I've been struggling all weekend to write something worthwhile about Manning Marable. On Saturday, I had the good fortune of receiving a note from Georgia State historian, and former Marable grad assistant, John McMillan, seeking a place to publish his own tribute. I hastily offered this page and McMillan was kind enough to offer his memories. They are as follows:
In hindsight, this is embarrassing to admit, but here
goes.When I first met Manning Marable
in 1996, at age 26, I was nervous.Partly I was on edge because I was trying to make a big decision: Should
I pursue a Ph.D. in African-American history at either Rutgers or Michigan,
where I'd been offered full funding?Or,
should I go to Columbia (my first choice), with no money upfront, but with some
vague possibility of securing a teaching fellowship down the line?
Months before, Manning had already written me to say that if
I were admitted to Columbia, he'd be keen to take me on as one of his graduate
students.(That was a thrill unto
itself!)Nevertheless, I couldn't help
but wonder (and this is the embarrassing part): did he know I was white?And if so, would he have any doubts about my
commitment to Black Studies, or my intellectual authority to work in the field?
Keep in mind, by then I'd read virtually all of Manning's
major works, including the earlier, more polemical stuff, like How Capitalism
Underdeveloped Black America, where he declared, "Progressive white Americans
must succeed in overturning their own racism."
No problem there, I chuckled.I'd long made a point of challenging racism
in others, and I've always tried (to the best of my ability) never to tolerate
it in myself.But then, he added this:
"Nothing short of a commitment to racial equality and Black
freedom such as that exhibited by the militant white abolitionist John Brown
will be sufficient."
There was only one way to gauge Manning's attitude, and that
was to show up at his office.I made the
haul all the way from mid-Michigan to New York City in my Chevy pick-up
truck.At that point in my life, I'd
never been anywhere near an Ivy League campus.My first memory of the area around Columbia comes from driving up and
down Broadway, Amsterdam Ave., and perhaps a dozen cross streets in-between,
again and again and again, screaming and pounding on my dashboard over my
inability to find a parking space.
As soon as I met Manning, though, all of my anxiety melted
away. As anyone who knew him would agree, one of his most striking qualities
was his affability.And although I
probably would not have said this in print while he was still alive, the plain
fact is, he really did look a lot like a teddy bear.
One thing I remember from that day is how vigorously he
stressed the fact that he saw himself as both a scholar, and an activist.For him, the two vocations were
inseparable.What's more, he wanted me
to know that when he became the founding director of the Institute for Research
in African American Studies (IRAAS) a few years earlier, he'd envisioned it as
fundamentally a community resource.And
by "community," he pointed out, "I don't mean just Columbia, or even
Morningside Heights."He gestured toward
the window of his 6th floor office, which afforded views to the north and the
east."We're not in Morningside
Heights!We're in Harlem!"
To this end, he had a remarkable capacity for making time for virtually anyone who wanted something from him, even including the conspiratorial-minded guy with the rusty stains on his shirt (or was it blood?) who would occasionally show up unannounced at Manning's door, asking to bend his ear. Then there was this other fellow: he was never around, except for on the periodic occasions when the Institute would lay out a very nice buffet in honor of some distinguished guest speaker, in which case he would always be there, first in line, testing the capacity of his Styrofoam plates with enormous mounds of chicken wings, mini quiches, cocktail shrimp, and whatever else. (Okay, I'll confess: I once watched as Manning quietly observed this guy from the corner of the room, sighed heavily, and rolled his eyes.)
Manning was also one of the hardest workers in all of academia. In the mid-to-late 1990s, you might recall, a whole corps of "black public intellectuals" was suddenly gaining more exposure than they'd probably ever dreamed of. After a long period during which black scholars were more likely to toil away in obscurity, with their contributions being slighted or overlooked, now at least a few of them - through a combination of intelligence, charisma, and moxie - seemed to be everywhere. And while some celebrated the new visibility of people like Henry Louis Gates, Jr., Cornel West, and Michael Eric Dyson, others sensed a certain entrepreneurialism in their approach. Sure, they could all talk a very good game, people used to grouse. Hell, put them in range of a microphone, and they'll talk about anything! But when it came to scholarship, what did they actually do?
That was never quite my own view, but regardless: nobody ever credibly said such a thing about Manning. Sure, he made TV appearances and gave paid lectures (oh, how he must have loved Black History Month). But he was also an author of god-knows-how-many books and articles, the great bulk of which showcased his deep immersion in fields as diverse as history, sociology, political science, economics, and even literature. His new, nearly 600 page opus, Malcolm X: A Life of Reinvention, is already being celebrated as an exhaustively researched tome, one that will completely upend our understanding of that fabled leader.
What an incredible exercise in self-restraint it must have been to keep plugging away on that biography for fifteen-odd years, all the while sitting on so many explosive revelations. I remember him excitedly making a few vague allusions to the discoveries he was making, way back in the day. Now we all know just what he was onto.
At the moment, I'm awfully sad that I didn't stay in better touch with Manning in recent years, though I can take some solace from the fact that about six weeks ago, I sent him a warmly inscribed copy of my first monograph. I have so many fond memories of our conversations from the three-year period that I worked for him, but I'll always treasure that first meeting the best. After listening to my concerns, putting me at ease, and making me laugh out loud, he said something I did not expect: "I might be able to help you out."
Five months later, I'd relocated to Manhattan, and I was meeting a considerable portion of my grad school expenses by working as his research assistant. (We collaborated on two books.) Without him, I'm not sure I'd have mustered the courage to go to Columbia, something that later turned out - without question - to be one of the great blessings of my life. And yet whenever I tried to thank Manning for anything - whether for helping to pay for my education, or for buying me a sandwich (as he sometimes did), I always got the same response. He'd shrug, smile impishly, and say, "Hey, what do you expect? I'm a socialist!"
John McMillian is Assistant Professor of history at Georgia State University. His most recent book is Smoking Typewriters: The Sixties Underground Press and the Rise of Alternative Media in America (Oxford, 2011).
The Islamic State is no mere collection of psychopaths. It is a religious group with carefully considered beliefs, among them that it is a key agent of the coming apocalypse. Here’s what that means for its strategy—and for how to stop it.
What is the Islamic State?
Where did it come from, and what are its intentions? The simplicity of these questions can be deceiving, and few Western leaders seem to know the answers. In December, The New York Times published confidential comments by Major General Michael K. Nagata, the Special Operations commander for the United States in the Middle East, admitting that he had hardly begun figuring out the Islamic State’s appeal. “We have not defeated the idea,” he said. “We do not even understand the idea.” In the past year, President Obama has referred to the Islamic State, variously, as “not Islamic” and as al-Qaeda’s “jayvee team,” statements that reflected confusion about the group, and may have contributed to significant strategic errors.
The Republican frontrunner has surged in the polls by taking a tough stance on immigration—and if critics want to stop him, that’s what they need to attack.
A new round of attack ads are heading Donald Trump’s way, some from John Kasich’s campaign and the super PAC backing him, and more in the future from an LLC created specifically to produce anti-Trump messages.
New Day for America’s 47-second ad splices together some of the Republican front-runner’s most awkward video moments: his suggestion he might date his daughter, his claim of “a great relationship with the blacks.” The Kasich campaign’s ad turns Martin Niemöller’s famous words “nobody left to speak for me” into a warning from one of John McCain’s fellow Hanoi Hilton POWs that a Trump presidency is a threat to freedom.* John Kasich’s Twitter account has fired direct personal challenges to the famously thin-skinned mogul.
It may not start a new war. But it will make it much harder to stop an old one.
For clues to how the Syrian Civil War might finally end—or devolve into an even more nightmarish conflict—look to the congested skies over Syria.
There, the air forces of countries such as the United States, Russia, Turkey, and Syria are all regularly conducting strikes, often at cross-purposes. And there, on Tuesday, Turkish fighter jets shot down a Russian warplane for allegedly violating Turkey’s airspace. As my colleague Marina Koren notes, the episode marks the first time a NATO country has downed a Russian plane in 63 years.
An entire industry has been built on the premise that creating gourmet meals at home is simple and effortless. But it isn’t true.
I write about food for a living. Because of this, I spend more time than the average American surrounded by cooking advice and recipes. I’m also a mother, which means more often than not, when I return from work 15 minutes before bedtime, I end up feeding my 1-year-old son squares of peanut-butter toast because there was nothing in the fridge capable of being transformed into a wholesome, homemade toddler meal in a matter of minutes. Every day, when I head to my office after a nourishing breakfast of smashed blueberries or oatmeal I found stuck to the pan, and open a glossy new cookbook, check my RSS feed, or page through a stack of magazines, I’m confronted by an impenetrable wall of unimaginable cooking projects, just sitting there pretending to be totally reasonable meals. Homemade beef barbacoa tacos. Short-rib potpie. “Weekday” French toast. Make-ahead coconut cake. They might as well be skyscraper blueprints, so improbable is the possibility that I will begin making my own nut butters, baking my own sandwich bread, or turning that fall farmer’s market bounty into jars of homemade applesauce.
Why are so many kids with bright prospects killing themselves in Palo Alto?
The air shrieks, and life stops. First, from far away, comes a high whine like angry insects swarming, and then a trampling, like a herd moving through. The kids on their bikes who pass by the Caltrain crossing are eager to get home from school, but they know the drill. Brake. Wait for the train to pass. Five cars, double-decker, tearing past at 50 miles an hour. Too fast to see the faces of the Silicon Valley commuters on board, only a long silver thing with black teeth. A Caltrain coming into a station slows, invites you in. But a Caltrain at a crossing registers more like an ambulance, warning you fiercely out of its way.
The kids wait until the passing train forces a gust you can feel on your skin. The alarms ring and the red lights flash for a few seconds more, just in case. Then the gate lifts up, signaling that it’s safe to cross. All at once life revives: a rush of bikes, skateboards, helmets, backpacks, basketball shorts, boisterous conversation. “Ew, how old is that gum?” “The quiz is next week, dipshit.” On the road, a minivan makes a left a little too fast—nothing ominous, just a mom late for pickup. The air is again still, like it usually is in spring in Palo Alto. A woodpecker does its work nearby. A bee goes in search of jasmine, stinging no one.
Activists are clashing in the streets with the same police force whose actions they’re protesting.
Updated on November 25 at 3:06 p.m.
Marchers took to the streets of Chicago Tuesday night, protesting the death of Laquan McDonald. McDonald, a 17-year-old black man, was shot by Officer Jason Van Dyke in October 2014, but video of his death was only released Tuesday, the same day Van Dyke was charged with first-degree murder. In general, the protests seem to have remained calm. Police said there were few scuffles and fewer arrests.
But there’s at least one notable exception: Malcolm London. The 22-year-old Chicagoan was arrested and charged with aggravated battery to a police officer, a felony. (Update: Prosecutors dropped the charge against London Wednesday afternoon.) London isn’t just any marcher, though. He’s a high-profile activist who has been particularly outspoken about McDonald’s death and has called for the firing of Police Commissioner Garry McCarthy. A well-regarded slam poet, he delivered a Ted Talk two years ago.
In the name of emotional well-being, college students are increasingly demanding protection from words and ideas they don’t like. Here’s why that’s disastrous for education—and mental health.
Something strange is happening at America’s colleges and universities. A movement is arising, undirected and driven largely by students, to scrub campuses clean of words, ideas, and subjects that might cause discomfort or give offense. Last December, Jeannie Suk wrote in an online article for The New Yorker about law students asking her fellow professors at Harvard not to teach rape law—or, in one case, even use the word violate (as in “that violates the law”) lest it cause students distress. In February, Laura Kipnis, a professor at Northwestern University, wrote an essay in The Chronicle of Higher Education describing a new campus politics of sexual paranoia—and was then subjected to a long investigation after students who were offended by the article and by a tweet she’d sent filed Title IX complaints against her. In June, a professor protecting himself with a pseudonym wrote an essay for Vox describing how gingerly he now has to teach. “I’m a Liberal Professor, and My Liberal Students Terrify Me,” the headline said. A number of popular comedians, including Chris Rock, have stopped performing on college campuses (see Caitlin Flanagan’s article in this month’s issue). Jerry Seinfeld and Bill Maher have publicly condemned the oversensitivity of college students, saying too many of them can’t take a joke.
Some conservatives are defying expectation and backing the Vermont senator.
When Tarie MacMillan switched on her television in August to watch the first Republican presidential debate, she expected to decide which candidate to support.
But MacMillan, a 65-year-old Florida resident, was disappointed. “I looked at the stage and there was nobody out there who I really liked. It just seemed like a showcase for Trump and his ridiculous comments,” she recalled. “It was laughable, and scary, and a real turning point.”
So she decided to back Bernie Sanders, the self-described “Democratic socialist” challenging Hillary Clinton. MacMillan was a lifelong Republican voter until a few weeks ago when she switched her party affiliation to support the Vermont senator in the primary. It will be the first time she’s ever voted for a Democrat.
When the birds were reintroduced to New England after a long absence, they chose to live in cities instead of the forests they once called home.
William Bradford, looking out at Plymouth from the Mayflower in 1620, was struck by its potential. “This bay is an excellent place,” he later wrote, praising its “innumerable store of fowl.” By the next autumn, the new colonists had learned to harvest the “great store of wild turkeys, of which they took many.”
Soon, they took too many. By 1672, hunters in Massachusetts had “destroyed the breed, so that ‘tis very rare to meet with a wild turkie in the woods.” Turkeys held on in small, isolated patches of land that could not be profitably farmed. But by 1813, they were apparently extirpated from Connecticut; by 1842 from Vermont; and from New York in 1844.
In Massachusetts—land of the Pilgrim’s pride—one tenacious flock hid out on the aptly-named Mount Tom for a while longer. The last bird known to science was shot, stuffed, mounted, and put on display at Yale in 1847, but locals swore they heard the distinctive calls of the toms for another decade. Then the woods fell silent for a hundred years.
CRISPR can finally tell us which human genes are essential—and which matter specifically to cancer cells.
Humans have between 20,000 and 25,000 genes, but which of these really matter? Which are essential, and which are merely optional add-ons?
It’s crazy to me that we still don't know, even though it’s been almost 15 years since the first draft of the human genome was published. Partly, the problem is a technological one. The best way of working out if a gene is essential is to disable it and see what happens, and “we just didn’t have a good way of systematically manipulating genes in humans cells,” says Jason Moffat from the University of Toronto. Sure, scientists have been able to tinker with individual genes, but working through them all, and knocking them out one by one, has been nigh-on impossible.