an initiative that would, in the N.F.L.’s words, address how “players, owners and the league work together to create positive change in communities across America.” Yet the owners continued to keep Kaepernick out of the league. Goodell’s recent speech about Black Lives Matter parroted Kaepernick’s language without using his name. (He has since weakly encouraged N.F.L. teams to open their rosters to Kaepernick.)
Current N.F.L. players have said that they will take up Kaepernick’s protest for Black lives along the sidelines if the 2020 season proceeds as scheduled—“We’re all getting ready to take a knee together going into this season, without a doubt,” the Washington running back Adrian Peterson said—but it’s less clear whether these players will be able to resist the league’s plans to return to business as usual. (Peterson’s Redskins, one of many sports teams branded with anti-indigenous slurs, relented to half a century of Native-led activism and announced last week that the team would change its name.) J. C. Tretter, the Cleveland Browns center and president of the players’ union, wrote in an open letter that “every decision this year that prioritizes normalcy over innovation, custom over science or even football over health, significantly reduces our chances of completing the full season.”
It remains to be seen whether the N.F.L. will demand that its mostly Black players bear the full risk of contagion, playing a high-contact sport in empty stadiums, as the league’s overwhelmingly white executive class looks on from third homes and distant skyboxes. By obscuring its plans to combat a disease spreading rapidly within its ranks, the N.F.L. is forging headlong into an already catastrophic public-health disaster. But that should surprise no one, because it’s what the league has been doing for years.
More on the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-07-24--A Monk’s Life in Turmoil in Tibet

A Monk’s Life in Turmoil in Tibet

From a quick glance , you might have been unsure if the boy standing in the crowd of onlookers was Chinese or Tibetan .
You saw plenty of both in Ngaba , a small town on the edge of the Tibetan plateau .
He wore tinted glasses and had a big puff of hair in a garish red hue , which must have come from a cheap drugstore dye .
His face was obscured by a nubby black-and-white scarf tugged over his nose .
The boy knew he looked peculiar , but he didn ’ t care .
He had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wouldn ’ t recognize him ; until recently , he had been a Buddhist monk .
The Chinese police considered monks to be troublemakers , so it was better to be mistaken for a punk rocker .
It was midafternoon on March 16th , 2011 , a bright day on the cusp of spring .
The town should have been bustling with people heading to the market to buy fresh vegetables for dinner , but the metal shutters of the storefronts had slammed closed .
Like birds who fly away moments before an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had sensed that trouble had arrived , and scattered quickly .
Not the boy , who was known as Dongtuk , a nickname that he ’ d been given when he was young and which means “ wild baby yak.
” Although he wasn ’ t particularly wild , he had an incorrigible streak of independence .
He ’ d come into Ngaba to apply for a travel document that the Chinese government sometimes requires Tibetans to have in order to visit certain places .
There was no public transportation from his village @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with a neighbor who operated an informal shared-taxi service .
With the roads clear , Dongtuk had expected that they would arrive by lunchtime .
But , when they reached the edge of town , they encountered an unexpected checkpoint .
Police waved the driver back .
Dongtuk hopped out in front of Sinopec , the town ’ s only gas station , and proceeded on foot , veering off the main road into uncultivated fields and parking lots behind the storefronts .
Other Tibetans who wanted to avoid the police were doing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he overheard snippets of conversation .
The story revealed itself slowly .
Somebody had lit a fire .
He ’ d lit himself on fire .
He was a monk from Kirti monastery—Dongtuk ’ s monastery , and one of the largest in the area .
Two years earlier , a monk at Kirti , holding a portrait of the Dalai Lama , had lit himself on fire , next to a police car , in the main street of Ngaba .
He survived , and was later shown on state television with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ out of a hospital gown .
Dongtuk had thought such a thing would never happen again in Ngaba .
Dongtuk cut through an alley to get to the main market area , which was still cordoned off by the police .
A gaggle of old women were standing along the sidewalk , dressed in the big cloaks that Tibetans call chuba , with fat beads around their necks .
They were crying , praying , and screaming in equal measure , calling in one moment for compassion and in another for revenge against @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hum , ” they chanted—the mantra that Tibetans use to invoke the bodhisattva of compassion , who is also Tibet ’ s patron saint .
“ May dust fill their mouths ” —one of the favorite local curses .
Dongtuk spotted a matchbox , its contents spilling onto the pavement .
He reached down to grab the matches , wondering if they were the very ones used by the monk .
Although details remained vague , he understood perfectly that the monk had burned himself as a message to the Chinese , who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have permits wherever they travelled , and forbade them from displaying photos of the Dalai Lama , their exiled spiritual leader .
For the first time , Dongtuk contemplated his own life and wondered whether he , too , would be willing to die for Tibet .
When you mention Tibet to many Americans , they conjure up images from coffee-table books of pilgrims prostrating at the famous monasteries of Lhasa , or of the snowy peaks of Mount Everest etched against cerulean-blue skies .
Those images come out of central Tibet , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as the Tibet Autonomous Region .
In fact , the Tibetan plateau is double that size , and the majority of Tibetans reside outside the autonomous district , mostly in Qinghai , Sichuan , Gansu , and Yunnan Provinces .
Ngaba is in Sichuan , where the Tibetan plateau collides with modern China , and it is not as scenic as the Tibetan towns on the tourist trail .
It mostly comprises a clutter of low-rise buildings laid out along both sides of a provincial highway , which is plied by pedicabs and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Ngaba got its first traffic lights in 2012 .
Signs advertise the People ’ s Bank of China , China Mobile , and China Unicom , but the town isn ’ t large enough to support the chain stores .
A few years back , local authorities ordered Tibetan-themed murals—endless knots , lotus blossoms , yaks , dharma wheels—painted above the storefronts , to deflect criticism from foreigners who had managed to sneak in that Tibetan towns were becoming too Chinese .
Nondescript though it is , Ngaba was churning out resistance to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the People ’ s Republic of China .
Ngaba was one of the first places where Tibetans and Chinese Communists encountered one another , during the Long March of the nineteen-thirties , when the Red Army detoured into the Tibetan plateau , confiscating food , homes , and monasteries .
But it was a series of self-immolations , beginning in 2009 , that catapulted Ngaba into international headlines .
As of this writing , a hundred and fifty-six Tibetans have burned themselves in protest of Chinese rule ; the most recent was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the self-immolations have taken place in Ngaba and the surrounding villages .
I was living in Beijing when the wave of self-immolations began , and , like many journalists there , I became obsessed with Ngaba .
There was the undeniable challenge : Ngaba was simply one of the most difficult places in China for journalists to visit .
Unlike with Lhasa and the other parts of the Tibet Autonomous Region , you were not required to obtain a special permit , but fortified checkpoints kept outsiders away .
I was keen to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ government didn ’ t want us to see .
And how had this little town become the engine of Tibetan resistance ?
Around the same time that I was reporting on the Tibetan unrest , I read Orhan Pamuk ’ s novel “ Snow , ” a fictionalized account of a Turkish city where a string of young women had killed themselves .
Ngaba was the real thing .
Travelling discreetly , I made several trips into Ngaba .
I also met many people from Ngaba living in Dharamsala , India , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ exiled government .
In Dharamsala , being from Ngabaa conferred a certain cachet : it meant that you almost certainly knew someone , if only a third cousin or a neighbor , who had self-immolated .
But nobody knew more self-immolators than Dongtuk , which made him a minor celebrity in the exile community .
I heard about him almost as soon as I arrived , in 2014 , and asked a friend from Ngaba for an introduction .
If anyone could explain what had driven so many Tibetans to self-immolation , perhaps @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in touch since .
Like many others , he felt ambivalent about the suicides , but recognized that they had been a tremendous loss of face for China .
“ It put pressure on the Chinese government .
It got the world ’ s attention , ” he said .

From a quick glance, you might have been unsure if the boy standing in the crowd of onlookers was Chinese or Tibetan. You saw plenty of both in Ngaba, a small town on the edge of the Tibetan plateau. He wore tinted glasses and had a big puff of hair in a garish red hue, which must have come from a cheap drugstore dye. His face was obscured by a nubby black-and-white scarf tugged over his nose. The boy knew he looked peculiar, but he didn’t care. He had disguised himself so that people in town wouldn’t recognize him; until recently, he had been a Buddhist monk. The Chinese police considered monks to be troublemakers, so it was better to be mistaken for a punk rocker.
It was midafternoon on March 16th, 2011, a bright day on the cusp of spring. The town should have been bustling with people heading to the market to buy fresh vegetables for dinner, but the metal shutters of the storefronts had slammed closed. Like birds who fly away moments before an earthquake, the people living in Ngaba had sensed that trouble had arrived, and scattered quickly.
Not the boy, who was known as Dongtuk, a nickname that he’d been given when he was young and which means “wild baby yak.” Although he wasn’t particularly wild, he had an incorrigible streak of independence. He’d come into Ngaba to apply for a travel document that the Chinese government sometimes requires Tibetans to have in order to visit certain places. There was no public transportation from his village, so Dongtuk had caught a ride with a neighbor who operated an informal shared-taxi service.
With the roads clear, Dongtuk had expected that they would arrive by lunchtime. But, when they reached the edge of town, they encountered an unexpected checkpoint. Police waved the driver back. Dongtuk hopped out in front of Sinopec, the town’s only gas station, and proceeded on foot, veering off the main road into uncultivated fields and parking lots behind the storefronts. Other Tibetans who wanted to avoid the police were doing the same; as Dongtuk walked, he overheard snippets of conversation.
The story revealed itself slowly. Somebody had lit a fire. He’d lit himself on fire. He was a monk from Kirti monastery—Dongtuk’s monastery, and one of the largest in the area. Two years earlier, a monk at Kirti, holding a portrait of the Dalai Lama, had lit himself on fire, next to a police car, in the main street of Ngaba. He survived, and was later shown on state television with his scarred face and shrivelled legs poking out of a hospital gown. Dongtuk had thought such a thing would never happen again in Ngaba.
Dongtuk cut through an alley to get to the main market area, which was still cordoned off by the police. A gaggle of old women were standing along the sidewalk, dressed in the big cloaks that Tibetans call chuba, with fat beads around their necks. They were crying, praying, and screaming in equal measure, calling in one moment for compassion and in another for revenge against the Chinese.
“Om mani padme hum,” they chanted—the mantra that Tibetans use to invoke the bodhisattva of compassion, who is also Tibet’s patron saint.
“Chinese bastards.”
“Eat dirt.”
“May dust fill their mouths”—one of the favorite local curses.
Dongtuk spotted a matchbox, its contents spilling onto the pavement. He reached down to grab the matches, wondering if they were the very ones used by the monk. Although details remained vague, he understood perfectly that the monk had burned himself as a message to the Chinese, who blocked the roads, required Tibetans to have permits wherever they travelled, and forbade them from displaying photos of the Dalai Lama, their exiled spiritual leader. For the first time, Dongtuk contemplated his own life and wondered whether he, too, would be willing to die for Tibet.
When you mention Tibet to many Americans, they conjure up images from coffee-table books of pilgrims prostrating at the famous monasteries of Lhasa, or of the snowy peaks of Mount Everest etched against cerulean-blue skies. Those images come out of central Tibet, which is designated by the Chinese government as the Tibet Autonomous Region. In fact, the Tibetan plateau is double that size, and the majority of Tibetans reside outside the autonomous district, mostly in Qinghai, Sichuan, Gansu, and Yunnan Provinces.
Ngaba is in Sichuan, where the Tibetan plateau collides with modern China, and it is not as scenic as the Tibetan towns on the tourist trail. It mostly comprises a clutter of low-rise buildings laid out along both sides of a provincial highway, which is plied by pedicabs and the motorcycles favored by Tibetan nomads. Ngaba got its first traffic lights in 2012. Signs advertise the People’s Bank of China, China Mobile, and China Unicom, but the town isn’t large enough to support the chain stores. A few years back, local authorities ordered Tibetan-themed murals—endless knots, lotus blossoms, yaks, dharma wheels—painted above the storefronts, to deflect criticism from foreigners who had managed to sneak in that Tibetan towns were becoming too Chinese.
Nondescript though it is, Ngaba was churning out resistance to the Communist Party even before the founding of the People’s Republic of China. Ngaba was one of the first places where Tibetans and Chinese Communists encountered one another, during the Long March of the nineteen-thirties, when the Red Army detoured into the Tibetan plateau, confiscating food, homes, and monasteries. But it was a series of self-immolations, beginning in 2009, that catapulted Ngaba into international headlines. As of this writing, a hundred and fifty-six Tibetans have burned themselves in protest of Chinese rule; the most recent was in November. About a third of the self-immolations have taken place in Ngaba and the surrounding villages.
I was living in Beijing when the wave of self-immolations began, and, like many journalists there, I became obsessed with Ngaba. There was the undeniable challenge: Ngaba was simply one of the most difficult places in China for journalists to visit. Unlike with Lhasa and the other parts of the Tibet Autonomous Region, you were not required to obtain a special permit, but fortified checkpoints kept outsiders away. I was keen to know what it was that the Chinese government didn’t want us to see. And how had this little town become the engine of Tibetan resistance? Around the same time that I was reporting on the Tibetan unrest, I read Orhan Pamuk’s novel “Snow,” a fictionalized account of a Turkish city where a string of young women had killed themselves. Ngaba was the real thing.
Travelling discreetly, I made several trips into Ngaba. I also met many people from Ngaba living in Dharamsala, India, the headquarters of the Dalai Lama and his exiled government. In Dharamsala, being from Ngabaa conferred a certain cachet: it meant that you almost certainly knew someone, if only a third cousin or a neighbor, who had self-immolated. But nobody knew more self-immolators than Dongtuk, which made him a minor celebrity in the exile community. I heard about him almost as soon as I arrived, in 2014, and asked a friend from Ngaba for an introduction. If anyone could explain what had driven so many Tibetans to self-immolation, perhaps it was him. We have stayed in touch since. Like many others, he felt ambivalent about the suicides, but recognized that they had been a tremendous loss of face for China. “It put pressure on the Chinese government. It got the world’s attention,” he said.
Dongtuk was born in 1994, in a village called Meruma, about fifteen miles from the center of Ngaba. He and his mother, his younger sister, and his maternal grandmother lived in a mud-brick house enclosed inside a walled courtyard strung with prayer flags. As a girl, Dongtuk’s mother, Sonam (I’ve changed her name), had been the village beauty, with high, chiselled cheekbones and a dazzling smile. But, at age thirteen, she came down with a fever that left her paralyzed in her left hand and left foot. The village had no doctor and there was nobody to diagnose the illness. “Evil spirits,” Sonam’s mother concluded.
Tibetan wives are responsible for cooking, cleaning, milking the animals, churning the butter, and collecting yak dung for fuel. Sonam’s limp and paralyzed left hand made her an undesirable bride, despite her good looks. Moreover, she needed to take care of her mother. Being single, however, was not synonymous with being celibate. Although Tibetan women are modest in their clothing, they are not prudish about sex. Polygamy and polyandry are acceptable among rural Tibetans, and unmarried women frequently have children of their own.
Unlike Chinese women in similar situations, unmarried Tibetan women aren’t scorned as mistresses or concubines; instead, they are treated as heads of households. This was the case for Sonam, who had inherited her parents’ house after a ne’er-do-well older brother absconded with the family’s savings. She herded yak, collected and sold herbs, and did odd jobs for neighbors, but it supplied the family only a meagre income. They ate a basic diet of tsampa, a Tibetan staple—ground barley that is usually cooked into a porridge, and sometimes mixed with cheese and butter. The children never had more than one pair of shoes, which they stuffed with grass for insulation. The family didn’t have a television or radio, so at night they played a cassette tape of Buddhist prayer music.
The family’s house had a chapel off the courtyard, which was dedicated to Sonam’s uncle, Alok Lama, who had been honored as a reincarnate lama. It was the only room constructed with timber, which is precious on the plateau. An elaborate gilt-edged frame held a black-and-white photograph of a thin, pockmarked man with a goatee. Next to it was a portrait of the Dalai Lama, which, as in other Tibetan homes in the area, was hung loosely from a nail, so that it could be hastily removed in case of an inspection by police or Communist Party officials. The room had a bed with a wooden frame, reserved for any distinguished monk who might come to pay respects. It was kept locked with a padlock, but Dongtuk would sometimes take the key from the kitchen and let himself in, to rest on the bed.
Dongtuk didn’t know much about Tibet’s history; his mother was apolitical and wanted to keep her children that way, so that they wouldn’t get into trouble. What little he learned was from his grandmother. When his mother was out in the pasturelands with the animals, Dongtuk and his sister would lie with their grandmother on a mattress of twigs and straw, with a felt covering made of yak wool. Snuggled up next to her, they would beg to hear heroic stories of Tibetan warriors fighting the Red Army in the thirties, and then sadder stories, about the many Tibetans who were herded into communes by the Chinese Communist Party, in 1958, and who perished of hunger. He heard about Tibetan collaborators, who were bribed by the Chinese to torture and humiliate monks, and about one in particular, a woman who forced a monk to drink her urine.


newyorker--2020-07-24--Taylor Swift’s Intimate “Indie” Album, “folklore”

On Thursday morning , Taylor Swift announced that in seventeen hours she would be releasing “ folklore , ” a new record written and recorded while she was holed up at home , attempting , like many of us , to stunt the spread of COVID-19 .
Eschewing a traditional album release in favor of the calculated ambush is fairly common for megastars these days , but the move nonetheless felt unusual for Swift , who has always observed and honored the odd corporate dictums of the record industry .
In January , in the excellent documentary “ Miss Americana @ @ @ @ @ @ @ own dutiful servitude , and was especially explicit about her compulsion toward propriety and “ goodness , ” which she mainly defined as the fulfillment of her many obligations .
At the start of Swift ’ s career , her earnest , underdog striving was applauded ; over time , the outsized looks of shock and joy that she gave upon winning yet another award began to seem like a kind of surreal , Fluxus-style performance .
One got the sense that Swift had been hobbled by her own success , which , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and unwavering that it allowed very little room for humanity .
Then Swift started to lose—just a little .
Her two most recent albums , “ Reputation , ” from 2017 , and “ Lover , ” from 2019 , didn ’ t win any Grammys—small potatoes for a global superstar , yet for Swift , even the tiniest bit of perceived failure turned out to be wildly , gorgeously liberating .
Disburdened at thirty , she was free , again , to make whatever sort of art she wanted .
That Swift @ @ @ @ @ @ @ record that feels both elemental and idiosyncratic , isn ’ t exactly surprising .
Her best songs are small and almost overwhelmingly familiar , anchored in deep yearning .
“ Folklore ” isn ’ t a folk record—it feels mostly genre-less , though it drifts toward gauzy , atmospheric pop—nor is it particularly autobiographical .
Instead , Swift is interested in the idea of storytelling—of folklore , writ large—as a kind of sense-making process , a real and useful chance to order the world .
How do we find meaning in the absurd @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
Which narratives float us , which hobble us , and which are we totally free to reconstruct ?
Swift knows that love itself is a profound kind of fantasy , a thing we are tasked to reinvent constantly , both on our own and in tandem with a partner .
Her self-knowledge has always been her most remarkable asset as a songwriter ; anyone who has ever been in love and fucked up , or been in love and got fucked over , will find something gaspingly true in her lyrics .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ understanding of what romance does to a person , and she writes often about her own attempts to circumvent desire in service of a little sanity .
“ You know damn well / For you , I would ruin myself / A million little times , ” she sings on “ illicit affairs.
” Swift has worked with “ indie ” musicians and songwriters before ( Annie Clark , who performs as St. Vincent , was a writer on “ Lover ” ) , and eleven of the sixteen songs on “ folklore @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by Aaron Dessner , who plays guitar in the National , and is known for his dark , textural sounds .
Dessner and Swift are not a predictable coupling—Dessner ’ s work is subtle and often experimental , while Swift generally prefers a big , indisputable chorus—but his presence softens “ folklore , ” folding in hazy strings , some mysterious percussion , and a few quietly anxious builds .
The album opens with an affirmation : “ I ’ m doing good , I ’ m on some new shit , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” a measured recollection of a failed but significant relationship , sung entirely without bitterness .
“ You know the greatest loves of all time are over now , ” she offers .
“ We were something , don ’ t you think so ?
” It ’ s heartening , in a funny way , to see Swift be reflective but also serene .
Compared to a track like “ All Too Well , ” from 2012 ’ s “ Red ” —in which Swift ferociously recalls a slow betrayal , with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” suggests that parsing the recent past doesn ’ t have to be excruciating .
Her voice is easy , unprocessed , and sweet .
On the single “ cardigan , ” she insists on the prescience and wisdom of youth ( “ But I knew you , dancin ’ in your Levis , drunk under a streetlight , ” she sings over a moody piano line ) and makes a good case for a pure heart .
“ I knew everything when I was young , ” she insists .
The sentiment @ @ @ @ @ @ @ forget certain things—how to be hungry , eager , feckless—as we age and grow more careful .
Swift has embraced various aesthetics over the years , but I get the sense that her truest vibe is a kind of unabashed , hyper-feminine whimsy— “ Grimms ’ Fairy Tales ” as processed by a window dresser at Anthropologie .
The album ’ s stark , black-and-white cover art—Swift standing in a tall forest—immediately evoked , for me , the desolate , alienated spirit of Bon Iver ’ s début album , “ For Emma @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Vernon recorded alone , in winter , at a hunting cabin in rural Wisconsin .
Vernon is another surprising collaborator on “ folklore , ” co-writing and singing on “ exile , ” a duet that offers—what else ?
—duelling perspectives on the end of a relationship .
Though Vernon often sings in a ghostly , fraying falsetto , here , his voice is robust and briny , and the harmonies feel almost primordial .
“ Folklore ” contains a lot of endings—meditations on what it means for something to be over , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Swift wants to believe in fate—that , as she sings on “ invisible string , ” we ’ re all locked into some inevitable trajectory , and it ’ s tugging us toward happiness—but she also can ’ t stop herself from trying to grab the wheel .
It ’ s a heavy tension , wanting to let go while wanting to stay in control , and it has animated Swift ’ s writing for years .
All the characters she invents , borrows , and briefly inhabits here ( the “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ great american dynasty , ” three teen-agers in a love triangle , a scared kid in Pennsylvania , assorted enemies and comrades and ex-lovers ) are stuck between acquiescing to the momentum of their lives and wresting control of their own stories .
Swift may purposefully inhabit different perspectives—and no one can blame her for seeking a bit of respite from public confession—but “ folklore ” reiterates that we ’ re all confused and trying in the same ways .
The human experience , however fractured and refracted , is still very much @ @

Swift has turned inward, coming up with a record that feels right for the moment. Photograph by Beth Garrabrant / Courtesy Republic
On Thursday morning, Taylor Swift announced that in seventeen hours she would be releasing “folklore,” a new record written and recorded while she was holed up at home, attempting, like many of us, to stunt the spread of COVID-19. Eschewing a traditional album release in favor of the calculated ambush is fairly common for megastars these days, but the move nonetheless felt unusual for Swift, who has always observed and honored the odd corporate dictums of the record industry. In January, in the excellent documentary “Miss Americana,” Swift expressed frustration at her own dutiful servitude, and was especially explicit about her compulsion toward propriety and “goodness,” which she mainly defined as the fulfillment of her many obligations. At the start of Swift’s career, her earnest, underdog striving was applauded; over time, the outsized looks of shock and joy that she gave upon winning yet another award began to seem like a kind of surreal, Fluxus-style performance. One got the sense that Swift had been hobbled by her own success, which, for a while, was so complete and unwavering that it allowed very little room for humanity.
Then Swift started to lose—just a little. Her two most recent albums, “Reputation,” from 2017, and “Lover,” from 2019, didn’t win any Grammys—small potatoes for a global superstar, yet for Swift, even the tiniest bit of perceived failure turned out to be wildly, gorgeously liberating. Disburdened at thirty, she was free, again, to make whatever sort of art she wanted. That Swift turned inward, coming up with a record that feels both elemental and idiosyncratic, isn’t exactly surprising. Her best songs are small and almost overwhelmingly familiar, anchored in deep yearning. “Folklore” isn’t a folk record—it feels mostly genre-less, though it drifts toward gauzy, atmospheric pop—nor is it particularly autobiographical. Instead, Swift is interested in the idea of storytelling—of folklore, writ large—as a kind of sense-making process, a real and useful chance to order the world. How do we find meaning in the absurd or banal things that happen to us? Which narratives float us, which hobble us, and which are we totally free to reconstruct?
Swift knows that love itself is a profound kind of fantasy, a thing we are tasked to reinvent constantly, both on our own and in tandem with a partner. Her self-knowledge has always been her most remarkable asset as a songwriter; anyone who has ever been in love and fucked up, or been in love and got fucked over, will find something gaspingly true in her lyrics. She possesses an instinctive, occasionally uncanny understanding of what romance does to a person, and she writes often about her own attempts to circumvent desire in service of a little sanity. “You know damn well / For you, I would ruin myself / A million little times,” she sings on “illicit affairs.”
Swift has worked with “indie” musicians and songwriters before (Annie Clark, who performs as St. Vincent, was a writer on “Lover”), and eleven of the sixteen songs on “folklore” were either co-written or co-produced remotely by Aaron Dessner, who plays guitar in the National, and is known for his dark, textural sounds. Dessner and Swift are not a predictable coupling—Dessner’s work is subtle and often experimental, while Swift generally prefers a big, indisputable chorus—but his presence softens “folklore,” folding in hazy strings, some mysterious percussion, and a few quietly anxious builds.
The album opens with an affirmation: “I’m doing good, I’m on some new shit,” Swift sings on “the 1,” a measured recollection of a failed but significant relationship, sung entirely without bitterness. “You know the greatest loves of all time are over now,” she offers. “We were something, don’t you think so?” It’s heartening, in a funny way, to see Swift be reflective but also serene. Compared to a track like “All Too Well,” from 2012’s “Red”—in which Swift ferociously recalls a slow betrayal, with true, bleating anguish—“the 1” suggests that parsing the recent past doesn’t have to be excruciating. Her voice is easy, unprocessed, and sweet. On the single “cardigan,” she insists on the prescience and wisdom of youth (“But I knew you, dancin’ in your Levis, drunk under a streetlight,” she sings over a moody piano line) and makes a good case for a pure heart. “I knew everything when I was young,” she insists. The sentiment feels more nostalgic than disparaging; we forget certain things—how to be hungry, eager, feckless—as we age and grow more careful.
Swift has embraced various aesthetics over the years, but I get the sense that her truest vibe is a kind of unabashed, hyper-feminine whimsy—Grimms’ Fairy Tales as processed by a window dresser at Anthropologie. The album’s stark, black-and-white cover art—Swift standing in a tall forest—immediately evoked, for me, the desolate, alienated spirit of Bon Iver’s début album, “For Emma, Forever Ago,” which Justin Vernon recorded alone, in winter, at a hunting cabin in rural Wisconsin. Vernon is another surprising collaborator on “folklore,” co-writing and singing on “exile,” a duet that offers—what else?—duelling perspectives on the end of a relationship. Though Vernon often sings in a ghostly, fraying falsetto, here, his voice is robust and briny, and the harmonies feel almost primordial.
“Folklore” contains a lot of endings—meditations on what it means for something to be over, or unravelling, or headed that way. Swift wants to believe in fate—that, as she sings on “invisible string,” we’re all locked into some inevitable trajectory, and it’s tugging us toward happiness—but she also can’t stop herself from trying to grab the wheel. It’s a heavy tension, wanting to let go while wanting to stay in control, and it has animated Swift’s writing for years. All the characters she invents, borrows, and briefly inhabits here (the “misfit widow” of “the last great american dynasty,” three teen-agers in a love triangle, a scared kid in Pennsylvania, assorted enemies and comrades and ex-lovers) are stuck between acquiescing to the momentum of their lives and wresting control of their own stories. Swift may purposefully inhabit different perspectives—and no one can blame her for seeking a bit of respite from public confession—but “folklore” reiterates that we’re all confused and trying in the same ways. The human experience, however fractured and refracted, is still very much shared.


newyorker--2020-07-24--Is It Time to Defund the Department of Homeland Security?

In early June , after the killing of George Floyd , when tens of thousands of mostly peaceful demonstrators assembled in cities across the country to protest police brutality , the Department of Homeland Security sent hundreds of its agents to patrol the crowds .
They cleared space for a Presidential photo op in front of St. John ’ s Church , in Washington , D.C. , by forcibly removing demonstrators , and in New York City they reportedly made at least one arrest at gunpoint .
The legal rationale for their being on the scene was a statute from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ protect federal property and personnel .
This mandate sounded just vague enough to escape mainstream notice at the time , when police officers were being filmed tear-gassing and beating protesters .
But a pressing question remains , which the D.H.S .
leadership can ’ t easily answer : What are agents from Customs and Border Protection and Immigration and Customs Enforcement doing in the streets of U.S. cities nowhere near the border , policing citizens who have broken no laws ?
Earlier this month , D.H.S .
went further , sending SWAT teams @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , to quell ongoing protests in front of a federal building downtown .
“ We do not want you here , ” the state ’ s Democratic governor , Kate Brown , said that she told D.H.S .
officials when she learned of their plans .
“ It provokes confrontation to have federal troops on the streets.
” Chad Wolf , the acting head of the department , ignored her , and held what a former official described to me as a “ pep rally ” with agents before deploying more of them @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Wolf said , “ The city of Portland has been under siege for forty-seven straight days by a violent mob , while local political leaders refuse to restore order.
” He added , a few days later , as opposition to the D.H.S .
presence grew , “ we will not retreat.
” By mid-July , federal authorities had made about forty arrests in Portland , and there were news reports and video footage of agents beating protesters , including a fifty-three-year-old Navy veteran , who was left with a shattered hand @ @ @ @ @ @ @ two agents dressed in military camouflage were shown pulling a protester into an unmarked gray minivan .
“ The nightly disturbances in Portland were not national news until now , ” a former D.H.S .
official told me .
“ Department leadership is putting officers in a very difficult position by not explaining what they ’ re doing and why .
If this mission was supposed to be about assisting Federal Protective Services ” —the agency in charge of guarding federal property— “ then what are they doing pulling people into minivans rented @ @ @ @ @ @ @ protecting federal property become pepper spraying and batoning people ?
” D.H.S .
is a relatively young federal department , founded in 2003 to unify a broad array of agencies tasked with handling immigration and border enforcement in the name of national security , following the attacks of 9/11 .
Before the Trump era , the department ’ s secretaries had been conscious of its newfound standing in the federal bureaucracy .
As a former senior official once told me , “ you can ’ t let the place become a political football @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , its power is broad , and its responsibilities involve protecting the country from imminent threats .
In the past four years , however , career officials have been forced out en masse , as the department ’ s enforcement agenda has fallen into the direct service of President Trump ’ s reëlection efforts .
Wolf is only in charge now because his immediate predecessors were fired or driven to resign , and his top deputies are all political appointees .
“ There ’ s no longer any check on bad ideas , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ There were signs that the Administration would stage dramatic action involving the department in the months before the election , the former official added , saying , “ We just thought it would be about immigration and sanctuary cities .
It ’ s the political use of law enforcement in an election year.
” The incursion in Portland is far from an isolated incident .
Last month , in response to the vandalizing of symbols of the old Confederacy , the White House issued an executive order “ protecting American monuments , memorials @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tasked with enforcing it .
Earlier this week , the department announced that it would send a hundred and fifty ICE agents to Chicago for policing purposes , and it threatened to deploy more to other cities , including New York and Philadelphia , all of which happen to be run by Democratic officials .
John Amaya , a lawyer who served as the deputy chief of staff at ICE under President Obama , told me , “ The goons at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave are happy to dictate that D.H.S .
officers use @ @ @ @ @ @ @ In a strict legal sense , Amaya said , D.H.S .
does have the authority to send agents to American cities , but their de facto policing “ stands counter to the spirit of the law and the mission of the department.
” Throughout the spring and summer , Black Lives Matter protesters further exposed the need for the structural reform of American police forces ; even as people protested police abuse , officers attacked them .
Policymakers across the country are now discussing concrete proposals to defund and demilitarize the police .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , despite the fact that it comprises the largest law-enforcement body in the country , with the biggest budget and the fewest mechanisms of public oversight and accountability .
For years , immigrants ’ -rights advocates have campaigned to defund , restructure , or abolish functions of the department .
But the strongest argument for reining it in now comes from the department ’ s own acting secretary and agency heads , who , in the face of newly documented acts of abuse and overreach , are refusing to back down .
Late @ @ @ @ @ @ @ head of C.B.P .
who , like Wolf , has not been confirmed to his post by the Senate , tweeted , “ CBP agents standing strong for law and order—a cornerstone of American society .
Couldn ’ t be more proud !
” D.H.S .
is made up of twenty-two separate agencies , but three of them receive forty per cent of the department ’ s funding : C.B.P.
, ICE , and the Office of Biometric Identity Management ( OBIM ) , which operates the biometric systems used by the other @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and a half , the annual budget for these three has dwarfed the appropriations given to all the other federal criminal-law enforcement agencies combined .
In the current fiscal year , they received twenty-six billion dollars ; by contrast , the Federal Bureau of Investigation , the Drug Enforcement Agency , the Secret Service , the U.S .
Marshals , and the Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco Firearms and Explosives have received a combined total of less than twenty billion dollars .
According to a recent report by the Migration Policy Institute , “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ muscular immigration-enforcement presence in U.S. life.
” Doris Meissner , the former head of I.N.S .
and a senior fellow at the Migration Policy Institute , told me , “ We ’ re funding the wrong things .
We ’ ve shut down the asylum system .
We ’ re using hard detention where it ’ s not necessary .
The immigration-court system is stopped up.
” The mind-set since well before Trump took office has been “ enforcement first , ” she said ; it follows from the spurious premise that immigration @ @ @ @ @ @ @ government can manage but rather has to fight .
The enforcement agencies of D.H.S .
represent a “ complete paradox of government , ” according to Meissner .
“ They keep making the case for more money from Congress by continually saying that they ’ re failing at their mission .
And Congress keeps pouring more and more money in.
” The funding for D.H.S .
has steadily increased despite evidence , which has been amassing for years , of alarming misconduct , from the systematic mistreatment of detainees in immigrant-detention centers to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of a tourist who was visiting his mother in New York .
In 2010 , a Border Patrol agent standing on the El Paso side of the U.S.-Mexico border shot and killed a fifteen-year-old Mexican boy who was playing a game with some friends on a nearby road in Ciudad Juárez .
( Earlier this year , the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that the patrolman was immune from prosecution , in part because the cross-border shooting posed complicated questions of international diplomacy . )
Last year , another Border Patrol agent shot a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ U.S. soil , killing her .

In early June, after the killing of George Floyd, when tens of thousands of mostly peaceful demonstrators assembled in cities across the country to protest police brutality, the Department of Homeland Security sent hundreds of its agents to patrol the crowds. They cleared space for a Presidential photo op in front of St. John’s Church, in Washington, D.C., by forcibly removing demonstrators, and in New York City they reportedly made at least one arrest at gunpoint. The legal rationale for their being on the scene was a statute from 2002 that gave them broad authority to protect federal property and personnel. This mandate sounded just vague enough to escape mainstream notice at the time, when police officers were being filmed tear-gassing and beating protesters. But a pressing question remains, which the D.H.S. leadership can’t easily answer: What are agents from Customs and Border Protection and Immigration and Customs Enforcement doing in the streets of U.S. cities nowhere near the border, policing citizens who have broken no laws?
Earlier this month, D.H.S. went further, sending SWAT teams from C.B.P. to Portland, Oregon, to quell ongoing protests in front of a federal building downtown. “We do not want you here,” the state’s Democratic governor, Kate Brown, said that she told D.H.S. officials when she learned of their plans. “It provokes confrontation to have federal troops on the streets.” Chad Wolf, the acting head of the department, ignored her, and held what a former official described to me as a “pep rally” with agents before deploying more of them to the city. In a statement, Wolf said, “The city of Portland has been under siege for forty-seven straight days by a violent mob, while local political leaders refuse to restore order.” He added, a few days later, as opposition to the D.H.S. presence grew, “we will not retreat.”
By mid-July, federal authorities had made about forty arrests in Portland, and there were news reports and video footage of agents beating protesters, including a fifty-three-year-old Navy veteran, who was left with a shattered hand. In a widely circulated video, two agents dressed in military camouflage were shown pulling a protester into an unmarked gray minivan. “The nightly disturbances in Portland were not national news until now,” a former D.H.S. official told me. “Department leadership is putting officers in a very difficult position by not explaining what they’re doing and why. If this mission was supposed to be about assisting Federal Protective Services”—the agency in charge of guarding federal property—“then what are they doing pulling people into minivans rented from the Portland airport? How does protecting federal property become pepper spraying and batoning people?”
D.H.S. is a relatively young federal department, founded in 2003 to unify a broad array of agencies tasked with handling immigration and border enforcement in the name of national security, following the attacks of 9/11. Before the Trump era, the department’s secretaries had been conscious of its newfound standing in the federal bureaucracy. As a former senior official once told me, “you can’t let the place become a political football,” because its resources are vast, its power is broad, and its responsibilities involve protecting the country from imminent threats. In the past four years, however, career officials have been forced out en masse, as the department’s enforcement agenda has fallen into the direct service of President Trump’s reëlection efforts. Wolf is only in charge now because his immediate predecessors were fired or driven to resign, and his top deputies are all political appointees. “There’s no longer any check on bad ideas,” the former official told me. There were signs that the Administration would stage dramatic action involving the department in the months before the election, the former official added, saying, “We just thought it would be about immigration and sanctuary cities. It’s the political use of law enforcement in an election year.”
The incursion in Portland is far from an isolated incident. Last month, in response to the vandalizing of symbols of the old Confederacy, the White House issued an executive order “protecting American monuments, memorials, and statues.” D.H.S. was tasked with enforcing it. Earlier this week, the department announced that it would send a hundred and fifty ICE agents to Chicago for policing purposes, and it threatened to deploy more to other cities, including New York and Philadelphia, all of which happen to be run by Democratic officials. John Amaya, a lawyer who served as the deputy chief of staff at ICE under President Obama, told me, “The goons at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave are happy to dictate that D.H.S. officers use their authorities in an unprecedented manner.” In a strict legal sense, Amaya said, D.H.S. does have the authority to send agents to American cities, but their de facto policing “stands counter to the spirit of the law and the mission of the department.”
Throughout the spring and summer, Black Lives Matter protesters further exposed the need for the structural reform of American police forces; even as people protested police abuse, officers attacked them. Policymakers across the country are now discussing concrete proposals to defund and demilitarize the police. Yet D.H.S. has largely escaped scrutiny, despite the fact that it comprises the largest law-enforcement body in the country, with the biggest budget and the fewest mechanisms of public oversight and accountability. For years, immigrants’-rights advocates have campaigned to defund, restructure, or abolish functions of the department. But the strongest argument for reining it in now comes from the department’s own acting secretary and agency heads, who, in the face of newly documented acts of abuse and overreach, are refusing to back down. Late last week, Mark Morgan, the head of C.B.P. who, like Wolf, has not been confirmed to his post by the Senate, tweeted, “CBP agents standing strong for law and order—a cornerstone of American society. Couldn’t be more proud!”
D.H.S. is made up of twenty-two separate agencies, but three of them receive forty per cent of the department’s funding: C.B.P., ICE, and the Office of Biometric Identity Management (OBIM), which operates the biometric systems used by the other two agencies. For the past decade and a half, the annual budget for these three has dwarfed the appropriations given to all the other federal criminal-law enforcement agencies combined. In the current fiscal year, they received twenty-six billion dollars; by contrast, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Drug Enforcement Agency, the Secret Service, the U.S. Marshals, and the Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco Firearms and Explosives have received a combined total of less than twenty billion dollars. According to a recent report by the Migration Policy Institute, “The result has been an ever more muscular immigration-enforcement presence in U.S. life.” Doris Meissner, the former head of I.N.S. and a senior fellow at the Migration Policy Institute, told me, “We’re funding the wrong things. We’ve shut down the asylum system. We’re using hard detention where it’s not necessary. The immigration-court system is stopped up.” The mind-set since well before Trump took office has been “enforcement first,” she said; it follows from the spurious premise that immigration isn’t an issue that the government can manage but rather has to fight. The enforcement agencies of D.H.S. represent a “complete paradox of government,” according to Meissner. “They keep making the case for more money from Congress by continually saying that they’re failing at their mission. And Congress keeps pouring more and more money in.”
The funding for D.H.S. has steadily increased despite evidence, which has been amassing for years, of alarming misconduct, from the systematic mistreatment of detainees in immigrant-detention centers to an ICE agent’s recent shooting of a tourist who was visiting his mother in New York. In 2010, a Border Patrol agent standing on the El Paso side of the U.S.-Mexico border shot and killed a fifteen-year-old Mexican boy who was playing a game with some friends on a nearby road in Ciudad Juárez. (Earlier this year, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that the patrolman was immune from prosecution, in part because the cross-border shooting posed complicated questions of international diplomacy.) Last year, another Border Patrol agent shot a twenty-year-old Guatemalan woman in the head on U.S. soil, killing her.
According to a report by the Government Accountability Office, between 2005 and 2012 more than two thousand C.B.P. agents were arrested for criminal offenses. And a 2018 internal report from C.B.P. showed that nine per cent of the agency’s workforce had faced some form of disciplinary action. It’s difficult to know more, because C.B.P. is notoriously opaque about its inner workings. “The agency had problems with misconduct, lack of sensitivity to immigrants, and violence along the border,” James Tomsheck, who served as head of internal affairs at C.B.P. from 2006 to 2014, told me, in 2017. Attempts at even the most basic internal oversight were rebuffed, and Tomsheck eventually quit. The attitude there, he said, was “us against the world.”


newyorker--2020-07-24--Trump to Throw Out First Amendment at Yankee Stadium

WASHINGTON ( The Borowitz Report ) —In an event that he described as “ historic , ” Donald J. Trump announced that he will throw out the First Amendment at Yankee Stadium next month .
“ It ’ s going to be an amazing and fantastic thing I ’ ll be doing , ” Trump said .
“ I ’ ve asked a lot of history experts , and they all say that no President has thrown out an amendment before.
” “ Obama was President for eight years and never threw out an amendment , ” he said .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ that he had considered throwing out the First Amendment “ many , many times before ” but had ultimately decided to preserve freedom of the press for his friends at Fox News .
“ But , thanks to that beauty Chris Wallace , now I know that Fox is just as nasty and fake as the rest , ” he said .
“ The only real journalist left is that nice lady at OAN.
” When asked how he is preparing for his Yankee Stadium appearance , Trump said that he is consulting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in throwing out laws .
“ I had a terrific conversation with Vladimir Putin , ” Trump said .
“ They don ’ t have a First Amendment in Russia , but he said that , if they did , he would definitely throw it out .
So that made me feel good.
” Trump grew misty-eyed as he contemplated his upcoming visit to Yankee Stadium .
“ I can ’ t believe I ’ ll be throwing out the First Amendment , ” he said .
“ Every little boy dreams of @ @ @

WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report)—In an event that he described as “historic,” Donald J. Trump announced that he will throw out the First Amendment at Yankee Stadium next month.
“It’s going to be an amazing and fantastic thing I’ll be doing,” Trump said. “I’ve asked a lot of history experts, and they all say that no President has thrown out an amendment before.”
“Obama was President for eight years and never threw out an amendment,” he said. “What a loser.”
Trump said that he had considered throwing out the First Amendment “many, many times before” but had ultimately decided to preserve freedom of the press for his friends at Fox News.
“But, thanks to that beauty Chris Wallace, now I know that Fox is just as nasty and fake as the rest,” he said. “The only real journalist left is that nice lady at OAN.”
When asked how he is preparing for his Yankee Stadium appearance, Trump said that he is consulting with other world leaders who are experienced in throwing out laws.
“I had a terrific conversation with Vladimir Putin,” Trump said. “They don’t have a First Amendment in Russia, but he said that, if they did, he would definitely throw it out. So that made me feel good.”
Trump grew misty-eyed as he contemplated his upcoming visit to Yankee Stadium.
“I can’t believe I’ll be throwing out the First Amendment,” he said. “Every little boy dreams of this.”