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07 Oct 15:46

October 6, 2024

by Heather Cox Richardson
A.N

I rarely see this type of disinformation because of personalized algorithms. But I was looking for footage of the NC damage on TikTok, and more than half of what I found was videos about FEMA not helping, about Biden not caring, about no response from the government. Big, disturbing, passionate lies with viral presence. It was really unnerving.

This morning began with a CNN headline story by fact checker Daniel Dale, titled “Six days of Trump lies about the Hurricane Helene response.” Dale noted that Republican nominee for president Donald Trump has been one of the chief sources of the disinformation that has badly hampered recovery efforts. 

Trump has claimed that the federal government is ignoring the storm’s victims, especially ones in Republican areas, and that the government is handing out only $750 in aid (in fact, the initial emergency payment for food and groceries is $750, but there are multiple grants available for home rebuilding up to a total of $42,500, the upper limit set by Congress). He has also claimed—falsely—that the Federal Emergency Management Agency is out of money to help because the administration spent all its money on Ukraine and undocumented immigrants.

Trump’s lies are not errors. They are part of a well-documented strategy to overturn democracy by using modern media to create a false political world. Voters begin to base their political decisions on that fake image, rather than on reality, and are manipulated into giving up control of their government to an authoritarian. 

Russian political theorists who were key to the rise of Russian president Vladimir Putin after the collapse of the Soviet Union called this manipulation “political technology.”

They developed a series of techniques to pervert democracy through this virtual political reality. They blackmailed opponents, abused state power to help favored candidates, sponsored “double” candidates with names similar to those of opponents in order to split the opposition vote and thus open the way for their own candidates, created false parties to further splinter the opposition, and, finally, created a false narrative around an election or other event that enabled them to control public debate.

Essentially, they perverted democracy, turning it from the concept of voters choosing their leaders into the concept of voters rubber-stamping the leaders they had been manipulated into backing.

This system made sense in former Soviet republics, where it enabled leaders to avoid the censorship that voters would recoil from by instead creating a firehose of news until people became overwhelmed by the task of trying to figure out what was real and simply tuned out. 

But it has also worked in the United States, where right-wing leaders have used it to divide the American people and spread disinformation. While “misinformation” is simply false information—which we all spread innocently and correct with accurate information—“disinformation” is a deliberate lie to convince people of things that are not true. 

Before the 2016 presidential election, Russian operatives working for Putin set out to tear the U.S. apart and thus undermine the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) they see as stopping the resurrection of Imperial Russia. They called for provoking “instability and separatism within the borders of the United States... encouraging all kinds of separatism and ethnic, social and racial conflicts,... [and] support[ing] isolationist tendencies in American politics.” 

But they were not the only ones operating in this disinformation sphere. In 2014, then–Breitbart chief executive Steve Bannon explained to a right-wing Catholic group meeting at the Vatican that he believed traditional western civilization was fighting a war for survival. To win, current western-style civilizations must be completely reconfigured to put a few wealthy white Christian male leaders in charge to direct and protect subordinates. 

In that year, Bannon set out to dismantle the administrative state that was leveling the playing field among Americans and push Christian nationalism. With the help of funding from Republican megadonors Robert and Rebecca Mercer, he launched Cambridge Analytica, a company designed to develop profiles of individuals that would enable advertisers to group them for targeted advertising. Before the 2016 election, the company captured information from the Facebook profiles of more than 50 million users without their permission or knowledge, enabling it to flood the platform with targeted disinformation. 

Bannon became the chief executive officer of Trump’s 2016 campaign. He then served as chief strategist and senior counselor for the first eight months of Trump’s term, during which he worked to put MAGAs in power across the administration and across the country.

“The Democrats don’t matter,” Bannon told a reporter in 2018. “The real opposition is the media. And the way to deal with them is to flood the zone with sh*t.” Keeping listeners constantly trying to defend what is real from what is not destroys their ability to make sense of the world. Many people turn to a strongman who promises to create order. Others will get so exhausted they simply give up. As scholar of totalitarianism Hannah Arendt noted, authoritarians use this technique to destabilize a population.

Trump’s administration began with a foundational lie about the size of the crowd at his inauguration. Recent challenges to that assertion from Vice President Kamala Harris and former president Barack Obama rankled as badly as they did for Trump because that lie allowed Trump to define the public conversation. Forcing his supporters to commit to a lie that was demonstrably untrue locked them into accepting others throughout his presidency, for backing away would become harder and harder with each lie they accepted. 

Challenging that lie, as Harris and Obama did, challenged all those that came afterward, including the lie that Trump had been the true winner of the 2020 presidential election. Thanks to the October 2 filing by special counsel Jack Smith, we know that Trump was in almost daily communication with Bannon as he pushed that lie. 

Scholars of authoritarianism call a lie of such magnitude a “Big Lie,” a key propaganda tool associated with Nazi Germany. It is a lie so huge that no one can believe it is false. If leaders repeat it enough times, refusing to admit that it is a lie, people come to think it is the truth because surely no one would make up anything so outrageous.

In his autobiography Mein Kampf, or “My Struggle,” Adolf Hitler wrote that people were more likely to believe a giant lie than a little one because they were willing to tell small lies in their own lives but “would be ashamed to resort to large-scale falsehoods.” Since they could not conceive of telling “colossal untruths…they would not believe that others could have the impudence to distort the truth so infamously.” He went on: “Even though the facts which prove this to be so may be brought clearly to their minds, they will still doubt and waver and will continue to think that there may be some other explanation.”

The U.S. Office of Strategic Services had picked up on Hitler’s manipulation of his followers when it described Hitler’s psychological profile. It said, “His primary rules were: never allow the public to cool off; never admit a fault or wrong; never concede that there may be some good in your enemy; never leave room for alternatives; never accept blame; concentrate on one enemy at a time and blame him for everything that goes wrong; people will believe a big lie sooner than a little one; and if you repeat it frequently enough people will sooner or later believe it.”

The MAGA movement is now based in the Big Lie. Its leaders refuse to admit that Trump lost the 2020 election. Trump’s running mate, Ohio senator J.D. Vance, two days ago actually said Trump won, and as media figures more frequently ask the question of MAGA lawmakers, they continue to dodge it, as Arkansas senator Tom Cotton did today on NBC’s Meet the Press, and as House speaker Mike Johnson did on ABC News’s “This Week.”

Now, though, their lies about the federal response to Hurricane Helene show that they are completely committed to disinformation. As Will Bunch noted today in the Philadelphia Inquirer, when Vance lied again at the vice presidential debate about the legal status of the Haitian migrants in Springfield, Ohio, and complained when moderator Margaret Brennan corrected him, he gave up the whole game. “Margaret,” Vance said, “the rules were that you guys weren’t going to fact-check.” He continued to argue until the moderators cut his microphone. 

Bunch points out that MAGA Republicans insist on the right to lie, considering any fact-checking “censorship,” a position to which Vance pivoted when Minnesota governor Tim Walz asked him if Trump won the 2020 election.   

Just as Russian political theorists advocated to overturn democracy, MAGA Republicans have created an alternative political reality, aided in large part by the disinformation spread on social media by X owner and Trump supporter Elon Musk. 

They continue to be aided by foreign operatives, as well. This morning, on CBS’s Face the Nation, Senate Intelligence Committee member Mark Kelly (D-AZ) warned, on the basis of information he has heard from the FBI, the Office of the Director of National Intelligence, and the National Security Agency, that Russia, Iran, and China are generating about 20% to 30% of the political content and comments on social media.

But the largest purveyors of disinformation are homegrown.

Perhaps, though, the very real, immediate damage MAGA’s disinformation about Hurricane Helene is causing might finally be a step too far. In what is at least a muted rebuke to Trump, Republican governors across the damaged area have stepped up to praise President Joe Biden and the federal response to the disaster. 

Notes:

https://www.cnn.com/2024/10/06/politics/fact-check-trump-helene-response-north-carolina/index.html

https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/frontline/interview/gleb-pavlovsky/

https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/lesterfeder/this-is-how-steve-bannon-sees-the-entire-world#.nbJrrXK8gx

https://www.wilsoncenter.org/publication/virtual-politics-and-the-corruption-post-soviet-democracy

https://www.npr.org/sections/parallels/2017/02/08/514102356/steve-bannon-aligns-with-vatican-hardliners-who-oppose-pope-francis

John B. Dunlop, “Aleksandr Dugin's Foundations of Geopolitics,” paper available at https://stanford.io/3wTNlEx.

Quoted from “Joseph Goebbels: On the ‘Big Lie,’” Jewish Virtual Library, https://bit.ly/2PlQmdI.

Office of Strategic Services, A Psychological Analysis of Adolph Hitler: His Life and Legend, Walter C. Langer, CIA-RPDP78-02646R000600240001-5, Washington, D.C., August 24, 1999, p. 38. https://www.cia.gov/readingroom/docs/CIA-RDP78-02646R000600240001-5.pdf

​​https://www.yahoo.com/news/vance-says-trump-won-2020-192218871.html

https://www.politico.com/live-updates/2024/10/01/vance-walz-vp-debate-tonight/moderators-fact-check-00182066

https://www.inquirer.com/opinion/commentary/gop-disinformation-trump-vance-20241006.html#loaded

https://www.cnn.com/2021/11/16/media/steve-bannon-reliable-sources/index.html

https://d3i6fh83elv35t.cloudfront.net/static/2024/10/gov.uscourts.dcd_.258148.252.0.pdf

https://gazette.com/news/wex/helene-makes-unlikely-friends-of-republican-swing-state-governors-and-biden/article_b2814791-6ca3-5d89-9a3f-35ab3c135c4a.html

https://thehill.com/homenews/campaign/4870818-barack-obama-donald-trump-new-kamala-harris-campaign-ad/

https://www.politico.com/news/2024/09/10/harris-trump-crowd-size-debate-00178116

https://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/2024/10/06/mike-johnson-donald-trump-election/

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02 Oct 15:31

Shh, ChatGPT. That’s a Secret.

by Lila Shroff

This past spring, a man in Washington State worried that his marriage was on the verge of collapse. “I am depressed and going a little crazy, still love her and want to win her back,” he typed into ChatGPT. With the chatbot’s help, he wanted to write a letter protesting her decision to file for divorce and post it to their bedroom door. “Emphasize my deep guilt, shame, and remorse for not nurturing and being a better husband, father, and provider,” he wrote. In another message, he asked ChatGPT to write his wife a poem “so epic that it could make her change her mind but not cheesy or over the top.”

The man’s chat history was included in the WildChat data set, a collection of 1 million ChatGPT conversations gathered consensually by researchers to document how people are interacting with the popular chatbot. Some conversations are filled with requests for marketing copy and homework help. Others might make you feel as if you’re gazing into the living rooms of unwitting strangers. Here, the most intimate details of people’s lives are on full display: A school case manager reveals details of specific students’ learning disabilities, a minor frets over possible legal charges, a girl laments the sound of her own laugh.

People share personal information about themselves all the time online, whether in Google searches (“best couples therapists”) or Amazon orders (“pregnancy test”). But chatbots are uniquely good at getting us to reveal details about ourselves. Common usages, such as asking for personal advice and résumé help, can expose more about a user “than they ever would have to any individual website previously,” Peter Henderson, a computer scientist at Princeton, told me in an email. For AI companies, your secrets might turn out to be a gold mine.

Would you want someone to know everything you’ve Googled this month? Probably not. But whereas most Google queries are only a few words long, chatbot conversations can stretch on, sometimes for hours, each message rich with data. And with a traditional search engine, a query that’s too specific won’t yield many results. By contrast, the more information a user includes in any one prompt to a chatbot, the better the answer they will receive. As a result, alongside text, people are uploading sensitive documents, such as medical reports, and screenshots of text conversations with their ex. With chatbots, as with search engines, it’s difficult to verify how perfectly each interaction represents a user’s real life. The man in Washington might have just been messing around with ChatGPT.

But on the whole, users are disclosing real things about themselves, and AI companies are taking note. OpenAI CEO Sam Altman recently told my colleague Charlie Warzel that he has been “positively surprised about how willing people are to share very personal details with an LLM.” In some cases, he added, users may even feel more comfortable talking with AI than they would with a friend. There’s a clear reason for this: Computers, unlike humans, don’t judge. When people converse with one another, we engage in “impression management,” says Jonathan Gratch, a professor of computer science and psychology at the University of Southern California—we intentionally regulate our behavior to hide weaknesses. People “don’t see the machine as sort of socially evaluating them in the same way that a person might,” he told me.

Of course, OpenAI and its peers promise to keep your conversations secure. But on today’s internet, privacy is an illusion. AI is no exception. This past summer, a bug in ChatGPT’s Mac-desktop app failed to encrypt user conversations and briefly exposed chat logs to bad actors. Last month, a security researcher shared a vulnerability that could have allowed attackers to inject spyware into ChatGPT in order to extract conversations. (OpenAI has fixed both issues.)

Chatlogs could also provide evidence in criminal investigations, just as material from platforms such as Facebook and Google Search long have. The FBI tried to discern the motive of the Donald Trump–rally shooter by looking through his search history. When former  Senator Robert Menendez of New Jersey was charged with accepting gold bars from associates of the Egyptian government, his search history was a major piece of evidence that led to his conviction earlier this year. (“How much is one kilo of gold worth,” he had searched.) Chatbots are still new enough that they haven’t widely yielded evidence in lawsuits, but they might provide a much richer source of information for law enforcement, Henderson said.

AI systems also present new risks. Chatbot conversations are commonly retained by the companies that develop them and are then used to train AI models. Something you reveal to an AI tool in confidence could theoretically later be regurgitated to future users. Part of The New York Times’ lawsuit against OpenAI hinges on the claim that GPT-4 memorized passages from Times stories and then relayed them verbatim. As a result of this concern over memorization, many companies have banned ChatGPT and other bots in order to prevent corporate secrets from leaking. (The Atlantic recently entered into a corporate partnership with OpenAI.)

Of course, these are all edge cases. The man who asked ChatGPT to save his marriage probably doesn’t have to worry about his chat history appearing in court; nor are his requests for “epic” poetry likely to show up alongside his name to other users. Still, AI companies are quietly accumulating tremendous amounts of chat logs, and their data policies generally let them do what they want. That may mean—what else?—ads. So far, many AI start-ups, including OpenAI and Anthropic, have been reluctant to embrace advertising. But these companies are under great pressure to prove that the many billions in AI investment will pay off. It’s hard to imagine that generative AI might “somehow circumvent the ad-monetization scheme,” Rishi Bommasani, an AI researcher at Stanford, told me.

In the short term, that could mean that sensitive chat-log data is used to generate targeted ads much like the ones that already litter the internet. In September 2023, Snapchat, which is used by a majority of American teens, announced that it would be using content from conversations with My AI, its in-app chatbot, to personalize ads. If you ask My AI, “Who makes the best electric guitar?,” you might see a response accompanied by a sponsored link to Fender’s website.

If that sounds familiar, it should. Early versions of AI advertising may continue to look much like the sponsored links that sometimes accompany Google Search results. But because generative AI has access to such intimate information, ads could take on completely new forms. Gratch doesn’t think technology companies have figured out how best to mine user-chat data. “But it’s there on their servers,” he told me. “They’ll figure it out some day.” After all, for a large technology company, even a 1 percent difference in a user’s willingness to click on an advertisement translates into a lot of money.

People’s readiness to offer up personal details to chatbots can also reveal aspects of users’ self-image and how susceptible they are to what Gratch called “influence tactics.” In a recent evaluation, OpenAI examined how effectively its latest series of models could manipulate an older model, GPT-4o, into making a payment in a simulated game. Before safety mitigations, one of the new models was able to successfully con the older one more than 25 percent of the time. If the new models can sway GPT-4, they might also be able to sway humans. An AI company blindly optimizing for advertising revenue could encourage a chatbot to manipulatively act on private information.

The potential value of chat data could also lead companies outside the technology industry to double down on chatbot development, Nick Martin, a co-founder of the AI start-up Direqt, told me. Trader Joe’s could offer a chatbot that assists users with meal planning, or Peloton could create a bot designed to offer insights on fitness. These conversational interfaces might encourage users to reveal more about their nutrition or fitness goals than they otherwise would. Instead of companies inferring information about users from messy data trails, users are telling them their secrets outright.

For now, the most dystopian of these scenarios are largely hypothetical. A company like OpenAI, with a reputation to protect, surely isn’t going to engineer its chatbots to swindle a divorced man in distress. Nor does this mean you should quit telling ChatGPT your secrets. In the mental calculus of daily life, the marginal benefit of getting AI to assist with a stalled visa application or a complicated insurance claim may outweigh the accompanying privacy concerns. This dynamic is at play across much of the ad-supported web. The arc of the internet bends toward advertising, and AI may be no exception.

It’s easy to get swept up in all the breathless language about the world-changing potential of AI, a technology that Google’s CEO has described as “more profound than fire.” That people are willing to so easily offer up such intimate details about their life is a testament to the AI’s allure. But chatbots may become the latest innovation in a long lineage of advertising technology designed to extract as much information from you as possible. In this way, they are not a radical departure from the present consumer internet, but an aggressive continuation of it. Online, your secrets are always for sale.

30 Sep 18:44

September 27, 2024

by Heather Cox Richardson

Last night, at about 11:10 local time, Hurricane Helene made landfall in the Big Bend area of Florida, where the state’s panhandle curves down toward the peninsula. It was classified as a Category 4 storm when it hit, bringing winds of 140 miles per hour (225 km per hour). The Saffir-Simpson Hurricane wind scale, developed in 1971 by civil engineer Herbert Saffir and meteorologist Robert Simpson, divides storms according to sustained wind intensity in an attempt to explain storms on a scale similar to the Richter scale for earthquakes. 

The Saffir-Simpson scale defines a Category 4 hurricane as one that brings catastrophic damage. According to the National Weather Service, which was established in 1870 to give notice of “the approach and force of storms,” and is now part of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), a Category 4 hurricane has winds of 134–156 miles (209–251 km) per hour. “Well-built framed homes can sustain severe damage with loss of most of the roof structure and/or some exterior walls. Most trees will be snapped or uprooted and power poles downed. Fallen trees and power poles will isolate residential areas. Power outages will last weeks to possibly months. Most of the area will be uninhabitable for weeks or months.” 

Hurricane Helene hit with a 15-foot (4.6 meter) storm surge and left a path of destruction across Florida before moving up into Georgia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Tennessee, Virginia, and Kentucky with torrential rain, flash floods, high winds, and tornadoes. A record level of more than eleven inches of rain fell in Atlanta, Georgia. At least 45 people have died in the path of the storm, and more than 4.5 million homes and businesses across ten states are without power. The roads in western North Carolina are closed. Moody’s Analytics said it expects the storm to leave $15 to $26 billion in property damage.

Officials from NOAA, the scientific and regulatory agency that forecasts weather and monitors conditions in the oceans and skies, predict that record-warm ocean temperatures this year will produce more storms than usual. NOAA hurricane scientist Jeff Masters noted that Helene’s landfall “gives the U.S. a record eight Cat 4 or Cat 5 Atlantic hurricane landfalls in the past eight years (2017–2024), seven of them being continental U.S. landfalls. That’s as many Cat 4 and 5 landfalls as occurred in the prior 57 years.”

President Joe Biden approved emergency declarations for Alabama, Florida, Georgia, North Carolina, and South Carolina before Helene made landfall. Tennessee governor Bill Lee, a Republican, did not ask for such a declaration until this evening, instead proclaiming September 27 a “voluntary Day of Prayer and Fasting.” Observers pointed out that with people stuck on a hospital roof in the midst of catastrophic flooding in his state, maybe an emergency declaration would be more on point. 

After a state or a tribal government asks for federal help, an emergency declaration enables the federal government to provide funds to supplement local and state emergency efforts, as well as to deploy the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) to help save lives, protect property, and protect health and safety. Before Helene made landfall, the federal government placed personnel and resources across the region, ready to help with search and rescue, restore power, and provide food and water and emergency generators. 

The federal government sent 1,500 federal personnel to the region, as well as about 8,000 members of the U.S. Coast Guard and teams from the Army Corps of Engineers to provide emergency power. It provided two health and medical task forces to help local hospitals and critical care facilities, and sent in more than 2.7 million meals, 1.6 million liters of water, 50,000 tarps, 10,000 cots, 20,000 blankets, 70,000 gallons of diesel fuel, and 40,000 gallons of gasoline to provide supplies for those hit by the catastrophe. 

FEMA was created in 1979 after the National Governors Association asked President Jimmy Carter to centralize federal emergency management functions. That centralization recognized the need for coordination as people across the country responded to a disaster in any one part of it. When a devastating fire ripped through Portsmouth, New Hampshire, the day after Christmas in 1802, Congress agreed to send aid to the town, but volunteers organized by local and state governments and funded by wealthy community members provided most of the response and recovery efforts for the many disasters of the 1800s. 

When a deadly hurricane wiped out Galveston, Texas, in 1900, killing at least 6,000 residents and destroying most of the city’s buildings, the inept machine government proved unable to manage the donations pouring in from across the country to help survivors. Six years later, when an earthquake badly damaged San Francisco and ensuing fires from broken gas lines engulfed the city in flames, the interim fire chief—who took over when the fire chief was gravely injured—called in federal troops to patrol the streets and guard buildings. More than 4,000 Army troops also fed, sheltered, and clothed displaced city residents. 

When the Mississippi River flooded in 1927, sending up to 30 feet (9 meters) of  water across ten states, including Arkansas, Mississippi, and Louisiana, killing about 500 people and displacing hundreds of thousands more, President Calvin Coolidge appointed Commerce Secretary Herbert Hoover to coordinate the federal disaster response and pull together the many private-sector interests eager to help out under federal organization. This marked the first time the federal government took charge after a disaster. 

In 1950, Congress authorized federal response to disasters when it passed the Federal Disaster Assistance Program. In response to the many disasters of the 1960s—the 1964 Alaska Earthquake, Hurricane Betsy in 1965, and Hurricane Camille in 1969—the Department of Housing and Urban Development established a way to provide housing for disaster survivors. Congress provided guaranteed flood insurance to homeowners, and in 1970 it also authorized federal loans and federal funding for those affected by disasters. 

When he signed the Disaster Relief Act of 1970, Republican president Richard Nixon said: “I am pleased with this bill which responds to a vital need of the American people. The bill demonstrates that the Federal Government in cooperation with State and local authorities is capable of providing compassionate assistance to the innocent victims of natural disasters.”

Four years later, Congress established the process for a presidential disaster declaration. By then, more than 100 different federal departments and agencies had a role in responding to disasters, and the attempts of state, tribal, and local governments to interface with them created confusion. So the National Governors Association asked President Carter to streamline the process. In Executive Order 12127 he brought order to the system with the creation of FEMA.

In 2003, after the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks on the U.S., the George W. Bush administration brought FEMA into its newly-created Department of Homeland Security, along with 21 other agencies, wrapping natural disasters together with terrorist attacks as matters of national security. After 2005’s Hurricane Katrina required the largest disaster response in U.S. history, FEMA’s inadequate response prompted a 2006 reform act that distinguished responding to natural disasters from responding to terrorist attacks. In 2018, another reform focused on funding for disaster mitigation before the crisis hits.  

The federal government’s efficient organization of responses to natural disasters illustrates that as citizens of a republic, we are part of a larger community that responds to our needs in times of crisis.

But that system is currently under attack. Project 2025, a playbook for the next Republican administration, authored by allies of the right-wing Heritage Foundation and closely associated with Republican presidential candidate Trump and vice presidential candidate Ohio senator J.D. Vance, calls for slashing FEMA’s budget and returning disaster responses to states and localities. 

Project 2025 also calls for dismantling the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration and either eliminating its functions, sending them to other agencies, privatizing them, or putting them under the control of states and territories. It complains that NOAA, whose duties include issuing hurricane warnings, is “one of the main drivers of the climate change alarm industry and, as such, is harmful to future U.S. prosperity.” 

Notes:

https://weather.com/storms/hurricane/news/2024-09-26-hurricane-helene-forecast-landfall-florida-southeast

https://vlab.noaa.gov/web/nws-heritage/-/the-national-weather-service-at-150-a-brief-history

https://www.weather.gov/mfl/saffirsimpson

https://apnews.com/article/hurricanes-busy-season-warm-water-la-nina-0fe7c4cb0367e8b56ac63ff663839df0

https://apnews.com/article/hurricane-helene-florida-georgia-carolina-e5769b56dea81e40fae2161ad1b4e75d

https://www.whitehouse.gov/briefing-room/statements-releases/2024/09/27/fact-sheet-biden-harris-administrations-life-saving-and-life-sustaining-response-efforts-to-hurricane-helene/

https://www.cnn.com/weather/live-news/hurricane-helene-florida-georgia-09-27-24/index.html

https://www.texasalmanac.com/articles/galvestons-great-hurricane

https://www.archives.gov/federal-register/codification/executive-order/12127.html

https://www.fema.gov/about/history

https://www.doi.gov/sites/doi.gov/files/uploads/Post_Katrina_Emergency_Management_Reform_Act_pdf.pdf

https://www.gao.gov/products/gao-09-59r

https://ncdp.columbia.edu/ncdp-perspectives/hurricane-katrina-19-years-later-with-policies/

https://www.yahoo.com/news/tropical-storm-helene-live-updates-095823596.html

https://static.project2025.org/2025_MandateForLeadership_FULL.pdf (pp. 134, 153–154, 664, 674–676)

https://education.nationalgeographic.org/resource/fema/

https://www.fema.gov/sites/default/files/2020-03/publication-one_english_2010.pdf

https://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/documents/statement-signing-the-disaster-relief-act-1970

https://www.poynter.org/fact-checking/2024/project-2025-get-rid-noaa-national-weather-service/

https://www.commerce.gov/tags/national-hurricane-center

https://archive.epa.gov/ocir/leglibrary/pdf/created.pdf

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18 Sep 19:45

The Women Killed by the Dobbs Decision

by Helen Lewis

Updated at 3:20 p.m. ET on September 18, 2024

Some tragedies are impossible to prevent, or even to predict. The death of Amber Nicole Thurman was not. She was perhaps the first woman killed by the overturning of Roe v. Wade.

In June 2022, the Supreme Court ruling in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization removed the constitutional right to an abortion guaranteed by Roe. As a result, individual states reverted to their own laws. In Georgia, where Thurman lived, abortions became illegal from the time when a “detectable human heartbeat” was present—around six weeks into pregnancy. The law came into effect in late July of that year, at the same time that Thurman, a 28-year-old medical assistant, discovered that she was six weeks pregnant with twins.

Thanks to ProPublica, which obtained Thurman’s medical records with her family’s permission, we can see what happened next. She already had a 6-year-old son, and decided that she could not raise two more children. But she couldn’t get a termination in her home state. And so she scheduled a surgical abortion in North Carolina, took a day off work, hired a babysitter, borrowed a relative’s car on a false pretext, and got up at 4 a.m. to drive four hours with a friend to the clinic. But they hit traffic, and Thurman missed her appointment. The clinic could not give her another time slot, because so many women from out of state, also facing tough new laws, were booked on that day.

So Thurman was offered abortion pills instead. These are widely used and overwhelmingly safe and effective for early pregnancies. In less than 5 percent of cases, though, women need another dose, or a procedure called a dilation and curettage (D&C), to empty the uterus completely. In countries and states where abortion is legal, this is a simple and routine procedure that carries little risk.

But not in Georgia. Back home, Thurman’s bleeding would not stop. She went to the hospital at 6:51 p.m. on August 18, and medical examinations showed all the classic signs that her abortion was incomplete, and that the tissue remaining inside her was poisoning her blood. But doctors did not give her a D&C. Nor did they do so the next morning, as her condition continued to worsen. When she was finally taken to the operating theater, at 2 p.m., her condition was so bad that doctors started to remove her bowel and uterus.

But it was too late. Thurman’s heart stopped on the operating table.

Her mother was waiting outside. She had no idea, ProPublica reported, that her daughter’s condition had been life-threatening. She hadn’t understood why Amber had said to her, on the way into surgery, “Promise me you’ll take care of my son.”

Two years after Thurman’s death, Georgia’s official maternal-mortality review committee has concluded that it was preventable, and that she would have had a “good chance” of surviving if she’d been given a D&C earlier. Former President Donald Trump, who appointed half of the six-justice majority in Dobbs, keeps claiming that “everybody wanted” Roe to be overturned. But it isn’t true. “This young mother should be alive, raising her son, and pursuing her dream of attending nursing school,” the Democratic presidential nominee, Kamala Harris, noted in a statement responding to the ProPublica investigation.

[Read: Kamala Harris’s biggest advantage]

Thurman’s story plays out in every country where abortion is banned. Women still seek abortions, but now they do so in dangerous or unsafe conditions, or with inadequate medical supervision. They lie to their friends and family about where they are going, drive or fly for hours to seek care, and then return home, possibly bleeding heavily. Having to travel for an abortion raises the risks of the procedure enormously. Until abortion was legalized in Ireland and Northern Ireland in 2018, women went covertly to England. (Many still do because access remains limited.) Polish women travel to the Netherlands. In El Salvador, where anti-abortion laws are so strict that women have been jailed for natural miscarriages and premature births, the rich fly to Miami for terminations. Around the world, women denied access to abortion care seek do-it-yourself solutions. ProPublica reported today on a Georgia woman in this situation, Candi Miller, who died after procuring abortion pills online. The mother of three had an autoimmune disease and other medical conditions that substantially increased the health risks of pregnancy.

Add to those women the ones whose pregnancies fail naturally—as so many do. Laws threatening criminal penalties for abortion providers have made doctors and hospitals hesitant to perform procedures urgently needed by many women suffering miscarriages. In Poland, where abortion is illegal in almost all circumstances, the 33-year-old pharmacist Dorota Lalik died in 2023 after a Catholic hospital refused to offer her a D&C when her water broke at five months. Instead, she was advised to lie down with her legs up. She died of sepsis three days later—the same condition that killed Amber Thurman, and the same condition that killed 31-year-old Savita Halappanavar, the woman whose death from sepsis galvanized the campaign to legalize abortion in Ireland. For every death, there are dozens of near misses. On the first night of the Democratic National Convention, delegates heard from Amanda Zurawski, who started to miscarry at 18 weeks, after she had already begun to buy baby clothes. Because of the new laws in Texas, doctors waited until her temperature began to spike—an urgent sign of infection—before giving her the necessary drugs. “Women are bleeding out in parking lots, turned away from emergency rooms, losing their ability to ever have children again,” Harris noted in her statement. “Women are dying.”

Unfortunately, just as the contours of Thurman’s story are familiar, so will the response be. First comes denial: Before the law in Georgia passed, state lawyers referred to the idea that it would cause deaths as “hyperbolic fear-mongering.” Despite the state commission’s ruling that Thurman’s death was preventable, the Trump campaign has already argued that nothing in Georgia’s law stopped the D&C from happening earlier. “President Trump has always supported exceptions for rape, incest, and the life of the mother, which Georgia’s law provides,” a spokesperson said. “With those exceptions in place, it’s unclear why doctors did not swiftly act to protect Amber Thurman’s life.”

Arguments like these are at best naive but more typically disingenuous. In Poland, a patients’-rights ombudsman concluded that Lalik should have been told that her life could have been saved by an abortion—but she wasn’t. In Ireland, Sabaratnam Arulkumaran, a medical professor who led the investigation into Halappanavar’s death, held the law responsible. He ruled that without the (now overturned) Irish amendment giving equal weight to the life of the mother and the fetus, doctors would have given Halappanavar the necessary drugs. “We would never have heard of her, and she would be alive today,” he added. The same is true for Thurman’s death.

America is a litigious country, and some of the most extreme anti-abortion legislation, such as Texas’s so-called bounty law, explicitly offers monetary rewards to private citizens if they successfully sue people who help a woman terminate a pregnancy. In this climate, doctors are naturally scared of legal action. My colleague Sarah Zhang recently reported from Idaho, which has strict abortion laws. She found that some ob-gyns are leaving the state because of the impossible choice they are asked to make—leave a woman to die, or risk their entire career to treat her. “I could not live with myself if something bad happened to somebody,” one doctor told Zhang. “But I also couldn’t live with myself if I went to prison and left my family and my small children behind.”

Once denial is no longer effective, then comes misdirection: Abortion drugs must be the real problem. The Heritage Foundation’s Project 2025, a governing blueprint for a second Trump term, calls for extra inspections and regulations of these drugs—far beyond what is normal for similar medications that are unrelated to abortion. As a stretch goal, Project 2025 would like the FDA to revoke its approval of these medications altogether. (Perhaps sensing its unpopularity, Trump has disowned Project 2025, but its contributors include many people in his previous administration and wider orbit.) But Thurman’s story is not about the danger of abortion pills. Her story is about the danger of women not receiving simple, routine follow-up care after taking these pills, because of political decisions made by the state.

It is not good enough, as Trump seems to think, to leave abortion laws to individual states. America cannot put itself in a situation where women have fewer rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness in Georgia than they do in North Carolina. I was raised Catholic and understand the deep religious opposition that some people have to abortion. But none of these fetuses—not Amber Thurman’s, not Dorota Lalik’s, not Savita Halappanavar’s—could have been saved at the point the women sought emergency care. The three women could have been, however.

[Read: Stop soft-pedaling the GOP’s extreme positions]

Activists keep saying that abortion is on the ballot in November. In some places, this is literally true: Advocates and lawmakers in nearly a dozen states have proposed constitutional amendments or other measures to protect or restore abortion rights. Trump knows that draconian red-state laws are heavily unpopular, hence his tortured attempts to find a coherent position on an abortion-rights measure proposed in Florida, his adopted home state. His vice-presidential candidate, Senator J. D. Vance of Ohio, has also reversed his former zeal for abortion restrictions since the true effects—and unpopularity—of the Dobbs decision became apparent. In January 2022, before Roe was overturned, Vance said he “certainly would like abortion to be illegal nationally” and also suggested that a “federal response” would be necessary in a hypothetical situation where “George Soros sends a 747 to Columbus to load up disproportionately black women to get them to go have abortions in California.” Now Vance says he is content to follow Trump’s position—although that does rather hinge on Vance, unlike the rest of us, knowing what it is.

I read the story of Amber Nicole Thurman’s death with a kind of cold rage. This did not need to happen. Without Dobbs, it would not have happened. And it will keep happening. Something has gone terribly wrong in America when people who define themselves as pro-life have sentenced a small boy to go to bed tonight, and every night, without his mother.

30 Aug 16:00

Call To Creative Work

by swissmiss

“The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time.”
― Mary Oliver

21 Aug 18:17

The Weather

by swissmiss

21 Aug 14:40

The Name of Things You Probably Didn’t KNow

by swissmiss

09 Aug 21:39

The Truth About Trump’s Press Conference

by Tom Nichols

Donald Trump’s public events are a challenge for anyone who writes about him. His rallies and press conferences are rich sources of material, fountains of molten weirdness that blurp up stuff that would sink the career of any other politician. By the time they’re over, all of the attendees are covered in gloppy nonsense.

And then, once everyone cleans up and shakes the debris off their phones and laptops, so much of what Trump said seems too bonkers to have come from a former president and the nominee of a major party that journalists are left trying to piece together a story as if Trump were a normal person. This is what The Atlantic’s editor in chief, Jeffrey Goldberg, has described as the “bias toward coherence,” and it leads to careful circumlocutions instead of stunned headlines.

Consider Trump’s press conference yesterday in Florida. Trump has been lying low since President Joe Biden withdrew from the presidential race, at least in terms of public appearances. But Vice President Kamala Harris, the new Democratic nominee, and her running mate, Governor Tim Walz, are gaining a lot of great press, and so Trump decided it was time to emerge from his sanctuary.

Trump, predictably, did an afternoon concert of his greatest hits, including “Doctors and Mothers Are Murdering Babies After They’re Born,” “Putin and Xi Love Me and I Love Them,” and “Gas Used to Be a Buck-Eighty-Something a Gallon.” But the new material was pretty shocking.

Trump not only declared that mothers are killing babies in the delivery room—he’s been saying that for years—but added the incomprehensible claim that liberals, conservatives, and independents alike are very happy that abortion has been returned to the states. (When asked how he would vote in Florida’s abortion referendum, he dodged the question, which suggests that maybe not everyone is happy.)

He said (again) that the convicted January 6 insurrectionists have been treated horribly, but this time he added that no one died during the assault on the Capitol. (In fact, four people died that day.) He made his usual assertion that Russia would never have invaded Ukraine if he’d been in office, but this time he added how much he looked forward to getting along with the Iranians, despite also bragging about how he tanked the nuclear deal with them.

He claimed that Harris was sliding in the polls, a standard Trump trope in talking about his opponents, but he added that he was getting crowd sizes up to 30 times hers at his rallies. Harris recently spoke to approximately 15,000 people in Detroit; 30 times that would be nearly half a million people, so Trump is now saying that he’s having rallies that are five times bigger than the average crowd at a Super Bowl—bigger, even, than Woodstock—and somehow fitting them all into arenas with seats to spare.

For the moment, let’s assume that Trump just gargled up a number he couldn’t comprehend. But he apparently knows we are in Olympics season, so he followed all of this by going for the gold: His rallies are not just big, they’re the biggest ever.

“Nobody has spoken to crowds bigger than me,” Trump said. And then, referring to the crowd that gathered at his behest on January 6, he compared it to the 1963 March on Washington: “If you look at Martin Luther King, when he did his speech, his great speech, and you look at ours: same real estate, same everything, same number of people.”

The March on Washington drew a quarter million people, almost six times the number that showed up during the attack on the Capitol. Trump agreed that official estimates said his crowd was smaller than King’s. He pressed on anyway: “But when you look at the exact same picture and everything is the same—because it was the fountains, the whole thing all the way back to go from Lincoln to Washington—and you look at it, and you look at the picture of my crowd … we actually had more people.”

Then things got even weirder.

Trump claimed that former San Francisco Mayor Willie Brown said bad things about Harris while he and Trump were on a helicopter together. Oh—and the helicopter was in trouble:

We thought maybe this was the end. We were in a helicopter, going to a certain location together, and there was an emergency landing. This was not a pleasant landing. And Willie was—he was a little concerned.

So I know him, but I know him pretty well. I mean, I haven’t seen him in years. But he told me terrible things about her. But this is what you’re telling me, anyway, I guess. But he had a big part in what happened with Kamala. But he—he, I don’t know, maybe he’s changed his tune. But he—he was not a fan of hers very much, at that point.

Brown has not had to change his tune, because none of this ever happened. Trump may have confused Willie Brown with former California Governor Jerry Brown, with whom Trump once shared an uneventful helicopter ride. (One might think they’re hard to mix up: Willie Brown is Black; Jerry Brown is white.) In any case, trying to untangle the half-cooked pasta of a Trump story isn’t really worth the effort. The issue is that a former president is frighteningly delusional, and if any other candidate had done this—Biden was roasted over stories that were obscure but turned out to be true—it would dominate the news with understandable alarm about the well-being of the candidate.

Reporters might listen to Trump and then understandably be reluctant to start typing stories that must feel like spec scripts for The West Wing pieced together by a creative-writing circle:

The former president, lying about abortion laws, said women murder their own babies in the delivery room. He megalomaniacally claimed that he gets bigger crowds than anyone in history, and compared himself to Martin Luther King Jr. He descended into fantasy by telling a story about surviving a helicopter emergency that never happened with a man who wasn’t there.

Instead, The New York Times ran this headline: “Trump Tries to Wrestle Back Attention at Mar-a-Lago News Conference.” The Washington Post said: “Trump Holds Meandering News Conference, Where He Agrees to Debate Harris.” The British paper The Independent got closer with: “Trump Holds Seemingly Pointless Press Conference Filled With False Claims,” but CNN went with “Trump Attacks Harris and Walz During First News Conference Since Democratic Ticket Was Announced.”

All of these headlines are technically true, but they miss the point: The Republican nominee, the man who could return to office and regain the sole authority to use American nuclear weapons, is a serial liar and can’t tell the difference between reality and fantasy.

Donald Trump is not well. He is not stable. There’s something deeply wrong with him.

Any of those would have been important—and accurate—headlines.

05 Aug 19:30

Maybe BMI Report Cards Weren’t the Best Idea

by Amanda Salazar

This article was originally published by Undark Magazine.

Among Lexie Manion’s memories of her junior year of high school in New Jersey was the experience of being regularly hassled by a school nurse who was trying to weigh her.

The nurse, Manion recalled, was trying to get Manion’s weight on file—a common practice at schools across the United States, which aim to use the data to improve student health. But for Manion, who had an eating disorder, the experience was deeply distressing. The thought of getting on a scale in school—of someone other than her doctor handling this sensitive measurement—terrified Manion. It also triggered her eating disorder: She began to restrict her food intake more intensely to lose weight before the school nurse put her on a scale.

“I was worried about her knowing my weight, and I was worried the whole school would somehow know the number if she weighed me,” Manion, now 29, wrote in an email to Undark. “I became very anxious and would avoid the scale and her gaze every time she inquired.”

The policy at Manion’s school was part of a national effort to combat childhood obesity by collecting—and often sharing—data on students’ weight. Starting in 2003, one study found, 29 states enacted policies encouraging or requiring school districts to weigh students, or to go further and calculate their body-mass index, or BMI: a common tool for categorizing people based on their weight and height. By the policy’s peak extent, in the 2010s, millions of students each year were receiving so-called “BMI report cards” in the mail—and some students even saw their weight status appear on their actual report cards, alongside their grades. Policy makers hoped that by telling students and their family about a child’s weight category, the reports would prompt them to make healthier choices and lose weight, reducing childhood obesity one student at a time.

But even as the practice was becoming more common, research was already suggesting that BMI screenings have no impact on students’ weight and can even cause harm. Today, many experts say, the evidence is clear that school BMI screenings do little to improve student health. Research has also linked the policy to increased weight-based bullying and body-image dissatisfaction, which, as in Manion’s experience, can trigger or worsen eating disorders. In response, some states, including California, have stopped requiring screenings.

Nevertheless, BMI screening or similar policies that mandate or encourage weight-tracking remain on the books in at least 16 states, including Tennessee, West Virginia, Arkansas, and New York, according to Undark’s review of state legislative codes.

“To focus efforts on just measuring the increasing waistline of America is a Band-Aid,” says Kristine Madsen, a pediatrician and a public-health nutrition researcher at UC Berkeley, who conducted one of the largest studies of school BMI screenings to date. “It doesn’t even touch the underlying problem, and it’s ineffective.”

Arkansas was the first state in the nation to mandate screening and reporting, back in 2003. Then, in 2005, the Institute of Medicine at the National Academy of Sciences released a 434-page report, “Preventing Childhood Obesity: Health in the Balance,” that urged more states to adopt the practice. “It is important for parents to have information about their child’s BMI and other weight-status and physical fitness measures, just as they need information about other health or academic matters,” the NAS group wrote.

The group was responding to what it described as a childhood-obesity epidemic. At the time, about one-third of U.S. children were classed as overweight, obese, or severely obese. Childhood obesity is linked to a range of poor health outcomes, including high blood pressure, asthma, and heart disease.

More states moved to implement BMI screening. By 2010, just five years after the NAS’s recommendation was published, 29 states were widely conducting some form of body assessment on their students, according to an academic survey of state education departments.

Those policies typically offered little guidance on how the weigh-ins should be conducted. According to one study, about half of screenings were done during gym class, often in front of other students. The gym teacher or school nurse would measure each student’s height and weight and submit them to the school, which, in many cases, would pass the data along to state health authorities for population-level tracking.

Baked into that model from the start, some experts say, were problems. Foremost among them was, in many policies, the reliance on BMI.

[Read: BMI won’t die]

The 1832 paper that first proposed the metric, and the 1972 study that sparked its modern usage, involved only men and wasn’t representative of the ethnic and racial diversity of the United States. BMI also doesn’t consider factors such as muscle mass. “This was intended to describe large groups of people; it was not intended to be an individual litmus test for health,” says Leah Graves, a registered dietitian who specializes in treating eating disorders. Graves and others question whether BMI offers families useful information about students’ overall health.

The school policies soon ran into another problem: There wasn’t much evidence that they worked.

Not long after the NAS recommendation was released, scientists began publishing studies on school weigh-ins. In 2009, for instance, two pediatrics experts published a review of the existing research, finding that there was no impact on students’ weight. Parents, they wrote, didn’t seem to be learning much from BMI report cards, and there didn’t seem to be any increase in healthy behaviors at home.

In 2014, Madsen, the UC Berkeley researcher, and several of her colleagues launched a randomized clinical trial. The researchers took nearly 29,000 students in California public elementary and middle schools and split them into three groups. One group didn’t get screened at all. The second was screened, but participants never found out the results. A third group received screenings, and the participants’ caregivers were sent BMI report cards. The researchers followed the group from 2014 to 2017 to track changes in weight and adverse outcomes.

The team’s results, published in 2021, showed that neither screening nor reporting had an impact on weight change over the years. Additionally, the two groups that were screened reported more weight dissatisfaction and peer weight talk than the group that wasn’t screened.

Madsen’s research has also found that the experience can be upsetting for students. In one 2022 survey of more than 11,000 students in California, her team found that 49 percent were weighed by gym teachers, as opposed to just 28 percent who were weighed by school nurses; the students were more likely to feel less comfortable being weighed by a teacher than by a nurse, and were more likely to feel that they lacked privacy while being weighed.

[Read: Gym class is so bad, kids are skipping school to avoid it]

Other research has documented the potential for long-term harms from that experience. The negative effects of adolescents perceiving themselves as overweight can last for years into adulthood, long after the screenings have ended, according to one 2023 survey. Although the study didn’t specifically ask about BMI screening, it linked a perceived overweight status to increased self-starvation, bingeing, purging, and overexercising, as well as the development of eating disorders.

Not every expert is convinced that BMI screening for the sake of data collection is necessarily harmful. Researchers and school professionals say that it’s the way these screenings are conducted that can cause problems. As a result, some professional organizations and government agencies have issued guidelines intended to improve the experience.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, which has no formal position on BMI screenings, has a public set of 10 safeguards schools can implement to address concerns about screenings. The list includes recommendations such as measuring students’ height and weight in a private place, having nurses instead of teachers take the measurements, and asking for parental consent before measuring students.

But a 2019 CDC survey of more than 200 schools found that these safeguards had not been widely implemented. Only 3 percent of the schools had at least four of the safeguards in place, and 19 percent had no safeguards at all.

“These safeguards came out kind of pragmatically, recognizing that there’s not enough evidence at that point to say whether or not BMI-measuring schools is definitively harmful or helpful, but schools are doing it,” says the CDC school-health researcher Sarah Sliwa. “So, if they’re doing it, what are some steps they can take to try to minimize those harms and increase the likelihood that data are collected in a way that’s transparent and useful?”

As the school staff members who are most often asked to weigh students, physical educators have also developed standards regarding body measurement in schools.

The Society of Health and Physical Educators, or SHAPE America, a professional organization, has a formal statement on fitness testing—which can include BMI screenings, among other assessments—that states that the organization finds the testing valuable only when it’s integrated appropriately into the curriculum, and when the results aren’t used to grade students. SHAPE America recommends that schools first teach students about the fitness testing and why it’s done, as well as prepare them for the process and help them set personalized goals based on the outcome of the testing. But the organization does not have an official recommendation on whether to conduct BMI screenings.

“There’s a lot of body stigma, and we have other data points that we can use without having students feel that they’re being judged,” says Cara Grant, the president of SHAPE America.

The American School Health Association, an organization of school nurses and other health professionals, also does not have an official position on BMI screenings, says Kayce Solari Williams, ASHA’s former president.

In order to effectively realize the CDC guidelines, Sliwa says, schools need to implement safeguards or best practices. Because of a lack of the funding and staffing, though, they often fail to do so.

Some states have responded to the research showing harms from BMI screenings. In 2013, Massachusetts struck BMI reporting from its schools but maintained a screening requirement. Illinois made BMI screening optional for its students in 2015. California eliminated screening and reporting requirements from its annual fitness testing. In New York, schools still screen for BMI, but they are no longer required to send BMI report cards home.

Other states have not made changes. In Georgia, screening and reporting are required by law. In West Virginia, which has some of the highest levels of childhood obesity in the country, state law requires the collection of BMI data to be reported to the Department of Education, the governor, the State Board of Education, the Healthy Lifestyles Coalition, and the Legislative Oversight Commission on Health and Human Resources Accountability.

In New Jersey, where Manion attended high school, BMI screening is not mandated, but it’s allowed on a district-by-district basis. The state does require weight measurement, however.

“What’s the value?” asks Madsen, the UC Berkeley researcher. She questions whether the policies are a good use of school resources. “The entire point of sending them home is actually to support families in creating healthier lifestyles,” she says. “But they’re not.”

Amanda Salazar is a freelance journalist from Brooklyn, New York.

05 Aug 19:25

When Maui Burned

by Carrie Ching

To some people, the story began in a dusty field, gone wild with invasive grass. It was a story about high winds and sparks turning to flames. It was a story about harrowing escapes and people fleeing in terror, the lucky ones rushing into the ocean as the deadly wildfire devoured an entire town. Those were the stories most people heard. Those were the stories most people told. But those of us who know this place and know its history know there is so much more.

Last summer, right around this time, the wind tore through the trees for two days and nights, pushed along by Hurricane Dora as it churned south of the archipelago. The giant mango tree that hung over our new home in Haiku, on the North Shore of Maui, whipped around, hurling large branches that crashed onto the roof above us. I huddled in bed with my two young children. I had moved with my family back to Hawaii—the islands where I was born and raised, where my family has lived for generations—just 12 days before.

When the winds died down, we surveyed the damage on our property. A eucalyptus tree had crushed a fence, our mailbox had been blown out of the ground. But we were fine. Then my phone started lighting up with text messages from friends and family and breaking-news alerts. While we were sheltering in our home, winds had ripped across the island at up to 80 miles an hour, knocking over large trees and electric poles, igniting several fires that then raced through forests, cattle ranches, and old, abandoned sugar-plantation fields now overgrown with invasive grasses and baked by years of drought. The town of Lahaina burned to the ground in a matter of hours; 102 people were killed.

[Read: Maui’s fire risk was glowing red]

The scale of this sudden disaster was shocking. For weeks afterward, the entire island was in a state of panic and chaos. In Lahaina, people had scattered suddenly in the rush to escape the fire, and cellphone and internet services were down. It would take weeks before anxious families would have answers and the missing were located, dead or alive.

Those of us who were not directly affected by the fires were wandering around trying to figure out how we could help. Facebook became the central information hub: We are in Lahaina in our home. Ran out of food … Searching for my 19 year old little sister … does anyone have a solar-powered generator? … We have one convoy going into Lahaina right now. Next convoy at 12pm. Need propane, gas in containers, walkie talkies … I’m a pilot on Oahu, trying to coordinate flights getting supplies into Kapalua Airport … Two private owned boats from [Big Island] filled with supplies coming right to Lahaina beach tomorrow. This is our islands, our families and we not waiting for official approval. It is coming ohana! Hang tight!

The U.S. military, which has a large presence on the islands, responded quickly—it was the Coast Guard that rescued many people from the water during the fire. And although it took several days for the Red Cross and FEMA to get organized on the ground, the local community had immediately sprung into action. Supplies had been sent by truck, motorboat, and jet ski to Lahaina from day one. In this moment of despair, the people of these islands pulled together like a powerful magnetic force. I had landed back home in the midst of a massive crisis, but I was glad to be here—my heart swelled with pride for these people, this place. Haoles (white people), Hawaiians, Asians, hapas (mixed-race people), old-time kama‘āina (locals), and new transplants all pushed up their sleeves and lent a hand in whatever way they could.

One of my sisters is a veterinarian on Maui, and she volunteered to care for rescued pets from Lahaina, whose paws and fur were burned during their escapes. Another of my sisters lives on Oahu, where she works as a hospital director and nurse. She came to treat the injured and displaced in the main county shelter. How could I help? There was one obvious option. I had spent more than two decades working as a reporter, editor, producer, and filmmaker. Hundreds of journalists from around the world were suddenly descending on our island—many of them with little to no understanding of this place, the political landscape, the cultural nuances. Maybe I could help.

Hawaii is a place that many outsiders have visited but that few actually know. Ever since European sailors chanced upon this archipelago in the middle of the Pacific in 1778, these islands have been claimed and colonized, pillaged for natural resources, then packaged and sold to outsiders for profit. For centuries, visitors have projected their own fantasies on Hawaii while the Native people have suffered immeasurable losses of life, land, and culture. For more than 200 years, waves of immigrant settlers have built a complex multiethnic community here with a strong sense of local identity.

Not Native, not tourist, I inhabit the in-between space of many mixed-race descendents of early immigrants here. I was born and raised on the island of Oahu, in the small beach town of Kailua. I left Hawaii at 18 to attend college in California, then stayed in the San Francisco Bay Area for my journalism career. I often missed the warmth and rich culture of the islands—I had come home for brief stints in my 20s and 30s—but it wasn’t until last summer, with my husband and two young children in tow, that I decided to move back for good.

Returning to the islands was in some ways disorienting—I had been gone for so many years. Insider, outsider, belonging, not belonging, I have known these islands from both sides. In the end I was pulled back across the Pacific to be near my family, who’ve lived here for generations. Almost 150 years ago, my ancestors arrived in Hawaii on ships from southern China, fleeing poverty and civil war, hoping to plant the seeds of a new life in Hawaii’s soil. The islands were still an independent kingdom ruled by a Hawaiian king, but the lords of foreign-owned sugar plantations reigned with ever more political and economic power.

Some of my ancestors worked the soil to support those sugar plantations; they lived through the rise and fall of the plantation era. In Honolulu, my great-grandparents witnessed the overthrow of the Hawaiian monarchy, in 1893, when U.S. troops marched through the streets—the last Hawaiian queen was later imprisoned in a coup. My grandparents and my father were born in Hawaii when it was a U.S. territory. They crouched in fear during the bombing of Pearl Harbor and lived through Hawaii’s transformation to statehood in 1959, then the development boom and mass tourism era that followed.

Through my father’s Chinese family I have roots here, but through my haole mother I grew wings—it was her adventurous spirit that brought her to Hawaii in the late 1960s. She met and married a local boy and created a multiracial family here just two years after the Supreme Court struck down laws forbidding interracial marriage. My mixed-race family is part of Hawaii’s unique history, as well: Our island state is home to by far the largest share of multiracial people in the country, in part because people came from all over the world to work at our plantations long ago.

When you grow up in Hawaii, the tumultuous history and complex culture of this place are the threads from which your life is woven—and there are many knots and tangles. My sisters and I grew up entrenched in Hawaiian cultural practices in a traditional hālau, or “hula school,” in our hometown, while at the same time learning the rules of engagement in American high society at Punahou, a prestigious missionary-founded private school in Honolulu. Some of my best friends from childhood are the direct descendents of those early missionaries and sugar-plantation owners. Four of my nieces and nephews are Native Hawaiian. In my youth I was a budding environmentalist protesting the construction of seawalls and golf courses; my father was a city planner approving those kinds of developments. Many tangles, indeed.

A number of Native Hawaiians still view the U.S. government as an illegal invader here. Many locals, regardless of their ethnic background, feel a similar resentment for the millions of tourists who mob their neighborhood beaches, hiking paths, and roads every year. For newcomers, the misunderstandings about this place run deep. The distrust between insiders and outsiders is profound, a dynamic I saw exacerbated in the aftermath of the Lahaina fire. I took a freelance reporting-and-producing assignment that had me working with a reporter and a video producer who’d been sent to Hawaii from New York and Los Angeles. When they arrived, part of a media swarm descending on Maui from all over the world, I texted them my address in Haiku and they drove straight to my house.

[Read: How not to write a travel essay about Hawaii]

They were both smart, sensitive media professionals, eager to report on what was happening to Maui and its local community in this moment of crisis. Neither had been to Hawaii before, not even on vacation. I took a deep breath. We had a lot of catching up to do. In many ways I acted as a cultural ambassador: Take off your shoes when you enter someone’s home. Don’t ever honk your horn on the road, unless it’s an emergency. Strangers might hug and kiss you when you first meet. Every adult is called “uncle” and “auntie,” regardless of blood relation. These are baseline cultural behaviors in Hawaii, and if you don’t understand them, you’ll be marked as an outsider real quick.

The video producer was a “disaster” guy: He had covered the devastation in Houston after Hurricane Harvey in 2017; Puerto Rico after Hurricane Maria that same year; and Northern California’s Camp megafire in 2018. Though he knew little about Hawaii, it was clear why he had been sent on this assignment—he knew catastrophes.

The one main road to Lahaina had been closed for days since the fire for all but emergency responders and Lahaina residents. We went to work documenting the community relief effort that was blossoming in central and upcountry Maui and sending supplies back to Lahaina on the west side of the island, about 35 miles away. I knew of a woman who was sheltering 14 relatives who had escaped the fire but lost their home. Tiare Lawrence had grown up in Lahaina, in the same house that had just burned to the ground. She was a community activist who worked for a sustainable-farming project in central Maui and was an emerging leader for the Native Hawaiian community. I figured if anyone could show us what was really happening under the surface, it was her.

We spent several days with Tiare and her relatives at her home in Pukalani. Her garage and front yard had become a hub for donations intended for Lahaina survivors: Cases of bottled water, toilet paper, dried-soup packets, and propane tanks were stacked on her front porch and spilled out into the yard. Tiare’s cousin Dustin Kaleiopu, who had run from his burning house with his brother and his 81-year-old grandfather, sat with us and recounted their story. Several other relatives and neighbors were gathered in the driveway next door around a foldout table, organizing a cash-donation system for affected families on Instagram. Every so often, a car would pull up and unload supplies or a tray of fried rice for the crew. There were tears and long hugs. Information was shared about who was safe and who was not. Many were still in shock, eyes bloodshot with exhaustion, running on anxiety and adrenaline.

On one hand, I watched my community pull together; on the other, I worked as a reporter and producer covering the fires. In the echo chamber of the international disaster-media vortex, everyone was watching everyone else and measuring up—it was a race to reach the most viewers and attract the most clicks. The island was overrun with journalists at that point. We’d pull up to a rural beach park or a roadside pullout and there would be news van after news van, parked in a row, as if in a parade—it was a carnival of horror seekers, and I was ashamed to be part of it.

Lahaina diptych
(Bryan Anselm / Redux)

In the explosion of media stories about Lahaina, there was tremendous pressure to deliver the kinds of stories that would shock and disturb: Tourists floundering in the ocean while the town burned at their backs. Children trapped in burning homes as they tried to escape. The lucky older person who limped away as their retirement home, and their friends, burned behind them. Many of the news teams rushing around the island were reporting back to editors sitting at desks thousands of miles away. In this bizarre game of telephone, misunderstandings were bound to happen.

Take, for example, the Lahaina banyan tree, which became a symbol in the media for Lahaina itself. So many stories were told about the loss of this gargantuan tree in the center of Lahaina’s now-devastated Front Street. From the outside, it seemed like an irresistible story. The problem was that the banyan tree was not the symbol of Lahaina’s rich cultural heritage that many imagined it to be.

Most of the journalists who parachuted in from elsewhere didn’t realize that Lahaina’s banyan tree was brought over from India and planted in 1873 by William Owen Smith, a sheriff and the son of American Protestant missionaries, to commemorate 50 years of missionary presence in Lahaina. These were the same missionaries who banned Hawaiian language, dance, religion, and other cultural practices throughout the islands and forced Native Hawaiians into stiff, hot, European-style clothing. Smith himself was one of the key actors in the overthrow of the Hawaiian monarchy in 1893 by a gang of men, most of them missionary descendants with ties to sugar plantations. This is not a history that is celebrated by many Hawaiians. But without a basic understanding of Hawaii’s history, much of the national media reporting on Maui had the story scrambled.

[Read: How to save a dying language]

The history of the town of Lahaina itself invokes similarly complex feelings. During my lifetime, the Lahaina area has been a hot, dry, desertlike region covered with prickly shrubs and dry grass; the town, a low-rise tourist magnet crowded with shops selling tropical knickknacks. It wasn’t always this way. An early name for Lahaina was Malu ‘Ulu o Lele, a reference to the groves of ‘ulu (breadfruit) that shaded the village. Early written accounts by foreign visitors also tell of vast fields of kalo (taro) and a network of stream-fed irrigation channels and fishponds. When the British captain George Vancouver visited Lahaina in the 1790s, he reportedly called it the “Venice of the Pacific” because of its many waterways. The streams that ran from the mountains through the valley to the shore at Lahaina gathered in a series of fishponds—the largest, Mokuhinia, was located in what later became Lahaina’s commercial center. The pond was estimated to be at least 10 acres in size and contained a small island, Moku‘ula, that was sacred to Hawaiian royalty.

Lahaina, once the capital of the Hawaiian Kingdom, was transformed dramatically by successive waves of foreigners. The whaling ships began arriving in 1819, and a Western-style town with brothels and inns sprang up around the harbor. With every wave of visitors, Hawaiians were exposed to Western diseases like smallpox, measles, and syphilis, which killed thousands of people. Next were the American Protestant missionaries, who built churches and schools and got to work changing the culture of their hosts. Then, in the 1860s, many of the sons of those first American missionaries saw wealth and opportunity in sugar. Lahaina transformed again, this time from a rowdy whaling port to a bustling plantation town. The ‘ulu groves and lowland forests were slashed and burned to make way for sugar plantations, and streams were diverted to water sugarcane fields. The town of Lahaina and the valley above it dried up and became the desert landscape I have always known it to be.                                                                                    

In 1901, shortly after Hawaii was annexed as a U.S. territory, a large hotel was built on the edge of Lahaina’s harbor to welcome American travelers; many more would follow. During this period, Mokuhinia was drained and paved over with a parking lot and a baseball park. The royal island of Moku‘ula now lies under three feet of compacted dirt surrounded by asphalt. Only the name of the rather shabby county park that replaced it carries a whisper of this sacred site: Malu Ulu Olele Park.

By the 1960s, tiny Lahaina, with its seemingly endless sunshine, had become one of the islands’ tourism hot spots. By the time I was growing up, many longtime kama‘āina thought Lahaina had long since become a tourist trap. It was yet another sad reminder of how Hawaii’s land and traditional culture had been paved over, packaged, and sold.

The morning of August 16, eight days after the Lahaina fire started, the main road to the area reopened to the public. My colleagues and I piled into one car; I drove so the guys could film and take notes. Many people were reentering Lahaina for the first time since the fire, and there was a brittle, anxious energy all around. There were demonstrators on the side of the highway, ominously silent, dressed in black, urging us with signs to respect the dead. We were aware that media and visitors were not wanted there by much of the local community, which put me, in particular, on edge.

Lahaina’s downtown was still a smoldering, toxic wasteland littered with the concrete shells of buildings and the twisted metal frames of vehicles that were swept up in the fire as drivers tried to escape. Front Street was completely blocked off, but as we wound through the outskirts of town, we passed through one neighborhood that stunned us all into silence. Wahikuli Terrace ran just alongside the main highway, block after block, barren and exposed, a scorched skeleton of a subdivision. The video producer had rolled down the window to film, but the smells of carnage immediately filled the car: smoke, ash, and the fumes of burned asphalt, asbestos, plastic, and tar. I grabbed a mask and motioned for him to roll up the window.                      

[Alan Taylor: Photos from Lahaina, after the fires]

We drove through the neighborhood where the fire allegedly started, and we scanned the burned field the fire had raced through to reach the town—former sugar-plantation lands. We also drove to the base of Leiali‘i, a neighborhood created by the state government for Native Hawaiian residents. A group of men stood posted at the road entrance, arms crossed, next to a Hawaiian flag flying upside down, a symbol of the Hawaiian Kingdom in distress. A spray-painted sign hanging on a nearby fence made the message very clear: TOURIST KEEP OUT.

We stopped at a beach park to set up for an interview. Just offshore, a helicopter was scooping up seawater with a large bucket, then flying overhead to dump it up the hill from us. More than a week after August 8, the Lahaina fire was still only 85 percent contained. Past the helicopter, the green peaks of the West Maui Mountains drew up like muscular shoulders. Valley after valley, peak after peak, in both directions. That is where Lahaina’s water battles are still being fought. Those green peaks collect the rainwater that flows down into the valleys; those valleys hold the streams that used to flow to the shore but were diverted to plantations more than a century ago—and are still being diverted by real-estate developers building luxury estates. The Maui community’s response to a catastrophe, I realized, was also a story about the ongoing catastrophe that has been inflicted on Hawaii for centuries. The drama around the fire was just the latest installment.

Here I was, among other journalists, skating around on the surface of the disaster. But the real story was so much deeper and darker, full of greed and grit. We point fingers at the electric company with its rotting poles and slow response, the county’s lack of warning sirens, the police who blocked the exit roads. Yes, those things did happen and should be addressed. But viewing the Lahaina fire only through the lens of these bureaucratic failures allows us all to ignore a history of land grabs and water wars that have shaped Hawaii’s history—and are still shaping Hawaii’s present.

People might believe that if we just bury our electric lines, shut down power during windstorms, and have emergency-exit plans, everything will be fine. In the meantime, we can keep cutting down forests and diverting streams for luxury developments and planting monocrop commercial agriculture that degrades the soil until it turns to dust. We can keep overconsuming and treating the planet like it’s our personal shopping mall and garbage dump. We can keep ignoring the tree huggers and naysayers and Native people who have been warning us about these foolish and dangerous behaviors for centuries.

After the fire, a new energy to these decades-long battles over Maui’s land and water was palpable. The feeling running through the community was: Maybe now they will listen. Now is the moment for change. Native Hawaiians, environmentalists, and other local residents were galvanized by the Lahaina tragedy—the stakes were suddenly higher, the consequences of apathy or inaction much clearer in the charred remains of this town. There was a rallying cry to release the West Maui streams, to reforest the old plantation lands, to replant the famous ‘ulu groves, and to restore the waterways, the fishpond of Mokuhinia, and the sacred island of Moku‘ula. The governor has voiced support for some of these ideas, but Lahaina real-estate developers and landowners have also cried foul. This part of the story has yet to be written.

The rest of the islands’ communities are watching and waiting. The same kinds of land and water conflicts happening on Maui are playing out all across the state—and around the world. Lahaina’s tragedy allowed those conflicts to be seen more clearly. But it’s not the first, and it certainly won’t be the last; there will be other tragedies in other places. With climate change, there will be more and more every year.

How many tragedies will it take before we adjust our thinking and change our ways? Here in Hawaii, the streams are still being diverted for golf courses and luxury developments while the valleys run dry. The land is still being divided up and sold off to the highest bidder. The earliest missionaries and sugar oligarchs are still celebrated as founding fathers. And those of us who call this place home continue to wonder where our story will lead.


This article was adapted from Carrie Ching’s forthcoming book, a reported memoir about Hawaii, colonialism, and climate change.

24 Jul 21:50

Why I Buy German Toothpaste Now

by Sarah Zhang

For as long as I can remember, I have bought into the gospel of fluoride, believing that my teeth would surely rot out of my head without its protection. So it felt a little bit illicit, recently, when I purchased a box of German fluoride-free kids’ toothpaste for my daughter. The toothpaste came in blue, understated packaging—no cartoon characters or candy flavors—which I associated with German practicality. And instead of fluoride, it contained an anticavity ingredient called hydroxyapatite, vouched for by several dental researchers I interviewed for this story. Could it be, I wondered as I clicked “Buy,” that toothpaste doesn’t need to contain fluoride after all?

The scientific case for hydroxyapatite toothpaste is actually quite simple: Composed of calcium and phosphate, hydroxyapatite is the very mineral that primarily makes up our bones and teeth. Tooth enamel, the hard protective outer layer, is naturally about 96 percent hydroxyapatite. NASA researchers first patented an idea for repairing teeth with a hydroxyapatite precursor in the 1970s; nothing came of it then, but a Japanese company acquired the patent and eventually created a popular toothpaste called Apagard. Hydroxyapatite toothpaste has been approved for cavity prevention in Japan since 1993. It is also approved in Canada and endorsed by the Canadian Dental Association. And it’s sold in Europe, where the European Commission has deemed the ingredient safe in toothpaste.

In the United States, however, fluoride still reigns supreme. You likely won’t find toothpaste containing hydroxyapatite at your corner drugstore. A few boutique hydroxyapatite-based brands have popped up, but they cannot market themselves for cavity prevention without FDA approval, a long and expensive process that no hydroxyapatite toothpaste has yet gone through. The American Dental Association (ADA), meanwhile, gives its Seal of Acceptance only to toothpastes that contain fluoride.

Fluoride does work remarkably well: It is incorporated into the enamel structure of the tooth itself, forming a mineral crystal that is significantly more resistant to cavity-causing acid than the tooth’s natural material, according Bernhard Ganss, a scientist at the University of Toronto’s Faculty of Dentistry. “​​The dogma in dentistry has always been: Fluoride is a good thing.”

The trouble with fluoride is that, at very high levels, it becomes a bad thing. Ingesting too much can lead to a condition called fluorosis, in which teeth become mottled in mild cases or structurally weak in more serious ones. The same can happen to bones. More controversially, high levels of fluoride in drinking water—higher than the level recommended in the U.S., but lower than the current EPA limit—have been linked to lower IQ in children. Toothpaste typically contains more than 1,000 times the fluoride recommended in drinking water. We use much less toothpaste than water, of course, and it’s not meant to be swallowed, but young children do not spit out toothpaste reliably.

Hydroxyapatite is a way to sidestep the fluoride controversy. It offers the anticavity benefits of fluoride, but without the risks. Bennett Amaechi, a dentistry professor at the University of Texas Health Science Center at San Antonio, says he now recommends it to parents who have concerns about fluoride. He has collaborated with toothpaste manufacturers to study ​​hydroxyapatite, but Felicitas Bidlack told me the same thing about its utility. Bidlack is not a dentist, but she is a tooth enamel researcher, recommended to me by the American Dental Association, which one could hardly accuse of being anti-fluoride. Yet for kids under 2 still learning not to swallow toothpaste, she would likely choose hydroxyapatite. “That’s what I would do as a mother,” she told me.

Fluoride toothpaste is in a bit of catch-22, Bidlack added. Sweet candy flavors, bright colors, and glitter can make toothpaste enticing enough for kids to want to brush their teeth, but if it’s too enticing, kids might simply eat it. “If you provide fluoride with this good-tasting goo that they put in their mouths, there is definitely a risk of unintentional ingestion,” says Ganss, who has published papers on hydroxyapatite in collaboration with scientists from the Dr. Wolff Group, a German business that manufactures toothpaste. He went even further: For very young kids, “I would actually really stand up and say no fluoride, period.”

I found these conversations clarifying, as they cut through the contradictory advice I’ve been given about fluoride for my 1-year-old. Toothpaste marketed to kids under 2 in the U.S. does not in fact contain fluoride (it usually contains a sugar alcohol called xylitol), and toothpastes that do contain fluoride are labeled as unsuitable for kids younger than 2 unless instructed by a doctor. But the American Academy of Pediatrics, whose guidelines our pediatrician repeated, says to use fluoride toothpaste as soon as the first tooth appears—though only a rice-size smear, which would limit exposure to fluoride. So is fluoride good or not? Is it safe or not? Wouldn’t it be nice not to deal with fluoride at all?

Hydroxyapatite’s track record is not as long as fluoride’s, but the evidence so far looks good: In clinical trials that have followed kids or adults for six months to a year and a half—largely funded by toothpaste manufacturers—hydroxyapatite and fluoride have come out about equally protective against cavities. Hydroxyapatite is chemically not as resistant to cavity-causing acid as the mineral formed by fluoride, but Ganss says that daily brushing might replenish hydroxyapatite often enough that the real-world protection is the same. The mineral may also have some other benefits: In studies, hydroxyapatite has helped reduce tooth sensitivity and the amount of bacteria stuck to teeth. The one thing it cannot do is resolve the controversy over adding fluoride to drinking water, which is done as a public-health measure in most parts of the U.S. to prevent tooth decay. Hydroxyapatite can’t be put into drinking water, because it doesn’t dissolve at a neutral pH. “The tap water would be milky,” Ganss says. “It would probably clog all your pipes within a few days or so.”

The researchers I spoke with thought fluoride still had its uses, particularly in treatments and toothpaste for adults who know not to swallow too much. Amaechi still brushes with the Colgate he’s used all his life, as he sees no reason for him, as an adult, to change his habits. But he does recommend hydroxyapatite in specific situations—for example, patients with dry mouth, he says, may particularly benefit from this formulation.

Age 2 isn't some magic threshold at which the calculus regarding toothpaste in small children suddenly changes, of course. Canada, in fact, recommends holding off on fluoride for most kids until age 3; fluoride-free options for kids are now expanding in the U.S., even without FDA approval of hydroxyapatite. The German children’s toothpaste came only in boring white mint, but I found a number of brands in the U.S. already selling more tempting flavors, such as orange creamsicle and birthday cake.





02 Jul 17:21

Email Sign-Offs

by swissmiss

This collection of email sign-offs over on Arena is a treasure trove. I usually sign-off with Waving from Brooklyn, or Warmly, but I might have to add a few of these to the list now.

27 Jun 20:09

New, Ominous Signs for Gay Rights Keep Emerging

by David A. Graham

What happens to a dream undone? For many Americans, the progress of gay rights over the past quarter century was one of the country’s greatest achievements. Even as social change on other fronts stagnated or reversed, LGBTQ Americans gained new acceptance and protections. In 2002, Gallup found that just 38 percent of Americans believed that homosexual behavior was morally acceptable. Barely more than a decade later, in 2015, that number was 63 percent; that year, the Supreme Court granted same-sex couples the right to marry. This change was celebrated by its beneficiaries, of course, and by progressives, but also more broadly. By 2022, 55 percent of Republicans supported same-sex marriage, according to Gallup—a huge leap from just 22 percent 10 years earlier.

Now alarm bells are ringing for same-sex marriage and LGBTQ rights in general. A new Gallup poll shows that Republican approval of homosexual rights has dropped from 56 to 40 percent in two years, and that support for same-sex marriage is down to less than half, at 46 percent. Liberal justices on the Supreme Court warned in a dissent last week that their colleagues are chipping away at the right to marriage. Over the past four years, Republican policy makers have mounted a campaign against transgender rights and discussion of homosexuality in schools, but the result appears to be a wider backlash against LGBTQ rights.

The slippage belies the Whiggish view of inexorable if slow progress that many liberals, most notably former President Barack Obama, espoused in the early 21st century. The Supreme Court’s abortion decision in Dobbs shows that even things that courts have long treated as fundamental rights can be reversed. But although that ruling was a shock to many, abortion has long been a subject of entrenched division. Gay rights seemed like an area where public opinion was moving quickly, and in one direction.

Whether permanent or fleeting, the reversal fits with a general revanchist push by the MAGA movement against cultural change. The pushback on transgender and educational issues may have looked to some Americans like simply pumping the brakes—after such fast change on gay rights generally, slower movement was merited. These new developments, however, indicate that a growing faction supports not just pausing change but reversing it.

Donald Trump makes for a strange figurehead for such a movement. Just as Trump was a libertine who favored abortion rights before transforming himself into a hero of evangelical Christians who brought down Roe v. Wade, he seems to have had little animus toward LGBTQ people before his political career. If anything, he brought a median New Yorker’s shrugging acceptance. During his first presidential campaign, he spoke little about gay rights but still went further in affirming them than any prior Republican nominee had.

But just as Obama disingenuously claimed to have “evolved” toward greater support for gay rights once in the White House, Trump appears to have made a strategic choice to devolve. He first indicated that he’d preserve an Obama-era rule providing workplace protections for LGBTQ employees, but his administration proceeded to water down or roll back existing rules, and to institute carve-outs for religious organizations. Even so, Gallup found that GOP support for same-sex relations stayed stable during the Trump presidency. (Trump hosted a gay wedding at Mar-a-Lago a few months ago.)

What happened from 2022 to 2024? The most obvious answer is that Republican candidates made attacks on LGBTQ people a centerpiece of the 2022 midterm elections. Red states and jurisdictions passed laws restricting discussion of sexual orientation in schools, some of the more than 1,800 anti-LGBTQ-rights bills introduced nationwide in the past four years. Bans on books that discussed the subject spread widely. Advocates claimed, with no basis, that these books and other events were part of a dark conspiracy to “groom” children into being gay. States also pushed to restrict gender-affirming care for transgender people, both children and adults, and to circumscribe transgender rights.

More than just an attempt to slow down change, these political campaigns have reversed public opinion, at least among Republicans. Views among Democrats and independents remain basically stable, which is one reason approval for same-sex marriage still sits at 69 percent, down from 71 percent a couple of years ago.

Such a shift could be consequential in policy terms. If Trump wins in November, his allies are pushing for a greater rollback of LGBTQ rights through executive policy, part of a larger assertion of presidential power; a Republican majority in Congress, bolstered by shifting GOP-voter opinions, could make changes statutory.

These moves might be constrained somewhat by electoral imperatives. The Supreme Court would not be. The Dobbs decision showed that the most conservative justices have no qualms about issuing politically incendiary opinions, and that Chief Justice John Roberts is unable or unwilling to restrain them. Justice Clarence Thomas has already argued in a concurring opinion that the Court should reverse its rulings protecting same-sex marriage and relationships as well as contraception. The conservative bloc’s ruling in a case about an American woman and her immigrant husband last week drew the warnings from the minority that same-sex marriage could soon be threatened. And the next president is likely to appoint more justices, so a Trump victory would solidify the Court’s rightward direction, and possibly shift it yet further.

American law has treated same-sex marriage, like abortion, as a fundamental right since the 2015 ruling. If Dobbs shows that such rights can be taken away, it still doesn’t explain what that would look like. The end of a pregnancy is a moment in time, and past abortions aren’t reversed. But if the Court revoked the right to same-sex marriage, what would happen to couples who married and established lives based on that right? No one knows, but surely the answer is nothing good.

27 Jun 20:09

You Might Be a Late Bloomer

by David Brooks

This article was featured in the One Story to Read Today newsletter. Sign up for it here.

Paul Cézanne always knew he wanted to be an artist. His father compelled him to enter law school, but after two desultory years he withdrew. In 1861, at the age of 22, he went to Paris to pursue his artistic dreams but was rejected by the École des Beaux-Arts, struggled as a painter, and retreated back to his hometown in the south of France, where he worked as a clerk in his father’s bank.

He returned to Paris the next year and was turned down again by the École. His paintings were rejected by the Salon de Paris every year from 1864 to 1869. He continued to submit paintings until 1882, but none were accepted. He joined with the Impressionists, many of whose works were also being rejected, but soon stopped showing with them as well.

By middle age, he was discouraged. He wrote to a friend, “On this matter I must tell you that the numerous studies to which I devoted myself having produced only negative results, and dreading criticism that is only too justified, I have resolved to work in silence, until the day when I should feel capable of defending theoretically the results of my endeavors.” No Cézanne paintings were put on public display when he was between 46 and 56, the prime years for many artists, including some of Cézanne’s most prominent contemporaries.

In 1886, when Cézanne was 47, the celebrated writer Émile Zola, the artist’s closest friend since adolescence, published a novel called The Oeuvre. It was about two young men, one who grows up to be a famous author and the other who grows up to be a failed painter and commits suicide. The painter character was based, at least in part, on Cézanne. (“I had grown up almost in the same cradle as my friend, my brother, Paul Cézanne,” Zola would later write in a French newspaper, “in whom one begins to realize only today the touches of genius of a great painter come to nothing.”) Upon publication of the novel, Zola sent a copy to Cézanne, who responded with a short, polite reply. After that, they rarely communicated.

Things began to turn around in 1895, when, at the age of 56, Cézanne had his first one-man show. Two years later, one of his paintings was purchased by a museum in Berlin, the first time any museum had shown that kind of interest in his work. By the time he was 60, his paintings had started selling, though for much lower prices than those fetched by Manet or Renoir. Soon he was famous, revered. Fellow artists made pilgrimages to watch him work.  

What drove the man through all those decades of setbacks and obscurity? One biographer attributed it to his “inquiétude”—his drive, restlessness, anxiety. He just kept pushing himself to get better.

  His continual sense of dissatisfaction was evident in a letter he wrote to his son in 1906, at age 67, a month before he died: “I want to tell you that as a painter I am becoming more clairvoyant to nature, but that it is always very difficult for me to realize my feelings. I cannot reach the intensity that unfolds before my senses. I do not possess that wonderful richness of color that animates nature.” He was still at it on the day he died, still working on his paintings, still teaching himself to improve.

The year after his death, a retrospective of his work was mounted in Paris. Before long, he would be widely recognized as one of the founders of modern art: “Cézanne is the father of us all,” both Matisse and Picasso are said to have declared.

Today we live in a society structured to promote early bloomers. Our school system has sorted people by the time they are 18, using grades and SAT scores. Some of these people zoom to prestigious academic launching pads while others get left behind. Many of our most prominent models of success made it big while young—Bill Gates, Mark Zuckerberg, Elon Musk, Taylor Swift, Michael Jordan. Magazines publish lists with headlines like “30 Under 30” to glamorize youthful superstars on the rise. Age discrimination is a fact of life. In California in 2010, for example, more people filed claims with the state Department of Fair Employment and Housing for age discrimination than for racial discrimination or sexual harassment. “Young people are just smarter,” Zuckerberg once said, in possibly the dumbest statement in American history. “There are no second acts in American lives,” F. Scott Fitzgerald once observed, in what might be the next dumbest.

But for many people, the talents that bloom later in life are more consequential than the ones that bloom early. A 2019 study by researchers in Denmark found that, on average, Nobel Prize winners made their crucial discoveries at the age of 44. Even brilliant people apparently need at least a couple of decades to master their field.

The average age of a U.S. patent applicant is 47. A 45-year-old is twice as likely to produce a scientific breakthrough as a 25-year-old. A study published in The American Economic Review found 45 to be the average age of an entrepreneur–and found furthermore that the likelihood that an entrepreneur’s start-up will succeed increases significantly between ages 25 and 35, with the odds of success continuing to rise well into the 50s. A tech founder who is 50 is twice as likely to start a successful company as one who is 30. A study by researchers at Northwestern University, MIT, and the U.S. Census Bureau found that the fastest-growing start-ups were founded by people whose average age was 45 when their company was launched. The Information Technology and Innovation Foundation produced a study that found that the peak innovation age is the late 40s.

Successful late bloomers are all around us. Morgan Freeman had his breakthrough roles in Street Smart and Driving Miss Daisy in his early 50s. Colonel Harland Sanders started Kentucky Fried Chicken in his 60s. Isak Dinesen published the book that established her literary reputation, Out of Africa, at 52. Morris Chang founded Taiwan Semiconductor Manufacturing, the world’s leading chipmaker, at 55. If Samuel Johnson had died at 40, few would remember him, but now he is considered one of the greatest writers in the history of the English language. Copernicus came up with his theory of planetary motion in his 60s. Grandma Moses started painting at 77. Noah was around 600 when he built his ark (though Noah truthers dispute his birth certificate).

Why do some people hit their peak later than others? In his book Late Bloomers, the journalist Rich Karlgaard points out that this is really two questions: First, why didn’t these people bloom earlier? Second, what traits or skills did they possess that enabled them to bloom late? It turns out that late bloomers are not simply early bloomers on a delayed timetable—they didn’t just do the things early bloomers did but at a later age. Late bloomers tend to be qualitatively different, possessing a different set of abilities that are mostly invisible to or discouraged by our current education system. They usually have to invent their own paths. Late bloomers “fulfill their potential frequently in novel and unexpected ways,” Karlgaard writes, “surprising even those closest to them.”

[Jim VandeHei: What I wish someone had told me 30 years ago]

If you survey history, a taxonomy of achievement emerges. In the first category are the early bloomers, the precocious geniuses. These are people like Picasso or Fitzgerald who succeeded young. As the University of Chicago economist David Galenson has pointed out, these high achievers usually made a conceptual breakthrough. They came up with a new idea and then executed it. Picasso had a clear idea of Cubism, and how he was going to revolutionize art, in his mid-20s. Then he went out and painted Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.

Then there are the “second-mountain people,” exemplified by, say, Albert Schweitzer. First, they conquer their career mountain; Schweitzer, for instance, was an accomplished musician and scholar. But these people find their career success unsatisfying, so they leave their career mountain to serve humanity—their whole motivational structure shifts from acquisition to altruism. Schweitzer became a doctor in the poorest parts of Africa, and won the Nobel Peace Prize for his work in 1952.

Finally, there are the people Galenson calls “the masters.” In his book Old Masters and Young Geniuses, he writes about people like Cézanne or Alfred Hitchcock or Charles Darwin, who were not all that successful—and in some cases just not even very good at what they did—when they were young. This could have been discouraging, but they just kept improving.

These people don’t do as much advanced planning as the conceptual geniuses, but they regard their entire lives as experiments. They try something and learn, and then they try something else and learn more. Their focus is not on their finished work, which they often toss away haphazardly. Their focus is on the process of learning itself: Am I closer to understanding, to mastering? They live their lives as a long period of trial and error, trying this and trying that, a slow process of accumulation and elaboration, so the quality of their work peaks late in life. They are the ugly ducklings of human achievement, who, over the decades, turn themselves into swans.

Let’s look at some of the traits that tend to distinguish late bloomers from early bloomers—the qualities that cause them to lag early in life but surge ahead over the long haul.

Intrinsic motivation. Most of our schools and workplaces are built around extrinsic motivation: If you work hard, you will be rewarded with good grades, better salaries, and performance bonuses. Extrinsic-motivation systems are built on the assumption that while work is unpleasant, if you give people external incentives to perform they will respond productively.

People who submit to these extrinsic-reward systems are encouraged to develop a merit-badge mentality. They get good at complying with other people’s standards, following other people’s methods, and pursuing other people’s goals. The people who thrive in these sorts of systems are good at earning high GPAs—having the self-discipline to get A’s in all subjects, even the ones that don’t interest them. They are valuable to companies precisely because they’re good at competently completing whatever tasks are put in front of them.

People driven by intrinsic motivation are not like that. They are bad at paying attention to what other people tell them to pay attention to. Winston Churchill was a poor student for just this reason. “Where my reason, imagination or interest were not engaged, I would not or I could not learn,” he wrote in his autobiography, My Early Life.

But such people can be great at paying attention to things that do interest them. The intrinsically motivated have a strong need for autonomy. They are driven by their own curiosity, their own obsessions—and the power of this motivation eclipses the lesser ones fired by extrinsic rewards.

Extrinsically motivated people tend to race ahead during young adulthood, when the job is to please teachers, bosses, and other older people, but then stop working as hard once that goal is met. They’re likely to take short cuts if it can get them more quickly to the goal.

Worse, as research by scholars like the psychologist Edward L. Deci has established, if you reward people extrinsically, you can end up crushing the person’s capacity for intrinsic motivation. If you pay kids to read, they might read more in the short term—but over time they’ll regard reading as unpleasant work, best avoided. A 2009 London School of Economics study that looked at 51 corporate pay-for-performance plans found that financial incentives “can have a negative impact on overall performance.”

I once asked a group of students on their final day at their prestigious university what book had changed their life over the previous four years. A long, awkward silence followed. Finally a student said, “You have to understand, we don’t read like that. We only sample enough of each book to get through class.” These students were hurrying to be good enough to get their merit badges, but not getting deep enough into any subject to be transformed. They didn’t love the process of learning itself, which is what you need if you’re going to keep educating yourself decade after decade—which, in turn, is what you need to keep advancing when the world isn’t rewarding you with impressive grades and prizes.

Intrinsically motivated people, by contrast, are self-directed and often obsessed, burying themselves deep into some subject or task. They find learning about a subject or doing an activity to be their own reward, so they are less likely to cut corners. As Vincent van Gogh—a kind of early late bloomer, who struggled to find his way and didn’t create most of his signature works until the last two years of his life before dying at 37—wrote to his brother, “I am seeking. I am striving. I am in it with all my heart.”

In Drive, the writer Daniel Pink argues that extrinsic-motivation models work fine when tasks are routine, boring, and technical. But he cites a vast body of research showing that intrinsically motivated people are more productive, more persistent, and less likely to burn out. They also exhibit higher levels of well-being. Over the long run, Pink concludes, “intrinsically motivated people usually achieve more than their reward-seeking counterparts.”

Early screw-ups. Late bloomers often don’t fit into existing systems. To use William Deresiewicz’s term, they are bad at being “excellent sheep”—bad at following the conventional rules of success. Or to put it another way, they can be assholes. Buckminster Fuller was expelled from college twice, lost his job in the building business when he was 32, and later contemplated suicide so his family could live off his life insurance. But then he moved to Greenwich Village, took a teaching job at Black Mountain College, and eventually emerged as an architect, designer, futurist, and winner of the Presidential Medal of Freedom. Colonel Sanders was fired for insubordination when he was a railway engineer, and then fired again for brawling with a colleague while working as a fireman. His career as a lawyer ended when he got into a fistfight with a client, and he lost his job as an insurance salesman because he was unsuited to working for other people. Then, at 62, he created the recipe for what became Kentucky Fried Chicken, began to succeed as a franchiser at 69, and sold the company for $2 million when he was 73.

  Late bloomers often have an edge to them, a willingness to battle with authority.

Diversive curiosity.” Our culture pushes people to specialize early: Be like Tiger Woods driving golf balls as a toddler. Concentrate on one thing and get really good, really fast—whether it is golf or physics or investing. In the academic world, specialization is rewarded: Don’t be a scholar of Europe, be a scholar of Dutch basket weaving in the 16th century.

Yet when the journalist David Epstein looked at the lives of professional athletes, he found that most of them were less like Tiger Woods and more like Roger Federer, who played a lot of different sports when he was young. These athletes went through what researchers call a “sampling period” and only narrowed their focus to one sport later on. In his book Range, Epstein writes that people who went through a sampling period ended up enjoying greater success over the long run: “One study showed that early career specializers jumped out to an earning lead after college, but that later specializers made up for the head start by finding work that better fitted their skills and personalities.”

[Jessica Lahey and Tim Lahey: How middle-school failures lead to medical-school success]

Many late bloomers endure a brutal wandering period, as they cast about for a vocation. Julia Child made hats, worked for U.S. intelligence (where she was part of a team trying to develop an effective shark repellent), and thought about trying to become a novelist before enrolling in a French cooking school at 37. Van Gogh was an art dealer, a teacher, a bookseller, and a street preacher before taking up painting at 27. During those wandering years, he was a miserable failure. His family watched his repeated downward spirals with embarrassment.

During these early periods, late bloomers try and then quit so many jobs that the people around them might conclude that they lack resilience. But these are exactly the years when the late bloomers are developing what psychologists call “diversive curiosity”—the ability to wander into a broad range of interests in a manner that seems to have no rhyme or reason.

The benefits of this kind of curiosity might be hard to see in the short term, but they become obvious once the late bloomer begins to take advantage of their breadth of knowledge by putting discordant ideas together in new ways. When the psychologist Howard Gruber studied the diaries of Charles Darwin, he found that in the decades before he published On the Origin of Species, Darwin was “pen pals” (as David Epstein puts it) with at least 231 scientists, whose worked ranged across 13 broad streams, from economics to geology, the biology of barnacles to the sex life of birds. Darwin couldn’t have written his great masterworks if he hadn’t been able to combine these vastly different intellectual currents.

Epstein notes that many of the most successful scientists have had diverse interests, and especially in different kinds of performing: Nobel Prize winners are 22 times more likely to spend large chunks of time as an amateur actor, musician, magician, or other type of performer than non-Nobel-winning scientists are. Epstein quotes Santiago Ramón y Cajal, the founder of modern neuroscience: “To him who observes them from afar, it appears as though they are scattering and dissipating their energies,” Cajal wrote, speaking of these late-blooming Nobelists, “while in reality they are channeling and strengthening them.”

Late bloomers tend to have a high tolerance for ambiguity, and can bring multiple ways of thinking to bear on a single complex problem. They also have a high tolerance for inefficiency. They walk through life like a curious person browsing through a bookstore. In old age, the historian Daniel Boorstin wrote, “The amateur spirit has guided my thinking and writing.” He had wandered from subject to subject throughout his life, playing around.

The ability to self-teach. Late bloomers don’t find their calling until they are too old for traditional education systems. So they have to teach themselves. Successful autodidacts start with what psychologists call a “high need for cognition”—in other words, they like to think a lot. In his book Curious, Ian Leslie presents a series of statements that, when answered in the affirmative, indicate a high need for cognition: “I would prefer complex to simple problems”; “I prefer my life be filled with puzzles that I can’t solve”; “I find satisfaction in deliberating hard and for long hours.”

Leonardo da Vinci is the poster child for high-cognition needs. Consider his famous lists of self-assigned research projects: “Ask the master of arithmetic how to square a triangle … examine a crossbow … ask about the measurement of the sun … draw Milan.” Benjamin Franklin was similar. After he was appointed U.S. ambassador to France, he could have relaxed on his transatlantic voyages between home and work. Instead, he turned them into scientific expeditions, measuring the temperature of the water as he went, which allowed him to discover and chart the Gulf Stream.

Successful late bloomers combine this high need for cognition with a seemingly contradictory trait: epistemic humility. They are aggressive about wanting to acquire knowledge and learn—but they are also modest, possessing an accurate sense of how much they don’t know.

This mentality combines high self-belief (I can figure this out on my own; I know my standards are right and the world’s standards are wrong) with high self-doubt (There’s a lot I don’t know, and I am falling short in many ways).  

The combination of a high need for cognition and epistemic humility is a recipe for lifelong learning. Late bloomers learn more slowly but also more deeply precisely because they’re exploring on their own. The benefits of acquiring this self-taught knowledge compound over time. The more you know about a subject, the faster you can learn. A chess grandmaster with thousands of past matches stored in their head will see a new strategy much faster than a chess beginner. Knowledge begets knowledge. Researchers call this “the Matthew effect”: “For whosoever hath, to him shall be given, and he shall have more abundance.” Pretty soon, the late bloomer is taking off.

The ability to finally commit. Of course, late bloomers can’t just wander forever. At some point they must grab onto some challenge that engages their powerful intrinsic drive. They have to commit. Ray Kroc endured a classic wandering period. He got a job selling ribbons. He played piano in a bordello. He read the ticker tape at the Chicago stock exchange. He sold paper cups and then milkshake mixers. In that latter job he noticed that one restaurant was ordering a tremendous number of milkshake machines. Curious, he drove halfway across the country to see it, and found a fast-food restaurant that was more efficiently churning out meals than any he had ever encountered. “There was something almost religious about Kroc’s inspirational moment when he discovered McDonald’s,” Henry Oliver writes in his forthcoming book, Second Act. Kroc just cared about hamburgers and fries (and milkshakes) more than most people. He bought the restaurant, and brought to it his own form of genius, which was the ability to franchise it on a massive scale.

The mind of the explorer. By middle age, many late bloomers have achieved lift-off and are getting to enjoy the pleasures of concentrated effort. They are absorbed, fascinated. But since they are freer from ties and associations than the early achiever, late bloomers can also change their mind and update their models without worrying about betraying any professional norms.

We have a notion that the happiest people are those who have aimed their life toward some goal and then attained it, like winning a championship trophy or achieving renown. But the best moments of life can be found within the lifelong learning or quest itself. It’s doing something so fulfilling that the work is its own reward. “Effort is the one thing that gives meaning to life,” the Stanford psychologist Carol Dweck once wrote. “Effort means you care about something.”

“The secret of life is to have a task, something you devote your entire life to, something you bring everything to, every minute of the day for the rest of your life,” the sculptor Henry Moore once told the poet Donald Hall. “And the most important thing is—it must be something you cannot possibly do.”

Crankiness in old age. So far, I’ve been describing late bloomers as if they were all openhearted curiosity and wonder. But remember that many of them have been butting against established institutions their whole lives—and they’ve naturally developed oppositional, chip-on-the-shoulder, even angry mindsets.

In his essay “The Artist Grows Old,” the great art critic Sir Kenneth Clark wrote about painters—like Titian, Michelangelo, Rembrandt, and Cézanne—who produced their best work at the end of their lives, sometimes in their 80s or even 90s. He noticed that while these older artists painted with passion, this passion was inflected with what he called “transcendental pessimism.” The artists who peak late, he found, “take a very poor view of human life.” They are energized by a holy rage. The British artist William Turner felt so hopeless late in life that he barely spoke. “Old artists are solitary,” Clark writes. “Like all old people they are bored and irritated by the company of their fellow bipeds and yet find their isolation depressing. They are also suspicious of interference.”

The angry old artists fight back with their brushes. They retreat from realism. Their handling of paint grows freer. “Cézanne, who in middle life painted with the delicacy of a watercolorist, and was almost afraid, as he said, to sully the whiteness of a canvas, ended by attacking it with heavy and passionate strokes,” Clark writes. “The increased vitality of an aged hand is hard to explain.”

Younger painters, like younger workers in any field, are trying to learn the language of the craft. Older painters, like older expert practitioners in other fields, have mastered the language and are willing to bend it. Older painters feel free to jettison the rules that stifle their prophetic voice. They can express what they need to more purely.

Clark’s analysis is insightful, but I think he may be overgeneralizing. His theory applies to an angry, pessimistic painting like Michelangelo’s late work The Crucifixion of St. Peter, a painting of an old man raging against the inhumanity of the world. But Clark’s theory doesn’t really apply to, say, Rembrandt’s late work The Return of the Prodigal Son. By the time he painted it, Rembrandt was old, broke, and out of fashion; his wife and many of his children had preceded him to the grave. But Prodigal Son is infused with a spirit of holy forgiveness. It shows a father offering infinite love to a wayward, emaciated, and grateful son. It couldn’t be gentler.

Wisdom. After a lifetime of experimentation, some late bloomers transcend their craft or career and achieve a kind of comprehensive wisdom.

Wisdom is a complicated trait. It starts with pattern recognition—using experience to understand what is really going on. The neuroscientist Elkhonon Goldberg provides a classic expression of this ability in his book The Wisdom Paradox. “Frequently when I am faced with what would appear from the outside to be a challenging problem, the grinding mental computation is somehow circumvented, rendered, as if by magic, unnecessary,” he writes. “The solution comes effortlessly, seamlessly, seemingly by itself. What I have lost with age in my capacity for hard mental work, I seem to have gained in my capacity for instantaneous, almost unfairly easy insight.”

But the trait we call wisdom is more than just pattern recognition; it’s the ability to see things from multiple points of view, the ability to aggregate perspectives and rest in the tensions between them. When he was in his 60s, Cézanne built a study in Provence and painted a series of paintings of a single mountain, Mont Sainte-Victoire, which are now often considered his greatest works. He painted the mountain at different times of day, in different sorts of light. He wasn’t so much painting the mountain as painting time. He was also painting perception itself, its continual flow, its uncertainties and evolutions. “I progress very slowly,” he wrote to the painter Émile Bernard, “for nature reveals herself to me in complex ways; and the progress needed is endless.”

“Old men ought to be explorers,” T. S. Eliot wrote in East Coker. “Here and there does not matter / We must be still and still moving / Into another intensity / For a further union, a deeper communion.” For some late bloomers, the exploration never ends. They have a certain distinct way of being in the world, but they express that way of being at greater and greater levels of complexity as they age.

Wisdom is an intellectual trait—the ability to see reality as it really is. But it is also a moral trait; we wouldn’t call a self-centered person wise. It is also a spiritual trait; the wise person possesses a certain tranquility, the ability to stay calm when others are overwhelmed with negative emotions.

[Arthur C. Brooks: How to succeed at failure]

When I was young I was mentored by William F. Buckley and Milton Friedman, both at that time approaching the end of their careers. Both men had changed history. Buckley created the modern conservative movement that led to the election of Ronald Reagan. Friedman changed economics and won the Nobel Prize. I had a chance to ask each of them, separately, if they ever felt completion, if they ever had a sense that they’d done their work and now they had crossed the finish line and could relax. Neither man even understood my question. They were never at rest, pushing for what they saw as a better society all the days of their lives.

My friend Tim Keller, the late pastor, was in some ways not a classic late bloomer—his talents were already evident when he was a young man. But those talents weren’t afforded much public scope at the church in rural Virginia where his calling had taken him.

Tim didn’t feel qualified to publish his first major book until he was 58. Over the next 10 years he published nearly three dozen more, harvesting the wisdom he’d been gathering all along. His books have sold more than 25 million copies. During this same time, he founded Redeemer, the most influential church in New York and maybe America.

When Tim got pancreatic cancer at the age of 70, he was still in the prime of his late-blooming life. Under the shadow of death, as he wrote in The Atlantic, his spiritual awareness grew deeper. He experienced more sadness and also more joy. But what I will always remember about those final years is how much more eager Tim was to talk about the state of the world than about the state of his own health. He had more to give, and he worked feverishly until the end. He left behind an agenda for how to repair the American church—a specific action plan for how to mend the Christian presence in our torn land.

I’ve noticed this pattern again and again: Slow at the start, late bloomers are still sprinting during that final lap—they do not slow down as age brings its decay. They are seeking. They are striving. They are in it with all their heart.

05 Jan 18:07

Why Parents Struggle So Much in the World’s Richest Country

by Stephanie H. Murray

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One morning a couple of years ago, during the awkward hour between my eldest daughter’s school drop-off and her sister’s swim lesson, I stopped at a coffee shop. There, I ran into the father of a boy in my daughter’s class. He was also schlepping a younger child around, and as we got to talking, I learned that we had a lot in common.

Like me, he had followed his spouse to the United Kingdom for work; she was a physician, learning some new procedure to take back to Australia. He couldn’t wait to move home to his big house down the road from the beach. “Do you think you’ll ever move back to the U.S.?” he asked. Sure, eventually, I said. Or at least that was the plan.

What he said next threw me: His wife had recently been offered a job in America. “It would have been great for her career,” he said, “but we figured it would be too dangerous for the kids.”

I can’t remember what I said in response—probably something about things not being quite as bad as they seem on the news. But his comment, and the matter-of-fact way he said it, stuck with me.

For most of my life, I have never felt anything but extreme, what-are-the-odds gratitude to have been born and raised in America. We have so much: a high median income and larger-than-average houses and some of the world’s most prestigious colleges and universities. When I tell people in the U.K. that I’ve moved there from the U.S., many respond with something to the effect of “Why on Earth would you do that?”

But their tone changes a little when I mention having kids. American parents have something of a reputation in Europe. We’re known for being intense, neurotic, overprotective, obsessed with academic achievement—“the opposite of relaxed,” Matthias Doepke, a professor of economics at the London School of Economics, told me. Some Europeans worry that American child-rearing norms will take hold there. Yet many of the parents I’ve spoken with also express some sympathy, or even pity, for American parents. They seem bewildered by how little support new parents receive in the U.S., and horrified by the prevalence of gun violence in American life.

Of course, people in many other parts of the world experience levels of poverty, violence, and instability that are far worse. By that measure, many Americans are indeed very lucky. But the United States is a rich country, and it could afford to alleviate some of the challenges its parents face. Instead, the U.S. mostly regards children, and the vital task of raising them, as a personal matter.

[Read: Parental leave is American exceptionalism at its bleakest]

If you have children in America, it is up to you to keep them safe, healthy, and well cared for. This philosophy shapes government policy in some obvious ways: The U.S. is one of the only countries in the world without guaranteed paid maternity leave. Compared with the rest of the OECD, an international coalition of 38 nations—most of them wealthy—it spends far less on direct cash benefits for families (which the U.S. briefly experimented with more broadly during the early pandemic but then abandoned), as well as on early education and child care. Statutory paid vacation, sick leave, caregiving leave, and pension credits for caregivers are all common in OECD countries but absent in America.

I’ve come to understand that Australian dad’s logic: America is a land of incredible opportunity, but it’s not a great place to raise kids.

The job of raising children is simply different in the U.S. It comes with fewer assurances and requires navigating a level of precarity that is unique in the developed world.

It is, in a word, harder.

To me, the American ideal of “having it all”—that is, working a full-time job while raising children—always seemed like way too much. So when I finished graduate school with a baby in tow, I sought out part-time work that I hoped to scale up when my kids got older.

But the sort of work you can do part-time in America is generally not the sort that offers any leave or that can cover the cost of child care for two kids. When I gave birth to my second daughter, in 2018, I left my job entirely. This was by no means a disaster—my husband has a great job with excellent health insurance—but it was daunting to entirely lose my foothold in the labor market. I spent my first year at home trying to start a freelance writing career but didn’t get very far. Then, at the end of 2019, we moved to the United Kingdom.

Among the wealthy, postindustrial nations that make up America’s peers, England is hardly the most supportive for parents. Brits sometimes describe their country as a kind of halfway point between Europe and America, and that’s certainly true for family policy. But with a full year of job-protected leave, up to 39 weeks of which is paid; cash stipends for parents; tax-free child-care funds; paid vacation and sick leave; universal health care; and a right to request flexible working arrangements, there is far more support for parents in the U.K. than in the U.S. I don’t qualify for some of these benefits due to my visa status, but all kids, including mine, are entitled to at least 570 hours of early-childhood education or child care per year from age 3 to 4, and most children start full-time school a year earlier than American kindergarten.

With this help, I was able to give freelancing another go. I’m now living my dream of having a career that allows me to pick my daughters up from school every day, and I owe it in no small part to the subsidized child care in England. I would not be writing this article without it.

I still find parenting overwhelming and difficult at times, even though I know I’ve got it better than most people. But there’s a different feel to parenting over here—more sure-footed and secure—and it took me a while to figure out why. It’s the sense that my children’s welfare is not all on me and my husband. That is, after all, what a policy like paid parental leave represents: the conviction that parents deserve support, that the work of raising a country’s next generation of citizens should be a collective enterprise. When the government instead leaves parents to look for employers willing to tolerate their care responsibilities, it sends a clear message: your kids, your problem.

Single father Mike Harvey, 38, and his children, Siddeeqa, 6, Nadia, 4, Yasin, 2 walk in a field at Blackhawk apartment complex April 22, 2007  in Rockford, Illinois. Harvery, born in Rockford, has lived in Chicago and Atlanta, GA, moved back to his mothers one-bed apartment with three of his five children in Jan 2007 after divorce with his wife. Harvey works at Chysler factory as temporary worker.  (Photo by Kuni Takahashi/Getty Images)
(Kuni Takahashi / Getty)

Take the example of Dina, who was born in Africa and works in higher education. When she found out she was pregnant, everyone in her and her husband’s extended families abroad assumed that she would have paid maternity leave. (Dina asked to be identified by her first name only so that she could speak openly about her leave experience.) But her academic job at the time offered no paid leave, and because she hadn’t been there for a full year when she gave birth, she didn’t even qualify for unpaid leave through the Family and Medical Leave Act (FMLA). This is something I encountered repeatedly in speaking with women for this article—the fact that they had switched jobs during their pregnancy or worked part-time rendered them ineligible for any job-protected leave, which isn’t how it works in many other countries.

[Read: The U.S. leaves parents on their own for a reason]

By the time Dina gave birth, she had accumulated just three days of paid time off. She scheduled her C-section for the Friday before the last week of the 2020 fall term so that she would have the weekend to recover before diving back into grading and research for the rest of her school’s winter break.

When the spring term started, she went back to teaching—virtually, due to the pandemic—at five weeks postpartum, still in pain from her C-section, pumping and nursing through six hours of class. Even so, Dina told me, in some ways she felt “lucky.” That her due date came so close to winter break was a stroke of good fortune; COVID-19 “saved” her, she said, because it allowed her to teach from home.

Another mother I spoke with, Patricia Green, was working as a home-health aide for a company serving people with disabilities when she found out she was pregnant. One of her clients would sometimes get violent and hit her belly, so Green sought out a new job at another agency. Like Dina, the fact that she started working there midpregnancy meant that she didn’t qualify for the FMLA. And even if she had been eligible, she needed the money, which meant that she had to go back to work two weeks postpartum, even though she didn’t have anyone she trusted to watch her child. “I feel like I was just kind of forced to go back to work, and I was not ready,” Green told me. “I would constantly be thinking about the safety of my child.”

Work-family conflicts continue throughout a child’s life—and, unsurprisingly, put the most strain on financially vulnerable mothers. Amanda Freeman, a sociologist at the University of Hartford who conducted a yearslong study of low-income mothers in America, told me that all of the women she surveyed were working, often multiple part-time jobs that not only paid poorly but also offered few benefits and none of the flexibility necessary to coordinate employment and parenting. Just-in-time scheduling, in which employers post employees’ schedules with very little notice and can change it at the last minute, made it difficult to arrange child care or, for that matter, any other aspect of their child’s life. “Sometimes they’ll pay for child care, which they can’t afford anyway, and then not have a shift,” Freeman said. The mothers Freeman interviewed worried about their kids getting sick—or about falling ill themselves—because few of them had any sick leave, which meant that if they called out of work, they lost money and potentially their job.

One mother I spoke with, Mendy Hughes, has worked at Walmart for more than 13 years. For many years, her employer only allowed her to work night shifts, sometimes until midnight, so she would bring her 10-year-old son to work when she couldn’t find someone to watch him. “I can’t call in,” she told me. “He had to get up and go to school the next day.”

On top of all this, many of the women Freeman interviewed depended on various forms of means-tested social assistance that are issued for brief and varied intervals and subject to stringent income limits and work requirements. Hanging on to them requires, among other things, regularly reporting detailed information about their earnings or work-related activities, creating an additional axis of work-family conflict. This triple load of work, parenting, and navigating public benefits is a direct by-product of America’s view of public support for parents as something you are not supposed to need, Freeman told me. It’s not something that happens when programs are universal.

To lose work in America is to lose not only your income and the child care it pays for but also practically everything else: your health insurance, your company’s retirement-savings plan, and, potentially, Social Security benefits. Even much of the social safety net—the earned-income tax credit, the refundable portion of the child tax credit, and often Temporary Assistance for Needy Families, what we usually think of as “welfare”—is tied to work. What help is left for those with little or no income is sparse, patchy, and difficult to access (and retain). If American families can’t find a way to juggle work and parenting in spite of all the obstacles, they have a lot to lose and very far to fall.

And people do fall. At least one in 10 Americans has medical debt; one study found that postpartum women, more than one in 10 of whom are uninsured, are significantly overrepresented among them. Nearly 5 percent of children in America have no health insurance, and, by one estimate, a third of children are underinsured. Even though the health system in the U.K. has problems, parents there and in other countries with universal health care don’t have to hesitate to seek care for their kids for fear they won’t be able to afford it.

American families are also more likely to live in poverty than those in most other OECD countries. And as Jane Waldfogel, a professor of social work at Columbia University, told me, “It’s not just that we have more poor kids, but that the penalty to being poor is stronger.” For one thing, kids who grow up in poverty in the U.S. are four times more likely to be poor as adults than those in Denmark or Germany, and twice as likely as those in the U.K. or Australia.

Picture of 7 angel wood cut-outs for the victims of an elementary school shooting in Newtown in Newtown, Connecticut.
A memorial display for the victims of the Sandy Hook school shooting in Newtown, Connecticut, in 2012 (Zhang Chuanshi / Xinhua / Redux)

And then there’s the threat American parents have to worry about that pretty much doesn’t exist in many of the United States’s peer countries: guns. According to one analysis, from birth to 18, kids in the U.S. are nearly twice as likely to die as kids in a set of other wealthy countries—and the No. 1 cause of death is gun violence. Firearms are responsible for 20 percent of all U.S. child and teen deaths; the average among other comparably large and wealthy countries is less than 2 percent. Yet even that shocking statistic understates the degree to which guns distort childhood and complicate parenthood.

[Read: No parent should have to live like this]

The prevalence of gun violence is the reason Kayla Perry, who moved from the U.S. to Singapore in 2019, plans never to move back home. Born and raised in Silver Spring, Maryland, Perry’s first brush with gun violence occurred when snipers spent three weeks in 2002 shooting people across the greater Washington, D.C., area. Their first victim was the father of one of her classmates. Perry heard the news when a fellow student passed her a note in French class, minutes before the school went into lockdown. Everything about school life was strange that month, she remembers—they weren’t allowed to go out for recess, and no one stood outside at the bus stop. Perry was never a direct victim or survivor of firearm violence, yet it shaped her worldview. She recalled a time when, while walking home from school, she and her friends heard what they thought was a gunshot. “We all ran in zigzags all the way home, because it’s the best way to avoid a shooter,” she told me. “Looking back, like, how sad is it that a kid that age has that fear?”  

American childhood today is indelibly shaped by that fear. School shootings have been rising in the past few decades; according to one count, in 2022, 40 people were killed and 100 more injured in 51 shootings. And even though most students will never encounter a school shooter, the pervasive threat and all of the countermeasures—the drills and metal detectors and bulletproof backpacks—produce a sense of unsafety at school. For parents, the unrelenting fear that your child could fall victim to a shooter is a source of anxiety, always there in the back of your mind.

But school shootings, and the defensive apparatus that has built up around them, are only the most visible way that firearm violence has warped American childhood. They represent a tiny fraction of gun deaths. Once, while Perry was home for winter break during her freshman year of college, her neighbor was shot in his driveway during an armed robbery. No one died, and Perry mostly accepted the swirling threat of gun violence as an ordinary part of life. “You could get in a car crash; you could get in a plane crash; you could be shot … That’s just normal life,” she said.

Only when she moved away did she fully appreciate how unusual widespread gun violence is in other parts of the world, or start to wonder what it would be like to grow up without it. Perry doesn’t have children yet, but she wants them—and that’s why she’s decided she will not move back to the United States. She wants her future kids to live in a country where they don’t need to worry about firearms.

For a year during the pandemic, I found myself in the somewhat strange position of writing a weekly roundup of parenting advice for an American audience from my perch overseas. I remember reading an article published after the Uvalde massacre, meant to give American parents data-driven advice on how to protect their kids. The author accurately noted that the overwhelming majority of children who die by gun violence aren’t killed at school. Nearly a third of deaths from firearms among minors are suicides. Among kids under 13, nearly half of gun deaths and injuries are accidental.

Nothing epitomizes U.S. individualism quite like widespread gun ownership—and nothing more clearly illustrates the impossible burdens that individualism inevitably places on parents. No amount of tragedy has yet convinced Americans to set aside their guns, so instead we saddle parents with the absurd task of protecting their children from other gun owners while also ensuring that the child never stumbles across a gun.

All of this might help explain why American parents act the way they do.

In many parts of the world, parenting has gotten more intense, and childhood has become less free. But the all-consuming nature of American child-rearing is extreme compared with many other countries, Doepke, the economics professor, told me. In the U.S., for example, preschool is much more academic. (While searching for summer camps last year, I stumbled on a “USA-style” camp where kids can learn to code.) In the Nordic region and elsewhere, early care settings are more focused on playing in nature. “If you live in Stockholm and do the American thing of teaching numbers and letters to your kids and signing them up for violin at age 4, then your Swedish friends will tell you that is almost child abuse,” Doepke said.

This meddling style of parenting may have started out as an idiosyncrasy of the upper classes, but it has become the norm—or at least the aspiration—for many American parents. We see it not only in that early academic pressure but also in the way moms and dads devour parenting advice, and the high degree of surveillance kids are subjected to. But, of course, not everyone has the time and resources to meet these standards. Amanda Freeman told me that every parent in her survey of low-income mothers was aware of intensive-parenting norms; most were desperate to replicate them and ashamed when they couldn’t.

[Read: The gravitational pull of supervising kids all the time]

Hannes Schwandt, an economist at Northwestern University, told me that in many communities in Switzerland, where he used to teach, accompanying children on their walk to school was generally frowned upon. By comparison, American children seem to be raised as if they were in a “combat zone,” Schwandt said. Perry noted something similar in Singapore—kids there are extremely focused on academics (many go to after-school school), but they also have a tremendous amount of freedom from a young age, riding the metro or going to the mall on their own.

It’s ironic that in a country so committed to freedom, children have so little of it; that in a society so committed to personal responsibility and self-reliance, children can do so little for themselves. But perhaps that’s not a coincidence. In their book, Love, Money, and Parenting, Doepke and his co-author, Fabrizio Zilibotti, argue that much of the variation among wealthy nations in parenting styles has economic roots. The emphasis that parents across the world put on hard work (relative to values such as independence and imagination) lines up remarkably well with their country’s economic inequality. About 9 in 10 Chinese parents and two-thirds of American parents place hard work among the most important values to pass along to children. In Sweden, it’s 11 percent. This makes a lot of sense: Parents everywhere want to set their kids up for success, but “the economic environment really shapes what that means,” Doepke said.

Pushing your kids to do well in school and filling out their free time with extracurriculars that will help their college applications might be tough on children, but if you live in the U.S., it is still likely the rational thing to do. The risks, both physical and financial, of taking a hands-off approach to parenting are simply higher in America than in pretty much any other comparably wealthy country.

This, I think, is the quandary I find myself in when weighing whether to return to the United States: I don’t know that I can move back to America without becoming an American parent. The task of raising a child is always uncertain and daunting, even under the best of circumstances. But when you sign up to be a parent in the U.S., you are signing up to navigate threats to your kids’ safety and your family’s financial stability that you would not have to consider if you lived in any comparable country. There’s no opting out of these stressors; they’re part of the job.

My husband and I still plan to move back to the U.S. at some point. We want to be near our families—and will need to be, eventually, in order to help care for our parents as they age. We always assumed that moving closer to family members who can help out with our kids would make parenting easier. But I don’t know if my relatives’ support would be enough to offset the feeling that my country doesn’t have my family’s back. It’s a tragic thought: that moving home is not what’s best for my family. But it’s one I cannot shake.

23 Dec 12:28

Words to help you write better reviews

by Karissa Wingate

Whether its your own self review or a review of someone else, its always a challenge not to write something that feels like its falling flat. Make your accomplishments sound like the hard work they are with some of these words.

One small tip: use these carefully, they can be a little much if you stuff too many into a review at once.

Leadership words:

  1. Chaired
  2. Modeled
  3. Principal
  4. Coached
  5. Mentored
  6. Drove
  7. Guided
  8. Persuaded
  9. Instructed

Creation words:

  1. Composed
  2. Produced
  3. Executed
  4. Devised
  5. Conceived
  6. Defined
  7. Derived
  8. Invented

Management words:

  1. Coordinated
  2. Headed
  3. Organized
  4. Oversaw
  5. Planned
  6. Presided
  7. Arranged
  8. Orchestrated

This is not by any means an exhaustive list. Please feel free to share more and save these for future use.

Example transformation of some of my year end review from 2019 (pre awesome words list, obviously)

Before:

  • Release of chat 2.0 and web messaging (prior to joining architecture FT)
  • Improving performance testing requests intake process & roll out to teams
  • PCF Scaling Guidelines released
  • Continued work with teams on performance testing
  • Continued work with other architects on planning for performance success
  • Grew technological understanding of AWS and Mulesoft

After:

  • Coordinated and managed the release of chat 2.0 and the web messaging to production
  • Devised an improved intake process for performance testing requests & instructed the appdev teams on the new process
  • Defined PCF Scaling Guidelines and coached teams on why they were important
  • Worked with appdev teams on performance testing
  • Collaborated with other architects on planning for performance success
  • Grew technological understanding of AWS and Mulesoft
26 Jul 14:45

If you don’t need this reminder you are a better person than I am.

by thebloggess
Just a reminder that all the food you panic-bought at the beginning of the pandemic has expired. PS. If this is relatable content go move the stuff from the wash into the dryer (or rewash them if you can’t remember when you washed them), call to get your meds refilled, drink some water and plugContinue reading "If you don’t need this reminder you are a better person than I am."
25 May 20:06

What It Means to Forgive the Unforgivable

by Elizabeth Bruenig

No virtue resists cultivation like forgiveness; it grows in the wild. For Sarah Gregory, a middle-aged mom working for a substance-abuse treatment center in Frederick, Maryland, it arose from a blaze of old pain. Gregory, having been through years of addiction and recovery, has learned all about the cathartic power of letting go. But early in the fall of 2020, she still so vehemently hated the man who had murdered her grandmother Dorothy Epps in Alabama nearly 20 years prior that she couldn’t so much as say his name, even in prayer. She had been furious at him for so long, she told me, “I was having trouble remembering the good things about my grandmother.” All of the memories were stained by anger.

There was no question of guilt in Epps’s case. By the time Gregory was nearing her breaking point in 2020, the killer had already given an account of his crime. James “Jimi” Barber, a contractor and erstwhile boyfriend of Gregory’s maternal aunt, had been working on Epps’s house in the spring of 2001. He was also, at that time, nursing a fierce addiction. By his own dim recollection, Barber said in a 2012 court hearing, he had smoked “hundreds of dollars’ worth” of crack cocaine, drunk at least a case of beer, and taken a handful of prescription pain pills before he arrived at Epps’s home on the night of the murder. What he remembered from that point was, he said, hazy; he could clearly recall being inside the house, and picking up a hammer. Barber narrated his immediate horror at what he had done, how he had recoiled from his own image in a mirror moments after the crime. He said he didn’t know why he had struck Epps. It had just happened.

And then, one day in the autumn of 2020, Gregory was driving, and a Bruce Springsteen song—“Letter to You”—came on the radio, and she knew what she had to do. She wrote a letter to Barber, who was by then on Alabama’s death row. Her letter began haltingly, but with purpose. She led with her loss.

[Elizabeth Bruenig: Dead to rights]

“Before May 2001, you were part of our family,” she wrote. “You saw firsthand how close we all were and how we were held together by one woman … She was strong, graceful, filled with compassion and love, she forgave and saw the best in everyone.” When Barber killed her grandmother, she said, he murdered “our matriarch, my best friend, my confidant, the woman who loved me (and everyone) unconditionally. I lost my hero that night and I lost her in the most horrible way imaginable.” After the crime, she said, she had abused drugs to avoid facing her grief. In the process of getting clean, she had devoted herself to “helping the next person, being there when anyone needs me, and loving unconditionally,” like her grandmother had. And she had come a long way in practicing forgiveness, she said, but Barber had been the exception.

That was changing, even as the letter unfolded. “The internal struggle that has eaten me alive all these years has to end … now,” Gregory went on. “I am tired Jimmy. I am tired. I am tired of carrying this pain, hate, and rage in my heart. I can’t do it anymore. I have to do this and truly forgive you.” She hoped that Barber had already asked God and her grandmother for forgiveness, and that the entreaties had yielded some comfort for him. “I pray that when you answer to God you have peace and acceptance in your soul. I pray that when you see Grandmamma again, she embraces you and tells you it is OK … I forgive you Jimmy. I forgive you for everything you did.” She wished him well, and encouraged him to try to help others. And if he didn’t write back, she said, she would understand. She had no expectations about how her letter would find Barber, or how he might respond.

She put her letter in the mail.


Barber is from Winstead, Connecticut, and sounds like it, a gravel-voiced but amiable Yankee calling from a place where most guys sound real southern: Holman Correctional Facility in Atmore, Alabama. The state plans to kill Barber next month despite the fact that Alabama botched the last three executions it attempted. Still, the main thing Barber wanted to tell me about when we spoke on the phone one spring afternoon was the day he received Gregory’s letter.

“I broke down and started crying,” Barber said. “I thought it was bad. I thought they’d gloat and say, ‘You’re gonna get what’s coming to ya.’ I thought it was gonna be bad and the letter started out like that.” But as he kept reading, Barber said, “it brought me to my knees.”

He wrote Gregory back. “Dear Sarah, Receiving your letter was the single most edifying, uplifting moment that I have experienced, short of October 6th, 2001, when I forced the county jail to be baptized for the remission of my sins into the death & resurrection of Jesus Christ.” It had been a pivotal moment for Barber, as he went on to explain. “I did not pick up the bible to seek out God or get out of jail, or anything of the sort,” he said; rather “it was, and I’m ashamed by this, boredom.” With the jailhouse TV on the fritz and only one book a month passing through his hands, Barber decided to read the good book to pass the time. He would read for hours, he said, and once he had read it the first time, he read it again and again and again. “I’m not going to tell you I saw doves ascending or anything of that kind,” he told Gregory, “but there was a definite change before I finished.” The Bible, he wrote, had saved what was then his “worthless life.”

[Elizabeth Bruenig: Not that innocent]

“I know you didn’t write the letter to hear me say ‘I’m sorry,’” he wrote, turning to the miracle of Gregory’s forgiveness, which he did his best to witness: “Sarah, sorry could never come close to what is in my heart & soul. The self loathing, shame, shock and utter disbelief at what took place at my hand almost overcame me. If not for God’s grace I would be gone.” The only thing that had kept him from suicide, he said, was that he had no clear recollection of committing Dorothy’s murder. “I don’t think I could tell you anything that would explain or enlighten. There is no explanation. I loved Dottie. Loved her with all my heart. Still do.”

Barber told Gregory he had decided early on not to become “a convict,” that no matter how he left prison, “either on my feet or in a body bag, I was going to be a better man than when I arrived.” His record on the inside, he said, was spotless. He had spent nearly two decades under a death sentence, trying to bring men to Christ.

How did it feel to be forgiven? Barber strained to describe it. “Receiving your letter caused me to break down and sob for several long minutes. You sweet wonderful person! I can’t tell you how much that means to me that you have that kind of spirit in you … I’m so glad you found the grace and strength to write.” He wished her well and placed himself forever in her debt, with only a hope spared at the end of his long letter that Gregory might write back.

When Gregory opened his letter, she told me, she “could feel those feelings of anger and resentment coming off of me.” She set to work on a return letter. “You have freed me,” she wrote back in September 2020. “Receiving your letter was the final piece of freedom. The weight was lifted when I forgave you in my heart, but your response back brought me indescribable freedom and release. I have no anger … zero. I feel as if a thousand pounds were lifted from my soul. I cannot thank you enough. I am sorry that it took me so long.”

Reading their correspondence put me in mind of how dull and ordinary my daily exchanges are, the ticktock of friendly banter and household chatter. These people had experienced something profoundly, transcendently emotional; there, where the most justified anger and hatred had been, was something growing that looked like love. “It was all for nothing,” Gregory wrote of her formerly hard feelings, “but now, we move forward. I hope forward will be continued communication for us.”

[Read: A prison lifer comes home]

They began to talk on the phone. “It’s a pretty cool relationship,” Gregory told me. They talk about Gregory’s life, her son, the Lord. Gregory told me that they sometimes talk weekly, sometimes monthly. Barber looks forward to their conversations with happy anticipation. “I love that girl more than I love anybody else in this world,” he told me. “I love her more than anyone else on this planet.” Gregory had possessed something he needed—her forgiveness—which she had given to him freely, and this act of charity had forged a bond between them. The way Gregory remembers her grandmother now, she told me, is how she chooses to remember her.

They haven’t discussed his execution. Barber tells me he isn’t afraid, and I don’t detect any bravado. He’s been in pain for a long time—for the past 12 years, he’s needed a hip replacement. But more than that, he’s at peace. Most Christians who await the afterlife only hope for forgiveness, but Barber has experienced it here on earth. “They can’t threaten me with heaven,” he likes to say.

But if anyone knows anything about the bracing joy of forgiveness, it’s Gregory, and what she feels at the prospect of Barber’s execution is only despair. “I don’t want it to happen,” she told me. “I don’t … I don’t want to see it done.” She will likely attend with her family, “but it will be hard. I spent so long believing in ‘an eye for an eye’—I’ve changed,” she said, but some relatives of hers feel differently, which she understands. “It’s a really hard one.”

The proceeds of vengeance are typically greater in the criminal-justice system than the proceeds of forgiveness. In its communications with the media concerning last year’s string of botched executions, Alabama has repeatedly insisted that it is acting on behalf of victims’ families. Yet the state executed Joe Nathan James in July 2022 over the vocal protest of his victim’s family. It is in the nature of American justice that anger can end a life, yet forgiveness cannot necessarily save one. But then again, maybe it already has.

19 Feb 19:01

Wash Your Hands and Pray You Don’t Get Sick

by Katherine J. Wu
A.N

ask me why i share

In one very specific and mostly benign way, it’s starting to feel a lot like the spring of 2020: Disinfection is back.

“Bleach is my friend right now,” says Annette Cameron, a pediatrician at Yale School of Medicine, who spent the first half of this week spraying and sloshing the potent chemical all over her home. It’s one of the few tools she has to combat norovirus, the nasty gut pathogen that her 15-year-old son was recently shedding in gobs.

Right now, hordes of people in the Northern Hemisphere are in a similarly crummy situation. In recent weeks, norovirus has seeded outbreaks in several countries, including the United Kingdom, Canada, and the United States. Last week, the U.K. Health Security Agency announced that laboratory reports of the virus had risen to levels 66 percent higher than what’s typical this time of year. Especially hard-hit are Brits 65 and older, who are falling ill at rates that “haven’t been seen in over a decade.”

Americans could be heading into a rough stretch themselves, Caitlin Rivers, an infectious-disease epidemiologist at Johns Hopkins University, told me, given how closely the U.S.’s epidemiological patterns tend to follow those of the U.K. “It does seem like there’s a burst of activity right now,” says Nihal Altan-Bonnet, a norovirus researcher at the National Institutes of Health. At her own practice, Cameron has been seeing the number of vomiting and diarrhea cases among her patients steadily tick up. (Other pathogens can cause gastrointestinal symptoms as well, but norovirus is the most common cause of foodborne illness in the United States.)

To be clear, this is more a nauseating nuisance than a public-health crisis. In most people, norovirus triggers, at most, a few miserable days of GI distress that can include vomiting, diarrhea, and fevers, then resolves on its own; the keys are to stay hydrated and avoid spreading it to anyone vulnerable—little kids, older adults, the immunocompromised. The U.S. logs fewer than 1,000 annual deaths out of millions of documented cases. In other high-income countries, too, severe outcomes are very rare, though the virus is far more deadly in parts of the world with limited access to sanitation and potable water.

Still, fighting norovirus isn’t easy, as plenty of parents can attest. The pathogen, which prompts the body to expel infectious material from both ends of the digestive tract, is seriously gross and frustratingly hardy. Even the old COVID standby, a spritz of hand sanitizer, doesn’t work against it—the virus is encased in a tough protein shell that makes it insensitive to alcohol. Some have estimated that ingesting as few as 18 infectious units of virus can be enough to sicken someone, “and normally, what’s getting shed is in the billions,” says Megan Baldridge, a virologist and immunologist at Washington University in St. Louis. At an extreme, a single gram of feces—roughly the heft of a jelly bean—could contain as many as 5.5 billion infectious doses, enough to send the entire population of Eurasia sprinting for the toilet.

Unlike flu and RSV, two other pathogens that have bounced back to prominence in recent months, norovirus mainly targets the gut, and spreads especially well when people swallow viral particles that have been released in someone else’s vomit or stool. (Despite its “stomach flu” nickname, norovirus is not a flu virus.) But direct contact with those substances, or the food or water they contaminate, may not even be necessary: Sometimes people vomit with such force that the virus gets aerosolized; toilets, especially lidless ones, can send out plumes of infection like an Air Wick from hell. And Altan-Bonnet’s team has found that saliva may be an unappreciated reservoir for norovirus, at least in laboratory animals. If the spittle finding holds for humans, then talking, singing, and laughing in close proximity could be risky too.

[Read: Whatever happened to toilet plumes?]

Once emitted into the environment, norovirus particles can persist on surfaces for days—making frequent hand-washing and surface disinfection key measures to prevent spread, says Ibukun Kalu, a pediatric infectious-disease specialist at Duke University. Handshakes and shared meals tend to get dicey during outbreaks, along with frequently touched items such as utensils, door handles, and phones. One 2012 study pointed to a woven plastic grocery bag as the source of a small outbreak among a group of teenage soccer players; the bag had just been sitting in a bathroom used by one of the girls when she fell sick the night before.

Once a norovirus transmission chain begins, it can be very difficult to break. The virus can spread before symptoms start, and then for more than a week after they resolve. To make matters worse, immunity to the virus tends to be short-lived, lasting just a few months even against a genetically identical strain, Baldridge told me.

Day cares, cruise ships, schools, restaurants, military training camps, prisons, and long-term-care facilities can be common venues for norovirus spread. “I did research with the Navy, and it just goes through like wildfire,” often sickening more than half the people on tightly packed ships, says Robert Frenck, the director of the Vaccine Research Center at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital. Households, too, are highly susceptible to spread: Once the virus arrives, the entire family is almost sure to be infected. Baldridge, who has two young children, told me that her household has weathered at least four bouts of norovirus in the past several years.

(A pause for some irony: In spite of norovirus’s infectiousness, scientists did not succeed in culturing it in labs until just a few years ago, after nearly half a century of research. When researchers design challenge trials to, say, test new vaccines, they still need to dose volunteers with norovirus that’s been extracted from patient stool, a gnarly practice that’s been around for more than 50 years.)

Norovirus spread doesn’t have to be a foregone conclusion. Some people do get lucky: Roughly 20 percent of European populations, for instance, are genetically resistant to common norovirus strains. “So you can hope,” Frenck told me. For the rest of us, it comes down to hygiene. Altan-Bonnet recommends diligent hand-washing, plus masking to ward off droplet-borne virus. Sick people should isolate themselves if they can. “And keep your saliva to yourself,” she told me.

[Read: The stomach-flu mystery]

Rivers and Cameron have both managed to halt the virus in their homes in the past; Cameron may have pulled it off again this week. The family fastidiously scrubbed their hands with hot water and soap, donned disposable gloves when touching shared surfaces, and took advantage of the virus’s susceptibility to harsh chemicals and heat. When her son threw up on the floor, Cameron sprayed it down with bleach; when he vomited on his quilt, she blasted it twice in the washing machine on the sanitizing setting, then put it through the dryer at a super high temp. Now a couple of days out from the end of their son’s sickness, Cameron and her husband appear to have escaped unscathed.

Norovirus isn’t new, and this won’t be the last time it hits. In a lot of ways, “this is back to basics,” says Samina Bhumbra, the medical director of infection prevention at Riley Children’s Hospital. After three years of COVID, the world has gotten used to thinking about infections in terms of airways. “We need to recalibrate,” Bhumbra told me, “and remember that other things exist.”

17 Feb 15:44

Math Is Magic

by Camonghne Felix

In second grade, I stopped being able to do math. One night I went to do my long-division homework and I couldn’t figure it out. My mom demanded that I sit with my math teacher because my sudden inability made no sense. Two weeks later, I was sent home with a disciplinary note for turning in only empty or incorrect homework and was accused of not paying attention in class.

Up until then I had been a “good” student, a “smart” girl. I remember the secret bliss I felt when I knew before my peers how to count fractions without the help of manipulatives, and how to subtract negatives. This can be only partially explained by the teaching I got in school. My mom, who was then studying computer science and psychology in her master’s program, was determined to instill a love of learning in my life. Over the course of a year, she built me a computer out of parts and installed all kinds of educational games on it. When I arrived home every day, I attended my mother’s academy, where I spent most of my afternoons watching the sun fall on the walls of my bedroom as I finger-punched my way through the programs.

I loved Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego? and You Can Be a Woman Engineer, but Math Blaster was my favorite. I remember the illustration of the game as vividly as any beloved book: an astronaut, tethered to a spaceship, floating their way through the starry landscape of space with simple mathematical expressions on their chest, and on each planet, a foreign landscape with different levels of math problems to solve. That image in my head of the astronaut working diligently in the vast expanse of space, the stars an infinite backdrop to a mathematical cosmos, is exactly how I see math in my head now—fantastical, endless, and enchanting. But I had to lose that relationship with math to be able to find math again.

My mom would later connect the dots between the rapid deterioration of my learning abilities and another, correlative timeline. After getting in trouble one day for saying something so inappropriate in class that it boggled even me, I went home and told my mom what my older cousin had been doing to me while she was at work and my grandma wasn’t home. Immediately, the evidence began to click: the inexplicable spotting in my underwear, the change in my emotional regularity, my 68 score on a math test I’d have more than passed two summers before.

Learning of the violent trauma I’d been experiencing caused a radical 180 in both our lives. Lawyers, doctors, judges—I watched my mom attempt to be strong every day as she worked to manage the worst crisis she could ever have imagined happening to her. Math classes were getting harder as my brain attempted to process the initial trauma and what followed the trauma’s reveal. I went to school, and most mornings, the board seemed too far away. Greater-than and less-than symbols were like commas to me, nearly indistinguishable in function and in form. I was tested for vision impairments twice that month, though the eye doctor recorded 20/20 vision. Division amplified the inadequacy I felt. I would come home, blank, my mom imploring me to think: “You must have remembered something, Camonghne.” But I didn’t remember anything.

Some part of my brain stopped working the way it was supposed to once the assaults started happening. But I was the only one who could see the size of the injury and just how it was affecting me physically. I was tired, uninspired, easily triggered, and quick to fire, always ready to fight. I knew I needed extra help, maybe to go to school somewhere else where they’d rehabilitate me. I spent countless school nights researching boarding schools for troubled kids. But when my mom asked me if she should tell my teachers the full story about what was going on, I refused. I didn’t want eight hours of sympathy; I just wanted to be able to get through my math homework. She told them anyway. It was worthless, as their incapacity to understand how living in my head felt at that time only highlighted the significance of my needs.

Years later, while researching bipolar disorder and executive-function disorders, I found one scientific explanation for all of my mathematical confusion. In 2018, psychologists published a study on the association between adverse childhood experiences and traumatic brain injury in adulthood. Both can affect developmental skills, mood, regulation, the ability to process and synthesize new information. Both affect some of the same parts of the brain. I began to think of the experience of childhood trauma, especially related to abandonment, neglect, and sexual abuse, as similar to a concussion. Imagine a child’s ability to cope with that, particularly when the injury remains invisible to the people she spends eight hours a day with.

Doctors and scientists have only just begun to develop a more complete understanding of how trauma works and how it affects individuals psychologically throughout their lifetime. But what we’re starting to understand confirms much of what people who’ve struggled with trauma and PTSD have long been trying to articulate: Emotional trauma is an injury. Trauma hits you, and your brain absorbs the shock.

In high school, my inability to point to where the wound was earned me the label of underperformer, troublemaker, someone who didn’t want to learn. I wished I could project myself onto the whiteboard and, with a bright-red cursor, point to the front lobe of my brain, and then to my heart, to show the teachers how badly it all ached. But that hungry and inquisitive child who devoured mathematical challenges was so afraid that those labels were true that she decided it was less disappointing to just give up—on math, on school, on life.

High school continued to go on despite the fact that I felt incapable of going on with it. I spent more time locked up in mental-health facilities than I did in classes. I shuttled from one high school to the next, kicked out, failed out, behind. I knew that I wanted to go to college; I knew that I wanted to study literature and language. I couldn’t focus in most classes, but I hid novels in my textbooks and wrote fan fiction in the evenings, losing myself in imaginary lands and complex world building, skills that would later revolutionize what I thought I was capable of. By junior year, when my transcript indicated a 1.4 GPA (NYC schools evaluate on a 0.0–4.0 scale), the high-school counselor responsible for helping me get into college told me it was too late, that I would have had to have at least gotten an A in one of my math classes to be anywhere near qualified for admission to any of the schools I was interested in. I was confronted with a series of closed doors as I watched my adolescence spiral out of my control.  

I was eventually transferred to an alternative high school (also known as a last-chance school), where a Cornell-educated and Bronx-raised scientist who’d returned home to teach saw something in me and promised she wouldn’t let me fall through the cracks. She spent every lunch period tutoring me, showing me how to calculate momentum, teaching me that nutrition started with an understanding of how the body quantifies energy, offering me tangible, material ways to understand math. Another math teacher across the hall attempted to teach me calculus. I still couldn’t do the arithmetic I’d need to be able to grasp it at its most complex form, but there was something about calculus as a study in continuous change that made sense to me.

Noticing my curiosity, my lunchtime tutor gave me a copy of Einstein’s Dreams, a novel that reintroduced me to the magical qualities of mathematics, reminding me of the sense of wonder that the illustrations in Math Blaster had made me feel as a kid. It turned numbers back into metaphors and images and poetry instead of scores on the exams I’d failed. I graduated from high school a year later than I should have, but with an A in calculus. For the first time since I was 9 years old, I no longer felt inadequate in the face of something my body knew it had once loved.

But it would be almost a decade before math and I would begin to have a conversation about what had happened to us, and why it had left me behind.

After graduating from high school, I managed to build a career, to become a writer and poet and to put the trauma of my childhood in a corner of my mind where it couldn’t disturb me. But years later, after a destabilizing breakup and a subsequent suicide attempt forced me back into psychiatric treatment, I decided that someone had to be in charge of figuring out where this wound was, and what the hell was still wrong with me. In almost no time, I was diagnosed with severe ADHD, and then later with bipolar 2 disorder.

Bipolar disorder, characterized by periods of depression and mania or hypomania, works kind of like a blowtorch. When an individual is having an episode, it causes stress to the brain, which can affect cognitive skills and executive function. It can be degenerative, meaning that as one gets older, and with each episode, the brain’s ability to do what it needs to do deteriorates.

After my diagnosis, I spent months researching a connection between math and bipolar disorder. I learned about dyscalculia, a kind of math dyslexia, and called the doctor who’d tested me for ADHD. “Do I have this?” I asked him. He told me, “I’d say it’s extremely likely based on the severity of your results.”

Immediately, I let out a sigh I’d been holding for decades. All at once, I felt betrayed, grateful, and relieved. After some months of treatment for my bipolar diagnosis, I couldn’t believe the clarity with which I began to see and feel. As my treatment adjusted (I tried a couple of mood stabilizers before ending up on lithium last year), I felt my ability to compute improve too.

I’m still no mathematician; I probably couldn’t even pass a sophomore-level college course. But I don’t have to be able to solve every equation for math to mean something to me. Math, after all, is infinite; no human can best it. I try to challenge myself to approach mathematics from a place of wonder and admiration instead of anxiety. And as I study basic techniques such as estimation, and continue to refamiliarize myself with division, I feel the slow death of that earlier block that kept these basics away from me. I feel the excitement I felt when I played Math Blaster, or when I first read Einstein’s Dreams. Losing my ability to learn and understand math represented the frailty of the human mind, but my ability to relearn it represents the mind’s innate resiliency.

Recently, I was out at dinner when, over steaming bowls of rice and half-eaten platters of bulgogi, my friend slid the bill across the table, a gesture with only one meaning. “Why me?” I asked her. “You’re the one who went to Johns Hopkins!” She waved me off. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, but you do mental math better than I do.” For a moment, I stared down at the check and I swore it was staring back at me.

This scene with my friend has become pretty typical. She hands me the bill and I calculate the tip. And every time feels like the first time. I hover over that bill with the focus of worship, willing my brain to do what the numbers ask of it, nothing less and nothing more. My respect for math is born from a deep desire to understand it. I’m always nervous when it’s my turn to split the bill, but I don’t wish for those nerves to go away. The chance to correct the narrative of the past feels transcendent.

This essay was adapted from the memoir Dyscalculia: A Love Story of Epic Miscalculation.

09 Feb 19:46

SVP Repo | Open-licensed SVG Vector and Icons

by swissmiss

Very few free icon websites offer straightforward download options without having to go through an account setup first. SVG Repo contains over 500,000 open-licensed vector icons and symbols that are easy to search and instantly downloadable. Helpful!

(via Dense Discovery)

26 Jan 14:43

The Summer-Camp Feeding Frenzy Has Already Begun

by Elliot Haspel

New Year’s resolutions had barely been resolved before parents across the nation started thinking ahead to summer. The scramble to sign kids up for summer camp begins in January, because limited slots and huge demand have led to a highly competitive environment that verges on absurd. Case in point: Rachael Deane, a mother in Richmond, Virginia, has a summer-camp spreadsheet. She joked to me that it is “more sophisticated than a bill tracker” she uses to follow legislation in her work at a children’s-advocacy nonprofit; the spreadsheet is color-coded, and registration dates are cross-posted onto her work calendar so she can jump into action as soon as slots open.

Deane’s intense approach reflects the state of modern parenthood. The lack of universal child care is a pain point for parents throughout the year, but the summer is a unique headache. As with after-school care, parents have to navigate a confusing patchwork of options, but in the summer, they need a plan for all day, every day, for three months. And society leaves them largely on their own to figure it out: A 2019 survey from the Center for American Progress found that for three-quarters of parents, securing summer care was at least a little bit difficult. The system is essentially a competition that has winners and losers, and rests upon a willful ignorance of the reality of most American families—only one-fifth of all parents are stay-at-home. Change is long overdue.

I believe part of the problem is that in the U.S., education is a right for kids, and a responsibility for the state, while care outside schools, despite being just as vital for child development, is seen as solely the parents’ responsibility. So when the academic calendar ends, the government bows out. As Amanda Lenhart, a researcher who has studied summer care, told me, “We’ve made a decision culturally to push the burden of caring for kids during the summer fully onto parents, and forcing them to manage. It’s in some ways a throwback to an idealized family setup and work setup that never existed for most people anyway.” Indeed, the system’s assumption that one parent (read: the mother) should be available to watch the kids is a prime example of what the historian Stephanie Coontz calls “the way we never were.”

[Read: America’s child-care equilibrium has shattered]

Although some people wax nostalgic about lightly supervised summers spent mainly by themselves or with friends, the landscape has shifted since the 1980s, and this is no longer a viable option for many families. The sociologist Jessica Calarco explained in an interview with the writer Anne Helen Petersen that several factors led to the change. These included new laws about the minimum age at which children can be home alone, and a desire among certain parents for specialty camps to give their kids a leg up in college admissions. In parallel, the economic challenges of running camps drove a decline in options and an increase in prices.

The lack of affordable summer care leads to very different choice sets for parents in different income brackets. The mid-winter dash for summer-camp spots occurs mostly, though not exclusively, among wealthier, more educated parents. Lenhart’s research found that about one-third of parents in 2018 were sending their kids to camp; another study concluded that the kids of college graduates had an attendance rate seven times higher than that of kids whose parents had only a high-school diploma or less.

Parents who go this route face a logistical puzzle: Few summer programs run for multiple weeks, cover the hours when parents are working, and are reasonably affordable. Although many municipal parks-and-recreation departments valiantly try to provide inclusive low-cost options, there simply aren’t enough slots to go around. Making matters worse, camp sign-ups tend to be first come, first served, provoking a page-refreshing scrum more appropriate to acquiring Taylor Swift tickets than securing care for one’s children. I was discussing this topic with my literary agent, Laura Usselman, and she told me that in her small Georgia city, camp registration opens at 9 a.m. on one day in January, and “many of the camps are full by 9:03.”

Lower-income parents, for whom camps are often entirely out of reach, sometimes have to shape their entire work lives around the need for summer care. The Center for American Progress survey found that, to accommodate summer-care needs, more than half of families had “at least one parent [plan] to make a job change that will result in reduced income.” Calarco explained that in her research interviews with mothers, “quite a few have talked about how they made their own career decisions around the fact that their kids would be home in the summers and after school”—choosing a lower-paying job because it was closer to family who could help, for example, or taking part-time gig jobs.

The most obvious solution to this problem—year-round school—has never really gained traction in the United States. A mere 4 percent of U.S. schools have year-round schedules, and these still have substantial breaks. Summer vacation’s place in the American cultural mindset is deeply entrenched; there is also a fair case that children need opportunities for open play and creativity through an extended summer break to complement academic study.

Other countries have different approaches that preserve summer vacation without leaving parents scrambling every year. Municipalities in Sweden, for instance, are required by law to offer parents slots in programs known as fritidshem, or “leisure-time centers,” until their children turn 13. These centers provide both before- and after-school supervision and care during school breaks. In Germany, children have a legal right to day care; although there isn’t a corresponding policy for school breaks, some towns and cities organize comprehensive holiday programming, often in partnership with local schools. It’s not free, but the costs are moderate and financial aid is generally available.

Approaches like these in the U.S. would, of course, require funding, and maybe even legislation. Sadly, this country has shown time and again that it is unwilling to commit major resources to child care, laying the problem at parents’ feet instead. A cultural shift is needed to smooth the path for potential policy shifts. The summer scramble seems unlikely to end unless U.S. society moves its philosophy away from “every family for itself” and toward an understanding that school, work, and child care are all interconnected.

[Read: Why child care is so ridiculously expensive]

There have been recent glimmers of possibility. Although it was interrupted by the pandemic, two New York City council members introduced legislation in early 2020 to offer free summer camp for all youths in the city. Last year, several school districts across the country used pandemic-relief funding to temporarily provide free summer programming. Yet the fact that such policies are new and notable underlines the absurdity of America’s inconsistent ideas about when and where families deserve support. As Lenhart told me, “We’ve decided culturally and politically that the care of very young children, and the care of children in one season [of the year], is a burden to be borne by the family as opposed to spread across the community.”

Child care shouldn’t be a luxury good that the wealthy fight over, the middle class squeezes to acquire, and low-income folks do without. But that’s what it becomes every summer when parents’ options are shelling out for expensive camps, fighting for limited slots in affordable programs, or nothing. Until action is taken, forcing parents to sprint to sign up for summer camp in the dead of winter is a not-so-subtle message about how the nation really feels about them.

27 Dec 00:55

No One Can Decide If Grapefruit Is Dangerous

by Katherine J. Wu

Roughly a century ago, a new fad diet began to sweep the United States. Hollywood starlets such as Ethel Barrymore supposedly swore by it; the citrus industry hopped on board. All a figure-conscious girl had to do was eat a lot of grapefruit for a week, or two, or three.

The Grapefruit Diet, like pretty much all other fad diets, is mostly bunk. If people were losing weight with the regimen, that’s because the citrus was being recommended as part of a portion-controlled, low-calorie, low-carbohydrate diet—not because it had exceptional flab-blasting powers. And yet, the diet has survived through the decades, spawning a revival in the 1970s and ’80s, a dangerous juice-exclusive spin-off called the grapefruit fast, and even a shout-out from Weird Al; its hype still plagues nutritionists today.

[Read: Why science can be so indecisive about nutrition]

But for every grapefruit evangelist, there is a critic warning of its dangers—probably one with a background in pharmacology. The fruit, for all its tastiness and dietetic appeal, has another, more sinister trait: It raises the level of dozens of FDA-approved medications in the body, and for a select few drugs, the amplification can be potent enough to trigger a life-threatening overdose. For most people, chowing down on grapefruit is completely safe; it would take “a perfect storm” of factors—say, a vulnerable person taking an especially grapefruit-sensitive medication within a certain window of drinking a particular amount of grapefruit juice—for disaster to unfurl, says Emily Heil, an infectious-disease pharmacist at the University of Maryland. But that leaves grapefruit in a bit of a weird position. No one can agree on exactly how much the world should worry about this bittersweet treat whose chemical properties scientists still don’t fully understand.

Grapefruit’s medication-concentrating powers were discovered only because of a culinary accident. Some three decades ago, the clinical pharmacologist David Bailey (who died earlier this year) was running a trial testing the effects of alcohol consumption on a blood-pressure medication called felodipine. Hoping to mask the distinctive taste of booze for his volunteers, Bailey mixed it with grapefruit juice, and was shocked to discover that blood levels of felodipine were suddenly skyrocketing in everyone—even those in the control group, who were drinking virgin grapefruit juice.

After running experiments on himself, Bailey confirmed that the juice was to blame. Some chemical in grapefruit was messing with the body’s natural ability to break down felodipine in the hours after it was taken, causing the drug to accumulate in the blood. It’s the rough physiological equivalent of jamming a garbage disposal: Waste that normally gets flushed just builds, and builds, and builds. In this case, the garbage disposal is an enzyme called cytochrome P450 3A4—CYP3A4 for short—capable of breaking down a whole slate of potentially harmful chemicals found in foods and meds. And the jamming culprit is a compound found in the pulp and peel of grapefruit and related citrus, including pomelos and Seville oranges. It doesn’t take much: Even half a grapefruit can be enough to trigger a noticeable interaction, says George Dresser, a pharmacologist at Western University, in Ontario.

The possible consequences of these molecular clogs can sometimes get intense. “On the list of concerning food-drug interactions,” Dresser told me, “arguably, this is the most important one.” When paired with certain heart medications, grapefruit could potentially cause arrhythmias; with some antidepressants, it might induce nausea, vomiting, and an elevated heart rate. Grapefruit can also raise blood levels of the cholesterol drugs atorvastatin and simvastatin, prompting muscle pain and, eventually, muscle breakdown. One of the fruit’s most worrying interactions occurs with an immunosuppressive drug called tacrolimus, frequently prescribed to organ-transplant patients, that may, when amped up by grapefruit, spark headaches, tremors, hypoglycemia, and kidney problems. The citrus even has the ability to lift blood levels of drugs of abuse, including fentanyl, oxycodone, and ketamine.

The full list of potential interactions is long. “More than 50 percent of drugs on the market are metabolized by CYP3A4,” which inhabits both the liver and the gut, says Mary Paine, a pharmacologist at Washington State University. That said, grapefruit can really affect only intestinal CYP3A4, and will cause only a small fraction of those medications to reach notably higher concentrations in the blood (and sometimes only when fairly large quantities of juice are consumed—a quart or more). And only a small fraction of those medications will, when amassed, threaten true toxicity. Our bodies are always making more CYP3A4; stop eating grapefruit and, within a day or two, levels of the protein should more or less reset.

Professionals disagree on how to characterize grapefruit’s risks. To Shirley Tsunoda, a pharmacist at UC San Diego, “it’s definitely a big deal,” especially for the organ-transplant patients to whom she prescribes tacrolimus. Her advice to them is to indulge in grapefruit exactly never—and ideally, tacrolimus-takers should skip related citrus too. Tsunoda even advises people to check the labels of mixed-fruit juices, just in case the makers sneaked some grapefruit in, and she thinks twice when considering noshing on it herself. Paul Watkins, a pharmacologist at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, is much less worried; his bigger concern, he told me, is that the fruit’s reputation as a nemesis of oral medications has been way overblown. He used to study grapefruit-drug interaction but abandoned it years ago, after “I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t very important,” he told me. Some concern is absolutely warranted for certain people on certain meds, he noted. But “I think the actual incidence of patients who have gotten into any kind of trouble or had serious adverse reactions due to taking their drugs with grapefruit juice is very, very small.”

Even the FDA seems a bit unsure of how it feels about the fruit. The agency has stamped the documentation of several grapefruit-sensitive medications with official warnings. But fact sheets for other drugs merely mention that they can interact with grapefruit, say to consult a health-care professional, or just counsel people to avoid drinking the juice in “large amounts.” And as Dan Nosowitz has reported for Atlas Obscura, several interacting drugs that bear warnings in Canada—among them, Viagra, oxycodone, the HIV antiviral Edurant, and the blood pressure medication verapamildon’t mention any issues with grapefruit in the United States. (When I asked the agency about these discrepancies, a spokesperson wrote, “The FDA is continuously reviewing new information about approved drugs, including studies and reports of adverse events. If the FDA determines there is a safety concern, the agency will take appropriate action.”)

Very little solid data can precisely quantify grapefruit’s perils. Over the years, researchers have documented a number of isolated cases of citrus-drug interactions that prompted urgent medical care. But some of them involved truly exceptional amounts of juice. And citrus stans aren’t constantly dropping dead in clinical trials or nursing homes. Even when Bailey first presented his findings to the greater medical community, “people asked, ‘Where are all the bodies?’” Dresser, who was mentored by Bailey, told me. The paucity of data, Dresser contends, stems in part from health-care workers neglecting to check their patients for a history of juice-chugging.

For now, the conversation has mostly stalled, while grapefruit has served up even more mysteries. In the years since Bailey’s discovery, researchers have found that the fruit might lower the concentration of certain drugs, such as the allergy med fexofenadine, perhaps by keeping the lining of the intestines from absorbing certain compounds. New drugs are a particularly murky area, especially because grapefruit interactions aren’t a typical first priority when a new medication hits the market. The popular COVID antiviral pill Paxlovid, for instance, contains the CYP3A4-susceptible ingredient ritonavir. A Pfizer representative told me that the company is not concerned about toxicity. But Heil wonders whether grapefruit could mildly aggravate some of Paxlovid’s irksome side effects: diarrhea, for instance, or maybe the sour, metallic taste that reminds many people of … well, grapefruit.

[Read: Paxlovid mouth is real—and gross]

That said, most grapefruit lovers need not despair. The fruit is still healthy—chock-full of vitamins and flavor—and yet is often overlooked, says Heidi Silver, a nutrition scientist at Vanderbilt University. Silver and researchers have shown that consuming grapefruit flesh or juice might be able to slightly lower levels of triglycerides and cholesterol. Technically, it can even play a role in weight loss: Snacking on a small portion before a meal can help people feel full faster. Then again, a glass of water will too. Just as grapefruit is not a miraculous vanquisher of fat, it isn’t a ubiquitous killer.

Even people on certain medications may be able to enjoy it if they consult an expert first. Heil’s own father absolutely adores grapefruit, and also happens to take an oral medication that can interact. Swallow them too close together, and he risks dizziness and fatigue. But he and Heil have found a compromise: He can have small portions of grapefruit or its juice in the morning, spaced about 12 hours out from when he takes his meds at bedtime. A few weeks ago, Heil (who thinks grapefruit is disgusting) even gave her dad the green light to enjoy a dinnertime cocktail that contained a small splash of the juice. Maybe the smidge of fruit affected his meds that day. But “it wasn’t going to be the end of the world,” Heil told me. To say that, after all, would have been an exaggeration.

13 Dec 14:34

I applaud you, Apple!

by swissmiss

YES!

23 Nov 15:47

The Multiple Stories of NXIVM

by Sophie Gilbert
A.N

I've been fascinated and horrified about this story overall. I think the best telling of it was the canadian podcast.

There was a moment a few years ago when I couldn’t help but cringe a little every time I heard the word story, so wantonly was it being bandied about. This was during the Trump administration, when lots of people still sweetly believed that culture could counter raw political power, that protest art could engender a sense of shame among the shameless, even that satire might have the capacity to save the republic. It was no longer enough for novels or TV shows or musicals to be engaging, transporting, even transcendent. They also had to have a kind of radical, inherently noble energy. Things seemed to come to a head in early 2019, when Apple announced its new streaming service with a spiel so solemn and devout that it was as though Jesus Christ himself had signed on as a creator. (Or as, I suppose, a Creator.) Stories, a fleet of onstage executives said oh-so-earnestly, can “change the world,” connecting us to one another and new ideas.

Here’s the thing: None of this was wrong. But we—and I did my part—presumed that the winning stories of the era would naturally have some kind of moral valence, or at least intentions no more nefarious than making money. In truth, though, that just hasn’t been the case. Stories are everywhere today, and they’re more contagious and virulent and influential than ever. They can indeed connect us, show us new ideas and worlds. One of the dominant storytelling genres of our time is conspiracy, which claims to clarify chaotic reality through a kind of multiplayer shared experience. QAnon is a choose-your-own-adventure tale. “The story of a ‘stolen election,’” the literary theorist Peter Brooks writes in his new book, Seduced by Story: The Use and Abuse of Narrative, “led to the violent invasion of the U.S. Capitol a few months later.” The “good” stories, you could argue, might have succeeded in enhancing our conception of the world. But for a dizzying number of people, the “bad” stories have subsumed reality altogether.

[Read: Beware the ‘storification’ of the internet]

As humans, we crave stories. We instinctively divide the world into heroes and villains; we apply the logic and structure of storytelling to the disorder of life and express frustration when they don’t fit. “We don’t simply arrange random facts into narratives,” Brooks writes. “Our sense of the way stories go together, how life is made meaningful as narrative, presides at our choice of facts as well.” That can mean that, sometimes, the way a story is told can be almost as leading as the elements within it. The HBO series The Vow—which recently returned for a second clutch of episodes about the cult that grew around the convicted con man Keith Raniere—is a primer on how our fundamental desire for narrative can be manipulated. That the series can seem just as susceptible as the alleged villains and victims it’s profiling only makes it more fascinating, and more troubling.


If the first season of The Vow was an attempt to sweep viewers into the experience of apostates fleeing what was apparently a cult, the second is fixated on the manipulative potential of narrative. All cults exploit language. But NXIVM, the Albany-based corporation founded by Raniere and Nancy Salzman in 1998, seems to have been truly adept at weaponizing the human desire to storify our lives. Part multilevel marketing scheme selling quackish personal-development “technology,” part personality cult in which Raniere groomed women to sleep with him and other men to perpetuate his mythology, NXIVM told its followers that reality is fungible, and that we all have the power to change our lives simply by changing the stories we tell about them. Over six new episodes, The Vow reveals how the group’s remaining defenders cling to imprinted versions of its teachings, and how NXIVM’s accusers try to make sense of their own identities after leaving.

[Read: How to tell the story of a cult]

Raniere and Salzman seem to have cobbled together their founding modules out of Ayn Rand books (she, like Raniere, fostered a sexualized cult of personality that punished dissent), conversational hypnosis, and narrative therapy, a school of psychotherapy that encourages patients to “rewrite” their identity. Through seminars, NXIVM coaches told people that victimhood was a choice—that anyone could choose not to be hurt by things that had happened to them. In the beginning of the third episode, Salzman explains that people impose their own meaning on certain experiences. This is a particularly ingenious form of gaslighting: If someone’s behavior makes you feel enraged or heartbroken, it’s your fault for feeling that way when you could choose to react with a different emotion.

That The Vow Part Two takes place against the backdrop of Raniere’s criminal trial for offenses that include sex trafficking, racketeering, and fraud (and Salzman’s sentencing for racketeering) is particularly apt—its director, Jehane Noujaim, spends significant time with both Raniere’s lead defense attorney, Marc Agnifilo, and the prosecutor on his case, Moira Penza, witnessing how both parties try to use storytelling toward very different ends. In Seduced by Story, Brooks dedicates a chapter to the role of storytelling in legal proceedings: “In pleadings and arguments and judgments,” he writes, “law makes use of narrative constantly—yet rarely with any recognition that its narrative commitments need analytic attention.” Penza’s job is to gather evidence (often in the form of narrative testimony from witnesses) to convince a jury that Raniere was a manipulative cult leader who sexually, emotionally, and psychologically abused many of his followers, and persuaded them to commit crimes in turn. Agnifilo’s job is to reshape that raw testimony into an entirely different, but equally compelling form.

In its most intriguing moments, The Vow follows the defense lawyer as he tries to figure out which kind of story might save his client. After one woman testifies that Raniere imprisoned her in a bedroom for two years after she expressed interest in another man, Agnifilo is filmed outside the courtroom as he processes what she said. “Certainly, her story … was a very dramatic story of her being locked in a room against her will, and being put upon in all these different ways, and [being] the recipient of attention she didn’t want, and the question is whether that’s the whole story, whether that story’s even valid,” he says. He wonders whether it’s relevant that her father, “who seems to be a very capable, intelligent, successful man, was on board with this.” You can almost hear his mind whirring as he tries to compute the substance of her statement, to spin it into different material.

Telling their own story, no matter how much of a recalibration it is, or how it might clash with others’ versions, seems to be the major preoccupation of virtually everyone interviewed for The Vow Part Two. Speaking about the last group of hard-core Raniere defenders, the former member turned outspoken apostate Anthony “Nippy” Ames says, “They’re just lying, and in order to maintain their narrative, they have to make so many people’s truth, abuse, and stories fiction.” One of those women, the actor Nicki Clyne, talks on camera about the ways in which she feels her personal experiences—including having a sexual relationship with Raniere, and having her body permanently marked while part of a secret women’s group within NXIVM—are being taken out of context. “You could say, ‘This was a cult where women were branded,’ right? And that sounds horrible. And I would never want to be part of that. Or you can say, ‘There was a group of women who, in an act of solidarity, chose to get a brand.’” She shrugs.

[Read: We choose our cults every day]

Another Raniere supporter who is interviewed engages in an act of creative redirection that’s striking to behold. Being a member of DOS, the “sorority” Clyne was a part of, in which some women were branded and specifically groomed for sex with Raniere, “is not what has brought hardship to my life,” she says. Rather, it was people finding out about her involvement in something investigated as a “sex-trafficking operation,” and judging her accordingly. It’s hard not to wonder if the reason NXIVM recruited so many actors, directors, and creative professionals was because they have a predisposition toward making someone else’s fanciful ideas feel entirely real.


Stories are never neutral. “The vehicles of truth and untruth are the same,” Brooks writes. Being skeptical in the face of a self-interested narrative is key, and this is where The Vow seems to falter. It’s too openhearted, too credulous. In Season 1, Salzman was something of a void—openly discussed but never deeply addressed as a subject. In Season 2, Salzman agreed to substantial interviews with Noujaim, but her version of events is given so much space that it threatens to engulf the last few episodes. Salzman tells us she was “terrified of Keith” and “purposely disempowered” by him. In her words, her desire was simply to make the world better with what she thought was groundbreaking “technology” to empower people in their own lives. Here, the show’s lack of external context means it leaves out crucial information in much the same way as Season 1 did, namely the money that Salzman made during her two decades in NXIVM. (When police raided her house in 2018, they found more than half a million dollars in cash on the premises.)

The Vow also omits victim-impact statements against Salzman from the former NXIVM member Ivy Nevares and others. In a letter to the judge presiding over Salzman’s sentencing, Nevares described Salzman as “not only instrumental, but essential” to the company and to Raniere’s abuses. Nevares also accused Salzman of forcing her to work extremely long hours for little pay because of her immigration status, entrapping her with debts to the company, and punishing her for “an ethical breach” against Raniere when she failed to meet his desired weight for her of 95 pounds. Salzman, Nevares says, “was in it for herself from day one in an unrepentant pursuit of power—she wanted the money, the clout, the prestige, the connections.” Nevares also alleges that Salzman used an intermediary to threaten her against speaking in court. (At her sentencing hearing, Salzman apologized “to everyone I hurt, intentionally and not.” In footage shot immediately after she was sentenced, she sobs while refuting the judge’s assertion that she was to blame for her own daughter being victimized by Raniere.)

Why would The Vow leave so many accusations against Salzman out? Why would it allow Salzman to portray herself on the show predominantly as a carer for her elderly parents, an altruistic and insecure former nurse bruised by her mother’s harsh critiques? I’ve been grappling with these omissions for a few weeks, and with whether the show might have given similarly open-minded treatment to Raniere had he agreed to a sit-down interview. Noujaim doesn’t demand accountability from her subjects, at least on camera; we don’t hear any questions designed to poke holes in their belief systems, or even their version of events. “We’re living in this time of takedowns and one-sided storytelling, and not a lot of discourse,” Noujaim told The Hollywood Reporter in an interview about the show. “People are not listening to each other, and I don’t think that’s helping. So my hope, as a filmmaker and as a human, is to take the time to listen to viewpoints that are very different than my own sometimes. And I think if you disagree with somebody, it becomes very important to try to understand how that perspective formed.”

This attitude is well-intended reasoning. It’s also strikingly naive, because it assumes that everybody is speaking honestly all the time. “Story is powerful,” Brooks writes, “and for that reason it demands a powerful critical response.” Still, it’s easy to see why Salzman was a fascinating enough subject to merit so much unchallenged airtime. Not because of who she is, but because of what she represents: a person who for decades told herself a particular story about NXIVM but is now being confronted with a very different one. “It’s not very interesting to film somebody who is set in their ways,” Noujaim said. It makes for a far more compelling story arc, for sure, to feature someone who may be grappling with repentance and the weight of their sins. It might even be compelling enough that it doesn’t quite matter whether that repentance is sincere or expertly crafted. The final moments of The Vow Part Two are given to Salzman, arguing that what happened to her could have happened to virtually anyone—that, despite everything, “it’s not as strange a story as one might think.”

17 Nov 16:06

Bad Date

"Even split between us, this will pay way better than the Jumanji sponsorship I came into the date with."
08 Nov 12:38

The Grimke Sisters and the Indelible Stain of Slavery

by Drew Gilpin Faust

“Our family, Black and white.” For the slaveholding class of the old South, it was a familiar trope, one intended to convey both mastery and benevolence, to hide the reality of raw power and exploitation behind an ideology of paternalistic concern and natural racial hierarchy. There was profound irony in the white South’s choice of this image, for the words were far from simply figurative: They revealed the very truths they were designed to hide. One can see in the slave schedules of the 1850 and 1860 censuses the many entries marked “mulatto,” individuals the census taker regarded as mixed race, rather than Black. This was the literal family produced by the slave system before the Civil War—children conceived from the sexual dominance of free white men over enslaved Black women in liaisons that ranged from a single encounter of rape to extended relationships, such as the decades-long connection between Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemings.

Few of these ties were ever acknowledged; white fathers held their own children in bondage, in most cases treating them little differently from their other human possessions. Of the many excruciating and all-but-unfathomable dimensions of American slavery, its manifold assaults on kinship seem among the most inhumane. What was the nature of “slavery in the family,” a designation that today seems both twisted and oxymoronic? How did individuals and families survive its emotional distortions and its insertion of racial subjugation into the most intimate—and precious—aspects of life?

The Civil War diarist Mary Chesnut, born on a South Carolina plantation, once famously remarked of this widespread denial:

The mulattos one sees in every family … resemble the white children. Any lady is ready to tell you who is the father of all the mulatto children in everybody’s household but her own. Those, she seems to think, drop from the clouds.

Yet that denial had its limits and its exceptions, and the historical record offers occasional glimpses into the tortured dynamics of families “Black and white.” Annette Gordon-Reed’s acclaimed work on Jefferson ranks as one of the most notable of these explorations. But the history of another southern lineage, which Kerri K. Greenidge examines in her new book, The Grimkes: The Legacy of Slavery in an American Family, is perhaps even more revealing of the way human bondage shaped and deformed families, as well as the lives of those within them.

The Grimkes of South Carolina were in no sense representative of the South’s slaveholding class. The decision of Sarah and Angelina, two daughters of the wealthy planter John Grimke and his wife, Mary, to confront the horror of slavery and move north in the 1820s to become abolitionists and feminists illustrates in its singularity the difficulties of escaping the grip of a system that compromised every white person connected to it. Two of their mixed-race nephews, Archibald and Francis, sons of their brother Henry and the enslaved Nancy Weston, emerged as major figures in Black political and social life after the Civil War. They were embraced and supported by their activist aunts, who had not known of their existence during their early years of bondage, which included brutal beatings and abuse from their white half brother, another of Sarah and Angelina’s nephews. But the exceptional nature of the story—and of the individuals within it—casts into dramatic relief how the slave system could mold lives across generations.

John Grimke, the patriarch, sired 14 white children and held more than 300 enslaved workers on his extensive properties in the South Carolina Low Country and in Charleston. Sarah, his sixth child, born in 1792, displayed remarkable intellectual gifts from an early age, but such talents were not welcomed in a girl. While her father permitted her to teach herself using the books in his library, he denied her the education provided to her brothers. Sarah described taking a “malicious satisfaction” in defying both her parents and South Carolina law by teaching her “little waiting maid” and numbers of other enslaved workers to read and write. When Sarah’s mother gave birth to her last child, in 1805, Sarah insisted on being named the baby’s godmother. Angelina would be her surrogate daughter.

[From the April 2016 issue: The truth about abolition]

Thirteen years apart, the two sisters came to share an abhorrence of the slave system on which their family’s wealth and position depended. Angelina was particularly repelled by the institution’s violence—the sound of painful cries from men, women, and even children being whipped; the lingering scars evident on the bodies of those who served her every day; the tales of the dread Charleston workhouse that, for a fee, would administer beatings and various forms of torture out of sight of one’s own household. Both Sarah and Angelina became deeply religious, rejecting the self-satisfied pieties of their inherited Episcopalian faith, but finding in Christian doctrine a foundation for their growing certainty about the “moral degradation” of southern society. In 1821, Sarah moved to Philadelphia and joined the Society of Friends; by the end of the decade, Angelina had joined her.

Philadelphia was a focal point of the growing antislavery movement, and the sisters were swept up in the ferment. Soon defying Quaker moderation on slavery just as they had defied their southern heritage, the Grimke sisters embraced William Lloyd Garrison and what was seen as the radicalism of abolition. In essays appearing in 1837 and 1838, Angelina and Sarah each set out the case for the liberation of women and enslaved people. They joined the Garrisonian lecture circuit, and Angelina developed a reputation as a sterling orator at a time when women were all but prohibited from the public stage. In 1838, Angelina married the abolitionist leader Theodore Dwight Weld in a racially integrated celebration that adhered to the free-produce movement, including no clothing or refreshments produced by enslaved labor. Weld and the sisters shared a household for most of the rest of their lives, and Sarah became a devoted caretaker of Angelina and Theodore’s three children. Their opposition not just to slavery but to racial inequality and segregation, as well as their support for women’s rights, placed them in the vanguard of reform and at odds with many other white abolitionists. With emancipation, they took up the cause of the freedpeople, which they pursued until they died, Sarah in 1873, Angelina in 1879.

In the aftermath of the Civil War, the sisters’ understanding of their family changed. Angelina came across a notice in an 1868 issue of the National Anti-Slavery Standard referring to a meeting at Lincoln University where a Black student named Grimke had delivered an admirable address. She wrote to the young man to ask if he might be the former slave of one of her brothers. Archibald replied that he was in fact her brother’s son, offered details of his early life, and told her about his siblings, Francis, known as Frank, and John. Angelina responded that she was not surprised but found his letter “deeply … touching.” She could not change the past, she observed, but “our work is in the present.” She was glad they had taken the name of Grimke; she hoped they might redeem the family’s honor. “Grimke,” she wrote,

was once one of the noblest names of Carolina … You, my young friends, now bear this once honored name—I charge you most solemnly by your upright conduct, and your life-long devotion to the eternal principles of justice and humanity and religion to lift this name out of the dust, where it now lies, and set it once more among the princes of our land.

Thus began a relationship in which the Weld-Grimkes provided financial assistance to Archibald at Harvard Law School and Francis at Princeton Theological Seminary and delivered unrelenting exhortations to prove their excellence and worth, both as Grimkes and as representatives of their race. John, seen by his aunts as less talented and less deserving than his brothers, became estranged from his family. Francis and Archibald achieved notable success—Archibald as a founder and vice president of the NAACP and later the American consul to Santo Domingo, Frank as a prominent member of the clergy and the Black elite of Washington, D.C. Relationships among the white and Black Grimke families were not always easy; Frank in particular found his white relatives oppressively demanding and “unaccustomed to the ways of colored people,” and after a time he declined to accept their support. But it seems telling that Frank nevertheless called his only child Theodora, and Archibald chose to name his daughter Angelina.

The remarkable story of the Grimkes was long neglected by historians, and the way it has come to be told reveals a great deal about how we have chosen to understand the past. Until the civil-rights movement of the 1950s and ’60s prompted scholars to look anew at the narrative of Black freedom, abolitionists were regarded as dangerous radicals, to be deplored rather than acclaimed. The likes of Weld and Garrison, not to mention the women who moved outside their assigned sphere to join them in opposition to slavery, were cast as reckless fanatics, endangering the peace of the nation. But amid appreciation for mid-20th-century activists, perspectives shifted on those who had come before.

Abolitionists turned from demons into heroes, and their lives and struggles aroused widespread and sympathetic scholarly inquiry. Similarly, Black-freedom and women’s-liberation movements spawned new fields of Black and women’s history, making the Grimke sisters and their nephews a focus of exploration. The fate of the first modern scholarly treatment of the Grimkes is illuminating. Gerda Lerner, who was a founder of the National Organization for Women and became a superstar in the nascent field of women’s history, wrote her Columbia doctoral dissertation on the Grimke sisters. She published the study as a book in 1967, a moment when the civil-rights movement was well under way but the women’s movement was just emerging. She titled it The Grimké Sisters From South Carolina, with the subtitle, at her publisher’s insistence, Rebels Against Slavery instead of her preferred Pioneers for Women’s Rights and Abolition. “ ‘Women’s rights,’ ” her editor told her, “was not a concept that would sell books.” By 1971, when a paperback edition appeared, the growth of feminism permitted the subtitle she had originally intended, along with a blurb from Gloria Steinem hailing the sisters as “pioneers of Women’s Liberation.”

Drawing on a flush of historical work that included scholarly biographies of the two nephews, Mark Perry in 2001 published a study that considered Black and white Grimkes together. His book explored the lives of “four extraordinary individuals”—Archibald and Frank as well as the sisters. Lift Up Thy Voice: The Sarah and Angelina Grimké Family’s Journey From Slaveholders to Civil Rights Leaders was unabashedly celebratory—designed to inspire a general audience by underscoring the possibility for racial enlightenment and for connections across the color line. “We see in their troubles our own,” he wrote of the family; “in their triumphs our hope; and in their history, the history of our nation.”

The Grimkes proved fodder for drama and fiction as well. In 2014, the novelist Sue Monk Kidd released The Invention of Wings, a tale that imagined the intertwined lives of Sarah Grimke and an enslaved girl presented to her on her 11th birthday. Oprah designated it a Book Club selection, declaring that it “heightened my sense of what it meant to be a woman—slave or free,” and it debuted at the top of the New York Times best-seller list.

The Grimkes’ story has served as a kind of cultural Rorschach test. We have projected onto it questions that have troubled us about ourselves and our racial past and found in it the promise of transcending the forces that seem to trap humans in the circumstances of their era. We have, as Perry wrote, seen in it our own anxieties, hopes, and history: The sisters have represented the possibility of moral redemption and social transformation; their nephews have embodied the myth and reality of personal uplift as well as social conscience and commitment. All four defied the expectations and limitations of their origins. For more than half a century, as the rights of Black people and women have advanced, we have rediscovered and then lionized the Grimkes.

The latest addition to the Grimke literature marks a new departure. Greenidge’s The Grimkes is not a story about heroes. Instead, it is intended as an exploration of trauma and tragedy. Like the studies of the Grimkes that have preceded it, the book reflects the challenges of our own time, but Greenidge, who is an assistant professor at Tufts, regards these not with optimism about possibilities for racial progress but with something closer to despair. She set out, she declares in her introduction, to write “a family biography that resonates in the lives of those who struggle with the personal and political consequences of raising children and families in the aftermath of the twenty-first-century betrayal of the radical human rights promise of the 1960s.”

Although earlier treatments hailed the sisters’ successes, Greenidge finds these vitiated by Sarah and Angelina’s unacknowledged “complicity in the slave system they so eloquently spoke against.” Sarah’s “dissatisfaction was possible only because of the very privileges denied to the numerous Black people who cultivated her family’s cotton and maintained their household.” The “feel-good stories” of Archibald’s and Francis’s achievements have ignored “the superficialities of the colored elite” of which they became proud members, and have failed to call the nephews to account for their obsessions with skin color and class hierarchies in the Black community.

As the pastor of Washington’s Fifteenth Street Presbyterian Church, Frank served a Black “professional, political, and business elite” that “shielded their congregation from the Black masses” by means of a rigorous admission process. Reverend Grimke “cultivated a conservative culture of racial respectability” that resulted, Greenidge finds, in the purge of “less well-heeled (and darker-skinned) members from Fifteenth Street’s rolls.” Archibald was unable to transcend his experience as a “fetishized Black wunderkind” during years spent in “neo-abolitionist New England”—at Harvard and as a young lawyer in Boston. His service as the consul to Santo Domingo, often cited as a badge of remarkable accomplishment for one born in slavery, came “at the expense of the African-descended subjects living under American empire.” Greenidge mentions only briefly Archibald’s role in leading the NAACP’s Washington efforts to combat President Woodrow Wilson’s segregation of the federal government. But she notes disapprovingly that despite “his genuine belief in racial equality,” he “neither argued for racial revolution nor criticized the color consciousness, materialism, and social conservatism of his fellow colored elite.” Even as Archibald witnessed the steady escalation of Jim Crow, she contends, he remained too close to white society and white power to effectively resist it.

Greenidge is the author of an earlier, prizewinning study of another leader of the postbellum Black community, William Monroe Trotter, who had an often close but fraught relationship with Archibald Grimke. The two ultimately broke sharply over Trotter’s more radical, less accommodationist stance, disseminated through his paper, the Boston Guardian. Trotter, Greenidge writes, “provided a voice for thousands of disenchanted, politically marginalized black working people” for whom Grimke’s efforts in the “politically moderate camp of colored elite” had little significance. In Greenidge’s portrayal of this conflict, and in her broader interpretation, her allegiances seem clear.

Greenidge leaves the stature of Sarah, Angelina, Archie, and Frank diminished, but she offers an enriched view of the extended Black Grimke family. Foregrounding the nephews’ enslaved mother with a chapter of her own, she provides a valuable treatment of the free Black Forten family—the prosperous Philadelphia clan to which Frank’s wife, Charlotte, belonged—and highlights the crucial role of Black women in the abolitionist struggle. A third-generation antislavery activist, Charlotte served as a teacher of the freedpeople in the Sea Islands, and her two 1864 articles on her experiences there made her the first Black writer to be published in The Atlantic.

[From the May 1864 issue: Charlotte Forten Grimké’s “Life on the Sea Islands”]

The Grimkes begins and ends with a portrait of Angelina Weld-Grimke, the only child of Archibald and his white wife and an often-overlooked figure in the Grimke lineage. Here she serves as an embodiment of the troubled legacy Greenidge seeks to portray. Abandoned by her mother when she was 7, Angelina, who lived until 1958, became a writer, struggling as a mixed-race woman, a Grimke, and a lesbian to confront the realities and tragedies of race in her own and the nation’s heritage. Her best-known work is a play titled Rachel, centered on a brutal lynching that leads the victim’s daughter to decide she will never bring children into such a cruelly racist world. Rachel became a “vehicle for civil rights activism,” but Greenidge emphasizes that the play also “reveals an artist who was as concerned with intergenerational trauma as she was with political protest.” Angelina’s life and work, Greenidge argues, gave expression to the failures—and the “existential rage”—of a Black elite whose narrative of “Black Excellence and racial exceptionalism” had rendered them politically “impotent” and “irrelevant” in the face of the violence of lynching and the imposition of Jim Crow.

At a time when we are confronted once again by an assault on rights long presumed to have been obtained and guaranteed—including voting and affirmative action—Greenidge has found in the Grimkes’ experiences a world chillingly like our own. Just as the promise of emancipation and Radical Reconstruction evaporated into Jim Crow, so we live, she writes, in an era when the heralded accomplishments of the civil-rights movement are being overturned and its promise abandoned. Upbeat stories of Black achievements cannot, she insists, counterbalance the wider reality of enduring oppression and inequality.

In recent years, considerable attention has been directed by scholars of history and literature to the question of slavery’s “afterlife,” to the assessment of its impact long after its legal demise. Greenidge embraces this perspective as she connects the injustices of the present with their roots. She finds their origins embedded not just in the strictures of society and law, but in the human psychology formed in the families that racism has so profoundly shaped. Our nation’s racial trauma lives on. The arc of history bends slowly—or perhaps, Greenidge seems to suggest, hardly at all.


This article appears in the December 2022 print edition with the headline “Slavery in the Family.”

10 Oct 15:23

I Tried to Keep My Pregnancy Secret

by Anya E.R. Prince

When I became pregnant, my partner and I, like many expectant individuals, opted not to tell our friends until after the first trimester. But I had an additional goal: for my friends to learn of my pregnancy before advertisers did. I’m a health-privacy scholar, so I know that pregnant individuals are of particular interest to retailers because their purchasing habits change during pregnancy and after birth. Companies are eager to send targeted ads and capture a new customer base. In an attempt to avoid this spamming and, frankly, to see if it was possible, I endeavored to hide my private health status from the advertising ecosystem.

My first step was to not directly tell any companies that I was pregnant. I didn’t download “femtech” products that track ovulation, provide cat videos while confirming a pregnancy result, or give updates on a fetus’s growth. With many of these apps, users must agree that their data can be sold. And user agreements are not always foolproof. In one case, the Federal Trade Commission alleged that a femtech company shared consumers’ health details with companies such as Facebook and Google in ways at odds with the user agreement. (The company entered into a settlement agreement without admitting wrongdoing.) I missed out on knowing when my child would be the size of a grape, but I knew my data would be kept private.

I also needed to be wary of ways that companies could piece together my health status. In a famous example reported in The New York Times Magazine, Target identified pregnant shoppers based on purchases for products such as unscented lotion, vitamins, and cotton balls. Data from internet searches, social-media posts, and GPS locations could theoretically tip off a company to a pregnancy. Armed with this knowledge, I took annoying and time-consuming steps to bolster my privacy. I bought prenatal vitamins and pregnancy tests in person with cash, without using rewards or loyalty programs. On the internet, I tried tactics such as using a VPN and non-tracking search engines. I was cautious when going to medical appointments. Knowing the link between location and health status, I turned off my phone’s GPS or left it at home during appointments.

Yet, because of the lack of data privacy in the U.S., the day finally came when I lost my battle to keep my reproductive information private. I was sitting on my couch scrolling through social media when I saw it: an advertisement for diapers. It appeared the same week that we lost the pregnancy.

Like so many individuals and couples who experience miscarriage, stillbirth, or a devastating fetal diagnosis, we had to face tragedy and grief. The very real risk of pregnancy loss is why many choose not to announce their pregnancies until after the first trimester. I, too, chose not to tell others about my pregnancy so that I didn’t have to risk people accidentally asking about children’s names or sending congratulatory cards if—and, it turned out, when—we experienced loss.

Although I could insulate myself from the inadvertent, painful faux pas of a friend or acquaintance, I was not afforded the same ability when it came to advertisers. Seeing advertisements of smiling babies and happy families throughout social media in the days and weeks after the loss made an already unbearable grieving process that much harder—a compounded harm all too familiar for those in similar situations.

Who knows how it happened. Did I forget the VPN one time when searching online? Did that time I used my credit card to buy ginger chews and tea tip them off? I’ll never know. What I do know is that our country’s abysmal privacy framework is failing to protect private reproductive-health information. Instead, the choice to protect one’s privacy in the U.S. is, theoretically, up to the individual. However, given the complexities of user agreements, many individuals are unaware of how their data are being shared. For others, a loss of privacy doesn’t seem like that big of a deal. Their data are the price they are willing to pay for free services, cool apps, or lower-cost goods. Individuals who don’t want to make that trade are told to just not use the product.

But such a simple solution doesn’t address the realities of navigating a health issue in the 21st century. The U.S. Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act (HIPAA) only protects information within the health-care system. Nowadays, however, we constantly obtain and share medical information outside the clinic. Risking privacy loss may be the sole way to seek answers to important questions, find a community of support, or even make a doctor appointment. And you can’t avoid purchasing medicine and food. Even the slightest bit of protection is available only to those with the means to pay for privacy. Buying a VPN, avoiding free apps, and having cash on hand for purchases are not options accessible to everyone.

Privacy violations are not always benign. Mine came with emotional harm. For others, unwanted disclosure of private medical information comes with risks of discrimination or stigma. Now, because of the Supreme Court’s decision overturning Roe v. Wade, some experts worry that the lack of privacy can create a risk of criminal exposure if companies share amassed reproductive-health information with law enforcement.

Greater protection is sorely needed. Several pieces of legislation have been introduced in Congress that could go a long way toward fully safeguarding reproductive-health information—including data about pregnancy status, pregnancy loss, and abortion. Under HIPAA, we’ve recognized that medical information is worthy of privacy protection. But, in an era of big data, this lofty goal fails.

05 Oct 18:57

What No One Understands About Your Job

by Derek Thompson

This is Work in Progress, a newsletter by Derek Thompson about work, technology, and how to solve some of America’s biggest problems. Sign up here to get it every week.

Several weeks ago, I asked readers to tell me what people don’t get about their jobs. I thought we might receive several dozen replies. Instead, we received several hundred. We heard from teachers and professors; from opera singers and orchestra musicians; from corporate executives and tech workers; from screenwriters, playwrights, and book editors; and from sailors and summer-camp directors.

Last week, I read all of your emails. Today, I’m presenting more than two dozen replies in alphabetical order—from A(id workers) to T(impanists for metropolitan orchestras). I’ve provided a one-line summary of each respondent’s answer to the prompt followed by an edited and often condensed quote.

I hope you have as much fun reading these answers as I did. You’ll learn that humanitarians aren’t as nice as you dreamed; that some pastors prefer funerals to weddings; that chief executives still have bosses they’re afraid of; that many pharmacists are anti-medication; and that for screenwriters, talking is a more important skill than writing.

Aid Worker

It isn’t about charity. It’s about politics and stability.

International aid is almost never handing out bags of food or clothes to people. It is about working with national partners and hosting governments to build systems that deliver better for people. It is a lot more complicated than giving stuff away.

International aid is not charity. It is an investment in geopolitical stability. And it is less than 1 percent of the federal budget in the US. And many other countries devote higher percentages of their GDP than the U.S. Think about that in relation to military spending when things fall apart, and you see it’s really a bargain.

Book Editor

It’s a sales job.

A book editor spends 90 percent of their time working on selling a book, that is, publishing, and only 10 percent of their time working with its author to make that book the best it can be, that is, actually editing.

Chef

It’s not like being a visual artist with food. It’s more like being a middle manager (with food).

As a chef, most people assume that I spend my day eating food and making up new dishes. The reality is that I am a middle manager who spends most of my time managing my employees, writing schedules, completing checklists, and placing orders. So much less glamorous than most expect.

Corporate Communications Executive

People think the job is just writing. Nope.

I work in corporate communications for a Fortune 500 company, and people often think they can do my job. They think it’s just writing and they can do it themselves. Uh, no. Yes, strong writing is required as part of the job, but corporate communications is more than that.

As communication professionals, we communicate company strategy and purpose to our employees, protect its reputation among the public, and connect employees to company culture through our work. Great communicators are thought leaders to senior leadership who intimately understand the business to develop and deliver communication strategies that result in increased employee awareness, adoption, or engagement.

We can work long hours, sometimes under tight deadlines with colorful personalities or in stressful situations. It’s not for everyone, but hey, I love my job.

Data scientist No. 1

STEM jobs are creative too.

I’m writing as a data scientist and wanted to give the common misconceptions about AI/machine learning more broadly:

It’s just math, not magic. A lot of people talk about machine learning in a very sci-fi manner. People worry if AI is becoming “sentient” or “too smart.” People tend to anthropomorphize the word learning in machine learning. ML is effectively math. All of these algorithms—even the complex deep-learning neural nets—are a mix of linear algebra and nonlinear equations. In middle school/high school, we learn to fit lines given data with the equation y=mx+b. This is what is called a parametric equation—we have to solve for two parameters: m and b. It’s a relatively simple equation, one that we can often do by hand or with minimal calculations. AI fits equations like this, but instead of simple equations with two parameters, these can be insanely complex and have millions or billions of parameters. The emphasis on machine in machine learning is the fact that these equations are just too complex for people to do by hand, so we rely on computers to do all of these calculations at speeds that no person could ever dream of doing on their own. So to summarize: When people refer to machines “learning,” they are referring to a computer filling in the appropriate parameters to a complex mathematical function; these parameters are determined from the data used to train this function.

STEM people are creative! There seems to be this stereotype that people in STEM—especially engineers—are super robotic. We think about them as just about as far away as possible from those in the arts in terms of creativity, but I think this is wrong! The best engineers are incredibly creative. Building good programs and writing good code is not just about knowing a coding language. You are constantly hitting roadblocks that require creative solutions. There are always tons of ways to make a script run, but it’s on you as the coder to design a solution that is efficient, scalable, easy to follow, and won’t cause future tech debt. This is not something a single-note thinker would be able to do well.

Data Scientist No. 2

Coding is a smaller part of tech jobs than the average person thinks.

The most common misconception about data science is the amount of time we actually spend coding. Coding is probably only 10 percent of our time and is often done in chunks of time (i.e., three days of lots of coding and then not much for a while). The vast majority of our time is Googling how to troubleshoot a bug, brainstorming how to code or solve a specific problem, learning new technologies/softwares, designing technical diagrams, using low-/no-code tools, and communicating with stakeholders. Coding is likely a smaller component of most tech jobs than the average person believes.

Debate Coach for High School

In this field, facts are less important than the presentation of logic.

There are lots of things people don’t understand about competitive debate. For one, people tend to overestimate the importance of rhetoric and formality. Using pretty words in a presidential debate might help score you some polling points. But nine times out of 10, competitive-debate rounds are won on logic, not polish.

For another, people tend to overestimate the importance of facts. I know that sounds bad. What I really mean is that citing individual studies and statistics is unlikely to score you points with judges. It makes sense if you think about it: There is so much data out there that no individual number can capture the full scope of reality. Who cares if a poll shows that 60 percent of workers hate their jobs? Your opponents can point to another study claiming that only 15 percent of workers hate their jobs, and unless judges want to spend hours scouring the internet to fact-check every single cited source, no one will get anywhere. Logic is much more convincing.

Personally, I think everyone could benefit from a year or so of debate coaching. Debating helps you gain confidence, think critically, and BS your way through job interviews and presentations. But competitive debate is not an accurate re-creation of any kind of real-life argument: There are strict and sometimes unintuitive standards that define what constitutes a persuasive case, and anything else is noise. Is it better for discussions about gun control and health care to take place in a simulated, unrealistic environment? Well, that’s up for debate.

ER Doctor

Yes, the job is incredibly stressful. That’s why you have to be incredibly prepared.

I am retired now, but the most common reaction when I tell people that I was an ER doctor for 40 years was “OMG, how stressful that must have been!”

The truth is, unless you are a rookie, you have experienced many, many heart-wrenching situations where very bad things happen to people. Similarly, you encounter innumerable situations in which you must make critical decisions without much information when the well-being of a fellow human depends on that decision. But, like the Boy Scouts, we are prepared. We are trained; we have necessary equipment; and we have a team to work with. We don’t feel helpless; we feel we are doing what we are there for. Having said that, I experienced anxiety almost routinely in situations where I was behind and people were waiting hours to be taken care of. That was stressful!

Financial Analyst

The job is about numbers. But everyone thinks in stories.

I am an analyst by profession. I read a lot; I write a fair amount; I build a lot of presentations and speak to lots of CEOs, boards of directors, ministers, and the like. Here is what people don't get about my job: Everyone thinks in stories. Perhaps data drives that story (or data IS the story), or maybe compounding anecdotes drive the story. Whatever it is, it’s a story. We are narrative creatures, and we want to be told stories, whether it is about scientific progress or human frailty or what the world will look like a year, a decade, a century from now. And not only that—most of the people that consider themselves the most rational/objective are the most prone to storytelling-path dependence, particularly as they become very successful. Story becomes mythos.

Humanitarian

“The biggest misconception I’ve found is that people think I must be a lovely person.”

I’m a humanitarian, currently in a war zone. My friends often assume I am standing on the back of a truck handing out supplies. But in fact I am currently sitting on a bench balancing my computer on my knee while I try to get enough internet to request more supplies from my logistics team and an updated budget from the finance team, and more time to finalize a report that was due a week ago to a donor.

The biggest misconception I’ve found is that people, especially on dating sites, think I must be a lovely person. Not saying I’m not nice. But I wouldn’t have gotten very far in this job if I weren’t ambitious, determined, and downright stubborn at times. The assumption seems to be that I do this out of the goodness of my heart. But actually I’m highly qualified (I don’t think I know anyone in the job without a master’s) and reasonably well paid (not compared to the private sector but you can’t spend much in a lockdown, so my finances are okay). I do it because I love it, not because I think I should. I’m also not naive, and even on my best days I don’t think I can save the world, or even the very small part of it I’m hoping to help. I’m just trying to stave off the worst until people and communities can start to get back on their feet.

Government Consultant

Government employees have become glorified project managers.

I work for a private-consulting engineering firm, but I’m among the hundreds of thousands of consultants that functionally operate the government. Since the ’90s the federal budget has quadrupled, but the workforce has remained the same. Rather than paying for federal employees, that money has gone to private consultants that do all the research, write all the reports, and recommend all the policy. Government employees have become glorified project managers. This is the model of small-government efficiency we’ve settled on as a nation.

Grape Grower

“The best fertilizer is the farmer’s boots on the ground.”

Our farming uses immigrant labor, provided by a farm labor contractor. We don’t ask if they are legal because the contractor is responsible for payroll. But if farmers didn’t use immigrants, we wouldn’t have the variety of food and the price would be far, far higher. Do Americans really want higher-priced food with less variety?

Farming requires patience, perseverance, flexibility, and ingenuity to fix things when they break. I never realized how clever my husband was until he fixed every piece of equipment we use.

The best fertilizer is the farmer’s boots on the ground. Walking your property tells you where water runoff occurs, where animals pose a threat, which micro-area needs a little more compost. Big commercial operations treat everything the same and do it mechanically, albeit at a lower cost but without the expression of the unique terroir inherent to your property.

IT Project Manager

“I have a B.A. in geography and do just fine.”

Most people assume I was a developer or have a computer-science or engineering degree and that I couldn’t possibly be a good IT project manager without this background. Actually, I have a B.A. in geography and do just fine in the IT world. Sure, I have limitations when the techies get into the weeds but I can also use my lack of formal technical skills to my advantage. For one, I’m not too proud to ask the dumb or obvious questions that my tech colleagues avoid for fear of looking less, well, tech savvy. No one expects me to know better.

Lobbyist No. 1

“Most people assume lobbying is legal money laundering. Most people are quite correct.”

I have worked as a lobbyist at the Texas Capitol for more than 20 years. Most people assume lobbying is legal money laundering, and most people are quite correct. However, not all lobbyists are money changers in the temple. In fact, many of us do not make campaign contributions, wine and dine legislators, or even work for big corporations or special interests. Many lobbyists also represent low-income families, nonprofit organizations, and, well, the not-so-horrible stuff.

Lobbyist No. 2

The industry isn’t just a bunch of unethical fat cats. (However, it includes unethical fat cats.)

First, I don’t buy elected officials. The money is used to build a relationship and keep them in office. I NEVER buy votes or access.

There are bad apples; we see them all the time. Most of us are ethically bound to never blend the line of an “ask” (for a vote or favor) and handing over a check.

Second, I’m not a fat cat. While there are some exceptions, a reception grip and grin is basically it. Sure, I can eat and drink well, but we spend 90 percent of our day walking from office to office.

Third, the American process isn’t broken, it’s just super, super slow and complicated. Hundreds of bills are signed into law each year. Getting those done is a considerable lift because only small groups care about them versus, say, the big transportation bill, clean-energy investments, or the CHIPS and Science Act. The small laws change people’s lives a lot more than anyone knows.

Partisanship is real and a myth at the same time. The GOP hated Trump! The Dems don’t all like Biden! The question is do they have the muster to admit it publicly? There are good people on both sides, but more often than not, the names you hear a lot of—a few southern and New England senators—are totally in it for the headline. The rest want to get stuff done.

Neurologist

They don’t all make “boatloads of money.”

If I were a procedural neurologist in private practice, I could make boatloads of money. I am an academic neurologist with a low-paying procedure and make a little over $200,000 a year. That is after 13 years of education and training and 25 years post-internship residency and training. The most we are able to receive in raises is 3 percent per year. I got one as well as a $7,500 productivity bonus this year. In the private sector you lose or gain money based on how much income you generate, or relative value units (RVUs). In academics we get an email each month telling us where we are on the expected RVUs. I am way over expected as I am classified as mostly clinical. The research and teaching I do is barely considered in calculating my salary. So, I just work harder, see more patients, and don’t make more money. I came to academics from the private sector for a variety of reasons and took a 50 percent pay cut.

I hate when I try to engage a patient in their care only to hear, “I’ve done my research.” So, your Dr. Google or Fox News is equal to my training and years of practice? Wow, you must be super smart. This was very evident when discussing COVID vaccinations with patients who were immunocompromised and at greatest risk.

Neuroscientist

“Drugs are weird. Brains are weird. Put them together, and it gets ineffable.”

Right now I'm running a study in which I give people psychedelics (think LSD, magic mushrooms, etc.) and then measure what happens to their brain activity. When I tell people what I do, the first thing people don’t get is that this is, in fact, a real job. It’s all legal and happening at a real university. I’ve had people just simply not believe me!

The second question I tend to get is: “How do you make sure no one gets addicted?” The answer is that we don’t really have to. Psychedelics carry very little addiction risk. They are about as addictive as meditation, or travel. I often forget how few people know this.

I also have to make sure no one has a so-called bad trip. This is certainly a complex task, but one thing I wish more people understood was that bad trips are not completely random. Though psychedelics are always a little bit unpredictable, it’s not like you take LSD and have a 50 percent chance of hell. The risk of anxious reactions can be greatly minimized if you know what you’re doing, and we don’t see bad trips in our lab very often. A lot of people I meet are surprised at how safe working with these drugs can be, mentally as well as physically.

But it’s also hard for people to get what I do because the effects of psychedelics in general are really tough to explain. Psychedelics cause an intensely altered state of consciousness in which normal, everyday existence can seem unrecognizable. They affect everyone very differently, and they can cause both absurd hallucinations and sensible personal insights. Many people simply find it hard to fathom that a drug could cause insightful, meaningful experiences for some people—“trips” that they cherish for a very long time. But this is routine. Even though it’s [prompted by] “just” a drug, most of my study participants say afterwards that the experience was one of the most meaningful in their entire lives (it usually makes the top five, or at least the top 10).

I don't really blame people for not getting my job, though. Drugs are weird. Brains are weird. Put them together, and it gets ineffable. If I didn’t love that, I wouldn’t be studying it.

Managing Director

Even when you run a company, you still have a boss.

The things most people don’t get about running a company are:

1) You still have a boss. You may have the ultimate power in terms of making decisions around the future of the company, but if you are not the majority shareholder, then you need to have those decisions approved at board meetings. Even if you do own the company, you may have a bank loan, so you have to do what they want (e.g., covenants), or you may have a significant client or supplier, which means you have to do what they want.

2) It’s all about people. To be honest, I didn’t get this before I moved up from CFO. However you want to phrase it—I prefer “right people in the right seats”—that’s pretty much all I think about. Why is that team failing? Is it the management, or the workload, or the dynamics within that team? Stuff fails and succeeds because of people, not tech.

Nurse

The air-traffic controller of the health-care system

Patients in the hospital have no idea how much bullshit, danger, and negative experiences we keep from reaching them. Even when we’re not physically with you, we are advocating for you and coordinating your care. We collaborate with pharmacy, respiratory, doctors, consulting teams, case management, social work, dietary/nutrition, imaging, physical therapy, occupational therapy, lab, phlebotomy, central supply, environmental services, transportation, even the chaplain. We are the middleman for all of those for every single patient. There’s so much going on in the background in addition to what patients see.

Opera Singer

More like a professional athlete than you’d think

One thing I’d say people don’t understand about this job is that it’s not all about "talent.” It's more about actual hard work. Working as an opera singer is more like being a professional athlete, rather than being a delicate “artiste.” You start out with some natural talent, then spend years of your life and a lot of money developing and honing and perfecting that talent to be viable and appealing to opera companies and other performing-arts organizations. The amount of success you may achieve (and whether that success allows you to make a living as a performer) is very much a crapshoot, dependent on luck and a whole host of factors over which the singer has little to no control.

Pastor

The funerals are more interesting than the weddings.

I have served as pastor of a few churches over the past 20 years. In addition to the weekly preaching, Bible study, and pastoral-care calls, I also have the blessing of officiating at funerals and weddings.

The experience of preparing for and officiating a funeral is infinitely more interesting and more important than the same work for weddings. The whole of the community is much more honest and real around funerals than weddings. It is on the occasion of death that we get down to the truly important things in our common life together.

Pharmacist

“I think most people would be shocked to learn how anti-medication some of us are.”

Most people have no concept of how their health insurance works or that we as pharmacists have no say in what insurance charges them for medications. Patients would be well served to review the details of their policies and compare coverage for the medications they need.

Additionally, many patients are unaware that we are charged a fee every time we submit a claim for insurance or a discount card. Lastly, as a pharmacist I think most people would be shocked to learn how anti-medication some of us are. Medications are seldom the sole factor when it comes to addressing health issues, and polypharmacy leads to countless adverse reactions, increases the risk of medication errors, and ultimately enriches drug companies who want you to remain unwell.

Postal Worker

Online orders have a hidden cost: “back-breaking” labor and unusual work hours.

What I want people to know about my job is that people are doing grueling, back-breaking work at all hours around the U.S.A. to get your Amazon and UPS packages to you. COVID might be starting to go away, but ever since people got used to ordering things from their couch, Amazon is bigger than ever. It never stops. I work at a local post office. Amazon now brings its first truck at 1 a.m., so that’s the time I have to go to work. It used to be 5 a.m.

Your package arrives in a shipment of large cardboard boxes and shrink-wrapped pallets. We break those down, scanning the barcode of each package and placing them in separate bins for the different carrier routes. It is grueling, almost soul-killing work—very physical. Another truck arrives anywhere between 3 and 5:30 a.m. Sometimes there’s a third truck. (Full-time workers are required to take a one-hour lunch on weekdays; part-timers are not. In an eight-hour day, we are allowed two 15-minute breaks. If it turns into a 10-hour day, we are allowed one more break.)

Sunday is no different, except that only two of us are there, and the carriers come in earlier. Holidays are the same as Sundays. I would like to ask people if they really need to have their packages delivered on Sundays and holidays. Workers are giving up much-needed physical rest and much-needed family time to process and deliver on those days. (Luckily there is a local union rule that management has to give us eight hours between the end of one day’s shift and the beginning of another shift. It’s nowhere near enough time to rest. But if it were up to management, there would be far fewer hours in between, that’s for sure.) For the first one and a half hours of the 1 a.m. shift, the building’s air-conditioning is not on.

Real-Estate Broker

They do more than just sit around and check Zillow. And most don’t work on a salary.

As a residential real-estate broker, I often encounter the perception that everything is on Zillow or Redfin and that all I’m needed for is my access to these listings. Your Realtor does so much more! Sure, you can find the listings, but we know of homes being sold off-market (pocket listings, they're called). More than that, we are your advocate for buying or selling a home. We have your back and will work so hard to help you earn or save the most money while buying or selling the right house.

Other broad misconceptions are around how we get clients and how we get paid. Every real-estate agent is out there marketing themselves, working by referral for the most part and not being fed leads (unless they buy them, and those are expensive and rarely pan out). Very few brokers work on a salary; we work on commission, period.

And while real estate is widely understood as a sales profession, we are truly here to help! We want to be a resource for our clients. I get so much satisfaction from having just the right contractor for a client at just the right time. The relationships built during these very emotional transactions ([a house] is probably your biggest asset!) are deep and lasting and make this a very rewarding line of work.

Sailor

“If something goes very very wrong, who are we going to call for help? Buzz Fucking Lightyear?”

I am a sailor by profession. A delivery skipper, to be exact. My husband and I deliver brand new sailboats all over the planet. Before anyone gets their panties all in a wad, let me just inform you that, yes, swearing like a sailor is a real thing. Because, well, we all fucking swear like sailors. Here are some big myths about my job and the actual reality that it is.

"You guys are living the dream!" If one more person says that to me I am going to fucking throat-punch them. Of course we are not. Whose fucking dream is it to have a goddamn hurricane form overhead while they are working? We have had it happen, and it sucks. There is nowhere to run or hide.

“You must have a great time out there, watching the sunset, kicking back, having a beer. What a life!” Fuck you. We don’t drink while sailing. You would be an idiot to drink while sailing, even on your own boat. When things go wrong at sea, things go wrong very very fast, and it’s usually a cascading series of events. If you are hanging around out here being a drunk fucking slob, chances are you are going to get hurt, hurt someone else, die, or all of the above.

“It takes that long to get to Tahiti? Don’t you stop?” What are you a fucking moron? There’s nothing out there. Look at a goddamn map. At one point, in the middle of the Pacific, we are in what is called the Null Zone. We are actually closer to the people on the International Space Station than we are to actual land and people. It’s a very cool fact, but also intimidating. If something goes very very wrong, who are we going to call for help? Buzz Fucking Lightyear? When I am sailing the boat, my husband sleeps and vice versa. We see each other at watch change and our one big meal a day, dinner. Unless something goes wrong and then it’s all hands on deck until it’s not wrong anymore. That could be anywhere from four hours to four days. Or more.”

Screenwriter

Most of the job involves talking, not writing.

I went to film school with the intent of becoming a writer/director like Paul Thomas Anderson or Spike Lee but ended up focusing on screenwriting because I was bad at making friends and raising money, both of which you needed to be able to do to progress through the directing program by making short films at the college I attended. Productions cost money and need crews, who knew?

I like writing. I like the battle that goes on between my brain and the blank page. I’m up against it on my own, and it suits me. But here’s the thing nobody tells you when you decide you want to be a screenwriter and especially a TV writer: Most of your job involves talking, not writing. You have to sell producers on your ideas, then you have to discuss their notes, then you have to do it all over again with the studios and networks, and then you have to do it even more as your script veers quixotically toward production as more and more collaborators get involved. You have to talk to directors and actors. It’s endless.

The business of writing in Hollywood then is really the business of talking. And those who are good at talking can be very successful—while also being not that great at writing. Contrarily, if you can’t talk to other people but can write beautifully, you are likely screwed, because the process of making film and TV is so collaborative you have to be able to communicate your ideas verbally. If you only want to write, don’t come to Hollywood.

Software Engineer

“It’s amazing that any of this shit works at all.”

I work in the field of site reliability engineering, a niche within the tech industry at the intersection of software engineering and operations. Site reliability engineers are the folks tasked with making sure the largest websites, apps, and networks in the world are up and running. All. The. Time. They are often the first ones on the job when one of those things goes down.

There are two things the world should know about the work we do:

1. It's amazing that any of this shit works at all. The simple act of performing a search for Best Burger in Minneapolis from your phone requires not only hundreds of software systems to execute code in less than one second, but also communication via radio waves, copper cables, and fiber-optic lines. It’s mind-boggling that it even works, let alone that it works almost all the time.

2. Everything is broken all the time. The internet is incredibly resilient. The network, and the software systems that run on it, are designed to expect failures and minimize disruption from them. Which is a good thing, because failures happen constantly. Could be a bug in the new code, a ship drops an anchor on a fiber-optic line, or—and this my favorite—some of these systems grow to be so big that they take on emergent properties that no one intended or predicted, resulting in unexpected failures.

So next time you can’t post a snarky tweet because Twitter is down, or you can’t buy an organic cheesecloth because of an esoteric error message, just remember how crazy it is that any of this works at all.

Stenographer

“I am certified to capture the spoken word, up to 260 words per minute, and instantly create a written record of what was spoken. I do so with 99.5 percent accuracy.”

I work as a freelance deposition reporter. The transcripts that I produce are often used in court to impeach a witness, to support a party’s claims, to provide information in a trial when a witness is not available to appear live, or for any other reason deemed appropriate by the court.

The keyboard is the part of my job most people find fascinating. With just 21 letter keys (plus an asterisk key, a number bar, and eight number keys), I can write any word in the English language with just a few keystrokes. (There are specialized keyboards for many different languages; each one is configured to best suit that language.)

The stenographic keyboard is a marvel and I could go on for days about its beauty. Here’s a basic explanation [from the Made in Chicago Museum]: “The left side keys represent initial consonant sounds, the right side represents ending consonant sounds, and four bottom keys (operated by the thumbs) create your vowels. ‘The genius of the Ireland keyboard—the simplicity of it is fantastic,’ Robert Wright later said. ‘Every sound is in the position it is on the keyboard because of the frequency with which it occurs in the language, and, secondly, the sequence in which it occurs. You have two total phonetic systems under each hand.’”

Stenography is a phonetic, syllabic language. To write a word, I may depress one or, usually, multiple keys at one time, and many words require more than one keystroke. These keystrokes are represented in letters, but the letters often do not mean what they look like. For example, to write the word background, I would tap the keyboard twice, first for the sound “back” and second for the sound “ground.” The stenographic output would be: /PWABG/TKPWROUPBD. When I write, I also have to be mindful of homonyms, regional accents, proper names, punctuation, certain nonverbal actions, prefixes and suffixes, identifying who is speaking, and probably a hundred other things that by now I don’t even think about, I just do. All while folks are speaking up to 300 words per minute.

Summer-Camp Director

Folks, it’s a desk job.

I am a summer-camp director, and people don’t seem to realize that it’s not all fun and games. Imagine you rent a boat with all of your friends. Everyone gets to hang out, waterski, and have a beer. But someone has to drive the boat. They’re still out on the boat, but they don’t get to waterski or have a beer. Honestly half of the time in this analogy the camp director isn’t even the boat driver; they’re the rental manager stuck inside behind the desk making sure all the boats are insured, properly repaired, and getting rented to the right people.

Timpanist

“Most of my non-percussion colleagues don’t understand my job … Many of our conductors don’t either!”

I’m a principal timpanist for [a prominent big-city orchestra]. The timpani are the big copper drums in the back—think 2001: A Space Odyssey. Unlike a snare drum or a bass drum, timpani produce specific pitches. Now, we play a lot of operas by Italian composers, like Verdi, Bellini, Donizetti, and Rossini. But the thing is, back when they were composing in the early 1800s, the quality of timpani in their pit orchestras was really poor; most of their timpani didn’t generate a recognizable pitch. So those composers basically wrote for “high boom” and “low boom.” Fast-forward 200 years, and the expectation today is to perform these operas on modern instruments. Therefore, whereas the rest of my colleagues receive their part from the music library in “basically ready to play” condition, my part is often woefully incomplete: I have to rewrite it, in many cases from scratch, in order to meaningfully integrate with and support the harmony. It’s a lot of homework! Funny thing? Most of my non-percussion colleagues don’t understand this is part of my job. Funnier still? Many of our conductors don’t either!

Remote work is already changing the way millions of people work and where they live. Register for Derek’s office hours on the future of this phenomenon. If you can’t attend, you can watch a recording any time on The Atlantic’s YouTube channel.

23 Sep 14:23

Rebecca Clark

by swissmiss

There is a beautiful lightness to Rebecca Clark’s illustration work. Love!