newyorker--2020-06-02--During Nationwide Protests, Politicians Resort to the “Outside Agitator” Trope

Three very different politicians made strikingly similar statements on Saturday , in response to protests erupting across the country in the wake of the police killing of George Floyd , in Minneapolis .
Jacob Frey , the Democratic mayor of Minneapolis , blamed the destruction in his city on people who are “ not Minneapolis residents.
” ( He later walked the statement back . )
New York ’ s Mayor , Bill de Blasio , said that he had heard , from community leaders , “ how resentful they were that people were coming in in many cases from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ violence that did not represent their community.
” And William Barr , the U.S. Attorney General , threatened to prosecute anyone who crossed state lines “ to incite or participate in violent protesting.
” President Trump , in his tweets , picked up on both Frey ’ s and Barr ’ s statements , issuing threats .
The shared premise of these comments is that people have no right to act politically in a neighborhood , city , or state that is not their own .
This is specious .
New Yorkers like @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stake in the life of our entire city and the behavior of our entire police force .
People may choose to protest in their own neighborhood , next door , or a two-hour bike ride away from home .
There are many reasons to move through the city : to participate in an action together with friends who live in a different neighborhood ; to find a particularly crowded or particularly empty public space ; to address someone directly—city officials , police brass , or the people who suffer most at the hands @ @ @ @ @ @ @ true for the country : the residents of the United States have a stake and a say in police regimes that exist across our country .
We have already seen—and will surely see more—reports of actual provocateurs in the streets of Minneapolis and other cities .
Provocateurs are the parasites on the body of protest : they will always be there .
But blaming all violence and destruction on outsiders performs a sleight of hand .
Dividing protesters into two categories—interlopers on the one hand and peaceful protesters on the other—delegitimizes some of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ their actions .
It also preëmpts a key question : Why would you expect protests against state-sanctioned racist murder to be peaceful ?
The outsider-as-danger trope has been especially strong in recent months because of the coronavirus pandemic , when outsiders have been portrayed as vectors of contagion .
But the fear and blame of perceived outsiders is one of America ’ s deepest political stories .
It drove the deportations of radical activists in the early twentieth century , the denaturalization and deportations of Mexican-Americans in the nineteen-thirties , the internment of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ witch hunts of the fifties , the anti-Muslim violence of the past two decades , and more .
It is the story that made Donald Trump possible , and a story that has been amplified manifold by Trump himself .
It is a bipartisan story that brings together two Democratic mayors who used to be known as progressives and Trump ’ s authoritarian Attorney General .
In his late-night press conference on Saturday , de Blasio justified the actions of police officers who beat protesters and even drove their vehicles into crowds of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that it was the outsiders ’ fault .
“ It ’ s clear that a different element has come into play here who are trying to hurt police officers and trying to damage their vehicles , ” he said .
“ If a police officer is in that situation , they have to get out of that situation.
” It is as though , having declared the protesters ’ presence illegitimate , the Mayor made their bodies themselves illegitimate .
A body that is in the wrong place at the wrong time , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ subjected to police violence .
That line of thinking is exactly what had brought people out into the streets in the first place .

Three very different politicians made strikingly similar statements on Saturday, in response to protests erupting across the country in the wake of the police killing of George Floyd, in Minneapolis. Jacob Frey, the Democratic mayor of Minneapolis, blamed the destruction in his city on people who are “not Minneapolis residents.” (He later walked the statement back.) New York’s Mayor, Bill de Blasio, said that he had heard, from community leaders, “how resentful they were that people were coming in in many cases from outside the community and creating negativity and violence that did not represent their community.” And William Barr, the U.S. Attorney General, threatened to prosecute anyone who crossed state lines “to incite or participate in violent protesting.” President Trump, in his tweets, picked up on both Frey’s and Barr’s statements, issuing threats.
The shared premise of these comments is that people have no right to act politically in a neighborhood, city, or state that is not their own. This is specious. New Yorkers like me, for example, have a stake in the life of our entire city and the behavior of our entire police force. People may choose to protest in their own neighborhood, next door, or a two-hour bike ride away from home. There are many reasons to move through the city: to participate in an action together with friends who live in a different neighborhood; to find a particularly crowded or particularly empty public space; to address someone directly—city officials, police brass, or the people who suffer most at the hands of the police. The same is true for the country: the residents of the United States have a stake and a say in police regimes that exist across our country.
We have already seen—and will surely see more—reports of actual provocateurs in the streets of Minneapolis and other cities. Provocateurs are the parasites on the body of protest: they will always be there. But blaming all violence and destruction on outsiders performs a sleight of hand. Dividing protesters into two categories—interlopers on the one hand and peaceful protesters on the other—delegitimizes some of the protesters, eliding their presence and their actions. It also preëmpts a key question: Why would you expect protests against state-sanctioned racist murder to be peaceful?
The outsider-as-danger trope has been especially strong in recent months because of the coronavirus pandemic, when outsiders have been portrayed as vectors of contagion. But the fear and blame of perceived outsiders is one of America’s deepest political stories. It drove the deportations of radical activists in the early twentieth century, the denaturalization and deportations of Mexican-Americans in the nineteen-thirties, the internment of Japanese-Americans in the nineteen-forties, the McCarthy witch hunts of the fifties, the anti-Muslim violence of the past two decades, and more. It is the story that made Donald Trump possible, and a story that has been amplified manifold by Trump himself. It is a bipartisan story that brings together two Democratic mayors who used to be known as progressives and Trump’s authoritarian Attorney General.
In his late-night press conference on Saturday, de Blasio justified the actions of police officers who beat protesters and even drove their vehicles into crowds of demonstrators, explaining, in effect, that it was the outsiders’ fault. “It’s clear that a different element has come into play here who are trying to hurt police officers and trying to damage their vehicles,” he said. “If a police officer is in that situation, they have to get out of that situation.” It is as though, having declared the protesters’ presence illegitimate, the Mayor made their bodies themselves illegitimate. A body that is in the wrong place at the wrong time, he seemed to say, can be subjected to police violence. That line of thinking is exactly what had brought people out into the streets in the first place.
Race, Policing, and Black Lives Matter Protests


newyorker--2020-06-02--Can President Trump Really Order Troops Into Cities?

In his speech in the Rose Garden on Monday evening , President Trump said , “ If the city or state refuses to take the actions that are necessary to defend the life and property of their residents , then I will deploy the United States military and quickly solve the problem for them.
” Can he do that ?
Can the President send the U.S. military into a state , even when the governor of that state doesn ’ t ask for its assistance , or even if the governor actively opposes such a step ?
The answer is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to a venerable principle in American law : that the military should stay away from actions on domestic soil .
One of the founding principles of the Republic was that the federal military should not be involved in domestic law enforcement .
But , over the years , the law has carved out certain narrow exceptions to that rule , notably in the form of the Insurrection Act , from 1807 .
This law says that “ whenever there is an insurrection in any state against its government , the President may , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ its governor , ” call in the armed forces .
So that seems pretty simple .
The President can bring in the military only if a governor or a state requests it .
In recent years , the law has been invoked only when governors have requested the assistance of federal troops , such as in 1992 , when California sought help in quelling the rioting after the acquittals in the Rodney King case .
( Similarly , in 1967 , Governor George Romney , of Michigan , requested federal troops to control @ @ @ @ @ @ @ however , the governors of California , Illinois , and Michigan have all made it clear that they will not seek the involvement of federal troops in their efforts to handle disturbances in their states .
But that ’ s not the end of the story .
There is another provision of the Insurrection Act that arguably gives the President greater unilateral authority .
This provision states that , when the President determines that there are unlawful activities which “ make it impracticable to enforce the laws of the United States , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
It was passed in 1956 , in order to give Presidents the authority to enforce civil-rights laws .
President Eisenhower invoked it to send Army troops to enforce the integration of the public schools in Little Rock , Arkansas , in 1957 .
It ’ s unclear whether the law , which was based on the protection of constitutional rights , would give Trump the authority he wants to overrule governors today .
In other words , there appears to be some ambiguity about the President ’ s authority to do what @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be , of course , that Trump merely wanted to threaten the use of the military without ever intending to follow through .
On Monday , the President was governing by spectacle—ordering the clearing of peaceful protesters so that he could stage a photo opportunity with a Bible at a nearby church .
The threat to send troops was a similarly showy gesture .
Trump was trying to look tougher than the governors , but he didn ’ t take any actual responsibility for bringing calm to the country .
If he were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be on him to show results .
In all likelihood , then , there will not be the clashes that the President ’ s remarks portend .
He will not send troops into a state that doesn ’ t want them .
But , in threatening to do so , Trump has shredded another norm .
He has abused his power in yet another way , extending his legacy of lawlessness and authoritarianism , with more such abuses likely in the months to come .

In his speech in the Rose Garden on Monday evening, President Trump said, “If the city or state refuses to take the actions that are necessary to defend the life and property of their residents, then I will deploy the United States military and quickly solve the problem for them.” Can he do that? Can the President send the U.S. military into a state, even when the governor of that state doesn’t ask for its assistance, or even if the governor actively opposes such a step?
The answer is no, probably. The reasons relate to a venerable principle in American law: that the military should stay away from actions on domestic soil. One of the founding principles of the Republic was that the federal military should not be involved in domestic law enforcement. But, over the years, the law has carved out certain narrow exceptions to that rule, notably in the form of the Insurrection Act, from 1807. This law says that “whenever there is an insurrection in any state against its government, the President may, upon the request of its legislature or its governor,” call in the armed forces. So that seems pretty simple. The President can bring in the military only if a governor or a state requests it. In recent years, the law has been invoked only when governors have requested the assistance of federal troops, such as in 1992, when California sought help in quelling the rioting after the acquittals in the Rodney King case. (Similarly, in 1967, Governor George Romney, of Michigan, requested federal troops to control riots in Detroit.) Now, however, the governors of California, Illinois, and Michigan have all made it clear that they will not seek the involvement of federal troops in their efforts to handle disturbances in their states.
But that’s not the end of the story. There is another provision of the Insurrection Act that arguably gives the President greater unilateral authority. This provision states that, when the President determines that there are unlawful activities which “make it impracticable to enforce the laws of the United States,” he may call in the armed forces. It was passed in 1956, in order to give Presidents the authority to enforce civil-rights laws. President Eisenhower invoked it to send Army troops to enforce the integration of the public schools in Little Rock, Arkansas, in 1957. It’s unclear whether the law, which was based on the protection of constitutional rights, would give Trump the authority he wants to overrule governors today.
In other words, there appears to be some ambiguity about the President’s authority to do what he promised to do. It may be, of course, that Trump merely wanted to threaten the use of the military without ever intending to follow through. On Monday, the President was governing by spectacle—ordering the clearing of peaceful protesters so that he could stage a photo opportunity with a Bible at a nearby church. The threat to send troops was a similarly showy gesture. Trump was trying to look tougher than the governors, but he didn’t take any actual responsibility for bringing calm to the country. If he were to send troops, the burden would be on him to show results.
In all likelihood, then, there will not be the clashes that the President’s remarks portend. He will not send troops into a state that doesn’t want them. But, in threatening to do so, Trump has shredded another norm. He has abused his power in yet another way, extending his legacy of lawlessness and authoritarianism, with more such abuses likely in the months to come.
Race, Policing, and Black Lives Matter Protests


newyorker--2020-06-02--“An Abuse of Sacred Symbols”: Trump, a Bible, and a Sanctuary

As the hours ticked down to prime time , the White House prepared its unholy production .
It was Monday afternoon , and President Trump was getting ready to deliver his first speech on the massive protests sweeping the country .
After unflattering reports that he had spent Friday evening in a bunker , Trump summoned the press corps to the Rose Garden for maximum effect .
Never mind that the chaos had given way to peaceful demonstrations outside the White House .
Men and women , along the sunny edge of Lafayette Park , chanted and knelt .
A @ @ @ @ @ @ @ father , held protest signs .
A vender touted coronavirus masks bearing the grim slogan of our time : “ I Can ’ t Breathe.
” In the course of the day , the city had started mending the wounds of the night before .
A worker power-washed graffiti from the stone wall of a steak house .
Crews mounted plywood over the shattered windows of a jewelry store and a battered A.T.M .
Spray-painted slogans— “ George Floyd ” and “ Fuck the Police ” and “ Free the People ” —offered @ @ @ @ @ @ @ week in America , which began on May 25th , when Floyd died , on video , with the knee of a Minneapolis police officer on his neck .
Normally , one of the most striking features of the White House is its nearness .
For years , tourists who stroll down Pennsylvania Avenue have been startled to come so close to the building , which is situated with a confident , open face to the world , a contrast to the secluded warrens of power in Beijing or Moscow .
In recent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Last summer , the Trump Administration started building a new thirteen-foot fence , twice the height of the old one , equipped with “ anti-climb and intrusion detection technology.
” It closed off Pennsylvania Avenue to pedestrians and cloaked the building behind a tall , white construction wall .
When protests gave way to violence over the weekend , police expanded the realm of isolation , sealing off Lafayette Park and pushing the public farther away .
On Monday , protesters returned to nearby streets .
By late afternoon , several hundred @ @ @ @ @ @ @ crowd , Floyd ’ s death was the final spark to a reservoir of anger and despair .
“ It ’ s all of it .
It ’ s all of it together , ” Kandyce Baker , a thirty-one-year-old woman who held a sign with a painting of Floyd ’ s face , told me .
“ I think the tipping point for me started with Ahmaud Arbery .
I ’ m an avid runner .
I have a lot of friends who are avid runners .
I ran nine marathons , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ That could ’ ve easily been one of my friends.
” ( Arbery , who was twenty-five , was shot to death in February by two men while he was jogging in Brunswick , Georgia . )
She added , “ And then , after that , with Breonna Taylor and then George Floyd .
It ’ s like having a Rodney King every day.
” Baker , who has a master ’ s degree in criminology , told me , “ Not only do you have police protecting each other , but @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are afraid to speak up because of the blue code of silence .
And whether it ’ s because of retaliation , because they ’ re afraid that they ’ re going to lose their jobs .
.
.
the police culture is incredibly toxic.
” After a while , the crowd began to drift east , toward the Capitol .
Some stayed behind at the White House , where the scene was quieter than it had been for hours .
Holding aloft a yellow sign reading “ Trump Coward , ” Anita @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hair , told me , “ I am a registered Republican .
This man has disgraced my political party .
I will be changing political parties after this.
” She wore black capri pants and a white T-shirt with the American flag on it .
For a while , she explained , she had credited Trump with a strong economy .
For more than three years , she stayed loyal ; she liked to imagine that he was best for business .
She said , “ I gave him that much time .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ by , the insult from this President is just too much to take .
All he ’ s done is hide in his fucking house over here.
” I asked Anita when she had decided to change her political affiliation .
“ Yesterday was it , ” she said .
She had watched the video of Floyd ’ s death , and it left her shaken .
“ Any one of us with even a little bit of humanity , it absolutely broke our hearts.
” Her voice cracked .
“ Every police @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
They should never be allowed to touch a person ’ s head or neck .
Why would they even need to do that ?
” She went on , “ It makes you question—what have they done in the past that we don ’ t know about , that ’ s not on video ?
All of the complaints from the black community now become just real complaints that have been happening .
The reality of what they ’ ve been living in for years just becomes that much more real.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the shadows lengthened , a cascade of political theatrics was beginning to unfold .
New clusters of police filtered into Lafayette Park ; some wore olive-green uniforms and SWAT-team-style helmets and carried tear-gas launchers .
The President was going to speak , and the stage management was getting underway .
At 6:40 , twenty minutes before a curfew was to go into effect , police with riot shields on their arms pressed toward the crowd , driving it back , as some people held their hands in the air .
Police fired tear @ @ @ @ @ @ @ women scattered .
Officers swung batons at reporters holding cameras and microphones .
In the Rose Garden , reporters could hear flash grenades detonating on the streets outside .
Trump , looking tense and reading from a teleprompter , started by nodding to the cause of the unrest—he said that Americans were “ rightly sickened and revolted ” by Floyd ’ s death—but then he made a play for an image of strength .
Declaring himself a “ President of law and order , ” he called the looting and violent demonstrations “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to “ dominate the streets ” and promised an “ overwhelming law-enforcement presence until the violence has been quelled.
” He added , “ If a city or state refuses to take the actions necessary to defend the life and property of their residents , then I will deploy the United States military and quickly solve the problem for them.
” Intended or not , the juxtaposition with the scene outside was damning and ludicrous .
CNN carried the President ’ s remarks on a split screen with images of police advancing through @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a chyron noted , “ Trump says he ’ s an ‘ ally of peaceful protesters ’ as police fire tear gas , rubber bullets on peaceful protesters near WH.
” The production , it turned out , had only just begun .
After the streets around Lafayette Park had been cleared and the tear gas had wafted away , Trump set out from the White House on foot .
He was accompanied by his daughter Ivanka and her husband , Jared Kushner , and a coterie of attendants .
They headed toward @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the small yellow sanctuary known as the Church of Presidents , because it has welcomed the nation ’ s leaders since the days of James Madison .
The night before , St. John ’ s had been vandalized with graffiti , and a fire had burned the basement .
And yet , throughout Monday afternoon , members of the clergy had been out front , offering water and aid to protesters .

As the hours ticked down to prime time, the White House prepared its unholy production. It was Monday afternoon, and President Trump was getting ready to deliver his first speech on the massive protests sweeping the country. After unflattering reports that he had spent Friday evening in a bunker, Trump summoned the press corps to the Rose Garden for maximum effect. Never mind that the chaos had given way to peaceful demonstrations outside the White House. Men and women, along the sunny edge of Lafayette Park, chanted and knelt. A young boy and girl, flanking their father, held protest signs. A vender touted coronavirus masks bearing the grim slogan of our time: “I Can’t Breathe.”
In the course of the day, the city had started mending the wounds of the night before. A worker power-washed graffiti from the stone wall of a steak house. Crews mounted plywood over the shattered windows of a jewelry store and a battered A.T.M. Spray-painted slogans—“George Floyd” and “Fuck the Police” and “Free the People”—offered a condensed history of yet another grievous week in America, which began on May 25th, when Floyd died, on video, with the knee of a Minneapolis police officer on his neck.
Normally, one of the most striking features of the White House is its nearness. For years, tourists who stroll down Pennsylvania Avenue have been startled to come so close to the building, which is situated with a confident, open face to the world, a contrast to the secluded warrens of power in Beijing or Moscow. In recent months, that has been less true. Last summer, the Trump Administration started building a new thirteen-foot fence, twice the height of the old one, equipped with “anti-climb and intrusion detection technology.” It closed off Pennsylvania Avenue to pedestrians and cloaked the building behind a tall, white construction wall. When protests gave way to violence over the weekend, police expanded the realm of isolation, sealing off Lafayette Park and pushing the public farther away. On Monday, protesters returned to nearby streets. By late afternoon, several hundred had gathered.
For many in the crowd, Floyd’s death was the final spark to a reservoir of anger and despair. “It’s all of it. It’s all of it together,” Kandyce Baker, a thirty-one-year-old woman who held a sign with a painting of Floyd’s face, told me. “I think the tipping point for me started with Ahmaud Arbery. I’m an avid runner. I have a lot of friends who are avid runners. I ran nine marathons, and that could have been me. That could’ve easily been one of my friends.” (Arbery, who was twenty-five, was shot to death in February by two men while he was jogging in Brunswick, Georgia.) She added, “And then, after that, with Breonna Taylor and then George Floyd. It’s like having a Rodney King every day.”
Baker, who has a master’s degree in criminology, told me, “Not only do you have police protecting each other, but you also have police of color who are afraid to speak up because of the blue code of silence. And whether it’s because of retaliation, because they’re afraid that they’re going to lose their jobs . . . the police culture is incredibly toxic.”
After a while, the crowd began to drift east, toward the Capitol. Some stayed behind at the White House, where the scene was quieter than it had been for hours. Holding aloft a yellow sign reading “Trump Coward,” Anita, a Virginia woman with long blond hair, told me, “I am a registered Republican. This man has disgraced my political party. I will be changing political parties after this.” She wore black capri pants and a white T-shirt with the American flag on it. For a while, she explained, she had credited Trump with a strong economy. For more than three years, she stayed loyal; she liked to imagine that he was best for business. She said, “I gave him that much time. And, as the days have gone by, the insult from this President is just too much to take. All he’s done is hide in his fucking house over here.”
I asked Anita when she had decided to change her political affiliation. “Yesterday was it,” she said. She had watched the video of Floyd’s death, and it left her shaken. “Any one of us with even a little bit of humanity, it absolutely broke our hearts.” Her voice cracked. “Every police department in this country needs to change. They should never be allowed to touch a person’s head or neck. Why would they even need to do that?”
She went on, “It makes you question—what have they done in the past that we don’t know about, that’s not on video? All of the complaints from the black community now become just real complaints that have been happening. The reality of what they’ve been living in for years just becomes that much more real.”
As the afternoon wore on, and the shadows lengthened, a cascade of political theatrics was beginning to unfold. New clusters of police filtered into Lafayette Park; some wore olive-green uniforms and SWAT-team-style helmets and carried tear-gas launchers. The President was going to speak, and the stage management was getting underway. At 6:40, twenty minutes before a curfew was to go into effect, police with riot shields on their arms pressed toward the crowd, driving it back, as some people held their hands in the air. Police fired tear gas and rubber bullets as men and women scattered. Officers swung batons at reporters holding cameras and microphones.
In the Rose Garden, reporters could hear flash grenades detonating on the streets outside. Trump, looking tense and reading from a teleprompter, started by nodding to the cause of the unrest—he said that Americans were “rightly sickened and revolted” by Floyd’s death—but then he made a play for an image of strength. Declaring himself a “President of law and order,” he called the looting and violent demonstrations “acts of domestic terror.” He vowed to “dominate the streets” and promised an “overwhelming law-enforcement presence until the violence has been quelled.” He added, “If a city or state refuses to take the actions necessary to defend the life and property of their residents, then I will deploy the United States military and quickly solve the problem for them.”
Intended or not, the juxtaposition with the scene outside was damning and ludicrous. CNN carried the President’s remarks on a split screen with images of police advancing through the crowds. A moment later, a chyron noted, “Trump says he’s an ‘ally of peaceful protesters’ as police fire tear gas, rubber bullets on peaceful protesters near WH.”
The production, it turned out, had only just begun. After the streets around Lafayette Park had been cleared and the tear gas had wafted away, Trump set out from the White House on foot. He was accompanied by his daughter Ivanka and her husband, Jared Kushner, and a coterie of attendants. They headed toward St. John’s Episcopal Church, the small yellow sanctuary known as the Church of Presidents, because it has welcomed the nation’s leaders since the days of James Madison. The night before, St. John’s had been vandalized with graffiti, and a fire had burned the basement. And yet, throughout Monday afternoon, members of the clergy had been out front, offering water and aid to protesters.
Trump stalked across the park, weaving past the monuments, with his security detail skittering around him. When he reached the sanctuary, he did not go inside. Instead, he turned toward the camera, and members of his entourage assembled into a tableau so bizarre that it took a moment to understand what was unfolding. He held up a Bible and posed with it for the cameras, clasping it to his chest, bouncing it in his hand, turning it to and fro, like a product on QVC. He did not offer a prayer or read from scripture. On either side of him, his aides fidgeted awkwardly; there was the droopy, basset-hound visage of his enabling Attorney General, William Barr; his unrelenting cheerleader Mark Meadows, the chief of staff; his spokesperson, Kayleigh McEnany, who grinned madly. Apart from Ivanka Trump, none wore masks.


newyorker--2020-06-02--Pennsylvania Primary Election 2020: Live Results, Maps, and Analysis

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newyorker--2020-06-02--June 2nd Primary Election 2020: Live Results, Maps, and Analysis

Delegates in the Democratic primary are awarded on an ongoing basis , as different states and territories vote , with @ @ @ @ @ delegates up for grabs .
To win outright—and to avoid a brokered Convention—a candidate will @ @ @ @ @ 1,991 delegates during the 2020 primary voting season .
On June 2nd , there are @ @ @ @ @ eight states .
The New Yorker will be tracking the results below , alongside the @ @ @ @ @ campaign coverage .
Follow our delegate counter for the over-all delegate tally .

Delegates in the Democratic primary are awarded on an ongoing basis, as different states and territories vote, with a total of 3,979 pledged delegates up for grabs. To win outright—and to avoid a brokered Convention—a candidate will need to claim at least 1,991 delegates during the 2020 primary voting season. On June 2nd, there are 479 delegates at stake across eight states. The New Yorker will be tracking the results below, alongside the rest of our Election 2020 campaign coverage. Follow our delegate counter for the over-all delegate tally.
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newyorker--2020-06-02--New Mexico Primary Election 2020: Live Results, Maps, and Analysis


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newyorker--2020-06-02--Montana Primary Election 2020: Live Results, Maps, and Analysis


newyorker--2020-06-02--Rediscovering One of the Wittiest Books Ever Written

Wit leaps centuries and hemispheres .
It does not collect dust , and , when done right , it does not age .
“ The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas , ” by Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis , is a case in point .
Long forgotten by most , it ’ s one of the wittiest , most playful , and therefore most alive and ageless books ever written .
It is a love story—many love stories , really—and it ’ s a comedy of class and manners and ego , and it ’ s a reflection on a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ unflinching look at mortality , and all the while it ’ s an intimate and ecstatic exploration of storytelling itself .
It is a glittering masterwork and an unmitigated joy to read , but , for no good reason at all , almost no English speakers in the twenty-first century have read it ( and I first read it only recently , in 2019 ) .
But it survives , and must be read , for the music of its prose and , more than anything else , for its formal playfulness .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , is a glorious gift to the world , because it sparkles , because it sings , because it ’ s very funny and manages to capture Machado ’ s inimitable tone , at once mordant and wistful , self-lacerating and romantic .
Its narrator , Brás Cubas , is dead .
He tells the story of his life from the grave , and maybe because he has nothing left to lose—being dead and all—he tells the story precisely as he wants to , convention be damned .
The novel unfolds in brief @ @ @ @ @ @ @ endless self-referentiality and self-doubt .
“ I am beginning to regret that I ever took to writing this book , ” Brás Cubas writes in a chapter called “ The Flaw in the Book.
” “ Not that it tires me , ” he continues .
“ I have nothing else to do , and dispatching a few meager chapters into the other world is invariably a bit of a distraction from eternity.
” The story , at its core , is almost conventional , a nineteenth-century aristocratic love triangle .
Brás Cubas @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Janeiro ’ s moneyed classes but lacks the will to marry ( his sister ’ s obsession ) or the ambition to rise within the government ( his father ’ s wish ) .
He passes on a chance to marry the beautiful Virgília and be catapulted into public life by her powerful father .
Instead , an honorable man named Lobo Neves takes both Virgília ’ s hand and her father ’ s mentorship , and it ’ s only then that Brás Cubas begins to feel drawn to Virgília .
They @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hard , really—to keep it hidden from Virgília ’ s too trusting husband .
Soon everyone in Rio ’ s society seems to know , with the danger of discovery only drawing the lovers closer .
Meanwhile , Brás Cubas contemplates the meaning of life ( from the grave ) , aided by his friend Quincas Borba , who is trying to popularize a philosophy called Humanitism , designed , Machado writes , “ to ruin all the rest.
” At its core is a belief in the rightness of anything human .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ Panglossian but finds a certain comfort in the radical notion that humans should be allowed to do anything humans naturally do , that whatever we do we are meant to do—with special reverence for the making of more humans .
“ Love , for example , ” he writes , “ is a priesthood ; reproduction , a ritual .
Since life is the greatest benefit the universe can bestow .
.
.
it follows that the transmission of life , far from being an occasion for gallanting , is the supreme hour @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is truly only one misfortune in life : never being born.
” Machado veers between the book ’ s love story and its metaphysical interludes with ease , in part because though the book is about earnest things—love , life itself , the finality of death—it never takes itself seriously .
In Chapter IV , “ The Fixed Idea , ” Machado begins a grand analogy comparing lesser human endeavors to those that echo through the ages .
“ To offer a poor analogy , it is like the rabble , sheltered in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the castle fell and the rabble remained .
Indeed , they became grand in their own right , a veritable stronghold .
.
.
No , the analogy ’ s really no good.
” The chapter titles themselves are disarming .
One chapter , aptly called “ Sad , but Short , ” is followed by “ Short , but Happy , ” which is both .
There is a chapter dedicated to boots , another to the author ’ s legs , while another is called “ Not to Be Taken Seriously.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ Be Inserted Into Chapter CXXIX , ” and at the end of it , the author asks that the reader insert it between the first and second sentences of the previous chapter .
There ’ s also a long hallucination involving a hippopotamus .
Somehow none of the gags and intertextual fun does anything to diminish the power of the story .
The romance between Brás Cubas and Virgília is convincing and wildly lyrical .
The feeling we have for the unwitting Lobo Neves is real , and the crime that the narrator @ @ @ @ @ @ @ punished—in life or death .
And this is key .
This is an atheistic book , where there is no judge but one ’ s conscience , and where the offender lies alone , in a box permeated by worms , recounting his life and failures without any heavenly consequence .
It ’ s funny , too .
It is wholly original and unlike anything other than the many books that came after it and seem to have knowingly or not borrowed from it .
Readers are an amnesiac species , and so @ @ @ @ @ @ @ up to believe that an author addressing the reader directly , or playing with form , or including references to the author or the book within that book , is new and should be labelled post or meta or whatever unfortunate and confining term will come next .
But the fact is that an outsized number of the classics of the world employ one or many of these so-called post/meta devices .
It began with Cervantes , who allowed Don Quixote and Sancho Panza to be aware , in Book II , that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Candide ” —which Machado references many times—is endlessly self- aware , and Thackeray , in “ Vanity Fair , ” makes so many references to the author ’ s presence and powers and omniscience that a reader loses count .
Joyce and Austen and Nabokov and Sterne—also referenced by Machado—and Stein and Pessoa and legions more have experimented with the form of the novel , have inserted and questioned their authorial authority , and their willingness to experiment , and to have some fun with the relationship between writer , reader , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the form fresh and surprising , and so have kept it alive .
But now it is different .
Now strangely—so strangely—we live in times of profound traditionalism in literature , and it ’ s difficult to explain why .
I had the enormous pleasure a few years ago to judge a contest to name the year ’ s best novel , and the committee I was part of had an unexpectedly good time doing the job .
There were so many brilliant books .
But , of the four hundred or so @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that year , only a few dozen could be called funny , only a few could be called playful , and I counted exactly two that were in any significant way experimental .
If that ’ s not an indication of a general fear of the new , a hesitation to take chances , and a startling and ill-advised self-seriousness about the novel , I ’ m not sure what is .
This isn ’ t to say that all novels , or even most , should be , or could be , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it wouldn ’ t hurt to have a few more that allow humans—characters , readers , authors even—to laugh .
Denying the jokes in life , and the joke of life itself , is too sad .
This essay was drawn from the introduction to “ The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas , ” which is out in June from Penguin Classics .

Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis’s masterwork celebrates the jokes of life. Photograph from Alamy
Wit leaps centuries and hemispheres. It does not collect dust, and, when done right, it does not age. “The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas,” by Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis, is a case in point. Long forgotten by most, it’s one of the wittiest, most playful, and therefore most alive and ageless books ever written. It is a love story—many love stories, really—and it’s a comedy of class and manners and ego, and it’s a reflection on a nation and a time, and an unflinching look at mortality, and all the while it’s an intimate and ecstatic exploration of storytelling itself. It is a glittering masterwork and an unmitigated joy to read, but, for no good reason at all, almost no English speakers in the twenty-first century have read it (and I first read it only recently, in 2019).
But it survives, and must be read, for the music of its prose and, more than anything else, for its formal playfulness. A new translation, by Flora Thomson-DeVeaux, is a glorious gift to the world, because it sparkles, because it sings, because it’s very funny and manages to capture Machado’s inimitable tone, at once mordant and wistful, self-lacerating and romantic. Its narrator, Brás Cubas, is dead. He tells the story of his life from the grave, and maybe because he has nothing left to lose—being dead and all—he tells the story precisely as he wants to, convention be damned. The novel unfolds in brief, bright chapters, brightened further with endless self-referentiality and self-doubt. “I am beginning to regret that I ever took to writing this book,” Brás Cubas writes in a chapter called “The Flaw in the Book.” “Not that it tires me,” he continues. “I have nothing else to do, and dispatching a few meager chapters into the other world is invariably a bit of a distraction from eternity.”
The story, at its core, is almost conventional, a nineteenth-century aristocratic love triangle. Brás Cubas hovers at the edges of Rio de Janeiro’s moneyed classes but lacks the will to marry (his sister’s obsession) or the ambition to rise within the government (his father’s wish). He passes on a chance to marry the beautiful Virgília and be catapulted into public life by her powerful father. Instead, an honorable man named Lobo Neves takes both Virgília’s hand and her father’s mentorship, and it’s only then that Brás Cubas begins to feel drawn to Virgília. They begin an affair, and try—not so hard, really—to keep it hidden from Virgília’s too trusting husband. Soon everyone in Rio’s society seems to know, with the danger of discovery only drawing the lovers closer.
Meanwhile, Brás Cubas contemplates the meaning of life (from the grave), aided by his friend Quincas Borba, who is trying to popularize a philosophy called Humanitism, designed, Machado writes, “to ruin all the rest.” At its core is a belief in the rightness of anything human. Brás Cubas admits that it’s Panglossian but finds a certain comfort in the radical notion that humans should be allowed to do anything humans naturally do, that whatever we do we are meant to do—with special reverence for the making of more humans. “Love, for example,” he writes, “is a priesthood; reproduction, a ritual. Since life is the greatest benefit the universe can bestow . . . it follows that the transmission of life, far from being an occasion for gallanting, is the supreme hour of a spiritual Mass. Hence there is truly only one misfortune in life: never being born.”
Machado veers between the book’s love story and its metaphysical interludes with ease, in part because though the book is about earnest things—love, life itself, the finality of death—it never takes itself seriously. In Chapter IV, “The Fixed Idea,” Machado begins a grand analogy comparing lesser human endeavors to those that echo through the ages. “To offer a poor analogy, it is like the rabble, sheltered in the shadow of the feudal castle; the castle fell and the rabble remained. Indeed, they became grand in their own right, a veritable stronghold . . . No, the analogy’s really no good.” The chapter titles themselves are disarming. One chapter, aptly called “Sad, but Short,” is followed by “Short, but Happy,” which is both. There is a chapter dedicated to boots, another to the author’s legs, while another is called “Not to Be Taken Seriously.” Chapter CXXX is titled “To Be Inserted Into Chapter CXXIX,” and at the end of it, the author asks that the reader insert it between the first and second sentences of the previous chapter. There’s also a long hallucination involving a hippopotamus.
Somehow none of the gags and intertextual fun does anything to diminish the power of the story. The romance between Brás Cubas and Virgília is convincing and wildly lyrical. The feeling we have for the unwitting Lobo Neves is real, and the crime that the narrator and Virgília commit on him is never punished—in life or death. And this is key. This is an atheistic book, where there is no judge but one’s conscience, and where the offender lies alone, in a box permeated by worms, recounting his life and failures without any heavenly consequence. It’s funny, too. It is wholly original and unlike anything other than the many books that came after it and seem to have knowingly or not borrowed from it.
Readers are an amnesiac species, and so, every few decades, we wake up to believe that an author addressing the reader directly, or playing with form, or including references to the author or the book within that book, is new and should be labelled post or meta or whatever unfortunate and confining term will come next. But the fact is that an outsized number of the classics of the world employ one or many of these so-called post/meta devices. It began with Cervantes, who allowed Don Quixote and Sancho Panza to be aware, in Book II, that they were characters in Book I. “Candide”—which Machado references many times—is endlessly self- aware, and Thackeray, in “Vanity Fair,” makes so many references to the author’s presence and powers and omniscience that a reader loses count. Joyce and Austen and Nabokov and Sterne—also referenced by Machado—and Stein and Pessoa and legions more have experimented with the form of the novel, have inserted and questioned their authorial authority, and their willingness to experiment, and to have some fun with the relationship between writer, reader, and the book itself, have kept the form fresh and surprising, and so have kept it alive.
But now it is different. Now strangely—so strangely—we live in times of profound traditionalism in literature, and it’s difficult to explain why. I had the enormous pleasure a few years ago to judge a contest to name the year’s best novel, and the committee I was part of had an unexpectedly good time doing the job. There were so many brilliant books. But, of the four hundred or so American novels we were asked to read that year, only a few dozen could be called funny, only a few could be called playful, and I counted exactly two that were in any significant way experimental. If that’s not an indication of a general fear of the new, a hesitation to take chances, and a startling and ill-advised self-seriousness about the novel, I’m not sure what is. This isn’t to say that all novels, or even most, should be, or could be, as playful as this one, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a few more that allow humans—characters, readers, authors even—to laugh. Denying the jokes in life, and the joke of life itself, is too sad.
This essay was drawn from the introduction to “The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas,” which is out in June from Penguin Classics.


newyorker--2020-06-03--A Homeschool Report Card in the COVID Era

Jake has difficulty comprehending that I have a fraction of the patience that I used to .
The other day , I yelled at my shoe for not slipping off on the first yank .
Hopefully , the shoe learned its lesson so I won ’ t have to scold it again .
Sadly , Jake also fails to understand subtraction , because we have only so much toilet paper and he ’ s using too much .
The way he ’ s plowing through it , you ’ d think the kid had two butts .
Despite repeated warnings @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that the grocery store is Thunderdome .
Someone stole Charmin from my cart at knifepoint .
Jake demonstrates little knowledge of the relationship between my plunging bank account and him not getting a Nintendo Switch .
With a little imagination , staring out the window is every bit as fun as Mario Kart .
He continues to struggle with ratios when mixing Manhattans .
While it still gets me drunk , he needs to develop a steadier hand with the pour .
I believe that Jake could benefit from paying closer attention to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I work through my existential dread .
He zoned out during the tale of the dragon who wonders what it ’ s all for .
Right at the climax , Jake said that he had to go pee , but I didn ’ t hear a flush .
I think he was ducking me .
Jake has learned to use euphemisms to describe my fraying mental state when talking to concerned relatives .
He is skilled at employing adjectives that soft-pedal the reality .
Recently , he has learned the difference between fact @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and now he thinks that he ’ s better than me .
So what if I get my information from a guy wearing Oakleys who broadcasts from his car ?
He tells me what I want to hear , and that soothes me .
I ’ ve been rewatching old Super Bowl broadcasts because I miss my sports , but Jake says that it ’ s “ boring.
” It ’ s not boring , Jake .
You ’ re boring .
I love you , buddy , but it ’ s a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ every day .
I feel horrible admitting it , but there hasn ’ t been a night since this started when I haven ’ t thought about just packing a bag and rolling the dice out there in the world .
Straight up not teaching it .
That ’ s right—I can ’ t understand material designed for children .
The coronavirus has exposed me as a functional idiot .
Jake loses more respect for me with each lesson .
He rolled his eyes when I said volume is “ like mass , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ photosynthesis is how cameras work , he had me repeat it to his friend on Zoom .
Timmy ’ s cackle cut me to the quick .
If you don ’ t have anything nice to say about my smell , then dab some Vicks under your nose and pipe down .
The stench is part of who I am now .
Last night , I caught a puck to the nuts coming out of the bathroom .
I get that Jake has a lot of energy to burn , but he needs @ @ @ @ @ @ @ aim .
Jake has excelled at beating me at Uno , which infuriates and emasculates me .
My work hours have been cut and my hair has not—I could really use a win right now .
While capably executed , Jake ’ s pony drawings have zero relevance in a post-COVID world .
How about drawing us a vaccine , Picasso !
Sorry , that ’ s not fair .
I ’ m just stressed .

Mathematics [C-]
Jake has difficulty comprehending that I have a fraction of the patience that I used to. The other day, I yelled at my shoe for not slipping off on the first yank. Hopefully, the shoe learned its lesson so I won’t have to scold it again.
Sadly, Jake also fails to understand subtraction, because we have only so much toilet paper and he’s using too much. The way he’s plowing through it, you’d think the kid had two butts. Despite repeated warnings, he does not seem to realize that the grocery store is Thunderdome. Someone stole Charmin from my cart at knifepoint.
Jake demonstrates little knowledge of the relationship between my plunging bank account and him not getting a Nintendo Switch. With a little imagination, staring out the window is every bit as fun as Mario Kart.
He continues to struggle with ratios when mixing Manhattans. While it still gets me drunk, he needs to develop a steadier hand with the pour.
Language Arts [B]
I believe that Jake could benefit from paying closer attention to the thinly veiled bedtime stories in which I work through my existential dread. He zoned out during the tale of the dragon who wonders what it’s all for. Right at the climax, Jake said that he had to go pee, but I didn’t hear a flush. I think he was ducking me.
Jake has learned to use euphemisms to describe my fraying mental state when talking to concerned relatives. He is skilled at employing adjectives that soft-pedal the reality.
Recently, he has learned the difference between fact and opinion when reading the news, and now he thinks that he’s better than me. So what if I get my information from a guy wearing Oakleys who broadcasts from his car? He tells me what I want to hear, and that soothes me.
History [D]
I’ve been rewatching old Super Bowl broadcasts because I miss my sports, but Jake says that it’s “boring.” It’s not boring, Jake. You’re boring. I love you, buddy, but it’s a slog seeing your face all day, every day. I feel horrible admitting it, but there hasn’t been a night since this started when I haven’t thought about just packing a bag and rolling the dice out there in the world.
Science [N/A]
Straight up not teaching it. That’s right—I can’t understand material designed for children. The coronavirus has exposed me as a functional idiot. Jake loses more respect for me with each lesson. He rolled his eyes when I said volume is “like mass, but wet.” When I taught that photosynthesis is how cameras work, he had me repeat it to his friend on Zoom. Timmy’s cackle cut me to the quick.
Putting a Sock in It [F]
If you don’t have anything nice to say about my smell, then dab some Vicks under your nose and pipe down. The stench is part of who I am now.
Physical Education [B]
Last night, I caught a puck to the nuts coming out of the bathroom. I get that Jake has a lot of energy to burn, but he needs to work on his sportsmanship, and aim.
Jake has excelled at beating me at Uno, which infuriates and emasculates me. My work hours have been cut and my hair has not—I could really use a win right now.
Art [C+]
While capably executed, Jake’s pony drawings have zero relevance in a post-COVID world. How about drawing us a vaccine, Picasso!
Sorry, that’s not fair. I’m just stressed.


newyorker--2020-06-03--The Chinese Diarist Who Saw Into the World’s Pandemic Future

Late at night on January 22nd , Wang Fang , a prize-winning Chinese novelist , drove to Wuhan Tianhe airport to pick up her adult daughter , who was returning from a trip to Japan .
It was three days before Chinese New Year , but there were hardly any cars or pedestrians on the street .
At the airport , Wang noticed that almost everyone wore face masks .
The place was near-silent , radiating an eerie anxiety .
Just two days earlier , a top disease-control expert had confirmed that the SARS-like virus spreading through Wuhan could be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Wang ’ s daughter emerged from the terminal .
In the car , the two kept their masks on , and said little .
Wang reached home around 1 a.m. and saw the news : the city was under lockdown , effective immediately .
Wang had heard speculation about this possibility , but she thought it was unlikely—how do you shut down a city of eleven million people ?
Wang , who is sixty-five , couldn ’ t focus on the novel she was working on , and , on the third @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a four-paragraph blog entry and posted it on Weibo , a Twitter-like platform , where she has about 4.8 million followers .
“ I really should start writing about what is happening .
It would be a way for people to understand what is really going on here on the ground , ” she wrote .
Her posts became a daily ritual ; they grew longer , her tone more forceful .
Almost immediately , the essays drew a large following—some readers professed that they would stay up until a post was published @ @ @ @ @ @ @ d read that day ’ s entry—and also attracted censorship and vicious criticism .
In May , HarperCollins published “ Wuhan Diary , ” an English translation of her collection of lockdown essays .
The first few days , Wang wrote , were spent in “ a state of utter panic.
” The virus overwhelmed Wuhan ’ s medical system and continued to “ roam the city like an evil spirit , ” she wrote , “ appearing whenever and wherever it pleases.
” In one of her most widely quoted observations , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dust from an entire era may not seem like much , but when it falls on your head it ’ s like a mountain crashing on you.
” In shock and anger , Wang admitted that , just a few weeks before the lockdown , she had reassured her friends who mentioned rumors of a novel virus , telling them , “ The government would never dare to try to conceal something so huge.
” Wang , like most Chinese people , is not unfamiliar with censorship : she had seen social-media posts @ @ @ @ @ @ @ recent novel , which explored a family ’ s trauma from the land-reform movement in mid-century China , had been pulled from bookstores .
Still , Wang thought that when it came to “ a critical event ” such as an incipient pandemic , the government would err on the side of transparency and common sense .
She felt betrayed by bureaucratic inaction in the early days of the virus , and by official statements claiming that the coronavirus was “ not contagious between people ” and “ controllable and preventable.
” These @ @ @ @ @ @ @ transformed Wuhan into a city of blood and tears filled with endless misery.
” A lifelong resident of Wuhan , Wang is a prolific writer under the pen name Fang Fang , which means “ being square.
” Her essays and novels center on working-class characters and urban intellectuals .
For the past thirty years , she has lived in an apartment compound for employees of the provincial Literary and Arts Federation ; though Wang is not a government official , she is a fixture in Hubei Province , where she has participated @ @ @ @ @ @ @ quarter century .
Even now , she does not consider herself to be an opponent of the government .
She is largely satisfied with how China handled the epidemic following its initial stupor .
“ Everybody knows that once something in China is taken up at the national level , everyone will step up and do what needs to be done , ” she wrote .
Wang ’ s detractors , including those in Chinese state media , accused her of sabotaging an early collective effort against the pandemic with her posts .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ diary , her Weibo posts attracted tens of thousands of shares and comments , and censors started deleting them .
By early February , her Weibo account was suspended altogether .
Then began a game of whack-a-mole : first , she switched to posting on WeChat , a more private platform ; when she had difficulties posting on WeChat , she asked a fellow-writer to post daily entries on her behalf .
Deprived of her platform , Wang was relieved to see her readers turning her essays into samizdat .
Offline , her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at home , alone with a sixteen-year-old dog with skin issues .
She begged her daughter not to get takeout and dictated a cabbage recipe on the phone .
She assessed the decisions of her neighbors , who ordered “ entire cases of beer and other things they don ’ t really need.
” She rationed her diabetes pills for fear of running out , and , when she went to the pharmacy to pick up a refill , she found the streets populated only by deliverymen , sanitation workers , and the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t the purgatory that a lot of people seem to be imagining it to be .
It is instead a rather quiet and beautiful , almost majestic , city , ” she wrote .
“ But all that changes the second someone in your family falls ill. ” A neighboring couple fell sick ; both were hospitalized .
Death started to close in on her : more friends , an old classmate , and members of the local art scene—a film director and a painter .
From her window , Wang watched winter @ @ @ @ @ @ @ camphor trees , two osmanthus trees , and one magnolia produced “ a rich blanket of leaves , ” and magpies hopped around the branches .
One day , she and a friend talked about the clouds overhead .
“ The clouds today have a lot of character , ” she thought .
“ I wondered what kind of weather could form clouds like that.
” After some sixty entries , Wang ’ s diary came to an end in late March , as Wuhan geared up for a gradual reopening .
As @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lockdown , what her diary documented saw grim repetitions elsewhere : initial denial of the pandemic , attempts to avoid responsibility ( President Trump repeatedly labelled the coronavirus as “ the Chinese virus ” ) , outright lies .
Wang ’ s quarantine chronicles may be more striking to Chinese readers than American ones : in the U.S. , people challenge their government daily on Twitter and elsewhere .
But , as government officials and law enforcement continue to crack down on people expressing dissent in the streets of American cities , Wang @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a distressing future .
• The coronavirus vaccine is on track to be the fastest ever developed .
• What the coronavirus has revealed about American medicine .
• Recommendations for maintaining social distancing as the U.S. reopens , from socializing and using public bathrooms to wearing masks .
• Why remote work is so hard—and how it can be fixed .
• Seattle leaders let scientists take the lead in responding to the coronavirus .
New York leaders did not .
• The long crusade of Dr. Anthony Fauci , the infectious-disease @ @ @ @ @ @ @ American people .
• What to read , watch , cook , and listen to under quarantine .

Wang Fang’s “Wuhan Diary” chronicled the earliest days of the coronavirus pandemic. Photograph from STR / AFP / Getty
Late at night on January 22nd, Wang Fang, a prize-winning Chinese novelist, drove to Wuhan Tianhe airport to pick up her adult daughter, who was returning from a trip to Japan. It was three days before Chinese New Year, but there were hardly any cars or pedestrians on the street. At the airport, Wang noticed that almost everyone wore face masks. The place was near-silent, radiating an eerie anxiety. Just two days earlier, a top disease-control expert had confirmed that the SARS-like virus spreading through Wuhan could be transmitted between humans.
Around 11 p.m., Wang’s daughter emerged from the terminal. In the car, the two kept their masks on, and said little. Wang reached home around 1 a.m. and saw the news: the city was under lockdown, effective immediately. Wang had heard speculation about this possibility, but she thought it was unlikely—how do you shut down a city of eleven million people?
Wang, who is sixty-five, couldn’t focus on the novel she was working on, and, on the third night of lockdown, she typed up a four-paragraph blog entry and posted it on Weibo, a Twitter-like platform, where she has about 4.8 million followers. “I really should start writing about what is happening. It would be a way for people to understand what is really going on here on the ground,” she wrote. Her posts became a daily ritual; they grew longer, her tone more forceful. Almost immediately, the essays drew a large following—some readers professed that they would stay up until a post was published, unable to sleep until they’d read that day’s entry—and also attracted censorship and vicious criticism. In May, HarperCollins published “Wuhan Diary,” an English translation of her collection of lockdown essays.
The first few days, Wang wrote, were spent in “a state of utter panic.” The virus overwhelmed Wuhan’s medical system and continued to “roam the city like an evil spirit,” she wrote, “appearing whenever and wherever it pleases.” In one of her most widely quoted observations, she stated, “One speck of dust from an entire era may not seem like much, but when it falls on your head it’s like a mountain crashing on you.” In shock and anger, Wang admitted that, just a few weeks before the lockdown, she had reassured her friends who mentioned rumors of a novel virus, telling them, “The government would never dare to try to conceal something so huge.” Wang, like most Chinese people, is not unfamiliar with censorship: she had seen social-media posts scrubbed from the Internet, and her recent novel, which explored a family’s trauma from the land-reform movement in mid-century China, had been pulled from bookstores. Still, Wang thought that when it came to “a critical event” such as an incipient pandemic, the government would err on the side of transparency and common sense. She felt betrayed by bureaucratic inaction in the early days of the virus, and by official statements claiming that the coronavirus was “not contagious between people” and “controllable and preventable.” These prevarications, Wang wrote, “have transformed Wuhan into a city of blood and tears filled with endless misery.”
A lifelong resident of Wuhan, Wang is a prolific writer under the pen name Fang Fang, which means “being square.” Her essays and novels center on working-class characters and urban intellectuals. For the past thirty years, she has lived in an apartment compound for employees of the provincial Literary and Arts Federation; though Wang is not a government official, she is a fixture in Hubei Province, where she has participated in the annual congress meetings for a quarter century. Even now, she does not consider herself to be an opponent of the government. She is largely satisfied with how China handled the epidemic following its initial stupor. “Everybody knows that once something in China is taken up at the national level, everyone will step up and do what needs to be done,” she wrote.
Wang’s detractors, including those in Chinese state media, accused her of sabotaging an early collective effort against the pandemic with her posts. Within a few days of starting her diary, her Weibo posts attracted tens of thousands of shares and comments, and censors started deleting them. By early February, her Weibo account was suspended altogether. Then began a game of whack-a-mole: first, she switched to posting on WeChat, a more private platform; when she had difficulties posting on WeChat, she asked a fellow-writer to post daily entries on her behalf. Deprived of her platform, Wang was relieved to see her readers turning her essays into samizdat.
Offline, her quotidian struggles continued. She was stranded at home, alone with a sixteen-year-old dog with skin issues. She begged her daughter not to get takeout and dictated a cabbage recipe on the phone. She assessed the decisions of her neighbors, who ordered “entire cases of beer and other things they don’t really need.” She rationed her diabetes pills for fear of running out, and, when she went to the pharmacy to pick up a refill, she found the streets populated only by deliverymen, sanitation workers, and the police. “The city isn’t the purgatory that a lot of people seem to be imagining it to be. It is instead a rather quiet and beautiful, almost majestic, city,” she wrote. “But all that changes the second someone in your family falls ill.” A neighboring couple fell sick; both were hospitalized. Death started to close in on her: more friends, an old classmate, and members of the local art scene—a film director and a painter.
From her window, Wang watched winter turn into spring. A few old camphor trees, two osmanthus trees, and one magnolia produced “a rich blanket of leaves,” and magpies hopped around the branches. One day, she and a friend talked about the clouds overhead. “The clouds today have a lot of character,” she thought. “I wondered what kind of weather could form clouds like that.”
After some sixty entries, Wang’s diary came to an end in late March, as Wuhan geared up for a gradual reopening. As the rest of the world went into lockdown, what her diary documented saw grim repetitions elsewhere: initial denial of the pandemic, attempts to avoid responsibility (President Trump repeatedly labelled the coronavirus as “the Chinese virus”), outright lies. Wang’s quarantine chronicles may be more striking to Chinese readers than American ones: in the U.S., people challenge their government daily on Twitter and elsewhere. But, as government officials and law enforcement continue to crack down on people expressing dissent in the streets of American cities, Wang’s book remains a glimpse into a distressing future.
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-06-04--A Peaceful Protest, Cut Short by Police, in Houston with George Floyd’s Family

We hadn ’ t walked five minutes from the edge of Houston ’ s East End neighborhood , heading downtown toward the march with George Floyd ’ s family on Tuesday afternoon , when my boyfriend , L. , and I saw the first set of cops , staggered beside trucks , adjusting their gear .
Some clustered under the overpass by the convention center .
Others began congregating at intersections leading out of the city , nearly a mile away from the Discovery Green park , where the march would officially begin , winding its way from there through @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Despite the police presence , people continued filing their way downtown .
Some walked in groups of twos and fours .
A handful walked alone , carrying signs and adjusting face masks and hopscotching across the toasting pavement .
Eventually , clusters of walkers began to merge—two became four , who became nine , who became fifteen , who became thirty .
We passed one set of cops after another and then a set of city buses lounging under a bridge , with more police in riot gear bunched up beside them @ @ @ @ @ @ @ been coördinated by Floyd ’ s nephew Brandon Williams , alongside the local rappers Bun B and Trae tha Truth .
The city ’ s mayor , Sylvester Turner , was said to be making an appearance .
Even if it wasn ’ t stated explicitly in the march ’ s notice , it was understood that local officials had a lot riding on the appearance of peaceful proceedings .
Floyd grew up in this city .
His grieving family members would be participating in the march .
The event , however it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ In the midst of mass unrest all over the States , Houston ’ s protests thus far had seemed considerably calmer : no curfew had been enforced ; no mass destruction or disruption had taken place downtown ; arrests had been made , three hundred and fifty in total , but they had looked nothing like the violent scenes of police playing out in other cities .
As the march swelled far beyond the projected several thousand attendees—accumulating , as one friend put it to me in text , “ A super big @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ultimately in the vicinity of sixty-thousand , according to the Houston Chronicle ) —all eyes would be on the city of Houston .
Before the march started , Bun B had called for participants to kneel for thirty seconds of silence , in memory of Floyd .
He repeated calls for a peaceful walk : “ We ain ’ t gon na shed a drop of blood in Houston , Texas.
” The march was already well on its way by the time L. and I slipped into the stream , pushing onto @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Green and farther into the city .
The weather was hot and humid in the way that Houston gets this time of year , and the heat emanating from the crowd increased in tandem .
More than a handful of Houston ’ s usual photo-op set turned out—including Joel Olsteen , whose nationally lauded megachurch remained closed to evacuees at the outset of Hurricane Harvey—but even their presence was eclipsed by the swells of everyday Houstonians who had shown up to walk and express solidarity .
The diversity of the marchers can ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the crowd , it was easy to see why Houston is routinely referred to as the most diverse city in the country .
We passed several groups of black women handing out face masks to passersby .
We passed several groups of Latinx teens passing out water bottles , shuffling through coolers .
We passed a man in a Joker mask waving from a stop sign , imploring passersby to watch where the money was flowing .
Some marchers , many of them black , rode in on horseback , gently ambling @ @ @ @ @ @ @ its way through the crowd blasting chopped-and-screwed rap , at one point pausing to stand on the bikes .
( “ If they bust their asses out here , who the fuck is gon na come save them ?
” a woman beside us said . )
We passed a number of folks brandishing signs , on cardboard cutouts and poster paper and computer sheets and Tupperware .
There were many “ Brown Lives for Black Lives ” signs .
There were many “ Asian Lives for Black Lives ” signs .
I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” signs .
One man ’ s sign said that he was there because he had five black children and a black grandchild .
A woman ’ s sign said that she ’ d attended because black women need to be protected .
One sign simply read “ Black Mama.
” Many signs listed only names : Tamir Rice , Sandra Bland , Tony McDade , Atatiana Jefferson .
One white family ’ s signs read “ We Repent.
” ( Noticing it , one of the teens walking beside me said , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ A handful of signs said “ Breonna Taylor.
” At some point , it became clear that my phone wasn ’ t getting a signal .
Every handful of steps or so , a marcher nearby seemed to note that their social-media postings weren ’ t going through .
We all kept walking regardless .
Once our segment of the crowd made it to City Hall , the pace stalled , and then stopped , and the marchers immediately took up chanting .
L. and I slipped from near the center of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ walking past the city-hall building we saw that speeches were being made in the adjacent park .
Several of Floyd ’ s family members spoke .
“ This is going to be more like a marathon , ” a cousin noted .
The activist Tamika Mallory spoke .
Trae tha Truth spoke .
Bun B spoke again , saying , “ We appreciate the Houston Police Department for standing with us today , but make no mistakes about it : we will hold our police department accountable , if they commit acts against @ @ @ @ @ @ @ crowd grew loudest at this and other calls for accountability : since 2015 , there have been fifty-six fatal police shootings in Houston .
In April and May of this year , there were six in a span of less than six weeks .
On our way back toward East End , around five o ’ clock , we passed a handful of bars , where occupants were drinking and leaning on the patio gates , wearing jerseys and shades , and eyeing marchers ( most of these folks were white ) , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an indoor court , entirely removed from the proceedings—reminders of just what a massive city we live in .
A street later , we crossed paths with a group of at least fifty college-aged folks , and , not even a block behind them , an even larger set of police .
But , whereas the officers we ’ d seen before had been languishing , these were adjusting their mikes and fastening their helmets .
L. noted that the police only seemed to be moving toward the march ’ s end point @ @ @ @ @ @ @ inch along .
We passed a group of nine or ten cops on horses , each of them heavily armed .
Our makeshift group increased our pace a half step quicker .
A few hours later , we ’ d learn that—literally moments after we ’ d left the march ’ s epicenter—the police had notified everyone remaining , on loudspeakers , that the event was over .
Despite the city ’ s lack of a curfew , it was , apparently , time to go home .
Everyone remaining in the area @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
It wasn ’ t long before most of the crowd began to disperse accordingly , but some folks , entirely peacefully , did not—and this was when the trouble began .
In the course of the evening , information making it out of the city ’ s downtown grid was scarce at best , but some details filtered through , in videos of marchers in the area : the police presence had fully solidified , and routes outside of the downtown had been blocked off .
Marchers were reportedly being led onto @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was reportedly fired .
On social media , people inquired after marchers they hadn ’ t heard from in hours .
On Wednesday morning , the Houston police department announced that it had arrested more than two hundred people the previous night .
L. and I made it out of downtown , sticking to side streets .
That evening , we pulled into a Thai restaurant for takeout .
Inside , footage of protests in D.C. and L.A. played on a television mounted in the dining room .
After taking our order , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ offhand , that the damage done to those cities was a shame .
L. and I said that we ’ d actually just come from the march .
“ The one downtown ?
” the woman asked .
Yes .
Really .
Yes .
The woman asked why we ’ d gone , and we told her .
She pursed her lips , frowning , and I braced myself for what she was going to say .
But she only nodded .
“ Good , ” she said .
“ It ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they did to him was wrong .
Something has to change .
”

We hadn’t walked five minutes from the edge of Houston’s East End neighborhood, heading downtown toward the march with George Floyd’s family on Tuesday afternoon, when my boyfriend, L., and I saw the first set of cops, staggered beside trucks, adjusting their gear. Some clustered under the overpass by the convention center. Others began congregating at intersections leading out of the city, nearly a mile away from the Discovery Green park, where the march would officially begin, winding its way from there through the city until it reached City Hall. Despite the police presence, people continued filing their way downtown. Some walked in groups of twos and fours. A handful walked alone, carrying signs and adjusting face masks and hopscotching across the toasting pavement. Eventually, clusters of walkers began to merge—two became four, who became nine, who became fifteen, who became thirty. We passed one set of cops after another and then a set of city buses lounging under a bridge, with more police in riot gear bunched up beside them.
The afternoon’s march had been coördinated by Floyd’s nephew Brandon Williams, alongside the local rappers Bun B and Trae tha Truth. The city’s mayor, Sylvester Turner, was said to be making an appearance. Even if it wasn’t stated explicitly in the march’s notice, it was understood that local officials had a lot riding on the appearance of peaceful proceedings. Floyd grew up in this city. His grieving family members would be participating in the march. The event, however it went, would have international visibility. In the midst of mass unrest all over the States, Houston’s protests thus far had seemed considerably calmer: no curfew had been enforced; no mass destruction or disruption had taken place downtown; arrests had been made, three hundred and fifty in total, but they had looked nothing like the violent scenes of police playing out in other cities. As the march swelled far beyond the projected several thousand attendees—accumulating, as one friend put it to me in text, “A super big fucking amount of fucking people” (ultimately in the vicinity of sixty-thousand, according to the Houston Chronicle)—all eyes would be on the city of Houston.
Before the march started, Bun B had called for participants to kneel for thirty seconds of silence, in memory of Floyd. He repeated calls for a peaceful walk: “We ain’t gonna shed a drop of blood in Houston, Texas.” The march was already well on its way by the time L. and I slipped into the stream, pushing onto Walker Street, hooking just past Discovery Green and farther into the city. The weather was hot and humid in the way that Houston gets this time of year, and the heat emanating from the crowd increased in tandem. More than a handful of Houston’s usual photo-op set turned out—including Joel Olsteen, whose nationally lauded megachurch remained closed to evacuees at the outset of Hurricane Harvey—but even their presence was eclipsed by the swells of everyday Houstonians who had shown up to walk and express solidarity.
The diversity of the marchers can’t be overstated: from the midst of the crowd, it was easy to see why Houston is routinely referred to as the most diverse city in the country. We passed several groups of black women handing out face masks to passersby. We passed several groups of Latinx teens passing out water bottles, shuffling through coolers. We passed a man in a Joker mask waving from a stop sign, imploring passersby to watch where the money was flowing. Some marchers, many of them black, rode in on horseback, gently ambling along. A group of motorcyclists made its way through the crowd blasting chopped-and-screwed rap, at one point pausing to stand on the bikes. (“If they bust their asses out here, who the fuck is gonna come save them?” a woman beside us said.) We passed a number of folks brandishing signs, on cardboard cutouts and poster paper and computer sheets and Tupperware. There were many “Brown Lives for Black Lives” signs. There were many “Asian Lives for Black Lives” signs. I saw several “Black Trans Lives Matter” signs. One man’s sign said that he was there because he had five black children and a black grandchild. A woman’s sign said that she’d attended because black women need to be protected. One sign simply read “Black Mama.” Many signs listed only names: Tamir Rice, Sandra Bland, Tony McDade, Atatiana Jefferson. One white family’s signs read “We Repent.” (Noticing it, one of the teens walking beside me said, “That’s cute.”) A handful of signs said “Breonna Taylor.” At some point, it became clear that my phone wasn’t getting a signal. Every handful of steps or so, a marcher nearby seemed to note that their social-media postings weren’t going through. We all kept walking regardless.
The march swelled to nearly sixty thousand attendees, according to the Houston Chronicle—far more than the projected several thousand. Photograph by David J Phillip / AP / Shutterstock
Once our segment of the crowd made it to City Hall, the pace stalled, and then stopped, and the marchers immediately took up chanting. L. and I slipped from near the center of the road to the edges, and after walking past the city-hall building we saw that speeches were being made in the adjacent park. Several of Floyd’s family members spoke. “This is going to be more like a marathon,” a cousin noted. The activist Tamika Mallory spoke. Trae tha Truth spoke. Bun B spoke again, saying, “We appreciate the Houston Police Department for standing with us today, but make no mistakes about it: we will hold our police department accountable, if they commit acts against the people of this city.” The crowd grew loudest at this and other calls for accountability: since 2015, there have been fifty-six fatal police shootings in Houston. In April and May of this year, there were six in a span of less than six weeks.
On our way back toward East End, around five o’clock, we passed a handful of bars, where occupants were drinking and leaning on the patio gates, wearing jerseys and shades, and eyeing marchers (most of these folks were white), and also a group playing soccer on an indoor court, entirely removed from the proceedings—reminders of just what a massive city we live in. A street later, we crossed paths with a group of at least fifty college-aged folks, and, not even a block behind them, an even larger set of police. But, whereas the officers we’d seen before had been languishing, these were adjusting their mikes and fastening their helmets. L. noted that the police only seemed to be moving toward the march’s end point. We watched several cruisers and trucks inch along. We passed a group of nine or ten cops on horses, each of them heavily armed. Our makeshift group increased our pace a half step quicker.
A few hours later, we’d learn that—literally moments after we’d left the march’s epicenter—the police had notified everyone remaining, on loudspeakers, that the event was over. Despite the city’s lack of a curfew, it was, apparently, time to go home. Everyone remaining in the area would be in violation of the law. It wasn’t long before most of the crowd began to disperse accordingly, but some folks, entirely peacefully, did not—and this was when the trouble began. In the course of the evening, information making it out of the city’s downtown grid was scarce at best, but some details filtered through, in videos of marchers in the area: the police presence had fully solidified, and routes outside of the downtown had been blocked off. Marchers were reportedly being led onto buses. At least one flash-bang grenade was reportedly fired. On social media, people inquired after marchers they hadn’t heard from in hours. On Wednesday morning, the Houston police department announced that it had arrested more than two hundred people the previous night.
L. and I made it out of downtown, sticking to side streets. That evening, we pulled into a Thai restaurant for takeout. Inside, footage of protests in D.C. and L.A. played on a television mounted in the dining room. After taking our order, the woman behind the register noted, offhand, that the damage done to those cities was a shame. L. and I said that we’d actually just come from the march. “The one downtown?” the woman asked. Yes. Really. Yes. The woman asked why we’d gone, and we told her. She pursed her lips, frowning, and I braced myself for what she was going to say. But she only nodded. “Good,” she said. “It’s good to be out there. What they did to him was wrong. Something has to change.”
Race, Policing, and Black Lives Matter Protests