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5 ways COVID-19 changed how — and where — people move around the world

Trips canceled: 2.93 billion. International border closures: 1,299. Lives interrupted: Countless.

After the World Health Organization declared COVID-19 a pandemic, most countries in the world closed their borders – though public health experts initially questioned this strategy for controlling the spread of disease.

I study migration, so I began tracking the enormous changes in how and where people could move around the world. The COVID Border Accountability Project, founded in May 2020, maps travel and immigration restrictions introduced by countries in response to the COVID-19 pandemic.

Here is how our world shuttered – and how it’s starting to reopen.

1. March 11: It begins

Travel restrictions peaked right after the World Health Organization declared a pandemic on March 11. That week, our data shows a total of 348 countries closing their borders, completely or partially.

Complete closures restrict access to all noncitizens at international borders. Partial closures – a category encompassing border closures and travel bans – restrict access at some borders, or bar people from some, but not all, countries.

2. Fully closed borders

Most countries stopped all foreign travelers from entering at some point last year.

From Finland to Sri Lanka to Tonga, 189 countries – home to roughly 65% of the world’s 7.7 billion people – put a complete border closure in place in response to the COVID-19 pandemic, according to our database. The first to isolate itself from the world was North Korea, on Jan. 22, 2020. The last was Bahrain, on June 4, 2020.

Most countries eventually eased border restrictions, and many opened their borders only to close them again as COVID-19 cases spread globally. By the end of 2020, roughly half of all countries remained completely closed to noncitizens and non-visa holders except for essential travel related to health emergencies, humanitarian or diplomatic missions, commerce or family reunification.

3. Targeted bans and partial closures

Last year 193 countries closed down partially, restricting access to people from specific countries or closing some – but not all – of their land and sea borders.

Among these, 98 countries introduced targeted bans, which restricted entry to specific groups of people based on their recent travel or nationality. The first travel bans targeted China, followed soon by other countries that experienced the earliest known outbreaks of the novel coronavirus.

For instance, the United States was quick to pass a string of targeted travel bans, barring travelers from China first, then Iran, and then 26 European countries.

Most countries added land border closures to air travel bans, including the United States. In March the Trump administration closed its borders with Canada and Mexico.

4. Restrictions on US residents

Americans faced serious restrictions on their movement last year, too. People in the U.S., with its high COVID-19 spread, were barred from 190 countries either specifically – via a travel ban – or generally, due to closed borders.

The U.S. passport, usually one of the world’s most powerful for travel access to other countries, ranked 18th place in 2020. Regions newly off-limits to Americans include most of Europe and nearly all South America.

5. Visa seekers and immigrants

Of the 98 countries that implemented targeted bans, 42 specifically restricted all visa seekers from entering the country. The week following the U.S. closure of immigration offices worldwide, 20 countries, including the Philippines, Benin and Nepal, stopped issuing all visas. More than 100 visa bans barred visa seekers from specific countries or groups.

In September, the Trump administration halted the U.S. asylum program, barring refugees from seeking asylum. The only other country that explicitly targeted immigrants and asylum seekers with a COVID-19 travel ban was Hungary.

The world today

I initially wondered whether international travel restrictions would stay in place after the pandemic ended, leading to more permanent restrictions on freedom of movement.

But, by and large, the world is reopening. By the end of last year, 137 of the world’s 189 complete closures had been lifted, and 66 of the 98 targeted bans had ended.

In addition to the staggering numbers of closures and the occasional international spats, I’ve been struck by the level of cooperation between countries, especially within the European Union. Virtually every EU country complied with the bloc’s travel recommendations – a testament to its ability to manage crisis as a unified region.

Travel restrictions will continue to emerge, end and evolve, dependent on context. As wealthier countries vaccinate their populations at rapid speed, less equipped countries continue to suffer severe outbreaks. International travel may soon require a COVID-19 “vaccination card.” New targeted travel bans could emerge.

“Normal” is a long way away.

Nikolas Lazar, Thuy Nguyen and the COBAP Team assisted with this story.

Mary A. Shiraef, Ph.D. Student in Political Science, University of Notre Dame

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

GOP senator faces backlash for weaseling out of a ticket after Capitol police pull her over

According to a report from CNN’s Manu Raju, Sen. Marsha Blackburn (R-TN) flashed her congressional pin to avoid getting a ticket from a Capitol police officer then jumped back in the car and told an aide to “drive.”

The report states that the “Tennessee Republican hopped in a waiting car along with an aide and made her way down Constitution Avenue. But the car was pulled over by US Capitol Police, before adding, “Blackburn then jumped out of the car, identified herself as a senator and showed the officer her congressional pin, according to a text message and a source familiar with the matter. The officer then let the car go.”

No report was filed, however the incident was documented by an aide who texted the senator “hopped out, flashed her pin, hopped back in the car [and] said ‘drive!'” before adding, “Officer didn’t say a word, just shook his head.”

That led to a flood of comments about Blackburn “jumping out.”

True crime shows spotlight women as victims — but don’t help improve women’s safety

This month “People Magazine Investigates” kicked off its fifth season by recounting the unsolved murder of Tammy Zywicki, a Grinnell College student who was abducted on Interstate 80 in Illinois and violently murdered in 1992. Ratings for the season premiere show the genre’s popularity: The season premiere ranked in the top 25 original cable telecasts, just a few spots down from Fox News’ “Hannity” and MSNBC’s “Rachel Maddow.” The popularity of podcasts and television series providing graphic accounts of unsolved murders — usually of women — confirms what “Dead Girl” author Alice Bolin calls an American obsession. “It is clear we love the Dead Girl, enough to rehash and reproduce her story, to kill her again and again,” she writes. It is enough of a cultural phenomenon that it was recently parodied on “Saturday Night Live.” But exclusive attention to individual stories ignores a bigger reality that we’re not talking about—the collective story of patterned, lethal violence against women in the United States. Consuming such stories as a form of entertainment without considering the structural issues that allow them to continue to happen makes all women vulnerable.

Like many women of my generation who attended college in the Midwest at the time, I remember vividly when Tammy went missing and when her body was found; it was national news for weeks. For us, her abduction and murder was not relegated to history; it is sharply brought into the present by a sinking feeling of dread whenever the possibility of being stuck on the side of the road is imminent. This feeling of vulnerability, of becoming yet another victim to violent, opportunistic crime, is shared among women across generations. In other words, often there is a pervasive cultural fear that women live with in this country, and others, because of their gender. 

This fear is justified — yet it remains hard for women to substantiate. For example, statistics that could show us patterns of violence are not collected or shared and are, therefore, almost invisible. The loss of any young woman’s life by violent murder is incalculable. Yet, to count the kinds of murders that are related to gender allows us to connect singular losses to collective patterns, particularly when concerned with equal protection, equal rights and legal justice. In this way, it is important to know that Tammy Zywicki was one of 4,936 women murdered in the United States in 1992, according to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. How many of these 4,936 women were abducted before they were murdered? How many of them were victims of sexual violence before they died? Do features of the lethal crime shift visibility when we consider the race and sexual orientation of the victim? Today in 2021, the answers to these questions are elusive at best. 

Currently, the FBI does not provide such records for the public, although the agency collects data from around the country, allowing local and state agencies to share or ignore the system. Likewise, many popular stories of unsolved “true crime” tend to focus on individual cases and how to solve them, rather than investigate how individual cases are linked to patterns in cases or social factors that make women more vulnerable. The kinds of data collection conducted by governmental law enforcement agencies regarding violent crime and types of murder women experience is consequential for victims, families, researchers and public policies. The lack of visibility of collective patterns leaves families who search for justice isolated from each other, it leaves analysts with a lacuna of precise and concrete information about patterns that can point to underlying causes of violence, and it renders almost impossible the ability to bring these crimes to justice under a larger gendered legal frame. 

Beyond transparency issues that hide larger trends, the language we use to talk about the murder of women is also problematic. The word homicide, from the Latin “to kill a man” does not appropriately describe these crimes — it hides the larger truth of lethal gendered violence. The more accurate term is femicide, the murder of women because of their gender identity. Human rights advocates around the globe have worked to have the crime named and prosecuted as such. Evidence for the crime of femicide shows explicitly actions that male perpetrators enact on the bodies of women including abduction, holding in victims in captivity, and sexual violence that the victim suffered in excess of the murder. United Nations human rights expert Dubravka Simonovic recently called for the universal establishment of national initiatives to monitor and prevent femicides. The United States must take up that responsibility if we want to challenge our national obsession with “the Dead Girl” and protect all future generations of girls and women. 

It’s been 27 years since Tammy was murdered; and I now teach at the college she attended. A student recently pointed out to me how little has changed for women in that time, even with cell phones and location sharing and other safety practices. Tammy could have been any of us then, and now. While unsolved crimes can benefit from public attention, true crime entertainment must do more to highlight and address the systemic issues that make women susceptible to violence.

Women in STEM face a “confidence gap.” Here’s what that means, and how to fix it

In my career as a scientist, a great deal of the professional support I have received has been from men. Part of that may be because STEM fields — an acronym for science, technology, engineering and math — are generally male-dominated. Still, I am grateful for having had encouraging male mentors who shared my goal of trying to achieve gender equity in STEM fields. This doesn’t detract, however, from the unspoken privilege afforded to men at all levels of scientific research. It’s an issue that is rarely spoken about openly and one that must be tackled if we are to create workspaces that encourage diversity in the future.

Dealing with challenges around discrimination and privilege is a very solitary affair. Often times there is a pressure to pretend these challenges are not there in order to carry on. There isn’t always a collective support system to either articulate or put a name to these challenges, nor are there channels to deal with them. As a young scientist, I had very few role models who looked like me, which ultimately meant that I had to face many roadblocks and challenges on my own.

This isn’t good enough for future generations. We need to create more nurturing cultures in our laboratories and universities, where diversity is encouraged and celebrated. Although I recognize that there are talented women who transcend these roadblocks to become leaders, it sometimes appears that being an exception to the rule is not enough.

If we are committed to addressing the gender gap in the working world, we must start by addressing the gender gap in higher education. Academic institutions must commit to providing an environment that supports women’s’ success.

This starts with visibility and participation and ends with trust and realization. Getting young women interested in the STEM fields is a passion project for me, and I’ve been involved in events at my university, KAUST, where young girls come out and meet the female faculty. They can see the type of research that’s going on in the lab, and they see that there’s women working and succeeding. You can see the excitement in their faces. It seems simple, but that’s where we have to start.

The root causes for this imbalance are complex and start with education, at the college and university level but even as far down as elementary school. A study done by Microsoft showed that the high priority and attention placed on STEM in schools isn’t translating to higher ed and the workforce for women. And when women do make it into a science or math-related field, they face further challenges: stereotyping, pay that is less than male colleagues, and a lack of credit for their work. Moreover, women also leave STEM fields at a much higher rate than men — especially working mothers.

Challenges for women in STEM are complicated because of the roles they often play in families. In fact, nearly half of US female scientists transition to part time or leave their fields entirely after their first child.

The fact is, academic institutions aren’t always geared toward the needs of women, especially in the community outside the classroom. My institution has been wonderful in this regard, supporting us not only in the lab and classrooms but off campus as well. But this is, at least in part, due to the fact that it is a relatively young institution that was open to making changes early on to build the infrastructure and environment necessary for this to happen.


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Besides fighting stereotypes that incorrectly suggest men’s brains are better suited for work in math and the sciences, we[KS1]  need to work to decrease the “confidence gap” – where young women with a predilection for STEM fields are discouraged or lose interest. That starts as early as elementary school – but needs to continue throughout college and grad school and into the work force.

Additionally, COVID-19 has thrown job markets into chaos around the globe. Amid all the disruption may be an opportunity to help steer more women into STEM fields. As workers seek accessible ways to retrain or pivot their careers, academic institutions must encourage women to seek out STEM-related opportunities.

There is a lot at stake here. STEM occupations are expected to see explosive growth in the coming years, as math, science, and engineering become highly sought after skills by employers. Within STEM-related fields, women make up only 28% of the workforce, according to the American Association of University Women (AAUW,) and men vastly outnumber women majoring in most STEM fields in college. The gender gaps are particularly high in some of the highest-paid jobs of the future, like computer science and engineering.

If we do not act quickly to bring equity to these fields, we run the risk of leaving women behind during this economic boom.

The more that women, especially young women, can see people like themselves working in STEM fields, teaching, making discoveries and breakthroughs, the more we can begin to close the gap. STEM knowledge will continue to be vital to the workforce, and it is critical to close the gender gap as we seek to rebuild from this year’s global economic disruption. It will take a coordinated, consistent effort that includes acknowledging that a problem exists, which each of us, irrespective of gender, needs to work towards resolving. And that starts with representation.

Ethnic studies pioneer Rudy Acuña on neoliberalism, Trump and the future of academia

As the debate over ethnic studies brews in California and the Biden administration transitions into power, the 88-year-old founding chair of the landmark Chicana and Chicano Studies at California State University, Northridge, has little time for small talk. Notwithstanding a host of serious health setbacks over the past year, Rodolfo “Rudy” Acuña is in the process of putting together a collection of his nearly 1,000 essays, tentatively titled, “My Journey Out of Purgatory.”

“Without knowing it, we leave our own footprints in life; over half my life has been in the Chicana/o Movement and related to Chicana/o studies,” Acuña writes in his essay, “Footprints: The Activist Scholar.” He continues: “Some of us are very fortunate because the footprints we leave can easily be traced. In my perception, footprints revive memory and memory is what prays us out of purgatory. This is important to me because I do not believe in a hereafter and I know that I will be part of this world as long as I am remembered. Purgatory is the place where the forgotten are abandoned.”

Far from forgotten, Acuña remains a key figure in the corridors of cultural and ethnic studies, as a mentor to generations of scholars, and as the author of numerous seminal works in Chicana/Chicano history, including the widely read “Occupied America: A History of Chicanos.” The index to his archives underscores his legacy. Yet, despite winning three Gustavus Myers Awards for the outstanding book on race relations, and receiving of the John Hope Franklin Award in 2016, Acuña has been forced to fend off or embrace the label of an “activist scholar” for a half century, including its ramifications in his successful lawsuit for discrimination against the University of California, Santa Barbara. “For the past 25 years, I have been at war with American historians,” Acuña wrote in his introduction at the American Historical Association. Thirty years ago, the Los Angeles Times deemed him the “Mexican American Socrates.”  

“In 1989, I was awarded the NACCS (National Association for Chicana and Chicano Studies) Scholar Award, which in theory was supposed to go to a Chicano or Chicana with a lifetime of activism and scholarship,” Acuña writes. “I have never considered myself an activist scholar or vice versa. I consider myself a Chicana/o studies professor who uses life experiences to instruct his research and teaching.” 

The end result, Acuña says, matched his research topics with his own life struggles. Since he walked the picket line with Hollywood strikers with his father in 1937, Acuña has been in the trenches on all levels, as he recorded in his book “The Making of Chicana/o Studies: In the Trenches of Academe.”

“In the 1960s I was involved in Head Start, voter registration, civil rights, antiwar activities and Chicana/o studies,” Acuña notes. “My first three books were for public school students because I had taught junior and senior high school students as well as junior college. ‘Occupied America’ was motivated by my involvement during the ’60s, and represents the disillusionment with the United States brought about by the Vietnam War, and its suppression of the civil rights and Chicano movements. (I had the illusion that change would come if we worked hard enough).”

While Acuña’s training is as a historian, his vocation remains teaching — and his commitment is to the untold thousands of students and colleagues who cite his influence in their own lives, studies and work. “I was on academic probation, I was a troublemaker, I just wasn’t really interested in school,” Pierce College professor Angelita Rovero said in an interview in 2019. “Rudy, he changed my life. He really mentored me. He put a little spark in me.” 

“I want to be known as a teacher who cares about his students,” Acuña tells me, adding, “but I need to finish this book, and I have little time before I sleep and the sharks have scattered my work.”

The interview below has been edited for length and clarity.

When you served as the founding chair of Chicana and Chicano Studies at CSU Northridge in 1969, where did you think the program would be in 50 years? Describe the areas in which you think it has and has not achieved such a vision.

Frankly, I knew I was one of 50 Chicano PhDs, so I just wanted to get it started and then transfer to a more leisurely environment. However, when I saw the challenge I was seduced. I had taught grades 1 to 12 and community college. Also, this was after the East L.A. blowouts and I knew it was important to give these students who had been shortchanged by the schools a place to succeed. Mexicans could learn, so I gradually was seduced. I had no vision for the future, but I knew education, and being a structuralist at heart developed curriculum. For me education is about motivation and then teaching skills. I was fortunate to build not only PhDs but good teachers such as Gerald Resendez and later Jorge Garcia. Without them we would not have survived. The reality is that we were a teaching institution and it was our job to equip them with the skills to succeed. Nothing fancy. I never thought that the program would grow as much as it has because the initial enrollment was just not there. So we concentrated on leveling the ground. 

This past winter, CSUN revoked the naming of its main library after former president Delmar T. Oviatt, which students had objected to for years, dating back to his crackdown on student protests and failure to support cultural studies programs.  Two years ago, the Students of Color Coalition wrote an open letter noting “the evidence of racism on campus is invisible to those who have not studied the origins and progression of history in our university,” and called out “the traditional role university administrators have played” in this process.  How would you describe the role of former president Diane Harrison in this regard, who recently retired after eight years of overseeing major changes at Northridge?

President Harrison was clueless. You had the feeling that she followed adviceThe Fall 2020 Issue of CSUN Magazine had a cover of her commemorating her resignation. The magazine appeared to be a memorial to a white campus and featured few people of color, almost to the point that it was to attract foreign students to CSUN. Although CSUN is roughly 42 percent Latino, there were few brown faces. Harrison was not only following advice but following orders. She was a puppet. The chancellor [who runs the entire CSU system] promoted her not for her abilities, but because she was close to him. She was the president of the smallest campus, CSU Monterey Bay. To put it bluntly, she was a cheerleader who was very close to the chancellor. 

As universities struggle with COVID and post-COVID scenarios, state budget issues and crises, how do you see Chicana and Chicano studies and all ethnic studies programs building on their legacies, their decades of engagement with students, staff, faculty and the local communities, and evolving over the next decade at institutions like CSUN and across the country?  

It depends. Both CHS and ethnic studies are fighting over the crumbs; we will be getting the major share just because we have more students of Chicana/o or Latina/o backgrounds. However, if we are committed to ethnic studies we should be part of the solution. First, African American enrollment has fallen to 3.6% — it should be at least 10%, but this would be at odds with the business model of the neoliberal university. But we will not truly reflect L.A. until Black Americans are part of our community, so a priority should be to rebuild African Studies. So we should have a capstone course called Ethnic Studies, team taught by all departments in the family. This is the perfect time, since we can include images reflecting the multiplicity of CSUN. The pandemic is not an excuse for mediocrity. 

In 2015, you wrote extensively about your concerns over neoliberalism in academia, calling it the worst threat to education. You wrote: “In order to offset the lack of public funding, administrators have raised tuition with students becoming the primary consumers and debt-holders. Institutions have entered into research partnerships with industry shifting the pursuit of truth to the pursuit of profits.” To accelerate this “molting,” they have “hired a larger and larger number of short-term, part-time adjuncts.” This has created large armies of transient and disposable workers who “are in no position to challenge the university’s practices or agitate for “democratic rather than monetary goals.” 

Yes, neoliberalism is hegemonic. It affects all minority communities. Unfortunately, Chicana/os and others begin to identify more with the institution than they do with their own people. That is why you have so many Hispanics for Trump. They take on the identification of the oppressor. I can say that we produced or educated more Chicana/o teachers than any institution, but cannot get even $100 for scholarships. They identify with the beauty of the buildings rather than the needs of the immigrant and in-need students. In the past, when they were here, students paid $10 a semester and an apartment was $85 a month. Now, a bed in a dorm is $900 a month. They have to buy meal tickets because the refrigerators and the stoves have been removed. There is no feeling of community or feeling of responsibility to the poor. CSUN is a teachers’ college. My parents were immigrants, my grandparents were immigrants and my wife is an immigrant. I will not follow any rules or laws that discriminate against them. 

“Big government” and other lies we live by: How one Orwellian concoction consumed America

“If people lived without accepting lies/ they would ripen like apples, and be scented like pippins/ in their old age,” wrote D.H. Lawrence in his poem “Beautiful Old Age.” Unfortunately, living with accepted lies is just an everyday part of being American.

Patently misleading words and phrases that could have come straight out of Orwell’s “1984” have long polluted our political language, yet continue to be taken at face value and used routinely. The most consequential has been the replacement of “war” by “defense” in the titles of the War Department and the secretary of war cabinet post in 1949, a change practically simultaneous with the publication of Orwell’s novel and one that, in effect, defined all of our subsequent military actions as defensive — hence justified and not open to question. We stretched the idea of defense with regard to our own actions to cover aggression. By changing a single word, we authorized ourselves to transform a perceived or alleged threat into an actual one, justifying any response we chose to make. (Later we extended the same privilege to Israel.) 

Nineteen forty-nine was a watershed year, a kind of clincher for the Cold War, its covert actions, its hot war interludes, and its various sequels. Immediately preceded by Harry Truman’s upset victory over Thomas Dewey and the rout of Progressive Party candidate Henry Wallace, it was the year we lost our monopoly on nuclear weapons to the Soviet Union, the year we “lost” China to the Communists led by Mao Zedong, and the year we formed NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization) with Canada, Iceland and nine European countries, The next year came the Korean War and Sen. Joe McCarthy. 

“1984,” which introduced the term “newspeak,” quickly became a propaganda weapon for our side, that of the “free world.” So it was understood from the outset that we could never countenance the abuses of language and human decency the novel depicts. We were immune — at the end of ideology, if not yet of history. Appropriating Orwell, we secured ourselves from him. 

Compare the knee-jerk howls of derision over “political correctness” in language — such facers of facts we are! such disciples of St. George! away with the “thought police”! no liberal prissiness for us! (ignore that mealy-mouthed “defense” or, better, savor it as a delicious joke, a word with invisible quotation marks) — compare those howls to the virtual silence over the older, more extensive and deadly abuse of language for propaganda by government and the media — language not to be questioned, much less derided, language that is politically mandatory, the empire’s clothes.

Noam Chomsky likes to refer to official euphemisms and pejoratives, rather coyly, as “technical terms.” (“Fatal fictions” would be more like it.) The wonder is that we have accumulated so many of them, that a political culture full of professing Orwellians should be awash in newspeak. But such is the establishment’s need to confuse the public to make it more malleable — or, on a more generous view, to pull the wool over its own eyes, the better to deceive and manipulate the public with a good conscience. So it fell to us to devise the perfect cover for the Big Brother of Orwell’s novel — a government-orchestrated campaign against “big government.” We paid the novel the supreme compliment.

The term “big government,” a choice example of newspeak American-style, involves putting forward a false distinction to conceal the true one. The campaign against “big government” does not reflect a disagreement over the proper size and reach of government, as the issue is always framed, but a more basic one over whose interest government exists to serve, those at the top or the population as a whole. As an epithet, “big government” serves as a big stick with which politicians, in service to a corporate/military state, beat up on the derisively named “nanny state,” which is alleged to squander taxpayer dollars on the undeserving, breed dependency, stifle initiative, constrain business and individual liberty, and generally emasculate. (Somehow, the doom of dependency does not hang over those who inherit wealth. Opponents of the estate tax never heard of it.) 

In other words, the campaign against “big government” is a means for government to marshal public support for shedding its responsibility to the public (enlarged so recklessly during the last century!) so as to devote itself even more to its biggest and most important clients. As if we shared a common interest, the leaders of this campaign invite us to join forces against them, the freeloaders using government to pick our pockets. 

This, then, is the real meaning of the “small” or “limited” government ideal, though such a government is small only in the sense of the constituency to be served, which in turn requires that it be highly intrusive, coercive and manipulative as well, in order to keep everyone else in line. 

For the interests of the few to prevail, they must have government behind them, and a government powerful and resourceful enough to neutralize dissent. At the same time, the few and their government and media allies agitate against “big government”: 1) to hide their dependence on it; (2) to undermine government social programs, disparaged as “entitlements,” seen both as rivals for government dollars and as potential source of booty; (3) to pose as champions of the people; and (4) to remind government to watch its step. Their fear of big government is real, because government can act against their interests, should it become so inclined, as well as for them. The stakes are real even if the issue, as posed, is not.

Don’t leaders in business and finance, arch-foes of “big government,” shuttle in and out of top government posts all the time? Don’t corporate lawyers sit on the Supreme Court? Who runs the Commerce Department? Treasury? The Federal Reserve? Even, on occasion, the War Department and State? Who advises the president on economic matters? Who sets trade policy? Energy policy? Don’t top brass regularly leave government service to enlist with military contractors and other private firms? But perhaps those who move in and out of top federal posts are viewed as uncontaminated by government service, unlike career civil servants, disparaged as “government bureaucrats.”

Ah, the power of government, business and the military marching in lockstep! There is “small government” for you! The War Department, the costliest government department by far, the very model of a bloated, wasteful bureaucracy; the National Security Agency; the CIA; the Department of Homeland Security, the newest and third largest department — after War and Veterans Affairs — legacy of a “small government” Republican administration; the DEA, another Republican bequest to “small government” — Republicans have no objection to “alphabet soup” when the government agencies are the right sort; the FBI; the world’s largest prison system; the Agribusiness Department (aka the USDA); the U.S.-led World Bank and International Monetary Fund — but then, how can government be small and still keep all those billions in line at home and abroad, those un-Americans and non-Americans and anti-Americans? “Getting government off our backs” — getting and keeping the public off government’s back — translates into replacing a monkey with a gorilla.

Beginning with Jimmy Carter’s presidency, disparagement of “big government” has become bipartisan. Ditto the attack on, and whittling away of, the welfare and regulatory state. 

Bipartisan allegiance to the warfare state is of even longer standing and has only grown stronger over time, becoming almost impregnable. The imperative for Republicans and Democrats to compete over fealty to U.S. power and business interests, taking turns accusing each other of being weak on “defense,” of allowing the U.S. to fall behind, of being “soft” in foreign policy, dates from the end of World War II, when our military and economic dominance was, briefly, beyond challenge. 

Why do liberals respond to attacks on “big government” by defending it, playing into their opponents’ hands, instead of exposing the utter fraudulence of the attacks? Liberals have been committed to the warfare state longer than conservatives, their warrior credentials are better and their commitment to the warfare state remains as solid as their commitment to the welfare state has become shaky. In addition, liberals find it hard to admit that democracy has so many enemies (witting and unwitting), some of them very powerful — an admission tantamount to questioning American exceptionalism and thus risking influence. Better to go along with the pretense that what agitates the anti-democracy crowd, Trump’s constituency, is big government. They are good democracy-loving Americans all, if somewhat misguided.

Foes of “big government” want a government that rules in the name of some higher power that bends wayward humans to its will — be it God, America, the market or natural selection. (The first three are almost interchangeable, and all four complement each other.) They want a government that disdains and overrides or controls the will of the people, not one that, however imperfectly, serves it. For them, any government without the sanction of some absolute authority — blessed and interpreted by them — lacks legitimacy. Bottom line: They want a government that keeps inferiors (people lower in the social and racial scale) in their place. If it fails to do so, they are prepared to step in and play vigilante. For them, big corporations offer a better model of social organization than democracy; the military, a better one still.   

Authoritarians say, “You can’t change human nature” (understood as basically bad or sinful), and therefore you can’t do much to improve human societies. Even to attempt it is to defy God or the natural order. Christ was not concerned with anything as illusory or transitory as earthly justice but with saving souls for the afterlife. We are born to suffer and should be grateful to our supposed oppressors. They are really salvation facilitators and the prime movers of civilization and progress. Freedom for the few, servitude for the many — that is the right and inescapable condition (given proper policing) of humankind. The will of the people is just the opiate of the people.

God, America (aka the “country” or the “nation”), the market or natural selection vs. the Will of the People. The first four seem awesomely impersonal but are only giant scarecrows shielding a privileged, supposedly superior few. At the same time, those below this ruling elite may enjoy a measure of privilege themselves owing to nationality, gender, race, ethnicity, class and/or religion, to say nothing of the vicarious pleasure of identifying with wealth and power. Rule by a few, in their own interest, has been the norm in history. It is natural, in that it is easy. The will of the people, by contrast, stands for faith in our ability to resist manipulation and to work together, as equals, across all dividing lines, to improve society. It’s a daunting task. 

If “government” is an object of distrust, contempt and resistance — for taxing away our hard-earned dollars to support people unwilling to support themselves, for example — “America” is where all the good people live, the “real Americans,” people who take care of themselves and ask nothing of others, people who have nothing to hide or fear from Big Daddy. “America,” which is not to be confused with the well favored but flawed country invoked in “America the Beautiful,” is an object of devotion and sacrifice, a source of identity and pride. It is a bastion of the white race, perfect, incorruptible and blessed by God. Especially in time of war, and that for us now is all the time. 

The insistent, contrived opposition between venerated “America” and detested “government” is useful to maintaining the status quo because otherwise a citizen might begin to wonder, as wars and military interventions go on and on, with accompanying infringement of civil liberties, whether constantly being called to rally ’round the flag is any different in effect from the dread “collectivism” and regimentation associated with the term “state,” as in “totalitarian state” or “deep state.” We might realize that government, corporations — including the media corporations ever ready to beat the drums for war — financial institutions and the military make a truly fearsome foursome. Happily, the opposition between “America” and “government” helps conceal and make palatable the reality of a Big Daddy state. 

This opposition plays well because distrust of government and idolatry of country go hand in hand. “America” can do no wrong; “government” can do nothing but wrong (particularly if the Democrats are in charge). “Government” is the flak-catcher for “America.” A citizen’s doubts and misgivings about the U.S. can be offloaded onto “government,” leaving “America” untarnished and fully charged. Hence the slogan “Love My Country/Fear My Government.” Distrust “government,” which taxes workers to support shirkers, illegal immigrants and high-living seniors depriving later generations of their future. Follow “country,” which is not afraid to crack heads and keeps order in the world, blindly. 

In addition, the country/government opposition allows a citizen to submit to Big Daddy without forfeiting his sense of pride and independence. He can even make a show of pride and independence by weaponing up — hence the castration anxiety over gun control — though patriotism alone is often sufficiently belligerent to serve both purposes, especially in a condition of permanent war. Under Trump, the armed wing of the supposedly anti-government constituency, puffed up by the leader’s flattery, showed its true colors as the bully boys of authoritarian government. But who pointed out the contradiction?  

The highest officials of government play the Anti-Big-Government Game, which should be a tip-off that it is a cover for the true intention. “Government is the problem”: such sublime duplicity from a president, a former actor, FBI informant and corporate mouthpiece for General Electric bespeaks a huge sense of entitlement, a contempt for the intelligence of ordinary citizens or a brain washed clean. Politicians must have an even greater than normal capacity for self-delusion, as Ronald Reagan apparently did. Donald Trump may have been the most self-deluded yet. 

If small or limited government is the aim, why the effort, under George W. Bush, Barack Obama and Trump, to give ever greater power to the president, the chief executive, the commander in chief, the most powerful government official, Mr. Government himself, on the pretext of an everlasting war on terror and other evil forces? Anti-government rhetoric has helped government, under both Democratic and Republican administrations, grow and insulate itself even more from the public it is supposed to serve. No wonder government and the media do everything to perpetuate such misleading rhetoric. The problem is democracy — serving the people — when it is so much easier and more remunerative to serve the few. After all, serving the people inverts the Natural or Divine Order. 

The disparaging term “government bureaucrats,” also associated with Reagan, doubtless refers to those in government who persist in taking their responsibility to the public seriously. Consider this as a case of self-serving higher-ups laughing up their sleeves at their little joke on the rest of us. Their contempt for conscientious underlings includes us as well. Should those underlings turn whistleblower, however, God help them! 

The likes of Juan Guaido and Alexei Navalny are held up as heroes while Chelsea Manning, Edward Snowden, John Kiriakou and Reality Winner have faced torture, prison or exile, to say nothing of the persecution of Julian Assange by both the U.S. and British governments, with Sweden’s assistance. Assange languishes in a London prison after seven years of forced confinement in the Ecuadorian embassy. He is a journalist rather than a civil servant, but we don’t much like journalists, either — no more than do Honduras, Saudi Arabia and other so-called allies. And we wonder why the idea of the press as the “enemy of the people” caught on for Trump and his supporters!   

The reality of our Big Daddy state is further obscured by another false opposition, that between “government” and “free enterprise,” the preferred term for capitalism. “Government” is the enemy of “free enterprise,” which is the friend of “freedom” and “democracy,” as the name itself suggests. Rhetorical opposition aside, however, government and “free enterprise” are old allies. One way U.S. corporations have traditionally shown their love of liberty, with the full diplomatic and military support of government, is by partnering with repressive regimes abroad, almost always the client regimes of said government. Free enterprise has always counted on government to provide optimum conditions for its expansion both at home and abroad through anti-labor laws and practices, trade agreements, judicial injunctions, police and military interventions and, when necessary, even war. 

Free enterprise is hostile to programs or laws that interfere, or might interfere, with maximizing profit, such as taxes, social programs or protections for workers (especially the right to organize), consumers and the environment. It is hostile even to free trade or competitive markets, when those ma hurt the interests of the privileged. 

People argue for free enterprise on the grounds of social utility. What other grounds could there be? They say it serves human well-being better than any other system, if government just leaves it alone. That is their mantra. At the same time, advocates rely on government for patronage and protection, and for insurance against collapse. Their goal is to capture government for themselves, which they disguise as “shrinking government” or “cutting it down to size,” just as they try to concentrate whatever wealth the system generates in as few hands as possible under the guise of protecting “incentives.” 

“Free trade” is the obligatory euphemism for trade agreements that promote wage competition between manufacturing workers across national borders and that override or discourage national health and safety regulations and environmental protections, keeping prices low for the finished goods and doing the same for the cost of labor. As Dean Baker of the Center for Economic and Policy Research never fails to point out, these agreements, as opposed to actual free trade, often cost consumers dearly by extending the reach of patent and copyright protections that are very lucrative for the corporations holding them. Maximum vulnerability (“flexibility”) for workers, maximum protection and opportunities for corporations and investors; servitude for the one, freedom for the other: That is the essence of “free trade.” 

Notice also that using government to increase corporate profits and make managers and shareholders richer does not constitute government intervention in the market, according to the custodians of political speech. Only measures that would interfere with maximizing profit count as government intervention. The magic of “free trade,” like that of the “free market,” renders the strong hand of government invisible.  

Adding to our perpetual mental fog is the stupefying disconnect between the ideals of liberty and equality and the realities of the civilian workplace and the military. Yet, of course, we venerate free enterprise and the military right alongside democracy. An unrelated but current example is the Biden administration’s sanctimonious effort to preach against anti-Asian bigotry while seeking to arouse the public against China. The preachment follows a mass shooting by a supposedly religious young man bedeviled by sexual temptation but untroubled by killing.   

The “common good,” the “commonweal,” the “general welfare,” the “greatest good of the greatest number,” the “public interest” — terms which once had positive connotations — have become terms of derision, synonymous with “socialism,” which in America is used to describe any policy or proposal that puts a constraint on the accumulation and political power of capital. In fact, for ordinary people to press their claim to a better life through “entitlements,” labor unions and so on is considered petty and selfish. In a warfare state, the national interest comes first — the “national” interest, that is, as opposed to the public interest. If our betters serve themselves first, that is only as it should be: They are the embodiment of national greatness.

When I was growing up, the labor movement was still strong, and the public interest (aka “John Q. Public”) was routinely invoked against striking unions in outraged editorials and editorial cartoons. The media were pro-business and anti-union, then as now, but were forced to invoke a public interest they did not really believe in to try to counteract organized labor’s strength in numbers. Today, when corporations, big banks and their political allies hold the country hostage, appealing to the public interest is “class warfare” or quaint leftist nostalgia. 

The U.S. Postal Service does the public’s bidding and is looked down upon, but we look up to law enforcement and the military. They too are part of government, but they give orders. They hold the power of life or death. Our presidents now claim this power — on our behalf, of course — over every person on the planet. The Nazis, with their doctrine of racial and military supremacy, still have admirers and emulators in the U.S., whereas the communists, with their proletarian ideology, have almost none. To rephrase Samuel Johnson’s famous question: How is it that a country that flaunts its love of liberty contains so many people who fear or despise it? How is it that Johnson’s actual question — “How is it that we hear the loudest yelps for liberty among the drivers of negroes?” — is still as pertinent as when he posed it more than 240 years ago?

Candace Owens under attack: Pro-Trump Black conservatives go to war — against each other

In the strange and isolated realm of MAGA-loving Black activists, at least two groups are at war with one another, and insults are flying with no end in sight. 

Maj Toure, founder of a right-wing group called Black Guns Matter — whose legal name is Martin A. Jones — and his allies are at war with better-known Black conservative activists Candace Owens and Brandon Tatum. This conflict appears to have been brewing under the surface for some time but broke into the public sphere after a panel discussion led by Toure at the Conservative Political Action Conference (CPAC) in Orlando last month. 

The apparent rift between the activists centers around claims that Owens and Tatum can’t relate to the African-American communities because they aim their rhetoric almost entirely at white conservatives. Furthermore, activists on Toure’s team have framed their argument through a difficult-to-follow analogy drawn from the classic sitcom “Fresh Prince of Bel-Air,” perhaps in an effort to ensure that white people don’t know what they’re talking about. 

“There’s not just one type of Black conservative, and I feel like that’s where we have failed over the past four years; we propped up one type of Black conservative,” panelist and commentator Shemeka Michelle stated at the CPAC gathering in late February. “And just because white people like them, it was like, ‘Oh yeah, we love her. Oh, she has her own thinking.’

“A lot of people are familiar with The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air,” Michelle continued. “Just say, Carlton [Banks] and Will [Smith] were both conservatives. Carlton could go to Bel-Air, and he could talk to the people of Bel-Air all day long, but you could not send Carlton to Philly to talk to those people. You would have had to send Will, who had the same type of life experiences that Will had. So when it comes to being conservative, stop propping up Carlton Banks thinking that Carlton is going to be the one to be able to communicate with the Wills of the conservative party.” 

Asked by Salon whether this analogy could be understood as an attack on Candace Owens, Michelle responded, “I wasn’t specifically referring to her.” She added, however, that Owens “comes across to many in the Black community as more of a Rachel Dolezal,” a reference to the now-notorious white woman who passed as Black for many years. “She has some good points, but her messaging does more to make White people comfortable than it does to enlighten the Black community.”

As for the “Fresh Prince” analogy, viewers of a certain age may already grasp it: The character Carlton struggled to relate to the Black community because he had grown up in the suburbs, surrounded by white people.  

Toure, who sells T-shirts promoting anti-vaccine rhetoric and calls his fans “solutionarys” for reasons not easy to understand or explain, expressed frustration on Twitter after his CPAC panel that “older” Black conservative voices had not retweeting his pannel remarks, further asking if they were jealous. One can assume that the shade was directed at Owens and Tatum, who both have followings encompassing at least a million people. 

Reacting to the CPAC remarks made by Michelle, Brandon Tatum declared in a subsequent YouTube video that it was clear enough who her target was: “We all know that she is talking about Candace Owens.” Tatum, who formerly worked alongside Owens at Turning Point USA, continued by saying that another panel speaker, former Republican congressional candidate and QAnon fan Angela Stanton King, “ragged me and ragged Candace Owens for being married to people who weren’t Black.”

Moving down the list of foes, Tatum continued: “Maj Toure, I believe, in my personal opinion, have zero credibility, as far as I’m concerned. Maj Toure isn’t even his real name; I have no respect for this person.”

Asked by Salon why Owens did not appear at CPAC this year, communication director Ian Walters said she had been invited, but did not elaborate on whether her absence was related to Toure and his allies’ claims that she doesn’t connect to Black America. “We did invite Candace Owens to CPAC 2021, and we featured Mr. Tatum on our stage in 2019. We don’t always have the same people on our stage every year,” Walters told Salon. 

In a clip posted on a right-wing YouTube channel on March 3, Toure was in a better mood. Seen drinking a “bootlegger,” he said, “Listen, man, beautiful women are in my DMs every day. I travel the world whenever I feel like it. I have no masters. None. None. My life is awesome — I am living this freedom shit.” 

Then his topic shifted to Brandon Tatum, who brands himself as “Officer Tatum” although he left the police department in Tucson, Arizona, in 2017. “First of all, he’s not an officer, he just calls himself that,” Toure declared. “He’s not an officer. He hasn’t been an officer for years now.”

Salon reached out to Toure by email for comment, but he did not respond directly, instead posting a series of seven tweets speaking to Tatum’s accusation that he doesn’t use his real name and calling on the long history of alternative monickers in hip-hop. 

“Even saying things like ‘Maj Toure ain’t his real name’ to discredit,” he wrote. “Completely ignoring the fact that I was a Hip Hop artist and the multiple stories of me choosing my name for self after a certain age. Did Hov’s mom name him ‘Jay Z?’ No. But they skip that for ‘a story.'”   

Washington’s delusion of endless world dominion: Is it finally collapsing?

Empires live and die by their illusions. Visions of empowerment can inspire nations to scale the heights of global hegemony. Similarly, however, illusions of omnipotence can send fading empires crashing into oblivion. So it was with Great Britain in the 1950s and so it may be with the United States today.

By 1956, Britain had exploited its global empire shamelessly for a decade in an effort to lift its domestic economy out of the rubble of World War II. It was looking forward to doing so for many decades to come. Then an obscure Egyptian army colonel named Gamal Abdel Nasser seized the Suez Canal and Britain's establishment erupted in a paroxysm of racist outrage. The prime minister of the day, Sir Antony Eden, forged an alliance with France and Israel to send six aircraft carriers to the Suez area, smash Egypt's tank force in the Sinai desert, and sweep its air force from the skies.

But Nasser grasped the deeper geopolitics of empire in a way that British leaders had long forgotten. The Suez Canal was the strategic hinge that tied Britain to its Asian empire — to British Petroleum's oil fields in the Persian Gulf and the sea lanes to Singapore and beyond. So, in a geopolitical masterstroke, he simply filled a few rusting freighters with rocks and sank them at the entrance to the canal, snapping that hinge in a single gesture. After Eden was forced to withdraw British forces in a humiliating defeat, the once-mighty British pound trembled at the precipice of collapse and, overnight, the sense of imperial power in England seemed to vanish like a desert mirage.

Two decades of delusions

In a similar manner, Washington's hubris is finding its nemesis in China's President Xi Jinping and his grand strategy for uniting Eurasia into the world's largest economic bloc. For two decades, as China climbed, step by step, toward global eminence, Washington's inside-the-Beltway power elite was blinded by its overarching dreams of eternal military omnipotence. In the process, from Bill Clinton's administration to Joe Biden's, Washington's China policy has morphed from illusion directly into a state of bipartisan delusion.

Back in 2000, the Clinton administration believed that, if admitted to the World Trade Organization, Beijing would play the global game strictly by Washington's rules. When China started playing imperial hardball instead — stealing patents, forcing companies to turn over trade secrets, and manipulating its currency to increase its exports — the elite journal Foreign Affairs tut-tutted that such charges had "little merit," urging Washington to avoid "an all-out trade war" by learning to "respect difference and look for common ground."

Within just three years, a flood of exports produced by China's low-wage workforce, drawn from 20% of the world's population, began shutting down factories across America. The AFL-CIO labor confederation then started accusing Beijing of illegally "dumping" its goods in the U.S. at below-market prices. The administration of George W. Bush, however, dismissed the charges for lack of "conclusive evidence," allowing Beijing's export juggernaut to grind on unimpeded.

For the most part, the Bush-Cheney White House simply ignored China, instead invading Iraq in 2003, launching a strategy that was supposed to give the U.S. lasting dominion over the Middle East's vast oil reserves. By the time Washington withdrew from Baghdad in 2011, having wasted up to $5.4 trillion on the misbegotten invasion and occupation of that country, fracking had left America on the edge of energy independence, while oil was joining cordwood and coal as a fuel whose days were numbered, potentially rendering the future Middle East geopolitically irrelevant.

While Washington had been pouring blood and treasure into desert sands, Beijing was making itself into the world's workshop. It had amassed $4 trillion in foreign exchange, which it began investing in an ambitious scheme it called the Belt and Road Initiative to unify Eurasia via history's largest set of infrastructure projects. Hoping to counter that move with a bold geopolitical gambit, President Barack Obama tried to check China with a new strategy that he called a "pivot to Asia." It was to entail a global military shift of U.S. forces to the Pacific and a drawing of Eurasia's commerce toward America through a new set of trade pacts. The scheme, brilliant in the abstract, soon crashed head-first into some harsh realities. As a start, extricating the U.S. military from the mess it had made in the Greater Middle East proved far harder than imagined. Meanwhile, getting big global trade treaties approved as anti-globalization populism surged across America — fueled by factory closures and stagnant wages — turned out, in the end, to be impossible.

Even President Obama underestimated the seriousness of China's sustained challenge to this country's global power. "Across the ideological spectrum, we in the U.S. foreign policy community," two senior Obama officials would later write, "shared the underlying belief that U.S. power and hegemony could readily mold China to the United States' liking… All sides of the policy debate erred."

Breaking with the Beltway consensus about China, Donald Trump would spend two years of his presidency fighting a trade war, thinking he could use America's economic power — in the end, just a few tariffs — to bring Beijing to its knees. Despite his administration's incredibly erratic foreign policy, its recognition of China's challenge would prove surprisingly consistent. Trump's former national security adviser H.R. McMaster would, for instance, observe that Washington had empowered "a nation whose leaders were determined not only to displace the United States in Asia, but also to promote a rival economic and governance model globally." Similarly, Trump's State Department warned that Beijing harbored "hegemonic ambitions" aimed at "displacing the United States as the world's foremost power."

In the end, however, Trump would capitulate. By January 2020, his trade war would have devastated this country's agricultural exports, while inflicting heavy losses on its commercial supply chain, forcing the White House to rescind some of those punitive tariffs in exchange for Beijing's unenforceable promises to purchase more American goods. Despite a celebratory White House signing ceremony, that deal represented little more than a surrender.

Joe Biden's imperial illusions

Even now, after these 20 years of bipartisan failure, Washington's imperial illusions persist. The Biden administration and its inside-the-Beltway foreign-policy experts seem to think that China is a problem like COVID-19 that can be managed simply by being the un-Trump. Last December, a pair of professors writing in the establishment journal Foreign Affairs typically opined that "America may one day look back on China the way they now view the Soviet Union," that is, "as a dangerous rival whose evident strengths concealed stagnation and vulnerability."

Sure, China might be surpassing this country in multiple economic metrics and building up its military power, said Ryan Hass, the former China director in Obama's National Security Council, but it is not 10 feet tall. China's population, he pointed out, is aging, its debt ballooning, and its politics "increasingly sclerotic." In the event of conflict, China is geopolitically "vulnerable when it comes to food and energy security," since its navy is unable to prevent it "from being cut off from vital supplies."

In the months before the 2020 presidential election, a former official in Obama's State Department, Jake Sullivan, began auditioning for appointment as Biden's national security adviser by staking out a similar position. In Foreign Affairshe argued that China might be "more formidable economically … than the Soviet Union ever was," but Washington could still achieve "a steady state of … coexistence on terms favorable to U.S. interests and values." Although China was clearly trying "to establish itself as the world's leading power," he added, America "still has the ability to more than hold its own in that competition," just as long as it avoids Trump's "trajectory of self-sabotage."

As expected from such a skilled courtier, Sullivan's views coincided carefully with those of his future boss, Joe Biden. In his main foreign policy manifesto for the 2020 presidential campaign, candidate Biden argued that "to win the competition for the future against China," the U.S. had to "sharpen its innovative edge and unite the economic might of democracies around the world."

All these men are veteran foreign policy professionals with a wealth of international experience. Yet they seem oblivious to the geopolitical foundations for global power that Xi Jinping, like Nasser before him, seemed to grasp so intuitively. Like the British establishment of the 1950s, these American leaders have been on top of the world for so long that they've forgotten how they got there.

In the aftermath of World War II, America's Cold War leaders had a clear understanding that their global power, like Britain's before it, would depend on control over Eurasia. For the previous 400 years, every would-be global hegemon had struggled to dominate that vast land mass. In the 16th century, Portugal had dotted continental coastlines with 50 fortified ports (feitorias) stretching from Lisbon to the Straits of Malacca (which connect the Indian Ocean to the Pacific), just as, in the late 19th century, Great Britain would rule the waves through naval bastions that stretched from Scapa Flow, Scotland, to Singapore.

While Portugal's strategy, as recorded in royal decrees, was focused on controlling maritime choke points, Britain benefitted from the systematic study of geopolitics by the geographer Sir Halford Mackinder, who argued that the key to global power was control over Eurasia and, more broadly, a tri-continental "world island" comprised of Asia, Europe, and Africa. As strong as those empires were in their day, no imperial power fully perfected its global reach by capturing both axial ends of Eurasia — until America came on the scene.

The Cold War struggle for control over Eurasia

During its first decade as the globe's great hegemon at the close of World War II, Washington quite self-consciously set out to build an apparatus of awesome military power that would allow it to dominate the sprawling Eurasian land mass. With each passing decade, layer upon layer of weaponry and an ever-growing network of military bastions were combined to "contain" communism behind a 5,000-mile Iron Curtain that arched across Eurasia, from the Berlin Wall to the Demilitarized Zone near Seoul, South Korea.

Through its post-World War II occupation of the defeated Axis powers, Germany and Japan, Washington seized military bases, large and small, at both ends of Eurasia. In Japan, for example, its military would occupy approximately 100 installations from Misawa air base in the far north to Sasebo naval base in the south.

Soon after, as Washington reeled from the twin shocks of a communist victory in China and the start of the Korean war in June 1950, the National Security Council adopted NSC-68, a memorandum making it clear that control of Eurasia would be the key to its global power struggle against communism. "Soviet efforts are now directed toward the domination of the Eurasian land mass," read that foundational document. The U.S., it insisted, must expand its military yet again "to deter, if possible, Soviet expansion, and to defeat, if necessary, aggressive Soviet or Soviet-directed actions."

As the Pentagon's budget quadrupled from $13.5 billion to $48.2 billion in the early 1950s in pursuit of that strategic mission, Washington quickly built a chain of 500 military installations ringing that landmass, from the massive Ramstein air base in West Germany to vast, sprawling naval bases at Subic Bay in the Philippines and Yokosuka, Japan.

Such bases were the visible manifestation of a chain of mutual defense pacts organized across the breadth of Eurasia, from the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) in Europe to a security treaty, ANZUS, involving Australia, New Zealand, and the U.S. in the South Pacific. Along the strategic island chain facing Asia known as the Pacific littoral, Washington quickly cemented its position through bilateral defense pacts with Japan, South Korea, the Philippines, and Australia.

Along the Iron Curtain running through the heart of Europe, 25 active-duty NATO divisions faced 150 Soviet-led Warsaw Pact divisions, both backed by armadas of artillery, tanks, strategic bombers, and nuclear-armed missiles. To patrol the Eurasian continent's sprawling coastline, Washington mobilized massive naval armadas stiffened by nuclear-armed submarines and aircraft carriers — the 6th Fleet in the Mediterranean and the massive 7th Fleet in the Indian Ocean and the Pacific.

For the next 40 years, Washington's secret Cold War weapon, the Central Intelligence Agency, or CIA, fought its largest and longest covert wars around the rim of Eurasia. Probing relentlessly for vulnerabilities of any sort in the Sino-Soviet bloc, the CIA mounted a series of small invasions of Tibet and southwest China in the early 1950s; fought a secret war in Laos, mobilizing a 30,000-strong militia of local Hmong villagers during the 1960s; and launched a massive, multibillion dollar covert war against the Red Army in Afghanistan in the 1980s.

During those same four decades, America's only hot wars were similarly fought at the edge of Eurasia, seeking to contain the expansion of Communist China. On the Korean Peninsula from 1950 to 1953, almost 40,000 Americans (and untold numbers of Koreans) died in Washington's effort to block the advance of North Korean and Chinese forces across the 38th parallel. In Southeast Asia from 1962 to 1975, some 58,000 American troops (and millions of Vietnamese, Laotians, and Cambodians) died in an unsuccessful attempt to stop the expansion of communists south of the 17th parallel that divided North and South Vietnam.

By the time the Soviet Union imploded in 1990 (just as China was turning into a Communist Party-run capitalist power), the U.S. military had become a global behemoth standing astride the Eurasian continent with more than 700 overseas bases, an air force of 1,763 jet fighters, more than 1,000 ballistic missiles, and a navy of nearly 600 ships, including 15 nuclear carrier battle groups — all linked together by a global system of satellites for communication, navigation, and espionage.

Despite its name, the Global War on Terror after 2001 was actually fought, like the Cold War before it, at the edge of Eurasia. Apart from the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq, the Air Force and CIA had, within a decade, ringed the southern rim of that landmass with a network of 60 bases for its growing arsenal of Reaper and Predator drones, stretching all the way from the Sigonella Naval Air Station in Sicily to Andersen Air Force Base on the island of Guam. And yet, in that series of failed, never-ending conflicts, the old military formula for "containing," constraining, and dominating Eurasia was visibly failing. The Global War on Terror proved, in some sense, a long-drawn-out version of Britain's imperial Suez disaster.

China's Eurasian strategy

After all that, it seems remarkable that Washington's current generation of foreign policy leaders, like Britain's in the 1950s, is so blindingly oblivious to the geopolitics of empire — in this case, to Beijing's largely economic bid for global power on that same "world island" (Eurasia plus an adjoining Africa).

It's not as if China has been hiding some secret strategy. In a 2013 speech at Kazakhstan's Nazarbayev University, President Xi typically urged the peoples of Central Asia to join with his country to "forge closer economic ties, deepen cooperation, and expand development space in the Eurasian region." Through trade and infrastructure "connecting the Pacific and the Baltic Sea," this vast landmass inhabited by close to three billion people could, he said, become "the biggest market in the world with unparalleled potential."

This development scheme, soon to be dubbed the Belt and Road Initiative, would become a massive effort to economically integrate that "world island" of Africa, Asia, and Europe by investing well more than a trillion dollars — a sum 10 times larger than the famed U.S. Marshall plan that rebuilt a ravaged Europe after World War II. Beijing also established the Asian Infrastructure Investment Bank with an impressive $100 billion in capital and 103 member nations. More recently, China has formed the world's largest trade bloc with 14 Asia-Pacific partners and, over Washington's strenuous objections, signed an ambitious financial services agreement with the European Union.

Such investments, almost none of a military nature, quickly fostered the formation of a transcontinental grid of railroads and gas pipelines extending from East Asia to Europe, the Pacific to the Atlantic, all linked to Beijing. In a striking parallel with that sixteenth century chain of 50 fortified Portuguese ports, Beijing has also acquired special access through loans and leases to more than 40 seaports encompassing its own latter-day "world island" — from the Straits of Malacca, across the Indian Ocean, around Africa, and along Europe's extended coastline from Piraeus, Greece, to Zeebrugge, Belgium.

With its growing wealth, China also built a blue-water navy that, by 2020, already had360 warships, backed by land-based missiles, jet fighters, and the planet's second global system of military satellites. That growing force was meant to be the tip of China's spear aimed at puncturing Washington's encirclement of Asia. To cut the chain of American installations along the Pacific littoral, Beijing has built eight military bases on tiny (often dredged) islands in the South China Sea and imposed an air defense zone over a portion of the East China Sea. It has also challenged the U.S. Navy's long-standing dominion over the Indian Ocean by opening its first foreign base at Djibouti in East Africa and building modern ports at Gwadar, Pakistan, and Hambantota, Sri Lanka, with potential military applications.

By now, the inherent strength of Beijing's geopolitical strategy should be obvious to Washington foreign policy experts, were their insights not clouded by imperial hubris. Ignoring the unbending geopolitics of global power, centered as always on Eurasia, those Washington insiders now coming to power in the Biden administration somehow imagine that there is still a fight to be fought, a competition to be waged, a race to be run. Yet, as with the British in the 1950s, that ship may well have sailed.

By grasping the geopolitical logic of unifying Eurasia's vast landmass — home to 70% of the world's population — through transcontinental infrastructures for commerce, energy, finance, and transport, Beijing has rendered Washington's encircling armadas of aircraft and warships redundant, even irrelevant.

As Sir Halford Mackinder might have put it, had he lived to celebrate his 160th birthday last month, the U.S. dominated Eurasia and thereby the world for 70 years. Now, China is taking control of that strategic continent and global power will surely follow.

However, it will do so on anything but the recognizable planet of the last 400 years. Sooner or later, Washington will undoubtedly have to accept the unbending geopolitical reality that undergirds the latest shift in global power and adapt its foreign policy and fiscal priorities accordingly.

This current version of the Suez syndrome is, nonetheless, anything but the usual. Thanks to longterm imperial development based on fossil fuels, planet Earth itself is now changing in ways dangerous to any power, no matter how imperial or ascendant. So, sooner or later, both Washington and Beijing will have to recognize that we are now in a distinctly dangerous new world where, in the decades to come, without some kind of coordination and global cooperation to curtail climate change, old imperial truths of any sort are likely to be left in the attic of history in a house coming down around all our ears.

Copyright 2021 Alfred W. McCoy

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People gave up on flu pandemic protocols a century ago when they tired of them — and paid a price

Picture the United States struggling to deal with a deadly pandemic.

State and local officials enact a slate of social-distancing measures, gathering bans, closure orders and mask mandates in an effort to stem the tide of cases and deaths.

The public responds with widespread compliance mixed with more than a hint of grumbling, pushback and even outright defiance. As the days turn into weeks turn into months, the strictures become harder to tolerate.

Theater and dance hall owners complain about their financial losses.

Clergy bemoan church closures while offices, factories and in some cases even saloons are allowed to remain open.

Officials argue whether children are safer in classrooms or at home.

Many citizens refuse to don face masks while in public, some complaining that they’re uncomfortable and others arguing that the government has no right to infringe on their civil liberties.

As familiar as it all may sound in 2021, these are real descriptions of the U.S. during the deadly 1918 influenza pandemic. In my research as a historian of medicine, I’ve seen again and again the many ways our current pandemic has mirrored the one experienced by our forebears a century ago.

As the COVID-19 pandemic enters its second year, many people want to know when life will go back to how it was before the coronavirus. History, of course, isn’t an exact template for what the future holds. But the way Americans emerged from the earlier pandemic could suggest what post-pandemic life will be like this time around.

Sick and tired, ready for pandemic’s end

Like COVID-19, the 1918 influenza pandemic hit hard and fast, going from a handful of reported cases in a few cities to a nationwide outbreak within a few weeks. Many communities issued several rounds of various closure orders – corresponding to the ebbs and flows of their epidemics – in an attempt to keep the disease in check.

These social-distancing orders worked to reduce cases and deaths. Just as today, however, they often proved difficult to maintain. By the late autumn, just weeks after the social-distancing orders went into effect, the pandemic seemed to be coming to an end as the number of new infections declined.

People clamored to return to their normal lives. Businesses pressed officials to be allowed to reopen. Believing the pandemic was over, state and local authorities began rescinding public health edicts. The nation turned its efforts to addressing the devastation influenza had wrought.

For the friends, families and co-workers of the hundreds of thousands of Americans who had died, post-pandemic life was filled with sadness and grief. Many of those still recovering from their bouts with the malady required support and care as they recuperated.

At a time when there was no federal or state safety net, charitable organizations sprang into action to provide resources for families who had lost their breadwinners, or to take in the countless children left orphaned by the disease.

For the vast majority of Americans, though, life after the pandemic seemed to be a headlong rush to normalcy. Starved for weeks of their nights on the town, sporting events, religious services, classroom interactions and family gatherings, many were eager to return to their old lives.

Taking their cues from officials who had – somewhat prematurely – declared an end to the pandemic, Americans overwhelmingly hurried to return to their pre-pandemic routines. They packed into movie theaters and dance halls, crowded in stores and shops, and gathered with friends and family.

Officials had warned the nation that cases and deaths likely would continue for months to come. The burden of public health, however, now rested not on policy but rather on individual responsibility.

Predictably, the pandemic wore on, stretching into a third deadly wave that lasted through the spring of 1919, with a fourth wave hitting in the winter of 1920. Some officials blamed the resurgence on careless Americans. Others downplayed the new cases or turned their attention to more routine public health matters, including other diseases, restaurant inspections and sanitation.

Despite the persistence of the pandemic, influenza quickly became old news. Once a regular feature of front pages, reportage rapidly dwindled to small, sporadic clippings buried in the backs of the nation’s newspapers. The nation carried on, inured to the toll the pandemic had taken and the deaths yet to come. People were largely unwilling to return to socially and economically disruptive public health measures.

It’s hard to hang in there

Our predecessors might be forgiven for not staying the course longer. First, the nation was eager to celebrate the recent end of World War I, an event that perhaps loomed larger in the lives of Americans than even the pandemic.

Second, death from disease was a much larger part of life in the early 20th century, and scourges such as diphtheria, measles, tuberculosis, typhoid, whooping cough, scarlet fever and pneumonia each routinely killed tens of thousands of Americans every year. Moreover, neither the cause nor the epidemiology of influenza was well understood, and many experts remained unconvinced that social distancing measures had any measurable impact.

Finally, there were no effective flu vaccines to rescue the world from the ravages of the disease. In fact, the influenza virus would not be discovered for another 15 years, and a safe and effective vaccine was not available for the general population until 1945. Given the limited information they had and the tools at their disposal, Americans perhaps endured the public health restrictions for as long as they reasonably could.

A century later, and a year into the COVID-19 pandemic, it is understandable that people now are all too eager to return to their old lives. The end of this pandemic inevitably will come, as it has with every previous one humankind has experienced.

If we have anything to learn from the history of the 1918 influenza pandemic, as well as our experience thus far with COVID-19, however, it is that a premature return to pre-pandemic life risks more cases and more deaths.

And today’s Americans have significant advantages over those of a century ago. We have a much better understanding of virology and epidemiology. We know that social distancing and masking work to help save lives. Most critically, we have multiple safe and effective vaccines that are being deployed, with the pace of vaccinations increasingly weekly.

Sticking with all these coronavirus-fighting factors or easing off on them could mean the difference between a new disease surge and a quicker end to the pandemic. COVID-19 is much more transmissible than influenza, and several troubling SARS-CoV-2 variants are already spreading around the globe. The deadly third wave of influenza in 1919 shows what can happen when people prematurely relax their guard.

J. Alexander Navarro, Assistant Director of the Center for the History of Medicine, University of Michigan

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license.

Beto O’Rourke mocks Ted Cruz’s border visit theatrics as “crisis cosplay”

Former U.S. Rep. Beto O’Rourke (D-Texas) quickly fired back with a litany of critical remarks in response to Sen. Ted Cruz’s (R-Texas) footage and remarks about his visit to the Southern border.

On Friday, March 26, the two exchanged words via Twitter when Cruz posted a series of clips with details about his trip with 18 other lawmakers as they explored “the shore of the Rio Grande” to “see the crisis that is playing out.” At one point, the Texas lawmaker even claimed so-called “smugglers” were “‘yelling’ at and taunting him,” according to The Hill.

In another clip of Cruz’s escapades, he claimed they “encountered human traffickers” and “cartel members” who shined flashlights at them. “That’s Mexico, and you can see there are three smugglers right there, standing on the Mexico side, looking at us,” Cruz said in the video. “They’ve been shining their flashlights at us, they’re yelling at us.”

O’Rourke fired back at Cruz’s videos refuting his claims tweeting, “You’re in a Border Patrol boat armed with machine guns. The only threat you face is unarmed children and families who are seeking asylum (as well as the occasional heckler).”

O’Rourke added, “If you’re looking for a crisis to cosplay Senator for, I’m happy to point you in the right direction.”

In a later tweet, the former lawmaker went on to offer Cruz immigration statistics from 2019 up to this point tweeting. “The truth is, the number of individual asylum seekers and immigrants seeking to come to this country is the SAME or LOWER than it was in 2019 when Trump was President (and you were, apparently, Senator),” O’Rourke tweeted.

He added, “This isn’t any more of a crisis today than it was then.”

Twitter users also fired back with tweets questioning Cruz’s account. Many noted that they believed the tweets seemed a bit fabricated while others did not believe any of his accounts. One Twitter user wrote, “10/10 those weren’t traffickers OR cartel members. They were probably kids having a party or the Mexican version of Border Control. No smuggler of any kind is gonna be that loud in the middle of the night while they’re trying to do shady sh*t.”

Another person tweeted, “And how exactly do you know that they were cartel members and human traffickers? This reminds me of Geraldo Rivera’s fake combat video from Iraq.”

As of Thursday, March 25, the United States had more than 15,000 unaccompanied immigrant minors in its custody.

 

How a federal agency excluded thousands of viable businesses from pandemic relief

Like every other storefront in downtown Lincoln, Nebraska, the Coffee House — a cavernous student hangout slinging espresso and decadent pastries since 1987 — saw its revenue dry up almost overnight last spring when the coronavirus pandemic made dining indoors a deadly risk. Unlike most, however, the business wouldn’t have access to the massive loan fund that Congress made available for small enterprises in late March.

The reason had nothing to do with the business itself, which had been having one of its best years ever, according to its owner, Mark Shriner. Rather, it all came down to one box on the application for the Paycheck Protection Program money, which asked whether the company or any of its owners were “presently involved in any bankruptcy.” Shriner had filed for Chapter 13 in 2018 after a divorce and was still making court-ordered debt payments, so he checked “yes.” He was automatically rejected and lost about $25,000 in payroll and other costs that the program would have covered.

“My money is my store’s money. When I got divorced and she was entitled to half, it’s not like a company can raise money real quick,” Shriner said, noting the way in which many small businesses are structured as pass-through entities that pay taxes on any profits as individual income. “All these businesses that had a tough time and are trying to make payments at the same time are getting kind of hosed.”

Thousands of people file for Chapter 13 bankruptcy every year — 282,628 did so in 2019 alone. Although it’s not clear how many of them own businesses, all of those individuals were barred from the PPP program, along with the thousands of businesses currently working through a reorganization plan under Chapter 11 and the family farms that file under the lesser-known Chapter 12.

In December, Congress allowed the Small Business Administration to give exceptions to some debtors. But so far the SBA has stuck to its position that debtors in bankruptcy aren’t entitled to government aid. “Currently, the SBA is administering the law as written,” SBA spokeswoman Shannon Giles emailed in response to questions.

Although Shriner did receive the $10,000 Economic Injury Disaster Loan advance payment, which doesn’t have to be repaid, the SBA turned him down for a larger Economic Injury Disaster Loan because of his personal credit. Instead, he took out two loans worth $107,000 from Square — with total fees of nearly $12,000 — to keep the lights on and the staff paid as they operated on a drastically limited basis, still down by more than half since before the pandemic.

“The biggest consequences are that we haven’t had the time to take a week and shut down and plot our way forward, come up with a to-go menu or some new things, because we’re busy working the counter trying to save money,” Shriner said. “A lot of other businesses that got PPP have been able to hire people to help them head in a different direction, get apps made, fix their websites, that kind of thing.”

 

The prohibition on PPP loans going to debtors began with the SBA’s original concept for the program: It extended its 7(a) loan program, its most common credit offering for small businesses, which already bars bankrupt companies. New pandemic relief measures were basically grafted on to those rules, which reflect an agency position dating back to its beginnings in the 1950s that bankrupt companies were more likely to default.

“SBA has an institutional prejudice against people who file bankruptcy,” said Ed Boltz, a North Carolina bankruptcy lawyer who serves on the board of the National Association of Consumer Bankruptcy Attorneys. “The attitude of government in a lot of things is, ‘Bankruptcy is hard and confusing and these people are probably bad people.'”

Almost immediately, this position was challenged in courts across the country. In Hidalgo County, Texas, for example, an emergency medical transportation company in bankruptcy sued after it was denied a PPP loan. A bankruptcy judge issued a temporary injunction against the SBA, saying it was in the public interest during the pandemic to make sure the company’s trucks and helicopters could keep ferrying patients to hospitals. In June, the 5th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals vacated that decision, saying the judge had exceeded his authority.

Meanwhile, the SBA hastily published a rule explicitly barring companies in bankruptcy from participating in its pandemic relief program. “The Administrator, in consultation with the Secretary, determined that providing PPP loans to debtors in bankruptcy would present an unacceptably high risk of an unauthorized use of funds or non-repayment of unforgiven loans,” the rule read. “In addition, the Bankruptcy Code does not require any person to make a loan or a financial accommodation to a debtor in bankruptcy.”

Around the same time, a Florida radiology center also serving COVID-19 patients received a PPP loan, even though it was reorganizing under Chapter 11 bankruptcy. When it filed for approval with its bankruptcy court to take on the additional debt, the SBA objected again. The bankruptcy court found in favor of the radiologists in June, writing that “it is plain Congress did not intend to exclude chapter 11 debtors from the Paycheck Protection Program.” In December, however, the 11th Circuit overturned the lower court and sided with the government.

Maury Udell, the radiology company’s lawyer, said he plans to appeal to the Supreme Court. The PPP is more of a grant than a loan, he argues, since all companies had to do in order for the money to be forgiven is spend most of it on payroll. Bankrupt companies are arguably more likely to do so, given that they’re on court-ordered plans for how they must manage their expenses. Besides, the program did not require that companies demonstrate their ability to repay — plenty of businesses on very shaky footing applied for and received funding, sometimes filing for bankruptcy later.

“The SBA’s argument for not allowing Chapter 11 debtors is that the risk of nonpayment is high,” Udell said. “That’s not a factor in whether you were approved. It’s just as high as anyone else, because there’s no other underwriting guidelines.”

Frustration with the SBA’s position mounted through the fall until December, when Congress passed a fresh round of $900 billion in pandemic-related relief, along with the regular budget. It included $285 billion for a second draw of PPP loans, and a bit of potential relief for debtors: an amendment to the U.S. Bankruptcy Code that allows PPP loans to businesses that have filed for bankruptcy under Chapters 12, 13 and Subchapter V, a new category for small businesses established in 2019. (Chapter 11 debtors were left out.)

However, there was a catch: In order to trigger the exemption, the SBA would have to write a letter to the Executive Office of the U.S. Trustee, an division of the Justice Department that oversees U.S. bankruptcy courts, alerting it to the change. So far it has not done so, even as Congress has extended the deadline for PPP applications to May 31, with $103 billion in authorized funds yet to be expended.

President Joe Biden’s choice to run the SBA, Isabella Guzman, was confirmed on March 16. The SBA would give no indication of whether she plans to change course. Spokespeople for senators on the committees of jurisdiction either had no comment or said they were looking into the issue.

Last week, as his hope of getting a PPP loan waned, Mark Shriner set up a GoFundMe page to try to keep his doors open. More than $21,000 has flowed in. Meanwhile, he also learned about the Restaurant Revitalization Program established by the $1.9 trillion American Rescue Plan. So far, since it’s a straightforward grant rather than a loan, it doesn’t seem to prohibit applications from companies — or company owners like him — who’ve filed for bankruptcy. But he’s not counting on anything, since aid programs have been so disappointing.

It’s a difficult contrast, he said, when he looks around town and sees all the federal money that helped people who didn’t always need it.

“I’m not a wealthy person at all, but I have many millionaire friends who own businesses, insurance firms, architecture firms,” Shriner said. “These millionaires got money and money and money and money from the government, and they’re all driving on the golf course. It is tough when I think about it.”

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Who will keep us safe in a world without police? We will

I watch too much true crime, so I know how it goes. There is a particular type of crime story that is supposed to be more gripping than the others. It’s the story of violence befalling the quiet person, in the quiet family, in the quiet town.

“This was supposed to be a safe neighborhood!” the host exclaims, passing his shock along to the viewer like a closed circuit. “These types of things don’t happen here,” the officer who investigated the case confirms breathlessly, desperately trying to make her work appear more skillful and elaborate than it was.

Beyond the scandal and drama inherent in conjuring such personal trauma into a piece of entertainment, I’m most interested by the unspoken questions this framing provokes: “This neighborhood was supposed to be safe for whom?” “Where do these types of things happen, and why is it more acceptable to happen there?”

These are also the questions guiding my work toward a world without police and prisons. I believe they hold the answer to another question that often meets calls for prison/police abolition—”Who will keep us safe in a world without police?”—because they illuminate that safety is not a universally recognized phenomenon, as much as it is pretended to be. The meaning of safety depends on what exactly you find worthy of protection, and police and prisons are only understood to keep people in general safe because this society generally deems a particular group of us unworthy.

But there is another way to think about safety and protection, and police abolition demands it.

According to my realtor, I live in a “safe” neighborhood — by which he means at least heading in the direction of the neighborhood featured in that gripping “Dateline” special — where “there is a police station right around the corner!” I live in a neighborhood where gentrification is metastasizing more quickly than you can say “kombrewcha,” where those police officers around the corner go out of their way to fine and throw Black people in jail just for living in a pandemic. I live in a neighborhood where most Black people can’t afford the steadily increasing rent, where the clusters of homes Black people are able to hold onto amid pressures from banks and landlords become COVID hotspots quickest, and the people who live there die of the disease at much greater rates.

When a person asks, “Who will keep us safe in a world without police?” I think about how I have never felt “safe” as a Black person in the places police make “safe,” and I am not even one of the local poor people who is most targeted for clearing away. To be “kept safe” in this way is only for the necks of Black people to be kept safely under the foot of everyone else.

Admittedly, this is a macro level understanding of safety that doesn’t necessarily address the everyday threats that most people — including many Black folks — rationally fear coming to pass if policing were to disappear. It’s true that people in our community aren’t always kind. We aren’t always peaceful or forgiving, even when we should be (and we shouldn’t always be). It’s true that without police, we would sometimes get into violent conflict — just like we do with police. But it isn’t true that policing is the best institution to address these conflicts, or that we can’t address intra-communal violence without punishment and prisons.

After the lie that everyone’s idea of safety must be the same, the next most harmful belief fostered by prison culture is that people within a community should have no stake in their own protection. Many of us have spent so long outsourcing problem-solving to police and prisons who are trained only in punishment that we have lost all reconciliation skills ourselves, sacrificing a healthy connection to our community in the process. We learn to falsely think of our neighbors as disconnected individuals whose propensity to harm can be snuffed out without snuffing out anything in ourselves, and forget what it is like to struggle together to take care of the people around us.

It’s true that having a stake in one’s own protection demands a certain level of bravery, but I’ll be the first to admit that I am not brave always. I haven’t called on the police for anything in years, which has forced me to face some difficult situations I’d rather not face on my own, and I haven’t always stepped up. But I have stepped up more than I thought I would, and I have seen others who have come to embrace abolition step up when someone in their neighborhood is in danger — with de escalation or crises management tactics they’ve studied, with a promise to defend or actual defensive actions, with a call to someone outside of the police who might be better able to — and I know it doesn’t take any more bravery than any of us are capable of because we have done it before. We did not always rely on modern policing. And there have been less such difficult moments than I assumed would occur, too. In spite of what popular media portrays, my community is not full of mindless monsters who would run rampant killing and assaulting one another if there were no untrained, state-sanctioned white supremacists to keep us in check.

So, who will protect us without police? We will. I’ve seen it. Outside of physically stepping up in moments of crisis, we will join our local cop-watchers or community defense organizations, or other abolitionist organizations like Critical Resistance and Common Justice. If we can’t join for lack of time, we will support with donations and getting out of the way when these organizations need us to.

Most importantly, we will find safety by recognizing that prison and policing is a culture that extends beyond its officers and agents. This is a culture that says all problems must be solved with punishment, including the ways we punish ourselves with shame and guilt, which has left many of us with deeper scars than anything our neighbors could ever physically do to us. It is a culture tied up with a capitalist system that exploits the poor so much so that they might use violence out of desperation and necessity even when they otherwise wouldn’t.

Abolition is not just the closing of physical buildings that hold prisoners or the disbanding of police forces. It’s a process of reckoning with the punitive history of which we are all part that birthed this culture. Abolition is in how we respond to being wronged by our friends, family and neighbors, and in how we respond to our own mistakes with accountability and healing. It’s acknowledging our own capacity to wrong others, and being intentional about avoiding doing so.

As I’ve written previously, we won’t ultimately be able to get rid of police without getting rid of the abusive culture that relies on them, and so there is no void police abolition leaves behind that we should spend all our time worrying will be filled with more abuse. The void is prisons, and they are already being filled with the abuse of Black people and children everywhere. By committing to police and prison abolition, the state—which teaches those of us who today commit intra-communal harms without facing accountability—is the target. And without such a state, what exactly would we need to be kept safe from?

In the true crime episode, just because the quiet person in the quiet town is harmed or killed doesn’t mean they aren’t safe, depending on one’s perspective. This is part of the reason why, I think, white folks find so much comfort in this genre. Until abolition is here, their whiteness remains safe, regardless of what happened to the individual person being featured. Even if the police don’t catch the bad guy, they might as well have. One’s sense of a world where there are “good” neighborhoods and “bad” Black ones is safe, even if a single person’s physical body determinedly isn’t.

Only abolition truly threatens the safety of a white supremacist society; though it asks for us to give up some comforts around what we believe to be our individual safety within it, rather than finding entertainment in watching someone else be the sacrifice (and even if not on-screen, Black people are always being sacrificed). Abolition shows that a more equitable experience of safety is possible, but you must become part of creating it.

How to smoke a brisket (plus, a pitmaster-approved shortcut)

In my hometown of Austin, it’s hard to escape the wafting aroma of Central Texas Barbecue. Yes, that means there’s tender brisket and spicy smoked sausage links at every turn, but it’s way more fun to make your own. If you’ve got the time (half a day, but you can keep busy with stuff while the meat smokes), a well-marbled beef brisket, and a couple bags of lump charcoal and wood chunks, you can part-time pitmaster your way to tender smoked meat.

My cookbooks are devoted to firing up dinner quickly and seasoning foods with a whiff of wood smoke in as little as 20 to 30 minutes. But every now and then, when a sunny weekend calls for quality time with my trusty grill and barbecue and all the fixings, only slow-smoked brisket will suffice.

I learned the following method from Aaron Franklin, our good friend, legendary brisket whisperer, and the acclaimed pitmaster behind Franklin Barbecue. When I first started smoking larger cuts like brisket, I didn’t want to screw it up — so I took advantage of having Aaron on speed dial, sent him too many photo updates, and offered cold beer for his honest feedback. His response that I still cherish? “This doesn’t suck.”

I typically follow Aaron’s purist approach of using quality meat seasoned with kosher salt and black pepper. But playing with rubs is a fun and easy way to mix up the flavor profile. For a full-on Central Texas experience, serve slices of the smoky, salty meat with coleslaw, potato salad, and pinto beans — and pass the hot sauce.

* * *

Recipe: Texas-Style Smoked Brisket

Ingredients:

  • One 10 to 12-pound whole beef brisket, fat trimmed to 1/4-inch thickness
  • 1/3 cup kosher salt
  • 1/3 cup freshly ground black pepper

Equipment:

  • A charcoal grill and a drip tray
  • A chimney starter
  • 2 (20-pound) bags hardwood charcoal (you may have some left)
  • 8 to 12 baseball-sized chunks of untreated kiln-dried hardwood, preferably hickory or oak
  • An instant-read thermometer

Photo by Paula Disbrowe

Directions:

Season the meat

An hour before preparing the grill, place brisket on a rimmed baking sheet. Mix salt and pepper in a small bowl and season the meat all over (it should look like sand stuck to wet skin, without being cakey). Let meat sit at room temperature for 1 hour.

Prepare your grill

Light a full chimney of charcoal and let it burn until you see flames rising from the top, then pour the coals onto one side of the grill. Wipe the preheated grates with a lightly oiled paper towel. Using a grill brush, scrape the grill grates clean, then carefully wipe with a lightly oiled towel again.

Place 3 chunks of wood around the periphery (not on top of) the fire. (You want the wood to catch slowly and smolder. Placing them on top of the coals will cause them to burn too quickly.) Place the brisket over indirect heat (the side with no coals), close grill and vent for smoking. (If you’re using a round kettle-style grill, position the vent on lid as far from heat source as possible. This helps draw the smoke up and over the meat as it rises). Stick thermometer through top vent. Heat until thermometer registers 225 to 250°F, adjusting vents on bottom and top of grill as needed to maintain temperature.

Maintain a steady temperature

Adjust vents as needed to control temperature. Check coals and hardwood about every 45 minutes. (Try to open lid as little as possible; check and replenish coals and hardwood at the same time.) For the coals, once you have checked them and decided to add more (they’ve burned down enough that you’ll need more to keep your fire going and maintain your grill temperature), fill a chimney halfway with coals, then add coals to grill once they’re covered with a thin layer of ash. If you control the heat well, you shouldn’t need more than 4 to 6 chimneyfuls of coals to cook the brisket (2 to 4 chimneyfuls if finishing brisket in the oven). When checking hardwood, move it around to a hotter spot if needed, or replenish extinguished chunks to maintain a steady stream of smoke.

The brisket, two hours in.

The brisket, two hours in. Photo by Paula Disbrowe.

Know when it’s done

Keep smoking the brisket, rotating every 3 hours and flipping as needed if top or bottom is coloring faster than the other side, until meat is very tender but not falling apart and an instant-read thermometer inserted into the thickest part of meat registers 195 to 205°F, about 10 to 12 hours total.

A pit master-approved shortcut

If you just don’t want to spend your whole day at the grill, here’s a fail-safe Aaron Franklin-endorsed alternate method that will deliver similarly glorious results: Smoke brisket on grill until an instant-read thermometer inserted into the thickest part of meat registers 150 to 170°F, about 5 to 6 hours. Double wrap the brisket in butcher paper or foil, place on a baking sheet, and cook in a 250°F oven until meat reaches the same 195 to 205°F internal temperature, 4 to 6 hours longer. What’s important is getting that smoky flavor into the meat, and 5 to 6 hours on the grill should do it. After that point, you’re simply getting the meat cooked through.

Dig in

Transfer brisket to a carving board and let rest at least 30 minutes. Slice brisket against the grain into 1/4-inch thick slices and serve.

Do ahead

Brisket is best shortly off the grill, but you can still get good results smoking it up to 3 days ahead. Let cool for an hour before wrapping in foil and chilling. To serve, reheat meat, still wrapped, in a 325°F oven until warmed through.

* * *

Additional ideas from Food52 editors:

What to wat with brisket

Now that you’ve got your brisket smoked, it’s time to turn your kitchen into a full-blown barbecue joint. Let’s cover some classic barbecue sides, plus some out-of-the-box options that pair perfectly with brisket.

Potato Salad

Something about potato salad immediately evokes summer days spent picnicking in parks and summer nights spent grilling outdoors. For me, a mayo-based salad is a must on any barbecue plate — and potato salad will always beat out macaroni salad, so it’s got to be this recipe every time.

Minnie Utsey’s No-Fail Cornbread

The recipe title says it all. If you’re looking for a simple, classic cornbread to serve alongside brisket, look no further. According to author Adriane Miller, a.k.a. soulfoodscholar, “Minnie Utsey’s cornbread follows a classic soul food formula, particularly with the use of yellow cornmeal and sugar.” And having made this recipe, I can verify that it’s a formula that works very well.

Martha Stewart’s Sweet Potato, Celery and Apple Salad

After chowing down on juicy smoked brisket, all I want is a punchy salad or slaw to cut through all the fat. This salad is crunchy, acidic, and packed with surprisingly satisfying raw sweet potato cut into compact matchsticks. To me, it’s the perfect side for summer smoking or grilling.

Crunchy Cabbage Salad with Miso-Ginger Dressing

Miso-ginger dressing may not be the first thing you think of when you hear “American barbecue,” but this umami-rich, slightly citrusy slaw is the perfect acidic complement to the smoke and fattiness of brisket.

Shaved Brussels Sprout Salad with Red Onion, Lemon and Pecorino

Another uncommon, but delicious pairing: Switch up your sides by swapping the standard coleslaw for this bright, crunchy salad. Shaved, raw Brussels sprouts are a welcome update on the classic cabbage, and mayo is swapped for a more biting, lemony vinaigrette. If you’re afraid of pecorino fighting brisket for the spotlight, feel free to leave it out.

Joe Beef’s Lentils Like Baked Beans

Make one smart switch to save on time: Swapping lentils for dried beans means you can achieve the same depth of flavor as homemade baked beans in a fraction of the time. Think less sugar, more spice, and slightly creamier than your average baked beans. Plus, this Genius-approved recipe is pretty hands-off technique-wise — exactly what you need after smoking all that meat.

“Generation X”: Its tales about McJobs and information overload feel as poignant now as in 1990s

Andy, Dag and Claire are in their twenties. Dissatisfied with society’s structures and expectations, they move to the Californian desert looking for new beginnings and more meaningful lives. To survive, the three get McJobs – “low-pay, low-prestige, low-dignity, low-benefit, no-future jobs in the service sector” – only finding solace in each other’s company and storytelling.

This is the plot of “Generation X: Tales for an Accelerated Culture,” the first novel by Canadian writer and artist Douglas Coupland. Published 30 years ago, Generation X went on to become a cult text and helped to popularise the term “X” for those born between the mid-1960s and the early-1980s.

Coupland struck a chord, as his characters’ disaffection, “knee-jerk irony“, and withdrawal from society chimed with depictions of the young in the early 1990s in popular culture. But rather than referring to a cohort of people born between the mid-1960s and the early 1980s, for Coupland “X” identifies the refusal of “the merry-go-round of status, money, and social climbing that so often frames modern existence”. As he puts it, “X is a term that defines not a chronological age but a way of looking at the world”.

Neither is the novel just a snapshot of young people’s concerns and lives in the early 1990s. Mixing narrative text with pop-art-inspired illustrations, slogans and definitions, the novel depicts what it refers to as our “accelerated culture”. Three decades later, it is a literary classic that still speaks to issues central to today’s world.

Information overload

Coupland was originally commissioned to author a non-fiction handbook about Generation X on the back of articles and a comic strip he wrote in the late 1980s about “the young and restless workforce following the baby boom”. Yet to the dismay of his publishers, who nearly didn’t publish Generation X, he soon realised that the book needed to be a novel.

Coupland’s decision speaks to a prevailing fear in the book that with information overload and technological acceleration, we may have lost the plot of our individual lives and wider society. As Dag puts it:

I’m just upset that the world has gotten too big – way beyond our capacity to tell stories about it, and so all we’re stuck with are these blips and chunks and snippets.

When Generation X was published, Coupland observed: “information overload meant 50 TV stations instead of ten.” In the current era where internet connections give access to a previously unimaginable wealth of content, this seems rather quaint. Nonetheless, Generation X’s intuitions help us understand the destabilising effects that the online world has on our sense of self today.

The novel insists on the human need for narrative and on the power of storytelling to make sense of the world around us. Andy, Dag and Claire try to regain direction and meaning in their lives by telling each other stories. Today, we might take to social media. Yet the “stories” we post on these digital environments resemble the “blips and chunks and snippets” Dag was lamenting in Generation X.

Indeed, as Coupland, the British writer Shumon Basar, and the Swiss art critic Hans Ulrich Obrist discuss in The Age of Earthquakes, the internet reinforces “denarration“. This is “the process whereby one’s life stops feeling like a story”. Instead, they write, our lives now feel like a “lineup of tasks”. There is no story in a life that is made up of short burst of mundane activity; it is not flowing and engaging but stilted and of little consequence.

Apocalyptic anxieties

Many of the stories Andy, Dag and Claire share with each other have a distinctly apocalyptic flavour. Fittingly for a novel published at the tail end of the cold war, the fear of “the flash”, namely nuclear apocalypse, is prevalent.

Anxieties over pollution also emerge, which speaks to the 21st-century climate crisis. One of Generation X’s chapters is titled “Plastics never disintegrate”, while the novel’s definitions include “Paper Rabies: Hypersensitivity to littering” and “Dumpster Clocking: The tendency when looking at objects to guesstimate the amount of time they will take to eventually decompose”. The climate crisis would remain an important thread running through Coupland’s ensuing works, from Generation A to Vortex.

Andy’s, Dag’s and Claire’s apocalyptic stories express their “futurelessness”. Saddled with McJobs, angry at previous generations handing over the world to them “like so much skid-marked underwear”, envious of boomers’ wealth and security – something that resonates with Millennials and Gen Z today – Coupland’s protagonists have a hard time imagining the future beyond a nuclear blast.

Our perception of the future might not have changed much since 1991. As Coupland puts it in a recent Instagram post, “The future feels like clickbait“. The post follows the style of his Slogans for the 21st Century, which Coupland began in 2011 wanting to capture phenomena that “would make no sense to someone from 1991”. Andy, Dag and Claire might struggle with the idea of “clickbait”, but I’m sure they’d get the sentiment of an empty future made up of an unending list of meaningless things forever vying for our attention.

Join us to celebrate Generation X’s 30th birthday at the free online conference “Douglas Coupland and the Art of the ‘Extreme Present’“, April 23-24 2021.

Diletta De Cristofaro, Research Fellow, Department of Humanities, Northumbria University, Newcastle

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license.

Let’s griddle every sandwich, from ham and cheese to peanut butter and honey

Griddled sandwiches have punctuated my life like crunchy applause ever since I was old enough to pick up my first oozing grilled cheese. But for much of my adulthood, I didn’t make many at home — and the ones I did rarely flexed in creativity beyond piling a few ribbons of ham on top of sliced American or cheddar cheese. 

Maybe it’s because no one griddles a sandwich quite like a greasy-spoon diner or burger joint, where the fillings are simple and impeccably ratioed and the flat top infuses each buttered bread crevice with the essence of thousands of onions, burger patties and hash browns that came before. 

My first real job at age 15 was at a suburban diner outside Chicago, where the mustachioed owner knew every customer by name, the curly fries tasted better than at Arby’s and those coarse little paper dispenser napkins were no match for the buttery griddled rye — let alone formidable ooze of Swiss, burger grease and caramelized onions that trailed from every exemplary patty melt. They served an excellent tuna melt on rye, too, which almost definitely contained equal parts mayo and tuna. However, due to a typo when they set up their point-of-sale system, the sandwich forever rang up as a “tina melt.” This never got old, by the way: “Order up: Tina melt at the window!” 

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Late-night patty melts and reasonable-hour reubens would infuse my 20s in Chicago with salty, buttered sustenance. In fact, the former would become my bellwether for decent burger joints and greasy spoons everywhere. From fancified versions with balsamic onions, remoulade, smoked gouda and bacon like the patty melt at Chicago’s DMK Burger Bar, to the pastrami-, swiss- and kraut-topped variety at the Old Mill in Austin, Minnesota, to the dead-simple assemblage of sautéed onions, beef and melted American cheese on Texas toast I wolfed down at a Waffle House in New Orleans to soak up a few rounds of hurricanes — exceptional patty melts take up many guises.

After going months without diner or neighborhood bar food and deep into the Upper Midwest’s seemingly infinite cloudy season, my husband and I took up the comforting mantle of griddling almost every sandwich we made. We started conservatively by zhushing up grilled cheese with his trademark sprinkling of garlic powder on the pan side of each bread slice. Soon enough, we were switching up the meats and griddling open-faced “tina melts” like pros. 

On the whole, he sticks to the diner credo of simple, properly ratioed fillings; I’m a more restless omnivore. One day, I threw a little chopped kimchi on my grilled ham and cheese; on another, I slid a gently fried egg on top, puncturing the yolk a few times with my fork to ensure equitable ooze. I’ve grilled peanut butter and honey on thick wheat bread for breakfast and smeared grainy mustard mixed with cherry jam on my griddled turkey with gruyere at lunch. I’ve cooked down collard greens in red wine vinegar and piled them high on thick-cut ham smeared with mayo on both sides of each piece of bread. 

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On occasion, I’ll alternate thin slabs of mozzarella and leftover pan-fried eggplant with a smear of tomato sauce on sturdy sourdough or pile sauteed mushrooms and spinach mixed with cream cheese (non-dairy works beautifully!) on thick seedy bread, which I’ll griddle it in olive oil infused with a few fat garlic cloves. 

In deference to the flat top, when griddling sandwiches, we almost always use a cast-iron skillet for its excellent heat distribution and built-in seasoning. (While I’m on the subject, the results are always best the day after we cooked bacon or steak in said skillet.) I prefer thickly-sliced sourdough or pan-bread loaves — though I don’t mind an occasional holey bread situation, which allows pockets of oozing cheese to make direct pan contact and caramelize. A little tang — whether from mustard, sharp fruit compote or chopped fermented vegetables — jolts your tastebuds awake amid all that lovely fat and salt. But like a good dumpling or pizza, less is often more when it comes to add-ons with griddled sandwiches.   

Patience, medium-low heat and plenty of rotating and flipping yield the best results. Beyond fully melting the cheese and evenly crisping the bread, it gives the other fillings enough time to warm through, which is crucial to a well-melded sandwich. I’ve called in late to Zoom meetings on more than one occasion because I underestimated sandwich griddling time. I regret nothing.  

Lastly, you can’t skimp on the fat, though I’m mostly agnostic about the form it takes. A thick pat of softened dairy or vegan butter or regular or vegan mayo lends both flavor and caramelization to your bread. If you’re feeling extra fancy, sizzle the sandwich in a thin layer of olive oil with a few whole garlic cloves still in their papers, then rub their softened flesh all over the outside of the bread before eating. 

The sole griddled sandwich I’ve yet to recreate at home this past year is, implausibly, the one I miss most of all. But it won’t be long now ’til I’m posted up on the ripped old barstool of some 24-hour diner, strategically within arm’s reach of those useless dispenser napkins, awaiting the arrival of the cylindrical red plastic basket cradling my first post-pandemic patty melt. The buttery rye and greasy beef will have made quick work of the now-transparent parchment basket liner as I lift the crunchy, oozy, savory-sweet handheld to my lips. All around me, the muted din of conversation, clattering plates and the sizzling griddle coalesce into a soundtrack that I’ll never again take for granted. 

Some things in life are indeed worth the wait.

More by this author:

Our new favorite charoset is from the biggest Jewish deli in Texas

Every year, in the days leading up to Passover, Ziggy Gruber makes up to 1,500 pounds of charoset. For comparison, my mom will make no more than a pound of the chopped fruit and nut mix, and there will be some left over. But when has Gruber ever done anything on a small scale?

David, who goes by Ziggy, is a third-generation deli man. His grandfather, Max, arrived in New York via Budapest at the turn of the century. He found work in delis across the city until 1927 when he opened his own, the Rialto Deli, with his brothers-in-law. The Rialto, they claim, was the first deli to open its doors on Broadway, just two years before the start of the Great Depression. Amidst the anguish of the era, the Rialto thrived, serving the likes of Ethel Merman and the Marx brothers. All three of them. Decades later, Ziggy’s father opened his own deli, on Madison Avenue and called it Genard’s. Once Ziggy came around, the family had moved, shuttered its prospects in the city, and opened a deli in decidedly quieter Spring Valley, New York.

Ziggy never really stood a chance: By the age of eight, his grandfather was pawning him off to uncles and friends, sending him to caterings, scheduling him behind the counter. As Ziggy would say, he was born to be a deli man. Fast forward a stint at Le Cordon Bleu in London and a few years spent cooking in some of the city’s premier kitchens and Ziggy returned to the U.S. to open a deli of his own. This time on the opposite coast.

He opened Ziggy G’s in Los Angeles on Sunset Boulevard in 1990, but what started out a success soon soured after a dispute with a landlord that forced Gruber to close the place and return to his native New York. It wasn’t until 1999 that a family friend, fellow deli owner, and restaurant broker called Gruber with a proposition. Come meet this guy. His name’s Kenny and he’s got a dream to open a Jewish deli in the heart of — of all places — Texas. Kenny & Ziggy’s opened in Houston later that year. Since, they’ve been featured on Guy Fieri’s exploration of all things epic, “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives,” and been at the center of a 2015 documentary, aptly titled Deli Man.

To enter Kenny & Ziggy’s is to enter pandemonium manifest. It’s 7,500 square feet and vivacious, the walls are shellacked with photo frames — some are filled with sketched caricatures of celebrities, others with photos of celebrities, posing jovially with the deli’s staff and owners. The tables are always, always full. A rotating case of cakes and pies greets you at the front door. For Jews in Houston, it’s an institution. For everyone else, it’s an institution as well.

Most things in Houston are big and heavily air-conditioned. Kenny & Ziggy’s is no exception. The menu, like any good Jewish place of eating, is a small novel and the portions are the kind that parents warn kids to split: mile-high reubens and knishes for days, mounds of whitefish bigger than the friendliest of ice cream scoops.

In the days leading up to Passover, the kitchen fields an overwhelming swell of orders. Particularly for their charoset. The sweet and fruity chutney is peak Passover food, and like everything else on the seder plate, is imbued with meaning. It represents the mortar that the Jews, enslaved in Egypt, used to build and layer bricks. At its most basic, charoset is but fruit and nuts, chopped into a semi cohesive paste. At its most flourished, it offers a myriad of interpretations. It can be softened with Manischewitz or brightened with dates, made crunchier with bits of pistachio or silkened with jam. Like Judaism, charoset bends to the whims of local traditions. In Egypt, they might forgo apples and opt instead for dates and raisins as a fruity base; in Italy, some add chestnuts. It’s a malleable formula that we eat on Passover, with a bit of horseradish, to remember that what is sweet must always come accompanied by that which is bitter.

Ziggy’s recipe for charoset was given to him by his Hungarian grandfather, the original deli man. It’s an Ashkenazi recipe — with apples and cinnamons, bound by apricot jam and blackberry wine—that Ziggy and his kitchen staff will spend the next few days preparing by the truckload, literally. Each year the deli sends out two refrigerated semitrucks worth of the sticky spread to families across Houston. If you’re in their orbit, why not order from the Ziggy himself? For those a bit further away from the delivery zone, feel free to make some yourself.

***

Now that you’ve got Ziggy’s Charoset recipe, here are additional Passover menu ideas from Food52 editors:

Martha’s Potato Kugel

Since noodles are off the table during Passover, opt for the often-overlooked potato kugel. This version is Passover-friendly, made with matzo meal, eggs, and lots of shredded potatoes and onions. If you’ve never tried potato kugel, think of it like the casserole version of a potato latke — crunchy edges, with a creamy, tender center.

Ruth’s Brisket

This is a pretty classic brisket recipe for Jewish holidays with one not-so-classic ingredient: pickle brine. Reviewer FoodieYogi writes, “I think the pickle juice is the secret ingredient, plus the obvious love from the creator’s recipe!” While adding love is non-negotiable, pickle brine is really just a smart substitute for vinegar that reduces waste and adds a little sweetness. (But feel free to use vinegar if you don’t have any pickles in the fridge!)

Sweet & Smoky Brisket

Bring a little Texas flavor to your Seder table with this recipe that takes inspiration from barbecued brisket. The best part about this recipe? It tastes even better the next day, so you can avoid getting stuck in the kitchen last-minute. Author Leah Koenig adds, “make it the day before, then reheat the sliced meat, onions, and braising liquid in the oven until warm and bubbling; the flavors really blossom after hanging out in the fridge for a night or two.”

The Big Tzimmes For Passover

Tzimmes is a traditional Ashkenazi Jewish side dish that’s especially common during holidays like Rosh Hashanah and Passover. Root vegetables like sweet potato, yam, and carrot, are stewed with dried fruits until sticky, sweet and delicious. It’s the perfect way to round out your Seder table and a welcome complement to fatty brisket, starchy kugel, and of course, sweet, nutty charoset.

Alice Medrich’s New Classic Coconut Macaroons

Coconut macaroons are perhaps the most ubiquitous Passover dessert. But these macaroons are not the ones I remember from my childhood Seder tables (slightly stale, plucked from a plastic grocery package). These cookies, from baking expert Alice Medrich, are also known by the name “Chewy Gooey Crispy Crunchy Melt-in-Your-Mouth Cookies”, which should tell you all you need to know.

Brown Butter Matzo Brei

If you have any charoset left over the next day, my favorite way to enjoy it is to lean into its sweet side by serving it atop matzo brei with maple syrup. This brown butter brei is a welcome update to the standard recipe and adds a nutty, toasty flavor. And yes, I have yet to find a recipe not improved by brown butter.

The African roots of Swiss design and art theories

Design remains a largely white profession, with Black people still vastly underrepresented – making up just 3% of the design industry, according to a 2019 survey.

This dilemma isn’t new. For decades, the field’s whiteness has been recognized as a problem and was being openly discussed as far back as the late 1980s, when the few Black graphic design students preparing to enter the profession spoke of feeling isolated and rudderless.

Part of the lack of representation might have had to do with the fact that prevailing tenets of design seemed to hew closely to Western traditions, with purported origins in Ancient Greece and the schools out of Germany, Russia and the Netherlands deemed paragons of the field. A “Black aesthetic” has seemed to be altogether absent.

But what if a uniquely African aesthetic has been deeply embedded in Western design all along?

Through my research collaboration with design scholar Ron Eglash, author of “African Fractals,” I discovered that the design style that undergirds much of the graphic design profession today – the Swiss design tradition that uses the golden ratio – may have roots in African culture.

The divine proportion

A graphic depiction of the golden rectangle, with the sides labeled.

The golden rectangle. If you divide ‘a’ by ‘b’ and ‘a’-plus-‘b’ by ‘a,’ you get phi, which is roughly 1.618. Pbroks13/Wikimedia Commons

The golden ratio refers to the mathematical expression of “1: phi,” where phi is an irrational number, roughly 1.618.

Visually, this ratio can be represented as the “golden rectangle,” with the ratio of side “a” to side “b” the same as the ratio of the sides “a”-plus-“b” to “a.”

Create a square on one side of the golden rectangle, and the remaining space will form another golden rectangle. Repeat that process in each new golden rectangle, subdividing in the same direction, and you’ll get a golden spiral, arguably the more popular and recognizable representation of the golden ratio.

This ratio is called “golden” or “divine” because it’s visually pleasing, and some scholars argue that the human eye can more readily interpret images that incorporate it.

For these reasons, you’ll see the golden ratio, rectangle and spiral incorporated into the design of public spaces and emulated in the artwork in museum halls and hanging on gallery walls. It’s also reflected in nature, architecture and design – and it forms a key component of modern Swiss design.

The Swiss design style emerged in the 20th century from an amalgamation of Russian, Dutch and German aesthetics. It’s been called one of the most important movements in the history of graphic design and provided the foundation for the rise of modernist graphic design in North America.

The Helvetica font, which originated in Switzerland, and Swiss graphic compositions – from ads to book covers, web pages and posters – are often organized according to the golden rectangle. Swiss architect Le Corbusier famously centered his design philosophy on the golden ratio, which he described as “[resounding] in man by an organic inevitability.”

Greek origins debunked

Graphic design scholars – represented particularly by Greek architecture scholar Marcus Vitruvius Pollo – have tended to credit early Greek culture for incorporating the golden rectangle into design. They’ll point to the Parthenon as a notable example of a building that implemented the ratio in its construction.

But empirical measurements don’t support the Parthenon’s purported golden proportions, since its actual ratio is 4:9 – two whole numbers. As I’ve pointed out, the Greeks, notably the mathematician Euclid, were aware of the golden ratio, but it was mentioned only in the context of the relationship between two lines or figures. No Greek sources use the phrase “golden rectangle” or suggest its use in design.

In fact, ancient Greek writings on architecture almost always stress the importance of whole number ratios, not the golden ratio. To the Greeks, whole number ratios represented Platonic concepts of perfection, so it’s far more likely that the Parthenon would have been built in accordance with these ideals.

The golden spiral in Africa

If not from the ancient Greeks, where, then, did the golden rectangle originate?

In Africa, design practices tend to focus on bottom-up growth and organic, fractal forms. They are created in a sort of feedback loop, what computer scientists call “recursion.” You start with a basic shape and then divide it into smaller versions of itself, so that the subdivisions are embedded in the original shape. What emerges is called a “self-similar” pattern, because the whole can be found in the parts.

A bird's-eye view of the remnants of an African palace.

The palace of the chief in Logone-Birni, Cameroon. CC BY-ND

Consider the palace of the chief in Logone-Birni, Cameroon. Its rooms are laid out using a fractal grid characterized by the repetition of similar shapes at ever-diminishing scales. As Ron Eglash notes in “African Fractals,” the path that a palace visitor would take to navigate the space approximates a golden spiral.

The recursive construction of the palace – from tiny rectangles to larger and larger rectangles – naturally lends itself to the golden rectangle construction for the overall form, even though the match along any one wall is far from perfect.

This method of organically growing architecture is typical of building layouts in Africa; indeed, many of its design patterns include this organic scaling, probably because it links to concepts of fecundity, fertility and generational kinship that are commonplace in African art and culture.

Scholar and spiritualist Kwame Adapa shows such a scaling pattern in Kente cloth from Ghana. The black stripes are on a white background, with rows formed as follows: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5 – what we now call the Fibonacci sequence, from which the golden ratio can be derived.

African cloth woven in a pattern of black and white lines.

A Fibonacci sequence woven into Kente cloth from Ghana. Kwame Adapa, CC BY-ND

Did Fibonacci bring the golden ratio to Europe?

Robert Bringhurst, author of the canonical work “The Elements of Typographic Style,” subtly hints at the golden ratio’s African origins:

“If we look for a numerical approximation to this ratio, 1: phi, we will find it in something called the Fibonacci series, named for the thirteenth-century mathematician Leonardo Fibonacci. Though he died two centuries before Gutenberg, Fibonacci is important in the history of European typography as well as mathematics. He was born in Pisa but studied in North Africa.”

These scaling patterns can be seen in ancient Egyptian design, and archaeological evidence shows that African cultural influences traveled down the Nile river. For instance, Egyptologist Alexander Badaway found the Fibonacci Series’ use in the layout of the Temple of Karnak. It is arranged in the same way African villages grow: starting with a sacred altar or “seed shape” before accumulating larger spaces that spiral outward.

Given that Fibonacci specifically traveled to North Africa to learn about mathematics, it is not unreasonable to speculate that Fibonacci brought the sequence from North Africa. Its first appearance in Europe is not in ancient Greece, but in “Liber Abaci,” Fibonacci’s book of math published in Italy in 1202.

Why does all of this matter?

Well, in many ways, it doesn’t. We care about “who was first” only because we live in a system obsessed with proclaiming some people winners – the intellectual property owners that history should remember. That same system declares some people losers, removed from history and, subsequently, their lands, undeserving of any due reparations.

Yet as many strive to live in a just, equitable and peaceful world, it is important to restore a more multicultural sense of intellectual history, particularly within graphic design’s canon. And once Black graphic design students see the influences of their predecessors, perhaps they will be inspired and motivated anew to recover that history – and continue to build upon its legacy.

Editor’s note: This article has been updated to note that the Greeks mentioned the golden ratio in the context of figures, in addition to two lines, and that they never suggested its use in design.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Cutting your carbon footprint matters a lot — if you’re rich

It was the summer of 2012 when sustainability scientist Kimberly Nicholas decided she couldn’t live like this anymore. She was attending a climate change conference in Austria, listening to talk after talk about how bad global warming was and how much worse it was going to get. All the while, Nicholas was thinking about all of the planet-heating carbon that she, like most other attendees, had dumped into the atmosphere by flying there. 

“It really felt like a conference of doctors smoking cigarettes and telling our patients to quit,” Nicholas said.

But after a beer with a U.K.-based friend who took a train to the conference, Nicholas, who is American but lives and conducts research in Sweden, realized something: She could have done that too. Since then, Nicholas has stopped flying within Europe, cutting her air travel emissions by 90 percent in the process. She has also stopped eating meat and gone car-free. To ensure she’s making lifestyle changes that will have the biggest carbon bang for their buck, Nicholas conducted peer-reviewed research on the subject. In 2017, she and her colleague Seth Wyens published a paper on the individual behavioral changes that have the greatest benefits for the climate. Topping the list? Flying less, followed by driving less and eating a plant-based diet.

Nicholas has now expanded that paper into a book, Under the Sky We Make. A crash-course on why climate change is happening and how to fix it interwoven with beautifully written, witty anecdotes about a scientist’s personal journey toward sustainability, Under the Sky We Make pushes back — politely, but with science — against the narrative that individual actions make little difference to the climate. Rather, if you’re a wealthy person living in a wealthy country, the  book makes a compelling case that your individual choices matter a lot. For the “carbon elite,” as Nicholas describes her intended audience, the decision to take fewer flights or install solar panels on your roof materially reduces the amount of carbon in the sky forever, not least because it can inspire similar behavioral changes amongst your peers. 

“We all have to take responsibility for what we can control,” Nicholas said. “And people like me, and like my friends from college who I initially started writing this book for, are one of the major sources of emissions.”

Individual responsibility has become something of a flashpoint in the climate discourse. On the one hand, oil companies love to harp on about personal carbon footprints as a way of distracting from their much larger contributions to the climate crisis, both through the fossil fuel products they make and their longstanding, ongoing efforts to delay climate action and misinform the public. At the same time, prominent journalists and scientists have waved off individual climate actions as a distraction from the systemic changes that are needed to solve the crisis — changes like overhauling our electricity and transit systems through governmental investments in clean energy, better regulation, and carbon pricing. They’re joined by a growing chorus of climate justice advocates who rightly point out that asking poor people to make difficult dietary shifts or give up the car they need to get to work is completely unfair.

That’s not what Nicholas is doing. Her message isn’t aimed at folks struggling to make ends meet, but at people making a middle-class income or higher who live in a wealthy country like the United States, Germany, or France. Far from a distraction, Nicholas argues that the climate impact of the carbon elite is something we need to focus on — individually and systematically. She points out that globally, more than two-thirds of climate pollution can be attributed to household consumption, and that the richest 10 percent of the world population — those making more than $38,000 a year — is responsible for about half of those emissions. 

The wealthier you are, the higher your individual share of the carbon pie tends to be due to “luxury emissions” associated with extra steak dinners, owning and driving more cars, and the carbon footprint elephant in the room, flying. Nicholas notes that the 1 percent of the world population who fly most often are responsible for half of all air travel emissions. (Flights are responsible for 2.4 percent of emissions globally, but they drive an estimated 7.2 percent of warming due to high-altitude atmospheric effects.) Wealthy high emitters, Nicholas argues, must support policies that get the world to net-zero emissions quickly, but they must also take steps to reduce their luxury emissions in order to make the energy transition easier for everyone. 

“The quicker that high-income folks reduce our own personal emissions to a sustainable level, that makes a huge difference for how fast we can actually make this transition happen,” Nicholas said.

Cutting back on luxury carbon emissions doesn’t have to be a sacrifice. Nicholas says she’s had numerous adventures she wouldn’t have had otherwise “by traveling more slowly and more creatively and more adventurously” across Europe on the train. In 2017, when Georgia Institute of Technology climate scientist Kim Cobb decided to start biking 3 miles to work twice a week instead of driving, she says it “seemed like a cliff I would never be able to fall off and not die.” A month later, she was biking to work every day. 

“It has become one of the true joys of my life,” Cobb told Grist. “And I’m kicking myself for never trying it before. It keeps me wondering: what other assumptions am I making about this transition in front of us that are so deeply false?” 

Cobb said that while most of her friends and colleagues are “just kind of intrigued” by her new lifestyle choices, a few have been inspired to start biking more themselves, or to install solar panels on their roofs as Cobb did in 2019. In her book, Nicholas cites other examples of personal climate actions having a social ripple effect, including how teen climate activist Greta Thunberg and her mother, the opera singer Malena Ernman, have helped bring about a no-fly movement in Sweden through their individual decisions to stay on the ground.  

Individual actions are no panacea. After reading Nicholas’ book, I used the University of California, Berkeley’s Cool Climate Calculator to take a peek at my own carbon footprint.* I was alarmed to discover that, at around 25 metric tons of CO2 per year, it’s 10 times higher than the 2.5 metric tons per person per year researchers say we need to reach by 2030 to limit global warming to 1.5 degrees C (2.7 degrees F). But when I simulated doing everything I reasonably could do to reduce my footprint in the calculator, including getting rid of my car and going vegan, my footprint only shrank by 3 metric tons. I couldn’t very well stop eating entirely, and as much as I’d like to, I can’t afford to retrofit my natural gas-heated home to use an electric heat pump instead.

Nicholas explained that my personal challenges reflect the fact that when you bring your carbon footprint down close to the average level for your country — about 18 metric tons a year for Americans — “you have exhausted the low-hanging fruit for individual choices.” (Nicholas’ choice to stop flying around her continent might have been more difficult if she still lived in the United States, where coast-to-coast train infrastructure is far less developed.) Once you’ve taken all the individual actions you can, given your personal situation and your society’s infrastructure, Nicholas suggests directing your energy toward “system-level changes,” like getting your government to a price on carbon and divesting the economy from fossil fuels. The last few chapters of Under the Sky We Make are focused on how individuals can help to bring about those bigger changes, by moving their money out of banks that support mega-polluters, lobbying their representatives to support aggressive climate policies, joining protests, and more.

Under the Sky We Make is a breezy field guide on how to align your lifestyle with your values that avoids being overly prescriptive. That’s perhaps best illustrated by the book’s neutrality on one of the most controversial climate choices of all: whether or not to have kids. While Nicholas’ 2017 study found that having one more kid — and bringing an additional lifetime worth of emissions into the world in the process — was the single most significant individual climate choice a person could make, she sees it as more of a philosophical decision than a scientific one. 

After all, Nicholas argues, the adults alive today will create the climate conditions that future generations will inherit. If we make the right decisions, children not yet born will have a world they can thrive in. Whether those are our kids, or members of the global community we’re fighting to secure a future for, the sky they live under will be the one that we make for them.

The inside story of Biosphere 2, a forgotten experiment to rethink human civilization

The political and social issues we wrestled with in the 1960s and 1970s still haunt us in the 2020s. From social justice to climate change, space exploration to alternative economies, it is curious that the forum of public discourse is stuck on the same ideas. Back then, as a teenager, I was lucky enough to help launch a group who would combine all of these issues into one big social, ecological and engineering experiment. It was known as Biosphere 2 — and despite having so much relevance to today’s political and ecological situation, it has largely disappeared from the cultural conversation.

You may have heard of Biosphere 2: that huge, airtight structure in the middle of the Arizona desert, a vast ecological experiment that simulated what a self-contained ecosystem on another world might operate like. It made international headlines in the 1990s, and was so enmeshed in the pop culture lexicon that a comedy movie (“Bio-Dome”) was based on it. But since then, the lessons of Biosphere 2, and its unlikely origins, have largely been forgotten. As someone who was involved in it from its start, I know that the type of ecological thinking it engendered is so needed today. 

Here’s how it all began. Back in the ’60’s, my friends and I figured humanity had about 40 years to become more ecologically-minded, or face mass extinctions (likely including our own species). In 1969, about ten of us bought a godforsaken, badly-eroded ranch near Santa Fe. We planted trees, grew organic gardens, started small businesses and a nonprofit, which we called Institute of Ecotechnics (IE). In 1974, we drove an old school bus to California to construct and launch an oceangoing research vessel. Initially we financed ourselves through individual enterprises, then a jointly-held architectural and construction company. Some of us toured annually in experimental theater. Over a period of ten years, our numbers grew, and we started a savannah restoration in Australia, a hotel and cultural center in Kathmandu, a multicultural art gallery in London, a farm and conference center in France, and a tropical forest restoration in Puerto Rico. Financing came from private property investment, sweat equity, and frugality.

Beginning in the ’70s, co-founder John Allen drew diagrams of a huge scientific and cultural project which he provisionally called “Spaceship Earth City,” named for R. Buckminster Fuller’s eponymous book. Allen had been a mining engineer and exploration geologist in the 1960s who developed special alloy metals for space exploration. He also identified the Four Corners coal and uranium fields. Allen acquired mining rights for 200 million tons of high grade coal.

One afternoon, he was struck with a life-changing epiphany: his discovery would destroy indigenous sacred sites, poison aquifers, and devastate habitats. He took an immediate U-turn, abandoning the leases that would have made him a billionaire, instead committing his life to ecology. Allen’s Spaceship Earth City idea eventually evolved into what he, as inventor and director of research, dubbed “Biosphere 2.”


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Then, in the mid-70s, a young oil millionaire named Ed Bass joined our core group, participating in all the various ventures as well as the Institute. He, like all of us, was a workaholic. Ed developed a passion for ecology, and became the principal financial partner in Biosphere 2.

We aimed to create a project that would be the “Archimedes’ lever” for ecology — an idea that was big enough to change the world, just as Archimedes said (“Give me a lever and a place to stand and I will move the earth”). By 1985, the clock was ticking. The Institute’s core team created a new corporation, Space Biospheres Ventures, and began designing a high-visibility science experiment to understand and demonstrate the delicate complexity of ecological balance. The primary financial input came from Ed Bass’ investment company, enhanced by intellectual property, contacts and practical experience that the Institute of Ecotechnics had developed over decades. The corporation hired over 200 scientists and specialists, engineers and contractors. Many managers offered to work for below-market salaries in order to make the exciting enterprise possible. Network of friends and supporters continued to grow — ecologists, scientists from NASA and other space agencies, biologists and engineers. Buzz Aldrin told us that our project emanated the same excitement that he’d felt with Apollo 11.

In 1991, Space Biospheres Ventures, with the the Institute of Ecotechnics as scientific coordinator, finished work on Biosphere 2. The name was a nod to the idea that Planet Earth is our original, first biosphere; this was the second. This outrageously ambitious, 3.14-acre hermetically sealed mini-world in the Arizona desert contained over 3000 species of plants and animals and an extensive technological infrastructure. Four men and four women voluntarily lived inside for two years, tasked with stewarding the life within and studying how ecology works in a contained environment. It sounds biblical in scale, and indeed it was.

Biosphere 2 was a fusion of science and theatre. Though there was no social media in 1991 to amplify the interpersonal aspect — the eight humans living their lives within — news outlets across the world still reported on what was happening as though it were a soap opera. However, we were intent on making discoveries in natural sciences, and also in revealing new narratives that could capture the public imagination. We were neither a large corporation nor government-funded, yet we actualized a big dream. Indeed, the execution of Biosphere 2 speaks to how small, networked, proactive groups can have great power. Allen called it “The Human Experiment.”

To some, Biosphere 2 was an inspiration for a future Mars habitat. To others, it was a model for a waste-free, fully recyclable existence. It was a means of studying ecological systems, and an experiment in growing all of one’s food. With the intense media coverage that resulted, it inadvertently also became early reality TV, which later inspired TC Boyle’s 2016 book loosely based on Biosphere 2, “The Terranauts.” In Ridley Scott’s 2015 film, “The Martian,” Matt Damon tenderly nurtures a potato plant much like the Biospherians tended their gardens. Tourism swelled at Biosphere 2 when that movie was released.

Science fiction often features nightmare scenarios of space colonization as extensions of Earth-based exploitation. William Burroughs’ novel “Nova Express” portrays a gang known as Nova Mob, who have trashed Earth, blown it up and escaped, only to recreate the same scenario elsewhere. Our vision was quite different, even poetic: create inspiration for an equitable civilization that we dubbed “synergetic civilization,” and seek habitable systems in the local galactic environs. Indeed, if humanity can land a man on the moon or the Perseverance robot on Mars, we might unite to manage crises here on our planet.

The idea of Biosphere 2 as a version of a “lockdown” — meaning, humans living in a sealed system — has obvious relevance to today’s quarantine culture. Last year, a feature documentary on our work premiered, called “Spaceship Earth,” to positive reviews. Likewise, fashion label The Elder Statesman launched a Biosphere 2–inspired collection in its Spring 2021 catalogue.

The saga of Biosphere 2 also resonated among educators. During the two manned experiments of 1991-94, tens of thousands of school children followed the developments within that mini-world for their science curriculum. Scientific papers were generated from both successes and unforeseen failures. Our Archimedes’ lever might be working, I thought at the time. And I hoped that the cultural disinterest in ecology might change, in part due to our very public project. 

Biosphere 2 had lofty goals, including serving as a “test tube” to study life systems. It was also an experiment in management: those living within would have to be polymaths, generalists — a role that runs counter to the dominant culture’s focus on specialization in our labor and careers. Hundreds of scientists and managers labored to make the experiment work.

Yet if there were one guiding principle, it was this idea: that nature is not something “out there.” We are nature, and our actions have consequences in real time. Within the Biosphere, everything — air, water, food, waste — was recycled. The construction was sealed to the outside air; nothing in the structure could off-gas any toxic vapors, or its inhabitants would be quickly poisoned. Like sick building syndrome, we feared this could result in “sick biosphere syndrome.”

How did the inhabitants fare in this new world behind glass with its own atmosphere? Their cholesterol steadily lowered. Psychological profiles showed that they were all healthy adventurers. Yes, they squabbled amongst themselves and sometimes with Mission Control, but no more than other small community groups like explorers, boards of directors, or academics. Those who have been in pandemic lockdown now can appreciate the interpersonal challenges of the eight Biospherians’ lockdown, where traits and interaction styles that seemed initially insignificant can magnify over time. Two years of daily breakfast, lunch, dinner, work crews, celebrations and struggles with the same seven other people, is a long time.

But seemingly unlike Biosphere 1, the eight Biospherians had to make their world work for their own survival — maintaining oceans, tropical forest, wetlands, and high-tech infrastructure on the fly. They became subsistence farmers, growing 80% of their own food, 100% in the second experiment of seven Biospherians. Glitches included initial low light levels that affected food supply and another dramatic one that had to do with oxygen — but this was a maiden voyage, a Kitty Hawk of what was planned to be one hundred years of research. When the resident Biospherian doctor advised Mission Control to inject oxygen, management did so immediately. The second experiment resolved many of the initial problems.

At the successful completion of the first two-year experiment, nearly one billion people worldwide watched the Biospherians walk through the airlock back into Biosphere 1, Earth. It was science fiction without the fiction. As a board member, I was there to receive them, hearing their first asides: “Eew! It stinks out here!” Though undetectable to the acclimatized crowd that greeted them, the “clean” desert air bombarded the sensitized crew with the fumes of combustion, hairspray, deodorant, paint, and other noxious traces of everyday life that they had not smelled for two years.

Then, as we hurriedly prepared for a press conference, I asked the crew to name one thing that they would never forget. Each answered, simply, that everything is connected. Each action they performed within that sealed laboratory had an immediately detectable result. Plants, air, soil, humans, technology are interdependent.

So it is with our planet. But it is much harder to see.

The feeling I experienced that day was reignited when I watched the Perseverance Mars landing. Space travel can be a uniting enterprise, with immensely positive benefits to our home planet.

Some geopolitical events of the Biosphere 2 days signaled optimism: The Space Exploration Initiative, the end of the Cold War, abolition of apartheid, Treaty of Maastricht, START Treaty, the Acid Rain Treaty … Nevertheless, “ecology” and “climate change” were outlier concepts when Biosphere 2 was completed in 1991, and some media repeated rumors about the nature of our experiment. Common epithets included calling Biosphere 2 an “elite bunker,” a culturally irrelevant cult, or “not science.” Much coverage fixated on, of all things, a tiny carbon scrubber we had installed as an experiment.

But we did have very explicit goals from the start. We planned to develop and monetize our patents for green technologies, and create intellectual property for life systems for space travel, as well as change the paradigm of ecological science. Inevitable conflicts between a visionary project, conceived to benefit human knowledge and understanding of life itself, arose with private investment’s emphasis on short-term profitability. Our colleague/partner wanted bad press to go away, our schedule of financial expectations diverged, and he took control of our joint venture. To top it off, Steve Bannon (yes, that Steve Bannon) took over as CEO for a spell. Serial modifications prevented Biosphere 2 from continuing existence as a closed system. Ironically, the current owners of Biosphere 2, the University of Arizona, now celebrate the far-ranging integrity of our original mission.

Humanity now stands on the threshold that the Biospherians passed through. We are between two worlds: one in which we sleepwalk into ecological apocalypse, and the other in which we usher in a new era of zero emissions, green technologies and cleaning up after ourselves. Biosphere 2 had a thousand sensors monitoring its air and water. Our senses, which should perceive toxicity, are numbed.

Yet we are in a human experiment of life-changing opportunity. We created the Hubble telescope, our eyes in the distant cosmos, and soon a next generation space telescope, far more powerful, will study our cosmic origins. We can execute a complex mission like a Mars landing. Even as capital continues to concentrate among a select few, we are slowly becoming a more diverse global society in ways that are visible in our politics and in our media. We are all crew on a spaceship: Earth. We are nature; all of us are Biospherians, and we are all in this together. Let’s not blow it.

In India’s Bohra community, a battle over genital mutilation

Aarefa Johari was 7 years old when she was taken by her mother to a decrepit building in the back alleys of Bhendi Bazaar, an old market area in Mumbai. The overcrowded bazaar is largely populated by members of the Dawoodi Bohra community, a minority Shia Muslim group that accounts for around 2 million of India’s population of well over 1 billion people.

Once inside, the mother and daughter were greeted by an old woman. “My mother had told me before we went there that something would happen to me down there but I don’t remember thinking it was anything to worry” about, she recalls, “and so I did not panic at first.”

The woman took Johari and lifted her frock while her mother held her down on a mattress on the floor; minutes later her clitoral hood had been cut, in accordance with the ancient tradition of khafz, or female genital cutting (FGC). “I was in a lot of pain and I remember crying inconsolably,” says Johari, a journalist and an anti-FGC activist who is now 34 years old.

Though her pain eventually subsided, the trauma of the incident stayed with her long after. “There are psychological scars and it is a very painful memory,” she says. “I remember the fear I felt.”

For years, Johari did not question the pain because of how normalized the practice is within the Bohra community, but in 2015 she co-founded Sahiyo, a nongovernmental organization that seeks to end FGC across Asia through public awareness campaigns, as well as community engagement and dialogue.

The World Health Organization, which classifies these and other practices as female genital mutilation (FGM), describes them as “the partial or total removal of external female genitalia or other injury to the female genital organs for non-medical reasons.” The organization has classified FGM as a violation of the human rights of girls and women.

While male circumcision conducted at infancy is common among followers of the Abrahamic religions of Judaism, Islam, and Christianity, as well as in other communities around the world for non-religious reasons, FGM is not as widely practiced, except within certain religious sects in Africa, the Middle East, and South Asia. Despite the custom’s seeming obscurity, however, some 200 million women alive today have experienced FGM, according to estimates by Unicef.

“That is not an accurate number because there are almost 60 countries in the world where there is no data,” says Masooma Ranalvi, co-founder of WeSpeakOut, an anti-FGM organization based in Mumbai.

Ranalvi and other anti-FGM advocates view the custom as part of a patriarchal society’s attempt to “control a woman’s sexuality and desire,” but many women in the Bohra community, and some Bohra doctors, support the practice. “Khafz is a sunnah,” or ancient Muslim practice, says Fatema Jetpurwala, a gynecologist who is a member of the Dawoodi Bohra Women’s Association for Religious Freedom, a Bohra organization that defends FGM in court. “It is the equivalent of male circumcision, or khatna.”

However, unlike male circumcision, there are several medical complications that can result from FGM, the WHO states. They include excessive bleeding, swelling of the genital tissue, infection, vaginal and urinary tract problems, and even death. Later on, women may suffer sexual issues and experience complications in childbirth.

Jetpurwala insists that khafz is a “harmless religious practice” and involves “a minuscule nick at the prepuce way above the clitoris,” even though many survivors and activists maintain that the procedure often cuts the clitoris and at times even the labia.

Her group stepped up to lead the defense in a lawsuit before the Indian Supreme Court filed by anti-FGM activists, including Ranalvi, who are challenging the constitutional validity of the practice. The court originally heard the case in 2018, and while it held that the “bodily integrity of women” cannot be violated, it did not make a ruling. Instead, the judges passed the case to another judicial panel specializing in constitutional matters to review the practice as an issue of religious freedom. In a judgment issued in November 2019, the Constitution Bench grouped the case with others involving women’s right to religion, but the full court still has yet to make a final ruling.

* * *

In hundreds of interviews with victims conducted by Sahiyo and WeSpeakOut, sexual control is often mentioned as the primary motivation behind FGM. “In our survey, we found that the most common reason that people give is that it controls a girl’s sexual urges and moderates the desire,” Johari says. “It keeps her chaste and prevents her from having affairs. Others cited hygiene and health, but there is no scientific basis for that.”

When Johari first started questioning the practice within her family, she says one aunt told her: “Those girls who are not circumcised will turn into prostitutes.”

According to a survey conducted by Sahiyo of more than 300 survivors, 35 percent reported that the cutting had affected their sex life. Of that group, 87 percent said the impact had been adverse, while 7 percent said their sexual life was positively affected.

Organizations like the WHO stress that sexual health is fundamental to overall health and well-being. “Sexual health, when viewed affirmatively, requires a positive and respectful approach to sexuality and sexual relationships, as well as the possibility of having pleasurable and safe sexual experiences, free of coercion, discrimination, and violence,” the WHO states.

Like Johari, Ranalvi, now in her 50s, has spent much of the last decade campaigning against the cutting of young Bohra women. “In my case, as in the case of hundreds of women like me, we were cut by traditional cutters ordained by the religious leader,” she says. “I remember it was extremely painful. Can you imagine someone cutting a part of your genitals?”

“The clitoris is very small and there is a very small region between the skin and the clitoris,” says Shujaat Vali, a gynecologist from Gujarat, a state on India’s western coast where the majority of the Bohra community is based. “Given that most girls are cut at age 7 without anesthesia, by traditional cutters, and the procedure happens in a minute or two, the operator cannot get enough separation between the clitoris and the skin surrounding the clitoris,” he explains. “So usually they end up cutting the clitoris along with the skin covering the clitoris.”

In a 2018 study of Bohra women who had been subjected to the practice published by WeSpeakOut, a gynecologist identified as Sakina said: “It is difficult to only remove a part of the prepuce — especially when you are not given anesthesia and the person is kicking. When you are doing it on a 7- or 9-year-old child, the child is quite strong and naturally resists.”

Johari recalls meeting a child who was grievously injured as a result of a botched procedure. “The child was bleeding through the night and had to be taken to the hospital, and the doctor was unwilling to do anything about it at first because he said it looked like a case of rape,” she said, adding that their organization had come across many cases of young girls who developed infections because of unhygienic procedures. “The girl needed many stitches,” she says. “The trauma the child is still living with is unspeakable.”

Jetpurwala dismisses claims of sexual health issues raised by survivors. “I have dealt predominantly with Bohra women and children in my medical practice,” she says. “I have not come across a single case of any sexual dysfunction due to khafz per se.”

At the same time, Jetpurwala says the procedure is safer when conducted by medical professionals instead of traditional religious cutters. “The procedure is extremely minor,” she says. To avoid issues arising from inexpert handling, she adds: “Of course, being a doctor, I would always advise the procedure to be conducted in clinics by medical practitioners.”

But according to a survey by Sahiyo, about 74 percent of the cutting is performed by traditional cutters outside medical facilities, often in family-run practices handed down from mother to daughter.

“It is not a medical procedure, and ethically, a doctor should not be carrying out such a non-medical procedure,” says Johari, adding that it is also unethical to expect children to give legal consent.

“I don’t believe that continuing to do it by shifting it into a fancy environment is the solution,” Ranalvi says. “The point will remain that you are cutting a part of my genitals as a young girl with the objective of denying me sexual pleasure.”

This article was originally published on Undark. Read the original article.

Rep. Devin Nunes’ mother messed up his campaign’s financial reports

Rep. Devin Nunes (R-CA) received widespread scorn after suing a parody Twitter account posing as his mother. But now the controversial Republican’s real mom has caused him a political crisis.

The story was reported by The Daily Beast under the headline, “Devin Nunes’ Mom F*cked Up His Campaign Finance Reports.”

“Two political committees belonging to Rep. Devin Nunes (R-CA) have spent the past two days filing amended FEC reports to correct errors and omissions by their treasurer: his mom,” The Beast reported. “The fundraising committees—Nunes Victory Fund, and his leadership PAC, NEW PAC—have also removed Nunes’ mother’s email address and replaced them with an unspecified ‘Treasurer 1’ and ‘Treasurer 2.'”

“Those emails serve as contact points for the Federal Election Commission, which sends notices called “Requests for Additional Information” (RFAIs) when compliance officials flag errors or inconsistencies. The FEC sent an additional five notices on Thursday and Friday to the conservative’s official campaign committee, where Toni Nunes has run the books since her son’s first congressional bid in 2002,” The Beast explained. “All but one of the campaign’s 2020 FEC reports filed by Nunes’ mom contain material errors, according to the RFAIs. Flaws include duplicate contributions from GOP mega-donors such as Home Depot CEO Bernie Marcus ($50.5 million career giving), billionaire energy mogul Kelcy Warren ($23.8 million), and investor Rex Sinquefield ($12.2 million).”

Silicon Valley’s puritanical war on sex

Before the mid-1990s, it was not so easy for a young person to find pornography in the United States. A youth might stumble across an errant Playboy, late-night scrambled pay-per-view ads, or an older sibling’s VHS tape, but for anyone under eighteen years of age, porn—and for that matter, an unsanctioned sexual education—were all but inaccessible.

The internet changed all that. By the middle of the 1990s, sexually graphic images abounded on Usenet newsgroups and single-purpose websites, enabling anyone with a dial-up connection and a little bit of privacy to access them. Within just a few years, porn had become so ubiquitous online that the Broadway musical “Avenue Q,” which came out in 2003, even dedicated an entire song to it, aptly titled “The Internet Is for Porn.” The term “the great equalizer,” once reserved to describe education, now rang true for the internet in the hands of porn consumers. As internet lore contends: “if it exists, there’s a porn version of it.”

Not everyone appreciated this equalizing effect. In July 1995, the cover of Time magazine depicted a small child at a computer screen, eyes wide and mouth open, with the word “CYBERPORN” just under his chin in capital letters. Underneath the word, the headline read: “Exclusive: A new study shows how pervasive and wild it really is. Can we protect our kids—and free speech?”

The feature story was based on a study by Martin Rimm, an undergraduate student at Carnegie Mellon, that had been published in the Georgetown Law Journal. Rimm’s paper claimed that 80 percent of images on newsgroups at the time were pornographic in nature—an alarming figure, perhaps, had it been true.

The Time magazine article was disputed by experts and lambasted by the New York Times, but their criticism was of little consequence to lawmakers, who saw a crisis unfolding. In June 1995 (ironically, the same year that two of the most provocative films of the decade, “Show Girls” and “Basic Instinct,” premiered), two senators—Democrat Jim Exon of Nebraska and Republican Slade Gorton of Washington—proposed an amendment to the Telecommunications Act that would later become the Communications Decency Act (CDA), extending existing indecency and anti-obscenity laws to the internet. The basis of their proposal? Rimm’s study.

On June 14, 1995, Exon opened an address to the Senate with a prayer written by the Senate chaplain, which began:

“Almighty God, Lord of all life, we praise You for the advancements in computerized communications that we enjoy in our time. Sadly, however, there are those who are littering this information superhighway with obscene, indecent, and destructive pornography. Virtual but virtueless reality is projected in the most twisted, sick, misuse of sexuality.”

The Exon-Gorton amendment passed, and on February 8, 1996, President Bill Clinton signed the CDA into law, imposing sanctions on anyone who knowingly “uses an interactive computer service to send to a specific person or persons under 18 years of age or … uses any interactive computer service to display in a manner available to a person under 18 years of age, any comment, request, suggestion, proposal, image, or other communication that, in context, depicts or describes, in terms patently offensive as measured by contemporary community standards, sexual or excretory activities or organs.”                                                           

Free speech advocates and civil liberties organizations were outraged and worked diligently to get the amendment overturned, concerned that the censorship provisions of the CDA were unconstitutional because they would criminalize First Amendment-protected expression.

Not only were they correct, but the act did nothing to stop the spread of online porn. Just a few months after Clinton signed it into law, Sex.com launched, selling expensive ads and pulling in millions of dollars just by existing. The site’s success inspired others, and soon there were dozens of websites raking in cash by selling outlinks—tracked clicks that generate revenue for external URLs—to porn sites.

But, as David Kusher wrote in Wired, “as the moguls of porn became the envy of the internet, the federal government conveniently got out of their way.” In a landmark 7-2 ruling in 1997, the Supreme Court ruled that the CDA created an “unacceptably heavy burden on protected speech” that threatened to “torch a large segment of the Internet community.” In the decision, Justice John Paul Stevens wrote that “the interest in encouraging freedom of expression in a democratic society outweighs any theoretical but unproven benefit of censorship.”

Although the CDA failed to become law, a remnant of it—often referred to as Section 230 or CDA 230 for its prior placement within the Act—survived. While it is the First Amendment that allows companies to curate the content on their sites, removing or leaving up whatever they choose, Section 230 is the law that distinguishes online intermediaries (like social media sites) from traditional publishers or speakers, and protects those intermediaries from civil liability for the majority of what their users share.

From that point, porn was free to spread online. By 2006, the global porn industry was worth $97 billion and the traditional porn industry was freaking out. “People are making movies in their houses and dragging and dropping them” onto free sites, complained the CEO of a payment processor for adult sites. “It’s killing the marketplace.” Cam sites abounded, rentals and sales of pornography DVDs dropped drastically, and pay-per-view orders rapidly declined, leaving the industry scrambling.

By the second half of the aughts, three revolutionary technological developments created the conditions for anyone to create and share videos: the smartphone (giving everyone a camera in their pocket), video-sharing platforms (the allowed anyone to be a “publisher”), and broadband internet speeds (enabling millions of people to quickly distribute captured video—and porn—online). And with that, the video-sharing revolution was underway. Within just a few short years, YouTube, Facebook, Vine, Vimeo, DailyMotion, and countless other sites offered a simple way for people to share homemade videos.

With the rise of YouTube came the rise of the pornographic “tube” sites: YouPorn, xHamster, Pornhub, RedTube (which launched in 2006, 2007, 2007, and 2009, respectively) and the like. Although there were plenty of sex-centric websites by the mid-aughts, porn quickly found its way into the margins of other spaces, including blogging and social media platforms.

Although a handful of platforms made the choice to allow porn, others—most notably Facebook and YouTube—chose to ban sexually explicit content from the outset. These companies launched at a time when porn was flooding all corners of the internet, and the market demanded something different. Journalist Adrian Chen, who was among the first to cover content moderation practices, speculated to me that “Facebook succeeded because it was seen as so clean and safe for young people” in comparison to MySpace. But neither platform had prepared to deal with the moderation of porn en masse, and both quickly sought solutions to ensure that their platforms were not inundated with pornography, lest they become undesirable to advertisers. Thus began the race to rid the social web of porn.

As it turns out, battling porn was not so easy for social media companies, and within a few short years, most had begun outsourcing content moderation to firms in the Philippines and other countries where labor was cheap. But no matter how much they invested in content moderation, purveyors of porn found their way in. In the summer of 2010, a site vulnerability allowed pranksters to inject YouTube with scripts that redirected viewers to porn. The vulnerability was fixed within days, but just over a year later, hackers gained access to Sesame Street’s channel and replaced all of the videos with hardcore porn.

No site was immune: Facebook experienced similar flooding of graphic imagery; Wikipedia’s co-founder blogged about the site’s “porn problem,” and Flickr faced angry advertisers who didn’t want their ads turning up next to sexually explicit photos.

In the end, most platforms tightened up their processes in an effort to appease the angry public. The amount of porn on major platforms decreased, but so too did plenty of other things, such as adult nudity, LGBTQI+ content, and sexual health information. As it turns out, the best way to get rid of undesirable content is to cast a wide net … no matter if a few dolphins get caught up in it.

Of course, finding porn on social media sites is not hard if you’re looking for it. It’s on YouTube, emanates from Facebook Live casts, and can even be located on LinkedIn. Social media platforms do their best to prevent it, find it and erase it, but attempting to do that is an endless game of Whac-A-Mole. The damage from these attempts, which all too often employ broad filtering techniques, is not to porn but to those whose art, identity, or livelihood depends on what platforms determine to be “adult” content. New computer vision technologies are being pioneered with the express goal of pre-flagging content to prevent content that AI suspects as porn from ever reaching other users.

But in 2018, a new law came into force that amended Section 230. Known in shorthand as SESTA-FOSTA, the combination package of US Senate bill SESTA (Stop Enabling Sex Traffickers Act) and House bill FOSTA (Fight Online Sex Trafficking Act) was ostensibly designed to fight sex trafficking online, and was thus supported by a dizzying array of celebrities and organizations.

Unfortunately, the law’s broad provisions have had a deleterious effect on a wide range of online communities, from furries and fan fiction aficionados to sex workers. Almost immediately after the passing of FOSTA, the blogging site Tumblr, which had long served as a home for a range of sexual content, announced that it would be banning all sexual imagery. In the announcement, then CEO Jeff D’Onofrio wrote: “We’ve realized that in order to continue to fulfill our promise and place in culture, especially as it evolves, we must change.”

But whose culture, exactly? For many years, and as Facebook’s dominance grew, Tumblr remained a place where those whose sexual practice or proclivities fall outside of the mainstream gathered and—thanks to the platform’s policy on allowing pseudonyms—felt safe in doing so.

Kali Sudhra, an activist, sex worker, and educator who works to give voice to sex and porn workers of color, sees Tumblr’s decision as a direct consequence of FOSTA. The law, she says, is “outraging because we know that the best way to stop trafficking is to work with sex workers, not criminalize them.” Tumblr’s ban on adult content created a space where there is “no place for sex workers, women, trans folk, queer folk to express themselves.”

While the effects of FOSTA have been felt across a spectrum of communities, no single group has been more heavily impacted than sex workers, for whom social media had in many ways made their jobs safer. This includes sex workers engaged in perfectly legal professions such as pornography or exotic dance, as well as those working in countries and jurisdictions where prostitution is legal.

Sex workers have reported that Instagram has removed their accounts and images, even when they contain no explicit content. They’ve documented instances of Facebook discussion groups being shut down for featuring sex work–related conversations. LinkedIn prohibits the listing of sex work in one ‘s profile, thus de-legitimizing it as work (regardless of jurisdiction). Payment processors from PayPal to Square regularly shut down accounts of sex workers, and nearly every online advertising tool bans sexual content.

“We know what keeps people healthy, and taking away people’s ability to earn income or their access to community or their ability to advocate and mobilize for themselves has deadly consequences,” says Danielle Blunt, a founding member of Hacking/Hustling, a collective of sex workers and allies working at the intersection of technology and social justice. “These platforms are killing people—that’s what happens when freedom of speech is eliminated. Being de-platformed from social media has chilled my speech … They have built such powerful tools that my compliance to their terms of service is more important to me than saying exactly what I want to say.”

Censoring sexuality to such an extraordinary degree is guaranteed to have a long-term impact on society. By forbidding any potentially sexual content, tech companies are furthering the sexual ideals proliferated by mainstream pornography sites—ideals that most feminists have long considered harmful. And, by banning positive and realistic depictions of bodies and sex at a time when societal attitudes toward sex work, transgender individuals, and other sexual minorities are changing, Silicon Valley companies are complicit in ensuring that the status quo—that is, the limited representation of body types outside a narrow norm and the harm to body image that such standards cause—will remain.

If private companies are compelled by governments or advertisers to be arbiters of what parts of our bodies is “acceptable” content, the social progress of the past decades will slow. New technologies like virtual reality—a type of immersive technology being pioneered by companies like Facebook and Alphabet— are coming of age; if such new platforms are held to puritanical, censorious standards, then yet another mode for self-expression will have been diminished before it even fully gets off the ground. Identity is an intergenerational issue, and in order to give future generations agencies over their self-constructed identities, there exists a constant struggle to break free of the moralities of the past . . . and the present.

“Doing nothing” is all the rage — is it a form of resistance or just an indulgence for the lucky few

The pandemic has either created too much free time or too little. Kitchen-table commutes and reduced social obligations expand mornings and weekends for some, while caretakers and gig workers are exhausted by the constant, overlapping demands of home and work.

It’s no surprise, then, that idleness is trending. Concepts like “niksen,” Dutch for “doing nothing,” and “wintering,” resting in response to adversity, have entered the wellness lexicon. Doing nothing is even being called a new productivity hack, aligning the practice with an always-on culture that seeks to optimize every waking minute.

While such prescriptions largely target the privileged who have the resources to curate their schedules, idleness can also be a form of resistance to the capitalist machine. Artist Jenny Odell’s bestselling book “How to Do Nothing” argues for using leisure time to build cohesive communities by engaging with your local environment instead of your smartphone.

In other words, there’s an ethics to idleness. And the debates on its ethics date back thousands of years, to philosophers and theologians who distinguished between civic-minded leisure, or “otium,” and sloth, or “accidia.”

Though leisure and sloth have variously been praised and scorned, a central tension runs through the history of idleness, from the Roman Empire to today: What obligations do humans have to society? And just because you can do nothing, should you?

Ancient roots

Many ancient Romans disparaged otium as political disengagement that threatened the stability of the republic. (Its opposite, “negotium,” is the source of the word “negotiation.”)

Yet others sought to recuperate leisure and idleness for positive political ends. Cicero and Seneca both advocated for an otium consisting of personal cultivation that would serve society. They argued that properly studying history, politics and philosophy demanded time away from the business of the city. Citizens who learned from these subjects could help ensure peace and stability in the republic. Both took care to distinguish the otium of study from the idleness of hedonistic indulgences like drinking and sex.

Medieval Christian society more sharply divided the two modes of idleness. Monastic communities performed the “Opus Dei,” or work of God, that included activities the Romans would have defined as otium, like contemplative reading.

But the medieval system of vices and virtues condemned sloth. Geoffrey Chaucer wrote that it was “the bilge-hold of all wicked thoughts and of all trifles, jests, and filth.” Sloth distracted from many kinds of work: productive economic labor, the spiritual work of penance and the “good works” of charity that supported society’s most vulnerable members.

Idleness and industry

The division of idleness into beneficial “otium” and reprehensible “accidia” elicited new critiques in the industrial era. The 19th-century economist and sociologist Thorstein Veblen acerbically noted that leisure was a status symbol that distinguished the haves from the have-nots. He counted “government, warfare, religious observances and sports” as primary leisure activities enjoyed by capitalist elites. Essentially, Veblen condemned the classical and medieval activities of learning and leisure with the vitriol once reserved for sloth.

At the same time, others construed even the most slothful forms of idleness as a bold resistance to modernity’s greatest ills. Robert Louis Stevenson found in idleness an antidote to capitalist striving that acquainted the idler with what he called “the warm and palpating facts of life” – a kind of immediate experience of one’s fellow man and natural environment that was otherwise squelched by participation in the capitalist machine.

If Stevenson’s take on idleness had a tongue-in-cheek dilettantism to it, Bertrand Russell’s was deadly serious. He saw the solution to the high-stakes ideological conflict of the 1930s, between fascism and communism, in leisurely study and debate. In Russell’s view, what he proudly called “laziness” promoted a virtuous habit of mind that encouraged deliberative discourse and guarded against extremism.

Yet as the 20th century progressed, productivity again became a status symbol. Long work hours and a packed calendar conveyed status – even virtue – when judged by capitalist values.

Should you do nothing?

Underlying this divided conception of idleness is the paradox at its heart. By definition, it is nonaction, unlikely to influence the world.

Yet escaping the hamster wheel of productivity can spark the ideas that change the world. Real thought and insight require time away from “negotium.” A Reddit forum celebrates the shower thoughts that happen when the mind wanders, and Silicon Valley companies grant sabbaticals to encourage innovation. But it’s hard to tell from the outside whether idleness is hedonistic or edifying.

If today’s surge of interest in idleness promotes itself as a panacea for a peculiarly modern condition stemming from lockdown ennui and the omnipresence of technology, it has sometimes failed to grapple with the political implications of its prescriptions.

Extra sleep, time for hobbies and retreat from mundane cares restore the body and mind and promote creativity. Yet too often, the wellness movement’s treatment of idleness – which rebrands the medieval sin of sloth as a virtue – reinforces its privileges.

At its worst, it curates rarefied products and experiences – from eye pillows to expensive anti-burnout retreats – for those with the means and the time, further isolating them from society.

Everyone needs rest, and it’s easy to feel the attraction of disengagement. But idleness has too often been a resource unequally allocated to the haves and moralized as sloth among the have-nots.

So, should you do nothing?

Whatever choice you make, you should know that personal idleness has a different function from civic-minded idleness. Personal idleness restores and renews but can also lead to antisocial or exploitative behavior. Civic-minded idleness acknowledges our connection with society even as we withdraw from it, giving us space to explore, play and discover. Ultimately, this should lead to a more equitable society.

Both kinds of idleness can be a social good. But the more opportunities people have to be idle, the better off everyone is.

Ingrid Nelson, Associate Professor of English, Amherst College

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Kathy Valentine of The Go-Go’s on her Beatles love and bass player parallels with Paul McCartney

Kathy Valentine, bassist for the groundbreaking group The Go-Go’s, joined host Kenneth Womack to talk about how the Beatles’ music scored her uncertain childhood and more on “Everything Fab Four,” a podcast co-produced by me and Womack (a music scholar who also writes about pop music for Salon) and distributed by Salon.

Valentine, who writes candidly about her journey and career in her new memoir “All I Ever Wanted,” credits music with saving her throughout every phase of life — starting with the Beatles. “That’s what I grew up with,” she explains to Womack. Since there “wasn’t a lot of music in our house,” she recalls being at friends’ homes with her mother (who was English and proud to be from the same country as the Fab Four) and dancing to “Twist and Shout” and “Can’t Buy Me Love,” and feeling truly happy. “[The Beatles’ music] is so indelibly woven into my childhood that it’s hard to separate it out.”

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As Valentine matured she soon discovered “Rubber Soul” and “Revolver,” but says The White Album is the first album she actually bought — and the one that resonated the most with her. She describes it as “accessible, playful, and yet mysterious and intriguing.” For someone who describes her childhood as “isolated” and whose awareness of the world was getting broader, she says it felt “important and ominous” to be understanding this music the way adults did. And as timing would have it, Valentine says that “right when the Beatles broke up [in 1970]” is when her life started turning bad – and that’s the point where her book begins.

As she grew as a musician, though, she took cues from the new wave and punk bands that were becoming popular — and in particular rocker Suzi Quatro — and eventually went from a guitarist to playing bass for The Go-Go’s, the first multi-platinum-selling, all-female band to play instruments themselves, write their own songs, and have a number one album.

“I initially didn’t pay attention to the bass or single it out,” Valentine says, “But I paid more attention to the bass in the Beatles songs than any other music.” Having moved from the guitar to bass, she tells Womack, “I’d never put myself in a league with Paul McCartney as a player, but there is a sensibility there that is very similar. I think that comes from being a guitar player first.”

Listen to the entire conversation with Kathy Valentine on “Everything Fab Four” and subscribe via SpotifyApple PodcastsGoogle or wherever you get your podcasts.

“Everything Fab Four” is distributed by Salon. Host Kenneth Womack is the author of a two-volume biography on Beatles producer George Martin, the bestselling book “Solid State: The Story of Abbey Road and the End of the Beatles,” and most recently “John Lennon, 1980: The Last Days in the Life.”