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theatlantic.com

Voters Don’t Care About the Economy as Much as They Think They Do

theatlantic.com

Joe Biden is, at the moment, losing his reelection campaign. And he is doing so while presiding over the strongest economy the United States has ever experienced.The jobless rate is below 4 percent, as it has been for nearly two and a half years. Wage growth is moderating, but it is higher than it was at any point during the Obama administration; overall, Biden has overseen stronger pay increases than any president since Richard Nixon. Inflation has cooled off considerably, meaning that consumers’ purchasing power is strong.Yet Biden’s approval rating is below 40 percent. His disapproval rating is 56 percent. Donald Trump is beating him handily in most key swing states. And there’s a chance that Trump might edge out Biden in the popular vote, particularly if he continues to expand his popularity with Black and Latino voters in blue and purple states.This reality has engendered panic among many Democratic campaign operatives, and no small degree of dismay too. What does it mean if Biden can’t win a campaign as an incumbent in an economy like this—during an election in which most Americans say the economy is the most important issue to them?Voters’ dissatisfaction with Biden and Biden’s economy seems to have two central components: Americans think less of the economy than the headline numbers suggest, and they are thinking less about the economy at all.Indeed, the sunny numbers about the economy—the low jobless rate, strong wage growth, soaring wealth accumulation, and falling inequality—fail to account for some cloudier elements. Americans remain stressed by, and ticked off about, high interest rates and high prices. Homes and cars, in particular, are unaffordable, given the cost of borrowing and insurance. And inflation has moderated, but groceries and other household staples remain far more expensive than they were during the Trump administration.The majority of Americans are better off because their incomes have grown faster than prices. But most people, understandably, think of their swelling bank account as a product of their own labor and price increases as a result of someone else’s greed. People want prices to come down. That’s not happening.Americans also tend to say that even though they are personally doing well, the overall economy is doing poorly. Political scientists think this has to do with the news they are consuming, which tends to focus on the negative or to caveat good trends: Wage growth poses challenge for the Federal Reserve! Holding economic conditions constant, financial reporting has gotten more negative over the past four decades. This negativity gap was big during the end of the Trump administration, and it’s even bigger during the Biden administration. Social media puts a gloomy filter on the news too. Folks click on and share dire stories more than they do upbeat ones.At the same time, American voters’ perception of the state of the economy has become heavily mediated by their partisan biases: Republicans tend to think the economy is a wreck if Democrats are in charge, and Democrats tend to think the economy is a disaster when Republicans are in the White House. That is dampening voters’ overall assessment of the economy right now. “The size of the partisan divide in expectations has completely dominated rational assessments of ongoing economic trends,” Joanne Hsu, the director of the University of Michigan’s surveys of consumers, has concluded.Yet even many Democrats are not convinced that this is a good economy. In one recent poll, just 22 percent of self-identified liberals said they were better off now than they were a year ago. That’s perhaps because they’re all reading and watching those glum news reports. And it is perhaps because Democrats are clustered in coastal states battered by the cost-of-living crisis.The direction of the economy seems to be a factor as well. At least some leading indicators are declining, pointing to a “fragile—even if not recessionary—outlook,” according to the Conference Board, a nonprofit think tank. Debt is rising; fewer building permits are being issued; in some states, unemployment is up. (California’s jobless rate has increased 0.8 percentage points in the past year.) “Economic indicators are not speaking with one voice,” John Sides, a political scientist at Vanderbilt University, told me. “Given the salience of inflation relative to other factors, it’s easy for the public to feel bad. It’s easy for reporters to write stories about bad things.”Still, the stock market is booming. Millennials are catching up to Baby Boomers in wealth accumulation and homeownership rates. Low-wage workers are making huge income gains. In terms of growth, the United States is trouncing its high-income peers around the world. There’s a massive boom in new-business formation. Consumers, their grumbling about high prices aside, keep spending.Yet voters don’t seem to care. The public’s perception of Biden’s economy has proved remarkably stable—even as prices have moderated, even as stocks have taken off, even as the unemployment rate has remained at historically low levels. That fits with research showing that voters pay more attention to downturns than to upturns: They seem more apt to punish a party in power if there is a recession than they are to reward a party in power for overseeing a boom. The economy might be less salient for voters when it is good than when it is bad.The trend also fits with emerging political-science and polling literature showing that economic factors are weighing less heavily on voters’ assessment of the president. Gas prices used to be a good proxy for the public’s feelings about the performance of the White House. But there has been “hardly any association” for the past decade, Kyle Kondik at the University of Virginia’s Center for Politics has found. Similarly, presidential approval used to be strongly correlated with the consumer-sentiment index, the political scientist Lee Drutman has shown, but that stopped being the case back in 2004.Why is the link between the economy and political sentiment fraying? Ironically, the dramatic improvement in material well-being over the past 50 years might be part of the answer: As countries get richer, voters have more latitude to vote their values, putting topics such as environmental protection, LGBTQ rights, and racial equality ahead of issues such as taxes, jobs, and wealth redistribution. This election cycle, voters might cite the economy as being the most important issue to them when talking to pollsters and journalists, but they may ultimately show up to vote (or change their vote) on the basis of another issue—abortion, say, or immigration.Plus, American voters have become more partisan in recent decades—more likely to be immovably aligned with one party or another, and to see their political affiliation as a major component of their personal identity. Polarization “attenuates” the effect that the economy has on elections: Reliable Republicans just aren’t going to vote for Biden, and reliable Democrats just aren’t going to vote for Trump.That leaves a sliver of persuadable voters. Drutman describes these folks as “disaffected from both parties, and mostly disengaged. They skew less wealthy, and younger, than the rest of the electorate. They defy easy ideological categorization. They vote sometimes, if they can be convinced the stakes are high enough to pay attention, or a new candidate breaks through and energizes them.” At the moment, neither candidate seems to be doing a great job of engaging those pivotal voters, many of whom don’t seem to like either of them.A strong economy did not save Trump from becoming a one-term president. It might not save Biden either.

The Key to Understanding HBO’s The Sympathizer

Think of it as a ghost story.

4 h

theatlantic.com

A French Reproach to Our Big, Baggy American Memoirs

5 h

theatlantic.com

One day the French writer Colombe Schneck, a total stranger, came to my house. She was a friend of a friend who lived in Paris, and it had somehow been arranged that she would drop by. The afternoon was gray and drizzly, and I felt slightly awkward about having this visitor I had never met coming to my house. But then she walked in, brisk, at ease. I liked her immediately. We launched right into big subjects; there was no chatter or small talk. In her frank, spare style, with its transporting particulars, she told me an anecdote about a reluctant visit she had made to a writer acquaintance’s death bed in a Paris hospital that might have been the best story anyone has ever told me. It somehow straightened and reordered something inside me. Even though I am a writing professor, I had forgotten the power of stories to do this.Of course, I was curious about whether Schneck’s writing would have the same vividness and force as the story she had told me, and this spring, her books are appearing in English for the first time. Three of her slender volumes are collected together as Swimming in Paris: A Life in Three Stories. In them, she writes about growing up in an intellectual, bourgeois Parisian milieu and an abortion she had as a teenager that shook her feeling of invincibility; a close childhood friend who died of cancer in her early 50s; and swimming and dating postdivorce.Schneck’s writing is sinewy, tough, sharp. The memoir comes out of a distinctly French tradition that includes writers such as Françoise Sagan, Marguerite Duras, and Annie Ernaux. This is a tradition of lean prose; the sentences are evocative, stylish, direct. In stripping away excess self-reflection, these books give us the bones of the story. They rely on rich, suggestive detail rather than prolonged passages of introspection.Their rigorously frank narrators spare no one, not even themselves. They are bracing and refreshing, almost impatient with the comforting delusions most of us traffic in. When Schneck’s friend is dying in one story, she writes, “There is no such thing as empathy, no one can put themself in her place or take on even a little of her pain.” There is in Schneck’s books, as in Annie Ernaux’s, an utter refusal of sentimentality. Instead, there is an honest, intelligent, cool assessment of things.In the new trilogy, Schneck often turns her razor critiques on her own behavior. In one section she even writes about herself in the third person as “Colombe,” as if to emphasize the analytic distance from her own experience. The books have no interest in the glorification or valorization of the self. Though Schneck wrestles with the difficulty of women’s experience, the obstacles and inequities it entails, the narrator is not presented as a consummate victim.She begins, “My childhood was utopian. I was not a girl, I did not have a girl’s body, I was just me, Colombe: irascible, determined, stubborn, violent, brutal, clumsy, thieving, lying, mistreating my dolls and spinning stories about them, bad at school unless the subject intrigued me.”One of my students recently sent me a quote from a writer named John Paul Brammer: “Many personal essays have little more to say than … why would this happen to me, a delicate newborn foal wobbling so blamelessly through life?” Schneck is very adamantly not in the newborn-foal school of memoir writing. She rejects the narrative of personal innocence that many writers are infatuated with. As her friend is dying, Schneck is suffering from a breakup, and she writes, “Colombe wanted to die, but then she is ashamed of thinking such a thing.”In the section on her friend, she exposes her snobbisms, her jealousies, her lies, her competitive feelings, and other unsavory impulses. She reports a time when a cameraman at the television station where she works tells her that his father is a mailman. “Colombe laughs, it’s the first time she has met a mailman’s son. This laugh is one of her greatest embarrassments, one of her biggest regrets. She would like to erase it.”The story about her friend, whom she calls “Héloïse,” is the most striking in the collection—a meditation on a friendship that began in childhood. As she puts it, “Whenever they speak they might be eleven or they might be forty-nine.” They go to the same liberal private school, vacation together in Saint-Tropez, each get married, have children and jobs, get divorced, have love affairs, and then her friend gets cancer. Héloïse is, Schneck writes, “one of the great witnesses of my life.”In one of the book’s whimsical moments, Schneck invents a fictional sociologist from a working-class background who analyzes the two girls’ bourgeois upbringing. She drops in throughout the story to do a little sociological observation: “The imaginary sociologist, who has not retired, pops her head in. She is disappointed, she had hoped that Héloïse and Colombe, given their education, their degrees, their background, their friends, would have escaped their condition as women, wives, mothers.”In this portrait of a friendship, Schneck captures the competitive jostling, the way love accrues over years, the deep, almost wordless connection between the old friends. She gets at the reassurance that only they can provide for each other. After being fired and divorcing her husband, Colombe finally confesses, –I can’t take it anymore, it’s too hard.Héloïse said:–I’m on my way.She met up with Colombe and the two went for a walk. Heather, ferns, birches, oaks.–You can’t fight the whole world, Colombe. Pick the battles that matter, and let the rest go. Take care of your children. You have to work and earn money. The rest is not important.Colombe, who is not accustomed to obeying, obeys her …Later, Colombe will love telling Héloïse what she owes her: the right to be a little bit imperfect. Toward the end of Heloise’s life, a painful dinner ensues where, over oysters, Héloïse wants to talk about dying, but Colombe can’t allow them to have that conversation. She also describes a moment when she runs back to Héloïse’s house to get a phone charger while Héloïse, very near the end of her life, is getting chemotherapy. Finding the charger in the bathroom, Colombe compares her friend’s fancy face cream with her own drugstore brand and can’t resist dipping her finger into it and putting it on her face.Schneck writes of her friend’s death: “So Colombe perseveres in writing this story, knowing that writing is no consolation, nor reading either; yet suddenly a sentence can create a slight disruption in the order of things, and it is this disruption that allows her to carry on, before it is her turn to die.”[Read: The year I tore through Annie Ernaux’s books]In some sense, this memoir is for people who are the tiniest bit tired of memoir. It gives one the feeling of greater understanding, a sudden, expansive view from the top of a hill. Even though Schneck works at a scale that is deliberately small, insistently concrete, and extremely lean, her writing somehow exposes whole vistas of the female experience.In Schneck’s books, no fattiness exists, no unnecessary flourish, no therapist’s-office stuff, no prettifying, no false reaching for redemption or uplift. Schneck’s charm is in her directness—one could say bluntness—her eye for vivid specifics, her cutting through to the significant. The brevity is in a sense a reproach to our big, baggy American memoirs, our excessive self-regard, our sheer wordiness on the subject of ourselves.One wishes the American publisher had been bold enough to release each of the skinny books separately, as they appeared in the original French, but the pressure of the marketplace must have made this seem too daunting. To me, the tininess of the books is uniquely satisfying. It is both their pleasure and their mystery: how compact they are, how the straightforward, unassuming form opens up to deep reservoirs of feeling. The smallness is the power of these volumes; the deceptive simplicity is the allure.

The Bird-Flu Host We Should Worry About

5 h

theatlantic.com

Of all the creatures stricken with this new and terrible H5N1 flu—the foxes, the bears, the eagles, ducks, chickens, and many other birds—dairy cattle are some of the most intimate with us. In the United States, more than 9 million milk cows live on farms, where people muck their manure, help birth their calves, tend their sick, and milk them daily. That kind of proximity is exactly what gives a virus countless opportunities to encounter humans—and then evolve from an animals-only virus into one that troubles people too.But as unnerving as H5N1’s current spread in cows might be, “I would be a whole lot more concerned if this was an event in pigs,” Richard Webby, the director of the World Health Organization Collaborating Centre for Studies on the Ecology of Influenza in Animals and Birds, told me. Like cows, pigs share plenty of spaces with us. They also have a nasty track record with flu: Swine airways are evolutionary playgrounds where bird-loving flu viruses can convert—and have converted—into ones that prefer to infect us. A flu virus that jumped from swine to humans, for instance, catalyzed the 2009 H1N1 pandemic. If there’s a list of riskiest animals for an avian flu to infiltrate, “pigs are clearly at the top,” Webby said.To successfully spread in a new species, a flu virus must infiltrate that creature’s cells, reproduce inside of them, and then make it to the next host. This H5N1 has managed that feat in several animals, but so far, “we’re actually still dealing with a very avian virus,” Michelle Wille, a virologist at the University of Melbourne, told me. For the virus to spread widely in humans, scientists think that it would need to pick up several new traits; so far, they’ve detected only one such modification, which has boosted the virus’s ability to replicate inside mammalian cells.In particular, the virus does not seem to have acquired what Webby considers the most crucial modification, one that would help it more efficiently enter human-airway cells in the first place. To do that, H5N1 would need to adjust its ability to latch on to particular sugars on cell surfaces, which effectively serve as locks to the cell’s interior. For decades, though, the virus has preferred the version of those sugars that’s most commonly found in the gastrointestinal tract of birds, and still seems to. Experts would really start to worry, Webby said, if it started glomming very tightly instead onto the ones most commonly found in human airways.[Read: Bird flu has never done this before]That said, the difference between those sugars is architecturally quite small. And although scientists might colloquially call some bird receptors and others human receptors, mammals can produce bird receptors, and vice versa. (Humans, for instance, have bird receptors in their eyes, which likely explains why the farm worker who appears to have caught H5N1 from a dairy cow developed only conjunctivitis.) The right animal host could encourage the virus to switch its preference from birds to humans—and pigs fit that bill. They just so happen to harbor both bird receptors and human receptors in their respiratory tract, giving the flu viruses that infect them plenty of opportunity to transform.Just by hanging out in pigs for a while, H5N1 could enhance its ability to enter our cells. Or, perhaps even more concerning, it could encounter a flu that had already evolved to infect humans, and swaps bits of its genome with that virus. Pigs catch our viruses all the time. And should one of those pathogens hybridize with this H5N1, becoming human-adapted enough to spread among people but still avian-adapted enough to elude our immune system, a large-scale outbreak could begin. In the late 1970s, after an H1N1 avian-flu virus hopped from wild waterfowl into Europe’s pig population, it took just a few years to start infecting people in Europe and Asia. Eventually, that same virus helped birth 2009’s pandemic swine flu.Right now flu surveillance among swine needs to be dialed up, experts told me; protections for farm workers who handle the animals should ramp up too. Seema Lakdawala, a virologist at Emory University, told me that she’d also like to see cow’s milk on farms better contained and more quickly heat-treated, so that other animals in the vicinity won’t be exposed to the liquid in its raw form. (Several farm cats, for instance, appear to have caught H5N1 by drinking raw milk on farms.)At this point, any worry about the virus evolving dramatically in pigs is still theoretical. H5N1 hasn’t yet been detected in farm pigs, and experimental infections have found that the virus, although capable of infecting and replicating in swine, doesn’t seem to transmit easily among them. Even if that were to change, pigs may not end up being the ideal venue for the many other genetic gymnastics that would help this virus adapt to us.That said, “we don’t fully understand all of the mutations or genetic requirements” needed to convert an avian virus, Louise Moncla, a virologist at the University of Pennsylvania, told me. Viruses sometimes surprise us: 2009’s H1N1 flu, for instance, caused a pandemic without making the genetic change that seems to have helped this new H5N1 along. Which means it’s not a complete comfort that H5N1 isn’t spreading in pigs yet—especially when so many cows are getting sick now.[Read: America’s infectious-disease barometer is off]Scientists know relatively little about flu in cows. Although cattle have been known to catch certain kinds of flu before, the current outbreak is the first time a type-A influenza, the group that H5N1 belongs to, has been detected in their kind. Researchers are only now starting to understand the animals’ susceptibility to these pathogens, and a recent preprint study, which Webby contributed to, revealed human-esque flu receptors in several parts of the cow body, some of which have bird receptors too—a finding that suggests that the risk posed by continued spread in cows is higher than once thought. Webby, for one, isn’t panicking yet, and he told me that the results mainly help explain why cow udders, now confirmed to be full of bird receptors, have turned out to be such great homes for H5N1. And because cows are likely spreading the virus to one another via milking equipment—basically a free ride for the pathogen—there may be little pressure for the virus to change its MO.The bigger risk is simpler. “The things that make me the most nervous are the species that we regularly interact with all the time,” Moncla told me. The more cows catch the virus, the more exposure there will be for us, giving the virus more chances to explore and potentially adapt to our respiratory tract. Commercial milking is a messy affair: The processing machinery sprays and mists the liquid all about. Lakdawala imagines that milking an infected cow without protective equipment could be “like me squirting 10,000 or 100,000 viral particles into someone’s nose.” Just one of those particles needs to carry the right set of genetic changes for this flu to become a human one.

The Engrossing Darkness of The Crow

5 h

theatlantic.com

The superhuman protagonist of The Crow, the comic-book movie that went on to become a cult hit after its release 30 years ago, doesn’t relish being undead and invincible. When he first shows his face on-screen, Eric Draven, played by Brandon Lee, is crawling out of his own grave in near-feral agony. His fingers claw at the mud around his tomb. His clothes, drenched by rain, cling to his skin. He never gets to his feet; instead, he writhes on his back, screaming in pain.To say this isn’t a standard superhero’s welcome is an understatement—but then, The Crow didn’t care to obey the genre’s conventions. Grim, stylish, and brazenly violent, the film is a gothic fable about a young rock musician and his girlfriend who, on the eve of their wedding, are murdered. When Draven, the former heavy-metal guitarist, is resurrected from the dead a year later by a mystical crow—just go with it—he’s not a noble crime fighter, but a wounded predator hunting the killers. “They’re all dead,” he snarls. “They just don’t know it yet.”The Crow premiered in 1994, at a moment when superhero films themselves appeared to be in dire shape. Gone were the shiny Superman movies of the 1970s and ’80s. In Batman Returns, released in 1992, Tim Burton refined his approach to the genre’s aesthetic—less spandex, more noir—and delivered a much grittier story, but his Batman sequel fell far short of the box-office bar set by its predecessor in 1989. Films based on Marvel comics were forgettable, and although the 1990 Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie was successful, it was intended for children. Producing mainstream comic-book-based entertainment posed a challenge for the studios. Could a hero be fresh but familiar enough to spawn the next great franchise?Before it began production, The Crow may have looked like an ideal solution. Based on an acclaimed if niche series of comics by James O’Barr, the adaptation had secured a handsome rising star in the 28-year-old Lee. The story seemed straightforward enough; it had a sentimental core, and incorporated a handful of lighter, more accessible supporting characters to balance the darker themes. But the finished film, steeped in the director Alex Proyas’s grungy vision and clouded by Lee’s tragic death after an accident on set, turned out to be a singular, and strange, phenomenon. Its melancholic mood and theme are worth remembering as a remake arrives in theaters this August, at a time of dwindling box-office returns for Marvel and DC Comics. For fans who have tired of tidy morals, formulaic action, and flashy effects, The Crow of three decades ago offers an antidote, proof that the comic-book genre can be a vehicle for a wrenching evocation of human suffering.In retrospect, Lee’s fate—a prop gun loaded with blanks malfunctioned, causing a projectile to hit him in the abdomen—has largely eclipsed his remarkable performance in The Crow, which is crucial to the film’s jarring power. He delivers hokey one-liners with hard-edged gusto. He moves balletically across the screen, imbuing Draven with an unexpected softness. He shed 20 pounds before filming began, and his gauntness signaled his character’s difference, not just in appearance but in ethos, from hunkier comic-book heroes. Caught in an abyss of grief, Draven is menacing but vulnerable, delirious enough to paint himself in black-and-white harlequin makeup for his murderous missions, but too stricken to reconnect fully with who he had been before his death. Even in lighter scenes, Lee quietly conveys that Draven is so consumed by sadness, he can’t see beyond revenge.The film’s prevailing visual and sonic grammar foregrounds bleakness, motion, noise. Drawing from the story’s ink-and-paper origins, The Crow presents a Detroit that seems permanently covered in grime and shrouded in mist, with kinetic camerawork exaggerating the city’s angular alleyways. Burton’s Batman had already begun challenging the superhero genre’s gaudier impulses, but The Crow takes the shadowy tableaus to another level. Proyas spent his early career directing moody music videos for artists such as Sting and Crowded House; here, he assembles a film that looks like a mid-’90s rock video. It sounds like one, too: The soundtrack includes Nine Inch Nails, the Cure, and Violent Femmes. Every “serious” comic-book movie since has likely borrowed something from The Crow, whether it’s the smoky aesthetics or the abrupt needle drops.O’Barr wrote the original comics after a drunk driver killed his fiancée; he tried to purge his anger on the page, only to discover that his suffering grew as he worked. That pain carries over into the film: The Crow contains enough moments to suggest the shape of a traditional comic-book tale, including energetically staged fight scenes, antagonists with absurd code names, and even a catchphrase for Draven: “It can’t rain all the time.” But the overarching, and arresting, effect is to leave the audience shaken, rather than to offer resolution.Unlike other superhero projects, the movie’s narrative is not about good prevailing over evil—or about the indestructible Draven using his great power responsibly. By the end of the film, he has left a bloody trail in his ultimately triumphant pursuit of the criminals who attacked him and his fiancée, Shelly (Sofia Shinas), and he has nowhere to go but back to his grave. There he’s embraced by Shelly in a vision, which may seem like a happy conclusion—the couple reunited, justice served. But Draven’s crusade never restores them to life together. If anything, his recurrent hazy, half-formed flashbacks suggest that Shelly has become nothing more than a memory that hounds him, fueling his fury and angst.Perhaps it’s wrong even to call The Crow a superhero film. It’s a reconfiguration of the form, an assertion that such movies don’t have to be mere vessels for quippy dialogue and eye-popping effects. They can invite viewers to examine human nature as its own wildly unpredictable force. Our feelings underscore our humanity, but they can be overpowering too, imprisoning rather than liberating us.Made for roughly $23 million, The Crow went on to net more than $50 million in the United States. It yielded several unremarkable sequels, each a reminder of just what a rare asset the original had in Lee’s fierce yet nuanced performance. None achieved the first film’s unsettling blend of corrosive emotion and concussive action.But Hollywood hasn’t been able to resist the allure of remaking the original. Efforts to introduce a new Eric Draven to audiences have been under way since the late 2000s, and the parade of actors rumored to have almost played him over the years is impressive: It includes Oscar nominees (Bradley Cooper, Ryan Gosling), men cast as other superheroes (Jason Momoa, Nicholas Hoult), and Alexander Skarsgård, whose younger brother Bill—best known for his work as the murderous clown Pennywise in the latest It films—will soon actually make it to the screen in the role.The comic-book film genre’s garish-to-grim cycles have become familiar, but The Crow endures because it upended expectations and ignored conventional boundaries. A legacy like that is inviting—and daunting. In an interview conducted during the film’s production, Lee explained why he wanted to play Draven, and bequeathed some useful wisdom, or perhaps a warning, to successors. “There are no rules,” he said, “about how a person who has come back from the dead is going to behave.”This article appears in the June 2024 print edition with the headline “The Engrossing Darkness of The Crow.”

The Lynching of Bob Broome

5 h

theatlantic.com

Photographs by Olivia Joan GalliLast fall, on an overcast Sunday morning, I took a train from New York to Montclair, New Jersey, to see Auntie, my mother’s older sister. Auntie is our family archivist, the woman we turn to when we want to understand where we came from. She’s taken to genealogy, tending our family tree, keeping up with distant cousins I’ve never met. But she has also spent the past decade unearthing a different sort of history, a kind that many Black families like mine leave buried, or never discover at all. It was this history I’d come to talk with her about.Auntie picked me up at the train station and drove me to her house. When she unlocked the door, I felt like I was walking into my childhood. Everything in her home seemed exactly as it had been when I spent Christmases there with my grandmother—the burgundy carpets; the piano that Auntie plays masterfully; the dining-room table where we all used to sit, talk, and eat. That day, Auntie had prepared us a lunch to share: tender pieces of beef, sweet potatoes, kale, and the baked rice my grandma Victoria used to make.When Auntie went to the kitchen to gather the food, I scanned the table. At the center was a map of Mississippi, unfurled, the top weighted down with an apple-shaped trivet. Auntie told me that the map had belonged to Victoria. She had kept it in her bedroom, mounted above the wood paneling that lined her room in Princeton, New Jersey, where she and my grandfather raised my mother, Auntie, and my two uncles. I’d never noticed my grandmother’s map, but a framed outline of Mississippi now hangs from a wall in my own bedroom, the major cities marked with blooming magnolias, the state flower. My grandmother had left markings on her map—X’s over Meridian, Vicksburg, and Jackson, and a shaded dot over a town in Hinds County, between Jackson and Vicksburg, called Edwards.I wondered whether the X’s indicated havens or sites of tragedy. As for Edwards, I knew the dot represented the start of Auntie’s story. Following an act of brutality in 1888, my ancestors began the process of uprooting themselves from the town, ushering themselves into a defining era of Black life in America: the Great Migration.I first learned about the lynching of Bob Broome in 2015, when Auntie emailed my mother a PDF of news clippings describing the events leading up to his murder. She’d come across the clippings on Ancestry.com, on the profile page of a distant family member. Bob was Victoria’s great-uncle. “Another piece of family history from Mississippi we never knew about,” Auntie wrote. “I’M SURE there is more to this story.”I knew that her discovery was important, but I didn’t feel capable then of trying to make sense of what it meant to me. As I embarked on a career telling other people’s stories, however, I eventually realized that the lynching was a hole in my own, something I needed to investigate if I was to understand who I am and where I came from. A few years ago, I began reading every newspaper account of Bob Broome’s life and death that Auntie and I could find. I learned more about him and about the aftermath of his killing. But in the maddeningly threadbare historical record, I also found accounts and sources that contradicted one another.Bob Broome was 19 or 20 when he was killed. On August 12, 1888, a Sunday, he walked to church with a group of several “colored girls,” according to multiple accounts, as he probably did every week. All versions of the story agree that on this walk, Bob and his company came across a white man escorting a woman to church. Back then in Mississippi, the proper thing for a Black man to do in that situation would have been to yield the sidewalk and walk in the street. But my uncle decided not to.A report out of nearby Jackson alleges that Bob pushed the white man, E. B. Robertson, who responded with a promise that Bob “would see him again.” According to the Sacramento Daily Union (the story was syndicated across the country), my uncle’s group pushed the woman in a rude manner and told Robertson they would “get him.” After church, Robertson was with three or four friends, explaining the sidewalk interaction, when “six negroes” rushed them.All of these stories appeared in the white press. According to these accounts, Bob and his companions, including his brother Ike, my great-great-grandfather, approached Robertson’s group outside a store. The papers say my uncle Bob and a man named Curtis Shortney opened fire. One of the white men, Dr. L. W. Holliday, was shot in the head and ultimately died; two other white men were injured. Several newspaper stories claim my uncle shot Holliday, with a couple calling him the “ring leader.” It is unclear exactly whom reporters interviewed for these articles, but if the reporting went as it usually did for lynchings, these were white journalists talking to white sources. Every article claims that the white men were either unarmed or had weapons but never fired them.Bob, his brother Ike, and a third Black man were arrested that day; their companions, including Shortney, fled the scene. While Bob was being held in a jail in nearby Utica, a mob of hundreds of white men entered and abducted him. Bob, “before being hanged, vehemently protested his innocence,” The New York Times reported. But just a few beats later, the Times all but calls my uncle a liar, insisting that his proclamation was “known to be a contradiction on its face.” Members of the mob threw a rope over an oak-tree branch at the local cemetery and hauled my ancestor upward, hanging him until he choked to death. A lynch mob killed Shortney a month later.[From the May 2022 issue: Burying a burning]In the white press, these lynchings are described as ordinary facts of life, the stories sandwiched between reports about Treasury bonds and an upcoming eclipse. The Times article about Bob noted that days after his lynching, all was quiet again in Utica, “as if nothing had occurred.” The headlines from across the country focus on the allegations against my uncle, treating his extralegal murder simply as a matter of course. The Boston Globe’s headline read “Fired on the White Men” and, a few lines later, “A Negro Insults a White Man and His Lady Companion.” The subtitle of The Daily Commercial Herald, a white newspaper in nearby Vicksburg, Mississippi, read: “Murderous and Insolent Negro Hanged by Indignant Citizens of Utica.”The summary executions of Bob Broome and Curtis Shortney had the convenient effect of leaving these stories in white-owned newspapers largely unexamined and unchallenged in the public record. But the Black press was incredulous. In the pages of The Richmond Planet, a Black newspaper in Virginia’s capital, Auntie had found a column dismissing the widespread characterization of Bob as a menace. This report was skeptical of the white newspapers’ coverage, arguing that it was more likely that the white men had attacked the Black group, who shot back. “Of course it is claimed that the attack was sudden and no resistance was made by the whites,” the article reads. The author and her aunt at her aunt’s home in New Jersey (Olivia Joan Galli for The Atlantic) The newspapers we found don’t say much more about the lynching, but Auntie did find one additional account of Bob Broome’s final moments—and about what happened to my great-great-grandfather Ike. A few days after the lynching, a reader wrote to the editor of The Daily Commercial Herald claiming to have been a witness to key events. “Knowing you always want to give your readers the correct views on all subjects,” the letter opens, the witness offers to provide more of “the particulars” of my uncle’s lynching. According to the letter writer, when the lynch mob arrived the morning after the shooting, the white deputy sheriff, John Broome, assisted by two white men, E. H. Broome and D. T. Yates, told the crowd that they could not take the prisoners away until the case was investigated. Bob, Ike, and the third Black man were moved to the mayor’s office in the meantime. But more men from neighboring counties joined the mob and showed up at the mayor’s office, where they “badly hurt” Deputy Sheriff Broome with the butt of a gun. The white men seized Bob and hanged him, while Ike and the other Black man were relocated to another jail. The witness’s account said the white Broomes “did all that was in the power of man to do to save the lives of the prisoners.”I don’t know whether or how these white Broomes were related to each other or to the Black Broomes, but unspoken kinship between the formerly enslaved and their white enslavers was the rule, rather than the exception, in places like Edwards. I believe that whoever wrote to the paper’s editor wanted to document all those Broome surnames across the color line, maybe to explain Ike’s survival as a magnanimous gesture, even a family favor. If the witness is to be believed, the intervention of these white Broomes is the only reason my branch of the family tree ever grew. As Auntie put it to me, “We almost didn’t make it into the world.”Each time I pick up my research, the newspaper coverage reads differently to me. Did my uncle really unload a .38-caliber British bulldog pistol in broad daylight, as one paper had it, or do such details merit only greater skepticism? We know too much about Mississippi to trust indiscriminately the accounts in the white press. Perhaps the story offered in The Richmond Planet is the most likely: He was set upon by attackers and fired back in self-defense. But I also think about the possibility that his story unfolded more or less the way it appears in the white newspapers. Maybe my uncle Bob had had enough of being forced into second-class citizenship, and he reacted with all the rage he could muster. From the moment he refused to step off the sidewalk, he must have known that his young life could soon end—Black folk had been lynched for less. He might have sat through the church service planning his revenge for a lifetime of humiliation, calculating how quickly he could retrieve his gun.In the Black press, Bob’s willingness to defend himself was seen as righteous. The Richmond Planet described him in heroic terms. “It is this kind of dealing with southern Bourbons that will bring about a change,” the unnamed author wrote. “We must have martyrs and we place the name of the fearless Broom [sic] on that list.” Bob’s actions were viewed as necessary self-protection in a regime of targeted violence: “May our people awaken to the necessity of protecting themselves when the law fails to protect them.” My mother has become particularly interested in reclaiming her ancestor as a martyr—someone who, in her words, took a stand. Martyrdom would mean that he put his life on the line for something greater than himself—that his death inspired others to defend themselves.[From the September 2021 issue: His name was Emmett Till]In 1892, four years after my uncle’s murder, Ida B. Wells published the pamphlet “Southern Horrors: Lynch Law in All Its Phases,” in which she wrote that “the more the Afro-American yields and cringes and begs, the more he has to do so, the more he is insulted, outraged and lynched.” In that pamphlet, an oft-repeated quote of hers first appeared in print: “A Winchester rifle should have a place of honor in every black home.” After the Civil War, southern states had passed laws banning Black gun ownership. For Wells, the gun wasn’t just a means of self-defense against individual acts of violence, but a collective symbol that we were taking our destiny into our own hands.The gun never lost its place of honor in our family. My great-grandmother DeElla was known in the family as a good shot. “She always had a gun—she had a rifle at the farm,” my mother told me. “And she could use that rifle and kill a squirrel some yards away. We know that must have come from Mississippi time.” My mother’s eldest brother, also named Bob, laughed as he told me about DeElla’s security measures. “I always remember her alarm system, which was all the empty cans that she had, inside the door,” he told me. “I always thought if someone had been foolish enough to break into her house, the last thing he would have remembered in life was a bunch of clanging metal and then a bright flash about three feet in front of his face.”The lynching more than a decade before her birth shaped DeElla and her vigilance. But as the years passed, and our direct connection to Mississippi dwindled, so did the necessity of the gun. For us, migration was a new kind of self-protection. It required us to leave behind the familiar in order to forge lives as free from the fetter of white supremacy as possible. My northbound family endeavored to protect themselves in new ways, hoping to use education, homeownership, and educational attainment as a shield.After we studied my grandmother’s map of Mississippi, Auntie brought out another artifact: a collection of typewritten pages titled “Till Death Do Us Join.” It’s a document my grandmother composed to memorialize our family’s Mississippi history sometime after her mother died, in 1978. I imagine that she sat and poured her heart out on the typewriter she kept next to a window just outside her bedroom.According to “Till Death Do Us Join,” my family remained in Edwards for another generation after Bob Broome’s death. Ike Broome stayed near the place where he’d almost been killed, and where his brother’s murderers walked around freely. Raising a family in a place where their lives were so plainly not worth much must have been terrifying, but this was far from a unique terror. Across the South, many Black people facing racial violence lacked the capital to escape, or faced further retribution for trying to leave the plantations where they labored. Every available option carried the risk of disaster.[The Experiment Podcast: Ko Bragg on fighting to remember Mississippi burning]A little more than a decade after his brother was murdered, Ike Broome had a daughter—DeElla. She grew up on a farm in Edwards near that of Charles Toms, a man who’d been born to an enslaved Black woman and a white man. As the story goes, DeElla was promised to Charles’s son Walter, after fetching the Toms family a pail of water. Charles’s white father had provided for his education—though not as generously as he did for Charles’s Harvard-educated white half brothers—and he taught math in and served as principal of a one-room schoolhouse in town. A newspaper clipping from 1888 thatmentions Bob Broome’s killing (The Boston Globe) Charles left his teaching job around 1913, as one of his sons later recalled, to go work as a statistician for the federal government in Washington, D.C. He may have made the trek before the rest of the family because he was light enough to pass for white—and white people often assumed he was. He was demoted when his employer found out he was Black.Still, Charles’s sons, Walter and his namesake, Charles Jr., followed him to Washington. But leaving Mississippi behind was a drawn-out process. “Edwards was still home and D.C. their place of business,” my grandmother wrote. The women of the family remained at home in Edwards. World War I sent the men even farther away, as the Toms brothers both joined segregated units, and had the relatively rare distinction, as Black soldiers, of seeing combat in Europe. When the men finally came back to the States, both wounded in action according to “Till Death Do Us Join,” DeElla made her way from Mississippi to Washington to start a life with Walter, her husband.Grandma Victoria’s letter says that DeElla and Walter raised her and four other children, the first generation of our family born outside the Deep South, in a growing community of Edwards transplants. Her grandfather Charles Sr. anchored the family in the historic Black community of Shaw, where Duke Ellington learned rag and Charles Jr. would build a life with Florence Letcher Toms, a founding member of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Inc.Occasionally, aunts would come up to visit, sleeping in their car along the route because they had nowhere else to stay. The people mostly flowed in one direction: Victoria’s parents took her to Mississippi only two times. According to my mother, Victoria recalled seeing her own father, whom she regarded as the greatest man in the world, shrink as they drove farther and farther into the Jim Crow South.Later, after receiving her undergraduate degree from Howard University and a Ph.D. from Northwestern University, Victoria joined the faculty at Tennessee State University, a historically Black institution in Nashville. During her time there, efforts to desegregate city schools began a years-long crisis marked by white-supremacist violence. Between her own experiences and the stories passed down to her from her Mississippi-born parents, Victoria knew enough about the brutality of the South to want to spare her own children from it. As a grown woman, she had a firm mantra: “Don’t ever go below the Mason-Dixon Line.” Her warning applied to the entire “hostile South,” as she called it, though she made exceptions for Maryland and D.C. And it was especially true for Mississippi.Keeping this distance meant severing the remaining ties between my grandmother and her people, but it was a price she seemed willing to pay. My mother recalls that when she was in college, one of her professors thought that reestablishing a connection to Mississippi might be an interesting assignment for her. She wrote letters to relatives in Edwards whom she’d found while paging through my grandmother’s address book. But Victoria intercepted the responses; she relayed that the relatives were happy to hear from my mom, but that there would be no Mississippi visit. “It was almost like that curtain, that veil, was down,” Mom told me. “It just wasn’t the time.”Yet, reading “Till Death Do Us Join,” I realized that maintaining that curtain may have hurt my grandmother more than she’d ever let on. She seemed sad that she only saw her road-tripping aunts on special occasions. “Our daily lives did not overlap,” my grandmother wrote. “Sickness or funeral became occasions for contacting the family. Death had its hold upon the living. Why could we not have reached into their daily happiness.”I sense that she valued this closeness, and longed for more of it, for a Mississippi that would have let us all remain. But once Victoria had decided that the North was her home, she worked hard to make it so. While teaching at Tennessee State, my grandmother had met and married a fellow professor named Robert Ellis. He was a plasma physicist, and they decided to raise their four children in New Jersey, where my grandfather’s career had taken him. My grandparents instilled in their children, who instilled it in my cousins and me, that you go where you need to go for schooling, career opportunities, partnership—even if that means you’re far from home.My grandfather was one of the preeminent physicists of his generation, joining the top-secret Cold War program to harness the power of nuclear fusion, and then running the experimental projects of its successor program, the Princeton Plasma Physics Laboratory, after declassification. His work has become part of our family lore as well. My mother has her own mantra: “Same moon, same stars.” It appears on all of the handwritten cards she sends to family and friends; I have it tattooed on my right arm. It signifies that no matter how far apart we are, we look up at the same night sky, and our lives are governed by the same universal constants. The laws of physics—of gravity, inertia, momentum, action, and reaction—apply to us all.In 2011, when I was 17, Victoria died. She’d suffered from Alzheimer’s, which meant that many things she knew about Mississippi were forgotten twice: once by the world, and then in her mind. Auntie and I shared our regrets about missing the opportunity to ask our grandmothers about their lives, their stories, their perspective on Mississippi.But Victoria’s prohibition on traveling south also passed on with her. The year Victoria died, my mother took a job in Philadelphia, Mississippi, as one of two pediatricians in the county. Two summers later, she started dating the man who became my stepfather, Obbie Riley, who’d been born there before a career in the Coast Guard took him all over the country.Mom and I had moved quite a few times throughout my childhood, but this relocation felt different. I was surprised by how quickly Mississippi felt like home. Yet the longer we stayed, and the more I fell in love with the place, the more resentment I felt. I envied the Mississippians who’d been born and raised there, who had parents and grandparents who’d been raised there. I’d always longed to be from a place in that way.My stepfather has that. With a rifle in his white pickup truck, he spends his Sundays making the rounds, checking in on friends and relatives. He’ll crisscross the county for hours, slurping a stew in one house, slicing pie in another, sitting porchside with generations of loved ones.This is what we missed out on, Auntie told me in her dining room. If our family hadn’t scattered, we would better know our elders. To keep all my ancestors straight, I refer to a handwritten family tree that my grandmother left behind; I took a picture of it when I was at Auntie’s house. Every time I zoom in and scan a different branch, I’m embarrassed by how little I know. “The distance pushed people apart,” Auntie said. “I think there is some strength from knowing your people, some security.”[Read: They called her ‘Black Jet’]The traditional historical understanding of the Great Migration emphasizes the “pull” of economic opportunity in the North and West for Black people, especially during the industrial mobilizations of the two world wars. Certainly such pulls acted on my family, too: The lure of better jobs elsewhere, as my grandmother put it, gave Ike Broome’s son-in-law the chance to make a life for himself and his family in Washington. But this understanding fails to explain the yearning that we still have for Mississippi, and the ambivalence my grandmother had about shunning the South.Mississippi had its own pull, even as violence of the kind visited on Bob Broome made life there grim for Black families. A 1992 study by Stewart E. Tolnay and E. M. Beck indicated that a main predictor of migration by Black people from southern counties before 1930 was the cumulative number of lynchings in those counties. The collective memory of those lynchings was a force that compounded over time. Hope and despair commingled for my family, as it did for so many others. As the physicists in my family might describe it, these forces worked in tandem to push my ancestors north, and tear them from the South.Only after I learned the details of Bob’s death did I feel that I truly comprehended my family’s path. In returning to Mississippi, my mother and I were part of a new movement of Black Americans, one in which hundreds of thousands of people are now returning to the states where they’d once been enslaved. I think of this “Reverse Great Migration” as a continuation of the original one, a reaction, a system finally finding equilibrium. I feel like we moved home to Mississippi to even the score for the tragedy of the lynching in 1888, and for all that my family lost in our wanderings after that. We returned to the land where DeElla Broome hurried between farmhouses fetching water, where Charles Toms ran the schoolhouse.It took well over a century for my family to excavate what happened in Edwards, buried under generations of silence. Now we possess an uncommon consolation. Even our partial, imperfect knowledge of our Mississippi history—gleaned from my grandmother’s writing and from newspaper coverage, however ambiguous it may be—is more documentation than many Black Americans have about their ancestors.[From the November 2017 issue: The building of the National Memorial for Peace and Justice]The National Memorial for Peace and Justice, in Montgomery, Alabama, commemorates lynching victims; it is the nation’s only site dedicated specifically to reckoning with lynching as racial terror. Bob Broome is one of more than 4,000 people memorialized there. I’ve visited the memorial, and the steel marker dedicated to those who were lynched in Hinds County, Mississippi—22 reported deaths, standing in for untold others that were not documented. Although those beautiful steel slabs do more for memory than they do for repair, at least we know. With that knowledge, we move forward, with Mississippi as ours again.This article appears in the June 2024 print edition with the headline “The History My Family Left Behind.”

New 9/11 Evidence Points to Deep Saudi Complicity

Two decades of U.S. policy appear to be rooted in a mistaken understanding of what happened that day.

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How to Live in a Digital City

What we can learn from real-life urbanization to improve online living

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theatlantic.com

Who Would Benefit From Ebrahim Raisi’s Death?

If the Iranian president turns out to have lost his life in a helicopter crash, it will set off a fierce scramble for power.

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theatlantic.com

SNL Needs a Break From Donald Trump

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theatlantic.com

Whether it’s an impression from a cast member or from its teeming roster of celebrity guests, Saturday Night Live’s political sketches often favor highlighting the absurd over making a point. That approach has only snowballed in our current era, when a growing swath of politicians practically write their own punch lines. James Austin Johnson’s eerily precise rendition of Donald Trump—a far cry from Alec Baldwin’s mumbly, squinty-eyed caricature—infuses the former president with such verisimilitude that sketches featuring him don’t require much, beyond leaning into the word salad.In the cold open of last night’s season finale, SNL took on the press conferences Trump has hosted during his hush-money trial in Manhattan. “I’m really enjoying this post-court press conference in this very weird and depressing hallway,” Johnson, as Trump, began. He went on to suggest why he might really be running for president a third time: “For me, much better to not win and say it was rigged and then get very rich raising money to stop the steal and you never have to do president again.” Even if that argument had some truth, a November win could possibly erase Trump’s legal troubles—something the sketch called out, as Johnson quipped, "If you’re tired about hearing all of my trials, all you gotta do is vote for me, and it’ll all go away." His trials might, but SNL’s drained coverage of him would not.As SNL wraps up its 49th season, and looks ahead to the celebration of its 50th this fall, the show seems exhausted by what it’s treating like yet another election. In cold opens such as this and many others this season, its Trump sketches have simply replicated what the former president has been up to in the news. The show’s political commentary had more bite on “Weekend Update,” whose format lends itself to incisive wisecracks that don’t need much of a setup—as when Michael Che joked about Trump’s request that he and Joe Biden stand during the two presidential debates they’ve agreed to this summer. “So that’s the status of our presidency,” Che said. “Standing is a feat of strength.”The show’s non-Trump sketches make clear that the writers and performers can still work up sharp, engaging takes on contemporary life—provided the subject isn’t something we’re forced to think about all the time. SNL’s satire exhibited more piquancy last night with the parody commercial for Xiemu, a thinly veiled take on the fast-fashion brand Shein and the online shopping hub Temu, both of which have been criticized for pushing low-quality goods with a negative environmental imprint.The idea was pretty straightforward: The ad featured models showing off $5 shoes and $3.99 tank tops, while a voice-over revealed the horrific labor conditions required to produce such cheap clothing, and the cascading problems resulting from those conditions. (Notably, a low level of lead in all of the clothing.) By SNL’s standards, the sketch was cutting, especially when the voice-over turned on consumers. “Be real, is this shady?” asked a model played by Ego Nwodim. “If it was, would you stop buying it?” the voice-over retorted.Compared with past commercial parodies, such as the CVS send-up about men who rush to the drugstore on Valentine’s Day to purchase a last-minute gift for their girlfriend, the Xiemu bit was certainly more loaded. While calling out the obvious fell flat during the Trump cold open, the “Fast Fashion Ad” sketch managed to take a scathing stance by doing the same with Temu and Shein. Weariness is antithetical to good comedy, and perhaps SNL’s writers feel the strain of finding humor in a political climate that feels closer to a heated reality-TV brawl.Ahead of its 50th season, which will surely arrive with no shortage of fanfare, SNL has the summer to recharge for the upcoming election. Its enthusiasm for taking on politics may have dulled since Baldwin first impersonated Trump, but you’d rather it not slog through the obvious. The election itself promises enough of that.

Meerkats Keep Dropping Dead From Heart Failure

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At the start of the spring of 2015, Jeffrey, a three-year-old meerkat, was happily eating, tussling with his brothers, and surveying zoo patrons from his usual perch, his forepaws gathered and his black-tipped snout aloft. But one day in April, his caretakers discovered him in his enclosure, so weak that he could barely lift his head. By the time he was brought to Eric Baitchman, the head vet at Massachusetts’s Stone Zoo, Jeffrey was losing consciousness. Baitchman nudged a tube down his patient’s straw-size throat to help him breathe; an ultrasound revealed a heart in failure.Eight days later, despite a strict regimen of meds, Jeffrey was dead. And within the next three years, both of Jeffrey’s brothers—two of the zoo’s remaining three meerkats—would die in similar ways.All three brothers were diagnosed with dilated cardiomyopathy, or DCM, a serious condition in which the muscles of the heart weaken and expand, compromising the organ’s ability to pump blood. Before Jeffrey, Baitchman had never seen the disease in a meerkat, and he wondered if the family at Stone Zoo had simply been a fluke. If it wasn’t, he thought, perhaps the disease had genetic roots. Finding them might be key to saving future generations of meerkats—or maybe even people with similarly faulty hearts.Baitchman, who is on the leadership team of Zoo New England, reached out to other zoos with families of meerkats—and quickly began to hear a chorus of “Yes, us too.” Michael Garner, a pathologist who examined Jeffrey’s heart, confirmed the same pattern: For years, vets from around the country had been sending him misshapen meerkat hearts, normally the diameter of a walnut but many now ballooned out to the size of a large apricot. According to an analysis Garner did in 2017, about a quarter of meerkat deaths in an American-zoo pathology database were linked to some sort of cardiac disease, among which DCM looked to be an especially common cause.Everything Baitchman has since learned about how this disease manifests in meerkats points to his original hunch: “It almost had to be hereditary,” he told me. In partnership with a team of genomics experts, he has spent the past several years collecting dozens of tissue samples from zoo meerkats across the U.S. for genetic analysis. The team is still in the process of analyzing the 86 genomes they’ve amassed, and haven’t yet pinpointed genes clearly linked to DCM. But one of Baitchman’s collaborators, Alexander Bick, a geneticist at Vanderbilt, told me that he is hopeful that one will show up, because the condition is so easily passed on. If just one meerkat parent has it, about half of their kids seem to get it, too.[Read: Something mysterious is killing captive gorillas]Bick is interested in meerkat hearts in part because DCM is one of the most common cardiomyopathies in humans, too, and a leading reason for heart transplants. The condition can be managed with medications and implants, but eventually, many people’s hearts still fail. And although genetics is thought to play a role in the majority of human DCM cases, only about a third of them have a mutation with a known connection to the disease, Bick told me. As families have shrunk in recent decades, common genetic mistakes have been harder to trace using the traditional method of mapping a disease’s presence in sprawling family trees; certain populations of wild meerkats, inbred for generations, seem to have almost the opposite issue. The meerkat population spread across American zoos also appears to be made up of all, roughly, half-cousins, based on scientists’ best estimates—“essentially all part of one enormous family tree,” Bick told me.In recent years, plumbing the genomes of other animals has proved remarkably useful for human medicine. Dog genomes have helped researchers better understand human airway diseases, pain disorders, cancers, birth defects, and sleep disorders; studies in rhesus macaques yielded insights into the genes that influence alcohol consumption and endometriosis. The next big treatment for the lethal neurological disease Tay-Sachs could come from genetic research into cats.There’s no guarantee that meerkat genetics will reveal anything about ours. The genomes of certain breeds of dogs, which develop DCM as well, have been thoroughly scoured for clues about the disease. But the genes that underlie DCM in canines have shown almost no overlap with those in people, Katie Nadolny, a veterinary cardiologist who has been studying DCM in meerkats, told me.And meerkats are much less well understood than dogs are. Researchers don’t have a strong sense of what healthy meerkat hearts look like in the wild, Rachel Johnston, a genomics expert at the Broad Institute and Zoo New England, who has been collaborating with Baitchman, told me. They’re also unsure how common DCM might be in nature, where many meerkats live in more diverse populations, eat more varied diets, and more often die from infectious disease, or predation, or simply because they’re “famously homicidal,” Jenny Tung, a researcher at the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology who is studying the genetics of wild meerkats, told me. Asking how different a captive population might be is a natural next step. Those questions might not yield benefits for humans, or even meerkats outside of zoos. But whatever answers researchers find could save meerkats like Jeffrey, before their hearts quietly fail.

How Drake Became White

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We’d gathered that day at the cafeteria’s “Black” table, cracking jokes and philosophizing during the free period that was our perk as upperclassmen. We came in different shades: bone white, tan and brownish, dark as a silhouette. One of my classmates, who fancied himself a lyricist, was insisting that Redman, a witty emcee from nearby Newark, New Jersey, was the greatest rapper ever. This was the late ’90s, and for my money, no one could compete with Jay-Z. I said so, and the debate, good-natured at first, soon escalated in intensity, touching on feelings and resentments that ran far deeper than diverging claims about artistic merit.“How can you even weigh in?” I still remember the kid fuming. “You ain’t even the pure breed!”With that, there was nothing left to say. Friends separated us, the bell rang, and I headed home. A short time later, I went off to college, where I would meet a wider assortment of Americans than I had realized existed. But over the years, I have been reminded of that boy’s slicing racism, the lazy habit of mind that required no white people to be present but would nonetheless please the most virulent white supremacist.Recently, two public controversies spirited me back to the suspicion and confusion of my high-school cafeteria. All spring long, an unusually nasty feud between the rappers Drake and Kendrick Lamar has been captivating audiences, both for the quality of the music it has engendered and for the personal and malicious dimensions of the attacks it has countenanced. Much has been written about the fight, in particular about the two men’s treatment of women, which I won’t rehash here except to point out that it’s a little funny that they both portray themselves as enlightened allies while also acting as if the ultimate disparagement is to call another man feminine. Less has been said about the potency of the racial dimension, which feels like a throwback to a time before Drake’s pop-culture dominance—indeed, to a time before the historic hybridity of the Obama era—and like a distillation of the skin-deep racialism of the current social-justice movement.Drake, who grew up in Toronto, is the son of a white Jewish mother from Canada and a Black father from Memphis. Since the release of his 2009 mixtape, So Far Gone, he has been not only the most successful visibly mixed-race rapper—and arguably pop star—but also the most visible Black male musician for some time now. Anyone at the top will attract criticism. But not even a white rapper like Eminem has been subject to the kind of racial derogation that has been hurled at Drake.Back in 2018, the rapper Pusha T released a diss track about him for which the cover art was an old photograph of Drake performing in a cartoonish blackface. The image makes you cringe, but—as Drake explained—that was the point. Drake began his career as an actor, and he wrote that the photograph was part of a “project that was about young black actors struggling to get roles, being stereotyped and typecast … The photos represented how African Americans were once wrongfully portrayed in entertainment.” But presented without context, it appeared to be a self-evident statement of inauthenticity.Another rapper, Rick Ross, calls Drake “white boy” again and again in his song “Champagne Moments,” released in April. In an op-ed for The Grio, the music journalist Touré explains why the insult is so effective: “We know Drake is biracial. He’s never hidden that, but many of us think of him as Black or at least as a part of the culture … On this record, Ross is out to change that.” Touré calls this “hyperproblematic,” but his tone is approving—he admires the track. “We shouldn’t be excluding biracial people from the Black community, but in a rap beef where all is fair as a way of attacking someone and undermining their credibility and their identity, it’s a powerful message.”In a series of more high-profile records, Lamar has built on Ross’s theme, both implying and stating directly that racial categories are real, that behaviors and circumstances (like Drake’s suburban upbringing) correlate with race, and that the very mixedness of Drake’s background renders him suspect. It is an anachronistic line of ad hominem attack that is depressing to encounter a quarter of the way into the 21st century.Lamar’s most recent Drake diss is called “Not Like Us,” and reached No. 1 on Billboard Hot 100. It goes after Drake’s cultural affiliations with the American South. “No, you not a colleague,” Lamar taunts. “You a fucking colonizer!”It’s hard to hear that and not remember that Drake’s mother is Jewish, and that this is the same invective used to undermine Jews’ sense of belonging in Israel. Such racist habits of thought have become potent rhetorical weapons in the progressive arsenal.The second (if smaller) controversy followed an essay on language and protest published in The New Yorker earlier this month. The novelist Zadie Smith, who is of European and African descent, argued—carefully—that it is too simplistic to regard the world as sortable into categories of oppressor and oppressed. “Practicing our ethics in the real world involves a constant testing of them,” she writes, “a recognition that our zones of ethical interest have no fixed boundaries and may need to widen and shrink moment by moment as the situation demands.” This was an attempt to take seriously the tangible fate of Hamas’s victims on October 7, the broader implications of anti-Semitism that can at times be found in criticism of Israel’s response, and the ongoing tragic loss of Palestinian life.Despite praising the protests that have engulfed college campuses and describing a cease-fire in Gaza as “an ethical necessity,” Smith was derided on more than intellectual grounds. One widely shared tweet, accompanied by a photo of Smith, stated the criticism plainly: “I feel like Zadie Smith uses black aesthetics to conceal her deeply pedestrian white middle-class politics. People see the head wrap and the earrings made of kente cloth and confuse that for something more substantive.”This was not the first time Smith had been regarded as a racial interloper. The author Morgan Jerkins once wrote of the emotional “hurt” she felt reading another thoughtful essay Smith published in Harper’s asking “Who owns black pain?” Smith’s transgression here, according to Jerkins, was “intellectualizing blackness” from a distance instead of feeling it. “Do not be surprised,” Jerkins warned, “if a chunk of that essay is used in discussions as to why biracial people need to take a backseat in the movement.”The retrograde notion that thought and action necessarily flow from racial identities whose borders are definable and whose authority is heritable is both fictitious and counterproductive. “Something is afoot that is the business of every citizen who thought that the racist concepts of a century ago were gone—and good riddance!” Barbara and Karen Fields write in their 2012 masterpiece, Racecraft: The Soul of Inequality in American Life. “The continued vitality of those concepts stands as a reminder that, however important a historical watershed the election of an African-American president may be, America’s post-racial era has not been born.”Of course, the first African American president was, like our nation and culture, himself both Black and white. One of the most disappointing—and, I have come to realize—enduring reasons the “post-racial era” continues to elude us is that it is not only the avowed racists who would hold that biographical fact against him.

Great-Power Politics Is Ruining the Olympics

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In 2021, on the eve of the Tokyo Olympics, 23 top Chinese swimmers tested positive for the drug trimetazidine. In its proper clinical setting, the medication is used to treat angina. But for an athlete or a coach willing to cheat, it is a performance-enhancing drug, boosting the heart muscle’s functioning. Nonprescription use of trimetazidine, or TMZ is prohibited at all times, not just during competition; the default sanction for an athlete’s violation is a four-year ban.The testing that ensnared so many members of China’s swim team was conducted under the auspices of the national anti-doping agency, known as CHINADA. Each country in international competition has its own such agency—America’s is USADA, which I serve—and they all operate under the umbrella of the World Anti-Doping Agency. WADA is the ultimate authority, responsible for ensuring that national agencies enforce the rules. Yet shortly before the 2021 Games got under way, CHINADA vacated the 23 violations, giving a cock-and-bull story about accidental contamination in the kitchen where the athletes’ meals were prepared. And WADA simply accepted CHINADA’s obviously suspect ruling.WADA failed even to publish its decision. The world was alerted only last month by whistleblowers who pushed evidence of the scandal to the media. Prompted by the revelations to respond, WADA issued a statement citing its prior conclusion “that it was not in a position to disprove the possibility that contamination was the source of TMZ” and “that, given the specific circumstances of the asserted contamination, the athletes would be held to have no fault or negligence.”WADA’s failure of oversight and lack of transparency are corroding fair competition—and that has come to haunt clean athletes around the world. If WADA had properly upheld its mission, China would likely have lost 13 of its top swimmers chosen for the Olympic team at Tokyo. Instead, China won six medals, three of them gold, in the pool.USADA has the job of ensuring that American swimmers abide by the rules and compete clean; as a result of WADA’s inaction, several of them potentially lost podium places in Tokyo that they deserved. Worse, the world body’s enforcement failures have made national anti-doping agencies such as CHINADA hostage to bad regimes, turning the agencies and the athletes they oversee into pawns in a cynical geopolitical game of prestige and power.What we are seeing is a reinvention of the bad old days of the Cold War, when East Germany tried fraudulently to demonstrate the superiority of state socialism by systematically doping its athletes. Back then, no international anti-doping movement existed, and East Germany’s cheating went suspected but largely undetected until years later. By then, it was too late for justice; the harms done—both to the athletes’ health and to the credibility of the competition in that era—were permanent. Today, we have the World Anti-Doping Agency to police international sports—but enforcement works only if the watchdog itself is unbiased, conflict-free, and effective. At the Paris Games this summer, clean competition is very much in doubt.[Read: The Olympics have always been political]In 2008, I attended the Beijing Olympics as a member of WADA’s independent-observer team. As the newly appointed head of the United States Anti-Doping Agency, I was thrilled to be the WADA team’s vice chair and legal expert, and eager to play my part in upholding the integrity of sports. No doubt I was naive, but ever since that experience, a One World, One Dream framed picture from the Beijing Games has hung on my office wall.Back then, my high hopes for doping-free sports did not seem so naive. During Jacques Rogge’s tenure as the president of the International Olympic Committee, WADA was at the peak of its prowess in making the Olympics free from cheating. As a medical doctor, Rogge understood the value of keeping sports both fair and healthy for the athletes taking part—with results and records that the public could believe in. And he found willing partners in WADA’s leaders at the time, David Howman and John Fahey, who were determined to keep the anti-doping fight independent of politics.Sadly, that has changed. These days, I find I very much need that reminder on my wall of the Games’ sporting ideals. Those ideals look tarnished now: The Olympic movement is rife with examples of sports hijacked for national and political purposes. And the very agency charged with safeguarding clean competition, WADA, is implicated in the political theater.The scandal involving China is only the latest instance of WADA’s failure to uphold its mission. The erosion of its integrity and authority dates back to 2015, when Russia’s manipulations leading up to the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi were exposed. Those Games were tainted by a state-sponsored doping program that involved Moscow’s apparatchiks interfering with the testing protocols to make adverse tests of its own doped athletes conveniently disappear from the system. It became obvious that sports were being recruited as a tool of realpolitik when Russia’s foreign minister complained about USADA’s “provocative anti-Russian demands” to then–Secretary of State John Kerry, who upheld my agency’s position that Russia had to comply with the WADA rules.[From the May 2018 issue: The man who brought down Lance Armstrong]The evidence of Russian cheating was irrefutable. My colleagues and I met with the whistleblowers, including the former director of Russia’s testing laboratory, Grigory Rodchenkov, who had fled the country and sought asylum in America. USADA echoed the calls from several athlete groups—including WADA’s own Athletes Committee, led by the Olympian Beckie Scott, and the IOC’s equivalent committee under the leadership of another Olympian, Claudia Bokel—not to close the Russia investigation but to expand it. Yet WADA, in a now-familiar pattern, refused to listen and declined to pursue the matter.Despite my personal plea to the agency’s director general in March 2016, WADA remained unmoved by the cries of clean athletes. To be clear, these athletes make enormous sacrifices and undergo years of hard training to participate in Olympic competition. But when anti-doping agencies fail, and even abet cheats, they make a mockery of the Olympic movement. The clean athletes’ dreams are shattered by the greed and deception of those entrusted with safeguarding the purity of the Games.In the Sochi case, WADA’s intransigence proved shortsighted. Just weeks after my appeal to WADA, in May 2016, 60 Minutes and The New York Times broke the story—and forced the agency’s hand, compelling action. Congress held hearings about WADA’s failures, as it was entitled to do because American taxpayer dollars support the international anti-doping infrastructure. In fact, ironically enough, WADA succeeded in leveraging its own dereliction into an argument for more funding.The agency made a pitch to its international backers that it needed new investigative powers, more personnel, and a 60 percent increase in its budget from 2018 through 2025. It got what it asked for, but the U.S. government also did its best to make WADA accountable. It insisted on a governing seat on the agency’s board, and made U.S. funding of WADA no longer mandatory but discretionary.[Read: A list of Russia’s responses to the doping scandal]In principle, WADA’s job as global regulator is not complicated: All it has to do is apply the rules to the facts without fear or favor. But the pursuit of global power-politics in sports is a systemic problem that overrules any notion of fair play, and WADA failed to deploy its new tools effectively. When WADA received notice of the Chinese swimmers’ positives in 2021, it should have sanctioned CHINADA for its mishandling of the violations.The postive-test findings occurred just months, in fact, before Beijing was to host the 2022 Winter Olympics. So had WADA applied the rules correctly, both China and the IOC itself would have faced grave embarrassment. Instead, WADA chose to give one country—a very powerful, rising country that had already been favored as host of the next Games—preferential treatment. Do we think for a second that WADA would have overlooked the burying of these tests if they had come from a small, poor country in Africa or South America instead of China?In 2019 and 2020, WADA received almost $2 million from the Chinese government above that country’s required dues to the agency. Then, in early 2023, WADA signed an undisclosed sponsorship agreement with the largest sporting-goods manufacturer in China, Anta—a company that also has a sponsorship deal with the Chinese Swimming Federation. Although no evidence of a quid pro quo has emerged, extra payments and confidential sponsorship arrangements—coinciding with the special treatment of doping violations—create a damaging appearance of conflicted interests for WADA.[Read: It’s almost impossible to be a running fan]The influence of money and politics within WADA erodes its credibility, casting doubt on its impartiality and independence. As nations vie for supremacy on the global stage, the risk is that sports success becomes—as the military theorist Carl von Clausewitz said of war—“a real political instrument, a continuation of political intercourse, a carrying out of the same by other means.” Russia and China are, unsurprisingly, the most conspicuous offenders, with the resources and capacity to bend the system to their will. But if they are allowed to have their way, other bad actors will imitate their example.Ultimately, WADA’s failures will damage the Olympic Games themselves. Who wants to watch unfair races or rigged events? The commercial machine that powers the Games—namely, the Olympic broadcaster, NBC, and multimillion-dollar sponsors such as Visa, Airbnb, and Coca-Cola—should be alarmed: The value of their investment sinks along with the competition’s integrity. The Olympics’ media and sponsorship partners ought to be acting as a powerful countervailing force on WADA to do its job properly and protect their interests.The very future of the Olympics—together with its ethos of amity, respect, and fair competition—is at stake. How many medals will be stolen from clean competitors by doped athletes—even under the noses of Western and other democratic leaders at this summer’s Games in Paris—before those who purport to back the Olympic movement take decisive action? If the Olympics are to be more than an arena for great-power games, world leaders need to act and resume their responsibility to back the world anti-doping effort. The soul of fair sports depends upon it.

A Compelling Made-For-TV Reality Season

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This is an edition of The Atlantic Daily, a newsletter that guides you through the biggest stories of the day, helps you discover new ideas, and recommends the best in culture. Sign up for it here.Welcome back to The Daily’s Sunday culture edition, in which one Atlantic writer or editor reveals what’s keeping them entertained. Today’s special guest is Jinae West, a senior producer at The Atlantic who works on our Radio Atlantic and Good on Paper podcasts.Jinae has been catching up on Survivor to sate her voracious reality-show appetite; she’d watch Steven Yeun in anything, and she enjoys watching Shark Tank while doing laundry. (As she puts it: “This culture survey is a real win for network TV.”)First, here are three Sunday reads from The Atlantic: The one place in airports people actually want to be The art of survival The Atlantic’s summer reading guide The Culture Survey: Jinae WestMy favorite way of wasting time on my phone: I take public transit to work, so I’m addicted to what I think of as commute-friendly games. My favorite, of course, is The New York Times’ Connections, where you group together words that have something in common. (My preferred playing order is: Connections > Strands > Wordle > Crossword.) If I don’t get all the groups right away, I revisit the game later, usually on the commute home. But then, if I don’t guess another group in a sufficient amount of time, I get self-conscious about the people sitting nearby, judging me for not knowing that loo, condo, haw, and hero are all one letter away from bird names. The reality is nobody cares, and I never think about loons.Sometimes I’ll do the mini crossword just to feel something. [Related: The New York Times’ new game is genius.]Something delightful introduced to me by a kid in my life: A few weeks ago, my niece and nephews made me play Ultimate Chicken Horse on Nintendo Switch. It’s a multiplayer game where you collectively build an obstacle course that’s full of both helpful things and perilous traps. If the whole group fails to finish a level, you respawn and get to pick another item to add.The result is generally a chaotic minefield of wrecking balls, flamethrowers, and black holes—and I’m pretty sure I got hit by a hockey puck? I lost every round and died within seconds. But Ultimate Chicken Horse is my favorite kind of game: low commitment, fun for all ages, and less about winning or losing than about making sure other people have a hard time.A good recommendation I recently received: A friend suggested a while ago that I watch the back catalog of Survivor to sate my reality-competition-show appetite. I am a glutton for it in every genre: cooking, baking, glassblowing, interior designing, dating. Survivor has more than 40 U.S. seasons—and had somehow been a big cultural blind spot for me—so it was right up my alley. Who knew that watching a person build a fire or give up the chance at immunity for a plate of nachos could make for such thrilling television? And the blindsides! Oh god, the blindsides.I started with Season 37: “David vs. Goliath,” or: “The One Where Mike White Probably Thought Up The White Lotus.” I quickly moved on to Season 28: “Cagayan—Brawn vs. Brains vs. Beauty.” Most recently, I finished Season 33: “Millennials vs. Gen X,” which was interesting to watch as a now-30-something Millennial (it aired in 2016). But as the season wore on, and the contestants shed their generational stereotypes, it became a much more compelling show for other reasons. By the time I watched the finale, I was surprised to find myself in tears. It’s a near-perfect made-for-TV season. [Related: Survivor is deceptive. That’s what makes it so real.]An actor I would watch in anything: Steven Yeun. He’s endlessly watchable. And he can sing! Toni Collette is another.A quiet song that I love, and a loud song that I love: If Sheryl Crow’s “All I Wanna Do” is pure pop summer, Ultimate Painting’s cover of the song is its more muted slacker-surfer counterpart, and very much my vibe. It’s also part of a compilation album—Lagniappe Sessions, Vol. 1—that features another great cover song: Tashaki Miyaki’s version of the Flamingos’ “I Only Have Eyes for You” (which is itself an adaptation).Wet Leg’s “Angelica” is the loud song I have on rotation. It’s a track about a dull party, and it has a good beat and deadpan lyrics such as “Angelica, she brought lasagna to the party.”The television show I’m most enjoying right now: If I’m being very honest with myself, it’s Shark Tank. (This culture survey is a real win for network TV, I guess.) Once a show I only considered watching in a hotel if nothing else was on, it has now been upgraded to a show I watch in my everyday life while doing other things. The stakes are just high enough to keep me invested and just low enough for me to walk away from the deal (to go fold laundry or something).Is the show an overt celebration of capitalism? Yes. Is it a warped version of the American Dream? Sure. Is “Hello sharks” a mildly funny punch line to use on many occasions? You bet! Unlike, say, America’s Next Top Model or The Voice, the show actually does have a track record of investing in a few hits. I mean, once upon a time, Scrub Daddy was just a man with a sponge and a dream.My fiancé has bought at least one thing from Shark Tank: a little fast-food-ketchup holder for our car. We’ve used it maybe once? Twice? It was fine. The show is fine.Also: Baby Reindeer. Watch it with a friend. You’re going to want to talk that one out. [Related: The Baby Reindeer mess was inevitable.]The Week Ahead Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga, an action film starring Anya Taylor-Joy as the eponymous character trying to make her way home in a postapocalyptic world (in theaters Friday) Tires, a comedy series co-created by the comedian Shane Gillis about a crew working at a struggling auto shop (premieres Thursday on Netflix) Butcher, a novel by Joyce Carol Oates about a 19th-century doctor who experiments on the patients in a women’s asylum (out Tuesday) Essay Illustration by The Atlantic. Source: Getty. The Dream of Streaming Is DeadBy Jacob Stern Remember when streaming was supposed to let us watch whatever we want, whenever we want, for a sliver of the cost of cable? Well, so much for that. In recent years, streaming has gotten confusing and expensive as more services than ever are vying for eyeballs. It has done the impossible: made people miss the good old-fashioned cable bundle. Now the bundles are back. Read the full article.More in Culture The Baby Reindeer mess was inevitable. Amy Winehouse was too big for a biopic. The cruel social experiment of reality TV What Alice Munro has left us The wild Blood dynasty Conan O’Brien keeps it old-school. Catch Up on The Atlantic The Israeli defense establishment revolts against Netanyahu. George T. Conway III: The New York Trump case is kind of perfect. Michael Schuman: China has gotten the trade war it deserves. Photo Album Gentoos, which are the fastest swimmers among penguins, surf a wave in the ocean. Levi Fitze / GDT Nature Photographer of the Year 2024 Check out the top images from the German Society for Nature Photography’s annual photo competition.Explore all of our newsletters.When you buy a book using a link in this newsletter, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic.

The General Intendant’s Daughter

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The girl’s expressive gifts surpass those of all the members of his company, even the aging starlet Klamt. That is something the General Intendant of the City Theater can no longer deny.Up to this point, he has done everything in his power to keep his daughter off the stage, for the General Intendant is intimately acquainted with the unscrupulousness of theater people and is well aware that if he casts her in a leading role, she will be subjected to the most malicious slander.And so will he.But in light of her expressive gifts, which have now achieved a perfection he once hardly thought possible, he must concede that withholding them from the city whose theatrical life he has sworn to cultivate (but which, under his supervision, has grown only more decadent) would be an intolerable abdication of his duty.The General Intendant therefore risks the opprobrium of the public, and the rage of the aging starlet Klamt, by commissioning a play for his daughter to star in, one especially suited to her expressive gifts, the action of which should include, he suggests to the dramatist, the following basic elements:The curtain should rise on a man in a straitjacket scrutinizing the large stained-glass window above the altar of the chapel of a psychiatric facility. The man, who for some time has existed in a perpetual present tense, suddenly remembers that he himself, in his prior life as a glassworker, created this stained-glass window, which depicts five female saints who were decapitated for their faith. He marvels at the fact that he, who now feels so far from the beautiful, was once capable of bringing such beauty into the world. As he studies the window, the man feels an urge he has not felt in a very long time: the urge to bring more beauty into the world. If he cannot bring more beauty into the world, through his mastery of the craft of glasswork, he would prefer to die. The man proclaims as much to a chapel that the audience has thus far taken for empty. But from the two wings two stout old nurses appear, brusquely tighten the arms of his straitjacket (which had already seemed as tight as possible), and inform the man that in this institution there is of course no opportunity to work with glass. As if they would let the inmates work with glass! The laughter of the nurses echoes in the chapel long after they have clacked away. But a glassworker who can never again work with glass is better off dead. He opts to die. The facility, however, has seen to it that he has no means of doing so. He despairs. Yet at the height of his despair, more memories return to him. He suffered his first fit of insanity while he was installing this stained-glass window—he remembers that now. From the time of that initial fit, he could foresee the fate that has since overtaken him—namely, that upon completion of the window, he would be committed to this very institution for the rest of his life. But while his insanity was still only intermittent, he could outwit fate by means of his craft. Yes, he recalls realizing that, too. He had then done something to the stained-glass window, or committed to memory some secret about it. He had secretly installed it in such a way that the stained-glass window would later enable him to escape through it. The clarity and force of this recollection makes the man reel. But when he tries to remember what the secret of the stained-glass window is, he cannot. Yet even this he must have foreseen, for in those first transient fits of insanity, his mind was stripped of its memories and left only with such things as are common to the species. He must have known that supplying himself with a means of escape would not be enough: He had to find a way to remind himself of the form it took and the secret of its use. He must have known that he could not entrust his memory with something as important as this; nor could he write it down, since a written message would be confiscated on admittance. He must have relied on another person. But in the whole world, as far as the man was concerned, there was only one other person. The man suddenly recalls the existence of his beloved. He remembers teaching his beloved the words she should say to him after he went insane and was committed here: Your name is Gustav. You are a glassworker. The beautiful window you see before you is your own handiwork. You must simply … and come back to me. Simply what? The very words the man needs most have been expunged from his mind. He recalls rehearsing the lines again and again until his beloved could recite them without error. Yet his beloved has never been to visit him. Where is his beloved? What has happened to her? He confides in the chief physician about his beloved. Not about the message she was to deliver, only about her existence. But even this is a mistake, for the chief physician (to be played by the great actor and tenor Silberberg) lets it be known that he wants to hear nothing more about the beloved, in whose existence he plainly disbelieves. No one at the facility believes in the existence of the beloved—no one, that is, except the two stout old nurses, who until now have struck us as cruel and unfeeling crones (one to be played by the aging starlet Klamt). In the middle of the night, the nurses enter the man’s room and convey their belief in the existence of the beloved. They pledge to locate the beloved. Lo and behold, they do locate her. They bring the beloved to him. But can this be her? This is his beloved?! The man weeps. His beloved exists now in a lamentable state. She cannot walk. She cannot speak. Only her eyes move, to and fro. Yet the movement of her eyes, viewed even from the very last row of the balcony of the City Theater, is extraordinarily expressive. To the attentive theatergoer, this movement of the beloved’s eyes expresses everything that needs to be known about her relationship to the man. The one thing it cannot express, however, is the secret message she was supposed to impart to him. This secret message is locked within his quasi-vegetative beloved. He therefore sets out to do what not only the chief physician but even the nurses try to tell him is impossible: teach his beloved to speak again. He brings her to the chapel. Positions her cane-backed wheelchair before the altar. My name, he tells her, is Gustav. I am a glassworker. The beautiful window you see before you is my own handiwork. I must simply … and come back to you. Hour after hour, with remarkable tenderness and devotion, he says these words to his beloved, always pausing long enough at the ellipsis for her to leap in and impart with miraculously restored speech the secret of the stained-glass window. But she never leaps in. Her speech is never restored. Only her eyes move, to and fro, to and fro, in a manner that is exquisitely expressive, but not of the right thing. Now visiting hours are over. The clacking of the nurses gets louder and louder. They are coming to the chapel to take away his beloved. He knows that they will not bring her back. Not ever. He tries one last time: My name is Gustav. I am a glassworker. The beautiful window you see before you is my own handiwork. I must simply … He pauses. She says nothing. Yet this time—and it does seem to him a miracle, even if it is not the one he expected—he is able to whisper the missing words himself. I must simply smash my head hard through the glass and come back to you. Now the man shatters the glass by thrusting the crown of his head through the middlemost of the five female saints. As blood streams down his face, he kisses his beloved on the lips and then climbs through the opening where the window had been. He is now free to bring more beauty into the world. The nurses enter the chapel. Their clacking ceases. For a moment, the theater is absolutely silent. Then the beloved, her face streaked with blood, suddenly leaps to her feet and screams: Your name is Bohuslav! You are a bricklayer! The implication is that he—who is to be played by the City Theater’s most physically massive actor—is responsible for her condition and is now free to commit more crimes. But this is something the attentive theatergoer will have long since deduced from the movement to and fro of her eyes. The nurses, who do not remark on the shattered window and actually seem hardly to notice it, now wheel the beloved out of the chapel. As they do so, the General Intendant suggests, the curtain should fall. Of course, he leaves the particulars to the imagination of the dramatist.The malicious slander anticipated by the General Intendant begins as soon as the cast list of The Glassworker is pinned to the wall and Klamt discovers that instead of the beloved, she is to play one of the two stout sexagenarian nurses. And that the beloved is to be played by the daughter of the General Intendant.The gist of the slander, which can no doubt be traced back to Klamt, is that the infirmities and limitations of the beloved are also those of the General Intendant’s daughter. That the daughter cannot walk, that she cannot speak, that she expresses herself with her eyes only because she is unable to express herself by any other means. That The Glassworker has been contrived specifically to allow her father to cast her in it. That only a play in which the leading lady is absent from Act I and sits mute and motionless for nearly all of Act II is one that could even conceivably feature the General Intendant’s daughter at the top of the bill.This malicious slander pains the General Intendant. But it moves him to see how little it seems to pain his daughter. She could of course disprove it in an instant. She would only have to stand up or speak. One word would be sufficient. What gives this slander some purchase is her determination to do no such thing. To rehearse the role of the beloved completely in character. To have her father wheel her into the City Theater every morning and wheel her out again at night. To have him lift her onto the stage in his arms. To communicate with no one, not even with him, not even one word. A part of him even envies the degree to which her commitment to her art leaves her indifferent to the world and its scorn.The world is something to which he himself, both as a father and as an arts administrator, has for a long time not been in a position to be indifferent.Nor is he indifferent now. The General Intendant gathers his company. It is true that The Glassworker is contrived, he says: It is contrived to remind you how much an actor can express with even the smallest gesture. The simplest gesture. The Glassworker is indeed contrived—contrived to remind the public of the power of the theater, to remind us in the theater of the power of our art. A power we have all forgotten.The company murmurs.But given the daughter’s refusal to disprove the slander, it does not go away. It only intensifies. It is whispered, presumably first by Klamt, that anything expressed in her eyes is in fact without meaning or intent and bears only an accidental relation to the text of The Glassworker. That her baffled expression isn’t acting, it is actual bafflement. That her horrified expression is actual horror. That when the General Intendant (who receives special permission from the director to join each rehearsal as a kind of informal co-director) devotes all of his co-directing energy to directing his daughter, and in particular to directing, or co-directing, her eyes—which must convey to the last row of the balcony that that man is no glassworker, he’s a bricklayer, and what he’s brought into the world is a far cry from beauty—those hours and hours of rehearsal time are gone, simply gone.How, the General Intendant points out to his company, if you honestly believe the cruel things that you say, do you suppose she will be able to leap to her feet at the climax of the play and exclaim, Your name is Bohuslav! You are a bricklayer!The company murmurs. That’s true. But it is pointed out by Klamt in turn that the scene in which the beloved exclaims, Your name is Bohuslav! You are a bricklayer! is the one scene that is never rehearsed.Finally, and in front of the whole company, the General Intendant kneels before his daughter in her chair and begs her with tears in his eyes and his head in her lap to break character. Not for her sake, he knows she doesn’t care what they think, but for his! He is weak! He does care! But when she doesn’t break character even to decline what he begs of her, he tells the company that he is proud of his daughter and ashamed of himself. Only someone so committed to her role and so indifferent to the world is entitled to call herself an actor.After this, the malicious slander about her expressive gifts is repeated less often, and less gleefully.Not, however, by Klamt, who if anything only escalates her abuse.Klamt claims that the General Intendant does not even come from the world of drama. He comes from the world of dance. He impaired his wife with dance! Slew her with an undanceable dance! A dance no one could dance! So, first of all, they were taking their dramaturgical guidance from someone who has no formal training in theater! And who murdered his wife through choreography! This in the opinion of the finest physicians! But by his lights, she wasn’t dead! No, he took her home. Sustained her somehow, though not in a way anyone would wish to be sustained. Saw an opportunity in all this: a dance opportunity! An opportunity to “start from scratch,” dancewise! Didn’t have the decency to let her die, had to make her keep dancing instead! Of course, this dance didn’t pan out. At first, there was promise. Her movements struck him as entirely new. Or rather—old! Primordial! From a stage in the development of the human organism that preceded our fall into sociality and culture and the stink of the city! Never mind whether they could really be called “dance movements”! He was struck above all by one movement. At intervals, a finger shot to her now-bald brow and traced an arc across the side of her skull. A prehistoric gesture, he thought! The meaning of which was inscrutable to him! Must stem from the innate nature of man! Upon this one primeval movement an entire school of dance could be founded! But no. One day, he notices a painting of them on the eve of their wedding in which she is making the very same movement. Coquettishly tucking a strand of hair behind one ear. Now there is no hair on her head and possibly no essence to her person, but the fashionable world is still moving her muscles! There is no “preceding our fall into sociality”! No escape from “the stink of the city”! No “prehistory”! No “starting from scratch”! Not once you’ve walked even one city block! He decides to have another child by her. Doesn’t know if this is possible. Finds that it is! This one he raises properly! Pristinely! In the dark! In the midst of the city but sheltered from the gestural tyranny of the city! Food through a slot, water through a hole and into a shallow trough! Sheltered from a city that without our knowing it is always telling us how to move and how not to! Enters her room only when she is sleeping so as not to influence her with his movements! Wants nothing more than to embrace her tiny sleeping form but restrains himself in case upon waking she retains a memory of that motion! By a thousand such self-sacrifices ensures that hers is the first childhood free from violence! No movement possibilities are foreclosed to her! Everything is possible! She can move any which way! How his daughter chooses to move is for the first time in the history of man a genuine choice! Now he simply waits to see how she will choose to move! How she will choose to dance! But—she chooses not to move! She chooses not to dance! She chooses to sit! Or else (Klamt has heard it told both ways!) the way in which she chooses to move and dance obliges him to inhibit her movements by means of straps, for her own sake, after which, even once free again, she ceases to move! Whatever the case: After a certain point, there is no movement! No dancing! Yet he cannot quite disabuse himself of the notion that she is, for all that, a dancer! To admit that his daughter is no dancer is to admit that the way he raised her may not have been in her best interest! Only in time does he disabuse himself of the notion that she is a dancer! And only by means of another notion onto which he’s able to transfer the same psychological load: that she is an actor …Now Klamt has gone too far. The members of the company turn away from her in disgust. Imagine reacting so poorly to losing a role! And the stout old nurse is still a speaking part, that’s more than most of them got!Klamt herself becomes the subject of slander. In her increasingly baroque and frankly hysterical rumormongering, some in the company claim to detect not only the rancor of an ousted starlet but also the rage of a jilted lover, an innuendo that the General Intendant asks them to rise above but also does not explicitly dispel.Meanwhile, a consensus begins to form among the members of the company that the daughter’s performance is “powerful.”Rumors of her expressive gifts spread beyond the walls of the City Theater. Before the public has even seen her onstage, she becomes the recipient of an outpouring of adoration.And on the night of the premiere, she leaps to her feet at the climax of the play and exclaims, Your name is Bohuslav! You are a bricklayer! The company is willing to testify to that, the audience is willing to testify to that. She leaped to her feet and exclaimed, Your name is Bohuslav! You are a bricklayer!—the whole city is willing to testify to that, no one will deny it.No one, that is, apart from the aging starlet Klamt. Again and again she refuses—and loudly!—to admit it. Eventually, she is sent to Dr. Krakauer’s sanatorium. Here, Klamt is asked continually by Dr. Krakauer whether it is possible that the General Intendant’s daughter said what everyone heard her say, and Klamt just missed it. She knows that admitting this possibility would be enough to get her discharged. She simply has to say the words It is possible that the General Intendant’s daughter said the words Your name is Bohuslav! You are a bricklayer! and that night she would sleep in her own bed. And privately, she will admit that of course it is possible, anything is possible. But Klamt, too, is committed to her role.This story has been excerpted from Adam Ehrlich Sachs’ forthcoming book, Gretel and the Great War.

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Repatriate yourself! he laughed. Make yourself at home,feel comfortable. I come from a family that laughs aboutconjugal visits. They’re our origin story. My father, keeperof the broken bells and county jails, moved stacks of min-imum sentencing laws over so I could have a seat. Whenhe turned I saw the hump in his back, the bruises fromall the books

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