‘This Push to Open Schools Is Guaranteed to Fail’

Olivia Arthur / Magnum

In March, we were all living in 15-day increments. Working from home and distance learning, for those who had the terrible luxury of such things, would be a weeks-long affair, surreal but temporary. Fifteen days to flatten the curve. Fifteen days to slow the spread.

Scientists warned us even then that a return to normalcy would take longer, but the telescoped timeline had obvious appeal. You can put up with almost anything for just 15 days.

Acting on the chance to get it right was essential, but we now know it was not temporary. We’ve seen the failures—in testing, in containment, in federal and state leadership—compound in catastrophic ways. And as our pandemic summer has stretched on, many of us have let go, one by one, of experiences from the world we used to inhabit. We bid goodbye to sleepaway camp, to live music, to distant travel, to boisterous weddings, and to spontaneity in general. Today, a new realization is dawning, and as the debate over schools reopening rages, we must acknowledge it plainly: We aren’t going back to how it was. And we shouldn’t.

“This push to open schools is guaranteed to fail,” says Peter Hotez, a pediatrician and molecular virologist, and the dean for the National School of Tropical Medicine at Baylor College of Medicine. I’ve been corresponding with Hotez, and with several epidemiologists, over the course of the pandemic, and have noticed a starkness in their views in recent weeks. “The social-distancing expectations and mask requirements for the lower grades are unrealistic,” Hotez told me. “In communities with high transmission, it’s inevitable that COVID-19 will enter the schools. Within two weeks of opening schools in communities with high virus transmission, teachers will become ill. All it will take is for a single teacher to become hospitalized with COVID and everything will shut down.”

Hotez has good reason to be pessimistic. There were 68,605 new cases in the United States yesterday, according to data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. The seven-day average has stayed above 60,000 new cases per day since July 13. Reaching 100,000 cases per day, once seen as an apocalyptic, worst-case-scenario warning from Anthony Fauci, is no longer difficult to imagine. Indeed, my conversations with epidemiologists in recent days were all strikingly dark. They agreed: Schools should not risk reopening, probably not even for the youngest children, in the coming weeks.

The evidence is all around us. There is the summer camp in Georgia where hundreds of kids and counselors—nearly half the camp—got infected after only a few days together. Then there’s the school in Indiana where, just hours after reopening last week, a student tested positive for the coronavirus. (“We knew it was a when, not if,” the superintendent told The New York Times, but officials were “very shocked it was on Day 1.”)

There’s also the JAMA Pediatrics study that suggests that babies and young children can carry extremely high viral loads of COVID-19. The study’s authors found at least as much viral material in the throats and airways of young children as infected adults, and sometimes 100 times as much as adults. We’ve long known that kids older than age 10 can efficiently transmit the virus, but this new research suggests that younger kids pose a risk of transmission to the people around them, just as older children do. The more we learn, the more likely it seems that children are highly effective vectors for transmission. Springtime school closures took place before the virus seized the nation. A return to the classroom now—even with thoughtful precautions—would create excellent conditions to test just how quickly COVID-19 can saturate a community. School was deemed unsafe for children, teachers, and staffers back in March. The pandemic is worse in the United States now than it was then, with multiple epicenters burning across the country. So why would schools reopen now?

“The problem is the White House and the task force could never organize themselves to lead a federal response and bring virus transmission down to containment levels,” said Hotez, who has argued for the necessity of a federal containment plan that, if executed effectively, might allow the nation to reopen comprehensively as soon as October. “Instead they took a lazy and careless route, claiming schools are important, as we all know, and the teachers and principals need to figure it out. What they did was deliberately set up the teachers, staff, and parents to fail. It’s one of the most careless, incompetent, and heartless actions I’ve ever seen promoted by the executive branch of the federal government.”

There is another cause for concern, this one about what the virus might do to children themselves. Although the rate of morbidity in young children is relatively low, young children are also among the least-tested cohort in America. Fauci has stressed repeatedly in recent weeks that we know relatively little about children and the virus. For example, we still don’t know how frequently children get infected, or what percentage of children are symptomatic, or how underlying conditions may exacerbate or even alleviate the severity of the infection. The results of one six-month National Institutes of Health study, which enrolled thousands of families from 11 U.S. cities, are expected in December.

But “we don’t need additional information to make decisions,” Hotez insisted. Right now, he said, there are at least 40 states in which schools simply should not open. “Remember, schools are not hermetically sealed … We need to reach containment first. It’s that simple.”

One of the strangest things about living through a pandemic is the lag in understanding of how bad things are, an awful mirror of the lag in deaths that comes like clockwork after a surge in coronavirus cases. All along, this disaster has been simultaneously wholly shared and wholly individualized, a weird dissonance in a collective tragedy that each person, each family, has to navigate with intricate specificity to their circumstances. The despair that has seemed to crest in recent days represents another kind of lag—a lag of realization—and the inevitable end of hopefulness about what life might be like in September.

In The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion wrote of the deepest and most personal kind of bereavement, the loss of her husband, but I find myself thinking of her words often in the context of the pandemic: “We are imperfect mortal beings, aware of that mortality even as we push it away, failed by our very complication, so wired that when we mourn our losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer. As we will one day not be at all.”

These losses will feel only more acute as the season turns. We are accustomed to marking the passage of time in sweet and mundane rituals—the photos taken for the first day back to school, the new sneakers, the clean stack of fresh composition books. Instead we are marking our time in numbers. No longer 15-day increments, but 154 days since we were all together. So far, 152,870 dead from the virus in America. We cannot wish away the pandemic, as much as we try; it will persist until we muster the resolve and the resources to contain it. This is our normal. Not forever, but for a very long now.

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نرم افزار گرامرلی

The Best American Novelist Whose Name You May Not Know

In the winter of 1975, a quiet young woman from Lexington, Kentucky, met her Ph.D. adviser in Brown University’s writing program for a series of unsatisfactory tutorials about an ambitious project of hers that had yet to fully reveal itself. The encounters were strange enough that her adviser still recalled them in an interview a quarter century later: “I was doing all the talking, and she would sit rigidly, just bobbing her head in a regal manner. Yet there was a kind of arrogance to her. Perhaps it was the arrogance of an artist fiercely committed to a vision, but I also sensed a bottled-up black rage.” There’s nothing unusual about a young writer seething at the world, especially in the 1970s, when protests and bad attitudes about race, war, and university curricula were so de rigueur that they may as well have been taught at orientation. Likelier than not, his student sensed her (white) adviser’s judgment and withdrew in response—and didn’t think he had much to offer, anyway. While her natural range was virtuosic, his work consisted primarily of a host of popular paperbacks and magazine stories whose titles, including Dormitory Women and “Up the Down Coed,” accurately convey their subjects and sensibilities.

However mutually frustrating the meetings between Gayl Jones and R. V. Cassill may have been, his comment is most striking for having been made to The New York Times after her husband, Robert Higgins, slit his own throat when a SWAT team stormed their house in February 1998 to arrest him on a 14-year-old warrant from another state. Two decades earlier, Jones had been hailed as one of the great literary phenoms of the 20th century, only to then drop out of sight; just days before her husband killed himself, she’d reemerged on the American literary scene with a new novel that would become a finalist for a National Book Award.

Leaving aside the callousness of Cassill’s remarks (and the obvious question: What does “black rage” mean?), they violated the typical assumptions of academic privacy. That the reporter and his editors deemed Cassill’s observation useful in understanding Jones’s life does not confirm her anger so much as it affirms all there is to be angry about. No matter her insights and achievements, the frame through which she was viewed and understood by the white world remained the same. She sat silently as he read the early drafts of what would become her first novel. He talked. She left. He was flummoxed. She returned, because she had to. It could have been a Beckett play, almost funny until you lived it.

Fortunately, Jones also worked closely at Brown with a true mentor, the noted poet Michael Harper, who’d overseen her master’s degree and would become a lifelong friend. She received her doctorate in 1975 and published her first novel, Corregidora, the same year. The story is told by a 1940s Kentucky blues singer, Ursa, whose troubles with men are refracted through memories of slavery handed down by her matrilineal line:

My great-grandmama told my grandmama the part she lived through that my grandmama didn’t live through and my grandmama told my mama what they both lived through and my mama told me what they all lived through and we were suppose to pass it down like that from generation to generation so we don’t forget.

Or, as the protagonist, whose mother and grandmother were fathered by the same Portuguese slave owner, says at another point: “I am Ursa Corregidora. I have tears for eyes. I was made to touch my past at an early age. I found it on my mother’s tiddies. In her milk.”

What Faulkner saw in the haunted old mansions of Oxford, Mississippi, Jones saw in the ghosts of the Black dead. She was a pioneer in grappling with the contemporary legacy of slavery, and her debut was praised by the likes of John Updike, in The New Yorker, as well as a host of Black writers. “Corregidora is the most brutally honest and painful revelation of what has occurred, and is occurring, in the souls of Black men and women,” James Baldwin wrote.

Jones’s early novels were shepherded by Toni Morrison, then an editor at Random House, who’d dedicated herself to publishing Black writers, especially women. To put things in perspective, at the time Corregidora came out, Morrison had only recently published her first works of fiction, The Bluest Eye and Sula. She had yet to hit her stride as a writer, while Jones burst forth in her early 20s all but fully formed and requiring little editing. Jones needed a champion, however, someone who could understand and appreciate the sophistication of her approach to subject matter as well as language. “No novel about any black woman could ever be the same after this,” Morrison declared after reading the manuscript of Corregidora.

Richard Ford, who got to know Jones when they were both fellows at the University of Michigan, in Ann Arbor, called her a “prodigy”: “History may have caught up with her, but she was a movement unto herself. Toni knew this very, very, very well when she published her.”

Jones had a marked effect not only on Morrison’s subsequent novels but on an entire generation of writers, whether they realized it or not. The tentacles of slavery in the present day have grown into a principal concern of Black literature, and Jones’s early work was absorbed into this canon almost imperceptibly. Over time, her literary ambitions would evolve, as she published and then receded from the public eye, published and then receded. This spring, she self-published her first novel in 21 years—Palmares, a six-volume work about the last fugitive-slave settlement in Brazil. In mid-June, Beacon Press bought the rights to the book, with plans to release it in September 2021.* In the sprawling narrative, set in the 17th century, Jones’s feats of linguistic and historical invention are on ample display. Describing the impact of her singular vision and intensity, John Edgar Wideman remarked 22 years ago: “I think she scared people.”

Gayl Jones was born into a modest family in 1949. Her father, Franklin, worked as a line cook in a restaurant, an occupation she would later give to the father of the narrator of her second novel, Eva’s Man. Her mother, Lucille, was a homemaker and a writer; Jones would incorporate lengthy passages from her work into her experimental fourth novel, Mosquito.

Jones spent childhood weekends visiting her maternal grandmother on a small farm outside Lexington, where she absorbed the stories of the adults around her. It is an unremarkable detail, save for the importance and seriousness Jones later ascribed to this time, as an educated woman channeling those locked out of institutions of so-called higher learning, as a daughter in communion with her mothers, as a formidable theorist validating the integrity and equality of oral modes of storytelling. “The best of my writing comes from having heard rather than having read,” Jones told Michael Harper in an intimate interview conducted the year Corregidora was published. She hastened to add that she wasn’t dismissing the glories of reading, only pointing out that “in the beginning, all of the richness came from people rather than books because in those days you were reading some really unfortunate kinds of books in school.”

In the mid‑1960s, when Gayl and her younger brother were teenagers, Lucille managed to enroll them in the segregated but academically well-regarded Henry Clay High School. (The public-school system in Lexington did not formally integrate until the mid-1970s, 20 years after Brown v. Board of Education.) Jones proved an extraordinary student, and through the efforts of her Spanish teacher she was introduced to the poet Elizabeth Hardwick, who, together with her sometimes husband, Robert Lowell, helped arrange a scholarship for Jones at Connecticut College. She proved an equally exceptional student in New England, devoting herself to literature.

Jones published Eva’s Man in 1976, a year after Corregidora. Like Ursa, Eva is a 40ish woman recounting her life story, in this case from prison. Eva landed there after murdering and castrating in graphic fashion a lover she’d spent a few days with—ostensibly because she’d learned he was married. In conversations with a fellow inmate and a prison psychiatrist, Eva “stitch[es] her memories and fantasies into a pattern of sexual and emotional abuse,” as the critic Margo Jefferson wrote. When the psychiatrist asks Eva if she can pinpoint what triggered her to kill the man, she replies only, “It was his whole way.”

Jones called Corregidora a “blues novel,” because it communicated the “simultaneity of good and bad, as feeling, as something felt,” she told Harper. Meanwhile, she considered her second novel a “horror story,” explaining in another interview—with Charles H. Rowell, the editor of Callaloo, an African American literary magazine—that what Eva “does to the man in the book is a ‘horror’ … Eva carries out what Ursa might have done but didn’t.”

Published back-to-back, the books form a diptych exploring the undercurrents of the psyche in a world of slave-owners, whoremongers, prostitutes, killers, man-eaters, jealous husbands, wayward wives, psych-ward inmates, pedophiles, wife-beaters, women in love with their abusers, and girls who carry knives. Nobody goes to church much.

Instead of sermons, sense and sustenance flow from a web of intimacy and memory, at least for Jones’s female characters. The men are mostly phalluses tumescent with bad news. Their collective role is as a source of fear and pain, but also desire. Love is not absent, but the word can’t capture what transpires between her women and men. Jones has often been read as a political warrior speaking for unvoiced Black women, but she’s too great a writer with too broad a mind—and too mesmerized by psychological complexity—to pass any ideological purity tests. As she told Rowell, her preoccupations were “contradictory character and ambivalent character, and I like to explore them even without judgments entering the work.”

Jones’s politics are inscribed in her choice to write about the lowborn and low-down, giving them as much intelligence as she possesses; to work in flawless Black English; and to position herself inside rather than outside her characters. The vantage stands in contrast to the approach of Zora Neale Hurston, for example, whom Jones admired for her up-close treatment of relationships between Black men and women, but who at points wrote on behalf of Janie, in Their Eyes Were Watching God, not as her. As Jones well understood, Hurston, like all writers, was a product of her time, and of the circumstances of her oppression. She and her fellow members of the Harlem Renaissance were self-consciously striving to create a literature of Black people’s expanding worlds beyond slavery, but the mission could devolve into representing Blacks for a white audience, giving their fictions an unintended stiltedness. The problem might be summarized as one of code-switching between the Black world and the white gaze. The Black writer who knows the codes of both must always explain the lives, decisions, and humanity of her Black characters to whites who might not otherwise credit them. In Jones’s storytelling, however, there was no “ ‘author’ getting in the way,” Morrison noticed.

The other Black inventors of the modern novel about slavery were Leon Forrest (Two Wings to Veil My Face), who wrote with lyrical, epicurean elegance, and Charles Johnson (Oxherding Tale), whose stories of slave escapes are entwined with the Buddhist quest to get off the wheel of suffering, as well as with the ontological questions of Western philosophy. They bring the high-minded into the lives of the low. By working the other way around, Jones challenges literature itself to embrace other registers of the language, including the obscene, as in this relatively mild example from Corregidora:

A Portuguese seaman turned plantation owner, he took her out of the field when she was still a child and put her to work in his whorehouse while she was a child … I stole [the picture of him] because I said whenever afterward when evil come I wanted something to point to and say, “That’s what evil look like.” You know what I mean? Yeah, he did more fucking than the other mens did.

Jones elaborated on the politics of the English language with Harper:

I usually trust writers who I feel I can hear. A lot of European and Euro-American writers—because of the way their traditions work—have lost the ability to hear. Now Joyce could hear and Chaucer could hear. A lot of Southern American writers can hear … Joyce had to hear because of the whole historical-linguistic situation in Ireland … Finnegan’s Wake is an oral book. You can’t sight-read Finnegan’s Wake with any kind of truth. And they say only a Dubliner can really understand the book, can really “hear” it. Of course, black writers—it goes without saying why we’ve always had to hear.

Telling stories out loud was a matter of survival and wholeness for a community forbidden to read, as well as an act of rebellion, and the way Jones wields this tradition transforms even a kind of nursery rhyme shared between daughter and mother into something dirty, dangerous, and important.

I am the daughter of the daughter of the daughter of Ursa of currents, steel wool and electric wire for hair.

While mama be sleeping, the ole man he crawl into bed …

Don’t come here to my house, don’t come here to my house I said …

Fore you get any this booty, you gon have to lay down dead.

When Harper asked for her thoughts on the architects of 20th-century Black literature, namely “Gaines, Toomer, Ellison, Hurston, Walker, Forrest, Wright, Hughes, Brown, Hayden et. al,” Jones pointed out the wide variation in a group that to the mainstream might appear homogeneous:

You know, I say the names over in my mind, and I think about those people who will speak of black writing as a “limited category,” the implication being that it’s something you have to transcend. And it surprised me because I thought critics had outgrown that sort of posture.

She certainly had. Whereas Baldwin famously lashed out at the protest-novel straitjacket put on mid-20th-century Black writers—“The ‘protest’ novel, so far from being disturbing, is an accepted and comforting aspect of the American scene”—Jones came of age breathing the air of the Black Arts Movement. Founded by LeRoi Jones (no relation), who combined immense talent, critical acumen, and, after being brutalized by the police, a rusty shank of disdain for the lassitude of white America, the movement advanced the idea that white people’s approval was beside the point. Why bother being the Black exception in a country where attempts to control the mind and body of Black people knew no bounds? In his fiery 1965 manifesto, “The Revolutionary Theatre,” LeRoi Jones described the mission for Black artists this way: “White men will cower before this theatre because it hates them … The Revolutionary Theatre must hate them for hating.” Gayl Jones’s “fuck off ” was less explicit but no less radical: She wrote fiction as if white people weren’t watching.

Eva embodies that position. In a conversation about Jones’s second book published last year in The Believer, the young Zambian-born novelist Namwali Serpell explained the “brilliance” of Jones’s choice to let Eva be “bad,” to seemingly lack or reject the reflex to see herself through white people’s eyes. Eva’s “un-self-consciousness,” her unwillingness to “be known, or know how others know her,” Serpell said, “is a kind of freedom.”

illustration of 3 book covers
Na Kim

More than a few readers of Jones have assumed that her volatile husband inspired Eva’s Man, but she didn’t meet him until several years after she wrote that book, in Ann Arbor. In other words, she wasn’t the naive Black girl writing autobiographical workshop fiction, an expectation Jones was accustomed to. “Always with black writers,” she told Rowell, “there’s the suspicion that they can’t … invent a linguistic world in the same way that other writers can.” A white professor, in fact, once told Jones that he was surprised that she didn’t talk more like Ursa.

Ford, who recalls Jones as “within herself, but friendly and very smart,” says it’s a mistake to conflate authors with their characters. “Gayl’s books were dramatic, sexual, sexually violent, eloquent, and harsh in their assessments of the life she was vividly portraying,” he told me. “But fiction is not simply an emotional ‘readout’ of a writer’s feelings. It’s a congeries of made-up, ill-fitting, heretofore unaffiliated shards of experience, memory, feeling, event.”

Not much is known about Robert Higgins, apart from the dramatic run-ins he had with the law, including a pivotal one in 1983, when the pair attended a local gay-rights rally. There, he was alleged to have proclaimed himself God and declared HIV a form of divine retribution, prompting a woman to punch him. Whatever actually happened, Higgins, being an American, went home and returned brandishing a gun. He was arrested by the Ann Arbor police; his assailant was not. Rather than appear in court to defend himself, he and Jones left town, with a letter of protest to the university (and to President Ronald Reagan) that said, in part: “I reject your lying, racist shit. Do whatever you want. God is with Bob, and I’m with him.”

The couple then decamped from the United States altogether and spent the next five years in Europe, mostly in Paris, joining the tail end of a Black expatriate scene made up of people who did not wish to return to America after World War II.

Around this time, Jones published three books of poetry. The best-known of these, Song for Anninho, shares the essential story of Palmares, the epic novel she began composing more than four decades ago. It’s a love story about a man and a woman who live there (and, incidentally, was dedicated to Higgins). In this faraway past in a world populated by Africans, American Indians, Europeans, and all their possible admixtures, Jones pursued her desire to link Black Americans’ struggle to that of colonized people across the globe—the goal of what’s known as the universal freedom movement. “I’d like to be able to …write imaginatively of blacks anywhere/everywhere,” she told Rowell. She was a passionate student of Latin American literature, and her poetry has the lushness—and at times the over-the-top romanticism—of pan-Americanists such as Eduardo Galeano and Pablo Neruda: “I struggle through memory … the blood of the whole continent / running in my veins.”

In the late 1980s, Jones and Higgins returned to America, moving to Lexington to live with Jones’s mother, who was ill. Meanwhile, the rights to Corregidora and Eva’s Man had been acquired by the old Boston publisher Beacon. In 1997, however, Jones asked her editor there, Helene Atwan, to remove them from print. “She said they portrayed Black men very negatively, and she didn’t want those to be her only books out there,” Atwan told me, admitting to being intimidated by her author’s brilliance. “I said, ‘No! They’re important books. Send us new books, and we’ll publish those.’ ”

Jones promptly forwarded the manuscript for The Healing, the story of an itinerant faith healer, a woman named Harlan who is one step ahead of hard times and of her own past. In a 1991 book of critical essays, called Liberating Voices, Jones had described the trajectory of Black literature as moving from “the restrictive forms (inheritors of self-doubt, self-repudiation, and the minstrel tradition) to the liberation of voice and freer personalities in more intricate texts,” and The Healing puts the author herself on that path. The narrative voice is that of a world-weary, often wry country preacher with a self-proclaimed ability to cure the sick and soul-wounded. As Harlan encounters believers and nonbelievers during her travels, Jones plants notions about how narratives are deployed in everyday life to both reveal and hide. The story’s small “tank towns” and ordinary people are familiar from her other books, but where the earlier work seems to resign itself to the world, The Healing holds forth the possibility of redemption.

The speed with which Jones presented the manuscript to Beacon suggests that it was a novel she had written earlier, and only then decided to publish. When it was named as a finalist for a 1998 National Book Award, Jones asked Michael Harper to attend in her place, eschewing industry hobnobbing for a private life in Kentucky.

This privacy was soon upended, after the Lexington police saw a celebratory article about her in Newsweek and, armed with the old warrant from Michigan, went to arrest Higgins, then living under the alias Bob Jones. When they arrived at the couple’s door, he threatened suicide rather than surrender. The police then called for a SWAT team. Higgins signaled his seriousness by taking up a kitchen knife. They stormed inside anyway, tackling Jones as Higgins did what he said he’d do. A district attorney defended the police’s “perfectly” executed handling of the warrant, noting that Higgins had written threatening letters about the shoddy hospital care his mother-in-law received, and that by the time the authorities arrived they were “sitting on a bomb.”

After her husband’s death, Jones was committed to a hospital amid fears that she might harm herself. When her fourth novel, Mosquito, appeared the following year, everyone flocked to it for clues about the tragedy. Instead, they were greeted with a wildly ambitious novel that took its inspiration from the free-form riffs of jazz, in line with Black writers like Ralph Ellison and Albert Murray. Jazz is many things, and Mosquito came from its more daring vein. It was not well received. In a pan of the book published in The New York Times, Henry Louis Gates Jr. complained that it

often reads more like Jones’s “Theory of the Novel,” her encyclopedic version of Jamesian prefaces, than like any of Jones’s previous works. It’s a late-night riff by the Signifying Monkey, drunk with words and out of control, regurgitating half-digested ideas taken from USA Today, digressing on every possible subject, from the color of the Egyptians to the xenophobia of the Great Books movement, from the art of “signifying” and the role of Africans in the slave trade to the subtleties of Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man.

Clearly Gates likes to play the dozens.

The book demands to be taken more seriously. On the simple level of story, it’s about a truck driver named Mosquito—the only female on a route that traces the Mexican border—who becomes a coyote for a group called the Sanctuary, ferrying refugees on the “new Underground Railroad.” All of Jones’s women are on the run, but from book to book they become more likely to have a place to go. Mosquito is one of Jones’s trademark mash-ups—fusing her interests in history, character, and contemporary events. Time is collapsed, such that the past, present, and future play on a Finnegan’s Wake–style loop of language and consciousness. It’s an Olympian move, but if you’re Simone Biles, who’s to tell you not to play hopscotch with the gods? Like other late-postmodern works, the book overflows the usual frames of realism; it includes the author’s original theories about the relationship between story and life, between the speaker/writer and the listener/reader. It often sounds like overhearing a lunch date between Derrida and Calvino, at a table where both theorist and master are Jones. Mosquito didn’t find a general readership, but it helped feed a lot of dissertations.

Its reception aside, the novel marked a formal shift for Jones. The wealth of knowledge inside the author’s mind by then—the ideas, and the layers of experience she was trying to put across—strain the naive first-person narrator. Jones may have been listening to jazz, but she was also exploring the boundaries of what is possible in the modernist forms of the novel.

At 50, an age when many writers are just arriving at the height of their power, Jones might have been expected to tally the lessons from her experiment and keep moving. Indeed, Atwan said that Mosquito wasn’t yet published when Jones sent her the manuscript for Palmares. But for reasons unavailable to us, Jones—who communicated only sporadically with her Beacon editor—decided against following through with the book. And soon, Atwan said, Jones told her that she’d stopped writing entirely.

A main definition of a canonical artist is one whom other artists keep alive across generations. And word of mouth is what led me to Jones’s work a few years after college, when I decided to truly educate myself. As an aspiring novelist, I wanted to see where my own writing fit in, sure, but I’d also matured enough to realize that what I liked and didn’t like was irrelevant to the task of understanding the vastness of literature. During this years-long period, I read through the books that get anthologized as the American canon, the English, the World Lit, and sampled various national traditions. I read the Nobel Prize winners I hadn’t before. Harold Bloom was the GOAT among readers, so I measured myself in those days against the indexes of The Western Canon. You can read all of these things and still not know much about Black literature. My education there was in bookshops and libraries, but especially in talking with other writers, visual artists, musicians, filmmakers, dancers. It was the best education I ever had.

One Friday after work at my day job as a magazine writer, I made my way from Sixth Avenue to a bar in Hell’s Kitchen where industry people gathered. I joined some friends from Newsweek at the Black table, where they were sitting in stunned silence and self-reproach. Higgins had just killed himself, after the magazine outed his location. I don’t remember the specifics, but we talked bitterly about the editorial decisions that led the police to his door. About the things that white Americans understood and did not understand about being Black in this country. Things they might not wish to know.

The reason I’ve told you all this is so you’ll understand what I mean when I say that Gayl Jones’s new work is as relevant as ever. With monumental sweep, it blends psychological acuity and linguistic invention in a way that only a handful of writers in the transatlantic tradition have matched. She has boldly set out to convey racial struggle in its deep-seated and disorienting complexity—Jones sees the whole where most only see pieces.

More than a third of all Africans removed from their homeland from the early 1500s to the mid-1800s—more than 4 million people—were transported to Brazil and enslaved alongside the indigenous people, at least those who hadn’t been exterminated. Today Nigeria is the only country with a larger Black population than Brazil, and in the body of African American culture stretching from Harlem to Rio, the state of Bahia might be fairly viewed as its spiritual heart. Perhaps the heart of the entire Black world. Palmares centers on the reenslavement of the last settlement of free Blacks in Brazil—and is told from the point of view of Almeyda, a young girl who has learned to read with the help of a local Catholic priest named Father Tollinare, though he tries to limit the books available to her. The novel has a García Márquezean pace, and, because it imitates the rhythms of Portuguese and imports words without the usual linguistic signposts, it almost feels as though it has been translated into English. But where García Márquez writes of generals and doctors, Jones tells of slaves and whores. The rhetoric of race in Latin America is different from our own, of course, but its history, and the ways blood and money operate, are familiar.

Plot is beside the point in Palmares—the book unfolds on a plane of consciousness where the things achieved are shifting relationships and states of being. Ultimately, the book is about taking full possession of the entire Black experience, including tenderness—and Jones’s quest to free the individual Black voice. Father Tollinare, born back in the Old World and wedded to its old sounds, doesn’t realize his young student’s hunger to expand and integrate:

During the studies, he’d pass one worn Bible around and we’d read the stories, and he’d shake his head when we dropped letters off the ends of words, and he’d say, “In Portugal they say it this way.” “But here we say it this way,” I protested once. He looked at me sternly … I was silent because I wanted to know how to read and write the words, even if I continued to pronounce them a different way.

At her best, Jones wields the words of a larger literary tradition with a subversive power that is rare in its all-encompassing purity. Dropping letters, she adds new worlds to that tradition, one that has been—in this country, and in the American language—as versed in duplicity as in revelation. One wishes that the blooming of Jones’s genius were as simple as the saying “You can’t keep a good woman down.” The truth is, you can, and it’s been done for centuries. The old women in Kentucky presumably told her that long ago, and how best to endure.


* Beacon Press previously told The Atlantic that it would be publishing Palmares in September 2020. After this article went to press, the publisher confirmed that the book will in fact be released in September 2021. The article has been updated online to reflect this. It appears in the September 2020 print edition with the headline “‘No Novel About Any Black Woman Could Ever Be the Same After This.’”

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Trump Warns That Mail-In Ballots Could Result in Voting

A person wearing a rubber glove placing a ballot in a mail box
Photograph by Matt Rourke / AP / Shutterstock

WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report)—Calling the situation a “total disaster,” Donald J. Trump warned on Sunday that the use of mail-in ballots could result in voting.

Appearing on Fox News, Trump said that there were “all kinds of studies” showing a “direct link” between mail-in ballots and votes cast.

“Wherever you’ve had mail-in ballots, there have been widespread cases of voting,” he said. “We’re not going to let that happen.”

He said that other countries have solved the problem of “too many votes” by banning mail-in ballots altogether.

“You look at North Korea,” Trump said. “They don’t have mail-in ballots. They barely have mail. They’re doing an amazing job.”

Raising another issue with what he called “excessive voting,” Trump warned that “the more votes you have, the higher the number you have to count to.”

“When I took my cognitive test, I had to count to ten, and that was no walk in the park,” he said. “And now you’re telling me there’s somebody out there who can count into the millions? Give me a break.”

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How to Stop China From Imposing Its Values

Getty / The Atlantic

On their own, few countries are powerful enough to stand up to bullying by China, and the existing security alliances upon which the world’s major democracies depend weren’t built to address the economic threats now emanating from Beijing. This spring, shortly after Australia called for an international investigation into the origins of COVID-19, the Chinese ambassador to that country threatened an economic boycott, declaring that the Chinese public could go without Australian wine and beef, among other products. Since China is Australia’s largest export market, this was no small threat. Subsequently, China blocked imports from major Australian meat producers and placed tariffs on Australian barley. More and more, China is using its massive economic weight to threaten countries that challenge its actions, criticize its leaders, or express sympathy for people whom it considers dissidents or separatists.

In April, Chinese officials threatened the European Union with unnamed repercussions if an official EU report described a Chinese “global disinformation campaign” related to COVID-19. (The EU toned down the report.) Beijing has threatened economic harm to German automakers if Germany attempts to exclude equipment made by the Chinese telecom giant Huawei from its 5G networks. Last year, China also threatened to impose trade restrictions on Sweden after a Chinese Swedish author was awarded a prize for persecuted writers by the Swedish chapter of the group PEN International. These moves represent a kind of economic imperialism. The Chinese Communist Party, which suppresses dissent at home, is trying to force other countries to abide by its authoritarian norms and use its preferred company to build their own essential communications networks.

In the United States, suspicion of the Chinese government is a bipartisan matter, but no consensus exists about just what to do. The Trump administration has implemented a variety of hawkish policies, including restricting semiconductor sales in China and stopping a U.S. government retirement fund from investing in stocks there, and the president himself vowed Friday to ban TikTok, a popular app owned by a Chinese company. Secretary of State Mike Pompeo called in a recent speech for “a new alliance of democracies” to counter the emerging superpower, although few details were offered. The draft of the 2020 Democratic Party platform broadly vows to “rally friends and allies across the world to push back against China or any other country’s attempts to undermine international norms.”

The problem is that the United States and its allies currently lack the ability to respond to the type of geo-economic threats that China is making. Specifically, they need a means of taking collective action when Beijing attempts to use economic power as a tool of political coercion. No country should face such threats alone.

Many of America’s most important Cold War–era institutions, especially NATO, were designed to deter a primarily military threat from the Soviet Union. But back then, Moscow—unlike Beijing now—had limited economic leverage against the West. Global economic institutions such as the World Trade Organization were narrowly focused on trade agreements and rule-making to ensure fair economic competition, but did not consider the possibility of economic warfare or the danger of economic threats to force political concessions. Indeed, none of these alliances or institutions has been any help in addressing the Chinese economic threats against Australia, Germany, Sweden, or other nations.

Those threats also harm the United States. If China forces U.S. allies to use Huawei’s technology in their information networks, American communications that go through those networks could be exposed to the Chinese Communist Party’s infiltration. And China’s rulers have sought to enforce the party line on Americans. Last year, Beijing punished the NBA’s Houston Rockets when the team’s general manager offered support for Hong Kong’s prodemocracy protesters on Twitter, a platform blocked in China. The regime will likely grow bolder as China’s economic might grows.

New threats demand new responses. During the Cold War, the U.S. created not just NATO but also the CIA and the Air Force to respond to Soviet threats. The period brought about a wholly new form of intelligence competition between the West and the Soviet Union. This led the U.S., Britain, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand to enter into the alliance commonly known as Five Eyes, which allowed unprecedented intelligence sharing among nations in peacetime. This approach would have been unimaginable before the Soviet geopolitical threat.

Similarly, a new kind of alliance—like NATO, but for economic rather than military threats—is needed to respond to the kind of statecraft that China is practicing. Under such a system, participating nations would provide mutual support when China threatens one or more members with economic repercussions for political actions. That assistance could involve the imposition of tariffs on Chinese goods by all member nations; the creation of a pool of capital to help a targeted nation withstand Beijing’s pressure; the release of strategic reserves of essential materials, such as rare-earth metals, that China produces and could withhold; and other forms of collective economic defense.

When China targets Australian barley and beef to mute criticism of Beijing’s handling of COVID-19, members of the economic alliance could all impose tariffs or other forms of economic weapons to force China to back off. If China continued to threaten German automobile exports to force concessions on 5G, alliance members might ease the pain by reducing their own tariffs on Volkswagens and BMWs.

This alliance would be open to any nation that wanted to maintain free markets and political autonomy. Use of its tools would have to be narrow: It should act only in cases where economic warfare is used as a means of political coercion. It would not replace NATO or other military alliances. Nor would it replace the WTO. In fact, it would be complementary, and provide a means of safeguarding the WTO’s goal of free trade, by countering attempts to turn trade into a geopolitical bargaining chip.

The United States needs to develop policies toward China that are largely consistent from one administration to the next. A NATO-like economic-security alliance could support a bipartisan consensus on China policy. It is compatible with the nationalist approach championed by the Trump administration—but also with the more traditional policy objectives of Democrats, including Joe Biden, who believe in building global alliances and protecting the human and political rights of smaller nations.

Up to this point, the United States and other democracies have tightly integrated their economies with China’s without fully planning for the problems that the arrangement presents. China has used this economic integration for geopolitical gain. Just as the U.S. needed alliances to deter military threats after World War II, it needs alliances that deter economic threats from Beijing now.

We want to hear what you think about this article. Submit a letter to the editor or write to letters@theatlantic.com.

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How a Cheese Goes Extinct

Selection of cheeses
When you talk with aficionados, it usually doesn’t take long for the conversation to veer away from curds, whey, and mold, and toward matters of life and death.Photograph from Alamy

The late Mary Holbrook, a white-haired maestro in the British cheesemaking world, was known for her soft cheeses and her sharp temper. Once a week, she made the trip from Sleight Farm, her home in the southwest of England, to London to check on her wares as they ripened in the maturation rooms of an upscale cheese shop. Holbrook’s apprentices, hardened to her singular style of mentorship, knew to brace themselves for reprimands when she returned. Occasionally, though, Holbrook would come back with bags of treats—yogurt, mangoes, sweets—which she spilled across the kitchen table of her cold mid-nineteenth-century farmhouse on the crest of a hill, and they knew that the cheese must be tasting good, and that Mary’s little world was in order.

Before turning to cheesemaking, in the nineteen-seventies, Holbrook had been an archeologist. Some forty years into her second career, she still had a way of getting history to rise to the surface. Sleight Farm was littered with relics, pieces of rusting machinery scattered across the rolling fields. “If they broke,” Julianna Sedli, who worked with Holbrook for a little over three and a half years, said, “they broke forever.” In one shabby outbuilding, alongside vats of oil and parts of a tractor, craggy wheels of hard Old Ford cheese aged in the cool, damp shade. In a room along a little track, French influences converged with old English traditions of goat’s- and sheep’s-milk cheesemaking. There, Holbrook made Tymsboro, an ash-rubbed pyramid of soft cheese, with bright, peppery notes. Her semi-soft washed-rind Cardo cheese, meanwhile, borrowed from Portuguese tradition, using a vegetarian rennet made from thistle stamens.

As Holbrook’s renown spread—as well as gaining acclaim for her cheeses, she made her name by supplying pork to some of London’s most famous restaurants—aspiring cheesemakers made pilgrimages to the farm, keen to learn from the woman who had built a reputation as one of Britain’s finest. Some journeyed down for only a week or two; others stayed for years. In 2004, Martin Gott and his partner Nicola Robinson moved to Sleight Farm from their jobs in Lancashire, in the northwest of England. They bought a flock of sheep and rented some grazing land and barn space from Holbrook, developing their own washed-rind sheep’s cheese—St. James—in snatched moments when they weren’t farming and cheesemaking for Holbrook. Their vision didn’t always align with Holbrook’s: Gott recalls that, much of the time, he was left to make his own mistakes, with his mentor only chiming in to express disappointment or dissent. But there were bright moments, too. In the evening, they would leaf through cheese-industry catalogues, laughing about the incredible strangeness of being able to buy starter cultures—packages of concentrated bacteria designed to help the milk sour safely and with the right flavor—with futuristic names like G017-B.

“I wouldn’t say that Mary taught us a huge amount of practical cheesemaking,” Gott said. “But she put us in a position where we could learn.” If the work of an archeologist is to let objects tell their own story, Mary carried this philosophy forward in her cheesemaking, too: smelling, tasting, observing, and touching the cheese as it was made and aged, letting it speak for itself.

Holbrook died in February, 2019, at the age of eighty, following a short illness. She left behind no children, and her cousin’s daughter, Catherine Ochiltree, was unable to continue the difficult work of farming and cheesemaking in her absence. Ochiltree and her partner were travelling nearly a hundred and fifty miles from their home in Kent to the farm on weekends, in addition to working full-time jobs. “We just didn’t have that resilience,” Ochiltree said. “We were running on a very skeleton staff. I took the decision that we needed to bow out, so we started to dry the goats off and started to sell the herd.”

By July of that year, the farm ceased production, and Holbrook’s cheeses—Old Ford, Cardo, Sleightlett, and Tymsboro—slipped out of the living tradition and into the pages of history. A cheese is just one small piece of the world—one lump of microbe-riddled milk curds—but each is an endpoint of centuries of tradition. Some disappear for months or years; others never return. The cheesemonger and writer Ned Palmer told me that, when a cheese is lost, “Your grief reaches back into the past—into decades and centuries and millennia of culture. You feel all of that.”

When you talk with cheese aficionados, it doesn’t usually take long for the conversation to veer this way: away from curds, whey, and mold, and toward matters of life and death. With the zeal of nineteenth-century naturalists, they discuss great lineages and endangered species, painstakingly cataloguing those cheeses that are thriving and those that are lost to history. In his classic “The Great British Cheese Book,” from 1982, Major Patrick Rance—a monocled founding father of modern British cheese—intersperses his tales of surviving regional cheeses with obituaries for those that never made it so far, going as far as to describe their disappearance as extinction. Under “Extinct cheeses of the Midlands and East Anglia,” Rance pays his respects to a lost Newmarket cheese, “a 40lb marigold-coloured cheese,” pressed under cloth and rubbed with salt and cream, the recipe for which was unearthed in a 1774 housekeeping manual.

There are countless ways for a cheese to disappear. Some, like Holbrook’s, die with their makers. Others fall out of favor because they’re simply not good: one extinct Suffolk cheese, “stony-hard” because it was made only with skimmed milk, was so notoriously bad that, in 1825, the Hampshire Chronicle reported that one ship’s cargo of grindstones was eaten by rats while the neighboring haul of Suffolk cheese escaped untouched. As Palmer has outlined in his book, “A Cheesemonger’s History of the British Isles,” the fate of a cheese is often entangled with economic and political circumstances, as well as the failings of its makers. During the Second World War, much milk was redirected away from cheese production and toward drinking. The small amount of cheese that was permitted to be made was strictly regulated, with only a small roster of cheeses—mostly hard cow’s-milk cheeses similar to Cheddar—approved for production. Soft and blue cheeses, which tended to contain higher moisture levels than those permitted in ration cheese, and which were less durable, didn’t make the cut. Within two decades, the number of farmhouse cheesemakers had plummeted from more than a thousand to less than two hundred.

Even if a cheese can be rescued, the act of bringing it back to life can be fraught. In 2004, when the founder of the artisanal-cheese retailer Neal’s Yard Dairy, Randolph Hodgson, and the cheesemaker Joe Schneider decided to make a raw-milk version of Stilton, the process was like trying to resurrect the dinosaurs using only a sketch of a Tyrannosaurus rex on the back of a napkin for reference. Although Stilton is celebrated as a jewel among British cheeses, a raw-milk version hadn’t been made since the late nineteen-eighties, when a health scare led the final few creameries making it to switch to pasteurized milk. To find a path toward an authentic Stilton taste and texture—the way it had been made for more than two hundred years—Schneider had to rely on the “taste memory” of people who had last eaten the cheese a decade earlier. “I felt like a blind man trying to navigate my way, while these guys shouted orders at me to move a little bit left or a little bit right,” he said. He found images in old books of wheels of Stilton stacked high at market: these scraps of information gave him vital clues about the size, moisture, and structure of the traditional version. “You could never do that with a modern Stilton,” Schneider said. “It would crush—it’s too broken down and soft.”

Matters were complicated further by the very P.D.O. (Protected Designation of Origin) status that is supposed to protect traditional Stilton-making. With existing producers having switched to pasteurized-milk production in the nineteen-nineties, pasteurization became a protected trait for all Stilton cheeses, leaving Schneider and Hodgson’s cheese—made by the same methods, in the same place, and with the same microbial cultures as Stilton had been for centuries—unable to use that name. Not deterred, however, they leapfrogged back through history and secured the name Stichelton—which is, according to Schneider, the Old English name for the town of Stilton—for their cheese. Because it wasn’t Stilton, the cheese was more itself than ever.

These existential wranglings are familiar to Harry G. West, an anthropologist who has spent much of his academic life interrogating the way cheese is shaped by tradition, technology, and legislation. In Stichelton cheese, Schneider and Hodgson re-created the unpasteurized Stilton piece by piece, accounting for biological and environmental factors, in order to revive an old cheese in a new time. But West said that overly exacting approaches can be beside the point. “I think the question isn’t ‘Is it the same?’ but ‘Is it connected?’ ” he said. “And I think those connections can be made in so many different ways.”

For some cheesemakers, like Schneider, the quest to save a cheese will bear down on the minutiae of environmental terroir: the land, the biodiversity of the grazing pastures, and the microbial communities present in the raw milk. For others, continuity has a more human dimension, drawing a link between past and present through family lineage: the Lancashire cheese produced by the Kirkham family, for example, is widely considered to be the last remaining raw-milk farmhouse Lancashire in production. Regardless of titles and official designations, cheeses will always reflect the people who make them. (Gott, who remembers Holbrook’s obsessive attention to detail—sourcing starter cultures from the Loire Valley, in France, and thistle stamens from Portugal—likes to say, “If you want to change a cheese, change the cheesemaker.”) But the human factors also extend further afield, to the hands that will package the cheese, the money that will purchase it, the shelves it will fill, and the mouths it will feed. Stilton cheese is a case in point: as West points out, Stilton was named not after the place that it was first made, but the town where it was first marketed and sold. In fact, Stilton cannot legally be made in the town of Stilton, which sits outside of the geographical area specified in the cheese’s P.D.O. What irony, that a cheese now defined by where it comes from was initially defined by where it went to—brought to life not in the farmhouse or the dairy but in the marketplace.

Such conversations have taken on particular resonance today, as the coronavirus reshapes the ways we shop, dine, and cook. The food writer Jenny Linford was among the first to document the challenges faced by cheesemakers when the pandemic struck, with some makers seeing restaurant and wholesale orders dry up virtually overnight, and others having to put production on hold for now—and maybe even forever. “We need to put our arms around our cheese world and understand how precious it is,” Linford told me.

There have already been casualties of the crisis. Innes Cheese, based at Highfields Farm Dairy, in Staffordshire, has been a site of goat’s-milk cheesemaking since 1987. Their signature cheese, Innes Log, with its grassy, sometimes nutty flavor and fudgelike texture, was singled out by Neal’s Yard Dairy as an alternative to Holbrook’s Tymsboro, after she had died. Their Highfields cheese—crumbly, Caerphilly-inspired—was billed as a successor to Holbrook’s Old Ford. Before the pandemic hit, Joe Bennett and his partner, Amiee Lawn, the joint owners of Innes Cheese, found themselves on the brink of investing a lot of money in a new milking parlor and improved facilities at the farm. “We were talking to the bank, and literally the next day everything stopped,” Bennett said.

When the lockdown started and restaurants—Innes Cheese’s principal buyers—were shuttered, the dairy’s plans were upended. “For three weeks, we had virtually no sales at all,” Bennett said. “It just all stopped pretty much overnight.” With one young child and a second on the way, Bennett and Lawn felt they had no choice but to stop cheesemaking and sell their herd of goats. On June 15th, the pair drove down to London with the last of their cheeses. Soon, the last of them will have been sold and eaten, and a thread of tradition after thirty-three years in the goat-cheese business will be lost.

Last month, Bennett and Lawn’s flock of three hundred goats were driven over a hundred and fifty miles north to a new home at Holker Farm, in Cumbria, where Gott and Robinson have lived and made cheese since their year-long apprenticeship with Holbrook. They had been considering making their own goat’s-milk cheese since Holbrook died, so when they got a call from Bennett to let them know that he and Lawn would be bowing out of the business, they took it as a sign. Within a week, the first Holker Farm kids were born. With the population of their farm having more than doubled, Gott and Robinson are busier than ever. The traditional dry stone walls that crisscross the farm have to be safeguarded. (“To the goats,” Gott noted, “they’re like climbing frames!”) Fences and hedges need to be checked and checked again in order to goat-proof the paddocks. But there’s excitement, too. The goats are mostly British Saanen crossed with Golden Guernsey, which means that they yield smaller quantities of richer milk—perfect for making cheese.

Gott and Robinson have started by making a hard goat’s-milk cheese. Like their Crookwheel sheep’s-milk cheese, which they rushed into production after the start of lockdown, in March, this new offering will be a firm, reasonably dry cheese: less labor-intensive to produce and durable enough to weather uncertain market conditions over the coming weeks and months. With Innes Cheese’s goats, transplanted to the rolling Cumbrian countryside, and using cheesemaking techniques that they learned at Sleight Farm, in Somerset, Gott and Robinson are making something entirely new from old parts. They have called the cheese Holbrook.

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A Literary Movement Unto Herself

In the winter of 1975, a quiet young woman from Lexington, Kentucky, met her Ph.D. adviser in Brown University’s writing program for a series of unsatisfactory tutorials about an ambitious project of hers that had yet to fully reveal itself. The encounters were strange enough that her adviser still recalled them in an interview a quarter century later: “I was doing all the talking, and she would sit rigidly, just bobbing her head in a regal manner. Yet there was a kind of arrogance to her. Perhaps it was the arrogance of an artist fiercely committed to a vision, but I also sensed a bottled-up black rage.” There’s nothing unusual about a young writer seething at the world, especially in the 1970s, when protests and bad attitudes about race, war, and university curricula were so de rigueur that they may as well have been taught at orientation. Likelier than not, his student sensed her (white) adviser’s judgment and withdrew in response—and didn’t think he had much to offer, anyway. While her natural range was virtuosic, his work consisted primarily of a host of popular paperbacks and magazine stories whose titles, including Dormitory Women and “Up the Down Coed,” accurately convey their subjects and sensibilities.

However mutually frustrating the meetings between Gayl Jones and R. V. Cassill may have been, his comment is most striking for having been made to The New York Times after her husband, Robert Higgins, slit his own throat when a SWAT team stormed their house in February 1998 to arrest him on a 14-year-old warrant from another state. Two decades earlier, Jones had been hailed as one of the great literary phenoms of the 20th century, only to then drop out of sight; just days before her husband killed himself, she’d reemerged on the American literary scene with a new novel that would become a finalist for a National Book Award.

Leaving aside the callousness of Cassill’s remarks (and the obvious question: What does “black rage” mean?), they violated the typical assumptions of academic privacy. That the reporter and his editors deemed Cassill’s observation useful in understanding Jones’s life does not confirm her anger so much as it affirms all there is to be angry about. No matter her insights and achievements, the frame through which she was viewed and understood by the white world remained the same. She sat silently as he read the early drafts of what would become her first novel. He talked. She left. He was flummoxed. She returned, because she had to. It could have been a Beckett play, almost funny until you lived it.

Fortunately, Jones also worked closely at Brown with a true mentor, the noted poet Michael Harper, who’d overseen her master’s degree and would become a lifelong friend. She received her doctorate in 1975 and published her first novel, Corregidora, the same year. The story is told by a 1940s Kentucky blues singer, Ursa, whose troubles with men are refracted through memories of slavery handed down by her matrilineal line:

My great-grandmama told my grandmama the part she lived through that my grandmama didn’t live through and my grandmama told my mama what they both lived through and my mama told me what they all lived through and we were suppose to pass it down like that from generation to generation so we don’t forget.

Or, as the protagonist, whose mother and grandmother were fathered by the same Portuguese slave owner, says at another point: “I am Ursa Corregidora. I have tears for eyes. I was made to touch my past at an early age. I found it on my mother’s tiddies. In her milk.”

What Faulkner saw in the haunted old mansions of Oxford, Mississippi, Jones saw in the ghosts of the Black dead. She was a pioneer in grappling with the contemporary legacy of slavery, and her debut was praised by the likes of John Updike, in The New Yorker, as well as a host of Black writers. “Corregidora is the most brutally honest and painful revelation of what has occurred, and is occurring, in the souls of Black men and women,” James Baldwin wrote.

Jones’s early novels were shepherded by Toni Morrison, then an editor at Random House, who’d dedicated herself to publishing Black writers, especially women. To put things in perspective, at the time Corregidora came out, Morrison had only recently published her first works of fiction, The Bluest Eye and Sula. She had yet to hit her stride as a writer, while Jones burst forth in her early 20s all but fully formed and requiring little editing. Jones needed a champion, however, someone who could understand and appreciate the sophistication of her approach to subject matter as well as language. “No novel about any black woman could ever be the same after this,” Morrison declared after reading the manuscript of Corregidora.

Richard Ford, who got to know Jones when they were both fellows at the University of Michigan, in Ann Arbor, called her a “prodigy”: “History may have caught up with her, but she was a movement unto herself. Toni knew this very, very, very well when she published her.”

Jones had a marked effect not only on Morrison’s subsequent novels but on an entire generation of writers, whether they realized it or not. The tentacles of slavery in the present day have grown into a principal concern of Black literature, and Jones’s early work was absorbed into this canon almost imperceptibly. Over time, her literary ambitions would evolve, as she published and then receded from the public eye, published and then receded. This spring, she self-published her first novel in 21 years—Palmares, a six-volume work about the last fugitive-slave settlement in Brazil. In mid-June, Beacon Press bought the rights to the book, with plans to release it in September 2021.* In the sprawling narrative, set in the 17th century, Jones’s feats of linguistic and historical invention are on ample display. Describing the impact of her singular vision and intensity, John Edgar Wideman remarked 22 years ago: “I think she scared people.”

Gayl Jones was born into a modest family in 1949. Her father, Franklin, worked as a line cook in a restaurant, an occupation she would later give to the father of the narrator of her second novel, Eva’s Man. Her mother, Lucille, was a homemaker and a writer; Jones would incorporate lengthy passages from her work into her experimental fourth novel, Mosquito.

Jones spent childhood weekends visiting her maternal grandmother on a small farm outside Lexington, where she absorbed the stories of the adults around her. It is an unremarkable detail, save for the importance and seriousness Jones later ascribed to this time, as an educated woman channeling those locked out of institutions of so-called higher learning, as a daughter in communion with her mothers, as a formidable theorist validating the integrity and equality of oral modes of storytelling. “The best of my writing comes from having heard rather than having read,” Jones told Michael Harper in an intimate interview conducted the year Corregidora was published. She hastened to add that she wasn’t dismissing the glories of reading, only pointing out that “in the beginning, all of the richness came from people rather than books because in those days you were reading some really unfortunate kinds of books in school.”

In the mid‑1960s, when Gayl and her younger brother were teenagers, Lucille managed to enroll them in the segregated but academically well-regarded Henry Clay High School. (The public-school system in Lexington did not formally integrate until the mid-1970s, 20 years after Brown v. Board of Education.) Jones proved an extraordinary student, and through the efforts of her Spanish teacher she was introduced to the poet Elizabeth Hardwick, who, together with her sometimes husband, Robert Lowell, helped arrange a scholarship for Jones at Connecticut College. She proved an equally exceptional student in New England, devoting herself to literature.

Jones published Eva’s Man in 1976, a year after Corregidora. Like Ursa, Eva is a 40ish woman recounting her life story, in this case from prison. Eva landed there after murdering and castrating in graphic fashion a lover she’d spent a few days with—ostensibly because she’d learned he was married. In conversations with a fellow inmate and a prison psychiatrist, Eva “stitch[es] her memories and fantasies into a pattern of sexual and emotional abuse,” as the critic Margo Jefferson wrote. When the psychiatrist asks Eva if she can pinpoint what triggered her to kill the man, she replies only, “It was his whole way.”

Jones called Corregidora a “blues novel,” because it communicated the “simultaneity of good and bad, as feeling, as something felt,” she told Harper. Meanwhile, she considered her second novel a “horror story,” explaining in another interview—with Charles H. Rowell, the editor of Callaloo, an African American literary magazine—that what Eva “does to the man in the book is a ‘horror’ … Eva carries out what Ursa might have done but didn’t.”

Published back-to-back, the books form a diptych exploring the undercurrents of the psyche in a world of slave-owners, whoremongers, prostitutes, killers, man-eaters, jealous husbands, wayward wives, psych-ward inmates, pedophiles, wife-beaters, women in love with their abusers, and girls who carry knives. Nobody goes to church much.

Instead of sermons, sense and sustenance flow from a web of intimacy and memory, at least for Jones’s female characters. The men are mostly phalluses tumescent with bad news. Their collective role is as a source of fear and pain, but also desire. Love is not absent, but the word can’t capture what transpires between her women and men. Jones has often been read as a political warrior speaking for unvoiced Black women, but she’s too great a writer with too broad a mind—and too mesmerized by psychological complexity—to pass any ideological purity tests. As she told Rowell, her preoccupations were “contradictory character and ambivalent character, and I like to explore them even without judgments entering the work.”

Jones’s politics are inscribed in her choice to write about the lowborn and low-down, giving them as much intelligence as she possesses; to work in flawless Black English; and to position herself inside rather than outside her characters. The vantage stands in contrast to the approach of Zora Neale Hurston, for example, whom Jones admired for her up-close treatment of relationships between Black men and women, but who at points wrote on behalf of Janie, in Their Eyes Were Watching God, not as her. As Jones well understood, Hurston, like all writers, was a product of her time, and of the circumstances of her oppression. She and her fellow members of the Harlem Renaissance were self-consciously striving to create a literature of Black people’s expanding worlds beyond slavery, but the mission could devolve into representing Blacks for a white audience, giving their fictions an unintended stiltedness. The problem might be summarized as one of code-switching between the Black world and the white gaze. The Black writer who knows the codes of both must always explain the lives, decisions, and humanity of her Black characters to whites who might not otherwise credit them. In Jones’s storytelling, however, there was no “ ‘author’ getting in the way,” Morrison noticed.

The other Black inventors of the modern novel about slavery were Leon Forrest (Two Wings to Veil My Face), who wrote with lyrical, epicurean elegance, and Charles Johnson (Oxherding Tale), whose stories of slave escapes are entwined with the Buddhist quest to get off the wheel of suffering, as well as with the ontological questions of Western philosophy. They bring the high-minded into the lives of the low. By working the other way around, Jones challenges literature itself to embrace other registers of the language, including the obscene, as in this relatively mild example from Corregidora:

A Portuguese seaman turned plantation owner, he took her out of the field when she was still a child and put her to work in his whorehouse while she was a child … I stole [the picture of him] because I said whenever afterward when evil come I wanted something to point to and say, “That’s what evil look like.” You know what I mean? Yeah, he did more fucking than the other mens did.

Jones elaborated on the politics of the English language with Harper:

I usually trust writers who I feel I can hear. A lot of European and Euro-American writers—because of the way their traditions work—have lost the ability to hear. Now Joyce could hear and Chaucer could hear. A lot of Southern American writers can hear … Joyce had to hear because of the whole historical-linguistic situation in Ireland … Finnegan’s Wake is an oral book. You can’t sight-read Finnegan’s Wake with any kind of truth. And they say only a Dubliner can really understand the book, can really “hear” it. Of course, black writers—it goes without saying why we’ve always had to hear.

Telling stories out loud was a matter of survival and wholeness for a community forbidden to read, as well as an act of rebellion, and the way Jones wields this tradition transforms even a kind of nursery rhyme shared between daughter and mother into something dirty, dangerous, and important.

I am the daughter of the daughter of the daughter of Ursa of currents, steel wool and electric wire for hair.

While mama be sleeping, the ole man he crawl into bed …

Don’t come here to my house, don’t come here to my house I said …

Fore you get any this booty, you gon have to lay down dead.

When Harper asked for her thoughts on the architects of 20th-century Black literature, namely “Gaines, Toomer, Ellison, Hurston, Walker, Forrest, Wright, Hughes, Brown, Hayden et. al,” Jones pointed out the wide variation in a group that to the mainstream might appear homogeneous:

You know, I say the names over in my mind, and I think about those people who will speak of black writing as a “limited category,” the implication being that it’s something you have to transcend. And it surprised me because I thought critics had outgrown that sort of posture.

She certainly had. Whereas Baldwin famously lashed out at the protest-novel straitjacket put on mid-20th-century Black writers—“The ‘protest’ novel, so far from being disturbing, is an accepted and comforting aspect of the American scene”—Jones came of age breathing the air of the Black Arts Movement. Founded by LeRoi Jones (no relation), who combined immense talent, critical acumen, and, after being brutalized by the police, a rusty shank of disdain for the lassitude of white America, the movement advanced the idea that white people’s approval was beside the point. Why bother being the Black exception in a country where attempts to control the mind and body of Black people knew no bounds? In his fiery 1965 manifesto, “The Revolutionary Theatre,” LeRoi Jones described the mission for Black artists this way: “White men will cower before this theatre because it hates them … The Revolutionary Theatre must hate them for hating.” Gayl Jones’s “fuck off ” was less explicit but no less radical: She wrote fiction as if white people weren’t watching.

Eva embodies that position. In a conversation about Jones’s second book published last year in The Believer, the young Zambian-born novelist Namwali Serpell explained the “brilliance” of Jones’s choice to let Eva be “bad,” to seemingly lack or reject the reflex to see herself through white people’s eyes. Eva’s “un-self-consciousness,” her unwillingness to “be known, or know how others know her,” Serpell said, “is a kind of freedom.”

illustration of 3 book covers
Na Kim

More than a few readers of Jones have assumed that her volatile husband inspired Eva’s Man, but she didn’t meet him until several years after she wrote that book, in Ann Arbor. In other words, she wasn’t the naive Black girl writing autobiographical workshop fiction, an expectation Jones was accustomed to. “Always with black writers,” she told Rowell, “there’s the suspicion that they can’t … invent a linguistic world in the same way that other writers can.” A white professor, in fact, once told Jones that he was surprised that she didn’t talk more like Ursa.

Ford, who recalls Jones as “within herself, but friendly and very smart,” says it’s a mistake to conflate authors with their characters. “Gayl’s books were dramatic, sexual, sexually violent, eloquent, and harsh in their assessments of the life she was vividly portraying,” he told me. “But fiction is not simply an emotional ‘readout’ of a writer’s feelings. It’s a congeries of made-up, ill-fitting, heretofore unaffiliated shards of experience, memory, feeling, event.”

Not much is known about Robert Higgins, apart from the dramatic run-ins he had with the law, including a pivotal one in 1983, when the pair attended a local gay-rights rally. There, he was alleged to have proclaimed himself God and declared HIV a form of divine retribution, prompting a woman to punch him. Whatever actually happened, Higgins, being an American, went home and returned brandishing a gun. He was arrested by the Ann Arbor police; his assailant was not. Rather than appear in court to defend himself, he and Jones left town, with a letter of protest to the university (and to President Ronald Reagan) that said, in part: “I reject your lying, racist shit. Do whatever you want. God is with Bob, and I’m with him.”

The couple then decamped from the United States altogether and spent the next five years in Europe, mostly in Paris, joining the tail end of a Black expatriate scene made up of people who did not wish to return to America after World War II.

Around this time, Jones published three books of poetry. The best-known of these, Song for Anninho, shares the essential story of Palmares, the epic novel she began composing more than four decades ago. It’s a love story about a man and a woman who live there (and, incidentally, was dedicated to Higgins). In this faraway past in a world populated by Africans, American Indians, Europeans, and all their possible admixtures, Jones pursued her desire to link Black Americans’ struggle to that of colonized people across the globe—the goal of what’s known as the universal freedom movement. “I’d like to be able to …write imaginatively of blacks anywhere/everywhere,” she told Rowell. She was a passionate student of Latin American literature, and her poetry has the lushness—and at times the over-the-top romanticism—of pan-Americanists such as Eduardo Galeano and Pablo Neruda: “I struggle through memory … the blood of the whole continent / running in my veins.”

In the late 1980s, Jones and Higgins returned to America, moving to Lexington to live with Jones’s mother, who was ill. Meanwhile, the rights to Corregidora and Eva’s Man had been acquired by the old Boston publisher Beacon. In 1997, however, Jones asked her editor there, Helene Atwan, to remove them from print. “She said they portrayed Black men very negatively, and she didn’t want those to be her only books out there,” Atwan told me, admitting to being intimidated by her author’s brilliance. “I said, ‘No! They’re important books. Send us new books, and we’ll publish those.’ ”

Jones promptly forwarded the manuscript for The Healing, the story of an itinerant faith healer, a woman named Harlan who is one step ahead of hard times and of her own past. In a 1991 book of critical essays, called Liberating Voices, Jones had described the trajectory of Black literature as moving from “the restrictive forms (inheritors of self-doubt, self-repudiation, and the minstrel tradition) to the liberation of voice and freer personalities in more intricate texts,” and The Healing puts the author herself on that path. The narrative voice is that of a world-weary, often wry country preacher with a self-proclaimed ability to cure the sick and soul-wounded. As Harlan encounters believers and nonbelievers during her travels, Jones plants notions about how narratives are deployed in everyday life to both reveal and hide. The story’s small “tank towns” and ordinary people are familiar from her other books, but where the earlier work seems to resign itself to the world, The Healing holds forth the possibility of redemption.

The speed with which Jones presented the manuscript to Beacon suggests that it was a novel she had written earlier, and only then decided to publish. When it was named as a finalist for a 1998 National Book Award, Jones asked Michael Harper to attend in her place, eschewing industry hobnobbing for a private life in Kentucky.

This privacy was soon upended, after the Lexington police saw a celebratory article about her in Newsweek and, armed with the old warrant from Michigan, went to arrest Higgins, then living under the alias Bob Jones. When they arrived at the couple’s door, he threatened suicide rather than surrender. The police then called for a SWAT team. Higgins signaled his seriousness by taking up a kitchen knife. They stormed inside anyway, tackling Jones as Higgins did what he said he’d do. A district attorney defended the police’s “perfectly” executed handling of the warrant, noting that Higgins had written threatening letters about the shoddy hospital care his mother-in-law received, and that by the time the authorities arrived they were “sitting on a bomb.”

After her husband’s death, Jones was committed to a hospital amid fears that she might harm herself. When her fourth novel, Mosquito, appeared the following year, everyone flocked to it for clues about the tragedy. Instead, they were greeted with a wildly ambitious novel that took its inspiration from the free-form riffs of jazz, in line with Black writers like Ralph Ellison and Albert Murray. Jazz is many things, and Mosquito came from its more daring vein. It was not well received. In a pan of the book published in The New York Times, Henry Louis Gates Jr. complained that it

often reads more like Jones’s “Theory of the Novel,” her encyclopedic version of Jamesian prefaces, than like any of Jones’s previous works. It’s a late-night riff by the Signifying Monkey, drunk with words and out of control, regurgitating half-digested ideas taken from USA Today, digressing on every possible subject, from the color of the Egyptians to the xenophobia of the Great Books movement, from the art of “signifying” and the role of Africans in the slave trade to the subtleties of Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man.

Clearly Gates likes to play the dozens.

The book demands to be taken more seriously. On the simple level of story, it’s about a truck driver named Mosquito—the only female on a route that traces the Mexican border—who becomes a coyote for a group called the Sanctuary, ferrying refugees on the “new Underground Railroad.” All of Jones’s women are on the run, but from book to book they become more likely to have a place to go. Mosquito is one of Jones’s trademark mash-ups—fusing her interests in history, character, and contemporary events. Time is collapsed, such that the past, present, and future play on a Finnegan’s Wake–style loop of language and consciousness. It’s an Olympian move, but if you’re Simone Biles, who’s to tell you not to play hopscotch with the gods? Like other late-postmodern works, the book overflows the usual frames of realism; it includes the author’s original theories about the relationship between story and life, between the speaker/writer and the listener/reader. It often sounds like overhearing a lunch date between Derrida and Calvino, at a table where both theorist and master are Jones. Mosquito didn’t find a general readership, but it helped feed a lot of dissertations.

Its reception aside, the novel marked a formal shift for Jones. The wealth of knowledge inside the author’s mind by then—the ideas, and the layers of experience she was trying to put across—strain the naive first-person narrator. Jones may have been listening to jazz, but she was also exploring the boundaries of what is possible in the modernist forms of the novel.

At 50, an age when many writers are just arriving at the height of their power, Jones might have been expected to tally the lessons from her experiment and keep moving. Indeed, Atwan said that Mosquito wasn’t yet published when Jones sent her the manuscript for Palmares. But for reasons unavailable to us, Jones—who communicated only sporadically with her Beacon editor—decided against following through with the book. And soon, Atwan said, Jones told her that she’d stopped writing entirely.

A main definition of a canonical artist is one whom other artists keep alive across generations. And word of mouth is what led me to Jones’s work a few years after college, when I decided to truly educate myself. As an aspiring novelist, I wanted to see where my own writing fit in, sure, but I’d also matured enough to realize that what I liked and didn’t like was irrelevant to the task of understanding the vastness of literature. During this years-long period, I read through the books that get anthologized as the American canon, the English, the World Lit, and sampled various national traditions. I read the Nobel Prize winners I hadn’t before. Harold Bloom was the GOAT among readers, so I measured myself in those days against the indexes of The Western Canon. You can read all of these things and still not know much about Black literature. My education there was in bookshops and libraries, but especially in talking with other writers, visual artists, musicians, filmmakers, dancers. It was the best education I ever had.

One Friday after work at my day job as a magazine writer, I made my way from Sixth Avenue to a bar in Hell’s Kitchen where industry people gathered. I joined some friends from Newsweek at the Black table, where they were sitting in stunned silence and self-reproach. Higgins had just killed himself, after the magazine outed his location. I don’t remember the specifics, but we talked bitterly about the editorial decisions that led the police to his door. About the things that white Americans understood and did not understand about being Black in this country. Things they might not wish to know.

The reason I’ve told you all this is so you’ll understand what I mean when I say that Gayl Jones’s new work is as relevant as ever. With monumental sweep, it blends psychological acuity and linguistic invention in a way that only a handful of writers in the transatlantic tradition have matched. She has boldly set out to convey racial struggle in its deep-seated and disorienting complexity—Jones sees the whole where most only see pieces.

More than a third of all Africans removed from their homeland from the early 1500s to the mid-1800s—more than 4 million people—were transported to Brazil and enslaved alongside the indigenous people, at least those who hadn’t been exterminated. Today Nigeria is the only country with a larger Black population than Brazil, and in the body of African American culture stretching from Harlem to Rio, the state of Bahia might be fairly viewed as its spiritual heart. Perhaps the heart of the entire Black world. Palmares centers on the reenslavement of the last settlement of free Blacks in Brazil—and is told from the point of view of Almeyda, a young girl who has learned to read with the help of a local Catholic priest named Father Tollinare, though he tries to limit the books available to her. The novel has a García Márquezean pace, and, because it imitates the rhythms of Portuguese and imports words without the usual linguistic signposts, it almost feels as though it has been translated into English. But where García Márquez writes of generals and doctors, Jones tells of slaves and whores. The rhetoric of race in Latin America is different from our own, of course, but its history, and the ways blood and money operate, are familiar.

Plot is beside the point in Palmares—the book unfolds on a plane of consciousness where the things achieved are shifting relationships and states of being. Ultimately, the book is about taking full possession of the entire Black experience, including tenderness—and Jones’s quest to free the individual Black voice. Father Tollinare, born back in the Old World and wedded to its old sounds, doesn’t realize his young student’s hunger to expand and integrate:

During the studies, he’d pass one worn Bible around and we’d read the stories, and he’d shake his head when we dropped letters off the ends of words, and he’d say, “In Portugal they say it this way.” “But here we say it this way,” I protested once. He looked at me sternly … I was silent because I wanted to know how to read and write the words, even if I continued to pronounce them a different way.

At her best, Jones wields the words of a larger literary tradition with a subversive power that is rare in its all-encompassing purity. Dropping letters, she adds new worlds to that tradition, one that has been—in this country, and in the American language—as versed in duplicity as in revelation. One wishes that the blooming of Jones’s genius were as simple as the saying “You can’t keep a good woman down.” The truth is, you can, and it’s been done for centuries. The old women in Kentucky presumably told her that long ago, and how best to endure.


* Beacon Press previously told The Atlantic that it would be publishing Palmares in September 2020. After this article went to press, the publisher confirmed that the book will in fact be released in September 2021. The article has been updated online to reflect this. It appears in the September 2020 print edition with the headline “‘No Novel About Any Black Woman Could Ever Be the Same After This.’”

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Michael Jones Receives Royal Honors

Over the years, I’ve frequently mentioned my friend Michael Jones, a computer scientist and geography whiz. Nine years ago, he was a leading figure in my Atlantic story “Hacked,” the saga of what my wife Deb and I learned when her email account was taken over by international hackers. For an Atlantic column around the same time, I interviewed him on the way omnipresent, always-available mapping was likely to change people’s habits and lives. And before any of this, he had added to world knowledge with his explanation of “Boiled Frog” science. As he laid out in this guest post, careful experiments in 19th-century Germany established that a frog would indeed sit still in a pot of ever-hotter water—but only if its brain had already been removed.  

Outside our household, Michael Jones is known, among other things, as one of the guiding forces behind Google Earth and Google Maps. When you see your neighborhood, or your planet, from above on a computer, or follow turn-by-turn directions on your phone, he is one of the people you have to thank.

Among the bright sides in the current pandemic nightmare is the news that this spring Michael received the “Patron’s Medal” from the Royal Geographical Society, in London. I am by nature wary of anything involving the concept of “Royal” (for reasons laid out long ago here), but I make an exception in this case. I am delighted to learn of this overdue recognition for Michael Jones.

As the Society’s announcement put it:

The 2020 Patron’s Medal has been awarded to Michael Jones for his contribution to the development of geospatial information.

Baroness Chalker said: “Michael Jones is a role model for future generations of geographers. From his beginnings as a software engineer, inventing and filing his own patents, through to his role as Google’s Chief Technology Advocate, his inspiring career trajectory is charted by his vision to redefine mapping from static lines and symbols to an interactive geographical web of context and information. It’s hard to overstate the importance that Google Earth and Google Maps has had on the public worldwide and how Michael’s pioneering work has democratised and popularised cartography and spatial awareness. Today we recognise his extraordinary contribution and his continued advocacy for the benefits of geography. He whole heartedly deserves the Society’s highest recognition.”

Michael Jones said: “This recognition is a signal honour for an idea that started in my head and which, through the work of many, resulted in the Google Earth used by billions of people around the world. On behalf of colleagues who laboured to make this dream of Earth and Maps a reality, and in full credit to the inspiring attainments of all who have come before us in the quest to better understand the Earth, I can only say that the ‘Earth-in-your-hand’ idea has never had a greater friend than the Royal Geographical Society, to whom we humbly offer our gratitude.”

As a fellow Yank, I will razz Michael for writing “signal honour”—but it couldn’t be more deserved, with the British u or without. Congratulations. And you can read more about his story and outlook in this interview.

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مبارزه با کروناویروس از نیویورک به ایالت یوتا

Scott Aberegg in scrubs.
اسکات Aberegg مهم-مراقبت پزشک در یوتا مهاجرت به منهتن برای چند هفته برای کمک به شهر نیویورک coronavirus پاسخ.عکس های لیندسی D’Addato برای نیویورکر

در اواخر ماه مارس اسکات Aberegg مهم-مراقبت در دانشگاه یوتا از خوردن ناهار در بیمارستان کافه تریا. بر روی گوشی خود او متوجه یک e-mail است که گردش در میان کارآموزان در بخش خود را. آن را از جامعه قفسه سینه آمریکا یک سازمان حرفه ای از پزشکان که درمان بیماری های ریوی و بیماری بحرانی. “همانطور که شما بدون شک شنیده وجود دارد coronavirus خروش در شهر نیویورک” پیام به عنوان خوانده شده. “وضعیت وخیم است . . . و همکاران خود را به کمک شما نیاز دارند.” پست الکترونیکی ارائه شده در همان روز credentialling و صدور مجوز و همچنین سفر رایگان مسکن و وعده های غذایی به پزشکان که به طور داوطلبانه به کار در این شهر بیمارستان. E-mail خیلی فوق العاده ای که Aberegg تعجب اگر آن را می تواند یک کلاهبرداری است.

Aberegg بزرگ شده در یک مزرعه پرورش اسب در داد اوهایو در حدود شصت کیلومتری جنوب شرقی کلیولند. پدرش مشغول به کار در خرده فروشی در سیرز و بعد روت اسب و فروش دام تجهیزات; Aberegg برای اولین بار در خانواده اش برای حضور در دانشگاه. در زمستان سال 1997 زمانی که او در سال سوم خود را از دانشکده پزشکی در ایالت اوهایو او یک چرخش با جیمز Gadek افسانه ای مراقبت بحرانی ، چند هفته در Gadek شنیده ام که یک کارآموز نسبی در حال مرگ بود در یک بیمارستان چند ساعت دور. تیم پزشکی وجود دارد و اعتقاد بر این مورد نا امید کننده بود; Gadek سوار در یک آمبولانس آورده بیمار برگشت و آغاز درمان خود را در I. C. U. بیمار بهبود یافتند. تماشای ناظر به چنین طول Aberegg فکر کردم من می خواهم به مانند آن مرد. در حال حاضر در شهر سالت لیک او در پاسخ به این e-mail از جامعه قفسه سینه آمریکا گفت که او در دسترس بود.

در حدود همان زمان تونی ادواردز, سوم, سال بحرانی-مراقبت از افرادی که مشغول به کار در Aberegg بیمارستان کردم همان e-mail. او و همسرش, اشلی سابق I. C. U. پرستار مشغول به کار بود در دالاس در سال 2014 زمانی که اولین بیمار ابولا در خاک آمریکا—یک مرد در حال فرار از شیوع این بیماری در لیبریا—رشد بیمار وجود دارد و این ویروس تهدید به گسترش است. تونی پزشکی ساکن در های عفونی-بیماری های خدمات; اشلی I. C. U. انتخاب شد به عنوان یکی که بیماران ابولا فرستاده خواهد بود اگر شیوع رشد داشته است. هر چند این ویروس شامل یک بیمار فوت کرد و دو نفر از پرستاران آلوده شدند. این Edwardses احساس که آنها می خواهم تجربه ای نزدیک از دست ندهید. “ما نوع رفت و از طریق تمرین قبل از” اشلی گفت. “بودن را از طریق کردم که ما آماده برای این کار است.”

در شام تونی گفت: اشلی در مورد e-mail. او می خواهم آن دیده می شود و همچنین می خواستم به: نیاز به I. C. U.-پرستاران آموزش دیده بود و در بسیاری از موارد حتی بیشتر از نیاز برای پزشکان است. به زودی پس از آن Edwardses آموخته است که Aberegg داوطلب بود و همچنین. سه شروع به ساخت و آماده سازی. Aberegg حمایت از تعطیلات خانواده. این Edwardses شروع به تنظیم مراقبت از کودک خود را برای چهارده-ماه-پیر دختر. تونی مادر ماریان گریه کرد زمانی که او شنیده ام که آنها می خواهم داوطلب; او موافقت کرد و به رانندگی از دنور به Salt Lake City برای مراقبت از نوزاد است. قبل از خروج از تونی و اشلی خریداری زندگی-بیمه که نمی خواهد اثر را برای یک ماه دیگر. آنها سعی کردند به یک شوخی خارج از آن. تونی گفته او “اگر ما بیمار مطمئن شوید که شما ما را زنده نگه دارید تا پس از آن!”

تونی ادواردز مهم مراقبت های همکار در یوتا صرف بخشی از بهار درمان coronavirus بیماران در شهر نیویورک است.عکس های لیندسی D’Addato برای نیویورکر

در اوایل ماه آوریل زمانی که شهر نیویورک ضبط شد که حدود پنج هزار جدید کروناویروس موارد هر روز من Aberegg در موقت I. C. U. در بیمارستان که در آن کار میکنم در سمت شرق. ما ایستاده بود در نزدیکی مرکزی ایستگاه پرستاری. پزشکان و پرستاران darted در اطراف ما; آلارم صدا; مانیتور دیدم قرمز هشدار. درب های چوبی در بيماران اتاق گرفته شده بود پایین و با جایگزین فلز آنهایی که آنها به حال پنجره های شیشه ای بزرگ است که ما مجاز به دیدن بیماران متصل به دستگاه تهویه مصنوعی. در هر پنجره خشک پاک کردن نشانگر استفاده شد به رکورد تنظیمات ونتیلاتور اکسیژن و سطح دارو, نرخ و تعداد و محل لوله ها و کاتترهای نگه داشتن هر بیمار زنده است. Aberegg عضلانی و هیچ و بی معنی به نظر می رسید نسبتا در سهولت. “وقتی کسی می گوید که آنها نیاز به کمک شما به آنها کمک کند” او به من گفت توصیف تصمیم خود را به آمده است. “اگر آنها نمی نیاز به کمک آنها نمی توان پرسید.” او وارد شده بود چند روز قبل بود و ماندن در یک بیمارستان-اجرای هتل در سراسر خیابان در یک اتاق دو طبقه از Edwardses. او در حال حاضر دیده می شود ده ها تن از بدحال COVID-19 بیماران. در صبح او با تونی در I. C. U. و آنها در مورد آنچه اتفاق افتاده بود یک شبه: برخی از بیماران بهبود یافته و ممکن است تراشه خارج دیگران بود بدتر شده و نیاز به توجه فوری. سپس آنها شروع به دور خود.

بعد من رفتم برای دیدن تونی و اشلی در اتاق هتل خود را که در آن نشسته ما را به عقب رانده و از کوچک میز ناهار خوری شش فوت از یکدیگر با ماسک و کلاه جراحی ، آنها به یاد می آورد دیوانه وار هفته بین تصمیم خود را برای داوطلب و ورود خود را در نیویورک. اشلی که او تغییر کرده از تخصص مراقبت های ویژه به interventional radiology حال بررسی I. C. U. روش آنلاین و در کتاب های درسی; تونی در حالی که مراقبت از بیماران در یوتا I. C. U. حال سعی کردم به مرتب کردن بر اساس الزامات مورد نیاز برای ایالت نیویورک credentialling. دوازده ساعت قبل از آنها بودند به ترک شرکت هواپیمایی لغو پرواز خود را. آنها درهم به کتاب دیگری است. در راه به فرودگاه تونی شد نگران. “او ناجور,” اشلی گفت. “او می لرزید و نمی توانستم صحبت کنید. که زمانی که من فکر می کنم آن را به او رسید.”

در پرواز وجود دارد کمتر از یک دوجین مسافران همه با پوشیدن ماسک. هیچ غذا یا نوشیدنی خدمات در هیئت مدیره و آنها گرسنه بودند زمانی که آنها فرود آمد در J. F. K. کمی پس از نیمه شب. به عنوان آنها راه می رفت از طریق خالی ترمینال گذشته تنها T. S. A. افسر نشسته در صندلی خود را حس ناخرسندی رشد داشته است. خود را بارگذاری راننده متشنج به نظر می رسید. در هتل خوردند پیتزا, آنها می خواهم دستور از مواد غذایی-تحویل نرم افزار. پنج دقیقه بعد تونی برداشت خود را نشان I. D. کردم و به کار می کنند. بعد اشلی رفت و به یک دفتر در midtown برای تکمیل او credentialling روند. پس از آن او راه می رفت به میدان تایمز. چراغ بودند و نشانه هایی بودند فلاش, اما خیابان ها خلوت شد. آنها می خواهم به نیویورک قبل از, اما این نسخه.

برای تونی انرژی عصبی به سرعت به راه به reflexive عمل است. وجود دارد تقریبا هیچ وقت خود را برای دیدار با همکاران جدید. او روز اول مشخص شده بود توسط یک جریان ثابت از بیماران: فقط به عنوان یک تثبیت شده دیگر وارد برای نفس نفس نفس زدن و یا در حال حاضر انتوبه. هنگامی که یک لحظه یدکی ارائه شده خود او و تیم او خواهد مبادله نظریه ها در مورد coronavirus و بحث مطالعات اندکی که تا به حال منتشر شده است. او احساس گیجی نه فقط با جنجال و هیاهو از این بخش و عدم قطعیت از ویروس اما با چهره ناآشنا و طرح جدید بیمارستان. یک روز صبح او وارد یک اتاق استراحت و غرق شد خسته به یک صندلی. “هی! شما یوتا پسر” یک دکتر گفت:. در اطراف او بسیاری دیگر که بررسی موارد و بحث درمان است. او تا به حال شناخته شده است که تمام این واحد در طبقه شده بود تبدیل به COVID-19 بخش; فقط در حال حاضر او متوجه است که همان درست بود تقریبا تمام بیمارستان. او پله ها را به فولاد طبقه ساخته شده و راه خود را در امتداد یک راهرو با اتاق عمل در هر دو طرف. وجود دارد او به یک اشاره از این بیماری همه گیر را در مقیاس واقعی: در هر اتاق ردیف ناخودآگاه بيمار متصل به طرفداران خود هشدار انعکاس طرز مرموزی پایین خالی راهرو. “آن را مستقیما از یک فیلم علمی تخیلی” او به یاد می آورد.

در شب, تونی را سر و برگشت به هتل. گاهی Aberegg را متوقف خواهد کرد برای نوشیدن و یا شام. آنها می خواهم به خوردن باقی مانده و یا بایگانی اطلاعات از هر جای که خواهد تحویل; سپس Aberegg خواهد رفتن به اتاق خود را به FaceTime با خانواده اش در حالی که Edwardses خواهد همین کار را با ماریان و دختر خود را. با گذشت هر روز آن را سخت تر به دور از خانه. اشلی اعتبار برگزار شده بود و او شروع به ساخت برنامه ای برای بازگشت به یوتا زود است. اما نیاز به مراقبت بحرانی پزشکان در نیویورک در حال رشد بود و تونی ادواردز و Aberegg وظایف گسترش شد. علاوه بر درمان بیماران آنها در حال حاضر در آموزش پزشکان از دیگر تخصص—hospitalists, قلب و عروق—جزئیات کار در I. C. U. نقاب gowned لب و goggled ادواردز و Aberegg رهبری این پزشکان از یک اتاق به اتاق هر روز صبح آنها قرار گیرند بیماران fiddled با یک تنظیمات تنظیم داروهای آرام بخش و توضیح داد که انتخاب های خود را. یک روز که در آن یک بیمار بود تراشه خارج شد دلیلی برای جشن. اشلی پرواز صفحه اصلی; ادواردز و Aberegg ادامه کار با تیم خود است. آنها شروع به اقامت در بیمارستان بعد از تغییرات خود را به پایان رسید به بحث با این گروه در مورد آنچه اتفاق افتاده و برنامه ریزی برای صبح روز بعد.

در این روزها که به دنبال موج به اوج خود رسید—وجود نزدیک به یک هزار COVID-19 مرگ و میر یک روز در نیویورک در طول این زمان و پس از آن کاهش یافته است. به عنوان جریان جدید بیماران مبتلا به زوال یافت و پزشکان جدید شروع به کار ادواردز و Aberegg شروع به آماده شدن برای رفتن به خانه بیش از حد. در نزدیکی پایان از وقت خود را در نیویورک جاستین Kingery یک دکتر با آنها می خواهم در I. C. U. دست آنها را در یک نامه خداحافظی. خطاب به “اسکات و Tedwards”—نام مستعار خود را برای تونی—آن آغاز شد و با توضیحات “حس قریب به اتفاق جامعه” که Kingery تجربه کرده بودند در حالی که در حال رشد “در زمینه زغال سنگ در غرب ویرجینیا است.” وجود دارد Kingery نوشت: ناامیدی است که در پس معادن زغال سنگ شروع به شکست شده بود جبران احساس “هر کس کمک همه فشار رو به جلو است.” یادآوری مرگ همسایه در معادن Kingery نوشت: آنچه که ایستاده بود در ذهن او بود و نه تراژدی است اما در جمعی پاسخ به آن است. هنگامی که او می خواهم به سمت چپ غرب ویرجینیا برای نیویورک او تصور کرده است که این جامعه احساس می شود جایگزین شده است.

سپس من شما را ملاقات دو. دو مرتدان از یوتا که پرواز به معنای واقعی کلمه به خطرناک ترین شهر در جهان از ویروسی چشم انداز. دو نفر که لازم نیست برای کمک به اما بودند در مقابل من ایستاده و با این وجود. دو نفر که می توانست به راحتی زندگی می کردند بزرگ زندگی می کند و “برای ما دعا” ، مانند سایر نقاط جهان است. اما در اینجا شما کمک با اخرین ICU مراقبت ما آموزش فیزیولوژی در طول راه . . . در لگد زدن و گرفتن نام در مواجهه با خطر است.

در پاکت Kingery شامل یک قطعه زغال سنگ-معدن انبان: یکی از سکه های فلزی برای استفاده در فروشگاه های این شرکت که با نسل های گذشته از کارگران معدن در شهر خود تا به حال پرداخت شده است. آن او نوشت: “یک نماد فیزیکی از یک حس عمیق از آپالاچی جامعه بسیار بسیار شبیه به حس اجتماعی شما را به اینجا آورده.”

در اواسط مارس ادواردز چپ برای فرودگاه. این بیماری همه گیر را آغاز کرده بود به وزن او: جریان COVID-19 بیماران بی پایان و بسیاری از آنها در حال مرگ است. “من فکر نمی کنم من می توانم انجام داده اند بیشتر shift,” او گفت:. در J. F. K. ترمینال بود که خالی به عنوان آن را به حال شده است وقتی که می خواهم وارد است; او trudged همراه خودکار آن گردشگاهها در حال حاضر یخ زده و خالی. سفر خانه به او اضافه خستگی: با مسیرهای به شدت محدود او تا به حال به پرواز از نیویورک به دیترویت و سپس به مینیاپولیس قبل از فرود در سالت لیک سیتی.

Aberegg چپ به زودی پس از آن. او به خانه وارد بر یک یکشنبه شب و صبح روز بعد رفت و برگشت به کار در دانشگاه یوتا بیمارستان I. C. U. همه می خواستم به دانستن در مورد تجربه خود را. “همه من می توانم بگویم آنها بود COVID واقعی است,” او گفت:. “این باعث می شود مردم واقعا بیمار—یک تن از آنها را.” بعد از آن که هفته او و ادواردز ارائه آنچه آنها می خواهم آموخته در بخش نشست. پزشکان و پرستاران می خواستم به دانستن اطلاعات بیشتر در مدیریت بیماری; مدیران بیمارستان به دنبال درک فیزیکی و عاطفی تلفات این بیماری همه گیر در زمان پزشکان. چه چیزی می تواند انجام شود برای حمایت از آنها ؟ چگونه می تواند از آنها نگهداری می شود بی خطر است ؟ باید برنامه دوباره طراحی? ادواردز با تاکید بر اهمیت رفاقت. “اگر شما لازم نیست که یک هسته گروه از مردم به صحبت کردن با شما در حال رفتن به رایت کردن واقعا سریع,” او گفت:.

در پیش بینی از یک خروش مدیران لغو روش انتخابی تحت فشار قرار دادند پشت دفتر بازديد و بازسازی بخش. اما برای بسیاری از مارس بیمارستان آرام بود. “ما آن را به نام دنیوی مه” Aberegg به یاد می آورد. مورد تعداد آنها آنقدر کم است که نیم دوجین بیشتر مراقبت بحرانی پزشکان ترک بیمارستان به داوطلب در نیویورک است. کلیسای مورمون شده اند ممکن است تا حدودی مسئول دولت منحنی ملایم: راسل M. Nelson, کلیسا پیامبر و رئیس جمهور است که نود و پنج ساله و جراح قلب که در اوایل نوزده-پنجاه کمک پیشگام استفاده از ماشین قلب-ریه برای عمل جراحی بای پس. وجود 3.2 میلیون نفر در ایالت یوتا; دو میلیون نفر از آنها از اعضای کلیسای مورمون است. در مارس 12th, در حالی که شهردار بیل د Blasio تشویق شد نیویورکی به ناهار خوردن در رستوران و در حالی که یوتا مدارس باز مانده کلیسای معلق در فرد خدمات نقل مکان کرد و به کلیسا از صفحه اصلی; آن اعلام کرد که کنفرانس عمومی, برنامه ریزی شده برای ماه آوریل را تبدیل به یک رویداد مجازی. نلسون صحبت در مورد اهمیت هر دو معنویت و علم و کلیسا بزرگان پیوست محلی دیگر سازمان های مذهبی در خواست هر کس در ایالت یوتا به پوشیدن ماسک درخواست آنها را به چشم پوشیدن از “یک اندازه گیری کمی از راحتی به خاطر صرفه جویی در زندگی می کند.”

به عنوان موارد جدید کندی در نیویورک مردم در یوتا آغاز شد به این امید که این ویروس ممکن است فراتر از کشور های اولیه در فاصله. هنگامی که یک سنبله موفق به رسیدن بلافاصله یک نوع از ملالت در مجموعه. افرادی که تا به حال فرسوده ماسک نگه داشته و فاصله خود رشد بی تاب با فداکاری که آنها فکر نمی ممکن است موجه; مقامات منتخب شروع به حرکت به جلو با برنامه های بازگشایی دولت است. در سفر به فروشگاه مواد غذایی ادواردز دیدم مردم تجمع در گروه اغلب بدون ماسک. زمانی که Aberegg و همسرش که یک I. C. U. پرستار در بازدید از یک فروشگاه ورزشی کالا برای خرید خرس اسپری برای یک سفر کمپینگ همراه کلرادو مرز آنها را دیدم بسیاری از مشتریان هم بدون ماسک که آنها رشد اضطراب و چپ دست خالی.

“ما تا به حال COVID تحت کنترل برای مدت زمان طولانی” لیندسی کیگان استادیار اپیدمیولوژی در دانشگاه یوتا به من گفت. “مردم در زمان آن بسیار جدی اما زمانی که وجود دارد نبود یک افزایش فوری در مورد آنها طبعا خسته شدم از محدودیت. آب و هوا رو خوب. ما شروع به شل شدن است.” کیگان شناسایی آخر هفته روز یادبود به عنوان یک نقطه عطف: در ژوئن 5, ده روز پس از تعطیلات یوتا ثبت آنچه پس از آن کمترین تک روز افزایش coronavirus موارد (پانصد و پنجاه و چهار). شارون Talboys که منجر به یک تماس-ردیابی برنامه همکاری بین دانشگاه یوتا و دولت وزارت بهداشت گفت که در پایان ممکن است هر تازه شناسایی coronavirus حامل در ایالت یوتا تا به حال به طور متوسط پنج تماس های اخیر به تماس چند هفته بعد بیماران اغلب به حال سی مخاطبین—نشانه آن است که مردم در حال تبدیل شدن بیشتر اجتماعی یکپارچه حتی به عنوان موارد در حال افزایش بود.

Aberegg و Edwardses ترک کرده بود خانواده خود را به پرواز در سراسر کشور خواب در اتاق های هتل و کمک به یک شهرستان که با آنها تا به حال هیچ ارتباط در اوج یک بیماری همه گیر. در حال حاضر ماه بعد آنها متوجه می شوند که در مورد آنها به صورت همان شرایط در خانه. به عنوان دنیوی ممکن است راه را به ماه ژوئن و Aberegg تماشا بیمارستان خود را پر کنید تا او شروع به فکر می کنم از این بیماری همه گیر به عنوان یک جنگ فرسایشی. این ویروس بیمار و بی امان. آن را صبر کنید برای انسان حل برای تضعیف و سپس حمله با چنگال. Aberegg و ادواردز تا به حال شاهد این ویروس را تخریب دست اول. در حال حاضر آنها خود را بدانم که آیا هر یک از دولت می خواهم که به تجربه هرج و مرج و مرگ این بیماری همه گیر ، “این تنها زمانی که مردم جامعه خود دوستان و یا خانواده خود را تحت تاثیر قرار است که آنها شروع به COVID به طور جدی” ادواردز گفت. “اما سپس آن را خیلی دیر است.”

یوتا در حال حاضر ثبت بیش از سی و نه هزار نفر که نیمی از آن ها در سالت لیک کانتی. افزایش تعداد محدودتر در مقایسه با موج در تگزاس فلوریدا و آریزونا است که جمعیت حدود دو برابر است که از آن همسایه یوتا اما ضبط شده است پنج بار به عنوان بسیاری از موارد جدید در هر روز. در آریزونا بیش از سه هزار نفر کشته شده اند از COVID-19 در حالی که در ایالت یوتا مرگ و میر کمتر از یک دهم آن است. هنوز یوتا رشد بوده است و چندین بار آنچه مورد نیاز به ماشه یک مکث در بازگشایی. با توجه به دولت در بهداشت عمومی مقامات جدید فاصله محدودیت باید تحمیل شود که در اطراف وجود دارد دو صد موارد جدید در هر روز. در اواسط ماه جولای یوتا, ثبت روزانه به طور متوسط شش صد و پنجاه و یک مورد جدید; دولت روزانه جدید-مورد تعداد تا چهار برابر شده پس از پایان ماه مه. اخیر ماسک قیمومیت در سالت لیک کانتی کمک کرده است صاف منحنی اما کافی نیست. “بازی منتقل کرده از ‘بیایید جلوگیری از تعداد قابل توجهی از موارد’ به ‘چگونه می تواند به ما در کنترل این چیزی که به اندازه کافی به برخی از صورت ظاهر از عملکرد اقتصاد؟’ “کیگان ، اپيدميولوژی استاد به من گفت.

زمانی که Aberegg و ادواردز دیدن هر یک از دیگر در حال حاضر آنها در مورد زمان آنها صرف با هم در نیویورک و همچنین چالش هایی که پیش رو برای ایالت یوتا است. با توجه به بیمارستان C. E. O. مدیران را مجبور به ایجاد تغییرات عمده به جای حجم بدحال COVID-19 بیماران—مانند تبدیل فولاد به بخش I. C. U. s—اگر نرخ فعلی مورد رشد همچنان ادامه دارد. حتی پس از یوتا است که با فشار دادن پیش با بازگشایی. در بسیاری از دولت های داخلی تجمعات تا سه هزار نفر مجاز; میله و سینما باز هستند; شما می توانید غذا خوردن در یک بوفه. یوتا در تلاش است به راه رفتن در یک خط خوب; به این امید است که در اختیار فردی شهروندان اجازه خواهد داد که دولت برای جلوگیری از محدودیت در حالی که کاهش گسترش ویروس. اما البته این یک قمار است که می تواند به نوبه خود بد. مرکزی چالش سری از تاخیر که جدا از عفونت, علائم, علائم از تایید موارد تایید مواردی از بستری شدن در بیمارستان و بستری شدن در بیمارستان از مرگ و میر. در زمان خطر به طور کامل به رسمیت شناخته شده و یک چرخه خطرناک در حرکت است ،

همانطور که در بسیاری از نقاط کشور یک شکاف باز کرده بین یوتا عمومی-بهداشت مقامات و سیاستمداران است. فرماندار گری هربرت است اجتناب ایالت ماسک حکم با وجود توصیه هایی از دولت های پزشکی رهبران. در هفته های اخیر گزارش های پدید آمده از کارشناسان پزشکی طرد میان فشار به سهولت اقتصادی محدودیت. “این احساس به عنوان اینکه ما به سمت یک فاجعه” آرلن جارت این افسر ارشد پزشکی از مباشر مراقبت های بهداشتی اجرا می شود که چندین امکانات پزشکی در ایالت یوتا گفت: در یک کنفرانس خبری. “اگر ما ماندن در این مسیر ما قصد داریم برای به حداکثر رساندن بیمارستان های ما ظرفیت بسیار زود است.” زمانی که هربرت نقل مکان کرد برای مقابله با این ویروس بیشتر به شدت او مواجه می شوند پوپولیستی مقاومت مواجه. در پرووو, یک صد و پنجاه قهر unmasked پدر و مادر بسته بندی شده به یک سالن شهر در اعتراض به تصمیم خود نیاز به ماسک در مدارس این پاییز; در توییتر, کمیساریای از یک روستایی شهرستان در مقایسه هربرت به نازی ها.

نیمی از سال را در آمریکا همه گیر این نوع از اختلافات تبدیل شده است قابل پیش بینی در نتیجه ما تکه تکه ترک-آن-به-این-متحده رویکرد است. دولت فدرال استعفا نقش آن در رهبری ملت coronavirus-پاسخ تلاش از نظر تست ردیابی ارتباطات و تجهیزات برای تولید و توزیع. هر دولت باید دفع کردن و تصمیم گیری برای خود را درگیر خود پر مخاطره حساب دیفرانسیل و انتگرال زیر و یا نادیده گرفتن بهداشت عمومی هدایت آن را به عنوان مناسب می داند. دولت از دولت ما دوباره طرح دعوی اصول همه گیر پاسخ. جمعی coördinated عمل جمعی در واکنش به مرگ و میر ناشی از همسایگان ما—به نظر می رسد فراتر از ما.

به تازگی Aberegg تصمیم به انصراف از سفر به دیدن پدر و مادر خود را در اوهایو ، او نگرانی در مورد سطح خود را از قرار گرفتن در معرض ویروسی و نگرش کسانی که در اطراف آنها. “در بسیاری از ناباوری در میان همسالان خود,” او گفت:. “پدر و مادر من به آنهایی حمل بنر در مورد چگونه جدی این است که بر اساس تجربیات من.” شب که او و ادواردز صرف کار با هم در I. C. U. در ضمن احساس می کنم مثل هر دو déjà vu و یک نگاه اجمالی از آینده است. در اخیر تغییر ادواردز برای مراقبت جذاب پیرمرد صحبت کرد که تنها در اسپانیایی. با گذشت هر ساعت انسان تنفس رشد بیشتر زحمت کشیده که صدای خش خش از اکسیژن گرفتن بلندتر با هر یک به نوبه خود شماره گیری. هنگامی که آلارم از ماشین آلات مختلف شد ثابت ادواردز آورده اپل به بالین و باز FaceTime: او می خواست بیمار و خانواده خود را به می دانم که ونتیلاتور تنها گزینه باقی مانده. او وصله در یک مترجم که تلاش به صحبت می کنند بیش الدین از I. C. U.: آلارم اعتراض به اغتشاش از پزشکان در حال آماده شدن برای یک لولهگذاری. در نهایت ادواردز دیدم اشک آمد به چشم همگان: آنها قابل درک باشد. “من دیده ام این داستان بازی بیش از حد بسیاری از بار,” او گفت:.

پایین سالن Aberegg شد با توجه به یک بیمار که در حال حاضر می دانستند گذاری قریب الوقوع بود. او تنها است که خانواده اش بود در بلندگو در حالی که متخصص بیهوشی قرار داده و او را به خواب. او به آنها گفت که او آنها را دوست داشت. از آنها خواسته او را به ماندن قوی است. او نفس شد کوتاه و سریع اما کاسته دارو در زمان اثر و تلفن کاهش یافت و از دست خود را. نیویورک در ایالت یوتا در حال حاضر; آن دیگری فردا ؟


بیشتر پزشکی اعزام

  • بازمانده شدید coronavirus عفونت سخت است. بنابراین دوره نقاهت است.
  • برخی از بیمارستان ها به تعویق افتاد سرطان عمل جراحی به دلیل coronavirus بحران است. چگونه پزشکان ارزیابی ضرورت در طول یک بیماری همه گیر?
  • آن را خیلی دیر نیست برای رفتن در جرم در برابر coronavirus. این پنج-بخش عمومی-برنامه درمانی ممکن است کلیدی.
  • تنهایی و همبستگی درمان coronavirus بیماران در نیویورک است.
  • برای پر کردن این خلاء توسط دولت فدرال پزشکان با تکیه بر رسمی شبکه برای دریافت اطلاعات و پشتیبانی آنها نیاز دارید.
  • تعارض و سردرگمی سلطنت در نیویورک بیمارستان بیش نحوه رسیدگی زایمان در طول بیماری همه گیر.
  • در کشورهایی که میزان عفونت را تهدید می کند به پیش افتادن از ظرفیت نظام سلامت و پزشکان در حال مقابله با اخلاقی quandaries است که هیچ چیز در آموزش خود را آماده آنها.

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نرم افزار گرامرلی

هنگامی که یک خانواده و جدایی دائمی می شود

اقیانوس اطلس

On یک صبح جمعه در مارس 2019 یک گارد در مهاجرت و گمرک بازداشتگاه در آرورا کلرادو وارد یک سلول اشغال شده توسط Idrissa کامارا یک زن 31 ساله مهاجر از غرب آفریقا و آگاهانه او را که او تا به حال یک بازدید کننده. کامارا انتظار نیست هر کسی را که ممکن است همسرش, Arri Woodson-کامارا. به طور معمول زندانیان مجاز به صحبت با بازدید کننده تنها از طریق یک پنجره شیشه ای باریک را در یک اتاق ملاقات. در این روز یک نگهبان همراهی کامارا به یک منطقه مشترک و دستور او را به نشستن در یک جدول.

زن و شوهر را برنامه ریزی شده بود به صحبت کردن در تلفن به طور منظم در حالی که کامارا بازداشت شد. وجود دارد سوال در مورد وکلا و مدارک و مهلت است که نیاز به خطاب. جلسه Arri سه سال پیش از آن—هر دو آنها کار می کرد برای همین اجتماعی-خدمات سازمان در Pueblo, کلرادو, Arri وطن—تا به حال شده است در یک لحظه هیجان انگیز در کامارا زندگی. دو نفر از آنها اغلب مورد آینده خود و صرفه جویی در خانه و فکر کردن در مورد شروع یک خانواده. کامارا حال تلاش برای باقی می ماند و امیدوار است که آنها هنوز هم متوجه آن رویاها. به تازگی هر چند او تلاش شد با احساس افسردگی; او احساس او نمی تواند انجام دهد بسیار مورد مشکلات قانونی خود از یک سلول. هفته که زن و شوهر تا به حال زمان زیادی را صرف صحبت کردن در مورد این پرونده است. بنابراین برای دیدن Arri در فرد به هر دلیل برای دیدار او بود تعجب دلپذیر است.

کامارا احساس چیزی اشتباه بود زمانی که او را دیدم که به اتاق راه می رفت: Wayne Payne یک کشیش در کامارا کلیسا در پوبلو. قبل از کامارا قفل شده بود تا او و پین تا به حال ایستاده هفتگی بازی شطرنج و با حضور همان پنج شنبه شب مطالعه کتاب مقدس است. در طول سال ارتباط خود را تبدیل شده بود تقریبا خانوادگی شبیه به یک پدربزرگ و نوه. زمانی که پین نشستم کامارا متوجه اشک در چشم او.

روز قبل از پین بازدید Camara, Arri تا به حال به طور ناگهانی به سمت چپ کار می کنند. او گفت: دوست و همکار کریستی آدامز که او می خواهم فراموش شده او را در خانه ناهار و رفتن به آن را انتخاب کنید. زمانی که Arri نمی آمد پشت Adams شروع به نگران باشید.

در مورد 1 p. m., Adams, بررسی تلفن و متوجه یک متن از Arri که گفت که او در خارج از دفتر. پیام فرستاده شده بود و تقریبا یک ساعت قبل; Adams شلوغ شده بود و وعده ناهار و تا به حال آن را دیده.

او پیامک Arri برگشت: شما شروع [به] من را بترساند. آیا شما ok

بدون پاسخ. آدامز بیرون رفت و به اطراف نگاه کرد و متوجه Arri سفید تویوتا RAV4 پارک شده در کنار به سمت جنوب ساختمان. او با نزدیک شدن به ماشین و دیدم Arri قوز بیش در صندلی راننده. Adams به نام Arri نام در ماشین را باز کرد و سعی کرد او را از خواب بیدار. بدون پاسخ. آدامز 911 تماس گرفته شده.

افسر مسیحی کجا از پوبلو اداره پلیس و شریک زندگی خود را وارد صحنه چند دقیقه بعد. کجا یافت Arri حرکت. وجود یک سوراخ گلوله در پیراهن او و لکه های خون روی شلوار جین. یک افسر دیگر در بر داشت یک هفت تیر در کف سمت مسافر. سه نفر وجود دارد زندگی می کنند دور و دو صرف پوسته پوسته در تفنگ و یک سوم صرف پوسته پوشش در صندلی مسافر. پزشکی قانونی وارد حدود 40 دقیقه بعد و تلفظ Arri مرده است. علت مرگ یک خود وارد گلوله به سمت چپ از Arri قفسه سینه. با توجه به جایی که گلوله وارد شده بود Arri بدن به نظر می رسید که او با هدف به قلب او.

سپس پلیس توجه داشته باشید.

این بیش از حد است. من نمی توانم ایستاده او را در حال w/ من و فکر او را در حال w/ من به سهم آینده ما با هم مثل ما برنامه ریزی شده است. من خسته از گریه کردن در مورد آن را هر شب وقتی که Idrissa سزاوار نیست این ما هر دو نیست. ببخشید من هر کس. من متاسفم Idrissa, I love you, love, همه شما. لطفا بسوزانند من. این درد بیش از حد است. قلب من شکسته است. جرات نمی تماس با من خودخواه. شما نمی دانید که آنچه در این 265 روز شده بود. هر کسی که رای دادند برای مغلوب ساختن پیشی جستن نمی تواند حضور در تشییع جنازه من. شما کمک خراب کردن زندگی من است.

پین گفت کامارا همه از این است که روز بهار. ایستاده با هم در بازداشتگاه آنها را در آغوش در آغوش. زمانی که کامارا بازگشت به سلول خود او فر روی تشک نازک و کشیده و پتو بر سر او.

No یکی می تواند پیش بینی مسیر کامارا را در زندگی خود مورد وضعیت متمایز هستند و در عین حال خود داستان است که چرا مهاجرت طرفداران نگران سیاست را تشویق می کند که بازداشت غیر شهروندان در هر زمان و به هر دلیلی. “در مورد او واقعا نمونه چرا ما شده ایم برای مبارزه با اختیار دادستانی برای یک دهه می گوید:” سناتور ایالت کلرادو جولی گونزالس دیرین مهاجر-مدافع حقوق که قبلا در کامارا مورد به عنوان یک مشاور حقوقی. “داستان خود را نیز نشان می دهد که عواقب آن که مهاجران ترس برای انجام کار درست برای نشان دادن و گرفتن مسئولیت برای تلاش به اذعان اشتباهات گذشته و انجام بهتر و بازسازی.”

دانشمندان علوم اجتماعی و دیگر محققین مورد مطالعه وسیع اثرات اخراج و مجبور به جدایی خانواده و دریافته اند که این اقدامات می تواند طنین انداز فراتر از یک فرد یا خانواده موثر بر سلامت کل جوامع است. “مردم آزار بودن این سیاست ها نه تنها افرادی که بازداشت و اخراج می گوید:” UC Santa Cruz روانشناسی پروفسور رجینا روز Langhout نویسنده سرب از یک سال 2018 مقاله در مجله آمریکایی جامعه روانشناسی خلاصه سه دهه کار بر روی این موضوع است.

تحقیقات نشان داده است که مردم به کسی شده است که هدف یخ بدون در نظر گرفتن وضعیت مهاجرت آنها تمایل به تبدیل شدن به بیشتر ترس از نهادهای عمومی. در مطالعه پس از مطالعه پاسخ دهندگان گزارش تماس با پلیس کمتر حتی اگر آنها قربانی یک جرم; حضور در کمتر مذهبی خدمات; با استفاده از پارک های عمومی به عنوان اغلب و به دنبال کمتر دسترسی به مراقبت های بهداشتی. “هنگامی که ما را متوقف اعتماد در سیستم های طراحی شده اند که به ما کمک می کند که منجر به بیشتر انزوای اجتماعی” Langhout به من گفت. “هنگامی که ما بافت اجتماعی تجزیه است که لطمه می زند همه است.”

کامارا شده بود بخشی از بافت اجتماعی ایالات متحده برای نزدیک به دو دهه قبل از دونالد مغلوب ساختن پیشی جستن رئیس جمهور انتخاب شد و در زمان به خصوص خط سخت در مهاجرت. بزرگترین فرزند از پنج فرزند کامارا متولد شد و در گینه یک ملت کوچک در امتداد سواحل غرب آفریقا. او در پایتخت در یک مشغول خانه پر از خانواده گسترده. زمانی که او 12 بود او در سفر خود به آمریکا با ویزای توریستی با چند عموزاده. تنها پس از او فرود آمد در شهر نیویورک او یاد بگیرند که حرکت بود ، کامارا صرف تقریبا یک سال در هارلم با عموی خود را قبل از سوار شدن یک تازی اتوبوس عازم کوه های راکی که در آن پدر و نامادری زندگی می کردند.

هنوز در تلاش برای درک اساسی زبان انگلیسی کامارا تلاش آکادمیک. او شروع به شکستن حکومت نظامی و وارد شدن به دعوا. در 16 پدر و مادر خود را فرستاده او را به یک گروه خانگی برای مشکل جوانان است. او عمل وجود دارد بیش از حد و در نهایت گرفته شده برای دیدن یک دکتر که تشخیص داده کامارا با اختلال دوقطبی با ویژگی های روانی. تجویز دارو یک داروی آنتی سایکوتیک به نام Haldol ساخته شده او را کسل و بی قرار و او با تجربه لرزش و سفتی در مفاصل. کامارا پر از قرص و داروها را در یک کشو را فراموش کرده و در مورد آنها. عاطفی بالا و پایین از وضعیت او به زودی بازگشت به اوج خود رسید در دستگیری او در مارس سال 2007 در سن 18 سالگی. در این میان آنچه کامارا توصیف به عنوان یک توهم قسمت او فروخته هشت توپ کرک کوکائین برای $90 به محرمانه خبرچین همکاری با پلیس. “من احساس می کردم در یک فیلم بود و من فقط بازی نقش” کامارا به من گفت. “من فکر کردم این مثل این است که Boyz n the Hood.”

در ازای مشروط شدن کامارا التماس کرد گناه را به در اختیار داشتن مواد تحت کنترل به قصد توزیع. تقریبا یک سال بعد با توجه به اسناد دادگاه کامارا راه می رفت به یک غریبه را به خانه فکر خود بود و rummaged از طریق وسایل نقلیه در گاراژ; کامارا متقاعد شده بود که نامادری خود پنهان شد, قرارداد حرفه ای فوتبال باشگاه های ارائه او یک نقطه در تیم خود است. پلیس او را دستگیر کردند و او را صرف بیشتر از یک سال در زندان شهرستان انتظار محاکمه در درجه دوم سرقت و تجاوز اتهامات عنوان شده علیه. در آن زمان کامارا پدرش بیمار مبتلا به سرطان و کامارا غرق احساس غم و اندوه و ناامیدی است. یک ماه پس از دستگیری در کامارا درگذشت. زمانی که کامارا در نهایت به یک دادگاه در سال 2009 منصفه او را مقصر دلیل جنون.

Adjudicated به کلرادو بهداشت روانی موسسه در پوبلو برای توانبخشی کامارا شروع مداوم دارو رژیم برای اولین بار در زندگی خود. پس از سال ها از عدم مصرف دارو به طور مداوم برای درمان وضعیت خود کامارا شده بود به شدت دارو در زندان شهرستان است. برنامه جدید باعث تدریجی و در عین حال قابل توجه برگرد. “ما مخروطی به آرامی دارو را در و او یک فرد کاملا جدید می گوید:” تد اسمیت کامارا را روانی ارائه دهنده در موسسه. در پاییز 2014, بیمارستان تایید کامارا برای یک جامعه-قرار دادن برنامه است که اجازه داده او را به زندگی می کنند در خارج از مرکز در حالی که در ادامه به نظارت توسط کارکنان در موسسه. یک زن و شوهر در محلی Wayne و سوزی Payne آنها کامارا ملاقات کرده بود از طریق دوستان زمانی که او شروع به حضور در پوبلو کلیسا موافقت کرد به او اجازه حرکت در. “او مانند یک عضو خانواده” سوزی به من گفت. “ما انجام خواهد داد هر چه طول می کشد تا به او کمک کند.”

کامارا ملاقات Arri چند سال بعد در سال 2016 زمانی که او کار کردم در همان غیر انتفاعی که در آن او کار می کرد. Arri بود وسط کودک با برادر در دو طرف. “ما همه واقعا در حال رشد” دیو Woodson, او برادر کوچکتر به من گفت. “ما تا به حال احتمالا بهترین دوران کودکی هر کسی می تواند برای امید.” همه سه تا از بچه ها بودند و ورزشی و آنها اغلب شوت از hoops با هم در جلوی خانه خود. Arri در ادامه به بازی گارد نقطه در یک کالج از چند ساعت دور از خانه. پس از فارغ التحصیلی او به Pueblo پس از نگاه پدر و مادر خود را و شروع به کار در سازمان های غیر انتفاعی, مراقبت از افرادی که از کار افتاده و نیاز به کمک. “این نوع از کلیشه اما او از طریق و از طریق یک فرد خوب” دیو گفت. “او انجام آنچه او به معنای برای—او سرپرست و او لذت می برد که. او با قرار دادن دیگران ،

اولین بار کامارا و Arri صرف زمان با هم خارج از محل کار بود در یکی از شب های اوایل سال 2017 پس از جمع آوری کمک هنگامی که یک گروه از همکاران تصمیم به بیرون رفتن برای نیش زدن به غذا خوردن. کامارا نگهداری چک کردن گوشی خود را در رستوران—او برنامه ای برای دیدار با زن دیگری برای تاریخ در دنور و نمی خواهید به اواخر. Arri طعنه او در مورد اینکه چرا او در چنین عجله بسر می رسانید. او پیشنهاد کرد که کامارا فراموش کرده ام در مورد تاریخ و ماندن با او و بقیه گروه. “او پریشان من که تمام شب” کامارا به من گفت. “ما فقط صحبت کردیم و صحبت کردیم.”

Arri قاطعانه بود در مورد نگه داشتن همه چیز حرفه ای در محل کار; هنوز هم همه می دانستند که او و کامارا دوستیابی شدند. “Arri بود این سایت متعلق به فرد, اما زمانی که او را دیدم Idrissa یا صحبت خود را به نام او فقط روشن می گوید:” مورین Meyette یک همکار. در وقت آزاد خود را کامارا و Arri لذت بردم حیاط خلوت کباب با دوستان و خوردن در باغ زیتون. این Woodson خانواده خوشحال بود بیش از حد. “هنگامی که او آمد شما فقط احساس کردم او مرد حق” دیو گفت. در نهایت کامارا شروع به فکر کردن در مورد ازدواج. او آمد تا با یک راه هوشمندانه برای نخستین بار باز کردن موضوع با Arri پدر و مادر. کامارا به من گفت که عادی هنگامی که یک مرد پیشنهاد در گینه او اقدام به خرید زن پدر یک بز است. کامارا توضیح سنت به Arri پدر. نه پس شوخی او افزود: “ممکن است یک بز در آینده خود را.”

سالها پیش قبل از کامارا ملاقات Arri پدر و مادر خود را به حال ثبت سبز-نرم افزار کارت برای او. با این حال در آن زمان کارهای اداری خود را برای بررسی کامارا برداشت کرده تا خود را از اتهام مواد مخدر ساخته شده است که او را فاقد شرایط لازم برای قانونی-دائم-اقامت. در سال 2011 کامارا حذف از روان-سلامت موسسه قرار می گیرد و در یخ بازداشت در حالی که دولت بررسی خود را سبز-نرم افزار کارت های, بعد, خود, درخواست پناهندگی و در نهایت تلاش برای اخراج او. قاضی در این پرونده پناهندگی نشان داد که او ممکن است مورد تایید کامارا برنامه به دلایلی که شامل روان-بهداشت و درمان در گینه که به طور موثر وجود ندارد. دوباره هر چند کامارا درخواست معامله از مواد مخدر مورد خط خارج از برنامه و به دولت دستور داد او را از کشور حذف. چه اتفاقی افتاد بعد نامشخص است. با توجه به کامارا فعلی وکیل هانس مایر به نظر می رسد که مقامات قادر به هماهنگ کردن روند اخراج با گینه. با جا به اخراج کامارا دولت فرستاده او را به بیمارستان دولتی در پوبلو در سال 2012 قرار داده و او را تحت آنچه شناخته شده به عنوان یک یخ منظور از نظارت.

سفارشات مشترک بودند در دوران جورج دبلیو بوش و باراک اوباما دولت. ترتیب اجازه مهاجران مستند نشده که کشورها نمی خواهد آنها را به عقب که در حال بررسی موارد قانونی یا که دلسوز شرایطی مانند دیرینه روابط به یک جامعه و یا یک بیمار عضو خانواده—برای جلوگیری از بازداشت و اخراج به عنوان طولانی به عنوان آنها در آنجا ماند و از مشکل و به طور منظم چک در در یک بستنی زمینه ، کامارا انطباق با سفارش خود را به مدت شش سال بدون حادثه است.

پس از مغلوب ساختن پیشی جستن در زمان کار این غیر شهروندان تحت دستورات نظارت شد اهداف برای حذف; مهاجرت کارشناسان از جمله سابق یخ سرپرست در دولت اوباما جان Sandweg مراجعه کننده به این گروه به عنوان “پایین آویزان میوه.” برخی از مهاجران تلاش برای جلوگیری از اخراج با پنهان شدن در کلیساها که تحت اوباما تعیین شده بود “نقاط حساس” در تلاش برای تضعیف اجرای فعالیت در چنین مکان. کامارا نبود زیر سرفصل اما او فکر می کنم این عجیب و غریب بود زمانی که او یک تماس از یک یخ در تابستان 2018 درخواست او را برای آمدن به حوزه ، “او واقعا من را در سهولت” کامارا به من گفت توصیف تماس بگیرید. “او ساخته شده آن را به نظر می رسد مانند آن را یک معامله بزرگ است.” کامارا گفت که زمانی که او راه می رفت در درب یخ عوامل احاطه او قرار داده و او را در دستبند. “این درست مثل این است که آن را شما می دانید ؟ امیدها و رویاهای مرده و رفته” کامارا به من گفت. “اشتباهات ساخته شده بودند در طول راه وجود دارد اما نمی شود [هر] فرصت برای اصلاح آن و در یک مسیر که در بالا شیب. آن را فقط مانند شوک است.”

کامارا اجازه داده شد به اطلاع Arri از آنچه اتفاق می افتد از طریق متن. “من فکر کردم من در هواپیما به سمت راست و سپس و وجود دارد,” او به من گفت. در عوض, Arri و وین Payne یافت مایر که قادر بود برای به تاخیر انداختن روند اخراج در حالی که او در تلاش برای مبارزه با کامارا مورد و کامارا شروع چه خواهد تبدیل به یک اقامت طولانی در یخ بازداشتگاه در شفق قطبی. “خواهر من چراغ راه در تلاش برای گرفتن او منتشر شد” Arri برادر دیو به من گفت. “من می دانم که برای یک واقعیت او در آنجا ماند تا شب های بی شماری مشغول کار بر روی این پرونده است.” پس از چند ماه قادر به برنامه ریزی عروسی با کامارا بازداشت زن و شوهر بداهه. Meyette خود را همکار انجام شده در این مراسم است که سقوط از طریق تلفنی—Arri در یک اتاق آرام در محل کار و کامارا در بازداشتگاه. “او نشان نمی دهد احساسات زیاد اما آن روز او” Meyette به من گفت. “او خیلی خوشحال است.” Arri امضا مدارک راست و سپس پس کامارا می توانید ببینید.

اما به عنوان کامارا را بازداشت کشیده در Arri بود صدمه زدن به. در اواسط ماه آوریل 2019 او فرستاده و شوهر او یک کارت عید پاک. در جبهه بود یک عکس از یک تخم مرغ و یک خرگوش با “Hippity مبارک Hoppy عید پاک” نوشته شده مزین حروف. داخل Arri نوشت: در مورد چگونه او می خواهم به تازگی به یک بازی بیس بال است و تا به حال او را به یاد سال قبل هنگامی که دو نفر از آنها بودند گرفتار یک بازی با هم. او همچنین نوشت: در مورد چگونه به خرد کردن آن بود که یکی دیگر از تعطیلات آینده شد و آنها قادر نخواهد بود به آن را صرف با هم. او امضا کارت: من شما را دوست دارم و دست شما یک مقدار باور نکردنی. عشق, Arri. پاکت مهر باطله تمبر پست دو روز قبل از او درگذشت.

یکجلسه یک هفته بعد از مرگ همسرش, کامارا در پوبلو زندگی در یک اتاق یدکی در Payneses’. یخ منتشر شده بود او را از زندان در زمان برای او را به حضور در Arri مراسم تشییع جنازه خدمات; او می خواهم نه ماه را صرف در قفل. در بیانیه ای یخ سخنگوی Alethea Smock گفت: کامارا منتشر شد برای “دلایل بشردوستانه.” Smock ارائه یک جدول زمانی از کامارا را مورد مهاجرت و تعامل با اجرای قانون است اما به نظر بیشتر با استناد به دستورالعمل حفظ حریم خصوصی. کامارا است یک بار دیگر بر نظارت و انتشار فقط او بود سال قبل است.

در این هفته پس از Arri مرگ کامارا به سختی به ترک خانه خواب بسیار است که او از دست پیگیری از روز. او در نهایت شروع به پیاده روی های طولانی از طریق مرکز شهر Pueblo رودخانه. “این واقعا سخت بود چرا که شما در آغاز مراحل پردازش همه چیز را که اتفاق افتاده است” کامارا به من گفت: “تلاش برای یافتن معنا در میان آن همه است.” در نهایت او به کار در سازمان های غیر انتفاعی که برگزار شده بود کار خود را برای او. “رفتن بود و انفجار شادی اما نوع غم انگیز در همان زمان” کامارا گفت.

حتی پس از همه مبارزات و تراژدی مرگ همسرش, کامارا هنوز مشخص ایالات متحده به عنوان یک سرزمین فرصت یک محل که در آن رفاه را می توان از طریق کار سخت نجابت انعطاف پذیری و شانس دوم. “مردم در حال انجام بهترین خود را با آنچه آنها” او گفت:. آیا کامارا قادر خواهید بود اقامت در این کشور اما در سوال باقی می ماند.

سرنوشت خود را در حال حاضر به این نتیجه تعدادی از ویژگی های استدلال حقوقی. برای اولین بار است که اخیر فدرال مدار-دادگاه قانون مورد نشان می دهد کامارا مبارزه با مواد مخدر اتهام دیگر ممکن است واجد شرایط به عنوان یک جنایت تشدید معنی مایر استدلال می کند, دولت باید قادر به تجدید کامارا پناهندگی ادعا می کنند. مایر نیز جذاب کامارا پرونده جنایی در بخش, بر این اساس که او بیمار روانی در زمان و در نتیجه متناسب با توان تصمیم گیری در مورد درخواست رسیدگی کند. بیشتر چه, اگر دولت تا کنون برای بازگشت به ورزش تشخیص در موارد مهاجرت مایر معتقد است کامارا را خوب استدلال را که او باید قادر به ماندن در کشور است. “او واقعا در حال حاضر به عنوان مثال کامل از توانبخشی راه رستگاری” مایر به من گفت.

پس از آن وجود دارد موضوع کامارا ازدواج به Arri. به طور معمول افرادی که ازدواج با شهروندان آمریکایی قادر به درخواست برای اقامت قانونی. اما دوباره کامارا مبارزه با مواد مخدر شارژ میله های زندان او را از انجام این کار است.

با وجود چالش های حقوقی خود را وضعیت کامارا نمی بینم خود را به عنوان همه که متفاوت از هر آمریکایی دیگر. او به اندازه کافی خوش شانس را به سقوط در عشق با خوشحالی مشغول به کار در یک شغل ثابت برای ذخیره کردن و شروع یک خانواده.

در حال حاضر تمام کامارا می توانید انجام دهید این است که صبر کنید. او به طور منظم کار می کند اضافه کاری در پوبلو غیر انتفاعی در امیدوار است که او ممکن است قادر به ماندن در آمریکا پرداخت و راه خود را از طریق کالج. او می خواهد به مطالعه روانشناسی, زمینه که در نهایت کمک به او را به مقابله با او روان-سلامت. “من مشتاقانه منتظر به قرار دادن تمام تلاش من و پول من را نجات داد به سمت رفتن به مدرسه و گرفتن مدرک لیسانس خود را,” او به من گفت. زمانی که این بیماری همه گیر کوروناویروس ضربه کامارا ماند مشغول است. او اعلام کرد ضروری کارگر در سازمان های غیر انتفاعی که در آن او در حال حاضر می پوشد یک ماسک در همه زمان ها به طور منظم sanitizes سطوح و درجه حرارت خود را چک سه بار در روز. داشتن به خود منزوی به عنوان یک مرد زن مرده شده است اما آن را در کامارا طبیعت به مثبت باقی می ماند. “یک روز می رود و بدون فکر کردن در مورد او,” او گفت:. “این یک یادآوری به صرف زمان با کسانی که شما در مورد مراقبت.”

دیو Woodson شده است قادر به گرفتن برخی از آرامش در دانستن است که او دیگر رنج می برند. “این چیزی است که من می شود از طریق روز,” او گفت:. به عنوان او آن را می بیند آن را در زمان مرگ خواهر برای یخ به انتشار کامارا از بازداشت و آن لطمه می زند. قبل از Arri مرگ دیو گفت: او را دیدن, داستان, در اخبار در مورد چگونه دولت بود درمان مهاجران, اما او هرگز فکر نمی کردم در مورد چگونه است که ممکن است تاثیر بر خانواده اش روزی. “دولت فعلی و راه آنها در حال انجام کارهایی برای مردم—من فکر نمی کنم انسان مسئول می داند که او را تحت تاثیر قرار خود را با کلمات و سیاست” دیو گفت. “آن را از بین برد خواهر من زندگی و شکست همه قلب ما.”

ما می خواهیم به شنیدن آنچه که شما فکر می کنم در مورد این مقاله. ارسال یک نامه به سردبیر و یا ارسال به letters@theatlantic.com.

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