Jared Changes The Water Cooler

GENERAL KELLY has moved most of the White House’s desks, including JARED’s, into the corridor. It’s a makeshift classroom, and GENERAL KELLY is standing in the middle of it. There are four bullet points scrawled across the white board. The first reads, “Need adults in all rooms.” The second reads, “Adults plural. Rooms plural.” The third reads, “Do NOT erase ever.” The fourth reads, “The President reveres all generals/cops.” KELLYANNE CONWAY is distributing two half-sheets of paper to each staff person present. JARED walks in, headphones on and listening to Pharrell’s song, “Happy.” He is singing along, and smiling to himself as he remembers that he is not, in fact, happy.

GENERAL KELLY [literally waiting for JARED to stop singing]: Don’t stop on account of us, Mr. Kushner.

[JARED stops singing as he sits at his desk.]

GENERAL KELLY [confidently, like a teacher from the movies who gives tough love to his students]: The first sheet Mrs. Conway is passing out to you is duties and responsibilities for the week. Mrs. Conway, you’ll note, is listed as the beadle. That’s why she’s passing out the handouts. She’ll also assist me generally, and function as my laugh track when I point to her like this. [GENERAL KELLY points to KELLYANNE CONWAY like he’s hosting “The Price is Right.” She claps and laughs accordingly.] Ms. Trump is assigned to monitoring her father’s Twitter usage. And Mr. Kushner, it’s your job to ensure the water cooler is filled.

[JARED flashes back to third grade, when his mother would drop him off to class, after his appointment with the speech teacher. “Don’t allow anyone who hasn’t greeted you to use your Gameboy,” she’d whisper to him, as she nudged him into the classroom.]

At A Cafe Near You

Everything Melts

Shirley Chisholm Facts

Shirley Chisholm was born Shirley St. Hill in 1924, in Brooklyn, New York, to immigrant parents.

Her father worked at a factory that made burlap bags, and as a baker’s helper; her mother was a seamstress and domestic worker. They struggled to work and care for their three daughters and decided to send them to live with their grandmother for a few years in Barbados when Shirley turned five.

Shirley lived with her grandmother in Barbados for five years before returning to New York in 1934. She spoke with a recognizable West Indian accent for the rest of her life and credited the strict, one-room school she went to in Barbados for a strong foundation for her education.

Of her grandmother: “Granny gave me strength, dignity, and love. I learned from an early age that I was somebody. I didn’t need the black revolution to tell me that.”

Something's Different

 

Good morning! How did you sleep? Me neither.

As you may have noticed, The Awl looks a bit different today—that’s because we moved back to WordPress, our former (robot voice, arms) content management system. The move to Medium was a cool experiment, in my opinion, but the year is up and personally I missed the ads.

The move will likely result in a few broken links or tangled bits, and we’re still working out all the bugs. If you see something, let us know!

 

Image: Doug Knuth via Flickr

New York City, August 2, 2017

★★  Stretches of sidewalk were luminous yellow-green with the blossoms sifting down from the honey locusts. The air was heavy and the light struggled to push through it. “Ice-cold water, ice-cold water,” a vendor chanted gently at the rush-hour crowd squeezing through the stifling dimness of the connecting tunnels around 53rd and Lexington. A man drank a cup of water from the sweating glass cooler while waiting in line to buy a large iced coffee. A hard silvery downpour fell on the middle of the day, abated briefly, then came back in full. Even after it seemed to have gone it was dripping and people were ambling along under umbrellas, blocking the way. “Oh, no, that shit’s hot,” a woman said as she turned away from the undercooled interior of a 6 train car. A new storm came through during the afternoon music recital, but it had worn down to sparseness by the end, though thunder still grumbled somewhere.

The Strangers Nextdoor

Gone, mostly, are the days of asking your neighbor to borrow a cup of sugar. When I was growing up, my mother viewed our neighbors with irritation — their principal crimes were overdoing their Christmas decorations, and on one occasion, drunk-driving through our fence. I can count on one hand the pleasant neighborly interactions I’ve had as an adult. Once, in my upscale urban neighborhood in Atlanta, my fiancé asked another neighbor for an egg — he eyed us with suspicion, as if blueberry muffins were a pretext for some sort of political scam or a multi-level marketing scheme. Now, irritation generally characterizes my relationship with my neighbors. Why would you wear heels when you have hardwood floors and a downstairs neighbor? Who still listens to the Barenaked Ladies, much less on repeat? But I also have intense curiosity, and in the absence of peeking through my neighbors’ windows as I walk by, which is hard to do in a high-rise, I have Nextdoor.

Nextdoor, for the sane and detached among you, is a social media platform that’s locality-driven, an alternative to meetings you actually have to show up for, neighborhood Facebook groups that might give away a little too much information about you, or listservs that clog your inbox. When you sign up, you give your address, which the company verifies by credit card billing address, phone billing address, or postcard. You have access only to your neighborhood and a few surrounding hoods. It’s a place to post about a lost dog or found kittens, advertise an estate sale, or ask for recommendations for a handyman from fellow residents.

My neighborhood’s Nextdoor includes a space for officials to communicate with residents, like the Atlanta Police Department and the Department of Watershed Management. The categories for posts from residents include classifieds, crime and safety, documents (almost never used), free items, general, lost and found, pet directory, recommendations, events calendar, real estate. More than 150,000 neighborhoods in the U.S., U.K., and Netherlands are on Nextdoor, according to Fortune. It was valued at about $1 billion in 2015.

“Community building” is usually more of a buzzword or phrase on social media, but in this case, it’s quite literal. The idea is that Nextdoor promotes community engagement with the people in your actual, geographic community, and that it would build social capital and better citizens. Instead, it’s been heavily criticized for contributing to fear, distrust, and racist behavior. There are also coyote sightings, warnings about the Starbucks Unicorn drink, and requests to borrow someone’s kombucha scoby.

I've Been Busy Thinkin' About Elgar

Image: Nick Vidal-Hall

Myentire last week was derailed by Charli XCX’s new music video for her song “Boys.” The “Boys” video is fun about a few different levels because you can ask yourself:

  • Which boy do I self-identify as?
  • Which boy is my idealized self?
  • Who would be in my own personal “Boys” video and what would they be doing?

Approximately three and a half questions. Nice. Amidst the brainstorming of my own “Boys” video (Steven Yeun eating an iced donut, Peter Capaldi buttoning up a cardigan, etc.), I was vaguely reminded of my high school crush who definitely would have been one of my “Boys” Boys if this were a decade ago, who at one point in time played Edward Elgar’s Concerto for Cello and Orchestra in E Minor, a piece of music I’ll think of as romantic for the rest of my life. This happens to everyone, I know. Not the falling in love with a cellist when you’re 17, but the association of something not particularly romantic with someone particularly romantic, and then it’s stuck that way until you die.

First and foremost, who was my crush? Just kidding. Fuck. I meant to write: who is Edward Elgar? Elgar was an English Romantic-era composer who lived from 1857 until 1934. If you know him, it’s possible you know him for his most famous works, the Pomp & Circumstance Marches. Yes, thosemarches. The graduation one, among others. The other week I heard it played out of context of a graduation and thought to myself, “hm, does Pomp & Circumstance actually… kind of bang?” To be determined.

A Poem by Maggie Smith

Poor Sheep

Who sheared the fog from the mountains?
They’re bleating, nearly bald,
huddled together at the horizon.
Or I’m reading too much
into the landscape again. Projecting,
as if playing a recorded image of myself
on the screen of terrain. I am transparent
and quiet. You can’t quite see me
for the trees, my wet eyes gone
greener than pines. I don’t belong here
with these poor sheep. My skin,
all forest and manifestation
of the interior. You can see the mountains
through me. That’s how projection works.

 

Maggie Smith is the author of Good Bones (Tupelo Press, fall 2017), The Well Speaks of Its Own Poison, and Lamp of the Body. Smith has received fellowships from the NEA, the Ohio Arts Council, and the Sustainable Arts Foundation. She lives and writes in Bexley, Ohio.

The Poetry Section is edited by Mark Bibbins.

New York City, August 1, 2017

★★★ The freshly washed sidewalks were reeking. A man plucked at his t-shirt to flap air into it on the subway platform. Each leg of the crosstown slog had its own new particular stench: sweat and possibly vomit in the long corridor to the Eighth Avenue trains at Times Square; sweat and battling colognes on the long escalator out in the East 50s; breakfast exhaust on the cross street. The light was clearer and the sky bluer than they could have been. A bicyclist did a wheelie up onto Union Square and across it. The sun pressed down hard on the chest. At day’s end it gathered into a swelling, formless purple glow, while the high scraps of cloud stayed white.